Blase Eight by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview
Download the book in PDF, ePub, Kindle for a complete version.
Epilogue
I re-read what I wrote and am embarrassed to have accidentally confessed to having been so naive at such an advanced age. The parlance suggests that to have come up with these observations I must have the onset of some sort of brain deterioration. Sorry. For me. I hope I was very drunk at the time. If I can figure out how to delete it, I will. Though I know your questions have attained an edge of sarcasm, at least worthy of a C+ on the David Foster Wallace scale, perhaps, I should have straight-forwardly responded.
What I really think is that the few, if any, who really know how to market books aren’t spreading the news; and that they certainly are not offering their advice on the web for a thousand dollars per pop. Despite that logic, low income writers like me and you read the free advice all over the internet, always coupled with several mentions of their “very successful”
book and convenient URL’s to click on for convenient purchase.
We’re condemned to hope. The author’s name is never as familiar as the New York Times top ten bestsellers, though they claim to have pocketed a few hundred grand last year, while the vast majority of the household-name-writers have kept their day jobs.
I’m not accusing them of lying. That’s a matter between them and
Page 738
the IRS. Which IRS you rightfully ask. I’d suspect that of a country dealing in pesos or sheckels.
Doesn’t it bring some merriment to view the marginalized ads from book cover designers, editors, websites with “marketing acumen,” presss release capabilities, promised radio
“appearances” et al, available at $300 an hour, well in excess of those actually employed by professional publishers to do the same thing. I actually would fork over the $300 if they could get me on “The Jerry Springer Show.” ......... On second thought
................... But, I’d probably have a better shot at that if I could get my fat sister to agree to join me in publicly taking off our clothes and saying; “We’re intimate and we’re proud,” or some such thing in Georgian.
My own approach will be to write more books, with different subject matters, and maybe someday I will touch a nerve which causes a tidal wave. Not a bad analogy, if I do say so myself.
And if I don’t I honestly won’t care ............ the majority of the time. It’s become obvious to me that the publishing industry has determined that they can make more money from hustling desperate authors than they can from selling books, as they obviously don’t know how to move the product either. If they did they would not have a track record of 90% losers.
Best wishes with your efforts, and I hope that someday you might write me an e-mail, saying that I don’t know anything and
Page 739
that your book has been top 10 for months. It will be especially welcomed if you might be able to get mine read by somebody other than Goofreads and AmawayOnSteroids.Com “reviewers;” one who can potentially pay to say; “Its encouraging; but needs a lot more work.”
Under a barrage of US Conservative indoctrination for the last thirty-five years we have all come to think that we have become educated in financial likelihoods without the imposition of having to pay a degreed professor. Don’t think so? Next time he’s over ask your plumber what he thinks of AOS business plan and hope that he hasn’t already written ten pages about it on his blog.
You are of the firm opinion that the bulk of what we authors think is that we will be the exceptions and that it is necessary to think that way. You’re right. ........ I guess.
Then, I’m reminded that almost all the successful writers I’ve Wikied are either takers of or candidates for the taking of anti-depressant medications. Then I wonder if that mindset is the one which most registers with readers and reviewers. Then it starts to get really complicated and best stopped.
You are wise in having been shy to express your special nature. But in moments of clarity you are honest about it; at least with yourself. You think you are magnificently talented.
Page 740
You think you are more creative than the prime mover. You know that without writers an entire industry would not exist. You know that without the maligned and poorly paid writers the unemployment rate would be 25%. You know that without writers the population would have to drift off to sleep holding their crotches. You see the pile of bills near the microwave. You know the next book will cure everything. You know you love to write.
You know the one you’ll do next will supersede anything ever done. It is practical. Without these beliefs you wouldn’t be able to write a cook book. This is your curse. The cynics were there before you; and know how to use your optimism and desperation to keep you impoverished.
Credentials. Credentials. They insist on credentials. Damn the credentials. Look at the first twenty pages of the book.
It’s free now. If you don’t have the nerve to make your own decisions, do yourself a favor and get the fuck out of here.
But, you know that this is the key word in all pursuits. I didn’t mean “fuck,” but it comes out better that way. We live in a society where no one dare venture their mere opinions. Sans excuse, being wrong is intolerable. People have lived their entire lives without having made one. They have told me so themselves. The credentialed do not “like” anything which was not previously “liked” by their antecedents. If they deign to bless the rabble with anything at all, their attempt at a
Page 741
characterization results in a boring dissertation replete with exclusionary jargon. The Babel replay makes them feel current, superior, important and smart. After personal study and colleague interviews, it has become clear that either safety lies in Linus’ blanket; be it a degree, union card or past calculable financial success; a tangible thing in which to rest one’s faith; the oxymoron invisible to the many; or a mere redundancy. “I wasn’t wrong. Anyone would have done the same thing.” “Yes. I understand. Yes. I’d have done the same thing.
Yes.” But .................... “Fuck you both.”
We rookie writers get screwed. AmawayOnSteroids and Goofreads speak to us of promotion and we personally believe that they are the best deal around, since with minimal computer skills we can freely list books with them. The pusher always makes the first shot free. We soon discover that whenever we log onto AmawayOnSteroids, we are greeted with visuals of the same
“best sellers.” If we get adventurous and move around a bit we find those buried under ten five star (*****) reviews and ratings provided courtesy of family, friends, purchased slugs, and review swappers.
Catch-22? You wonder why they can’t feature yours sometimes. It would certainly generate some more sales. If someone wants to purchase Patterson or Gaiman’s books, they know where to find them, without constant “in your face” advertising,
Page 742
which may actually be counter-productive. What do they know?
Their stock sells at only 1,000 times earnings.
In your head you hear the Eagles sing “Cripple Creek” and
“Saturday Night,” only to be too soon followed by the “Doolin-Dalton-Desperado” reprise, marking the end. Once it’s known, it cannot be forgotten.
While it was probably not your “original intent,” possible Supreme Court allusion disdained, to have your stories seen by everyone, it was also probably not your “original intent” to be effectively blocked from all manner of on line communication by a fascist organization, executed by their sucker flunkies.
You’ve long heard about the “free” access provided by the “Young Adult” aged social-internet. But, now you have had first-hand experience with the communications allowed and sabotaged by AmawayOnSteroids, through their purposeful neglect. You know that it’s just so un-popular to nitpick, and a 2016 disaster to appear whiney. So you refrain from articulating any observation which might be construed as a complaint and this is precisely what they want. This personal approach is both because you are unsure about your technical proficiency and because you want people to buy your books. To do that they have to be available on the AOS monopoly. Shit, writing books sounds like a whole lot better way to spend your time and make a living than expediting
Page 743
boxes in some hundred degree warehouse, constantly under scrutiny and on camera.
But your experiences have made you somewhat skeptical. Some inconsistencies not yet taking the form of questions stick in your mind. A vague feeling makes you wonder if one player has been allowed to have much too much control. They seem to have an interest in making it easy to post your book with them.
Simultaneously, they also use it as a “free” come on available to their $99 per year subscribers. You didn’t have to allow this they said. Make or delete the checkmark in the appropriate block. However, when you attempted to take the un-checked option, you found that there was some insoluble problem with getting your book posted. When you checked the block the problem was miraculously solved.
If this is somewhere near the time you first entered the curious world of books, authors, readers, agents, publishers, retailers and hawkers of “book marketing” services there is little doubt that you’ve been getting an “earful.” It is further likely that had you any warning that this enlightenment” was on the horizon, you’d have brought an opened lead umbrella or called in sick. This umbrella is the best shield you’ve yet been able to imagine, as total enclosure in a lead box is required to put any possible illusion in its appropriate place; away from you.
Page 744
But, now you are there. “Where?” one might astutely say. In the natural light accompanied by a rattler? Where things are hollow? I haven’t the slightest idea. Partially conscious? This
“reality” check renders any early presumptions you may have made or not, a long time ago, extremely incorrect. If the last two words are too strong substitute “indicative of a postponed revisit.”
You know that, but don’t want to believe it. But, to ignore or pretend to ignore the cold facts will only result in the appearance of the solicitation of platitudes from tired and
“encouraging friends.” You will easily detect that their kind words progressively demonstrate what they have come to see as some sort of burden. For a while you’ll do your best to not see that. But, your best just ain’t good enough. If you continue in this pursuit you will soon meet Blanche DuBois, through the introduction of ever present factoid of Stanley. ......... Maybe that’s an improvement, but at best is a subject best left for someone viewed as either a “credentialed” or a “naïve” entity.
Some Eastern religious philosopher-on-the-un-admitted-make or a crass Kowalski-in-pursuit-of-a-‘truth’” can’t fully understand or appreciate; yet seem to work magnificently if played by Brando.
This has obviously been “seen” by a myriad of 21st century writers of e and books otherwise handled, or not. Yes, the few
Page 745
readers and reviewers of indie efforts “kindly” acknowledge their appreciation for the independence of books self-published; their condescension ostensibly of value to them only. Many stress how important it is for them to appear to be “nice,” just before going on to state their “generous” rating scale does not hold “indie” efforts to the standards of books previously done well. One of my father’s favorite phrases was; “Don’t do me any favors.” But, that would be so impolite to say to a kindly reviewer. They are so “nice,” and simultaneously useless and inconsequential; in pursuit of their own “market.” Please don’t laugh yet, and don’t let the words slip out devoid of measurement. To say any approximation of that, or to be taken out of context as saying that; or to have been subjected to the Goofreads form of “free speech; as defined in commercially prompted limitation,” administered by an unpaid and thereby unprofessional librarian, “edited” in the seeking of their monetarily un-compensated love of what they find to be a “power”
granted, will give the powers that be “cause” to brand and dismiss you as someone worthy of expulsion; and all the dumbed down little shits will actually agree; as the authority allowed them to safely do so. .................. I guess it would be inappropriate to snicker or say that that may be one of the highest levels of compliments one can receive. This may have
Page 746
digressed too much into the mindsets of the predatory crew; but this is not their book.
For a new, un-backed, un-proven and un-supported artist, it is of more relevance to try to define the sources from which the
“bad guys and girls;” come; be it the help me, help me sad ploy, almost excusable; not in logic but in your heart strings; and maybe a suggestion of something more; so hard to define; especially as that thought-feeling is one you know so well.
Incongruous and illogical; isn’t it? ............... Not really. ......... Partially so. Though you’d like to, you can never escape those memories of how they all pointed at you and laughed. No one can ever remove it from your head. It’s been imbedded; even prior to puberty. They laughed; and laughed; and laughed. They pointed; and you went blank. In your momentous entry you couldn’t understand how they found humor in your pain.
Mercifully, the teacher entered the room and it stopped. Now, they are clandestinely laughing as they obviously fake the display of kindness through the lowering of their standards; and the teacher died a long time ago. The real question is; “Who in hell gave the inexperienced permission to speak?”
Where did your book take you? Where do you think it might have taken your partner? I guess that the questions infer much too innocent answers. Get off it if you want to stay alive; the benefits, if any, of that pursuit, are yet to be determined.
Page 747
Okay, you want to sell books. ....... Maybe. ......... It’s still summer and your flip-flops seem comfy at the upper-middle-class; as variably defined; pool. You sit near the deep end, near the high board, which seems much too dangerous. Bright eyes light up the place with their un-bridled optimism. You consider the possibility that there is something wrong with you when you hold back from their joyous leap. You can’t help but envision the 73.23% chance that there is no water in the pool; or that you will land flat on your belly; or that you will not even be able to make it up the stairs for your fear of heights; and worst of all that they will point and laugh at you when it doesn’t go right.
The others dive; their bodies gleaming with the tiny rainbows reflecting from the play of the sun on the droplets adhering to them. They submerge; then resurface; spitting out the chlorinated water; like dolphins; yet seemingly, in the moment, more oblivious. You watch in what you don’t want to characterize as envy. You’re truly happy for them. It’s not their fault that something makes you unable to participate.
You’d just so like to be one of them. Yet your mind disables you. It will not go away, no matter what you try to do in attempts to obliterate the apparently immortal demon. You get confused when you see five sharks eat them.
Page 748
Your biggest fear is that you would rather die than do a remake of the Cheever-Lancaster “The Swimmer.”
So, you’re a writer; a reader; or both. To be more truthful, more likely you are a garage mechanic by day and a fantasist by the night in which you put down your thoughts. Now that you know who you are, it is sometimes useful to secondarily place yourself in the world you have chosen to inhabit. To go back to square one, “books” has through “computerized enhancement” become a term which means anywhere from hard copy black and white, with the occasional illustration; to the electronically efficient set of doo-dahs downloadable into a plasticized device of some sort with hi definition and color capabilities. Audio renditions can be stuck in your ear at higher charge. Whatever. It is of no matter. It’s just another soon to pass format; sort of a plastic fart; pretending that no more farts will come.
Regarding the first consideration of something material the cash seeking author must quickly recognize that he, she or zie is writing for READERS. By their very definition and moniker they are people who have felt more comfortable in the grips of printed paper and glue than they have been comfortable when confronted with the dualities of flesh and blood. They have obtained voluminous life experience from their ocular and
Page 749
digitized, substantially black, white, and gray meanderings and are sensitive to being told this has its drawbacks. So, you write for them while you don’t write for them. Simple.
