Wilbur by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview
Download the book in PDF, ePub, Kindle for a complete version.
#10-Crocker Proven Mechanics
Though the Crockers were entirely apolitical, they annually issued minor gratuities to the appreciative and non-appreciative all on a non-discriminatory basis. They cared zero of their opinions and/or political stances, other than that which might have the potential to negatively affect the Crocker largesse.
They were also acutely aware and pragmatically wary of the PPP’s and their parent NUSOMMA’s possible effects upon Crocker wallets. Spike Crocker often ignored any possible charge of redundancy, secreting and welcoming of a retort yet to come, harboring a comeback related to time lasting tradition. He would say; “There has never been any accounting for taste. In this case; some desire umbrage, some desire fame, and some desire greenbacks. The ‘issues’ will dissipate when people become bright enough to know what they’re doing.”
On this past day which no one was counting, the brothers were on their recent favorite topics; toddies and the theft of their Cheeseball trophies. Their toddy concoctions consisted of coffee, sugar, cloves, and three-quarters Jack Daniels; their degree of “righteous” outrage increasing with each sip, swallow and gulp.
Page 57
After their convivial fourth, breakfast toddy became very un-traditionally toddy like as the alcohol reached .28 on the non-existent breathalyzer. Rising from the Queen Anne armchairs which three quarters surrounded the Queen Anne tilt top table thanks to someone’s improvisational use of a ripping implement on the once round table’s now flat side, convenient for placement against a wall, the brothers held onto each other emulating comradery, which was actually just as much, another learned attempt not to fall.
Half looking at Spike, Major said: “This entire mess is your fault.”
Glancing south and west at yesterday’s now congealed vomit which was in the process of mimicking a diminutive Pollack-like portion of a Domino’s delivery, Spike replied: “Na, na, na. I made it to the throne. It was one or both of you two.”
Major said: “Come on. This is serious. I’m trying to address the big issue.”
Spike said: “Okay, so it’s only half a pie’s worth now and it has taken on an irregular form. But when the fungus sets in there’s no telling what it can do. ....... It might even take over the whole room one day. It sneaks. It creeps. It climbs against the wall. IT’S THE BLOB. Look, it’s on the chair now!”
Mad Monty said; “That’s the pillow, stupid.”
Page 58
Spike sighed and said; “Yeah, I know. But, if you could go meta for a moment, when taken in context of the all absorbing entertainment beast, it’s kind of a big issue.”
Major said; “For cheeseballs.”
Spike half looked at Major. Addressing the old issue, he said; “Half at most. I wasn’t the one who did the sale-leaseback and didn’t want to.”
Mad Monty said; “That was almost irrelevant to the matter at hand, and at least secondary to the inadequate police protection we pay through the nose for.”
Major said; “I want those Cheeseball trophies back. We worked, cheated, and maimed for a long time to get them.”
Spike said; “If you got the insurance like you were supposed to, we could buy them back.”
Major said; “Look. I got a lot of money for us through that transaction. We got the cash and kept the house. Those leveraged buyout guys can take a lesson from me.”
Mad Monty said; “Yeah, the insurance guys too.”
Major said; “How was I to know that you can’t use a standard homeowners to insure what you don’t technically own and its contents? I don’t think that idiot salesman knew what he was talking about. We still own it through that other corporation.
Like, duh? Just get out the non-standard papers, nitwit, and tack on a surcharge.”
Page 59
Suddenly more despondent, Mad Monty said; “I’d just rather have the trophies back. You know, it’s not always just a matter of the money. It’s the whole lifestyle thing.”
Major looked curtly askance, and with an elevated voice dripping with acrimonious intolerance said; “No kidding. It would be nice if you took one side and stayed there. Damn.”
Utilizing his best mock professorial voice, seen as almost tolerant of lesser opinions, if one took his perfunctory, miniature, and fleeting smile as genuine, Mad Monty opined;
“It’s not only about the money. That’s well taken care of. It’s the trophies. They defined us. They impressed our guests. They were Crocker and Crocker only. Now, who are we? Who am I? Who are you? It’s more than existential. Good gracious; this approaches post-industrial or even post-modernist standardized considerations.”
