Hauser, Headley

Headley Hauser writes for the money. When we mentioned how little money that actually is, we were told, "mind your own business." When we asked him what we should tell the readers, he said, "tell ‘em to buy Trouble in Taos – it’s on Amazon. Don’t tell them about that other place."

That other place is Go Figure Reads dot com (gofigurereads.com) which in addition to putting out Trouble in Taos, will soon release the second book in Headley’s genre series, Volition Man, and two of his chapbooks, Headley Makes Cents, and Headley Twists Some Tails. Due to financial reasons, Headley moves around quite a bit, but is usually in Winston-Salem, NC. When asked about his current address, he responded, "indoors somewhere."

&More, December 2012

Modern Single Holiday

Headley Hauser

“We wish you a merry humbug. We wish you a merry humbug” –maybe I covered that in the first sentence.

Single men get labeled (unfairly) as Scrooge-like when it comes to the holidays. While it’s true that Ebenezer was a bachelor, it would be unreasonable to say that he was typical of our type.

First of all, Ebenezer hardly lived alone. He had four ghosts in residence, including his Rasta ex-business partner Jacob Bob Marli. Secondly, the man had servants and never once slept in an unmade bed or ate a bag of microwave popcorn for dinner. Finally, I can’t think of a third reason but who ever heard of a position without three points?

You might think that just because single men throw Christmas cards away unopened and snarl at shopping mall Santas, that we lack an appreciation for holiday spirit. What you fail to take into account is that we, the unwashed denizens of studio apartments, have legitimate holiday traditions of our own.

Now, please remember that tolerance begins with appreciating the differences of others. Single men are rarely PC (at heart), but we have no qualms about invoking such tripe on others. So, stuff that judgmental attitude where the sun don’t shine and enter the world of the Bachelor Winter Wonderland.

“Deck the halls with dirty laundry.” What? Surely, you’re not so close-minded as to insist on pretty lights, peppermint sticks and frosted Dollar Store figurines to make a home festive? A chair is just a chair, but a chair with blue jeans, jockey shorts and one odd sock is a festooned celebration of peace on earth and good will till laundry day.

I’ve always taken great comfort in that old favorite: “God rest ye single gentlemen, and sleep through church this day. At night they light the candles, so wait for the display. To save us in that darkened hour so we can slip away, without bindings or promises of toil: promise of toil. Such as deacon-work, our holiday to spoil.”

Of course there’s the twelve days of Christmas (in the sink). “On the twelfth day of Christmas my scrub sink held for me: twelve spoons from coffee, eleven knives from toffee, ten forks spaghetti, nine pans Crocker Betty, eight cups a-soakin’, seven dishes broken, six things best-not-spoken, five drops of Joy (la – la – la), four tupper ware, three sauce pans, two really grungy pads, and a crock pot I got from Aunt Marge.”

Let’s pause a minute in the midst of our euphoric gaiety and salute the very reason our kind survives, sometimes for decades, past college graduation: the female relative. If it weren’t for Aunt Marge, Mom, Sis, Grandma, Niece and Soft-hearted-neighbor-lady-who-adopts-strays, your average bachelor would be eating wet sawdust on the floor before his twenty-eighth birthday. (I mention twenty-eight because that’s the year most women, quite correctly, recognize that the bachelor, so appealing in years past, has now spoiled liked a soft cantaloupe and will never be trainable as a proper husband.) These noble women (If you’re having trouble following this paragraph, just ignore all parenthetical asides) provide edible food and helpful laundry tips in sufficiently frequent intervals to keep bachelors from such feral acts as eating raw tuna-helper while peeing in the shower. (Only the ignored single man does both at the same time.) Their visits to the bachelor’s home ensure that he will wash (or throw out) the dishes, do his laundry, and hide debris regularly.

Back to traditions.

“Oh little mound of Doritos bags, how still I see thee lie. On my trash heap and way down deep in my laundry not yet dry. Yet with your sparkling presence, your green and red doth glow. When from my seat, I see none to eat; to the convenience store, I go.” For Christmas, many single men turn to the hot Doritos. If the trashcan, like a merry heart, is overflowing, it just makes sense that bags should be green as well as red. It’s not that we want to eat Doritos actually, it’s that we know they are so nutritionally balanced. There’s nacho cheese (dairy), corn (grain) hot peppers (fruits and veggies) and the hydrogenated animal fat (distant cousin to protein).

