Work In Progress.

The hitter watched from the parking lot as the man he would kill entered his house. He usually came back from work around 7:30 and seemed to go to sleep around 11, was divorced, lived alone, drove a Taurus, and worked as a suit somewhere. His occupation didn’t matter so much as long as he wasn’t a cop, someone who carried a gun most of the time. This guy wasn’t. The hitter started up the engine and drove back to his motel on the other side of town, where he would kill a few hours before coming back to what would be the scene of the crime. “Motel 8” was a cheap, anonymous place off of the highway.  He wasn’t expected to explain his stay in Tannis, Illinois to the front desk here, and if he had, that would have been suspicious.  He got out of his car and saw the maid pulling her cart out of his room. He had forgotten to hang his “do not disturb” sign up.  It didn’t matter- he wasn’t stupid enough to leave anything interesting in his room. This wasn't his first go round. “Hi darling!” he said, smiling at the maid. She was a Spanish lady Mexican- or Puerto Rican orsomething. Not a bad looking woman.  “Oh  hi,” she said, “I brought you some new towels and cleaned up your cigarettes. I hope dazz okay.”

“Appreciate it,” he said. He did too. On the job, he acted sincerely where he could. He wasn’t a shark until it was time to feed his kids. Once inside his room, he looked at the mirror. He was heavyset, but not so fat people turned away or kids pointed at him. He had a full head of black hair, but not long hair. As far as he could tell the only noticeable features were his eyes. They didn’t have bags under them, but somehow they always looked tired.  He wore jeans and a Dallas Mavericks sweatshirt, although he’d never been to Dallas and could care less about basketball.  Misdirection should someone ever describe him to any cops.

Work always made him pensive.He knew he could pull it off, and he wasn’t breaking into cold sweats, but  he was capable of getting worked up about things if he let his imagination wander about what might go wrong. Television. History Channel. Jesus. It was some documentary  on a gangsters.  The “Iceman,” a famous hit-man, was being interviewed, describing how he had  become “damn near a gourmet cook, just so I could serve targets poisoned food.” The narrator described  “Iceman’s” ascendancy in the criminal underworld, noting that at the same time he was well known for reading hoity toity books and buying expensive tickets to the opera. Iceman bragged, clearly relishing the attention  “ I was probably the only guy in Jackson that got in fistfights because he turned up his Pavarotti  too loud.”  The hitter groaned a little bit and felt contempt at the better known killer's conspicuousness.  Because in our line of work, you really want a public trademark or something to be known for. “Idiot” he said out loud, leaning over to his mini fridge to grab a beer. He imagined civilians at home, watching “Leon The Professional” or James Bond and thinking that most hitters were geniuses,  killing for honor, muscle bound , looking good, and lovers of the arts. Pure horse shit. 

He had grown up around gangsters. He wasn’t part of the family, but he knew the life. They knew him. Knew he wasn’t very glib. Knew he had been married, but preferred escorts now. Knew he occasionally bought tickets up in the cheap seats and went to ballgames with his son. Probably knew that most of the time he ate microwave dinners and watched  about 4 hours of television a night. His only luxuries were  his own house, a constant supply of bourbon, and  most weekends off. His “job” was  driving a truck for a meat packing firm 3 or 4 days a week as needed.  He earned money fixing more serious problems. He wasn’t mean. He was a business man. If he didn’t “remove pests” someone else would. You hunt or get hunted. 

He finished another Budweiser and slipped off into a light sleep. Oddly enough though, the only time his eyes didn’t look tired were when he thought about the details of his target's lives, which he had to remind himself was unprofessional and a bad habit.

He awoke around 9:45. He never slept longer than he should when  hunting. He showered, dressed, did 50 push-ups, grabbed a winter hat, a very small flash light, keys, and a pair of sunglasses just in case and casually stepped out of his room and got in his car. He drove to a supermarket within walking distance from his target’s house and parked his car right as far away from the store itself as he could get. Not too close to any cameras, hopefully, although no job was completely safe.  He reached under, tore open some fabric, and pulled out his gun and silencer.

