Nitrogen Narcosis at Sea Level

Nitrogen Narcosis at Sea Level

I’ve long since given up any hopes I might once have held for becoming a neurosurgeon. Neither does destiny favor my opportunities for a career as a professional baseball player, porn star or circuit judge in anyone’s district court system, although I once considered it a distinct possibility that any one of these vocations would suit me just fine.

Unfortunately, as it turns out, I’m physically unqualified for several of these occupations and scholastically excluded from the others. Evidently, enthusiasm for a particular subject can only carry a person so far; then, actual qualifications and/or credentials have to be produced.

Besides, who would hire someone as an apprentice jurist who’d nearly reached mandatory retirement age? I can’t prove it but I suspect that a movie producer might quickly become annoyed with his new adult movie star who could only perform once a week.

Now, some might find these realities a total waste of time, a disservice, really… but for those of us who’ve lived vicariously through our associations with people who make their livings as ball players, et al, much satisfaction is derived from the effort. The trick is to keep adding to your available supply of worthy subjects.

So I decided to take a walk. Surely, if I looked around a little, I could find someone worthy of emulation from afar.

It's a fairly nice day where I live, one of those days that remind you why you're here, one of those days when you feel like you're a part of something bigger, something important, like you’re plugged into some massive generator; like you are an essential part of a machine that never stops churning. It's one of those days when the sidewalks feel like they're vibrating underneath you as you walk. Or maybe I’m just about to stroke out… I’ll know pretty soon, one way or the other.

Almost immediately after I stepped out onto Morley Street, the main drag through our burgh, some lady with two strollers plowed into me. Not only was she pushing two strollers, she was carrying four bags of groceries, wrapped around each of her arms like a straitjacket. She was so harried that she not only didn't apologize when she almost knocked me over, I'm not sure she even noticed. One of her babies was wailing; the other was playing with a bag of frozen peas. The woman wasn't being chased by anyone, but she might as well have been; she was so caught up in what was assuredly a stressful journey home, so single-minded in her attempt to get home as quickly as humanly possible, that if I hadn’t been wearing pants, I doubt she’d have noticed. And even more troubling, this seemed to be a regular thing for her… this pushing of children, this carrying of bags, this nonstop journey from point A to point B. As I quickly assessed her qualifications for vicarious selection, I wondered how long her life had been like this. She was young; I bet it wasn't more than five years ago that her friends held her hair back as she threw up in the back of some shithole apartment, doing jello shots and smoking reefer while Nirvana’s In Utero droned in the background. When did it switch for her? When did the tide turn? It was probably a gradual thing. She felt she was getting older, that the world was starting to close in on her, she met a nice guy, she settled down, she had children (twins!), and before she knew it, she was carting the sum of her existence down a nondescript street in Moberly freaking Missouri, aware of nothing but this. She had the look of someone who had not thought about herself in a long, long time.

No, I’d have to look further.

Two kids are hanging out in front of the Dollar Store. They're always here, whether the store is open or not. They're black kids, and they're always passing their headphones back and forth. They're obviously very bored. They always comment when someone comes into the store; when I went in to buy toilet paper the other day, they saw my bald head and said "Hey, here comes Chrome Dome." They laughed and so did I, trying to show that I get it, I'm hip, and they scoffed at me, told me to "laugh it up, Baldy, maybe tomorrow I'll pop a cap in your ass." Sometimes a third kid joins them, but I don't think they like him very much, even though he clearly likes them, or at least wants their approval. He'll stand there, next to them, talking more than they are, and they treat him like he's not there. Occasionally I'll see him standing there by himself, waiting for them to show up. I suspect he'll wait a very long time, if necessary. I wonder if he considers them his best friends. I bet he does… maybe I should talk to him about living vicariously.

I continue down Morley. There's a bar called Murphy’s less than two blocks from my house which, every time I look in there, seems to have the same five people in it. They're the retired types who come in around ten in the morning, set a stack of bills in front of them and just let the bartenders refill their drinks and take from the stack at their leisure. They don't seem sad, or happy; they barely talk. The bar has a TV, tuned to CNN. They just stare straight ahead, sipping their drink… tired of the world, I think. I wonder how they got this way, too. I wonder what their home is like. I imagine it is spare and dark. If the bar didn't close, they'd never go home. I sometimes go to Murphy’s myself, when I want the same experience of solitude among strangers. I've never talked to any of them and none of them have ever talked to me. It's a comfort.

In front of me, a couple is fighting, desperately trying to disguise their argument from the world… and failing miserably. I can't make out the specifics of their tiff, but apparently there's something that he always does that drives her crazy, something that makes her feel she is making a mistake by continuing to be with him, and that he has little desire to stop doing it. She is saying, "I don't know why you always do this," and he is trying to ignore her, walking faster and looking away, but she is right behind him and she is speeding up, trying unsuccessfully to catch him and walk beside him. So, I speed up, too, to stay with them, and she is starting to yell now, and what had been his mutterings a few seconds earlier are starting to become shouts. He is now waving his arms in a robotic manner, as if this is a conversation he has had too many times already and lacks the energy to give even the most feeble resistance. He says something to her that I can't make out, and she stops and begins to cry. He tries to keep walking, wants desperately to keep walking, but he can't now, and he turns to come back to her, looking sympathetic and guilty, and I speed past the both of them and know exactly how they both feel. Momentarily, I considered stopping and asking them if they’d like a new apprentice friend, but thought better of it. Usually, times like this are not conducive to the success of fledgling relationships.

Because it's such a nice day, two women are having brunch outside of a fancy French bistro. The place screams pretentiousness. I haven’t personally visited this bistro before, but one of my friends assures me it’s exactly what you'd suspect: shitty service, rude wait staff, overrated food, and way too expensive. Places like this are always crowded for reasons that escape me. The two women, probably in their late twenties, are dressed in business suits and have leather handbags next to them. They are wearing a lot of makeup. They both went on dates last night, and they're deconstructing the dates, evidently the most fun part of the entire experience, judging from their laughter. One was going on and on about her date's face; I guess he had a bad acne problem in high school and still carries the scars. He's a lawyer, it seems, and he tried to kiss her good night, and she was kinda grossed out but kissed him anyway, and if he calls, she'll go out with him again… sure, why not. The waiter comes by, and the two women scowl and complain to him about something. He looks apologetic but probably isn't, he probably hates them… probably hates all of them.

Suddenly, I crave a mint, so I walk into a Rite-Aid and stand in line behind a man who is having trouble with his credit card. He is saying that this is impossible, that his card works just fine, and why can't they just run it again? The woman behind the counter doesn't really care and just wants to go home; she runs the card again, and then another card, and then another… and none of them are working, so the guy starts to yell and the woman never changes her apathetic expression. He throws his hands in the air, curses, and storms toward the exit. He is moving too fast, though, and he smacks right into the automatic doors. The woman behind the counter smirks, gives me and my mints the once-over, shakes her head sadly and says, "Okay, you’re next, Rockefeller".

It's starting to get dark, so it’s time to go home. I buy some Diet Pepsi and some batteries for my mouse. My wife isn't home from work yet, so I shut off all the lights in my house, sit down at my computer and begin to type. It is so simple here, so peaceful. I see so many people out there, who don't know what they're doing in this world, who are just like me. I wonder where they find their peace. I wonder where they go to slow everything down, to try to make some sense out of the chaos, to try to strip out some meaning from a planet that is doggedly determined not to provide it. I wonder where they step outside of themselves and relax, and think, and just be. This is where I find it. Alone, in a dark room, listening to the screams of Nirvana, the sound of helplessness. This is the only place I know to go. I fear that I might be lost without it. Sometimes I feel it is all that I have. What else can I do? I’m too old to become a neurosurgeon.

Bob Church©2007

Doing The Hopi-Dope

*** Note: This is an excerpt from Harley Leathers, Man of Distinction

No one knew Harley's politics. For that matter, neither did Harley, most of the time. If you caught him on one of those rare lucid moments before he started force-feeding Grand Marnier, he might give you a glimpse into his psyche if the sudden dyspeptic effect of the liqueur didn't bring on a spasm of projectile vomiting and all of the unpleasantness associated with it. More than likely, though, at some point, it would become a rambling diatribe of clichés, designed to show you that he had enough short term memory to recall Rush Limbaugh's most recent spate of verbal diarrhea; and he felt no compunction whatsoever about arguing both sides of a political debate, often simultaneously.

Although he would have been the last to admit it, Harley Leathers was a drunk, or at least a quasi-drunk. His habit had started innocently enough, while he was still in grade school. Mom hadn't been in the picture for most of Harley's young life. Harley’s after-school routine consisted of fixing the meals, taking care of any chores that simply had to be done, and short of the bedroom, generally serving as a surrogate mother to his father and siblings. He and his father would share a glass of wine at dinner, and after the old man passed out, Harley would grab the remainder of the hooch and head for his tree. On more than one occasion the police had rudely awakened Harley’s father after a concerned neighbor had called and told the officers they’d heard a loud thunk and a moan outside. Dad would then accompany the policemen to the back yard, where they would invariably find young Harley laying under that big oak tree, sleeping like a baby. Usually, if there were no broken bones, they'd just carry the sleeping lad up to his room, where he would remain until he woke up, sometimes even in time for school the next morning. If the authorities had ever gotten suspicious and run a blood alcohol test on the boy, poor Harley would likely have become an orphan for all intents and purposes, as he spent his weekdays in foster care and his Saturdays visiting his father at the State Penitentiary.

Daddy passed away shortly after Harley’s seventeenth birthday, leaving no will, no insurance and no hope for Harley to ever develop a sense of family. After a makeshift funeral of sorts held at the mausoleum where Harley had Daddy cremated, the local mechanic who worked on Daddy's car showed up, proclaiming that Daddy owed him for a short-block overhaul he'd done about two or three years earlier, and would Harley mind if he took said car in payment of the debt. There was not any real decision that Harley could have made, other than to say yes, considering that the mechanic was a brother-in-law to the mausoleum proprietor who had agreed to torch Daddy in return for the Browning 12-gauge pump shotgun he’d borrowed several years earlier and forgot to return, but the gold plated brass urn would be another fifty dollars, of course. Harley had opted for the economy model, a plain brown lunch bag. After the "service" he had carried the sack down to Hack’s Pond, where he dumped Daddy off the dock. Harley kept the bag as a keepsake.


