Blase Eight by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview
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He made a self-effacing grin and head bob. He shrugged his shoulders and softly said; “I don’t really know. I think I made a series of at least five major wrong turns and somehow that all added up to a correct destination. How’d you pull it off?”
She smiled and moved closer to him and responded in kind, saying; “I think I only made four wrong turns and then got a map for the rest.”
“More pessimistic than me?”
She sighed, not really wanting to respond, but was somehow compelled to and whispered; “Realist, mostly. The back nine are the worst.”
He moved in her direction and said; “You have my testimony on that one. In retrospect I should have gotten your map.” He paused a moment, as he sensed some kind of contradiction, though
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he couldn’t put his finger on it. Very unsurely he thought out loud and said; “But, I didn’t know that a map existed. I found that out from you. So, if I had obtained a map, from someone somewhere, I’d have gotten here years before you and I never would have met the person who told me about the map in the first place. I’m getting confused. Are all the maps the same?”
Pearl liked his confusion and said; “Of course not. It depends on where you get it, who made it, how much they knew about the territory, whether or not it’s a fake. I could go on.”
“Where did you get yours?”
“That’s hard for me to say. Someone told me to keep a secret.”
Herman felt the tide turning in his favor and risked being considered too pushy and simply said; “Who?”
Pearl did think that he was being a bit too pushy, but liked his interest and decided to give him one more response in that direction and said with an air of indignation, in a raised tone; “My mother.” She viewed him mock defiantly.
He pushed his luck and offhandedly said; “You always listen to your mother?”
She pushed him, but not too hard and raised her voice to say; “What do you think? Did you always listen to yours?”
He decided he liked the trail and continued honestly, against his better judgment. He said; “I always listened to
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her. I just usually thought that the opposite of what she said was the right answer.”
She saw and appreciated the sincerity. She also detected an opportunity to end this conversation, at least for the time being and sighed; “Case closed.” Her eyes panned the outdoor scene and were not fixed on anything, as there was nothing moving, not even a breeze, to command her attention. Big chief cactus, sand, stillness and a huge uniformly light blue sky. She thought; “There must be something alive out there. Maybe not.”
He touched the top button of his well-worn Levi’s and said;
“Well if we’re going to walk together, we’re going to have to establish some protocols.”
She came back to her current reality and with a trace of indignation said; “I beg your pardon.”
He understood her attitude, but felt a need to persist. He grimaced and said; “Like where does one go to have bathroom privacy? It’s kind of urgent.”
She felt like saying; “Believe it or not I’ve seen a few of those before,” but decided against it. Instead she offered;
“There’s no place to hide, so just turn your back to me.”
“I think you’re assuming it’s a number one.”
“I’m not assuming anything. Do whatever you have to do. We have no choice. I’ll try not to laugh at the funny part.”
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Herman gave her a dirty look, turned and number one nature took its course. As he re-zipped he thought he detected a giggle. He looked at her and she put her hand over her mouth and said; “Little cough. It’s extremely dry. Haargh. Haargh. Shit.
Do you have any preferences as to how I do it?”
“Not really. I would like to see your face sometimes, though, if that’s all right.”
“No problem.”
They walked side by side and the baking sand gave off images that reminded them of water boiling. It came at them as if they were in an oven, but it was more akin to heat waves. The source was not visible. They didn’t notice how weary they were until the steam entered their nostrils. They briefly sat on the torrid sand and were unable to find a comfortable seat, despite numerous position changes. They stood up, faced each other and brushed the sand from their bodies. Herman helped out with the sand Pearl missed and she returned the favor.
She said; “Want to keep traveling?”
Surprised she had to ask, he questioningly said; “Sure,”
leaving off the “Why wouldn’t I?” part. After a few second lull, he added; “And you? Perhaps I should have said that quicker.”
“Yeah, I’m fine. Let’s find out if there’s anything further out.”
“Curious?”
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“Of course, aren’t you?”
“Very.”
She sounded a bit more subdued when she said; “I hope the hell it doesn’t think it’s some kind of god.”
“Doesn’t really matter what it thinks, if it does at all.
We’re not obliged to agree. Are we?”
“That’s a close call.”
He mocked her and said; “Worried about blasphemy? You remember those old horror movies where some religious pretender in a hood and prominently displaying a cross, chases after the good guy, with the whole town watching, yelling ‘Blasphemy!
Blasphemy! Blasphemy!” I used to crack up.” He looked into her eyes and thought he saw unease. It bothered him, so he added;
“Well, you know, that kind of stopped when I found out that this wasn’t only one demented film maker’s fantasy.”
Pearl made a noticeable, bent-at-the-stomach, genuine, uncontrolled laugh. She said; “You know the ones I like even better?” He mildly shook his head “No,” happy to hear her response. She said; “The ones with the zombie’s walking around the mall.”
“Don’t you find that pretty close to reality?”
“Of course, idiot. That’s what makes it so funny to begin with.”
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Herman saw, enjoyed, valued and appreciated her point, though he didn’t yet have complete agreement with it. He questioned; “Think positive, speak positive, act positive, everything positive? Right?”
Pearl failed to see any contradiction in what she said. She didn’t note any meaningful difference from her sense of humor and his. She didn’t like his turn to seriousness after initiating the humor. Was he trying to be merely and stupidly judgmental? She refused to get defensive, took the initiative and drolly said; “Why not? You got a better idea?”
Herman pointed his right thumb over his shoulder and said;
“I don’t have any ideas. All I know for sure is that I’m not going back there.”
“Then why question me?”
“Just testing to see if you thought it out well?”
“Did I pass?”
“Oh, sorry. Sure. I sometimes forget that when I think something is understood.”
“May I know my precise grade, pray tell?”
“Oh, ummmm. I don’t know exactly.......I didn’t make deductions for anything.......So, I guess you got a perfect score........Mind you. That doesn’t equate to ‘I agree fully.’”
She eyed him sideways, squinted a bit and said; “I think I understand.” With an air of sarcasm and confidence she added;
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“Thanks. Personally, I didn’t think it was that great. I’ve got better.”
“I think that I, too understand and I wouldn’t doubt it.”
He pointed ahead and excitedly said; “Hey. Did you see that?”
“What?”
“I thought I saw lightning.”
“Nah, that doesn’t happen here.”
“I thought you said that this was your first time here......Oh, right, a book told you that.”
“As a matter of fact....”
He noticed a quarrelsome tone, cut her off, ostensibly to assuage and said; “I’m not knocking it. I wish I read more myself. Maybe you could recommend one for me.”
“Probably could, but it’s irrelevant, as there don’t seem to be any libraries out here.”
He glanced at the sack she carried over her shoulder and said; “Didn’t bring any books with you?
“I don’t think any of the ones I have are for you.”
“I thought you might be holding a little one in your pocket.”
She giggled; “No.”
“How do you remember stuff, like the maps?”
“It’s hard to explain. I kind of memorize the stuff that’s essential and forget the rest.”
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“Essence?”
“Yeah.”
“Cool. It makes me laugh when someone writes a long-ass treatise on something. Invariably, they’re disagreeing with the learned of twenty years prior. And no doubt twenty years from now there will be another treatise that says this one is horseshit. Using expert opinion, you can prove anything you want. They always leave that wiggle room. You would logically think they were written prior to Nostradamus’ masking.”
“They won’t say horseshit.”
“Small point conceded. But, they’ll say the proper equivalent.”
Pleased with the direction of things Pearl again returned to the elemental and said; “Isn’t it strange how everything is so still here.”
As if he had just become aware, which was not stretching the truth, he said; “Now that you mention it. Yeah. Is it peaceful or ominous?”
“Ultimate question. I’ll pass on that one. Is it the quiet desirable peace everyone says they want or is it a portent of an explosion soon to come.”
“I used to care about stuff like that back there, but out here I don’t give a shit.” Herman laughed, looked up, extended his arms like a prophet and said; “Do something, fucker. You’re
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supposed to spit out the tepid. Live by your own rules or resign your fuckin’ job.”
“You get a kick out of Blasphemy. Blasphemy. Blasphemy.
Don’t you?”
Before Herman could respond Pearl snickered and added; “Me, too.”
****************************
He opened his eyes, seemingly wider than they had previously been and stared at her looking ahead. He wished that she didn’t notice. She gave off every appearance that she didn’t. He saw a small face; attractive and pensive, with a peculiar bend in her tiny nose, host to thin and almost undetectable wire-framed glasses. Her lips were left as nature would have them and were together, the lower twin somewhat extended beyond its higher counterpart. Her blue eyes showed nothing, but, oddly didn’t blink in the savage, perennial sunlight. Her hair was long, just the way he liked it and was now gray, with tiny traces of the original black. Short bangs reached her eyebrows, testifying to her minimal forehead. He wasn’t sure if her overall countenance was one of contentment or despondency. His gaze followed her sloping neck down. Her partially exposed breasts leaned against her red shirt as ice
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cream rests in its cup. Round was an ample word to describe her hips, tightly caged in her well-worn blue jeans. His eyes rested there for a long, but too short a time. He worked his way to her small feet. He wondered how they were able to fully keep her on firm ground. They were supported only by the briefest of open-top, leather-thonged sandals, below the gently undulating ankles. She was curves, like a gracious Queen Anne piece of furniture. Herman’s daydream was rudely interrupted, when she looked at him and chuckled as she said; “Like my feet?”
Herman was completely off guard and embarrassed. He blurted out; “No....Yes....I mean no....Oh, damn it, I don’t know.” He saw her chuckle turn to a tight-lipped grin and was compelled to add; “You have nice feet.”
Pearl continued her Joker grin and said; “Are you one of those?”
Still not recovered from his initial trepidation, he supplied a duplicate line of brilliance and said;
“No....Yes....Oh, damn it, I don’t know.”
Pearl smiled at him, put her left hand on his cheek and said; “I understand.”
Relieved, but not the least bit comfortable, Herman decided to change the subject and said; “What kind of things did you read back there?”
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“Everything. Do you like the rest of me too?” She put one hand over the other at hip level, as a shy school girl, with a pouting face.
“Yes, I like all of you. Like is too neutral a word. I love all of you.”
She took four quick steps back, looked at him seriously and as if she were disturbed. “She said; “Don’t ever use that word around me.”
Now he was confused and disturbed. He thought; “What’s wrong with love? Was I too hasty? If so, she didn’t have to make a big issue of it. Or, did she have to make a big issue of it for reasons I don’t know?” He settled on that thought, but didn’t want to see the images it might have implied. He tried to get those out of his head and continued to think. “The best thing to do is respect her wishes. This is the strongest wish I have yet heard. I’m sorry for a number of reasons.” He silently approached her, touched her arm and before he could say anything, she said; “David Foster Wallace?”
He squinted, showing surprise and said; “What?”
She calmly answered; “You asked me what I read back there.”
“Oh, oh, yeah.” He didn’t add; “About a million years ago.”
Her silence prompted him to say something else, so he asked; “Do you have any of his books in your bag?”
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“No. He may have technically been the best writer of all time, but he was for back there.”
“One of the real geniuses and he said the hell with the whole place. That’s pretty insightful and not very different than us.” He stuck out his tongue and added; “Haven’t you yet noticed my genius. I have yours.”
“He should have tried it out here.”
“How do you know that he didn’t?” She said nothing and showed a smidgeon of anger on her expressive little face and adjusted the glasses that required none. He knew that he had asked her something unanswerable and that he was also extolling the virtues of someone not ever accused of being one who thought and acted positively.