Since the admitted US days of the slaves and the elsewhere un-admitted days of the same concept, it is clear that the powers that be are successful through one, and only one, major skill; their abilities to obtain free labor. They have capitalized on that and have used that capital to obtain
“influence” ranging from the Mayor, to the President, to the Supreme Court, and to the “shadow governments” responsible for day to day operations.
Through the unpaid labor, they have stolen from everyone susceptible to their slithering charms, including the writers and the readers. I’m sure they have a plan in place for the arithmetic-ers. At that point they will have the whole thing.
What they may have not yet considered is who will buy their products when the populace has been deprived of all income.
“Free market” capitalists have become increasingly short term oriented for half a century now. Maybe they’ll soon be in for a shock of their own or maybe they already have plans to openly make a subsidiary of elected government. Inroads have been established.
Page 750
No matter. It’s all good. It’s all fucking good. The people can get all the free books they want. They can read them while they starve and drift off. They’ll be entertained to the end and won’t have spent their time trudging through boring repetitious jobs. All their pictures, information, preferences and personalities already exist in cyberspace, where there is no need for food, clothing or shelter, and there is an infinite supply of entertainment; every book, movie or news item that ever was, is out there.
Maybe I’ll see ya’ll soon. I hope so.
The End of the Beginning
Page 751
Stop Already
What may be different in 2016 is that the writers can say whatever they want; and, if you believe the flouncing whines, it is the reviewers who are being called into question. There's a joke in there somewhere, but I don't know what it is.
One incident I've heard of happened in merry old civilized England. A writer found the reviewer who had been the first to one star his book and hit her on the head with a wine bottle; hopefully already consumed. I may have the sexes reversed, but it doesn't matter.
The perverse thing is that many more of the unionized reviewers then one starred the book; resulting in more people becoming aware that the thing existed; leading to greater sales than it would have otherwise had.
As far as I understand how it now stands, at least with "oh so significant” Goofreads, a reviewer can say whatever they want about a book, but are precluded from demeaning the writer.
................................. The slightest bit of thought about that indicates a sizable gray area. For me, I find it okay to make fun of books which are not specifically stated to be memoir recollections of a writer's painful past. But, when I once suggested that to a reviewer who had just done that, my
Page 752
response was; “Fuck you. No asshole can tell me to shut the fuck up. I have freedom of speech and can say whatever I want.” She must have been an undisclosed librarian or had access to one, as it wasn’t until after I had spent my time in the penalty box that I could inquire of this middle aged, portly and un-attached woman if it was okay for non-assholes to tell her to shut the fuck up. But, it wasn’t until after I had done my time that
..............
In certain circles of the real world the GFR “Trolling”
issue has seemed to evolve into a question of whether or not the reviewer has actually read and paid for the book in question.
The simple answers are; “Not necessarily,” and “Not necessarily.” ........................... “DUH!!!” you say.
“DUH!!!” I chime in with. .................... To ignore the ruse of a pawn sacrifice, we all know that this is a deflection, as there is no way one can prove whether or not they've read a book. But just like the investigation of Hillary's
"inappropriate" computer usage, it keeps people away from hearing about significant issues, such as the bankrupting cost of the now fifteen year old "War on Terror," where it stands, the goals, the cost, etc. etc.
If that is somewhat palatable to my respected reviewers, I will now risk incurring your communal wrath. What you have said
Page 753
in your review is no more sacred than what the writer has said in their book. Yes, I wrote that. And I’ll write it again with a slight change. What you have said in your review is no more sacred than what the writer has said in their book; and 99% of the time is less so. Pragmatically, it is best for a writer to not confront their own reviewer, but another writer might well confront the review. The review is not the most supreme of documents.
Reviewers have advised me that; "They can say anything they want,” and that “One cannot bully a book." Let me just say
"Okay," other nuances reserved for tangents dictated. Previously mentioned issues aside, it seems easy to follow this “logic”
with; "I can say anything I want and that one cannot bully a review." ............. Free speech? ................ Nothing personal? ..................... I hope okay. If not. I won’t be losing any sleep over it.
Right now my unscientific view of the situation is that there are plenty of crybaby indie writers; maybe spoiled by the high ratings they were given by the re-salable "free book"-in-return-for-an-honest-review-scam; the author swapping of
"honest" reviews, the lower standards granted by some “kindly”
reviewers, or the fifteen buck per pop four and five star
“honest” ratings available from numerous sources which AOS and GFR find too tricky to find a way to curtail.
Page 754
The reviewers on tiny Booklooks seem to be bucking the four star-five star-Goodreads, marketing approach, which has already been seen as a joke in many circles. "Applause, applause," to take an early quote from Joni. To paraphrase and attempt to make 2016 relevant another; "We’re out of here. You won't notice." In time everyone will follow or will claim to have had.
Booklooks drew my attention as it is the only book oriented-social networking site which is not already majority owned by AOS. The reviewers there rate books five stars approximately 10% of the time. Many of the reviewers also post their higher rated ones on GFR. All I can say is that if I was a reader considering reading a certain book, and wanted to first hear other honest opinions of it, I’d go to Booklooks; even though I recognize that this site contains less books and reviews, and seems to specialize in YA romance, zombies, and bizarro.
It is only due to AmawayOnSteroids and similar stock-selling-machines that these things have become any sort of an
“issue." We writers and reviewers have been tricked into supporting a monopoly of calculating haters; through allowing them to convince us to fight with our brothers and sisters. It will be only our first step into a freedom destined and
Page 755
beautiful when we take the easy road of standing against everything that AOS stands for. It’s only after that, no more futuristic than AOS’ stock price, when we might be able to tackle the other issues.
This whole issue is truly just a twenty-first century manifestation of the old game of “divide and conquer.” In the overall scheme of things it doesn’t really matter much. It really doesn’t matter precisely what a reviewer is allowed to write in a review any more than it matters what a writer might write in response. If we are still here in a few decades, it will be either not remembered or the source of a joke. However, what will likely be remembered is AOS-GFR and the story of how they ‘successfully” came to dominate the market. This will not be stated in the mainstream, as there, only the winners and their flunkies are allowed to write the history. It will be stated by little people no one ever heard of, just as it has always been. I would think that there must be some time when this all-too-obvious-fuckery stops, though there has yet to be a precedent.
Hey. You know, at the core, we're all on the same side.
Nuance, nuance, perceived nuance. Substantially, irrelevant. If there is any point, it is for you writers to keep on writing your wonderful books, and for you reviewers to keep on evaluating them fairly. You indie writers will be best
Page 756
positioned to do that if you don’t waste your time and money on all the junk the fee charging experts and other parasites advise. Don’t waste your time adding to the AOS-GFR fortune. I have no stature; never will and really don’t care. But, if you are more impressed with advice from the successful, look up Hugh Howey. No, that’s not me. I don’t know him and don’t get anything if you buy his books. After doing all sorts of jobs, without having the “benefit” of having had taken courses in
“creative” writing, he began to self-publish his own indie books about five years ago. They were immediate hits, went movie, and now he can pretty much call his own shots. When asked, he said that he never did any marketing. He suspected that his popularity grew by word of mouth; no doubt an anathema to the worship of these plastic communication devices in detestable front of our faces. Much like Warhol, his advice to aspiring artists was to just “do more.” I feel it fair to say that though there are very few writers, no more than 30, who I personally consider excellent, Hugh Howey is one of them; and that time and again; hard work and honed natural talents have a persistent habit of rendering the validity of marketing schemes irrelevant.
So, go for it; just protect your ass while you do. Be as excellent as Hugh. Lightning strikes somewhere every day.
Page 757
For me, what is left may seem a challenge. Certainly, to be anywhere near as good as Hugh Howey is a formidable task. But the rest is easy. Hey, hey Bozos and company. Listen up. It would be really great if you or one of your un-paid sucker flunkies look at this and ban it from your site. I’ll really miss the three buck a month wonder you’ve done for me; and I hope that one of your smaller competitors can do as well. It might be a great marketing ploy to advertise myself as someone banned by AOS. So many people hate you; even right where you live, or the reasonable facsimile of the “L” word.
I could have made the presentation more thorough through more editing. I could have added some things. If you don’t believe that I can’t adequately convey how much that breaks my heart. Whether or not you want to hear it, I just got bored as cold shit with the whole thing.
The whole thing can be summed up in two short simple sentences. “IF YOU CAN, JUST DO IT FOR THOSE WONDERFUL READERS
AS IT WILL BE A BREATH OF FRESH AIR. NO MATTER HOW FEW YOU MIGHT
REACH, THEY’LL ALWAYS REMEMBER.”
Page 758
Not the End, as Some People
Have Not Yet Been Heard.
Here are a Few of Them.
Page 759
And now a word from our indispensable sponsors; Also by Edward Drobinski:
1) Deadly Compromises- A bungling hit man meets and falls in love with the wife of his next intended victim.
2) The Trespassing Crew- Talking barnyard animals consider escape to the wild.
3) Strange Awakening- Man living alone in an isolated area thinks he witnesses a crime in progress and is threatened by the perpetrators.
4) Seven Stud- Two damaged men attempt a card gambling scam.
Follows characters from Strange Awakening.
5) Old Miss Gracing- Kindergarten boy develops relationship with elderly teacher, who has a curious and perhaps lethal past.
6) Death Or Eurydice- The Orpheus myth set in 1825 Massachusetts.
He's an uneducated white and she is black and well educated.
7) The Dry Spell: A Tribute to DFW- Man walks his dog and meets unusual people. Intended to mimic a series of David Foster Wallace short stories.
Page 760
8) Family Practice- Mystery wherein detective knows less than everyone else. Used as dupe. Heavy sexual content, some BDSM.
9) Shaunessy Goes West in Winter- Traditional mystery wherein NYC
police detective leaves to escape the ugliness. Hopes to give out traffic tickets in New Mexico, only to be greeted by an unearthed body.
10) A Short Departure from the Sanctuary- A collection of short stories, generally with a post-modern theme.
11) Prince, Part One- A ten year old girl insists on adopting a one year old Dalmatian, who was trained to fight. Could be for children and if read differently, for others too.
12) Prince, Part Two- Picks up after Prince is a fully accepted member of the household.
13) Acceptable Expectations- A physically and financially washed up baseball pitcher is taught a new pitch by his father. Follows him through the next season.
14) Christmas Visitor- Short children's story. Gabrielle (possibly an angel or messenger) teaches old drunkard how to perform magic and he imparts that to kids.
15) Lovely Summer Smoke Deluged- Story of two fourteen year old lovers living in the same house. They are two of six foster children. Many references to various art forms. It is erotic and
Page 761
skips around in time. It also switches between reality and fantasy.
16) Wicked Messenger- Episode I- The Mission- Sci-fi story of the exploratory earth mission of an Eli, necessitated by the discovery that Eli’s sun is burning out.
17) Wicked Messenger- Episode II- The Migration- The experience of Elis and Americans in America; chaotic.
18) Wicked Messenger- Episode III- Becky’s Blunder- Deceitful, but workable peace plan undone by little girl’s error.
19) No Way Home- US government paid assassins sent to Altair-3, where cop killer classified as a “terrorist” escaped thirty years prior.
20) Nothing Is Real, Everything Is Real- Computer generated images I like.
21) Free and Clear- Futuristic American family celebrates paying off mortgage; and is soon joined by a homeless family, under a government program which obliges people with “too much space” to share it with others.
22) Daisy: Walking on Water- An abandoned Dalmatian puppy is taken in by an elderly man.
Page 762
The back cover said the following in gold colored letters over a deep purple background, in a font covertly and inappropriately named “Jokerman:”
“Mr. Drobinski is the author of twenty-four other works of fiction including the best sellers; ‘Death Or Eurydice,’ ‘Deadly Compromises,’ and
‘Free and Clear,’ and has been the recipient on many awards including the coveted ‘Malajay Institutional Recidivist Award for Life Achievement.’ He attended Jersey City High School and subsequently received his GED from the State of New Jersey, graduating with honors. He currently resides in the Ironbound section of Newark, NJ with his lovely wife of 45 years and six pet lizards. He would like any potential reader to be aware that his works make no attempt whatsoever to be instructive, useful or competent; and that any such interpretation is a mistake; either on the part of the reader, writer, or printer.”
Page 763
#22- Enemy Fingered
Jack put down the book and felt as thrilled and enlightened as an indie reviewer who had just found all of life’s answers in a thirty year old, critically gushed over and popularly disdained book as that same indie reviewer simultaneously proceeded to forget any of the questions he or she may have originally had regarding the verbosity of the presentation. In simplicity, as is all too typical, the answers obliterated the questions.
Jack saw miniscule financial reason to do another book.
But, Justice was snoring and he had become extremely bored with the net’s social media. He did not ever again want to join in the party which parked their shitty asses over the edge of the diarrhea vat while sucking a personalized, elongated, addicting flavor straw. He decided to put down a number of ideas which were crossing his mind, though he had no compelling inspiration to provide further detail. He must have pushed an incorrect button as while he typed he heard Blondie sing; “Fade Away and Radiate.”
Page 764
In an acquired taste, coming to tolerate the unsolicited, rude intrusion, Jack continued typing and got into the clickety-clack sound, which his fingers produced on the keys.
1) “Pinch Me When the Incessantly Terminal Gravity Subsides.”
2) “Social Proprieties Analyzed as Deference to the Insistently Vulgar.”
3) “Middle Aged Lolita in Therapy.”
