Crossing The Bridge

undertoad--noun. A form of anxiety, the chief feature of which is an overarching fear of the unknown in general and one's personal mortality in particular. “Garp realized that all these years Walt hadbeen dreading a giant toad, lurking offshore, waiting to suck him under and drag him out to sea. The terrible Under Toad.” John Irving, The World According to Garp


“Yea… you could say he’s ‘rangy’, I guess,” Merrill Keck paused and extended his tongue between his lips slightly, just far enough to pick a small piece of tobacco off the tip. Then, depositing the speck in the aluminum ashtray sitting on the bar, he continued. “However, if you ask me, the word doesn’t begin to really describe him.”

Paddy listened, cautious before proceeding. Merrill delighted in correcting and confounding most everyone who engaged him in conversation, no matter what the subject or how little his interest therein. “Well then, Mr. Wizard, tell us how you would describe a skinny first baseman over six feet tall who scoops up every ground ball ever hit his way, a Gold Glove infielder who’s already got his ticket punched for Cooperstown.”

“Oh, don’t get your tits in an uproar, Paderewski, I said ‘rangy’ worked, didn’t I? Jesus Christ… you are so damned touchy. If ‘rangy’ is your ideal for a man whose lifetime batting average is over .300, whose spot on the All-Star Team is reserved as long as he wants to fly to whatever city hosts the Mid-Season Classic, who was voted Most Valuable Player in the American League three times, and whose jersey is worn by damned near every kid who’s ever seen him play, then I guess I’ll have to just shut up and accept it because, after all, Leonard Paderewski is the smartest sumbitch in the whole fucking world and we all just need to keep our mouths shut, kneel down in front of him then lick his damn boots as he passes by. Rangy, rangy, rangy, rangy, rangy… yes, sir, that works for me!”

“Bite me, Merrill, you sawed-off little piss ant drunk. If you had half the vocabulary you pretend to have, maybe you’d have a job and stay the hell out of here a couple of hours a day.” Paddy picked at his fingernails, refusing to look up. Then, placing both hands on the bar, as if proving his resolve, he continued. “Oh, wait…” he snarled, “that would require hauling your drunk ass out of bed before eleven in the morning, wouldn’t it? I apologize… that’s more than any dedicated boozehound should have to put up with. Forget I ever brought it up. I don’t want to get in trouble with your mommy.”

Merrill Keck took a long drag off his cigarette and held it in as he climbed off his barstool. Sensing a ‘center stage’ moment, he stretched his neck by rolling his head in small circles. “So…” he drawled slowly, extending the ending vowel for a few seconds in dramatic fashion, “it would seem that, in principal, we’ve had a disagreement of sorts. Therefore, since we’re just two guys sitting across from each other in a bar, I guess we can continue to yammer-yammer back and forth, making everyone within earshot uneasy about our relationship’s immediate future or we can cut to the chase, send all the extras, stand-ins and stunt-doubles home, and I can beat the shit out of you right here in front of God and everybody. Then, for the rest of time, you’ll be the candyass who got beat up by a drunk half his size. The only thing you’ll be bringing up is your nuts.”

Paddy began to titter, glancing at the older man sitting next to him. “Hear that, Hootie? Apparently, I’m a ‘candyass’ living on borrowed time. Jeez… I hope I don’t shit myself from fear before he waddles his fat ass over here.”

One quick move and Merrill was underway. Arms flailed as he moved around and through people stationed at or near the bar, but his movement stopped as abruptly as it started as Julie Kevlar stepped directly in his path. “Where you goin’, Merrill?”

“Move, goddammit, this is none of your business.” Merrill Keck roared, trying to push her aside.

Before he could step past her, the woman slapped him across the face as hard as her arm could swing, then backhanded him with the back of her fist as she reversed the motion of her arm. The popping sound echoed throughout the room as all conversation stopped and patrons on both sides of the horseshoe bar craned their necks to get a better look. Merrill Keck took a small step backward and fell to the floor.

Before anyone could lean down to help him up, Julie vaulted the bar and rang the bell used to signal that someone bought a round. “Listen up! Everybody! The next asshole that threatens anyone in my bar gets a free trip to the hospital. Do you understand me?” she yelled, pointing her finger first at Paddy. “You got that, slick?”

Paddy nodded his head in the affirmative, but continued to look at the bar.

“I can’t hear your marbles rattling, Shit-for-brains, I just asked you a question!” Taking the sawed-off baseball bat from behind the bar, she lifted Paddy’s chin up with it. “Well?”

Paddy extended his hands in front of him, palms facing Julie and both eyes now looking directly at her. “Yea, I hear you… yea.”

“Marvelous!” she bellowed again. “Now, go get your buddy and both of you get the hell out of here. Don’t come back until you learn how to behave! I don’t want to see you back in here for a week.”

“Oh, come on, Jewels, you know that I come in here every d—”

Julie took the bat in both hands and cocked it behind her. “Do you have a problem with English?” she said.

Paddy took a step backwards and once again put his hands out. “Okay… ‘nuff said.” By now, Merrill had gotten to his knees. Paddy helped him up and handed him his ball cap extolling the virtues of Budweiser. “Come on, Merrill, let’s blow this pop stand.”

Putting his cap on as Paddy pulled him outside, the little man glanced back at Julie and commented in a voice loud enough for everyone to hear, “Well, ain’t this a crock a’ shit. She sucker-punches me and we’re the ones who get thrown out. Come on, Paddy, let’s go find a place where they don’t allow dikes behind the bar.”

