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    I Was Supposed To Be Paying Attention
    I Was Supposed To Be Paying Attention
    I Was Supposed To Be Paying Attention
    Ebook162 pages1 hour

    I Was Supposed To Be Paying Attention

    By Henry P. Mahone

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    About this ebook

    It's a laugh, innit? While everyone else was taking notes, listening to the instructor, or securing dates with attractive classmates, Henry P. Mahone was horsing around with a pen and spiral notebook. These early short stories are all he has to show for his squandered educational opportunities.

    With Mahone's trademark macabre humor, a bit of horror, and a dash of sci-fi, I Was Supposed To Be Paying Attention will make you glad he wasn't.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherHenry P. Mahone
    Release dateJul 1, 2014
    ISBN9780983820758
    I Was Supposed To Be Paying Attention
    Author

    Henry P. Mahone

    Henry P. Mahone has written full-time for technology magazines since 1998. His hobbies have all suffered immensely since he became a parent and bought an HDTV. He lives in the American Great Plains with his wife, daughter, and snarling curs.

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      Book preview

      I Was Supposed To Be Paying Attention - Henry P. Mahone

      I Was Supposed To Be Paying Attention

      Early Short Stories

      by Henry P. Mahone

      I Was Supposed To Be Paying Attention

      Henry P. Mahone

      Smashwords Edition

      Copyright 2014 Henry P. Mahone

      Cover design by Lori Garris

      Hundred Ton Press

      All rights reserved, including right of reproduction in whole or part in any form.

      This is a work of fiction, with all that entails.

      Dedicated to my younger self.

      Who, if he’s listening, should ask for some

      anti-anxiety medication post haste.

      Table of Contents

      THE POTATO MAN

      EUGENE BUYS SOME SHOES

      ONCE APON A TIM

      WARRANTY CLERK

      ETERNITY

      THE GOLDEN TROUGH PART I

      THE X

      THE ONLY THING

      THE ASPHALT LOZENGES

      THE GOLDEN TROUGH PART II

      AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY, WITH RECIPES

      THE CELLOPHANE OTTOMAN

      BANANA FARTS

      I, INFIDELITY

      GOOD ADVICE

      CORRUPTED ENDEAVOUR

      PARTY NIGHT

      DAMN HICKS

      THE MOUNTAIN

      SHAMU'S WET BUTT

      about the author

      connect to HPM

      more by Henry P. Mahone

      THE POTATO MAN

      In the back of the second skinning shack lurked a strange, bewildered young lad. His shoulders and skull sagged unnaturally, apurpose, as if he were deliberately attempting to induce the growth of a monstrous hump on his back somewhen later in life. In this endeavour any casual observer might not have much doubt of some success for the lad.

      The manner in which he lurked might have puzzled and then encouraged to begin taunting him any children his own age; it might also have disquieted and slightly alarmed any adults passing by. Regarding the boy's odor, well, perhaps it was unfairly mingled with that emanating from the second skinning shack, in which the servants of the estate too lowly to slaughter proper animals in the first skinning shack were obliged to peel, pluck, and flense the beasts they caught, shot, or clubbed. Such servants included the old, demented shepherd, with the rotten teeth and a habit of muttering to himself; the stable girl, bloated and plain, with a broad face as startlingly similar to a gourd as any face might be imagined to be, and an intellect to match; the tallow man, recommended to his occupation of collecting fats and greases for any and all practical purposes from any and all practical or unpractical source by a bizarrely focused obsession bordering on the maniacal; and finally, the Potato Man, not named, as one might expect, by a resemblance to, or a passion for, potatoes, unless one could accuse the hapless hunchback of a passion for his work, which he did not, in fact, possess—quite the contrary, his work appealed to him very little. It (his work) consisted of planting, fertilizing, growing, and collecting potatoes, the only vegetable the cooks trusted him to grow, and the only things they allowed him to eat. The Potato Man was not stupid. He was, however, quite unleavened by the questionable (he thought) merits of knowledge. He was not without emotion, though, and on occasion, would insert a bit of fertilizer into a random potato in the hopes it would make its way undetected onto the plate of someone important. This was the small joy he harbored in his misshapen and broken body.

      The Potato Man was not amused by the sight of the young lad lurking around by the second skinning shack in obvious parody of himself, and he let the lad know.

      Garsarned bargle fraggies, he screamed.

      The boy looked up in surprise. Take the potato out of your mouth, he said. I can't understand you.

