Short Story / How to Spell Caramel, Among Other Things
You started reading this just now. Your eyes read the words, your brain makes sense of them, and automatically, you start having expectations for what I’m about to write. Maybe you’re sitting around your room, with nothing to do on a Friday night, again, and decided to read this. Maybe you’re at some posh coffee shop getting a triple grande caramel/carmel soy latte, and just got done wondering how to properly spell caramel/carmel, and decided to read this. Maybe you’re being forced to read this by society/government/your peer group/family, etc. Or maybe you’re about to drop a big grumpy in the toilet, and you decided you’d give this is a spin in order to break up the monotony of crapping. Regardless, like I said, you’re forming an expectation.
You just read that cute opening paragraph, and maybe you thought “hey, this writer is kind of funny. I DO wonder how to spell caramel/carmel!” Or maybe you thought that was a lame ploy to get you interested. It doesn’t matter -now you’re expecting the story to go somewhere, and it clearly is not. Maybe you’re thinking about putting this down since it hasn’t even introduced a main character yet, you’re not forming an emotional bond to anyone yet, and there clearly is no good-looking, mysterious, love interest, so this is just not worth your time. Your grip on whatever medium you’re reading this on is getting looser and looser, and you slowly stop caring about what I could possibly have to say about my mediocre and boring life. You’re now convinced that the only thing that could save this non-story is if someone got knifed right at this very instant. Fine, let’s have it your way.
George was 35 years old. He was a computer engineer for some company that ended with a hyphenTech (-Tech). He had a few friends at the office, and none outside. He dated every couple months just so that his friends wouldn’t call him gay. George wouldn’t have minded having a family, but not enough to sleep with a woman who wanted to have a family. So, he went home to a lonely house and made himself a bowl of noodles with just enough olive oil to make himself feel fat enough to exercise. He kept his life in a careful balance of guilt and recompense, and if the balance was ever thrown off, he would surely meet his demise. Or so he thought…
Then one night George was walking down an alley, and was knifed.
The End.
Now are you happy? I knifed someone. Or maybe you didn’t want George knifed. Maybe you wanted to hear more about George and his olive oil, in which case, I’ve ruined everything for you.
Maybe the problem with George is that I killed him off too quickly. I didn’t let you know him well enough, and didn’t give you enough background in order to make his death tragic. The climax came too quickly, and had absolutely no denouement – which is unacceptable.
George hated holidays, especially Christmas. Christmas reminded George of how he had ignored his parents long enough to make them feel fine about ignoring him. But more so than hating being reminded of his wrong-doings, he hated Christmas music. Christmas music was straight from the Devil’s lair as far as George was concerned, and it should return home as quickly as possible. He hated the fact that every where he went Christmas music followed him. It was as if Christmas music was stalking him in a dark alley, waiting to knife him in the back, but instead, Christmas music simply was played at his work, every store he went in, restaurants, restrooms, his friend’s and stranger’s ring-tones, and was waiting to make him incredibly annoyed. And it succeeded.
He hated how all the songs morphed into pretty much the exact same song, with lyrics that could be summed up with the phrase “I love Christmas and have over-the-top expectations for it!” George noticed that people really, really acted like they loved Christmas. They practically wanted to procreate with it. He’d hear the pop-divas sing a redone rendition of a cover song done in the 1960’s by Frank Sinatra, who originally covered the original cover, and belt their little anorexic lungs out about how excited they were about bells ringing and getting to see their family in a wonderland of snow – and decided that these people must be delusional. He also didn’t know what possessed people to keep recycling the exact same Christmas songs over. Was there some kind of ban on writing new Christmas songs, more so, ones that could be potentially non-monotonous? Secondly, George hated Christmas because it made everyone pretend to be truly happy, though clearly, they couldn’t be. Christmas is during the winter, and therefore, it’s a cold, dark, icy, dangerous time of year that does not deserve a celebration. Whoever decided to celebrate the Savior’s birth at this time of the year chose poorly, and George was paying the consequences for it.
Hmm…I liked that. But too long of a rant about Christmas? I could have kept going, really, I could have. Or maybe you feel like George seems cantankerous now instead of dull as he seemed previously with all the olive oil and stuff. I guess he’s a hard guy to peg, which makes him a poor candidate to put in a story. Maybe he doesn’t belong.
