The Short Humour Site









Home : Writers' Showcase : Submission Guidelines : A Man of a Few More Words : Links

Writers' Showcase

Settling Down in New York
by Albert Russo

We’re in Nuuu woowoo Yawwwk, and more precisely in downtown Manhattan, and more preciselier still, in Soho.

Unky Berky doesn’t stop warning me: “Walk like you know the place ... don’t gawk like a tourist ... don’t smile at people ... put on your fiercest Parisian look, you know how to do that very well, and no one will bother you ... keep your list of addresses with you at all times ... where did you put the phone card I bought you? ... and let me see if the whistle is well hooked to your necklace ... “ etc. etc.

Coz I must tell you, my uncle has forced me to wear this stoopid mini whistle as a pendant in case someone tries to molest me, as if the cops had nothing better to do than to rescue little Esmée from the claws of a ninny psychopath - he sees one in every third person that crosses my path (hey, I’m a poet). You’d think he was my private body guard, except that he looks more like a stray Santa Claus, wrapped up in his crimson foddered duffle coat, his winter bonnet and his lama scarf. 20 degrees fair’n heart ain’t exactly the tropics, but I don’t mind since we’re in Nuuu Yawk and only a few days off Christmas when it’s supposed to be snowing.

People surely won’t confuse me with Claudie Stiffer, more with an otter, the way I’m dressed, with that Norwegian hooded anorak and those plushy boots my mom insisted that I wear. But since I’m not Cinderella and since I certainly don’t intend to look for Prince Charming - I stopped believing in fairy tales the day my mother got married to that goon of a Firmin - it’s ok and, wash more, I won’t attract the attention of psychos.

The Soho loft Uncle Luke put at our disposal had originally been bought for Nick, his grandson who’s an artist, but Nick took his rucksack with him and left for Hollywood to make a name for himself, hoping to follow in the footsteps of some of his Italian American compatriots like John Travolta, Al Pacino and Robert De Niro. Have you ever heard of Nick Binetti? Neither have I. Maybe he’s gone into porn movies, apparently many young folk do that to earn a fast buck, even when they’re bright kids who attend college, coz it’s no longer considered a mortal sin. Did you know that during the Cannes Film Festival, porn stars compete for the Hots d’Or? They showed it on TV, with the girls’ boobs out and some of the guys’ asses bare. And you should have seen how proud they all looked, distributing kisses around like they were gods and goddesses.

It wouldn’t be proper to ask uncle Luke if that’s what Nick is doing. He repeats three or four times everything he udders, not because of alka seltzer’s disease - which is the same as Old Timer’s disease -, but because he’s no longer used to talking to anyone.


Excerpt 2 from ZAPINETTE GOES TO NEW YORK by Albert Russo