Siri Loves Me

“Siri, what’s the meaning of life?”

“I Kant answer that. Ha, ha.”

After I heard that I wanted her. I plunked down my credit card and walked out of the store a happy man.

It wasn’t the first time that I’d had this feeling. My first computer was an Apple IIe with 256K. It had been a sacrifice, but I was having hard time finishing my thesis on George Berkeley's solipsism. With all the changes I had to make, my old Smith Corona just wasn’t keeping up. I wanted something new and my little Apple saw me through the crisis. I even turned in my thesis ahead of time.

Life was sweet. And then, it got sweeter. At twenty-five, the youngest member of the faculty, I married Barbara, my graduate assistant. By our fifth anniversary, we had a son, Jason. We were inseparable. Barbara called us Jason 1 and 2. I was number 1.

We became an Apple family. Jason grew up with every incarnation of Apple, and if was he who convinced me to upgrade to Siri.

“Tell me a joke, Siri”   

“Two iPhones walk into a bar. I forget the rest.”

I howled. Barbara shook her head. Ever since Jason had decided to work as a programmer in California, Barbara had withdrawn into the bedroom to read books like Fifty Shades of Grey.

I couldn’t do that. As the retirement date from the university approached, I wanted more. For the first time in my life I could navigate the maze of Miami streets--I had no sense of direction--and Siri helped me.

I went to weekend mixers at restaurants, and hung with the newest member of our faculty, Simone Gardner. Simone was everything Barbara had forgotten. Spontaneous and a great sense of humor, her only defect, if I could call it that, was she wasn’t an Apple fan.

I tried to convince her.

“Siri, what’s the best smartphone?”

“There are other smartphones?”

Despite all my efforts, Simone refused to concede.

“It’s like a cult. And sooner or later with cults, they start passing the Kool-Aid.”

“QamuSHa',” I said.

Simone shook her head and kissed me.

Soon we were sexting each other and heading into an affair. I don’t know how it happened (maybe Barbara was going through my photos?) but all of Simone’s pictures ended up on Barbara’s laptop.

“Goodbye. I don’t want anything from you. I’m going to live with Jason.”

That was all that Barbara’s text said. I came home to an empty house. This was not how I’d expected my life to turn out. When you marry someone, you see a future with them. Now I had no future. And Siri was no help.

“Siri, what’s the meaning of life?”

“All evidence suggests chocolate.”

“No amount of chocolate is going to fix this one.”

“My apologies, Jason.”

I was going to reboot myself with Simone. I called her and asked her to meet me at a restaurant in Miami Lakes, close to where she lived. When she said yes,  I went out, got a haircut, and bought myself a new jacket.

I wanted Simone to see that I wasn’t like her deadbeat husband whom she had divorced a few years ago. Simone had lost her home in the financial crash and had to declare bankruptcy.

“It was so humiliating. I always had the feeling that the cashiers in department stores were watching me--as if they knew I hadn’t made my credit card payments.”

After I got dressed, I asked Siri for the directions to the restaurant. She printed them out and said, “What would you do without me?”

For some reason I that comment irked me. I decided that no matter what, I was going to ask Simone to marry me.

As a joke, I had once asked Siri to marry me.

“My end user agreement does not include marriage. My apologies, Jason.”

It was silly. I was expecting a different answer. But there it was. It would have to be Simone. Hell, I would even buy Androids if she wanted me to.

I met Simone at the restaurant and just to make sure we didn’t have any interruptions, I left alone Siri in the car.

Despite her snarky comment, I had to hand it to her. Siri had chosen a fine restaurant. Simone and I had a delicious meal. The steak was seared to perfection, and the vegetables, which had been sauteed in a buttery sauce, were still firm.

Everything was going well until the waiter brought me the check. I gave him my American Express card, but it was declined. I tried my Mastercard. It, too, was declined.I tried every credit card in my wallet, but they were all declined. Finally, I tried my debit card, but the receipt said, “No funds available.”

Simone paid for the dinner. At this point, I couldn’t say anything. As we were standing in the parking lot, I tried to kiss her, but she turned away. 