When George wasn’t busy hating Christmas, he loved to watch small, furry animals putz around inside their little lives. He was especially fond of squirrels and chipmunks. When he had a free day, which generally fell on the weekend, he would go out to the park and watch the animals buzz around and collect acorns, and other kinds of miscellaneous and seemingly unimportant nuts. But to the small creatures, those nuts meant the world. In this regard, he felt like he had a lot in common with these animals.
One day, he decided to follow a squirrel around and see exactly what all it went through in it’s business around the park. Generally, the squirrel just wandered hither and thither, stopping, staring, picking up it’s little paws and staring at the world around him (George assumed it was a man-squirrel). At one point, the squirrel turned around directly and stared at George, but of course, this squirrel doesn’t have complex enough thought to realize that he was in fact being followed by George, and continued to go about his business and avoided confrontation. George continued to follow the squirrel until he went up into a tree. Then George decided to leave the squirrel alone, because frankly, George was afraid of heights.
You still there? What is up with this guy? Speaking of multi-faceted characters – he went from boring, to cantankerous, to just plain insane! No wonder this guy is single. You can go ahead and blame it all on me I suppose. I’m the one writing this and making him the lover of all woodland creatures. I could have given him a career as a male-model, or a knight, or even a gang-banger, and that would have made the story way more interesting. But…I didn’t. He’s a squirrel-follower. His life is lame, and he has no choice one way or another.
So George went about his life, going to work at SomethinghyphenTech, going home to noodles and olive oil, staying away from Christmas music at all costs, and watching furry animals on the weekends. Not necessarily an average life, but it was a life nonetheless.
Or at least it was until he made the mistake of walking into a coffee shop. It was on one of his free days, which happened to fall on a weekend, and he decided he’d get a caramel/carmel macchiato from a coffee shop on the way to the park to…do…stuff. He chose a coffee shop that normally wasn’t very busy, because more than he hated Christmas music, he hated busy stores. The worst thing that could ever happen in George’s life was a busy store blasting Christmas music. So he chose this particular coffee shop, on this particular day, at LEAST a month before Christmas, so he was running a risk of hearing “Silver Bells” for the one-millionth time of his life, but it was worth a caramel/carmel macchiato.
But it just so happened that chaos was going to enter George’s life. Not only was this coffee shop blasting “Walking in a Winter Wonderland,” but it was also packed. Not just packed full of attractive yuppies taking advantage of free wireless, but full of elderly people. Elderly people having a knitting circle. A knitting circle? Weren’t there Tuesday night bingo game after-parties for this type of thing? Why this coffee shop, on this particular day?
In the meadow we can build a snowman
Then pretend that he is Parson Brown
He’ll say: Are you married
we’ll say: No man,
But you can do the job when you’re in town.
Knitting?? How many scarfs do you need to keep you warm during the winter that would possess you to have a knitting circle? Never before in his life had he seen at least 15 people, all well-over the age of 60, mumbling to each other as they ferociously tried to out-scarf the person next to them. George wanted to run away screaming, without even obtaining a caramel/carmel macchiwhatever, but knew he couldn’t. He committed to his purchase the minute he walked into the store, and had to get out of their alive.
His mind became filled between the inanity of Christmas music, and sounds of perl 3, knit 2, perl 5, knit 3, repeat, repeat, repeat.
Walking in a winter wonderland!
Walking in a winter wonderland!
“Yeah, uh, could I get a carmel macchiato?” George asked the grumpy barista behind the counter.
“Sure, and fucking pronounce it caramel.” The grumpy barista responded.
George was pretty sure the grumpista had just dropped an f-bomb to him, but at this point didn’t care. He wanted to get his beverage and get out of this place.
Now it was Mariah Carey singing “Oh Holy Night,” and perl 2 rows, then knit 2 rows back. Most people wouldn’t have minded this situation all that much, but George couldn’t stand it. His mind was spinning with hatred of crowded places, hatred of knitting, sweaters, scarfs, wool in general, elderly people, and most of all Christmas music! Christmas music! George grabbed his mispronounced beverage and high-tailed his way out of the store, running into at least three senior citizens with knitting needles in their hands on his way out. As he pushed open the door, it was like he had finally surfaced and could breathe again. It was like someone had been threatening his life in a dark alley, and he was able to fight them off. It was like December 26th had finally come, and he wouldn’t have to put up with Christmas music for at least eleven months. He vowed never to risk going into that coffee shop again – it was too dangerous.
Hmm…writers block. Writers block happens to every writer at some point. It seems that it always crops up right when you’re getting into the important part of the story – and then all of a sudden, you’re shooting blanks. Bang – no one’s dead.
