Brown Day (eBook)

A Collection of Short Stories

Daniel J. Travanti (Autor)

eBook Download: EPUB

2023 | 1. Auflage
144 Seiten
Bookbaby (Verlag)
979-8-3509-2976-8 (ISBN)

Infos

A book of short stories written by Actor Daniel J. Travanti.

Daniel J Travanti, a professional actor since 1963, embarked on his career in New York after obtaining his degree from the University of Wisconsin and attending the Yale School of Drama. With over fifty television series appearances as a guest star and notable roles as a regular in two popular shows, 'Hill Street Blues' from 1981 through 1987, and 'Missing Persons' for one season, Travanti has made a lasting impact on the small screen. Moreover, he has garnered acclaim for his performances in several esteemed television films, including 'Adam,' 'A Case of Libel,' and 'Murrow.' In addition, Travanti has showcased his talent in seven feature films. Recognized for his remarkable series work and television films, he has earned eight nominations for Best Actor, securing two Emmy awards and a Golden Globe. His outstanding narration in the groundbreaking documentary 'How to Raise a Street-Smart Child' also garnered him a Cable Ace nomination (now merged with the Emmy nominations). A member of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences, which selects Oscar winners, Travanti has been part of critically acclaimed theater productions in Boston, Washington, DC, Los Angeles, London, and Highland Park, Illinois. While he has graced the New York stage twice in small off-Broadway productions, he fondly recalls Terry Teachout, a highly regarded theater critic, commending him for his exceptional portrayal of two captivating characters, one tragi-comic. Teachout's review hailed Travanti as an exciting talent, expressing hope for his return. As he reflects on his career, Travanti humorously notes that no one has extended an invitation since 2008.

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I have written these short stories over a period of forty-two years. The writing relaxes me. They are entertainments. I have made a living as an actor for over fifty-seven years. Earned a Masters degree in English Literature from Loyola Marymount, Los Angeles; a Bachelor's degree in liberal arts from the University of Wisconsin; and two honorary PHD's, one from Emerson College in Boston, and another from Carthage College in Kenosha, Wisconsin, citing my achievements in the Humanities and the Performing Arts. Publishing is a brand new endeavor. Following the guidelines has been amusing, sometimes perplexing. My life as an actor has been a life of rejection with occasional acceptances, just enough to constitute a minor but substantial career. I have no fear. From here to the end, it's all fun. The "e;subjects"e; of the stories vary widely from one another. They are fantasies that explore complex humans in their complex emotional entanglements and physical situations. Each story takes place in a matter of hours, in one day. As Edgar Allen Poe advises in his astute literary criticism, a short story should be a compact tale told briefly and intensely, and convey one aura, make one solid impression that resonates during and following its reading. I subscribe to those criteria. Or, to be more honest, that's how these stories turned out. My conscious mind did not set out with Mr. Poe's guide lines. My subconscious ruled. And afterward, I realized what I had done . . . . or tried to do. The quality of these stories is a matter of individual determination. Everyone is right in his reaction to a written fiction. The entertainment value is personal, a subjective reaction, surely, sometimes followed by an analysis that results in additional pleasure to the reader, or a re-evaluation that reduces his approval. The stories don't mind. I am pleased to have them published. Sincerely, DANIEL J. TRAVANTI

Textauszug

Brown Day

That flash again: “Howaboutacigarette?” I stopped smoking six, no, wait, well . . . . it was last Tuesday night and this is Wednesday morning, so . . . Stop counting! she thought. That floating question-order was a smoky tape unreeling past her from out of a fog bank, barely visible but badgering. It was a turn-on, of course, just like the sex with him. She didn’t want it now, today. Anymore. She said she could see herself and Ben, but she could not see Ben alone. It was an old reel. “Howaboutacigarette” Oh, fuck off!