A hard rain battered the building’s tin roof, providing a staccato cadence and intensifying the muted drumming of the droplets upon the pavement. As usual, the front door to the Plainsman remained open; April weather in Colorado, neither hot nor humid this year, demanded no air conditioning. The shower served two purposes. First, the wind blew all the notices off the bulletin board posted by the front door. Second, the thunder woke up Harley Leathers about an hour before he usually got up from his afternoon nap. When Ruth, owner of the Plainsman and Harley's faithful bartender/friend saw him stir, she thought to herself, 'oh, shit'... If he became aware that it was raining outside, she knew it would be difficult to stop him from stripping buck-naked and doing his Hopi Fertility Dance in the parking lot. This had been a ritual Harley started about six or seven years previous. Harley had been romancing Quickie Delgado, the AT&T operator/escort entrepreneur and both of them were getting pretty wasted. Ruth disappeared into the walk-in to check a beer keg and returned to find the fifteen or so patrons standing around the front door, and a quick glance showed Harley's stool holding nothing but an untidy stack of clothing. Judging from the war whoops of encouragement offered by the appreciative onlookers, Ruth knew that it wouldn't be long before the police arrived, so she stomped outside and attempted to retrieve the amorous duo before they got so far out of hand that she'd have to bail them both out of the hoosegow.

"For Christ sakes, Harley, act your age! Good God, look at you! Who the hell you trying to impress? Quickie has seen your ass more times than your proctologist, you damned fool!" she screamed out the door. The frolicking couple continued to bunny-hop across the parking lot, trying to jump in the middle of any puddles formed in the potholes. Once in a while, they'd look up, see Ruth, and wave and smile. Soon, watching those two lunatics doing the hokey-pokey in the rain, even Ruth was laughing out loud, hiding her face in Charley Connerly's shirt every time Quickies's boobs bounced.

"Oh, to hell with both of you, get your ass thrown in jail, see if I care!" she muttered, walking back inside and shaking her head in disbelief. Ruth looked up at Charley and asked, "Charley, if you saw any serious signs that I was going off my rocker, you'd say something, wouldn't you?"

Charley grinned and replied, "And just exactly how the hell would I be able to tell?" Both friends laughed as she walked behind the bar and poured him another beer. It was going to be a long night...

Bubba and His One-Hit Wonders

Hiya, kids... it's "Two-fer Thursday" at Bubba's Theater Of and For the Bizarre. In my previous post I offered to make you a movie, so now I'll take you into a scene. Relax... I'll even buy the popcorn:

" It's something unpredictable, but in the end it's right, I hope you have the time of your life..."

The faint words emanated from the song being broadcast by the FM station Forrest had selected the previous evening. He didn't know who wrote the words, but they mirrored his own sentiments as he gazed at the lovely creature sleeping so naturally in his bed. The night had provided splendors he’d only rarely experienced. He wanted to— check that—had to know more about her. This was no ordinary woman, by any assessment. She seemed to know what was in his mind at every juncture and played him like a Stradivarius. Every sensuous move choreographed as if by some instinctive gene bonded to a site deep within his psyche, controlled his thoughts and movements. She brought him close to ecstasy again and again, knowing precisely when to back off, when to tease, when to become the kitten of his dreams; ultimately she willed him to her every whim, leaving him spent, yet wanting more.

Always leave them wanting more. Wasn't it P.T. Barnum who had said that? Maybe not, but it fit. The entire night became his personal three-ring circus, and his multi-tasking roles became lion tamer, strong man, and yes, even clown. But her acrobatic high-wire act ultimately resulted in her becoming ringmaster. Never had he been so dominated in bed, so out of control. He both loved and despised her for it. The exhilaration, magnificent as it was, could bring complications in its aftermath. Wasn't it also P.T. Barnum who said there was a sucker born every minute?

Please Make A Movie About Me

I was thinking the other day, and I know it probably sounds, you know, just crazy, but I thought to myself, ‘you know, as irrational and dysfunctional as I am, I'll bet that, if the right filmmaker got involved, maybe somebody could make a movie dramatizing various aspects of my life’. Now, just hear me out, I think I'm onto something here.

There's a lot about me that audiences would find very amusing, I think. I’m an arguably intelligent, only-somewhat self-hating ex-Catholic who's obsessed with sex, whose many and sundry neuroses and insecurities could lead to any number of mixups and character complications that would leave the audience grateful that they aren’t me. There have been some pretty funny things that have happened in my life, too. You could probably fictionalize some of it if you wanted to… that might work. Either way, I think there's a lot of good material contained within my roughly sixty years spent sucking up precious oxygen that could be utilized more effectively by a more productive member of society.

I'm talking kind of an overall "triumphs and tribulations of the daily routines of various Midwestern pseudointellectuals and/or Wal-Mart shoppers as they go about their daily lives" kind of a thing. I've thought of a title (it's a little self-indulgent, I realize that, please don’t hate me for being clever, I’m not forcing you to use it if you don't like it, it’s merely a suggestion). It's Bubba: Bonkers. Think of it as Citizen Kane meets Porky’s.

I live in rural Missouri, so any film about my life could feature beautiful shots of brown winter corn fields (at least I think they're corn fields), Flink’s Fun Palace, VFW Post # 214, and, yes, even Moberly State Prison. I know many great locations and would be happy to jot them down if you're interested.

The movie could open in a totally red room, and let's say Lucifer and I are verbally jousting, you know, just trying to assert our dominance. Lucifer asks me, "Do you think you’re worthy of admission into Hell, or should I send you to a boring eternity in Heaven?" And I’d tell him, "I'll go wherever you want as long as I’m not stuck behind the farmer driving his combine on County Road DD."

This scene, as well as many others I could probably think of, expresses my pre-occupation with death, and shows that our time on Earth is totally meaningless… and isn’t that the central theme of all great dramatic stories?

Then you could cut to an older me (played by myself, of course), having a dispute with the younger me (played by Brad Pitt or me), about whether or not I should engage in sexual intercourse with a beautiful young student enrolled at the local beauty academy. Eventually, I’d decide to go ahead and sleep with her because she reminds me, in the heat of the moment, that if I don't "get on with it already" I'll be late for my appointment with the proctologist.

Also, it could be interesting to show audiences from whence my insecurities and neuroses stem. A scene depicting me as a young boy being harangued by my strict, no-nonsense parents around the dinner table could be played for great comic effect. Or, you could flashback to my first Communion. I'm on my knees at the altar rail with all the other kids (this was before Vatican ll), trying to look like I really gave a damn about what was going on, and suddenly my mother runs out of the church crying because I spit out the Host (it tasted really funky). I look over to the priest for comfort, but he's been replaced by Brian Dennehy, who in his overly-dramatic, pink, overtly-Irish demeanor, speaking directly to the camera, announces to everyone in the parish that my Communion doesn’t count and that I’m, in all likelihood, going straight to Hell… and that in gym class last week I had been unable do a single pull-up.

Now, I'm just throwing this out there, but a good framing device for this picture could be my various meetings with my shrink. This would really illustrate to audiences that I have, you know, inner doubts and problems with human contact. So, I meet my therapist, Dr. Penick—a strict Freudian—at a local bar/deli/coffeehouse that only three people know about: me, Penick, and a drop-dead gorgeous, sexy college co-ed, who is only made sexier by her hankering for sausage.

These are just a few ideas. There are all sorts of themes from my life that could be utilized as cinematic material. Play it straight like Bergman or immortalize the slapstick efforts of Fellini (to the dismay of his fair-weather fans, sadly) my life offers a series of comic, yet deeply poignant insecurities about the meaning of life as an artist— a rich thematic vein, if I do say so myself, a film structured around that sort of inner dilemma. Or, if you wanted, you could just exemplify the whole "What is the role of the artist in an age when mediocrity is rewarded by the mainstream" question.

Actually, there's probably enough material to make more than one movie about my life, but, good God, look at me… let's not get all, you know, optimistic or overly enthusiastic.

Either way, there could be a film in this, and a funny one at that. It's a mixture of character humor and some solid ‘God, is this guy lame’ gags. I admit, it might not break any box-office records with some of today's audiences in big cities like Davenport and Peoria (they’re all absolute philistines), but I have a feeling it would do respectable business in Randolph County, and possibly in Calcutta or Poland.

Oh, and I would be willing to appear in such a movie… you know, if you needed a super-star actor or something to that effect. I'm just saying...

Oh, Blasphemous Tuesday

I wish I’d written the Bible… then, I’d be famous instead of a bunch of long-dead prophets and such. I could have done it, too. I’m pretty good at pointing out other folks’ weaknesses, transgressions, sins, shortcomings, foibles and the like… and I get a big kick out of using pronouns such as thy, thou and thee. Honestly, I think that in a former life, I just may have been Bill Shakespeare, except I’m sure I wouldn’t have written the play about the dude who’s getting it on with his mama. That’s a little freaky, wouldst thou not agree?

As far as that goes, I think old Bill would have been a pretty fair Bible author in his own right. He seemed to have a pretty clear-cut idea about right and wrong and he sure had a way of dealing with royalty. He’d have straightened ol’ Pilate out before he had a chance to do his dirty work. He’d have merely pointed out that "They say best men are moulded out of faults." That would have sent Pilate scurrying to a merchant in Venice or Rome or Judea or wherever he was at the time…

"Words are easy, like the wind; Faithful friends are hard to find." Makes sense, and the editors at the Bible publishing house would have loved it, but poor Bill wasn’t much of a poet… he didn’t even make his phrases rhyme. Why didn’t he say something like “Eat a watermelon rind; Faithful friends are hard to find.” Now that’s poetry… I just wish I’d been there to help the poor guy.


Old King Lear was a jolly old quee— wait, that ain’t right… that wasn’t Shakespeare, was it? Anyway, you get the point. He used all that flowery language just like they did in the Bible, while at the same time making sense...sorta. He could even written some dialogue for Jesus or maybe even God:

"I do love nothing in the world so well as you: is not that strange?"

"The hand that made you fair hath made you good."

"Blessed are the peacemakers on earth."

Yea… that works for me. William, my man, thou art cool.

