A Short Departure from the Sanctuary by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview

CHAPTER ONE AGAIN

A BRIEF HISTORY OF POST-MODERNISM. DURING THE 1960’S AND

1970’S POLYTHEISM MADE ITS PRESENCE KNOWN. PEOPLE INCORRECTLY

SAW THE NEAR-PERFECT DEITY AS THEIR VERY IMPERFECT UNDERSTANDING

OF IT, I’LL CALL “POLLY.” BURDENED AND OVERWHELMED, NEAR-PERFECT

MONOTHEISM WAS ANXIOUSLY AWAITING THIS DAY. HOWEVER, PEOPLE ALSO

INCORRECTLY SAW IT’S DEITIFIC NEAR-PERFECTION AS THEIR VERY

IMPERFECT UNDERSTANDING OF IT, I’LL CALL “MON.” POLLY SOUGHT ITS

RIGHTFUL PLACE, SOMETIMES PEACEABLY, SOMETIMES MISBEHAVING. MON

RELIED ON ITS TRADITIONAL PENCHANT FOR WAR. IN ANGER, BUT

SUSPECTING THAT POLLY WAS RIGHT, MON SOUGHT ITS SWORD, NOW

FLACCID FROM DOUBT and USED IT TO WHIP POLLY. MON WAS TOO

STUPID, SELF-CENTERED and ENTRENCHED TO SEE THAT THE LOVING

ACCEPTANCE OF POLLY WAS IN BOTH THEIR SELF-INTERESTS. POLLY

ATTEMPTED A RETREAT, BUT THE CAT WAS OUT OF THE BAG and THE BAG

IS LOST IN THE WIND. THE IMPERFECT MUST DEAL FAIRLY WITH EACH

OTHER OR DIE. IT’S YOUR MOVE, MON. PUT YOUR CURRENTLY USELESS

SWORD DOWN A BIT AND USE YOUR LOUD MOUTH TO SING. POLLY STILL

HAS ONE GOOD EAR LEFT AND LOVES MUSIC. THE END? DEPENDS.

A BRIEFER HISTORY OF EVERYTHING. THEY MET AT A PARTY EACH

ATTENDED OUT OF A SENSE OF OBLIGATION, HAVING NO INITIAL DESIRE

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TO GO. HE SAID SOMETHING HE THOUGHT WITTY TO HER, WANTING TO BE

LIKED (WTBL) and SHE LAUGHED UPROARIOUSLY WTBL. SHE SAID

SOMETHING SHE CONSIDERED WITTY WTBL and HE LAUGHED UPROARIOUSLY

WTBL. THE COUPLE WHO LIKED AND INTRODUCED THEM LEFT, THINKING IT

BETTER THAT THEY GET TO KNOW EACH OTHER IN PRIVACY. THEY DROVE

HOME TOGETHER, HE TRYING TO UNDERSTAND HER WITTICISM and SHE

TRYING TO UNDERSTAND HIS.

Small lettered and un-bold redundancy. Everyone in this world, except me, is crippled, only they don’t know it. In the beginning was the WORD and we are advised that it became flesh, at least according to a translation from the Aramaic monopolized by the few. Improvements have come our way; now we still have WORD; but in infinite variety and flavors, including eighty million new words, sixty different ways of displaying them, a plethora of fonts, methods to incorporate pictures, etc., etc.

The possibilities have become endless; at least as far as I can calculate eighty million times eighty million times eighty million, on and on. So many new ways to tell the story.

WORDS DON’T COME

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Coarshon Coldbury’s Consistent Cowlick Problem

“Oh, shit” Breaker thought to himself when on Monday morning he entered the hallway and saw the digitized overhead wall clock displaying red dots, which seemed to be representative of the numbers 9:07. He stared at it awhile, but it remained adamant in its pronouncement. Despite desperately desiring a johnny stop, necessity dictated that he check in before Big Red registers 9:10, simultaneously flashing “Woefully Late”, or, more precisely, some configuration of dots that look more like “HoeluIIy Iate.” Worse, at that time, it will also start loudly beeping something in electric speak, similar to

“BAD, BAD, BAD” for a few minutes when anyone with an ID card like his passed it. This was the work of Breaker’s enemy; Coarshon Coldbury.

Coarshon’s most distinguishing characteristics are his perennial quest for perfection and the twenty or so black, greasy hairs that choose to stand out from the point on his head where those he has directed to the right meet those that he has directed to the left meet those that he has directed downward.

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When questioned about the unruliness Coarshon would vehemently deny the possibility that unclear direction might be the cause, claim not to know the answer and if he were forced to guess, would suggest that some irrational expression of individuality lay undetected at the root.

Holding on, Breaker enters the conference room and sees Coarshon in his customary seat at the head of the table, which was earned by his 7AM arrival and his free expression of preference, with no competition yet present. The electronic calculating marvel on the wall now glowers 9:08, so Breaker is reasonably safe and says a cheery, chirpy “Good morning” to no one in particular. Like Coarshon, his other five comrades have their faces buried in their personal, company owned laptops, diligently perusing a few thousand pages of highly relevant, privileged information. All are too engrossed to look up and greet him with a collective “Urr, urr, urr.”, par for the course. Coarshon takes the liberty of breaking his steadfast concentration to glance at his left hand, which, on the inside rests his Timex Super Precision 6.2. He then looks at the wall clock to see if there might be some disparity. He frowns, makes some adjustment to his personal model and puts his face back in the compelling laptop.

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Despite having to hit the head desperately, Breaker can’t resist saying something. He quickly hangs up his somewhat cream colored “Colombo” raincoat and having registered attendance, walks quickly back out of the study hall and says; “How do you know that the one on the wall is the correct one?”

Coarshon looks at Breaker, with an expression that either says that he has just heard one of the dumbest questions of his life (or reasonable facsimile thereof) or how dare he question him. Breaker continues his pace and hears Coarshon politely, with a bored tone, deign to say; “The wall clock is ‘official’

and I know it is also correct because. . . . . .” Breaker doesn’t catch the rest of the answer because he is well on the way to the room where he does his best thinking.

“Whew” he says out loud as that was a close one. He looks down and sees that on second thought, it was a bit closer than he initially thought. Breaker decides that he must find something in here that he can carry back into the conference room at waist level. While he’s looking around at potential shields, he attempts to get some useful overview of his current work situation. The prime event happened just last Friday. While everyone knows that Coarshon has been petitioning the boss, Christie, to put him in charge of the rest of the troops for at

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least a year, mainly because Christie openly laughs about it in front of the group when Coarshon is not there, there is now a new twist. Whereas all other entreaties were made in the privacy of the boss’s office, yesterday the engagement was initiated in full view of the crew, adding another dimension. While the rest of the troops do 3-5 “reviews” per week and probably could do 10

if they really tried, Coarshon does one per month, but it’s perfect, at least according to him. One couldn’t argue that the solitary gem wasn’t thorough, however, as Coarshon checks everything checkable. He’s kind of like the guy you have over to fix the refrigerator who sees it necessary to also check the washing machine, range, microwave, dish washer and conduct an interview with the kid to make sure he’s using the items with proper care. By the time he’s ready to leave a person is willing to pay him anything he wants to get him out the door. For some reason Christie tolerated him; maybe because of a sense of humor; maybe because of a desire to be nice; or, maybe because the boss doesn’t give a shit and has more important things to tend to. At any rate, up until Friday, Coarshon was no threat to anybody, merely a brief annoyance.

Christie dropped in unannounced and right in front of Francine, Suzanne, Felicity, Burt, Frank and Breaker, Coarshon

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loudly said; “I haven’t been able to get a hold of you lately, so I’d like to hear your thoughts about putting me in charge right now.”

The boss, jocular and chubby, retorted; “You like being embarrassed in public?”

Undeterred from his mission, the perfectionist in the dark, pinstriped, deep discount store suit minimally moved the lips on his white-never-seen-the-sun face and said; “This is not a joke to me or the company. I may be wrong, but it doesn’t sound like you’re working in the company’s best interests.”

Coarshon stood up, challengingly and the rest of us, seated, looked up from our laptops and at each other and made a faint “Whooo” sound.

The boss exhaled audibly and tersely said; “Fine.

Seriousness is the rule of the day. You are not going to be put in charge because you do ten percent of the work done by the others.”

“That’s precisely where you’re wrong and one reason why I should be in charge. Since I do almost no work there will be little decline in output.”

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“If I fire you there will also be little decline in output and the company will save some money.”

The seated people liked that one a lot and infinitesimally nodded their approval at the boss.

Well prepared for this discussion, as he played it through in his malformed head every night, rather than sleeping, Coarshon calmly replied; “You’re not considering the benefit the company will get, when I get these birds (meaning the six imperfect others, who were offended) to do a thorough, perfect job.”

The birds frowned and anxiously awaited the boss’ comeback.

Their expectations were met when the reply came; “You are overly thorough. You check things that don’t need to be checked, wasting time and money and you louse up the others with your nagging commentaries. . . . . .”

Before Christie got to register comments on the “perfect”

part, Coarshon boldly interrupted, by flatly saying; “There is no such thing as overly thorough. It’s an absolute. Thorough is thorough is thorough. And it looks like I’m the only one here who is. Maybe I should be talking to your superiors about your

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job. They might be interested in knowing your view on thoroughness.”

The seated and less than perfect and thorough folk thought;

“Uh oh. I hope the boss has a comeback for that one.”

Fortunately Christie did. Unfortunately, it wasn’t what the defectives wanted to hear. The boss looked the common enemy right in his half closed, grinning eyes and proceeded to say;

“Okay, chief. Maybe you’re more perfect and thorough than the rest of us. I’ll put you in charge if you can prove it by thoroughly perfecting your own head, specifically getting that stupid cowlick in line. I think that the only reason you can have this fantasy of perfection and thoroughness is that it takes you so long to finish anything that by the time you do the information is so dated it’s worthless. So nobody bothers to scrutinize it.”

Coarshon was surprised. This remark never came up when he was talking to himself, playing out the possibilities. He made a disgusted face and said; “That’s ridiculous.”

The boss said; “Ridiculous or not, that’s the deal. You can either take it or take your chances with my superiors. If they don’t buy your bullshit, you’re fired.” Coarshon was silently

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trying to calculate his best option to no avail. The boss then added; “Frankly, I think that cowlick is a sign of something seriously wrong with you, that no one has looked closely enough to find out about. Besides, it would make all of us look retarded if you represented us, with your hair looking like you just got up from a nap. No one would pay any attention. They’d just laugh. Deal or no?”

Challenged and insulted, Coarshon analyzed the situation somewhat less than thoroughly, sat back down and said; “Deal.”

So that’s where everyone is nervously at today, Coarshon’s somewhat Mohawk head the focus of all attention.

Breaker still hadn’t found his shield, probably daydreaming too much to locate it. He thought; “Concentrate, if you were a shield, where would you be hiding? You don’t have to be a shield to answer that one. You’d be in one of the stalls, as he often did when he wanted some privacy. It’s the best place to hide, because if anyone wants to get your attention, it is the only place where you can unequivocally say; ‘Can’t you see I’m busy?’, or something like that.” He opened a stall door and there it was; a folded copy of today’s New York Times, open to the crossword puzzle. It’s Frank’s. He gets at least four severe shit attacks daily and the paper keeps him company. “Sorry,

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Frank, this is an emergency.” He unfolded the paper some and headed back to the conference room, holding it against his upper pants, walking like he had a paralyzed arm.

Entering the mausoleum, Breaker looked at Coarshon’s head and got a good view, as the perfect one’s back was to him. The important part looked different today. Not only are the black wild onion sprouts standing at attention, the surrounding area is clearly pink and possibly out and out red. Intrigued, Breaker dawdled behind him and obtained an aerial overview. The square inch territory of most significance to all has been irritated.

It is obvious that Coarshon has been putting it through its paces, in an unsuccessful attempt to establish order. He must have sensed the presence and turned away from his laptop in Breaker’s direction, simultaneously placing one white finger on the area of the moment and scratching. He then used four fingers to try to smooth out the red, grease spot, but the minion’s temporarily crushed friends pop right back up, like a fighter responding to a knockdown, attempting to show that it really didn’t hurt. Breaker got very happy, as he was sure he saw a droplet of blood. “It wasn’t much, but it’s a start,” he thought. Not wanting to be obvious, he went to his seat and put his face in his personal, company owned, electronic marvel.

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Audible only to his partners, he muttered; “He’s bleeding.”

People make the faintest of nods and smiles.

Frank saw Breaker place the New York Times on the table, stares at it a second, probably sees his handwriting and loudly says; “That’s my paper.”

Frank has been a good friend of Breaker’s for years, but Breaker figured that he’d use this opportunity to start something to annoy Coarshon. He says; “This paper belongs to me now. I found it in the bathroom.”

Frank says; “That’s my writing on it.”

Breaker looks at the paper and says; “It doesn’t matter.

You’re not going to get any more of the puzzle, unless you copy off Francine.” Breaker now has his enemy’s attention, as Coarshon knows that Frank’s sensitive area has been touched.

Whenever Frank finds some pretense to get a view of Francine’s paper, which she keeps in her pocketbook, next to her, he coincidentally gets one of his shit attacks, runs to the bathroom and fills out more of the puzzle.

Francine laughs at the old joke, funny only because Frank will never admit that he needs any kind of help to finish the

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puzzle. It’s a matter of pride for the fifty year old, former Bronx High School of Science student. Frank loudly says; “That’s bullshit. Give me that fucking paper.”

As Frank reaches across the table for it, Breaker slides the paper onto his lap and sticks out his tongue at him.

Coarshon is disturbed at the efficiency breakdown, looks at the one in possession of the paper disgustedly and in his authoritarian tone says; “Breaker, will you please give Frank his paper.”

Seeking to open a second front, Breaker says; “It’s not his paper and no one has put you in charge yet.”

Coarshon remains surface cool, but he’s steaming inside. He says; “For the maintenance of proper office decorum, will you please give Frank THE paper.”

Breaker mock grudgingly slides the paper across the table to Frank and says; “Here’s your fucking paper.” He then points at Coarshon and says; “You’re gonna buy me another one, jackass.”

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Coarshon ignores the issue at hand, rubs his hand on his forehead and says; “And stop the foul language. There are ladies present.”

Francine looks at him and says; “I don’t give a fuck.” She turns to Suzanne and says; “How about you?”

Suzanne grimaces, affects a bored posture, waves one hand dismissively and says; “Fuck it.”

Francine then looks at Felicity and says; “And you?”

Felicity giggles uses a finger to wipe one eye and offers;

“I’ve heard the word a few times before. It doesn’t bother me coming from friends.”

Breaker looks at a perplexed Coarshon. He now has almost the entirety of his pasty face in one hand and is silent, but Breaker detects a small twitch and says; “Are there any other ladies in the room with objections?”

The trouble maker is responded to with silence and the grins of his friends, with the exception of Frank, who is frantically re-folding his paper the way he likes it. So, Breaker says; “All right, then. Free speech prevails, at least until Coarshon can flatten out his fucked-up head.”

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Coarshon is no fool, so he attempts to end the current direction of the discourse by reverting to a somewhat diminished boss posture, saying; “Fun’s over. Time for everyone to get back to work.”

Breaker was silent, as he couldn’t think of anything the least bit funny or stupid to say, but Francine saved the day when she slapped Frank’s hand and said; “Stay out of my goddam pocket book.”

