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f044_0 | f044 | 0 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "Perfidia",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07Perfidia/0.html"
} | "That's Glenn Miller," my father said. "But it can't be."
He had the back of the hospital bed cranked upright, the lower lid of his left eye creeping up in a warning signal I'd learned to recognize as a child. My older sister Ann had settled deep in the recliner, and she glared at me too, blaming me for winding him up. The jam box sat on the rolling tray table and my father was working the remote as he talked, backing up my newly burned CD and letting it spin forward to play a few seconds of low fidelity trombone solo.
"You know the tune, of course," he said.
"'King Porter Stomp.'" Those childhood years of listening to him play Glenn Miller on the console phonograph were finally paying off.
"He muffed the notes the same way on the Victor version."
"So why can't it be Miller?" I asked.
"He wouldn't have played with a rabble like that." The backup musicians teetered on the edge of chaos, playing with an abandon somewhere between Dixieland and bebop. "They sound drunk."
My father had a major emotional investment in Miller. He and my mother had danced to the Miller band at Glen Island Casino on Long Island Sound in the summer of 1942, when they were both sixteen. That signature sound of clarinet and four saxes was forever tied up for him with first love and the early, idealistic months of the war.
But there was a better reason why it couldn't have been Miller playing that solo. If the date on the original recording was correct, he was supposed to have died three days earlier.
The date was in India ink on a piece of surgical tape, stuck to the top of a spool of recording wire. The handwritten numerals had the hooks and day-first order of Europe: 18/12/44. I'd won it on eBay the week before as part of a lot that included a wire recorder and a stack of 78s by French pop stars like Charles Trenent and Edith Piaf. | Who had a major emotional investment in Miller? | Character_identity | [
"The narrator",
"Ann",
"The father.",
"not enough information"
] | 2 |
f044_1 | f044 | 1 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "Perfidia",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07Perfidia/0.html"
} | "That's Glenn Miller," my father said. "But it can't be."
He had the back of the hospital bed cranked upright, the lower lid of his left eye creeping up in a warning signal I'd learned to recognize as a child. My older sister Ann had settled deep in the recliner, and she glared at me too, blaming me for winding him up. The jam box sat on the rolling tray table and my father was working the remote as he talked, backing up my newly burned CD and letting it spin forward to play a few seconds of low fidelity trombone solo.
"You know the tune, of course," he said.
"'King Porter Stomp.'" Those childhood years of listening to him play Glenn Miller on the console phonograph were finally paying off.
"He muffed the notes the same way on the Victor version."
"So why can't it be Miller?" I asked.
"He wouldn't have played with a rabble like that." The backup musicians teetered on the edge of chaos, playing with an abandon somewhere between Dixieland and bebop. "They sound drunk."
My father had a major emotional investment in Miller. He and my mother had danced to the Miller band at Glen Island Casino on Long Island Sound in the summer of 1942, when they were both sixteen. That signature sound of clarinet and four saxes was forever tied up for him with first love and the early, idealistic months of the war.
But there was a better reason why it couldn't have been Miller playing that solo. If the date on the original recording was correct, he was supposed to have died three days earlier.
The date was in India ink on a piece of surgical tape, stuck to the top of a spool of recording wire. The handwritten numerals had the hooks and day-first order of Europe: 18/12/44. I'd won it on eBay the week before as part of a lot that included a wire recorder and a stack of 78s by French pop stars like Charles Trenent and Edith Piaf. | Why did my father think it was not Glenn Miller playing on the CD? | Causality | [
"My father insisted Miller woudn't of played with a rabble like that.",
"Because if the date of the original recording was correct, Miller would've died three days earlier.",
"not enough information",
"It was the Victor version."
] | 1 |
f044_2 | f044 | 2 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "Perfidia",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07Perfidia/0.html"
} | "That's Glenn Miller," my father said. "But it can't be."
He had the back of the hospital bed cranked upright, the lower lid of his left eye creeping up in a warning signal I'd learned to recognize as a child. My older sister Ann had settled deep in the recliner, and she glared at me too, blaming me for winding him up. The jam box sat on the rolling tray table and my father was working the remote as he talked, backing up my newly burned CD and letting it spin forward to play a few seconds of low fidelity trombone solo.
"You know the tune, of course," he said.
"'King Porter Stomp.'" Those childhood years of listening to him play Glenn Miller on the console phonograph were finally paying off.
"He muffed the notes the same way on the Victor version."
"So why can't it be Miller?" I asked.
"He wouldn't have played with a rabble like that." The backup musicians teetered on the edge of chaos, playing with an abandon somewhere between Dixieland and bebop. "They sound drunk."
My father had a major emotional investment in Miller. He and my mother had danced to the Miller band at Glen Island Casino on Long Island Sound in the summer of 1942, when they were both sixteen. That signature sound of clarinet and four saxes was forever tied up for him with first love and the early, idealistic months of the war.
But there was a better reason why it couldn't have been Miller playing that solo. If the date on the original recording was correct, he was supposed to have died three days earlier.
The date was in India ink on a piece of surgical tape, stuck to the top of a spool of recording wire. The handwritten numerals had the hooks and day-first order of Europe: 18/12/44. I'd won it on eBay the week before as part of a lot that included a wire recorder and a stack of 78s by French pop stars like Charles Trenent and Edith Piaf. | When did the narrator bring the record to his father? | Temporal_order | [
"not enough information",
"After dancing with his mother",
"After winning eBay auction",
"After going to Glen Island Casino"
] | 2 |
f044_3 | f044 | 3 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "Perfidia",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07Perfidia/0.html"
} | "That's Glenn Miller," my father said. "But it can't be."
He had the back of the hospital bed cranked upright, the lower lid of his left eye creeping up in a warning signal I'd learned to recognize as a child. My older sister Ann had settled deep in the recliner, and she glared at me too, blaming me for winding him up. The jam box sat on the rolling tray table and my father was working the remote as he talked, backing up my newly burned CD and letting it spin forward to play a few seconds of low fidelity trombone solo.
"You know the tune, of course," he said.
"'King Porter Stomp.'" Those childhood years of listening to him play Glenn Miller on the console phonograph were finally paying off.
"He muffed the notes the same way on the Victor version."
"So why can't it be Miller?" I asked.
"He wouldn't have played with a rabble like that." The backup musicians teetered on the edge of chaos, playing with an abandon somewhere between Dixieland and bebop. "They sound drunk."
My father had a major emotional investment in Miller. He and my mother had danced to the Miller band at Glen Island Casino on Long Island Sound in the summer of 1942, when they were both sixteen. That signature sound of clarinet and four saxes was forever tied up for him with first love and the early, idealistic months of the war.
But there was a better reason why it couldn't have been Miller playing that solo. If the date on the original recording was correct, he was supposed to have died three days earlier.
The date was in India ink on a piece of surgical tape, stuck to the top of a spool of recording wire. The handwritten numerals had the hooks and day-first order of Europe: 18/12/44. I'd won it on eBay the week before as part of a lot that included a wire recorder and a stack of 78s by French pop stars like Charles Trenent and Edith Piaf. | What is the most likely duration of the old song? | Event_duration | [
"Just a few seconds",
"not enough information",
"about 15 minutes",
"under 5 minutes"
] | 3 |
f044_4 | f044 | 4 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "Perfidia",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07Perfidia/0.html"
} | "That's Glenn Miller," my father said. "But it can't be."
He had the back of the hospital bed cranked upright, the lower lid of his left eye creeping up in a warning signal I'd learned to recognize as a child. My older sister Ann had settled deep in the recliner, and she glared at me too, blaming me for winding him up. The jam box sat on the rolling tray table and my father was working the remote as he talked, backing up my newly burned CD and letting it spin forward to play a few seconds of low fidelity trombone solo.
"You know the tune, of course," he said.
"'King Porter Stomp.'" Those childhood years of listening to him play Glenn Miller on the console phonograph were finally paying off.
"He muffed the notes the same way on the Victor version."
"So why can't it be Miller?" I asked.
"He wouldn't have played with a rabble like that." The backup musicians teetered on the edge of chaos, playing with an abandon somewhere between Dixieland and bebop. "They sound drunk."
My father had a major emotional investment in Miller. He and my mother had danced to the Miller band at Glen Island Casino on Long Island Sound in the summer of 1942, when they were both sixteen. That signature sound of clarinet and four saxes was forever tied up for him with first love and the early, idealistic months of the war.
But there was a better reason why it couldn't have been Miller playing that solo. If the date on the original recording was correct, he was supposed to have died three days earlier.
The date was in India ink on a piece of surgical tape, stuck to the top of a spool of recording wire. The handwritten numerals had the hooks and day-first order of Europe: 18/12/44. I'd won it on eBay the week before as part of a lot that included a wire recorder and a stack of 78s by French pop stars like Charles Trenent and Edith Piaf. | When did Glenn Miller die? | Temporal_order | [
"before the father heard him live",
"before bepop became fashionable",
"not enough information",
"before this recording was made"
] | 3 |
f044_5 | f044 | 5 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "Perfidia",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07Perfidia/0.html"
} | "That's Glenn Miller," my father said. "But it can't be."
He had the back of the hospital bed cranked upright, the lower lid of his left eye creeping up in a warning signal I'd learned to recognize as a child. My older sister Ann had settled deep in the recliner, and she glared at me too, blaming me for winding him up. The jam box sat on the rolling tray table and my father was working the remote as he talked, backing up my newly burned CD and letting it spin forward to play a few seconds of low fidelity trombone solo.
"You know the tune, of course," he said.
"'King Porter Stomp.'" Those childhood years of listening to him play Glenn Miller on the console phonograph were finally paying off.
"He muffed the notes the same way on the Victor version."
"So why can't it be Miller?" I asked.
"He wouldn't have played with a rabble like that." The backup musicians teetered on the edge of chaos, playing with an abandon somewhere between Dixieland and bebop. "They sound drunk."
My father had a major emotional investment in Miller. He and my mother had danced to the Miller band at Glen Island Casino on Long Island Sound in the summer of 1942, when they were both sixteen. That signature sound of clarinet and four saxes was forever tied up for him with first love and the early, idealistic months of the war.
But there was a better reason why it couldn't have been Miller playing that solo. If the date on the original recording was correct, he was supposed to have died three days earlier.
The date was in India ink on a piece of surgical tape, stuck to the top of a spool of recording wire. The handwritten numerals had the hooks and day-first order of Europe: 18/12/44. I'd won it on eBay the week before as part of a lot that included a wire recorder and a stack of 78s by French pop stars like Charles Trenent and Edith Piaf. | What does Ann probably think? | Belief_states | [
"That her brother needs to learn to play a clarinet.",
"not enough information",
"That her brother should not get the father excited.",
"That her brother needs to stop buying things off eBay."
] | 2 |
f044_6 | f044 | 6 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "Perfidia",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07Perfidia/0.html"
} | "That's Glenn Miller," my father said. "But it can't be."
He had the back of the hospital bed cranked upright, the lower lid of his left eye creeping up in a warning signal I'd learned to recognize as a child. My older sister Ann had settled deep in the recliner, and she glared at me too, blaming me for winding him up. The jam box sat on the rolling tray table and my father was working the remote as he talked, backing up my newly burned CD and letting it spin forward to play a few seconds of low fidelity trombone solo.
"You know the tune, of course," he said.
"'King Porter Stomp.'" Those childhood years of listening to him play Glenn Miller on the console phonograph were finally paying off.
"He muffed the notes the same way on the Victor version."
"So why can't it be Miller?" I asked.
"He wouldn't have played with a rabble like that." The backup musicians teetered on the edge of chaos, playing with an abandon somewhere between Dixieland and bebop. "They sound drunk."
My father had a major emotional investment in Miller. He and my mother had danced to the Miller band at Glen Island Casino on Long Island Sound in the summer of 1942, when they were both sixteen. That signature sound of clarinet and four saxes was forever tied up for him with first love and the early, idealistic months of the war.
But there was a better reason why it couldn't have been Miller playing that solo. If the date on the original recording was correct, he was supposed to have died three days earlier.
The date was in India ink on a piece of surgical tape, stuck to the top of a spool of recording wire. The handwritten numerals had the hooks and day-first order of Europe: 18/12/44. I'd won it on eBay the week before as part of a lot that included a wire recorder and a stack of 78s by French pop stars like Charles Trenent and Edith Piaf. | What state is the narrator in after this conversation? | Subsequent_state | [
"not enough information",
"Puzzled",
"Blaming the father for his emotional investment",
"Hungry"
] | 1 |
f044_7 | f044 | 7 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "Perfidia",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07Perfidia/0.html"
} | "That's Glenn Miller," my father said. "But it can't be."
He had the back of the hospital bed cranked upright, the lower lid of his left eye creeping up in a warning signal I'd learned to recognize as a child. My older sister Ann had settled deep in the recliner, and she glared at me too, blaming me for winding him up. The jam box sat on the rolling tray table and my father was working the remote as he talked, backing up my newly burned CD and letting it spin forward to play a few seconds of low fidelity trombone solo.
"You know the tune, of course," he said.
"'King Porter Stomp.'" Those childhood years of listening to him play Glenn Miller on the console phonograph were finally paying off.
"He muffed the notes the same way on the Victor version."
"So why can't it be Miller?" I asked.
"He wouldn't have played with a rabble like that." The backup musicians teetered on the edge of chaos, playing with an abandon somewhere between Dixieland and bebop. "They sound drunk."
My father had a major emotional investment in Miller. He and my mother had danced to the Miller band at Glen Island Casino on Long Island Sound in the summer of 1942, when they were both sixteen. That signature sound of clarinet and four saxes was forever tied up for him with first love and the early, idealistic months of the war.
But there was a better reason why it couldn't have been Miller playing that solo. If the date on the original recording was correct, he was supposed to have died three days earlier.
The date was in India ink on a piece of surgical tape, stuck to the top of a spool of recording wire. The handwritten numerals had the hooks and day-first order of Europe: 18/12/44. I'd won it on eBay the week before as part of a lot that included a wire recorder and a stack of 78s by French pop stars like Charles Trenent and Edith Piaf. | Who is played the trombone if Miller did not? | Unanswerable | [
"Someone from India",
"Another band member",
"A drunk, bebop musician.",
"not enough information"
] | 3 |
f044_8 | f044 | 8 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "Perfidia",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07Perfidia/0.html"
} | "That's Glenn Miller," my father said. "But it can't be."
He had the back of the hospital bed cranked upright, the lower lid of his left eye creeping up in a warning signal I'd learned to recognize as a child. My older sister Ann had settled deep in the recliner, and she glared at me too, blaming me for winding him up. The jam box sat on the rolling tray table and my father was working the remote as he talked, backing up my newly burned CD and letting it spin forward to play a few seconds of low fidelity trombone solo.
"You know the tune, of course," he said.
"'King Porter Stomp.'" Those childhood years of listening to him play Glenn Miller on the console phonograph were finally paying off.
"He muffed the notes the same way on the Victor version."
"So why can't it be Miller?" I asked.
"He wouldn't have played with a rabble like that." The backup musicians teetered on the edge of chaos, playing with an abandon somewhere between Dixieland and bebop. "They sound drunk."
My father had a major emotional investment in Miller. He and my mother had danced to the Miller band at Glen Island Casino on Long Island Sound in the summer of 1942, when they were both sixteen. That signature sound of clarinet and four saxes was forever tied up for him with first love and the early, idealistic months of the war.
But there was a better reason why it couldn't have been Miller playing that solo. If the date on the original recording was correct, he was supposed to have died three days earlier.
The date was in India ink on a piece of surgical tape, stuck to the top of a spool of recording wire. The handwritten numerals had the hooks and day-first order of Europe: 18/12/44. I'd won it on eBay the week before as part of a lot that included a wire recorder and a stack of 78s by French pop stars like Charles Trenent and Edith Piaf. | What did the son buy off Ebay? | Factual | [
"a clarinet",
"Old records",
"surgical tape",
"not enough information"
] | 1 |
f044_9 | f044 | 9 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "Perfidia",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07Perfidia/0.html"
} | "That's Glenn Miller," my father said. "But it can't be."
He had the back of the hospital bed cranked upright, the lower lid of his left eye creeping up in a warning signal I'd learned to recognize as a child. My older sister Ann had settled deep in the recliner, and she glared at me too, blaming me for winding him up. The jam box sat on the rolling tray table and my father was working the remote as he talked, backing up my newly burned CD and letting it spin forward to play a few seconds of low fidelity trombone solo.
"You know the tune, of course," he said.
"'King Porter Stomp.'" Those childhood years of listening to him play Glenn Miller on the console phonograph were finally paying off.
"He muffed the notes the same way on the Victor version."
"So why can't it be Miller?" I asked.
"He wouldn't have played with a rabble like that." The backup musicians teetered on the edge of chaos, playing with an abandon somewhere between Dixieland and bebop. "They sound drunk."
My father had a major emotional investment in Miller. He and my mother had danced to the Miller band at Glen Island Casino on Long Island Sound in the summer of 1942, when they were both sixteen. That signature sound of clarinet and four saxes was forever tied up for him with first love and the early, idealistic months of the war.
But there was a better reason why it couldn't have been Miller playing that solo. If the date on the original recording was correct, he was supposed to have died three days earlier.
The date was in India ink on a piece of surgical tape, stuck to the top of a spool of recording wire. The handwritten numerals had the hooks and day-first order of Europe: 18/12/44. I'd won it on eBay the week before as part of a lot that included a wire recorder and a stack of 78s by French pop stars like Charles Trenent and Edith Piaf. | What was Ann doing that made me know she was irritated with me? | Factual | [
"not enough information",
"She scoffed in my direction",
"She was cozy in the recliner chair",
"She sat down to hear my new burned CD."
] | 1 |
f044_10 | f044 | 10 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "Perfidia",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07Perfidia/0.html"
} | "That's Glenn Miller," my father said. "But it can't be."
He had the back of the hospital bed cranked upright, the lower lid of his left eye creeping up in a warning signal I'd learned to recognize as a child. My older sister Ann had settled deep in the recliner, and she glared at me too, blaming me for winding him up. The jam box sat on the rolling tray table and my father was working the remote as he talked, backing up my newly burned CD and letting it spin forward to play a few seconds of low fidelity trombone solo.
"You know the tune, of course," he said.
"'King Porter Stomp.'" Those childhood years of listening to him play Glenn Miller on the console phonograph were finally paying off.
"He muffed the notes the same way on the Victor version."
"So why can't it be Miller?" I asked.
"He wouldn't have played with a rabble like that." The backup musicians teetered on the edge of chaos, playing with an abandon somewhere between Dixieland and bebop. "They sound drunk."
My father had a major emotional investment in Miller. He and my mother had danced to the Miller band at Glen Island Casino on Long Island Sound in the summer of 1942, when they were both sixteen. That signature sound of clarinet and four saxes was forever tied up for him with first love and the early, idealistic months of the war.
But there was a better reason why it couldn't have been Miller playing that solo. If the date on the original recording was correct, he was supposed to have died three days earlier.
The date was in India ink on a piece of surgical tape, stuck to the top of a spool of recording wire. The handwritten numerals had the hooks and day-first order of Europe: 18/12/44. I'd won it on eBay the week before as part of a lot that included a wire recorder and a stack of 78s by French pop stars like Charles Trenent and Edith Piaf. | How did the father know Glenn Miller did not do the solo on that old classic? | Factual | [
"The father listened to Glenn Miller a lot.",
"not enough information",
"The father and mother danced to Glenn Miller before.",
"The father knew when the song was recorded."
] | 0 |
f044_11 | f044 | 11 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "Perfidia",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07Perfidia/0.html"
} | "That's Glenn Miller," my father said. "But it can't be."
He had the back of the hospital bed cranked upright, the lower lid of his left eye creeping up in a warning signal I'd learned to recognize as a child. My older sister Ann had settled deep in the recliner, and she glared at me too, blaming me for winding him up. The jam box sat on the rolling tray table and my father was working the remote as he talked, backing up my newly burned CD and letting it spin forward to play a few seconds of low fidelity trombone solo.
"You know the tune, of course," he said.
"'King Porter Stomp.'" Those childhood years of listening to him play Glenn Miller on the console phonograph were finally paying off.
"He muffed the notes the same way on the Victor version."
"So why can't it be Miller?" I asked.
"He wouldn't have played with a rabble like that." The backup musicians teetered on the edge of chaos, playing with an abandon somewhere between Dixieland and bebop. "They sound drunk."
My father had a major emotional investment in Miller. He and my mother had danced to the Miller band at Glen Island Casino on Long Island Sound in the summer of 1942, when they were both sixteen. That signature sound of clarinet and four saxes was forever tied up for him with first love and the early, idealistic months of the war.
But there was a better reason why it couldn't have been Miller playing that solo. If the date on the original recording was correct, he was supposed to have died three days earlier.
The date was in India ink on a piece of surgical tape, stuck to the top of a spool of recording wire. The handwritten numerals had the hooks and day-first order of Europe: 18/12/44. I'd won it on eBay the week before as part of a lot that included a wire recorder and a stack of 78s by French pop stars like Charles Trenent and Edith Piaf. | What is the most likely reason why the father is not at home? | Entity_properties | [
"He loves music",
"He is not feeling well",
"Because of Glenn Miller",
"not enough information"
] | 1 |
f044_12 | f044 | 12 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "Perfidia",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07Perfidia/0.html"
} | "That's Glenn Miller," my father said. "But it can't be."
He had the back of the hospital bed cranked upright, the lower lid of his left eye creeping up in a warning signal I'd learned to recognize as a child. My older sister Ann had settled deep in the recliner, and she glared at me too, blaming me for winding him up. The jam box sat on the rolling tray table and my father was working the remote as he talked, backing up my newly burned CD and letting it spin forward to play a few seconds of low fidelity trombone solo.
"You know the tune, of course," he said.
"'King Porter Stomp.'" Those childhood years of listening to him play Glenn Miller on the console phonograph were finally paying off.
"He muffed the notes the same way on the Victor version."
"So why can't it be Miller?" I asked.
"He wouldn't have played with a rabble like that." The backup musicians teetered on the edge of chaos, playing with an abandon somewhere between Dixieland and bebop. "They sound drunk."
My father had a major emotional investment in Miller. He and my mother had danced to the Miller band at Glen Island Casino on Long Island Sound in the summer of 1942, when they were both sixteen. That signature sound of clarinet and four saxes was forever tied up for him with first love and the early, idealistic months of the war.
But there was a better reason why it couldn't have been Miller playing that solo. If the date on the original recording was correct, he was supposed to have died three days earlier.
The date was in India ink on a piece of surgical tape, stuck to the top of a spool of recording wire. The handwritten numerals had the hooks and day-first order of Europe: 18/12/44. I'd won it on eBay the week before as part of a lot that included a wire recorder and a stack of 78s by French pop stars like Charles Trenent and Edith Piaf. | Why was listening to Glenn Miller so important to my father? | Causality | [
"he liked jazz",
"it reminded him of his youth",
"not enough information",
"The backup singers sounded drunk and it reminded him of home."