4) “The Thinker Assumed the Defecatory Position.”
5) “Atlas Stoned in the Defecatory Position.”
6) “Frosty’s Refrigerated Survival Trip; for Children of All Ages.”
7) “Youth is Wasted on the Senile.”
8) “Remembrances of a Future Long Passed.”
9) “The Twenty-Seventh Letter of the Alphabet.”
10) “Infinite Scams.”
11) “Green; a Short Story Collection in Braille.”
12) “Dante Unearthed at the Center.”
13) “The Pale Prince Proffers a Preference for the Onanistic Arts.”
14) “Jay Gatsby Ponders Religion and Name Changes.”
15) “The Roth All Night Diner.”
16) “Ellis in a Dior Rejected Dress.”
17) “Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Old Farts Club; A Sequel to ‘The White Album.’”
Page 765
18) “Magical Mystery Con; a sequel to ‘Norwegian Wood.’”
19) “Truman Evokes a Dream and Then Drops It.”
20) “Fifty Shades of Dowager Porn.”
21) “What Seuss Might Have Said to Rothfuss and Other One Sided Confrontations.”
22) “All About Lilith.”
23) “A Bitch in the Crowd.”
24) “No Little Shit Indie Critic is an Island.”
25) “If Ocular Observation Produced Perfect Vision and Other Futile Speculations.”
26) “A Portrait of the Artist as a Crotchety Codger.”
27) “Confusing Anger with Amused Disgust; Beyond Semantics and Sophistry.”
28) “Tender is the Knife.”
29) “In Pursuit of J.R.’s Elusive Tertiary Aspects.”
30) “thethingysnotworkingright; The Importance of Being Capitalized, Spaced, and Punctuated.”
31) “Absurdity Trying to Hide a Fundamental Lack of Talent.”
32) “Less than Affected Dullness.”
33) “Futile American Closet Case Cover.”
34) “Divergent from Zero.”
35) “Dickin’ Jane in Less Than Three Syllables.”
36) “Bart’ll Be the Scribbler.”
37) “Homer’s: The Oddity.”
Page 766
38) “Look What Happens When You Name Your Boy Joyce.”
39) “100 New Recipes for Cannibals.”
40) “Monty Still Can’t Get Over It, But Has Learned to Use It For Personal Advantage; a Sequel to Lemonade.”
41) “Mesmerized by the Dark.”
42) “Fitty Charades of Abu Guraib.”
43) “Remedial Sex Education for ‘Special’ Students.”
44) “One Hundred New and Inexpensive Roadkill Recipes for Geeks.”
45) “The Six Five People Who Could Not Have Possibly Killed JFK.”
46) “Henry Kissinger Differentiates Boring Depression from Joyous Infinite Wisdom.”
47) “A Comprehensive List of People and Animals Alleged to Have Been Assassinated by the CIA- a Five Volume Set with Updates Available Annually.”
48) “The Truth Finally Revealed #1; Shrimp are Microwavable.”
49) “Lyricism in Contemporary Fantasy Literature; an Extremely Brief Essay.”
50) “The Rebellious Deviant and the Outlaw Lobotomist.”
51) “Benny P’s U.”
52) “The Incredible Lightness of Overcooked Tomatoes.”
53) “More Dilettantish Musings from Benny the Dip.”
54) “The Truth Finally Revealed #2; The Sabers did IT!”
Page 767
55) “You Wanna See a Real Bomb?”
56) “A Tediously Extended Version of a Petite Masked Ball, Drearily Chronicled Within the Bounds of the Mischaracterized Non-Framework of Finnegan’s Wake.”
57) “They Didn’t Catch IT in the Rye.”
Jack took a “time out” during which he again assessed his literary potential as being just south of the guy who had just broken into the AOS top two million with a writing-challenged version of a “Choke,” which didn’t naively assume that anyone gave the least bit of a shit about some overly obvious, and therefore likely brain-dead con-man, trying to pull off a sad and charitable poverty illusion in a restaurant. To take a cue from the most astute of the indie reviewers, it would be kind to say that the choking protagonist’s intended market, as Chucky depicted, would have to have been those who don’t get out a whole lot or those who think they are in or destined for the illusion of Paradise. It seems too painfully obvious to state that if the asshole was really impoverished he’d have had his head in a Mickey D garbage can or at least in a canned microwavable delicacy prepared at his home address. Yes, the choker had a home; a real fucking home, as opposed to the roofless dwellings inhabited by those considered unworthy, misunderstood and reviled without one. In the supposedly
Page 768
“original” version, the choker got regular gifts from people who must be from Australia or some other such remote, verging on hinterland, location to be so un-sophisticated concerning long playing scams. At its un-likely best this book would have to have been some failed and fairly retarded attempt at an analogy to the US welfare system in America’s late sixties and early seventies; obviously a period which Pally girl did not experience or come to understand; yet has the audacity to comment. In essence, the virgin writes the definitive sex book.
........... DUH!! Fucking double DUH!!! Apologies. There is absolutely no intent on the writer’s part to invoke any possible allusion to the derisive nick-name unfairly given to a former, patriotic US President. In this top two million version the con-man actually did choke to death on the restaurant floor while the other patrons laughed, kicked the corpse with the bulging eyes, and took the remainder of his fish and chips. Seems righteous, and maybe even overly tolerant of scamming scum.
As the number of further options grew exponentially, Jack thought of the possibility of doing short stories as he had neither the time or interest in doing a plethora of novels. In addition he feared that through doing them, he would be characterized as intellectually pretentious, resulting in a $50
a month fan base consisting only of pompous writers no one had ever heard of; in search of something to copy. Those thoughts
Page 769
were countered by the other ones which strongly suggested that short story writing would, invariably, in and of itself, preclude him from the short list of all-time greatest authors; that he really didn’t care whether or not he was characterized as intellectually pretentious, superior, or inferior; and that the primary purpose of his writing didn’t involve monetary considerations reflecting popularity; nor the wasteland of critical acclaim. It was just intended as a possible way to get Beth to turn on her love lights. He was no cyclops. He lacked the audacity to carry glasses and a bottle of spirits on Calle de la Congelacion. He also lacked having the three hands granted to the reptiles in surrealistic, unintended, age’ de garde paintings.
Jack abruptly cut his creative reverie when Justice opened his eyes, shook his head, and filled the room with a huge, yelping yawn. They went right out the front door and Justice found an immediate, three-legged use for the closest elm. While in the front yard Jack got that funny feeling and sound in his pants again. The pleasant sensation seemed to vibrate in surges with an attendant ring, ring, ring. His dog, Justice, must have been raised as a Catholic. After all, he had been neutered. As always he started to growl in a threateningly manner as his keen ears detected the sound. In a co-operative overture Jack had changed its tone a few times, but the Shepherd apparently wasn’t
Page 770
open to accepting any small variations from the silent norm. In fact, he was adamantly against it, unless it could possibly play something which has stood the test of time; perhaps something Handel; definitely something done long ago; now on DVD. However, given the inessential spirit of the disturbance the pup must have been induced to conclude that sacrifice was the code of the road; not music or bells. The only other humanly understandable possibility was that, like the centuries old debate of whether Manhattan was the center of all opportunity or the center of all evil, he felt that he was completely dis-interested in again pursuing the boring details; and that they would be best left to the tedious drone of yet another immaterial, inconsequential, and vainglorious group of sophists, in pursuit of pained lip wrinkles passing for a smile, and perfunctory claps from the room of no more than thirty.
Perhaps of more significance his pre-pubescent amputation rendered any sensation other than pain and hunger not understandable and ecstasy not a consideration, unless in pill form. Before the incessant rings allowed the Shepherd to condemn Jack to fiery hell for yet another melodic and inconsequential infraction, he pulled it out of his pants and held it to his ear.
He brightly said; “Hello.”
“Jack, man. Long time. Manny. You lose my number?”
Page 771
“Oh, hell no, man. Time just flies. I wrote a book!”
“A book? What about?”
“Us. I called it ‘Real Cops.’”
“God, you think people are ready for that?”
“Well, I’ve learned that either they aren’t or that I may not be as skilled as Charles Dickens.”
Manny said; “Gotta do super hero cops now. Taking down the monsters, crooked politicians and the gangstas. Think comic book without pictures.”
“Fantasies and magic do do well, but I never played Dungeons and Dragons. Speaking of which, how’s your sister doing?”
“What was it you said you were doing for a living?”
“Writing. Temporarily subsidized by landscaping.
............. Hey, you gigglin’? That’s mean.”
“No, no, man. Just a little frog in my throat.”
“So?”
“So what?”
“So what about your sister?”
“Oh, yeah, yeah. She, uh, got hooked up with this roofer guy. Supposed to be the only one any good at this tar and gravel stuff. Listen, what I was calling about is that they caught your car thief.”
“Excellent, my friend. Tell me all about it.”
Page 772
“Nineteen years old. First known offense; suspected of other priors. Insufficient evidence. Couldn’t yet tie him to the drive by shooting the car was used for before being dumped on the edge of the mesa. Same old shit. He’s been released. Part of the South Side Locos.”
“Got a name?”
“Denton Barrett; street name “Spidey D.”
Jack couldn’t help but laugh. He said; “I thought your name had to be something like Manuel Hermosillo to be part of the Locos.”
Manny forced an uncomfortable laugh, which sounded more like a nervous deflection, before he said; “What the fuck can I tell you, man? That’s what the guys in Homicide told me. Maybe his mother got a rich whitey the second time around.”
“Denton?”
“Maybe he’s a fuckin’ doctor. Or maybe he wears fuckin’
pajamas. I don’t know.”
Jack said; “Okay. Okay. Just curious, talkin’ shit. They got this guy for car theft. The car was used in a drive by. If they’re not gonna charge him with that, he still must know who did it.”
“For real. So far, he got away with sayin’ he just took it for a joy ride spur of the moment and then dumped it.”
Page 773
“Yeah, sure. He just happened to be on Calle de la Congelacion one cold morning. And some people who were planning a drive by just happened to find where he dumped it shortly after. Come on.”
“Real cops, man. What can I say? First offense. Crying mama showed up with a hot shot attorney, yadda yadda and he walked.”
Jack asked; “Got a picture?”
“Attached to an e-mail.”
“All right. Thanks.”
“Be cool.”
“Yeah, you too man. Thanks.”
With one finger, Jack nudged the appropriate, miniscule, off button. He was unaware of, as he had never previously thought about, the lack of significance and how easily manageable the piece of plastic was; its only capabilities a possible low level buzz or a silence. The sound shut off; a possible, additional, machine generated testimony to the much overly-feared first or second death, depending on perspective.
Then the restricted to twice capable, insistent redundancy chimed in with its corporate elevator, musaak homogenized to not offend or excite any listener; successful in anesthetizing all those formerly in possession of willing ears; now as numb as a hearing aid with dead batteries. In the limited visions of its
Page 774
perhaps incorrect, but commercially intended and lucrative to the poorest, and consequently inoffensive progenitor efforts at blame of their perceived “communicative” inadequacy, the boredom of another; yet another one hit wonder became more clear to the rabble than they had the ability to glean from the sophisticated brilliance and attempting-to-not-be-insulting could depict of the obvious; clandestinely another malevolent to the norm, a soft attempt at cacophony, Jack’s momentary attention on the dual nature of the caca and phony displayed by the presumed as necessary cold and numb. He put the perfunctory back in his pocket, again noticing the hole the seemingly rounded edged requirement had gouged. At his real, growling, needed but sad pre-empt of serious intervention, Justice became somnambulistically alert, an acquiescence to perceived social norms, and looked up. The end of the mechanical, synthesized sound served him well in his desire to continue his sleep.
Closed eyes are never disappointed.
Jack temporarily got redundantly and un-reflectively profane. He quadruplicated his prior vows to change into something more socially appropriate; maybe quintuplicated, restrained only by his inadequate knowledge of the terminologies used in “higher” math prequels. All prevarications passed in a millisecond in their cloudy irrelevance. In some notion of
Page 775
momentary clarity, he thought; “I’m going to kill the dumb fuck who ruined my life.”
Being a somewhat realistically trained cop he immediately evaluated how this shit would play in court, with a supposed jury of his peers. He had had the disadvantage of having read an elementary introduction to Kafka. The feeble arguments presented of his now afraid of being interpreted as prematurely ground breaking in its simple action; was the equivalent of
“sophisticated” flappers in their time of loud, youthful laughing, easily triumphant over the feigned disinterest and the consequent sound of a credentialed dry fart when done. It was so obvious to him that the point, if any, was in the doing; not the dead analysis of memories. Previously, his adopted pal, Justice, used his Shepherd canines as less than a blood draw on his left hand. For a second he mistakenly pondered the seeming philosophical channel adjustment to a wavelength of advertised difficulty. It was as if he had no control of his thoughts and that his thoughts brought him to a place he didn’t want to visit.
Mercy. Jack was granted a merciful pardon, and he hoped it was not a ruse; the A-Team-mowhawk a fleeting second at best.
Jack got his head out of his ass and began planning how to torture and eventually kill the dumb fuck who had made the mistake of crossing his path and leaving him without wheels.
Page 776
Jack eyed his clear-eyed pup, who now sat back on his haunches; physically relaxed, but eyes sparkling and alert. The comfort implied by the non-panting, long tongue, displayed in times of heat desperation; resided in the sans-papers, pedigree’s partial protuberance. Justice’s long, blending mane of white, black, brown, yellow, and other colors not differentiated in the imperfect transference from human eye to human brain seemed the perfect length for this year’s warm winter and consequent Propician growth.