Frank wasn’t really in her pocketbook, THIS TIME and said so in a falsetto tone. Burt said; “Sure, sure. Francine, if I were you I’d check that pocketbook for anything missing.”

Frank laughed and repeated; “I wasn’t in her pocketbook.”

Felicity chimed in, saying; “You’re always in her fucking pocketbook. Why don’t you get one of your own?”

With the exception of Coarshon, the group was now laughing or smiling, trying to think of the next ridiculous thing to say.

Faces were out of the laptops, looking at each other, the ceiling and occasionally glancing at Coarshon, who apparently got a shit attack and left the room.

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He came back in a few minutes, sat down and said; “Is the fun over now?”

Breaker said; “Now that you’re back.” Coarshon just eyed him and went back to his laptop. The rest of the group didn’t laugh either, perhaps having had their temporary fill of merriment, so, dejectedly, Breaker put his face in the information dispenser and went to work.

Rather than reading his screen, Breaker lapsed into thought; “Now, I know some people are going to feel sorry for Coarshon and think that the rest of us are picking on him in gang form. Au contraire. It’s fine with us if he chooses to be a nerd. However, it’s not his right to make everyone else conform to his nerdity. Further, he has been here less time than us, does almost no work and opened the floodgates to a war for power no one else wants. If he wins, we will all be forced to adopt his undesired predisposition, unless we kill him. He should know, as perfect as he claims to be, that he has given us no good option. I guess he figured that we’d wave the white flag and capitulate. Not a fucking chance. This is America, boy and we’ll fight like guerillas in the trenches, if need be, just like the great ones who chased out most of the Brits.”

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Later in the day the boss paid a surprise visit, primarily to inspect the upstart’s scalp condition. By then Coarshon had been scratching and combing the little rebels so much that he had produced a combination scab and open wound. Christie visibly showed delight when passing behind the seated power seeker, blew air on the battle sight and watched the exuberant little ones wave.

Coarshon blandly said; “More infantile tactics?”

The boss also showed no emotion and countered with; “You got a good scab going there. I want a clarification in the rules of engagement. If you get the hairs to behave by pulling them all out, it doesn’t count.”

Coarshon never previously considered that maneuver, but didn’t want to surrender any of his options. He said; “The deal was that I had to make them sit down, with no specifications as to the methodology.”

The boss said; “Right. Key words- sit down. Something removed cannot sit down.”

Coarshon was stuck for a reply and contented himself with the feeling that he was in no worse shape tactically, than he

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thought he was, prior to the boss’ arrival. He sat silently and watched his computer screen.

Having won on one front, the boss decided to expand the offensive and added; “Some kind of time limit will have to be established. This deal can’t be open ended.”

Coarshon realized the mistake he had just made in offering no resistance. So he countered this time with; “No time limit was specified and you know full well that under contract law, that means that there is none.”

The boss was well prepared today and replied on two fronts, saying; “And you know full well that under contract law the deal is invalid when one party gets no consideration. I got none.

Secondly, we’re not operating under the law of contracts. This is war.”

The rest of the group were impressed and looked at their still standing leader as if to say; “Yay, Christie.”

Coarshon said; “If we have to establish a time limit, it should be my lifetime.”

Christie put the carried briefcase on the table, opened it and pulled out a very long and sharp envelope opener. The boss

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held it up in a fashion Coarshon considered menacing and said;

“I don’t think you’d do well with that deal. How about one month?”

Flustered, the most argumentative reply Coarshon felt safe saying was; “A 31 day month.”

The boss said; “I don’t know why I’m so nice to you, but you got it.” With that the letter opener went back in the briefcase and Christie left.

Trying to give the group the appearance that he had successfully saved face and what a good negotiator he was, Coarshon looked at the rest and said; “I straightened Christie right out.” They looked back and couldn’t help showing amazement.

The rest of the day was rather uneventful as Coarshon sat quietly and confidently, resting on his laurels, his cowlick at full attention. The band of six was at a loss for words.

***********************************

The next morning while Breaker was luxuriating in his own, personal, private, best thinking place he got an idea. While it didn’t appear likely on “Day 1” of the conflict, it was still

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more than possible that Coarshon could win his engagement. He had to put more cards in the game and hope for a surprise, resulting in confusion.

He heard a loud series of knocks at the door of his own, personal, private, best thinking place and an angry female voice said; “How the hell long are you going to be in there?” It was his own, personal, not so private, significant other, Compara.”

“All right, all right, godammit. You had to get up fuckin’

early.”

“I’ve got to get to work. Come on, already. I swear to god, I’ll piss on the goddam floor.”

This woman’s jerk job takes precedence over everything, at least she thinks so. Breaker usually humors her to avoid a long, stupid harangue and this seems to have reinforced her opinion.

He takes one last look at the forty year old, pensive face reflected in the vanity and exits, having to brush by the squirmy woman. He says; “You know, you can go outside in an emergency,” just to show her that he was doing something other than merely what he was told, pretending to have some say-so.

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Compara says; “You go outside,” and shuts the door, now content to be in her personal, private, best thinking area.

During the train ride to New York, Breaker solidifies his plans. Since Compara chased him out early this morning, he had no problem with the red dotted demon in the hallway and he had time to hit the head before making his grand entrance. He uses a few minutes to immerse his comb in water and backcombs the hair, more or less around where Coarshon maintains his cowlick.

He walks into the conference room while Big Red displays 8:52 and registers his usual happy tidings to a full house. But, today he gets more than the usual response, as his friends must have seen something weird out of the corners of their personal, company owned, laptop imprisoned eyes and actually look up when they say; “Urrurrurr.” They stare at his head, while he stares at Coarshon’s, whose grease spot has a bleeding scab, while the apparent extra attention and raking has had no effect on the independent cluster of hairs willingness to lay down.

Francine starts to laugh at Breaker’s head and says;

“Pushing for a promotion?”

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“Yeah, why not? Bigger assholes than me think they deserve it. In fact, I’m not going to do any work at all today, but I’m going to not do it thoroughly and perfectly.”

This gets Coarshon’s attention and he looks up from his personal, company owned laptop and returns breaker’s previous assessment of his head by assessing his. He says; “Trying to be an idiot?”

“No more than usual. What do you mean?”

“Come on. You know exactly what I mean.”

Breaker affects a bored posture and merely says; “I have no interest in pursuing this stupid guessing game with you.” He hangs up his “Columbo” raincoat and sits in front of his personal, company owned laptop, but doesn’t turn it on. Instead, he opens it and uses it as a mirror to further adjust his new hairdo. Now, he has everyone’s undivided attention.

Coarshon says; “Fix it correctly.”

“Why don’t you?” After saying that Breaker realizes that his enemy could choose to interpret that phrase as an invitation to do something to his head, rather than doing something to his

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own, as was intended. A clarification is necessary, so Breaker says; “That is, why don’t you fix your own?”

“I’ve been trying and when I do, you’re in for a lot of trouble.”

“I’ll worry about that when it happens. In the meantime I’m going to openly display my new hairstyle and work habits.”

“This is just mockery.”

“Au contraire. Haven’t you heard that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery?”

“You know damn well that I didn’t choose this cowlick.”

“How could I possibly know that your cowlick was not a nefarious and devious, conscious plot to grab power?”

Coarshon has no response, but continues to look at Breaker, as if the next possibility is that he will hit him. Breaker wouldn’t mind. That would forever do away with any plans Coarshon has of being in charge and he might get a well-compensated, work related injury. In an effort to keep the conversation going and to be further confusing, Breaker goes in another direction and says; “All right. Let me pretend to

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believe for a while that you are totally guileless. Are you saying that you require some type of special consideration; like someone with cerebral palsy; and further, that I am being cruel by appearing to be making fun of someone with a handicap?”

The rest of the group is now mildly amused and Coarshon must gather that he is not doing well in a public confrontation, so he puts his face back in his personal, company owned laptop and, desiring to appear authoritative, says his standard; “Okay, fun’s over. Time to go back to work.”

Francine, Suzanne, Felicity, Frank and Burt, defiantly shut off their machines (fooled ‘ya), take out combs and use the black plastic reflections to make some of their hair stand straight up, smirking proudly at Coarshon and Breaker.

Frivolity was the order of the day for the crew, while Coarshon kept his head down, looking work-like, but doing nothing of any value. He steamed, causing a few more hairs to stand up. He thought; “They will pay as soon as I’m put in charge.”

The boss showed up just before lunch, smiled and looked down at Coarshon’s battleground and seriously said; “Looks like you’re getting beaten pretty badly. If that gets any worse

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you’ll need a tourniquet around your neck.” Christie was delighted and amused until a look was taken at the rest of the group. A frown was in evidence, as the blond head turned to the side and said; “Okay, I’m amused. Now cut the shit.”

Coarshon saw an opportunity to attack and said; “And they haven’t done any work all day.”

Christie’s brow wrinkled and looked at Coarshon in silence, but the boss’ eyes said; “Look who’s talking.” Christie turned back to the troops and said; “Seriously, flatten out those heads.”

Francine was the first to speak out and indignantly registered; “No.” The boss’ face showed surprise, but Christie’s mouth still didn’t move. Francine felt obliged to elaborate, so she added; “If he (pointing at Coarshon) can take some kind of advantage out of being fucked up, why can’t I?”

Breaker said; “And I.”

Frank said; “Here, here.”

Felicity said; “And I.”

Suzanne said; “And I.”

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Burt kind of mumbled something that sounded like; “Oorah.”

He couldn’t be blamed, as he was the only member of the group born in another country. His half-assed agreement had to be commended, as where he came from, insurrectionists are merely blown away.

The boss looked back at Coarshon and said; “They have a valid point, you know.”

Suzanne, sensing something good, pushed the envelope again and said; “And I’m only going to do one review per month, just like him, but it will be thorough and perfect.”

The boss turned back to Coarshon and said; “Well, what do you have to say to that.”

Coarshon grimaced, threw out his hands to the side and said; “Nothing. It’s obvious that they are just making fun of me and it doesn’t warrant any reply. Why are you on their side?”

The boss said; “I’m not on anybody’s side. I’m trying to watch out for the interest of the company, just like you always claim.”

Coarshon was at a loss. This had been a very confusing day for him and he needed to regroup before he could possibly defend

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himself. His silence prompted the boss to make a decision.

Christie said; “I want everyone to flatten their heads and continue normal work patterns,” and heard the groans, held up one finger and continued; “And the time limit for you getting your cowlick problem straightened out has become this Friday.”

Now, Coarshon gave the boss a bold look, said nothing, but his startled face reflected; “Liar. You changed the deal.”

Christie detected that accurately. One does not advance to that position without acquiring well-honed instincts and the ability to hide them. The boss said; “This nonsense cannot go on in perpetuity. Friday is it. And, frankly, Mr. Coldbury, if you can’t get thirty little hairs to behave properly by then, you’re simply not management material.”

Coarshon said; “It’s more like fifty!”

The boss grimaced and said; “Whatever. I’ll be back here Friday morning and this matter will be settled once and for all.”

Christie started to walk back out when Coarshon said; “Now it’s Friday morning? I can’t even have until the close of business Friday?” Coarshon had the audacity to cautiously and lightly smack his right fist on the table, advertising his

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temerity. The boss sternly said; “Friday morning, whenever I arrive. Feel fortunate that I gave you any kind of deal at all.”

Christie confidently walked out.

The troops, who had already flattened out their heads, waited for the door to close, looked at Coarshon, stuck out their tongues and made the best imitation they could of a fart noise.

Coarshon showed them his middle finger and said; “I’m not through yet.”

*******************************************

Wednesday and Thursday passed with the normal crap in evidence; backbiting, power plays over minutia and appearing busy with faces buried in some meaningless computer display.

Breaker couldn’t get into it much as he kept looking up at Coarshon’s head, doing his best not to be obvious. He saw the others doing the same and they would occasionally nod approval at each other, seeing that the perfect one still looked like a roadrunner, with a periodic flowing red river in the highlands.

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Breaker woke on Friday morning and immediately claimed, what he would have to now accurately call, “THE Best Thinking Room,” one of the small adaptations dictated by marriage. He really didn’t have much to think about, as at this point it was a done deal; either the cowlick had been taught manners or it hadn’t. So he didn’t care when the territorial one laid her claim.

He heard; “Come on out. I’ve got to get in there.”

Just to be difficult he responded; “This is my time in here. You got up early just to bother me. I’m not coming out for half an hour.”

“You don’t own this place. You’ll have to learn to share.

Get the hell out!”

“You’ll have to wait a bit. I didn’t even piss yet.” The silence indicated that had worked. Breaker filled a cup with water and poured it slowly into the bowl and flushed. He walked out and said; “Don’t take forever. I’m not through yet.” He was just really trying to establish some kind of protocol, as he could really care less. Breaker thought; “If I have to go badly enough, I’ll go outside and let it fly. It gets complicated though, because Ms. Territorial absolutely hates it when I do

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that. She must be worried that the neighbors are going to see something they haven’t seen before. Having had limited contact with a few of them, I consider that distinctly possible. At any rate she succeeds in creating a situation where she has something to complain about, no matter where I go.”

Breaker knocks on the bathroom door and says; “When are you coming out? I own this time share.”

Silence.

“Come on. You’ve had enough time.”

Silence.

“Are you all right? I’m going to have to break this door down to find out.”

He pounds on the door, jiggling the lock and she finally responds; “Stop it. I’m fine.”

“I thought you drowned.”

Silence. Fun’s over. Breaker goes to the kitchen and has coffee. After that he dresses and goes to work, anxious to see the biggest day in the company’s history.

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Big Red in the hallway greets him with the numbers, 7:48

and a happy face (☺), the work of his enemy. Though it would be prudent to first make a detour, he is so anxious to see Coarshon’s head, that he goes directly into the study room.

Dammit. He’s not there. He thought; “This is the first time I’ve ever gotten in before him. This must be a day of significance. I did come close once before; the day he started a fire in his apartment he only beat me by five minutes.” Suzanne and Frank walk in, as surprised as Breaker is.

Frank says; “What did you do with him?” and laughs.

Breaker says; “It’s no laughing matter. He’s hung himself in the bathroom. Now he’ll be a martyr.”

Frank dismissively says; “Get out of here.”

Suzanne adds; “We should be so lucky.”

Breaker says; “You don’t believe me? Check it out. You spend enough time in there anyway.”

Suzanne says; “I can’t go in there.”

Breaker says; “Sure you can. Nobody’s there, at least not two minutes ago. You’ve got to see it. His tongue is hanging out

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and his eyes are popped. Worse than usual and right in your favorite stall.”

Suzanne says; “Let’s go, Frank. I’ve got to see this.”

Frank gives Breaker a questioning look as they exit and Breaker is compelled to add; “Perfection in death.”

In their absence Felicity, Burt and Francine make their entrances, more or less together. They look at the empty seat at the head of the table and raise their eyebrows. Francine says;

“I guess the bastard is going to make us wait for the event of the year.” Smirks are in order and even more importantly, Breaker has to make a beeline for the away- from- home- best-thinking room and regrets having encouraged Suzanne to go in it.

Fortunately, for him, they are walking back, as Breaker enters the hallway. When they pass Frank says; “Asshole.”

Breaker puts up no argument as he has other priorities.

When he returns to the conference room the group is all seated in their usual chairs, but don’t have their faces in anything other than the air.