Having been previously subjected to this indirect line of thought, Major said; “That has no relevance to whether the house is owned or leased from our private company. Jeez. It only suggests inadequate police protection.” His tone now dripping overly obvious sarcasm, Major continued; “Who am I? Who are you?
Like duh?”
Mad Monty deadpanned; “Like uh, high-brow?”
Spike loudly exclaimed, thinking his exclamation an overly obvious absurdity; “I say we get on our bikes and toss every bum
Page 60
we can find in Lower Darby. Since the trophies haven’t turned up on the market, they must be somewhere within the underclass.”
Mad Monty saw no joke; just an opportunity, and said; ”Far out. Just like yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that, and ...... “
Major said; “We ride.”
Mad Monty said; “I’ll pass on that one. There’s a new “Mr.
Bean” on today.”
Spike said: “Mr. Bean?”
Mad Monty shrugged and replied: “Yeah, you know I hate that
“Game of Thrones’ kind of stuff.”
Spike said; “Wuss. The bums of Lower Darby eagerly await their just desserts.”
Major exclaimed; “To the bikes! Time to ride.”
Mad Monty grimaced and said; “Not me today. Strange mood.
I’m just not into it.”
Wilbur
Page 61
#11-The Motorcycles - Time Stands Still in 1903
The brothers had amassed an assortment of twenty-three expensive and very collectible Harleys. They secretively housed them in what any outsider would think to be an oversized 1903 Harley Davidson “Flywheel”; property of the author.
detached garage at the rear of their house. The nondescript structure was actually a giant playroom replete with state-of-the-art electronics. Taxes were much less if the underly zealoused assessors considered the structure to be a garage rather than a living area. When periodically, legally and annoyingly required to do their jobs and re-assess, the Upper Darby Manor tax assessors, who lived exclusively in Lower Darby, made extensive use of “windshield” appraisals, in order to be back at home by lunchtime. They may not have ever even noticed the existence of the garage at all.
Page 62
As they had seen and heard them on numerous occasions, many Upper Darby Manor residents knew that the Crocker brothers had antiques, choppers, softails, cruisers, street, racers, sportsters and some customized hybrids which could theoretically reach speeds in excess of 300 MPH. They said nothing and pretended not to notice as they had also heard sufficient rumors to strongly suspect that the Crockers were truly violent and vindictive maniacs. The brothers never saw a need to locally test their limits, and were just happy with all the purposeful inattention they had recently achieved, despite having generated a daily boorish cacophony of bloodcurdling bluster, accompanied by a black exhaust capable of immobilizing a huffing boar.
Their “rousting” and occasional decapitation, immolation, or sundry maiming of Lower Darby’s homeless street dwellers, ostensibly in the pursuit of information about their stolen Cheeseball trophies, had become an event welcomed by the Lower Darby authorities as well as the majority of the general population. Though well known, their exploits were officially attributed to the ISIS terrorists who were welcomed to the US
through the open borders policies of the misguided Obama administration.
Not only were the brothers large contributors to each member of the Lower Darby Town Council as well as their defeated opponents, the Police Benevolent Association and the Fireman’s
Page 63
Fund, but their recent exterminating actions were regarded as a civic improvement which the town fathers were unable to personally provide directly. The majority of the residents were of the opinion that despite the unfortunate ugly clean-up required, and the middle school popular photographic “artistic”
hilarities, the termination activities definitely lowered the undesirable population and served as a theoretical disincentive to further bums who might otherwise have considered squatting in Lower Darby. And the clean-up wasn’t all that cumbersome. It usually just required a running hose and a nearby gateway to an un-clogged sewer.
The brothers’ favorite motorcycles were the first ones made; the original 1903 Harley Davidson “Flywheels.” They had all three of them as the result of a $3,000,000 bulk purchase from the desperate Hunt family, headed by oldest brother, “Fats”
Silver Bunker in 2002. Their current value was a matter of speculation as the Crockers weren’t selling; but it was speculated to have been in the tens of millions each. The precious scramblers didn’t look like much more than motorized bicycles by 2018 standards, but commanded awe and envy from anyone who knew a bit about motorcycles.
Page 64
Spike and Major mounted two of them, and kick started the stubborn old “hogs” on their seventh or eighth attempts when Spike yelled; “Whoa, who, whoa.”