“Away in a futon, no room on his bed. The cherubic bachelor with dreams in his head. That Jesus and Santa will work side by side. And bring him an X-box and a Porsche-a to ride.”

Of course we know that Jesus was born a baby, ignorant of social customs and incapable of caring for his own needs. Sound like someone you know? Perhaps we, the full-sized infants known as single men, expose our pathetic ineptitude during the holiday season as a public service.

Or, maybe we’re just hoping that Scrooge’s ghosts will stop by and tidy up a bit.

Featured author: October 2012

Mortified

by Headley Hauser

I remember it started the Halloween my frat brothers hauled a keg out to Woodland Cemetery. While I’m as brave as the next guy – or at least some of the next guys, I spent the night in front of the tube. Why go to a graveyard on the one night of the year when the dead are supposed to rise?

The next morning I felt like a coward. Why was I shy about graveyards? I couldn’t still be worried about, ghosts, zombies, vampires. I was a grad student, not a child anymore. It was time to do something stupid.

After all, All Saints Day follows Halloween. That’s some kind of undead-free holiday -- right?

That night Woodland didn’t look very spooky, though it wasn’t exactly tidy. Toilet paper hung limply from a marble Jesus, as it did from a massive oak tree. Beer cans leaned against William A. Mayberry’s (1870-1921) stone. That had to be high school kids. Even the dead won’t drink Coors Light.

Suddenly someone was there, standing straight but not stiff. It gave me a start. His clothes were perfect without looking metrosexual. Even the wind didn’t bother his natural-looking perfect hair.

Of course, I hated him immediately. He extended a manicured hand and flashed a cold smile.

“Godfrey Hamilton.”

“Stan Plotz,” I said, shaking his cold hand and feeling inferior. It reminded me of shaking the priest’s hand after mass. “You’re very nicely dressed for graveyard walking,” I said.

I was just saying something to make noise. What did I know about graveyard-walking attire? Was there a uniform, maybe from a business fashion magazine? What would that be, Graveyard Quarterly?

“First impressions are important, Stanley,” Godfrey answered. “People judge you by your outward appearance. They’ll never take the time to appreciate your finer points if your presentation shows a lack of self-respect.” Pausing, he took in my flannel shirt, grass-stained blue jeans, Demon Deacon jacket, and three-year-old Nikes. So much for my “presentation.” “You’re a grad student?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“That would be MBA or law school?”

I’d been turned down for both, so I lied. “No, I decided not to go the money route. I’m getting my MSW at Wake.”

“Master of Social Work.” Godfrey frowned. “Yes, I suppose it’s important to have qualified people in every field.”

I felt vindicated. Why, I didn’t know.

“As long as you’re striving,” said Godfrey, “to be the best you can be each and every day.”

One never knows what to say when encountering a Dale Carnegie cultie. I hated him more, but I sucked in my gut and straightened my jacket. Then, rebelliously, I unstraightened, earning another frown from Godfrey. I’ll be damned if I’ll change my appearance to earn the approval of some upper crust Ken doll.

“So, Mr. Hamilton,” I said in what I hoped was a superior tone, “why is it so important to give a good first impression to perfect strangers one meets in a graveyard?”

Godfrey showed no sign of irritation. “Well, Mr. Plotz, in some cases, hardly important at all.” He gave me a glance that made it clear I fell in that category. “However, once in a while you’ll run across a more formidable type. It’s important to keep them off balance so you can do this.”

A mix of sensations and emotions flooded me. Incredibly powerful hands grabbed me by head and shoulder. I felt a sharp, two-pointed stab in my neck. Racing through my head was fear, anger, embarrassment, and the feeling that this all would be a lot better for my self-esteem if Godfrey had been a hot woman.

Everything went black.

#

Coming awake for me had always been a prolonged blurry experience, requiring coffee, or a red bull. This time when I awoke, I was fully aware. It was that dark. The air was stuffy, and I had a disgusting flat taste in my mouth. I shifted to ease a lump in my back and bumped into walls to my right and left.

That’s when I heard an odd muffled sound, like someone else’s phone conversation bleeding through the line. It seemed to be a human voice or a number of human voices. It sounded far away and close at the same time. There was a musical quality to it like singing or, more accurately, chanting. I strained my ears to hear the words, but the harder I strained, the less distinct they became. Whatever I was hearing, I wasn’t hearing it with my ears.

