Ever have one of those moments when you’d like to crawl under a rock and hide?
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Everybody experiences them: moments when you commit acts so unspeakably embarrassing that you wish you could drop from the face of the planet. Here are some of mine:
1. It is the night of the newspaper’s customer appreciation party. A group of us is going by way of car caravan to a nightspot for dancing. I am riding with reporter Robert Kuntz and Lifestyle writer Debbie Lord. We pull into the parking lot. A woman ahead of us, driving a Datsun pickup truck, stops for no apparent reason. We wait. Finally, I shout from the back seat, “Don’t you just hate it when people driving Datsun pickup trucks stop in parking lots for no apparent reason?”
Kuntz says, “Del, that is MY WIFE.”
Time for Del to die.
2. I’m sitting in the newsroom. It’s a slow night. Tom Conner, who at that time was city editor, is sitting across the room. I decide to harass him by sending messages to his computer terminal. To do that, I must type in his terminal number, the message command and the message itself, then press a key to execute the command. I write, “You are a magpie,” and send it. He doesn’t react, but moments later a reply appears on my computer screen: “What?” I answer, “You are a magpie!” Tom still doesn’t react, but suddenly the managing editor appears at my desk and says, “Del, what do you mean, ‘I’m a magpie?’ ”
I had typed in the wrong terminal number.
Time for Del to be unemployed.
3. I’m in college. I’ve been assigned to conduct my first interview. My victim is a poet. He recently published a collection of poems about the Vietnam War. His book is not one of those vanity press jobs; somebody paid him real money to publish his work. He also was an unwitting participant in a military drug experiment, but he doesn’t want to discuss that in our interview. The subject is poetry.
I meet him in the student lounge. He is a charming man, so charming that I tell him I think he should have given his book a different title. We get to talking about writing, and it so happens I’m an aspiring writer, so I pull out the rough draft of a manuscript and demand a critique. I also manage to yawn.
I’m supposed to get a mug shot of the man. I take him to the college newspaper office. They know nothing about taking this man’s picture and, of course, a photographer is nowhere to be found. One of the editors, who is now a reporter at the Pensacola News Journal, says, “Oh, yeah. You’re the guy who was involved in the military drug experiment.”
Del is batting a thousand on his first interview.
4. I’m doing a videotaped presentation about tennis for a college speech class. I say, “Tennis is a game everybody can enjoy.” I pause, and then I say, “Of course, if you’re handicapped you can’t.”
Time for Del to crawl under a rock.
5. I’m in the ninth grade. I’m mad because my parents won’t let me wear bell-bottomed pants. I stalk to the bus stop, pouting. Somebody tells me my shirt is on backwards.
I give up.
This column was published in the Thursday, Aug. 25, 1988 edition of the Northwest Florida Daily News and is used with permission.
About the author:
Del Stone Jr. is a professional fiction writer. He is known primarily for his work in the contemporary dark fiction field, but has also published science fiction and contemporary fantasy. Stone’s stories, poetry and scripts have appeared in publications such as Amazing Stories, Eldritch Tales, and Bantam-Spectra’s Full Spectrum. His short fiction has been published in The Year’s Best Horror Stories XXII; Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine; the Pocket Books anthology More Phobias; the Barnes & Noble anthologies 100 Wicked Little Witch Stories, Horrors! 365 Scary Stories, and 100 Astounding Little Alien Stories; the HWA anthology Psychos; and other short fiction venues, like Blood Muse, Live Without a Net, Zombiesque and Sex Macabre. Stone’s comic book debut was in the Clive Barker series of books, Hellraiser, published by Marvel/Epic and reprinted in The Best of Hellraiser anthology. He has also published stories in Penthouse Comix, and worked with artist Dave Dorman on many projects, including the illustrated novella “Roadkill,” a short story for the Andrew Vachss anthology Underground from Dark Horse, an ashcan titled “December” for Hero Illustrated, and several of Dorman’s Wasted Lands novellas and comics, such as Rail from Image and “The Uninvited.” Stone’s novel, Dead Heat, won the 1996 International Horror Guild’s award for best first novel and was a runner-up for the Bram Stoker Award. Stone has also been a finalist for the IHG award for short fiction, the British Fantasy Award for best novella, and a semifinalist for the Nebula and Writers of the Future awards. His stories have appeared in anthologies that have won the Bram Stoker Award and the World Fantasy Award. Two of his works were optioned for film, the novella “Black Tide” and short story “Crisis Line.”
Stone recently retired after a 41-year career in journalism. He won numerous awards for his work, and in 1986 was named Florida’s best columnist in his circulation division by the Florida Society of Newspaper Editors. In 2001 he received an honorable mention from the National Lesbian and Gay Journalists Association for his essay “When Freedom of Speech Ends” and in 2003 he was voted Best of the Best in the category of columnists by Emerald Coast Magazine. He participated in book signings and awareness campaigns, and was a guest on local television and radio programs.
As an addendum, Stone is single, kills tomatoes and morning glories with ruthless efficiency, once tied the stem of a cocktail cherry in a knot with his tongue, and carries a permanent scar on his chest after having been shot with a paintball gun. He’s in his 60s as of this writing but doesn’t look a day over 94.
Contact Del at [email protected]. He is also on Facebook, twitter, Pinterest, tumblr, TikTok, and Instagram. Visit his website at delstonejr.com .
