A very brief intro on what this is. From time to time, I like to challenge myself with an oddball writing project. Something to keep me on my toes and, hopefully, to help me better develop my skills.

This brief serial is exactly that. It runs four parts (with a fifth unfinished). It was supposed to be twelve, but outside factors cut it short before it could be finished.

It came together like this: I asked a few friends to give me a short list of two or three plot elements and/or characters. Whatever the heck they could think of; didn’t matter. I’d try to bring those elements together and turn them into a story. I’d start the next day, and I’d do a segment a day for 12 days.

The elements they came up with:

Lesbian Ninja Twins
A hot dog cart vendor and a homeless man are friends for 20 years.
A story of a fallen angle on earth.
A lonely pizza chef who dreams of becoming the mayor of his small town.

And that’s what I had to work with.

So okay, here goes …

The Story – Part 1

By Eric San Juan

“Nick, I’m not going to make it one more day. I swear to you, not one more day.”

Ted Thiemer shuffled absently, sighing before leaning hard on the light post. It offered him small comfort. He fumbled in his pockets for a cigarette, then remembered he didn’t have any cigarettes. Or much else, for that matter.

“Not now,” Nick grunted. A bun in one hand, a hot dog in another, and rank steam in his face, he was cringing under the dark eyes glaring at him. Impatient eyes. Aloof. Eyes that didn’t want to be there. “You want I should put mustard on this for you?” Nick asked those eyes.

A curt shake of the head. A mumble. Money changing hands. And another customer gone as quickly as possible, racing down the sidewalk to some obscurely important job or eagerly needy wife.

“Why always when I’m with a customer, Ted? Huh?” Nick was wiping his hands on his already browned apron, his face damp. “Can’t you let it rest for just a little while? It ain’t easy doin' this with you hanging around all hours. A guy has to make a buck, you know?”

“A buck?” Ted rolled his eyes. “At least you know the feel of a buck. What do I know? I’ll tell you what I know. I know nothing. Nothing at all.”

“I’ll know you nothin’ with the back of my hand you keep bothering me while I work.”

Ted slumped and sat, ignoring the dirty pavement, his head resting against the cool steel of the pole. One of his knees jutted from a tear in his pants, matching his ragged sneakers. He wore three layers of clothing – a tattered t-shirt, a sweatshirt, and a frayed jacket – but it did him little good against a stiff wind. Sighing again, louder than before, he pulled some fabric from the jacket and tossed it to the pavement. Taken by the breeze, it danced away, tumbling to some unknowable destiny.

“I’m not going to make it and all you can do is complain. A good friend you’re not,” Ted said. He coughed.

“The hell I ain’t,” Nick laughed. “I put up with you, don’t I? If there’s another person in the world who can say the same, I ain’t met ‘em. You, my friend, are an intolerable ass. That’s all there is to it.”

“Intolerable ass?” Ted sprang up, his hair falling into his eyes. “Intolerable ass? Hell, I keep you going here, Nick. You know that. Can you even deny it? Who else but I, glorious me, can keep your spirits so high?” He beamed. Pointed at Nick, then to the sky, then beamed again, triumphant. “Who else but I?”

Nick frowned, but his eyes told a different story. Ted was right, of course. For all the man's grumbling and sighing and dire forecasts, Nick knew he’d not get through many more days of standing behind his cart, hoping to death to sell just one more grayed, shriveled hot dog, without Ted's drearily upbeat spirit. Ted may not have a place to sleep at night, Nick thought, but he’d swap places with the guy any day. He wasn’t chained to a weathered and rusted anchor for the rest of his life. Free from burdens, that's what Ted was. Not Nick. The cart, Nick was sad to admit, was all he had. And it was a vast, immovable anchor. The wheels rattled when he pushed it. The steam was rank. The braces were broken; he couldn't even to put up an umbrella. It was a weight he was unable shake. Nick needed that hot dog cart, and he resented it.

“Hey, you know what the wife told me?” Nick said, forgetting his frown for a moment. “Old Camposano’s wife is taking the what for from Eidel. Bang bang, right under his nose. Can you believe that shit? From the mayor, of all people, and right in plain sight.”

“You’ve inhaled too many hot dog fumes, Nick. That, my friend, is old news. Jeannie Camposano moved in with Eidel six months ago.” Ted smiled absently. His mind was already beginning to wander. “Lenny’s been living the single life ever since. Surprised you haven’t heard, man on the street and such that you are.”

