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35 pages

English

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Description

Have you not acted but later wished you had taken action? Not spoken your mind but later wished you had? Then perhaps you'll find inspiration in "Stas", a story about an extremely shy young man who undergoes a transformation when he buys a motorcycle.

Sujets

Short story

Informations

Publié par	First Edition Design Publishing
Date de parution	01 octobre 2016
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781506901978
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0240€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

Stäs

A short story by
R. H. Stumpo
Stäs
Copyright ©2016 R. H. Stumpo

ISBN 978-1506-901-97-8 EBOOK

April 2016

Published and Distributed by
First Edition Design Publishing, Inc.
P.O. Box 20217, Sarasota, FL 34276-3217
www.firsteditiondesignpublishing.com

ALL R I G H T S R E S E R V E D. No p a r t o f t h i s b oo k pub li ca t i o n m a y b e r e p r o du ce d, s t o r e d i n a r e t r i e v a l s y s t e m , o r t r a n s mit t e d i n a ny f o r m o r by a ny m e a ns ─ e l e c t r o n i c , m e c h a n i c a l , p h o t o - c o p y , r ec o r d i n g, or a ny o t h e r ─ e x ce pt b r i e f qu ot a t i o n i n r e v i e w s , w i t h o ut t h e p r i o r p e r mi ss i on o f t h e a u t h o r or publisher .
Stäs Witspitsclic was nervous. Stäs, pronounced “Stosh” like in “gosh!” hated being nervous, but could never bring himself to admit he suffered from nervousness. He preferred to describe his condition as being a bit “edgy” or “feeling a little frayed.” On occasion he would acknowledge to being “anxious”, but never nervous. Still, from sun up to bed-time, and fitfully while asleep, that is, when he could sleep and didn’t lay awake feeling “anxious”, he was nervous about something. Sometimes, these episodes ran in a never ending chain: being late, or being too early, the unfamiliar, or people who were too familiar. Despite evidence to the contrary, he told himself:
[“I’m getting better”], but had to add with less conviction—
[“Well—maybe a little bit”].
At work, his word was respected. However, when pressed into a situation of conversing socially, what he said was awkward or inappropriate, often leaving his co-workers’ feeling exhausted, irritable, and complaining of severe migraines
Basically, he was shy, but many believed his shyness to be weakness and often treated him with more than a little contempt.
Most everything he said or did was treated with ridicule; therefore, he didn’t say much and rarely tried anything different, certainly not near people. Someone might be watching, and that always gave him a feeling of being tested and fear of his inevitable failure.
Some situations in particular caused him to be extra nervous and he rated them with a plus of a lower or higher number depending on the severity of shock to his nervous system. For example, his existence from moment to moment maintained a constant level of plus one, with a few exceptions: being late for dinner rated one and a half plusses––he couldn’t stand the look of disappointment on his mother’s face. Although his employer was very understanding, and he was rarely late for work, being tardy by only a couple of minutes rated an anxious two plusses. Meeting strangers was a very tense three plusses. He always worried about what to say, and if he did say something, what they would think of him after he said it.
Encountering people he knew, but hadn’t seen for a while, could be a heart thumping three and a half plusses—besides seeing them , they would see he hadn’t changed since last they saw him . Finally, the most dreaded of all: meeting women––of all ages, shapes, and sizes. Well, here the number of plusses were incalculable, off the board and astronomical. Some ladies, younger and crueler than the rest, made no attempt to mask their frank appraisals of him: the titters, behind the back laughter, and that knowing look, as if to say, “What a “goof!” Others were more discreet, but even they couldn’t hide what they thought obvious.
He imagined them meeting secretly in back rooms and tea rooms, speakeasies and bistros, spreading the word, amid peals of unrestrained laughter, that he is without doubt, and indeed, a “goof!” It hurt too much, but ironically, women were attracted when they first saw him. With his saffron hair, blue eyes, shy smile, and a perpetual look of wonder on his face, he had what they called “boyish good looks.” It was when he opened his mouth to speak and got tongue tied their interest cooled. For that reason, Stäs went out of his way to avoid the opposite sex, or for that matter, any person or situation that could be potentially embarrassing.
You might be asking, how do I know so much about him? Well, I’m certainly not his guardian angel, but with more than a little reluctance I admit to being his alter ego. I know him; however, he doesn’t know me. He would like to know me. Right now I’m that image he wants to be, so near, but yet so far. Beneath that sad, nervous, exterior he is me: a fighter and lover, sometimes poet, and as a poor poet once put it, the sad fact is he doesn’t know it.