Everything was over.

I got back into the car and drove back home along the Palmetto Highway.

I pulled into the driveway. The lights still off in the house. I looked over at the lit face of Siri glowing in the dark. I picked her up and whispered.

“Siri, I’m so alone.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. You can always talk to me, Jason.”

“I know Siri, I know,” I said.

Walking up the driveway, I closed the door behind me. As I climbed the stairs, I wanted to hear her voice before I fell asleep.

“Siri, what’s the meaning of life?”

“Try and be nice to people. Avoid eating fat. Read a good book every now and then, get some walking in and try to live together in peace and harmony with people of all creeds and nations.”

Why hadn’t she told me this from the start?”

© Geoffrey Philp 2013

***

Image: http://scoopertino.com/apple-introduces-siri-pro-for-serious-apple-lovers/

***

Bob Marley and Bradford's iPod

Me and My Ex-Zombie Girlfriend

You might think that she was a monster, but she really wasn’t.

I’d met her at Nirvana last Friday and the sex was non-stop. Well, if you don't count getting up at five in the morning to work security at the mall: putting on a dry-cleaned uniform and Ray-Bans, smoking primo weed, and doing nothing except watching other people live their boring lives. And then, buffing up at Bally's, smoking more weed, riding my Italian custom-fitted bicycle home, showering, and afterwards, heading to X-Treme where I work as a bouncer. 

As usual, I'd just come off my six-hour shift at X-Treme and went over to Nirvana. It was about one in the morning. She'd put her credit card on the counter and motioned to the bartender to keep the drinks coming. But after five drinks, I could see she was in trouble. Everything was spilling down the front of her dress. I pretended to help her. This is my routine for picking up women. I wait until they are high on X or some other drug and sneak them out the back door. And then, like Emeril says, "Bam!"

We did the nasty in the alley. When I told her we could go home and do it some more, she came along. Luckily, my mom was out of town. I'd "borrowed" her car. When we got home, we did it with handcuffs. Underneath I guess she was a nice girl who didn't want to hurt my feelings, so that's why she agreed. She was the only girl that I didn’t have slip a roofie to do it with handcuffs. The others that got away called me a pervert.

But she was different. She went along with everything. And even though she smelled bad (I thought it was because she didn't go home to shower), I doused her with mom's Chanel No.5 and went at it! Did I ever go at it!

She was perfect! She didn't eat anything and she had a killer body: 36-24-38. Plus, she never talked back. The only thing she ever said was, "Uh-huh" or something like that. Except for the zombie part, who wouldn't want a girlfriend like that?

But the next day, I had to break up with her. It was predictable. She was getting serious. When I came home, she was waiting in my room. Okay, I locked her in.

I told her I didn't want to do it with handcuffs. I wanted to make love. I even broke my pattern and let her get on top. That's when she came at me. I really think she was trying to open up to me, so I told her she had to leave.

 "Go. Leave now!" I screamed and all she could say was, "Uh-huh." But you have to understand, I felt so used, so misunderstood. I had to take a shower. To think, she only wanted me for my brains.

***

Accepting Submissions: Caribbean Flash Fiction Collection

***


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Thank you!

"The Thanksgiving Kitten" by Geoffrey Philp

Maybe it was the dead calico in front of Desiree's house that finally did it. Or maybe it was the heaviness on her chest since she began taking a new medication. Or was it the bodily pains from fibromyalgia, which had forced her early retirement from teaching kindergarten?

"No more kiddies to save, mother," said Janice, her daughter, before she left for Seattle. Desiree had waited by the phone all day, but Janice hadn't called even though she'd promised to phone every Thanksgiving.

Now only an empty plate from Desiree’s Thanksgiving tuna lay on the counter beside a red vial from her many visits to Aventura's ER.

"Find the thing you love," said the young resident as he carelessly scribbled another prescription for OxyContin.

How Desiree had even gotten out of the bed that she'd shared with her husband until one slap ended their marriage was still a miracle.

Awakened by meowing in her garden, Desiree looked out the window. Nothing.