“Oh, go to hell,” Nick scowled. And this time, his scowl was real. “Look, I’m just sayin’ that --"

He stopped short. As if on cue, Lenny Camposano was ambling across the street, an empty smile on his face. A weather-beaten fedora topped his head, looking like a tiny cap atop his swollen bulk. A belt struggled at his waist, holding a pair of pants onto his rotund frame. His socks were pulled up well above his ankles, jutting out from too-short trousers, and his loafers looked as if they had loafed one too many times. His blue jacket was far too small. One button hung from a thread. The others threatened to follow. If Lenny Camposano didn’t look so beaten, the sight of him would be comical. He met Nick’s gaze and hobbled over to say hello.

“Hey, Nicky, how’s the hot dog business treating you?” He smiled amiably, but his eyes were empty.

“Busy,” Nick boasted. “Sometimes I can’t keep up.” Ted coughed, but Nick boasted on. “Business couldn’t be better. Hell, I’m thinkin’, you know, of starting a second cart maybe. Maybe down on Second or something, you know?”

Lenny was staring off down the street, his eyes focused elsewhere. “Good, good,” he said to no one at all. “Real good to hear.”

Nick shot Ted a sly grin, then turned back to Lenny. He was smiling broadly. “Say, how’s Jeannie these days? Haven’t seen her and the kids around the joint.”

For a moment Lenny looked like a caged animal, clawing, struggling to bolt for the wilderness, knowing it would be dragged to the slaughter if it could not escape. But he gathered. Cooled. It passed.

“Fine, Nicky. She’s doing just fine. Couldn’t be better. Kids, too. Couldn’t be better,” he enthused. “Say, look, I have to run. Have to get the shop open before the lunch rush hits. You know how these folks are about their pizza. Have to have it.”

“Yeah, yeah, sure Lenny. Take care,” Nick grinned. “Go make some pizza.”

Lenny Camposano bumbled off, his loafers flapping beneath him, his head sunk low between his shoulders. He hadn’t gotten more than ten paces away when Nick turned to Ted and laughed, his eyes bright with satisfaction. He smirked like he had just won a great victory.

Ted frowned at his friend the hot dog man.

“That was mean, Nick. It was really, really mean.”

“Oh hell, don’t tell me from mean,” he said. “You liked it.”

But Ted only shook his head with disappointment.

Down the block, Lenny Camposano disappeared around the corner, his jacket struggling to escape the gravity of his enormous, defeated bulk. He journeyed, alone, to go make pizza.

To be continued …

The Story – Part 2

By Eric San Juan

Lenny Camposano wept. In a pantry full of moldy pizza boxes and dented cans of tomato paste, he wept.

Above him, shuddering faintly on the ceiling, he could hear the familiar thump, thump, thump he had heard far too many times over the last two years. He knew what it was. What it meant. It was his dreams, his life, being fucked away from him. All he had gathered and hoped for and wanted and needed in the world, all that had kept him focused and driven and able to get up each morning, tossed on a bed and fucked away from him.

Outside, someone banged at the entrance to his shop. The door rattled. Lenny paid it no mind. Not now. Not while the thump, thump, thumping continued.

How did it all slip away from him? Wasn’t he a good man? A loyal man? Didn’t he work hard for his family? He did. He truly did. But he knew none of that mattered. The good people never get recognized. Never get their just reward. It’s the bad ones, the greedy ones. They’re the ones who catch all the breaks. Guys like Lenny? Hopeless bums just asking to get walked all over. Bums, plain and simple.

The door kept rattling. His customers wanted in.

“Oh, the hell with you already!” he shouted. “I’ll open in a minute.”

His cheeks were stained with salt.

Outside the pizza oven warmed. Tina, the matronly woman who had worked for him since day one, prepped for the lunch rush. Silverware in neat rows. Dough in pasty piles. Cups stacked high. But Lenny didn’t see any of it. He didn’t care to see any of it. All he saw were his dreams and loves being fucked, and that sprawling desk he never had.

He had seen it in his head as long as he could remember. A big desk. Oak. Maybe mahogany. Papers fanned out neatly, waiting for his signature. A picture of the President. Maybe those steel balls that clack endlessly back and forth. A brass plaque with his name on it.

Lenny had always dreamed of being the mayor.

