Garrett Socol's fiction has been published in The Barcelona Review, 3:AM Magazine, Pequin, Perigee, Paradigm, PANK, Hobart, Ghoti, Ducts, Ascent Aspirations, Underground Voices, JMWW Journal, Foundling Review, kill author, Bartleby Snopes, Emprise Review, nth Position and McSweeney’s Internet Tendency. His plays have been produced at the Berkshire Theatre Festival and the Pasadena Playhouse. For 15 years, he created and produced television shows for the E! Network including “Talk Soup” and “The Gossip Show.”
The Mourners Wore Magenta (May 20, 2010. Issue 17.)
The elderly father of the Mumford sisters had been battling pneumonia as well as angina pectoris and chronic granulomatous disease when he decided to pull the plug, literally, on his life. The man had just turned ninety-five and felt as though he’d spent more than enough time on the planet. Ironically, the Mumford patriarch had been on the mend. His lungs were clearing, and the granulomas were no longer blocking his fragile esophagus. Plus, the chest pain vanished, his body seemed to be accepting the new liver, and the previous month’s hip replacement surgery had gone exceptionally well.
Bartholomew Mumford had enjoyed a long, satisfying life in the warm company of women: wives, daughters, girlfriends, granddaughters. He began dating shortly after his beloved wife Simone fell to her death at the age of fifty-seven. (She leaned against a much-too-loose railing on the balcony of their hotel suite in the Bahamas.)
Bart was survived by his two devoted daughters Lizzy and Cheyenne. Unfortunately, the siblings hadn’t spoken for more than a decade. Lizzy, the uptight, controlling one who always followed the rules, handled the funeral arrangements. Cheyenne, the free spirit who created her own rules as she went along, would’ve preferred a celebration of her father’s life in some cool club instead of the pomp and ceremony of a church service, but she decided to keep her mouth shut and go along with whatever Lizzy wanted.
On this humid July morning, more than one hundred forlorn friends and relatives filtered into the small, stuffy church to pay their respects to Bart Mumford.
Because of the great number of women present, the place reeked of perfume. Coupled with the sweltering heat, the sweet floral scent thickened the air and sickened several mourners.
Surrounded by her teenage daughter Sue and her best friend Phyllis, the now orphaned Lizzy felt as comforted as possible. Cheyenne showed up with her soon-to-be-ex-husband Serge and their two daughters, Tatiana and Danila.
“When one attends a funeral, isn’t one supposed to dress in black?” Lizzy whispered into Phyllis’s ear as a light summer shower began to spatter the roof.
“Of course,” Phyllis responded.
“Then why are those women in the back wearing various shades of pink?” A cluster of elegant, heavily hairsprayed females between the ages of thirty and sixty were sitting cross-legged in the last pew. “Pink is a lovely color for a garden party or a summer barbecue,” Lizzie said, “but this is a funeral.”
A middle-aged priest with thick eyebrows, thin lips and a rubbery neck, spoke eloquently of Bart Mumford, his devotion to family as well as his solid work ethic. (Bart had run a major cosmetics corporation.) “He didn’t attended church regularly,” the priest said, “but when he did attend, you always knew he was there.” Suddenly, rain began to slam with ferocity. “He was an independent thinker as well as a respected scholar.” A woman in the fifth pew began to choke dramatically before standing up and scurrying out a side door. “Now it’s time to hear a few cherished memories of Bart Mumford from those who knew him well.”
Lizzy spoke first, delivering the loving words everyone expected to hear. Cheyenne followed, emphasizing the enormous generosity of her father who had donated millions of dollars to political campaigns, various medical centers and numerous aquariums.
Then Sylvia Bleiweiss, a chestnut-haired beauty in a silk magenta dress, strolled up to the podium. She took a moment to peruse the crowd before speaking. “We’ve heard such wonderful words about Bart Mumford,” Sylvia said. “He was certainly well-educated. We met at an aquarium function, and he immediately impressed me with his knowledge of marine mammal mating rituals. Not only did he teach me the sex habits of spotted sea trout, he explained how water temperature can influence the desires of certain female fish. Then he invited me for a midnight swim in a nearby lake. The light of the full moon created the most romantic setting you can imagine. We went back to that lake every night for a week. On the final night, as I languished in the warm, soothing water, he swam ashore, got dressed, and vanished along with my clothing.”
