Reflecting experiences gained while teaching in England, Italy, Korea, and Turkey, author Katherine Baccaro presents an eclectic collection of twenty-four short stories. The tales delve into one family's dysfunction, the difficulties of dating in Manhattan, and the mysteries of love.

Discombobulated explores a variety of everyday themes and pulls on human emotions. In "Borborygmus," the prim and proper thirty-seven- year-old Dermot McGreevy feels humiliated when he develops an embarrassing ailment. In "The Department of Nosology," two thirteen-year- old girls suffer the consequences after they begin cataloging the noses of the townspeople. "The Census" explores the feelings of tourists in Turkey as they learn they will be banished to their hotel room for a day while the country conducts its census.

From the comic to the sad, from real life to imagined landscapes, and from nostalgia and memories to suppositions and lies, Discombobulated offers a diverse collection of stories offering insight into the human condition.

DISCOMBOBULATED

By KATHERINE BACCARO

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2010 Katherine Baccaro
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4502-7401-2

Chapter One

BORBORYGMUS

At the far end of the bar at Foleys a clique of young men was competing for the burp championship of the night. Dermot's lip curled in disgust. He was a young man himself, but he could not remember ever having been that young or so lacking in proper deportment. Youth was no excuse. He considered such demonstrations to be a public affront. Yet the young men continued with their boorish contest. They had the nerve to gaze about contentedly at the other occupants of the bar, as if hoping for applause or audience participation.

Dermot himself was so averse to the kind of vulgarity and gutter language that prevailed in his daily environment that he had mounted in his office a campaign to ban the use of obscene words and indelicate expressions, and Dermot McGreevy carried some weight in the work place, too. He was the youngest executive trainee in the history of the company. With good cause his immediate boss called him Brain Boy. Everyone expected that he would soon ascend to the highest executive position. His opinion was respected. People were actually avoiding the use of four letter words now. He hadn't heard one in quite a long time.

At thirty-seven Dermot had reason to be pleased with himself and with the life choices he'd made. Polite and proper, he was a respectable member of society, the joy of his old mother's heart. His salary was adequate and likely to increase. He derived extra satisfaction from his after-hours hobby of taxidermy. This avocation also provided him with a nice little side income. He was the only taxidermist in town. Though not as beautiful as a movie star he was handsome enough to attract women and virile enough to please them. There was quite a large steno pool at his office. Dermot noticed that a satisfying stir, a kind of fluttering surrounded him whenever he passed the girls.

But no one at Foley's knew this.

Except Agnes Pflieger who was sitting next to Dermot at the end of the bar. Agnes was one of the stenographers at Dermot's office. Dermot had invited her for a drink mostly because she was one of the last girls. He had dated almost everyone else. Agnes was not a particularly pretty girl. Dermot had already used up all the prettier ones. She had a big nose and a slight turn to her left eye but he thought he'd give her a try. She had a certain something that might prove interesting. They had been having a quiet conversation before the boys began with their contest.

"Agnes, do you have a middle name?" Dermot asked her. He totally hated the name Agnes and was searching for some more palatable tag to call her by.

"Yes, I do," she replied. "It's Mabel."

This did not please Dermot. If there was a female name he hated more than Agnes it was Mabel. He would simply have to dream up an elegant nickname for her.

"My friends call me Aggie," she added.

Worse and worse, he thought.

It was at this point in the conversation that the serious belching began. Dermot could barely speak, drowned out by the ugly vibrations filling the air. Apparently the champion was not to appear this evening. They continued with some mediocre burps for some time and then they were silent, undoubtedly storing up gas for the next round. Then the silence was shattered by a bombastic interruption.

BANG! BRRRACK! BURRRACK! BANGKKGK! BRRACK!

Unexpectedly this fusillade, a positive salvo of what almost seemed like gunshot, rent the air.

Everyone looked at Dermot. He was standing by the bar. He was caught there with a horrified expression on a face that was rapidly turning bright red. There was no doubt where the noise had originated. It came from Dermot McGreevy! To make matters worse the boys at the other end of the bar, obviously misinterpreting the sound as another of their favorite bodily noises, applauded.

It was terrible. Dermot was turning redder than a radish. He thought he might faint. He glanced at Agnes Pflieger. She was doubled up, hitched over with obscene laughter. Dermot thought he might die. Feeling around for excuses, he managed to terminate the date. Under the circumstances it was easy enough to claim an illness was beginning deep inside him. He put Agnes in a taxi, simply telling her he did not feel well. She gave him a quizzical look.

But, except for embarrassment, he did feel well. Well enough. He could think of no physical reason for the eruption. As he drove home he pondered the horror of the thing. More and more he had lately become aware of the exaggerated rumblings in his gut. Tonight sound had come out loud as a pistol shot. He was ashamed and distressed by the incident. And that was not to be the end of his suffering.

The very next day in the office a meeting had been called to discuss payroll changes for the company, a very serious matter. Jules Taggert, the leader of Dermot's section, had prepared a preliminary plan that he had earlier distributed to the young executives. "What do you think of my notes, guys?" he said. "Brain Boy, I'd especially like your opinion." And just at that moment Dermot's inconstant stomach let loose a loud and flushing sound. It declaimed, "SSSCHT! SSCHSITT! SHHHCHITT!"

Mr. Taggert's face darkened. "Well, I certainly appreciate your frank and forthright opinion," the boss said insincerely, "but I must say I am rather surprised at your language." The sarcastic note was audible.

There was a long pause. Dermot grew dizzy. He felt the world whirling around his head. He looked sidewise.

Sitting in the stenographer's place was Agnes Pflieger. She was wearing an insolent smile. Dermot felt damned by it.

"Especially," Mr. Taggert continued, "since you have been the arbiter of clean language in the office for the past few months. I, personally, am relieved that all those limits are off. Now we can all talk any fucking way we feel like talking." Everyone was laughing now. Especially Agnes Pflieger.

Dermot walked out chastened and humiliated. He was uncomfortable. He began to wonder if his clothes fit right. His jacket seemed a bit large. Was it baggy? He had put on a bright red tie in the morning. Perhaps that was a mistake. Everything felt wrong. Maybe his shirt was coming out of his pants. That red tie probably just looked silly now. The memory of that audacious girl laughing at him especially riled him.

It was Friday. That night he chose to stay home pondering his problem. What could be causing this repeated embarrassment? He had not eaten anything untoward. His health was optimum. Now he listened hard. His stomach was quiet. Of course it was – no one was around to hear it.

Dermot began to feel somewhat encouraged. Perhaps the siege was over. He decided to call his mother. The world might laugh at him but she would understand. She would understand how miserable he was feeling. Perhaps she could suggest a remedy, but she was not at home. He left a greeting. He did not know what kind of explanatory words could express his actual dilemma.

Saturday morning Dermot had an appointment. Celia Cavendish was coming over. He had a pretty good idea of what the visit was about. Celia had an ancient and incredibly ugly little dog, Robespierre. Its breed was unknown. It bit. As far as Wilmot was concerned she should have named him Rasputin. He didn't like the little beast. Of late it had been sick. Dermot was sure the appointment had something to do with the animal.

Sure...