Margold Breaks His Arm

The morning of the third day out Margold woke with a jolt as the boat took a sharp roll to starboard, then rolled to port. He went topside to see what was going on. The air was noticeably cooler, the sky darkly overcast, and the seas the color of slate, heaving in the wind.
“We have a bit of a storm brewing,” the captain said.
Jeffrey was busy hauling in sail.
“How bad?” Margold asked.
“The report shows a tropical depression forming south of us. We will try to sail around it, but things could get a bit hairy.”
“What can I do?”
“Stay below for now and let us do our thing. Make sure everything is stowed and secure.”
“All right.”
“And take your seasick pill.”

Margold Starts the Tattoo

    “I can do that,” Clyde said. “I’m real good at special 3-D effects. I can make it look like you’re split wide open, showing guts and all, with an arm coming right out of the midst of it, giving the finger.”
    “Great, that’s what I want.”
    “That’ll cost you extra. I gotta do a whole new drawing and . . .
    “You don’t have to explain, I understand.”
    “Thanks.”
    “The only other thing I want to make clear,” Margold said, “is that none of it can show when I have on a dress shirt with the sleeves down.”

Margold Meets the Tattoo Artist

Chapter 10


That afternoon he went back to the bar and talked to the bartender about the tattoo. The bartender told him that it was not a shop on the street, but an “underground” place where they did the best work in town. That was okay with Margold, so long as he didn’t catch anything. No problem, the bartender assured him.
He led Margold down the street and around the corner to a door without any kind of markings. The bartender knocked, someone looked out a little opening in the door, then let them in. The person led them to the top of a dark stairway into another door. There was a

Margold Completes the Peyote Ceremony

     He started to row toward the large ship. At first the water was calm, but after a few minutes large waves came up, tossing the little row boat around violently. He could no longer see the large ship, but rode up and down on huge waves. At the crest of each wave he could look over the side of the row boat and see down to the trough of the wave, seemingly hundreds of feet below him. He knew from experience that he easily became seasick, but because he was sitting down the effects were

What I Wrote Yesterday (6)

      At first, the effect was subtle–more like a feeling. He felt a strong emotional attachment to everyone at the fire, although he didn’t know any of them very well. Jim could see by the look on Margold’s face that the peyote was starting to affect him.
      “Keep looking into the fire,” Jim said.
      Margold looked into the fire, which Jim kept blazing brightly. In the flames he saw a hawk flying, as though far away. The bird flew around in circles in the distance over a barren terrain, flapping its wings to gain altitude, then circling about without moving its wings,

What I Wrote Yesterday (5)

      The next morning Margold worked on several paintings. The peyote ceremony was not scheduled until around sundown, and would continue through the night, so he had some time. Since not eating or drinking booze for a few days he was thinking clearer than he had in a quite a while, i.e., since he was about seventeen. He was even losing a little weight. Although he could have used a nice big steak, he felt surprisingly good.
      He lined up five canvases on which he intended to paint a Francis Bacon-like set of self portraits, something along the lines of the Screaming Pope. That’s it, he thought, the perfect setting. He would paint

What I Wrote Yesterday (4)

As always, this is unedited copy as I wrote it, so don't bust my balls if there are typos, grammatical errors, or choppy sentences. The final version will likely be somewhat different. By the way, I write on the Atlantis word processor, which costs about $35. I love it because it is better than anything else for ten times the price, and it has sounds. When I write I like to use typewriter sounds. The one that comes with the program is not that great, but you can find others on the web and substitute them. The other thing is that the support is great--very responsive. I also use a typewriter font--kinda like the way it looks.




      Margold took a shower to get the stench of cigars, sage and cedar smoke off his body. He lay in bed staring at the ceiling. He was a bit thinner than he had been in a while because he hadn’t had anything to eat and no booze to drink in a couple of days. He actually felt more awake and clear-headed than he had in years. He

What I Wrote Yesterday (3)

Copyright 2011 Michael E. Henderson, all rights reserved.                         Return to:

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                                                      Works in Progress 

Background: Margold James meets the Angel of Death while watching football, and is told that he is going to die. In this scene he is in a sweat lodge trying to purify himself in preparation for trying to free himself of Death. This the unedited draft as written.