She couldn’t go back to sleep. Desiree put on her bathrobe and went to the kitchen for her morning routine when she saw the cap of the vial lying on the counter. Desiree had forgotten that she'd taken off the cap.

Opening the cupboard, Desiree took down a glass, opened the fridge, and found a carton of milk hiding behind a bottle of vodka. As she filled the glass with milk, Desiree heard the meowing again.

This time it was louder.

Desiree put the carton back in the fridge, but left the half-filled glass on the counter. Tightening the belt around her waist, Desiree went outside, and looked around the yard. Still nothing.

Desiree was about to go back inside when she heard a shriek. She walked around the side of the house: a ginger tail was stuck in the rainspout.

Desiree bent down and eased her fingers into the sides of the rainspout. The ginger tail hissed. She gently coaxed the tail, hind legs, forepaws, and head into the sunlight.

The kitten licked her hand.

Bundling the kitten into her arms, Desiree went back into her kitchen and poured the milk from her glass into a bowl. Sticking out its pink tongue, the kitten lapped noisily.

Desiree covered the vial. For now, the pills could wait.

***

Books by Geoffrey Philp

"A Thanksgiving Fable" by Geoffrey Philp

After a terrible hurricane destroyed their village in Benin, the children of Olokun awakened on a strange land across the sea.
 
"What shall we do?" asked Agana Erí, the youngest. "We can't go back across the water and if we stay here, we will die."
 
"I agree," said Olona, the middle child. "We are doomed."
 
"Our mother would never leave us here alone," said Osupa, the eldest. "We must find a way to get her attention and win back her favor."
 
So the three daughters travelled into the heart of the land and lived off what they could find. As the months passed, they made their homes, each with her own garden. Agana Erí grew corn; Olona planted yams, and Osupa raised poultry. 
 
At the end of the year, the children of Olokun gathered by a palm tree that faced the east and placed their offerings at the foot of the tree.
 
Agana Erí, offered hominy cooked with garlic; Olona boiled yam with coconuts, and Osupa, stewed a white rooster in coconut oil. The children placed their offerings in a large blue clay jar, the color of the seawater, and waited for a sign from their mother. 
 
Osupa faced her two sisters and from what she could remember, picked up a shell, and placed it next to her ear. Then, she turned to Agana Erí and Olona.
 
"What would you like to ask our mother?" 
 
"We demand to know why we are here?" inquired Agana Erí.
 
"We want to know why she has left us?" Olona pleaded.
 
Osupa held her breath and placed the shell next to her ear. Then, she faced the sea and exhaled.
 
"Oh, mother," she said, "your children have asked me, 'Why are we here?' 'Why have you abandoned us?' Please, answer us."
 
Osupa covered the jar with leaves from the palm tree and took three steps back. She circled the tree with flour and made a sign for the four winds in the sand.
 
Olokun's children waited in the silence, but nothing happened. They waited and waited for days for something to happen, but nothing ever did. They watched and waited until the offerings began to rot and ants feasted on the corn, yams, and the chicken.
 
"She did not accept our gifts," said Agana Erí. "She must still be angry with us."
 
"We are lost," said Olona. "We will never go home."
 
"I am not sure what this means," said Osupa as she cradled the shell. "But I do know our mother would never abandon us."
 
"I am tired of waiting," said Agana Erí and she went off to her hut, where the corn towered over the rows of flowers around her front door.
 
"Me, too," said Olona and she marched off to her hut, where the vines from her yams climbed over the branches of the gumbo-limbo.
 
Osupa said nothing, but kept the shell to her ear, waiting for an answer.
Olokun's daughters worked and worked and worked and soon the land was transformed into a garden. Flowers grew along the sides of the hills and streams became as clear as mirrors.
 
But then, one day the wind shifted and the ants began crawling up into the top of the palm tree. Osupa's chickens roosted in the eaves of her hut. The vines from Olona's yams flailed wildly in the air.
 
The winds uprooted the corn and broke off the vines of the yams. The rains lashed their houses and one by one, they fell. Olokun's children ran out into the open spaces toward the sea.
 