Rounding the corner towards his prey, he saw neighbors on the porch. Whatever, most of the time they didn’t care what happened next door.  If they asked, he would just say he was a visiting cousin. His client, whoever she was, probably an ex-wife, had given him a key.  If the neighbors did call the police, the city was large enough that the police wouldn’t likely burn rubber responding to something that wasn’t necessarily illegal, even if suspicious. It would be over in a matter of minutes anyway. The neighbors were looking at him. He pulled out cell phone and dialed no one. “Yeah, hey, I’m here.  Yep, I’ll let myself in.” He did just that. No problems. He was inside. He walked quietly, but not that quietly up the stairs. He opened one door and saw a toilet. No joy. He opened another a door andlooked into  shotgun barrells. A nervous man in vertically lined pajamas held the weapon up to his and tried to look even keeled, but his eyebrows were twitching and his eyes were wide.  "Drop it and put your hands behind your back," the would-be victim warbled out. 
"Okay, okay," the hitter said. "I'm just pulling my gun out of my belt. The Hitter was alarmed, but not desperate. He took the gun out of his belt and simply pointed it at the chickenhawk target.
"I'll blow your fucking brains out," he yelled.
"No," the hitter said emphatically, "you won't."  He quickly kicked the victim in his wrist and watched his nervous prey drop his double barrled survival to the floor.

Two hisses of air and the target was finished.  The hitter turned on his small flash light and verified that he had eliminated the right person.  It wasn’t a pretty picture, but he had gotten his man.

 After a long day on the road, he had ordered a few pornos off of the pay per view, rubbed a few out, and decided it was time to call it a night. In his bathroom, he brushed his teeth while looking at his reflection in the mirror. His eyes were lit up. He wondered if his last target was a bastard or a saint. He wondered how he would tell his son about his line of work.

He woke the next morning, around 10 AM, to the sound of his doorbell.  He looked out of his peephole and saw those religious types that wore white shirts, black ties, Mormons. He opened the door.

“Good afternoon, sir. My name is Elder Robinson and this is Elder Guiterrez from the Church of Jesus Christ Latter Day Saints….” In the seconds it took  for the Saints to finish their spiel the hitter started thinking about the human being he'd shot a few nights ago. He felt his stomach twisting into knots and worried even though he wasn't tied to the crime. These mormons in their clean white shirts were and upbeat demeanor were jarring him. He opened his mouth to say something, but then realized his train of thought was unprofessional. His eyes narrowed.

                “Fuck off” he said, coolly shutting the door.

Anglophobia

In my day to day treachery, I take note of Youtube threads, replies to news articles, and observe social media, often noting snarky comments. Aside from the Russians, for whom hyperbole is the national pastime, I notice that the Brits are absolutely the most bitter in their comments towards Americans and American politics. I don't know if it's because of their relative facility with the English language, their insecurity at being seen as too close to America due to unpopular political decisions or what, but it's noticeable.  Yes, our food is loaded with High Fructose Corn Syrup, and we Americans are a fat people. Acknowledged. Yes, our politics have fallen behind the rest of the first-world (un PC term) in the past 40 years, mired by religious sheep and patriotic oil worshippers. And don't get me started on our tepid, housebroken media If that's too strong, I'll point out that no one Left of the Democratic party has a regular television or radio presence nation wide and that the media loves to rally around every American war, no matter how faulty its reasoning. The thing is our brothers in the United Kingdom are beset by all of these problems as well. I love it when Brits criticize Americans for being war mongers who started the Iraq War. The advantage of knowing how to read is that I happen to know that Great Britain also participated in that oil grab. They were even on our team! As for the media, well, two words: Rupert Murdoch.  What's my point? Why am I discussing political matters? Lord, I really don't know. I'm easily distracted. It's that constant sugar and High Fructose Corn Syrup in my system. ... Somehow, I meant to connect this  to the differences between British and American English. A lot of  American folks think they sound suave for substituting the word "ass" for "arse." They're not. Everyone with two brain cells to rub together by is familiar with that British noun, and it's not that interesting. Similarly, I hear a lot of Americans attempt British accents, and only a few actually manage them in a less than laughable way. American Anglophiles, don't feel bad. How many BBC actors have you seen slaughter American accents? More than a few methinks.