Did I grow a new sensory organ? I touched my face expecting to feel a lump or mutant zit. There wasn’t anything there, but the chanting got louder. What do you do with a new sense? I had no recollection of using my eyes or ears for the first time. Maybe that’s why babies sometimes look so thoughtful.

Reaching up, I my fingers touched cushioned fabric. I was in a pretty tight space. Normally I’d be trembling with claustrophobia. I was never good with closets, elevators, or even small cars, but I felt fine, even comfortable. I pushed against the ceiling. I heard wood cracking and metal complaining as I pushed the roof several inches. Did I just do that? I’d never been particularly strong, as every bully in my middle school could tell you. Maybe the wood was rotten? Freshly turned soil and sand poured down on my face.

The voices were clearer now, and much louder. Working my way through dirt and debris, I got to my knees, then to a crouch. I reached up till I felt a breeze on my fingertips. The earth parted above me like water, but when my hands gripped the topsoil, the ground held.

I stretched to loosen tight muscles. It was a delicious sensation. I felt both light and strong. With one heave I not only cleared the surface, but sailed several feet into the air, landing majestically on a stone.

A grave stone.

My grave stone.

So this meant what, I was a vampire?

Some might have been horrified. Not me. I was now a lord of the night. No more fear of brawny troglodytes like those who had, a decade past, beaten me with my own violin case. I was now a creature to be feared. Gathered around me was my new brotherhood, fellow members of a mighty pack. I was secure in our mutual admiration. Why else would they be gathered to sing me out of my grave, imbue me with their mighty spirit, and… laugh?

Around me the dread fraternity of vampires rolled about, cackling like so many Shriners at a whoopee cushion trade show.

“Plotz,” Godfrey said, “you haven’t any pants on.”

It looked down. I wore my best shirt, tie, and suit coat, but with nothing but boxers below. I suppose I should have been grateful for the boxers, but I didn’t feel gratitude at that moment.

“Who did this!” I sputtered.

The vampires laughed even louder. Godfrey, however, only snickered. “Plotz,” he said, “you might want to check with your undertaker.”

“How do I do that?”

“The cemetery office. You’re newly buried; there’ll be a file.”

I disliked Godfrey Hamilton, even in my newly glorified state. I was also afraid of him, but I took his advice.

The file identified my undertaker as Mr. Feeley Nuzbetch, who ran his establishment in the West End. I knew the place – up the hill from Burke Street Pizza.

#

A light burned downstairs at the Feeley Nuzbetch Funeral Parlor. I didn’t have a watch on, maybe Feeley took that too, but it felt really late or, more likely, really early morning.

Going to the door, I silently broke the deadbolt. I planned to sneak in and spring on Nuzbetch. That’s what vampires do, right? I opened the door, but I couldn’t cross the threshold. I’d heard something about thresholds and vampires. Breaking into the cemetery office hadn’t been a problem, but no one lived there. Maybe this was Nuzbetch’s home.

That was sort of creepy. I tried to imagine living in a house with a continuous flow of dead bodies. Of course I was dead now, so I guess I had no reason to be judgmental.

I circled the building. Through a window I saw a pudgy man in his fifties or sixties. He was working on a body using a machine with tubes attached. The process fascinated me. It also made me hungry. Then I realized – the man was wearing my pants.

And they fit. Impossible. I couldn’t be as fat as he was. Maybe he had them tailored.

Something nagged at me. A clock inside read five-fifteen. What time did the sun come up?

I wondered if the government kept records of vampires’ mortality or re-mortality on their first dawn. Maybe you got a mulligan if the sun toasted you on your first night out.

Maybe not.

If dawn meant certain death, or whatever it’s called when dead people expire, how much longer could I afford to stand by this window in my boxer shorts watching this pants-altering mortician? If I didn’t do something soon, Nuzbetch would find himself a matching jacket. But where could I go? I looked around me. There were plenty of homes I couldn’t get into. There were also shops and restaurants, but even if I could enter those, they might not appreciate a corpse resting the business day away. Even worse, they might move my body, and once outside…

So where to go? Saint Paul’s Episcopal?

Too chancy.

Inside Feeley shut down the machine and pulled a large plastic bucket from beneath the bench. He headed toward the back of the building. Silently I moved with him. Should I cross my fingers? Crossing anything was probably not a good idea for a vampire.