Felicity mildly chuckles at her own joke and says; “Stupid Frank believed you.”

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Frank immediately responds with; “Like hell. I never pay any attention to this idiot.”

Breaker sits in his customary seat and sees that Francine and Burt are laughing and slapping each other’s shoulders, trying to get a rise out of Frank. From the annoyance on Frank’s face, Breaker begins to wonder if Frank did believe him. In an attempt to keep the nonsense going, as this is the first time in a year that Coarshon was not there to put a damper on things, Burt says; “Suzanne, you were there. Did jackass Frank believe it or not?”

Suzanne says; “I don’t know.”

The lawyer in Burt makes its presence known and he follows up with; “Surely you must have some insight into the matter.”

Suzanne disgustedly says; “Burt, why don’t you cut the shit? You’re just trying to put me in the middle of this.”

Burt is unfazed and continues on saying; “Since you said;

‘I don’t know’, then you’re saying that in your opinion, there is as much chance that Frank was stupid enough to believe Breaker, as there is chance that he didn’t,”

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Suzanne doesn’t have any reply to the observation and just says; “BURT.”

Burt is now really enjoying this, as his favorite office game has been to annoy Frank, ever since Frank mimicked his rapid fire speech pattern. He continues; “So, Ms. Carpenter, would it be more accurate to assign a higher probability that Frank is indeed a believer?”

Frank’s goat has now been totally gotten and he gets up from his chair and says; “Suzanne, tell him to fuck himself. All we have in here are assholes.” Everyone, excepting Suzanne and Frank, is now laughing out loud. Frank carries his “New York Times” out of the room and heads for his personal, private, best thinking place.

When Frank is out of earshot Suzanne says; “You know, you guys. . . . . .Don’t you dare ever repeat this, but I think Frank was expecting a corpse.” She starts laughing and the rest join in.

The boss pushes a personal, private, well-rounded body through the door and in the usual, trademark, affable, amused style says; “Quite a happy group, considering that you may imminently be answering to Coarshon.” Christie turns from side

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to side, looks at the wall clock which now reads 8:55, double checks that against the personal, private, individually owned wristwatch and says; “Where the hell is he?”

Breaker says; “He’s hung himself in the bathroom,”

obtaining a few guarded chuckles and a smile from the boss.

Christie takes another quick look around the room and says;

“And, don’t tell me. Frank is sitting next to him and they’re doing the crossword puzzle together.”

Breaker says; “It HAS been a strange week, but Coarshon is of no use with the puzzle, even when he’s normal. . . . . .I should have said his normal self.”

The door opens and Frank says; “Look what we’ve got here.”

He gestures gracefully and bows. Coarshon walks in behind him and he has everyone’s attention, as every hair on his head is standing up.

The boss is amused and says; “Sid Vicious, I was told you were dead.”

“I came back to straighten you and your troops out.”

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“You lose. You still have a cowlick, no matter how you slice it.”

“Well hear this. The cowlick was unbeatable, so the rest joined the club, providing the perfect consistency the company likes.”

“Well, hear this. Your deal wasn’t with the company, whoever that is; it was with me and you lose.”

Coarshon made a snarl, not necessarily in an attempt to intimidate, but of frustration in having no more avenues to pursue.

Christie said; “Cheer up. I always take good care of my people, even those of your ilk. I made arrangements for you to become a Senior Vice President at a 35 percent increase in pay.”

Coarshon’s face softened, though his mind said; “Be careful, there’s got to be some kind of trick.”

“Yes, my lucky perfectionist. You will be going to the Personnel Division in charge of perfection and thoroughness.”

Coarshon thought; “How could he lose? It was the job he always dreamed of.” He started grinning and reached out his hand

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to shake Christie’s.

With the shake the boss said; “Come on now. Get going. Oh and flatten out as much of your head as you can before you get there.”

Coarshon stumbled, in his excitement, but didn’t fall and said; “Thank you. Thank you.” His mind said; “I think.” With his hands brushing down his well-oiled hair, he went out the door to his new destination.

The boss looked at the troops and said; “Well, that’s that.

Now we can go back to normality.” He saw six faces, obviously not of the gleeful variety, looking with questioning expressions. Christie threw out both arms to the side and said;

“What?”

Breaker said; “I wouldn’t mind a promotion and pay hike for being a useless asshole.”

The boss said; “If that was all it took, you’d be the Chairman of the Board.”

Breaker stuck out his tongue and said; “Ha, ha, ha.” His compatriots were not laughing.

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The boss amplified on the matter, saying; “The point is that being a useless asshole is not enough of in and of itself.

You have to be a handicapped useless asshole. It tugs at people’s heart strings.”

Breaker said; “He’s not handicapped anywhere except in his head.”

The boss said; “Close, but no cigar. His handicap is ON his head.”

Breaker said; “Oh, come on, that’s no handicap. That’s just a . . . . . . .” He couldn’t find the right word.

The boss quickly replied; “Tell that to the Executive Vice President in charge of Personnel. I convinced him that it was and he was thrilled to now be able to add another number to his EEOC reports; a handicapped useless asshole at senior management level.

Breaker said; “That’s not gonna work.”

Christie said; “That’s the Executive VP’s problem now.

People don’t wind up in Personnel because of excessive smarts.

Bottom line, he’s out of here and now that he won’t be around to

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bother you guys, you can easily return to doing five reviews per week. Everyone in this room wins.”

The contingent pursed their lips and nodded approval, each reminded of why the boss became the boss.

For the rest of the day nobody sat at the head of the table. No one wanted the “honor.” However, in time, the group saw that visitors didn’t know who to approach, as they didn’t know who was in charge. For the sake of appearances the imperfect ones took turns in the head seat, each doing their duty for a day at a time. Breaker’s favorite day was always when it was Francine’s turn.

Coarshon quickly settled into his impressive office and met the one person who reported to him. She was a typist who didn’t have anything to type, because everyone she used to work for now had their own personal, company owned laptops. The dynamic duo did nothing wrong and consequently were perfect and thorough.

After a while Coarshon developed mixed feelings about his situation. Sometimes he was pleased to be a member of senior management with a large pay increase. Sometimes he felt stupid, doing nothing all day, though perfectly and thoroughly. Most of the time he was merely perfectly and thoroughly confused.

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Nobody ever could be sure if the Executive Vice President in charge of Personnel was successful with his plan, as for him to say otherwise would be an admission that he was less than perfect and thorough.

The End

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In a Nutshell

Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall.

Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.

All the king’s horses and all the king’s men Couldn’t put Humpty back together again.

A kingsman derided; “A wall is not a chair.”

Humpty replied; “A surrealist really doesn’t care.”

The man sneered, growled and croaked; “What’s that you

.......... said?”

Before he could respond, Humpty, too, was dead.

Ha Ha

The End

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An Oddball Trip

His craving brown eyes diverted to the storefront, now displaying bald, impassive, nude female mannequins. He counted six of them, slowed down to admire the details and differences and particularly noted that hip width and breast size were far from uniform. He wished he knew their hair color. As a matronly fifty year old woman came to an open door, carrying garments to the cold models, she raised her thick, black eyebrows and looked at him as if as if he was substantially more deviant than he previously thought.

Embarrassed, he lowered his eyes to the ground, hoping that she would think he saw something of interest there, made a disparaging sniff at the non-existent source of allure and was again on his way.

The round clock, supported by a reeded black iron pole showed big hand on the twelve and little hand on the eight and suddenly the street commenced filling with briskly walking, well dressed people on their way to work.

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He took special note of the women’s shoes; some high heeled, his favorite; some flat; some in between, all supporting a part of their bodies with which he was well acquainted, but, with which he needed more familiarity; LEGS. Some were stockinged and some were bare. He ignored the ones covered in pants, not being able to be sure if the occupant was a woman.

He, too, moved quickly down the concrete pavement, until he sensed an odor of foulness and started to sneeze. He couldn’t stop and noticed that the heads attached to the legs and shoes he so admired were looking down at him and laughing. It wasn’t of the derisive variety. They seemed to be indicating that he was doing something cute or that he was adorable. The curiously starting day got even more strange when two women, of about forty, walking together, put their grinning, heavily made up faces right in front of his, said indecipherable things and reached out their hands to touch him.

“How provocatively rude”; he thought. He wouldn’t dream of touching a stranger, unless he was instructed to, no matter how charming. “Where were they trained, if anywhere?” He still couldn’t stop sneezing, but didn’t let that deter him from again quickly moving down his path, to at least temporarily, escape the disturbing and exciting familiarity. He knew he was

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bewildered, but didn’t know that he was also bewitched and thought; “In broad daylight and in public?”

The weird adventures of the morning continued as he scampered down the commercial street, weaving and dodging, so as not to make contact with the many bodies now present, the heads of which, were now all gazing and grinning at him, totally freaking him out. The hunger pangs set in mightily, exacerbating his situation and he just wanted to get off somewhere alone. Was he in trouble for ogling the mannequins? How could he be certain in this church going, conformist environment.

Despite moving quickly, it seemed to take ten years, but he got to the corner and turned on to the residential side street, which had little traffic. Feeling better, he slowed down to a walk and looked for his house. There it was, the blue one with the large elm tree and bird bath in the front yard. He walked onto the property and took the side path to the back yard, hoping the gate was still open.

Fantastic! It was. Now feeling safe he pranced through the well mowed grass and saw Madge, one of his leggy female owners at the back door, holding a dish. She reached down and playfully rubbed him all over, increasing his fever.

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She put the dish on the ground and he satisfied his hunger with the warm chicken, rice and vegetables thinking; “I wish I could tell you about all the strange, smiling people I met. I’ll never again go out there alone.” She watched him eat, often saying; “Slower, slower,” to no avail. When he finished he rubbed his furry body all over the bare LEGS of the woman he knew so well, more than glad to be back at home. Madge sternly looked down at him and said; “Freddy, you’re such a bad beagle.

Where have you been?”

Freddy didn’t understand the words, but interpreted them as love.

The End

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The Grand Prize

The storm was brewing for months, as Rocky, a two year old lion made his presence felt and respected by the others. It evolved to a situation where everyone except Enormous George, the king, would clear the path, rather than risk incurring Rocky’s wrath.

George would nonchalantly stand his ground, pretending to not even notice the smaller, but much younger upstart, until Rocky “accidentally” walked right into him, roughly brushed by and laughingly said; “’Scuse the hell out of me, grandpa.”

George was expecting this day and immediately picked up his right front paw and smacked Rocky’s face, drawing blood with his claws.

They both knew it would be quickly broken up, but for the sake of show, they roared and jostled each other around, until the other male lions got between them. It was decided that the fight would be held that night, giving everyone time to get their bets in.

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The king and the challenger did their ferocious bests, as the excited audience watched the ring from the sidelines. Both contestants were bloody and circled each other, trying to get their teeth into the other’s hindquarters.

Two female lions arrived together and one of them was up on all fours yelling; “Watch his right! Be careful, Rocky. Oh, shit.”

She turned to her calm, impassive friend, quietly reclining to her left. Ms. Verbal excitedly says to Ms. Nonchalant; “Who are you rooting for? Don’t you have a favorite?”, to which she is advised; “I haven’t bet a nickel on it. Turn them upside down and they all look alike.”

Two weeks later King Rocky was laying with his head down on a warm, sun drenched boulder, seeming somewhat tired and despondent. Reports came of a strange pack of lions in the territory. Rocky sighed and scratched his forehead. “Got to take care of business”; he thought, as he rounded up the troops and gave instructions. He took the front lead position and led the warriors out. He was relieved when he saw there were only three interlopers, none looking particularly formidable.

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The strangers kept a respectful distance and identified themselves as reporters from the “National Big Cat Times”, congratulated Rocky on being the new champ and asked him what it was like to be king.

Rocky laid flat on the ground, put his temporarily alert head back down on a warm rock and said; “If I get one more complaint from the ladies today, I’m going to learn how to masturbate.”

The End

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Got Those Socio-Economic Blues Again, Mama

Yet another recession, depression, transgression, international dislocation and bank misallocation was well underway in the land of Shangri-La, instilling the fear of God in the population and she just had to have had the luck to be working for a nitpicky employer, who fired her, just because she hadn’t done anything right for the last nine months. The nerve!

Since when were employers allowed to make those kinds of judgmental decisions. It came as quite a shock, as this was the first time that happened in 37 years of working.

Reporters reported that there were four to five hundred applicants for every available position. She nervously updated her resume and filed a claim for unemployment benefits. She e-mailed her credentials to anyone needing someone remotely related to her vast prior experience and she was pleasantly surprised to find herself invited to eighteen different interviews.

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She arrived early for the third one and read the

“Cosmopolitan” magazine left on the table of the waiting room, trying to relax by getting something humorous on her mind.

A door opened and a disinterested plain young woman called her name. She followed Ms. Sparkles down the hall to an office with a closed door and was told; “You can go right in.”

She opened the door to see a middle-aged, Mervyn’s attired white woman, sitting behind a desk cluttered with papers and cosmetics; a computer radiating in the corner. Ms. Busymascara didn’t look up when she officiously said; “Please take a seat.”

The immediate problem was that there were three chairs available. Though virtually identical, our heroine wondered if the woman in charge would take some kind of message from her choice. Would a left position immediately rule her out? And, whose perception of what was left would prevail, as her left was Ms. Eyeliner’s right? She found the answer easily, wondering why it wasn’t at first obvious to her. The corporate right answer is always in the middle, with a pocketbook on the right and a cold hand on the left. To take care of the right-left perception malaise, as she placed it there she announced; “My purse is always at MY right.” Hearing no objection she reclined in the

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center and half-heartedly extended her nervous, cold left hand to the other chair, careful not to make real contact.

The interviewer watched the activity out of the corner of one assessing eye, felt challenged and continued to pretend scrutinizing the document in her hand. Her brow wrinkled and she did her best to imitate a concerned pig snort every few seconds.

After a minute she looked up and said; “I have a number of problems with things on your resume, which I just printed out.”

Not expecting so direct an opening, the applicant had no prepared response, so as best she could, merely repeated what she had just heard; “You printed out my resume and you have a number of problems with it. Pray tell, what might they be?”

Uncertain if the applicant had a case of “sarcasm beyond her station”, the interviewer picked the easiest target and confidently said; “Well, it says here that you were working for the State of New Jersey from 1975 to 1892, for one.”

She said; “I’m sorry. I’ve been stressed lately and must have made a mistake. That obviously should be 1992.”

“And on the next job, you were working as a ‘Senior Anal’?”

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She couldn’t help but laugh at that one, her poorly done front bridge flying out of her mouth onto the interviewer’s papers. She nervously retrieved it and stuck a few fingers in her mouth trying to get it back in place, without success. The interviewer stared blankly at her. Not knowing what the office policy manual had to say about this situation compelled her to take one of the volumes from her desk drawer and she commenced furiously leafing through pages.

The temporarily toothless applicant said; “Maybe I should just leave it out. No, no, wait. There it goes.” She didn’t get it in perfectly, but thought that if she controlled any unlikely exuberance that might come upon her, it would hold. She said;

“I’m sorry. You were saying?”

The interviewer’s unforgiving, piercing eyes were silently and stoically enjoying the situation. She felt powerful. She made a tight lipped smile, her lip corners turned up for a fraction of a second and repeated; “It says here that on the job you commenced in 1992 that you were a Senior Anal?”