  I did come across a British term I wasn't familiar with though-one among many I'm sure.  As noted earlier, my treacheries keep me on the Internet at all hours, stalking and waiting to pounce on those unfortunate enough to call themselves my friends. I wait for a name to pop up on Facebook, Twitter, or any number of messengers. I message them, seeing if their loyalty has held from when last we spoke, 2 hours ago. If they reply within a reasonable amount of time, I count them among the Church of Montoya. If not, I jot their names and the time of the snub in  my Notebook of Resentments Volume II: Internet and Social Media. An old friend mine who currently resides near Manchester, England popped up on Skype. I messaged her, noting that it was dreadfully early on her side of the pond.  She told me that she would like to sleep, but the she had someone who wanted bottles and attention that time of morning. As a result, her mornings are spent watching exposes and "changing nappies." Stop right there. "Nappies." It became painfully obvious what that meant, but I realized I had never put that together until that very moment. It's probably short for napkins, and the committee and I agree that it's a much more pleasant or informal term than "diaper." I'll also point out that I know who a "slapper" is. Pimpin' ain't easy.

Spell Check Follies and Declaring My Attraction to The World

"so' sorry have to check email more off'n  i be their thank you mr montoya."   I checked my e-mail to find this and now speculation abounds. Did the person who e-mailed me this do so via text, where spacing is difficult and predictive typing hijacks good spelling? Was inebriation involved? Or, better yet, did this person decide to make a rather enjoyable commentary on what I  write about? This could be seen as a hilarious "fuck you" to myself and others in the field. We'll never know unless I pump the suspect for information, and I have to tell you, I'm pretty lazy.

 This wasn't the only spell-check folly I would experience in the last few weeks. Another young man was writing about good study habits and positive behaviors for young people to engage in. Imagine my surprise when I learned that  a quiet place, like your bedroom, can be a good place to "castrate." The kids get kinkier every year, although have to say that  I do encourage "concentration."

Last of all, I've been thinking about the word "attractive" a lot lately. Describing a person as attractive seems synonymous with saying that the person is sexually attractive or dating material.  To my way of thinking, the concepts of attractiveness and sexiness have become conflated. Senor Montoya plays on the Blue Team and, despite appreciating beauty where he sees it, does not "switch hit." Even so, it doesn't seem  weird to say that I'm attracted to the personalities of several of my male friends. Why else would I want to talk to them or hang out with them outside of work or formal activity if I didn't find them attractive? I told a woman on Skype that I  always had a  "attraction" for her the other day. By doing that, I didn't intend to formally declare my undying and passionate love for her, mariachis and all, instead I simply meant that she seemed to have an interesting story to tell. So for now on, I won't hesitate. I'll tell strangers at the bus stop that they are attractive. I'll compliment some old lady walking her golden retriever on her "attractive" dog.  When I finally have a chance to interview President Clinton, I'll be sure to let him know that I find him quite attractive. All joking aside, the words that indicate some level of physical or more primal attraction are obvious, but the best word is "hot."
         I don't want to hear your more colorful words to that effect. This is a "family" blog.

                  RRM

Lexicon of the Long Toothed.

