Failed to Ignite by Mike Bozart - HTML preview

It was a sunny yet cool December 1st, a calm day after a harrowing night of tornadoes in metro Charlotte (NC, USA). I had just finished an exhilarating <cough> online test on DOT (Department of Transportation) HazMat (Hazardous Materials) Shipping Requirements. I passed it in flying colors with a little help from Mr. and Mrs. Google. To the common office microwave I then went to heat up a mug of water for some Taster’s Choice hazelnut instant coffee: my victory cup. Yes, living large at the community college.

When the microwave’s green LED (light-emitting diode) countdown display was at 0:04, I received a text alert on my LG semi-smart cell phone. The sentence read:

Hope you and your lovely wife had a nice Thanksgiving, too, Maikus van Trykus. [sic]

My mind’s rusty gears started clanking away. Why did I just get this text now? He [Al Niño, Agent A~O, a black-haired, suave, sly Caucasian fellow in his mid-40s] sent it a week ago. Maybe a cellular transmission tower in Manhattan [New York, NY, USA] got a week off for exemplary performance. There’s a thought to write up later. Hope I don’t forget it. 

I promptly texted him back.

Al, guess what? Ah, you’re too late. Buzzard makes a buzzer sound. Hey, I just found out that I’m part Jewish, too. Just a slither. Maybe a sixteenth or one thirty-second. Apparently there was some philandering in Flanders back in the mid-1800s. Yep, I’m a fellow partial schmuck running amok.

He texted back just 35 seconds later.

How did you find out? Did you do an ancestry[.com] search?

I re-texted Al two minutes later.

Yes. Also did DNA. A birth defect that only runs in Hebrew clans was the clincher. What are you up to?

Six minutes went by. No reply from Al. Maybe he’s busy with his lady. Or, maybe he’s trying to promote his goStrap®. [an easily attachable security band for cell phones and tablets]

Then, thirteen minutes later, he replied while I was gazing out my window at a bus stop on East 3rd Street. I remember riding the Route 20 bus. Was it 2008?

Michael, I’m up to nine inches. How about you? Keep it pumping! And remind Agent 32 [Monique, my wife] that’s she’s now Jewish by injection.

I paused to ponder his text. Injection? Oh, boy. Hold on. Here we go.

You’re quite the funny guy, Al, even in the mid-day hour. But, I don’t see myself going to a synagogue anytime soon. Moses will do just fine without me.

Three minutes later, Al’s rejoinder popped up on my small cell phone’s screen.

It’s optional. I don’t see myself going, either. And, Moses is dead, you putz. I need to make you a yiddisher kop by sundown.

I looked at a stack of miscellaneous safety papers on my desk as my mind meandered. A yiddisher kop? Funny, Liverpool’s Anfield has that famous stand: the Kop. Need to research the word ‘kop’ later. [kop, Yiddish for head; in England, the loudest terraces in a football/soccer stadium, or the home team supporters in said area]

Then my cell phone rang. It was none other than Al Niño on the line. I wonder if he’s high or cranked on caffeine.

“Michael, Michael, Michael,” Al said annoyingly, knowing that I hated being called by my full first name.

“Ah, so the amazing one is coming up for air,” I countered.

“Did you ever write that novella on sex robots, Michael?” [discussed in the short story A Novella Idea] Ah, he would remember that.

“No, not yet, Al. Have you already written the screenplay, ripping off my idea?”

“Ah, how to answer?”

“Truthfully?”

“You’ll know in 24 months, Michael. Just wait two years. It will pass by quicker than you think.” Did he really do it? That dastardly dirty dog!

“I had better get a nice cut, or get ready for a friendly lawsuit. Nothing personal, remember?”

“Oh, Michael, Michael, Michael van Schmeikel … you are becoming more litigious than Donald Trump.”

“Well now, Al, you’re already sitting pretty in a multi-million-dollar penthouse apartment in Manhattan. I’m still living in a moldy, roach-infested basement apartment. And, I’m riding a $69 Walmart bike to work.” Though, I actually like the calorie burn.

“Is this a prelude to a sob story? Because if it is, I’ve got to go. I don’t have time for it, Michael.”

“No, it’s not a sob story, Al. It’s just that once you hit the bigtime, you seem to have forgotten about the daily drudgery and existential exasperation of a plebian existence. Remember when you were just a waiter? I bet you’ve already forgotten those meager days.”

“Hmmm … The daily drudgery and existential exasperation of a plebian existence. I like that, Michael. In fact, I’m going to add that to the screenplay. I’ll fit it in somewhere, I promise.” I bet he’s bluffing.

“You’re just winding me up, Al.”

“Feeling taut, Michael?” He sure knows how to get a barb under the skin, and yank it.

“Well, Al, I’m going to have to call ‘time’ on this babbling blather. This conversation is most convincingly going nowhere. We’re wasting each other’s temporal commodity.”

“Wasting each other’s temporal commodity. Ah, I do like that, Michael. Yes siree! I’ll use that one, too. Oh yes, I will. Please do continue. Don’t stop. Spew out a few more gems, van Trykester.” [sic]

“No, I’m done, Al. Time’s up. Have a marvelous day. And, stay on the lookout for a letter from a North Carolina lawyer. I trust you, sport; but, well, you know. I’m 52 now, Al. We’re both too far along for unenforceable verbal agreements.”

“Some fine friend you turned out to be! I’m really surprised, Michael. Where’s the trust? I’m actually hurt.” Yeah, right!

“Listen, I know that I’ll get screwed. I’m not that naïve. I’m just going to make sure that I’m not totally screwed. I deserve a nice slice. I’ve earned it, Al. I’ve done my time in the ditch. You can afford it, and you owe me.”

“Owe you? I don’t owe you a damn dime, pal. Don’t be such a shlimazel, Michael. Don’t blame your bad luck on me. You’re the one who failed to buy that winning lottery ticket last February, even after you spelled out the winning strategy. [revealed in the short story Powerballed] Face it: You couldn’t even follow YOUR own directions. And, don’t blame me for your artistic and literary career bombs. No, don’t blame me just because your schemes failed to ignite.”

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