Gunning his machine, Major yelled back; “What?”
Spike said; “I got the chainsaw. You gotta carry the accelerant and the club.”
Major yelled back; “Got the club. Accelerant too?”
Spike said; “Yeah. I mean, like I got my hands full with the chainsaw.”
Major said; “Okay. Okay. Next you’ll be bringing up the blowtorch.”
Spike said; “My pocket lighter will work just fine with the accelerant.”
Apparently, there was a meeting of the minds, and two of the Crockers were off for Lower Darby. It is sometimes a blessing to not be able to detect an absurd personal appearance.
Page 65
#12-Mad Monty’s Lonely Abstention From-time-to-time-reticent Mad Monty was suddenly alone in the oversized, twenty-two room house. This was another of his annotations of brotherly reticence, and his strongest since the bygone days in which the three pintsized brothers first offered their lawn maintenance services. In those days he always got stuck with the job which Major and Spike had the habit of having some reason to sidestep; the grass surrounding the house of Penny and Peter Pinchington.
The grass was easy. But, getting paid for mowing it seemed to take more time, effort, and finesse than the time during which the mower was humming and pushed. Not yet “Mad,” young Monty always did what was agreed to do, only to be accosted with Pinchington ramifications when done. Back end “negotiations”
ranged from Pinchington claims of how others previously did it for a conveniently miscalculated ten percent less to the alleged Pinchington lack of available funds, to questions about why a tyke needed all this money. Years too soon Monty saw the
“affable,” long-winded repartee as an obvious ruse intended to leave the Pinchington household with a mowed lawn and less of a payment than they had previously agreed to make to obtain that.
After initially having politely pursued the line of “cost efficient” conversation imposed upon him, Monty concluded that
Page 66
it was more cost efficient for him to quickly accept the “ten”
percent discounted payment offered and go on to the next job. In addition to the lethal level of disdain he covertly felt, Monty compensated by cutting corners and becoming oblivious to the standard care given to edges. They didn’t have any appreciation for a quality job, so he accommodated them with a cheap one.
He complained to Major about the Pinchingtons, and how he’d appreciate him or Spike doing their job.
Major laughed, saying; “You really think they’re the only ones who do that kind of garbage? We all have some of those tightwads. Lots of people are not happy unless they think that they are saving money through paying out less money than originally agreed to. Kind of funny, as they can save much more money by doing it themselves. But, if we handle it right we get their money at an increased per-hour rate. That’s the main thing and they don’t offer us any alternative choice other than a tedious, time consuming conversation.”
Early on, Monty thought about that a lot. Just like every other person who spoke honestly, he wanted the money. He ultimately came to the general conclusion that everything is offered in packages. Nothing comes alone. The real “trick” was in determining how one could keep the desired part of the package while getting others to take the undesired parts of it.
Had he pursued this line of thought beyond its personal
Page 67
ramifications, he might have inadvertently invented leveraged buyouts.
Monty found it to be strange; past and present; strange in that one’s best chance of “winning” seemed to be by doing what one does not want to do. Either he, God, or humanity made a serious fundamental error. Sure, the Reverend was perfectly capable in finding “beautiful” Biblical passages which were almost analogous to the situation at hand. Almost; and less so the more one thought about it. Then, if the tithe request isn’t done in person, it comes in the next day’s mail.
Monty shuffled from room to room. The “toddy room” was the one considered communal. Each of the three brothers had seven which were more or less exclusively theirs and had private entrances. An excellent reason, such as a clogged bowl, or a fire, or a blindly drunken mistake was required to enter another’s territory. But now, knowing that the others would be gone for a while he thought that he’d take a leisurely look all around. He was kind of tired of the whole thing, as well as the motorcycle marauding of homeless losers in an attempt which had proven to be fruitless, in trying to get information about their stolen cheeseball trophies.