Herman was stupidly drawn to saying the wrong thing and had to go on; “Nobody else could write like that, though. A camera’s precision with humor, some of which only he could see. The first time I read him, he found some absurdity in something I have looked at thousands of times, but didn’t see it until he pointed it out. Genius.”
“No argument. However, at some point it’s a matter of taste. He’s in great company, with others I like. Most of them are dead, too, but as a result of natural causes.”
Herman continued to desire to display his “genius,” or was too simple to shut up. He said; “Who says that it wasn’t a
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natural cause. Life is no doubt considered natural. Wouldn’t the ending of life be the flip side of the same coin? You know; like off and on, like male and female, like black and white, like yin and yang....”
Pearl interrupted him to say; “Your stated view on male and female is admirable.” He stuck out his tongue, as he disdained
“admirable” as condescending. She continued; “Of course you’ve heard of ‘Yin, Yang and Young,’ the law firm.
He considered a serious answer, but rejected it in the cause of frivolity, too often his weakest point. He said; “What type of law do they specialize in?”
She deadpanned; “The highest; Constitutional.” and laughed briefly at her quick comeback. He joined her out of politeness.
Settling down from the day’s guffaw, he said; “So, what authors are good for here?”
“I don’t know the place well enough to be sure.”
“Take a wild guess.”
“Probably a few. Depends on my mood.”
Uncontrolled, questioning Herman wouldn’t quit and said;
“Like?”
Exasperated Pearl retorted; “If I say one it will attach too much importance to that one at the expense of all the others.” Her temperament improved to mild annoyance. She looked in his sincere face and recalled that guys could often be just
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plain dumb. She said; “Damn it. I know you’re thinking that I’m being evasive. So, one is George Saunders.”
“I don’t know him. What did Sanders write?”
“Shit. I was afraid of that. And his name is Saunders. He wrote ’Pastoralia’, for one.”
“Well, tell me something about it.”
She turned away for a moment, came back with her head spinning and said; “He’s crazy.”
“Like Wallace?”
“No, in a different way. He doesn’t look for answers. He laughs at the lack of them and writes rather childishly.”
“Well, if we get a library up there somewhere, I’m going to get one of his books.”
“Start with Pastoralia.”
“Pastoralia?”
“Trust me.”
Herman nodded, pointed his patented thumb to the rear and said; “I wonder what the hell they’re doing back there now.”
“The monkeys are playing with microscopes and calculators.”
“At the zoo?”
“Pretty much.”
“Did you ever wonder what the zoo animals think when we stare at them?”
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“I don’t wonder anymore. They told me. They turn their backs and show us their ass, except at feeding time.”
Herman laughed and said; “That’s great. You just pulled a David Foster Wallace on me.”
Pearl shook her head in a disparaging manner and said;
“George Saunders.” She laughed and continued; “Animals are great. I’m going to miss them.”
“Maybe we’ll find some up ahead. It’s really weird without any birds or insects right here though.”
“Maybe they’re dead.”
“Maybe we are.”
She said; “Oooooh,” tickled him and he returned the favor.
****************************
She said; “I might have seen that lightning you were talking about.”
“See, I am right sometimes.”
“Sometimes being the key word.”
“Definitely. Don’t be too hard on me, though. The job was defaulted to me. Either I had to do it or it wouldn’t get done.”
“I could take that in at least two directions. I could say;
‘Long live anarchy,’ or I could say; ‘That’s not true anymore.’”
“Is that “A” or “B”, or can you choose ‘All of the above?’”
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Pearl was perplexed. She said; “I’ll have to think about that one.”
“I’m in the same boat. But, I can tell you this. I’m all in favor of letting the others run things back there. Or even here in this new land. They couldn’t possibly make it any worse.”
She hesitated, but was compelled to add; “I know them a little better than you and I think making things worse would well be within the realm of possibility.”
“Well, now I can give you two answers. One is that I’m willing to take the risk and, two is that we should unionize, overthrow the oppressor and all of that.”
“Who’s the oppressor?”
“God....Religion...Psychiatry, perhaps that’s redundant...The Grand Inquisitor...The Man in Charge.”
“How about the Woman in Charge?”
“No such thing. That’s the problem.”
Pearl looked at him warmly and said; “You’re sweet.”
He hoped she didn’t see the pink hue he felt on both ears and said; “Thanks, but it’s also the truth. Hey, have you yet detected any of those witches that are supposed to be out here?”
“Not a one.”
They continued their side by side walk and the temperature seemed about 85 degrees, the cloudless sky remained a uniform light blue and the wind was non-existent. He took her right hand
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with his left and got no objection. She asked; “Were you married back there?”
“Yes. Blessed by the church and everything, for all the good it did.”
“Me, too. But not blessed by the church or state. Didn’t seem to make any difference.”
Herman wasn’t surprised to hear that and said; “Thirty years of scorching misery.”
“What did you expect?”
“Something other than what it turned out to be......It’s hard to explain without telling the story of the two and then putting those two in context of a changing world. It would be like trying to write ‘War and Peace.’” He paused, laughed and said; “Maybe I’ll try it someday. The second half of the book will be extremely short.”
“Because it’s hard to write about nothing, or because there was little peace?”
“Kind of the same thought, I guess.”
“Yeah, I guess. Same story here. I left one marriage for no real reason. After a while it was like he didn’t care one way or the other and neither did I. No animosity. That was the weird part. One day I came home from work early and saw him naked in the bathtub while his mother gave him a bath. A 25 year old man.
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I said this is just too weird and left. I still wonder what that was all about.”
I’ve got a good guess; “Mommy was washing that dirty girl off her good little boy.”
Pearl wrinkled her brow at Herman, but made no response.
He felt a need to explain himself and said; “That was intended to be sarcasm directed at the attitudes of many.
Personally, if I was fortunate enough to get a dirty girl all over me, I wouldn’t wash for a month.”
Pearl was reticent to make any reply and searched for an alternative avenue of pursuit. Before she could come up with anything, Herman ventured; “You’re a dirty girl, aren’t you?”
She opened her mouth, but produced no words. He grinned at her and waited patiently for a response. He hoped it would not be evasive, but that most likely it would be that or an indignant no. She read his mind and decided to throw the ball back in his court and said; “I haven’t bathed yesterday or today. Do you consider that dirty?”
He surprised himself and quickly came up with a retort;
“Depends on what you’ve been doing, I suppose.”
Triumphantly, she raised her voice and said; “I’ve been walking with you, stupid. Can I get dirty doing that?”
He smiled, shook his head and said; “No chance.”
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Looking to make the game equal and more interesting, she asked; “Are you a dirty boy?”
He thought; “I’m totally unprepared. I’ve never been asked that before and consequently didn’t expect it. Let’s see. Boys are supposed to be dirty, aren’t they? Snipes and snails and puppy dog tails and all of that. That’s really not what she’s asking me though and I wouldn’t be surprised if this wasn’t another test. I definitely want to pass. Even more I’d like to go to the head of the class, so I need a good answer; one that says what she wants to hear. I don’t have the slightest idea of what she wants to hear, so forget that.
She said; “Come on, come on. Time is running out.”
He decided to wing it and replied; “Boys are expected by boys and girls to be dirty and I’m not rebellious in that regard. I have to add, however, that whatever I do with you is not.”
“Didn’t you just contradict what you said before?”
“I don’t know. Are you writing all this shit down?”
She said a loud “No,” and he feared failure. He said; “This can get complicated. Maybe before I was trying to be humorous.”
“I don’t recall laughing.”
“I could say that you have no sense of humor, but I won’t.
One time I may have used the word “dirty” in the meaning that I think you ascribe to it. Another time I could use it in the
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sense that people back there have. Another time I might use it in my own sense.......”
She cut him off and said; “Which is?”
He realized that she had gotten him back to square one. He further thought that this must be very important to her. He said; “Nothing is dirty in love.”
“I told you not to use that word.”
“Well, how can I answer difficult questions if you limit my vocabulary with forbidden words?”
She was as annoyed as him and said; “I give you one rule and you use it as some stupid excuse.”
He was very tired of the discussion, so he just said; “Yes.
I’m a dirty boy, no matter how anyone defines it. How’s that?”
She laughed and said; “Just fine. You had me worried for a while.”
“Then I passed the stupid test?”
“Yes.”
“What grade?”
“To be finalized on a field trip.”
He finally lost his exasperation and smiled back at her.
She looked him over and saw a desperate old man. His face was not flawed in any outrageous way, but it showed that he had been over-tired for some time, the laugh lines more of the grimace variety. His long, messy gray hair was reminiscent of a
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better time, but also showed how long it had been gone. His thin body was not unpleasing and probably was not very different from its appearance when he was a teenager. She thought; ”If only I could cut off that head,” as she admired his form fitting jeans.
She caught herself and thought that he should have segued long ago into something more appropriate. She quickly recognized that she could well say that to herself. She said; “When was your last bath?”
He utilized the lines on his face to scrunch up his mouth into a genuine, but also posed smile and said; “Just before I met you.”
Pearl looked up at the blue sky and lost interest in talk.
He made a thorough investigation of the ground and thought he found its similarity to that above it. Almost imperceptibly, he mumbled, also not much for more conversation.
****************************
Herman woke up and he saw Pearl beside him, with one leg touching his, under the non-existent shade of a big chief cactus. Hallucination? Same sun. Same sky. Same wind; none. He said; “Did we sleep through the night?”
She rolled over, stretched and said; “Maybe. I didn’t see it either.”
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He went into his bag, retrieved a hunting knife and easily removed it from its torn sheath. He plunged it into the cactus center and spread the slow stream onto his face. Pearl’s eyes widened in shock. She stood up, backed away carefully and said;
“What the hell is that?”
Herman held the knife in front of him and incredulously said; “It’s a knife. Haven’t you seen one before?”
Pearl continued to back up and said; “It’s a weapon.”
He almost laughed, but, as she seemed genuinely upset, he thought it not a good time to appear humorous. He said; “It’s no weapon. I use it to extract water and nourishment from the cactuses.” He again reached into his bag and she increased the distance between them, while watching him intently. He put the knife on the sand and pulled out a clear flask. He said; “How do you think I’ve been filling this? He offered it to her.
Her thirst overcame her fear. She took the flask and drank.
She said; “Don’t scare me like that again. What else do you have in that bag anyway?”
He sighed, turned his head to one side and said; “Secrets.
Things I brought from the old world that I thought I might need here.”
“Like what?”
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“Like secrets. My things.” He saw that she was not comfortable with that response, so he added; “What do you have in yours?”
“None of your business.”
He laughed and said; “See. I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”
She couldn’t help but make a smile she tried to convert to a grimace and said; “Okay, okay. I get the point.”
He said; “Take my word. There’s nothing in here that will hurt you. Can you say the same?”
She thought for a while and responded; “Not physically, anyway.”
“I stand corrected. I should have made the same distinction. I really don’t think there are any mental dangers to you, but I can’t be sure.”
“I can say the same.”
He picked up his bag and said; “How about we just dump everything on the ground and get it over with?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Glad you said that. I don’t think so either.”
He picked up his knife and put it back in its sheath, simultaneously saying; “Now, if we ran into some snakes....”
Pearl just gave him an “Ooooh you” look and returned the flask.
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He took a swap and said; “One of the things that used to annoy me back there was when I’d say something to someone and they’d give me a queer look and say; ‘It goes without saying.’”
“I hated that, too. It’s just a conversation killer.”