Justice momentarily at ease, Jack took advantage of the opportunity, to defer to the electronic wonder of his adult life. Its communication skills had been well honed by skillful entrepreneurs, not yet achieving their monopolistic goals, but striving, and convincing to the deferential, defeated suckers.
Jack pushed his smartphone’s on button, not sure which it was, used to its settlement for a green lackluster, pea soup screen, apparently sufficient to trigger a later welcome. As Jack typed in his required password he thought; “Hi, boneyard evocative, willing sap of the electricity con,” thinking of himself.
Justice, in his growling mercy precluded further thoughts in that direction. Jack said; “All right, all right. I know you’re not going to bite me. So cut the shit. I’m just using this fucking thing because in 2016 I have no other choice.” Justice moan-growled lowly and sought a more comfortable position with
Page 777
his head on his front paws, his body now entirely on the ground, corporeally relaxed, with minor signs of inevitably biased discomfort, but with eyes that shone as they pierced.
The machine had sufficiently awoken to allow Jack to check Manny’s e-mail. He saw a mug shot of a light weight who appeared as if he would be more at home being photographed in an honor society cap than as a police publication poster-boy prospect.
From many first hand experiences, he well knew that appearances can be very deceiving.
The shitass photo of the car-jacking kid was necessarily taken as a possibly incorrect depiction; the potential felon’s countenance paraded as facially grinning like if he had just done something bright or completely bad-ass stupid, married to the affectation of blank eyes, cool if not yet cold; sitting on a pencil geek neck. It was like one of those scenes where one is challenged to find out what’s wrong with this picture, and one thinks; “Nothing I care to study. It’s just funny.”
Assigning an un-defined degree of improbability to the situation, like a blind scientist, Jack sought the un-controvertible “facts.” The ease of the self-imposed limitation shut off sufficient gray power for him to see the address. 914
Camino de Victor was at best an imaginative, hopeful characterization of something too far gone to pretend to comprehend in polite company. The larger, more ambitious area
Page 778
was well known to Jack and every other cop. It was a “downtown”
part of Mesa Verde in the process of gentrification. The term
“Nob Hill” had been coined, the origination a source of
“Historical Society” debates somewhat limited by “propriety” and depicted in illustrated books with first printings in three digits, with no seconds requested.
Justice was relieved and relaxed and Jack was anxiously curious, as he opened a car door and Justice hopped right in; finding a good napping spot after a few circling investigations.
Picturing a personal nirvana of a dead punk body and sleeping Justice, he mindlessly drove a route he had taken countless other times. In what seemed to be no time, with Justice comfortable and drowsing in the front passenger seat, Jack’s eyes were drawn to the graduated hill which attracted the earliest of Mesa Grande inhabitants. The old hill was still visually stimulating in a town built on a flat mesa; grande as that which the spinners conjured. Jack and Manny had never answered calls when the problem stemmed from the confines of the hills now spottily xeriscaped to support “native” plants imported from South American resorts and now decorated with varying sized pebbles and rocks trucked in from Utah. Of pragmatic significance to award winning, experienced cops was that it was a place to avoid; unless the guns or dicks get
Page 779
exposed. The bargain hunting “gentrifiers” had a nasty habit of filming cops getting the remaining undesirables off the affordable re-organizers’ streets. They saw no contradiction between their “liberal,” righteous, and sanctimonious defenses of human rights while they wanted year long prison terms for the homeless who occasionally caused brown patches, by going over the line of acceptability and pissing on their immaculate lawns.
Cops don’t need any duplicity or “issues.”
Jack sighed as he recalled the multi-faceted and confusing territory wherein the domains of the comfortable were devoid of fences and replete with nursery supplied, “native’ plantings and the homes of those yet-to-join-the-New-Age were inadequately protected by gauche and injured chain link fences. He asked Justice; “What kind of place does this car thief come from?” The cordially attentive dog lengthily murmured, closed his eyes, and sought a return to his dream.
Jack’s junker drew side glances from the most polite as the metal in the trunk clanged over 15MPH speed bumps at a robust 25. The unsightly bulges were designed to “protect” the meth resistant improved streets as they were particularly injurious to low riders. Wearing head wrapping shades and the red bandana favored by the growing number of Locos, Jack sought anonymity; his regular front-only plate today replaced by one of his
Page 780
transferees from the police impound yard. He eyed an early display of long brown femininity in very cut-off jeans and missed the stop sign, only coming to a halt because of the blaring horn of the aged, black Grand Prix which swerved to pass slowly in front of him; the driver vehemently indicating one something or other as he yelled; “maricon punyeta.” Jack, too, made use of his left hand extending a “hi” sign and an explanatory thumb in the direction of the delectable legs. It must have worked; at least on the guy in the Grand Prix. The obscure object of his desire just wiggled on, pretending to be oblivious to the whole affair.
He navigated Hill Street with a vow to concentrate on his chosen somber business of efficient, un-detected through diligent surveillance revenge. ................. More or less; insofar as some distractions were as compelling as the new “Star Wars” movie was to a nine year old. At the next stop sign he made a right onto Camino de Victor; his eyes darting between the road and the all-important numbers posted in front of every house; the destination 914. Since the side street had been re-named, his googling navigator was deficient in its inability to provide direction and guidance, still thinking the name was Calle de los Hermanos; and further unaware of the original predecessor; Calle Arbolado Swale. Jack had again successfully used his Wi-Fi-less eyes to pilot his functional junker.
Page 781
As the lower numbers slowly rolled by, Jack made note of the increasing absence of broken chain linked boundaries which still sporadically populated the main venue. In sharp contrast, Camino de Victor was lined with renovated Southwestern styled homes which were not protected by visible borders, totally reliant on the diligence of the curious tenants, currently in
“hidden” position, behind the cracked shutters. Jack knew that state-of-the-art surveillance technologies amplified the personal touches at the shades in the section once sarcastically named Nob Hill in consideration of nobs other than the kind currently envisioned; perhaps a throwback to something substantially incorrectly viewed as Fitzgerald-esque; now taken very seriously. The “improvements” resulted in real estate values steadily climbing at a pace exceeding that of the zooming stock of profit deficient AmawayOnSteroids.Com, when factoring in the leverage. Jack thought; “What a weird place for a car-thieving gang-banger to live.” He pulled his bandana down to his brows and re-checked his googler. Satisfied, but still a bit cautious, he took solace in the fact that the numbers were going in his direction; albeit very slowly.
He passed by houses now considered chic, some with women in baggy shorts showing him or the world the undefined point at which their asses ended and the point at which the cellulite process began, as they either watered or made some sort of
Page 782
adjustments near the foundations. He silently smiled at a few of the asses, but unlike the stop sign violating distraction generated by tight cutoffs his interest in the loose synthetics were surpassed by the choices of house stucco colors. The efficient, easily applied, product removed any sense of texture from the adobe structures and conveniently served to further mask the inequality of the wood framed imitations; unless one was granted an educated, interior view. Long familiar with the ultimately value judgmental arguments concerning the longevity-beauty tradeoff, Jack found humor in the deviations from the traditional brown-tan, particularly the yellow banana and pink varieties, which seemed to call out; “Look at me! Please look at me!” ............. It worked ................ for a very short time.
The numbers ruled Jack’s line of vision; both as a deference to necessity and as a disinterest in disinterested, veined white asses; some with ripples resembling a very minor storm at sea, without the help of any aquatic wind. He drove on; seeing that the walkways were devoid of any human movement. Any encroachments to the suburban tranquility were only made by the early-season-squirrels, tails directed at the sun, as they ran in bursts. Their rushes were only interrupted when they stopped and rested, surveying the land in search of nuts, conifer cones, and lizards. On their hind legs, with tails now resting on the
Page 783
surface, they looked a lot like Meer cats contemplating the crusades of the next intruder. They had to have thought that the warm weather was a sign of spring; as they scampered through the boundary deficient front yards in search of sustenance to gather.
Jack eyed 758 and 837 well displayed on proud polyurethaned posts topped with the defining metallic digits obtained from kits; two required for duplications; three required at exceeding cost for the rare 333’s, 666’s or 888’s. He was getting close to his target.
He crossed another four way stop sign which guarded entry to the 900 block. After his recent, leggy-cutoff-shorts, transgressing violation he was particularly careful to watch all directions. Seeming clear to the eye he passed the last crossroad and entered the dead end street.
Number 914 was on his right. He parked on the left to observe. So many spaces were available he was afraid he would attract attention. But, there didn’t seem to be any alternative.
So he parked directly across from number 914 and watched the red door, anxious to see-spy this Denton-Spidey D-whatever who had ruined his life. He double checked his pocket to make sure he had his gun. He did.
Page 784
The sun felt warm as it collected and radiated from the junker’s metal frame. He “temporarily” closed his eyes. Jack recalled that many years prior, his father was part of a group which intended to have Beth removed from her house. Jack found out that it was not due to non-payment of her mortgage, but that it was because her neighbors objected to the way her house had been rocking; the vibrations ultimately moving it two inches west of its original location. While it was still well within the borders of her property, for some strange reason her neighbors were offended. Through the utilization of a smorgasbord of complicated local zoning codes and permitted uses attorneys for the group were able to legally contend a violation; punishable through eviction and confiscation of property. Beth had ignored the mailed notices which stated that she must bring her house into compliance with the law. She considered the mailings to be a joke played by some neighbor who didn’t like her; and she had a few candidates in mind. On a practical level, she could not afford an attorney. At the last moment she had approached “Legal Aid,” only to be informed that their policies precluded them from representing one who “owns”
their own home, and besides, no one there had the appropriate specialty. So, for sake of her peace of mind, Beth chose to believe that the whole thing was a stupid farce and the house
Page 785
continued to move and rock. But, today was apparently the day it would end.
Jack drove there with his father. His protective instincts surfaced in an irrelevant fashion. Though he was not sure, on numerous occasions he said that this was not legal, but never got any response. When they arrived Jack saw that Beth had a weird house and that the evictors were already there. Her house was inside a much larger structure, which appeared to have been predominately commercial. It somewhat resembled a shopping mall with a low ceiling. Her “unit” was against a first floor, windowed wall. She was outside of it and the evictors were putting some kind of yellow, police looking “Crime scene; do not cross” tape all over it. When she spotted him Jack said “hi.”
She immediately accused him of having orchestrated the whole thing as an excuse to see her, which she had forbidden. Jack said “no” and that he was there in an effort to prevent the eviction from happening.
Jack tried to dissuade the rabid evictors with the argument that a two inch move still left the house on its own property and that no one had filed encroachment charges. He wasn’t sure that this was the case given the weird arrangement, but was certain that the rocking was none of their business and said so.
He said; “There’s no law against rocking. Every trailer rocks in the wind and their residents are never evicted.”
Page 786
Jack sat on the commonly used floor with Beth and said;
“Don’t you trust me?” She sighed and said; “Yeah.” They kissed dispassionately and he was hopeful that they could get back together. She invited him inside. The house was the size of a mobile home, but was not one. There were extensive window views on one side.
She pointed to a small, pink, flower decorated chest and said; “That’s where I keep my mother’s things.” It got extremely quiet. He looked out the window and it appeared as if the evictors had gone and taken their yellow tape with them. But Jack was not sure as the side they were last seen on was the one with no windows. He tried to instill some confidence when he said; “See. It was just a bluff to see if you’d do something stupid.”
Without any detectable expression, she answered; “I think I did.” Music came from somewhere. It was the Tubes doing “Space Baby.”
Jack was startled awake when 914’s door slammed. Out walked the young car thief with short hair dyed blond, sporting sizable gold earrings where one would normally expect them. His other fashion statements included a red bandana and the baggiest of pants a few sizes too large. He bravely yelled; “Fuck you, mom,”
in decibels sufficient for the whole neighborhood to hear; while
Page 787
Jack indecipherably mumbled; “Thank you, Beth.” Denton walked in the direction of the dead end, a vacant lot overgrown with elm trees; the largest twenty feet tall. Jack followed slowly on foot and tried to keep a straight face.
He kept his distance and kept an eye out for possible witnesses. The tiny elm forest had a curving path, first eastward, then back to the west. It didn’t appear as if it got much human traffic as ruins of last season’s grass encroached in a brittle tan.
The forest was only about 300 feet deep and on the other side was the busy turf of the Locos. Jack thought; “Gonna check more. Looks like it’s best to get him in the woods. Those trees provide great cover.”
Page 788
#23- Anemogram VI
And it came to pass that on the eighth day of his journey, a tired, gray pilgrim on horseback approached the home he had left in search of adventure and knowledge when a teenager. The Rider had unceremoniously travelled for what seemed an overly long lifetime, and only now had any inkling that, as a child, he was ridiculously and overly susceptible to the provocative, cackling, shrill, bugle wails of the disingenuous, painted sirens. The lures had posed on the steep mountainside outside of town, right on the slope where he was now perched, as the cacophonous sentries, positioned at the desired land’s gates made a mockery of the fixed, written words of the book he had favored in youth. The Rider pulled back the reins and dismounted his black, white, and gray spotted companion and together they took in the view.
