Ben Casey Would Approve

She might have looked lovely, had it not been for all the tubes stuck in her nose and mouth. With her eyes shut like this, he envisioned the angels flying around inside her head, helping her withstand the pain and whatever concerns she might be experiencing on what promised to be the last few hours or minutes of her life. He felt very little return of the caress he gave her hand with his own, although he continued to rub the top with his fingers in his fading hope that she felt his touch.

“Mother, can you hear me?” he whispered, his voice matching the solemnity of a room cloaked in the faint light of the lone bedside lamp. The occasional semi-rhythmic beeps of the heart monitor both assured him she clung to life and reminded him that the gift could be reclaimed at any moment.

She did nothing immediately, causing him to assume she did not. He’d sat in the wooden bedside chair for a number of hours and his muscles ached from lack of movement. Disengaging his fingers from her hand, he allowed it to fall softly onto the bed.

As he started to stand, her eyes opened and in a voice suddenly invigorated, she remarked, “That’s right, leave me alone to die here, I guess I deserve no more. You spend forty years caring for someone, fixing his meals, wiping his tushie, kissing his boo-boos, listening to him piss and moan about not making Law Review and he can’t spend a couple of hours of his busy day comforting his mother on her last day on earth. That’s gratitude, for you…”

Quickly re-assuming his grip on his mother’s hand, he said, “Shhhh… don’t worry, Mother, I won’t leave you.”

“There’s a good boy,” she said laconically, a smile emerging from between the tubes, “in this light, you look just like your father—God rest his soul—with the thinning hair and beady eyes and that nose… not a handsome man, really, but he had his good points, I suppose.”

Well, saints be praised for that, you hideous old crone. “Yes, mother, I’m sure he did… but let’s not worry about that right now. Is there anything I can get you?”

“Well, you know how I hate to be a bother, but could you walk out into the hall and find a doctor who knows what the hell he’s doing and have him come in here and save my ass?”

Immediately, her eyes widened and she ripped the tubes out of her nose. Sitting up in bed, she fluffed her pillow and remarked, “There… I feel better already. How about opening up that window over there and letting some sunlight in here? This ain’t the friggin’ funeral home… yet.”

Katherine Mary Fitzgerald-O’Connell located the small microphone located at the head of her bed and pushed the button. “Nurse, come quick! I need you!” she screamed in a voice packed with emotion. Leaning toward her son, she grinned and whispered, “That ought to get her fat ass in motion. There’ll be so much friction created from her thighs rubbing together, I guarantee you we’ll smell bacon cooking by the time she waddles through that door.”

The international standard for determination of the ‘ten second interval’ is the amount of time required for a charge nurse to summon assistance, find a crash cart and enter the room of a dying patient. The look on her face, upon assessing the scene, could only be described as disappointment. Picking up the nasal cannula from the bed she overcame her shock long enough to attempt to re-seat it in her nostrils. “Mrs. O’Connell, you have to leave this in.”

“Who says I gotta leave it in? I’m the one who’s dying here, why can’t I die without it?”

“We have rules, and I have to obey them. The doctor would not approve, I assure you.” Patiently, she once again picked up the tube and neared her patient’s nose.

Katherine Mary Fitzgerald-O’Connell’s hand grabbed the nurse’s wrist in mid-lunge, causing a resounding ‘thwack’ to fill the room. “Tell Sawbones he can kiss my ass”, she snarled, “what’s he going to do about it, throw me out? Tell him to get crackin’, I’ve been thrown out of better hospitals than this one! Now, move! Get your lazy pill-pushin’, bedpan-scrapin’ ass out of my sight!”

When the astonished nurse’s ‘ass’ was, indeed, out of sight, Katherine Mary Fitzgerald-O’Connell once again smiled at her son and patted the bed next to her. “Come over here, child, we need to talk.”

Still trying to figure out exactly what he was witnessing, he slowly approached her bedside and sat down in the straight-back chair.

Once again she grabbed his hand and smiled, saying, “Son, this may be the last chance we ever get to talk. Is there anything you’d like to ask me?”

