Emile Barrios

I’ve always enjoyed improvising stories or pieces of stories in a very short time - especially when I’m given words or phrases that must be used in the story. For some reason, such challenges really tap into my funny side. At other times, I’ll simply hear things that will immediately get me into “improv” mode, and I’m off and running.

This happened recently when I heard a friend telling the story of, as a teenager, discovering her mother’s contraceptive device. Later that same night, I also heard the name “Pepe Spaziano”, and I got an idea about a low-class detetcive. This is what resulted. I was at first tempted to call it a story fragment,  but the more I read it the more I wonder if it is in fact complete. See what you think.

The Case of the Threadbare Diaphragm

It was a hot Saturday afternoon in August. I was in my usual position on the couch, watching Dizzy Dean and the Game of the Week while trying not to spill any more malt liquor on my undershirt. In a minute I was going to have to get up and apologize to my wife Cookie, who was still crying in the kitchen. I had accidentally smacked her in the eye while swatting away the flies gathered atop the canned bean dip and chips on the coffee table. I wasn’t looking forward to it.

There was a feeble knock on the screen door.

“Come in,” I said, not moving.

It was Quincy, the girl from next door. She stepped in gingerly but was unable to avoid kicking a couple of empty malt liquor cans. She was holding some kind of round plastic thing. The look in her eyes reminded me of a trout I’d seen at the fish market on Wednesday.

“Mr. Spaziano, you’re a detective! You have to help me!”

“I know I’m a detective. But not now. Van Lingle Mungo is pitching for the Dodgers.”

“I found this in my parents’ bedroom and I don’t know what it is and I accidentally punched a hole in it and now I don’t know what to do!”

She started to cry and put her hands to her face. But since she was still holding the thing, she managed to hit herself in the nose with it, punching her nostrils through. For a moment it hung there, looking like a very odd piece of clown makeup. She screamed, pulled it off and flung it at me, bringing a sudden end to the malt liquor vs. undershirt standoff. Fortunately, the couch was Naugahyde and wouldn’t know the difference. I examined the object.

“A diaphragm. Well used, if you know what I mean.” I winked at her. She didn’t get it.

Just then Cookie lumbered in from the kitchen, pulling behind her the tablecloth she’d been using to wipe her nose.

“That reminds me,” she said, looking right at me. “I’ve been meaning to dust the cobwebs off mine.”