His eyes panned over a setting which seemed to be other than what his half century old memory recalled. Below were the brown and the flimsy, which had callously encroached on the green and the sturdy which were what was in his mind. On the ground near him were the charred stumps and the haphazard, blackened, fallen logs. The visible insects had devoured the majority of the softer brown wood, but seemed to have no
Page 789
interest in the parts which had been scorched. These remnants, which were slowly being absorbed by the earth on which they now rested, sat like an un-excavated burial ground.
His aged and now diminished ears heard nothing, but the sporadic echoing whistle of the earth upsetting wind; making an abundance of short lived dust devils. It howled in gusts in defiance of soothing convention, as it unsuccessfully tried to once again regain the stature deceiving, un-kept promise of its former flamboyant prominence. Yet, he also knew that the insistent wind had its undeniable mellowing place in his realm of otherwise stagnant and mounting heat. It immediately made a liar of him when it blew dust into Spotty’s eyes. Without the benefit of hands, she had no way to brush away the rude, petty grains which accumulated to hamper her vision. The shaking of her head alleviated much of the initial intrusions, but was ineffective when the moisture induced widening muddy deposits at the corners. The grounded Rider used his fingers to clear her eyes. As always, she first balked, afraid of injury to the vital, sensitive area. The Rider found the repetition of the old story somewhat silly; but never said so. This was the millionth time he put his hands under her chin and said; “Hey girl; you should know by now that I’d never hurt you.” Like always, Spotty sighed and relaxed while the Rider cleared her eyes.
Page 790
The time-consuming, eight day trip, no doubt clearly foreseeable by the enlightened, had taken him only an un-enlightened and decaying half century. But now, he thought that he was finally home. The thoughts of what might have been if he was brighter and more fortunate were ones he had to forget. The past was gone and now irrelevant. It was simple as that as he had managed to think in his busy rational moments. He had long prior learned how to hold back the publicly embarrassing tears, saving them for his ample idle solitude. The Rider rubbed away his own accumulating corner deposits.
He came to a complete halt on the bounteously recalled, but presently treeless hill. He overlooked the town. He could only now try to fool himself by doubting that it was the place he did once seek to leave. Things had changed. That person was not him; it had to be someone else caught in the inevitably, drowning whirlpool. The harsh realities of what he truly believed, but didn’t want to remember, only served as a testimony to his long term and wasting, weak culpability. The thought had to go away, if he had any chance of keeping on, though he knew that his keeping on had no relevance to anyone but to him, Spotty, and possibly his present boss. He recognized this depressed mindset was just another manifestation of self-indulgence; popular with the privileged and their affected mimics, while in reality he knew that it was just another simple display of humanity’s will
Page 791
to go on; all too often used for short term personal gain. Still in its grips despite accurate recognition of the enemy, he temporarily considered willing himself to death, but could not sustain the pain-ending thought. The illogical, sorrow generating, yet irrepressible hope of a deep-rooted, childish dream would not let him succumb to the comfortable numbness.
He attempted to get out of his head and into what was around him today; in what apparently passes for someone’s version of “reality,” their own. In that process the Rider found it easier and truer to substitute his own. He had come to know that his attitude had much in common with what everyone else dealt with daily; and here he was, reflecting on it like another poor imitation of Narcissus. Yet, if he were to insist on only viewing his own perceptions, it would only solidify his isolation. He took a long drink from his brown, fringed, leather canteen; in that process apprehensively noticing that the only remaining water contained in it rested at the bottom. His eyes went to Spotty. At first she was apprehensively looking at him.
She then whinnied; low, sad and shyly; shook her head from side to side, though that movement was no longer personally necessary. She looked the other way; not in any sense of defiance; not in any sense of boredom; not in any sense of disgust; not in any sense of ill will; but maybe in a sense of a feeling of inadequacy coupled with the sense of a feeling of;
Page 792
“Get off it. It leads nowhere!” The Rider thought that he might understand and caressed her.
The magnificence of his anciently and possibly mistakenly recalled fertile valley; its compelling view, punitively, pitilessly and perhaps condescendingly, was obvious to him and was right in the face of Spotty and he. His exhausted and partially open eyes looked, though the part of him which insisted on survival recommended that they be closed. He resisted survival compulsions and saw that the steep hillside itself, not only evidenced a consuming inferno; the date anyone’s guess; only displayed sawn tree stumps which because of the regularity of the cuts, appear to have been taken down prior to the fire. Now they were apparently resolute in their commemorated mortality; a museum of undesired, immobile tranquility, no longer having any hope of shifting their many lost branches in the fickle breeze. Their un-moving, but making-the-best-of-things remains overlooked the wrinkled, parched, presently desert town, as reluctantly, did the Rider. He thought that he remembered bucolic, green, springtime dalliances, happily extending their bold, newly acquired progressions into a cloudless, blue sky, which seemed well within reach. Though there was no evidence of his memory, he was stubbornly certain that he was right. For a privileged, melancholically, happy and hopeless moment, his possibly objective faulty, primal
Page 793
recollection of what he dreamed of in his youth; as to the beauty which once was on, above, and below the hill, on which he now stood, pounded his brain like exhilaration coupled with an unspoken admonishment. The remnants of the sweet dream were clearly in front of his face. The reality was much as his almost forgotten, foolish, and romantic, once upon a time fantasy. The unattained dream which he now considered to be the innocent delusion of a youthful and erroneously thought to be a never-to-come-again oasis of the sincerely joyful shared the libidinous embodiment of a loving soul which had long prior succumbed to the infectious, prevalent passion, or never really was, outside of his thoughts. It was the substance of fantasy to be enjoyed only when one was alone and ready for sleep. At some compromising point, his prior resistance to the predominant and ever-flowing waves wore out. The comfort of the old innocent songs were overwhelmed by a silent cacophony of guilty, tainted, universally, though not personally produced ugly realities, which were the result of a magnanimous smiling viewpoint which seemed to be clearly right in front of his faulty brain and eyes. While the heart of the saddened one was capable of an extremely limited foray into the life of a hermit monk, his nether regions seemed to have a mind of their own and without any semblance of sociably acceptable constraints, looked elsewhere. Was there any choice? It was a storm of relentless,
Page 794
blinding dust which gratuitously dropped its dominant, physically “real,” and un-welcomely imposed obscurations on the desperate, unhappy groupings he sought to elude. Unlike many years prior, he now knew that he rightly belonged with them. He knew and hated that stupidly stubborn aspect of himself, in which he appeared as reticent or shy, but was a truly unwilling and unenthusiastic prognosticator and procrastinator, in fear of the horror he had seen inflicted on the openly vulnerable. There was no way to live with open eyes and simultaneously avoid it.
For her and only her, he had frantically prayed to un-listening ears for a cessation of the cruel wind; each entreaty performed with less zeal than the prior failure, until it was gone. He knew that he and she were just more of the condemned, didn’t understand why it had to be this way, and yet still desired to attempt a personally judicial, righteous journey home for the others. Maybe his lost, seemingly simple, misremembered dream could be their way, if not his. Besides, he had nothing to gain by denying the others who had done him no harm.
Below him in the valley, though he found the implied idea of his lofty placement personally repugnant, yet egoistically impossible to ignore, he saw the scraps of his failed dream. The barren, desolate appearance of the tangibly inescapable, brutal physical environs of his originally desired home below caused him to chastise himself for long ago having taken a series of
Page 795
wrong turns, simultaneously almost forgiving himself when he realized that the arduous excursion was not what he sought. It was merely what seemed to be there; bearing the testimony of all that went before him and all that he had heard about then. For
‘Occam’s Razor’ aficionados, the simplest and easiest criticism was that it was unforgivably common. The Rider was harder on himself. Despite all the good justifications, he couldn’t forgive himself for taking a route which, had he taken the trouble to mindfully scrutinize, was obviously a route to hell.
Can a teenager be expected to understand the experienced, unobstructed, regretful viewpoint gained in old age? Perhaps that was so for a few geniuses imprisoned in the company of many timid followers of rules. It seemed a travesty, in any sense of his concept of justice, for his current mindset to be only possible after a youth of regretted, self-indulgence, away from those he loved. There must be another way; a path hidden.
........ He thought that he would not be convicted by a jury of his peers as he had never seen it, and had no practical reason to think that it existed anywhere outside of the pretenses of the holier-than-thou-outdo-doo-dah-daddy positions already claimed by the fame-seeking, mental defectives. Yet, every unexplainable thing in him told him that he should have known and that he was guilty and did not have to wait for the
Page 796
legalities of a sentencing hearing. The punishment was inflicted before charges were filed.
He again wondered if he were yet another person merely consigned to the wrong time and place. He had been so mistakenly sure of the decency of so many other locations that he found the question unanswerable. He had to try to forget the failure of all that was part of the past and hope and believe that he was about to enter something new; as well as something old. A successful life seemed to demand the contradiction. Without the belief in that one in a million, “miraculous,” and naïve long shot, he may as well have stayed up on the hill with the butchered, burned and unirrigated tree stumps. If the denizens of the valley city were averse to him, so be it. He could know that only after having tried to befriend them.
He again mounted Spotty and rode his companion of thirty years. The black, white and gray spotted mare now struggled with every step she took on the sloped and treacherous terrain. He held the reins slackly and made no effort to compel her to move with anything other than the speed and course with which she was most secure. As he experienced the careful slow steps she took, he again gazed into their valley destination. It didn’t look as if it could have been the likely recipient of the idealized, weathered memories he had of a youth spent in wordless modification of the place, which he had thought was purposely,
Page 797
stupidly and onerously set on thwarting every feeble attempt he made to find any paltry sense of freedom. Now, he was saddened, as it merely appeared dry, forlorn and abandoned.
Despite his undesired, underwhelming feeling that he was likely to be returning to a place which had obviously seen better times, his corrected and egalitarian emotions made him want to enter the town of his birth; strongly and inescapably.
He was reticent to appear as someone pompous, patronizing or condescending to the town he loved; but left. He also knew that this perception would inescapably be that of some; he could only hope not many. This was nothing more than a sad joke to him. He had lost the protracted match, time was running out and he wished that he had never left. Yet he knew all too well the authority and prominence of appearances. Despite the length of his trip, his blue denim shirt, pants and open jacket were only lightly soiled and he still had the company and friendship of faithful Spotty. She meandered assuredly through the obstacles, her eyes necessarily fixed in concentration on the confounding stumps and deteriorating logs.
The Rider reluctantly peered toward the river to his left; or what remained of it. The playground of his swimming childhood had become a congregation of clustered dry islands interspersed by small trickles insufficient to provide aquatic cover for a shellfish. For a brief moment he wondered if this was the place
Page 798
he had left. His doubt was extinguished by his sighting of the irrigation ditches, now much too high above the river to be the receptacle of anything other than the hot, dry air.
He momentarily considered going back to the farce with which he was fluent after a lifetime of learning the patois.
....... He couldn’t bring himself to and he realistically thought it best to continue on as he hadn’t the time to backtrack. Going back was an option open only to the young.
He rode a few more steps, until a bearded man on foot, with glasses in need of recurrent manipulation turned the switchback corner. He had to stop Spotty as the bespectacled man was too busy carrying on a heated conversation with a person whom only he saw to pay any attention to others who might be on the hill.
When they got close he could see that the bearded man was young; no more than thirty years of age. The Stranger came to an abrupt, jerking stop and used his quivering fingers to reposition his glasses higher on his nose, poking an eye in the process. Embarrassed, he said; “Why don’t you watch where you’re going!”
“I’m not going anywhere. I’m standing still. Can’t you see?”
“.............. Well, good that you think you are.” The Stranger inserted two fingers under his glasses, and rubbed a
Page 799
blinking eye. He mumbled; “I do see some movement. Where are you going?”
The Rider extended his right hand, palm up, toward the town, and said; “To the place of my birth. Is it still home to anyone?”
The bearded one again meddled with his glasses, leaving them more misaligned than they had been prior to his alteration.
He tugged at his beard and said; “Why must you ask difficult questions?”
“.............. Perhaps, I can rephrase it. Does anyone live there?”
“I don’t know. No difference to me.”
“Have you been down there?”
The Stranger cackled when he replied; “Questions.
Questions. Questions. But, this one is finally an indication of lost presumptions. Thank you. No, I have not.” He found this uninformed response singularly amusing and added; “I have been well advised to avoid this demise, euphemistically known as Cambio de la Vida. Jesus has said; ‘Let the dead stay with the dead.’”
Spotty snorted and looked back toward her mount as if to say; “Both of you have got to be kidding.” The Rider said; “No matter what it is now called by the inexperienced young, I will always remember its sweet wonders. When I was born there it was
Page 800
known throughout the country as Propicio; a place of abundance.
It matters none to me if it has mockingly become known as Cambio de la Vida, as I will always belong there. It is merely a circling back to an infancy; oblivious to labels.” Thinking that he had said something discourse ending, if not particularly dazzling, he smirked as he confidently retrieved a hand rolled cigarette from his shirt pocket and struck a match, lighting it.
The pedestrian Stranger with the vision challenge jumped back and his glazed eyes widened in horror. He said; “This place is so dry, an ember could trigger a raging wildfire. Didn’t you see the condition of the river?”
He inhaled deeply and said; “Yeah? ....... Hard to miss. My compliments on your fantastic grasp of the obvious. ....... Now, who’s asking the stupid questions?”