Sylvia left the podium abruptly, as if trying to catch a departing bus. Lana Peacock, a sultry blonde in a beaded salmon-colored suit, took the stage. “Bart and I met in Barbados,” she announced in a rich, creamy voice that seemed trained at Britain’s Royal Academy of Dramatic Art. “He wined me, dined me, and took me skinny-dipping on our second date. Did you know the female swordtail fish matures faster sexually when she encounters a male with a larger than average tail? We had a splendid, magical time,” Lana explained. “Then he dumped me on the beach at sunset, threw me back into the sea like a sick little guppy. The man had the conscience of smoked sturgeon.”
By this time, the rain had stopped. Lana strolled off, and the only sound in the room was the clacking of her plum stilettos on the hardwood floor. Silver-haired Rona Tarr made a graceful entrance in a long sleeve, hot pink prairie dress complete with magenta boots, an outfit more appropriate for a square dance. “I met Bart on the beach at sunset, right after he dumped Lana Peacock. Of course I didn’t know that at the time. I quickly noticed three strange things about Bart. He wore too much Old Spice. He thought of the aquarium like it was church. And he insisted I put on a skimpy bathing suit and hand wash his big blue Buick with lots of suds. One Sunday, we took a leisurely drive up the coast. He pulled into a service station to fill up on gas and buy a bag of chips, so I used the opportunity to run to the loo. When I came out, the Buick was gone. At first I was sure he was playing a joke. But when four hours passed and he hadn’t returned, I realized he left me there like an unwanted bag of potatoes. I never heard from the bastard again. And I had washed the car that very morning.”
One after the next, the parade of brightly-dressed ex-girlfriends shared their personal memories of Bart Mumford as Lizzie and Cheyenne listened in disbelief. Following Fiona Dunlap’s diatribe about Bart’s barbaric treatment of her at a Tampa seafood restaurant, all eyes fell upon Clarissa Sloat, an elegant, statuesque Swedish woman in a magenta pants suit. “Bart had a habit of degrading me,” she explained in a pained voice. “He would slap me hard on the buttocks and order me to make a face like a blowfish.” She paused, and a tense, pulsating silence filled the church. “In the privacy of my bedroom I had no problem with this, but he began taking his sadistic behavior to public streets. At my sister Suzy’s wedding reception, he shoved me into the four-tiered wedding cake and told me I didn’t deserve to be served dessert. I had to literally hold my mother back from attacking him in her motorized wheelchair.” Dozens of jaws dropped and remained that way. “For lunch, he liked me to hand feed him pieces of swordfish dipped in sweet liqueur. I warned him that too much seafood could cause mercury poisoning, but he told me he didn’t mind resembling a thermometer.” A few subdued chuckles rippled through the crowd. “Now I wish he’d gotten mercury poisoning.”
Unable to restrain herself another second, Cheyenne bolted up from her front row pew. “Enough!” she shouted. “This is a funeral, for fuck sake! Not only do some of you look like giant bottles of Pepto-Bismol, your memories of my father are despicable. The man isn’t here to defend himself, so we’re only getting one side of your tawdry tales. Please leave this sacred house of worship right now!”
“Are you in denial about his actions?” Clarissa asked.
“I can stand here with confidence and deny being in denial,” Cheyenne stated. “Now please honor the family and get the hell out of here.”
The women in various shades of pink vacated the premises. Following them were dozens of darkly-dressed guests, wondering if they ever knew the real Bartholomew Mumford. For all intents and purposes, the service was over.
Lizzy and Cheyenne, both in a fog of bewilderment, drifted toward one another. “Do you suppose they were telling the truth?” Lizzy asked.
“I don’t think a dozen women would make up similar stories,” Cheyenne said.
“How could we have been in the dark? Did you have any idea about his interest in marine biology?”
Cheyenne shook her head with resignation. “Not the slightest.”
In a sudden burst of rage, Lizzie shouted, “Why did they have to go up there and speak? And why on earth did he pull that plug?”
“Our father liked being in charge. He controlled every aspect of his life down to the minutiae,” Cheyenne explained. “I guess he wanted control of his death too.”
“I’m going to erase every word that spewed from the lavender rose lips of those lying bitches.”
“I doubt you’ll be able to do that, Lizzie.” Cheyenne gently put her arms around her grieving, angry sister. Lizzy began to sob on Cheyenne’s bare shoulder. “He abandoned those women in the middle of nowhere. Imagine being left all alone in a strange place. It must have been terrifying.”
Lizzie was silent for a very long time. “He was a bona fide sadist,” she finally admitted, wiping tears from her cheeks.
“You don’t think…” Cheyenne stopped herself from saying the words both women had feared for decades.