She remembered already experiencing the humor of the mistake, so she merely said; “That should be Senior Analyst” and

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tried to return the obligatory tight lipped smile and the bridge again fell out, at least, this time, in her lap.

The non-interview deteriorated from there and she left, convinced this job would not be hers.

As she slowly walked back to her car she thought about the $600 per week she was receiving from Unemployment, whose only requirement was that she go to three interviews a week.

She smiled a real smile as she started the engine and replaced the misshapen bridge with the corrected one waiting in the glove compartment. As she drove away she thought; “I’ve got this down to an art.”

The End

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Blues in Light Green

I got the bourgeois, college educated, wife wants me to make more money blues. “Join the club” you rightly say. I did, a long time ago. I just have a penchant in my old age to tell people what they already know. You follow up with; “So, why should I continue reading?” Because people like having their thoughts confirmed in writing and this is a very short story.

I realize that in the current economic climate increasing numbers have a goal of becoming bourgeois. Forget about it.

Without radical change or fantastically good luck things are going to be “as is” for some time.

The new generation has been cheated. When I was young it was assumed one could attain the “status” of being bourgeois anytime one set their mind to it. That’s one of the reasons we disdained the term.

So, am I bragging? HELL NO! I’m sympathizing, primarily with the young. You can’t marry, or even date the Whore of Babylon, anymore. She’s been taken and hidden away; can’t even

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get dirty if you wanted to. The key question is who got her? I haven’t the slightest idea. I suspect it’s some kind of group thing. When I figure out who got all that was stolen, when it became necessary for two incomes to afford essentially the same ordinary house one did forty years ago maybe I’ll have a clue.

I just had to replace my personal bathtub plug the hole doohickey and took the only one the store had that was not “NEW

AND IMPROVED.” The fact that it was the cheapest, of course, played no role in my decision. When I got it home my significant other of 41 years observed and dejectedly said; “That one’s better than mine. I have to upgrade.” She didn’t realize that commentary is endemic to the heart, or lack thereof, of a system that rewards the few and keeps 99% feeling inadequate. When she returned from work the following day with a “NEW AND IMPROVED”

doohickey, I was compelled to follow suit.

So, kiddies, this is your world and it will be that way a long time. If you like it as is, fine with me. But, if you don’t, you better make a noise, the decibels of which, have never previously been heard. It’s your ass.

The prizes are enormous. Believe it or not, many people from my decayed generation did whatever they wanted in their

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youth and things, more or less, worked out. And they didn’t have to live with mommy and daddy to age 40 to do it. I know your mom and dad are really great people, but come on now.

I don’t know; maybe some fanatic will start an all-out war and that might have an effect on things.

The preceding diatribe, authored by Gustav Davidson, first appeared in the January, 1932 issue of “Plebian Economics”, published by “Anyone’s Press”, based in Zurich, Switzerland and is hopefully not protected by any copyright law. Written in German, it was translated by me, as I had a German uncle (by marriage), who I often saw on Christmas.

The End

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The Revisions

One leg on the asphalt driveway and the other on the gray composite concrete garage flooring sixty-five year old John Whinestory sat on the cracking, old wooden bench which was probably beyond repair, certainly with his carpentry skills. He sat on it gingerly, keeping as much weight on his feet as was possible without having to actually exert himself by standing up, in a half-assed effort to prolong the bench’s life. He never had liked the once red painted, pew-imitating piece of soft pine, hence its place away from the house proper, but he was a Midwestern-depression-will-come-back cheapskate determined to get his $9.99 plus tax worth. His virtually useless left hand shook as it pushed the starter button of his rotary blade saw.

The other was doing its best to guide the old machine to the desired place on the weathered piece of wood he found many years ago. Formerly utilized as a makeshift shelf for small tools, it no longer was required for that as he disposed of most of his tools at a garage sale three months ago.

A gust of freezing Northern wind got his undivided attention, just when he thought for the thousandth time that he

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was finally on the right spot. His hand jerked as he turned his head to avoid the blast and he was saddened to think that he was back at square one; not cognizant that that outlook would have produced a distinct improvement from where he really was.

It was a chilly December ninth morning, somewhat beyond the beginning of the frigid weather endemic to Northern Massachusetts. When the wind took a break he glanced upward and saw a turbulent sky with swiftly moving, bulbous dark clouds prevailing over the “Caspar the Friendly Ghost” reminiscent, fluffy white ones previously there, it seemed, just seconds ago.

He was curious why he thought of the weather conditions in Massachusetts, as, to the best of his knowledge, he was in semi-rural Western New Jersey and had only been in Massachusetts twice in his long life, both times confined to his plane at Logan Airport, due to terrorist scares.

He thought; “Damn this weather. You can learn to tolerate the cold, but not the wind. .......... On the other hand I easily adapted to Florida’s balmy season, but I was susceptible to a cold front when there. ......... This is confusing. Better to concentrate on my deficient tool.”

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John’s current residence was once an out of the way part of the Garden State, condemned to familiarity by the completion of Route 78, a 6-12 lane super highway with no traffic lights or stop signs, which ran about 100 miles from the middle of Pennsylvania, through New Jersey, to the Holland and Lincoln Tunnels into Manhattan, with a posted 70MPH speed limit, substantially unenforced, certainly not during the 6-9AM and 5-8PM rush hours, resulting in cars, SUV’s, pickup trucks and 18

wheelers barreling their ways up and down it at an average of 90. No authority dared disturb the flow of goods and services going to and coming back from New York City, 60 miles from the chilly garage sitter.

Clinton Township usually didn’t drop below freezing until sometime in January, which he considered merciful for a myriad of reasons, his favorite the lack of Christmas snow. He didn’t consider himself a Scrooge or an Old Humbug. He just hated seeing the pure white stuff grayed over by the soot generated by bellowing trucks on the two mile to the east super-highway. He suffered the ugly concession to commerce in silence the rest of winter, but he found its existence on Christmas unbearable.

He obviously considered himself a sensitive soul, so why the hell was he again sitting half in and half out of the

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unheated garage on a cold morning? Ostensibly, he was going to do something useful with the circular saw that he hadn’t been able to start, though he had been fooling with it every morning since summer’s departure. Though he only was able to admit it to himself in rare moments, he wanted an excuse to be alone, especially when his overstimulated wife of forty years was parading around the house, nauseatingly cheerful, in her Frederick’s of Hollywood nightwear. Why didn’t she do this forty years ago? That’s easy, Frederick’s was not yet in existence.

But, how about thirty? Twenty? Or even ten? He concluded that she had to be punishing him for something.

Having had no success whatsoever with the circular saw, John finally decided today to cut his losses. “The hell with these new-fangled power tools. By the time I get them working right, I could have done the job by hand.” He looked around the garage shelves, the dust rising whenever he touched anything, just as Zoroaster appeared out of the mist of one of his dreams.

He found a simple old hacksaw he had forgotten he had and did the job he had been delaying for months in ten minutes.

But, he still had a gigantic decision to make. Did he want to find another outdoor task or try his hand at an indoor one?

The temperature seemed to drop by the second and the invasive

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wind blew snow, now being propelled like paint balls by those ominous dark clouds, into the garage and even got some on Harry.

He immediately felt like ice, both wet and cold. He always could tolerate the cold, but not if he was wet at the same time. Or was it vice-versa. In Florida he was wet often enough, or was that his wife? He decided to focus on a simpler thought. Would he be more comfortable here or inside? What if he closed the garage door? He decided that he wouldn’t have to extend his abilities by making an Either-Or decision.

He put the remaining old tools back in their long occupied spaces, closed the garage door and decided to go looking for a warm spot back inside. He had been out much too long and hoped he was still capable of being useful in a heated domestic environment. He tried to think of what might need fixing inside and if he would have to bring in any garage tools to do the job.

It was so many months since he lingered in the decorated areas long enough to notice anything that might need attention and he really couldn’t come up with anything specific to do.

He let the attempt at planning slip from his mind, walked in the door into the kitchen and was greeted by Marian’s smiling face. She was sitting at the kitchen table having breakfast

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holding today’s paper. She stopped eating and reading. Zoroaster walked on Styx.

John returned Marian’s smile and wondered if his wife, Trudy, was somewhere around.

The End

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Scenes from a Post Modern

Barber Shop

He walked by the flat chrome-plated exterior of “Pilosity Etcetera” and saw his reflection. The cloudless, sunny, summer brilliance was unforgiving and he saw that he was in desperate need of a haircut.

He pulled the glass front door toward himself and heard bells chime an imitation of some tune popularized by Duran Duran. No one greeted him, so he took the liberty of finding his own seat in what he thought was obviously a waiting area. He hid behind a glossy magazine, which formerly decorated the cold glass table with gray graphite support in front of him. He opened “Celebrity Secrets”, but didn’t scrutinize it, rather utilizing it as a shield, behind which he hoped to surreptitiously spy on the inner workings of the emporium.

The probably male hairdressers were devoid of their professional interest, either because of the workings of nature or a razor, perhaps both in some cases. The seemingly female employees displayed some personal experience with their career objective, with differing lengths of differing un-natural colors.

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His turn came and he sat in the center chair of the three in a small L-shaped wing. He saw and partially heard an apparent male discussing something with a seeming female. He couldn’t be certain, but it sounded as if they were trying to decide who would take him. Neither was excited about the job. He saw mirrors on both sides reflecting images of images of images, to possible infinity. He saw himself getting smaller and smaller, perhaps being distilled to his essence.

He heard the whirr of the overhead Sony Super Surveillance ten, with magnifying lens three, set at a five frames per second speed and realized that he was being recorded for posterity in painful detail.

He thought; “How will this be interpreted?” Every possible detailed image of his head, including views shrunken to apparent infinity, whichever unflattering frame chosen from a zillion possibilities. He concluded; “Do not move. Do not speak. Don’t dare move or speak.”

The Miserable End

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A Very Slight Nod to the

Greatest

Susan really had no interest in attending the company

“party.” However, she was sufficiently career oriented to find it prudent to attend. Robert felt the same way. The only clear cut good possibility to being there was to infiltrate one of the senior executive cliques and make your brilliance known. The problem was that whenever the seniors were invaded, they would get quiet, stare at the intruder and not respond to anything they said. Perversely, the same people would ask the next day, why you weren’t there, if you were in absentia.

Susan and Robert were introduced by a mutual unimportant associate and while they remained surface pleasant, neither wanted to strain to grind out chit-chat with the other. Left by themselves, each was uneasy, made no eye contact and looked around the rented banquet hall, disdaining the cheap tables, mercifully covered in white tablecloths, the “pizza parlor”, uncomfortable, black, twisted iron seats and the cream or dirty white, unwashed-for-months draperies covering all walls.

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Robert was bored to death, probably had one too many watered down scotches and finally said; “Status conscious timeservers.”

Susan, registering surprise or shock said; “I beg your pardon.”

“Status conscious timeservers, the entire lot.”

“Present company excepted, I’m sure?”

“Present company included, I’m more than sure. Tell me, do you have any relatives in important places?”

Susan made an expression that conveyed something bitter and said; “No, do you?”

Robert returned the same face and said; “No. I’m useless, too.”

She felt challenged, as she was still young and sufficiently naïve to think that she was the only one of a few to be so calculatingly business oriented. She didn’t want to admit that she was solely interested in breaking into the exclusive senior club and barring that, putting in the obligatory appearance. She also was vain enough to believe that

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someone like Robert might be interested in her for her attractiveness. At least she hoped that were the case. So, she said; “I wouldn’t mind meeting the right guy.”

He had the response he more or less expected and the rest of the evening was spent with both spouting witticisms and jokes, laughed at by the other, though neither thought much anything funny was uttered. They decided that after all the seniors left that they would get to know each other better at another hotel around the corner.

They checked in and went to their assigned room. The lone painting reproduction on the wall got their disinterest. It depicted a small boat with sails at half mast, floating on a still sea. No wind could be detected and probably would not have mattered much unless someone bothered to raise the sails. Nobody bothered as the effort was calculated to be in excess of the possible payoff. The sky was mildly overcast, but rainless. They both imagined that the little dinghy encountered an influential

“senior” ship and went back to shore in its wake, after the crew of two whined. The perfunctory rendezvous completed, the couple walked out of the hotel together, to be seen by four unimportant stragglers from the office “party.” They had no doubt that they were spotted, though the small group pretended not to notice.

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Robert said; “Shit. We should have walked out separately.”

Susan gave him the same blasé look she had given him much of the evening and replied; “I don’t care; if you don’t. If this has any effect at all on a woman’s career, it only enhances it.”

The End

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Early Autumn Drizzle

The disinterested sky, markedly clouded and splashed with brown, disease suggesting blotches had been congregating as long as he could recollect. The morose imitation of a squalid skylight replete with once-flying, now dead insects again dropped its expectoration as soon as he entered the great outdoors of his backyard. Accompanied by the exacting suburban opera of stereophonic hedge trimmer it methodically toiled to remove all vestiges of summer exaltation. Precisely as it had been for the memorable past days and nights the “heavens”

provided just enough discomfort to enhance the early autumn chill, but was adequately diminutive to make an umbrella ridiculous, thereby conserving the drear for long term manipulation.

What could he say or think that he hadn’t said or thought thousands of times? Nothing. Hope for something new? Hope for something good? Hope for something warm? He had beaten that to

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death for forty-six years and he continued to see the results of his efforts.

He lit his heavily filtered king-sized cigarette wishing that he had purchased regulars and be back inside more quickly.

He had no difficulty with his lighter in the drizzle incapable of dousing a tiny spark. He extinguished it himself after it had served its purpose with an effortless release of the thumb. He looked at the tree skeletons, wet surfaces shining in the occasional glimmer of the shy virtually set sun. He thought;

“The system is obviously designed to provide me with spit whenever I open the door. One might think it possible that the spit is continual and I just happen to notice it when I go out and that one would be wrong. I considered the possibility myself, so I always check the brick portal before going out, as it will show evidence of the slightest amount of water.”

The temperature of the brickwork was insufficient to dry out anything, being colder than Frosty the Snowman’s ass and a thousand times uglier in its unfixable broken and warped condition. The only possible cure was complete replacement, but

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that was inordinately expensive as breaking up and removing the old bricks was first required and it would necessitate smiling company for days.

Rather than pursuing any of his old unsuccessful hopes and dreams he decided a new approach could not possibly produce worse results. The doldrums of the recently withering elm trees, once bold and defiant in their unconquerable desire to thrive where they were considered weeds, showed the path. After a season of ridiculing the inept human attempts of annihilation they were succumbing to another onslaught which once started proceeds with the rapidity of a quad core laptop on steroids, something new, artificially resplendent in its tastefully faint perfume of cancer inducing hot plastic. He went in and slept.

The following day, tomorrow, being the day everyone awaits with hope, he took a walk in the field behind his house looking for inspiration and willing to negotiate for stillness. The tragicomic “surprise to the weatherman” meteorological event caught him in a poor position to remain dry. The dark clouds gradually and triumphantly strutted across the sky and soon dominated it, bursting perversely as he traversed the barren

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field, only a mile from home. He ran for cover, as he was not dressed to repel water. Instead his inadequate light clothes absorbed it and he felt the cold moisture on his skin. It seemed as if it touched raw bone. Only he could know, for certain.

You smartly ask; “Why didn’t he bring an umbrella?” The storm was not predicted by the meteorologists.