“It translates to; ‘I don’t know a damn thing about it and don’t want to advertise my deficiencies.’ As a kid my room was right near the front door. So, sometimes, when I came home my parents didn’t know I was there. One time I heard my mother tell my father; ‘When I married you I thought you were the strong silent type. Now I know you’re just stupid.’”
“What did he say?”
“He remained the strong silent type or mumbled. I always thought that he was kind of stupid, so I was glad to find out that I wasn’t the only one who thought that.”
“Still think he was stupid?”
Herman thought a bit and replied; “Kind of. Now, I’d probably use the word limited. He seems to have known how to do things, but was totally incapable of explaining what he did.”
Pearl laughed to Herman’s surprise and said; “I think that’s pretty common. My father had a ‘military intelligence’
job, if that’s not an oxymoron and if you asked him to explain it, it would be like talking to Forrest Gump.” Upon saying that she realized that she might be missing something, but probably not.
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“Is he still alive?”
She shook her head wistfully and said; “No. He died when he was younger than I am now. They flew his body back to the US
from Panama when he was 52.”
“Mine also died on the young side, but not that bad. Heart attack at 62. It wasn’t really a surprise, as he never exercised and smoked two packs of cigarettes a day. He said he picked up the habit under Patton, in Europe during World War Two. The supply lines couldn’t keep up with the combat troop’s movement, but curiously coffee and cigarettes found their way. So, the commanders used to say; ‘Drink ‘em and smoke ‘em. It’ll kill the hunger.’”
“Did it?”
Herman shrugged and replied; “He said ‘Yeah,’ but it killed him too.” He paused a while. Pearl was quiet and stared at the painfully consistent, uniform, light blue sky. He felt a twinge of anger and continued; “You know, everything they tell you back there turns out to be wrong. The experts discover that ten years later and then someone tries to sell you a remedy. And this strong, silent type of god proves useless. The one thing the imperfect religions have in common is that they equate life with suffering....”
Pearl interrupted him to say; “Well, somebody got something right.”
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“Yeah, but, why should we accept that pitiful situation? We should form a union and go out on strike. Management unfair to workers.”
“It’s been done and the results are very questionable.”
“No, we need something different. If we are destined to suffer anyway, let’s completely stop playing the game, something on the lines of 60’s left wing radicalism.”
“Another ism.”
“Maybe. But, what the hell do we have to lose? Those in charge have already exhausted their arsenal.” He put one foot up on his sack, aping George Washington, crossing the Delaware River and laughed to her.
She smiled and thought of him as consciously absurd and unconsciously useless, a combination currently pleasing.
He ponderously pronounced; “There shall be certain inalienable rights. Boss ≠ Master, Boss = Caretaker. Worker ≠
Slave, Worker = Partner. Both Caretaker and Partner shall be beneficiaries of a profit sharing plan.” He paused and saw, what he thought was interest in her face and then continued in his mock-authoritarian manner of speech; “Tell that to the mean spirited fucker upstairs.”
Pearl clapped her hands and said; “I will. I will. As long as you do.”
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Herman said; “I think I already did and will continue to, because I don’t give a fuck. Are you my Partner?”
Pearl excitedly exclaimed; “Yes..........As long as I can also be co-founder.”
Herman shrugged, smiled at her and said; “That’s the only way it can be.” They moved to each other and embraced. He thought; “Celebration. Exhilaration. Hope. Reality. Pearl.”
****************************
Herman opened his eyes and felt the grainy, sun-bleached sand beneath him. He fretted when he couldn’t see or feel any part of his companion. His slumber produced a dream that was at the very least, unsettling. In it, he knew that Pearl didn’t want to see him. He went to her house on a pleasant fall morning and thought that he’d surprise her waiting at the front door. It wasn’t fastened properly and in the space provided by the shoddy workmanship, inattention and overuse, he saw her, already fully dressed, scurrying around the kitchen at breakneck speed. He remembered that she had told him not to come looking for her and tried to think of some excuse to be crouched at her door, of course, coming up with nothing. He scanned the neighborhood and saw that the block consisted of similar houses; two stories with basements, wood frames and pitched roofs forming attics which
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faced the street, contrary to what aesthetics might demand, but efficient for their use on narrow plots of land. They were probably built when the craftsman style was popular and had been subjected to plebian repairs and additions in subsequent years.
Colors were numerous, with most displaying a mixture. Pearl’s was green and cream, with a pink trim and doors. All of the colors were well faded and resulted in a diminishment of the shock produced when the trim and doors were freshly decorated.
The street was lined on both sides with mature elm trees, which were still in bloom sufficiently to produce shade from a weak morning sun, off and on obscured by fluffy, white cumulous clouds, which moved slowly across the blue sky, propelled by a gentle breeze, which he also felt on his ground level. He thought that she might exit another door, in which case, he could get behind her, then catch up at some point and say something stupid, like; “Fancy meeting you. I was just out strolling. Do you live here?” and hope she didn’t smack him.
Fantasy. He watched her through the crack as she continued to move quickly gathering up some things and putting them in a light brown, leather bag strapped over her shoulder. Triumphant classical music with horns on their way to crescendo emanated from somewhere inside and she danced vigorously and sang indecipherable words in a mocking, but cheerful fashion. She glided to the front door, opened it and saw him. She made no
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reaction, shut the door and bounced down the street. He was saddened at the lack of recognition, but relieved that she didn’t scream at him or call a cop. He followed, keeping his distance thirty feet behind. She did not look back. On the third block of her journey she met a female friend, with oddly and shortly cut bleached blond hair, parted in the center. The two stopped for a brief moment, looked back at him, laughed and then went their separate ways. She continued on one more block to a high school where she taught, went in and, again never looked back. He stopped across the street from the three story brick structure, knowing that he couldn’t go in, but not knowing what to do next.
Upon awakening he got extremely depressed over her desire not to see him and her ability to be blasé about it. This stayed with him a while, until he re-interpreted the dream from her point of view. She was effervescent and happy. She sang and danced. This is what he most wanted for her and he was content.
But, where was his companion? He got up and canvassed the area. She emerged from the opposite side of a cactus and he called out; “Pearl, you scared the hell out of me. Don’t ever do that again.”
She looked at him strangely, furrowing her brows and wrinkling her forehead. He took a few more slow steps in her
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direction, as she stood still. He said; “Pearl,” in somewhat questioning manner.
She shook her head in apparent disbelief and softly said;
“I’m not Pearl. My name is Dusky.”
He wasn’t sure if she were playing a trick on him or not.
She had not done so, up until now. He wondered if she had consumed too much cactus juice. He wondered if she had totally lost it. He decided to look for physical evidence. She looked a lot like Pearl, but now that he was scrutinizing, he thought that the person standing in front of him had markedly smaller hips and somewhat larger breasts. She wore similar blue jeans and sandals, but her shirt was a light green button up. Pearl always preferred red. Her long, gray hair and small, attractive face seemed identical and she wore wire-rimmed glasses.
He wasn’t certain if this was Pearl or not. How did anyone else get here? How could Pearl disappear on the flat terrain with twenty mile visibility in all directions? He looked back for the first time and saw nothing but sand and cactus. Maybe she was hiding behind one of those. Maybe she went back and died along the way. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. He thought the best approach was to play “Dusky’s” game. He said; “How did you get there?”
She replied; “I think I made five wrong turns,” and giggled.
“All right. Have it your way. I’m Herman.”
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She giggled again, saying; “Like in Munster.”
“Like in hermit. You’re a real giggler, aren’t you?”
“Why not?”
“Why not? Because of all the things we’ve been speaking of.”
“What are you talking about? We’ve just met, and that’s only because you’ve been following me around.”
Herman was lost. He shrugged and said; “I’m sorry. You looked like someone I once knew. I must have been mistaken.”
Dusky silently nodded agreement. She walked away.
Herman stood still and said; “Just tell me one thing. Where are you going?”
She pointed at a smokestack that made him think of urban New Jersey. She said; “Back there.”
“How could you? Why?”
With her back still to him she answered as if she had just heard the dumbest question of all time, saying; “I’ve been out here long enough. She kept walking as if she were in basic training on methamphetamine. Herman was too weary to keep up if he wanted to; so he sat.
****************************
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Herman’s sleepy eyes opened to be rudely greeted by the undefeatable blare of the persistent sun, seemingly angry in its malevolent desire to shed glorious illumination on everything too dumb to hide. He nervously scanned the ground level and found no sign of Dusky. He sighed. He was well practiced at the art. He was disappointed, but far from surprised, as her recent conversations put a direct and indirect emphasis on “social”
considerations. That was her merry word, as he would gloomily substitute “Back there shit.” There was no way he was going back. It took him 60 years to escape and he felt it only logical that it would require a minimum of 60 years in the wilderness to give it a fair day in court. He realized that he used the words
“felt” and “logical” in the same sentence. There had to be something wrong with his train of thought.
With the audacious, nervy, golden orb constantly standing guard he had lost complete track of time. How would he know when he was here 60 years? Maybe he already crossed that threshold and just didn’t know. What did it matter anyway? His original goal was to be out here by himself and, at times including now, he was successful. So, why wasn’t he in the mood for a celebration? Easy. Herman had grown accustomed to the grief poured on him by Pearl, Dusky, or DuskyPearl, the spirited and brisk contradiction.
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He gazed at the soot belching ugliness of what was now before him and pictured her there. He wasn’t sure if he was looking at a new area or if he had circled around the globe and was again near his point of departure. From a distance it looked exactly the same. He wondered if he should turn back and go the other way. He promised himself that he never would, but now he didn’t know east from west, anyway. If only the god damned sun did its job and moved, he might get an inkling of where he was and perhaps even be privy to the correct time. He further thought that going back was a poor practical option, as his knife had probably damaged his big chief cactus water supply. He realized he was the last of the great medieval thinkers as he wanted the sun to move, while he remained comfortably ensconced in the world of his earlier choice.
The merciless clarity constantly ensured by his uninvited, now undesirable companion made him have second thoughts. He never anticipated “out there” would be reminiscent of the jeering audience he endured playing baseball. Maybe he had made some core error. Was clarity, of necessity, merciless? But wasn’t truth what he thought he was desirous of when he left the belching gray clouds of smoke “back there?” Does “merciless clarity” infer “merciful obscuration?” Does “merciless clarity”
need, or love, to risk using a forbidden word, “merciful obscuration?” Semantics? Sophistry? He seemed certain in one
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observation. The trillions of seeds waiting to bloom below this dry, barren ground are not sun worshippers.
He looked at his bare arms and thought he could see the blood pulsing through the ugly, irregular veins. He wished he had observed Pearl and Dusky this closely. Or perhaps that was exactly what he should not have done. Maybe his incuriosity allowed him to luck out, at least on that one.
He became aware that he was certain of another thing. He didn’t know anything more than he did at the outset of his journey. He merely had more questions, on which, the supposedly illuminated one upstairs deigned to shed any of its glorious light.
He defiantly laid on his back in an effort to fully demonstrate his steadfastness to any potential observer. He immediately thought of Pearl and Dusky. He recalled all of his time spent with both of them; the warmth, the worry, the misunderstanding, the talk, the joy, the unbearable sorrow and most of all, the movement of mind and body that now eluded him.
He realized that he was wrong on at least one score. He knew he missed her, whatever name she called herself now. He had vowed to never go “Back There” and didn’t want to be just another liar. Maybe there was room for maneuvering, as at this point he truly didn’t know back from front, or east from west. But, even if he chose to walk forward to the “civilization” ahead of him,
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how could he be certain that he would be able to again find her?