“I don’t think what? I don’t think he pushed our mother off that balcony in the Bahamas?”
“The balcony was loose,” Cheyenne stated. “It was proven.”
“Maybe he loosened it.”
Hearing those words lifted some of the pain that had been bottled up inside both sisters. “It’s possible,” Cheyenne said. “It happened three days after they arrived.”
Lizzie felt the rage rising inside her body. “He should be glad he’s dead because if he wasn’t, I’d reopen the case,” Lizzie barked, riled up like never before.
“Just calm down,” Cheyenne said. “Breathe deeply.”
The sisters composed themselves before stepping into the courtyard outside the church. Dark, ominous clouds, gradually moving from east to west, hid any trace of the sun. Still, the heat was intense. Small clusters of people were chatting quietly and conspiratorially. Only two of the women in magenta were still there, and the sisters approached them cautiously. “I’m sorry,” Lizzie quietly said. The pain she felt was so overwhelming that she thought her muscles might give way and she’d literally collapse.
“We’re so sorry,” Cheyenne added tenderly. Then she led Lizzie away from the friends and relatives of Bart Mumford, wanting nobody’s pity, sorrow or sympathy. They certainly didn’t want to hear empty words of consolation. All the sisters wanted was each other and a period of adjustment.
Neither had any idea what the universe had in store for them. Cheyenne couldn’t have known she would meet her future mate standing in front of the living kelp forest at the Atlantic Aquarium or that she would conceive her daughter in the dimly-lit hallway around the corner from the seahorse kingdom. Lizzy had no inkling she would marry the man who created the giant octopus exhibit in the Deep Reefs Gallery or that the wedding would take place in the aquarium lobby.
All the formerly estranged sisters felt on this somber day, the day of their father’s unforgettable fiasco of a funeral, was an oddly compelling connection to all things crustacean.
Two Stories (November 20, 2009. Issue 11.)
Dancing Prohibited on Post Office Premises
Duct-taped to the bare gray wall behind the postal clerks was a sign that read, in large black letters, DANCING PROHIBITED ON POST OFFICE PREMISES. Kicking off her shoes and moving to the Muzak was the last thing Miranda Davis wanted to do on this humid Thursday afternoon. At the precise moment she concluded that the sign had to be a joke, two strapping white men in black ski masks came charging through the entrance, pointing machine guns. “Everybody put down your packages!” one of them shouted.
Panicked postal customers dropped their envelopes and boxes and briefcases to the floor. Some put their hands up. “Very good,” the other guy yelled. “Now, on the count of three, dance!”
The first guy called out, “One! Two! Three!”
Bodies began moving with energy and precision. Some people danced with partners, others moved solo. Miranda was the one customer in the line of eleven to stand perfectly still, arms crossed in fierce defiance. “What’s the matter with you?” the taller of the gun-toting gangsters inquired. He pictured her naked from the waist up and liked what he saw. “Think you’re special?”
“No,” the striking brunette said. “I’m just exhausted. I was out dancing till one thirty last night, and I’ve been on the go since seven this morning.”
“I like chicks who stand up for themselves. Do you want to join us the way Bonnie joined Clyde?”
“Tempting,” Miranda said. “ But I don’t thrive on danger anymore. I’m not exactly nineteen.”
“How old are you?” he asked.
“Somewhere between Blake Lively and Blake Edwards.”
“You’re a beautiful lady, and under this ski mask I have really good hair. We could make history.”
“I’m not interested in making history, honey. Only money and love. Why do you wear that mask?”
“Listen, an advocate of dance would be ridiculed in my workplace.”
“What kind of work do you work?”
“Construction and deconstruction.”
The shorter thug shouted to the clerks. “Take that absurd sign down.” Immediately, the sign was removed. He smiled from ear to ear, but nobody could tell.
“Well, enjoy your day, lovely lady,” the taller of the tormentors tenderly said. “Thanks,” Miranda replied. “I won’t forget you.”
The shorter gangster tap danced his way out while the taller one executed an advanced jazz slide. The customers picked up their packages from the floor. “Next in line,” a postal clerk shouted.
Picnicking Prohibited on Bank Premises
With an expression that suggested steely determination, the young nurse named Janelle Hayes marched down the hospital corridor carrying a box that promised life for a forty-year-old father of five. In the precious gray box was a human heart that had just been delivered via helicopter. The ailing patient, along with his expert team of doctors, waited impatiently in the sterile, refrigerated operating room.