Sheepishly, he forced his gaze to the window, then into his lap. Then, feeling her hands kneading his pleadingly, he opened his mouth. “I— I— I guess there are a lot of things, but one thing I’ve always wondered is, why did you name me Shlomo?”

“What, you don’t like it?” For the first time, vulnerability frosted with hurt shone on her cheeks.

“No, it’s not that I don’t like it… necessarily, but, Mother, we’re Irish Catholics and you gave me a Jewish name.”

“Mrs. Carver named her son George Washington, too, and I don’t remember hearing of him complaining about it. Did I raise an anti-Semite? You should be grateful that I’d give you such a name. I’m appalled, not to mention extremely disappointed in you.”

Yea, like that’s a shock. “Never mind… I’m sorry. Let’s drop the subject.”

“You know, smart people, those Jews. Did you ever hear of a Jew who didn’t make his mother very proud by becoming a doctor or lawyer or rabbi or diamond merchant? They even had a good baseball pitcher, that Brooklyn Dodger player, what was his name? Give me a second, I’ll think of it… yea, Sandy Koufax. Do you know he was such a good Jew that he wouldn’t pitch on the Sabbath? That was a good boy, that Sandy, I’m sure his mother was very proud.”

As opposed to me, that is. “It’s not impor—”

“And another thing,” she interrupted, “the mayor of Dublin in the ‘60s was a Jew. I remember watching President Kennedy—God rest his soul—standing on the podium with him when he visited Ireland. The press made a big deal out of it. So instead of asking your mother why she gave you a Jewish name, maybe you should get down on your knees and thank her, while you still can, for preparing you for life with a name that meant something.”

Oh, yea? Watch this: “Exactly what does ‘Shlomo’ mean, Mother?”

“How the hell should I know, I heard it used on Ben Casey. Now, there was a doctor! He cured ailments that hadn’t even been invented yet. Not half bad on the eyes, either, I could have fallen for him like a ton of bricks. You got anything else you want to know?”

Shlomo O’Connell didn’t hesitate for a second. “No, that’s about it, I guess.”

She shrugged her shoulders and laid her head upon the pillow. “That being the case, I guess I should get this show on the road and die. Tell you what, Shlomo, how about you count to ten. By the time you finish, I promise I’ll be dead.”

And she was.

Shlomo O’Connell pushed the button on the bedside microphone and calmly asked the nurse to return—and not to rush. Shlomo kissed his mother on the cheek and asked God to claim her soul. He was grateful that his mother hadn’t suffered while passing but he was even more grateful that she hadn’t watched Bonanza immediately before naming him. The idea of spending his life as Hoss or Little Joe was a little more than he could have withstood.

Bob Church©2007

Nearly-Christmas Admonitions

The Thought For The Day:

Fighting for peace is sorta like humping for chastity; the difference being, of course, the body count at the end.


There's something about a boat ride that just sorta calms me down. I just wish some of my enthusiasm would rub off on the Missus.

Well, it's that time of year again. The calm before the storm. The last few moments of sanity before we all get together and see how many of us we can kill on the highways. No lecture this year about designated drivers, I'll just say it's been nice knowing you and I hope your family has good insurance.

Speaking of sanity, or the lack thereof, the Randolph County Chamber of Commerce, in their never-ending quest to alienate everyone on the planet, has published their list of luminaries who have distinguished themselves in one way or another throughout the year. I'm not exactly sure who votes on such things, but the list always seems to find its way onto newsprint so it must be important.

So as not to spoil the suspense, I'll give you some of the less important first. It was, by all indications, a fine year for entering contests. There were over 5,000 entries in the seventeen categories being judged. I'm not sure what this says about our county, but if I were to speculate, it might not be pretty:

Tastiest Turnips- Martha Clevinger was the only entrant here, but I'm told the mission kitchen personnel raved about the quality of her fine tuberous donations. Diners declined comment.

Fungus Most Closely Resembling The Figure Of Christ- This distinctive honor was taken home by Akhmed Mohubandi, the only known Muslim residing in Randolph County. Rumor has it that several councilmen tried to have his entry disqualified, accusing Mr. Mohubandi of using a mold. Once again, irony reigns supreme.