Mad Monty used his skeleton key to enter the inner sanctum of Major. The Chippendale and Queen Anne furniture immediately reminded him of Major’s consistently traditional taste. He
Page 68
spilled a few drops from his cup onto the “Chinoiserie” rug when he chortled. He recalled what seemed like yesterday when he too favored pre-1830 Americana. It seemed to be all inclusive, evoking the sub-genres of rustic Pilgrim, Spanish-flavored William and Mary, simple, curvy Queen Anne, baroque Chippendale, the sharper tapered lines of inlaid Sheraton tending toward modern, and classical Empire eventually degraded upon the coming of the machine age, all while having proven the ability to pass the test of time. He didn’t dis-favor the Americana now, but he had developed a taste, or the lack thereof, for an evolving eclecticism, which ranged from the Godard brothers, NEWPORT AND
PROVIDENCE based blocked mahogany, difficult support for brass handles and escutcheons, to the US Southwestern’s painted, home-made trasteros, rare as too often used as firewood when the pre-Depression Number One, burgeoning train line brought access to the professional, efficient, and affordable offerings contained within the fat, phonebook sized book offered freely by the briefly Biblical competitive Sears catalogue, to a Modernism,
“Post-Modernism,” post-post modernism, or a whatever vaguely
“characterized” or ignored by the much-too-easily credentialed, ageing academics as a propitiously placed “new” niche, which they proceed to further confound and confuse through paid decorating-rag dissertations, of particular interest to the terminally pretentious and mildly retarded, to the naïve and
Page 69
childish manifestations of decoration available at Good Will as well as the more pricey variety available at a plethora of “gift shops” in parking convenient, transitory occupation of anchorless malls replete with heart-warming, smiley, greeters capable of inducing a temporarily annoying vomit which often leads to a pleasant clearing, a purge of non-regurgitational sorts which actually works, to exposed beams tending toward exposed pipes tastefully done in an non-ostensible oversion of the plumbing, hinting at a decorative effect through a lack of the stains consistent with practical use coupled with a price exorbitant, to Ikea innovation, to hybrids, to that which, to that which, to that which, to that which, to that which is simple and egalitarian fully aware of being interpreted as undecipherable and exclusive as a Walmart marketed, knock-off, Eames, tannish, naugahyde chair which includes all the tools required for easy assembly, to that which has been categorized as un-categorizable, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to,
Page 70
to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, to, and what a few non-sophisticates might privately characterize as much too to. When he shopped for aspirin, he wished that he could more easily find the type he wanted through the elimination of a million “choices,” whose differences began and ended with their coverings. In truth, there was only one manufacturer, but a million brands and packagers vied for shelf space, while they all had “furtively” acquired their product from that one.
To his retreat from Major’s lair, to the sparse decoration of Spike; ultra-modern Spike. The straight lined simplicity executed in synthetic materials explained the practical necessity of minimalism when Mad Monty entered Spike’s private lair and stumbled into a sharp edge, his thigh possibly wounded and sore for three days. Glass, plastic, chrome, metal, and marble encouraged him to leave before he might spurt blood on the hanging, computer generated, pastel, obviously faux
“Pollocks” on every other non-color-co-ordinated wall. No one would have noticed, but he walked back to his own domain, took a
Page 71
last gulp, and settled into the center of his posted bed, proud of its protective canopy. Pulling up the covers, his body felt cozy and warm, while his mind raced as if in a Winter Olympic contest hosted in Bobby Fischer popularized Reykjavik.
Mad and non-Mad Monty were perplexed for differing reasons.
Prior to getting into the exposed particulars, he/they thought it practical to first address the seemingly primary consideration which silently suggested that IT was and/or had to have been some function of an algorithm not yet made public by Google, Amazon, IBM, or Microsoft. The “IT” just had to exist.
IT was a grade-level-eight inferable possibility with a 98%
probability of being right. IT was also as if you ducked the immoral war out of true conscience, only to witness your loved ones being killed while doing their “duty.” The tiny, yet inescapably guilty thoughts of doubt also suggested that if one chooses to buck the odds, one will lose in all determinable circumstances, but not necessarily if one could ignore the imperfect doctrines utilized in the professional psychiatric scam.
So, like duh to a power currently considered infinite, which is appropriately and accurately depicted as a fallen eight or a touching double circle at rest.
Mad Monty was irrationally compelled to do something which he had simultaneously forgotten about. He realized that he was
Page 72
most likely wrong about the temporary compulsion. He closed his eyes and went back to happy sleep on the eastern periphery of his Queen Anne, canopied, double bed.