You continue your query and ask; “Why did he not find closer shelter?” I told you he was in a field, stupid! Fields don’t have any protected spaces.

A tribute to your persistence, you ask; “Why did he run for it?” Because he could. Others, no doubt, would have been content to slog through the mud.

You dare compare yourself and say; “I’ve been wet many times. Why was it a big deal for him?” He could tolerate being wet. He could tolerate being cold. He could tolerate being alone. But, he couldn’t tolerate all three conditions simultaneously.

Unforgivingly, you annoyingly persevere and ask; “Why was it cold?” Clouds are not conducive to heat, genius.

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Your probe incomplete, you pry and ask; “Where was Mary?”

He didn’t have the slightest idea.

“Why?” Because it was Friday.

“Why?” Because he didn’t take a good shit that morning.

“Why?” Because he felt like it.

“Why?” Fuck yourself.

Yes, why?

The Tragic End

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Buster’s Last Stand

Buster Wilson’s parents died in a car crash when he was 21

and left him a small farm in Massachusetts. Little of his early life is known, least of all by him. He had become accustomed to a daily routine he had as long as he could remember; helping Mom and Dad take care of the farm. An only child, he was devastated by their departures and would often cry; “Why did you leave me here alone? Take me with you.”

Even when he wasn’t feeling particularly suicidal, the old place felt kind of empty without his folks around to hound him.

He decided that he needed a companion. Not having had prior experience with the gentle set and being lazy (some might say efficient,) he turned to the classified ads in the local free newspaper. Women Seeking Men. 32 year old divorced white woman seeks male savior who wants children. This was interesting to him. The savior part sounded like she had some religious ideas and the children part was appealing to him because he could use the company.

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He used his computer to send her a message. It didn’t say much anything. He thought it would be obvious what this was all about, so he left his e-mail address and said he didn’t consider himself a savior, but that he’d do his best. He got an almost immediate response; “I’d like to know more about you. Age. Race.

Interests. Occupation. Financially secure? Address. Phone number. Credit card used.”

He was perplexed. Some of the questions seemed unanswerable and he didn’t see the relevance. When a stallion wanted company somebody would just deliver a female and leave her there a few days. They would eventually part, but Buster never knew at whose volition, or maybe it wasn’t even up to them. Mom and Dad always gave funny answers when the general subject came up.

Confusion aside, he was desperately alone in a world he didn’t make and decided to answer what he was asked. He e-mailed her back and wrote; “21. White, I think. Connubial bliss. None.

Don’t know. Riverbottom Road, Hope, Massachusetts. 545-2837.

None.”

The response quickly came; “Sounds like you’re interested in sex and have no money.”

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He continued in his simple, honest approach and simply wrote back; “Yes.”

There was no immediate response. In fact, there was no belated response. Buster patiently waited and checked his e-mail every ten minutes. He finally went to bed for the night. Over breakfast, the next morning he considered the possibility that something might be wrong with; 1) his computer, 2) her computer, or 3) computers in general. So he decided to contact her again.

This time he wrote; “Would like to meet. What is the problem?

Mine works.”

The reply came in a minute; “Bet it does, buster.”

He was now more confused than he was at the outset. He didn’t know what to say, but decided to give the machine one more try. He wrote; “How did you know my name was Buster? And that’s spelled with a capital ‘B’. What’s your name?”

Someone’s machine must be in need of repair. He went out to the porch and brought back today’s paper. In the Personal section he saw an ad that got his interest. It said; “33 year old predominately white female seeks savior who wants children.

Barring that, will consider one adept in the commercial arts.”

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Buster thought this sounded somewhat familiar, but decided that he had “had it” with the computer, at least for a while.

Besides, economics had always been a poor subject for him in school.

He attended a local new age meeting. There was only one other guy there and he belonged to the head guru’s dutiful servant. The women all seemed glad to see him and made playful conversation, until they asked and he told them he had no job.

Everyone enjoyed the lady in the pointy black hat doing magic.

At the end of the meeting the attendees formed a circle and joined hands. Everyone forced a smile and started chanting; “I can feel. I can feel. I can feel. I can feel,” then put on jackets, hats, scarves and gloves for protection against the September weather.

The meeting was over and people went their own ways. Buster walked to his car alone, turned on the engine and thought; “I don’t feel a goddam thing.”

He met “Not of This Earth,” who was perusing Cosmopolitan magazine at the local 7-11 and found that she was actually

“Waiting for Godot” in her head. She rode home with him and without asking, moved in.

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Finding “Waiting for Godot” overly tedious the next day he went to a bar named “Your Own Thing,” and was having an interesting conversation with a female, when another female spun him around by the shoulder and said; “You’re hitting on my bitch.” He looked at “her bitch,” and said; “Is that true?” She shrugged her shoulders and made a pathetic smile. Buster decided to go home.

He went home in a strange mood. He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t sad. He wasn’t happy. He might have been confused, but he was too confused to be sure. Without speaking, he walked by “Waiting for Godot”, who, curiously, stared at him and went with him into his room. He checked the TV listings and saw that the Bulls were playing the Timberwolves. He had heard that at age 55, Michael Jordan was making his seventh comeback. The reviews were mixed, but generally tended toward disappointment tempered by kindness.

He wanted to make his own evaluation. Seeing a basketball game on the tube, “Waiting for Godot” departed and waited elsewhere, enhancing Buster’s view of the game.

The game was already in the fourth quarter and the Bulls were behind by fifteen, to the worst team in the league. The announcer gave Jordan’s statistics; 8 points, on 3-15 from the floor, 0-3 from behind the arc and 2-4 from the free throw line.

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Buster’s first impression was that he looked tired, slow and stiff. The camera went to the Bulls bench, whenever there was a break in play and it picked up a guy in the expensive seats right behind it yelling out things directed at Jordan. “Quit, asshole,” “You’re embarrassing yourself,” “This ain’t a game for old farts,” and “You got a call from your great grandchildren,”

was the general tone. Michael seemed not to hear him, or the coach for that matter and just kept gazing upward at the score and time remaining.

The Bulls and Jordan did better, as he played frantically.

Fans hoped he wouldn’t hurt himself or somebody else. With 15

seconds left someone called “Timeout,” and again the camera went to the Bulls bench and focused on Jordan. He was looking skyward at the time and score. The Bulls were now down by 7, a three possession game. Impossible. Not to Michael. In his mind he was visualizing what he’d have to do to score 8 points in 15

seconds. The heckler yelled out; “It’s over jackass. Go home.”

Play resumed and Michael stole the inbounds pass, took the ball behind the arc and hit a three. He wasn’t able to get the next one and some little guy dribbled out the clock. The camera again focused on him walking off the court, still looking at the

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clock and score, as if there was some mistake. At the very least there must be some time remaining.

An announcer with a mike steered Michael over to the side of the court and asked him about the team’s possibilities of making the playoffs.

Michael’s attention came back to ground level and he said;

“We’ve still got an excellent chance to get there. I’m going to be playing less and less, giving these young guys a better chance. They’re pretty damn good you know. They don’t need some old fart messing up their chances.”

“Ah, Michael, don’t let that heckler get to ‘ya.”

“What heckler?” He again looked up at the 0:00 time remaining and the Bulls’ four fewer points and shook his head in apparent disbelief. He looked back at the announcer and continued; “Oh yeah, I know the guy you mean. He’s been there doing that all year. I really don’t hear it anymore.”

“I’m surprised that you haven’t gone after him with some of the stuff he says.”

Michael grimaced as if this was the furthest thought from his mind and said; “He pays for admission and that gives him the

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right to say anything he wants, at least that was what I was always taught.” Michael laughed and wiped his nose with his hand. He added; “That guy pays a fair amount of change for that seat. I like that a lot. The other thing is that I heard he sold off his season ticket and that tonight was the last game he will attend. So, bottom line is that his watching game is over, but my playing game goes on against the Hornets tomorrow night. Hey, you know you guys never ask me who my heroes are.” He chuckled and added; “Do you think that I’m so great that I’m my own hero?”

“Never thought about it. I guess everyone does kind of think that you wouldn’t be able to find someone of your own stature, except, maybe Babe Ruth. So who are your heroes?”

“Well, actually, there are quite a few. One guy comes to mind today, though; Grover Cleveland Alexander, Ol’ Pete.”

The announcer was silent, so Michael continued; “He won 373

games, despite being plagued with injuries. Played in the 1910’s and 20’s. He kept on playing well past his prime, until no team would sign him anymore and had one of those unforgettable moments during the last years. His team made the World Series and despite being over the hill, he won games two and six, the

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last one evening the series at three apiece. His team was leading 3-2 in the seventh inning of game 7, when the starting pitcher developed arm trouble with the bases loaded and two out.

The manager called Ol’ Pete in. The story is that he was asleep in the bullpen, got up and asked what the situation was and told everybody to keep their shirts on. The manager was Rogers Hornsby, one of the all-time greats, who started to tell Grover how to pitch to Lazzeri, caught himself and said; “Who the hell am I to tell you how to pitch?” Pete proceeded to strike out Lazzeri and hold the Yankees scoreless in the eighth and ninth.

And in just a few years when no major league team wanted him anymore, he went and pitched ten more years in the minor leagues. It wasn’t about the money. He just loved the game.”

Michael started to walk away and the reporter tried to get in one last question; “Michael, Michael. Got a prediction for tomorrow night?”

Michael said; “We’re gonna destroy ’em. Tonight we just came out flat against the worst team in the league, fell way behind and couldn’t catch up. That’s not going to happen again.

Hey, look, man, I’ve got to get going. These old bones can use some rest.” He waved and trotted off.

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Buster shut the TV. The room felt stuffy. He opened a window and was greeted with a cool, refreshing night breeze. He sensed something that must have been invisible, fly into the room. Before he had time to investigate, the door opened and

“Not of This Earth” was gawking at him. She said; “I’m staying in here now, unless you have any objections?”

Buster smiled and gently shook his head “No,” but said;

“Depends.”

The End

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True Medicine

The bottle came with a warning that he didn’t mind reading.

Not realizing that Marketing found one person who reported the experience and pressured Medical to report the “possibility” as a clever ploy, Samuel happily believed that the product could cause an endless erection. When he was warned that if one lasted more than four hours, the user should immediately report it to their doctor, he was sold.

Sam liked his female doctor a lot and fantasized about his annual physical. Now he had the opportunity and valid reason to call and tell her. When she got to the phone, she said hello and identified herself.

Sam said; “Doctor Marsha, I’m glad I could get you. I have an emergency.”

Reply.

“Well, you know that new medicine you prescribed for me came with a warning in huge.” He giggled; “No pun intended.

Letters.”

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Reply.

“Well, guess what happened?”

Reply.

“No kidding. Really.” He glanced at his wristwatch and continued; “It’s now four hours and twenty minutes.”

Reply.

“No, it’s not that at all. I think its ‘Ozzie and Harriet’

that I have on the TV.”

Reply.

“I’ve already done that three times and no change in.” He fished for the right word and came up with; “The dimension of the problem.”

Reply.

“That probably has a good chance of curing the problem, but she won’t be back from work for another three hours.”

Reply.

He laughed and said; “Oh, no, no, no. It’s the opposite of what you’re thinking. She’s kind of anti-drug.”

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Reply.

“Don’t you think medical treatment is in order? You know that I always like seeing you.”

Lengthy reply.

“I’m being dead serious. How can you be sure that you’re making the correct diagnosis in the abstract? The real thing still has some relevance, doesn’t it?”

Reply.

He again laughed; “You’re right. Perhaps I should have said thingy.”

Reply.

“I don’t know. You’re the doctor and expert.”

Lengthy reply.

“How can you just dismiss the warning as bullshit, when I’m living proof that it isn’t.”

Silence.

He faked; “Ooh, it hurts. I take it you’ve never seen this condition before.”

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Outraged reply.

“I didn’t mean to be insulting. I was just thinking about it on a medical basis. I definitely think you’re pretty enough.

I often picture you sitting next to me wearing that short tight skirt.”

Reply.

“I’m not trying to be like that. This conversation has taken a strange direction. Let’s try going back to square one. I have a real problem, at least, according to the manufacturer and in accordance with his instruction I’d like to stop in, see you and get the problem rectified.”

Reply.

“Right. Sorry. Unfortunate choice of words. Well, tell me what can happen if things stay as is forever?”

Reply.

“That’s not the least bit funny. First of all, I don’t have any duct tape and secondly it’s hurting more. Can’t a female appreciate a male’s distress?”

Reply.

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“Yes, I think you’re gorgeous.”

Reply.

“No, I don’t mind that at all. In fact, it’s my favorite thing.” Sam paused a second, giggled and added; “Not thingy.”

Reply.

“Most definitely smart too. I never met another woman with so many fascinating intellectual abilities. Your brain intrigues me even more than your legs.”

Reply.

“I’ll be there in five minutes. Thanks. I think I love you.”

The End for a Few Minutes

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Chance Encounter

I saw her again; the first time in six months. I was leaving Wal-Mart and she was coming in. I wasn’t sure it was her at first as we were bundled up in winter clothes, she’s gotten much thinner and she’s got new glasses; big ones. She used to wear ones that were hardly noticeable.

Q

It was great. I called her name somewhat questioningly and shyly took two steps toward her. She looked my way, smiled, took a few steps in my direction and gently offered her left hand.

Q

I’m not sure. I think I held it in my right; maybe my left; maybe with both hands. I don’t know how it ended. I know I didn’t want to let go, but I also didn’t want to restrain her, so I know I held tenderly. She must have pulled away at some point. I was looking into her eyes.

Q

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It happens whenever I see her. It’s out of my control.

Haven’t you ever been in love? Or does psychiatry preclude that?

Q

It is emotional and crazy, but it’s also got rationality and a self-serving aspect only a few seem to understand. If you’re happy being in love with her, then you’d be unhappy without her. It seems so obvious, but if everyone disagrees then I must be missing something I don’t want to find.

Q

That’s a subject for a novel. In brief, what it means to me is that I care about her more than I do myself; that my grandest moment is when she is smiling and happy; that I’m compelled to try to make her life better; that I want to spend every moment with her; worry about her when she’s away; that I trust her to infinity; and want to touch her everywhere.

Q

That’s true. I thought that I had gotten completely over her for about the fifteenth time when she drove to where I was walking my dog. We went toward her and she backed out of the parking space and left. I was really hurt as she knows my

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routine and I thought that she must have planned it just to be mean. I thought that was a cruelty my dream girl would not be capable of doing and therefore she was not my dream girl and phhht. That lasted until I saw her.

Q

Oh, I guess I neglected to tell you. When I was fourteen or fifteen I had a dream girl and it was exactly her. That’s one of the things that makes this so difficult. I’d go to sleep clutching my pillow pretending it was her and beg God to send her to me. I gave up at nineteen, got depressed and often thought about suicide. But I met others who weren’t bad at all, including my wife and I forgot about the dream until I met her.

Q

I never saw her face. She would be in bed with me. I’d be behind her, dozing off, with my right arm around her belly as she read a book. She had long, straight, black hair and wore glasses. I knew that she was smart enough to be a nuclear physicist or an investment banker, but wanted to do something more “human” with her life. I told her of this and she couldn’t stand to hear it and kept yelling; “Stop, stop,” before I was finished, but I insisted on finishing anyway.

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Q

That can be confusing. Everything about us is confusing.

That’s why I’m talking to you. You’re supposed to have answers.

