You're a brave man, Michael Stroganoff

When I was young, and life would throw me a curveball that caught the inside part of the plate, my mom would tell me "You're a brave man Michael Strogoff!" I never knew what the hell she was talking about, thinking she meant something about the soupy hamburger and pasta dish.

So today, at the book store, I am going through a box of books we had taken it and I see a copy of Michael Strogoff by Jules Verne. I never knew he wrote a book called "Michael Strogoff." So now I gotta read it; the missing key to my childhood may lie betwixt its covers. A childhood which now has assumed a much more alluring stance, what with the addition of this newly fabricated wrinkle.

I'll tell you all about the book as soon as I finish reading Nicholas Dawidoff's The Catcher Is A Spy (Sons of Moe Berg unite!).

I am collecting stories from work, got a few good ones recently, but today I am posting a piece I wrote awhile back that is part of a trilogy of sketches. Here, then, is part one:

Her hand was hot to the touch. Burning hot. There was no way it was the result of the weather, it was Summer in Vegas, yes, not Venus. I had been working in the store less than a month, but she was by far the most beautiful woman to come in to the store. She looked like an old crush, a minx with fox-colored hair named Alyssa.

She was shaking my hand and eye-fucking me at the same time. Sirens were going off in my head but I rode my racing heart full speed ahead. She had asked me if I was Michael-- the name of the place is “Michael’s Books & CDs,” after all-- and I fumbled my name, it came tumbling out of my mouth like a bag of marbles on cement. She told me hers: Jessica.


“Jessica,” I thought, added an image to complete a mnemonic device to ensure I would never forget her name. “Just like the sexiest redhead in movie history,” I smiled to myself.

Jessica Rabbit.

Fuck like a bunny.

My train of thought let out a blast of rich, dark smoke. The store was dead, not a customer in sight, when she had walked in. She was looking for a certain book by a certain author, and I happily escorted her over to the shelves where such a book might rest. We stood there and talked about books, and I smelled a hint of beer on her breath. It was one in the afternoon.

College girl.

I found out she was a writer, and then I exposed myself to her. I succumbed to my base urges and whipped out my swelling literary aspiration and boldly waved it in her face.

She liked what she saw. She soaked in all its thick promise- I had teased her with the outline of my novel- and she wanted more. I stopped short of taking the next, logical, step-taking complete advantage of her- and tucked everything back in place. I could see the potential for as much damage as pleasure, and decided to do the right thing. God damn morality.

She bought a book, and thanked me for the inspiring words. Then she did the stretch that cat-like women do that allows you to let your eyes roam all over the undulating lands of their bodies. I said, “The pleasure was all mine,” and that would be the last lie I told her.

That's when she stuck out her hand, searing herself into my soul. Her hand was hot to the touch.