Most Believable Alien Abduction Story- This trophy is being retired this year. Wanda and Terrance Harpy registered only 116 accounts this year, down from last year's whopping 282. It's a shame, too. It was comforting, somehow, to think somebody was interested in us...

Topping the list this year, Miss Rotund of Randolph County was Mayor Krapping's daughter, Imelda. The buxom 41-year-old beauty is a four-time winner, reclaiming her crown after having been nosed out last year by Earl Diggs' mobile home.

I could go on and on, but some of the others are less noteworthy, and I wouldn't want to bore my readers. I know you've come to expect only the finest in literary achievement over the years, and I'd never usurp that trust. I've even learned to use Spell-Check, although I must say, upon occasion I disagree with its opinions.

As years go, this one has been memorable, even if the memories were, for the most part, associated with pain and loss. We don't get to pick what happens. We do get to choose how we adjust to it. That makes all the difference, in my opinion. I wish you well.

Tuesday

Any life of significant duration, no matter how publicly insipid, is apt to include a few gems of private redemption, even if only compared with our worst shortcomings. I know this as fact because one particular Tuesday I bore witness to just such an example. I remember it as Tuesday because every Tuesday finds me at Jimmy’s, a local tavern in my community placed conveniently contiguous to downtown. Jimmy’s is remarkable only by its clientele and their ability to continually amaze me. Tuesday is the hidden gem in Jimmy’s week because historically nothing of importance occurs then, excluding the second week in November every fourth year and the occasional Columbus Day or Fourth of July that might happen to fall on Tuesday, the victim of random chance. Were I a statistician inclined to crunch such data, I doubt it would be significant enough to skew my model.

The mere fact that I call Jimmy’s home every Tuesday gives yet more credence to my assertions, because outside my family and limited group of friends and/or acquaintances, I am statistically insignificant. Actually, if you’re a newcomer to Jimmy’s, I’d bet even money that past a casual visual scan of the room, you’d be likely to miss me completely and even if you did notice me, you’d ignore me as part of the furniture, a mere misplaced, ugly plant resting in the third booth from the back; a promontory of sorts that allows me to view the room’s theater without metaphorically purchasing a SAG card. It’s a ‘tweener’ seat, neither the one-dollar-special nosebleed ducat nor the more expensive field-box seat one row behind the first base dugout.

I’ve spent so many Tuesdays here that the seat cushion now forms a permanent indentation in the shape of my butt. If I scoot into the booth and miss it slightly, the ridges poke my ass until I move, an unpleasant welcome of sorts. Once in the groove, I perform the same pre-flight checks as any good pilot would, sliding my beer mug to just the right position (handle towards me and centered on the coaster), making sure the filthy ashtray isn’t close enough to stink, and moving the ketchup and mustard away from the position where I rest my arm; Roger, El Toro Ground Control, Marine Quebec Foxtrot one-four-niner is five by five and square, squawking IFF one-two-one-three and requesting clearance for takeoff on runway three-five-left. Suddenly, I wonder how the astronauts feel while waiting for the three tons of liquid propellant attached to their asses to blast them to God-knows-where, betting their lives that some civil service engineers working for government wages haven’t got an axe to grind with their superiors. Tuesday… my metaphysical connection with eternity, my dreams and hopes reduced to their lowest common denominator.

“Can I buy you a drink?”

Standing before me, blocking my view of the pool table stood ‘Arnie’, a quiet man I’d seen many times at Jimmy’s. Until now, I’d assumed he quite possibly could be mute.

“Would it require that you have one with me?” Yes, I’m rude when confronted unexpectedly; it’s a character fault I’ve long detested, especially in others.

“I’m afraid it would, yes.”

Well, at least he’s honest. What the hell, I could use a little entertainment. “Sure, sit down… but I’ll warn you in advance, I’m not gay, not that there’s anything wrong with that, and I don’t have any money to lend you.”