Before the door opened I smelled blood in the bucket Nuzbetch was carrying. I could also smell the mortician’s blood. His was more appetizing, like an order of prime rib holding a bucket of chipped beef. I waited for Feeley to clear the door then I slammed it behind him. He spun around, sloshing blood from the bucket onto his pants -- no -- my pants.

“Who are yo--?” He never finished the question, maybe because he recognized me. I could smell his fear, but that didn’t keep him from laughing.

I wanted to kill him, I wanted to drain the blood from his body, but most of all I wanted to scare the hell out of him. I knew I couldn’t do that partially dressed.

“First of all, give me back my pants.” I tried to sound scary and mysterious, and I guess I succeeded, because he wasted no time stripping down to his green and orange boxers.

Instead of getting fancy, I put my pants on one leg at a time. With my new undead abilities I could probably jump ten feet up in the air, have my shoes off, pants on, shirt tucked in, and shoes back on and tied before I hit the ground, but I didn’t want to give Nuzbetch a chance to escape. I sure didn’t want to botch it and start him laughing again.

I zipped up; the pants fit. It had to be a vampire thing. No way was I as fat as Nuzbetch.

The mortician shot glances at the door and at me. I made a point of pulling the belt in an extra notch as I casually stepped between him and the door. The move might have appeared more ominous if I hadn’t burned my hands on the silver belt buckle. Wasn’t it supposed to be werewolves that hated silver?

“You know, it’ll be dawn soon.” Feeley sputtered. “You can’t enter my house, so you’ll be nothing but a pile of dust unless I help you.”

The man knew his vampire lore -- certainly better than I did. Probably came with mortician training. Still, how certain could he be about everything? “It’s very simple, Feeley,” I told him. “After I kill you, your home will be as open to me as any other abandoned building.”

I leaned in and smelled the rising terror in his blood. The scent was intoxicating. No wonder vampires didn’t just bonk people over the head and drag them off to feed.

I was glad I got my pants back before I scared him. A yellow stream ran down Feeley’s leg, forming a puddle by his right foot.

The smell of urine, while unpleasant, did nothing to stem my appetite. The urge to kill and feed was strong, but another force rose inside me.

I never liked my great aunt Agnes. When I was a child, she used to hector me about proper behavior and table etiquette. As much as I wanted to ignore her, I always buckled to her irresistible will. I was the only kid in summer camp who ate his hot dog with a fork.

Here she was again, nothing but a dead woman’s voice ensconced in my supposedly demonic, undead brain. “Don’t slay your food,” she said.

What did that even mean? Ridiculous, how could I survive if I didn’t slay?

From Nuzbetch’s perspective my inner battle must have looked ominous. The man knelt before me, his bare bony knees in mud and urine, shaking and blubbering for mercy.

“Don’t kill me!” he cried. “I can help you. I’ll do anything. Please, don’t kill me!”

He was a pathetic mess. He stole my pants. But I needed his help.

I waited, feigning uncertainty. The sky glowed pink in the east. As much as I enjoyed the groveling, I needed to get under cover. I grabbed the mortician by the chin and forced him to look me in the eye.

“Invite me inside, Nuzbetch.”

#

I suppose things could be worse. Nuzbetch’s basement is dry and blocks the sunlight during the day. He set me up in a lovely coffin and asked if I wanted it lined with Transylvanian dirt. I declined; it seemed more messy than exotic. The funeral business keeps me well supplied with blood. Dead blood makes for a bland diet, but it keeps Great Aunt Agnes quiet.

I went back to school, taking only night classes. People were pretty surprised to see me, but it raised less fuss than you’d think. My frat brothers thought it added prestige to the house. They try not to eat too much garlic when I’m around.

I make money for tuition and death’s little extras as a night watchman. The black uniform suits me. Feeley packs me a thermos each night.

I do get tired of dead blood all the time.

Maybe someone will show up and make trouble.

Great Aunt Agnes would never defend a troublemaker.

Headley’s Top Ten

T-shirt Messages!

(or how to make up a list without writing your own stuff)

October, 2012

There is (I hear) honor among thieves. Thank goodness us writers haven’t been so afflicted. Maybe that’s why those honorable folk have to steal stuff. Here’s the irony – stealing stuff is not honorable. Don’t tell a thief I said that. I don’t want my stack of Sonny and Cher 45s to go missing.

They make great coasters.

So Bethlehem Writers Group wants a top ten list. I’m too busy writing top quality short, medium, and longish fiction to come up with anything original, so here’s the top ten messages that I’ve stolen off from somebody else’s T-shirt.