Last week it occurred to me that very few people under the age of 60 seem to use the word "gal" seriously. I realize there are exceptions, but I couldn't keep a straight face or refrain from comment if a co-worker   or family member near my age or younger said "Okay,  I'm off to spend some time with the gals." That's an old person's word no matter who uses it. I decided to ask my Twitter followers which words they associated with old people. I meant to ask for the words they felt were preferred by older people, but in at least one case someone suggested actual words for old people like "wizened," "crone," "geriatric," or even "tenured." That's a decent list of synonyms for the aged. Someone else suggested the cliches of "elder language," words and phrases like "whippersnapper," or "kids these days."  To be sure, older generations have trashed the rising generation ever since Adam said to Cain, "You know I might have lost paradise and pissed off God, but I never committed murder. Kids these days."

  Then of course, it was pointed out to me that old folks like to use the diet sodas or light beers of the profanity world, including words like "dang it," "confound it," "blithering," "shoot," etc. In these United States, in that particular context, you could substitute Bible-thumpers or other fundamentalists  for old folks. The religious folk do not regularly deploy the f-bomb.

   So what are some other words I associate with  old folks? I remember my mother having a conversation in which some older woman described a younger lady as a "buxom gal." I've never again heard that word used to describe a woman with big tits. When my mother used to read Little House on the Prarie books to me, she once explained that the word "beau" meant boyfriend. Thereafter, I'd only encountered the word "beau" in bad romantic fiction (which I don't read a lot of) and when my grandmother referred to one of her "beaus."
It's obsessions like these that keep me from the more worthwhile things in life.

                   with a grain of salt,
                         Ray Ray Montoya.

Homo Confusion

It's a boring Saturday afternoon. The weather is non-descript and dreary. I sorely crave the caffeine I deny myself in liquid form. But for you, I battle through the haze and fog on my endless quest to illuminate your dim minds, and in so doing, share the light. Who am I kidding? I feel flat, but I do have a few observations I wanted to share.

I was teaching students how to distinguish between some easily confused homonyms like "affect" and "effect", "accept" and "except, and other separate words with similar sounds. I stumbled across  a few homonyms that I  needed to clarify in my own mind before I taught them. This could be embarrassing, but I don't claim expertise in anything. My blind spots are everywhere. Sometimes basic words elude me and my memory of fractions and long division is sketchy. Back on task: the first confusion "Ensure" vs. "Insure." I do not write about the meal in a can for old people, rather "ensure" means to guarantee a certain outcome, to make sure that something will happen. Of course, I knew this, but I wonder how many times when I used that word "ensure" that I thought I was using the word "insure" which has to do with the payments you make to protect yourself against against financial ruin as a result of car accidents, acts of God, clogged arteries, or robot apocalypse.

 I'm not sure I ever made a conscious distinction between. "Altogether" and " all together" either. "Altogether" means whole or complete, as in "I'm not sure she's altogether sane." "All together" refers to a group coming together. Imagine some nervous looking man taking a picture of your 7/8th grade  baseball team, taking way more pictures than anyone wants to stand around for, all for the perfect photograph that no one present cares about. He yells, for the 6th time, "all together now and smile!"

A Very Brief, very Frank Interview: Multiple Personalities and Word Use

 Just Call Me Frank  she says, and I do. I used the pronoun "she," but I could have just as appropriately used the pronoun "they." Frank is one woman's body, but many distinct personalities, ranging from a 6 year old girl to that of a 32 year old woman (which is Frankie's biological age). Frank or "Frankie" is all over the Internet, but this website is an adequate point of departure :http://justcallmefrank.net/  Although Frank has been diagnosed with multiple personality disorder and uses the blog to channel negative energy and note life events that might otherwise be lost amidst  personality switches, the blog is not just a "mental illness blog" in that it isn't limited to Frank chronicling the difficulties of living with multiple personalities; the journal covers sex, food, art, politics, life in general just as many other blogs do-albeit typically in a much more interesting way. I like Frankie quite a bit and could probably ask questions of her/them? (I give up knowing which is the politest form of address)all day, but most of my questions are word related and won't render an overall portrait of  the interviewee. For that, I suggest you check out Frank's own writing, which is both fascinating and poignant.