      The Potato Man spat out the gob of uncooked, and therefore indigestible, potato, never once considering in his twisted and miserable little world that the reason the cooks only allowed him to eat uncooked potatoes was for the entertainment value his gastrointestinal discomfort and hideous constipation afforded them. Stop yer makin' fun o' me, he whined, clutching his gut as a familiar spasm racked his innards. Yer gonna be lordy o' this 'ere estate someday, and ye got nothin' better on yer agender than to be makin' fun of a sour ol' cripple like me. Oh, lord.

      The lad straightened up. He looked pained. But I don't want to be lord of anything; I want to be a Potato Man like you.

      Tell ye what, then, the Potato Man growled. We'll trade, then. You take this hump, and this hoe, and this demon pain in me gizzard, an' you can dig in the slop fer the rest o' yer days.

      Oh, let me, the boy said, affecting his hunchbacked scuttle again. He tried a Cockney accent. Garrrr. I be sick o' plantin' potatoes! Garn!

      Oh, ye're funny, indeed, lad, the Potato Man said. He furtively judged the distance to the lad, sullenly concluded that it was longer than the hoe would reach, and slouched along on his way back to the quagmire of mud known as the Potato Field.

      What were you skinning in there? the boy asked him. He was filthy from a morning of dogging the lower servants until each in turn told him to clear off. I mean, if all they let you eat is potatoes...

      Filthy bastards, every one of 'em.

      ...then what could you possibly be skinning? Hmmm?

      The Potato Man didn't turn around. He trudged along, pausing only to hawk and spit, and answered, I skin me damned potaters.

      Oh, the boy said. Are you married?

      Fah, the Potato Man retched. Women. Nothin' but trouble. Always gotta know your whereabouts. Tie a young man down.

      Oh, the boy said. He had never seen any women speak to the Potato Man, not even the lesser scullery maids. Can I hoe for a while?

      No! the Potato Man roared. This hoe be a fine, delicate instrument. It's what I open the ground with; it's what I close it back up with. It's me livelihood. This hoe and me: we're one, ye see? We're one.

      Oh, the boy said. You know what? The life of a Potato Man doesn't appeal half as much to me anymore. Perhaps I will grow up to be Lord after all. Then I can eat what I want, and stay indoors when it rains, and if someone displeases me, I can have them killed by the dogs. Doesn't that sound more fulfilling?

      Ay, it does, the Potato Man sighed, stopping and resting his chin on his hoe. Every man's gotta dream.

      The lad turned about and skipped back toward the second skinning shack. When he arrived there, the ill-toothed shepherd rose behind him and slapped him behind the ear with a sap; the bloated stable girl expressionlessly skinned and sectioned his dripping body, pitching the guts through a hole for the dogs; and the tallow man scraped and squeezed every ounce of oil and fat from his muscles with which to lubricate His Lordship's bureau drawers and carriage axles.

      EUGENE BUYS SOME SHOES

      "Do you really expect me to let you go?" Clark shouted.

      I don't see how you can stop me, Clarinda shouted back from the cockpit. Clark was just a little speck on the runway, just as in life. They were communicating via cellular telephone.

      Without even saying goodbye? he almost sobbed.

      I said goodbye four years ago, she said. You've just forgotten.

      That night at O'Hanlon's? he tried to remember.

      Yes, she replied evenly. You never took the hint.

      Oh, he said. But what about our children? What will become of them?

      Water them, Clark, Clarinda said. Rhododendrons need lots of water. And fertilizer spikes. Don't forget the fertilizer spikes.

      There was a forlorn pause.

      There are instructions for their use on the package, Clark, she prodded.

      Oh, good, he answered, relieved. He would hate to repeat the chewing-up-and-spitting-out fiasco. But, my love... I'll be lost without you. I need guidance... sustenance to nourish and sustain me! Oh, Clarinda!

      I've left you something, Clarinda answered. Her signal was starting to break up now as the plane flew farther and farther away. Something to sustain you while I'm away. It's on the table. It's a little slip of paper with Mickey Mouse on it. Place it on your tongue when you get home. On your tongue, Clark. And be sure to surround yourself with cutlery first. She waved dismissively. Goodbye, my love, she said, or at least, he assumed that's what she said, as the cellular telephone succumbed to static right after Goodbye, my—. Some other interfering signal must have interjected the word ass. It certainly wasn't like her.

      Goodbye, my love, goodbye! he screeched dejectedly. He stayed like that, waving, for more than twenty minutes, until the tower had to send security around to collect him from the runway. On the way home he accidentally killed a crow with his front bumper, and grew very depressed.

      ONCE APON A TIM

      "Once

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