In his daydreams he’d marry young couples in his office and cut ribbons when a new business opened. He’d wink knowingly at Bill McLaughlin of the Mondale Times and offer a profound quote for that week’s edition. He’d slam his hand onto the dais during a public meeting and roar, “If those people need their street paved, well damnit, we’d better be paving their street!” At the Mug Rack, Barry Williamson would give him coffee on the house simply for being Mr. Mayor. What could be better?

But Lenny never got a chance to live that dream. He never even got a chance to try. A father at nineteen, again at twenty, and again at twenty-two, his life had been focused on getting to the next paycheck ever since. A man works hard to support his family, so that’s exactly what he did. He supported his family. Ten years ago, after slogging for others for more than a dozen years, he managed to scrape together enough money to open his own pizza place. That was a big deal. A place of his very own. He thought the move would change his life and allow him to work on his own terms, but when reality knocked he found he was busier than ever. Wake, work, sleep, wake, snatching rare family moments in between. It took its toll. A hard, harsh toll that still stung his every waking moment. His dreams, dust. A rotting pizza box.

Yet in the end, the mayor’s desk did play a part in his life … only not the way he had hoped.

Right now, Mayor Michael Eidel was in the apartment upstairs fucking Lenny’s wife. And there wasn’t a damn thing Lenny could do about it.

Maybe he deserved it, Lenny thought. Maybe he had gone wrong somewhere, worried so much about bringing home a paycheck that he forgot to bring home love. Maybe all those years he thought he was doing the right thing, what Lenny was really doing was paving the way for his marriage’s death, painstakingly driving new nails into the coffin of his life.

Maybe.

But for now, for this moment, he had things to do. A business to run and another day to get through. Lenny wiped his eyes and pulled his trousers up high, a draft touching his ankles, his belt straining at his waist. It was time to go to work.

“Tina,” he called. “You can go ahead and open that door now. I think I’m ready to open.”

He realized he was getting used to this. It was getting easier, gathering himself before work each day, letting the tears go until he was empty, drained of all but that dull ache he just couldn’t push away. And then to work. Again. For one more day. There was the whole world, and there was him. Alone. And broken.

One more day to go until the next.

“You don’t have to keep doing this, Leonard Camposano,” a pair of voices behind him cooed. “We can help you.”

He turned, startled, and his eyes went wide.

They were tall. Blonde. Achingly beautiful. And they were twins.

To be continued …

The Story – Part 3

By Eric San Juan

It was late, and it was cold, and Ted Thiemer didn’t know if he wanted to sleep in the park or in the dumpster outside Weaver’s.

The choice didn’t matter, of course. He’d shiver no matter where he was. But Ted didn’t think about the shivering, or the wind, or the wet, wet rain pelting his face. He only thought about the glorious day when he would die.

Oh, what a day that would be. The people of Mondale will be very proud when that day comes, he told himself. Very proud indeed.

A car puttered along Southard Avenue, gliding under the street lamps, its engine restless. Ted was restless, too. He could tell Nick felt guilty about that whole thing with Lenny Camposano, taking advantage of the guy’s pain like he did, but Nick wasn’t one to admit when he was wrong. That frustrated Ted to no end. A man should admit when he’s wrong. He should face the music. The car drifted away, and so did Ted.

The sound of distant wind chimes fluttered in on the breeze, hesitated, and retreated.

Retreat. That’s what Ted would do when it came down to it; to the end; to the final moment. But it would be a triumphant retreat. A moment of blissful, painful glory. For now, though, the only retreat he needed was from the creeping cold. A dumpster waited for him.

Weaver’s. Sometimes on a good night, one of the drunks inside will order food that never gets eaten. When that happens, Susie Mason sneaks out back and slips the plate to Ted. Nights like that made for good sleeping; he’d like nothing more tonight. Nick didn’t have any leftovers today – business was better than usual – and Ted was left hungry when the sun fell, so Weaver’s it was. He made off with an eager trot, his gangly arms swaying carelessly. Ted was going to die a miserable, lonely, painful death. That much he knew. But he’d die it with a full stomach.

The night air cut through his weathered clothes and, in a numb sort of way, made him feel more alive than ever. Yeah, Weaver’s didn’t sound too bad right about now.

But something a few blocks short of the tavern caught his eye. Something interesting enough to make him forget about his destination and the delectable garbage that awaited.

It was Lenny Camposano. And Lenny was with two tall, stunning blondes. They were standing alongside his pizzeria, Lenny talking feverishly with his hands, the blondes impassive, clutching closely to one another.