] | 1 |
f044_13 | f044 | 13 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "Perfidia",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07Perfidia/0.html"
} | "That's Glenn Miller," my father said. "But it can't be."
He had the back of the hospital bed cranked upright, the lower lid of his left eye creeping up in a warning signal I'd learned to recognize as a child. My older sister Ann had settled deep in the recliner, and she glared at me too, blaming me for winding him up. The jam box sat on the rolling tray table and my father was working the remote as he talked, backing up my newly burned CD and letting it spin forward to play a few seconds of low fidelity trombone solo.
"You know the tune, of course," he said.
"'King Porter Stomp.'" Those childhood years of listening to him play Glenn Miller on the console phonograph were finally paying off.
"He muffed the notes the same way on the Victor version."
"So why can't it be Miller?" I asked.
"He wouldn't have played with a rabble like that." The backup musicians teetered on the edge of chaos, playing with an abandon somewhere between Dixieland and bebop. "They sound drunk."
My father had a major emotional investment in Miller. He and my mother had danced to the Miller band at Glen Island Casino on Long Island Sound in the summer of 1942, when they were both sixteen. That signature sound of clarinet and four saxes was forever tied up for him with first love and the early, idealistic months of the war.
But there was a better reason why it couldn't have been Miller playing that solo. If the date on the original recording was correct, he was supposed to have died three days earlier.
The date was in India ink on a piece of surgical tape, stuck to the top of a spool of recording wire. The handwritten numerals had the hooks and day-first order of Europe: 18/12/44. I'd won it on eBay the week before as part of a lot that included a wire recorder and a stack of 78s by French pop stars like Charles Trenent and Edith Piaf. | Why did the son questioned the father? | Causality | [
"Because he did not know if the father remembered that far back.",
"Because he did not want to feell like he was duped.",
"not enough information",
"Because he wanted to know what he bought."
] | 3 |
f044_14 | f044 | 14 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "Perfidia",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07Perfidia/0.html"
} | "That's Glenn Miller," my father said. "But it can't be."
He had the back of the hospital bed cranked upright, the lower lid of his left eye creeping up in a warning signal I'd learned to recognize as a child. My older sister Ann had settled deep in the recliner, and she glared at me too, blaming me for winding him up. The jam box sat on the rolling tray table and my father was working the remote as he talked, backing up my newly burned CD and letting it spin forward to play a few seconds of low fidelity trombone solo.
"You know the tune, of course," he said.
"'King Porter Stomp.'" Those childhood years of listening to him play Glenn Miller on the console phonograph were finally paying off.
"He muffed the notes the same way on the Victor version."
"So why can't it be Miller?" I asked.
"He wouldn't have played with a rabble like that." The backup musicians teetered on the edge of chaos, playing with an abandon somewhere between Dixieland and bebop. "They sound drunk."
My father had a major emotional investment in Miller. He and my mother had danced to the Miller band at Glen Island Casino on Long Island Sound in the summer of 1942, when they were both sixteen. That signature sound of clarinet and four saxes was forever tied up for him with first love and the early, idealistic months of the war.
But there was a better reason why it couldn't have been Miller playing that solo. If the date on the original recording was correct, he was supposed to have died three days earlier.
The date was in India ink on a piece of surgical tape, stuck to the top of a spool of recording wire. The handwritten numerals had the hooks and day-first order of Europe: 18/12/44. I'd won it on eBay the week before as part of a lot that included a wire recorder and a stack of 78s by French pop stars like Charles Trenent and Edith Piaf. | What was this eBay record? | Unanswerable | [
"A previously undiscovered Glenn Miller recording",
"Some Indian musician trying to imitate Miller",
"not enough information",
"Edith Piaf"
] | 2 |
f044_15 | f044 | 15 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "Perfidia",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07Perfidia/0.html"
} | "That's Glenn Miller," my father said. "But it can't be."
He had the back of the hospital bed cranked upright, the lower lid of his left eye creeping up in a warning signal I'd learned to recognize as a child. My older sister Ann had settled deep in the recliner, and she glared at me too, blaming me for winding him up. The jam box sat on the rolling tray table and my father was working the remote as he talked, backing up my newly burned CD and letting it spin forward to play a few seconds of low fidelity trombone solo.
"You know the tune, of course," he said.
"'King Porter Stomp.'" Those childhood years of listening to him play Glenn Miller on the console phonograph were finally paying off.
"He muffed the notes the same way on the Victor version."
"So why can't it be Miller?" I asked.
"He wouldn't have played with a rabble like that." The backup musicians teetered on the edge of chaos, playing with an abandon somewhere between Dixieland and bebop. "They sound drunk."
My father had a major emotional investment in Miller. He and my mother had danced to the Miller band at Glen Island Casino on Long Island Sound in the summer of 1942, when they were both sixteen. That signature sound of clarinet and four saxes was forever tied up for him with first love and the early, idealistic months of the war.
But there was a better reason why it couldn't have been Miller playing that solo. If the date on the original recording was correct, he was supposed to have died three days earlier.
The date was in India ink on a piece of surgical tape, stuck to the top of a spool of recording wire. The handwritten numerals had the hooks and day-first order of Europe: 18/12/44. I'd won it on eBay the week before as part of a lot that included a wire recorder and a stack of 78s by French pop stars like Charles Trenent and Edith Piaf. | The son is talking to his dad where? | Factual | [
"not enough information",
"At a nursing home.",
"In his room.",
"At a hospital"
] | 3 |
f044_16 | f044 | 16 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "Perfidia",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07Perfidia/0.html"
} | "That's Glenn Miller," my father said. "But it can't be."
He had the back of the hospital bed cranked upright, the lower lid of his left eye creeping up in a warning signal I'd learned to recognize as a child. My older sister Ann had settled deep in the recliner, and she glared at me too, blaming me for winding him up. The jam box sat on the rolling tray table and my father was working the remote as he talked, backing up my newly burned CD and letting it spin forward to play a few seconds of low fidelity trombone solo.
"You know the tune, of course," he said.
"'King Porter Stomp.'" Those childhood years of listening to him play Glenn Miller on the console phonograph were finally paying off.
"He muffed the notes the same way on the Victor version."
"So why can't it be Miller?" I asked.
"He wouldn't have played with a rabble like that." The backup musicians teetered on the edge of chaos, playing with an abandon somewhere between Dixieland and bebop. "They sound drunk."
My father had a major emotional investment in Miller. He and my mother had danced to the Miller band at Glen Island Casino on Long Island Sound in the summer of 1942, when they were both sixteen. That signature sound of clarinet and four saxes was forever tied up for him with first love and the early, idealistic months of the war.
But there was a better reason why it couldn't have been Miller playing that solo. If the date on the original recording was correct, he was supposed to have died three days earlier.
The date was in India ink on a piece of surgical tape, stuck to the top of a spool of recording wire. The handwritten numerals had the hooks and day-first order of Europe: 18/12/44. I'd won it on eBay the week before as part of a lot that included a wire recorder and a stack of 78s by French pop stars like Charles Trenent and Edith Piaf. | Who listened to the song before? | Character_identity | [
"Mother",
"Father",
"Charles Trenent",
"not enough information"
] | 1 |
f044_17 | f044 | 17 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "Perfidia",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07Perfidia/0.html"
} | "That's Glenn Miller," my father said. "But it can't be."
He had the back of the hospital bed cranked upright, the lower lid of his left eye creeping up in a warning signal I'd learned to recognize as a child. My older sister Ann had settled deep in the recliner, and she glared at me too, blaming me for winding him up. The jam box sat on the rolling tray table and my father was working the remote as he talked, backing up my newly burned CD and letting it spin forward to play a few seconds of low fidelity trombone solo.
"You know the tune, of course," he said.
"'King Porter Stomp.'" Those childhood years of listening to him play Glenn Miller on the console phonograph were finally paying off.
"He muffed the notes the same way on the Victor version."
"So why can't it be Miller?" I asked.
"He wouldn't have played with a rabble like that." The backup musicians teetered on the edge of chaos, playing with an abandon somewhere between Dixieland and bebop. "They sound drunk."
My father had a major emotional investment in Miller. He and my mother had danced to the Miller band at Glen Island Casino on Long Island Sound in the summer of 1942, when they were both sixteen. That signature sound of clarinet and four saxes was forever tied up for him with first love and the early, idealistic months of the war.
But there was a better reason why it couldn't have been Miller playing that solo. If the date on the original recording was correct, he was supposed to have died three days earlier.
The date was in India ink on a piece of surgical tape, stuck to the top of a spool of recording wire. The handwritten numerals had the hooks and day-first order of Europe: 18/12/44. I'd won it on eBay the week before as part of a lot that included a wire recorder and a stack of 78s by French pop stars like Charles Trenent and Edith Piaf. | For how long was Dad a fan of Glenn Miller? | Event_duration | [
"not enough information",
"since he heard this eBay record",
"for a few months",
"for many years"
] | 3 |
f044_18 | f044 | 18 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "Perfidia",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07Perfidia/0.html"
} | "That's Glenn Miller," my father said. "But it can't be."
He had the back of the hospital bed cranked upright, the lower lid of his left eye creeping up in a warning signal I'd learned to recognize as a child. My older sister Ann had settled deep in the recliner, and she glared at me too, blaming me for winding him up. The jam box sat on the rolling tray table and my father was working the remote as he talked, backing up my newly burned CD and letting it spin forward to play a few seconds of low fidelity trombone solo.
"You know the tune, of course," he said.
"'King Porter Stomp.'" Those childhood years of listening to him play Glenn Miller on the console phonograph were finally paying off.
"He muffed the notes the same way on the Victor version."
"So why can't it be Miller?" I asked.
"He wouldn't have played with a rabble like that." The backup musicians teetered on the edge of chaos, playing with an abandon somewhere between Dixieland and bebop. "They sound drunk."
My father had a major emotional investment in Miller. He and my mother had danced to the Miller band at Glen Island Casino on Long Island Sound in the summer of 1942, when they were both sixteen. That signature sound of clarinet and four saxes was forever tied up for him with first love and the early, idealistic months of the war.
But there was a better reason why it couldn't have been Miller playing that solo. If the date on the original recording was correct, he was supposed to have died three days earlier.
The date was in India ink on a piece of surgical tape, stuck to the top of a spool of recording wire. The handwritten numerals had the hooks and day-first order of Europe: 18/12/44. I'd won it on eBay the week before as part of a lot that included a wire recorder and a stack of 78s by French pop stars like Charles Trenent and Edith Piaf. | What does the father believe about the narrator? | Belief_states | [
"That he loves Edith Piaf",
"That he likes musicians playing like they are drunk",
"not enough information",
"That he knows this song"
] | 3 |
f044_19 | f044 | 19 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "Perfidia",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07Perfidia/0.html"
} | "That's Glenn Miller," my father said. "But it can't be."
He had the back of the hospital bed cranked upright, the lower lid of his left eye creeping up in a warning signal I'd learned to recognize as a child. My older sister Ann had settled deep in the recliner, and she glared at me too, blaming me for winding him up. The jam box sat on the rolling tray table and my father was working the remote as he talked, backing up my newly burned CD and letting it spin forward to play a few seconds of low fidelity trombone solo.
"You know the tune, of course," he said.
"'King Porter Stomp.'" Those childhood years of listening to him play Glenn Miller on the console phonograph were finally paying off.
"He muffed the notes the same way on the Victor version."
"So why can't it be Miller?" I asked.
"He wouldn't have played with a rabble like that." The backup musicians teetered on the edge of chaos, playing with an abandon somewhere between Dixieland and bebop. "They sound drunk."
My father had a major emotional investment in Miller. He and my mother had danced to the Miller band at Glen Island Casino on Long Island Sound in the summer of 1942, when they were both sixteen. That signature sound of clarinet and four saxes was forever tied up for him with first love and the early, idealistic months of the war.
But there was a better reason why it couldn't have been Miller playing that solo. If the date on the original recording was correct, he was supposed to have died three days earlier.
The date was in India ink on a piece of surgical tape, stuck to the top of a spool of recording wire. The handwritten numerals had the hooks and day-first order of Europe: 18/12/44. I'd won it on eBay the week before as part of a lot that included a wire recorder and a stack of 78s by French pop stars like Charles Trenent and Edith Piaf. | Who is the most concerned about the father's health? | Entity_properties | [
"Ann",
"The narrator",
"Glenn Miller",
"not enough information"
] | 0 |
f044_20 | f044 | 20 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "Perfidia",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07Perfidia/0.html"
} | "That's Glenn Miller," my father said. "But it can't be."
He had the back of the hospital bed cranked upright, the lower lid of his left eye creeping up in a warning signal I'd learned to recognize as a child. My older sister Ann had settled deep in the recliner, and she glared at me too, blaming me for winding him up. The jam box sat on the rolling tray table and my father was working the remote as he talked, backing up my newly burned CD and letting it spin forward to play a few seconds of low fidelity trombone solo.
"You know the tune, of course," he said.
"'King Porter Stomp.'" Those childhood years of listening to him play Glenn Miller on the console phonograph were finally paying off.
"He muffed the notes the same way on the Victor version."
"So why can't it be Miller?" I asked.
"He wouldn't have played with a rabble like that." The backup musicians teetered on the edge of chaos, playing with an abandon somewhere between Dixieland and bebop. "They sound drunk."
My father had a major emotional investment in Miller. He and my mother had danced to the Miller band at Glen Island Casino on Long Island Sound in the summer of 1942, when they were both sixteen. That signature sound of clarinet and four saxes was forever tied up for him with first love and the early, idealistic months of the war.
But there was a better reason why it couldn't have been Miller playing that solo. If the date on the original recording was correct, he was supposed to have died three days earlier.
The date was in India ink on a piece of surgical tape, stuck to the top of a spool of recording wire. The handwritten numerals had the hooks and day-first order of Europe: 18/12/44. I'd won it on eBay the week before as part of a lot that included a wire recorder and a stack of 78s by French pop stars like Charles Trenent and Edith Piaf. | Where is the father after the end of this story? | Subsequent_state | [
"In a hospital or nursing home",
"In a record studio",
"In a casino",
"not enough information"
] | 0 |
f045_0 | f045 | 0 | fiction | {
"author": "Alaya Dawn Johnson",
"title": "Shard of Glass",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/johnsonadother07shard_of_glass/0.html"
} | That day, my mother picked me up from school, wearing the yellow sundress and shawl I remembered from our trip with Father the year before. She looked just like she did most days back then--a glamour queen, a movie star ("Just like Lena Horne," my friend Chloe had once said, "only darker--oh, sorry, Leah!"), but today her beauty somehow had a harder, more defiant edge to it. I could smell the expensive Dior perfume as soon as I opened the door, which surprised me, because my mom was usually fastidious about not getting perfume on her clothes. She was wearing her bug glasses--huge dark things with lenses that bulged out like fly eyes and reflected my face like a fun-house mirror. She had tied a yellow silk scarf around her hair and was taking deep pulls on a cigarette held between two immaculately manicured fingers. Only I knew about the nicotine stains she carefully covered with her special order "forest sable" cream each morning.
Tiffany, a stupid but vicious senator's daughter who I had the misfortune of sharing a classroom with, suddenly dashed from inside the school, her face flushed.
"Hello, Mrs. Wilson," she called. Before my mother could respond, she giggled and ran back to three of her friends waiting beyond the door. I could hear them laughing, but I was glad I couldn't understand their words. They were all fascinated with my mother--the black housekeeper who dressed like Katharine Hepburn and drove a Cadillac, whose daughter's "light toffee" skin indicated that she might just like her coffee with a lot of cream.
Sometimes I hated those girls.
"Get in the car, Leah," my mother said. Her already husky voice was pitched low, as though she'd been crying. That made me nervous. Why was she here?
"Ma, Chloe was going to show me her dad's new camera. Can't I go home on the bus?"
My mom pulled on the cigarette until it burned the filter, and then ground it into the car ashtray--already filled with forty or so butts. She always emptied out the ashtray each evening. | What did the mother wear on her head? | Character_identity | [
"A scarf",
"Bandana",
"Head band",
"not enough information"
] | 0 |
f045_1 | f045 | 1 | fiction | {
"author": "Alaya Dawn Johnson",
"title": "Shard of Glass",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/johnsonadother07shard_of_glass/0.html"
} | That day, my mother picked me up from school, wearing the yellow sundress and shawl I remembered from our trip with Father the year before. She looked just like she did most days back then--a glamour queen, a movie star ("Just like Lena Horne," my friend Chloe had once said, "only darker--oh, sorry, Leah!"), but today her beauty somehow had a harder, more defiant edge to it. I could smell the expensive Dior perfume as soon as I opened the door, which surprised me, because my mom was usually fastidious about not getting perfume on her clothes. She was wearing her bug glasses--huge dark things with lenses that bulged out like fly eyes and reflected my face like a fun-house mirror. She had tied a yellow silk scarf around her hair and was taking deep pulls on a cigarette held between two immaculately manicured fingers. Only I knew about the nicotine stains she carefully covered with her special order "forest sable" cream each morning.
Tiffany, a stupid but vicious senator's daughter who I had the misfortune of sharing a classroom with, suddenly dashed from inside the school, her face flushed.
"Hello, Mrs. Wilson," she called. Before my mother could respond, she giggled and ran back to three of her friends waiting beyond the door. I could hear them laughing, but I was glad I couldn't understand their words. They were all fascinated with my mother--the black housekeeper who dressed like Katharine Hepburn and drove a Cadillac, whose daughter's "light toffee" skin indicated that she might just like her coffee with a lot of cream.
Sometimes I hated those girls.
"Get in the car, Leah," my mother said. Her already husky voice was pitched low, as though she'd been crying. That made me nervous. Why was she here?
"Ma, Chloe was going to show me her dad's new camera. Can't I go home on the bus?"
My mom pulled on the cigarette until it burned the filter, and then ground it into the car ashtray--already filled with forty or so butts. She always emptied out the ashtray each evening. | What was the mother NOT wearing? | Belief_states | [
"Dior perfume",
"Pajamas",
"Sunglasses",
"not enough information"
] | 1 |
f045_2 | f045 | 2 | fiction | {
"author": "Alaya Dawn Johnson",
"title": "Shard of Glass",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/johnsonadother07shard_of_glass/0.html"
} | That day, my mother picked me up from school, wearing the yellow sundress and shawl I remembered from our trip with Father the year before. She looked just like she did most days back then--a glamour queen, a movie star ("Just like Lena Horne," my friend Chloe had once said, "only darker--oh, sorry, Leah!"), but today her beauty somehow had a harder, more defiant edge to it. I could smell the expensive Dior perfume as soon as I opened the door, which surprised me, because my mom was usually fastidious about not getting perfume on her clothes. She was wearing her bug glasses--huge dark things with lenses that bulged out like fly eyes and reflected my face like a fun-house mirror. She had tied a yellow silk scarf around her hair and was taking deep pulls on a cigarette held between two immaculately manicured fingers. Only I knew about the nicotine stains she carefully covered with her special order "forest sable" cream each morning.
Tiffany, a stupid but vicious senator's daughter who I had the misfortune of sharing a classroom with, suddenly dashed from inside the school, her face flushed.
"Hello, Mrs. Wilson," she called. Before my mother could respond, she giggled and ran back to three of her friends waiting beyond the door. I could hear them laughing, but I was glad I couldn't understand their words. They were all fascinated with my mother--the black housekeeper who dressed like Katharine Hepburn and drove a Cadillac, whose daughter's "light toffee" skin indicated that she might just like her coffee with a lot of cream.
Sometimes I hated those girls.
"Get in the car, Leah," my mother said. Her already husky voice was pitched low, as though she'd been crying. That made me nervous. Why was she here?
"Ma, Chloe was going to show me her dad's new camera. Can't I go home on the bus?"
My mom pulled on the cigarette until it burned the filter, and then ground it into the car ashtray--already filled with forty or so butts. She always emptied out the ashtray each evening. | What type of car did Mrs. Wilson drive? | Factual | [
"not enough information",
"Cadillac",
"Mercedes",
"Bentley"
] | 1 |
f045_3 | f045 | 3 | fiction | {
"author": "Alaya Dawn Johnson",
"title": "Shard of Glass",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/johnsonadother07shard_of_glass/0.html"
} | That day, my mother picked me up from school, wearing the yellow sundress and shawl I remembered from our trip with Father the year before. She looked just like she did most days back then--a glamour queen, a movie star ("Just like Lena Horne," my friend Chloe had once said, "only darker--oh, sorry, Leah!"), but today her beauty somehow had a harder, more defiant edge to it. I could smell the expensive Dior perfume as soon as I opened the door, which surprised me, because my mom was usually fastidious about not getting perfume on her clothes. She was wearing her bug glasses--huge dark things with lenses that bulged out like fly eyes and reflected my face like a fun-house mirror. She had tied a yellow silk scarf around her hair and was taking deep pulls on a cigarette held between two immaculately manicured fingers. Only I knew about the nicotine stains she carefully covered with her special order "forest sable" cream each morning.
Tiffany, a stupid but vicious senator's daughter who I had the misfortune of sharing a classroom with, suddenly dashed from inside the school, her face flushed.
"Hello, Mrs. Wilson," she called. Before my mother could respond, she giggled and ran back to three of her friends waiting beyond the door. I could hear them laughing, but I was glad I couldn't understand their words. They were all fascinated with my mother--the black housekeeper who dressed like Katharine Hepburn and drove a Cadillac, whose daughter's "light toffee" skin indicated that she might just like her coffee with a lot of cream.
Sometimes I hated those girls.
"Get in the car, Leah," my mother said. Her already husky voice was pitched low, as though she'd been crying. That made me nervous. Why was she here?
"Ma, Chloe was going to show me her dad's new camera. Can't I go home on the bus?"
My mom pulled on the cigarette until it burned the filter, and then ground it into the car ashtray--already filled with forty or so butts. She always emptied out the ashtray each evening. | What is probably true about the mother? | Entity_properties | [
"She behaved unusually on this day",
"not enough information",
"She was the queen",
"She was a movie star"
] | 0 |
f045_4 | f045 | 4 | fiction | {
"author": "Alaya Dawn Johnson",
"title": "Shard of Glass",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/johnsonadother07shard_of_glass/0.html"
} | That day, my mother picked me up from school, wearing the yellow sundress and shawl I remembered from our trip with Father the year before. She looked just like she did most days back then--a glamour queen, a movie star ("Just like Lena Horne," my friend Chloe had once said, "only darker--oh, sorry, Leah!"), but today her beauty somehow had a harder, more defiant edge to it. I could smell the expensive Dior perfume as soon as I opened the door, which surprised me, because my mom was usually fastidious about not getting perfume on her clothes. She was wearing her bug glasses--huge dark things with lenses that bulged out like fly eyes and reflected my face like a fun-house mirror. She had tied a yellow silk scarf around her hair and was taking deep pulls on a cigarette held between two immaculately manicured fingers. Only I knew about the nicotine stains she carefully covered with her special order "forest sable" cream each morning.