Page 73
#13-On the Outskirts of Both Upper and Lower Darby In addition to the Crocker and Hunt brothers, one of the other people who knew something about “hogs” and their market values was rather unsurprisingly, also one who occupied a financial position least able to afford one and have any effect on that market. In effect, he was an unrecognized dilettante with glorious aspirations and/or a penchant to imply more importance to his station than it warranted. This increasingly common affliction was obvious to everyone other than the one so afflicted, perhaps another side effect brought on by the advent of social media and blogging. In fact, much like leprosy, this yet to be acronymed, popular “syndrome” was surreptitiously and perhaps inadvertently encouraged by the many so afflicted, as well as those seeking the offbeat giggles provided by unintended humor, much like that provided by the “bigger is better” school of contemporary “lit,” primarily pupilled through government grants, whether direct or indirect, granted with the advice and consent, if not abject disinterest of college professors in concert with their benefactors, by a few stubborn, effeminate adherents of played out post or post-post-modern “literature,”
especially when they try to convey through a sales pitching blurb, a reconciliation of their stated requirement for continual “innovation” with their currently embraced
Page 74
anthologically based body of works, the latter perhaps suitable to be syllabus suggested as optional undergraduate recap reading.
A heightened, yet simplified degree of particular “mirth”
may be suffered-enjoyed through perusal of the seemingly required repetition of the “Who am I?” narration, now at interminable length, while at times mercifully and
“artistically” inclusive of a plethora of consecutive blank pages, suitable for notes and doodles.
That Gaddis was a predecessor of and influence upon David Foster Wallace is alone hilarious. To expand upon and prove this would raise Gaddis to an undeserved status; that “study” already reserved by an inconsequential, aging critic who often uses the name “Moore.” To think that this will be read and/or commented upon is the pinnacle of indulgent absurdity, and the pre-cursor to an extended stay within the cushy walls of the federally subsidized “happy farm” where life is beautiful all the time. It is indeed tempting to fallaciously adopt the other Moore-LeClair high windowed insight which says; “If it is obscure it must be good.”
Thomas M. Hartfield was a truly bizarre, homeless, several time crack addict, with grungy, shoulder invading black hair, which could fit well with Nirvana, were the group not now defunct. He had spent ten of his twenty-seven years incarcerated
Page 75
and had been ersatz free for the preceding two years. He now peacefully resided under the toll free, unguarded bridge over the Reciprocal River, which separated Upper from Lower Darby. He shared that waterfront space, depending upon seasonal considerations and which particular day of the week, with four to ten others who had, like him, never found much merit in settling into the repetitive hum-drum of pecuniary pursuits.
Tom had regularly seen and heard the old, unmuffled engine hum-drum generated by the three Crockers powering overhead, the loud drone often serving as an alarm clock, and had received word-of-mouth news reports of their locally popular “bum rousts,” conceivably more accurately described as random selective eliminations.
Putting the three thought-perception-correction’s together, Tom finally had some dream-type plans which he hoped might well provide him with a lifetime of living in a manner better than that to which he had become accustomed. He could snuff the Crockers and sell their bikes on the deep web. The most likely snag he could imagine was his lack of trust in the market value of Bitcoin, heavily insisted upon by the shady characters in his potential market; the plethora of opportunistic undesirables who dispensed, insisted upon its use, and often inferred a
“revolutionary” worship of the fixed supply medium of exchange.
Page 76
Republicans and Crocker-types could be quite unreasonably difficult.
Tom had a gun, an inexpensive sten. Despite its affordability a sten could take out a roomful of garden variety schmucks in less than a second if it didn’t explode in hand, as when someone manufactures a sten it requires an addition, and it is thereby more expensive to make it a more solitary and specific shot arm. The additional work and material required to make a more precise gun crowns the automatic sten as the gun of the people. If and when his circumstances were enhanced, Tom could upgrade his arsenal. “Assault” weapons reputedly provided a pricey best of both worlds, but that was a consideration best reserved for a successful future, which Tom, like any hack, often contemplated during the dreams which were endemic to his abundant leisure time.