She wondered how that could be. Her film had no sound. She guessed that it was just that certain sensual impressions lingered longer. And are they languorous and loving? Not likely. Yes. Shit, of course they are! But not lately, that’s all. Her mind danced one of its word jigs, a favorite pastime to lighten her spirits whenever she felt close to despair. She had lingered too much in the past lately, and she had wondered if she would ever make it to now. Or would it always be just another time to deny. I’m so glad of everything’s being then! she thought. It was a motherfucking dilemma. Cole Porter: “It’s da limit.” Naturally, tomorrow would be better. But I want to be here today! Sonofabitch, a clue. Howaboutacig . . .? Fighting off the temptation, she reeled backwards and slipped again.

She reminisced with a grudge. Mmm, my God, I love you! No! If I can get to like now, I won’t have to keep erasing, and tomorrow will be great. Christ, help me!

She put on the copper kettle. It had one of those shapes that make it hard to see the exact middle of the bottom, so she kept setting it down off center of the burner. Drives me crazy! Looks different from every angle. Sometimes the flames would lick up the fat sides and she would watch to see if they would reach the wooden handle. She would have hated to see it happen, but she was titillated each time. The fire played itself and she watched. Copper is golden; silence may be brass. I’m a pot voyeur. Jig. Howabouta . . . ? Kiss. Tongue. Mmmm. Kiss. The pot began to wobble and the loose lid tinkled annoyingly. She centered the damned thing and reached for the phone in the same swoop.

“God, that was fast! It didn’t even ring.”

“It did. That funny warning-gurgle that the phone company can’t explain to me.” Off balance, she wanted to scream: at the pot, at the phone, and most of all at him. Goddamit! It was too friendly, too simple. Mmm, cheeks. Mouths. Shit!

“Listen, you’re probably pissed off and busy and all that, but I thought I’d take the chance . . . well, I’m glad I got you. It’s really good to hear your voice. I mean, it really is. Phew, I’ve missed you, you know. Fuck! I wasn’t going to say that. Big deal. I knew I’d have to. How are you, Heart?”

His casual air and flip warmth curved my spine. I cupped the mouthpiece of the phone with my right hand, the way I used to hold his jaw sometimes, and I hugged the earpiece with my left shoulder, shrugging it hard to my head. My left hand was sandwiched between my thighs.

I was sitting by now but up on my toes, hammering the air with my heels. The Thinker.

Mechanized. I was about to hyperventilate, but I refused. Sweet Christ, I was always refusing.

Only that, nothing else, forever just refusing. That’s death!

The kettle tittered. I saw a long, thin black smudge feathered beneath the flame that was slobbering up the side of the pot. It reached almost to the lid, which was askew and lisping. Thppt, shpt, tuppa tuppa tup. Then it spat. I raspberries back at it and Ben was startled. “Oh, sorry,” I said, and thought: Thanks, God. And I smiled for the first time that day.

I thought I was relaxed, but I almost fell off the stool. It was an English pub stool, shiny and worn and wobbly with one short leg. Or were three too long? Jig. Thinker athwart. My right shoulder cushioned against the cool brown wall and I stayed there tilted, heels raised but still, thighs unclasped, cheek and left shoulder unclenched, and heart ready. “I’m Okay, Ben . . . I think. How ‘bout you?”

“Good, I’m good. I’m really all right. Couldn’t be better, you know that?” Jesus, he’s always on! Oh, God, no . . . no more. Stop it! He’s not always on. He’s nervous now. Please keep me, God.

“Don’t get mad, but are you calling for a reason? I mean, for more than just to talk? Which is okay, it’s enough, and I don’t mean to be provocative or anything . . .” I couldn’t refuse any longer to gasp, I was about to pass out.

“I know, Heart.” He called his son that, and his daughter. They all called each other that in his family. I had loved it, was sent by it, the first time he had said it to me. “I miss you sometimes, that’s all.” Silence.