Tiffany, a stupid but vicious senator's daughter who I had the misfortune of sharing a classroom with, suddenly dashed from inside the school, her face flushed.
"Hello, Mrs. Wilson," she called. Before my mother could respond, she giggled and ran back to three of her friends waiting beyond the door. I could hear them laughing, but I was glad I couldn't understand their words. They were all fascinated with my mother--the black housekeeper who dressed like Katharine Hepburn and drove a Cadillac, whose daughter's "light toffee" skin indicated that she might just like her coffee with a lot of cream.
Sometimes I hated those girls.
"Get in the car, Leah," my mother said. Her already husky voice was pitched low, as though she'd been crying. That made me nervous. Why was she here?
"Ma, Chloe was going to show me her dad's new camera. Can't I go home on the bus?"
My mom pulled on the cigarette until it burned the filter, and then ground it into the car ashtray--already filled with forty or so butts. She always emptied out the ashtray each evening. | How do Tiffany and the other girls feel about Leah's mother? | Causality | [
"That she looks like Lena Horne, a movie star",
"That she is an oddity for having a mixed-race daughter",
"not enough information",
"That she smokes too many cigarettes"
] | 1 |
f045_5 | f045 | 5 | fiction | {
"author": "Alaya Dawn Johnson",
"title": "Shard of Glass",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/johnsonadother07shard_of_glass/0.html"
} | That day, my mother picked me up from school, wearing the yellow sundress and shawl I remembered from our trip with Father the year before. She looked just like she did most days back then--a glamour queen, a movie star ("Just like Lena Horne," my friend Chloe had once said, "only darker--oh, sorry, Leah!"), but today her beauty somehow had a harder, more defiant edge to it. I could smell the expensive Dior perfume as soon as I opened the door, which surprised me, because my mom was usually fastidious about not getting perfume on her clothes. She was wearing her bug glasses--huge dark things with lenses that bulged out like fly eyes and reflected my face like a fun-house mirror. She had tied a yellow silk scarf around her hair and was taking deep pulls on a cigarette held between two immaculately manicured fingers. Only I knew about the nicotine stains she carefully covered with her special order "forest sable" cream each morning.
Tiffany, a stupid but vicious senator's daughter who I had the misfortune of sharing a classroom with, suddenly dashed from inside the school, her face flushed.
"Hello, Mrs. Wilson," she called. Before my mother could respond, she giggled and ran back to three of her friends waiting beyond the door. I could hear them laughing, but I was glad I couldn't understand their words. They were all fascinated with my mother--the black housekeeper who dressed like Katharine Hepburn and drove a Cadillac, whose daughter's "light toffee" skin indicated that she might just like her coffee with a lot of cream.
Sometimes I hated those girls.
"Get in the car, Leah," my mother said. Her already husky voice was pitched low, as though she'd been crying. That made me nervous. Why was she here?
"Ma, Chloe was going to show me her dad's new camera. Can't I go home on the bus?"
My mom pulled on the cigarette until it burned the filter, and then ground it into the car ashtray--already filled with forty or so butts. She always emptied out the ashtray each evening. | How does Leah sometimes feel about Tiffany and the other girls? | Belief_states | [
"Envy",
"Disgust",
"Sympathy",
"not enough information"
] | 1 |
f045_6 | f045 | 6 | fiction | {
"author": "Alaya Dawn Johnson",
"title": "Shard of Glass",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/johnsonadother07shard_of_glass/0.html"
} | That day, my mother picked me up from school, wearing the yellow sundress and shawl I remembered from our trip with Father the year before. She looked just like she did most days back then--a glamour queen, a movie star ("Just like Lena Horne," my friend Chloe had once said, "only darker--oh, sorry, Leah!"), but today her beauty somehow had a harder, more defiant edge to it. I could smell the expensive Dior perfume as soon as I opened the door, which surprised me, because my mom was usually fastidious about not getting perfume on her clothes. She was wearing her bug glasses--huge dark things with lenses that bulged out like fly eyes and reflected my face like a fun-house mirror. She had tied a yellow silk scarf around her hair and was taking deep pulls on a cigarette held between two immaculately manicured fingers. Only I knew about the nicotine stains she carefully covered with her special order "forest sable" cream each morning.
Tiffany, a stupid but vicious senator's daughter who I had the misfortune of sharing a classroom with, suddenly dashed from inside the school, her face flushed.
"Hello, Mrs. Wilson," she called. Before my mother could respond, she giggled and ran back to three of her friends waiting beyond the door. I could hear them laughing, but I was glad I couldn't understand their words. They were all fascinated with my mother--the black housekeeper who dressed like Katharine Hepburn and drove a Cadillac, whose daughter's "light toffee" skin indicated that she might just like her coffee with a lot of cream.
Sometimes I hated those girls.
"Get in the car, Leah," my mother said. Her already husky voice was pitched low, as though she'd been crying. That made me nervous. Why was she here?
"Ma, Chloe was going to show me her dad's new camera. Can't I go home on the bus?"
My mom pulled on the cigarette until it burned the filter, and then ground it into the car ashtray--already filled with forty or so butts. She always emptied out the ashtray each evening. | After putting out her cigarette, Mrs. Wilson is probably: | Subsequent_state | [
"Not going to let Leah go home on the bus",
"Clean her bug glasses",
"Going to cover her nicotine stains with 'forest sable' cream",
"not enough information"
] | 0 |
f045_7 | f045 | 7 | fiction | {
"author": "Alaya Dawn Johnson",
"title": "Shard of Glass",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/johnsonadother07shard_of_glass/0.html"
} | That day, my mother picked me up from school, wearing the yellow sundress and shawl I remembered from our trip with Father the year before. She looked just like she did most days back then--a glamour queen, a movie star ("Just like Lena Horne," my friend Chloe had once said, "only darker--oh, sorry, Leah!"), but today her beauty somehow had a harder, more defiant edge to it. I could smell the expensive Dior perfume as soon as I opened the door, which surprised me, because my mom was usually fastidious about not getting perfume on her clothes. She was wearing her bug glasses--huge dark things with lenses that bulged out like fly eyes and reflected my face like a fun-house mirror. She had tied a yellow silk scarf around her hair and was taking deep pulls on a cigarette held between two immaculately manicured fingers. Only I knew about the nicotine stains she carefully covered with her special order "forest sable" cream each morning.
Tiffany, a stupid but vicious senator's daughter who I had the misfortune of sharing a classroom with, suddenly dashed from inside the school, her face flushed.
"Hello, Mrs. Wilson," she called. Before my mother could respond, she giggled and ran back to three of her friends waiting beyond the door. I could hear them laughing, but I was glad I couldn't understand their words. They were all fascinated with my mother--the black housekeeper who dressed like Katharine Hepburn and drove a Cadillac, whose daughter's "light toffee" skin indicated that she might just like her coffee with a lot of cream.
Sometimes I hated those girls.
"Get in the car, Leah," my mother said. Her already husky voice was pitched low, as though she'd been crying. That made me nervous. Why was she here?
"Ma, Chloe was going to show me her dad's new camera. Can't I go home on the bus?"
My mom pulled on the cigarette until it burned the filter, and then ground it into the car ashtray--already filled with forty or so butts. She always emptied out the ashtray each evening. | What is the state of the ashtray after the end of the conversation? | Subsequent_state | [
"half full of butts",
"cleaned",
"still full of butts",
"not enough information"
] | 2 |
f045_8 | f045 | 8 | fiction | {
"author": "Alaya Dawn Johnson",
"title": "Shard of Glass",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/johnsonadother07shard_of_glass/0.html"
} | That day, my mother picked me up from school, wearing the yellow sundress and shawl I remembered from our trip with Father the year before. She looked just like she did most days back then--a glamour queen, a movie star ("Just like Lena Horne," my friend Chloe had once said, "only darker--oh, sorry, Leah!"), but today her beauty somehow had a harder, more defiant edge to it. I could smell the expensive Dior perfume as soon as I opened the door, which surprised me, because my mom was usually fastidious about not getting perfume on her clothes. She was wearing her bug glasses--huge dark things with lenses that bulged out like fly eyes and reflected my face like a fun-house mirror. She had tied a yellow silk scarf around her hair and was taking deep pulls on a cigarette held between two immaculately manicured fingers. Only I knew about the nicotine stains she carefully covered with her special order "forest sable" cream each morning.
Tiffany, a stupid but vicious senator's daughter who I had the misfortune of sharing a classroom with, suddenly dashed from inside the school, her face flushed.
"Hello, Mrs. Wilson," she called. Before my mother could respond, she giggled and ran back to three of her friends waiting beyond the door. I could hear them laughing, but I was glad I couldn't understand their words. They were all fascinated with my mother--the black housekeeper who dressed like Katharine Hepburn and drove a Cadillac, whose daughter's "light toffee" skin indicated that she might just like her coffee with a lot of cream.
Sometimes I hated those girls.
"Get in the car, Leah," my mother said. Her already husky voice was pitched low, as though she'd been crying. That made me nervous. Why was she here?
"Ma, Chloe was going to show me her dad's new camera. Can't I go home on the bus?"
My mom pulled on the cigarette until it burned the filter, and then ground it into the car ashtray--already filled with forty or so butts. She always emptied out the ashtray each evening. | Who wore a silk scarf? | Character_identity | [
"Mrs. Wilson",
"Leah",
"Chloe",
"not enough information"
] | 0 |
f045_9 | f045 | 9 | fiction | {
"author": "Alaya Dawn Johnson",
"title": "Shard of Glass",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/johnsonadother07shard_of_glass/0.html"
} | That day, my mother picked me up from school, wearing the yellow sundress and shawl I remembered from our trip with Father the year before. She looked just like she did most days back then--a glamour queen, a movie star ("Just like Lena Horne," my friend Chloe had once said, "only darker--oh, sorry, Leah!"), but today her beauty somehow had a harder, more defiant edge to it. I could smell the expensive Dior perfume as soon as I opened the door, which surprised me, because my mom was usually fastidious about not getting perfume on her clothes. She was wearing her bug glasses--huge dark things with lenses that bulged out like fly eyes and reflected my face like a fun-house mirror. She had tied a yellow silk scarf around her hair and was taking deep pulls on a cigarette held between two immaculately manicured fingers. Only I knew about the nicotine stains she carefully covered with her special order "forest sable" cream each morning.
Tiffany, a stupid but vicious senator's daughter who I had the misfortune of sharing a classroom with, suddenly dashed from inside the school, her face flushed.
"Hello, Mrs. Wilson," she called. Before my mother could respond, she giggled and ran back to three of her friends waiting beyond the door. I could hear them laughing, but I was glad I couldn't understand their words. They were all fascinated with my mother--the black housekeeper who dressed like Katharine Hepburn and drove a Cadillac, whose daughter's "light toffee" skin indicated that she might just like her coffee with a lot of cream.
Sometimes I hated those girls.
"Get in the car, Leah," my mother said. Her already husky voice was pitched low, as though she'd been crying. That made me nervous. Why was she here?
"Ma, Chloe was going to show me her dad's new camera. Can't I go home on the bus?"
My mom pulled on the cigarette until it burned the filter, and then ground it into the car ashtray--already filled with forty or so butts. She always emptied out the ashtray each evening. | Tiffany greeted Leah's mother: | Temporal_order | [
"Before Leah got into the car",
"After Leah's mother burned her cigarette filter",
"While putting on Dior perfume",
"not enough information"
] | 0 |
f045_10 | f045 | 10 | fiction | {
"author": "Alaya Dawn Johnson",
"title": "Shard of Glass",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/johnsonadother07shard_of_glass/0.html"
} | That day, my mother picked me up from school, wearing the yellow sundress and shawl I remembered from our trip with Father the year before. She looked just like she did most days back then--a glamour queen, a movie star ("Just like Lena Horne," my friend Chloe had once said, "only darker--oh, sorry, Leah!"), but today her beauty somehow had a harder, more defiant edge to it. I could smell the expensive Dior perfume as soon as I opened the door, which surprised me, because my mom was usually fastidious about not getting perfume on her clothes. She was wearing her bug glasses--huge dark things with lenses that bulged out like fly eyes and reflected my face like a fun-house mirror. She had tied a yellow silk scarf around her hair and was taking deep pulls on a cigarette held between two immaculately manicured fingers. Only I knew about the nicotine stains she carefully covered with her special order "forest sable" cream each morning.
Tiffany, a stupid but vicious senator's daughter who I had the misfortune of sharing a classroom with, suddenly dashed from inside the school, her face flushed.
"Hello, Mrs. Wilson," she called. Before my mother could respond, she giggled and ran back to three of her friends waiting beyond the door. I could hear them laughing, but I was glad I couldn't understand their words. They were all fascinated with my mother--the black housekeeper who dressed like Katharine Hepburn and drove a Cadillac, whose daughter's "light toffee" skin indicated that she might just like her coffee with a lot of cream.
Sometimes I hated those girls.
"Get in the car, Leah," my mother said. Her already husky voice was pitched low, as though she'd been crying. That made me nervous. Why was she here?
"Ma, Chloe was going to show me her dad's new camera. Can't I go home on the bus?"
My mom pulled on the cigarette until it burned the filter, and then ground it into the car ashtray--already filled with forty or so butts. She always emptied out the ashtray each evening. | Mrs. Wilson has probably been smoking: | Event_duration | [
"For a few moments before she pulled up to get Leah",
"All day",
"not enough information",
"Since Tiffany greeted her"
] | 1 |
f045_11 | f045 | 11 | fiction | {
"author": "Alaya Dawn Johnson",
"title": "Shard of Glass",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/johnsonadother07shard_of_glass/0.html"
} | That day, my mother picked me up from school, wearing the yellow sundress and shawl I remembered from our trip with Father the year before. She looked just like she did most days back then--a glamour queen, a movie star ("Just like Lena Horne," my friend Chloe had once said, "only darker--oh, sorry, Leah!"), but today her beauty somehow had a harder, more defiant edge to it. I could smell the expensive Dior perfume as soon as I opened the door, which surprised me, because my mom was usually fastidious about not getting perfume on her clothes. She was wearing her bug glasses--huge dark things with lenses that bulged out like fly eyes and reflected my face like a fun-house mirror. She had tied a yellow silk scarf around her hair and was taking deep pulls on a cigarette held between two immaculately manicured fingers. Only I knew about the nicotine stains she carefully covered with her special order "forest sable" cream each morning.
Tiffany, a stupid but vicious senator's daughter who I had the misfortune of sharing a classroom with, suddenly dashed from inside the school, her face flushed.
"Hello, Mrs. Wilson," she called. Before my mother could respond, she giggled and ran back to three of her friends waiting beyond the door. I could hear them laughing, but I was glad I couldn't understand their words. They were all fascinated with my mother--the black housekeeper who dressed like Katharine Hepburn and drove a Cadillac, whose daughter's "light toffee" skin indicated that she might just like her coffee with a lot of cream.
Sometimes I hated those girls.
"Get in the car, Leah," my mother said. Her already husky voice was pitched low, as though she'd been crying. That made me nervous. Why was she here?
"Ma, Chloe was going to show me her dad's new camera. Can't I go home on the bus?"
My mom pulled on the cigarette until it burned the filter, and then ground it into the car ashtray--already filled with forty or so butts. She always emptied out the ashtray each evening. | How many cigarettes were in the ashtray? | Unanswerable | [
"not enough information",
"40",
"42",
"39"
] | 0 |
f045_12 | f045 | 12 | fiction | {
"author": "Alaya Dawn Johnson",
"title": "Shard of Glass",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/johnsonadother07shard_of_glass/0.html"
} | That day, my mother picked me up from school, wearing the yellow sundress and shawl I remembered from our trip with Father the year before. She looked just like she did most days back then--a glamour queen, a movie star ("Just like Lena Horne," my friend Chloe had once said, "only darker--oh, sorry, Leah!"), but today her beauty somehow had a harder, more defiant edge to it. I could smell the expensive Dior perfume as soon as I opened the door, which surprised me, because my mom was usually fastidious about not getting perfume on her clothes. She was wearing her bug glasses--huge dark things with lenses that bulged out like fly eyes and reflected my face like a fun-house mirror. She had tied a yellow silk scarf around her hair and was taking deep pulls on a cigarette held between two immaculately manicured fingers. Only I knew about the nicotine stains she carefully covered with her special order "forest sable" cream each morning.
Tiffany, a stupid but vicious senator's daughter who I had the misfortune of sharing a classroom with, suddenly dashed from inside the school, her face flushed.
"Hello, Mrs. Wilson," she called. Before my mother could respond, she giggled and ran back to three of her friends waiting beyond the door. I could hear them laughing, but I was glad I couldn't understand their words. They were all fascinated with my mother--the black housekeeper who dressed like Katharine Hepburn and drove a Cadillac, whose daughter's "light toffee" skin indicated that she might just like her coffee with a lot of cream.
Sometimes I hated those girls.
"Get in the car, Leah," my mother said. Her already husky voice was pitched low, as though she'd been crying. That made me nervous. Why was she here?
"Ma, Chloe was going to show me her dad's new camera. Can't I go home on the bus?"
My mom pulled on the cigarette until it burned the filter, and then ground it into the car ashtray--already filled with forty or so butts. She always emptied out the ashtray each evening. | What is probably true about Tiffany? | Entity_properties | [
"She is carefree and jubilant",
"She is rich and spoiled",
"She is hateful",
"not enough information"
] | 1 |
f045_13 | f045 | 13 | fiction | {
"author": "Alaya Dawn Johnson",
"title": "Shard of Glass",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/johnsonadother07shard_of_glass/0.html"
} | That day, my mother picked me up from school, wearing the yellow sundress and shawl I remembered from our trip with Father the year before. She looked just like she did most days back then--a glamour queen, a movie star ("Just like Lena Horne," my friend Chloe had once said, "only darker--oh, sorry, Leah!"), but today her beauty somehow had a harder, more defiant edge to it. I could smell the expensive Dior perfume as soon as I opened the door, which surprised me, because my mom was usually fastidious about not getting perfume on her clothes. She was wearing her bug glasses--huge dark things with lenses that bulged out like fly eyes and reflected my face like a fun-house mirror. She had tied a yellow silk scarf around her hair and was taking deep pulls on a cigarette held between two immaculately manicured fingers. Only I knew about the nicotine stains she carefully covered with her special order "forest sable" cream each morning.
Tiffany, a stupid but vicious senator's daughter who I had the misfortune of sharing a classroom with, suddenly dashed from inside the school, her face flushed.
"Hello, Mrs. Wilson," she called. Before my mother could respond, she giggled and ran back to three of her friends waiting beyond the door. I could hear them laughing, but I was glad I couldn't understand their words. They were all fascinated with my mother--the black housekeeper who dressed like Katharine Hepburn and drove a Cadillac, whose daughter's "light toffee" skin indicated that she might just like her coffee with a lot of cream.
Sometimes I hated those girls.
"Get in the car, Leah," my mother said. Her already husky voice was pitched low, as though she'd been crying. That made me nervous. Why was she here?
"Ma, Chloe was going to show me her dad's new camera. Can't I go home on the bus?"
My mom pulled on the cigarette until it burned the filter, and then ground it into the car ashtray--already filled with forty or so butts. She always emptied out the ashtray each evening. | When did mother tell Leah to get into the car? | Temporal_order | [
"After seeing Chloe's new camera",
"not enough information",
"After getting on the bus",
"After Tiffany came by"
] | 3 |
f045_14 | f045 | 14 | fiction | {
"author": "Alaya Dawn Johnson",
"title": "Shard of Glass",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/johnsonadother07shard_of_glass/0.html"
} | That day, my mother picked me up from school, wearing the yellow sundress and shawl I remembered from our trip with Father the year before. She looked just like she did most days back then--a glamour queen, a movie star ("Just like Lena Horne," my friend Chloe had once said, "only darker--oh, sorry, Leah!"), but today her beauty somehow had a harder, more defiant edge to it. I could smell the expensive Dior perfume as soon as I opened the door, which surprised me, because my mom was usually fastidious about not getting perfume on her clothes. She was wearing her bug glasses--huge dark things with lenses that bulged out like fly eyes and reflected my face like a fun-house mirror. She had tied a yellow silk scarf around her hair and was taking deep pulls on a cigarette held between two immaculately manicured fingers. Only I knew about the nicotine stains she carefully covered with her special order "forest sable" cream each morning.
Tiffany, a stupid but vicious senator's daughter who I had the misfortune of sharing a classroom with, suddenly dashed from inside the school, her face flushed.
"Hello, Mrs. Wilson," she called. Before my mother could respond, she giggled and ran back to three of her friends waiting beyond the door. I could hear them laughing, but I was glad I couldn't understand their words. They were all fascinated with my mother--the black housekeeper who dressed like Katharine Hepburn and drove a Cadillac, whose daughter's "light toffee" skin indicated that she might just like her coffee with a lot of cream.
Sometimes I hated those girls.
"Get in the car, Leah," my mother said. Her already husky voice was pitched low, as though she'd been crying. That made me nervous. Why was she here?
"Ma, Chloe was going to show me her dad's new camera. Can't I go home on the bus?"
My mom pulled on the cigarette until it burned the filter, and then ground it into the car ashtray--already filled with forty or so butts. She always emptied out the ashtray each evening. | What does Leah probably believe? | Belief_states | [
"not enough information",
"that she likes the bus",
"that Tiffany is a good friend",
"that Mrs.Wilson looks great"
] | 3 |
f045_15 | f045 | 15 | fiction | {
"author": "Alaya Dawn Johnson",
"title": "Shard of Glass",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/johnsonadother07shard_of_glass/0.html"
} | That day, my mother picked me up from school, wearing the yellow sundress and shawl I remembered from our trip with Father the year before. She looked just like she did most days back then--a glamour queen, a movie star ("Just like Lena Horne," my friend Chloe had once said, "only darker--oh, sorry, Leah!"), but today her beauty somehow had a harder, more defiant edge to it. I could smell the expensive Dior perfume as soon as I opened the door, which surprised me, because my mom was usually fastidious about not getting perfume on her clothes. She was wearing her bug glasses--huge dark things with lenses that bulged out like fly eyes and reflected my face like a fun-house mirror. She had tied a yellow silk scarf around her hair and was taking deep pulls on a cigarette held between two immaculately manicured fingers. Only I knew about the nicotine stains she carefully covered with her special order "forest sable" cream each morning.
Tiffany, a stupid but vicious senator's daughter who I had the misfortune of sharing a classroom with, suddenly dashed from inside the school, her face flushed.