When we were seeing each other regularly I told her that if she was not in the mood to see me, just say so, its okay. But that was said when we were always together. It wasn’t meant to apply to a once-in-six-months situation. I thought that would never happen. In fact, I didn’t even consider the possibility.

Q

We talked. I don’t know for how long. I lose track of time when I’m with her. We covered a lot of territory. We always did.

She gets right to the point.

Q

Yes, it was pleasant to an extreme. I was surprised. She told me that her newish dog has some of the attributes of my dog. Her dog rips open anything that’s stuffed and pulls all the stuffing out and because of that she’s got feathers all over her back yard. She laughed. I always thought she was more of a disciplinarian. She said that the way the dog experts say to break them of this habit is to first catch them in the act, but

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her dog knows she’s being bad and does it when no one is around.

Same with my Daisy and we both laughed about the bad dogs.

Q

No. We spoke about books. I know she likes George Saunders and so now do I after her recommendation of “Pastoralia” a year or so ago. She strongly recommended his new one; “Tenth of December.”

Q

Books have great meaning for us. I think it’s a way to communicate complex feelings. That’s true for me and I think her too. I mentioned David Foster Wallace and “Infinite Jest.” She said that he was one of the great geniuses of all time, but trailed off, suggesting to me that she has certain reservations about him. I do too; he was cold. She then added that she was reading “Consider the Lobster” and “A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again.” If you haven’t had the pleasure these are some of his lighter short stories, aimed primarily at humor.

Q

I really can’t say for sure. I’ve ordered “Tenth of December,” and have read a few reviews of it. The title short

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story apparently concerns people trying to do good for others and inevitably doing harm. As I’ve said I haven’t seen it yet and often when I read something I see a different story than the one described. But if it as described it would make sense in the context of our relationship. I had multiple reasons for suggesting “Infinite Jest;” one for its depiction of another guaranteed failure, this one at the most elemental level and the other to say how this book can be used, as I use it, as a course in writing. Rather than attending seminars I think one would do better to read the way a master handles many different styles.

Of course, I was leading up to telling her that I was well into the writing of my thirteenth book, this one about baseball, the first one in which she wasn’t one or more of the characters.

Actually, there may be a few others, but that’s lengthy and irrelevant to explain. I think she took that as a sign that I was getting better, and in some senses I guess I was. Now I’m not sure that I want to get “better” and furthermore, I have my doubts about whether or not being in love is a disease. I did want to tell her that DFW can be dangerous to read as he at times depicts a depression so realistically, it literally comes off the pages. Anyway, I asked for her new e-mail address to send her the baseball book when done as I’d like to have her thoughts. I said it’s better not to send the others as it could

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be uncomfortable. She didn’t say yes quickly, so I asked her to think about it and she said she would.

Q

Oh, no. We spoke about comic books we liked as kids, a place where she once lived, electronic publishing websites, Daisy’s health, her health, which she says is good, but she’s not one to complain. She smiled emphatically when she held one hand up to her eye level and said that when she was little she had a stack of Superman comics that high. ......... And like an idiot I said that I wasn’t a Superman fan and that I used to read mystery and science fiction, non-super-hero comics. She winced and I could have kicked myself right in the ass. I actually did read Superman a little, but I didn’t want to start equivocating. She hates that. Oh, and on top of that I said other stupidity. She asked me about Daisy. She’s getting close to ten years of age and has had a few hopefully minor health problems recently. I told her of them and the asked if her favorite dog Cody died when he was ten. It was obvious that she didn’t want to be reminded of that and she just said; “Eleven.”

I’m such an idiot.

Q

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No, she cut off contact completely three years ago, but we’ve had a few chance meetings since. I think there are many reasons why she did. Every practical consideration leads in that direction. There is no logic in our being together, most strongly in her case. But, of most significance, we have our own guaranteed built-in failure outcome and our own system of attempting to do good invariably resulting in the opposite, not to precisely say bad. We truly love each other, and having not met until our decrepitude, when we really have a good time together it serves to remind us of how wonderful the lost rest of our lives could have been. The last “date” we had the both of us wound up crying.

Q

It’s not the least bit funny to feel that way. Have you ever had a problem with the most important thing in your life, for which there was no possible solution?

Q

It’s not only me. Some very well acknowledged people have found the same thing; Heller, Wallace and Saunders. The system is fatally flawed.

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Q

I can’t help but think of it. It happened to me and more importantly, it happened to her.

Q

I think it’s possible, though it’s never been done. She also suggested my reading of “Ada” by Nabokov. She said that’s what she’s into now. It’s a complicated work of genius, which along with other themes has a suggestion that people can avoid the disaster if they are in love and stop time. I hope she finds something. I went on a similar search when she said she didn’t want to see me anymore, and I know this sounds crazy, but at the time I thought I had found a way to meddle with time, only to discover that time wasn’t the problem. What we needed was the fountain of youth and I haven’t got the slightest idea where that is. I’ll never tell her this. It’s discouraging and maybe I missed something. She’s much smarter than I am.

Q

Back east it’s called being “out there.” I knew a number of people who had done it. It’s like being on a nine month long acid trip where everything is symbolic of something else. The

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people I know in New Mexico never heard of it. So, I never talk about it as they’ve already concluded that I’m a nut and I don’t want to give them more evidence.

Q

Actually, I never asked her. She’s “out there” all the time. I guess I didn’t want to ask her a stupid question. She hates that.

Q

Worse than ridiculous this Catch 22 thing is perverse. It twists everything. If kindness results in hurting the other, then the suggestion is that it would only be truly kind to be cruel and make the other hate you, so that they are glad to live without you. I can’t bring myself to do this, which is either selfishness or weakness or the realization that she will see the motivation and it won’t matter. She’s stronger than I am and always thought that I was a little stupid, so twice she he been deliberately cruel, hoping that would make it easier on me. But I know what she’s doing and it makes me love her even more that she is willing to be hated just to try to help me. Consequently there’s nothing that she can do or say that will make me stop loving and missing her.

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Q

True, I forgot about her for about three weeks out of three years, and even then it’s because I’ve been drawing at straws to find some way out. And this curse isn’t fair to my wife either, but that’s a different lengthy discussion.

Q

I think it’s one of the circles of hell, and hell is right here. You see it daily. Kids abandoned by their parents put into foster homes and abused. What does anybody expect from them afterward? Many will devote their lives to fucking up the place that fucked them up. There’s a sense of justice in it.

Q

I didn’t come here to solve the world’s problems. I’m just using those asides as examples of situations with no solution.

Maybe I’m trying to show that things don’t work out for anybody and maybe thinking of them makes me feel less alone and picked on. And I know it’s worse for her, though she would recoil at any showing of pity. She is a strong woman. As a female she has to deal with things I don’t; like how she would look with a married man. Like how the support system she has obtained over

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the years might erode when she needs it most. Like hearing the snide comments. And I know she hurts, maybe more than I do. She reads voraciously and I once asked her if she had ever written anything. She emphatically and slowly said; “Not one word.” Can you imagine being that disgusted with everything. Every other person I’ve ever met has written at least part of one book.

Q

What can I do? Nothing. She once said that it would be easier if I was single. I told her I’d get a divorce and where that would leave me financially. She wasn’t interested. She once said she was out of money and I offered her some saying; “There are no strings attached.” She wasn’t interested. What can I do?

Just love her as much as she allows. She even told me not to use the L-word, so when I wanted to use it I’d say; “Forbidden word.” It seems that every time I try to do anything it just makes things worse.

Q

No, I still have this silly hope, but no answers. I’m not sure this will come to pass, but I think that since there is so much free entertainment available on the internet, that this is a temporary win for the people. But it has sown its own seeds of

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destruction as the best and the brightest will go into other fields where they can make a good living. Little new good stuff will come out and the people will be left with an old museum and videos of retards taking nut shots. But, they will rise and come out of their houses and spend more time with other people, just like in the days before TV.

Q

Yes, I’m that old. So is she. I believe that something unexpected will happen, allowing us to be together.

Q

Of course I don’t know what that is. If I did it wouldn’t be unexpected. Maybe she’ll never want to see or talk to me again. She’s told me that I am forbidden to follow her around and I won’t disrespect her wishes. She said that when she wants to she’ll find me. I wish she would, but even if she doesn’t, after seeing her again I know I’ll always be in love. It’s a nice feeling I lost for a few weeks. You’ll probably call it co-dependency. I don’t blame you. It’s just the limited teachings of your profession. As badly as I sometimes feel; I have dreams and waking visions of how great things might have been if we could have met while we were young, I found out that this is

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preferable to not feeling anything at all. I didn’t discover that until it was gone a few weeks. It should be no revelation, but it seems that when I talk to you it is. Didn’t someone say;

“Better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all?”

A song I’ve always liked says; “I feel the fever. I feel the pain.” Isn’t that the point? To feel?

Silence

The way I see it the worst case situation, wherein we can never see each other in this life is almost tolerable. I’ve already lived most of my years. It’s almost over. If I die and there is only oblivion there will be an end to pain. If there is re-incarnation I will hope to find her and be a monk in the meantime. If there’s any type of heaven I’ll be with her as it couldn’t be heaven without her. So, whatever the grand design, I’ll at the very least be out of pain. If there is an eternity I will wait. There’s an endless supply of tomorrows and I will believe that the next day will be the one. Heaven is a no-brainer.

Q

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Time’s up? You have a strange sense of humor for one in a supposedly helping profession. But, I guess you’ve just proven my point. Bye.

The End?

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Dating Directives

”Twenty-first century. No chivalry involved. No Bushido.” –

Patti Smith line from the song “Radio Baghdad” on her 2004

“Trampin’” CD.

After attending the theatre; a favorably reviewed, post-modern, male-female diatribe, containing yet another example of a supposedly insoluble double-bind, they went to the top floor of her diminutive building and entered her apartment for a nightcap. While drinking their second glasses of chardonnay, standing by the kitchen table, they instinctively embraced.

He dryly whispered; “It’s hot in here. Is your oven on?

This was our third date, the usual time sex happens.”

Her soft body became stiff as his and she broke away, saying; “How utterly romantic. ................... Are you trying to sweep me off my feet?” She went to the oven and turned it off, adding; “Mistakenly. My apologies for the inconvenience.”

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His silence reflected his inability to deal with sarcasm other than that contained in his own well known prognostications.

She still felt playful, but not in the same manner as a few seconds prior and said; “I’m following your lead. Apropos? My mood has now changed to your demonstrated lackluster rationalism. So, in that regard are you certain that three is the correct number? And do you have anything other than mere anecdotal evidence to support your claim?”

“Oh, don’t be difficult. That has been my experience, with exceptions in either direction here and there. A few male friends have reported similar things. Perhaps I should say

‘thingys.’” He was solitarily amused.

“Charming. Tell me. Can the number ever be four? Is that

‘three’ you quoted the result of a series of two’s and four’s, or one’s and five’s? Do you have any idea of the mean distribution?”

“......................................” He sat down.

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“Or infinity? Or none of the above? Please enlighten me.

It’s only fair that I understand the rules of the game as you play it.”

“I didn’t make the rules.”

“You’re an interpreter?”

“I’m getting a headache.”

“Sorry, my poor baby boy. ................ Okay, I’ll accept your assertion of ‘three’ as reasonable, but in need of further study.”

He smiled and stood up.

“One other small detail. What do you mean by ‘date’?”

“Oh, stop. What we just did, of course.”

“Attending a banal play? We haven’t done that three times.”

“No, spending time together.”

“So, if we were classmates in the same room would that qualify as a date?”

“No. In that case others are also present.”

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“So, if we spent time together, but were accompanied by others, that would not count?”

“Jesus.”

“Don’t falsely bring religion into this. We’re both agnostic.”

“A pre-arranged double-date qualifies?”

“Is pre-arrangement a requirement? That seems illogical. We can have a pre-arranged date, yet to be defined, and have a miserable time. On the other hand we could accidentally meet in a park and have a good time together. Please expound.”

He sat down.

She laughed and said; “Don’t get discouraged. I’m enjoying this.” She put butterfingers in the oven and turned it back on.

She said; “Oh, come on, baby. I was just playing. Can’t you take a joke? Get up.” She assisted his ascension.

He snickered as he asked; “Are you a lawyer?”

“As a matter of fact, yes.”

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Huge red letters appeared in his mind spelling “HIGHER

INCOME THAN ME!!!!” He went down for the third time and wearily said; “What on earth did you mean by ‘mood’ anyway?”

The buzzer sounded and her butterfingers were ready.

Those who deserve the most sympathy are those who never request it.

The End

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Last Call

Good afternoon, I guess.

Q

That’s what one is expected to say, right?

Q

Nothing personal intended.

Q

I don’t feel very chatty. Frankly, all our chatting has led me back to where I began.

Q

Began with you, began with her, began with everything.

Q

Yeah, I saw her again.

Q

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It wasn’t unpleasant. ................ It wasn’t pleasant either.

Q

I worry about her. I’d like to be with her.

Q

No, I don’t think the feeling is mutual.

Q

I think she almost tolerates me.

Q

I don’t know why.

Q

Easy to say.

Q

I’m not interested in anyone else.

Q

Banking on one chance in a billion. Right. Stupid.

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Q

I can’t change that and apparently neither can you.

Q

I don’t want your damn drugs. Make someone else a zombie.

Q

Chemical lobotomy. I’ll consider it when there’s one capable of eradicating select memories.

Q

I don’t plan on coming back.

Q

You haven’t helped. Coming here hasn’t told me anything I didn’t know at the outset.

Q

All you’ve done is ask a lot of stupid questions and critique my answers.

Q

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If I wanted to get involved with drugs I know others that I prefer.

Q

Accept, accept. The Beatles said; “Let It Be” forty years before I met you.

Q

Call it anger if you like. I call it disgust.

Q

If I am angry, however you define it, are you suggesting that it is a condition which should be treated.

Q

As effectively as you’ve treated whatever it is that I have, I suppose.

Q

We all have that kind of “anger.” It’s natural. It’s human.

You’re angry right now because of what I’m saying and the fact that I’m not going to be paying your ridiculous charge for listening to me spout. Hookers are more reasonable and more fun.

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Q

When this “anger” beast departs the world will stop turning.

Q

Fuck you. I’m not answering any more of your questions.

Tell me something I don’t know.

Q

On an alchemical level, if someone succeeded in converting lead to gold there would soon be a shortage of lead. Gold would be worthless and disdained, while lead would be valuable and desired.

Q

It seems fairly obvious.

Q

No, I can’t prove it. But you can’t prove anything either.

Q

Sure, there are people who psychiatry says they have helped. But, I would postulate that by the very fact that these

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people have sought help they were motivated toward self-improvement. They likely would have been helped as much or more if they got some good loving. You know what I mean?

Q

Didn’t think so.

Q

Is stating the truth the equivalent of an attack?

R

I stand corrected. No, I do not know what the truth is. Do you?

Q

Didn’t think so.

Q

I’m going to be as miserable as she chooses to make me and fill up spare time writing morose, double-binded books. Drink some. Smoke some. Try to avoid the cheery frauds.

Q

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You are wrong there. You are absolutely, unequivocally wrong. When you love someone, truly love someone, that person does have the power, by the nature of love itself, that your logical industry cannot understand, to make you miserable. She can do it merely by being sad. She seemed sad the last time I saw her. It makes me feel as if I’ve failed in my most important task.