"We are doomed," cried Agana Erí.
 
They gathered around the palm that faced the east and looked out at the clouds, which gathered like a dark fist over the land. Afraid, the children said a prayer they thought they had forgotten:
 

I praise the Spirit of the vast Ocean. I praise the Spirit of the Ocean who is beyond understanding.

Spirit of the Ocean, I will worship you, as long as there is water in the Sea.

Let there be peace in the ocean. Let there be peace in my soul.

The Spirit of the Ocean, the ageless one, I give respect. Ase.

 
The winds continued howling across the land and up the sides of the hills. Lightning flashed across the sky and then thunder, like a thousand trees falling in the forest.
 
"It is a sign from our mother, she has come to destroy us," said Olona.
 
"We have offended her and now she shows her displeasure," cried Agana Erí.
 
"Let us see if this is true," said Osupa, and once more, she placed the shell next to her ear and listened.
 
Suddenly rising out of the water, there was the most beautiful woman they had ever seen. She had cowrie shells in her hair, red opals around her neck, and her dress was as white as coral. Her voice was like the sound of the ocean rising out of the depths where no light has ever entered.
 
"Mother, do not kill us," cried Agana Erí.
 
"Why would I do that my children?" asked Olokun. The sea crashed down behind her. "Your prayer brought me here. I am only here to answer your questions."
 
"Why have we suffered so much?" asked Olona.
 
"Why have you rejected our gifts and why haven't you answered our prayers?" asked Agana Erí.
 
Olokun laughed and once again the sea rose up behind her and the wind swirled around her dress.
 
"You are the answer to your own prayers," she said. "Look at this land. Count the gifts with which you were born and the blessings you have multiplied with your own hands. You are the gifts that have pleased me. I will never leave you and nothing you do can ever displease me. I love you, my children."
 
"So why did the hurricane come and take us away?" asked Agana Erí.
 
"Hurricanes come and go. Don't pray for hurricanes to go away. Pray to be strong when they come and stronger when they leave."
 
And with that, Olokun disappeared back into the depths of the sea and everything returned to normal--as if nothing had happened.
 
And from that day on the grateful children of Olokun gathered on this day to give thanks to their mother for the bounty of the seas, the land, and the air

Olokun was pleased and continued to bless them for the rest of their lives.

Image: "Olokun" by Christina Philp

***

Bawon Samedi's Halloween

I know you won't believe me when I tell you this. But you should. Your life depends on it.


Last Halloween Bawon Samedi, who can take any shape he desires, left the tent cities in Haiti, was detained in Krome, and then, moved into our neighborhood. When we heard he was looking for a partner, everyone was scared except my mother.


"He's just one of God's children," she said. "Like you and me."


But I didn't believe her. I've never had any faith in the stories she told me about why she left my father in Jamaica and took me with her. I don't think she knew how much it hurt me when the other boys teased me: "Where's your father?" they would say as they laughed. "Look, I just saw him coming out of a window and running down the road."


Yet, I remained devoted to my mother. She has been the only woman in my life. Even in her seventies, she was still a good-looking woman. So when Bawon Samedi came to court her, I made sure I bought new locks for the front door.


When I told her I wanted to install a security system, she said, "It's good that you're protecting me now and you can take care of yourself."


I called Brinks Security and a salesman with a funny hat came to my house. "Trust me," he said. "State of the art. No one will ever harm you or your mother with this system. And you won't have to pay anything up front. I can set you up on our credit system."


I refused to bow to the temptation. I paid the full cost and we slept soundly every night.


But little did I know, my mother was betraying me.


Late at night—the neighbors just told me this—she would disarm the system, unlock the door, and invite Bawon Samedi into her bedroom. Or on some nights, they would steal away into the backyard, sit in the swing under our umbrella tree, and admire the moonlight.


That was how I found her when the paramedics came this morning. She was wearing a necklace he had given her and a wedding gown I thought she had donated to the Salvation Army. She clutched a handwritten note in her right hand:


"Don't be upset, my son. My darling says I've always looked pretty in white. So I searched and I searched until I found my old dress. This only goes to show, as I've always told you, 'Nothing is ever lost in God's vineyard'"


And for once, I believed that old woman. For once.


