[plumboz]

Well, for those of you who have been so kind as to not only get your own copy of Boomerang, but indicate an interest in another episode in the lives of Ted Hogwood and Jerry Kwiatkowski, here is a snippet from the follow up I am currently working on.

If you liked Boomerang, please pass the word. Nothing gets me writing faster than knowing there are Dear Readers out there!

In Close Enough for Jazz, Ted and Jerry are now roommates. Ted gets to work on his bicycle. Unfortunately, he has just been fired from his job as guitar instructor at a music store.



There was no excitement in the parking lot today, which was just as well. With the mood he was in at the moment Ted may very well have found it in his heart to break his rule concerning meddling in other peoples' business by plowing both sides down first and leaving the asking questions part for some other day. He had been fired from plenty of jobs in his life, but that didn't mean he had developed an immunity to the lowering cloud effect it inevitably had on his mood, which could not be described as optimistic or effervescent at the best of times.
The door to the apartment he shared with Jerry Kwiatkowski was unlocked, which while it didn't improve his mood, didn't surprise or alarm him. It just meant his roommate was at home. Jerry never locked the door. Sure enough, the apartment, which Ted had brought to a reasonable level of orderliness and hygiene before he left that morning, now looked like the proverbial hurricane had passed through. Holding his bike aloft to keep its dirty tires off the carpet, Ted stepped over a pair of brown chinos, one white sock and an empty corn chip bag on his way past Jerry's Hammond B-3 organ, which was the dominant feature in the small living room, on his way to his bedroom.
At least his eyes weren't tearing up. Ted had checked the refrigerator the evening before just to make sure it was adequately stocked with beer. He didn't drink the stuff himself, but early on in his acquaintance with Jerry he had learned that it was in his own best interests to make sure the man didn't run out of brew. Jerry Kwiatkowski was a man of many talents: he played the Hammond B-3 organ like nobody since Jimmy Smith; he had an inexplicable way with the ladies; kids liked him; hell, dogs liked him, and on top of it all he had an inexplicable talent with locks and automobile ignitions. As counterbalance to these extraordinary and occasionally profitable skills, he had no sense of domestic order and his digestive system rebelled if it was denied beer for more than twenty-four hours. A regular supply was essential if part of his daily agenda was not to include clearing rooms.
As he passed by the bathroom door Ted heard the sound of the shower being turned on, followed by a reedy but on-key rendition of the song “Ain’t Nobody Here But Us Chickens”, a tune made famous in the ‘50’s by Louis Jordan.
“Could we have a little quiet in here for once?” Ted set his bike down and headed back in the direction of the kitchen. “And make it snappy in there. I have to go.”
Jerry ended the song with an hearty “hay!” and for a moment it sounded to Ted like the shower had been turned off.
“Thank you.”
“Oops, forgot the undercarriage rinse job!” Jerry's voice came cheerfully from behind the door. The shower started up once more, along with a spirited rendition of “Gee, Baby, Ain’t I Good to You”.
“Oh, for the love of...Will you shut up and get out of there!”
A warbled enumeration of the many fine articles that had been purchased for the object of the singer’s attention was his only answer.
Ted pounded on the hollow door. It boomed and rattled under his ham-sized hand. “Damn it, Jerry, hurry up!”
The door was flung open and Jerry emerged, a towel wrapped around his waist, a bowl of corn chips in one hand and a smaller bowl of salsa in the other. Fully clothed Jerry was not what even those who held him dear to their hearts would have described as one who cuts an impressive figure. Dripping and bare-chested he looked much like a shaved, bipedal rodent barely escaped from drowning. Stringy clumps of thinning, wet hair hung down his forehead, over his ears, and away from the generous patch of bare scalp on his crown. He had a long, pointy face accented by a long, pointy nose. His chest and abdomen were embellished with a dozen pale scattered hairs, an innie naval and a couple of conventionally placed, if somewhat indistinct, nipples, but otherwise formed one flat, featureless plain. Below the towel protruded thin, bandy legs that were as devoid of foliage as his chest. And yet this, Ted thought to himself for the thousandth time since making Jerry’s acquaintance, was someone who seldom wanted for female companionship. Females who were more often than not intellectually challenged and/or possessed of the social graces of a gooney bird, but live, breathing, often as not darned good looking women nonetheless. Ted had not participated in more than half-a-dozen honest-to-gosh dates since the early days of the Reagan administration while this refutation of Darwinism standing before him had to fight ‘em off with a stick. Just another example that confirmed in Ted’s mind the capricious and essentially mean nature of the universe.


Thanks for the support, and Happy Holidays to all!

Alan