Regarding the matter which rudely imposed itself by audaciously being on hand, the only problematic triviality associated with the disgorging, uncontrolled automatic use of an overly eager sten was a general requirement for the sprayer to be held by a trigger man partner with a high degree of dexterous control; that dexterity in direct proportion to the number of enemy targets, inclusively in consideration of the enemy’s clumsy and needy tendency to flock like sheep or in a more secure, dispersed, inverse relationship, such as that produced
Page 77
by spread out, well-trained terrorists doing their own things.
Of course the chummier the enemy affinity for each other the better for the cheap sten holder. The propinquity of the “chums”
who the holder needs to plug is a holder advantage, as the time required to re-load tends to negatively impact the realization of the desired operation, or any reasonable approximation thereof.
In an attempt to make clearer the obvious, the number of enemies you need to quickly take out complicates the mission, as the gun discharges all its bullets with one trigger pull. This makes a cloistered enemy the ideal target, and/or necessitates an exceptional ability to focus a default ten foot spray over a hundred foot area, on a metaphorical basis, if the ammunition will. In difficult circumstances, the egalitarian appearing sten holder must convert his scattershot instrument to one of more or less precision, the details dictated by the proposed event.
One might well imagine the difficulties inherent with simultaneously attempting to nail all of the enemies, who or what in turn are simultaneously domiciled in Saudi Arabia, Iraq, Abu Dhabi, and some other shithole African “nations” no one ever heard of, each in convenient use of the world popular rhetoric of militaristic participation in anti-US jihadism ostensibly to promote alleviation of their 70% unemployment rates through a
“newly radicalized” form of conscription. The “Royal Saudi
Page 78
family” grants provisionally granted, are of course disbursed after the loyal local chiefs clandestinely extract their hard earned 75% override, effectively blurring silly considerations of the “real” enemy, but simultaneously providing avenues of
“social media” discourse, best handled by sock puppets and bots with a preference.
Sure, one can reload. But, tactically speaking, that takes some time, and a dumber-than-can-be-reasonably-expected enemy, prone to standing still and patiently waiting for the next blast. That “noble” war methodology began its decline when the Brits stood up to lose the American Revolutionary War to crouching Davey Crockett and his pals.
Quite frankly, at this point, the level of math required to competently approximate the level of risk involved in the potential transaction resides in, more or less, only five living humans. One might have died last week, but no one was paying any attention. Being deemed as somewhat “smart,” they are all people who have calculated their potential benefits to the highest possibility of an expected 98% degree of accuracy, and thereby lean upon impressive “credentials” sufficient for the deflection of any direct yes-no type question through a “humorous”
response, not quite, but more pertinent to a subjective essay equalizer, tittered at by the other three or four, applauded by the overly needy, dumb wannabees. Perhaps most importantly,
Page 79
given the easily calculable possibilities of the particular circumstances, the top mavens are actually quite adept at dispensing any one of the differing myriad of historical theories which almost fit. Non-scholars try not to get bogged down in their envious lack of enlightenment and check their pants in hopes of a loaded gun, simultaneously realizing that their “answer” was much better or worse, depending upon the current miscalculation of the evolving laws of attraction.
It’s largely a matter of texture and/or posture, or whose bull got gored, one would guess. Enter the contradictory supply of “morals.” The rest of us not glued to our seats exit stage left ...... or stage right. Whatever escape is desired ...... or easiest to get to.
Hawaii has once again survived the volcanic eruptions with minor “damage,” only a week later to ostensibly be kissed, forward or reversed; the frail surface yet lacking lasting construction, in that tender trap consistent with the congratulatorilly directed postures much too conveniently adopted by the beneficiaries of that which is collectively deemed to “really” exist; unruly water coupled with a strong wind; a simple, naïve contruct, to affect a congeniality which defers to a Derrida-esque point-of-non-view, not to mention the Picasso theft, of more significance to contemporary
Page 80
manifestationally limited borders, supplemented by DFW’s “A Brief Interview With Hideous Men”’s window gone opaque as the result of the inward warmth’s liaison with the outside’s winter cold, yet is the one which almost always continues to pragmatically work, admittedly sometimes requiring a loose interpretation of the mechanics dictated, certainly while in imperfect comparison to the Wiki based “knowledge” of the 21st century’s algorithmically biased standardizations and momentarily-difficult-to-refute precisions which is righteously relegated to an exclusivity, which never manages to mimic the main theme of half-century-prior “Wooden Ships,” no matter the purveyor, originator, or thief.