* * *

The Waffle House offered three breakfast specials priced less than three dollars. The tri-fold laminated menu featured two and a half pages of breakfast entrees, three varieties of hamburgers and a chef salad. Come in looking for anything so exotic as fish, chicken or shrimp and you’d be treated to a large plate of disappointment with a side of diminished expectations. But, most folks understood this, and since customers had to sit at the counter and the server was also the cook, tipping, as a rule, was not required, unless you asked for something to be cooked specially or with ingredients not generally included as a menu item. If, of course, over time, a patron achieved special status because of his generosity towards the tip jar, the server/cook might be inclined to be more liberal with portion size and side dishes not normally offered without incurring extra cost.

As unwelcome as their presence had recently become at Hammerhead’s, Paddy and Merrill enjoyed super-star status at the Port Huron Waffle House. Late night customers at the seedy diner had been known to move from the seats they occupied in deference to the pair’s arrival. Tonight, ‘their’ seats remained unoccupied, facilitating a quick-and-easy coronation ceremony when the two arrived and placed their coats on the hall tree next to the door.

Joe Acosta, the third shift cook, tossed two white coffee mugs on the counter and filled them with the best coffee in Port Huron. While no formal competition substantiated the claim, it had to be true, wasn’t it written on the menu? Even if closer observation revealed a slight greasy sheen present on top of the dark liquid, few complained and no one more than once.

“Evenin’, fellas…” Joe intoned, looking up at the cheap wall clock on the sidewall. “It’s a little early for you, isn’t it? I don’t remember you arriving before two a.m. before.”

Paddy stood behind Merrill moving his index finger across his throat and scowling at the cook, indicating that he should drop the subject. Seeing Joe Acosta’s eyes fixed above his head, Merrill turned his head to look at Paddy, who quickly dropped his hands and smiled at Merrill. Fuck you, Merrill’s lips spat at Paddy. Although no actual sound emerged, the walls reverberated with echoing venom, and no one in the room escaped the logic of the implied train wreck threatening to occur if further provocation ensued. Joe’s eyes then flitted back to Merrill, the scowling mini-brute with a large red welt on his right cheek.

Wiping his hands on his apron, Joe asked, “The usual or do you want to see a menu? The strawberry blintzes are good tonight…” then, after the exact number of seconds elapsed to allow full theatrical development, he continued, “Oh, wait… I see you’ve already had one, there’s still a little on your cheek. Here, let me see if I can remove it.”

Try as he might, Paddy couldn’t keep himself from erupting in a horselaugh, his body shaking as he covered his face with both hands. After a few seconds, tears still rolling down his cheeks, he put a hand on Merrill’s shoulder and turned to his friend. “I’m sorry, dude… I just couldn’t help it. You got to admit, that’s funny as hell.” Again, he started to laugh and grab for a napkin.

Merrill reached in his pocket for his smokes. “That’s right, yuck it up, Sheckie, I can understand how superior you must feel, you being the pollock Alfred Einstein, and all. But, you, Joe, I’d expect better from. Ain’t I always taken care of you?”

The accusation, intended to show the depth of hurt Merrill felt, to Joe sounded more like something he’d hear from his mother when he refused to eat his sopas— whiney and impertinent. But, he knew better than to say anything. In fact, he regretted the remarks he’d already made, but short of an exorcism, he knew no way to apply a salve to the little guy’s wounds. Leave it alone, he heard the inner voice say.

“Lighten up, Merrill, he was just shittin’ you. Why is it that every time anyone says anything to you at all that you don’t like, you feel the need to instantly become Joe Pesci? Nicky Santoro, you ain’t, my friend, even if I do resemble DeNiro’s depiction of Moe Green, with my vaguely-Latin good looks and rugged demeanor.” Now Paddy grinned and punched Merrill on the arm lightly. “Come on… let’s eat. Joe, bring my friend whatever he wants— my treat.”

“First he needs to apologize.” Merrill pointed an accusatory finger at Joe Acosta.

Merrill glared back, then shook his head. “Okay, what the fuck… I’m sorry.”

Joe stood behind the counter with his arms folded, not sure whether to grin or remain deadpan. Silently, he reached under the counter and grabbed a clean towel. After running it under warm water, he squeezed it until most of the water was gone and handed it to Merrill. “Here, bro… put this on your jaw, it’ll make it hurt less.”

Moving away to grab the coffee pot, Joe began filling cups for other customers seated at the counter.

“And you’re sorry you said that to a valuable customer, aren’t you, AMIGO?” Merrill was now standing at the counter, his hands cupped around his mouth, shouting at Joe.

With the speed of a blitzing linebacker, Joe opened the gate separating the counter from the customers and began walking towards Merrill, his eyes no longer friendly.

Paddy stood up and intercepted Joe, trying to calm the enraged cook. “Wait, wait, wait… Joe, it’s okay… he didn’t mean nothin’, I promise… it’s okay. He’s sorry, man… really, he’s just had a rough night.”

“Paddy, if you don’t get that little puta out of here, he’s going to find out the definition of a rough night. He ain’t ever had a night like I’m about to give him.” The veins in Joe Acosta’s neck suddenly stood out in the same way they did when Joe did bench presses at the gym.

“Okay, Joe, we’ll leave. I’m sorry. He didn’t mean any harm.”

Shoving Merrill’s coat at him, Paddy lifted the man off his seat by the shoulder. “Come on, fucker, if you’re going to act like a child, I have to put you in Time Out.” Half-pushing, half-coaxing Merrill towards the door, Paddy shook his head in disbelief. “You need to get some help, pal… we’re running out of places to hang.”

Behind them, a still-enraged Joe Acosta pointed his finger at Merrill and yelled, “And it’s Albert Einstein, you moron… not Alfred. Christ, any school kid knows that!”