Twillbear Part 7

Hi, folks... I'm going to be out of town tomorrow and Friday, so I won't be able to post anything else until this weekend. Thanks for your support and your indulgence... Bob

McDonalds certainly is not Starbucks, a realization that brought Shirley Hagerman a great deal of comfort. Suffering from a world-class coffee jones was bad enough, she figured, without having to pay four bucks a cup for it. True enough, McDonalds only offered regular or decaf, but if she really wanted something more exotic, the market offered myriad possibilities. Besides, she enjoyed coming in for a few minutes early in the morning before work, just to relax and watch the senior citizen men, farmers mostly, who commandeered the lion’s share of the tables closest to the restrooms. Surely they couldn’t all be widowers… she couldn’t understand why none of their wives insisted on joining them. Of course, judging from the laughter emerging from the area, most of the stories probably weren’t fit for mixed company. Maybe it was better this way… mother could get a couple of extra hours sleep and papa wasn’t occupying a stool at the corner bar; a win-win situation if ever there was one.

Sitting here at the Golden Arches, Shirley did miss one feature that The Endless Urn had offered before Dick Sterling died suddenly, leaving Thelma a thriving business that she ran into the ground almost before the dirt on Dick’s grave had completely settled— a clock. These days the concept of time held a different significance in Shirley’s mind, as though events of the past had begun to stack up behind her, threatening to topple over and come crashing down onto the present. Nervously, she checked and re-checked her watch, fidgeting with her cup and crossing and re-crossing her legs. Where the hell are you Tish? Come on… I need to go to work! She’d called her daughter last night at Chubby’s and arranged to meet this morning, but it now appeared she wouldn’t show. Finally, at 8:04, she picked up her cup and napkin from the table and walked to her car. If she were not sitting in her appointed seat in 11 minutes, smiling sweetly, Larry Sherman would have a coronary… figuratively speaking, of course…dammit.

As Shirley drove along Banker Avenue, she stopped at the four-way stop sign placed to control traffic at the intersection with Grove Street. Glancing into the back parking lot of Chubby’s, she saw the back end of Harper LaGrange’s silver Firebird pull out onto Grove. She made out a dark form in the passenger’s seat that could only be Tish. Angry now, Shirley screeched her tires as she made the right turn onto Grove. Okay, asshole, you’re messing with the wrong woman now. At 8:02 a.m., Shirley Hagerman decided that time no longer had any meaning; Plains Distributors and Larry Sherman himself could kiss her ass… she was going to be late.

Pressing buttons on her cell, she waited for someone to answer the phone at the office. Please, Frieda, answer the phone.

The voice on the other end intoned, “You’ve reached Plains Distributors, how can I direct your call?”

“Thank God, it’s you, Frieda… this is Shirley. I’m going to be late this morning. Can you cover for me if Larry asks about me?”

“Well, honey, I’ll do the best I can… you sound absolutely frantic, is everything okay?” Frieda’s gum chomping made her sound annoying even when she tried to be nice, which wasn’t often.

“Yea, it’s nothing, really, but I have a couple of stops I need to make. I should be in by nine or so… and thanks, sweetie, I owe you one.”

“Well, hurry as fast as you can, I can’t stal—“ The press of another button left Shirley holding a useless implement that she tossed into the tray provided by the manufacturer located between her bucket seats; she silently praised whoever had designed her Tempo’s interior.

Making sure to keep a city block between LaGrange’s car and her own, Shirley followed the Firebird out of town. They’re heading toward Pleasant Hills.

Twillbear (Part 6)

George Thorogood and the Destroyers’ rendition of Bad To The Bone blasted through the speakers of Clancy’s causing more than a few patrons to strum their air-guitars in tribute to the classic anthem of every bad-ass wannabe rock star in the assemblage, who greeted every drum beat with heads tossed back and agonized grimaces abounding as their contortions revealed their inner artist. Several women in tight jeans swayed to the music, eyes closed and hips jutting this way, then that, in recognition of unspoken sensual stirrings and libidinous yearnings. It was just the sort of ambiance that every guy in the place craved, except for those in the poolroom. Their agenda, while never totally dismissive of the music, tended to focus on the business at hand—nine ball… the gambler’s grand game of skill. Like dominoes, it could be learned in five minutes and never mastered in a lifetime. Every roll of every ball created a new problem, a new challenge. To become proficient, a player needed more skills than just the dexterity to stroke a cue or play position; he needed to know himself—and his limitations. Tonight, Twillbear Hopkins watched the man called Harper LaGrange bully and intimidate all comers, greedily collecting the wager after each game with a smug comment and/or derisive smirk. Silently, he assessed both man and player, recalling others who’d demonstrated similar qualities, and wondering if there might be an inherent evolutionary niche for such people, the human version of the hyena, not without skills, but never to be trusted for any reason. Twillbear watched his facial reactions to every event, noted how he held his cue, where he kept his money, what he drank, the jewelry he wore around his neck and on his fingers, the condition of his shoes— everything.

As the last player put his cue stick back into the rack and walked out, Twillbear half-sat, half-stood leaning against the radiator at the back of the room, arms folded over his chest, in the same position he’d assumed hours before. Glancing over his shoulder, Harper LaGrange noticed the solitary figure standing behind him. Slowly he turned around and leaned his butt onto the rail of the pool table so that he could see Twillbear without having to crane his neck. Lighting a cigarette, he gestured with his hand.

“Come on up and get you some.” As usual, LaGrange reeked of mystery. His thin, dark hair combed straight back with widow’s peak and thin mustache predominating his hawk-like facial features screamed hit man, with or without the elegant three-quarter length leather jacket. His nonchalance belied his stare, and when their stares met, an invisible trail of sparks filled the room. A mouthful of pearly white teeth conveyed arrogance into his taunting leer and communicated his disrespect.

Twillbear Hopkins didn’t move, demanding LaGrange to pay attention. Lose eye contact now and you might as well sulk out of the room and deposit your balls in an Easter basket because they’ll be useless from that point on. In a stare-down, timing becomes the most important element—too short and you tip your hand, too long and you lose the opportunity to return serve effectively.

“You can’t afford me,” Twillbear hissed, his scowl transfixed. The hunter found his quarry and settled in for the kill as he absent-mindedly swirled the ice remaining in his otherwise empty drink glass.

The comment brought about another pause, before causing Harper LaGrange to grin and snort, shaking his head at no one in particular. “No, I suppose not. But just for shits and giggles, why don’t you humor me and tell me what it’d take for you to get your ass up off that radiator and play me a little game of pool? How about that bartender you’re so sweet on? She’s a little young for you, old man, but to each his own. Surely you’d man up for her… that is, if your fragile half-breed psyche can stand the humiliation.”

Without another thought, a cue from the rack located immediately behind Twillbear filled his hand as he rushed the smaller Harper LaGrange, swinging the stick with un-Godly fury and screaming with wild abandon. As he leaped toward his victim, time compressed for Twillbear Hopkins and he could hear his voice echo in his ears as his now slow-motion movements imbedded in his cerebellum. Then, as his weapon completed its arc and prepared to contact his adversary’s head, he saw the pistol in LaGrange’s hand point straight at him and heard the blast. Eternity froze inside Twillbear Hopkins’ mind as reverberating blasts echoed in his ears.

Twillbear Hopkins sat up in his bed, struggling to his feet; his hands frantically patted his torso as he checked for an entry wound, his heartbeats pounded in his ears. Finding no wound, his moans began to subside along with the panic and his fingers found the light switch. The sudden flood of light pierced the darkness and offended his corneas, but affirmed his realization that he was at home… in his bedroom… and the clock radio’s LCD confirmed the time—4:17 a.m. His nightmare complete, Twillbear rubbed his eyes and yawned as he headed for the bathroom. A shower would help bring him to his senses— but nothing would remove the impact of the dream.

Twillbear (Part 5)

Stealth came easy for Twillbear Hopkins despite his biker persona. Both attire and apparent resistance to change a single aspect of his life enforced the image he’d worked hard to create. Twillbear figured that society was pretty much split right down the middle in judgment of biker-types, half retreating from any contact and the other more accepting half simply ascribing to the concept of live and let live. Either way, no one got too close. In the recent past, since the biker chic penetrated yuppiedom and every doctor and lawyer in Los Angeles or Denver owned a Harley and wore leathers, it had been more difficult to keep a low profile. But here in Dogpatch, anyone who wanted to know him already did and the novelty had worn off… people simply didn’t give a rat's ass. Apathy and complacence offered the perfect conditions for him to travel in any circle necessary to accomplish his goals.

An intensive Google-search of ‘Harper LaGrange’ yielded little in terms of whole-name recognition and a search of state warrants yielded nothing. Despite his FBI ruse, Twillbear had no contacts within the law enforcement community at any level or, for that matter, no buddies in organized crime other than the odd reefer entrepreneur who occasionally approached him at one of the town’s watering holes. Twillbear made a mental note to throw Harper LaGrange’s name out if he had an opportunity, but he couldn’t rely on chance meetings at this point. If he was to help his daughter, he had to act fast, so he decided to contact the one person he felt might be able to enlighten him without raising red flags all over town—he needed to see Shirley. He’d recently added her name and phone numbers to his tiny black address book; not because he was interested in any sort of relationship with the woman, but because she was the mother of his only child. Twillbear decided to call her at work, where he had a better chance of not talking to an answering machine. During his morning break, he sat down at a secluded table and punched the phone number into his cell. After the third ring, a recognizable voice answered.

“Thank you for calling Plains Distributors. This is Shirley, may I help you?”

“Shirley… Twillbear… can you talk?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Sherman isn’t in, may I take a message?”

“Okay, call me when you can. My cell number is 877-3234.”

“I’m expecting him to return around 1:30, why don’t you try again then.”

Her voice, although not overly warm or friendly, sounded strangely accommodating to Twillbear, as if she were glad he’d called. Now, all he could do was wait… and think. Twillbear Hopkins walked out of the break room and donned his hardhat and safety glasses. Loading a few trucks would make the time pass quickly.

***

Rain, rain, the biker’s bane,
Get thee from the area
And don’t show up again.

The ditty gained prominence in his psyche as Twillbear Hopkins stared out the window, craning his neck so that he could better see the sky, or rather the sinister gathering of thick, black clouds that promised a soaker. Times like this made life uneasy for those poor bastards forced by circumstance or preference to rely upon two wheels for transportation rather than four. In twenty minutes, whether it was raining or not, he’d be back on his bike headed towards the Benson County Grange. His foul-weather gear would keep the rain off his body, but since no one had yet invented windshield wipers for sunglasses, the water falling on the wrap-around shades would modify his vision to a dim blur of semi-recognizable shapes. As he drove, the rule did not change— watch for red lights and avoid contact with anything solid. The rest was feel and rote memorization, right down to his butt-weld in the leather seat. The chugging sound of the pistons provided all the reliability Twillbear needed.