Or, was it she who originally found him? Maybe that was her job.
With a weathered, squinting, yet determined face he struggled to look up at his taciturn nemesis and softly, but resolutely said;
“I’m not moving until you do.” His tears nourished a few waiting, fortunate, dormant seeds as the water cascaded through the miniscule grains of sand below him.
Herman lost track of the time he spent there. Shade providing, white, gray and black clouds silently moved in from the east and delivered a warm drizzle. The accompanying breeze brought a long forgotten scent of flowers he could no longer name. The earth moved, though his imperfect eyes made him think that it was the sun.
Jack completely lost it when he shut the book; laughing hysterically while his eyes teared. Justice thought that Jack was on the verge of becoming dangerous. He tip toed into the bedroom and nosed his way under the blankets, thinking he could not be seen.
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#26- Youth Surrounded
As if it were a page from a day-glow coloring book, at mid-day the un-obstructed sun continued to blare its cacophony over Camino de las Brisas. The rude, currently singular, amorphous globe seemed to cover the entirety of the sky. It had started at the 7:30 AM daybreak and perhaps as a result of impatience, obviously got more and more insistent as the day progressed.
Ty, still solely and lazily wearing his robe and slippers went to the box and got the mail; having to keep his focus level or down; either viewpoint comfortable. His two brief attempts to scan the heavens resulted in a blinding vividness; and he highly valued his ability to see. Along with the usual dreary insurance, “call-now-to-save-as-much-as-$396-per-year” ads accompanying the electric bill, piled on the beleaguered, new, green mailbox was yet another flyer from the Brisas Area Gardening Society. It was neatly folded and held by the adjustable red flag. He shrugged and carried the howdy doos and zip-a-dee-doo-dahs back to the house.
Dressed in a lavender tank top and cut off, blue jean shorts, Cindy waited at the front door which she held open.
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Ty perked up a bit, but his penchant for honesty made him unable to hide his disappointment with the news of the day.
Holding the papers in his left, he used his right hand to briefly hold Cindy’s hand and gently kissed her forehead.
In the mood for something much more provocative, she eyed him curiously and said nothing, remembering that it was still early in the day.
Ty sighed and said; “Guess what came in the mail?”
Playfully inclined Cindy responded; “A letter from my mother asking me to come back home?”
Ty had difficulty containing his amusement; but simply answered; “No.”
“Okay. A letter from your father asking you to come back home?”
“No, worse.”
Cindy displayed her first look of concern. She stood silently and looked to Ty.
He said; “What I always hope to come tomorrow came today.
Another flyer from the Brisas Area Gardening Society inviting us to another meeting. Why the hell did this organization have to use the name of our street?”
Cindy exhaled relief. She said; “Don’t tell me. Penny was attacked by five marauding elms and they got their seeds all
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over her right here. ....................... Never mind. If that were the case she would have quit complaining.”
“Should we once more play social butterflies? .......... I mean we really don’t like these people or what they stand for.
It’s anti-nature for Christ’s sake.”
Cindy affected a camp Greta Garbo stance; limp wristed right hand extended and replied; “Eeeew. Doesn’t the cause of civility clearly indicate support for the beauty of suburban gardens? Je ne se quois; mon ami?”
Ty smirked, fell to one knee; kissed her extended hand and looked up at her. Her eyes may have been incorrectly construed by some to be mocking; while they were merely curious about what would come next. He said; “But, my fair lady; dost not one
........ two; have the right to moat their fortresses against the attacks of the plebian boredom disguised as social necessity?” He pressed her hand against his cheek and looking down, his view became her bare feet.
“Yay, verily; my sweet knight. Thy loving intentions are invariably countered by a crude, common perception; convenient for the dead. TV must not rule. We must sacrifice our anti-social desires and tarry to what is publicly deemed necessary.
........ If this requirement is ignored I will be de-throned and our front lawn will soon be filled with dog shit. ............
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Maybe you can bring your fart machine and sound the bugle at an appropriate time.”
Ty stood and walked to the kitchen cabinets. From a lower drawer he retrieved a deep red, rubber, substantially circular contrivance with a straight, tubular piece on top. ........
Or bottom; depending on how the item was held and the viewer’s visual angle and predilection. If one so desired, they could easily glean the remnants of the faded black lettering still in evidence on the item. The words; assuming there were once such coherent things present, as opposed to the usual potpourri of random nonsense; were now just an indecipherable, smeared, black blemish. Ty held it to his lips, breathed air into it, and the contrivance expanded like a frog’s chin. Ty held the dirty red, inflated ostentation in his hands, pressed the middle, and it made a continuous loud phtttttttbraap. It then returned to its un-inflated, paper-thin size. Cindy danced in circles to some tune only she heard. She put her hands on her knees and consequently leaned a bit forward. She exclaimed; “Perfect!!!”
Ty was elated with the actions of his only love. Phrasing a question not designed for response, he asked; “Can I get away with setting it off while Penny is speaking?” He drifted off into a reverie which lasted all of a second in real time, yet would require an eternity to define.
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Ty thought; “I think I understand Cindy; presumptuous as that statement may be interpreted. It gets so convoluted, doesn’t it? Love does not equal Eros; yet we require both; me, subjectively, always dreaming of the former; yet finding in that pursuit that I risk being seen as someone deficient in the succession; changing paths and vice versa.
Here we are, in a place we, in laziness, have allowed to be defined by others, the details imposed strongly, with the inadequacies and temporary nature of changing scientific truth perennially on their side, virtually impossible to overcome. And we both intrinsically know that there is no absolute proof of anything of importance. I suspect that you know that better than me. Cindy, don’t you sense how I feel? Emotion is incapable of deceit. Please trust me. I’ve always and will continue to trust you. If your early experiences have condemned you to the scientifically predatory world of logic, please be assured that I, too, have known much primitive and formative derision.
Calculations of the degrees are inevitably subjective in their scholarly attempts to compute something worthy of doctoral status. They are successful in that; and simultaneously as irrelevant as another “new and improved” borax. Capital????
I know that sometimes you see this as some sort of perhaps convincing diatribe which allows me to get my way. I think I
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understand. It’s happened time and again. You tried and they refuse to understand, taking refuge in the probabilities.
I’m a bit lost, alone, and afraid of the dark. I try to remember the days I held you and look forward to the days I will continue to hold you closely, thinking that it would or will go on forever. Stupid, I guess. I fear that my wonderful, honest-to-a-fault lady always knew better, but were too kind to tell me the truth.
I can only ask if you are certain that your anecdotal impressions are indeed indicative of the truth. If you choose to respond I will not argue.”
With a demonstration of telepathy Cindy responded with;
“What the hell are you thinking about? I know you. This crap doesn’t make any sense. I was waiting here, horny as hell, and now I’m completely turned off. Shit.” She got up and said;
“Where do you get this stuff from? It’s not me. So who? I really don’t mind hearing of the lesser havens. They’ve always been there and you were always susceptible to their cries. .........
In a way that is what makes me care for you though.”
He said; “Tell me. Please tell me. Is there any way I can make it better for you? .................. I love you, unconditionally. Maybe the proof of that is when you then say;
“No, I don’t care about you.” I then hurt forever and you are forever guilty. And you know it, but try not to think of it.”
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“I will not burden you with my tears; and you will not burden me with yours. ................. Some nights we dream.
........... Dammit. ................... And love it. Can’t we be allowed to at least dream in perpetuity?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. I’m so sorry to have said that, but I am un-controllably compelled to give you complete honesty; at the same time being in full recognition that your truth is a little different from mine. ............. I believe just a little, probably too little, and that that slight difference is entirely caused by the perversion of perceived as acceptable socialization. Blank it all out; please. It may not be a death; rather an awakening. A half century ago it was so simple; ‘Be on my side. I’ll be on your side; Neil Young,’ then, this hellish ‘sophistication’ ascended.”
Cindy shrugged, intending that the combination of shoulder and lowered brow movements would convey to him her warm feelings. She turned on the TV as she adjusted her jeans. She left the channel at some Murdoch owned news channel; correctly seeing her momentarily sarcastic sense of humor necessary to break the logically induced false tragedy. She thought; “No downers. Just a celebration of laughter.” She knew that this simplicity was undoubtedly said to be illogical to those she had met in Nod excepting Ty. She entered the bedroom while saying;
“You want something to eat?”
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“Yeah. Desperately.”
Cindy softly sang Patti Smith’s “Lo and Beholden.”
In artlessness, the machinations displayed at the new Village Council meeting, were merely a shadow or flawed mirror reflection of prior manifestations with infinitesimally minor deviations. The one hundred or so, elm hating contingent took seats below the stage. The mayor peered from the stage door, half in and half out, in consternation over the effect of this
“event” on his garbage contract lust. The inconsequential nit pickers were well ensconced in their front row seats, nervously scanning their books concerning “parliamentary procedure,”
searching for some arcane, legal prognostication, which would provide them with yet another moment to sound brilliant and totally irrelevant. The Sand Duners sat together and held onto their flyers in sullen silence; registering a desire to be there somewhere south of the feelings of Ty and Cindy.
The most ”significant” differences could be gleaned from Vincent’s tactical adjustment, the supplementary complaints about the same old thing, Ty’s fart apparatus, Richard III’s attendance and Penny’s print dress. While the physical and anticipated oratorical nature of the “town meeting” contained sufficient costume change and screenwriter re-write to satisfy a
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teen aged audience hooked on “Divergent,” some old timers had difficulty in dismissing Ovid.
In the socially defined fear of being seen as something other than well-mannered, at the likely expense of bright, and in a kindly stated, fifty year old, on a calendar basis, desire only not to be viewed as archaically devoid of contemporary considerations, it was necessary for the merely observing dilettantes to affect some sort of visually-detected, perceived enthusiasm; double negatives silently purposeful. The task was easy and had decades of persuasion to be sufficiently dumbed down to any injudicious, anti-social, self-appointed-intellectual, with possible pretensions to the vanity of Narcissus, black or white, water or glass. In abundance, the privileged cordiality of toddy time never ends and logically tries to maintain the safety of the invitee as its first priority. In the infinite matrix a few things are obvious; that any move has a counter; that the educated are proficient at studied replays; that the gifted are capable of hiding their ability to distance themselves from what is considered by the majority to be well proven; that the disdained and homeless are snubbed by the 3PM, unaware users of the forum; and that the bulk of those present just seek to avoid being pissed on in public. Their great rooms and kitchens are supported by expensive pillars in wide expanses. The intended display of
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opulence is only questioned by the burrowing mice. Their undetected excavations have revealed to all those of the underground that the modern pillars are hollow shells and have no substance; just a painted surface which serves to house electrical wiring and other unsightly necessities. Common sense to a mouse. The pillar exteriors appear both fashionable and formidable; but are always internally null and void and always covered with the glossiest of white paints on sale and easily available on painting day. This unspoken pretense is un-known to most, but not to the builders’ not-quite-accurate incursion into the realm of mega profit, until the inevitable rot makes an unscheduled appearance at the base. On that fateful day
“Omigod,” echo Barbie and Ken. “The pillar has no substance and is empty inside.” Engineers find that their biased observance and re-observance and re-re-observance have conclusively determined that what has been observed by prior engineers is indeed accurate, for them the source of another wizard granted master’s degree. No one argues, as everyone wants to believe that with minor repairs the house will not fall down. The required services just happen to be available from the builder’s brother-in-law, doing business as “Dependable Support Services,”
located right here in town.