* * *
The dual spans of the Blue Water Bridge, gray skeletal girders poised upon the horizon, separated two nations, two cultures. On one side, people smiled a little more, seemingly happier to sweep the incessant snow from their driveways and from their psyches, as they prepared for the drone of the incoming bridge traffic. Hope carried by vehicles with American registration impatiently waited to clear Customs on the Canadian side of the boundary, gleefully aware of enhanced value to be gained from the imbalance created by multi-colored currency. By merely crossing the bridge, Americans received a thirty percent increase in spending power and Canadians accepted the Yankee currency willingly, grateful for the opportunity it carried. On the other side of the bridge in Port Huron, Michigan, hope only waited to cross. Perpetually short-sided Canadians, by now used to being offered no such advantages by making the trip to the Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave, merely shoveled their sidewalks and waited for spring, their simple smiles and pleasant demeanors contrasting the perma-gray of winter.

The Venetian blinds, though partially closed, allowed in just enough light to make an impression inside his eyelids, a goddamned pre-conscious omen of forthcoming pain. Merrill Keck sat up and stretched, painfully aware of morning’s incursion upon his stupor. Sleeping on Paddy’s couch if sleeping is really what I’m doing certainly offered little by way of comfort, at least not the comfort experienced in his own bed, in his own house, with his own wife. Waking up every morning looking at that fucking bridge reminded him only of loss, regret and sorrow. This morning, he could add the soreness created by the simplest of movements, his body’s rebellion against attacks incurred the previous evening from sources both external and internal. Stifling a yawn, Merrill touched his face and felt the swelling of his cheek, causing the memory of Julie Kevlar’s punch to cut in line for recognition in the hierarchy of pain.

“There’s coffee, if you think you’re able to keep it down.”

Merrill craned his neck, taking note of the pain created by the unnatural position required to make visual recognition of the voice. “Don’t you ever sleep?” he commented, his voice surprisingly non-combative in the face of Paddy’s yet-to-be-established assumption.

Paddy sat at the kitchen table, the newspaper’s sports section folded beside him. “Yea, I sleep—it’s just that there’s sleep and then there’s… well, there’s what you do. Is it sleep, Merrill? Is it really ever just laying down, just for the hell of it, and allowing your mind to find a place of rest?”

“Am I on the clock, Doctor Fraud?”

“That’s Freud, asshole. Get it right.”

“Oh, pardon me, your holiness. Far be it from me to fail in my acknowledgement of your sanctimony. Please accept my most heart-felt apologies to the last twenty generations of your ancestral lineage, wherever their remains might lie in the Potter’s Fields of the world.” The combativeness resumed its customary place in Merrill’s voice.

A nervous laugh escaped despite Paddy’s resolution not to allow it. “Ah, me… ever the wit. At least I’ve learned that the booze hasn’t left you in a total fog… yet. So what’s your plan for today, Merrill, drink breakfast and then off to Julie’s to suck up?”

“Well, Paddy, whatever it is, you can bet your ass that it won’t involve standing in front of a machine in some car factory, waiting for hunks of aluminum to come flying out of the ass end. A ‘machinist’, huh? Ha! You stand with a box next to a conveyor belt and wait for pieces of metal to be stacked inside. Then, when it’s full, you press another button and wait for the whole process to start over. Whoopee! Machinist… what a laugh!”

Paddy stood up. “Okay… consider me McDonald’s— have it your way.” Picking up the paper, he walked over to his couch. “But when I get home, I’d suggest that you be somewhere else— anywhere else.” Thwacking the sports section up against Merrill’s chest, he leaned down, his head even with Merrill’s eyes. “Read the morning line. The Pistons are giving 6 in Miami. Call Stanley and lay the points. Maybe you’ll make enough to get a room at the flophouse on Fillmore. I’m done. Dude, sometimes you have to hear the voice, even if you can’t make out the words.”

Merrill Keck, erstwhile provocateur and current androgynous twerp with a mind sodden with the residue of diapers he hadn’t bothered to remove, stared at the bridge and closed his eyes, forcing himself to listen to the front door latch snap shut. Maybe I need to return to the short side of that bridge.

* * *

“Did you know that a human head weighs eight pounds?”

The woman in the pale yellow dress lowered her copy of McCall’s and stared at the man sitting across the waiting room from her. “What?” she asked, as much in astonishment as truly questioning.


“I asked if you knew that a human head weighs eight pounds”, the man repeated.

“That’s what I thought you said,” yellow dress replied and raised the magazine to its original position. Moving slightly sideways in her chair, she demurely re-crossed her legs, staring daggers, making sure that he didn’t misunderstand her adjustment to be a come-on.

“That’s about three-and-a-half kilograms on the other side of the bridge,” the man continued.

Again, the magazine lowered. “Well, isn’t that fascinating? A man who can do arithmetic conversions in his head and then spout them indiscriminately as though anyone in the whole wide world might give a damn. I think I’m going to swoon…”

Before the man could respond, the attendant opened the sliding glass door and spoke. “Mr. Keck, the doctor will see you now.”

“Well, I’d love to stay and chat, but duty calls. Just know that I’ll always cherish our little unconsummated seduction…” Getting up, he leaned forward, took her hand in his and tried to kiss it, causing her to yank it away in disgust. Merrill walked to the door and turned the handle. Glancing back and seeing that the woman still stared daggers in his direction, he blew her a kiss and half-whispered, half-spoke, “I’ll still respect you in the morning…” and disappeared into the inner sanctum.

Eat shit and die, creep, Teresa Terwilliger thought to herself as she raised the third finger on her right hand towards the door, just eat a whole bag of fucking shit and die of a fucking shit-hemorrhage. Teresa’s anger management session promised to be challenging.

The therapist’s room more closely resembled a law library. Not a single sink blemished the décor, and had there not been a posh leather sofa next to the desk with the prominently displayed plaque announcing Doctor James Wyrick, MD, one might not have been able to distinguish the psychiatrist’s office from the member’s lounge at any first-rate country club.