The copper was blackened now with a hand-sized splotch. The kettle had skittered off center again. The tam-like lid was cocked and stuck dumb. The water had boiled down far enough to stop splattering out, but there was a pale rope of aged steam wobbling out of the spout. Unsteady and frayed, it rose and fell, curled and rose again, dropping blobs that formed iridescent green pockmarks all over the large black splotch. I leaned over and turned off the flame. My gimpy stool tottered me back to the cool wall, and I heard my breath. Help me, please, I don’t want to cry! But oh my, I do.

“What?” he asked, laughing lightly. “What’d you say?”

“Huh? nothing. Oh, hell, Ben, I’m glad you called. I’ve tried not to need you, and I don’t, really. It’s just that it’s so damned hard to imagine anyone else liking me enough to be with me, you know, during the dull times and loving me anyway, and . . . oh boy, fuck! Thinking about getting to know someone all over again, the idea of starting all over again, well . . . forget it. What the HELL was all that I just said?” I knew he was smiling.

“I love you.”

“Anngh. Jeez! Ha, ha, ha. Who did this just now? Did you start it, or did I ?” He did. No, I got carried away. Tears. No. Howabouta . . . ? Peace. Of mind. Peace of heart. Heartfelt. Hearthurt. Heart of whose heart? Hardly hardhearted, but hard to hold. Keep dancing. Help me!

“I guess it’s my fault.” There was another long pause and I realized I was standing. I don’t know when I got up or why, but I felt uprooted and stuck deep at the same time, reeling a bit but glad to be whole and tall. Why was I glad to be tall? Because he wasn’t? He wasn’t short.

“Are you still there?”

“I’m not always sure.” I wondered if he was truly there. As long as two people thrill each other, are in love and within reach, it seems so crazy, such a waste to let anything stop them from being together. Is that it? Is the thrill all that matters? Sometimes. That’s petty. But I couldn’t feel the thrill unless I loved, could I? Bull. What is love anyway? Stop thinking. “I think I’m your best friend.”

“I think you were.”

“Oho, past tense?”

“Very tense.”

“Careful.”

“Always.”

I’m hopeless. Go away. Go to . . . Bulgaria, or someplace. Get thee to a coven. But don’t die. Oh, God, don’t die yet. Kill me first, or at least kill this hurt. I’m an ass. Haha. Oh, no, no, no, no, not too jokey. That wrings the wound.

“Did you deliberately buy me a wobbly stool? It is cute and I love it, but it keeps me off balance.”

“I like you that way. I don’t mean that in a bad way, really not. Don’t get mad now. Oh hell, you understand, I know you do. You’re a darling. Oops, I’m making love to you, aren’t I? Now you’re mad.”

“How much have you had to drink, or are you high?”

“One drink . . . you couldn’t really tell. That was a guess.”

“Well, sort of. I’m presumptuous, I know And suspicious, of course.”

“I miss that place on your neck.” Oh, no! Kissing me with words. Great at that, the sonofabitch!”

“Jacqueline Susann died today.”

“What?”

“Cancer. Fifty-three.”

“You’re bad.”

“I am not.”

“You don’t hate me. You press your cheek to mine. You kiss your shoulder pretending it’s me. You want my leg between yours. You’re my lover.”

“You’re a prick. And don’t make a bad joke.”

“I kiss you on the mouth.”

“Careful, you don’t know where it’s been lately.”

“If you kissed it, it was purified.”

It should have been drivel. It was. But not when he said it. Heartheld. I couldn’t hear him anymore without smelling him, too. There was a musk, not of cigarettes (Howabouta . . . ?) nor of booze nor breath. Of skin, maybe, or just him. I put my hand on the brown-foiled wall, tan on brown, leaning loving. I knew where I...

Produkt-Details

• Erscheint lt. Verlag: 1.11.2023
• Sprache: englisch
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Romane / Erzählungen
• ISBN-13: 979-8-3509-2976-8 / 9798350929768