Free and Clear by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview
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Chapter 10
I come home from another less than exhilarating day putting on predictable hologram shows for the addled, non-paying and desperate. When will someone put one on for me? I think I need it more than my monetarily challenged customers. I once heard that nothing is free, but this cadre of sympathy seeking whiners have found something free; paid for on my ass and the ass of my co-obligor. When it comes to money, I guess Schultzy is my best friend.
Two-tone and Reba seem to have settled into their favorite spot. They are again sitting on the back yard rocks. Their asses must have the contour of weathered granite, commonly referred to as cellulite. I want to get that thought out of my head before I become Jonathan Swift. I can’t imagine how this woman got the nickname of “Honey.” It had to similar to the process in which the big kid is called “Shorty.” ............. Unless time has taken its toll. I can relate but don’t want to think about it.
The sun has hidden behind its western limits and I don’t blame him. His place has been taken by opportunistic clouds which differentiate themselves from the darkening sky by vampirizing the declining non-brilliance and deceitfully making themselves appear brighter than the remnant of the less than lustrous day. At least the dark provides me a cover, under which
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I can slip into my own house, un-molested by unwanted, parasitical, and nuisance intruders.
I breathe a sigh of relief upon undetected entry and call out; “Martha.” Getting no reply, I think that she has again chosen to find some excuse to remain at work rather than face another evening of uninvited and objectionable company. She strongly suspects that her former, hlooping, breathing problems are the result of being stifled by critically inclined and stupid undesirables. Though a revelation to her doctors, her insight is no matter of profundity to anyone who has seen the
“witty” one line put-downs posted by embarrassed people with
“cool” and fake names on “YouTube.” They must think that their
“insight” does not advertise their abundance of free time; the result of a lack of a life. I understand as I fully and hopelessly relate. I am so sorry for them that I consider contributing to the “David Koresh Escape Fund” or the “Kevorkian Do It Yourself Institute.”
I sit and stretch out in what was formerly the comfort of my own home and re-consider the right wing position of the early 2000’s. I know that this intrusion would not have happened were those competent privatists actually in charge. They’d be more likely to have espoused tax incentives for the homeless, a cruel joke, which, in the fine print, would have benefitted the top 1%
income earners. I realize that I am on now on dangerous ground
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and vow not to broadcast my thoughts for my own good. The indirect, normal appearing demons have garnered a disproportionate influence, probably always have. The electorate gets so damned concerned with appearance that they prefer a smiling devil devoid of blemishes to a flawed angel. The middle ground, unknowingly, non-issue voters, have gotten hung up on the appearance of that which rules the country. This photographic reality has been part of the American political problem for a century. I suppose that means that it’s here to stay. Fortunately for us and Lincoln, he was not the target of mercenary paparazzo intrusive scrutiny.
I hear screaming outside and am afraid that another
“exciting” night for Martha and I has commenced. I surreptitiously peer out the window and see that a light snow is coming down. The wind which brought it makes the limbs of large trees sway. Reba and Two-tone have a bigger problem.
Underdressed, they remain on their rocks transfixed on a ghoul the snow has accidentally given form. It is all head with two horns. It seems to be laughing and threateningly screaming at the same time; the posture of an overly confident predator; who doesn’t yet realize that the life of a killer is over with the slightest of injuries.
I thought; “Oh shit. They’ll be coming inside any second.”
Reba and Two-tone fool me by continuing to sit on their rocks,
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cowering and screaming something indecipherable. Each help-seeking voice drowns out the other and the specifics of their words blend in a cacophony of mindless torment. I am amused.
Indifferent and chilling snow starts to accumulate on them, making them look like a tiny and imperfect copy of the undefined, intruding ghoul, who is two feet from them and is obviously capable of trickery and mesmerism; though it’s severely limited and formless abilities are hidden to those cursed to be weak by the unfair vagaries of the stars.
I care little of the problems experienced by the losers who have been confused by a game I consider patently obvious and miles beneath me. I chuckle to myself and get hopeful for the first time since I was subjected to the arrival of their perfunctorily skeptical and uninformed views. With a little luck they could freeze to death. I have no obligation. I didn’t tell them to go sit on the rocks, underdressed in the wind and snow; and I certainly didn’t have the power to keep them both there.
If asked, I can say that I slept through it.
Five minutes later, I am euphoric as the snow, wind and ghoul continue to do their thing and the snow encrusted duo have stopped screaming. They look like two forgotten and unburied mummies with cracks in their white bandages.
Reba falls backward off her rock and lies still in the snow. For a second I was afraid this would prompt Two-Tone to
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get up and help her, but he remains frozen in place. Perfection in still life, soon to become merely still.
I get a worrying thought. With all the screaming a neighbor might have heard something. Cops will want to know why I didn’t.
............... Ah, the closest neighbor is a thousand feet away and is rarely home. And I can say that I was listening to music with headphones. No one has ever been charged with murder for freezing two people to death in the back yard.
I’ll be okay. In fact, Martha and I will be better than okay. .............. I stare out the window, but have difficulty watching the frigid stasis. I recall the time I was in danger of being severely hurt by a huge crazed man on the subway. Out of nowhere, an even more huge old friend, a former college offensive lineman, I had not seen in years, appeared on the scene. He dispatched my nemesis with ease. I wondered if anyone had ever helped David and Reba. ................ I thought it was a good chance that the answer was; “No.” It seemed unfair. I know that life is unfair, but this seems egregiously so, especially when it wouldn’t take any more effort on my part than it took the offensive lineman to help.
I run outside and first shake David. He opens his eyes and seems to rouse, but when he again sees the ghoul, he mumbles; “I can’t,” and rolls forward onto the snow.
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I pull his right arm and yell; “Look at me, David! God dammit, look at me!” When I see that my maneuver has forcefully garnered some of his reluctant attention, I say; “Watch this.
This monster is all head and no substance. It ain’t shit.” I run at it, passing right through. I do it again and whatever semblance of shape the ghoul formerly had was gone, leaving only the persistently falling snow in its vacated place.
David’s eyes widen somewhat.
I again grab his arm and pull him up, saying; “Come on! We have to get your mother. I can’t do it alone.”
For the first time David sees his mother motionlessly lying in the snow. It startles him. He lurches to her, and worriedly yells; “Mom.”
We carry her back to the house. Most of the snow falls melts off all of us on the way. We put her on the couch and she soon wakes up. I wondered if I would soon regret my actions.
David hovers over her, like a forlorn dragonfly in November. She faintly smiles, touches his cheek, and says; “I’m all right.
...... I’m all right.” I leave them to their own care.
The next morning the three of us go back to the rocks; not to while away time; but, to observe the scene of the scare in broad daylight. The previous evening’s insurmountable obstacles appear to be stupidly stagnant blobs, out of place and
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unnaturally situated by an incompetent gardener. They stand out from the greening grass and budding trees like zombies in kindergarten. Martha and I inherited them from a previous owner of this peculiar, isolated place. Maybe they were bequeathed by the same jester who left the rubber chicken and the keys which work nowhere. Maybe they were the legacy of someone time has forgotten. We have been too lazy to get rid of them.
I decide that today is the day. I want to move them to the front of the property and have a hauler take them away. I had not realized how heavy they were and all of us can’t budge them an inch.
David says; “We’re going to need some help.”
I say; “Yup.”
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