James Wyrick, a large gaunt man wearing a brown herringbone tweed jacket and silk bow tie, bounded to the door, right hand extended, to meet Merrill Keck. “Hello, Merrill”, he said, pumping Merrill’s hand like the handle on a poorly-responding pump handle on a cold winter’s day. “It’s good to see you again. Please make yourself comfortable.”

Sitting down in the large captain’s chair behind his desk, Dr. Wyrick put his bifocals on and turned a page on his yellow legal pad. Glancing at his watch and writing the time in the upper left-hand corner, he asked, “How can I help you today, Merrill?”

“Jesus, Doc, you sound like the clerk at Home Depot. ‘Uh, let’s see… I’ll take a sack of eight-penny nails and one of those nifty five-pound sledges’.” Merrill stopped and held his hand up. “Wait, you don’t need to write that down, do you?”

Doctor Wyrick fished a tamper out of his pants pocket and began cleaning the bowl of his pipe. “Merrill, your attempts at wit aren’t impressing me. How much time do you figure we’ve spent dancing around the issues? Let me re-phrase my question, hopefully in a form that will impress you enough to allow you to get on with it. Is there a particular condition or occurrence that you don’t understand and would like to discuss?” He didn’t light the pipe, but puffed on it as if he had, his attention once again focused on Merrill, invisible rings of nether-smoke mingling with the thoughts, the perfect antiphony to conversation yet to come… hopefully.

“Make it go away.” Merrill Keck responded.

“Pardon me? Make what go away?”

“The undertoad. Make the fucking undertoad leave me alone and go bother someone else.”

“I see… the undertoad…” James Wyrick coughed, stalling for recognition to come.

Silence rushed into the room, collecting everything into its mouth and holding it inside, huge eyes of wonder staring at the world.

“You don’t know what I mean, do you?” said Merrill Keck.

“Haven’t the foggiest notion”, Dr. James Wyrick admitted.

A snort emerged from Merrill’s mouth as he nodded his head, “Yea, that’s what I thought. I must admit, though, it’s nice to hear a medical professional admit that he doesn’t know everything.”

“You’re an intelligent, intuitive man, Merrill, I’ve long known and acknowledged that much. Why don’t you try to explain it to me.”

“Well, James, have you ever read The World According to Garp?”

The doctor took off his spectacles and reached for the handkerchief in the lapel pocket of his jacket. “No, I’m afraid that I haven’t… and please, don’t refer to me as ‘James’; you’re my patient, and I prefer to keep our relationship professional.”

“Okay, then you call me ‘Mr. Keck’, then. I prefer to think of you as a pompous dickbreath who doesn’t give a flying fuck about anything except the $400-per-50-minute hour fee that he steals from people who mistakenly and laughingly expect to get something for their money. Only my friends call me ‘Merrill’.”

“How long has it been since anyone referred to you by your first name?”

Grinning, Merrill Keck shook his index finger at the doctor. “Oh, I’d almost forgotten—you’re good. I’m going to have to watch out for you. Anyway, the undertoad, according to John Irving, is a concept of perceived anxiety, I think, towards some unseen force that threatens to take over someone’s life. In the book, a five-year-old boy living near the ocean was warned by his parents to be careful of the water’s undertow, which would pull him under the water and out to sea, and he would never again see his family. Being five, he conceived of a giant, green, amphibian beast living underwater with huge frog’s eyes and mouth capable of swallowing a small boy in a single gulp. Thus, the undertoad was born.”

“Very interesting… please tell me more.”

“I need you to kill the motherfucker—or at least make him get off my back and go play with someone else.” Merrill Keck’s arms were now on his knees as he sat forward on the sofa, wringing his hands as he spoke.

“Why do you feel the need to curse?”

“Why? Does it offend your virgin ears? Why don’t you curse? How can you listen to problems all day long and not curse? Honestly, doc, I think you ought to be seeing somebody about that.” After pausing, he looked directly at the man sitting across the desk from him and replied, “Shit.”

“Mr. Keck, whatever my psychological problems may be, they have little to do with helping you. Could we stay focused on you, please? As you so eloquently pointed out, you’re paying for my assistance.”

“Touché… my bad.”

Leaning back on the sofa, Merrill extended his right leg and reached into his pants pocket, pulling out a pack of Marlboros. Tapping the bottom of the unopened pack several times with his finger, he adroitly spun it around and removed the cellophane wrapper and tore off a small section of the foil. Again turning the pack upside down, he tapped it, allowing one cigarette to protrude from the end. Taking it into his mouth, suddenly he noticed no ashtrays visible. Worse, the doctor merely stared at him disapprovingly, reinforcing Merrill’s hatred for society’s prohibition of smoking. Putting the cigarette back into the pack, Merrill sat back on the sofa and folded his hands in his lap.

“Thank you, Merrill, I very much appreciate your help in my never-ending crusade to avoid any reoccurrences, on my part, of a habit that I now find repugnant.”

“Sure thing, doc, anything to help a guy out.”

“Let’s talk about the smoking a bit, shall we? How much and how often do you smoke?”

“Well, given the fact that damned near everyplace forbids it, not nearly as much as I’d like, that’s for sure.”

“Do you hold out any hope of quitting?”

“Well, about the same hope as I have of playing pick-up-sticks with my butt cheeks or watching a one-legged ballerina at the Bolshoi dancing to Swan Lake.”

“Do you see any possibility that smoking may be your undertoad?” The doctor didn’t look up from his pad as he wrote.

“Actually, I think the undertoad makes me smoke, so he can kill me faster.”

“I see… tell me more of this undertoad. You seem as fascinated by his presence as you seem afraid. Could it be that you’re substituting nicotine as a curative for some undefined pessimism or angst?”