RRM: As one body with multiple personalities, if you'll allow that description, you use the pronoun we where many of us would use the pronoun "I." I have a habit of mirroringthe conversational or writing styles of people I interact withI almost slipped into referring to myself as "we."
Does that happen a lot?I mean do people refer to themselves as "we" when talking to you?

Frankie: Not always, inside the head there's more I and Me, especially when it comes to wants, needs, and individual thoughts. we do use I and we in conversation, depending on how many are "hanging about" in our head, or are inclusive, or in agreement, with what is being said.

RRM:
Do you find that the different personalities have different word choiceor different vocabularies?

Frankie:definitely. James (Frankies' boyfriend)notices those kinds of things, probably because he lives with us and wants to be able to decipher who he's having a conversation with (who "executive" is)

RRM:
could you provide an example or is that too close

and personal? Is there a word that comes up more often than not

depending on who's 'behind the wheel'?

Frankie:
Joy likes to use the phrase "you don't know" sort of snotty-like and mouthy.

one uses the phrase "why for" instead of 'how come', or 'why'

James says we have varying accents. Very slight. but he picks up on them.
also, some of us simply sound way different...apparently. while we know in our head what we each sound like we try to control it when it comes put of our mouth with people who don't know us. our last job we didn't always control it, sometimes we'd get odd looks from one of our coworkers.around people we trust we are more relaxed about trying to control it.

RRM:
In a lot of cultures, names have meanings beyond

just their sonic qualities. Do the names Frank and Joy have any significance

that you're aware of?

Frankie: not that we're aware of, though Joy didn't have a name for a long time and it ended up being a play on words because she tends to be so mouthy and sarcastic she's a "joy" (that's sarcastic, obviously)

RRM: ......and Frank is usually just that, although the FB account is known as Frank Subtle Ly.

Do all of you enjoy writing?

Frankie: not really, except as far as it helps us feel better. Some love the research involved in big pieces, Sam only likes it as far as releasing his thoughts, Ivy likes poetry writing...we could go on, but, meh...

Okay, I appreciate your time. A last question: What do you think

of that blogger, Ray Ray Montoya, the one who you beat in Scrabble all the time? Is his vocabulary poor or do y'all comprise an Oxford dictionary between the lot of you?

Frankie: we think he needs to play more Scrabble :-)

A Fresh New Ishue

   Recently I was ordered by the powers that be to write a blog on the way people add the suffix like appendage known as "ish" to the end of words. 
   My first mental image is of a teenage girl with lots of insecurity about herself, trying to hedge her bets when it comes to self-description "Whatever, I'm smart-ish." Maybe later, she puts on some tube top, pulls her hair back, and affirms to herself in the mirror that she looks "hottish." But I'm being unfair. I hear this suffix of hesitation everywhere. The church I went to for awhile, before I could no longer stand it, was advertised as starting at "7ish."  A girlfriend relates her boyfriend's penis as "biggish." People who are few minutes late are "lateish" or "latish," which sounds like some Jewish prayer or pastry. In fact, I think this is a Millennial or Generation Y tic along with describing things as "uber" or the verb "chillaxin."

  I know that you know me as the cranky, octogenarian shut-in with a habit of shooting his pellet gun at unknown moving objects, and it seems like I would hate it when people add "ish" to the end of words, but I don't. It's an effective way of modifying words, and it's a few less syllables than "semi" or "relatively" or "moderately."

  I guess it can be used to propel stupidity. If a long limbed 6 foot 6 amazon walks into a nightclub, sits down and crosses her legs a la Sharon Stone it would be ridiculous to hear some 19 year old say, "she looks tallish." Then again, it might be ridiculous for a 19 year old to be in a nightclub, unless he has bad i.d. or lives outside of the United States as a few teenagers are known to do.