Only one car sat in the parking lot, an older Ford Tempo, the trademark second-car of Middle America; the iconoclastic tribute to lower middle class existence, where reliability and economy trump drama and/or one-ups-man-ship. Neither shiny nor overtly clean, it screamed ‘Shirley’. Still, Twillbear respected her choice; like most things in her life, it too would just have to do until something better came along. He turned the knob on the front double-door and looked into the very large, very empty enclosure. The sound of the automatic closer reverberated throughout the gymnasium/auditorium as Twillbear stepped onto the mat and wiped his feet.

“I’m in the kitchen, Twillbear. Come to the doors next to the Exit sign.”

Twillbear walked around the edge of the parquet simulated-wood basketball floor, having been taught from an early age never to step onto a gym floor with anything except gym shoes. Sure, he knew it was merely superstition with the modern surface technology, but somehow it seemed less than respectful to violate the premise. Each step gave rise to the click of his boot heels echoing throughout the enclosure, reminding Twillbear never to try to sneak in here at night, at least not without wearing a pair of Nikes.

A quick peek through the window in the swinging kitchen door showed Shirley sitting in a chair behind a small table, quietly smoking a cigarette as though she hadn’t a care in the world. Stepping through, he pointed at the cigarette, “I thought you were going to give those up.”

The words lingered as though spoken in a vacuum, bouncing off pots and pans hung from the hooks in a line strung across the open stove and oven area. Gina Lolabrigida’s classic steely stare emerged from Shirley’s eyes as she took another deep drag from the cigarette and flicked her ashes in a coffee cup. “And I thought you were going to tell our daughter of your relationship with her. FBI, Twillbear? Is that the best you could do?”

“Is she using, Shirley?”

The question stopped Shirley’s assault dead in its tracks. Shirley picked up the coffee cup and after a few seconds spent extinguishing the cigarette’s flame against the side of the cup, offered, “I don’t know for sure…” Scratching her head and looking away, she added, “but something is sure as hell wrong, and she won’t talk about it. She goes to work every day, so if she’s jonesing, you wouldn’t know it.”

“Have there been any changes to her normal routine that you’ve noticed?”

“Not really, but you have to understand, Twillbear, she’s always kept to herself. The thing is, when she’s worried, she normally comes to me. Now, it’s like she’s avoiding me, or at least she’s more distant.”

“Shirley, is there anything in her past that I should know about? I mean, any history of problems with drugs… or men?”

The woman sitting across from Twillbear Hopkins sat upright and folded her hands on the table, as though she were about to respond to a question from an attorney in a cross-examination. “No drugs, or at least no habits… but her choices in men tend to mirror her mother’s, I’m sad to say.”

“Well, I guess I had that coming.” Twillbear’s tone softened, his own remorse slipping into the conversation.

“Oh, Twillbear, I wasn’t referring to you. I never blamed you for my choices, please understand that.” Shirley’s hand touched Twillbear’s arm, and he felt the same tingle he remembered from many years ago.

“Who is Harper LaGrange?” Twillbear asked, refusing to submit to emotions.

“What?” asked Shirley, her eyes suddenly larger than life. “Did I hear you correctly? Did you really say ‘Harper Fucking LaGrange?”

It took both arms and a now-standing Twillbear Hopkins to restrain Shirley. A thunderclap emanated as she stood, in counterpoint to her rage, and curse words fell like the rain currently hitting the sides of the metal building.

“Shhhhhh…” Twillbear whispered, holding Shirley in a bear hug and rubbing her back with the palm of his hand. “This isn’t helping. Take a deep breath.”

Sitting her back down in her seat, Twillbear grabbed her pack of Winston Lite’s and shook one out for her. Grabbing her lighter from the table, he lit her cigarette and sat back down. For the better part of two minutes, neither spoke.

“Harper LaGrange is about the closest thing to a mobster that Benson claims. He’s a lowlife womanizer with no recognizable means of support and a reputation for cruelty. The law has tried many times to put him away, always unsuccessfully. Twillbear, if she’s involved with him, it may already be too late to help her.”

Twillbear looked down at his boots briefly before training his gaze upon Shirley’s eyes with a renewed intensity. Slowly reaching out with both arms, he grasped her shoulders softly but urgently, waiting for response. When his stare reflected off years of fear and consternation sitting behind her eyes, Twillbear shook his head negatively.

“Shirley, it’s never too late to do the right thing.”

Twillbear (part the fourth)

The drive from Benson to Pleasant Hills, a distance of seventeen miles, offered Twillbear little other than the opportunity to formulate a plan of attack. He still needed to decide how much (or how little) information to share with her. Nothing would be accomplished by throwing caution to the wind, but he had Tish’s attention, and if he was to help her, this meeting needed to produce some answers, regardless of where the chips may fall. Constantly checking his side mirrors, Twillbear led her to Merkin’s House of Pie, a small mom-and-pop diner/watering hole on state county road DD. At twenty past nine in the evening, the supper crowd would be gone and any tavern-goers who might be present would not be apt to recognize them.

Once inside the diner, the two sat down at a table near the back. Tish’s head, covered by a pale blue scarf and oversized Pierre Cardin knockoff sunglasses, made her resemble Audrey Hepburn in any one of her 50’s-vintage films featuring copious amounts of tears and sobbing, and packed with over-emoted, designed-to-impress-the-Academy drivel. Twillbear hoped to avoid the possibility of any reoccurrences of such scenes.

Both ordered coffee and when it arrived, Twillbear whispered into the server’s ear. A quick nod and she didn’t come back. A few minutes passed with lots of coffee stirring and napkin dabbing by Tish. Occasionally, she’d look up at Twillbear, who’d taken off his sunglasses by now. Obviously intimidated, she wasn’t about to be the first to speak.

“Would you mind removing your shades? I think it’s important that we be able to look each other in the eye, if we’re to help each other.” Twillbear’s voice contained the steadiness of resolution and the sharpness of necessity. Saying nothing, Tish slowly removed her glasses and placed them in her purse.

“Thank you. That’s much better. I’ve been told that the eyes are windows to the soul, and I believe it to be true. What do you think?”

Shrugging her shoulders, Tish looked down into her cup. “Never thought much about it, I guess.”

“Then why can’t you look at me? Listen, I know you’re afraid, and you have every reason to be. But I promise you, if you level with me, no harm will come to you, at least not from me.”

“Oh, really? You’ve already harmed me. You just cost me six hours pay and tips, not to mention that little tidbit about Federal prison. You expect me to waltz in here and bear my soul to a customer who just threatened me?” Pausing to sip her coffee, she gulped hard and continued. “I think I need to see a badge or some credentials. Otherwise, this little party is over.”

“What was in the envelope?” Twillbear didn’t move.

“It was filled with none-of-your-goddamn-business!” Such was the intensity coming from behind Tish’s eyes, Twillbear looked around the room expecting to see that a power surge had just made the lights brighter. If her gaze had contained any real firepower, Twillbear’s mangled carcass would now lay in a heap at the base of the back wall.

Reaching into his shirt pocket, Twillbear produced a small wallet with a badge and ID card that he held in front of her at arm’s length. “Twillbear Hopkins, Special Agent, FBI.” Then, snapping it shut, he put it back in his pocket, replacing it with a cell phone. “Now…” he began, “shall we stop trying to impress each other with snappy retorts and get down to business, or should I make a phone call?”

Silent tears began to stream from Tish’s face. The rough exterior finally pierced, she sobbed uncontrollably without a sound, as if a single whimper would remove any dignity remaining.

“What was in the envelope?” Twillbear repeated.

“Cash… four hundred dollars, to be exact.”

“Drug money?” Twillbear kept eye contact while he sipped his coffee.

“No… or I guess I should say, it’s not money I pay to buy drugs. I imagine I’m probably helping finance someone else’s habit. That’s not to say that I haven’t done drugs, but I’ve been clean for nearly two years.”

“And someone is shaking you down to keep your secret quiet, I assume?”

“Yea, something like that…” Again her eyes lowered.

“There’s more?”

“Well, you’re going to find out anyway, I may as well tell you. I’m the main attraction at his little fun circus he conducts in his bedroom whenever I get his phone call.”

“How often does he come in to collect his money?” Twillbear fought to hide his rage.

“Every week… on Wednesday nights, usually.”

“Do you steal money from the till to pay him with?”

Again she started to sob. “Oh, my God… yes.” Now, Tish’s head hit the table as she broke down completely.

Twillbear reached out and rubbed her arm. “Has he beaten you?”

Without raising her head, Tish nodded. “Yes, more than once.”

“Shhh…” he whispered, “it’s going to be okay, but you must tell me his name. I need to know who I’m dealing with.”

“He’ll… kill me if I tell you.”

“He can’t hurt you if he’s in prison where he belongs. I’ll see to it that he never hurts you again.”

Burying her face in her dinner napkin, Tish dabbed and wiped, trying to compose herself. “If I tell you, do I go to jail, too?”

“No, I can promise you immunity from prosecution.”

The look she gave him told him her soul had returned. Twillbear knew the look well… he’d seen it in her mother’s eyes, many years ago.

“His name is Harper LaGrange.”

“Okay…” said Twillbear Hopkins, “that’s enough for tonight. If anyone ever asks you, this conversation didn’t take place. Go back to work and act as if nothing has happened. I’ll take care of the rest. Someone will contact you if I need to talk to you again. Maybe then we can find out the sin that made you beholden to this creep, but for now, it doesn’t matter. Do I make myself clear? Tell no one.”

“My mother already knows. We’re close and I don’t hide things from her.”

“No husband or boyfriend? A father, perhaps?”

Pain broadcast from Tish’s expression. No sobbing or other outward expression emanated, but Twillbear noticed a perceptible shrug as she looked away briefly. “Nope… I’m not currently dating anyone, unless you’d call my relationship with Harper ‘dating’, and I never knew my father. Mother didn’t talk about him except to say that he never mistreated her.”

Twillbear didn’t say anything for a time. When he noticed her fidgeting, he decided to conclude the meeting. “No, I wouldn’t call it dating, not by any stretch of the imagination. I’ll see what I can do, but you need to stay strong and act like nothing is wrong. You just remember what I told you.”