“Is it really pessimism if it comes to live with you and refuses to move out, if it takes over every reality in your life and leaves your refrigerator empty, never once paying for any groceries? If, in a jealous rage it strangles any joy that might happen to knock on your door, dragging it into the basement and throwing it into a dungeon where it butt-fucks the joy every day while it cries out in pain and agony, is it still undefined?” No emotion accompanied the words, causing Doctor James Wyrick to stop writing and stare at his patient.

“Why do you think I have the power to kill him? Don’t you think that’s your job?”

Merrill Keck sighed. “I guess it’s a little like hiring a hit man. I’d love to kill it myself, if I could, but it’s too tough for me. That’s why I’ve hired you.”

“Talk to me about joy, Mr. Keck. Give me your definition of the concept.”

“Joy… for me, joy is the feeling you get upon hearing that somebody you hate just died… preferably prematurely and after a prolonged period of unendurable pain and suffering.”

“Okay, now define ‘contentment’, please.”

“Oh, that’s easy, doc… that’s when you find out through the grapevine that the good-looking girl who won’t go out with you has never had an orgasm and can’t afford a good shrink, so she decides to become a nun.”

“Would you say you’re a relatively happy guy?”

“Who, me? Of course I am! I’m only here because I have way more money than I’ll ever need and while walking by this morning, I noticed that your Mercedes needs new tires.” Merrill Keck no longer looked at the doctor. Cleaning his fingernails with James Wyrick’s letter opener, he busied himself with the task at hand, outwardly contemptuous of all he surveyed.

“Mr. Keck, I can’t help you until you at least acknowledge you have a problem. It is not enough for you to walk in here, time and time again, and berate or belittle me and everyone else you contact. You express the desire to lose your anxieties but you don’t seem to understand the causal relationship between your attitude and your appearance to the world. Or, if you do, you choose to ignore it. Frankly, I consider you far too intelligent to continue your self-destructive habits without full knowledge of what you’re doing.”

The pad and pen, apparently useless and returned to their place on the desktop, functioned as a pretend ashtray as James Wyrick, MD, dumped a shadowy pile of ashes from his pipe. “You’re at war with the world, Mr. Keck, and since you insist upon being a one-man army who doesn’t listen to the generals you’ve commissioned, it is my opinion that you’re headed for defeat. Your enemy is both vast and powerful, and is using weapons you’ve provided. No one could ever dislike you nearly as much as you dislike yourself. Once I treated a woman who felt she was undesirable and unattractive, so she took very small doses of rat poison on a daily basis, in hopes that she’d eventually just fail to wake up. Meanwhile, she receded further and further into her own little world and eventually ended up in a long-term care facility, suffering from irreversible coma.

You seem intent upon committing suicide one day at a time, but instead of taking the poison yourself, you’re trying to feed it to a rat-resistant public. Once they get a taste of it, they reject the provider. Could they point it out to you? Yes, they could and probably do, but after awhile, they just assume that you don’t intend to stop, so they just shut the door and ignore your presence. You see, Mr. Keck, most people will meet you half way on many issues, but you can’t punish them for it.”

“So you’re telling me that I invented the undertoad and I’m feeding him and providing a place to sleep?”

“No, I’m not saying that you invented him, but does it matter? He’s real and he’s got you convinced that joy and contentment can only be accomplished as the result of other people’s misery. You’re feeding his insatiable need for power, and until you either kill him or find a cell to confine him, he’ll continue to ruin your life and the lives of those closest to you. I can’t help you, Merrill, but I can show you how to help yourself.”

“Oh, yea? You can kick him out?”

“No, you have to do that… but I can show you how to drain the swamp.”


* * *

“Hi, Paddy… how’s it hanging?”

“Hey, Luther, it’s hangin’ low, man… too damned low. In fact, it ain’t been up in so long, it’s considering filing for unemployment and welfare.”

Both men laughed and high-fived each other, then did their ritualistic ‘soul’ handshake as well as white folks can realistically be expected to accomplish such tasks, their four or five intricate moves finally resulting in giggling and calling off the entire endeavor. Paddy draped his jacket across the top of the round bar stool and waited for Julie to complete the equally ritualistic routine of sliding a draught of tap beer down the bar, causing it to glide to Paddy’s position and stop. Instead, she grabbed a cocktail napkin and coldly placed it in front of him. “Paddy, if I hear one cross word from you tonight, I’m not going to sweet-talk you, I’m not going to warn you, I’m just going to throw your ass out. Got it?”

Paddy gave her a quick nod. “Yes, ma’am.”

Then Julie took him by the hand and patted it gently. “Honey, you know how much I like and enjoy your company, but, honestly, your buddy Merrill is starting to creep me out.”

“I understand, Jewels, honestly I do. I haven’t seen him in a week. I threw him out of my house and haven’t seen him since the morning after that night. I’d be lying if I said I’m not worried about him, though. We’ve been friends for a long time. He’s not all bad, you know… but I think he’s in over his head now. I don’t know how to help him anymore.”

“Well, don’t make his problems yours, Sweetie. You’re smarter than that. I understand loyalty when it’s returned, but there comes a point when you have to walk away.”

“Yea, I know what you’re saying. But, I promise, I won’t bring trouble to your place, I like coming in here.”

Paddy sipped his brew and looked around. His week’s forced sabbatical had yielded little by way of insight except the realization that Hammerhead’s was really his home. Yes, he slept at the house on Whitaker Lane, but time spent there represented a symptom more than a cure. Now, with Merrill gone, there was little reason to go there at all except to shower and sleep. The philosophers are right, Paddy silently mused— home is where you hang your hat. Gregarious and overtly friendly, Paddy could have become a target were it not for his size. The former high school football player stayed in decent shape, and was physically imposing enough to deter most aggressors. As he’d often described himself to ladies who seemed impressed by his overall appearance, ‘I ain’t bad, but bad people don’t fuck with me’.