In the visible, un-pillared walls of the Propicio governing council, 500 feet across the street from the mercifully numbing
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waters of the Propicio Bar and Grill business-as-usual was pedantically looming. Its seamless mask of the yellow smiley face and the verbal rendition of the trillionth hearing of the laughable phrase, false smile mandatory, on film, necessary for employment imposed with yet another dagger innocently rendered by the check-out girl, instructed to do so say another “Have a nice day” defied any attempts at being something other than epidermal. Her sad eyes, all too easily showed her boredom and sadness as she gave you your receipt.
Much the same; Nitza Conde; the Village Council’s regular recorder of relevant notes, tries to make a well-worn joke as she fills out her on line papers, making no eye contact, forcing an obligatory smile. She silently says; “I won’t cry in your presence. ........... in the rigors of post-modernism and the misunderstanding of feminism that’s now thought of as an easy game to play to get your way. She knows that it can be easily played that way, with the information supplied with just a few clicks on Wikipedia; simultaneously praying for the intervention of a soul, an angel, a god; anything to break out of the unbearable repetition. She was perfect for her job as she didn’t consider much relevant if she could extract a share from the transaction.
Nitza is strong and more assuredly brave. Her overly brown face is the result of an inordinate amount of time spent in the
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Caribbean sun. She can continually forget the pain inside, and outwardly display the demeanor required by the petit bourgeois, status seeking taxpayers.
With the numerically challenged, digital, clock imposing hands suggestive of the time to go, she sighed; a relief in the ability to proceed through another loveless day; something else never delivered by the holy rollers.
Again in the box office success of her inadequately compensated performance, Nitza took solace in her demonstration of yet another mental-spiritual regard for something beyond her.
“NO,....................... NO. ...................... NO, she silently cried, more lost and confused than her journey home required. But corporally fine and exuberant, she performed her last required duty of the day and placed the pole holding the stars and stripes in the repository where it was most easily-Oswald-capable-of-being-viewed. She raised the imagined curtain and went to her seat at the foot of the stage.
One term Mayor Vincent Pignatelli was already sweating in his half-hidden-half-visible-half-in-half-out position at the stage entry door. He peered out, counting audience heads. He tried to recall the numbers he had previously seen. He considered trends extremely important in his business and vowed to record this information somewhere on his cell phone for future consideration. In his sense of irony he thought of how
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filling the seats with asses was an entertainment requirement, yet in the act or art of politics an empty house was a truly a superior sign of “success.”
The members of his “compatriot” ruling body brushed past him one by one. Each seemed to have a smirk on their face, as each considered themselves a possible mayoral candidate for the next lucrative election and were enjoying Vincent’s problem.
The Mayor tried to display a casual confidence and wished he could stop sweating, as his count went up, with more coming in the open outside door. He thought of a “new” tactic. Rather than stress his legal inability; which was likely viewed as an antagonistic stance, personal results zero, truthful results negative; aptitude to annihilate the prolific elms, he would attempt to feign the posture of one of the fallen hero. He thought; “It might work if few of the present audience had read any of David Foster Wallace’s books.” That seemed a good bet; as it was not only unavailable from the Propicio Library; but was also unavailable anywhere in the New Mexico library system; quite an honor for a book with no overt sexual descriptions.
He strode to his seated place of power, took the microphone and began to speak. He said; “I want to welcome all of the Propicio concerned citizens .................” He stopped when he realized that his voice was not magnified and that some members of the audience were cupping their hands behind their
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ears in an apparent attempt to hear what was being said. Vincent looked to side-stage, spotted Jorge chatting with the uniformed babe who gave out the traffic tickets. In a momentary lapse regarding social niceties he yelled; “Jorge, didn’t you turn this fucking thing on yet?”
Confused by the possible innuendo of the statement, Jorge first looked to the traffic ticket lady for guidance and got a giggle. He then saw Vincent, with bugged out eyes, throttling his microphone. Fully knowledgeable of his protection as a unionized government employee, he pointed at the clock and said;
“Meeting don’t start for another two minutes, man.”
“It’s starting right now.”
Jorge mumbled; “Later, baby,” to the laughing meter maid.
He turned up his voice when he directed himself at Vincent, saying; “All right. All right. I’ll turn the fucking thing on.
I’m gonna get some overtime for this shit.” As he pushed the appropriate buttons, he faintly muttered something which sounded like; “Maricon gringo ...............” When done he made a salutary, underhanded wave to Vincent and looked for the salaried one who is charged with finding parking violations.
Vincent cleared his throat and again began speaking into the microphone. He said; “You’ll forgive me. We have been experiencing technical difficulties. Can everyone hear me now?”
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He was encouraged by a few nodding heads, an ear piercing screech as he accidentally brushed his pencil along the grooves of the mike, and a few palms up, disinterested manifestations of
“No,” “Yeah,” “So what?” “Bring it,” “Spit it out,” “Leave us alone,” and other un-imagined thoughts of unbounded possibilities. The back-of-the-room culprits of some of the commentary were Ty and Cindy, who really didn’t feel like expressing their opinions, but were naively prone to being truthful when they were unwillingly called upon to register an opinion about the attempts to impose tedium upon their existence. This time they had safety in numbers.
Vincent inadequately cleared his throat, concluding that he had attained the persuadable ears of the vast majority. He all too obviously spoke into the tiny punctures of his silver mike and continued; “Good evening. ................... Good day.
Pardon. I see that we are again graced with the presence of those who are in the process of creating a new, improved Propicio, who at the same time are cognizant of traditional values. Allow me to be the first to say that you are most welcomed. I may be somewhat presumptuous in saying that it appears as if the audience is dominated by my old friends from the Brisas Area Gardening Society. To those valued constituents I wish to say that your concerns have the highest priority, and
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that since your last visit the Village Attorney and I have been reviewing every possible legal approach to the elm crisis.”
The eyes of the Sand Duners widened as much as their ears went up. They suspected that somebody or a few somebodies were about to put a twist in the game. The line drawn in the sand became more clear as the wind washed it away.
The Village Attorney looked up at Vincent from his side stage seat. He had been reviewing a wrongful death lawsuit filed against the Village by the family of a horseback rider. On Propicio public land the rider had virtually demolished the top half of his head on a low lying branch of a cottonwood tree. It had been determined that the equestrian had been riding under the influence, and the attorney was mulling over the thought of a settlement centering on the concept of shared negligence.
Though the case as presented was easily defeatible in court he was considering how he could best work out a deal to get a cut.
What Vincent had said about having engaged him to “pursue every possible legal approach to the elm crisis,” initially struck him as a bald faced lie as he had never talked to Vincent about the issue. However, upon the slightest bit of practical combined with esoteric analysis he recalled being taught in law school he realized that the statement was a true one; though the surprise was not welcomed. In Vincent’s cleverly worded account he realized that “reviewing every possible legal approach to the
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elm crisis” was an accurate statement as there were no “legal”
approaches possible. He caught Vincent’s eye, grimaced, and waved his hand in a small, perfunctory manner, which both parties knew meant; “Okay, close. You owe me a little one.” He went back to his wrongful death papers and pondered his approach to the Mesa Grande attorney who had filed the charges as he was one with whom he had never previously done “business.” His logic suggested that the filing of such a frivolous suit was an indication that the filer must know the game. ............... At the same time he knew it possible that it was done out of stupidity, innocence or desperation for work.
Vince made the slightest of acknowledgements to the attorney and continued. “To date we have not been able to determine an approach which would stand up in court. .......
It’s really a shame how the court system has usurped the will of the people.”
The Village Attorney’s concentration on “business as usual”
was again broken. Though he had heard the commentaries about attorneys and the legal system being the enemy many times before, he was irked at it having been said so blatantly in a public forum and in his disrespected presence. It was as if he had been pissed on in surprise, most of it errant, and still had time to evade the continuation of the main stream. He didn’t mind a bit of colored water, as his main complaint was the legal
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concept of intent. Hell, he deserved respect. His current credentials required the intelligence and diligence resident only in the few capable of achieving the grades necessary for being accepted to the Iowa Law School, a family comfortable with having a child on the dole into their late twenties and the money to support this education, and the perseverance to cram the night before tests. This accomplishment was too often muddied by detractors; both innocent and knowing, with very old
“jokes” and ploys. Obligatory laughter was the most difficult part to play in the face of convenient, boring repetition. He put his head back in the papers and thought; “At least I don’t have to kiss ass to get a job. The Bar handles that so well for a small tithe.” He imperceptibly mumbled; “Banal” to the ancient canard and decided to get off his one second divergence into the irrelevant, considering that he might have been unduly influenced by the financial success of a recent book-movie popular with teenagers. For divergence it was not necessary to be seen a divergent. That was just so, so old and inept.
Vince did his best not to chuckle at the thoughts with which he was well versed, thinking; “Come on now, lawman. You know you’re an easy straw man. Didn’t you ever see the Wizard?”
He continued his impromptu, yet practiced diatribe to the elm infatuated zealots. “I’d welcome your further thoughts on the matter. As the Mayor, I regard my job as one which serves the
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will of the good people.” With some difficulty, he succeeded in not gagging when he said ‘good.’ He didn’t scan his fellow rulers as he was all too familiar with their copyrighted rolled eyes, not yet in the public domain. “So as not to inconvenience my constituents with the time consuming protocols of Village business; if I do not meet with any objection; I’d like to open the floor right now to my busy, time constrained friends.” He smiled a smile worthy of Richard III at his best, and added; “Is there a spokesperson? ................. Ms. Primstation, I believe?”
The glazed and beleaguered eyes in the audience instinctively focussed on their leader, Patricia Primstation;
“Penny” to them. In anticipation of a long, evasive, replay of the last two meetings, she was anticipating another long sit and she was short of breath as she “granted” a follower the intended
“grace” of her verbal presence. She enjoyed considering herself as such and to some extent was the “star” in a production most considered low end while she fancied it better; to say Roger Corman in the same sentence would be unduly flattering. Startled and thrilled by her early call to action; tempered by her immediate, dilettantish approach to the possibility of an extended chat she saw all eyes on her. To her credit she had not experienced the self-serving nonsense, adequately articulated by the ancient diatribes of the more or less competent powers that
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be. To her benefit and to her dismissal she knew that the ball was in her court, and there was no one available to tell her what to do with it. For a fraction of a second she mentally flashed an all too fleeting picture of some impressionistic rendition of a Paradise new to her. She wanted the picture to stay and make itself better known, but it was too soon gone, and all she could see were 200 eyes looking to her. She re-traced her occasional journeys into self-importance; and found them merely relative with no established, true standard to judge by.
For the first time in decades her living-in-the-moment oblivion put her in a place she never really sought; as far as the understandings she was capable of allowing. “Isn’t it always good to try to help the garden?” and then she was countered with some Tarkovsky movie, starring a nut who thinks he sees things from above. Penny saw the sitter’s eyes and saw that, pre-mature or not, it was the time for her to do her part. She knew she wasn’t ready and probably never would be. Yet, she saw all these beautiful faces looking to her. She didn’t understand exactly what they were trying to say to her, but she believed that their hopes and entreaties came from their wounded hearts, and she’d rather die than let them down yet another time. Acting out of an imposed necessity she trancelike, instinctively strode to the podium. The room was silent, and in that precious moment she saw her cosmological significance as zero. She didn’t ask for, want,
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or feel worthy of this job. Yes, there were the flyers delivered to indiscriminate mailboxes. Yes, there was the consequent
“following” of people seeking a cause. Yes, her activity might be correctly seen as an attempted antidote to the pain she felt, when spiritually abandoned by her husband at age 40. Yes, yes, yes was the only possible answer. No one dared articulate the question, if they thought that they might have known it. As difficult as it was, she put one foot in front of the other, and tried her best to appear casual as she walked to the mike.