            The Indian Jim Big Crow and five of his friends came to Margold’s house with Bill for the sweat lodge ceremony. They built a fire outside the lodge in which were heated a number of large rocks. In the mean time, Margold, Bill and the Indians stripped, and wrapped themselves in towels. They all went into the lodge, bringing the hot rocks, a pail of water, a ladle, and a couple of smoldering logs. Inside the lodge it was pitch dark, lit only by the glow from the logs. The Indians had a sage stick, which is a

What I wrote yesterday (2)

Copyright 2011 Michael E. Henderson, all rights reserved.                         Return to:

                                                                                                                                                Henderson's The Literary Man                                                                                                                                                       

                                                      Works in Progress 

         “Here I am,” said Death. “And I have never left you.”
         Margold jumped back a little in surprise, then said, “Where have you been? The Indian didn’t see you.”
         “Yes he did, he lied.”
         “Son of a bitch. Why would he do that?”
         “Trying to get more money out of you.”
         Margold thought for a moment. Maybe this was a mirage due to not eating, and being sober on an empty stomach. Maybe Death was worried about what was about to happen, and he was trying to drive

What I wrote yesterday

Copyright 2011 Michael E. Henderson, all rights reserved.                         Return to:

                                                                                                                                                Henderson's The Literary Man                                                                                                                                                       

                                                      Works in Progress 

    He sat on the patio behind the house looking at the stars. Now, this is something he always loved to do, as there was no greater time in the world to wax all philosophical as when the stars were burning bright in a dark sky. This, however, was normally done by Margold James with a pitcher of martinis, or some such other grease of the philosophical skids, in his big doughy hand. He was fasting for the events of the next two days, however, meaning that he was also abstaining from alcohol. He looked at the stars, then, for the first time since he was about fifteen, with a clear and sober mind.
    It occurred to him, of course, that these fucking Indians would not know whether he had abstained or not, and that it was all a bunch of horse shit anyway. A couple of half-pound burgers and a quart of gin never hurt anyone. The Indians were going to be drunk from the get go, and probably just sit around smoking weed. Indian fucking Jim probably went back to the tribe and told them that he had made the white eye go two days without eating and drinking, in contrast and conflict with his gluttonous and booze-soaked ways. They probably yucked it up for hours over a gallon of whiskey and a shit pot full of peyote, whooping and Indian hollering all night a the thought of it.
    He looked up at the stars, so bright and clear that night that he could see the “backbone of night,” the Milky Way, stretched across the sky like a hazy bit of white paint over not quite dry black. He thought about what the cave men, or even the Indians, who were basically cave men, thought about these strange lights. They made them gods, and gave them powers and importance, and their movements had significance. Particularly those stray stars that moved contrary to all the others, the ones we know not to be stars, but planets. What explanation would he come up with? Well, the stars were clearly holes in a black canopy, showing a light that glowed behind it, probably where the gods lived. But what of the ones that moved differently? Maybe they were gods themselves, inside the canopy moving about affecting the lives and fates of men.
    Goddamn, son, he thought, you are sober. How are you coming up with all this? That’s what the stars do. They make you think about what they are, and about what you are. Now when we consider the size of the stars and of the universe, and then consider what we are, it is not a pleasant thought. Man is zero. But look at the heights to which he has exalted himself. First he invented gods. Then he came up with one god. And God created the world, and then created Man. Of course, Man was created in the image of God. Arrogant notion number one. Then we were alone in the universe, made special above all else on Earth, which of course is the center of the universe. Arrogant notion number two. There are now, and always have been, people running around predicting the end of the world, and that certain special people, specifically them and those who believe as they do, will be saved, that there will be a “rapture,” and that they will vanish from the Earth and to go heaven, or something, while the rest of us are left to suffer on Earth for a while. This notion is the most arrogant of them all. Can’t they see the idiocy of it? And all this on a sober mind, he thought. “Fuck it,” he said out loud to himself, and went to bed.

#

    The next morning he got up dying for a cup of coffee with some eggs and toast, and about half a jar of jam. The Indian magicians were not scheduled to appear until after dark. How in the fuck was he going to go all day without eating? And when noon rolls around he is gonna want a beer. He actually wants a beer now, but for some reason he has been taught that one should not drink before noon. Is having a beer really drinking? Of course it is, what the hell are you thinking? Them fucking Indians slip you some peyote? See the thoughts that come into your mind when you haven’t had any food or booze for a whole day? But no, by God, he was going to stick it out. On the other hand, he ain’t seen fucking Death for several days. Maybe the son of a bitch went back to wherever he came from and would leave him alone. No sooner had this series of thoughts and insights passed through his mind, then appeared Death sitting at the kitchen table.