Lainey Daniels sidled up behind Paddy and pinched the roll around his belly affectionately. “Say something sweet or die, Newt.”

Paddy grinned into space and sipped his beer. Then, turning his head to the side, not quite far enough around to look at her, he said, “Wanna take a shower?”

The girl feigned irritation and punched him on the arm before flashing her patented Prom Queen smile and hugging Paddy affectionately. “I missed you.”

Taking her by both arms, Paddy held her at arm’s length and frowned, making sure to allow enough time for full theatrical presence. “You’ve contracted amnesia and forgotten my address? Remind me to speak to your therapist. And don’t call me Newt.”

Lainey squealed and Paddy once again hugged her affectionately before planting a friendly kiss on her lips. “It’s good to see you, Lainey. I missed you, too. Have time for a drink and a chat?”

Lainey screwed her face into a grimace and shook her head. “Better not… the old ball and chain is playing pool and if I disappear for too long, I’ll catch hell when we get home.”

Nothing more needed to be said. Paddy nodded and smiled, suddenly feeling a pang of longing for bygone days. They’d once been a hot item and he still missed her softness, her sweetness… her legs that seemed to go on forever. Unfortunately, the sex had been better than the everyday living. Still, memories of her were squirreled away in the secret place where no one else could find them, and someday he hoped to relive them in reality.

“Oh! I almost forgot—” her fingernails dug into his arm. “I was approached by a guy looking for Merrill, it was two or three days ago. He came in here about eight o’clock or so. I didn’t ask why he wanted him, but I didn’t get the impression that it was a social call.”

“What did you tell him?”

“Not much… just that I hadn’t seen him for a few days and that he wasn’t allowed to come in here for awhile.”

“What did he look like? I mean did he look like a hit man or mob enforcer?” Paddy grinned, his voice full of unneeded theatrical verve.

The girl thought for a few seconds. “Well… no, not really. He was polite, fortyish, sorta cute, actually. I can’t describe why, exactly, but if I had to guess, I think he might have been Canadian.”

Paddy swirled his beer without looking at her. “Interesting… anything else?”

“No, I can’t think of anything, except that I saw him talking to quite a few people. But, you know how unpopular Merrill was in here. I don’t think anyone gave him too much information. Do you think Merrill’s in trouble?” The question’s tone held little interest of a non-rhetorical nature, possessing the same emotion as a ‘have a nice day’ greeting to a total stranger.

“Hard to say, with Merrill.” Paddy raised his eyebrows and sipped his beer. “I wouldn’t lose any sleep over it, Zany, he’s a big boy.” Lips puckered, he closed his eyes and squinted, expecting a kiss.

“Welcome back…” Lainey purred, moving very close to him, her eyes looking around the room to see if the coast was clear, “and I thought I asked you never to call me ‘Zany’!” Suddenly both her arms surrounded his neck and a low, throaty growl emanated from her throat as she nipped his lips with her teeth, then kissed him full on the lips; he felt her tongue brush his lips briefly as she broke it off.

Quickly, she put her hand to her lips before pressing her fingers to his cheek. “See ya later?” she asked as she walked away.

Over her shoulder, she heard him whisper, “Count on it.”

Julie appeared so suddenly that it startled Paddy, in her hand a fresh, golden soldier willing to die for the cause. She sat the glass down on the bar and removed the empty. “You know, kiddo… sometimes what you see is what you get.”

“Well, well…” Paddy flirted, “All I see is you, Doll.” Now, Paddy’s eyes, wide as dollars, stared unblinkingly at her, waiting for the reaction he knew would come.

“Oh, just drink your beer, stupid. That is wrong on so many levels, it doesn’t dignify further comment…” Julie suddenly found it necessary to wipe down the bar, glancing back at him and shaking her head. “Somebody should have drown you while you were still a pup.”

“Does that mean I should cancel our reservations tonight at the No-Tell Motel?”

Julie Kevlar flipped him the bird as she walked away. If Paddy could have walked into the back room, he’d have witnessed Julie leaning against the wall, laughing her ass off. Putz.


***


Ding-dong-dong-ding… Dong-ding-ding-dong.

Somewhere in the fuzz of semi-consciousness, Paddy Paderewski heard a noise in the distance, a recognizable herald, even when awakening from a dead sleep— the phone or perhaps the doorbell. Blinking to clear his head, he glanced at the clock. 8:30. He once again closed his eyes. If he heard it again, he’d get up; if not, weekends were, after all, days of rest.

Ding-dong-dong-ding… Dong-ding-ding-dong.

“Fuck,” Paddy swore under his breath and reached for his bathrobe hanging on the antique oak coat tree he’d purchased at a yard sale years ago.

Ding-dong-dong-ding… “God damn it, hold your horses, I’m coming!” Dong-ding-ding-dong.

The wood floors in Paddy’s house strained under his stride as he stormed down the hall toward the front door. “Merrill, if that’s you, you better pray to Christ that you can outrun me, because I fully intend to rip your head off and shit in the hole!” Pulling the front door open, Paddy’s scowl quickly evaporated as he realized he didn’t recognize the man standing in front of him. He was thin, neatly-dressed and held the newspaper in his hand, outstretched towards Paddy. The expression on his face hovered between bewilderment and all-out terror.

“Oh, sorry…” Paddy said in a voice barely above a whisper, “are you delivering the paper now?”

Offering it to Paddy, the man grinned nervously and shook his head. “No, I’m looking for someone. Down at Hammerhead’s they told me that you might be able to tell me where I could find Merrill Keck.”

Paddy’s expression revealed nothing. “And you are—whom, exactly?”

A quick grab into his back pocket produced a wallet. Fishing for a second, he produced a driver’s license and handed it to Paddy. “I’m Kendall Keck… Merrill’s brother.”