The bearded one again frantically tried to straighten his glasses, and quickly circumvented Spotty, in a quick stepping attempt to get away from the flickering flame. He had moved ten feet when he stopped and called back, seeking the last word;
“You’re crazy! You’re absolutely crazy! ......... What do you think is on the other side of the ridge?”
The Rider calmly shrugged and said; “I don’t remember. I really don’t. ........ Maybe nothin’ worth rememberin’. Maybe Paradise. ........ What day is today? I can’t remember that either.”
Page 801
The Stranger wasn’t asked, but chose to blurt out; “I don’t know. I really don’t. ....... Whatever its un-name, it’s a day to move on.”
“Finally, we agree on somethin’”
“There’s nuthin’ down there.”
“Maybe, maybe not.”
“Look, all you can see is fallen down shacks.”
“Can’t see over the ridge from here.”
“Gotta be the same. I’ve been in these parts all my life and I never seen a damn thing. ‘Sides, there’s no water down there. If you make it to the ridge you’ll never make it back.”
“I don’t know. Don’t matter. My boss wants me to deliver a book to some lady.”
The Stranger couldn’t control his laughter. He said; “Hey, jerk. (Giggle.) You can (Snort.) just throw the book away (Mucous wiped on sleeve.) and say that you delivered it.”
“I ain’t like that. That’s why he pays me good.”
“Wages! Wages! Shit! Can get that anywhere without dying of thirst. Man!! Use your fuckin’ head.”
“ .................................... “
“What?”
“I was usin’ my fucking head.”
Snort. “Try usin’ it the shrewd way. How’s he gonna know?
This one time won’t hurt.”
Page 802
“I don’t know how he’s gonna know. He’s pretty damn smart though.”
“Smart compared to you I guess.”
“He’s got the biggest cattle and horse operation back east.
What you got?”
“ ................. Probably inherited it.”
“Made it all himself. That’s what everyone says.”
“Dangerous down there.”
“Got a gun for the rattlers.”
The Rider retrieved a tiny, leather bound, un-titled book from his saddlebag and read aloud. “Just as it is the task of the enlightened beings of numbers to make generous, good use of their numbers to explain things in a two-fold, in sync manner, which the beings of substance can understand; it is also the task of the enlightened beings of substance to make generous, good use of their substance to explain things in a two-fold, in sync manner which the beings of numbers can understand; both parties at once being clearly overt and clearly mysterious. It is at this point that the third riders make themselves known to all. Differing ability levels are recognized and respected. An honest effort is all that is required. But, woe be to those who hold back or deceive. They not only hurt the other, but themselves. Their inaction or falsity condemns all to a tedious, boring lifetime of ‘preaching banalities to the choir,’ at best.
Page 803
It is at this point that the suicide phantom of Styx makes its presence known and the haunting, black specter has achieved what it and you think to be immortality. But, it is Death.”
The Rider dismounted in order to put the book back in his saddlebag.
Spotty became uncomfortable standing unevenly on the slope.
She carefully worked her way down to the field and commenced running at full tilt.
The Stranger said; “See Spot run.”
“What’s a scribe doin’ in the wasteland?”
“Lookin’ for somethin’ worth stealin’. What else?” .......
“What the hell was all that crap supposed to mean?”
The now pedestrian Rider laughingly replied; “You’re the smart one. You tell me. Fuck do I know? It’s just my job to deliver this little book. Figured I’d take a look at it at night. ........ I just gotta keep movin’. Got a great, great horse helpin’ me. ....... See ya, ...... maybe.”
The Stranger walked west, away from the river, continuing to fidget with his glasses. When he got out of normal hearing range, Spotty started back up the hill to the Rider. She moved more quickly this time, as she had learned the terrain.
The Rider dwelled a bit, smiled, puffed and straddled Spotty, who complied and demonstrated her continuance to show their mutual disdain for paths. They went straight down the
Page 804
hill, more and more certain that they were on their way home. He uttered; ‘Head for Siempre Carretera.’
He pulled the reins gently and Spotty slowly loped over the dry shrubs, their disturbed cotton now loose and filling the air near ground level with snow flurries
The Rider was fearful that he was too late, but he and Spotty were aiming to go over that ridge.
Page 805
#24- Shadows in Future Tense
Rick slammed “Modern Interpretations of Ancient Esoteric Texts” shut in drunken overstatement. He had not finished reading the entirety of “The Last Book of Moribus, the elder, as rendered by Justin Vagarinio.” Nor could he have, even if had he not acquired the impatience which three Jack Daniels doubles provided him, as it was left incomplete or had been partially lost; as subsequent footnotes would have told him in the small print.
A most curious thing about Rick’s current mindset was that though it was not prompted solely by his inebriated understanding; it was much more akin to the straw which broke the camel’s back; and perversely he thought that it was inconsistent with his interpretation of the “Rider Parable.”
However, he had misconstrued a part which he had read as a metaphor while that section made no sense whatsoever unless it was literally construed. Compounding the error, he was attempting to act contrary to it, while this ultimately resulted in his decision to act substantially consistent with “The Rider;” for the most part; unbeknownst to him.
To put it simply, Rick decided to do what he largely wanted to do anyway. He merely had chosen to be instructed and
Page 806
encouraged in with his thought willful and convenient, devilish mis-interpretation of the probable meaning of the old story; though he misunderstood it and then chose to be contrary to his understanding. Or, one might say that Rick decided not to do what he didn’t want to do, because he was so advised, misunderstood the advice, and then decided to be a contrarian.
Or vice-versa. Or the other way around. Or he got back where he started the wrong way. Or never mind. Free will married to deceit is destined for a divorce or a constant headache. This process may seem convoluted to some, but Rick was still reeling from his decision to sell the family farm, which he now considered a failure; which kind of turned everything upside down despite having had a time proven incorrect approach which he now sought to undo in insolence.
He didn’t know and he didn’t care about any Rider, as he was a foot traveler. Further details were of no interest to him, as he believed that whether or not a work was apocalyptic, was merely a function of the last few words; which in turn was determined by the author’s mindset on that particular long gone day. What was of significance to Rick was that his alcohol numbed brain distinctly saw that Moribus’ or Justin’s book was distinctly about his life and in that moment of absolutely fogged clarity, he knew exactly what he had to do.
Page 807
Songs rumbled through his head; the words now taking on a new meaning for him. He recalled the Beatles singing “Baby, You’re a Rich Man,” followed by someone whose name he could no longer recall singing something else. As it was not yet written, sang, or recorded, Rick’s memory thought that he recalled the words from a song which might and might not be written a century in the future.
“On his trusty mount
the Rider sees the old town;
the strollers on the slope and
the burning on the ground.
He sees the church bells;
tongues stolen and mute in the hot breeze.
He gets to keep the picture
which he’d like to change.
Way up in the penthouse;
the IOU’s play at the table.
The big ones got the seats.
The arrangements are made.
Below, Furry sings the blues;
drunk on the byway.
The high rise blocks the sun;
and Furry sleeps for another day.
A cacophony erupts
on the landing strip.
Briefcases are traded.
The Man checks and flies away.
See the garden town
and the homes of the passably permitted pro tems.
She knows how to courteously collect.
His art is to rudely impose.
The bored kids show up
Page 808
They all feign a thrill.
The OxyContin kicks in
And the family survives one more day.”
For no good reason he wished he knew who would eventually sing it. .................. He thought of Trent Reznor’s great-great-great grand-daughter, caged in a pink tutu.
Richard III wrote a note to Stephanie which said; “Stephie baby; got business at Propicio Bar and Grill. Back before dark.
Love, Rick.” He took Joshua Marshland’s business card from his wallet and called the number. He was greeted by an answering machine which stated; “You have reached the offices of Marsh Enterprises. No one is available to take your call. Please leave a brief message at the beep.” He responded to the beep with;
“Josh, this is Richard Lawson. If you want to talk business meet me at the Propicio Bar and Grill in ten minutes. Brief enough for you?” He left his solitary, safe house and took his usual walk to his favorite watering hole in the center of town. In his haste he forgot his jacket. He only realized that after he had gone 100 feet and discovered that he didn’t need one. The cloudless sky and the lack of wind provided no impediment to the sun’s natural ability to heat Propicio’s back and front paths.
He thought; “Just a little rain and the barren field with the dirt mounds will get green; maybe even out somewhat.” He thought he might be seeing a few of the first protrusions of the
Page 809
year. “The builder’s incompetence won’t mess up the place forever. Hmnnnnn. Since they’ve obviously got their problems, maybe I could buy the land back for half of what they paid me.
Business is fucking business. If you don’t know the rules, it’s best not to play the game. ....... Maybe if I was again the man in charge I could do a few things which would make a cheap re-sale their best option.”
Rick-Richard-Richard III trudged on with a determination which made him unconscious of the distractions on the way. Even the cacophonous sirens presented by the four wheeled vehicles on Propicio Road may have just as well have been speechless. Rick entered the bar and first saw the coin flipping man. Unlike Rick’s past experience with the teller of the single story, this time he broadly smiled, and robustly said; “Heads again. No takers? What a shame. Surprise, fucking surprise.”
Rick smirked at the inability of the coin flipping man to retort as “Flip” stooped to retrieve his special coin.
Sufficiently loud for the bald headed man in the ersatz baseball cap with the stretchy, one size fits all, thing in the back, and no one else to hear Rick mumbled; “Too predictable to be of any real significance,” and went to one of the empty stools. He surreptitiously used the mirror to look for Mary and Josh; and saw neither. Instead, he was greeted by a bar maid he had not previously met.
Page 810
She was young, thin and walked with a gait which could have been suggestive of guzzling on the job. She walked to him and placed the Propicio Bar and Grill customized coaster on the bar in front of him with a bogus incidental air of imprecision, and chirped; “Hi, my name is Eva; no Audrey; sorry.” She peered down at the nameplate pinned to her uniform, chuckled and added;
“What does this thing say anyway?”
Rick eyed the plastic intrusion near her cleavage line.
Reading sideways he said; “Hi, Audrey. New here?”
“Er, um. .......... Difficult question. Hard to explain this late in the day. Kind of, I guess. What can I getcha?”
“By the way, my name is Richard ................ er, um Rick. I’d like a double Jack Daniels and soda. And I wonder if Josh is somewhere around. I’m supposed to be meeting him here.”
“No Josh I know of. ....... But, these guys are always giving me phony names so I can’t call their wives on them.
....... As if I really would.” With a toss of the head, she flipped her peroxide bangs out of her eyes and went directly for the square-ish bottle with the black label.
Rick felt an arm on his shoulder and used the mirror to see that Josh was behind him being overly familiar. Still, he was glad to see the self-proclaimed internet maven at all, as this was Rick’s entire reason for being at the bar at that moment.
His instinctive revulsion at the touch suggested a sudden lurch,
Page 811
but that soon gave way to a measured, rational, and necessarily endured repugnance. “Business. Business. Fucking business,” he thought as he successfully combated the reflexive squirm which had invaded his every cell.
Josh sat next to him and with an air of smiling certitude said; “You called, chief?”
Fully cognizant of the likely satirical tone, Rick responded with seeming politeness. “Yes. Glad you could make it on such short notice. I’ve been doing some thinking about what we’ve been talking about.”
“And?”
“And I want to hear the details. The devil is always in the small print.”
Josh chuckled and said; “Thanks for the compliment. The details are simple. I manage your campaign for mayor. You shut up and let me use the internet the way I know how. You get elected and make me business manager, with your full support, solely responsible for the re-negotiation of the garbage contract.”
Audrey returned with Rick’s double Jack and placed it on a coaster in front of him. She looked toward Josh, and said; “Hi, Loki. What can I get ya today?”
“Vodka and tonic, babe; and don’t be stingy.”
Page 812
As Audrey departed to perform her duties, with a twinge of faux merry incredulity intended to appear to be an overly obvious attempt at masking an apprehension which was also contrived, Rick went up a few octaves to say; “LOKI???”
“Yeah, um. ................. Hard to explain. Long story.
No relevance. I have a walk-in closet full of outfits. Just like you, Padrone.”
Rick-Richard-Richard III smirked as he took another double Jack gulp and responded; “Mine’s more like a nineteenth century wardrobe,” refraining from the original word “kas” for fear of misunderstanding. In the momentary lull he asked; “So where were we? I don’t exactly know. Lost track. Anyway, here comes Audrey, Loki. ”
Audrey served Loki the elixir and was dismissed with a curt, efficient, obligatory “Thank you.”
Josh took a sip and half asked; “So, I guess you’ve decided that you want to be a big shot again.”
“I said it depends on the terms.”
“Come on, man. Quit playin’. You heard ‘em. Garbage contract mine. You can do what you want with the little shit.
.................... More or less, depending on surprises.”
“So what are you going to do for me that I can’t do myself?”
Page 813
“Basically nothing if you were computer savvy and a resident of 2016. But, you’re not.”
Rick silently and skeptically looked at the mirror behind the bar. It was dimly lit and obscured with bottles of many shapes. He thought that he had detected his own unintended grimace.
Sounding a tad exasperated, Josh continued; “Look. You can easily get 100 votes from the members of the Brisas Area Gardening Society, just by saying that you’ll do something about the goddam elms. You can .........”
“I’m not against the elms and couldn’t do anything about them if I wanted to.”
“Irrelevant. It’s the hottest issue in Propicio. Tell ‘em some shit they want to hear, get in, and concoct some story later. .................... Hey, you sure you were in politics before?”