The black and white corridor of CookMemorialMedicalCenter seemed longer than usual. Finally arriving at the end of the hallway, Janelle made a sharp right, and her foot landed on a puddle of vanilla ice cream. Her left leg flew into the air behind her as if preparing for a swan dive into the deep end of a swimming pool, causing the small box to fly out of her hands. Janelle fell with a ferocious thud just in time for the heart (which had emerged from its box during flight) to land on her head, only to slide down her face and settle six inches from her on the gleaming white floor.
A strong gust of wind abruptly awakened Janelle to the very real, very colorful world around her. She climbed out of warm, cozy bed and closed the half open window. Shaking her head with extreme frustration, she was determined to find a way to stop these much-too-frequent, horrifying black and white nightmares that seemed as real as the russet color of her hair.
It was the kind of October morning that called for gloves, scarves and muffs. The withering leaves of the trees, orange and gold, seemed as ready to fall from their branches as loose teeth hanging from rotting gums. After greeting the affable security guard in the lobby of the downtown building, she took the elevator to fifteen. All but one of Janelle’s fellow employees lit up when they saw her. Zelda Henderling, the colleague who despised her with every ounce of strength in her doughy, sallow body, turned her head and pretended to be studying a pamphlet.
Janelle attracted attention simply by showing up; Zelda primped for hours and nobody noticed. Clothing clung fashionably to Janelle’s lithe, luscious body while it hung on Zelda as if being worn against its will. A zealous, jealous, untrustworthy employee of ten years (in contrast to Janelle’s four), Zelda firmly believed she was bypassed for a sought-after promotion because she lacked the sex appeal of her younger, more vivacious colleague. The fact that she was less qualified and lacked the requisite leadership skills didn’t enter her consciousness.
On this particular day, bimonthly paychecks were delivered, and Janelle was one of the few who didn’t opt for direct deposit. She actually enjoyed interacting with the friendly bank tellers. The fact that her financial institution was located on the ground floor of the office building made in-person banking incredibly convenient.
Just before noon, Janelle took her place in line behind a dozen customers at City National, Zelda among them. Third in line, Zelda was too engrossed in the take-out menu from Trattoria Romana, the Italian restaurant down the street, to notice anyone else.
Hanging on the wall behind the tellers was a sign in large purple letters: Picnicking Prohibited on Bank Premises. Just as she began to chuckle, concluding that the sign had to be a joke, three strapping white men in black masks charged through the bank’s front door, pointing guns. “Everybody on the floor!” one of them yelled. Bodies dropped with chilling speed. One of the thugs raced behind the counter. Another stood guard at the entrance. The third stomped toward the customers. “Stand up,” he shouted to Janelle. With his firearm pointed at her forehead, the madman warned: “If anyone moves, this babe’s white dress will be covered in blood.”
It suddenly dawned on Janelle: This was just another of her frighteningly graphic, elaborately produced nightmares. She was so convinced of this that she fearlessly, forcefully grabbed the gun and shot the robber in the chest. The sound of the blast was infinitely louder than anyone expected, and Janelle gasped.
The felon at the front door quickly left the premises. The one behind the counter pointed his gun toward the tellers.
“Get up,” Janelle shouted at Zelda, brandishing the revolver. “This rude woman treats me like garbage because I got the promotion she wanted,” Janelle explained to the frazzled people on the floor. “Turn around, Zelda, and stop whining.” The would-be shooter pointed the gun at Zelda’s gargantuan buttocks. Then she pulled the trigger. The volume of the blast may have been expected, but the screams were piercing. “Calm down, everyone,” Janelle pleaded. “None of this is actually happening.”
“How can you say that?” a man asked.
“Sir, I realize you’re lying on a cold tile floor, but these hoodlums only exist in my head. Soon everything will go back to normal, and you’ll forget any of this happened. I promise.” Clearly sensing that nobody believed her, she pointed the gun at her own temple. “See? Would I do this for real?” Janelle pulled the trigger as her eyes happened to fall upon the bright block letters of the sign Picnicking Prohibited on Bank Premises, letters in a lovely shade of purple, deeper than lavender, closer to violet. Startling clarity informed the final half-second of Janelle’s life: This was no black and white fantasy. This was reality in living color, and she had made the most unfortunate, unalterable mistake of her life. As a SWAT team burst through the bank entrance with the force of an avalanche, Janelle fell to the floor with a thud.
The uniquely gruesome tragedy was covered in vivid color on television news networks across the country. Real people reacted to this real event with real, stunned, heart-stopping horror.