His face warmed slightly and a hint of a grin appeared as he slid into the booth on the opposite side of the table from me. He raised his hand and twirled his finger to alert Isabel that he needed some service. Isabel, bless her heart, signaled back and soon brought two mugs of tap beer. Isabel would never again see seventy and the arthritic knuckles on her hands bore testimony to it, but she wasn’t chatty, so I appreciated her general elegance and never failed to reward her for her professionalism. I honestly believe that one of the truest marks of a man’s character is reflected in the manner by which he treats a server.

“I’m Arnie.”

“Yes, I know.”

“I don’t know your name.”

“Yes, I know that, too.”

Arnie stared at me for a few seconds, both hands wrapped around his mug. Then, I saw the light leave his eyes as he looked away. “Okay” was all he muttered, already arising from his seat and I reached across the table and grabbed his arm.

“Hold on, man, I was just fuckin’ with you a little. My name is Earl. I’m just not used to anyone offering to buy me a beer without a motive.”

Once again he made eye contact with me, a bit more insistent now. “Who said I didn’t have a motive… Earl?”

Damn, dude… turn off the high beams! I saw passion in the man’s demeanor, not the lustful come-on approach of a stud in heat, but the deeper intensity of emotional distress. For reasons I didn’t fully understand, I offered, “Aha! Honesty… a fine trait exhibited by any man. What can I do for you, Arnie?”

Without blinking or losing eye contact, he whispered, “Kill me.”

A thousand horses pulling my arms in either direction could not have prevented me from smiling at this point. Fortunately, my mug sat harmlessly on the table instead of perched upon my lips, waiting for me to spit beer everywhere. “Geez, pal, I wish I had a dollar for every time someone has asked me to do that. I’d like to accommodate you, but I’m afraid my dance card is pretty full right now, I’ve been volunteering at the Suicide Prevention Clinic at St. Jude’s. As soon as I leave here, there’s a fifteen-year-old girl with a personality disorder that insists she’s not worthy to make it through the night. Nice of you to think of me, though— it’s gratifying to know that you consider a total stranger the perfect choice for your executioner. It’s nothing personal you understand, I’m sure you’re worthy of a gruesome beating, but I usually tend to delay that sort of thing until after the second date.”

Again his eyes lowered and a long pause ensued. My words cut deep into some hidden tissue not meant for exposure to insult. Languorously he rubbed the inside of his palm with a thumb. Without looking up, he mouthed “It’s okay, over the years I’ve become hardened to smugness. The premise is nothing if not stark. If it’s any comfort to you, I actually expected your reaction, but I’d like to ask you a question. What would you do if you knew that every breath you took caused pain for someone you love?”

Well, he had me there. I’ve lived alone for the past fifteen years, so the concept of loved ones being hurt by my actions seemed foreign as falafel or the Noble Eightfold Path. Any dilemmas stemming from emotional bonds to a lover or mate haven’t arisen since the ugliness in Sacramento in the early ‘90’s. At one time I’d have crawled across Hell without sunscreen for my loved ones, but now…

“Okay, I get it, but, Arnie, how does someone—anyone for that matter—get up in the morning and decide ‘Well, things aren’t any better, I think I’ll walk down to the nearest beer joint and ask some slug to end it all for me’? Honestly, if it’s that bad, aren’t there legitimate agencies somewhere in the city that are supposed to deal with this sort of thing?”

Now Arnie’s face scrunched into a grimace and he placed his fingertips across his face to support his head’s weight as shoulders shook and a chortling, rhythmic series of short gasps broke the silence. I couldn’t tell whether he was laughing or crying. Then, as quickly as it started, the outburst ceased. Arnie regained his composure and wiped his eyes with a napkin hastily grabbed from the dispenser. “Sorry… the words ‘legitimate agencies’ used together may be the ultimate expression of oxymoron. I couldn’t help but laugh.”

So much for reason… “Yea, well, tell me, Arnie, how much you had to drink today? Think it might be a good idea to go home and sober up a bit before you hurt yourself… or me? I admit, our social institutions leave much to be desired, but any sort of help is better than nothing, don’t you think?”

