An eclectic and original assortment of imaginative scenarios centered on Oregonian oddballs, characters, and just-plain folk make up Not True Stories from Oregon, a short story collection of highly unique and powerful tales of the human condition. Arran Gimba paints a broad portrait of the gritty and fascinating extremes that make up the human experience. Part fantasy, part slice of life, these twenty-one stories exhibit the worst fears and most impractical dreams of ordinary people. "Love is Over-Rated" tells of an anti-cupid who suddenly finds a conscience when he sees the impact of his calling. Three young students are drawn into the latest technology craze with disastrous consequences in "zPhone," while a hospital receptionist discovers that obsessing about the wrong thing can lead to a rude attitude adjustment in "Watch for Little Brother." Filled with stark and realistic situations and absorbing, multi-dimensional characters, Not True Stories from Oregon brings a seasoned and original voice to the short story form, exploring Oregon in all its wonderful weirdness.

Not True Stories from Oregon

By Arran N. Gimba

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2010 Arran N. Gimba
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4502-5798-5

Contents

Love is Overrated..........................................1A Lovely Dinner............................................15zPhone.....................................................23Unemployment Oregon........................................37Doing the Right Thing......................................49The Song Remains the Same in Your Head.....................61Watch for Little Brother...................................71Mother Nature Can Kiss My Ass..............................77Second Chance..............................................87Our Only Hope..............................................93The Flight.................................................99To Light a Fire 2..........................................105Opportunity of a Lifetime..................................117Sold/Bought/Mine...........................................123Peaked Early...............................................129Blink Death Away...........................................135Losing Mrs. Right..........................................141Zelda's Friends............................................151The Other Side of Dexter Lake..............................161A Night at Walker Field....................................169Poetry in Disarray.........................................179

Chapter One

Love is Overrated

"Love doesn't make the world go round. Love is what makes the ride worthwhile." Franklin P. Jones

Ventura Cooper adjusted his dreadlocks and tried to get people to shake his hand. He was standing on the corner of NW 23rd and Johnson, a tattooed/greasy/tight black pants hipster version of Portland's Rodeo Drive. Boutiques and fancy clothing stores lined the potholed-infested street as canvassers stood on each corner. Ventura was not an ordinary hippie canvasser. In reality, he was a living cupid.

But Ventura wasn't trying to link two people together in holy matrimony. He was the complete opposite. His job was to break couples up. When he shook the hands of the man or woman, they were destined to break up. For example, he shook the hand of Glen Hoover, a wonderful old man who'd been married for over twenty-five years. That evening, Glen decided to end his marriage over `irreconcilable differences.'

On another day, Ventura shook the hand of a maxillofacial radiologist by the name of Angela Styron. Later that night, she cheated on her boyfriend ... and she got caught. That relationship ended quite horribly. Her boyfriend threw a fit and punched the guy she'd cheated with. Angela became hysterical and slapped her boyfriend, breaking her pinky in the process. And, the poor sucker who'd only wanted a good time, ended up with two missing teeth and a hand towel to cover his private parts as he ran out of the motel room.

Ventura loved breaking hearts. It gave him a great thrill, the kind of thrill a kid gets when he shoots eggs at a car, or when a teen throws an empty bottle of beer in the air and watching it shatter on the pavement.

Ventura stood on the corner, shifting from side to side, waiting. He was good at that. And then he spotted a young man with a grunge haircut, torn jeans, holding a worn-down guitar case in one hand.

Ventura reached into his pocket and pulled out a small photo. Max Suller was his name.

Ventura moved closer then stuck out his hand. "Hi there, how are you doing today?" he asked.

Max shook his hand. "Good, good."

"Can I talk to you for a second about the Green Party?"

"I can't, sorry. I've got a concert to rehearse for."

"Okay, sir, have a nice day."

As Max walked away, Ventura smiled at the thought of another heart broken.

* * *

When his shift ended, Ventura headed home. As he ambled down Burnside, past the Marathon Tavern, he saw Kelli Mehling crying on the front steps of a small house. Kelli looked like one of those Suicide Girls he'd seen on the Internet—dyed pink hair and an impressive number of piercings and tattoos. On any other day, he would have walked on, barely noticing her. But today, seeing her cry affected him. It disturbed him even.

"Are you okay?" Ventura asked.

Kelli stared up at him with watery eyes, mascara streaming down her cheeks. "I'm good, thanks." She sniffled and wiped her nose on the sleeve of her shirt.

"If that's the definition of feeling good, then I don't ever want to feel good."

Kelli smiled a little. "It's my boyfriend. He's being an ass."

Ventura sat down next to her. "Like how, if I may ask?"

"It's nothing. We just got into a fight. I don't even know what we fought about. And I thought I knew him really well. We were like this." She pressed the tips of her index fingers together. "I guess I was wrong. I don't know anything about him."

A commotion came from behind them—shouting accompanied by the sound of objects being thrown around. The door flew open and Max Suller stormed out.

"Here are your damn clothes, you filthy whore!" He threw an armful of sweaters, leggings, and some provocative-looking underwear on the ground. Without even looking at Kelli, Max went back into the house and slammed the door.

Ventura swallowed a lump in his throat. Holy shit, he thought. Although he enjoyed his profession, he had never actually seen the repercussions of his actions. Broken hearts were just some abstract notion, something to get over, to move on from. Seeing the ache and the pain in person, seeing it up close touched Ventura in a way he'd never expected. It shook him like he had never been shaken before.

"You have a place to stay?" Ventura asked.

"Yeah, I'll stay at a friend's place for a while," Kelli whimpered.

Ventura nodded. He wanted to offer a few words of wisdom, but, truth was, he had none. Absolutely no word of encouragement or sympathy came to him. "All right. Try to have a good night. Sorry about what happened."

As Ventura ventured down the lonely streets, it started to drizzle. It seemed to always be drizzling in Portland. He felt the mist on his face, on his lips. He couldn't shake Kelli off his mind. Her puckered lips, her blue eyes, her tiny black-painted fingernails. And, the sad look on her face. He was the cause of that.

That night, Ventura tossed and turned. He couldn't sleep. The humid air hung heavy in his room. Kelli's face haunted him, and the sound of her sniffles seemed to fill his bedroom. Did girls really cry so much over some guy? He had no idea what a broken heart felt like, but it sure seemed bad. He felt awful. Why was this affecting him so much? When he saw Kelli sobbing, he felt his body go numb. He wasn't supposed to feel guilt or remorse.

Ventura flung off the covers and grabbed his cell phone. He needed some advice. He called his friend Larry, another cupid.

* * *

It was well past midnight when Ventura walked into the Dirty nightclub in downtown Portland. Dirty was the raunchiest nightclub in the city, and Ventura didn't understand what Larry was doing in such a place. Dance music by Rihanna blared through the speakers as girls pole danced. Well, maybe he understood the appeal a bit.

He strolled through more skin than he'd seen in his life and finally found Larry sitting at a table in the back with a beautiful blonde whose breasts were about to burst out of her white halter top. Larry lived...