"Hello, Mrs. Wilson," she called. Before my mother could respond, she giggled and ran back to three of her friends waiting beyond the door. I could hear them laughing, but I was glad I couldn't understand their words. They were all fascinated with my mother--the black housekeeper who dressed like Katharine Hepburn and drove a Cadillac, whose daughter's "light toffee" skin indicated that she might just like her coffee with a lot of cream.
Sometimes I hated those girls.
"Get in the car, Leah," my mother said. Her already husky voice was pitched low, as though she'd been crying. That made me nervous. Why was she here?
"Ma, Chloe was going to show me her dad's new camera. Can't I go home on the bus?"
My mom pulled on the cigarette until it burned the filter, and then ground it into the car ashtray--already filled with forty or so butts. She always emptied out the ashtray each evening. | Who was Tiffany? | Factual | [
"A friend",
"A bully",
"not enough information",
"A daughter of somebody important"
] | 3 |
f045_16 | f045 | 16 | fiction | {
"author": "Alaya Dawn Johnson",
"title": "Shard of Glass",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/johnsonadother07shard_of_glass/0.html"
} | That day, my mother picked me up from school, wearing the yellow sundress and shawl I remembered from our trip with Father the year before. She looked just like she did most days back then--a glamour queen, a movie star ("Just like Lena Horne," my friend Chloe had once said, "only darker--oh, sorry, Leah!"), but today her beauty somehow had a harder, more defiant edge to it. I could smell the expensive Dior perfume as soon as I opened the door, which surprised me, because my mom was usually fastidious about not getting perfume on her clothes. She was wearing her bug glasses--huge dark things with lenses that bulged out like fly eyes and reflected my face like a fun-house mirror. She had tied a yellow silk scarf around her hair and was taking deep pulls on a cigarette held between two immaculately manicured fingers. Only I knew about the nicotine stains she carefully covered with her special order "forest sable" cream each morning.
Tiffany, a stupid but vicious senator's daughter who I had the misfortune of sharing a classroom with, suddenly dashed from inside the school, her face flushed.
"Hello, Mrs. Wilson," she called. Before my mother could respond, she giggled and ran back to three of her friends waiting beyond the door. I could hear them laughing, but I was glad I couldn't understand their words. They were all fascinated with my mother--the black housekeeper who dressed like Katharine Hepburn and drove a Cadillac, whose daughter's "light toffee" skin indicated that she might just like her coffee with a lot of cream.
Sometimes I hated those girls.
"Get in the car, Leah," my mother said. Her already husky voice was pitched low, as though she'd been crying. That made me nervous. Why was she here?
"Ma, Chloe was going to show me her dad's new camera. Can't I go home on the bus?"
My mom pulled on the cigarette until it burned the filter, and then ground it into the car ashtray--already filled with forty or so butts. She always emptied out the ashtray each evening. | For how long were the girls probably laughing? | Event_duration | [
"a few months",
"a couple of minutes",
"a few days",
"not enough information"
] | 1 |
f045_17 | f045 | 17 | fiction | {
"author": "Alaya Dawn Johnson",
"title": "Shard of Glass",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/johnsonadother07shard_of_glass/0.html"
} | That day, my mother picked me up from school, wearing the yellow sundress and shawl I remembered from our trip with Father the year before. She looked just like she did most days back then--a glamour queen, a movie star ("Just like Lena Horne," my friend Chloe had once said, "only darker--oh, sorry, Leah!"), but today her beauty somehow had a harder, more defiant edge to it. I could smell the expensive Dior perfume as soon as I opened the door, which surprised me, because my mom was usually fastidious about not getting perfume on her clothes. She was wearing her bug glasses--huge dark things with lenses that bulged out like fly eyes and reflected my face like a fun-house mirror. She had tied a yellow silk scarf around her hair and was taking deep pulls on a cigarette held between two immaculately manicured fingers. Only I knew about the nicotine stains she carefully covered with her special order "forest sable" cream each morning.
Tiffany, a stupid but vicious senator's daughter who I had the misfortune of sharing a classroom with, suddenly dashed from inside the school, her face flushed.
"Hello, Mrs. Wilson," she called. Before my mother could respond, she giggled and ran back to three of her friends waiting beyond the door. I could hear them laughing, but I was glad I couldn't understand their words. They were all fascinated with my mother--the black housekeeper who dressed like Katharine Hepburn and drove a Cadillac, whose daughter's "light toffee" skin indicated that she might just like her coffee with a lot of cream.
Sometimes I hated those girls.
"Get in the car, Leah," my mother said. Her already husky voice was pitched low, as though she'd been crying. That made me nervous. Why was she here?
"Ma, Chloe was going to show me her dad's new camera. Can't I go home on the bus?"
My mom pulled on the cigarette until it burned the filter, and then ground it into the car ashtray--already filled with forty or so butts. She always emptied out the ashtray each evening. | Why did Mrs.Wilson come to school? | Causality | [
"To see Chloe's new camera",
"not enough information",
"To drive Leah home",
"To greet Tiffany"
] | 2 |
f045_18 | f045 | 18 | fiction | {
"author": "Alaya Dawn Johnson",
"title": "Shard of Glass",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/johnsonadother07shard_of_glass/0.html"
} | That day, my mother picked me up from school, wearing the yellow sundress and shawl I remembered from our trip with Father the year before. She looked just like she did most days back then--a glamour queen, a movie star ("Just like Lena Horne," my friend Chloe had once said, "only darker--oh, sorry, Leah!"), but today her beauty somehow had a harder, more defiant edge to it. I could smell the expensive Dior perfume as soon as I opened the door, which surprised me, because my mom was usually fastidious about not getting perfume on her clothes. She was wearing her bug glasses--huge dark things with lenses that bulged out like fly eyes and reflected my face like a fun-house mirror. She had tied a yellow silk scarf around her hair and was taking deep pulls on a cigarette held between two immaculately manicured fingers. Only I knew about the nicotine stains she carefully covered with her special order "forest sable" cream each morning.
Tiffany, a stupid but vicious senator's daughter who I had the misfortune of sharing a classroom with, suddenly dashed from inside the school, her face flushed.
"Hello, Mrs. Wilson," she called. Before my mother could respond, she giggled and ran back to three of her friends waiting beyond the door. I could hear them laughing, but I was glad I couldn't understand their words. They were all fascinated with my mother--the black housekeeper who dressed like Katharine Hepburn and drove a Cadillac, whose daughter's "light toffee" skin indicated that she might just like her coffee with a lot of cream.
Sometimes I hated those girls.
"Get in the car, Leah," my mother said. Her already husky voice was pitched low, as though she'd been crying. That made me nervous. Why was she here?
"Ma, Chloe was going to show me her dad's new camera. Can't I go home on the bus?"
My mom pulled on the cigarette until it burned the filter, and then ground it into the car ashtray--already filled with forty or so butts. She always emptied out the ashtray each evening. | What color shoes was Mrs. Wilson wearing? | Unanswerable | [
"not enough information",
"Black",
"Forest Sable",
"Yellow"
] | 0 |
f045_19 | f045 | 19 | fiction | {
"author": "Alaya Dawn Johnson",
"title": "Shard of Glass",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/johnsonadother07shard_of_glass/0.html"
} | That day, my mother picked me up from school, wearing the yellow sundress and shawl I remembered from our trip with Father the year before. She looked just like she did most days back then--a glamour queen, a movie star ("Just like Lena Horne," my friend Chloe had once said, "only darker--oh, sorry, Leah!"), but today her beauty somehow had a harder, more defiant edge to it. I could smell the expensive Dior perfume as soon as I opened the door, which surprised me, because my mom was usually fastidious about not getting perfume on her clothes. She was wearing her bug glasses--huge dark things with lenses that bulged out like fly eyes and reflected my face like a fun-house mirror. She had tied a yellow silk scarf around her hair and was taking deep pulls on a cigarette held between two immaculately manicured fingers. Only I knew about the nicotine stains she carefully covered with her special order "forest sable" cream each morning.
Tiffany, a stupid but vicious senator's daughter who I had the misfortune of sharing a classroom with, suddenly dashed from inside the school, her face flushed.
"Hello, Mrs. Wilson," she called. Before my mother could respond, she giggled and ran back to three of her friends waiting beyond the door. I could hear them laughing, but I was glad I couldn't understand their words. They were all fascinated with my mother--the black housekeeper who dressed like Katharine Hepburn and drove a Cadillac, whose daughter's "light toffee" skin indicated that she might just like her coffee with a lot of cream.
Sometimes I hated those girls.
"Get in the car, Leah," my mother said. Her already husky voice was pitched low, as though she'd been crying. That made me nervous. Why was she here?
"Ma, Chloe was going to show me her dad's new camera. Can't I go home on the bus?"
My mom pulled on the cigarette until it burned the filter, and then ground it into the car ashtray--already filled with forty or so butts. She always emptied out the ashtray each evening. | What did the mother drive? | Factual | [
"Mercedes Benz",
"Cadillac",
"not enough information",
"Porche"
] | 1 |
f045_20 | f045 | 20 | fiction | {
"author": "Alaya Dawn Johnson",
"title": "Shard of Glass",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/johnsonadother07shard_of_glass/0.html"
} | That day, my mother picked me up from school, wearing the yellow sundress and shawl I remembered from our trip with Father the year before. She looked just like she did most days back then--a glamour queen, a movie star ("Just like Lena Horne," my friend Chloe had once said, "only darker--oh, sorry, Leah!"), but today her beauty somehow had a harder, more defiant edge to it. I could smell the expensive Dior perfume as soon as I opened the door, which surprised me, because my mom was usually fastidious about not getting perfume on her clothes. She was wearing her bug glasses--huge dark things with lenses that bulged out like fly eyes and reflected my face like a fun-house mirror. She had tied a yellow silk scarf around her hair and was taking deep pulls on a cigarette held between two immaculately manicured fingers. Only I knew about the nicotine stains she carefully covered with her special order "forest sable" cream each morning.
Tiffany, a stupid but vicious senator's daughter who I had the misfortune of sharing a classroom with, suddenly dashed from inside the school, her face flushed.
"Hello, Mrs. Wilson," she called. Before my mother could respond, she giggled and ran back to three of her friends waiting beyond the door. I could hear them laughing, but I was glad I couldn't understand their words. They were all fascinated with my mother--the black housekeeper who dressed like Katharine Hepburn and drove a Cadillac, whose daughter's "light toffee" skin indicated that she might just like her coffee with a lot of cream.
Sometimes I hated those girls.
"Get in the car, Leah," my mother said. Her already husky voice was pitched low, as though she'd been crying. That made me nervous. Why was she here?
"Ma, Chloe was going to show me her dad's new camera. Can't I go home on the bus?"
My mom pulled on the cigarette until it burned the filter, and then ground it into the car ashtray--already filled with forty or so butts. She always emptied out the ashtray each evening. | Who greeted mrs. Wilson? | Factual | [
"Chloe",
"Samantha",
"not enough information",
"Tiffany"
] | 3 |
f046_0 | f046 | 0 | fiction | {
"author": "Jim Hanas",
"title": "Miss Tennessee b/w The Cryerer",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/hanasjother07single/0.html"
} | I loved the little guy from the day she brought him home. She carried him wrapped in a sweatshirt from the shelter at the corner where she'd been saying for months she was going to go. She set him down on the hardwood floor and he clipped around like a fawn - - clip, clip -- looking through doorways and carefully eyeing us both. He was tiny but he was strong. He was muscular and sleek, like a miniature greyhound, and we both watched intently as he clipped around, soldiering things out and whining under his breath.
Miss Tennessee looked at me and smiled and said: "Well honey? What do you think?" And I told her: "I love the little guy."
He was never really my dog. He was more like my step-dog, but together we named him Steve. We thought it was funny, giving a dog a man's name like that. But it fit, like Miss Tennessee, which I started just to tease her about being full-grown and long- legged and pretty, but in a tomboyish way that made it both absolutely ridiculous and absolutely plausible that she had ever been Miss Anything. It always made her swallow a grin. Steve's name, on the other hand, made it sound like he wasn't a dog at all, but this little man. Miss Tennessee often called him that: the little man.
Steve liked me okay but he loved Miss Tennessee. With me it was man things. After he got snipped or when he was stung by bees, down there, in grass that came up to his chin, he would come sit by me, hoping I'd understand. With her, it was everything else. When she took a bath, he stood with his paws on the side of the tub, and when she went someplace he couldn't go he stood where he last saw her and waited. If she went into a store and left us together in the car, he stood with his paws on the dashboard, waiting and crying and looking at me like maybe I was to blame. | What does the author think of Steve when he first saw him? | Belief_states | [
"That he was funny.",
"That he was long-legged .",
"That he was tiny.",
"not enough information"
] | 2 |
f046_1 | f046 | 1 | fiction | {
"author": "Jim Hanas",
"title": "Miss Tennessee b/w The Cryerer",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/hanasjother07single/0.html"
} | I loved the little guy from the day she brought him home. She carried him wrapped in a sweatshirt from the shelter at the corner where she'd been saying for months she was going to go. She set him down on the hardwood floor and he clipped around like a fawn - - clip, clip -- looking through doorways and carefully eyeing us both. He was tiny but he was strong. He was muscular and sleek, like a miniature greyhound, and we both watched intently as he clipped around, soldiering things out and whining under his breath.
Miss Tennessee looked at me and smiled and said: "Well honey? What do you think?" And I told her: "I love the little guy."
He was never really my dog. He was more like my step-dog, but together we named him Steve. We thought it was funny, giving a dog a man's name like that. But it fit, like Miss Tennessee, which I started just to tease her about being full-grown and long- legged and pretty, but in a tomboyish way that made it both absolutely ridiculous and absolutely plausible that she had ever been Miss Anything. It always made her swallow a grin. Steve's name, on the other hand, made it sound like he wasn't a dog at all, but this little man. Miss Tennessee often called him that: the little man.
Steve liked me okay but he loved Miss Tennessee. With me it was man things. After he got snipped or when he was stung by bees, down there, in grass that came up to his chin, he would come sit by me, hoping I'd understand. With her, it was everything else. When she took a bath, he stood with his paws on the side of the tub, and when she went someplace he couldn't go he stood where he last saw her and waited. If she went into a store and left us together in the car, he stood with his paws on the dashboard, waiting and crying and looking at me like maybe I was to blame. | Who was called "honey"? | Character_identity | [
"the narrator",
"not enough information",
"Steve",
"Miss Tennessee"
] | 0 |
f046_2 | f046 | 2 | fiction | {
"author": "Jim Hanas",
"title": "Miss Tennessee b/w The Cryerer",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/hanasjother07single/0.html"
} | I loved the little guy from the day she brought him home. She carried him wrapped in a sweatshirt from the shelter at the corner where she'd been saying for months she was going to go. She set him down on the hardwood floor and he clipped around like a fawn - - clip, clip -- looking through doorways and carefully eyeing us both. He was tiny but he was strong. He was muscular and sleek, like a miniature greyhound, and we both watched intently as he clipped around, soldiering things out and whining under his breath.
Miss Tennessee looked at me and smiled and said: "Well honey? What do you think?" And I told her: "I love the little guy."
He was never really my dog. He was more like my step-dog, but together we named him Steve. We thought it was funny, giving a dog a man's name like that. But it fit, like Miss Tennessee, which I started just to tease her about being full-grown and long- legged and pretty, but in a tomboyish way that made it both absolutely ridiculous and absolutely plausible that she had ever been Miss Anything. It always made her swallow a grin. Steve's name, on the other hand, made it sound like he wasn't a dog at all, but this little man. Miss Tennessee often called him that: the little man.
Steve liked me okay but he loved Miss Tennessee. With me it was man things. After he got snipped or when he was stung by bees, down there, in grass that came up to his chin, he would come sit by me, hoping I'd understand. With her, it was everything else. When she took a bath, he stood with his paws on the side of the tub, and when she went someplace he couldn't go he stood where he last saw her and waited. If she went into a store and left us together in the car, he stood with his paws on the dashboard, waiting and crying and looking at me like maybe I was to blame. | Where did Miss Tennessee get Steve from? | Factual | [
"not enough information",
"The shelter",
"He was a stray",
"The pet store"
] | 1 |
f046_3 | f046 | 3 | fiction | {
"author": "Jim Hanas",
"title": "Miss Tennessee b/w The Cryerer",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/hanasjother07single/0.html"
} | I loved the little guy from the day she brought him home. She carried him wrapped in a sweatshirt from the shelter at the corner where she'd been saying for months she was going to go. She set him down on the hardwood floor and he clipped around like a fawn - - clip, clip -- looking through doorways and carefully eyeing us both. He was tiny but he was strong. He was muscular and sleek, like a miniature greyhound, and we both watched intently as he clipped around, soldiering things out and whining under his breath.
Miss Tennessee looked at me and smiled and said: "Well honey? What do you think?" And I told her: "I love the little guy."
He was never really my dog. He was more like my step-dog, but together we named him Steve. We thought it was funny, giving a dog a man's name like that. But it fit, like Miss Tennessee, which I started just to tease her about being full-grown and long- legged and pretty, but in a tomboyish way that made it both absolutely ridiculous and absolutely plausible that she had ever been Miss Anything. It always made her swallow a grin. Steve's name, on the other hand, made it sound like he wasn't a dog at all, but this little man. Miss Tennessee often called him that: the little man.
Steve liked me okay but he loved Miss Tennessee. With me it was man things. After he got snipped or when he was stung by bees, down there, in grass that came up to his chin, he would come sit by me, hoping I'd understand. With her, it was everything else. When she took a bath, he stood with his paws on the side of the tub, and when she went someplace he couldn't go he stood where he last saw her and waited. If she went into a store and left us together in the car, he stood with his paws on the dashboard, waiting and crying and looking at me like maybe I was to blame. | How did the narrator make Miss Tennessee grin? | Causality | [
"By teasing her",
"not enough information",
"Waiting with Steve in the car",
"Playing with Steve"
] | 0 |
f046_4 | f046 | 4 | fiction | {
"author": "Jim Hanas",
"title": "Miss Tennessee b/w The Cryerer",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/hanasjother07single/0.html"
} | I loved the little guy from the day she brought him home. She carried him wrapped in a sweatshirt from the shelter at the corner where she'd been saying for months she was going to go. She set him down on the hardwood floor and he clipped around like a fawn - - clip, clip -- looking through doorways and carefully eyeing us both. He was tiny but he was strong. He was muscular and sleek, like a miniature greyhound, and we both watched intently as he clipped around, soldiering things out and whining under his breath.
Miss Tennessee looked at me and smiled and said: "Well honey? What do you think?" And I told her: "I love the little guy."
He was never really my dog. He was more like my step-dog, but together we named him Steve. We thought it was funny, giving a dog a man's name like that. But it fit, like Miss Tennessee, which I started just to tease her about being full-grown and long- legged and pretty, but in a tomboyish way that made it both absolutely ridiculous and absolutely plausible that she had ever been Miss Anything. It always made her swallow a grin. Steve's name, on the other hand, made it sound like he wasn't a dog at all, but this little man. Miss Tennessee often called him that: the little man.
Steve liked me okay but he loved Miss Tennessee. With me it was man things. After he got snipped or when he was stung by bees, down there, in grass that came up to his chin, he would come sit by me, hoping I'd understand. With her, it was everything else. When she took a bath, he stood with his paws on the side of the tub, and when she went someplace he couldn't go he stood where he last saw her and waited. If she went into a store and left us together in the car, he stood with his paws on the dashboard, waiting and crying and looking at me like maybe I was to blame. | What breed is Steve? | Unanswerable | [
"not enough information",
"Labrador retriever",
"Doberman pinscher",
"Boxer"
] | 0 |
f046_5 | f046 | 5 | fiction | {
"author": "Jim Hanas",
"title": "Miss Tennessee b/w The Cryerer",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/hanasjother07single/0.html"
} | I loved the little guy from the day she brought him home. She carried him wrapped in a sweatshirt from the shelter at the corner where she'd been saying for months she was going to go. She set him down on the hardwood floor and he clipped around like a fawn - - clip, clip -- looking through doorways and carefully eyeing us both. He was tiny but he was strong. He was muscular and sleek, like a miniature greyhound, and we both watched intently as he clipped around, soldiering things out and whining under his breath.
Miss Tennessee looked at me and smiled and said: "Well honey? What do you think?" And I told her: "I love the little guy."
He was never really my dog. He was more like my step-dog, but together we named him Steve. We thought it was funny, giving a dog a man's name like that. But it fit, like Miss Tennessee, which I started just to tease her about being full-grown and long- legged and pretty, but in a tomboyish way that made it both absolutely ridiculous and absolutely plausible that she had ever been Miss Anything. It always made her swallow a grin. Steve's name, on the other hand, made it sound like he wasn't a dog at all, but this little man. Miss Tennessee often called him that: the little man.
Steve liked me okay but he loved Miss Tennessee. With me it was man things. After he got snipped or when he was stung by bees, down there, in grass that came up to his chin, he would come sit by me, hoping I'd understand. With her, it was everything else. When she took a bath, he stood with his paws on the side of the tub, and when she went someplace he couldn't go he stood where he last saw her and waited. If she went into a store and left us together in the car, he stood with his paws on the dashboard, waiting and crying and looking at me like maybe I was to blame. | What kind of feelings did Steve have for Miss Tennessee? | Factual | [
"Very positive feelings.",
"Ambivalent feelings.",
"Very negative feelings.",
"not enough information"
] | 0 |
f046_6 | f046 | 6 | fiction | {
"author": "Jim Hanas",
"title": "Miss Tennessee b/w The Cryerer",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/hanasjother07single/0.html"
} | I loved the little guy from the day she brought him home. She carried him wrapped in a sweatshirt from the shelter at the corner where she'd been saying for months she was going to go. She set him down on the hardwood floor and he clipped around like a fawn - - clip, clip -- looking through doorways and carefully eyeing us both. He was tiny but he was strong. He was muscular and sleek, like a miniature greyhound, and we both watched intently as he clipped around, soldiering things out and whining under his breath.
Miss Tennessee looked at me and smiled and said: "Well honey? What do you think?" And I told her: "I love the little guy."
He was never really my dog. He was more like my step-dog, but together we named him Steve. We thought it was funny, giving a dog a man's name like that. But it fit, like Miss Tennessee, which I started just to tease her about being full-grown and long- legged and pretty, but in a tomboyish way that made it both absolutely ridiculous and absolutely plausible that she had ever been Miss Anything. It always made her swallow a grin. Steve's name, on the other hand, made it sound like he wasn't a dog at all, but this little man. Miss Tennessee often called him that: the little man.