Q

To make her happy, Sigmund.

Q

Of course it is. That is if you love her. ........ I know, meaningless word in your profession. Think of it this way.

You’re getting paid to make me happy, contented, tranquil or something. And you haven’t done it.

Q

It doesn’t bother you, because you don’t really care.

That’s the bottom line.

Q

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Time’s up. Adios. I wish I could say it’s been useful. I wish I could say that it’s been fun. I wish I could say that it’s been enlightening.

R

Thanks so much. I know I will feel differently tomorrow.

The End

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Standing Pat

The Friday night card game had been going on for decades.

Five-card-draw-poker was the only game played as the participants insisted on simplicity, despite their continual losing. Meg, whose home was used for the event, always dealt and always won. Some thought that she had some way of cheating, as even were she a superior poker player, the odds are that someone else might come out ahead at least some of the time. But Bud, Michelle, Harry and Blanche couldn’t detect anything and kept playing because it was the only game in town, and perhaps because they relished losing and complaining. Ask their psychiatrists for a more professional view.

Having heard of this game from Bud, while he requested a few hundred dollar loan, I decided to crash it, thinking that with four perennial losers in the game I stood a good chance of making some money.

Meg allowed me to play and I was soon ahead. It was pitifully easy as Bud, Michelle, Harry and Blanche never drew cards. The first few hands confused me and I dropped out of each

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game, thinking that my opponents had something better than a straight. However, as Meg, who did draw cards, took the pots with hands like a pair of Jacks or a low two pair, it became apparent that the others were unable to decide which cards to discard in the hopes of getting something better. They had rationales for their behaviors, citing the many instances in which the new cards received were worse than the ones they had thrown away.

The un-witted, supposedly well-reasoned defenders of the status quo took great pride in starting sentences with sad phrases, such as; “What a shame it is that ......,” “If only

......,” “What can one do when ......,” “Please explain to me

......,” and various other mealy-mouthed utterances which served only to provide surreptitious amusement for Meg and me.

As I enjoy winning I never questioned the double-bound logic they played by. Meg appreciated my reticence to question educated adults about their beliefs, which could be stated as;

“I know I’m going to lose, but if I change cards I’ll still lose, perhaps by a wider margin,” apparently not cognizant of the fact that they would be better off staying home, perhaps reading post-modern literature to reinforce their dismal outlooks.

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Whenever I drew cards I made a point of saying; “I should have stuck with what I had,” and received world wise looks and head shakes from Bud, Michelle, Harry and Blanche.

Meg and I shared the winnings. She didn’t mind as she was beginning to feel a twinge of guilt about taking candy from crying babies. We made enough to quit our jobs and spent the rest of the week playing a veritable variety of vicious variations of the game.

The Living End

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The Unnecessary Trip

Raymond Renfrew and his Irish setter, Catalina embarked on their usual morning walk. Catalina was hot as it was a cloudless summer morning, probably seventy degrees at sunrise, climbing steadily over the past hour. They visited a sizable park bordering the Raritan River and both got cooled off in the shallows. After walking they sat under a weeping willow and took in the view; wood land and fields in full bloom and a twenty foot waterfall in the noisy river.

Hunger suggested they return home, so they re-traced their steps. To their surprise and chagrin someone had placed a boulder in the middle of the only road home; a boulder that would qualify as a mountain in the land of the wee people. They walked right up to it and saw that it went straight up, making it impossible to climb without the benefit of special equipment, not in their possession. Ray and Catalina looked in both directions and the stupid rock extended as far as the eye could see.

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Catalina looked up at Ray’s face. She was nervous and hungry, had no ideas of her own, and expected him to do something to resolve the situation. He sat on another rock, held Catalina’s leash in his left hand, while his right supported his chin; Rodin in heat. As Catalina nervously panted he thought.

In a space of time that seemed much too long to panting Catalina, he realized that he had five options; he could go over it, through it, blow it up, go around it or wait for whoever put it there to remove it.

He brightly re-remembered that he did not have the equipment to go over it and besides, even if he could Catalina was stuck. Going through it seemed accomplishable only by a ghost and he didn’t bring his or Catalina’s. To blow it up he would have to use his last stick of dynamite and he couldn’t be sure that he would not injure someone on the other side, himself or Catalina. They could die of dehydration or malnourishment waiting for the inconsiderate perpetrator to return. So they decided to go around it, through trees whose canopies offered some shade and flickering light. Catalina led, starting to the

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left. They arduously stumbled along the thick undergrowth, prompting Raymond to tell Catalina; “This has to end somewhere.

Nothing goes on forever. Maybe we’ll catch the bastard who put it here.”

Hopefully Near the End

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Ulysses’ Prompt

“You know I don’t care. I do not fucking care. I really do not fucking care. I really do not fucking give the least bit of a fuck! Get it? Simple? Inglais? Quebecois?”

“Don’t use the F-word word around your mother,” came the reply with a tone only a hint beyond calm. Mom stood at the porcelain sink head down and upped her rub rate on the poor worn-out pot and had forgotten the context, if any, of the conversation which prompted the outburst.

Too hastily, excited by the possibility that he might be able to wangle motherly permission to tell Dad to fuck himself 28 year old Francis Applewhite brightly asked in a very questioning voice; “Then it’s okay if I talk like that to Dad?”

Mom actually had to think about that one a while, before seeming as if a train had run into her head, simultaneously saying an elevated; “No. ...... No! ...... Of course not.”

He shrugged and said; “Worth a shot.” He didn’t really care much either way. He didn’t really want to tell his father to fuck himself for his own benefit. He wanted to do it for his.

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Like saying; “Go fuck yourself. Why don’t you ever give Mom a good kick in the ass?” thinking that the extra word would connote maturity and wisdom to the 53 year old gentleman, who seemed to think that his son was a bit of a nut after Frank announced that he was a Sorcerer with magical powers.

Presumptuous Dad wildly concluded that this was the result of Frank’s regular use of pot and acid from age 13 and paid no attention to the hard evidence demonstrated by his son’s ability to turn wine into water, accomplished by consuming a bottle’s contents, then, so not to be caught, refilling the bottle with the liquid his magical bodily process produced. The hardest part of the magic was remembering which bottle was water and which was wine.

Frank thought; “I wonder what he would reply if I really said that. I’m curious. He couldn’t attack me for saying fuck or fucking. He’d deal with the concept. At least that’s what I figure. Ah, he’d likely start with the religious shit, like

“Turn the other cheek,” and all that nice stuff. To hell with the whole idea. Fifty-three years of bad luck seems to suggest to this man that his number is overdue in coming up and the next step is likely the jackpot. I won’t bother trying to explain the simple rules of chance are not any more on his side now, than

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they have been for the last fifty-three years because he’d claim not to understand and we’d get bogged down in some stupid math discussion neither of us want.”

“Hey, mom. Want to see a trick?”

“No. .........” She grudgingly added; “Well, all right. But only if you promise to clean up afterwards.”

Frank walked out of the basement level condo saying; “Watch through the window. I’m going to make Mr. Pryor come out and futz with his gladiolas.” He stood at the open door for five seconds and right next door Mr. Pryor showed up with a watering can in hand and went to his garden.

Frank went back in and shut the door behind him, excited and laughing. He said; “See. See that!”

Mom wasn’t looking, but suspected the likelihood that the result wasn’t a miracle. She said; “Sure he came out. He’s a lonely old fart.”

“You’re not supposed to say that word anymore.”

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“What am I supposed to say? Senior citizen? He’s never looked like a citizen to me. I do magic too. When I say

‘Immigration’ he runs back inside”

“You don’t understand. There’s magic in words. If the old fart says or hears senior citizen often enough he will be happy.”

“Who gives a shit if the old fart is happy or not?”

Frank momentarily considered asking if it was okay to use the S-word, but through his well-honed deductive powers came to the conclusion that he would run into the same rigmarole as he did with F. Besides, he couldn’t think of the point in telling his father to go shit himself. He laughed to himself visualizing the sight, but didn’t think its usage conveyed the degree of disgust that the F-word did. He said; “Got a point. Listen; things are pretty flat here. Reminds me that I’m supposed to go see the love of my life.”

“Suit yourself. That slut’s probably got all the magic she can handle already.”

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Uninterested in carrying on another stupid, useless conversation on a well-covered subject, Frank slowly walked to his 1952 cream Chevy, enjoying the moment for its lack of the ever present barrage of lonely, boring people. He often wished that he could turn off his magical powers and sometimes succeeded. The overcast mid-day ceiling enhanced the Augusta, Maine April continuation of another long, bleak winter.

He drove through the packed ice streets, the well-travelled avenues looking more like the residue from an auto repair shop than snow. He was fortunate to find a space in front of the slut’s three-story apartment building. As he backed in his wheels slid on the slimy dark stuff, easily leaving the Toyota in place, but at an odd angle. “Fuck it,” he thought as he viewed the front end slightly aimed at and in the road. “Maybe it will be easier to get out this time.”

Before he could knock, Layla, the name she gave herself to replace Clementine, opened the door of her first floor front apartment. Frank was excited to see that she had changed clothes and was now wearing her thermal blue long johns with runners and

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matching top over her older white set. She blurted out; “I’m glad you’re here. I’m all out.”

Frank made an ugly face without trying and said; “Oh, shit.

You went through the ounce in a fucking week?” He walked inside to see who else might be privy to the conversation.

She held the door half open and coaxed sweetly; “Oh, come on. Be an angel.” She brushed back the long brown hair hanging in his face.

Frank shut the door and said; “Are your sisters here?”

“No.”

“Well, let me get this out quickly before the magic kicks in and they show up. If this keeps happening I’ll bury it. I swear to God I’ll bury it in the fucking woods. What the hell was it this time?”

“Same old. You can get more.”

“Yeah, with a week’s salary! Do you have any idea what an ounce costs today?”

“I don’t know and I don’t care.”

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Frank stared at the cracked ceiling. He finally said;

“Okay, that’s it. My father told me that there are jobs for sorcerers in Louisiana. (His father said this hoping he would leave.) I saw a guy who is employed as one on TV. I’m leaving now.” He stormed out the door. (Actually the guy he saw on TV

was a saucier, but Frank misheard or heard what he wanted, perhaps confused by the use of Bayou/Cajun English.) The End

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Superman

He ran into the library to answer the blasting phone, and was immediately reminded of his long delayed desire to have it changed over to a system which plays some type of watered down musaak; a New-Agey, nothing-ness, subdued orchestration of Eminem’s “Cold Wind Blows” came to mind. He was so excited at the prospect of work he tripped on an edge of the Persian rug, but picked up the receiver on the sixth ring. Afraid that he missed the call, he said; “Hello! HHHHHH ello!”

The male voice responded; “Is this Mr. Crap-ass?”

Peeved at hearing the incorrect pronunciation he had endured most of his life, he advertised his annoyance when he said; “That’s Cra-pass. It’s French continental.”

“Whatever, you’re a private eye, right?”

“That’s private investigator. This isn’t a 1940’s film noir or a 1950’s French New Wave adaptation.”

“What?”

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Remembering that he really wanted the work Crapass said;

“Yes, I’m a private eye. What can I do for you?”

“Well, Mr. Crap-ass, one of my family members has disappeared.”

“Again that’s Cra-pass. Isn’t the police missing persons unit working on it? What would you like me to do?”

“Of course the cops have been called, but they say he hasn’t been missing long enough to warrant their involvement.

Are you being purposely difficult? I want you to find him. What do you think?”

Reticent to explain the many possible custom services that could be provided, he was quiet two seconds, during which the caller had second thoughts and offered a clarification;

“Actually, the bastard owes me money and finding it will suffice. It’s probably a package deal though.”

This was his first possible investigation and he had not yet established a routine and he was not prepared to ask any relevant questions, so not wanting to sound stupid, Crapass said; “I think we should make an appointment to meet in person.

Bring anything relevant to the case with you and of course some

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money. Let me check my schedule.” He paused and counted; one thousand and one, one thousand and two......one thousand and ten, in an attempt to advertise his high degree of activity. He then added; “I can fit you in at 2PM this afternoon. Is that good for you?”

“Yeah, that works for me. At your place, I guess?”

“Of course, unless you’d like to buy me lunch somewhere nice. Ha, ha.”

“No, I’ll be at your place at two.” He hung up.

It was only 9:30 AM, so it gave Gunther T. Crapass time for last-minute preparation. He needed it, as this would be his first foray into the real world of crime in a sequestered 45

year life. He belatedly realized that to appear professional he would have to take care of little details; like getting the caller’s name and phone number. Up until today Gunther had spent most of his time as a voracious reader of mysteries, and they never dealt with those kinds of boring details. They dealt with other kinds of boring details; like a wordy description of the sound of a waterfall, a precise description of the music wooden wheels make on a cobblestone street, cobble by cobble, or the perceived psychological effect all the “action” was having on a

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delicate relationship with some relative, remotely and tangentially connected to the “story” and it’s super-insightful and super-intelligent sleuth/hero/heroine.

For the last ten years Gunther had created a data base, using his mystery books, containing information such as crime, motive, how caught, sleuth techniques, nutty relatives, informants who know whole “story” (in case writer runs dry), usual suspects, false leads, topography, dwellings, sex activity (infrequent, always tasteful) , etc., etc. Trying to refrain from spending exorbitant time with the last item, now, using this database, Gunther wanted to spend the remainder of his, to date, sheltered life seeing if the books contained any semblance of reality.

Gunther was short, prematurely balding and devoid of female companionship, and though people didn’t tell him, they thought he resembled George Costanza However, he worked on affecting the look of Hercule Poirot, at least as he was portrayed on television. He thought that the quick, intelligent, sophisticated air of the little one with the upwardly curled mustache, living in the wild world of the 1920’s would counter the truth that he was more than a little embarrassed about. He considered adopting an unusual accent, but correctly concluded

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that approach would be of better use in Europe than it would be in Plainsboro, New Jersey, where a simple down-homey, working hard, and “We all put on our pants the same way” approach seemed more apropos. At least that was the plan that would get its first trial today.

He sat on his ornate Chippendale chair and turned on his computer, which rested on the overworked Chippendale desk, the only furniture in the library, excepting the overflowing, highly decorative Chippendale bookcases, which lined the walls.

His ornate Chippendale ass wasn’t rested for ten seconds when the phone rang again. Drawing on his previous experience this time he was prepared. He picked up the imitation French antique receiver and confidently said; “My secretary is indisposed, so you’ve got Cra-pass, himself.”

The female voice was incredulous in tone, and said;

“Gunther, what kind of nonsense are you up to?”

He dragged out the first word; “M-o-o-o-o-m. I’m kind of in the middle of something.”

“What you should be in the middle of, is finding a nice girl. You know you’re not getting any younger.”

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“Mom, I’m all right as is.”

“Or even finding a nice boy. Times have changed and nobody cares about that sort of thing anymore. . . . .” Gunther was at a loss for words, as he was never interested in boys, men, or in-betweens, but knew that his single status and appearance would make people consider the possibility, and was occasionally very uncomfortable about it, like now. This wasn’t the first time Mom broached the subject, but even if he were so disposed, he wouldn’t be discussing it with her. He attempted a quick subject change and came up with; “I saw a really good movie the other day, “Marlowe.”

“What was that about?”

“Oh, it’s an old one. Elliot Gould playing a Raymond Chandler style detective.”