Lenny, with two gorgeous women? That, Ted thought, was not a usual sight. These days seeing Lenny with any woman was unusual. From the darkness between two street lamps Ted watched, his hands thrust deep into his jacket pockets. This did not seem right. Something was happening. He was sure of it.

A late night delivery truck lazily rolled past … and as it did, Ted lost sight of the blondes. One moment they were there, the next, gone. Lenny stood in the damp night chill next to his pizzeria, smoothing his clothes – but he was alone when a second before he had been talking to two beautiful women. There was no car, no hiding place, yet all the same they had disappeared. If Ted drank he’d swear it was the booze, but Ted didn’t drink. Never had. So what had he just seen?

He was about to start across the street and confront Lenny when a hand clutched his shoulder.

“What the hell are you lookin’ at?”

Ted’s eyes went wide.

To be continued …

The Story – Part 4

By Eric San Juan

“Well? What are you lookin’ at?” Nick’s smile was like a child’s who had just done wrong; Ted could see missing teeth in the back of his mouth, all black and gum. His breath stank of beer.

“Shit, Nick, don’t do that. You scared the hell out of me!”


“I guess I did, because I ain’t never heard you use language like that,” Nick laughed. He tugged his sleeves up to the elbow. They promptly slid back down to his wrists. “So seriously, what’re you seeing? I want I should see it, too.” He swayed.

Ted ran his hand through what was left of his hair. “You know … I don’t know. I don’t know what I was seeing.”

“The hell does that mean?”

Ted shrugged.

Nick leaned in close, studying his friend’s face as if he might find something. A winning lottery ticket, maybe, or the voice of God. But Ted just shook his head blankly and stared across the street before turning back to him.

“What are you doing out here, anyway?” Ted asked.

“Aww, me and the wife had a spat, so I came out for a few drinks while she simmers down.”

“Smells like you already had a few drinks.”

“Yeah, well,” Nick huffed, “what can I say? I’m lookin’ for a few more. Can’t have a few drinks without chasing ‘em with a few more. Come with me.”

“You know I don’t drink,” Ted protested.

“Just come on!”

And so they walked. Mondale’s streets were quiet that night. They always were. But Nick shuffled along without noticing, babbling about marital troubles and womanly idiocy and how many times he could use the toilet in an hour. It was a wearying.

It was also a walk unfulfilled. As they got to Weaver’s, it became clear Nick would be doing no drinking and Ted would be doing no sleeping. Not on this night. The tavern’s doors were flung wide open, lights blaring, voices stepping atop one another, chaos slashing the evening to ribbons. The crowd had spilled out into the street, drunk and buzzing. The lights atop three police cars whirled red, blue; red, blue; red, blue. Cops cleared the way for an ambulance bullying its way towards the entrance. The talk rose and fell, rose and fell, and someone somewhere sobbed in muffled hysterics.

Nick pushed through a gaggle of chatty college girls to where Al Sawyer, a local drunk, swayed delightedly in the night air. If there was news, this was the place to get it. Al was tough to talk to, but if there was gossip to be had, he was the man to see.

“Al,” Nick asked, “what the hell happened?”

Al’s eyes crossed, uncrossed, and focused – barely – on Nick. He reached out to lean on something that wasn’t there, almost fell, then squinted. “Happened? Yeah, it did all right. It happened.”

“What did?”

“Yeah. Did.”

The emergency medical technicians scrambled from the ambulance, barking at one another, the police shoving curious spectators this way and that. Someone in the crowd vomited. The sobbing continued.

“Yeah nothing, Al. I asked you a question. What the hell happened here?” Nick insisted.

“Yeah, here it happened. Damn sure and straight it did, see? Old Eidel. Poor Eidel, for sure.” Al searched his pockets for a bottle he did not have, looked around fruitlessly for a bartender, realized he was no longer in the bar, and again squinted at Nick. “Happened to Eidel, yup. Who knew? What a mess! I can’t even look at it. You can see it, yeah, but I can’t look no more.”

“What about Eidel, Al?” Nick pushed. “Did something happen to him?”

Al Sawyer staggered, laughed to himself, and then his face contorted. He looked ready to cry, but no tears came. Suddenly he was stammering, babbling, tripping over his words in a rush of fear and confusion. “His head, Nicky. Old Eidel’s head. His head, oh, oh, it come rollin’, rollin’, rollin’ down the stairs. No nothing else, no, just head. His head down the stairs…”

To be continued …

That last "to be continued" is a lie. This story won't be continued. I've no plans to see this one out, and so it sits, forevermore unfinished.