So, I’m having a writer’s block, apparently you’re still reading this, so let’s chit-chat for a bit. Or at least I’ll talk to you, how about that? It seems that we’ve now reached the climax of this story. But what kind of climax was that? George walks into a coffee shop where a knitting circle is undergoing and Christmas music is playing, and he wigs out? Climaxes generally entail a battle, a robbery, a murder, a relationship’s demise, a knifing in an alley way.
Maybe George is just that lame that he can’t even have a good climax to his story. What a loser. It just seems that nothing is going anywhere, and things just don’t fit together, and you can’t write, can’t think, can’t finish what you started, and…Hey, the blocks gone! Let’s see what else happens to George.
As George ran out of the aforementioned, plagued coffee shop, he felt the cold winter breeze hit his face. He realized, at this point, that by running, he was creating more breeze, and was getting colder and colder in the cold weather. He then decided, at the next point, that he should quit running, and slow his pace to a moderate walk. At this pace, he could reach his park of choice in just a few minutes, without the burden of labored breathing, breeze-making, and excessive calorie expenditure that would ensue from his previous running. However, running did make the whole scene more dramatic.
George reached the park and took a seat under a large, snow-covered elm tree. Or maybe it was a mighty oak – he could never be quite sure. He was happy to sit down after his moderately paced stroll. George sipped on his caramel macchiato, with the reassurance in his mind that at least he now knew how to spell caramel.
There weren’t very many furry animals out today. Perhaps a few were all ready in hibernation, or else they were avoiding him. But George was happy to relax after his stressful morning. His eyes surveyed the calm park, and watched a V-shaped geese formation high-tail it to Florida for the winter. Lucky ducks. Geese. Whatever.
“Excuse me, do you have a light?”
Whoa! Where was this voice coming from? Someone was speaking to him in the cold, calm park. An intruder upon his solitude, upon his macchiato, upon his surveying of the geese. Who could this be?
George turned around on his park bench, under the potentially poplar tree, to look at the owner of the voice. It turned out to be a woman. Of course, it has to be a woman. This would be the appropriate time to introduce a love interest.
And apparently she was a smoker.
She held an un-lit cigarette between her first two fingers, looking at George with expectation for him to respond in some way. She was bundled warmly under a hat, ear-muffs, scarf, gloves, and not to mention, an enormous parka. She must not care for the cold weather much, George decided.
“Do you?”
She was now getting more and more anxious for his response.
“Uh, sorry, no, I don’t smoke.”
“Yeah, I guess you don’t really look like a smoker. But you never know. Sometimes people have matches on them to light candles whenever they feel like it or something.”
She sighed, and sat down on the bench next to George, under the willow tree, still holding her unactualized cigarette in her gloved fingers. George saw this as kind of awkward.
“Yeah, I don’t light very many candles either.”
“Too bad.” She stared at her cigarette. “It’s a dumb problem to not have a lighter, but to have the cigarette. People make such a big deal about cigarettes being so bad for you, but all they have to do is to take lighters and matches away in order to rid the world of smokers all together.”
George said nothing.
“I mean, they give matches away for free! Usually. Pack of matches? No problem! A sixty cent lighter? No problem! A pack of smokes? Hey! You’re killing yourself. I’m sure not killing myself if it’s not lit, okay?”
Cough. “That’s a good point.”
“Yeah…I know.”
“So uh, what are you gonna do about your cigarette then?”
“Just stare at it I guess. There’s no one else here. Have a nic-fit and slowly fall into deep depression, resulting in the hatred of my parents, society, and the government. Become an anarchist, wear all black, change my name to something more deadly sounding, perhaps get a tattoo that I’ll later contract AIDS from because they didn’t use a single-use needle on me. And then spend the rest of my life on lots of medication, trying to fight something they don’t have a cure for.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah, but at least I know my fate. Other people have no idea. Foresight has to be good for something, right?”
“I suppose so.” Gerald was a little scared of this new character in his life, but felt increasingly more and more comfortable around her.
“You think it’s better to know where things are going?”
“Meh, maybe. Like I said, it has to be good for something. Insurance policies, for one.”
“I’d think it’d be a really big burden.”
“Sure it would be. Lucky for me though, I was kidding about the AIDS bit.”
Oh, she thinks I’m weird for taking her seriously.
“Oh, yeah I know! But I was just saying that, you know, like – ”
“Relax. Maybe I will get AIDS someday, and then everything will be back on track.”
“Yes. I mean no. I mean, whatever.” George said.
“Articulated like a master.”