Self Portrait of a Dying Man

This is the story of a man whom the Angel of Death has decided would die in six months, although he is not ill. Death announces this to the man to see what he will do. The story opens with our hero, who is a lawyer, in court with a defendant who is about to be sentenced.


Copyright 2011 Michael E. Henderson, all rights reserved.                         Return to:
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                                                      Works in Progress 

Chapter 1

“Will the defendant please rise?” said the judge, about to pass sentence on a burglar. They rose, Margold the lawyer and William the defendant. Margold touched the defense table with his fingertips, his arms straight down in front of him. This was a habit he learned early in his 25-year career to keep himself steady at moments like this, and to hide the shaking of his hands from fear or, more precisely, stage fright, before he had gotten used to standing in front of a judge with a client about to be sent to jail. Today he was not afraid because it did not make that much difference to him what happened, although he hoped for a good result for the client, mainly because he hated to lose. There had not been a trial. The defendant had come to a plea agreement with the State, there had been a pre-sentencing investigation, and now, today, the sentencing, with victim impact statements, and pleas and crying from the defendant’s mother, brother and friends. Margold James, the defense attorney, had put on what he termed a ‘dog and pony show,’ with all sorts of people parading in front of the judge begging for mercy for the poor, misguided defendant, who needed but one more chance. The State, on the other hand, had presented certain of the victims, and read letters to the judge from those of the victims who could not make it to court. Everybody, except for the judge, the prosecutor and Margold, were crying, or had cried, at some point in the proceeding. Margold checked his shoes—they were still dry. Any more tears, he thought, and I’ll have to take a canoe out of here. All he really wanted at this point was a nice big martini.
      In the moment between the rising of the defendant and the passing of sentence, Margold looked around the room. The judge was a man in his 60’s, known for leniency. The prosecutor was a woman in her early 30’s, plain of face, uninteresting of figure, and dressed in a black pantsuit. Margold hated pant suits on women, particularly lawyers. It was his understanding that they were not allowed, or were at least frowned upon in court, but they all seemed to wear them. At least it wasn’t yellow.
      The courtroom itself had once been nice and new, and built to look dignified and modern in its day, but now was shopworn and tired. The carpet was filthy, and the tables were older than Margold. The judge’s bench was so far from the counsel tables he might as well have been on another planet, and no doubt contributed to its black-robed occupant’s aloofness and air of superiority.
      The defendant, a tall athletic college boy from a well-to-do but not rich family had burglarized several apartments. While in police custody, and without the benefit of counsel, he had had the wisdom to write out confessions to all of his crimes. He had been actually caught perpetrating only one. So, what Margold had accomplished on behalf of his client was reduction of a seventeen count indictment to one single little ol’ charge of first degree burglary. The potential problem for Margold, however, was that the boy and his family thought he would get off with a slap on the wrist and sent home to smoke weed and play with himself in the comfort of his upper middle class bedroom. The investigator for the pre-sentencing report had recommended probation, and had told the family that’s what he would get. Even the State thought nothing would happen to him, maybe some probation. Margold thought the same thing, really, but he tried to prepare the boy for the fact that what he had admitted to doing, and actually been caught doing, carried 25 years in the State Penitentiary, and that the judge could give him some or all of that. Society frowns on breaking into other people’s houses and taking their stuff.
      The judge read the boy the riot act for a while, which Margold expected, while the prosecutor looked on with a smug grin on her face. Margold was thinking, yeah, yeah, yeah, we know what he did, all against the peace, dignity and government of the State—out with it. Finally, the judge pronounced sentence, giving him actual honest-to-God jail time. Take him away.
      Holy shit, thought Margold, the son of a bitch is standing here with his pockets full of bullshit, he’s got a belt on, a cell phone, a wallet the size of a Volkswagen, and now I gotta stand here like a shmuck while he empties his pockets, takes off his belt, and take all this shit and give it to his now hysterical mother.