Tish took her glasses back out of her purse and slid them onto her face. “I understand…” she said, and began to rise.

“Wait…” said Twillbear, grabbing her arm. “I almost forgot… don’t go back to his house again for any reason. If he tries to get into your place, call the police immediately. Okay?”

One nod and she was gone. Okay, so he’d lied about the FBI part. It wasn’t the first time, and it probably wouldn’t be the last.
***

Overheard At The Derby

Overheard At The Derby

“Look, Muffin, isn’t that Hillary Swank standing next to George Clooney? Honestly, they are so yesterday! I, like, hate her hair…”

“Yaaa… she’s so Heather Mills. Which reminds me, when those horsies, like, passed us last time, I could have sworn that one was Whoopi Goldberg before she lost her weight. Hey, Babs, can I have another, like, little sip of your drink?”

Topsy-turvy, filled with scurvy

I've been informed that that some of you are 'sharing' my work with others. Now, I'm flattered, I suppose, in a decidedly unceremonious way, but I should warn you, you do so at the risk of alienating them for all time. However, if you insist upon this unadvised practice, I feel it necessary to give them a little background information. Those who’ve not read my work previously may not yet be aware of it, so I’ll be the first to inform you: I’m dull. On an ordinary day, I can be seen wandering into many places: the local bowling alley, my den, or perhaps even the Dollar Store, a short three block-dawdle away, if I need more Scotch tape or maybe an Elmer’s glue refill. Outwardly, it would appear that I shlepp along the road of life without reason or purpose.

Sometimes I like to whistle or hum the song that I last heard on the background radio playing at the last place I went into, but not if it’s heavy metal or rap.

Once, I heard some mewing in a dumpster behind McDonald’s and upon further examination I found a litter of kitties. They even let me keep one. I named it Mullet.

I’ve plodded my way through high school, a half semester of junior college, three houses, two seven-year marriages, a series of mindless jobs and the occasional boat show or travel exposition. Little by way of lasting legacy can be attributed to my earthly presence, with the possible exception of the occasional knocked-over coffee cup or that slightly embarrassing experience when the security guard at Wal-Mart mistook me for a terrorist simply because I screamed a little when I thought snakes were attacking me.

Once, I accidentally slapped a soda out of a guy’s hand in line at the movie theatre because I (mistakenly) thought it might contain cyanide, but now we’re good friends. It turns out he likes Jimi Hendrix, too.

One day, I stopped in at Walgreen’s and messed up the gum rack by handling the merchandise. It turns out they don’t like it when the Wrigley’s Spearmint is mixed in with Beech-Nut, Fruit Stripe and Cinn-a-Burst. Apparently, it confuses folks who look for the package color rather than the name. Who knew?

Did you know that Johnny “Guitar” Watson was the first person to use the word ‘feedback’ while recording the song Space Jam in 1963? I found this out while researching all things yellow at the library. Did I mention I tend to get sidetracked?

Sitting here in my recliner, I’m pretty content with my life for the most part. My cousin keeps trying to get me to move to North Dakota and work with him at the window-blinds factory in Minot (he says that they’re always hiring), but I’m not sure I could handle all the hustle and bustle of the big city. So, if you insist upon e-mailing this to a person or persons whose friendship you enjoy, I can't stop you. Have at it... as for me, I think I’ll just sit awhile and pet Mullet. And dream of the color yellow.

Twillbear (Part 3)

Maintaining a Harley-Davidson motorcycle, no matter the year of manufacture or model required time, patience and a disproportionately large allotment of one’s budget. If the engine wasn’t cutting out, the gas tank was leaking around the rear mount studs, if the ignition primer wasn’t gummed up, the carburetor needed a new jet kit. Even something as simple as the air cleaner had to constantly be checked, an engine running without an air cleaner is a bit like drinking water and then eating the glass— it can be done but isn't a great idea. Plus, God help you if the modified direct drive slipped, because you’d be spending copious amounts of time in the garage or hitchhiking to a Harley-Davidson distributor. The prospects of actually arriving intact at one’s desired destination on a sunny day were questionable enough, much less factor in rainy or snowy weather. Certainly the Harley life wasn’t for everybody, a reality that Twillbear relished and savored.

But, despite it all, Twillbear Hopkins would sooner drive a wheelchair than any vehicle with four wheels. Truly, Twillbear’s contempt for ‘cages with wheels’ offered him legendary status in his town. Few occasions found the tall, broad-shouldered man without his black leather motorcycle jacket. If he opened the top buttons of his jacket, a brillo pad of gray chest hair pushed its way to freedom, grateful for the chance to soak up some much-needed oxygen. It matched the hair on his head, at least the part that could be seen sticking out from under the blue bandana that covered his dome.

Years broadcast across Twillbear’s face in a network of deep furrows that gouged a path through his skin from forehead to the point of his chin, offering refuge to an accumulation of dirt and hubris. All of his teeth showed whenever he grinned and a tattooed pair of permanent red lipstick imprints emblazoned an area of his neck just below his left ear— his unspoken tribute to womanhood apparently, not that he needed any help with the ladies. His hardcore, rugged, ‘bad boy’ good looks attracted many women looking for a walk on the wild side. Flattered as he was by the prospects of attention, normally Twillbear kept his own company. Years spent on the road convinced him that traveling light was both virtuous and efficient. Besides, both his allegiance and his paycheck belonged to ‘Bessie’, his 1968 Harley-Davidson Panhead motorcycle. Sure, he could get laid if he wanted to, but it didn’t require her to spend more than a night or two at his place, and it certainly didn’t involve any phone calls the next day— a man cannot serve two masters.

In all his interactions with ‘straight’ society, Twillbear remained aloof and mysterious, his ever-present black wrap-around shades normally hid his eyes, even while he worked as a loader at the dry ice plant, but when questioned, an invisible laser burrowed directly into the victim's soul, holding him (or her) spellbound until Twillbear considered the suffering sufficient to warrant a response. One part contempt and two parts performance art, any gesture of recognition or speech on Twillbear’s part was apt to impress the interrogator. Half sage and half bullshit artist, his words were pure magic. If Twillbear Hopkins liked you, he took care of you, although he wouldn’t have uttered any such words aloud under penalty of death. After all, he had a reputation to protect.

***

“Jeezuz H. Chee-rist, Tish, what does a man have to do to get a decent drink in this joint? For three bucks a shot, you’d think that you could taste the whiskey, at least!” Charles H. (Fubu) Painter slammed his glass tumbler down on the bar, causing ice to squirt out the top. “Fill ‘er up again, but pleeeezzz make it a good one.” Reaching into the front pocket of his jeans, Fubu frowned and yanked another fiver from the wad he kept there, slapping it on the bar hard enough for everyone to hear the pop.

Arms folded casually across her chest, Tish Matthews stared at her adversary without moving. “I’ll give you double that to hike your ass out of here right now and promise not to come back tonight.”

“Oh, now, Tish… simmer down, you know I was ju—“

Tish slammed a five-dollar bill on top of his and pointed at the door. “Git…”

Fubu Painter paused and grinned at the faces staring up from their seats at the bar. It wasn’t crowded, and none of his buddies were present, so Fubu merely picked the money up and folded it onto his wad. As it disappeared back into his pocket, Fubu rose from his stool and pointed his finger at the bartender. “One of these days, Tish, you might wish you hadn’t done this.”

“Yea…” Tish agreed, “You could be right. I also might have monkeys fly out my ass, but I think I’d have to say that the chances of either are remote, at best.” Grabbing a bar rag, Tish began to wipe down the counter, corralling the spilled ice before scooping it into her hand and carrying it to the small sink located underneath the far end of the bar, up against the back wall.

Seated alone on the last stool, with his back against the wall, sat Twillbear Hopkins. A toothpick moved in his mouth as he intently watched Tish rinse the bar rag and fold it onto the drink shelf running along the back edge of the bar. “Tough night?” he offered, making small talk to break the ice and, hopefully, to diffuse her anger.

Still pissed, Tish shot him a spare me glance and spat out, “Not you, too, Twill, I can’t take it tonight. My nerves are shot.”

Twillbear said nothing, instead opting to hold his left hand up, palm towards her, indicating his understanding. Obviously, he thought to himself, my reputation precedes me. Silently, for the next thirty minutes he watched her go about her duties, snapping at one customer, scowling at another, ignoring several others. All the while, however, she continued to take orders, clean tables, dump ashtrays and supplement the owner’s income by putting dollars from her tip jar into the jukebox. Normally, she might have either shamed the patrons into doing it or challenged them to a game of dice from the shaker cup, but tonight, she was content to stick the damn money in all by her lonesome. That way, at least, she could listen to what she wanted to hear instead of the un-Godly fusion between rock and country that passed for music these days.

A quick trip to the ladies’ room and Tish once again assumed her normally cute and cuddly demeanor, stopping at one table to take a look at Jennie Conroy’s new engagement ring and rub Carl Leonard’s shoulders briefly before she returned to her customary spot behind the bar, the tall chair up against the wall; a vantage point that allowed her to watch everything taking place but kept her out of the fray.

“Need another one, Twill? I’m sorry about my comments, sometimes I can’t seem to keep my trap shut.” Tish asked politely, her attitude diametrically opposed to that of a few minutes earlier.

“Jesus, Tish, do they have an attitude machine in that bathroom? Sling a couple of quarters in the slot and out pops a new outlook on life? If so, please give me the number of your vendor… I want one installed in my own damn house!”

Tish smiled at him and playfully threw a bar rag at Twillbear. “No, there’s no machine in there, and even if there were, you’d find a way to hook it up wrong.” Then, her expression hardened and the smile disappeared as she watched a dark, swarthy, well-dressed man sit down at the far end of the bar. Saying nothing to Twillbear, she rose from her seat and pushed several buttons on the cash register. Checking the register tape quickly, she began picking bills out from underneath the till drawer and putting them into a bank bag that she placed somewhere under the counter. She then grabbed a coaster from the caddy at her set-up station. After exchanging a few words with the man, Tish filled a tall tumbler with ice and poured in several fingers of Hennessey before following it with a spritz of soda from the mixer gun. Tish ducked under the bar, grabbed her purse and tucked it under her arm before placing the drink in front of the man. Excusing herself, she walked back into the ladies’ room.