“Earl—do you mind if I call you Earl? You see, Earl, I’ve been to every ‘social institution’ in the state. I’ve been poked and prodded so much that I could teach hematology to lab technicians. I’ve been observed, counseled, preached to and analyzed by every psychiatrist, analyst, counselor, therapist, minister and psychologist with a diploma hanging on an office wall in the tri-state area. Don’t you see, Earl, there’s simply nothing that can be done for me. I’m not drunk, I’m terminal!”

My turn to inhale deeply came and went before anyone said anything. He didn’t stutter on a single word and I saw no evident signs of delusion or other symptoms of advanced alcoholism, so I took him at his word. Terminal… the word itself is stark and sobering. Walk into a doctor’s office one day with hopes of a long life and one word walks up behind you and smacks you in the back of the head with a two-by-four. Terminal.

“Sorry…” Well, that was brilliant… such a way with words I have. If he’s looking for hope or consolation, Arnie couldn’t possibly have picked a worse companion. But, he did get my attention. “Could you share with me what’s wrong?”

“I have Alzheimer’s.”

Missing from his pronouncement was the ‘pow’ or ‘zap’ that I anticipated. Is that all? This guy is cheating me out of AIDS or liver cancer or any one of many other dread diseases that afflict human beings. “Well, correct me if I’m wrong, but can’t a person live a pretty long life with Alzheimer’s?”

Nervously scratching his out-stretched neck with his finger, he grinned and resigned himself to answer, “Yes, and therein lays the problem. My bodily functions will continue as before without the aid of conscious contribution from my mind, my humanity. Every passing day carries me further away from family and loved ones. Meanwhile, they stand and watch helplessly as all their resources are invested in my lost cause. I equate it to caring for the aging family dog that the vet can’t treat and you refuse to put down. You make him as comfortable as possible, smile and pat him on the head, and watch as he eats less and less every day, all the while looking up at you with those loyal, trusting eyes, asking you to end his misery. What do you do? You can’t save him from his fate, but he’s in no immediate danger, so you ask yourself, ‘Who am I to play God?’ and you walk away. Eventually, through the anguish he suffers, he finally gives up the ghost and mercy takes him to another plane of existence. Here, in a stuporous state of limbo poised between life and death, he spends his time until his heart finally stops beating. No, you didn’t play God. You mollified your ego, you appeased your conscience, you placated your sense of right and wrong by forcing the animal to suffer from your inertia. You’re not mean, in the societal sense, who could blame you for prolonging the life of the family pet? Yet, suffer he did… and for much longer than necessary. Then, after all is said and done, if you have a conscience, it’ll start asking why you didn’t have the stones to make the right decision.”

Arnie paused, as though suddenly exhausted by his words. “Please help me. I am that dog.”

I didn’t know what to say. The man showed no signs of inebriation, and I held no doubt that his words were sincere. “I still don’t understand why you picked me. I’ve given you no reason to think you could trust me whatsoever. You walk over here, buy me a beer and ask me to commit murder? In what world does sitting by one’s self in a booth near the rear door of a beer joint qualify someone as an assassin? Is there some deep truth revealed only to you by the way I don’t say too much? You have to admit, Arnie, this is quite a bit to lay on a guy. I feel like I’ve been dropped into an episode of The Twilight Zone! If I didn’t know that Rod Serling is already dead, I might suspect that you’re sizing me up as a test-market stooge.”

“Bizarre, indeed… but why not you, Earl? I admit that I’m losing stretches of time, so I don’t really know how long you’ve been coming in here, but I don’t recall ever hearing you say more than a few words to anyone. The fact that you keep to yourself makes you an attractive candidate for the job I want done. I merely assumed that since you keep your own counsel, you’re intelligent enough to understand why I want you to end my life and the importance of silence once it’s done. But there are other considerations that make it necessary for me to act swiftly.”

“And what considerations might those be?”

“I’m married, Earl, and have a family whom I love with all my heart. Therefore, I also have some insurance on my life. However, since I’m not wealthy, I opted for a policy that won’t pay under certain circumstances, among them being suicide, death while on a private or commercial conveyance, etc. Instead, I bought a rider that pays double indemnity should I meet my maker as a result of unprovoked felonious assault. I’ve already had one stroke and I could have another at any time. If that happens, my family loses $150,000.”