Steve liked me okay but he loved Miss Tennessee. With me it was man things. After he got snipped or when he was stung by bees, down there, in grass that came up to his chin, he would come sit by me, hoping I'd understand. With her, it was everything else. When she took a bath, he stood with his paws on the side of the tub, and when she went someplace he couldn't go he stood where he last saw her and waited. If she went into a store and left us together in the car, he stood with his paws on the dashboard, waiting and crying and looking at me like maybe I was to blame. | When was Miss Tennessee carrying Steve wrapped in a sweatshirt? | Temporal_order | [
"After he started looking through doorways.",
"Before she set him down on the hardwood floor.",
"not enough information",
"After she set him down on the hardwood floor."
] | 1 |
f046_7 | f046 | 7 | fiction | {
"author": "Jim Hanas",
"title": "Miss Tennessee b/w The Cryerer",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/hanasjother07single/0.html"
} | I loved the little guy from the day she brought him home. She carried him wrapped in a sweatshirt from the shelter at the corner where she'd been saying for months she was going to go. She set him down on the hardwood floor and he clipped around like a fawn - - clip, clip -- looking through doorways and carefully eyeing us both. He was tiny but he was strong. He was muscular and sleek, like a miniature greyhound, and we both watched intently as he clipped around, soldiering things out and whining under his breath.
Miss Tennessee looked at me and smiled and said: "Well honey? What do you think?" And I told her: "I love the little guy."
He was never really my dog. He was more like my step-dog, but together we named him Steve. We thought it was funny, giving a dog a man's name like that. But it fit, like Miss Tennessee, which I started just to tease her about being full-grown and long- legged and pretty, but in a tomboyish way that made it both absolutely ridiculous and absolutely plausible that she had ever been Miss Anything. It always made her swallow a grin. Steve's name, on the other hand, made it sound like he wasn't a dog at all, but this little man. Miss Tennessee often called him that: the little man.
Steve liked me okay but he loved Miss Tennessee. With me it was man things. After he got snipped or when he was stung by bees, down there, in grass that came up to his chin, he would come sit by me, hoping I'd understand. With her, it was everything else. When she took a bath, he stood with his paws on the side of the tub, and when she went someplace he couldn't go he stood where he last saw her and waited. If she went into a store and left us together in the car, he stood with his paws on the dashboard, waiting and crying and looking at me like maybe I was to blame. | Who was called the little man? | Character_identity | [
"not enough information",
"The narrator",
"Steve",
"Miss Tennessee"
] | 2 |
f046_8 | f046 | 8 | fiction | {
"author": "Jim Hanas",
"title": "Miss Tennessee b/w The Cryerer",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/hanasjother07single/0.html"
} | I loved the little guy from the day she brought him home. She carried him wrapped in a sweatshirt from the shelter at the corner where she'd been saying for months she was going to go. She set him down on the hardwood floor and he clipped around like a fawn - - clip, clip -- looking through doorways and carefully eyeing us both. He was tiny but he was strong. He was muscular and sleek, like a miniature greyhound, and we both watched intently as he clipped around, soldiering things out and whining under his breath.
Miss Tennessee looked at me and smiled and said: "Well honey? What do you think?" And I told her: "I love the little guy."
He was never really my dog. He was more like my step-dog, but together we named him Steve. We thought it was funny, giving a dog a man's name like that. But it fit, like Miss Tennessee, which I started just to tease her about being full-grown and long- legged and pretty, but in a tomboyish way that made it both absolutely ridiculous and absolutely plausible that she had ever been Miss Anything. It always made her swallow a grin. Steve's name, on the other hand, made it sound like he wasn't a dog at all, but this little man. Miss Tennessee often called him that: the little man.
Steve liked me okay but he loved Miss Tennessee. With me it was man things. After he got snipped or when he was stung by bees, down there, in grass that came up to his chin, he would come sit by me, hoping I'd understand. With her, it was everything else. When she took a bath, he stood with his paws on the side of the tub, and when she went someplace he couldn't go he stood where he last saw her and waited. If she went into a store and left us together in the car, he stood with his paws on the dashboard, waiting and crying and looking at me like maybe I was to blame. | Did Steve sit with the narrator: | Temporal_order | [
"before Miss Tennessee went in the store",
"after he was stung by bees",
"not enough information",
"after he was brought from the shelter"
] | 1 |
f046_9 | f046 | 9 | fiction | {
"author": "Jim Hanas",
"title": "Miss Tennessee b/w The Cryerer",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/hanasjother07single/0.html"
} | I loved the little guy from the day she brought him home. She carried him wrapped in a sweatshirt from the shelter at the corner where she'd been saying for months she was going to go. She set him down on the hardwood floor and he clipped around like a fawn - - clip, clip -- looking through doorways and carefully eyeing us both. He was tiny but he was strong. He was muscular and sleek, like a miniature greyhound, and we both watched intently as he clipped around, soldiering things out and whining under his breath.
Miss Tennessee looked at me and smiled and said: "Well honey? What do you think?" And I told her: "I love the little guy."
He was never really my dog. He was more like my step-dog, but together we named him Steve. We thought it was funny, giving a dog a man's name like that. But it fit, like Miss Tennessee, which I started just to tease her about being full-grown and long- legged and pretty, but in a tomboyish way that made it both absolutely ridiculous and absolutely plausible that she had ever been Miss Anything. It always made her swallow a grin. Steve's name, on the other hand, made it sound like he wasn't a dog at all, but this little man. Miss Tennessee often called him that: the little man.
Steve liked me okay but he loved Miss Tennessee. With me it was man things. After he got snipped or when he was stung by bees, down there, in grass that came up to his chin, he would come sit by me, hoping I'd understand. With her, it was everything else. When she took a bath, he stood with his paws on the side of the tub, and when she went someplace he couldn't go he stood where he last saw her and waited. If she went into a store and left us together in the car, he stood with his paws on the dashboard, waiting and crying and looking at me like maybe I was to blame. | Why did the author tell Miss Tennessee that he "loves the little guy"? | Causality | [
"not enough information",
"Because he liked the dog.",
"Because she went in the store and left Steve in the car.",
"Because she brought a dog."
] | 1 |
f046_10 | f046 | 10 | fiction | {
"author": "Jim Hanas",
"title": "Miss Tennessee b/w The Cryerer",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/hanasjother07single/0.html"
} | I loved the little guy from the day she brought him home. She carried him wrapped in a sweatshirt from the shelter at the corner where she'd been saying for months she was going to go. She set him down on the hardwood floor and he clipped around like a fawn - - clip, clip -- looking through doorways and carefully eyeing us both. He was tiny but he was strong. He was muscular and sleek, like a miniature greyhound, and we both watched intently as he clipped around, soldiering things out and whining under his breath.
Miss Tennessee looked at me and smiled and said: "Well honey? What do you think?" And I told her: "I love the little guy."
He was never really my dog. He was more like my step-dog, but together we named him Steve. We thought it was funny, giving a dog a man's name like that. But it fit, like Miss Tennessee, which I started just to tease her about being full-grown and long- legged and pretty, but in a tomboyish way that made it both absolutely ridiculous and absolutely plausible that she had ever been Miss Anything. It always made her swallow a grin. Steve's name, on the other hand, made it sound like he wasn't a dog at all, but this little man. Miss Tennessee often called him that: the little man.
Steve liked me okay but he loved Miss Tennessee. With me it was man things. After he got snipped or when he was stung by bees, down there, in grass that came up to his chin, he would come sit by me, hoping I'd understand. With her, it was everything else. When she took a bath, he stood with his paws on the side of the tub, and when she went someplace he couldn't go he stood where he last saw her and waited. If she went into a store and left us together in the car, he stood with his paws on the dashboard, waiting and crying and looking at me like maybe I was to blame. | Who is the narrator? | Unanswerable | [
"Miss Tennessee's husband",
"Miss Tennessee's date",
"Miss Tennessee's boyfriend",
"not enough information"
] | 3 |
f046_11 | f046 | 11 | fiction | {
"author": "Jim Hanas",
"title": "Miss Tennessee b/w The Cryerer",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/hanasjother07single/0.html"
} | I loved the little guy from the day she brought him home. She carried him wrapped in a sweatshirt from the shelter at the corner where she'd been saying for months she was going to go. She set him down on the hardwood floor and he clipped around like a fawn - - clip, clip -- looking through doorways and carefully eyeing us both. He was tiny but he was strong. He was muscular and sleek, like a miniature greyhound, and we both watched intently as he clipped around, soldiering things out and whining under his breath.
Miss Tennessee looked at me and smiled and said: "Well honey? What do you think?" And I told her: "I love the little guy."
He was never really my dog. He was more like my step-dog, but together we named him Steve. We thought it was funny, giving a dog a man's name like that. But it fit, like Miss Tennessee, which I started just to tease her about being full-grown and long- legged and pretty, but in a tomboyish way that made it both absolutely ridiculous and absolutely plausible that she had ever been Miss Anything. It always made her swallow a grin. Steve's name, on the other hand, made it sound like he wasn't a dog at all, but this little man. Miss Tennessee often called him that: the little man.
Steve liked me okay but he loved Miss Tennessee. With me it was man things. After he got snipped or when he was stung by bees, down there, in grass that came up to his chin, he would come sit by me, hoping I'd understand. With her, it was everything else. When she took a bath, he stood with his paws on the side of the tub, and when she went someplace he couldn't go he stood where he last saw her and waited. If she went into a store and left us together in the car, he stood with his paws on the dashboard, waiting and crying and looking at me like maybe I was to blame. | Who does the narrator think Steve is closer to? | Belief_states | [
"not enough information",
"Neither",
"Miss Tennessee",
"Himself"
] | 2 |
f046_12 | f046 | 12 | fiction | {
"author": "Jim Hanas",
"title": "Miss Tennessee b/w The Cryerer",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/hanasjother07single/0.html"
} | I loved the little guy from the day she brought him home. She carried him wrapped in a sweatshirt from the shelter at the corner where she'd been saying for months she was going to go. She set him down on the hardwood floor and he clipped around like a fawn - - clip, clip -- looking through doorways and carefully eyeing us both. He was tiny but he was strong. He was muscular and sleek, like a miniature greyhound, and we both watched intently as he clipped around, soldiering things out and whining under his breath.
Miss Tennessee looked at me and smiled and said: "Well honey? What do you think?" And I told her: "I love the little guy."
He was never really my dog. He was more like my step-dog, but together we named him Steve. We thought it was funny, giving a dog a man's name like that. But it fit, like Miss Tennessee, which I started just to tease her about being full-grown and long- legged and pretty, but in a tomboyish way that made it both absolutely ridiculous and absolutely plausible that she had ever been Miss Anything. It always made her swallow a grin. Steve's name, on the other hand, made it sound like he wasn't a dog at all, but this little man. Miss Tennessee often called him that: the little man.
Steve liked me okay but he loved Miss Tennessee. With me it was man things. After he got snipped or when he was stung by bees, down there, in grass that came up to his chin, he would come sit by me, hoping I'd understand. With her, it was everything else. When she took a bath, he stood with his paws on the side of the tub, and when she went someplace he couldn't go he stood where he last saw her and waited. If she went into a store and left us together in the car, he stood with his paws on the dashboard, waiting and crying and looking at me like maybe I was to blame. | What is the most likely to be Steve's age when the narrator first met him? | Event_duration | [
"12 weeks old.",
"not enough information",
"8 yeas old.",
"4 years old."
] | 0 |
f046_13 | f046 | 13 | fiction | {
"author": "Jim Hanas",
"title": "Miss Tennessee b/w The Cryerer",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/hanasjother07single/0.html"
} | I loved the little guy from the day she brought him home. She carried him wrapped in a sweatshirt from the shelter at the corner where she'd been saying for months she was going to go. She set him down on the hardwood floor and he clipped around like a fawn - - clip, clip -- looking through doorways and carefully eyeing us both. He was tiny but he was strong. He was muscular and sleek, like a miniature greyhound, and we both watched intently as he clipped around, soldiering things out and whining under his breath.
Miss Tennessee looked at me and smiled and said: "Well honey? What do you think?" And I told her: "I love the little guy."
He was never really my dog. He was more like my step-dog, but together we named him Steve. We thought it was funny, giving a dog a man's name like that. But it fit, like Miss Tennessee, which I started just to tease her about being full-grown and long- legged and pretty, but in a tomboyish way that made it both absolutely ridiculous and absolutely plausible that she had ever been Miss Anything. It always made her swallow a grin. Steve's name, on the other hand, made it sound like he wasn't a dog at all, but this little man. Miss Tennessee often called him that: the little man.
Steve liked me okay but he loved Miss Tennessee. With me it was man things. After he got snipped or when he was stung by bees, down there, in grass that came up to his chin, he would come sit by me, hoping I'd understand. With her, it was everything else. When she took a bath, he stood with his paws on the side of the tub, and when she went someplace he couldn't go he stood where he last saw her and waited. If she went into a store and left us together in the car, he stood with his paws on the dashboard, waiting and crying and looking at me like maybe I was to blame. | What is the most likely relation between the author and Miss Tennessee? | Entity_properties | [
"He is heer grandfather.",
"not enough information",
"He is her boss.",
"He is her significant other."
] | 3 |
f046_14 | f046 | 14 | fiction | {
"author": "Jim Hanas",
"title": "Miss Tennessee b/w The Cryerer",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/hanasjother07single/0.html"
} | I loved the little guy from the day she brought him home. She carried him wrapped in a sweatshirt from the shelter at the corner where she'd been saying for months she was going to go. She set him down on the hardwood floor and he clipped around like a fawn - - clip, clip -- looking through doorways and carefully eyeing us both. He was tiny but he was strong. He was muscular and sleek, like a miniature greyhound, and we both watched intently as he clipped around, soldiering things out and whining under his breath.
Miss Tennessee looked at me and smiled and said: "Well honey? What do you think?" And I told her: "I love the little guy."
He was never really my dog. He was more like my step-dog, but together we named him Steve. We thought it was funny, giving a dog a man's name like that. But it fit, like Miss Tennessee, which I started just to tease her about being full-grown and long- legged and pretty, but in a tomboyish way that made it both absolutely ridiculous and absolutely plausible that she had ever been Miss Anything. It always made her swallow a grin. Steve's name, on the other hand, made it sound like he wasn't a dog at all, but this little man. Miss Tennessee often called him that: the little man.
Steve liked me okay but he loved Miss Tennessee. With me it was man things. After he got snipped or when he was stung by bees, down there, in grass that came up to his chin, he would come sit by me, hoping I'd understand. With her, it was everything else. When she took a bath, he stood with his paws on the side of the tub, and when she went someplace he couldn't go he stood where he last saw her and waited. If she went into a store and left us together in the car, he stood with his paws on the dashboard, waiting and crying and looking at me like maybe I was to blame. | What would probably happen after Steve stood with his paws on the dashboard of the car? | Subsequent_state | [
"Miss Tennessee would never return.",
"The author scolded and smacked Steve.",
"not enough information",
"Miss Tennessee would come back from the store."
] | 3 |
f046_15 | f046 | 15 | fiction | {
"author": "Jim Hanas",
"title": "Miss Tennessee b/w The Cryerer",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/hanasjother07single/0.html"
} | I loved the little guy from the day she brought him home. She carried him wrapped in a sweatshirt from the shelter at the corner where she'd been saying for months she was going to go. She set him down on the hardwood floor and he clipped around like a fawn - - clip, clip -- looking through doorways and carefully eyeing us both. He was tiny but he was strong. He was muscular and sleek, like a miniature greyhound, and we both watched intently as he clipped around, soldiering things out and whining under his breath.
Miss Tennessee looked at me and smiled and said: "Well honey? What do you think?" And I told her: "I love the little guy."
He was never really my dog. He was more like my step-dog, but together we named him Steve. We thought it was funny, giving a dog a man's name like that. But it fit, like Miss Tennessee, which I started just to tease her about being full-grown and long- legged and pretty, but in a tomboyish way that made it both absolutely ridiculous and absolutely plausible that she had ever been Miss Anything. It always made her swallow a grin. Steve's name, on the other hand, made it sound like he wasn't a dog at all, but this little man. Miss Tennessee often called him that: the little man.
Steve liked me okay but he loved Miss Tennessee. With me it was man things. After he got snipped or when he was stung by bees, down there, in grass that came up to his chin, he would come sit by me, hoping I'd understand. With her, it was everything else. When she took a bath, he stood with his paws on the side of the tub, and when she went someplace he couldn't go he stood where he last saw her and waited. If she went into a store and left us together in the car, he stood with his paws on the dashboard, waiting and crying and looking at me like maybe I was to blame. | What is probably true about Miss Tennessee? | Entity_properties | [
"She likes cats",
"She likes fish",
"not enough information",
"She likes dogs"
] | 3 |
f046_16 | f046 | 16 | fiction | {
"author": "Jim Hanas",
"title": "Miss Tennessee b/w The Cryerer",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/hanasjother07single/0.html"
} | I loved the little guy from the day she brought him home. She carried him wrapped in a sweatshirt from the shelter at the corner where she'd been saying for months she was going to go. She set him down on the hardwood floor and he clipped around like a fawn - - clip, clip -- looking through doorways and carefully eyeing us both. He was tiny but he was strong. He was muscular and sleek, like a miniature greyhound, and we both watched intently as he clipped around, soldiering things out and whining under his breath.
Miss Tennessee looked at me and smiled and said: "Well honey? What do you think?" And I told her: "I love the little guy."
He was never really my dog. He was more like my step-dog, but together we named him Steve. We thought it was funny, giving a dog a man's name like that. But it fit, like Miss Tennessee, which I started just to tease her about being full-grown and long- legged and pretty, but in a tomboyish way that made it both absolutely ridiculous and absolutely plausible that she had ever been Miss Anything. It always made her swallow a grin. Steve's name, on the other hand, made it sound like he wasn't a dog at all, but this little man. Miss Tennessee often called him that: the little man.
Steve liked me okay but he loved Miss Tennessee. With me it was man things. After he got snipped or when he was stung by bees, down there, in grass that came up to his chin, he would come sit by me, hoping I'd understand. With her, it was everything else. When she took a bath, he stood with his paws on the side of the tub, and when she went someplace he couldn't go he stood where he last saw her and waited. If she went into a store and left us together in the car, he stood with his paws on the dashboard, waiting and crying and looking at me like maybe I was to blame. | About how many months did Miss Tennessee probably talk about going to the shelter? | Event_duration | [
"not enough information",
"over 20",
"over 10",
"Several"
] | 3 |
f046_17 | f046 | 17 | fiction | {
"author": "Jim Hanas",
"title": "Miss Tennessee b/w The Cryerer",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/hanasjother07single/0.html"
} | I loved the little guy from the day she brought him home. She carried him wrapped in a sweatshirt from the shelter at the corner where she'd been saying for months she was going to go. She set him down on the hardwood floor and he clipped around like a fawn - - clip, clip -- looking through doorways and carefully eyeing us both. He was tiny but he was strong. He was muscular and sleek, like a miniature greyhound, and we both watched intently as he clipped around, soldiering things out and whining under his breath.
Miss Tennessee looked at me and smiled and said: "Well honey? What do you think?" And I told her: "I love the little guy."
He was never really my dog. He was more like my step-dog, but together we named him Steve. We thought it was funny, giving a dog a man's name like that. But it fit, like Miss Tennessee, which I started just to tease her about being full-grown and long- legged and pretty, but in a tomboyish way that made it both absolutely ridiculous and absolutely plausible that she had ever been Miss Anything. It always made her swallow a grin. Steve's name, on the other hand, made it sound like he wasn't a dog at all, but this little man. Miss Tennessee often called him that: the little man.
Steve liked me okay but he loved Miss Tennessee. With me it was man things. After he got snipped or when he was stung by bees, down there, in grass that came up to his chin, he would come sit by me, hoping I'd understand. With her, it was everything else. When she took a bath, he stood with his paws on the side of the tub, and when she went someplace he couldn't go he stood where he last saw her and waited. If she went into a store and left us together in the car, he stood with his paws on the dashboard, waiting and crying and looking at me like maybe I was to blame. | What is the narrator feeling at the end of the story? | Subsequent_state | [
"Nervous",
"Angry",
"Nostalgic",
"not enough information"
] | 2 |
f047_0 | f047 | 0 | fiction | {
"author": "Tom Maddox",
"title": "Snake Eyes",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/maddoxtother07Snake_Eyes/0.html"
} | Dark meat in the can--brown, oily, and flecked with mucus--gave off a repellent, fishy smell, and the taste of it rose in his throat, putrid and bitter, like something from a dead man's stomach. George Jordan sat on the kitchen floor and vomited, then pushed himself away from the shining pool, which looked very much like what remained in the can.
He thought, No, this won't do: I have wires in my head, and they make me eat cat food. The snake likes cat food
He needed help but know there was little point in calling the Air Force. He'd tried them, and there was no way they were going to admit responsibility for the monster in his head. What George called the snake, the Air Force called Effective Human Interface Technology and didn't want to hear about any postdischarge problems with it. They had their own problems with congressional committees investigating "the conduct of the war in Thailand."
He lay for a while with his cheek on the cold linoleum, got up and rinsed his mouth in the sink, then stuck his head under the faucet and ran cold water over it, thinking, Call the goddamned multicomp, then call SenTrax and say, "Is it true you can do something about this incubus that wants to take possession of my soul?" And if they ask you, "What's your problem?" you say "cat food," and maybe they'll say, "Hell, it just wants to take possession of your lunch"
A chair covered in brown corduroy stood in the middle of the barren living room, a white telephone on the floor beside it, a television flat against the opposite waIl--that was the whole thing, what might have been home, if it weren't for the snake.
He picked up the phone, called up the directory on its screen, and keyed TELECOM SENTRAX. | When did George stick his head under the faucet? | Temporal_order | [
"not enough information",
"After he rinsed his mouth in the sink.",
"Before he laid on the linoleum.",
"Before he vomited."
] | 1 |
f047_1 | f047 | 1 | fiction | {
"author": "Tom Maddox",
"title": "Snake Eyes",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/maddoxtother07Snake_Eyes/0.html"
} | Dark meat in the can--brown, oily, and flecked with mucus--gave off a repellent, fishy smell, and the taste of it rose in his throat, putrid and bitter, like something from a dead man's stomach. George Jordan sat on the kitchen floor and vomited, then pushed himself away from the shining pool, which looked very much like what remained in the can.
He thought, No, this won't do: I have wires in my head, and they make me eat cat food. The snake likes cat food
He needed help but know there was little point in calling the Air Force. He'd tried them, and there was no way they were going to admit responsibility for the monster in his head. What George called the snake, the Air Force called Effective Human Interface Technology and didn't want to hear about any postdischarge problems with it. They had their own problems with congressional committees investigating "the conduct of the war in Thailand."
He lay for a while with his cheek on the cold linoleum, got up and rinsed his mouth in the sink, then stuck his head under the faucet and ran cold water over it, thinking, Call the goddamned multicomp, then call SenTrax and say, "Is it true you can do something about this incubus that wants to take possession of my soul?" And if they ask you, "What's your problem?" you say "cat food," and maybe they'll say, "Hell, it just wants to take possession of your lunch"
A chair covered in brown corduroy stood in the middle of the barren living room, a white telephone on the floor beside it, a television flat against the opposite waIl--that was the whole thing, what might have been home, if it weren't for the snake.
