Month: April 2013

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Gimme Gimme Gimme

by Miles Rost

for Maggie, RIP

1980. It was a bad year for Labour, but a great year for my boys. I was a member of Parliament at the time, but I took a leave of absence in order to take care of my wife, Hilda. A lovely lady, she was staying with some of her cousins in Pittsburgh, and came down with something incredibly awful. Now if I could only remember what it was.

Anyhow, May of 1979 was a big time for my boys in blue. Or, rather, in this case, it was my boys and girls in blue. See, we just got off a major win taking over Westminster. 63 extra seats netted us 339 seats in total. This was excellent! Old Ed Heath couldn’t have done that if he was standing upside down, wearing a Donald Trump toupee and singing the Doctor Who theme song!

Anyhow, I just got back over in January so I could meet the new leader of our fair United Kingdom. I met her before, when she was merely an MP based out of Finchley. To see Margaret Thatcher, who I loved to call “Mags”, as the head of all of the British Commonwealth made my heart tickle. I happened to arrive at 10 Downing on a beautiful Friday morning.

I was just about to go into the residence, when I heard the most interesting sound coming from behind the door. I heard music. And not just any music, but music I was familiar with. And, sure enough, as I was let into the Prime Minister’s place, I heard music that I likely only would have found in Studio 54 back in New York.

Poor ol Denis was sitting at the table, slowly lowering and raising his head on the table, looking like he had lost his mind. And there was the Prime Minister, Maggie “Iron Skirt” Thatcher, enjoying her latest addition to her collection of music: Abba’s Greatest Hits, Volume 2.

“Oh, this is particularly delightful! I have not experienced such music in a good long time. Tis’ a shame it’s wasted on American youth, when the British should be getting into it as well!” she said, aloud, as she danced across the telly room. I recognized the song that she was listening to, with it’s popular refrain of “Gimme Gimme Gimme, a man after midnight.” Which she also happened to sing with an interesting lilt in her voice.

I cleared my throat and chuckled as she danced. She turned around and looked at me, and grinned a large grin that I had not seen from her in quite some time.

“Actually, my fair Prime Minister, it is currently #3 on the British charts. So our youth are, in fact, getting into it.”

“Well, that will be a wonderful note to add to my list. How is your wife, Prentice?”

“She’ll be alright, just a little confusion,” I told her, lying through my teeth, “She’ll be back in Birmingham in no-time”.

Maggie turned down the volume on the song, which was ending anyways, and looked at me with those stern eyes that would later stare down Mikhail Gorbechev.

“You, sir, are lying. What is going on with your wife?”

I sighed.

“Alzheimer’s. Early onset. She’ll be staying with my cousins in Pittsburgh. It means I’ll be making trips periodically. I may have to stand down at the next election.”

She looked at me with sad eyes. I will never forget what she would tell me next.

“Your wife will be a treasure even while you’re away. You will live long lives, no matter where you are.”

That was Maggie. She was someone I could admire, and someone who would always be there to give someone comfort. Even if some of the more ardent of folk didn’t care for her.

We talked for a good 20 minutes about the important things, which allowed her husband to gratefully go upstairs, change his clothes, and go out for a while. I’m thinking he found a hotel and took a nap, though I cannot be too sure.

After our 20 minute talk, she insisted that we listen to more music while working on the rest of the new developments that would impact my constituency in Birmingham. So we continued to listen to Abba’s Greatest Hits, volume 2. Everytime “Gimme Gimme Gimme” would come on, she would dance and laugh. It delighted me so, that even when I retired for the 1983 election, I still would remember that song and the look on the old dame’s face.

I went to live in the States after 1983. And, as I sit here and watch the world pass me by in my chair looking out over the business that is Pittsburgh, PA, I remember Maggie Thatcher very vividly. An old Tory warhorse, now reunited in heaven with her companions. Here’s a pint to you, Iron Lady.