Indignantly Rick said; “We were straight shooters back then!”
“Yeah, right. You say that so convincingly. A natural born politician.” With his left thumb and forefinger he pinched Rick’s cheek and said; “You’re beautiful.”
“Hey!!!”
Page 814
“Pardonome. Come on. Let’s quit the dancing. You called me here for a reason. You know you need me.” He slurped his drink, looked at his wristwatch and added; “I’ve got other shit to do.”
“All right, all right. Just do me the favor of explaining what it is exactly that you’re going to do for me.”
“Okay. You can run for mayor yourself and you will lose.
You can put up signs all over Propicio Road, like all the other candidates. Nobody will look at any of them as they are an uninteresting eyesore. I know how to use the ‘private’ e-mail addresses of all the registered voters to keep putting your name in front of them. Invariably they vote for the name with which they are most familiar. Brand name. Look at Bush. We’ll do a video of you in your garden playing ‘good old guy’ from old Propicio and it will touch their button pushing hearts. We show them what they want to see. Maybe we’ll get you up a tree with a chainsaw in your hands. Worked well last time and has particular relevance here. The voters buy the sucker shit every time. The program always works.”
“How do you get all those e-mail addresses?”
“Professional secret. Gonna be the next big internet scam.
.......... Used to work for Homeland Security. Nuff said?”
“Scary shit.”
“It’s the reality today. Any notion of privacy is dead.”
“So why do you need me at all?”
Page 815
“Frankly, I probably don’t. I could do this and win with any of a number of candidates. But, you have the old time experience, a name that is associated with the ‘good old days,’
and that ‘oh so sweet’ straight shooter face.”
“All right. So, just to be clear, you get me elected and in return you get the garbage contract payoffs?”
“Yeah, simple as that. You appoint me Propicio business manager. If something else big comes up we’ll talk.”
“...........................”
“So, I’ll have my guy out to your house for the video. The Brisas Area Gardening Society will be descending on the town council again Friday next. You be there, get to the podium and make a speech announcing your candidacy. Tell ‘em you’re going to get rid of the Calle de la Congelacion elms and restore Propicio to old time values. Afterward mingle with the crowd.
Smile that sweet innocent looking smile a lot and try not to say anything particularly stupid containing any specifics. When challenged divert to talking about the good old days ad nauseum.
And then get the hell out of there. Look at your watch and say you’ve got an appointment with some local tree remover.
............. You were mayor. You know how to handle this shit, right?”
“We were straight shooters back then.”
Page 816
Josh pinched Rick’s cheek again, and said; “Beautiful. So sincere. Perfect. Vinny is so vulnerable right now. ..........
Just curiosity; is that shit for real?”
“I don’t know. Matter?”
Josh guzzled the remnants of his glass, got up and said;
“No. I’ll be in touch,” and walked out. The coin flipping man made a mock sign of the cross and bowed his head slightly, in a sarcastic genuflection, intended to convey genuine admiration.
Rick wolfed down his remainder and stood, evincing minor balancing difficulties. As he left he said to the coin flipping man; “Heads again?”
The coin flipping man stooped to retrieve the quarter.
Without looking at Rick he deadpanned; “You betcher fucking ass.”
Rick walked home slowly. Without intent he recalled the song his estranged and only son, now incommunicado somewhere in southern California, used to play whenever he seemed perturbed over something which Rick always found un-fathomable. In his head, he once again heard Cream blasting the heavy-on-the-bass-live version of “Politician,” as it was recorded in sentience on their double album “Wheels of Fire.”
Rick inwardly smiled as he thought; “It’s got a good beat.
You can dance to it,” and he briefly did a two-step. He abruptly caught himself and returned to his normal gait, upon realizing
Page 817
that he was visible to all the oncoming traffic as well as the ones who had passed by, all well equipped with rear view mirrors. During his former political years he had learned that it was not suitable for a soon-to-be-public-office candidate to appear so care free and frivolous. He settled back into the tottering style dictated by the double Jacks; the standard-issue-uniform of his profession. In a mechanistic fashion, he smiled and waved at the vehicles in the proximity, not in the least concerned with who might be the occupants. He felt better than he had since the day he took the paper for the land, thinking that he had snookered a sophisticated financial heavy.
Painlessly, so shallow in conflicting thoughts, he had become triumphant in becoming unconscious of Propicio’s natural scenery. He may as well have been on the peaks of Nepal.
Page 818
#25- Memories Like the Corners of My Mind A Fictional Review of an Imaginary Flop Beware; this review contains transient spoilers of nothingness. Unrequested, this book was strongly suggested to me by an income challenged writer with whom I am awkwardly somewhat familiar through my brief interlude at the internationally expanding, stay-at-home-pastime, commonly referred to as Goofreads. Apparently, it was recommended to me as the result of my offhand, socially banal and intended to be meaningless comment regarding her work as “awesome,” which the author interpreted or chose to interpret as excellent. I have purchased this book for $11.99 plus tax and intend to do an honest review; even if the result is later to be determined as trolling. I have no financial interest in its future royalties; if any.
Blurring invisible lines, the one called Reader, presumably the Writer in this case, I perused the establishment’s fashionable new book section. The book in question was not an official member of any of the fleeting, various and sundry top ten lists, and thereby sat in a bin devoid of number; that word applicable in all five of the Merriam defined possibilities.
It was openly displayed and one could not help but take notice of it; evidenced by the dirty fingerprints highlighted
Page 819
even in the most indirect of lights. As a lover of content and words I was ashamed to admit, even to myself, that it was the bright, multi-hued cover, depicting a Pollack-like splashing image; unclear as to whether it was trying to convey rainbow movement or the regurgitation of last night’s, microwave heated,
“Supreme Three Meat Great Value Pizza, with sausage, pepperoni, ham, onions, peppers and undisclosed additives” which first got my attention.
The book opened with the self-important, contradictory exhortation of the “Writer,” whose Forward opened with; "Relax.
Concentrate. Dispel every other thought. Let the world around you fade," which a cynical Reader could easily paraphrase as;
“Pay attention only to me. Let nothing else matter. I am your life.”
On this day, this Reader sought to temporarily suspend his weary cynicism. He felt inwardly giddy and sought something new and different. Up until now his repertoire has been purposely confined to genre duplicative offerings. He inwardly smiled at the sheer audacity of the Writer, paid for the discounted, hardcover novella and brought it home.
Alas and it’s grinning cousin alack, after 23 pages, our gentle Reader discovered that his copy has been ruined; ostensibly in the printing process. It consisted of nothing but the first section, repeated over and over. This might have been
Page 820
satisfactory for a short story, essay or poetry slam, but he had paid for and expected a novella. The Reader thought that this kind of petty annoyance was much too trite in its inferences and assumed that there must have been some kind of mistake.
Upon return to the bookshop, he discovered that the volume, which he thought was written by his GFR correspondent, inferred but not clearly stated on the glossy jacket, that it was actually by a different writer known only as “The Lady Traveler.”
Given the seeming choice between the two, he went for the Traveler. He is quickly joined by the Other Reader, known as Valeria. The Reader is annoyed, but not deterred. But, after he has returned home this copy turns out to be by yet another writer and contains 23 pages repeated over and over, as does the next, and the next ................... .
Posed with a difficulty, the Writer considered trying to do a GFR-type of review patterned after the ultimate one done by one of Goofreads’ highest rated reviewers. The exalted one had covered the final Christopher Hitchens’ book, which concerned God, the devil, right, wrong, death, everlasting life, and all those things with which we know people have been beating to death since they learned how to write; never adding much to the subjects. The reviewer started his review by eruditely giving his unsolicited views on each of the subjects. In the middle of
Page 821
the 5,000 word review he was still doing so. His consistency continued to the very end. Understandably, I was impressed. Not only had he managed to write a review of a book whose subject matter can clear out a room more rapidly than a series of wet farts, he had done it in kind, without once making reference to the book reviewed. It’s so meta, the words float away. This man had done something-nothing which can never be topped. He is my hero and I can only wonder why Salon has not stolen him away from the confines of social networking.
In the adjoining room the Reader thought that he precociously read and the Writer thought that she childishly anticipated and wrote. Considerations, soon to be carried away by a windstorm, now weigh most heavily upon all else as they concerned themselves with an insoluble, futile, and pointless chicken-or-egg type of deliberation.
If he could successfully convey what had previously transpired, the Reader thought it possible that his review would outdo the best of the GFR star; if it wasn’t written in invisible ink; or perhaps if it was.
It was getting sufficiently warm in Propicio, that Jack noticed that when he brought out Justice at mid-day, the canine was panting and not that all interested in walking. Justice had a long thick coat capable of keeping him warm in the cold and
Page 822
frying him in the heat. It became necessary for them to either go out in the morning or a little before sundown. Jack’s inclinations to stay under the covers and daydream over coffee precluded the AM option; so for the time being PM excursions got his vote. Justice either abstained or failed to properly register. Regardless, he made no demonstrations of protest while he lay around the house all day.
With some difficulty, at 4PM Jack’s eyes broke away from the reviews of the “Chupacabra” series he was reading on GFR.
Though none of the reviewers mentioned it, it was almost obvious to Jack that the clever series’ lyricism and metaphor suggested that the goat suckers were actually representative of radical terrorists. Considering their reclusive and vampire like habits one could say that the horned, non-natives were sucking the Americas dry through their hit and run, bloodthirsty operations.
Despite that he and Justice bravely went out the front door and Jack was immediately seized with terror. He immediately thought that the bi-polar, drama mama, who called herself Beth was charging from his left, fangs exposed. He was startled and froze. Justice didn’t seem to have any problem, but stopped when Jack did, and looked up at him as if to say; “Are you all right?” Jack responded; “That is a tie for the dumbest question anyone ever asked me. Do I look all right to you?” Justice grumbled something indecipherable which seemed to lean toward;
Page 823
“I was just trying to be polite,” “You better lay off that wine,” or “I need to get to my favorite tree, like right now.”
Jack felt a bit ridiculous, got annoyed over that, and started moving quickly, Justice alongside. They hadn’t travelled very far before Jack got another panic attack, and it wasn’t over Andy or Charlene. They were leashed. It was the explosive, largest member of the trio who wasn’t.
Before Jack could say or do anything; from a distance, Beth’s eyes actually seemed as if they were burning when she yelled to Jack; “No matter when I come out, you’re there. Jack, just stay away from me. I don’t want to see you. I’m going to do you a better favor than anyone else ever has. I’m going to tell you the truth. I don’t feel the same way about you. I don’t even like you. Had you any sense you would have figured out by now that I am not one of those ‘People Who Need People.’ As far as I’m concerned the ‘luckiest people in the world’ can continue to count their alleged blessings. I don’t care.”
“Do you have to broadcast it?”
“You’ve lived here for some time. Haven’t you noticed that the Dietrichs have never been seen by anyone. That’s because they don’t wish to be and I am one of them. Sadness is caused by un-met expectations. I have no expectations and therefore am never disappointed or sad. Get it? Simple. You say that you are
Page 824
a writer, ostensibly in some sort of attempt to impress me or your ‘Beth’ fantasy.”
“Ostensibly?”
“I might have played along had you a ten room house and a new Ferrari in front of it. Maybe. A good writer is also a voracious reader and it seems that you’ve missed something essential; inclusive of Sartre and de Beauvoir. In youth, most humans act as if they love the other and maybe even believe it themselves. A short time after the brief walking-on-clouds feeling disappears they wangle for self-serving things. Every miserable time. Benign neglect is the best one can do for the other.”
In LA, Brit relocatee Bryan Ferry of Roxy Music warbled in two voices to his song; “(Another Fine) Edition of You.” In some little town outside Memphis B.B. King moaned that “The Thrill is Gone.” Jack was thinking similar thoughts, but to him it felt more like a release than a moan.
Awwww. The Observers by the windows should refrain from tears. Jack can see that they’re fixin’ to shoot some holes in the old rain barrel. Jack can almost see by the pathetic looks in their peepers. Don’t. They’re wondering what awful thing happened to this poor woman to make her think this way,
Page 825
resulting in horrendous pain being inflicted upon Jack the Writer. Consequently, they ‘like’ the Writer more than before; thinking that his disinterest is the result of his attempt to act bravely in a sad situation he did not cause. The Observers have probably not yet considered the possibility that he might have engineered the outcome in order to give the appearance that he was treated poorly; while he regarded that perception as a socially acceptable set of circumstances which allows him to do what he truly wants to do; be alone. Of course, now that Jack has said it, the outside Observers will likely say; “Oh, certainly I knew that.” Everyone has their games; some more obvious than others.
Jack notes how easy it is to control the game, if one so desires. Practically anyone can do it. Maybe Jack made all this up to obtain precisely that predictable reaction. Or maybe Jack was hurt so badly that this mindset was induced as a defense mechanism. There is not yet any conclusive evidence; and there never will be.
Some Observers keep thinking about that one; some with anecdotal evidence and statistics at their disposal. Most manage to convince themselves that the latter is the case because they selfishly want to believe it. But, if called upon, Beth will probably say that she does not recognize that. The beautiful, un-thinking Queen undoubtedly thought such things long ago. But,
Page 826
she and Jack both know that confession is a loser’s game.
Utilizing silence and inconsistency is always a safer play. Take a brief look around.