The woman sat silently for awhile, so naturally, so did George. He decided it’d be better if she kept the conversation going, since she was the one who walked into his life, and made his life awkward.
“Do you think you’ll get AIDS someday?” She finally said.
“Um… no? I don’t think so. I mean, how would I know? Do you think I would?”
“I know nothing about your life.”
“I don’t really know anything about my life, either. Besides the whole AIDS bit, I do so many things that just don’t make sense. Don’t seem to fit.”
“Fit into what? A box? An isosceles triangle? A train? A plane? An automobile?”
“Into myself I guess.”
“Well maybe you should try working out, change your shape. Then maybe everything would fit in better.”
What?
“What? No, that doesn’t make any sense at all.”
“Well, you just said your life didn’t either. So maybe it’s quite suiting.”
Hmm.
“I guess what I’m saying is, if my life were a book, it’d be weird. It’d be boring, it’d be dull. No one would read it.”
“Who’s your audience?”
“Well no one.”
“Then you have no one to worry about, so go about your business. No one’s watching you.”
George realized this had all of a sudden became a personal conversation with an absolute stranger. It didn’t seem right.
“I’m sorry, who are you?”
“I’m Carol.”
“I’m George.”
“Yeah, I know. I’ve been watching you.”
What??!!
“What??!! What do you mean?”
“I’m kidding.”
Carol stood up from the bench and pulled a lighter out of her pocket.
“It’s nice to meet you George. I hope your life is fascinating.”
She lit her cigarette and walked away.
I guess she wasn’t much of a love interest. George didn’t even get her number. And now she’s gone.
So George continued to sit in the park, drinking his caramelly, espresso beverage, not pausing once to think that maybe the coffee shop had no idea how to properly make a macchiato. No, that thought never crossed his mind. But a lot of other thoughts crossed his mind. Like why he hated Christmas music, and everyone else seemed so cheered by it. Why he sat in the park to watch squirrels, while other people ran over them with their cars. And he sat there, as his beverage grew colder and colder, and wondered why things are always supposed to go one way, and they never do.
At least he could reassure himself that if he ever wanted to be remembered, all he’d have to do was get knifed in a dark alley some night.
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This was… wow. I’m trying to find the word to describe it and I can’t.
I think that the title does your little sad, sick and oh so very funny justice, it kind of is about how to spell ‘caramel’ and other things, so that can stay. The only thing I could say is that when you do the lyrics to the Christmas carols is that you should italicize them, also, there were a couple of grammatical errors and typos. By the way, you also called ‘George’ ‘gerald’ once or twice.
But all in all, a hilarious read
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Well, Pinky, you suck. Heh, just kidding. I feel like I’m listening to you talk. Always rollercoaster, ping-pong, road trip kind of conversation, and the same kind of writing style. Maybe it could use a bit of tweaking. You are your own editor, after all. I’d suggest combing through it and fine-tuning a bit. I didn’t like the first couple of lines, but after that I liked everything until George left the coffee shop. I wasn’t too interested in Carol, but that’s probly cause I’m not too interested in George just on his own either. The most interesting and exciting character is the narrator, no question. I laughed out loud more than a few times and I LOVE how you used “meh.” We all know you’re a good writer, now kick it up. Refine. Be more careful when you’re writing and editing. Be fastidious. But that’s just general stylistic advice. The story’s entertaining. Goooood shit.
This has got to be one of the stupidest pieces I have ever read – and I just loved it. It was so lame and boring, yet I kept reading. I’ll bet you had a ball writing this. It would make a cute article for a magazine. The writing flow as great. I saw no errors. It’s too bad about the girl and George. I was kind of hoping they’d hit it off. Oh well, such is life. Good work.
I read this so I will review it. Written similar myself call style `entertaining the ridiculious’. Very clever utilizing `you’ which draws reader in with close identification. I really enjoyed your story. Some points:
Would suggest keep author and character delineated, in places meld too much. May seem facile to you as obvious conceit going on but eg. `George asked…the counter.’
`aformentioned’
`However, running …dramatic.’
Maybe not. However assume idea is for reader to forget trick and fall into story particularly towards end. Really liked the ending & nice touch with `Carol’ (who might be author). Well done.
I am quite sure that some reviewers thought this to be far too aggressive or that it was too manic or some other critisism of how unformal it appears in the flashes of one’s eyes as they read. I, myself, would like to take the time to stand and ‘bravo’ you from the highest hill top! Excellent; rating of nine!