“Aha! Insurance fraud! And I get to do twenty-five-to-life so that you don’t have to.”

“Assuming that you get caught, I suppose that would be a possible consequence, yes.”

“Yea, well, listen, Arnie, it’s getting late. I enjoyed our little heart-to-heart talk here, and it was damned nice of you to buy me a beer before you asked me to, uh, help you out, but I think I’m going to pass. As I said before, it’s not personal, but I usually try to avoid killing people, even if they ask me nicely. I wouldn’t want your problem, that’s true enough. In fact, I wouldn’t wish your circumstances on my worst enemy. That being said, truth be known, I don’t have the stones, as you so eloquently pointed out a little earlier. However, if you’re really serious, perhaps you could get a pistol and grab a hostage, maybe a cute little blonde girl walking home from school. Then, call the cops and tell them that if they don’t come to your house immediately, you’ll kill her. Within minutes they’ll form a perimeter around your house and start negotiations. At that point, you can put your pistol in your waistband and open your front door. I’ll personally guarantee you that as soon as you reach for that pistol, they’ll happily fulfill your most fervent desire and blow your ass away. Suicide by cop... get it? Nobody will get hurt, except you, of course, and that won’t be for very long. Problem solved; your wife gets her money and I don’t have to go to prison.”

“That’s a dandy scenario, Earl, one that I realized early on. Only one problem— the felonious assault rider wouldn’t kick in for the double indemnity payment since the police would be well within their rights and duty. An attorney assured me that the language is very specific and enforceable. I’m afraid I’m going to have to decline, but I appreciate the effort.”

With that, Arnie got up, shook my hand and walked out the back door. I spent the better part of the next hour sitting in that booth, drinking several more beers and contemplating the situation. At one point, Isabel came back and asked me if I was okay. I allowed as how I was, thank you very much.

Isabel placed both hands on the table palm down, leaned over and moved her head a little closer to me than I deemed comfortable and asked, “Did he ask you to kill him?”

“What? Naaaa…” I lied, not wishing any further complicity in this sordid business. “He just wanted to, uh, borrow some money.”

Isabel gave me her Okay, liar… have it your way glare and walked away. I wondered how many times she’d had that conversation with other patrons. Then it occurred to me how terrible it must be to spend the last years of one’s life not knowing whether you’re coming or going… or neither. Suddenly, the beer tasted flat and warm; time for me to go home.

The short walk to my car in the back parking lot started out like any other. The dimly lit area offered haven to the occasional itinerant enjoying a flask of cheap Sangria while propped against the building, so when my car lights flashed on the human form lying against the concrete abutment forming the curb, I almost didn’t stop. But I recognized the coat—it was Arnie’s coat. After shutting the car off, I took my flashlight out of the glove compartment and walked over to the unmoving hulk. Carefully rolling the shoulders around so that I could see the face, I realized that it was Arnie. A quick check of his carotid revealed no pulse or signs of a struggle, so I sighed and looked around. Damn you, Arnie, this is hitting below the belt! How dare you stroke out on me? I walked back over to the car, took my gloves out off the seat and put them on, and unhooked my tire iron from its holder in the trunk.

Walking back to the body, I rehashed our one and only conversation. Finally, satisfied that I was doing what Arnie would have wanted, I swung the tire iron as hard as I could and felt the thud as it made contact with Arnie’s head. Then, I took his wallet from his pants pocket, removed the seventeen dollars inside and threw the leather holder next to the corpse.

Double indemnity… I’m sure Arnie would have considered the seventeen dollars small enough payment to insure his legacy. It could only have happened on a Tuesday.

Bob Church©2007

Camels Moo And So Can You

Camels Moo And So Can You

by Bob Church




Well, I've been busy since we last got together here. Instead of writing (I think you'd agree that I've pretty much mastered that), I decided I'd take up art as my next field of endeavor. Above, you can see my very first creation. No, that's okay, you don't have to just start sending me money, I'm only too happy to be able to create it. Of course, when the American Society of Fine Art calls and asks me to sell it to them for millons of dollars, I suppose I'll cave in and, despite my most dogged efforts to retain my amateur standing, sell it to them... but only because I want the entire world to be able to experience it when it hangs next to other works by the great masters.