Paddy examined the license and handed it back to the man. Offering his hand, he said, “Come on in. Are you a coffee drinker?”

For the next two hours, the two men sat at Paddy’s kitchen table and talked about many things, two men with only one thing in common— Merrill Keck. But, for the moment, that was enough.


****



Gossamer. Not thin or translucent… gossamer. Such was her touch, when they danced. It was as though she had no mass, no physical substance, yet her essence glimmered like her dress, moving effortlessly against him, every breath on his cheek nearly moving him to tears. Then, just as he moved to kiss her lips, she simply vanished, and his now-empty arms grieved for her. “Rita, don’t go!” Merrill Keck sat up in bed, suddenly fully awake.

“Don’t go…” he repeated. The dream had been identical to all the others, right down to the background Perry Como music. Merrill resolved to talk to Dr. Wyrick about that, to see if the good doctor had any therapy capable of creating some Johnny Mathis or Barry White… hell, damn near anything would beat Perry Como.

No, Rita was gone, and there was nothing in the world that Merrill could do to change it. If only he’d… if only he’d what? The accident that claimed her could have happened to anyone… the truck driver who ran into her would never walk again and Merrill’s 4-year-old daughter, Dosie, lay in a special ward at Mount Sinai Hospital in Toronto, where she’d probably live out the remainder of her short life without ever again opening her eyes. How long had it been since he’d gone to see her? Then the terrible reality hit him. He hadn’t been across the bridge in nearly six years.

The light penetrating the window would be the sun, or rather the winter version of the sun, a somewhat muted fraud turning everything a barely-palatable gray. Swinging his legs off the side of the bed, he yawned and tried to recall the route to the bathroom. The rooming house on Fillmore Street, just as Paddy had projected, was all too happy to rent him a room on a weekly basis. However, he hated the idea of sharing the communal bathroom located in the hall. Most of the time, it smelled as if an entire herd of swine had recently exited, leaving behind an eau de cologne familiar to every farm kid who ever mucked a stall. A red light bulb blinked in the hall, signifying that the room was occupied. Wonderful.

Closing his front door, he walked over to the single-compartment sink and surveyed the landscape. It’s too high. Quickly, he pulled a kitchen chair up against the front. Stepping onto the chair, he faced the sink, pulled the waistband of his pajamas below his balls and grabbed his penis. In seconds, urine ran freely into the sink, splashing a little against the sides as the stream intensified. There he stood, in all his glory, pissing in his kitchen sink without a care in the world. Should he sing or perhaps whistle? Aware of no guidelines to assist him, he merely filled his cheeks with air a few times and allowed it to ‘pffff’ out, rounding his lips and imposing a resistance against the air flow. At some point, upon feeling his bladder empty and the flow diminish, he strained mightily, pulling his unit a couple of times and shaking the head. Satisfied that he was, indeed, finished, Merrill flipped the head of his penis upward so he could check the eye one last time for moisture, then returned his waistband to its customary location. Climbing down from the chair, he turned the faucet handles on, ‘flushed’ the sink and grabbed the soap, testing the water temperature and bringing a fertile lather to bear upon his skin. Rinsing carefully, he inventoried his fingernails and turned the faucets off with his elbows. After shaking the water residue off his hands, he held them in the air like he’d seen in all the TV shows, a surgeon waiting for his gloves.

And why not piss in the sink, he reasoned. It all goes the same place, after all, and there’s no one around to register a complaint, in any event. The city doesn’t have sink sewers and shit sewers, does it? Really, it was more economic, since one toilet flush must take at least two to three times the amount of water he’d used, and he’d washed his hands, as well. Merrill Keck also resolved to think about this on a deeper level, too… maybe invent a combination sink/urinal that could be used by men and women. Stand back, America, the Urinal King is in the building!

The staccato raps on the door startled him. No peephole existed, but the creaky floor would have prevented his attempt to look, in any case. If he was to remain invisible, he mustn’t move. Maybe whoever it was would simply go away. After a minute or two, a manila envelope appeared under the door, but not quite completely through. It could be a trap, Merrill reasoned. If he grabbed it too soon, whoever was out there would know he was in the room. Relax, God damn it! Just let it lie.

Obviously, someone knew he was here, but whom? Merrill had told no one that he could remember. Paddy… Or maybe it was someone looking for the last guy who rented the room, he couldn’t be certain. But he was certain of one thing—he had to contact Paddy. It would be just like the undertoad to disguise itself as a friend.


***



Denny's Restaurant, while never mistaken for a five-star bistro, nonetheless offered Merrill Keck a spot to wile away the mornings. Same table every day, and if it was occupied, no problem, he’d wait. These days, his natural suspicion of the undertoad brought forth even greater diligence in his dealings with all people, strangers especially.

Today, he sat, deep in thought. A manila envelope lay on the table unopened, the same manila envelope slid under his door earlier this morning. Merrill eyed the other clientele suspiciously, eager to catch anyone watching him or diverting his eyes when Merrill looked his way. So far, nothing attracted his attention; perhaps it would be safe to insert his knife under the flap and open it. But what if there’s anthrax inside, or neurolysin, for God’s sake?

Merrill’s mannerisms, carefully choreographed during his four decades of battle with his environment, annoyed practically everyone he’d ever met. Over the years, the servers at Denny’s were no different, often drawing straws to see who would be forced to wait on him.

The morning rush complete, Tiffany Springs took the time to scan her service area. To her disdain, she watched powerlessly as the curtain went up on the Merrill Keck Theatre for the Bizarre. He’d turned his empty coffee cup upside down on the table, his standard oh-so-subtle reminder that she’d taken more than thirty seconds to recognize him by filling his cup. Tiffany silently poured his coffee, promised to be ‘right back’ and walked back into the kitchen, where she peeked around the corner to watch him conduct his ritual.