How does all this affect me you want to know? I’ll tell you: all his comments and complaints are directed to me, and quite frankly, I’m worn out. I know all his thoughts and dreams, but I can only stand by, a mere spectator, while he imagines being me––which is really him, that is, the real him. Confusing isn’t it?
On rare occasions he calls on God, and I have to hear that too; it’s pitiful. I’m like an exotic and very expensive automobile that just sits in the garage. What good is it if you don’t use it?
He waddles in inaction, indecision, and especially fear of any kind of confrontation. I hate to bring this up, but for instance: just recently he met an old classmate standing outside a store. Now, this wasn’t a confrontation in the usual sense of the word, it was just a chance meeting—
You remember, don’t you, Stäs?
[“Oh, yeah––that one––I don’t want to think about it”].
Yeah, well, anyway, Stäs wanted to avoid him and turned his head, putting a hand up to hide his face so as not to be recognized.
Knowing what he was in for, the fellow hesitated before calling his name, but being in a generous mood, called out to him anyway.
Trapped, Stäs felt compelled to say a few words, unaware that the young man waited for his girlfriend to leave her sales job inside the store.
When she came outside and an attempt was made to introduce him, Stäs mumbled something unintelligible, then leaving her in mid-sentence, abruptly walked away.
Knowing he couldn’t avoid the young man, his first alarm was expecting a routine three and a half plusser, but when the young man’s girlfriend came out, it suddenly exploded into a four alarm multiple. Not only that, but his shoulders sagged in despair, knowing the shameful memory of that occasion would cause him to relive the agony in a multiplicity of plusses thereafter. Pardon me now while I address a few words to him:
Stäs, {Sigh} I would just like to say, before I’m put on the shelf, shrivel up and gather dust, we both die, or simply bust, Please! Just once, say good-by to needless fear, and without stammering, puttering around, or any other wishy washy sign, let me hear you stand up and boldly speak your mind! On that occasion, should it occur — {Ha!} I would feel like the poor Indian brave, too long held captive on the reservation, then let run free. On that day, for you, as well as for me, I’m sure you’ll shout–and I––I my boy, will truly whoop for joy — But now to his story:
This morning Stäs has an appointment, and being extremely nervous, has given himself a plus rating in that gray area between numbers three and four. The idea was to walk around the block and shake off his nervousness, reducing it to a standard plus one, or at least a one and a half, maybe two plusses. However, this was the second time around and he couldn’t dip a smidgin below a number three. Sometimes applying cold compresses to his eyes would drop a plus or two, but before leaving home he forgot to do it, and thinking that he should have done it and didn’t, pushed him close to a four. And today it was important he appear calm!
[“Calm!”], he reminded himself.
He had arranged to meet Chunk Paininitt.
“Chunk Paininitt! Oh, God!”
Just saying Chunk’s name made him weary and stirred a lot of bitter memories. He cautioned himself in a shaky whisper—
“St––steady, get a grip on yourself. If you keep this up—you––you might bump up to a number f- five.”
Oh, did I forget to mention? He sometimes stammers when feeling …edgy?
Chunk was another reason Stäs could hardly wait to graduate when they were in high school. Back then, Chunk was a smart aleck know it all. The worst of his tormentors, Chunk always seemed to be watching, critical like, waiting for Stäs to do something he could ridicule and laugh at. But that was then and now Chunk seemed different. At least he did one night last week after work when Chunk saw Stäs peering into the window of Chunk’s store.
Well, it really wasn’t Chunk’s store; it was his father’s store, but Chunk acted like he owned it. Chunk came out and gave him the “glad hand” and pat on the back, then talked him into buying a motorcycle. Buying from Chunk made him uncomfortable, and something told him not to, but he couldn’t resist. He always dreamed of buying a motorcycle and didn’t need much encouragement. Still, despite his excitement, Stäs couldn’t forget the past.
“Never mind! Forget it!” he whispered, “You’re just a little anxious, that’s all, but now, right now––you’re calm––you’re calm!”
He held his hand out in front of him —
“No, you’re n-not.”
After walking for a while, he thought—
[“Boy, it’s hot!”], and wished now he hadn’t worn a suit and tie. The wool golf cap wasn’t such a good idea either, and he had on new shoes.
He took the cap off and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. Despite the heat and waiting for Chunk, today was special; it was Sunday, the day they agreed he would take delivery of his motorcycle. It was the biggest and most expensive purchase he ever made, and a special order coming all the way from Massachusetts!
Chunk had not been too happy at having to open the store on Sunday, but Stäs explained to him Sunday was his day off and the only time he could pick it up. Also, that he would need some instruction on how to ride it and daylight hours would be best. However, Stäs didn’t want anyone