And I owe it all to a highly-technical and sophisticated computer program called 'Paint' that I found in my 'Accessories' pull-down box. I'm sure it was Microsoft's error, that they couldn't possibly mean to offer something so absolutely 'cutting-edge' to everyone. Truth is, I'd never noticed it before, and if I had, there'd probably already be hundreds of irreplaceable works of art that my genius mind engendered.



Well, enjoy it now, everyone... because someday you'll have to pay to see it in the Louvre. I must admit, though... it doesn't look as good on the side of my house as it does here.

Yes, But Is It Art?

If only I’d listened to my inner voice, chances are I wouldn’t have sat down across from the man. Inexperience with train voyages left me vulnerable to the whims of travelers. Perhaps if I’d been more worldly, I’d have found another seat across from the old lady with the support hose rolled down below her knees or even sat next to the kid in Tommy Hilfiger gear currently stretched out across two seats.

Thinking back on it, I recall speculating that this man’s presence on the 9:13 a.m. train to Sheboygan, the commuter Day-Tripper, was an augury of malevolence—an omen of villainous treachery. Heavily jowled and dressed in a plain black suit, he personified evil incarnate. I envisioned scenarios of intrigue and danger perched just below the surface of his scowling demeanor waiting to pounce at precisely the right moment; his hypnotic gaze, perched just behind Peter Lorre eyes, invited the unwary victim to step into the parlor and enjoy a cool lemonade and perhaps one of his Aunt Martha’s delicious oatmeal cookies.

Eyes may be the windows unto the soul, but even though an immovable concrete stare greeted me as I placed my bag beneath the seat, I associated only emptiness with his vacuous gaze. Any presence of grace remained hidden in some poorly evolved recess of his psyche, protected by that stare. Worse, he appeared to suffer from some visual anomaly that caused his eyes to seek different focal points, the right focused on me while the left peered at one of the ads prominently displayed above the window.

“Hello.” I offered, still fumbling nervously with my satchel, smiling briefly and nodding in his direction.

“You’re very brave, most people won’t sit across from me.”

“Really… why is that?”

He said nothing for a few seconds. Then, after shifting his weight slightly and jerking his head away from me momentarily, “I suffer from a yeast problem in my groin area that emits a perceivable odor evident upon venturing a little too close.”

A little more information than I might have expected, to be sure. Still, I found his honesty refreshing, if a bit troubling on several different levels. “Well, I’ll keep that in mind, thank you for alerting me. I hope you won’t be insulted if I move, should I find it intolerable.”

“I’m a farmer.” Again, the stare/gaze overtook me.

“Is that so? I might have missed that.”

“Yes, I raise Altoids.”

My turn to stare. “Really? I guess that would explain the yeast problem.”

“What?”

He seemed genuinely taken aback by my comment and offered nothing by way of counterpoint for several seconds, choosing instead to make uncomfortable eye contact with me while removing some nose material and flicking it onto the floor.

“Never mind…" I said calmly, pausing to rub my hand on my shirt in some sort of sympathy-wipe, hoping he'd take the hint, "I was just making conversation.”

The remainder of the trip developed along those lines. By the time we reached our destination, against my will I learned that sextants have nothing whatsoever to do with physical intimacy, cumulonimbus clouds were a major factor in the scourge of scurvy during the seventeenth century, the inventor of the extended warranty died at the age of forty-seven and his wife received a replacement husband within thirty days, lap dances are deductible as entertainment expenses, and that it is illegal to shout “theater!” in a crowded fire. It's amazing what passes for intrigue these days.

As the train pulled into the station, I got up and grabbed my bag. I started to walk past him, and he stuck his hand out into the aisle. With eyes imploring me to grab it, he said, "Nice talking with you."

"No offense," I said, "but, I don't shake hands."

Then, feeling the necessity to offer some sort of explanation for my violation of social etiquette, I stammered, "I'm... I'm allergic to Altoids."

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.