* This was a fictional account. No one actually knew IF she actually danced to ABBA, but we figure that it would be quite awesome if she did. RIP Margaret Thatcher.

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Mexican Radio

by Miles Rost

Apparently, it had been three days since I last saw consciousness.

Here’s what I remember so far. I was staying at a friend of mine’s place in Sylmar, waiting for word back from a prospective client for a job in imports and exports. They dealt with Vietnam, Cambodia, and Thailand explicitly, and since I knew how to speak Vietnamese and Thai, I figured I would have an in. I sit down in front of the TV and watch an episode of The People’s Court, then a rerun of NCIS. I chugged down a glass of freshly made iced tea that my host had made before he left for work. I start feeling really good, and decide that it’s nice enough to take a nap.

When I woke up, three days later, I heard the chatter from a small transistor radio in my room. I tried listening hard, but I couldn’t understand just what the DJ was saying. I blinked for a few moments to get my bearings, and see if it was morning or night. To my surprise, in the room there were no windows. Now, understand something, this room was about as big as a closet in an average apartment. So, I get up and slowly walk to the door.

I opened up the door and I looked at the room. There was a light on, but it was one bulb. It was pretty dark, and kinda warm in there. I looked on the table and saw a microphone, a control board, and a couple of CD players. I also saw my laptop next to the microphone. It was plugged in and ready to go, though I noticed that all my chat programs on there were gone.

I went to the refrigerator, but I saw there was nothing there except water and a couple bottles of Corona. Greeeeeat, just what I didn’t need. Alcohol. I went over to the main door and tried to open it. Clearly, it was bolted shut and was made of a strong metal that reminded me of the inside of an Abrams tank.

Suddenly, the small door slot opened and a plate full of meat, beans, and rice came through the door. A note was next to it. So I grabbed it up, walked over to another table next to the broadcast table, and proceeded to read the note.

Oy-

Enjoy your food. Your show starts in 30 minutes. Clock is on the wall and is atomic-based.

– your employer.

Okay, that’s nice. Well, let’s take a look at what I got. Hmmm…looked like kebabs, beans, and rice. So I took a bite of kebab. It actually tasted good…for about 5 seconds, then it took a turn towards the very chewy and the not-so-palatable. Instead, I ate the beans and rice and kept the plate of meat nearby for something to snack on while I did some sort of broadcasting show.

Only after putting on the headphones and turning on the mic did a window finally open. And I was shocked by what I saw. I was on the 12th floor of a building overlooking what could only be described as the brown-haired and dirty stepchild of the City of San Diego. With looking out that window, looking down at the meat, and the phone that was now ringing via a red signal, I finally realized that I was the living epitome of a major song:

I found I was in Tijuana
Eating barbequed ignuana
I take requests on the telephone
I’m on a wavelength far from home

God, help me now. I’m on-a Mexican Radio.

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Moonlight Lady

by Miles Rost

Hirsan was getting bored with the party being held in his honor. The bespectacled 24-year old grad student had just finished a major exam in his Geography 507 course, dealing with the political intrigue relating to assassinations and their relative location to national capitals. He received a text message to come and visit his father at the estates in mountains in Orange County.

He didn’t realize it was going to be a 24th birthday party.

Sure, he was the son of royalty. The heir to the new throne of Syria, once the old dictator Assad was brought down to his knees and the insurgent Iranians sent back to their native land. However, today, he thought of himself as simply a college student and a deeply humiliated individual.

Hirsan liked to live frugally, to learn how to survive on his own and work with the other people. He wasn’t religious, and preferred to be focused on love and life, rather than political intrigue and negotiations. However, this surprise party was his father’s idea.

“When King Rahsan gets an idea, you know there will be lots of money and pomp behind it,” he said, dejectedly.