He picked up the phone, called up the directory on its screen, and keyed TELECOM SENTRAX. | George believes that | Belief_states | [
"not enough information",
"the Air Force is responsible for the voices in his head",
"he is invincible",
"snakes like cat food"
] | 1 |
f047_2 | f047 | 2 | fiction | {
"author": "Tom Maddox",
"title": "Snake Eyes",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/maddoxtother07Snake_Eyes/0.html"
} | Dark meat in the can--brown, oily, and flecked with mucus--gave off a repellent, fishy smell, and the taste of it rose in his throat, putrid and bitter, like something from a dead man's stomach. George Jordan sat on the kitchen floor and vomited, then pushed himself away from the shining pool, which looked very much like what remained in the can.
He thought, No, this won't do: I have wires in my head, and they make me eat cat food. The snake likes cat food
He needed help but know there was little point in calling the Air Force. He'd tried them, and there was no way they were going to admit responsibility for the monster in his head. What George called the snake, the Air Force called Effective Human Interface Technology and didn't want to hear about any postdischarge problems with it. They had their own problems with congressional committees investigating "the conduct of the war in Thailand."
He lay for a while with his cheek on the cold linoleum, got up and rinsed his mouth in the sink, then stuck his head under the faucet and ran cold water over it, thinking, Call the goddamned multicomp, then call SenTrax and say, "Is it true you can do something about this incubus that wants to take possession of my soul?" And if they ask you, "What's your problem?" you say "cat food," and maybe they'll say, "Hell, it just wants to take possession of your lunch"
A chair covered in brown corduroy stood in the middle of the barren living room, a white telephone on the floor beside it, a television flat against the opposite waIl--that was the whole thing, what might have been home, if it weren't for the snake.
He picked up the phone, called up the directory on its screen, and keyed TELECOM SENTRAX. | Why did George vomit? | Causality | [
"not enough information",
"Because he was repulsed by the cat food.",
"Because he called the Air Force.",
"Because of the war in Thailand."
] | 1 |
f047_3 | f047 | 3 | fiction | {
"author": "Tom Maddox",
"title": "Snake Eyes",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/maddoxtother07Snake_Eyes/0.html"
} | Dark meat in the can--brown, oily, and flecked with mucus--gave off a repellent, fishy smell, and the taste of it rose in his throat, putrid and bitter, like something from a dead man's stomach. George Jordan sat on the kitchen floor and vomited, then pushed himself away from the shining pool, which looked very much like what remained in the can.
He thought, No, this won't do: I have wires in my head, and they make me eat cat food. The snake likes cat food
He needed help but know there was little point in calling the Air Force. He'd tried them, and there was no way they were going to admit responsibility for the monster in his head. What George called the snake, the Air Force called Effective Human Interface Technology and didn't want to hear about any postdischarge problems with it. They had their own problems with congressional committees investigating "the conduct of the war in Thailand."
He lay for a while with his cheek on the cold linoleum, got up and rinsed his mouth in the sink, then stuck his head under the faucet and ran cold water over it, thinking, Call the goddamned multicomp, then call SenTrax and say, "Is it true you can do something about this incubus that wants to take possession of my soul?" And if they ask you, "What's your problem?" you say "cat food," and maybe they'll say, "Hell, it just wants to take possession of your lunch"
A chair covered in brown corduroy stood in the middle of the barren living room, a white telephone on the floor beside it, a television flat against the opposite waIl--that was the whole thing, what might have been home, if it weren't for the snake.
He picked up the phone, called up the directory on its screen, and keyed TELECOM SENTRAX. | What is probably true about George? | Entity_properties | [
"not enough information",
"He likes what he has eaten.",
"He was part of an experimental program.",
"He has no problems."
] | 2 |
f047_4 | f047 | 4 | fiction | {
"author": "Tom Maddox",
"title": "Snake Eyes",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/maddoxtother07Snake_Eyes/0.html"
} | Dark meat in the can--brown, oily, and flecked with mucus--gave off a repellent, fishy smell, and the taste of it rose in his throat, putrid and bitter, like something from a dead man's stomach. George Jordan sat on the kitchen floor and vomited, then pushed himself away from the shining pool, which looked very much like what remained in the can.
He thought, No, this won't do: I have wires in my head, and they make me eat cat food. The snake likes cat food
He needed help but know there was little point in calling the Air Force. He'd tried them, and there was no way they were going to admit responsibility for the monster in his head. What George called the snake, the Air Force called Effective Human Interface Technology and didn't want to hear about any postdischarge problems with it. They had their own problems with congressional committees investigating "the conduct of the war in Thailand."
He lay for a while with his cheek on the cold linoleum, got up and rinsed his mouth in the sink, then stuck his head under the faucet and ran cold water over it, thinking, Call the goddamned multicomp, then call SenTrax and say, "Is it true you can do something about this incubus that wants to take possession of my soul?" And if they ask you, "What's your problem?" you say "cat food," and maybe they'll say, "Hell, it just wants to take possession of your lunch"
A chair covered in brown corduroy stood in the middle of the barren living room, a white telephone on the floor beside it, a television flat against the opposite waIl--that was the whole thing, what might have been home, if it weren't for the snake.
He picked up the phone, called up the directory on its screen, and keyed TELECOM SENTRAX. | After the end of the text, George is: | Subsequent_state | [
"not enough information",
"being investigated by congressional committees.",
"still having problems with the thing in his head.",
"in Thailand."
] | 2 |
f047_5 | f047 | 5 | fiction | {
"author": "Tom Maddox",
"title": "Snake Eyes",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/maddoxtother07Snake_Eyes/0.html"
} | Dark meat in the can--brown, oily, and flecked with mucus--gave off a repellent, fishy smell, and the taste of it rose in his throat, putrid and bitter, like something from a dead man's stomach. George Jordan sat on the kitchen floor and vomited, then pushed himself away from the shining pool, which looked very much like what remained in the can.
He thought, No, this won't do: I have wires in my head, and they make me eat cat food. The snake likes cat food
He needed help but know there was little point in calling the Air Force. He'd tried them, and there was no way they were going to admit responsibility for the monster in his head. What George called the snake, the Air Force called Effective Human Interface Technology and didn't want to hear about any postdischarge problems with it. They had their own problems with congressional committees investigating "the conduct of the war in Thailand."
He lay for a while with his cheek on the cold linoleum, got up and rinsed his mouth in the sink, then stuck his head under the faucet and ran cold water over it, thinking, Call the goddamned multicomp, then call SenTrax and say, "Is it true you can do something about this incubus that wants to take possession of my soul?" And if they ask you, "What's your problem?" you say "cat food," and maybe they'll say, "Hell, it just wants to take possession of your lunch"
A chair covered in brown corduroy stood in the middle of the barren living room, a white telephone on the floor beside it, a television flat against the opposite waIl--that was the whole thing, what might have been home, if it weren't for the snake.
He picked up the phone, called up the directory on its screen, and keyed TELECOM SENTRAX. | In the end of this story George probably is: | Subsequent_state | [
"planning to run for President",
"not enough information",
"going to a movie",
"committed to an asylum"
] | 3 |
f047_6 | f047 | 6 | fiction | {
"author": "Tom Maddox",
"title": "Snake Eyes",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/maddoxtother07Snake_Eyes/0.html"
} | Dark meat in the can--brown, oily, and flecked with mucus--gave off a repellent, fishy smell, and the taste of it rose in his throat, putrid and bitter, like something from a dead man's stomach. George Jordan sat on the kitchen floor and vomited, then pushed himself away from the shining pool, which looked very much like what remained in the can.
He thought, No, this won't do: I have wires in my head, and they make me eat cat food. The snake likes cat food
He needed help but know there was little point in calling the Air Force. He'd tried them, and there was no way they were going to admit responsibility for the monster in his head. What George called the snake, the Air Force called Effective Human Interface Technology and didn't want to hear about any postdischarge problems with it. They had their own problems with congressional committees investigating "the conduct of the war in Thailand."
He lay for a while with his cheek on the cold linoleum, got up and rinsed his mouth in the sink, then stuck his head under the faucet and ran cold water over it, thinking, Call the goddamned multicomp, then call SenTrax and say, "Is it true you can do something about this incubus that wants to take possession of my soul?" And if they ask you, "What's your problem?" you say "cat food," and maybe they'll say, "Hell, it just wants to take possession of your lunch"
A chair covered in brown corduroy stood in the middle of the barren living room, a white telephone on the floor beside it, a television flat against the opposite waIl--that was the whole thing, what might have been home, if it weren't for the snake.
He picked up the phone, called up the directory on its screen, and keyed TELECOM SENTRAX. | What made George puke? | Factual | [
"The smell of the contents in the can",
"the snake",
"not enough information",
"telecom"
] | 0 |
f047_7 | f047 | 7 | fiction | {
"author": "Tom Maddox",
"title": "Snake Eyes",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/maddoxtother07Snake_Eyes/0.html"
} | Dark meat in the can--brown, oily, and flecked with mucus--gave off a repellent, fishy smell, and the taste of it rose in his throat, putrid and bitter, like something from a dead man's stomach. George Jordan sat on the kitchen floor and vomited, then pushed himself away from the shining pool, which looked very much like what remained in the can.
He thought, No, this won't do: I have wires in my head, and they make me eat cat food. The snake likes cat food
He needed help but know there was little point in calling the Air Force. He'd tried them, and there was no way they were going to admit responsibility for the monster in his head. What George called the snake, the Air Force called Effective Human Interface Technology and didn't want to hear about any postdischarge problems with it. They had their own problems with congressional committees investigating "the conduct of the war in Thailand."
He lay for a while with his cheek on the cold linoleum, got up and rinsed his mouth in the sink, then stuck his head under the faucet and ran cold water over it, thinking, Call the goddamned multicomp, then call SenTrax and say, "Is it true you can do something about this incubus that wants to take possession of my soul?" And if they ask you, "What's your problem?" you say "cat food," and maybe they'll say, "Hell, it just wants to take possession of your lunch"
A chair covered in brown corduroy stood in the middle of the barren living room, a white telephone on the floor beside it, a television flat against the opposite waIl--that was the whole thing, what might have been home, if it weren't for the snake.
He picked up the phone, called up the directory on its screen, and keyed TELECOM SENTRAX. | Who does George work for now? | Unanswerable | [
"SenTrax.",
"The Air Force.",
"Himself.",
"not enough information"
] | 3 |
f047_8 | f047 | 8 | fiction | {
"author": "Tom Maddox",
"title": "Snake Eyes",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/maddoxtother07Snake_Eyes/0.html"
} | Dark meat in the can--brown, oily, and flecked with mucus--gave off a repellent, fishy smell, and the taste of it rose in his throat, putrid and bitter, like something from a dead man's stomach. George Jordan sat on the kitchen floor and vomited, then pushed himself away from the shining pool, which looked very much like what remained in the can.
He thought, No, this won't do: I have wires in my head, and they make me eat cat food. The snake likes cat food
He needed help but know there was little point in calling the Air Force. He'd tried them, and there was no way they were going to admit responsibility for the monster in his head. What George called the snake, the Air Force called Effective Human Interface Technology and didn't want to hear about any postdischarge problems with it. They had their own problems with congressional committees investigating "the conduct of the war in Thailand."
He lay for a while with his cheek on the cold linoleum, got up and rinsed his mouth in the sink, then stuck his head under the faucet and ran cold water over it, thinking, Call the goddamned multicomp, then call SenTrax and say, "Is it true you can do something about this incubus that wants to take possession of my soul?" And if they ask you, "What's your problem?" you say "cat food," and maybe they'll say, "Hell, it just wants to take possession of your lunch"
A chair covered in brown corduroy stood in the middle of the barren living room, a white telephone on the floor beside it, a television flat against the opposite waIl--that was the whole thing, what might have been home, if it weren't for the snake.
He picked up the phone, called up the directory on its screen, and keyed TELECOM SENTRAX. | Who needed help? | Character_identity | [
"The Air Force.",
"George.",
"not enough information",
"SenTrax."
] | 1 |
f047_9 | f047 | 9 | fiction | {
"author": "Tom Maddox",
"title": "Snake Eyes",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/maddoxtother07Snake_Eyes/0.html"
} | Dark meat in the can--brown, oily, and flecked with mucus--gave off a repellent, fishy smell, and the taste of it rose in his throat, putrid and bitter, like something from a dead man's stomach. George Jordan sat on the kitchen floor and vomited, then pushed himself away from the shining pool, which looked very much like what remained in the can.
He thought, No, this won't do: I have wires in my head, and they make me eat cat food. The snake likes cat food
He needed help but know there was little point in calling the Air Force. He'd tried them, and there was no way they were going to admit responsibility for the monster in his head. What George called the snake, the Air Force called Effective Human Interface Technology and didn't want to hear about any postdischarge problems with it. They had their own problems with congressional committees investigating "the conduct of the war in Thailand."
He lay for a while with his cheek on the cold linoleum, got up and rinsed his mouth in the sink, then stuck his head under the faucet and ran cold water over it, thinking, Call the goddamned multicomp, then call SenTrax and say, "Is it true you can do something about this incubus that wants to take possession of my soul?" And if they ask you, "What's your problem?" you say "cat food," and maybe they'll say, "Hell, it just wants to take possession of your lunch"
A chair covered in brown corduroy stood in the middle of the barren living room, a white telephone on the floor beside it, a television flat against the opposite waIl--that was the whole thing, what might have been home, if it weren't for the snake.
He picked up the phone, called up the directory on its screen, and keyed TELECOM SENTRAX. | How long did George lay on the floor? | Event_duration | [
"A day.",
"Several minutes.",
"Two weeks.",
"not enough information"
] | 1 |
f047_10 | f047 | 10 | fiction | {
"author": "Tom Maddox",
"title": "Snake Eyes",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/maddoxtother07Snake_Eyes/0.html"
} | Dark meat in the can--brown, oily, and flecked with mucus--gave off a repellent, fishy smell, and the taste of it rose in his throat, putrid and bitter, like something from a dead man's stomach. George Jordan sat on the kitchen floor and vomited, then pushed himself away from the shining pool, which looked very much like what remained in the can.
He thought, No, this won't do: I have wires in my head, and they make me eat cat food. The snake likes cat food
He needed help but know there was little point in calling the Air Force. He'd tried them, and there was no way they were going to admit responsibility for the monster in his head. What George called the snake, the Air Force called Effective Human Interface Technology and didn't want to hear about any postdischarge problems with it. They had their own problems with congressional committees investigating "the conduct of the war in Thailand."
He lay for a while with his cheek on the cold linoleum, got up and rinsed his mouth in the sink, then stuck his head under the faucet and ran cold water over it, thinking, Call the goddamned multicomp, then call SenTrax and say, "Is it true you can do something about this incubus that wants to take possession of my soul?" And if they ask you, "What's your problem?" you say "cat food," and maybe they'll say, "Hell, it just wants to take possession of your lunch"
A chair covered in brown corduroy stood in the middle of the barren living room, a white telephone on the floor beside it, a television flat against the opposite waIl--that was the whole thing, what might have been home, if it weren't for the snake.
He picked up the phone, called up the directory on its screen, and keyed TELECOM SENTRAX. | John sat on the kitchen floor | Temporal_order | [
"while he was vomiting",
"after he vomited",
"before he vomited",
"not enough information"
] | 2 |
f047_11 | f047 | 11 | fiction | {
"author": "Tom Maddox",
"title": "Snake Eyes",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/maddoxtother07Snake_Eyes/0.html"
} | Dark meat in the can--brown, oily, and flecked with mucus--gave off a repellent, fishy smell, and the taste of it rose in his throat, putrid and bitter, like something from a dead man's stomach. George Jordan sat on the kitchen floor and vomited, then pushed himself away from the shining pool, which looked very much like what remained in the can.
He thought, No, this won't do: I have wires in my head, and they make me eat cat food. The snake likes cat food
He needed help but know there was little point in calling the Air Force. He'd tried them, and there was no way they were going to admit responsibility for the monster in his head. What George called the snake, the Air Force called Effective Human Interface Technology and didn't want to hear about any postdischarge problems with it. They had their own problems with congressional committees investigating "the conduct of the war in Thailand."
He lay for a while with his cheek on the cold linoleum, got up and rinsed his mouth in the sink, then stuck his head under the faucet and ran cold water over it, thinking, Call the goddamned multicomp, then call SenTrax and say, "Is it true you can do something about this incubus that wants to take possession of my soul?" And if they ask you, "What's your problem?" you say "cat food," and maybe they'll say, "Hell, it just wants to take possession of your lunch"
A chair covered in brown corduroy stood in the middle of the barren living room, a white telephone on the floor beside it, a television flat against the opposite waIl--that was the whole thing, what might have been home, if it weren't for the snake.
He picked up the phone, called up the directory on its screen, and keyed TELECOM SENTRAX. | George had most likely been struggling with mental problems for | Event_duration | [
"not enough information",
"months or years",
"days",
"minutes"
] | 1 |
f047_12 | f047 | 12 | fiction | {
"author": "Tom Maddox",
"title": "Snake Eyes",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/maddoxtother07Snake_Eyes/0.html"
} | Dark meat in the can--brown, oily, and flecked with mucus--gave off a repellent, fishy smell, and the taste of it rose in his throat, putrid and bitter, like something from a dead man's stomach. George Jordan sat on the kitchen floor and vomited, then pushed himself away from the shining pool, which looked very much like what remained in the can.
He thought, No, this won't do: I have wires in my head, and they make me eat cat food. The snake likes cat food
He needed help but know there was little point in calling the Air Force. He'd tried them, and there was no way they were going to admit responsibility for the monster in his head. What George called the snake, the Air Force called Effective Human Interface Technology and didn't want to hear about any postdischarge problems with it. They had their own problems with congressional committees investigating "the conduct of the war in Thailand."
He lay for a while with his cheek on the cold linoleum, got up and rinsed his mouth in the sink, then stuck his head under the faucet and ran cold water over it, thinking, Call the goddamned multicomp, then call SenTrax and say, "Is it true you can do something about this incubus that wants to take possession of my soul?" And if they ask you, "What's your problem?" you say "cat food," and maybe they'll say, "Hell, it just wants to take possession of your lunch"
A chair covered in brown corduroy stood in the middle of the barren living room, a white telephone on the floor beside it, a television flat against the opposite waIl--that was the whole thing, what might have been home, if it weren't for the snake.
He picked up the phone, called up the directory on its screen, and keyed TELECOM SENTRAX. | What does cat food have to do with anything? | Unanswerable | [
"He had enjoyed eating it as a child",
"not enough information",
"He was forced to eat it while in the Air Force.",
"He had used it as fillers for chili he cooked for his comrades"
] | 1 |
f047_13 | f047 | 13 | fiction | {
"author": "Tom Maddox",
"title": "Snake Eyes",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/maddoxtother07Snake_Eyes/0.html"
} | Dark meat in the can--brown, oily, and flecked with mucus--gave off a repellent, fishy smell, and the taste of it rose in his throat, putrid and bitter, like something from a dead man's stomach. George Jordan sat on the kitchen floor and vomited, then pushed himself away from the shining pool, which looked very much like what remained in the can.
He thought, No, this won't do: I have wires in my head, and they make me eat cat food. The snake likes cat food
He needed help but know there was little point in calling the Air Force. He'd tried them, and there was no way they were going to admit responsibility for the monster in his head. What George called the snake, the Air Force called Effective Human Interface Technology and didn't want to hear about any postdischarge problems with it. They had their own problems with congressional committees investigating "the conduct of the war in Thailand."
He lay for a while with his cheek on the cold linoleum, got up and rinsed his mouth in the sink, then stuck his head under the faucet and ran cold water over it, thinking, Call the goddamned multicomp, then call SenTrax and say, "Is it true you can do something about this incubus that wants to take possession of my soul?" And if they ask you, "What's your problem?" you say "cat food," and maybe they'll say, "Hell, it just wants to take possession of your lunch"
A chair covered in brown corduroy stood in the middle of the barren living room, a white telephone on the floor beside it, a television flat against the opposite waIl--that was the whole thing, what might have been home, if it weren't for the snake.
He picked up the phone, called up the directory on its screen, and keyed TELECOM SENTRAX. | Who does George live with? | Entity_properties | [
"He lives alone",
"not enough information",
"in a barrack with soldiers",
"with his parents"
] | 0 |
f047_14 | f047 | 14 | fiction | {
"author": "Tom Maddox",
"title": "Snake Eyes",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/maddoxtother07Snake_Eyes/0.html"
} | Dark meat in the can--brown, oily, and flecked with mucus--gave off a repellent, fishy smell, and the taste of it rose in his throat, putrid and bitter, like something from a dead man's stomach. George Jordan sat on the kitchen floor and vomited, then pushed himself away from the shining pool, which looked very much like what remained in the can.
He thought, No, this won't do: I have wires in my head, and they make me eat cat food. The snake likes cat food
He needed help but know there was little point in calling the Air Force. He'd tried them, and there was no way they were going to admit responsibility for the monster in his head. What George called the snake, the Air Force called Effective Human Interface Technology and didn't want to hear about any postdischarge problems with it. They had their own problems with congressional committees investigating "the conduct of the war in Thailand."
He lay for a while with his cheek on the cold linoleum, got up and rinsed his mouth in the sink, then stuck his head under the faucet and ran cold water over it, thinking, Call the goddamned multicomp, then call SenTrax and say, "Is it true you can do something about this incubus that wants to take possession of my soul?" And if they ask you, "What's your problem?" you say "cat food," and maybe they'll say, "Hell, it just wants to take possession of your lunch"
A chair covered in brown corduroy stood in the middle of the barren living room, a white telephone on the floor beside it, a television flat against the opposite waIl--that was the whole thing, what might have been home, if it weren't for the snake.
He picked up the phone, called up the directory on its screen, and keyed TELECOM SENTRAX. | Who had a monster in his head? | Character_identity | [
"not enough information",
"Air Force",
"George Jordan",
"Telecom Sentrax"
] | 2 |
f047_15 | f047 | 15 | fiction | {
"author": "Tom Maddox",
"title": "Snake Eyes",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/maddoxtother07Snake_Eyes/0.html"
} | Dark meat in the can--brown, oily, and flecked with mucus--gave off a repellent, fishy smell, and the taste of it rose in his throat, putrid and bitter, like something from a dead man's stomach. George Jordan sat on the kitchen floor and vomited, then pushed himself away from the shining pool, which looked very much like what remained in the can.
He thought, No, this won't do: I have wires in my head, and they make me eat cat food. The snake likes cat food
He needed help but know there was little point in calling the Air Force. He'd tried them, and there was no way they were going to admit responsibility for the monster in his head. What George called the snake, the Air Force called Effective Human Interface Technology and didn't want to hear about any postdischarge problems with it. They had their own problems with congressional committees investigating "the conduct of the war in Thailand."