Twill noticed that the man sat still as a stump, elbows on the bar and hands folded as if in prayer, staring at the mirror behind the bar and refusing to make eye contact with anyone else in the establishment. Obviously, he was doing business.

After a couple of minutes, Tish emerged from the bathroom and walked back behind the bar, depositing her purse in its original position under the counter. Then she grabbed a menu and sneakily inserted a small envelope inside before placing it in front of her customer. No words were spoken and Tish walked out from behind the bar to a large table where a few friends sat chatting and laughing. In seconds, she stood over them making conversation and picking up empty bottles and glasses as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Just as suddenly, the man opened the menu and retrieved the contents, which he quickly secreted into a jacket pocket. Noticing that Twillbear watched him, the man stood up and stared at Twillbear ominously before adjusting his jacket sleeves. Then he simply walked out.

Damn… this is not good. Twillbear had seen this many times in numerous locales, so it didn’t surprise him. However, it did raise the ante and heighten his immediacy of action. But he couldn’t walk right up to her and drop a bomb on her—he needed to find a way to get her attention, and the sooner the better.

Twillbear stood up and motioned for Tish to come over.

“Yes, dear… what can I get you?” Perky-Tish had come back, her smile both welcoming and suggestive.

Twillbear leaned forward over the bar and whispered, “I saw what you just did. We need to talk about it… now.”

Still smiling, Tish whispered back, “Sometimes it’s best if folks just mind their own damn business.”

Taking his shades off, Twillbear stared at her, his eyes blazing. “Unless you have the desire to spend more than a few years in a Federal prison, I suggest that we go somewhere and talk. A tape of the last five minutes would make a pretty convincing case in court.”

“Are you a cop?”

“Come talk to me and I’ll explain it all to you. I don’t want to embarrass you on the job.”

“My shift doesn’t end for another three hours.”

Twillbear put his glasses back on. “Then I suggest you call someone.”

***

Twillbear (part 2)

Lowell George never sounded finer as Twillbear Hopkins contemplated the bluesy rendition of Fat Man in the Bathtub, his long legs stretched out in front of him and crossed on the ottoman. Against his better judgment, he’d decided to play it despite its effects on his mood. Fat man in the bathtub, I hear you moan. Cryin’ and a-singin’, laying back in the chair, Twillbear put on his sailin’ shoes and tried to delete the files Shirley had forced him to download at Chubby’s last night. The two spent the majority of the night at small town America’s version of Denny’s, swilling coffee and trying to figure out when and why they’d fallen out. After the first hour or so, the server had placed a decanter of coffee in front of them and instructed them to call her if they needed anything else.

Silence became the hallmark of revelation as Shirley filled the table with photos of a baby girl morphing into a middle school adolescent, then just as quickly changing into a smiling, pom-pom bedecked cheerleader. Twillbear said little, choosing, instead, to listen and savor each word of Shirley’s running commentary. His daughter… what would she look like now? Certainly not a carbon copy of her mother, maybe a little fuller mouth, like her daddy; sometimes it’s tough to project what the adult version might look like, just from decades-old photos.

At some point, Shirley stopped talking. Seconds passed like minutes before Twillbear finally spoke. “Well, there’s no doubt that she’s beautiful, and I’m not being critical, but you’ve left out one essential detail—would you mind telling me her name?”

Shirley covered her face with her hands and began to weep silently. Between sobs, she dabbed at her eyes with a napkin, unable to control her emotions. “I— I— oh, Twill…”

“You can’t even tell me her name, Shirley? You’ve tortured me for three hours with pictures, but I’m not worthy of hearing her name?”

With a sudden lunge, Shirley jammed both elbows onto the table and once again buried her face in her hands, bawling loudly and causing old photos to fall onto the floor. Sobbing, her efforts to calm herself fell short as wave after wave of nausea hit her. Quickly, she ran into the ladies’ room, leaving Twillbear Hopkins to pick up photos and contemplate the confusion created. It would be easy to simply walk away; Lord knows he’d done it many times before. Twillbear, though naturally disposed toward confrontation, tended to err on the side of passivity, especially when dealing with the opposite sex. Years ago, as a small boy, while still living on the Navajo reservation at Windowrock, he’d witnessed a tribal elder beat his wife nearly senseless before being stopped by her lover. The cuckolded husband stopped, but only long enough to pick up a rifle and shoot them both, killing them instantly. Though the family soon after moved back to the Midwest, Twillbear never forgot the lesson— it’s best for everyone concerned if all parties to a disagreement stay calm and try to reason things out. Twillbear remembered his history and merely sat. She’d be back soon enough and they’d talk again. Hopefully, this time she’d see that he wasn’t going anywhere until this matter was resolved.

Shirley Lynn Matthews Tyler Gallipoli Hagerman returned to the table, her legs moving as quickly as humanly possible without running. Once there, she began collecting the photos, not bothering to sit. “I’m sorry, Twill, I can’t do this. I thought I could, but I can’t. I’m sorry for having bothered you with all this, I guess I’m just a coward.”

Before she could react, Twill stood up and placed both his hands on her shoulders, forcing her to stand still. “Stop it!” he screamed. Shirley recoiled, her face screwed into a twisted mask of sheer terror, expecting to be struck across the face. As she started to cower, Twill whispered, “Please… sit. Let’s talk some more. I’m not angry.” Gently, he steered her towards the booth where she’d been sitting. Once seated himself, Twill merely stared at her, his gaze fixed upon her untrusting eyes, her been-screwed-over-so-many-times-you-wouldn’t-believe-it glazed expression, and he wondered if she supplemented her booze with pills or needles. Frankly, her demeanor made him think of junkies he’d known, wretches who’d steal anything that wasn’t nailed down.

For a few minutes, neither spoke. Twill offered her a cigarette and she waved it off. Shaking the pack in her direction, he insisted, “Oh, come on, take one and smoke it before they decide to make us go outside.” This seemed to lighten her mood a bit, and she took one from the pack. Almost as soon as it hit her lips, Twill’s lighter flame burned bright before her eyes. Inhaling deeply, she felt the warmth of the smoke permeate her lungs and her psyche, further soothing and calming her. The cut-and-run urge now subsided and she sat back in the booth and folded her arms.

“Now… let’s forget all about history, hurt feelings, repercussions and payback. Obviously, our daughter isn’t a kid any more, so when you come to me asking for my help, I can only assume her problem involves a vice, bad choice on her part, or some combination of the two. Am I right?”

The woman sitting across the booth from Twillbear Hopkins said nothing, preferring to stare at him, to formulate a response. “Her name is Shannon Patricia Matthews, but you know her as…” Shirley stopped speaking, her lower lip quivering as she spoke. “You probably know her as Tish, the night bartender at the Sugar Shack.” Then, her head and eyes lowered and the sobs returned.

Scenes of debauchery flashed before Twillbear’s eyes. Without another word, Twillbear Hopkins stood up and stared at the oozing mass of hysteria seated across the table from him. Making eye contact with no one, he walked out and drove his bike off into the night, finally arriving back at his apartment.

Sleep would come slowly tonight, Twillbear figured, and not without exacting a price. Even now, lingering in his Barcalounger, in the safety of his own living room, he couldn’t escape the feeling that the world’s longest, most intense shower could never wash away his self-loathing, no amount of soap would ever again make his soul feel clean. How many times had he made suggestive comments to Tish? On how many occasions had he tried to squeeze her butt as he handed her a dollar tip?

Leaning to his right, Twillbear poured another three fingers of Lynchburg Lightning into the water glass and held it at eye level in front of him. As Little Feat implored him to ‘pop a top again, I just got time for one more round’, Twillbear Hopkins opened his throat and poured down the fifth leg of his traveling circus, the Twillbear Hopkins Oblivion Express. Or was it the sixth?

No matter, so long as the images stopped he didn’t care. Maybe sleep would help clear his mind and bring perspective to Shirley’s revelatory chaos. Twillbear recalled his childhood nightmares as thoughts of his mother streamed front and center in his head. The sounds of the slaps across her face reverberated in his ears as his father’s abusive, screaming, drunken voice obfuscated all else. Soon he would stomp out into the night, not to return until Twillbear had left for school. A seven-year-old half-Navajo, half-white-eye would knock on his mother’s bedroom door before leaving for school, warming to the sound of her voice through the walls wishing him a great day at school but knowing that she wouldn’t come kiss him because she didn’t want him to see the bruises and welts on her face. He knew that she’d be calling in sick again today, and a class of Navajo children would be ushered into another room, where they would share desks and crayons with the others.

Later that week, he’d looked out the passenger window as his mother’s 1949 Ford passed rows of two-bedroom stucco bungalows. Quietly he waved at Albert Runs-Along-The-Edge and Charlie Never-Miss-A-Shot as they ran alongside the car, waving and smiling. Twillbear Hopkins would never again lay eyes on his father. Tonight, sixteen days short of his fifty-ninth birthday and reclining in his chair, a little drunk with eyes heavy and starting to close, he wondered if he’d become a self-fulfilling prophecy.

***

Twillbear

Okay, okay... I know I should probably be working on "Brother Far Away", but this showed up, and I decided I'd put it up. It's far from finished, but I thought I'd run past you what I have, while I have it. Isn't that the way it goes with stories sometimes? They're there, then they're not... I don't know what the title will be, I usually don't decide until they're finished, but for now I've put it in Word as "Twillbear" so I could remember where I stuck it. I'd be interested in any comments you'd care to make. Thanks...

“Forty years is a long time to carry around that sort of load, don’t you think?” The corner of the matchbook cover served as a damned fine file, its sharp tip fitting neatly under Twillbear Hopkins’ dirty fingernail as his focus shifted from nails to Shirley’s reddening face back to the job at hand, never stopping to stare or demand an answer. Twillbear and Shirley, once teenagers heaving and thrusting and sweating and grunting in the backseat of his brother’s GTO in answer to the ages-old hormonal demand for release, now relied mainly upon booze to scratch their itch, content to belabor every point and assuage each other’s battered sensibilities with clichéd bromides and Dr. Phil psychology. “Haven’t we been friends long enough for you to share that with me? Good God, Shirley, have you ever stopped to think about how your life, and mine, could have been different?”