He scanned the floor of the main ballroom from his perch on the second floor. The main ballroom was gigantic. With marble flooring and bright orangish colors up the sides, it was surrounded on a second floor by four large open corridors with seating along both sides of it’s wide hallways. He sat next to the edge overlooking the ballroom, looking at the main ballroom doors to the north. A string ensemble was on one side of the ballroom, while a disc jockey was on the other side. While the adults played, the string ensemble were in play. After the adults would retire, the youth would have the disc jockey for the rest of the night. The DJ was a good friend of Hirsan’s, brought down from San Francisco for the occasion. He had a list of certain songs that Hirsan would be using on most nights.

He was just about to get up and walk towards the kitchen in frustration when he saw a face appear through the main ballroom doors. His heart froze, and he stood, transfixed. He knew this person who walked through the doors, and he did not know what to do.

She wore a beautiful peach-colored satin dress. It was definitely flirty, but it wasn’t over-doing it. It stated confidence, like it knew what it wanted and that others should stay away. Her skin was light, but had a tinge of color to it. Likely unnoticable to most people, for Hirsan, it was a perfect color that showed the beauty of East Asia. Her almond eyes lit up with kindness as she was greeted, and her light-red lips gently displayed laughter.

Hirsan immediately bolted to the stairs closest to the string ensemble. He ran over to the main conductor and tapped him on the shoulder. After talking in an animated way to him for close to a minute, the conductor gave him the nod, and he continued to quickly rush over towards the DJ. He gave him the number 51, and told him to wait for his cue. The DJ just let out a hearty chuckle and slapped him on the back. Hirsan then proceeded to walk slowly in the direction of the young lady.

He came to within two feet of her, and she turned to look at him.

“Hirsan?!” she said, gasping a slight bit, “You’re the birthday boy?”

“It is, Keiko! How did you end up coming over here?”

“It was your dad. He said that you mentioned me a couple times, and he thought it would be nice for me to come celebrate your birthday.”

Hirsan smirked, while looking down and shaking his head.

Dad, there some some days when I have to wonder just what’s going on in that head of yours.

He looked back at her and smiled.

“You look absolutely gorgeous this evening. It’s a change from seeing you in normal clothes in Heitler 150.”

Keiko looked back at him, and gave him a sly nudge.

“Are you trying to say I don’t look sexy?”

Hirsan immediately tried to explain, tying up his tongue and eliciting a guffaw from an old colonel who was standing next to him.

“Don’t dig yerself a hole there, Hirsan. You may just fall in.”

Hirsan quickly facepalmed, took a breath, and sighed.

“You look great in anything you wear. I just never have seen you in as elegant or, shall we say, shiny of attire.”

Keiko blushed slightly.

Hirsan knew his next move, one that he hoped he would be able to pull off. He proceeded to gently pick up her hand, placing it in his.

“Keiko, would you care for a dance to one of my favorite songs?”

Keiko responded with boldness.

“Of course I would, Hirsan. You might be surprised by what you ask.”

Hirsan proceeded to take her hand and move her around a couple directions. He gave the signal to the composer to stop, and the “5-1” with his open hand to the DJ. Both did as they were supposed to do while Hirsan brought Keiko to the middle of the ballroom. Other people started to move out of the way, as the couple finally arrived. At the precise moment they arrived, his song started up.

For the first 30 seconds or so, he slowly moved with her around in the middle of the crowd, which had opened up into a circle. For the near 3 and a half minutes, Hirsan moved across the floor with Keiko. He utilized partner dance skills that he had been taught long ago as a child, and applied old-style charm in a bid to make those four minutes the greatest of Keiko’s life.

He twirled her around in the choruses, and did tango/mamba mixes during other parts. She just grinned and laughed as they went through the song. He found himself at the end of the song looking into her eyes and saying words that he never thought he would have uttered in his life.

“Sexy sexy lady, you just drive me crazy.”

Keiko looked into his eyes with what could only be termed as a “sultry stare”.

“Is this just from our dance, or has this thought been going on for a while?”

“Ever since we first met in Wilshire 100 lecture hall for Professor Chaudhury’s World Geography class.”

Keiko blushed, showing that she too had the same answer.