Rude reverberations once again, un-avoidably encroached.
“But, you look just like her!”
“That is so ridiculous. ............ Okay. Okay. Let’s be totally stupid and say that I do. So do a million others! See, there is still hope for you.”
Beth walked back down the Dietrich path thinking; “I hope all that shit worked,” not specific about which shit that was; even to herself.
Jack needed an electronic chupacabra fix, and pulled out his pocketed, internet capable owner. It got no reception.
Justice made whining sounds. He filed an appeal to get the hell out of there by getting off his haunches and briskly walking back toward home.
This had been the most exaggerated of the exaggerated tones of Jack’s tedious and predictably inconsistent meetings with Beth on Calle de la Congelacion; one time a clear “go away”
statement and the next time one less clear saying something like; “come hither, if only ..................” For one to be so consistently “off-on,” as opposed to an occasional “off-off-on”
Page 827
or an “on-on-off” struck Jack as odd; and reminded him more of a computer than a real person. He decided that the Beth flip-flop did him no good whatsoever; that she had to know that and therefore consciously wanted to do him no good; that he had made a decent life for himself in her protracted absence; and that he could do it again if he just did not see her again. The possibly false memories of his youth had no Proustian “relevance.” In addition, this “Beth” may well not be the same one. If it wasn’t
“why bother?” If it was, the years had irreparably damaged her and it was not his fault and thereby not his problem. To make things the easiest, he hoped he would never see her again.
When he and Justice got back in their house Jack distractedly read an excerpt from an old book by Edward Drobinski titled “A Travelling Companion.”
On his first day out he had named the place “Tranquility,”
as he chose to put a positive name spin on the dry, barren territory, seemingly abandoned by anything capable of movement.
He could see no obstructions ahead. Flat, off-white, sandy terrain extended as far as he could see in front of him. An undulation would have been a visual delicacy and a source of inspiration, but he was satisfied with what he could get.
Sporadic big chief cactus was an excellent cup of hallucinatory water for his frequent thirst replenishments and presented no
Page 828
hazard, provided he didn’t fall into one while tippling. The light blue open sky stared at him from all directions. He was only aware of it whenever he managed to keep his head off the ground. The stationary sun generated its callous, persistent heat while positioned directly overhead, casting no shadows. He had just arisen and thought it strange that the same surroundings he encountered prior to rest were still those precisely in evidence now. He supposed that would be the most logical scenario, but thought that the desert’s quiet stillness and solitude defied reason, its irrationality the object of his desire. This was the third sleep break he had taken, so he presumed he was starting out the third day of his long awaited escape. He picked up his bag of secrets, slung it over his shoulder and walked what he thought was west, though he really had no way of being certain. He was also under the gleeful impression that he was alone until he heard a mildly assertive, female voice not far behind him call out; “Hey, what are you doing here?”
He shuddered and visibly cringed. “Oh no,” he murmured as his shoulders dropped in resignation. He had been lucky enough to have three days, or periods between sleeping, to himself and now it was over. “I was looking forward to this all my lousy life, picked the most undesirable place in the world and someone had to follow me here. She probably is pushy and dumb enough to
Page 829
think I owe her something for gracing me with her unwanted presence. Three days. Three good days after a lifetime of boring stupid females asking why. And it’s over already. If there’s any god he’s cursed me, so I return the favor. Do your worst. You pathetic sadist; you already have. Here comes a stupid barrage of; “Why this? Why that? Don’t you think that blah, blah, blah and more blah have to be considered when blah, blah and more blah is the case?” He found bleak humor in his last few unplanned words; “Now that some person no one else wants has to park next to me, coincidentally of course she’ll say, more blah will certainly be the case.”
He heard a louder “Hey,” and for the eight millionth time learned that he could not wish away or ignore away unwanted people. He was stupid and desperate enough to be looking for miracles in a very un-miraculous and tedious world. Resigned to the lifelong inevitability of being pestered by stupid boring people, he reluctantly turned back to see a crazy lady, garbed in hobo clothes; a simple button-up, short-sleeved, red shirt, tattered blue jeans and sandals. Her secret bag appeared the same as his, perhaps a rip or two superior. It looked as if she was sleeping in the same clothing for some time. She was attired just as him if they changed shirts, his being a faded dark blue that because of age and use now appeared light. He thought further; “No, that wouldn’t work. Then I’d be red and she’d be
Page 830
either dark or light blue.” He realized that he had made his first incorrect thought of the day. Despite the stupid misinformation generated, for some unexplainable logic, he continued the process and thought what passed for pragmatism;
“Drat, but no drat. I came out here to be alone. I guess that’s ruined. I can’t believe anyone else would want to come to this bastion of nothingness. The Indians thought that the only true ownership of land was when no one else wanted it and look what happened to them. The best thing to do under the circumstances is to be cordial, but a bit pointed and hope she goes away. The most positive way I can view the intrusion is to be happy that it’s not an enterprising guy looking to take over by force or a
“friendly” guy looking for company. Small solace though it is; if I’ve got to get stuck with company best it is that of a crazy lady. They’re the most interesting.” He unemotionally and without inflection answered; “Hey yourself.” Getting no response and suspecting his first offering was too vague, he decided to answer her first question and hope it wasn’t the overture to a long shrill opera. He added; “Walking.” He extended his arm to the ground, nodded at it, as if to say; “Can’t you see?”
Her face softened the slightest bit by the time she caught up with him. She said; “Me, too. Where do you think you’re going?”
Page 831
Another stupid question. He pointed ahead and quizzically said; “There, painfully obviously.”
She said; “I know it’s obvious, perhaps not of the painful variety, but I know what you mean. What I asked you was a little test. I wanted to see how much bullshit came with the package.”
She ran her blue eyes up and down his torso.
He felt violated and that if anyone should be giving a test, it was rightfully him, as his 60 years exceeded her seemingly 55. He said; “If bullshit gives me a failing grade I’ll give you bullshit if my big penalty is that you will leave.
I do mean to sound antagonistic and I’m surprised that a test is required for me to be here, especially since I got here first.
Will you be kind enough to tell me the parameters and purpose of your test?”
She decided to reserve commentary regarding longevity, raised her voice, though in a kind way and said; “No, I really can’t.”
He looked in her eyes, shrugged and dejectedly said;
“Typical female. All questions. No answers, not even to the easy stuff. All right. I’ll respect that since you can’t help it.”
Fearing an impasse, while suddenly desirous of knowing something of her, after viewing her pleasant face, long wild hair, what was revealed by her shirt’s opened buttons and extremely tight pants, he asked; “Can you at least tell me if I passed?”
Page 832
She bobbed her head up and down and waved her hand as if to say; ”Silly boy.” She verbalized; ”Oh, sure,” but didn’t disclose that this was the easy part of her test.
He was annoyed with himself as he saw that in the space of two minutes he already had started to care what she thought of him. In an effort not to be obvious about it and probably inducing the opposite effect, with possibly undetected sarcasm he said; “What a relief. You wouldn’t want to venture a more precise grade, would you?”
She rattled her throat as a de-fanged one of the species might and laughed; “No .......... Not yet, anyway. Maybe later.”
He spit and muttered; “Typical.”
Despite his initial reticence he was already getting used to her and he was almost glad to hear that there would be a
“later” if he could convince her to stop questioning him. He glanced at her slightly-larger-than-average breasts and was noticed prompting her to adopt an overly erect posture maximizing the twin peaks causing him to look away. He thought that meant, in real terms, he was doing okay, so far. He thought it also had a friendly connotation, so he thought he would say something intended to be friendly, but also right to the point and hope for a not-too-negative response; “Most of the time I haven’t got the faintest idea of where I’m going. But I figure
Page 833
that it couldn’t possibly be worse than the stuff I’m leaving behind.” He pointed back with his thumb, not turning his head.
She smiled and said; “I’m with you.”
“I should have asked before, but, have you been through here before?”
She rolled her eyes and mock ominously said; “No. This is our adventure. Who knows, maybe we’ll find some witches out here.”
“I certainly hope not. I thought that I might have left them back there.”
She looked at him as if he had said the wrong thing and was silent. She continued keeping stride with him, but seemed to veer slightly leftward.
He realized that she had already succeeded in getting him to play her word games without even directly asking any stupid questions. He wanted to back off, but her jeans were so form-fitting he re-considered his initial response, intending to find common ground, without refuting his previous response. He glanced sideways at her and made an obvious glance into the three open top buttons of her shirt and said; “Well, I guess it’s all right if we meet the ones that are sexual demons.”
She snickered and thought; “Typical.” She assumed a professorial tone and informed him; “There are all kinds of witches. Your viewpoint is ridiculously simplistic. Everything
Page 834
comes in a package. A sexual demon type of witch, for instance and to use your parlance, will almost invariably be mixed with one of the brooding variety, at the very least.”
Pleased with her response, as he never minded being educated, he mimicked his first grade teacher and said; “Of course I was simplistic in the cause of simple conversation. I can kick it up a few notches when you’re ready.”
She looked at him admiringly, but displayed a discerning face, biting her lower lip and saying nothing.
He was not unaware of the probable meaning, but, to remain safe, he took the conversation in another direction and said; “I haven’t been able to see anything ahead, except some lunatic big chief cactus. Have you seen anything?”
She thought; “He’s shy. I like that......to a point.” She articulated; “Mmmmmmm. I haven’t really seen anything in the traditional sense. But, I have some ideas.” She knew he would follow her lead.
Without thinking about it, he did and, in a curious tone said; “Like what?” proud to have taken the lead in the stupid question category.
She intended to sound somewhat bored, which he interpreted as complacent and responded; “It’s more like what and what and what, on and on. I got a lot from books.”
Page 835
Intending to sound equal, he said; “Oh, I know exactly what you mean. Me, too.” Upping the ante, he added; “I’m actually placing the highest probability on it being worse than what we left behind. Not 50%, mind you. The last piece of misery that got laid on me back there topped everything. I never would have imagined anything so diabolical. If he tops that one, I’ll have to admit that he is a god.”
She smiled, sadly and knowingly and said; “Yeah, tell me about it.”
Though he knew that she didn’t mean that literally, he proceeded to and said; “We had things going so well that it would take five oddball events to screw it up. It would take like everything to go wrong and ...”
She looked at the ground, shook her head in an affirmative fashion and interrupted him to say; “And everything did.”
He looked in her eyes and for the first time thought he detected real sadness and thought; “Oh, no. Not you too?”, but said; “We ought to form a union. You know, like the labor unions that started in the 20’s and 30’s. I mean, I understand that human beings need a good kick in the ass, but this is more like;
‘You’re still kickin’ and my ass ain’t there anymore. You’re hitting bloody bone, bastard.’”
She thought; ”No shit. What did you expect?”, but said;
”Big things always pick on small things.”
Page 836
As she was tiny, he was again saddened. He thought; ”Where I grew up it was the exact opposite. But, I don’t want to yet say that. It could hurt her in some way.” So, he said nothing, his shrug and sigh, indicating pretty much, more or less, no contest and the like. He knew that in the part of the world where he worked and spent his adult life that big things do indeed pick on little things. In business, it seemed the littler the better. What world was she in? She is watching out for witches and warning me about them, so that narrows things down a lot.” He looked directly at her and said; “Well, I don’t. What’s your name, anyway?”
“It’s Pearl. I never liked it.”
Mine’s Herman. Can you believe that a parent would actually do that to a child? The kids used to hum the theme song, call me Herman Munster and walk around like a stiff geek.”
She laughed and said; “Okay, I’ll call you ‘Hermie,’ as long as you don’t tell me any funny jokes about pearls of the orient or lilies of the field.”
“I think I’d rather stick with ‘Herman,’ if you don’t mind.
No offense. And, I don’t know any funny jokes about pearls of the orient or lilies of the field, anyway. Isn’t that the horse shit about neither reaping nor sowing, that god will provide?
That’s funny enough in and of itself.”
Page 837
She wasn’t certain, but considered the possibility that he had just purposely done precisely what she explicitly asked him not to. She mumbled; “Yeah, something like that.”
He missed his cue and continued; “I hope the non-reapers and non-sowers are not holding their breath.”
Pearl nodded demurely, shook her head “Yes,” and looked at the sun shining off each grain of sand differently. She sternly said; “We may as well get something cleared up right now.” He looked at her with apprehension and realized that he should have shut the fuck up entirely about the lilies. She noticed his contriteness, was pleased by it, but in the interest of truth continued and said; “Back a few steps you said that you were here before me. No, you weren’t. I had my eye on you as soon as you entered the desert. I just held back to see if you were a homicidal maniac.”
“So, you think you got here before me?”
She made a brief smile and said; “It’s a close call. Let’s be magnanimous and say it was at the same time.”
“Fine with me. I don’t understand why it’s any big deal, though.”
She stared at him. She was both incredulous and annoyed.
She finally said; “Herman. Some people, including you a few minutes ago, try to pull seniority and act like a ‘boss’ without
Page 838
the credentials and without admitting it.” She shook her head, looked away and veered a bit more to the left.
Herman was afraid that he had said something to sadden and anger her. He saw the truth of her observation and contritely said; “I promise that I won’t do that again. If I mess up you can punish me any way you desire. Let’s try to think and act positively for a while.”
Still cranky, she said; “I don’t think you can get here on that route. What path did you take?” She was sorry as soon as the words exited.