He lay for a while with his cheek on the cold linoleum, got up and rinsed his mouth in the sink, then stuck his head under the faucet and ran cold water over it, thinking, Call the goddamned multicomp, then call SenTrax and say, "Is it true you can do something about this incubus that wants to take possession of my soul?" And if they ask you, "What's your problem?" you say "cat food," and maybe they'll say, "Hell, it just wants to take possession of your lunch"
A chair covered in brown corduroy stood in the middle of the barren living room, a white telephone on the floor beside it, a television flat against the opposite waIl--that was the whole thing, what might have been home, if it weren't for the snake.
He picked up the phone, called up the directory on its screen, and keyed TELECOM SENTRAX. | George thinks that: | Belief_states | [
"the Air Force will help him.",
"the thing is his head is controlling his actions.",
"not enough information",
"cat food is good to eat."
] | 1 |
f047_16 | f047 | 16 | fiction | {
"author": "Tom Maddox",
"title": "Snake Eyes",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/maddoxtother07Snake_Eyes/0.html"
} | Dark meat in the can--brown, oily, and flecked with mucus--gave off a repellent, fishy smell, and the taste of it rose in his throat, putrid and bitter, like something from a dead man's stomach. George Jordan sat on the kitchen floor and vomited, then pushed himself away from the shining pool, which looked very much like what remained in the can.
He thought, No, this won't do: I have wires in my head, and they make me eat cat food. The snake likes cat food
He needed help but know there was little point in calling the Air Force. He'd tried them, and there was no way they were going to admit responsibility for the monster in his head. What George called the snake, the Air Force called Effective Human Interface Technology and didn't want to hear about any postdischarge problems with it. They had their own problems with congressional committees investigating "the conduct of the war in Thailand."
He lay for a while with his cheek on the cold linoleum, got up and rinsed his mouth in the sink, then stuck his head under the faucet and ran cold water over it, thinking, Call the goddamned multicomp, then call SenTrax and say, "Is it true you can do something about this incubus that wants to take possession of my soul?" And if they ask you, "What's your problem?" you say "cat food," and maybe they'll say, "Hell, it just wants to take possession of your lunch"
A chair covered in brown corduroy stood in the middle of the barren living room, a white telephone on the floor beside it, a television flat against the opposite waIl--that was the whole thing, what might have been home, if it weren't for the snake.
He picked up the phone, called up the directory on its screen, and keyed TELECOM SENTRAX. | What did George lay on for a while? | Factual | [
"Something fishy.",
"not enough information",
"Something cold.",
"Something oily."
] | 2 |
f047_17 | f047 | 17 | fiction | {
"author": "Tom Maddox",
"title": "Snake Eyes",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/maddoxtother07Snake_Eyes/0.html"
} | Dark meat in the can--brown, oily, and flecked with mucus--gave off a repellent, fishy smell, and the taste of it rose in his throat, putrid and bitter, like something from a dead man's stomach. George Jordan sat on the kitchen floor and vomited, then pushed himself away from the shining pool, which looked very much like what remained in the can.
He thought, No, this won't do: I have wires in my head, and they make me eat cat food. The snake likes cat food
He needed help but know there was little point in calling the Air Force. He'd tried them, and there was no way they were going to admit responsibility for the monster in his head. What George called the snake, the Air Force called Effective Human Interface Technology and didn't want to hear about any postdischarge problems with it. They had their own problems with congressional committees investigating "the conduct of the war in Thailand."
He lay for a while with his cheek on the cold linoleum, got up and rinsed his mouth in the sink, then stuck his head under the faucet and ran cold water over it, thinking, Call the goddamned multicomp, then call SenTrax and say, "Is it true you can do something about this incubus that wants to take possession of my soul?" And if they ask you, "What's your problem?" you say "cat food," and maybe they'll say, "Hell, it just wants to take possession of your lunch"
A chair covered in brown corduroy stood in the middle of the barren living room, a white telephone on the floor beside it, a television flat against the opposite waIl--that was the whole thing, what might have been home, if it weren't for the snake.
He picked up the phone, called up the directory on its screen, and keyed TELECOM SENTRAX. | Why did George call Telecom Sentrax? | Causality | [
"He had something from the war in Thailand.",
"To see what their hours were.",
"not enough information",
"To order a pizza"
] | 0 |
f048_0 | f048 | 0 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "Sticks",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07sticks/0.html"
} | He had a 12" Sony black-and-white, tuned to MTV, sitting on a chair at the end of the bed. He could barely hear it over the fan in the window. He sat in the middle of the bed because of the sag, drumming along absently to Steve Winwood's "Higher Love."
The sticks were Regal Tip 5Bs. They were thinner than 2Bs--marching band sticks--but almost as long. Over the years Stan had moved farther out over the ends. Now the butts of the sticks fit into the heels of his palms, about an inch up from the wrist. He flipped the right stick away when the phone rang.
"Stan, dude! You want to work tomorrow?"
"Yeah, probably. What have you got, Darryl? You don't sound right."
"Does the name Keven Stacey mean anything to you?"
"Wait a minute." Stan switched the phone to his other ear. "Did you say Keven Stacey? As in Foolsgold, Kevin Stacey? She's going to record at CSR?"
"You heard me." Stan could see Darryl sitting in the control room, feet up on the console, wearing double-knit slacks and a T-shirt, sweat coming up on his balding forehead.
"This is some kind of bullshit, right? She's coming in for a jingle or a PSA."
"No bullshit, Stanley. She's cutting a track for a solo album she's going to pitch to Warner's. Not a demo, but a real, honest-to-Christ track. Probably a single. Now if you're not interested, there's plenty of other drummers in LA..."
"I'm interested. I just don't understand why she wants to fuck with a rinky-dink studio like yours. No offense."
"Don't harsh me, bud. She's hot. She's got a song and she wants to put it in the can. Everybody else is booked. You try to get into Record One or Sunset Sound. Not for six months you won't get in. Even if you're Keven Stacey. You listening, Stan?" He heard Darryl hitting the phone on the edge of the console. "That's the Big Time, dude. Knocking on your door." | Where is Stan needed to play? | Factual | [
"Sunset Sound",
"CSR",
"not enough information",
"Record One"
] | 1 |
f048_1 | f048 | 1 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "Sticks",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07sticks/0.html"
} | He had a 12" Sony black-and-white, tuned to MTV, sitting on a chair at the end of the bed. He could barely hear it over the fan in the window. He sat in the middle of the bed because of the sag, drumming along absently to Steve Winwood's "Higher Love."
The sticks were Regal Tip 5Bs. They were thinner than 2Bs--marching band sticks--but almost as long. Over the years Stan had moved farther out over the ends. Now the butts of the sticks fit into the heels of his palms, about an inch up from the wrist. He flipped the right stick away when the phone rang.
"Stan, dude! You want to work tomorrow?"
"Yeah, probably. What have you got, Darryl? You don't sound right."
"Does the name Keven Stacey mean anything to you?"
"Wait a minute." Stan switched the phone to his other ear. "Did you say Keven Stacey? As in Foolsgold, Kevin Stacey? She's going to record at CSR?"
"You heard me." Stan could see Darryl sitting in the control room, feet up on the console, wearing double-knit slacks and a T-shirt, sweat coming up on his balding forehead.
"This is some kind of bullshit, right? She's coming in for a jingle or a PSA."
"No bullshit, Stanley. She's cutting a track for a solo album she's going to pitch to Warner's. Not a demo, but a real, honest-to-Christ track. Probably a single. Now if you're not interested, there's plenty of other drummers in LA..."
"I'm interested. I just don't understand why she wants to fuck with a rinky-dink studio like yours. No offense."
"Don't harsh me, bud. She's hot. She's got a song and she wants to put it in the can. Everybody else is booked. You try to get into Record One or Sunset Sound. Not for six months you won't get in. Even if you're Keven Stacey. You listening, Stan?" He heard Darryl hitting the phone on the edge of the console. "That's the Big Time, dude. Knocking on your door." | Who was listening to the TV | Character_identity | [
"Kevin Stacy",
"Steve Winwood",
"Stan",
"not enough information"
] | 2 |
f048_2 | f048 | 2 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "Sticks",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07sticks/0.html"
} | He had a 12" Sony black-and-white, tuned to MTV, sitting on a chair at the end of the bed. He could barely hear it over the fan in the window. He sat in the middle of the bed because of the sag, drumming along absently to Steve Winwood's "Higher Love."
The sticks were Regal Tip 5Bs. They were thinner than 2Bs--marching band sticks--but almost as long. Over the years Stan had moved farther out over the ends. Now the butts of the sticks fit into the heels of his palms, about an inch up from the wrist. He flipped the right stick away when the phone rang.
"Stan, dude! You want to work tomorrow?"
"Yeah, probably. What have you got, Darryl? You don't sound right."
"Does the name Keven Stacey mean anything to you?"
"Wait a minute." Stan switched the phone to his other ear. "Did you say Keven Stacey? As in Foolsgold, Kevin Stacey? She's going to record at CSR?"
"You heard me." Stan could see Darryl sitting in the control room, feet up on the console, wearing double-knit slacks and a T-shirt, sweat coming up on his balding forehead.
"This is some kind of bullshit, right? She's coming in for a jingle or a PSA."
"No bullshit, Stanley. She's cutting a track for a solo album she's going to pitch to Warner's. Not a demo, but a real, honest-to-Christ track. Probably a single. Now if you're not interested, there's plenty of other drummers in LA..."
"I'm interested. I just don't understand why she wants to fuck with a rinky-dink studio like yours. No offense."
"Don't harsh me, bud. She's hot. She's got a song and she wants to put it in the can. Everybody else is booked. You try to get into Record One or Sunset Sound. Not for six months you won't get in. Even if you're Keven Stacey. You listening, Stan?" He heard Darryl hitting the phone on the edge of the console. "That's the Big Time, dude. Knocking on your door." | At the end of the story Stan is: | Subsequent_state | [
"excited",
"not enough information",
"disappointed",
"angry"
] | 0 |
f048_3 | f048 | 3 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "Sticks",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07sticks/0.html"
} | He had a 12" Sony black-and-white, tuned to MTV, sitting on a chair at the end of the bed. He could barely hear it over the fan in the window. He sat in the middle of the bed because of the sag, drumming along absently to Steve Winwood's "Higher Love."
The sticks were Regal Tip 5Bs. They were thinner than 2Bs--marching band sticks--but almost as long. Over the years Stan had moved farther out over the ends. Now the butts of the sticks fit into the heels of his palms, about an inch up from the wrist. He flipped the right stick away when the phone rang.
"Stan, dude! You want to work tomorrow?"
"Yeah, probably. What have you got, Darryl? You don't sound right."
"Does the name Keven Stacey mean anything to you?"
"Wait a minute." Stan switched the phone to his other ear. "Did you say Keven Stacey? As in Foolsgold, Kevin Stacey? She's going to record at CSR?"
"You heard me." Stan could see Darryl sitting in the control room, feet up on the console, wearing double-knit slacks and a T-shirt, sweat coming up on his balding forehead.
"This is some kind of bullshit, right? She's coming in for a jingle or a PSA."
"No bullshit, Stanley. She's cutting a track for a solo album she's going to pitch to Warner's. Not a demo, but a real, honest-to-Christ track. Probably a single. Now if you're not interested, there's plenty of other drummers in LA..."
"I'm interested. I just don't understand why she wants to fuck with a rinky-dink studio like yours. No offense."
"Don't harsh me, bud. She's hot. She's got a song and she wants to put it in the can. Everybody else is booked. You try to get into Record One or Sunset Sound. Not for six months you won't get in. Even if you're Keven Stacey. You listening, Stan?" He heard Darryl hitting the phone on the edge of the console. "That's the Big Time, dude. Knocking on your door." | Whose studio will produce Keven Stacey's record? | Character_identity | [
"Keven Stacey",
"Darryl",
"Stan",
"not enough information"
] | 1 |
f048_4 | f048 | 4 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "Sticks",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07sticks/0.html"
} | He had a 12" Sony black-and-white, tuned to MTV, sitting on a chair at the end of the bed. He could barely hear it over the fan in the window. He sat in the middle of the bed because of the sag, drumming along absently to Steve Winwood's "Higher Love."
The sticks were Regal Tip 5Bs. They were thinner than 2Bs--marching band sticks--but almost as long. Over the years Stan had moved farther out over the ends. Now the butts of the sticks fit into the heels of his palms, about an inch up from the wrist. He flipped the right stick away when the phone rang.
"Stan, dude! You want to work tomorrow?"
"Yeah, probably. What have you got, Darryl? You don't sound right."
"Does the name Keven Stacey mean anything to you?"
"Wait a minute." Stan switched the phone to his other ear. "Did you say Keven Stacey? As in Foolsgold, Kevin Stacey? She's going to record at CSR?"
"You heard me." Stan could see Darryl sitting in the control room, feet up on the console, wearing double-knit slacks and a T-shirt, sweat coming up on his balding forehead.
"This is some kind of bullshit, right? She's coming in for a jingle or a PSA."
"No bullshit, Stanley. She's cutting a track for a solo album she's going to pitch to Warner's. Not a demo, but a real, honest-to-Christ track. Probably a single. Now if you're not interested, there's plenty of other drummers in LA..."
"I'm interested. I just don't understand why she wants to fuck with a rinky-dink studio like yours. No offense."
"Don't harsh me, bud. She's hot. She's got a song and she wants to put it in the can. Everybody else is booked. You try to get into Record One or Sunset Sound. Not for six months you won't get in. Even if you're Keven Stacey. You listening, Stan?" He heard Darryl hitting the phone on the edge of the console. "That's the Big Time, dude. Knocking on your door." | What kind of drumming sticks does Stan have. | Factual | [
"Marching Band Sticks",
"not enough information",
"brushes",
"2Bs"
] | 0 |
f048_5 | f048 | 5 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "Sticks",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07sticks/0.html"
} | He had a 12" Sony black-and-white, tuned to MTV, sitting on a chair at the end of the bed. He could barely hear it over the fan in the window. He sat in the middle of the bed because of the sag, drumming along absently to Steve Winwood's "Higher Love."
The sticks were Regal Tip 5Bs. They were thinner than 2Bs--marching band sticks--but almost as long. Over the years Stan had moved farther out over the ends. Now the butts of the sticks fit into the heels of his palms, about an inch up from the wrist. He flipped the right stick away when the phone rang.
"Stan, dude! You want to work tomorrow?"
"Yeah, probably. What have you got, Darryl? You don't sound right."
"Does the name Keven Stacey mean anything to you?"
"Wait a minute." Stan switched the phone to his other ear. "Did you say Keven Stacey? As in Foolsgold, Kevin Stacey? She's going to record at CSR?"
"You heard me." Stan could see Darryl sitting in the control room, feet up on the console, wearing double-knit slacks and a T-shirt, sweat coming up on his balding forehead.
"This is some kind of bullshit, right? She's coming in for a jingle or a PSA."
"No bullshit, Stanley. She's cutting a track for a solo album she's going to pitch to Warner's. Not a demo, but a real, honest-to-Christ track. Probably a single. Now if you're not interested, there's plenty of other drummers in LA..."
"I'm interested. I just don't understand why she wants to fuck with a rinky-dink studio like yours. No offense."
"Don't harsh me, bud. She's hot. She's got a song and she wants to put it in the can. Everybody else is booked. You try to get into Record One or Sunset Sound. Not for six months you won't get in. Even if you're Keven Stacey. You listening, Stan?" He heard Darryl hitting the phone on the edge of the console. "That's the Big Time, dude. Knocking on your door." | What will probably happen after the call? | Subsequent_state | [
"not enough information",
"Darryl finds another drummer",
"Stan agrees to work on the record",
"Stan doesn't want to work for a rinky dink studio"
] | 2 |
f048_6 | f048 | 6 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "Sticks",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07sticks/0.html"
} | He had a 12" Sony black-and-white, tuned to MTV, sitting on a chair at the end of the bed. He could barely hear it over the fan in the window. He sat in the middle of the bed because of the sag, drumming along absently to Steve Winwood's "Higher Love."
The sticks were Regal Tip 5Bs. They were thinner than 2Bs--marching band sticks--but almost as long. Over the years Stan had moved farther out over the ends. Now the butts of the sticks fit into the heels of his palms, about an inch up from the wrist. He flipped the right stick away when the phone rang.
"Stan, dude! You want to work tomorrow?"
"Yeah, probably. What have you got, Darryl? You don't sound right."
"Does the name Keven Stacey mean anything to you?"
"Wait a minute." Stan switched the phone to his other ear. "Did you say Keven Stacey? As in Foolsgold, Kevin Stacey? She's going to record at CSR?"
"You heard me." Stan could see Darryl sitting in the control room, feet up on the console, wearing double-knit slacks and a T-shirt, sweat coming up on his balding forehead.
"This is some kind of bullshit, right? She's coming in for a jingle or a PSA."
"No bullshit, Stanley. She's cutting a track for a solo album she's going to pitch to Warner's. Not a demo, but a real, honest-to-Christ track. Probably a single. Now if you're not interested, there's plenty of other drummers in LA..."
"I'm interested. I just don't understand why she wants to fuck with a rinky-dink studio like yours. No offense."
"Don't harsh me, bud. She's hot. She's got a song and she wants to put it in the can. Everybody else is booked. You try to get into Record One or Sunset Sound. Not for six months you won't get in. Even if you're Keven Stacey. You listening, Stan?" He heard Darryl hitting the phone on the edge of the console. "That's the Big Time, dude. Knocking on your door." | Who thinks Keven Stacey is coming for some kind of bullshit? | Belief_states | [
"not enough information",
"Darryl",
"Stan",
"Keven Stacey"
] | 2 |
f048_7 | f048 | 7 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "Sticks",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07sticks/0.html"
} | He had a 12" Sony black-and-white, tuned to MTV, sitting on a chair at the end of the bed. He could barely hear it over the fan in the window. He sat in the middle of the bed because of the sag, drumming along absently to Steve Winwood's "Higher Love."
The sticks were Regal Tip 5Bs. They were thinner than 2Bs--marching band sticks--but almost as long. Over the years Stan had moved farther out over the ends. Now the butts of the sticks fit into the heels of his palms, about an inch up from the wrist. He flipped the right stick away when the phone rang.
"Stan, dude! You want to work tomorrow?"
"Yeah, probably. What have you got, Darryl? You don't sound right."
"Does the name Keven Stacey mean anything to you?"
"Wait a minute." Stan switched the phone to his other ear. "Did you say Keven Stacey? As in Foolsgold, Kevin Stacey? She's going to record at CSR?"
"You heard me." Stan could see Darryl sitting in the control room, feet up on the console, wearing double-knit slacks and a T-shirt, sweat coming up on his balding forehead.
"This is some kind of bullshit, right? She's coming in for a jingle or a PSA."
"No bullshit, Stanley. She's cutting a track for a solo album she's going to pitch to Warner's. Not a demo, but a real, honest-to-Christ track. Probably a single. Now if you're not interested, there's plenty of other drummers in LA..."
"I'm interested. I just don't understand why she wants to fuck with a rinky-dink studio like yours. No offense."
"Don't harsh me, bud. She's hot. She's got a song and she wants to put it in the can. Everybody else is booked. You try to get into Record One or Sunset Sound. Not for six months you won't get in. Even if you're Keven Stacey. You listening, Stan?" He heard Darryl hitting the phone on the edge of the console. "That's the Big Time, dude. Knocking on your door." | What instrument does Stan play | Factual | [
"not enough information",
"Drums",
"he sings",
"guitar"
] | 1 |
f048_8 | f048 | 8 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "Sticks",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07sticks/0.html"
} | He had a 12" Sony black-and-white, tuned to MTV, sitting on a chair at the end of the bed. He could barely hear it over the fan in the window. He sat in the middle of the bed because of the sag, drumming along absently to Steve Winwood's "Higher Love."
The sticks were Regal Tip 5Bs. They were thinner than 2Bs--marching band sticks--but almost as long. Over the years Stan had moved farther out over the ends. Now the butts of the sticks fit into the heels of his palms, about an inch up from the wrist. He flipped the right stick away when the phone rang.
"Stan, dude! You want to work tomorrow?"
"Yeah, probably. What have you got, Darryl? You don't sound right."
"Does the name Keven Stacey mean anything to you?"
"Wait a minute." Stan switched the phone to his other ear. "Did you say Keven Stacey? As in Foolsgold, Kevin Stacey? She's going to record at CSR?"
"You heard me." Stan could see Darryl sitting in the control room, feet up on the console, wearing double-knit slacks and a T-shirt, sweat coming up on his balding forehead.
"This is some kind of bullshit, right? She's coming in for a jingle or a PSA."
"No bullshit, Stanley. She's cutting a track for a solo album she's going to pitch to Warner's. Not a demo, but a real, honest-to-Christ track. Probably a single. Now if you're not interested, there's plenty of other drummers in LA..."
"I'm interested. I just don't understand why she wants to fuck with a rinky-dink studio like yours. No offense."
"Don't harsh me, bud. She's hot. She's got a song and she wants to put it in the can. Everybody else is booked. You try to get into Record One or Sunset Sound. Not for six months you won't get in. Even if you're Keven Stacey. You listening, Stan?" He heard Darryl hitting the phone on the edge of the console. "That's the Big Time, dude. Knocking on your door." | Keven Stacey has recorded before at: | Unanswerable | [
"Sunset Sound",
"Record Two",
"Record One",
"not enough information"
] | 3 |
f048_9 | f048 | 9 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "Sticks",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07sticks/0.html"
} | He had a 12" Sony black-and-white, tuned to MTV, sitting on a chair at the end of the bed. He could barely hear it over the fan in the window. He sat in the middle of the bed because of the sag, drumming along absently to Steve Winwood's "Higher Love."
The sticks were Regal Tip 5Bs. They were thinner than 2Bs--marching band sticks--but almost as long. Over the years Stan had moved farther out over the ends. Now the butts of the sticks fit into the heels of his palms, about an inch up from the wrist. He flipped the right stick away when the phone rang.
"Stan, dude! You want to work tomorrow?"
"Yeah, probably. What have you got, Darryl? You don't sound right."
"Does the name Keven Stacey mean anything to you?"
"Wait a minute." Stan switched the phone to his other ear. "Did you say Keven Stacey? As in Foolsgold, Kevin Stacey? She's going to record at CSR?"
"You heard me." Stan could see Darryl sitting in the control room, feet up on the console, wearing double-knit slacks and a T-shirt, sweat coming up on his balding forehead.
"This is some kind of bullshit, right? She's coming in for a jingle or a PSA."
"No bullshit, Stanley. She's cutting a track for a solo album she's going to pitch to Warner's. Not a demo, but a real, honest-to-Christ track. Probably a single. Now if you're not interested, there's plenty of other drummers in LA..."