Thomas M. Hartfield was once mentioned long ago, perhaps in a legendary vein. The dated communal bridge dweller and all about raconteur of a thus far limited, dream oriented note, despite and because of an egregious attack by unsolicited sources or a personal predilection for a graduated form of minimalism, both, neither, or disinterested gradations in between, was proud to be still in retention of his first and last names, not to mention the capital letter attributed to his un-remembered middle, Confirmed, or Bar Mitzvahed central appendage, had once again briefly surfaced; his snorkeling outfit making strangers think he was a radiated frog desperately wanting to get into a hot tub.
Page 81
He was poised to be in transition; from what to what arguably irrelevant relative to the movement. It was the intent rather than the details which continued to be primal.
Tom considered the middle letter retention to be quite an accomplishment in a world which had decades prior taken a strong turn toward names like J-Lo and Dr. Dre, unless the M stood for Mohammed, Misunderstood, or MonkeyAss.
His only possible non-participatory compromise was the shortening trespassed through the acronymization of his middle M, with or without period. That’s what he thought, but he had his sporadic share of un-communicated doubts, or at the least thought that the best thing to communicate to evoke a false humility. A very imperfect analogy is that it is much like that of a pitcher short of his best stuff and control on any particular day, who just hopes that the batter hits his first pitch right back at him. At the core, it was just a matter of technique and pure chance. If it goes on much too long, is that a valid criticism? O blah di.
Tom was out of control, in that he was compelled to keep thinking that the three Crockers would be an ideal target, as when they did their marauding in Lower Darby, they were never more than ten feet apart. That satisfied both the strategic aspect of the mission and the traits of the sten. The moral considerations, if any, took a backseat to Tom’s dislike of the
Page 82
Crockers and what they had been doing to his homeless compadres with the de facto complicity of the Lower Darby authorities, while he also had no particular aversion to what he could get for their bikes on the open market. The operation seemed to him as a potential bi-partisan win-win-win.
Tom had most days heard and partially daily seen the Crocker brothers for the last month or two, as the three motored their way over the bridge from their Upper Darby Manor compound into Lower Darby. Reports indicated that they always went to the back alleys of the derelict Mission district to do their dastardly deeds.
Tom thought it a good idea to take two of his homeless pals down to the Mission, and wait there for the three Crockers with his impetuous sten. They’d attract the Crockers and then show them that things are not always what they appear to be, and that making silly and unfounded assumptions can be quite dangerous for them; much in the manner in which artificial intelligence mechanics exceedingly boast that their cute little cuddly bots are any-day-now poised to eradicate all of mankind in a matter of nano seconds. Too bad that the Crockers would only know that for a fraction of a second before their screens went irreparably a middling, tending toward dark, shade of blue in perpetuity.
Tom had already decided that if and when this type of opportunity presented itself, that he’d have liked to be
Page 83
accompanied by Desmond and Caligari. Desmond was very much the actor, and he might have made some think that he was Johnny Depp had the fe, wardrobe, eptness challenged, malapropism not
“artistically” adorned him with an outfit partially reminiscent of Boris Karloff’s 1932 “Mummy,” supplemented by exposed and gangrened body parts which did not end at his face. Caligari was off on some kind of trip only he and his imaginary, rather stiff, and rather obedient doppelganger knew about. Despite his seeming dive into meta’s deep end, his beneficial qualities revolved around his penchant to be affable; always smiling and willing to offer a friendly hand, were it still there, to anyone not averse to the painless, granulomic conditions brought about by the non-contagious manifestation of un-professionally-diagnosed-metastatic leprosy.
Perhaps as an expectation of their imminent death, both importantly neither gave the slightest of farfels about money, smoothly allowing pragmatically greedy Tom to keep it all for himself. “Let the dead bury their dead,” indeed.
Before the pre-dawn could begin its journey into mid-morning tepidity, Tom, Desmond, and Caligari made their ways through the quiet streets of Lower Darby. The only other sound of ersatz “life” was that buzz made by the malfunctioning street
Page 84
lamps. Under the circumstances, it not only seemed to be unenlightening; it was out and out aesthetically disconcerting.
Page 85