Not having heard, in essence being ignorant and maybe innocent of that which had been previously done, she found some sort of humor in her likely immaterial quandary. Each step on the parquet floor seemed an impossible eternity. She didn’t know, want to know or improvise what to do when she got to the polyurethaned boards which deigned to allow her speech. Yet, to accomplish that seemed to be the desire of her few, precious friends. Despite her local prominence she was still human. She fearfully trod on, during each step seeing the hopeful eyes of those, some known, some not, in need of warmth. She knew, perhaps incorrectly, that her performance mattered; at least to those she loved. It was a nice thing to believe. Each step brought her closer to her final destination. She was scared beyond any Stephen King dark brilliance. She got to the mike, held it in her right hand, looked to those who sat and knew she
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had to do her inadequate best. ............. For them, if not herself. .......... Differentiations became difficult at best.
In a last minute decision she decided to be electably cordial, well against her grain, and did her best to articulate that which was previously articulated by the giants. In irony, her love for people was all that enabled her to act as yet another mongrel at the door; so Roman in the mis-understanding of company and invaders; deferential to the prognostication of
“social.”
She gathered what she could of her cranially prompted allusions, illusions, or delusions. She suddenly felt more tired than she could ever remember feeling. She said; “Excuse me one moment,” and put the mike back in its holder. She went into her purse and unsuccessfully attempted to be surreptitious when she popped the eight of the prescribed capsules which were in the little plastic container with the label which said; “Take two twice daily for anxiety.” The grainy contents had an immediate effect, as she felt a growing sense of warmth and relaxation after having had swallowed the rapidly dissolvable shells; one side colored light purple, the other white. Her mind raced as she thought of what she really would like to say; “Taking the liberty to attempt to espouse the feelings of those in our midst, I am directed to embrace the required myths eternal, and greet you with a perfunctory, sarcastic thanks; in hopes of
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nothing other than your recognition of your own well-constructed evil. Yes, evil. I know it when I see it; yours middling competent. Be complemented. To my misunderstanding friends, I need to offer something I think you need. Yes, also an obvious need of my own. Though I never previously realized it this plasticized hair of mine was a pathetic attempt to be liked by you; something I still seek. There are few who share my views, which are, as well as I can decipher, not my own. As the sadness of Eminem says; ‘I am what you made me,’ and that is possibly viewed as a cop-out. You left me alone. You questioned everything as if I had the ability to know any possible answer.
One cold, windy day you hurt me beyond repair. I only wish that you had the nerve to kill me; but that’s an ancient metaphor. I guess you wanted to maximize my suffering. I don’t understand. I wanted happiness for you. Is reciprocation a cruel joke? On top of that it is too late and they have finally given me the mike.
For me, I cannot imagine a sadness worse than this; and I think, which you bravely will not confirm, that it is the same for you.
Maybe there will be a new start; very un-likely it seems, though everything is supposedly possible; everything is in our hearts, and more important to me, everything is in our essence; our souls; as yet to be; in ‘educated’ diversion is scientifically defined and defiled, like 1950’s Godard’s prescient rendering of
‘Alphaville.’ Whatever, whaddever, what’s up, whassup and ‘bring
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it,’ all laughable ploys toward the lowest of easy low class
‘cool’ postures.”
In her long journey, Penny has known and for her benefit has tried to forget these things. But now, much too soon in her mind, in her quiet nature, she has again been pushed onto the stage; lights un-friendly; to repeat what she has previously said, to no avail. “See the man with the stage fright; standing up there giving it all his might. He was caught in the spotlight. But when he gets to the end he wants to do it all over again.” She desperately tried to find some calculable difference between her and the others imagined. She again failed as has had everyone before her; no big deal in friendly company; wherever that resides. She successfully held back her tears.
In an effort to appeal to everyone, destined to be an appeal rejected by everyone, with some semblance of a Jungian death wish married to an increasingly warm rush, she picked up the mike and said; “Thank you Mr. Mayor, Village Council members,” her mind socialized with the “appear pleasant at all costs” mantra. Her mind went blank and in an effort to compensate she retrieved the prepared speech from her purse.
At the back of the room Cindy asked Ty; “Ready with your fart machine?”
He responded; “Yeah. But I want to pick the right moment.
Timing is everything in art and life.”
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Penny staccato read from her notes. “Good day, Councilman Higgins. Good day Council members and Mr. Mayor. As you may recall, I represent the Brisas Area Gardening Society; an organization with 100 active members. I might add; and the silent majority of Propicio. Our concerns continue to be with the unlawful activities conducted on Calle de la Congelacion.
Let me refer to my notes.” She did a mental double take and continued. “Our gardens have been defiled. Yes, defiled. The seeds of that obscenely proliferating weed tree have succeeded in taking over our newly, chemicalized, virgin gardens. The roots have taken hold and cannot be eliminated without expensive, major excavation and the destruction of wanted native plantings. We have previously informed the Village Council of this gardening atrocity caused by the illegal elm trees on Calle de la Congelacion to no discernable avail. While we have small hope for remedial action, in an act of Christian faith deemed necessary by some, we are here again to redress the same point and to emphasize another. Our children frequently use the area to have unsupervised parties. The thickly wooded five acre lots preclude the parents from any ability to monitor their children; or even find them for that matter.”
Penny heard a stirring in the audience, somewhat malodorously redolent of a hushed, questioning disapproval. In her current, self-conscious, hypersensitive state of altered
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mind she could not bear the thought of having let down her followers with a poor performance. She knew something was wrong, but didn’t know what. She paused and surveyed the room. Her audience on the stage appeared either somewhat condescending with their pursed smiles, disinterested or asleep. Taking a glance to her rear she saw that her followers in the cheap seats made no eye contact, seemed collectively averse to registering any sort of disapproval, un-mindful that their postures conveyed precisely that which they purportedly chose to hide. She was convinced that something was dreadfully wrong and her pill induced rush now caused her to sweat as much as Vincent. She looked at her prepared notes and grasped that these words were written on paper which curled at the edge. They showed evidence of folding, manipulation and discoloration consistent with the passage of time. In horror, Penny thought that this might be the same thing she had prepared for and read at the last Village Council meeting her little group had attended. Not wanting to be close to the mike for this utterance, but circumstantially there she muttered; “Oh shit. Oh fucking shit.” She fumbled through her purse in an attempt to locate her “new” rant and was fruitless in her quickly aborted attempt. She knew that, no matter how complicated it was to adequately articulate her thoughts and those of her little group, she was the one given the floor. Yes, her flyers were easily viewed as probably
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indicative of a desire to take control. But, nobody else did a goddam thing. Where was her choice? ................... She reflected in her confused head and settled on; “It was just that I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. It’s not my fault.”
She almost cried. “The silence and ennui the ruling cowards have lucratively inflicted on us has become so egregious that someone must try to stand up. That’s so obvious. ........... Yet, if someone is condemned to this path, they must be willing to inevitably be reviled, dumped, laughed at and hated.”
Interrupting Penny’s self-absorption, vague, would be ally Councilman Higgins arose from his time-honored stupor, put his megaphone close to his mouth and said; “Are you through, Ms.
Primstation?”
Penny felt a combination of censure and a striving for un-delivered immediacy coming from the terse words of an enemy of an enemy; positioned as, but far from the status of a friend.
Her most current notes lost, Penny hardheadedly saw that it was commanded to be now or never. In her heart she sought to recall something now gone; maybe just a fantasy that once seemed so real; now relegated to elm tree proliferation. For the moment, it was required that she annihilate those old thoughts and feelings. No one could see them. Many denied their existence. She was in the realm of that which could not be filmed. Fortified by her pills, in a last ditch attempt at
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defiance, she decided to be as absurd as possible and say whatever un-calculated stupidity which popped into her mind.
Angered by the obviously stupid and sarcastic statement, Ms. Primstation breathed deeply and exhaled into the mike, unaware that she was making a sound Ty and Cindy might have appreciated. Re-gaining her required public composure, she said;
“Of course not. How about you Councilman Huggins?” purposely mis-pronouncing his name. “Glad you’re with us today.
............ Unfortunately, this ‘rant’ has become a necessity as the entirety of Propicio’s governing body has acted as if it has not heard the story the first two times it was told.”
Councilman Higgins forced a politician’s smile while simultaneously he displayed eyes which alternated between annoyance at now being seen as part of the problem and contentment in the realization, that it was Vinny, and not he, who was up for re-election in Propicio’s staggered system of elections. He said; “My sincere apologies, my good woman.”
Penny imperceptibly bristled and continued in a neutral and improvised voice; “Perhaps the problem is my fault. Perhaps my previous communications with this august body were too long winded and indicative of the imprecision and confusion generated by a committee. ............... No pun intended. To the point.
The gigantic, thick forest of elm trees allowed to exist on Calle de la Congelacion is an illegal detriment to all of the
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citizens of Propicio. I hope my sentiments are clear. In support of that statement I will now articulate reasons why that is so; each one, if conveniently or through ignorance, is taken as an individual, dismissible, incorrect or debatable tangent is irrelevant to the simple, primary, main statement. I hope that assertion does not produce its own brand of mix-up. The simple reality of the situation is that numero uno; the elm seeds which surprisingly emanate from elm trees, supposedly no longer permitted in this fine town, are making a mess of the new-comers attempts to beautify this fair town. Numero dos; the unsupervised, densely wooded, large lots serve as a clandestine meeting spot for our kids. Numero tres; one of the residents of the pariah street has been suspected of drug sales and was so legally charged. Numero quatro; the results; none; of your promised, increased police surveillance of the area have produced anything; making me fear for the officer’s eyesight level. Numero cinco; the tax-payer-funded report from your
‘blue-panel-commission’ has yet to be publicly seen. Numero seis; the junk cars sit where they previously were and have apparently spawned children. Numero siete; the un-buried, decaying carcasses serve as homes for disease carrying rodents.
Numero ocho; the area is rife with drug abuse and undesirable predators have been reported in the area.
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I could go on. But, I think sufficient testimony has already been given to warrant some sort of action for the benefit of the law abiding, tax paying citizens of Propicio.”
Penny made a sarcastic, tight lipped smile ala Patton, curtsied and walked back to her seat. The general audience just stared, denying any applause, not knowing whether or not to appear supportive of the partially debatable pronouncements heard.
Ty and Cindy drew some attention, as their attempts to stifle their amusement were not entirely successful, some snorts and giggles breaking through.
In admiration of Penny’s pluck, Cindy said; “You go girl,”
only half in sarcasm.
Ty’s eyes shot to her. He didn’t say a thing, but he was obviously confused.
Cindy pinched his nose and laughed.
Mayor Pignatelli glanced toward Councilman Higgins with somewhat of a smirk on his sweating face. He considered the likelihood that he now had an unwilling compatriot. He said;
“Would Councilman Higgins like to take it?”
Higgins kept his head low and replied; “I wouldn’t want to step in at this point as it’s been your baby up until now.
Perhaps you’ll update us all on your progress.”
Vincent was again on the spot. He said; “My dear constituents. I’m going to be as frank with you as I can
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possibly be. Your elm problem is my elm problem. Your elm problem is the village’s elm problem. Your elm problem is everyone’s elm problem.”