For her part, Shirley expected the reaction, she knew he’d react this way, once told. Biting her lip, she grabbed the hand that held the matchbook and held it in place, forcing him to make eye contact with her. “Twill honey, what would you have done different if you’d known? I’ll never forget how your hair flowed behind you when you took off on your Harley, your heart achin’ for the open road. I didn’t want to be an anchor on your ass, the reason why you couldn’t get out of this God-forsaken rat hole of a town. Hell, Twill, that bike was more part of you than your family… or me.”

Jerking his hands away, not angrily but firmly, Twillbear stared back at her. “Is that right? So, let me see if I understand this. I knock you up— and rather than tell me, you decide that since you’re the world’s only seventeen-year-old professional psychologist, you don’t need to inform me that I’m gonna be a daddy so I can be a part of whatever decision you ultimately decide to make. Does that about sum it up? Yea, you’re probably right… ol’ Twillbear is so shallow, a baby ain’t near as important as his goddamn motorcycle.” Grabbing the shot glass filled with Jack Daniels, Twillbear put it to his lips and jerked his head backwards, allowing the bourbon to rush down his throat, the glossy fire warming his esophagus and temporarily stifling his mounting anger before thudding to a stop in his stomach lining.

“But I’ll tell you one thing, lady… you might just as well have shot me in the back as I drove away, because now, besides living every day with the knowledge that I never had a son to bounce on my knee and teach the cool way to do wheelies, I’ll also know that I might have had the opportunity, had you had the balls to speak up once in your life. I’m as dead as dirt, I just ain’t layed down yet.” Setting the glass back on the bar, Twillbear Hopkins grabbed his cigarettes and stood up, all the while fixing his vacant glare at the woman staring at her beer.

Without looking up, Shirley shouted at him, “That’s right, cry me a river. It’s always all about you, isn’t it? Do you honestly think that a single day has passed that I haven’t regretted my decision?” Then, the anger suddenly passed, she made eye contact with her friend, “And you’re right, Twillbear Hopkins, forty years is a hell of a long time to carry that kind of guilt around.” Shaking her long bangs out of her face, the defiance returned. “But I was the one carrying it, not you. So please spare me the histrionics at this point, will you? Frankly, it makes you look a bit smaller in my eyes.”

“So this is how it ends between you and me? You sashay in here, find a time when you think I’m in a good mood, shoot a heat-seeking missile right up my ass and expect me not to say nothin’? Sorry, but it don’t work that way. Okay, yes, I’m raisin’ hell, but in this case I don’t consider it whinin’. What do you want from me, sympathy forty years after the fact? I’ll have you know I’d have raised that kid, Shirley… I’d have given him my name, I’d have played catch with him just like Ward Cleaver and I, by God, would have chosen him over a crazy infatuation with a motorcycle. But you didn’t give me a choice. You played judge and jury and decided I wasn’t fit to raise your kid, and, Shirley, I’m havin’ a little trouble understandin’ why, because I know it wasn’t because I drove a motorcycle.”

“You’d have played catch with her, Ward.”

“Wha--?”

“She was a little girl, dumb-ass; dolls, pink pajamas and ribbons in her hair, even in high school.”

“She’s… she’s in high school?” Twillbear’s brain, usually acute and reasonably adept, refused to process the information.

“Was, Twill… was in high school. She graduated in 1983.”

His legs suddenly unsteady and starting to shake, Twillbear Hopkins sat down on the barstool next to Shirley to keep from falling on the floor. Slumping against the bar, he tried to yell for another drink, but nothing came out except a dry shriek, so he slapped the bar several times with the palm of his hand, causing drinks to shake and angry customers to swear at him.

Shirley put her arm around his neck and kissed him softly on the cheek. “I’m not trying to hurt you, Twill… honest, I’m not. But we need to talk, and not when we’re drinking. She needs help, Twill...”

***

Alpine Destiny

Slowly, the old man topped the hillcrest and sat on a flat spot in the outcropping of rock that thrust forth from the bed of Permian granite; a worthy throne or so he imagined. After walking for hours, he felt the pangs of age creep into his joints and limbs and it was nice to just sit a spell. The breeze from the west sang its dirge upon his face as he slowly scanned the panorama in hopes of catching a glimpse of a deer or, perhaps, a sheep or mountain goat on the peak thirty degrees to his right. Now, all he saw was a chipmunk skittering across the alpine meadow directly in front of him and a band of turkey vultures soaring in the distance— an omen perhaps?

“Haaah!” he bellowed, his chest thrusting outward in defiance of the thought, his voice suddenly echoing across the expanse. Time for considerations of eternity would come soon enough, he supposed, why give it more credence than it deserved with silly superstitions and acknowledgment of fear? Still, the majesty of the setting nearly brought him to tears. Time is short.

Slowly and laboriously, he bent his knees and pulled his legs against his body, wrapping both arms around them, securing them as they strained for release. Time was when he could sit in that position effortlessly—for hours on end—not once feeling the need to re-position or give way to any sort of discomfort. Today, he felt the pressure from every sinew; even his hands, locked together to secure the position, struggled against his weight. Damn! I can’t even sit right any more! What the hell am I doing up here? The man released his hands and felt the flow of blood course through his legs, allowing him to straighten them in front of his body. Crossing his feet, he relaxed and picked up a small stone lying next to him. The rock, round and flat, looked out of place somehow. Some of the very large boulders were rounded, but most of the very small chunks were jagged and rough, as if they’d recently been chipped off this or that ledge. His stone contained the smoothness that only eons of exposure to water and wind could polish. Certainly the primordial oceans didn’t rise to this altitude, he reasoned, so someone must have brought it up here. Yes… has to be that. As he slipped the stone into his backpack, sadness threatened to overwhelm him, the same sadness a cuckolded husband feels when confronted with the reality of his mate’s indiscretions. While it was true that he hadn’t been up here in nearly forty years, the fact remained that this was his hillcrest and goddamn it, anyone else should keep his ass off it!

The absurdness of the thought brought a surge of adrenalin or some other endorphins and the man felt giddy and high… his lips gave way to a squad of white molars as he thrust his head back, raised both arms and once again roared “Haaah—hah--… haaaah!” This time there was no perceptible echo. Had he merely missed it? Only one creature is capable of emitting a call that refuses to echo, and that is the duck. Had he, without anyone bothering to inform him, become a duck or did the valley merely choose to deny him the secondary pleasure as penalty for expressing his arrogance? Well, no matter…

Struggling to his feet, with staccato movement the man wiped his hands on his pants, anxious to remove the gravel from his skin—a further reminder of his age and girth. Yea, rub it in… He still had three miles or so to walk to locate his Hummer, that is if someone hadn’t stolen it. Plus, he had to worry about a possible attack by a grizzly bear or cougar, or perhaps he’d slip on a rock while crossing Soldier Creek and crack his head on his smooth stone’s big brother as punishment for his larceny. And if none of that came to pass, maybe a tick infected with Rocky Mountain spotted fever’d bite him.

Only one thing was sure—he wasn’t walking off that mountain. Six turkey vultures couldn’t be wrong. “Haaah!” he exclaimed, and started off into the trees.

Bob Church©8/12/06

Brother Far Away

Hiya... I've started a new story, but I'm not sure whether I should continue it. I'm finding it difficult to stay focused on the main idea. Below, I've put up what I've written so far. If you have a little extra time, please take a quick look and give me your opinion as a comment. I appreciate your help and input.

Brother Far Away

“Yea, it’s funky-sounding, I guess, but I don’t know…’The Awful Falafel’ for Christ’s sake? Are you serious? Why not ‘Bummus Hummus’ or ‘Abdullah’s Tabouleh’ or how about if you just blast Arab music all day long from loudspeakers on the street and park a few camels outside the front door? I know… slaughter a couple of sheep beside the front stoop and leave the heads layin’ on the sidewalk. And instead of beer, serve lots of that nasty Turkish coffee so thick that you can stand a spoon up in it. Lester, have you totally lost your mind? Do you honestly think this is the sort of food that will stir the hearts and open the wallets of a couple thousand Baptists in Tonganoxie, Kansas? Honestly, I’d be willing to give you five-to-one that says some Young Republican looking to make a name for himself will blow your shit away before the paint is dry on the sign.”

Lester Purdy contentedly rolled the sleeves up on his cowboy shirt with the mother-of-pearl buttons, trying to appear as though none of his brother’s words had impacted him in the least. “I like falafel…” he muttered, not bothering to flick the inch-long ashes from the cigarette dangling precariously from his lips, evidently feeling as though they might add a bit of flavor to the dough laying in front of him.

Swirling the ice in his glass, Tim Purdy glared at the changeling standing in front of him for a few seconds before downing the remainder of his bourbon and coke. “Well, little brother, I like pussy, too, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to open up a cathouse. You need to stop listening to Grady and Mano… you know they’ll say anything if they think it’ll get a rise out of you. Neither one of those two idiots has a pot to piss in, Lester, don’t you ever stop to think about that? Look what you’ve built here, bro, a nice little corner bar that people like; a place where they can come and enjoy themselves and feel like big shots. Hell’s bells, dude, you like making them pizza and pouring them drinks, don’t you? Do you honestly think that with the way the war in Iraq is going, that people would continue to come in if suddenly everything in here looked and sounded like a bunch of A-rabs just moved in? Think, Lester… why would you want to risk all of it by changing everything?”

Fingers stopped kneading and shoulders slumped forward as Lester stared at his brother, the impact of Tim’s words filtering through his defenses, piece by piece slowly and laboriously finding their way into some deeper niche of his mind, forcing him to give them some form of regard. Thoughts generated in remote recesses flashed before him and just as quickly short-circuited before Lester’s mouth could recognize them and give birth to a cogent sentence. After several attempts at stuttering, eye-rolling, ejaculations of jibberish, he simply stopped, sighed heavily and once again fixed his eyes upon Tim. Ashes from his cigarette fell onto the floor. “I like falafel.”

Pending exasperation forced Tim to turn his back, close his eyes and breathe deeply. Pushing his sleeve back off his wrist enough to expose his watch, Tim glanced down and picked up his jacket. “I need to run, Les, thanks for the drink. Please, don’t say anything more about this to anyone until we run this past Dave. You know how excited he gets when you start thinking a little too much. He ain’t a great lawyer but you know how he watches your money. Remember his promise to Momma.”

Pulling Lester’s head close to him, Tim bussed his brother’s forehead affectionately. “I love you, little brother, don’t worry about this. Make me some of them yummy dumplings you’re so proud of. I’ll be back this evening to help you tend bar.”