“I don’t know any of those names you’re saying.”

Gunther was at a loss for words, trying to decide whether to sound professorial, and explain more, think of a one-liner he didn’t have, or risk getting back to his least favorite subject.

The indecision cost him as, in the momentary lull, Mom went right back to her currently favorite subject, and said; “Do you

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remember Tommy Long, that tall boy who played a lot of basketball?”

“Yeah, we were in some of the same classes in high school.”

‘Well, he’s one of them.”

“Mom, I don’t really care.”

“Did you know him well?”

“No, and I really don’t care.”

“That’s the point. That’s what I’m trying to tell you.

Nobody cares anymore. It’s all right. Even the Catholic Church has gay parishes. That, frankly, doesn’t make a whole lot of sense to me. They condone that, but only allow men and women to do things that make babies. Maybe after all that crap with the altar boys.............I don’t know.”

Gunther’s mind was racing; perhaps it was more akin to spinning its wheels. He rubbed one hand over his forehead, of course not able to come up with anything that might derail his mother’s one tracked mind. He considered lying and saying something really gross about “getting some pussy’ recently, but decided against it.

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With the lack of response Mom was compelled to elaborate;

“Of course, if your father, God rest his soul, was still alive.

. . . . Ah, but, he was always kind of traditional when it came to the sex stuff. Sometimes, even I could have kicked him right in his ass.”

Gunther felt as if he were again 13 years old, trying to think of a response, that would at least temporarily divert the tide, so he desperately and abruptly changed the subject to something of interest to him, full well knowing that this topic could also become unpleasant and said; “Mom, I’m going to be handling my first investigation today.”

Mom said; “Well, if you’re really uncomfortable talking about it.”

Gunther yelled; “Mom.”

In a discouraged and weary tone, Mom said; “So what are you investigating?”

Just like the confident big boy he now was, Gunther casually responded; “Oh, the usual stuff, missing money, a missing person.”

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“That could be dangerous. Why don’t you read a nice book instead?”

“I’ve read them all. It’s high time I got some real world experience.”

“I’ll say. How about some real experience with a nice girl?

. . . . . “Or boy?”

“Mom, for Christ’s sake, cut it out. And what would I want with a NICE girl anyway? I like the other kind.”

“Gunther, don’t start talking blasphemy to your mother.”

“I thought you started it with that boy stuff.”

“That’s not blasphemy. There’s some other word for that. I can’t remember it right now. You know the one.”

“I can’t think of it either.”

“Oh, come on. You’re better with words than I am. What is it?”

“I don’t know. It’s your thought. You tell me.”

‘I know you know that word.”

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Gunther was thoroughly annoyed with the entirety of this conversation, as he had endured a facsimile countless other times, but rather than saying something about not being a mind reader or that he didn’t care anyway, and risk being accused of being surly, he chose to play it tritely and, again, changed the subject and said; “How’s everything in Florida?”

“Hot.”

“Hot? Is that all?”

“Yeah.”

He hoped to get her talking about something other than him, and tried again with; “It’s hot here, too.” He tried his best to sound like a sarcastic Johnny Carson and added; “So, how hot is it?”

Mom took the cue and said; “It’s so hot........ that the rubbers are emitting steam on the beach.”

Though he didn’t find that particularly funny, he considered it okay for an improvisation, and laughed outrageously, most significantly, in an attempt to end the conversation on a good note.

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Encouraged, Mom continued with; “You should see the dogs doing their own form of investigation.”

Gunther visualized that and found it amusing, laughed, and said; “That’s a good one.”

“I’m not kidding. That’s what I see out my window.”

“Wish I was there. Speaking of out the window, my client is coming down the driveway. Got to go.”

“All right. So, everything’s okay with you?”

“Fine. How about you?”

“Ah, we’ll save that for another time. You be careful, all right?”

“Sure. You too. Gotta go. Bye.”

“Bye.”

There was no car in the driveway. That was just an efficient way to end the call. He wanted to do some last minute research before encountering his first real client. He also knew from previous experience that his mother’s “Ah, we’ll save that for another time” answer was nothing to worry about. Next call she would either not remember what she was referring to, or

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again, tell him about the guy living on the floor above her, and his abnormal desire to walk around loudly, always right over her head, listening to everything she said.

Back to the computer. Database program. Crime. Motive. How discovered. Unnecessary filler. Ironic conversations. Scenery and sound conditions. Weather. False leads. Man who knows all.

Gunther forgot about lunch, attempting to tie the “facts”

together. His mental indulgence ended when he heard the sound of a car truly coming down his gravel driveway. He looked up at the faux antique rococo wall clock, and saw that it was already 2PM.

“Dammit,” he thought as he dashed to don his best clean suit, a black pinstriped Mickey Spillane model. He made a quick bathroom stop, where he brushed back what remained of his black hair, and made it to the front door ahead of his guest/customer.

****************************************************

He peered through the transom, and saw a modestly well-dressed man of about 40, peering through the transom at him. He felt overdressed, as the other guy was obviously wearing attire

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that screamed; “Money,” but whispered; “I’m not stooping to try and impress.” More specifically he was wearing designer- just pressed- blue jeans and a mail order label red shirt, open to the third button.

Gunther opened the door, extended his right hand, and said;

“Come right in Mr. . . . . .”

“Slattery, James.” They shook, in Gunther’s case all over, he hoped, undetected. The little one extended his left hand and said; “Right this way to the library.” He hoped that the mere fact that he HAD a library would impress the client with his intelligence.

He offered Slattery a seat, simultaneously realizing that it was the only one in the room. He briefly considered standing, but thought better of it. He said; “Please excuse me. The last client moved things around a bit.” He knew that didn’t make much sense, but couldn’t resist the opportunity to say that he had other business. He went into the adjoining bedroom and returned with an ornate Chippendale chair.

Slattery was fingering the computer, and Gunther quickly put his arm on his client’s shoulder, and said; “If you don’t mind,” ushering him to the newly arrived chair. He sat in front

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of his computer, and after a few masterful strokes, was back at his preferred database program screen. He said; “Name?”

With a tone of slight annoyance the client again said;

“Slattery, James.”

“Is Slattery your first name?”

Slattery continued in the same tone responding; “Of course not.”

“I expected that, but I had to ask because one cannot make any assumptions in this business. You’ll come to appreciate that.” He smiled at his imagined prey and added; “You know that if you break down the word ‘assume’, the result is that you make an ‘ass’ of ‘u’ and ‘me.’”

Slattery didn’t smile back and said; “Yeah, I may have heard that somewhere.”

Gunther continued; “Do you always put your last name first?”

“I don’t know. Sometimes. What difference does it make?”

“Nothing I can think of at the moment. But, who knows the future? Address?”

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“500 Juniper Crescent.”

“Plainsboro?”

“Apartment number 308. Missed that one, ace. And yes, Plainsboro.”

Gunther was sure his face flushed. “Phone?”

“With or without area code?”

“As you wish. I’ll make the appropriate adjustment here.”

“Good man. 237-6567.”

Gunther looked Slattery in the eye and said; “I believe you said something about missing money and a missing relative, the latter of subordinate interest. Would you please elaborate.”

“Well, about a week ago I tried to contact my bum brother-in-law, Bernie. And I couldn’t.”

Gunther interrupted and said; “Think I got you this time, ace. Bernie’s last name is not Slattery, correct?”

“Right, genius. It’s Protokowitz. Anyway, I made the mistake of loaning him $300,000 a little over a year ago, haven’t gotten a nickel back, and now he’s nowhere to be found.”

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“What was the purpose of the loan?”

“I’m really not completely sure. I felt sorry for him at the time. I think it was used to do some drug deals.”

“Did he have experience with that sort of thing?”

“Only as a user, I think.”

“Very unwise.”

“No shit, Sherlock. Let me just continue the story a bit.”

“My sincere apologies for the interruption.”

“The other disturbing thing is that Gladys, Bernie’s wife, is also nowhere to be found.”

“Your sister is probably with Bernie.”

“I hope the hell not. They divorced a year ago. Gladys is his new wife and a drug fiend. Gotcha.”

“Very amusing, my friend. I see we enjoy a similar brand of gamesmanship.”

“Thought you’d appreciate that one.” Slattery emptied a pocket and tossed some papers on the ornate Chippendale desk, and said; “Here is everyone’s addresses, phone numbers, e-mail

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addresses, known hangouts and some miscellaneous crap. Most interesting to Gunther was a photo of Bernie and some woman, as Bernie looked like Gunther’s double. The only significant difference was that Bernie’s balding head was host to long black hair tied in a ponytail which reached the middle of his back.

Not to be fooled twice with the same thing Gunther was proud of his wiles, and asked; “Is this Gladys?”

Slattery laughed and said; “No. That’s my sister Agnes.”

Gunther looked at him questioningly and Slattery added;

“Just kidding. Yes, that’s Gladys. Some shit, huh?”

Not accustomed to this manner of speech, Gunther tried to sound the part, and replied; “Yes. Really some turd.” Slattery looked at him strangely, which Gunther didn’t notice as he was eyeballing the photo of the sexy middle-aged blond, with a crazy, large, psychedelic Star of David around her neck, bearing most of the colors of the rainbow. He asked; “Jewish?”

Slattery said; “Yeah, Protokowitz and Baumstein. She pronounces it Bowm-stine, and hates it when someone says Bomb-steen. You understand, I guess.”

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Gunther cleared his throat, and said; “Now, about my fee.”

Slattery wrote a check.

Slattery silently left. Gunther thought he did pretty well for a first effort. His self-evaluation was that after a weak start segueing into an okay middle, he had a strong ending, better than most of the mysteries he had read. He sat at his computer and searched.

Owes money. Drug involvement. Divorce. Client possibly lied. Family intruder ................

**********************************************

Gunther didn’t find a clear course of action, so he decided to make a perilous journey into the real world, hoping that it would lead him in some direction, or at least narrow the possibilities suggested by his Apple Mackintosh Series 7560

Upright or his Upright 7560 Series Mackintosh Apple, depending on one’s viewpoint. One of Bernie’s listed hangouts was “Pete’s Paraphernalia Pub” in downtown Plainsboro, which Gunther knew

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well, at least from the outside, as he had passed it many times on his way to the town superstore.

He went into his mother’s former bedroom and found the black fall he remembered in one of the closets, used a rubber band to tie it into a ponytail, and attached it to the back of his head. As he looked at himself in the mirror, he thought;

“Cool.” His suit now appeared out of place, so he changed into a pair of blue jeans that he usually wore while gardening and a Kid Rock tee-shirt.

He jumped into his 2012, four door, almost silver, Honda Civic. After again admiring his new look in the rearview mirror, he felt good and confidently headed out into the sultry summer late afternoon, visualizing himself as Nicholas Cage playing Sailor in “Wild at Heart.” He got into it, turned on the C/D

player and blasted Eminem rapping “Lose Yourself,” front windows wide open. Nearing his destination, he saw three pedestrian young women in tube tops, tight jeans, and high heels turn their heads in his direction. He slowed down, lowered the volume, waved and called out; “Later, girls. Got business.” As he again picked up speed and volume, he looked in the rearview mirror and saw the three look at each other, then his car, then back at each other shaking their heads. Gunther didn’t take it as any

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sort of rejection, and interpreted it as; “I don’t know him. Do you?” He briefly considered driving around the block for a second viewing, but decided against it, suddenly remembering that he was Gunther Crapass, rather than Johnny Depp.

His mind raced as he turned the corner; “Bad mindset. Got to get rid of it quickly. I’m almost there. What went wrong?

................. Started to think of reality. Got to stay in fantasy. Don’t know what I’m walking into. Could be dangerous.

Think drugs. Think money. Think bluff. Think big-tit Gladys Baumstein. Think bad-ass Bernie.......Protocowitz? Stop thinking.”

He parked in the side lot of “Pete’s”, as far away from the entrance as possible. It was still on the early side of nightlife, he surmised, as there were only six other cars, and no doubt a few belonged to employees, while the lot had an approximate capacity of fifty or sixty. Either it was early, or Bernie was one of the few to like the place.

He walked through the paved lot and saw no one hanging around. He then focused on the building itself; one story, brick, flat roof, few windows with shades drawn, and a plain black and white wooden painted sign which said; “Pete’s

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Paraphernalia Pub” enclosed by a crude drawing of a twisted snake, with exaggerated fangs and tongue, eating its tail. He pushed one of the heavy, black double doors open and entered the darkness. The cooler air was his first observation, and the dim lighting suited him well. With only the slightest degree of trepidation, he would now execute his simple plan; to say little or nothing, and hope that someone would mistake him for Bernie Protokowitz, and tell him something interesting.

He only saw one man who wore a sporty, light green vest with black pinstripes, made of some shiny plastic composite, complete with a “Pete’s” designation, in a red circle, on the rear, with his back to Gunther, squatting and meticulously putting away some glasses, behind the bar at the right of the room. Gunther slowly sauntered over, watching the barman watch him in the mirror that ran the length of it. He sat on one of the twenty high stools, picking one near the center and the squatting man, who now pretended not to notice him.

He spoke in a normal tone of voice, and said; “Hey.

Service, man.”

The squatting man slowly rose, with a threatening look on his stone face. As he walked over to Gunther he did a double

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take and his expression changed to a surprised smile, and the man whose nametag indicated “Tony,” said; “Bernie?”

“Yeah, man. How ‘ya been Tony?”

“All right. Where the fuck you been?”

“Here, there and everywhere. You know.”

“Hey, man, I’m like fucking desperate. You holding?”

Gunther confirmed what he already was told; Bernie was a dealer.

“No, man. That’s why I’m back here. It’s dry. Motherfuckers keep intercepting the boats. Somebody’s got to be playing both ends.”

“Ah, I hope they crucify the fuck. Well, what can I getcha?”

“The usual shit.”

Tony mixed a double Dickel and soda, and placed it in front of Gunther/Bernie.

A door to the back and side of the bar opened, and a vision appeared. It was a fortyish blond woman wearing a pink tube top and a red mini-dress. Gunther knew it had to be Gladys Baumstein when he saw the psychedelic Star of David emerge from between

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her breasts, dangling like a heavy bondage chain. Bernie saw her eyes staring right at his pants, and that caused him to give her a better view. He waved off Tony, and turned to the hot chick, who slowly sauntered over with her head down, and took the seat next to him at the bar. She said; “You ain’t Bernie. What game you playin’?”

Gunther got up the nerve to put his hand on her well-exposed left leg. When she made no objection he slowly slid it to the apex, and felt the humidity increase. He removed his hand, put it to his lips, and said; “Shh. It’s complicated. I’ll let you in on it little by little, Gladys.”

She smiled, licked her lips, carefully circling the entirety of the red painted kisser and massaged his growing interest.

After meeting the standard-mystery-story-ominous-people, including a hermit, two hopeless drunks, a crooked cop on the drug take, several would be bad asses, a penny ante drug dealer, a blind paraplegic beggar who thinks she knows everything, one legitimate bad ass, a double dealing information peddler, a deranged addict, a rich freak who likes to see “real life,” a snitch who doesn’t know his ass from his elbow, a thieving

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lawyer, two lesbian teenage hookers, Slattery in drag, and one boring “normal person” Gunther-Bernie wound up with Gladys and all the money. They lived happily ever after; all thanks to his mother’s fall.

The End

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Why?

‘Cause I naively felt like it a long time ago.

The Final End

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