Cindy actually cackled out loud and through an attempt to stifle his reaction, Ty managed to present his shirt with a booger. Ty said; “My pain is truly your pain,” as he got the rudeness on his finger and threatened Cindy’s face with it. He found an under the seat perch for it when Cindy sternly said;
“Don’t you dare.” Throats were cleared in surrounding seats.
Penny was feeling very well and was saying indecipherable things about the relationship between mythology and obscurity she thought that she remembered from seeing Joseph Campbell on PBS twenty years prior. In the continuing public absence of her husband, in actuality she was hitting on the gentleman to her left, but his wife kept proving herself an obstacle to true romance. Penny thought; “Still so uptight in 2016. Fuck. Poor guy.” She settled back and found solace in that she had finished her job and would soon be announcing her retirement. She wasn’t listening to Vincent as it was now obvious to her that nothing was going to be done about the elms, excepting a whole forest of rhetoric. She didn’t care, as she had calculated something. If she had used all the time she had spent making and delivering flyers, attending Town Council meetings, and talking to members of the Brisas Area gardening Society to pull out the baby elms
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she could have had her property devoid of the prolific intruders four times over; and everybody else could go frack their rocks.
She thought; “These pills are the bomb. Why do they have to be so damn stingy with them?”
Vincent pressed on; “Though it appears that your elm problem has been delegated to me and me alone. I have been pursuing every course of action available to me. Police patrols have been tripled in the area. (He didn’t bother to add that this was from one cursory car visit once a month to three.) I have spent hours of my own free time researching Village law in an attempt to determine if there was any possible indirect path to our goals. I have yet to find one. .....................”
One Brisa Area Gardening Society group member, sitting near the front; strode to the mike. The graying, well dressed, sixtyish man, politely interrupted Vincent, and firmly said;
“Excuse me. I’m a retired attorney. I’ve been under the impression that most places have laws against public hazards and public nuisances. Is that not true in Propicio?”
Vincent smiled and affably offered; “Of course it is true.
However, we are not speaking of public land. We are speaking of private property. You are of course aware of the rightful legal protections afforded private ................”
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The man at the mike again interrupted, tersely saying;
“This land is being used by the public, and is therefore de facto public.”
Vincent shot back; “I don’t believe you are right. And even if you were correct in principle, there is no evidence that anyone has been using it.” He looked to the Village attorney and asked; “Does a trespasser’s use of private property make that land public?”
The attorney shrugged and said; “Not here under any circumstances. The laws vary from state to state. In some it is possible to establish a ‘right of way’ through the regular use of private land in plain view. But not here.”
Vincent said; “There you have it.”
Another man, appearing more agitated than the first raced to the mike and blurted; “Our kids tell us this land is used by them for pot parties, for Christ’s sake. It’s common knowledge to everyone but the ruling body!”
Vincent said; “As just previously discussed, to establish evidence, perhaps you’d like to bring your kid here and have him confess to trespassing and illegal use of narcotics. There’s a police officer here who will be obliged to take him right into custody.”
There was a buzz. As most of the meeting’s attendees were saying something to the person in the seat next to them, Ty
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considered it the perfect time to set off his fart machine.
“Phhtbrack. Phhtbrack. Phhtbrak. Phhtbrack. Phhtbrack,” the little red rubber thing said over and over to little avail.
Everyone else was too busy to notice as they set off their own.
Cindy went hysterical.
Opinions being shared in the audience ranged from those who thought that pot smoking kids could use some legal discipline to those who thought that this was just a Mayoral diversionary tactic; and most places in between.
The delegation from the Sand Dunes found the discussions bizarre. While they were puzzled, they took a positive note. No one had yet found a way to eliminate prolific newcomers and no one had mentioned that blowing sand was detrimental to gardening activities.
Richard III walked to the mike, cleared his throat, and said; “You may not know me, but I’m Rick Lawson. I used to be Mayor here and operated my family farm. Ten years ago this was the beautiful desert village you came to. Back then my fellow Councilmen and I were straight shooters. When things needed to be done we got it done. The good citizens of Propicio were friendly and co-operative. Sure, sometimes you had to give, but we all knew it was fair; fair for all. And, sure, as a last resort, once in a while we’d wind up in the courts. That was the
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last resort; the very last. Yet, today, all the talk I’ve heard is of law. LAW. ........ Law did not build Propicio. This great country is not governed only by laws. Friendliness, co-operation and good neighbors built and governed the place. ........... I know these people. They’re good people. Been here a long time.
I’ll bet that the residents of Calle de la Congelacion do not even know that you have concerns about what may be going on there. I’ll bet that Mayor Pignatelli has not been over there to speak with any one of them. He thinks it’s the Mayor’s job to read some law book. He he he. Jesus, any fool can read a law book. It takes a leader to get things done. That’s why I’m here to announce my candidacy for Mayor. Together, you and I can bring this place back to the great place it can be again.”
Josh was at the back of the room. He couldn’t help but smile. He admired Richard III’s performance and murmured to no one in particular; “You’re beautiful baby. We’re in.” Richard III was mobbed as he walked to his car and half the room emptied.
Vincent banged his gavel and said; “All right. All right.
We’re all friends here.”
The few paying any attention to him groaned.
In a last ditch attempt to appear to be in reasonable and re-electable charge Vincent desperately said what popped into
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his mind other than the prime position of the garbage contract.
He spouted nonsense, saying; “Penny; “You’re objecting to the seeds; not the trees themselves; correct?”
Penny laughed when she replied; “The two seem to be obviously inseparable; don’t they? Didn’t you and baseball hat beat that to death last meeting? Like chickens and eggs.
.......... That is, unless you are privy to some elm sterilization procedure ala Purdue.” A burst of laughter accompanied by an impromptu brief clap of hands was led by baseball hat.
Cindy said to Ty; “I don’t buy any of this nonsense; regardless of side. This whole scene can be perversely funny, but once you get over the ‘joviality’ of that ‘toddy time’
irrelevant attempt at escape it bares its sadness; oh so humanly sympathizable if one ‘nicely’ chooses to ignore the demonstrated possibility of games and worthy of ‘alternative market,’ ignored contempt if one does not. This whole pathetic, un-witting jest is enhanced by your fart machine; but not enough to justify its existence and waste of our time. In my desire to shun all this, I would rather risk being seen as anti-social, condescended to and mercifully avoided. We’ve got each other; the hell with them and their garbage worshipping charade. Yes, I have the audacity to say what is really going on; un-able to prove it to a mainstream scientist. I know you know this. It’s why we’re
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together. ....... It’s like their grandparents giving your kids a bike on Easter and then you telling them that they are only allowed to ride it in the short driveway of your suburban house with the entrance gate closed. For their own good they must be kept away from the danger of the cars and trucks on the road.
The prescription is for safety; and at the same time that same prescription denies their natural desires to explore beyond the driveway. Let’s get the fuck out of here.”
Ty said; “Can I make just one more fart noise?”
Cindy snatched the machine from Ty’s hand, blew it up, and used her fingers to push out the melodious ‘Phhtbrack’ sound one last time. Alone together in the crowd, they smiled at each other, made their way through the milling throng, went to their car, and made their way home.
Inaudible to Ty and Cindy, Josh mumbled; “Gonna learn the hard way kids.”
Vincent knew he was in serious trouble and that the law was not going to be his ally-excuse this time.
Later that evening, the quiet filled the air so thickly that one could have hung a chandelier from its center. Vincent sat alone on the couch nervously disgruntled. He wanted to push a button on the TV controller just to break the silence and he simultaneously didn’t want to. What he wished was that his wife
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would stop pretending to be occupied with trifles and instead sat and talked to him a while. But, apparently the feather dusting of the window corners took center stage with her at the moment.
He missed the noise of the kids, who were off on a journey to the wilds of Brooklyn and their rude “Guido” grandparents.
Though it was totally landlocked, Bensonhurst was much more of an island than Propicio. It was a family community surrounded by things the residents wanted to keep out. The border guards were more effective than the uniformed ones stationed at the Rio Grande. On the other hand Propicio was quite the opposite. It was a transient and changing community inhabited by things the residents wanted to keep out; no longer necessitating the inadequacy of border guards.
The dichotomy between the two areas prompted Vinny to recall his early years back east with Crazy Richie, Joey, Big John, Carl, Nicky, Little Joey, Barbara, Margie and all the other members of the “gang.” Incidents from the past then flashed through his mind. No matter the specifics, he could easily see that there was some kind of straight up truth back then, which always helped solve any problem. In a way, you had to be like that as your word was the most important thing you had; and a bullshit artist’s slate wasn’t going to be wiped clean by a song and dance routine. Word of mouth carried better
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than a toot or a more appropriately named twit. People were born and died in the neighborhood and they had good memories. With all the confusing garbage going down in the congested area people would have killed each other without some sense of genuineness and candor. Like the time he had taken up with Donna, only to later discover that she was the girlfriend of Mikey Calabrese, the leader of the pack from five blocks away; that distance being the equivalent of a light year in the crowded city. He was out alone walking on the Bensonhurst main thoroughfare, Broadway, one day and Mikey and his top muscle man were walking right at him. He was terrified as he thought; “Here comes the shit.” He angled toward the edge of the sidewalk and all three nodded as they passed. He was relieved and kept going until he heard Mikey call out; “Hey, Vinny.” He turned and Mikey said; “I don’t give a fuck about Donna.” Vinny answered; “All right. Thanks. I owe you one, man,” and they kept on walking.
The funny thing was that within a week he didn’t give a fuck about Donna, either. ................ Vinny wondered if he might be doing an injustice to his kids to have brought them to the land of petty subterfuge, facades, suspected personal appearances, and general debilitating deceit.
Trying to attract his wife’s attention, Vinny audibly said;
“Thirty acres of Siberian elms. Thirty lousy fuckin’ acres of Siberian elms; and they act as if it’s the biggest deal in the
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goddam world. Back in the city they’d pay through the nose to have access to something like that.”
He was rewarded with his wife’s non-committal tone which he had learned meant interest. She half smiled as she said; “You talkin’ to yourself again?”
“I guess so. You know I did a lot for these ingrate Propicio people. There was that developer who wanted to cluster houses and ruin any semblance of a rural town. He probably would have won in court too, but I pulled in a favor; a personal favor mind you for the benefit of the town. ............ Shit. It was funny. After Carmine and Vito educated him about the facts of life, smart ass fuck was ready to donate the land for a public park. But, no. I told him go ahead and build his fuckin’ houses on an acre apiece, just like the zoning calls for and you won’t have any problems. He caught the boom square on and now he doesn’t have to work for the rest of his life. I’m no bad guy.
I’m the guy who knows how to keep everyone away from the real bad guys.”
“You’re a fucking sainted prophet. I know. What’s wrong with a park?”
“In and of itself, nothing. But, I’ve been well advised by people who ran my route before me that they are a pain in the ass. In practice very few people make use of them; and the fact that a few seem to be smiling and having a good time induces the
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miserable cranks to find something wrong. They start to bother the governing body with complaints of how there are safety risks at the park. One chance in a fucking million it might go otherwise; but regardless; an excuse for the unhappy rabble to attempt ending the happiness they think they see in the few who go to and like the park. That’s why you see all those signs at the entries which say; no this, no that, and no the other things. The mayor just winds up in the middle of a lot of bullshit, like this elm thing, with the vast voting majority demanding restrictions. It’s better not to have the thing to begin with. I know of one town where, due to the pressure from the voting Miserables, the park got the signs about forbidden activities, which got longer and longer and longer. People kept on going, so they put up a gate, which blocked off the parking area. But, a landowner whose property bordered the park allowed people to park on the edges of their property; so the people who enjoyed the park kept on going there. Then some ass-hole public employee seeking to curry favor from the mayor set fire to it and burned the whole fuckin’ place down. Jerk did it on a windy day and the whole town almost went the way of the park.