First, making sure the handle of the cup faced to his left, he grabbed a packet of artificial creamer. Next, holding the creamer in his right hand, he flicked it several times to ensure that the contents didn’t spill out as he tore open the right one-third of the packet. Then, satisfied he’d successfully completed this critical step, he'd tap (never pour or shake) the creamer into the brew, stirring constantly with his left hand. At precisely the right time, he'd stop tapping, hold the remaining contents of the packet to the light, take out a pen and mark the level on the side of the packet before setting it back down on the table, being careful to prop it up between the salt and pepper shakers.

Tiffany grinned and rolled her eyes at Marla and Toni, who stifled giggles as they watched. “Pathetic…” she whispered to Toni. “I got a week’s paycheck says he irons his shorts.”

"Shhhhh..." Tiffany held her finger up and shook her head at the other two, "let him finish... Where in the hell do you suppose he's from? I've never seen anything like this!"

Act Two began as Merrill positioned packets of honey strategically to his right, in rows of two, just to the left of the ketchup bottle. With short but delicate fingers, he picked up the packet nearest to the center of the table, read the contents on the back, then, satisfied that he could trust the manufacturer to indeed put honey inside the packet, clipped the tip off the corner with a small fingernail clipper extracted from his jacket pocket.

"Damn…" Jerome Hackstraw whispered to the trio of servers, shaking his head in pity. Jerome, the night manager, after completing his ten-hour shift of baby-sitting drunks, didn’t look forward to his inevitable confrontation with Merrill. Jerome tried to overlook him if humanly possible, not wishing to risk the bad karma received from provoking a basket case.

"Can't you ladies find something to do, other than ridicule that poor bastard?"

Jerome watched as the three scrambled hither and yon, feigning activity at the closest venue they could find. Watching them scurry, Jerome's white teeth showed brightly as he took their place at the corner. It was his turn to watch. He'd witnessed this performance many times, but it never failed to make him smile.

By now, Merrill was lost in his work, oblivious to the world. If for the only time in his day, for the next few seconds, Merrill became master of his domain. Nothing could happen without his knowledge. Holding his right index finger straight out in front of him, he squeezed a neat row of honey onto it. Picking up the coffee cup with his left hand, he filled his mouth about three-quarters full with coffee and tilted his head back a little. Then, sticking his finger in his mouth, he sucked off the coffee-softened honey. Eyes closed in recognition of Fool’s Nirvana, he savored the mixture and swallowed, smacking his lips in pleasure. Once sated, he opened his eyes and looked around the room. Why did everyone suddenly avert his or her eyes from him? Get a good look, morons… you’ve never seen a guy drink a cup of coffee, for Christ's sake? He continued the ritual, finally draining the cup and setting it on the table right side up.

There was still the matter of the manila envelope. Satisfied that the CIA could not possibly be interested in him and that Julie Kevlar or Joe Acosta hadn’t paid anyone to have him whacked, Merrill slid his butter knife blade under the flap and tugged. Opening the flap, Merrill took out the single sheet of unlined paper. Scrawled in blue ink were the words

Merrill,
Please come home. Dosie is
asking for her daddy.

Mom


As he began to reach inside, Tiffany Springs surprised him. “Can I warm your coffee, sir?”

Clearing his throat, Merrill replied, “Uh— no, I believe I’ve had enough for now… but thanks for asking.” Picking up the check, Merrill folded the manila envelope under his arm and walked to the cash register. Reaching in his wallet, he looked up at Jerome’s tall, sleek form looming over him from behind the counter.

"How much, my good man?" Merrill inquired, handing the check to the large, black man standing in front of him.

Jerome looked at Merrill, punched a couple of keys, and said, "Seventy-nine cents, Merrill. Just like every other day. That is, unless you'd care to pay for all the honey you've consumed during your morning rituals for the past six years. In that case, your bill comes to around three thousand dollars."

"I don't think I care for your tone, Jerome, especially in light of the fact that your waitresses are getting more and more inefficient in the execution of their duties to your customers", Merrill snapped back.

"Well, sir, could that, in any way, be due to the fact that you have never once left any form of gratuity which didn't involve your hand-written witticisms and/or telephone number scrawled semi-coherently on a napkin?" The Denny's night manager folded his arms and glared at Merrill.

"Listen, Jerome, I've never caused problems here. I've always paid in cash and for the most part, I've kept my thoughts to myself. I am under no obligation to supplement their salary out of my own pocket. If you choose not to pay them a livable wage and if they are willing to work for it, that forms a contract between you and them. I am not bound by it."

"Oh, shit… now look what you’ve done—you've gone and made me cry, I feel so bad.” Jerome wiped crocodile tears from his eyes with his fists before continuing. “Ebenezer Scrooge is my great-grandfather on my mother's side, so I can't help myself. I'll tell you what, Mr. Gates, I'm taking out my wallet. Situated inside is a collection of currency that will likely exceed what you spend in here in six months. If you will promise to take it and walk out of here, promising never to return, I will gladly put this money in your well-licked right hand!" As Jerome stuck the bills in Merrill's chest, the two men glared at each other with a silence born of frustration.

Expressionless, Merrill stepped backwards, made a self-righteous gesture and uttered, "While we're on the subject, I'd appreciate it if I could get clean utensils tomorrow." Pivoting, he walked toward the front door, his armor of indignation gleaming.

Jerome chased him around the counter, shouting, "Why's that, you two-bit chiseler? You don't know how to use them anyway!"

The comments fell upon deaf ears as Merrill crossed the parking lot, a wry smirk pasted on his lips, the note secure in his breast pocket. For the first time in six years, he had something to smile about, a reason to cross the bridge. Dosie wants to see her daddy.

* * *