10. I started out with nothing and I still have most of it left

9. Sometimes I laugh so hard tears run down my leg

8. I still like Ike (from that incredible novella, Volition Man by Headley Hauser – Coming in 2013... Buy it!)

7. We all think we’re mature until someone pulls out the bubble wrap.

6. I AM LOST – I’ve gone to look for myself. If I should return before I get back, please ask me to wait.

5. I’ve learned that pleasing everyone is impossible, but pissing everyone off is easy and fun.

4. If you’re going to act like a turd, go lay in the yard.

3. Franklin Watt: Blind Gunfighter: Let me hear you draw your gun (from a promotional item for that incredible novella Trouble in Taos by Headley Hauser - Now available on Amazon… Buy it!)

2. Vice Presidents are like Slinkies… They’re really good for nothing… but they still bring a smile to your face when you push them down the stairs.

1. HOW TO HANDLE STRESS LIKE A DOG If you can’t eat, or play with it, then pee on it, and walk away.

Well, that’s it.

I sure am glad they didn’t ask me for a top twenty because pulling down the edges of strangers T-shirts in order to read them properly can get you some nasty comments.

Thankfully, I wrote some of them down so I have (unoriginal) material next time BWG wants a top ten list.

Toto in Munchkinland

Headley Hauser

(June, 2012)

The house never used to move like that. At least Toto didn’t think it moved that way, but he spent all of his time with Dorothy, and she wandered around outside singing a lot so he couldn’t be sure. This was a lot like being in the basket when the bad dog rode on her bicycle over the rocky, hilly road except that now he didn’t see any way to jump out.

Crash!

Well, there wasn’t till now.

“Oh Toto,” said Dorothy, “look at all the colors!”

What was a color? Dorothy was the love of his life, but Toto could never understand this thing she had about colors. Then she completely ignored the most interesting smells.

Dorothy was a very strange dog.

What was this? Toto ran out of the house and around to the side. There was something under the house – something either newly dead or just dying. It was the foulest, nastiest smell he’d ever smelled in his life. Was it food? Maybe he should roll in it.

He better check with Dorothy.

“Dorothy!” Toto barked, “you gotta come smell this dead thing!”

“Toto,” said Dorothy, “I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore.”

Talk about changing the subject! Sometimes, it seemed like Dorothy just wasn’t listening.

Dorothy went around looking at flowers while Toto sniffed for interesting things. Of course the dead thing was pretty hard to ignore, but Toto wasn’t a puppy anymore. He knew how to sniff for little things. There weren’t many things to smell, no rabbits or squirrels or even those bag things with all the hard kibble in them. Unless that dead thing was food, they might be in trouble.

But there were dogs – lots of them. They smelled different than Dorothy, but so did Toto. Dogs came in all kinds of scents. Dorothy was so busy looking for colors that she didn’t even smell the pack.

Toto wasn’t worried. The pack smelled like they were afraid. Toto gave a growl to show them that they had reason to fear. Three dogs smaller than Dorothy and a big bitch with white fur came out of the weeds so Dorothy could see them. Toto prepared for a fight.

They just talked. They didn’t even growl, but at least they showed Dorothy respect.

The pack showed Dorothy the dead thing under the house. They didn’t say it was food, so Toto lost interest and went around marking the small trees that didn’t smell like real trees at all.

It was too easy. No dogs had marked any of them.

“What’s wrong with you dogs!” Toto barked.

Dorothy giggled like Toto had made a joke and held out her arms. Toto jumped into her arms. She never understood the things he tried to tell her, but she was nice and warm.

They talked some more–not about food or territory or anything useful. They talked about witches and a wizard. Unless they were the witches and wizard of food, Toto didn’t care.

Then it got weird.

Everybody started saying, “follow the yellow brick road.” They said it over and over again. Even Dorothy said it. Dorothy started walking while saying, “follow the yellow brick road.” She motioned for Toto to follow her.

Toto followed. He always followed Dorothy. He loved Dorothy.

“But when do we eat?” barked Toto. “And what’s yellow?”

Headley Hauser the star, head writer, and director of the critically unclaimed local cable television series, Headley and the Rug, is still looking to get paid. Though theWhistleview Penny Supplement offered to print his series of essays, including "The Cookie Story," "Morom," "John Phillip Souza," and "Look Out for the Swiss," he didn't see that as a path to great wealth and eventual world domination, so he turned it do