............ Sure, it got fixed up, so that there was doubt about whether or not the asshole set the fire purposely. Bottom line; nobody needs this kind of shit; yet given the opportunity
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most everybody will push for it; while giving an innocent, sincere appearance.”
Being aware of the Propicio elm “issue” through mailbox receipt of the Brisas Area Gardening Society fliers, she didn’t see any point in directly addressing that aspect, instead saying a wistful; “Yeah, honey. You don’t have to convince me. You know my dad was a made man. When I was a little girl he used to hold me on his knee and tell me about some of these kinds of things, before I understood them. Mama would just say; ‘I know you’ll take care of it,’ and go back to stirring something over the stove; so I guess he wanted a willing ear. Sure, he made them sound like fictional stories. He’d often use talking animals as the characters. I can see now that he was both trying to protect me and at the same time was hoping that my unencumbered young mind would suggest some kind of ‘solution’ which he needed.”
“Didja?”
“I doubt it very much. ......... I can’t remember the details. It’s been so long now. ............ You know; as far as I knew then, they were just crazy stories, and I was too busy laughing at the absurdities he would often highlight with a falsetto voice, as he held me and bounced me on his knee.”
Vinny pictured that, and though he wanted to respond with something warm, his troubled mind precluded that; as it reminded him how much he and more than he; his family needed the money to
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come from the garbage contract; as he had made some bad investments and owed big money to some people who are not known to make a habit of listening to people with excuses and sad stories. He had said nothing of this to anyone, including his family, fully expecting to be back on track after the coming election. But, now he could not get the whole farcical joke out of his mind; and did not want to inflict his loved ones with the same disease. Even if he sought the solace of supportive company, he knew that in this case, it would serve no practical purpose and that the knowledge of his situation could be nothing other than harmful to the ones he would die before harm.
Vinny reached over to his wife and held her a few moments.
He hoped that his microcosmic shaking and distractedness were imperceptible. It was not, though he would never be aware of that, as his wife acted as if everything was all right; thinking that was the right thing to do. She quietly knew that there was something wrong; something more wrong than ever before. She was almost annoyed that her husband did not confide in her at this moment. But, that was countered with the absolute thought, which required no further detail, that the problem was those fucking, prolific elms. NO. Rather the unhappy, loud losers’ reaction to those fucking, prolific elms. Her simple logic could not escape that the only two possible solutions for Vinny was an impossible elimination of loud losers or an elimination of the quiet elms.
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Fearing that his shaking was detectable, Vinny let go of her and babbled on about some kind of personal justification which required no justification; thereby accidentally increasing her sense of danger. He said; “Sure, I take a cut when the heavy dollars are floating around. Everyone does. And anyone who says that they don’t know that is just a liar who’s anglin’ for something. I mean the cable companies and the garbage haulers expect to be payin’ out. It’s in their budgets, for Christ sake.
It’s business as fucking usual. If nobody hit ‘em up for money they’d think that something was wrong and walk or require a payment to themselves. And you know the kickback only amounts to a couple of bucks a month for the rich Propicians; who, like all constituents, encourage this behavior by paying their mayor a ripe ten grand per annum.”
“You know you got my vote, baby. You gotta convince the others.”
Vinny took that statement as a strong possibility that his wife was more aware of his predicament than she had previously indicated, and said; “Can’t say this stuff. It’s political suicide. They even got a candidate.”
“Who?”
“Lawson, that old farmer who used to be mayor. He says he’ll get rid of the elms. ........... No fuckin’ way he can get
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rid of the elms, unless he can give them free tickets and convince them to hop the next bus out of town.”
“So, tell this gardening society the facts of life.”
“I can’t talk to them like this, though. It’s kind of stupid the way we all know some things, but can’t say them. If we could we’d all have a better shot at getting’ what we want.”
“Yeah, and we all know that too. Deep down, we all must want to annihilate ourselves. Beatles, Harrison, eastern, old times.”
“Thirty friggin’ acres of Siberian elms standing between us and all that money. You know, I went and talked to the people who live there. I let ‘em know that they could get certain financial benefits, even out of my own pocket, if they’d let me cut ‘em down. But, no, they like the privacy they give, they like the looks, and they like the way they cool down these hot summers. What the hell am I supposed to do?”
“What money you talkin’ about, babe?”
“The garbage contract kickbacks. Renewal’s two months after the election.”
“Too bad you’re not Jewish. Sounds like you need a rabbi.
......... Hey, listen. I got to break this mood with some music.
Okay?”
“Yeah, okay.”
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She put on Blue Oyster Cult’s “Burnin’ for You,” and got all sorts of loud and friendly.
Up or down the Propicio Road a bit, depending upon personal point of view or the lack thereof, the evening’s prima donna was still mentally obsessing over the adequacy of her performance.
It was not another of her very inexperienced forays into a
“compelling” sincerity act; this time it was intended to be sufficiently offbeat to attract the approval of the
“sophisticates” capable of discounting the anti-Machiavellian, sweet posturing. She tried not to remain beleaguered by the anticipation of her morning reviews and rather attempted to fix on the over-riding “surprise” generated by the announcement of Richard III. She knew that the movement was getting sufficiently large for her to receive the inevitable, time-proven criticism of the armchair quarterbacks who have watched and will now display their superior erudition concerning matters which they never have and never will actually experience.
Still, there was some sort of solace in the predictability; perhaps something like knowing the future as a function of things which have passed. It wasn’t personal. She just happened to be there, that’s all.
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Her husband was contentedly sleeping on the bed in the adjoining room, or pretending to. It really didn’t matter to Penny one way or the other, as the result was tolerable.
In an attempt to relax and cruelly find the humor of unintended stupidity, she inserted each of the slippery earphones and turned on the computer. Its boot, which took a full minute as per hand capable wall clock, was stated to be a “fast” .18
seconds on the machine, with an apparently rhetorical and unanswerable, fleeting question of; “Did you feel that?” Penny got her first laugh of the night and then directed the comedian to a game show. Somewhat late for the very beginning, easily duplicable if there was any interest in what was to ensue, Penny watched the color display of disjointed stock footage of hands, pieces and a board, while she listened to the lack of conclusions produced by a government funded, Ivy League study of the game of Chess.
“It should be noted that I am here with my esteemed colleagues to discuss what has become a hot topic among scientists, naturalists, and the lay world alike; Artificial Intelligence. More specifically we’ll be hearing learned opinions concerning the possibility that soon AI will become the masters of this planet, if not the universe.
We will focus on AI’s most significant achievement to date; which has been the ability of a computerized chess program to
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beat human grandmasters with the regularity of Michael Jordan’s Chicago Bulls ability to devastate the competition.” The most proper of chuckles was heard and seemed to be echoed in the background. “Again, this study relates to the belief that one day AI will overtake mankind and become the masters of this planet. At this point it is the scientifically accepted opinion that this chess game phenomenon is the strongest evidence yet attained in demonstration of that theory, while it also contains some anomalies, which thus far are attributed to observational or conveniently considered computer induced error.
Utilizing the best computerized chess game in existence, one which has ten levels of difficulty, we have determined that internationally ranked grandmasters can consistently beat the machine through level seven, but have seen that human performance has been spotty at best at levels eight, nine, and ten. Frankly at level 10 the machine has been successful 80% of the time, and it is on a clearly improving trend since its inception.
We have experimented with a level 10 computer playing against another level 10 computer and have observed results which we did not expect and are in the process of further analyzing.
In case 1, the machines made three moves and then stopped.
So far we are working with the theory that the machines are
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capable of recognizing that whenever they make a move, it is countered by a better move from their opponent. Ergo, it is in the best interest for either side to not move.
In the second case we re-programmed each machine to not have the option of not making a move; in other words requiring one even if the machine has concluded that the response will be superior. This is curious. The machines complied with the new programming dictate, but rebelled against older, fundamental instructions. For example, the machines began to move rooks as a bishop moves; and bishops as rooks. .......... I should explain to the non-chess players that in traditional chess a rook moves in a straight line for up to as many open spaces it has in front of it or less; and that the bishop moves diagonally in the same manner.
I’ll refrain from trying to detail what all the pieces actually did as there are pawns, knights, bishops, rooks, a queen, and a king; each with their own rules of movement.
Suffice to say that their behaviors seemed bizarre and eclectic, going wherever they chose to go, no matter the pattern or lack of pattern required to get to their destination. It was absolutely dizzying; and I’m not embarrassed to say that I as well as a number of my colleagues required seats.
Who won you may well ask?
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We are still in the process of determining that as the remaining kings and queens either committed a chess version of suicide when they attacked the opposing monarchs in possible frustration; or in an alternative strategy, the Kings and Queens stubbornly insisted on a stalemate after having ‘killed’ off the other twenty-eight pieces, by moving as required, though minimally so, and with a redundancy which would make a cripple appear to be a mover and a shaker, on a relative basis. Pardon me. It’s a rude professional inside joke. On a popularity note, I’d like to point out that these inconclusive observations have attracted the interest of many of the scientists working in other disciplines; highly suggesting that our funding angels may well recoup all of their investment with a return surpassing the OTC averages last seen in the Clinton years.
On a lighter note we have also experimented with differing levels playing against each other. The majority of it goes as one would expect; but level 9 occasionally beats level 10; and most astoundingly level 1 beats level 10 in forty percent of the contests.”
As the verbal barrage continued, Penny heard not a word.
She was sleeping with her head in her arms with a smile on her face. She was back in her high school years, fifteen or sixteen years of age. She was wearing a bikini at the public swimming
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pool, while she sauntered by this boy who had gotten her attention. He was fine looking, but not anywhere near the best.
What she liked most was that he seemed shy and didn’t try to join in with the “in crowd.” He looked at her as she passed in front of him, making a slight, appreciative smile. She then saw the headline of the local paper which said; “Teenager Drowns In Boating Accident.” She woke up screaming.
Her sleeping husband rushed to her side wearing his best jammies. “What’s wrong?” he nervously asked.
“Bad dream. It’s okay.”
“What’s the point? Is there some point to it?”
“There will always be a point as long as there are technologically archaic, electric pencil sharpeners.”
He put his lead-wood utensil in the machine and voices were drowned out by the cacophonous whirr.
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#27- The Old Man and the Slick Machine Early the following morning there was an insistent, professional knock at the front door of the Lawson residence.
Stephanie was sitting at the kitchen table and was still in her longest of johns night and partial day wear. She clucked like the disturbed hen she was and said; “Dammit, Rick. At least tell me when your drunken bum friends are going to descend on this place.” She took her “Yellow Smiley Face, ‘Today is the first day of the rest of your life’,” chipped mug back to the bedroom and slammed the door. Rick broke from his somnambulistic, kitchen window reverie, too late to offer a feeble, likely un-heard; “I didn’t know. It wasn’t my fault.”
Rick sighed heavily and walked to the front door. He peered out the transom to see Josh and some bad-ass looking, shaved head and bearded dude; the latter holding some kind of a tripod; reminiscent of the instruments utilized by the abandoned builder’s crew.