“Well, now that we know we can dance to the music, let it play!” he said, giving her a flourish and signalling the string ensemble to start playing again.

It was definitely going to be a great 24th birthday for Hirsan.

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Against All Odds

by Miles Rost

“Shandie!”

Brian Charles looked up at the second-floor bedroom window of his ex-girlfriend’s house.

“Shandie! C’mon! We need to talk!”

No answer came.

“Shandie, if we talk this out, you won’t have to see me again. I just need to get this out.”

After a few moments, “Shandie” came to the window. A beautiful redhead with long hair, she wore the mean look of an Irish lass.

“You got me here, Brian! Spill!”

Brian looked up at her with eyes that were near overflowing to tears. This was a man with a mission whose heart seemed to be ready to pop things open.

“Do you want to know why I did not make it to the hospital to pick you up?”

“Does it involve some lame excuse? If so, I don’t want to know!”

“This is the problem, Shandie! You won’t listen to what happened! If you were willing to take a second and actually hear what happened and look at the report in my hand, you’ll know that there was a very good reason why I was not there.”

“I’ve seen you do this before, Brian! You did it to Elena before you met me! You did it to Raisa! And now you’re doing it to me! I don’t want to hear it!”

“How can you just walk away from me? How can you do this without even letting me tell you why I wasn’t able to make it there?”

“You’re going to say something fantastical, Brian, and try to get me to forgive you. Well, it’s not happening! I don’t want to hear your excuses!”

“You coming back to me is against the odds! I see that! I don’t care if we’re together anymore! I just do not want to this to end with miscommunication!”

“Miscommunication? MISCOMMUNICATION? YOU LEFT ME OUTSIDE A COLD HOSPITAL IN A FOREIGN TOWN! There is no excuse for that!”

Brian tore at his hair, frustrated and about ready to burst. Shandie looked back at him, a slight smirk on her face.

“Couldn’t handle the truth? That is why I won’t believe you!”

She turned around and

Brian growled and threw the paper-wrapped tennis ball into her room. He grabbed his hair and screamed at her.

“IS THIS WHAT YOU WANT? TURN AROUND AND SEE ME CRYING, WHY DON’T YOU! I DID NOT PICK YOU UP BECAUSE I WAS ON THE SIDE OF THE ROAD. AFTER I KILLED SOMEONE!”

Shandie stopped smirking. As his loud sobs resonated through the neighborhood, she slowly walked back and picked up the paper. She looked at it, a police report. She noticed the time and the date, the location, and what had happened. It was as though everything she had thought about started to crack right at that moment.

She looked down at him, and those cracks in her mind got larger, and more spidery.

“Brian,” she said, a bit softer, “I…I think I need to hear what you have to say after all.”

Brian choked out the story in between tears, about how he was running late due to a long line at the local Target store. He tried to use a shortcut, but it was blocked by a creek that was flooding due to an ice jam. He drove down a hill and lost control of his vehicle as it slid downhill. He cried as he recounted the old man who just entered the roadway just at the moment he reached the bottom of the hill, and how he went through his windshield, and how Brian went unconscious after the car came to a rest in a yard.

“I…” she mumbled, “I remembered what you did before, with all these fantasy stories with your past girlfriends. I thought that it was just the same thing.”

Brian sniffled, and looked at her with a sorrowful but hateful glare.

“You thought wrong,” he said, his voice calming down, “You’ve always jumped to conclusions about things. Even after we started dating. And now, after today, I don’t want think about you ever again. Not after what you have done.”

Shandie did not know what she could do. She wanted to run down there and comfort him, but she also knew that she couldn’t. He was right, she didn’t listen. And it cost her a relationship.

“Brian, I am….I am sorry.”

Brian just turned around and started to walk out of the yard. He cleared his conscience, she got an explanation, and he found out just how it was to truly end a relationship with honesty. He looked back up at her one last time, and called back.

“Take a look at me now. There’s just an empty space there, now.”