Michael A. Kechula

Howie’s Empty Chair

Atheists all, we nevertheless bowed our heads in a moment of silence for our departed member.

“The Santa Buffoona Book Club just won’t be the same without Howie,” I said.

“Damn male chauvinist,” Anna said.

“Nobody slammed women authors worse than Howie,” said Betty.

“Wife beater. Boozer,” Clara said.

“Let’s move on,” I said. “We’re scheduled to discuss Josef Conrad’s Heart of Darkness. Clara suggested we go back to the oldies and reread one of the most important novels of the twentieth century, but I’d like to hold off until our new member arrives.”

“New member?” Three pairs of female eyebrows almost hit the ceiling.

“Sorry, potential new member. I know a most brilliant young man who’s asked to join. I suggested he stop by--”

“Did you say, young man, Michael?” Anna said, frowning.

“Yes. He’s twenty-eight. Highly educated.”

“Nevertheless,” Betty said, “he’s young, and dumbed-off.”

“Dumbed-down,” Clara corrected.

“I suppose his ears are full of rings,” Betty said.

“He probably has nasty tattoos all over,” said Anna.

“He has a Ph.D. in comparative literature,” I said, hoping to reassure.

“Humph! That’s equivalent to a bachelor in our day,” said Betty.

The doorbell rang.

“Must be him. Back in a second.”

“Anna, Betty, Clara, I’d like you to meet Buckminster Windenhouser.”

“Please call me Bucky,” the young man said.

“Are you connected with Windenhouser Breweries?” Betty asked.

“Yes.”

“Didn’t your family make its fortune during prohibition?”

“Sit down, Bucky,” I said, frowning at Betty. “Anna, why don’t you tell Bucky about yourself, especially about the time you made the New York Times Best Seller List.”

Clara snorted. “She did it for just a week.”

“What a wonderful accomplishment,” Bucky said.

Anna smiled. “The seven happiest days of my life. “Here’s what happened....”

Ten minutes later, I interrupted Anna. “We must move on. Betty you’re next.”

“I taught high school for thirty-five years,” Betty said. “Had a pupil named Ray Bradlebury. I saw great potential. I groomed the lad, taught him how to punctuate, develop plots. The whole magillah.”

“Magillah?” Bucky asked. “Nice word.” He scribbled in a notebook. “Haven’t heard it before.”

Anna whispered to Clara, “Dumbed-down.”

Betty continued. “Then, I turned a whole slew of no-talent nothings into top-notch novelists. Norman Mailbox, Phillip Rothson, Ladislau Porchensy, to name a few.”

“Porchensky?” What did he write?”

“Dumbed-down,” Anna whispered again.

“The Blathering Idiot. Sold fifty million copies.”

“Hmm.” said Bucky, as he scribbled.

Clara took the floor. “I developed the concept of flash fiction. Perhaps you’ve seen my anthology in ten volumes? Volume one contains five hundred of my best.”

“Flash fiction? What’s your last name?”

“Higgenloopper. With two G’s and two P’s.”

Anna didn’t whisper anything this time. She was pleased he’d never heard of Clara’s gargantuan achievements.

“Bucky already knows about me,” I said. “I was his English professor at Santa Buffoona University.”

“No wonder he’s so intelligent,” said Anna.

“Extremely erudite.” said Betty.

“Heading for greatness,” said Clara.

After coffee, it was time to discuss Heart of Darkness.

“Fabulous book,” said Anna.

“Marvelous story,” said Betty.

“Work of genius,” Clara said.

“Bucky -- your thoughts?” I asked.

“It’s unadulterated cow dung.”

“What?” said Anna.

“How dare you.” Betty said.

“Crazy bastard!” yelled Clara.

Jolted, I said, “Perhaps you spoke a bit hastily. Bucky, this book is revered by our group.”

“Why? This tripe has horribly propagandized millions of American students, including me. Conrad complained that Africans in the Congo were conned into giving up their ivory to the Belgians for mere brass rings. My research shows that the natives at that time considered ivory as garbage, something to discard. But they treasured brass. In fact, it was the foundation of their entire monetary system. What does that little fact tell you?”

“That you’re ignorant,” Anna said, rising.

“You’re a twit,” Betty said, heading for the door.

“You have the brain of a piss ant,” Clara said, grabbing her jacket. “And that tattoo on your hand is ugly.”

The door slammed behind them.

“What the hell is this?” I yelled. That’s not what I taught.”

“Right. You’re a manipulative bastard. You and so many others, who used our precious learning time -- which we paid for -- to teach lies. This book is just one instance.”

“How dare you.”

“How dare I speak the truth? Thank God I did. The truth is setting me free.”

I threw him out.

Glancing at Howie’s empty chair, I realized how terribly I missed him, even though he was a male chauvanist, wife-beating boozer.

Michael A. Kechula is a retired tech writer. His fiction has won seven contests and placed in six others. He has won four Editor’s Choice awards, and his stories have appeared in 124 magazines and anthologies in six countries. His collection, A Full Deck of Zombies -- 61 Speculative Fiction Tales, is available as both paperback and eBook.