Fun Reads by Rich Schram

You need only browse Lowes’ or Home Depot’s paint samples to confirm gray is a poetic color: autumn fog, twilight mauve, hazy stratus, mountain smoke. Each outlet lists about 200 variations of gray. Yet, gray is despised. Ask a random group of acquaintances to associate the gray with the five senses, and they’ll offer acerbic, pain-filled responses: “Dismal dark day,” “Groan,” “Smells like dead mice,” “Tastes like stale oatmeal,” “Feels like somebody’s grave.” Some unfortunates claim the grayness of dreary winter days causes seasonal affective disorder and indebtedness. Easy enough to prove: do an internet search on SAD images . You’ll immediately hunger for sunshine and mental-health trips to Fiji, Aruba, and Curacao. Hope you have deep pockets. Yet, for all its drab monotony, gray has other powers. Peer into impenetrable fog. Don’t you begin to imagine camouflaged soldiers lying in wait a hundred feet distant, their only concern being whether their exhalations betray their pre...

Peeking at her between the rows of hardbound books, Warren Hennessey can’t take his eyes off the girl. He doesn’t worry. He has a reason to be there: reshelving returns, the part-time gig that pays his tuition. He randomly replaces a book where he stands. It will never be found again, lost between two faded volumes that haven’t seen natural light since their pages were saplings. He can’t help himself. Looking at her is like gazing at the sun during an eclipse, risky but irresistible. Might she spot him ogling her—she exudes sensual attractiveness —while reeks of spectacled nerdiness? What excuse should he give if she notices him drooling among the tomes? “The books I need are always checked out.” Or, “Sorry for the noise. Just shelving books.” He might as well say, “Ignore me; I’m no one.” He flushes at the prospect of being discovered, exposed—his eyes leering, his lips slobbering. What if she has cool-chick vision that scans for dufusses? She’d say, “He’s the one, Officer. ...

           Although we Schrams are pallid-skinned subterraneans and seldom emerge from our garden level retreat—OK, it’s a basement office with a big window overlooking a bird feeder—we respond to our subdivision’s monthly TGIF announcements like small-brained animals answering an inbred urge: “TGIF Friday, bring an hor- d’œuvre sufficient for six.” We’re shallow. We don’t attend these gatherings social reasons; we show up because we’re sweetivores driven by gustatory lust. We feign just enough neighborliness to avoid expulsion and shunning. Yes, there we are, the ones saying, “Hi, good to see you,” with one eye reading nametags while the other eye scans the desserts. Shuffling closer to each month’s pinnacle of confectionery nirvana, we ask, “How are you?” “Dodge the flu this year?” “How was your vacation?” Using the skill of clandestine operatives, we surveil the options while monitoring body language and positional tactics. Only ruthless cunning will ...