I love how angry it all sounds, how sarcastic it all feels; I love the camera breaks of the narrator for no apparant reason. This is a very clever style that you have going on and I am curious who your favourite writers are.
I am not going to critisize this as much as I am going to pay you compliments. I really liked this alot and would like to see more popular fiction like this. A maddening cocktail of Thompson and Robbins poured over the ice of Klaus Nomi.
You really threw this character out and didn’t hold back. He is raw and real. An eccentric man that everyone wants to know deep down inside but are afraid to walk down that road.
Great job and I hope you continue writing!
R.E. Knowlton III
Oh, where to start!
Again, I absolutely LOVE how you drag the reader along with you. You give just enough to make sure that I’m invested in the character, then switch gears. I start to wane a bit from the story and think “where the hell is she going now?” … and then BAM! More juicy stuff to continue dragging me along, kicking and screaming, wanting to know more.
And that really is the crux of what I would fix if I had to. It’d be the gaps between the stuff I LOVE and the stuff that I am so not completely motivated to read.
As a junkie, I want my “fix” faster than you’re willing to give. Which isn’t a bad thing, as long as what is making me wait, is the compelling details that I simply have to have to keep the story moving along later. Those “seeds” of the next chapter were planted nicely here, although HOW you planted them is what I would work on.
Your biggest challenge in “writing smoothly” is you TELL rather than let the reader SEE. The trick is to let me observe what your character sees, does and says, and get me to deduce what (in this case, George) feels. For example:
“He dated every couple months just so that his friends wouldn’t call him gay. George wouldn’t have minded having a family, but not enough to sleep with a woman who wanted to have a family.”
How about just SHOWING me all this through memories. Describe how it happened. What happened the last time George went out on a date? How did he feel? George could be thinking:
“How do I end up like this week after week? I mean, Gladys was a nice enough girl, even though I don’t think I could have ever dated a girl for any length of time who’s name was Gladys. But really, what is it going to take for me to date ANY girl for an extended period of time? I’m an engineer for crying out loud, and a real nerdy one at that! I’ve been bouncing from Hypen-tech to hypen-tech for the better side of ten years now! I should listen better to Dad, he at least liked Gladys.” (ok, rough throw-together, but you get the idea.)
Now I know all I need to know about George from that section above, the reader did the deductive reasoning, and you didn’t have to “preach” or explain it all to me. I’m smart. Show me what’s happening… I can figure it out the why’s.
The switching back and forth. Personally, I liked it. However, I’m one who doesn’t mind the changing of gears mid-action. I like the “cutaways” et. al. Makes me think, and I don’t mind thinking; most people, don’t like that style, though, so I’d say keep an eye out. However, this seemed more to me like a writing exercise that developed into a story about me and my needs, and more particularly, how poor George was going to handle fulfilling them for me by getting knifed in an alleyway. Of course I didn’t know, therefore I kept reading.
And the girl. Genius! I loved her! Forget the fact that your writing of the dialouge was very well constructed and believable; straight away, she became my favorite character in the story. I would have liked to have an insight into what George’s thoughts were about her more… I imagine him over-analyzing the whole thing
...but really, that is the whole point, right? George failing miserably at fulfilling my needs, and this wonderfully refreshing young lady pointing that out to him.
Then again, it could all be bullshit, I might be reading entirely too much into it, and have it all wrong.
And finally, we come to the beauty of your writing. I’m involved. I’m invested. I’m entertained. – and considering the content – the story itself is really going nowhere. Yet here I sit, no story to even review, but I enjoyed it so much, I reviewed your style. That’s a good sign. Keep up the fantastic work!
This story was an excellent idea! Aren’t you glad you wrote it? It’s fresh and fun to read and I have nothing more to add. Other than: you should really send it out.
Hmph. I hated the first two paragraphs. I nearly stopped reading at least 5 times. Although, I didn’t enjoy the beginning, there were several things I did like. The format of telling a fluid story within a story worked rather well. I didn’t get the ending. I tried, really, I did. I like the meeting with the woman. The odd twist. But I don’t see how getting stabbed in an alley will make him memorable. People get stabbed all the time here, I don’t remember any of them. It just takes more than that now. I think if you are going to tell the story in this format…there has to be more of a reason. Why did you tell it this way? I need closure. Your voice needs to come back in at the end or its pointless. Overall, I enjoyed it. Well-written.
Well I’m crying that’s a first, with laughter all the way through and I needed a good laugh.
You definately have something raw talent or madness I am not qualified to judge which.
To me you are purity and class and I applaud you.
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