“Grady and Mano are my friends, Timmy. You should-n’t talk about them that way.” Lester sucked on a bar towel, the effort of the sentence nearly too much for him to complete. His eyes poured torrents of sadness into the room, filling it with a knee-deep flood of hurt.


“I know…” Tim cooed softly, holding his brother in his arms. “I’m sorry.” Then, pushing away to grab his brother’s arms, Tim moved Lester’s chin up with his fingers, forcing eye contact. “Remember that the next time the two of them ask you to do something you don’t want to do. No more ‘ride the piggy’ or ‘Lester’s really Jesus’, okay? Friends wouldn’t ask you to do that.” Once again, Tim hugged his little brother and patted him on the back. “You hold down the fort for awhile. I need to go see Dave. Remember that we love you.”

As Tim inserted his key into the ignition, he thought about his brother’s disability. Calling to mind his own responsibility for Lester’s accident, he wondered how others dealt with the sort of guilt that never went away, never slipped further into the past than a shot of Jack Daniels could instantaneously revive. Once, the kid could run like the wind, stop on a dime and be back at full speed in half a second, talent that earned him All-Conference honors in high school as starting running back for Tonganoxie High School. If only Tim hadn’t allowed Lester to drink beer at his house on his eighteenth birthday, he’d have likely been a star at KU. Now, Lester could count change, pour drinks, bake pizza and little else. Knowing that Lester would, in all likelihood, outlive him, Dave wondered who would take care of him after he was gone. Their brother Dave watched Lester’s trust fund like a hawk, even if he was a judgmental asshole. That’s why he’s a lawyer. Dave made no secret of the fact that he blamed Tim for Lester’s problems, either, even though he’d publicly deny it until the cows came home. This one unstated supposition had opened a communal sore upon the psyches of the brothers and no treatment worked to close the breech. Every time Dave applied a topical dose of self-serving judgmental advice to the wound, Tim topped it with an ill-timed liberal poultice of alcohol, and the patients got no better. The Awful Falafel… popping a Clapton CD into the slot, Tim made a mental note to cancel his subscription to National Geographic before Lester decided that he really should become a card-carrying member of Al Queda.

******

If he makes me wait, I’m out of there. Tim got out of his Mazda, pushed the remote control lock with his thumb, slipped his keys into his jacket pocket and walked up the weather-scarred concrete sidewalk linking building and parking lot. Dave’s office, located in the garden level of a refurbished apartment complex adjoining a seedy strip mall filled with dollar stores and payday loan franchises, was nearly void of pretense. The understated sign on the door proclaimed neither contact numbers nor any surreptitious information other than David M. Purdy, Attorney-at-Law. Once, Tim had asked Dave why he didn’t have any of those fancy letters or degrees after his name on the door and Dave had condescendingly explained to him that anyone who needed to see the letters would probably have already called someone else to do their legal work in the first place. Tim couldn’t argue with his logic. Deep down he understood that his brother would probably never make Law Review, not that he really knew what Law Review was, other than some grand honor he’d heard David speak of occasionally.

Tim opened the office door and flashed a smile and perfunctory ‘toodle-oo’ finger wave to Karen, Dave’s secretary/part-time squeeze. The two shared a delight in provoking Dave at every possible turn. Knowing how much Dave hated to be barged-in upon and hearing him talking on the phone, Karen motioned for him to go right in. Tim sauntered into the office and sat down, immediately putting his feet on Dave’s desk.

Looking up and seeing his brother, Dave frowned and muttered, “Listen, Tony, someone who obviously doesn’t understand the concept of privacy just walked into my office uninvited, so can I call you back in a few minutes? It won’t take me long to take care of this, I promise you.” Quickly closing the flip-cover on his cell phone, he stood and straightened his tie, readying himself for the weekly confrontation with his younger brother.

“Would it kill you to knock… just once, so that I could die happy knowing that your thirteen years of Catholic education wasn’t a total fucking waste of your time and our parents’ hard-earned tuition money?”

“My, my… we seem to be a bit testy today… I’m sorry, David, I didn’t mean to barge in when you’re talking to your bookie. But relax, my brother, I’m sure he’ll give you another week to pay up before he sends Guido to snap your knee caps.”

“What do you want?” Papers began shuffling on Dave’s desk, the result of his nervous attempts to avoid feeding his brother’s wit. “You called me David, so I’m assuming you need cash.”

“I’m fine, thanks so much for almost asking… and you?” Now Tim put his hands behind his head and stretched his body, causing it to push the chair onto two legs. For a few seconds he held the pose, luxuriating in his brother’s obvious discomfort before yawning and sighing audibly. Then, the grin returned.

“Tim, I’m a little busy today, and cute as your antics may be to anyone with an IQ approaching Mike Tyson’s, could we possibly get to the point of your visit? I’m sure that you aren’t aware of it, but some of us try to plan our daily activities within a reasonable time frame and you’re coming perilously close to upsetting my applecart. Now, what the fuck do you want?”

“Oh, it’s nothing really… Luther just wants to rename the bar and turn it into a Middle Eastern bodega.”

Again, papers flew from Dave’s hands back onto the desk, accompanied by unintelligible mutterings as he covered his face with both hands and shook his head violently. Once composed, he asked, “And what did you tell him?”

“What could I tell him? I just told him to talk to his brother, David. Of course, I may have let it slip that I know a guy who might be willing to part with a few camels pretty cheap.”

Dave The Lawyer slumped into his over-stuffed chair, suddenly depressed and not a little queasy. “Please tell me you didn’t say that to him, Tim. Honest to God, I need to hear that before any other words come out of your pie hole. Throw me a bone, here, little brother.”

Tim allowed a smirk to escape from the corner of his mouth. “Well, I may be overstating it just a tad. But I do think he’s feeling a little…what? Trapped, maybe? Think about it… he goes from home to the bar every day, day in and day out, where he puts up with the bullshit of the same drunks. He lives in a group home, or have you forgotten? That’s depressing to me, Dave, and I’m only in and out of the place. I think he just wants a change of scenery.”

“Ha! Well, who doesn’t, for Christ’s sake? We live in Tonganoxie Kansas, Tim, not Honolulu! However, that doesn’t change the reality of the situation. You know as well as I do that the bar is just barely squeaking by. I’m surprised that cash flow allows us to keep the doors open, honestly. Unless I take it out of his trust fund, I don’t see how I can afford to even paint the place, much less send him anywhere for vacation.”

“Dave, how come it’s always ‘when I do this, or I do that’ when you’re speaking about Lester? Everyone knows you control the purse strings, you make all the decisions, you make sure he’s financially secure… but when it comes time to actually go down there and spend some time with him, you always seem to be somewhere else. Could it be that we’re really below your station in life, that you’re merely making good on some ages-old, deathbed promise to Mother?”

The words sucked the air from the room and neither man said anything further for a while. Dave turned his head and looked out the window as though eye contact with his brother would kill both of them instantly. Nervously clicking a pen in his hand, Dave said nothing.

Tim waited for a time, hoping for a response. Then, receiving none, pushed down on the arms of the chair, stood and faced his brother. “Thank you for your time, Counselor, I’ll expect your bill for services rendered in tomorrow’s mail. You can continue to plead poverty all you want, but I gotta tell you, our brother isn’t a child. Les has needs and aspirations just like you and me. Just think about that when you hire your damned painters…”

Before he could respond, Dave watched his brother walk out of the office. An extended pinkie finger pressed the intercom button. “Karen, I need to go out for a while. Would you call Mrs. Fitch and ask if she has time to see me? Call me on my cell and let me know what you find out.”

***

“I call him… Mofo.”

Irene looked up from their checkerboard. She’d expected to hear Lester say ‘Smiley’ or ‘Happy’ or some goddamn thing, but ‘Mofo’? Where in the world had he heard that?

“Mofo, eh? What does that mean, Les, can you tell me?” She’d left two of her pieces uncovered hoping that he’d jump her and hasten the end of the game, but Lester’s concentration remained fixed upon the contents of the glass jar bedded with grass and containing one rather large white slug currently choosing to attach itself to the glass wall. Suddenly, although fascinated, Irene was sorry she’d asked.

For his part, Lester rested his head on his forearm atop the bar and turned the jar over and over slowly, apparently fascinated by the slug’s ability to retain its grip on the glass. Then, setting the jar down, Lester inserted his index finger into his nostril and stared at Irene, oblivious to any social mores against such activities. “I think it’s a horse.”

“A horse?”

“Yea… it’s either a horse or you, I think.”

“Me? Why would you think it’s me, if you don’t mind telling me.”

“I heard Charley Washington tell Terry that last night he put that Mofo on her knees and rode her like a brood mare.”

Irene Sylvester recoiled as though she’d been shot. Fighting to stay calm, she turned away and closed her eyes, rubbing her scalp with both hands. After a few seconds she turned back to Lester and put her hand on his arm. “Sweetie, make Auntie Irene a promise, will you? Promise me that you won’t say that to anyone else, okay?” Now, she had to wipe tears from her eyes and her nose began to leak a little snot. Grabbing a napkin from the dispenser, she walked into the back room.

Lester heard glass breaking and sounds that sounded like muffled screams. He put his arms onto the bar and started to rise, but Old Man Cleese put his arm on Lester’s and frowned. “Let her be, Les… it’ll be okay.”

“But, I need to find out if she’s o—“

Quickly, Old Man stood up and put his hands on Les’s shoulders. “No, I said she’s okay. Now, we’re friends, ain’t we, Les? I’ve never lied to you, have I? You just sit right there for a minute. She’ll be fine, I promise. She just needs a chance to…” Old Man paused, looking toward the back room, “Well, I guess she just needs a minute to be by herself. Why don’t you see if you can think of another name for your slug… something a little more common, maybe?”

No protests emanated as Lester sat back down. Perhaps Mofo wasn’t such a good name after all… “Okay, I will.” Lester surveyed the checkerboard quickly before jumping over three of Irene’s men en route to King’s Row. Plucking Irene’s vanquished checkers from the board, Lester grinned at Old Man as he placed them onto the bar. Whispering into his hand, he said, “She’s not very good at this game.”

******

My new logo

As soon as I can figure out how to do it, this is going to be my new masthead. What do you think? Thanks to Shirley Allard for doing it for me!

Poetry

Poetry

Yearned for her.

Got her.

Shit.







Bob Church copyright 2007