ChatGPT
This is the story of a woman, a river, and a concussion.
The woman’s name is Debbie; the river has many names, none of them printable here; and the concussion … I guess it was my fault.
I told Debbie before we got in the canoe that I did NOT know how to steer. I said, “Debbie, before we begin I should warn you: The last time I tried to steer a canoe, there were some problems.”
Oh?
“Yes. A few deaths were involved.”
But no. Not only did she suggest I sit in the back of the canoe, she actually encouraged me to sit in the back of the canoe. “Del, you sit in the back of the canoe,” is what she said. Somehow, she has forgotten that part. Maybe it’s the amnesia.
The back of the canoe is the nerve center of the Canoe Guidance System. The person who sits in the back of the canoe must have the lightning reflexes of a cat that is about to be taken to the vet. He must have the woodlands savvy and bravado of a Marlin Perkins with his premium paid in full. And he must have several beers under his belt.
It was sunny between the downpours. The temperature was 86.8 degrees, the humidity 78 percent, winds variable except near the waterspouts – a perfect day for canoeing down a snake-infested river.
We pushed off from our launch point and within seconds we were gliding effortlessly down the river – sideways. Then, disaster struck. We hit a “stob.”
I tried to tell Debbie, in my best Grizzly Adams voice, that a “stob” is an underwater stump, but she thought I was making up the word. This argument lasted all day. I would say, “HOLD ON, WE’RE ABOUT TO HIT A STOB!” and Debbie would say, “Oh, you’re just making that up!” and then CRASH! The canoe would collide with a stob and Debbie would sustain head injuries.
Anyway, we hit our first stob. We heard a crash. The canoe stopped dead in the water. We held our breath, like U-boat captains waiting for the depth charge to go off. The canoe turned completely around and again we were gliding effortlessly down the river – backward.
That was as good a time as any stop at the handy shoreline, straighten out our canoe and swill beer. We had a bend in the river to negotiate downstream and we would need all our wits.
OK, so we managed to make the turn, but – this is the part Debbie’s attorney wants to hear – I wasn’t able to stop turning (see, I took the rap) and we zoomed into low-hanging branches at Canoe Warp Factor 8. Debbie, remembering what I’d said about snakes lurking in branches just like these, tried to keep them out of her face. But they whipped back and smacked her; she toppled over and banged her head on the side of the canoe. Hence the concussion.
Debbie has foolishly suggested we go canoeing again. Only this time, SHE wants to sit in the back. Every time she says that, a cold, soulless smile creeps into her expression.
So I’d better drop the skeet shooting idea.
This column was published on Thursday, Aug. 11, 1988 in the Northwest Florida Daily News and is used with permission.
About the author:
Del Stone Jr. is a professional fiction writer. He is known primarily for his work in the contemporary dark fiction field, but has also published science fiction and contemporary fantasy. Stone’s stories, poetry and scripts have appeared in publications such as Amazing Stories, Eldritch Tales, and Bantam-Spectra’s Full Spectrum. His short fiction has been published in The Year’s Best Horror Stories XXII; Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine; the Pocket Books anthology More Phobias; the Barnes & Noble anthologies 100 Wicked Little Witch Stories, Horrors! 365 Scary Stories, and 100 Astounding Little Alien Stories; the HWA anthology Psychos; and other short fiction venues, like Blood Muse, Live Without a Net, Zombiesque and Sex Macabre. Stone’s comic book debut was in the Clive Barker series of books, Hellraiser, published by Marvel/Epic and reprinted in The Best of Hellraiser anthology. He has also published stories in Penthouse Comix, and worked with artist Dave Dorman on many projects, including the illustrated novella “Roadkill,” a short story for the Andrew Vachss anthology Underground from Dark Horse, an ashcan titled “December” for Hero Illustrated, and several of Dorman’s Wasted Lands novellas and comics, such as Rail from Image and “The Uninvited.” Stone’s novel, Dead Heat, won the 1996 International Horror Guild’s award for best first novel and was a runner-up for the Bram Stoker Award. Stone has also been a finalist for the IHG award for short fiction, the British Fantasy Award for best novella, and a semifinalist for the Nebula and Writers of the Future awards. His stories have appeared in anthologies that have won the Bram Stoker Award and the World Fantasy Award. Two of his works were optioned for film, the novella “Black Tide” and short story “Crisis Line.”
Stone recently retired after a 41-year career in journalism. He won numerous awards for his work, and in 1986 was named Florida’s best columnist in his circulation division by the Florida Society of Newspaper Editors. In 2001 he received an honorable mention from the National Lesbian and Gay Journalists Association for his essay “When Freedom of Speech Ends” and in 2003 he was voted Best of the Best in the category of columnists by Emerald Coast Magazine. He participated in book signings and awareness campaigns, and was a guest on local television and radio programs.
As an addendum, Stone is single, kills tomatoes and morning glories with ruthless efficiency, once tied the stem of a cocktail cherry in a knot with his tongue, and carries a permanent scar on his chest after having been shot with a paintball gun. He’s in his 60s as of this writing but doesn’t look a day over 94.
Contact Del at [email protected]. He is also on Facebook, twitter, Pinterest, tumblr, TikTok, and Instagram. Visit his website at delstonejr.com .