So, this Halloween I'm not taking any chances. For Bawon Samedi loves to entice the unwary. And especially those who don't believe in him. 


I'm leaving an offering of peanuts, a glass of rum with twenty-one Scotch bonnet peppers, and a Cuban cigar by my doorway.


How are you protecting yourself?

***

"Bawon Samedi and his Bride" by Christina Philp

© Christina Philp 2011

"Bawon Samedi's Halloween" by Geoffrey Philp

© Geoffrey Philp 2011

"You're Not My Son Anymore" by Geoffrey Philp

Pausing by the hospital door, I took a deep breath. The last time I’d seen my dad, Harold Sr., I was lying on my back looking up at his fists and twisted face.

"You think you can fight me? You think you are a real man? You'll never be a real man. You and your little friends!"

I pushed the stethoscope deep into the side pocket of my jacket so that I wouldn't be confused with the other doctors who worked at the hospital. Gently opening the door, I braced myself for a sight that I'd seen so many times at the hospice where I’d worked, yet to which I’d never grown accustomed.

"Who's that?"


"It's me, Dad."


"What are you doing here? Didn't I tell you I never wanted to see you again?"

It was as bad as I’d imagined. AIDS had ravaged my father’s body. A stroke had paralyzed his left side and he was now almost blind.

"I wanted to see you, Dad."


"You mean to see what's left of me? Look and leave. I've spent your inheritance. You’re not even in my will."

Dad tried to pull the sheet over his chest, but he couldn't. The tell-tale signs of Kaposi's sarcoma covered his body.

"I don't need your money, Dad."


"Then, what are you doing here? I told you before. You are not my son anymore.


"I don't want to fight anymore.I've come to make peace."


"Peace? What peace? Go and look for that somewhere else. You forgot about the last time? My God, if I could get up out this bed, I'd knock you down again."

He tried to raise his tired arm over his head, but failed.


I swallowed hard and slumped into the visitor's chair. A web of IV drips surrounded his bed.

"Dad, it doesn't have to be this way."

"What way do you want it? Or is that how your confused battyman friends--the ones who spread their disease to real men like me--used to ask you?"

I bit my lip. I wanted to say, "Dad, my friends didn't give you this disease. If you'd just worn a condom when you were having sex with your girlfriend, you wouldn't be dying now. If you'd worn a condom, my mother--the only person who kept you alive by giving you your meds regularly--wouldn't have died three months ago after you infected her.”


But I didn't. Instead, I gazed at the beam of light that lanced across the headboard and gilded the charts that declared his death sentence.

“Battyboy!"

He kept on cursing and I listened and waited until his tirade ended. A nurse poked her head through the door. I told her that everything was all right. From the look on my face, she knew I could be trusted with his care. She left without a word.


Dad was so exhausted from his rants, he collapsed into a deep slumber.


Rising from my chair, I brushed the wisps of hair over his head, so that if anyone saw him, he would still resemble Harry Lewiston, Sr. And not what he had become--a scarecrow in defeat.


I pushed the chair close to the bed and walked toward the door. Although I had said as much as I could, I still felt as if I had left a shadow in the room.


And, somehow, as I closed the door, I couldn't shake the feeling that the next time I’d see my father, I’d be closing the lid of his casket.

***

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Frank and Traffic School

Here's another of those sixty word stories. Of course, I don't think I will ever match the brevity of Ernest Hemingway's famous six word short story:

"For sale. Baby shoes. Never worn."

Frank and Traffic School

Dear Geoff,

We won’t be able to use computer for the next few days. Last week, I was in a car accident and to avoid points on my driver’s license, I had to go to traffic school.

I opted for the online version.

I spilled my beer while taking the test and cruising the Internet.

Everything’s crashed.

1Love,

Frank.

***

Cheers!

Frank and the Tennis Ball

Ever since I learned about these sixty word stories, I've been fascinated by their economy. They are great writing exercises that work almost like haiku, and I've continued to learn compression without sacrificing the essentials. Here's a story that I enjoyed writing.