"I'm interested. I just don't understand why she wants to fuck with a rinky-dink studio like yours. No offense."
"Don't harsh me, bud. She's hot. She's got a song and she wants to put it in the can. Everybody else is booked. You try to get into Record One or Sunset Sound. Not for six months you won't get in. Even if you're Keven Stacey. You listening, Stan?" He heard Darryl hitting the phone on the edge of the console. "That's the Big Time, dude. Knocking on your door." | What is Stan going to tell Darryl? | Entity_properties | [
"He was too busy to work.",
"He would play drums at the studio.",
"He would have to think about it.",
"not enough information"
] | 1 |
f048_10 | f048 | 10 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "Sticks",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07sticks/0.html"
} | He had a 12" Sony black-and-white, tuned to MTV, sitting on a chair at the end of the bed. He could barely hear it over the fan in the window. He sat in the middle of the bed because of the sag, drumming along absently to Steve Winwood's "Higher Love."
The sticks were Regal Tip 5Bs. They were thinner than 2Bs--marching band sticks--but almost as long. Over the years Stan had moved farther out over the ends. Now the butts of the sticks fit into the heels of his palms, about an inch up from the wrist. He flipped the right stick away when the phone rang.
"Stan, dude! You want to work tomorrow?"
"Yeah, probably. What have you got, Darryl? You don't sound right."
"Does the name Keven Stacey mean anything to you?"
"Wait a minute." Stan switched the phone to his other ear. "Did you say Keven Stacey? As in Foolsgold, Kevin Stacey? She's going to record at CSR?"
"You heard me." Stan could see Darryl sitting in the control room, feet up on the console, wearing double-knit slacks and a T-shirt, sweat coming up on his balding forehead.
"This is some kind of bullshit, right? She's coming in for a jingle or a PSA."
"No bullshit, Stanley. She's cutting a track for a solo album she's going to pitch to Warner's. Not a demo, but a real, honest-to-Christ track. Probably a single. Now if you're not interested, there's plenty of other drummers in LA..."
"I'm interested. I just don't understand why she wants to fuck with a rinky-dink studio like yours. No offense."
"Don't harsh me, bud. She's hot. She's got a song and she wants to put it in the can. Everybody else is booked. You try to get into Record One or Sunset Sound. Not for six months you won't get in. Even if you're Keven Stacey. You listening, Stan?" He heard Darryl hitting the phone on the edge of the console. "That's the Big Time, dude. Knocking on your door." | Stan was playing with his drum sticks: | Temporal_order | [
"not enough information",
"after talking on the phone",
"before the phone rang",
"during the phone conversation"
] | 2 |
f048_11 | f048 | 11 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "Sticks",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07sticks/0.html"
} | He had a 12" Sony black-and-white, tuned to MTV, sitting on a chair at the end of the bed. He could barely hear it over the fan in the window. He sat in the middle of the bed because of the sag, drumming along absently to Steve Winwood's "Higher Love."
The sticks were Regal Tip 5Bs. They were thinner than 2Bs--marching band sticks--but almost as long. Over the years Stan had moved farther out over the ends. Now the butts of the sticks fit into the heels of his palms, about an inch up from the wrist. He flipped the right stick away when the phone rang.
"Stan, dude! You want to work tomorrow?"
"Yeah, probably. What have you got, Darryl? You don't sound right."
"Does the name Keven Stacey mean anything to you?"
"Wait a minute." Stan switched the phone to his other ear. "Did you say Keven Stacey? As in Foolsgold, Kevin Stacey? She's going to record at CSR?"
"You heard me." Stan could see Darryl sitting in the control room, feet up on the console, wearing double-knit slacks and a T-shirt, sweat coming up on his balding forehead.
"This is some kind of bullshit, right? She's coming in for a jingle or a PSA."
"No bullshit, Stanley. She's cutting a track for a solo album she's going to pitch to Warner's. Not a demo, but a real, honest-to-Christ track. Probably a single. Now if you're not interested, there's plenty of other drummers in LA..."
"I'm interested. I just don't understand why she wants to fuck with a rinky-dink studio like yours. No offense."
"Don't harsh me, bud. She's hot. She's got a song and she wants to put it in the can. Everybody else is booked. You try to get into Record One or Sunset Sound. Not for six months you won't get in. Even if you're Keven Stacey. You listening, Stan?" He heard Darryl hitting the phone on the edge of the console. "That's the Big Time, dude. Knocking on your door." | Why was Keven Stacey coming? | Causality | [
"To record a demo",
"To record a jingle",
"To record a track",
"not enough information"
] | 2 |
f048_12 | f048 | 12 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "Sticks",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07sticks/0.html"
} | He had a 12" Sony black-and-white, tuned to MTV, sitting on a chair at the end of the bed. He could barely hear it over the fan in the window. He sat in the middle of the bed because of the sag, drumming along absently to Steve Winwood's "Higher Love."
The sticks were Regal Tip 5Bs. They were thinner than 2Bs--marching band sticks--but almost as long. Over the years Stan had moved farther out over the ends. Now the butts of the sticks fit into the heels of his palms, about an inch up from the wrist. He flipped the right stick away when the phone rang.
"Stan, dude! You want to work tomorrow?"
"Yeah, probably. What have you got, Darryl? You don't sound right."
"Does the name Keven Stacey mean anything to you?"
"Wait a minute." Stan switched the phone to his other ear. "Did you say Keven Stacey? As in Foolsgold, Kevin Stacey? She's going to record at CSR?"
"You heard me." Stan could see Darryl sitting in the control room, feet up on the console, wearing double-knit slacks and a T-shirt, sweat coming up on his balding forehead.
"This is some kind of bullshit, right? She's coming in for a jingle or a PSA."
"No bullshit, Stanley. She's cutting a track for a solo album she's going to pitch to Warner's. Not a demo, but a real, honest-to-Christ track. Probably a single. Now if you're not interested, there's plenty of other drummers in LA..."
"I'm interested. I just don't understand why she wants to fuck with a rinky-dink studio like yours. No offense."
"Don't harsh me, bud. She's hot. She's got a song and she wants to put it in the can. Everybody else is booked. You try to get into Record One or Sunset Sound. Not for six months you won't get in. Even if you're Keven Stacey. You listening, Stan?" He heard Darryl hitting the phone on the edge of the console. "That's the Big Time, dude. Knocking on your door." | Who is Keven Spacey? | Unanswerable | [
"a trumpet player",
"a guitar player",
"not enough information",
"a singer"
] | 2 |
f048_13 | f048 | 13 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "Sticks",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07sticks/0.html"
} | He had a 12" Sony black-and-white, tuned to MTV, sitting on a chair at the end of the bed. He could barely hear it over the fan in the window. He sat in the middle of the bed because of the sag, drumming along absently to Steve Winwood's "Higher Love."
The sticks were Regal Tip 5Bs. They were thinner than 2Bs--marching band sticks--but almost as long. Over the years Stan had moved farther out over the ends. Now the butts of the sticks fit into the heels of his palms, about an inch up from the wrist. He flipped the right stick away when the phone rang.
"Stan, dude! You want to work tomorrow?"
"Yeah, probably. What have you got, Darryl? You don't sound right."
"Does the name Keven Stacey mean anything to you?"
"Wait a minute." Stan switched the phone to his other ear. "Did you say Keven Stacey? As in Foolsgold, Kevin Stacey? She's going to record at CSR?"
"You heard me." Stan could see Darryl sitting in the control room, feet up on the console, wearing double-knit slacks and a T-shirt, sweat coming up on his balding forehead.
"This is some kind of bullshit, right? She's coming in for a jingle or a PSA."
"No bullshit, Stanley. She's cutting a track for a solo album she's going to pitch to Warner's. Not a demo, but a real, honest-to-Christ track. Probably a single. Now if you're not interested, there's plenty of other drummers in LA..."
"I'm interested. I just don't understand why she wants to fuck with a rinky-dink studio like yours. No offense."
"Don't harsh me, bud. She's hot. She's got a song and she wants to put it in the can. Everybody else is booked. You try to get into Record One or Sunset Sound. Not for six months you won't get in. Even if you're Keven Stacey. You listening, Stan?" He heard Darryl hitting the phone on the edge of the console. "That's the Big Time, dude. Knocking on your door." | What does Stan probably want to be? | Entity_properties | [
"not enough information",
"A singer",
"A successful drummer",
"A poor drummer"
] | 2 |
f048_14 | f048 | 14 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "Sticks",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07sticks/0.html"
} | He had a 12" Sony black-and-white, tuned to MTV, sitting on a chair at the end of the bed. He could barely hear it over the fan in the window. He sat in the middle of the bed because of the sag, drumming along absently to Steve Winwood's "Higher Love."
The sticks were Regal Tip 5Bs. They were thinner than 2Bs--marching band sticks--but almost as long. Over the years Stan had moved farther out over the ends. Now the butts of the sticks fit into the heels of his palms, about an inch up from the wrist. He flipped the right stick away when the phone rang.
"Stan, dude! You want to work tomorrow?"
"Yeah, probably. What have you got, Darryl? You don't sound right."
"Does the name Keven Stacey mean anything to you?"
"Wait a minute." Stan switched the phone to his other ear. "Did you say Keven Stacey? As in Foolsgold, Kevin Stacey? She's going to record at CSR?"
"You heard me." Stan could see Darryl sitting in the control room, feet up on the console, wearing double-knit slacks and a T-shirt, sweat coming up on his balding forehead.
"This is some kind of bullshit, right? She's coming in for a jingle or a PSA."
"No bullshit, Stanley. She's cutting a track for a solo album she's going to pitch to Warner's. Not a demo, but a real, honest-to-Christ track. Probably a single. Now if you're not interested, there's plenty of other drummers in LA..."
"I'm interested. I just don't understand why she wants to fuck with a rinky-dink studio like yours. No offense."
"Don't harsh me, bud. She's hot. She's got a song and she wants to put it in the can. Everybody else is booked. You try to get into Record One or Sunset Sound. Not for six months you won't get in. Even if you're Keven Stacey. You listening, Stan?" He heard Darryl hitting the phone on the edge of the console. "That's the Big Time, dude. Knocking on your door." | How long did the conversation last? | Event_duration | [
"not enough information",
"a couple days",
"a week",
"a couple of minutes"
] | 3 |
f048_15 | f048 | 15 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "Sticks",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07sticks/0.html"
} | He had a 12" Sony black-and-white, tuned to MTV, sitting on a chair at the end of the bed. He could barely hear it over the fan in the window. He sat in the middle of the bed because of the sag, drumming along absently to Steve Winwood's "Higher Love."
The sticks were Regal Tip 5Bs. They were thinner than 2Bs--marching band sticks--but almost as long. Over the years Stan had moved farther out over the ends. Now the butts of the sticks fit into the heels of his palms, about an inch up from the wrist. He flipped the right stick away when the phone rang.
"Stan, dude! You want to work tomorrow?"
"Yeah, probably. What have you got, Darryl? You don't sound right."
"Does the name Keven Stacey mean anything to you?"
"Wait a minute." Stan switched the phone to his other ear. "Did you say Keven Stacey? As in Foolsgold, Kevin Stacey? She's going to record at CSR?"
"You heard me." Stan could see Darryl sitting in the control room, feet up on the console, wearing double-knit slacks and a T-shirt, sweat coming up on his balding forehead.
"This is some kind of bullshit, right? She's coming in for a jingle or a PSA."
"No bullshit, Stanley. She's cutting a track for a solo album she's going to pitch to Warner's. Not a demo, but a real, honest-to-Christ track. Probably a single. Now if you're not interested, there's plenty of other drummers in LA..."
"I'm interested. I just don't understand why she wants to fuck with a rinky-dink studio like yours. No offense."
"Don't harsh me, bud. She's hot. She's got a song and she wants to put it in the can. Everybody else is booked. You try to get into Record One or Sunset Sound. Not for six months you won't get in. Even if you're Keven Stacey. You listening, Stan?" He heard Darryl hitting the phone on the edge of the console. "That's the Big Time, dude. Knocking on your door." | Stan needs to make a decision when? | Event_duration | [
"Now",
"not enough information",
"tomorrow",
"Next week"
] | 0 |
f048_16 | f048 | 16 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "Sticks",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07sticks/0.html"
} | He had a 12" Sony black-and-white, tuned to MTV, sitting on a chair at the end of the bed. He could barely hear it over the fan in the window. He sat in the middle of the bed because of the sag, drumming along absently to Steve Winwood's "Higher Love."
The sticks were Regal Tip 5Bs. They were thinner than 2Bs--marching band sticks--but almost as long. Over the years Stan had moved farther out over the ends. Now the butts of the sticks fit into the heels of his palms, about an inch up from the wrist. He flipped the right stick away when the phone rang.
"Stan, dude! You want to work tomorrow?"
"Yeah, probably. What have you got, Darryl? You don't sound right."
"Does the name Keven Stacey mean anything to you?"
"Wait a minute." Stan switched the phone to his other ear. "Did you say Keven Stacey? As in Foolsgold, Kevin Stacey? She's going to record at CSR?"
"You heard me." Stan could see Darryl sitting in the control room, feet up on the console, wearing double-knit slacks and a T-shirt, sweat coming up on his balding forehead.
"This is some kind of bullshit, right? She's coming in for a jingle or a PSA."
"No bullshit, Stanley. She's cutting a track for a solo album she's going to pitch to Warner's. Not a demo, but a real, honest-to-Christ track. Probably a single. Now if you're not interested, there's plenty of other drummers in LA..."
"I'm interested. I just don't understand why she wants to fuck with a rinky-dink studio like yours. No offense."
"Don't harsh me, bud. She's hot. She's got a song and she wants to put it in the can. Everybody else is booked. You try to get into Record One or Sunset Sound. Not for six months you won't get in. Even if you're Keven Stacey. You listening, Stan?" He heard Darryl hitting the phone on the edge of the console. "That's the Big Time, dude. Knocking on your door." | Why is Darryl excited about | Causality | [
"Keven Stacey is cutting a track in the studio",
"Keven Stacey is cutting a demo",
"not enough information",
"Keven Stacey is recording at Warner's"
] | 0 |
f048_17 | f048 | 17 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "Sticks",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07sticks/0.html"
} | He had a 12" Sony black-and-white, tuned to MTV, sitting on a chair at the end of the bed. He could barely hear it over the fan in the window. He sat in the middle of the bed because of the sag, drumming along absently to Steve Winwood's "Higher Love."
The sticks were Regal Tip 5Bs. They were thinner than 2Bs--marching band sticks--but almost as long. Over the years Stan had moved farther out over the ends. Now the butts of the sticks fit into the heels of his palms, about an inch up from the wrist. He flipped the right stick away when the phone rang.
"Stan, dude! You want to work tomorrow?"
"Yeah, probably. What have you got, Darryl? You don't sound right."
"Does the name Keven Stacey mean anything to you?"
"Wait a minute." Stan switched the phone to his other ear. "Did you say Keven Stacey? As in Foolsgold, Kevin Stacey? She's going to record at CSR?"
"You heard me." Stan could see Darryl sitting in the control room, feet up on the console, wearing double-knit slacks and a T-shirt, sweat coming up on his balding forehead.
"This is some kind of bullshit, right? She's coming in for a jingle or a PSA."
"No bullshit, Stanley. She's cutting a track for a solo album she's going to pitch to Warner's. Not a demo, but a real, honest-to-Christ track. Probably a single. Now if you're not interested, there's plenty of other drummers in LA..."
"I'm interested. I just don't understand why she wants to fuck with a rinky-dink studio like yours. No offense."
"Don't harsh me, bud. She's hot. She's got a song and she wants to put it in the can. Everybody else is booked. You try to get into Record One or Sunset Sound. Not for six months you won't get in. Even if you're Keven Stacey. You listening, Stan?" He heard Darryl hitting the phone on the edge of the console. "That's the Big Time, dude. Knocking on your door." | Stan thinks Darryl's studio is: | Belief_states | [
"not enough information",
"big time",
"too expensive",
"not among the best"
] | 3 |
f048_18 | f048 | 18 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "Sticks",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07sticks/0.html"
} | He had a 12" Sony black-and-white, tuned to MTV, sitting on a chair at the end of the bed. He could barely hear it over the fan in the window. He sat in the middle of the bed because of the sag, drumming along absently to Steve Winwood's "Higher Love."
The sticks were Regal Tip 5Bs. They were thinner than 2Bs--marching band sticks--but almost as long. Over the years Stan had moved farther out over the ends. Now the butts of the sticks fit into the heels of his palms, about an inch up from the wrist. He flipped the right stick away when the phone rang.
"Stan, dude! You want to work tomorrow?"
"Yeah, probably. What have you got, Darryl? You don't sound right."
"Does the name Keven Stacey mean anything to you?"
"Wait a minute." Stan switched the phone to his other ear. "Did you say Keven Stacey? As in Foolsgold, Kevin Stacey? She's going to record at CSR?"
"You heard me." Stan could see Darryl sitting in the control room, feet up on the console, wearing double-knit slacks and a T-shirt, sweat coming up on his balding forehead.
"This is some kind of bullshit, right? She's coming in for a jingle or a PSA."
"No bullshit, Stanley. She's cutting a track for a solo album she's going to pitch to Warner's. Not a demo, but a real, honest-to-Christ track. Probably a single. Now if you're not interested, there's plenty of other drummers in LA..."
"I'm interested. I just don't understand why she wants to fuck with a rinky-dink studio like yours. No offense."
"Don't harsh me, bud. She's hot. She's got a song and she wants to put it in the can. Everybody else is booked. You try to get into Record One or Sunset Sound. Not for six months you won't get in. Even if you're Keven Stacey. You listening, Stan?" He heard Darryl hitting the phone on the edge of the console. "That's the Big Time, dude. Knocking on your door." | What happened before Darryl's call? | Temporal_order | [
"Stan was practicing",
"Stan was watching MTV",
"Stan was recording",
"not enough information"
] | 0 |
f049_0 | f049 | 0 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "Straws",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07straws/0.html"
} | He had apparently spaced out for a second or two. When he came to, a large, annoyed woman was leaning in toward him. "Mister? Mister, are you even listening to me?"
He looked at the receding rows of fluorescent lights on the struts of the cavernous ceiling, the gleaming linoleum floors, the pallets of sale-priced plastic coolers and Special K and motor oil, and then he looked at the rack of merchandise at his back and understood that he was in a Wal-Mart, behind the returns counter.
He heard his own voice saying, as if by reflex, "Do you have your receipt?"
*
At the first opportunity, he locked himself in a bathroom stall and dug out his wallet. His driver's license showed the right name, birthdate, and photo, but it had been issued by the State of North Carolina, and it listed an address he'd never heard of.
He scrubbed his face at the sink. It was him in the mirror, a tanned and healthy 56, hair mostly gray but still all there. He felt groggy, as if he'd woken prematurely. It was only the numbness, he thought, that kept the panic at bay.
If he didn't push, he found he knew the answers to some questions. He was due to clock out in an hour. When he left the parking lot he would go under the highway, turn left, and merge.
*
He found his way to a battered white Toyota pickup in the employee section. The key in his pocket started the engine. He forced himself not to think too hard as he drove, taking the turns that seemed to have a certain inevitability. He wound up on a dirt road near someplace called Pittsboro, in front of a small brick house surrounded by high yellow grass, pines, and live oaks. | After he came to and helped the woman how long was it until he went to the restroom to investigate some things? | Event_duration | [
"not enough information",
"As soon as possible, just a few minutes.",
"After another employee relieved him so he could take his lunch: it was a few hours.",
"After he helped the large crowd of many people so it was at least an hour."
] | 1 |
f049_1 | f049 | 1 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "Straws",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07straws/0.html"
} | He had apparently spaced out for a second or two. When he came to, a large, annoyed woman was leaning in toward him. "Mister? Mister, are you even listening to me?"
He looked at the receding rows of fluorescent lights on the struts of the cavernous ceiling, the gleaming linoleum floors, the pallets of sale-priced plastic coolers and Special K and motor oil, and then he looked at the rack of merchandise at his back and understood that he was in a Wal-Mart, behind the returns counter.
He heard his own voice saying, as if by reflex, "Do you have your receipt?"
*
At the first opportunity, he locked himself in a bathroom stall and dug out his wallet. His driver's license showed the right name, birthdate, and photo, but it had been issued by the State of North Carolina, and it listed an address he'd never heard of.
He scrubbed his face at the sink. It was him in the mirror, a tanned and healthy 56, hair mostly gray but still all there. He felt groggy, as if he'd woken prematurely. It was only the numbness, he thought, that kept the panic at bay.
If he didn't push, he found he knew the answers to some questions. He was due to clock out in an hour. When he left the parking lot he would go under the highway, turn left, and merge.
*
He found his way to a battered white Toyota pickup in the employee section. The key in his pocket started the engine. He forced himself not to think too hard as he drove, taking the turns that seemed to have a certain inevitability. He wound up on a dirt road near someplace called Pittsboro, in front of a small brick house surrounded by high yellow grass, pines, and live oaks. | He seems to have lost consciousness for a period of time because: | Unanswerable | [
"not enough information",
"he drank so much before work that he passed out on the job.",
"he was suffering insulin shock.",
"he'd been attacked by someone who was disturbed."
] | 0 |
f049_2 | f049 | 2 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "Straws",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07straws/0.html"
} | He had apparently spaced out for a second or two. When he came to, a large, annoyed woman was leaning in toward him. "Mister? Mister, are you even listening to me?"
He looked at the receding rows of fluorescent lights on the struts of the cavernous ceiling, the gleaming linoleum floors, the pallets of sale-priced plastic coolers and Special K and motor oil, and then he looked at the rack of merchandise at his back and understood that he was in a Wal-Mart, behind the returns counter.
He heard his own voice saying, as if by reflex, "Do you have your receipt?"
*
At the first opportunity, he locked himself in a bathroom stall and dug out his wallet. His driver's license showed the right name, birthdate, and photo, but it had been issued by the State of North Carolina, and it listed an address he'd never heard of.
He scrubbed his face at the sink. It was him in the mirror, a tanned and healthy 56, hair mostly gray but still all there. He felt groggy, as if he'd woken prematurely. It was only the numbness, he thought, that kept the panic at bay.
If he didn't push, he found he knew the answers to some questions. He was due to clock out in an hour. When he left the parking lot he would go under the highway, turn left, and merge.
*
He found his way to a battered white Toyota pickup in the employee section. The key in his pocket started the engine. He forced himself not to think too hard as he drove, taking the turns that seemed to have a certain inevitability. He wound up on a dirt road near someplace called Pittsboro, in front of a small brick house surrounded by high yellow grass, pines, and live oaks. | Who spaced out | Character_identity | [
"Customer",
"not enough information",
"Him",
"Her"
] | 2 |