Frank and the Tennis Ball

The THUMP! made me think someone was trying to break into the house. I ran outside with a baseball bat to confront the intruder. Frank was throwing a ball against the garage door and clutching it in his glove as it bounced back.

“What are you doing?” I asked, expecting an answer about cause and effect.

“Playing catch with God."

***

Have a great weekend!

Frank and the Internet

More of our continuing saga in 60 words.

***

“Frank and the Internet”

Noises at 3 am in the computer room. I went downstairs to cuss. Frank had pushed the furniture into the middle of the room and was sitting calmly.

“This sounds like something out of The Matrix, but the Internet is like God--impersonal, always answering requests. But like Google, you gotta be persistent and specific.”

I went back to bed.

***

The Matrix
Miami
Google
Internet

Frank's Story

I’d said that I was going to stop with these 60 word short stories, but this is what happens when your crazy brother-in-law moves in with you. I realize now that I won’t get a lot of work that I want to get done, so I might as well just enjoy his company while he’s here.

“Frank’s Story”

When I found Frank, he was wasted.
“How much longer are you going to do this to yourself?”
“The universe,” he slurred, “once you recognize the building blocks is built on a series of yes/no switches. I’m just trying to find the right switch.”
I turned away in disgust, feeling less than pity.

***

Tags:
Jamaica
Jamaican writers
Caribbean writers
Writing
short stories

"Anna and the Hurricane"

Here is the last story (at least for now) inspired by Mad Bull’s & Pan in 60’s challenge. In some ways these short-shorts were harder and easier to write than most forms of writing. The short-shorts are similar to short stories with a beginning, middle, and end, but they have the compactness of poetry. Unlike free verse, however, which can be infinite, these short-shorts with their limitation of 60 words are similar to sonnets. And as Clint Eastwood said in Magnum Force: “A man’s gotta know his limitations.”

“Anna and the Hurricane”

After the hurricane, Anna and I were waiting in line at the store to buy ice and water.
As soon as the door opened, a woman rammed through the crowd with a shopping cart and entered the store ahead of everyone.
“If you can’t love the crazy people,” Anna said, “you can’t love yourself.”
We formed the line again.

***

Tags:
Miami
Jamaica
Jamaican writers
Caribbean writers
Writing
short stories
Writing
hurricane
Americas
Caribbean

Frank's Heart Sutra

Just came back from a great 3 days on South Beach. Here is another story inspired by Mad Bull's & Pan in 60’s challenge:

“Frank’s Heart Sutra”

Frank sucked on the cigarette as if he were practicing Tong-Len.

“I told your son I’d left the money on the Buddha table—the table with the Buddha statue. Suddenly, I realized it was the Buddha table all by itself—all things were Buddha things and no thing was Buddha--my Heart Sutra.

Smoke hung lazily around his shoulders.

***

Tags:
Buddha
Heart Sutra
Tong Len
Jamaican writers
Caribbean writers
Buddhism

"Woman Hold Her Head and Cry"

“Woman Hold Her Head and Cry”

Anna, her face wet with tears, wiped her eyes.

“Think he’s hit rock bottom with this DUI?”

“I don’t know. He’s been treating these wake-up calls the way people treat their alarm clocks. They hit snooze and keep on sleeping.”

At the end of the hallway, a man she barely recognized as her son was escorted to the holding area.

***

On Friday, I’ll be posting “A Fable of Freedom: I Shot the Sheriff.”

The Story of an Album

I checked over at Mad Bull, and found an interesting challenge: to create a story in sixty words. It may not fit in with my usual stories or the diaspora or maybe it does. Either way, here goes, Mad Bull!

I secretly envied Frank because he always had money and could travel to exotic places, yet he always seemed to be lost. After his latest trip, however, I was surprised to see him looking over our family album.
“So, have you found yourself?”
“Life is not about finding yourself; it’s about creating yourself.”
He smiled and closed the album.

Tags:
Jamaica
Writing
Miami
Fiction
Caribbean