"Take a penny, leave a penny"

I can’t speak for you, certainly, but I’m convinced that clerks at some convenience stores are abusing the “take a penny, leave a penny” trays that sit next to the cash register. Just think about it… how many times have you walked into the Quik-Stop to buy a 12-pack of Bud Light and needed a penny to keep from breaking a twenty, only to find an empty “take a penny, leave a penny” tray? Then, as you dig that twenty out of your wallet, you look up into the deviously happy grin and dancing eyes of the nineteen-year-old high school dropout with the tattoos all over his neck and arms, who even now salivates at the prospect of giving you change for your twenty, being sure to ask you if you mind if he leaves the pennies in the “take a penny, leave a penny” tray.

Then it occurs to you… if he waits until you walk out, picks up those three pennies and slips them into his pocket, he’s well on his way to retirement at an early age. Think about it, if he collects three cents from 50 customers a day, he’ll earn enough in two months to fund a $100 T-Bill or buy an eight ball of crack!

I figure that I’ve been buying 12-packs of Bud LightTM every day now for the last forty years. If I’d bought them all at Seven-Eleven, and that same clerk had grown up with me, I’d have supplemented his income to the tune of $438. If fifty other customers had contributed to his little slush fund in the same way and he’d invested the skimmings in T-Bills at 3% simple interest, he’d have over $40,000 right now! Or he’d have a $200/day crack habit that would force him to spend his off-work time breaking into my garage and stealing my Dremel®, miter saw and invaluable box of Slim Whitman records.

Folks, the moral of the story is very clear. Don’t fall into the trap of enabling that poor unfortunate manning the cash register… eschew the “take a penny, leave a penny” tray. It’s pure evil.

Uno, Dos, Tres...

As a mature, semi-productive, nearly-non-starstruck (I'm so over that) adult, I tend (by necessity) to live in the here and now. However, on occasion I allow myself the luxury of fantasizing about 'what could have been' and bemoaning my parents' lack of foresight in their failure to expose me in greater depth to my God-given musical abilities, specifically the guitar. Not to toot my own horn, but I am a legendary air-guitar player... I never miss a lick, no matter what the song being played might be.

Now, before you stick up your nose and say, 'Yea, right...', let me explain. The guitar is really only an organized set of finite combinations of sounds (crudely regarded as 'notes') capable of producing a near-infinite set of definable harmonic frequencies (technically referred to as 'chords' or 'riffs'). Are you smelling the coffee, yet?

Further, since I possess the ability to mentally reproduce the most intricate of 'licks' as played by inferior players such as Clapton, Hendrix, Vaughn and Allman, there can be little question that I would have been superior to them in my performance of my art. Then, I, too, would command the respect and adulation of the adoring masses (not to mention being filthy rich), and by now I would have my own star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame outside Grauman's Chinese Theatre.

Oh, to be a fly on the wall (it's a cliche, I admit... get over it) when my fans kneel before my handprint and place their own hand inside. I yearn to see the expression on their faces when they realize that they have no answer for the sixth and seventh fingers...

but, hey, that's just me.

Doubts Uncommon

You don’t come around much anymore,
and I wonder, sometimes, what I did.
Once we shared it all,
then—suddenly—quiet white lilies filled your space,
leaving me to wonder.

Oh, I’m not the standard by which others are judged,
nor can I righteously judge yours.
Yet I suffer from your silent scorn,
unaware of my sins
and ignorant of my shortcomings.

Maybe my offenses are so basic
that, like the slow learner in second grade,
I am the only one incapable of acknowledgment,
the only one who can’t see the elephant in the room—
perhaps I lack your vision.

So here I sit and here I’ll stay,
shooting my blasts of powdered insufficiency
unto an unsuspecting audience,
hoping someday you’ll return.

But still, I’ll wonder.

Cullen

Miércoles Thanatopsis Kornblatt sat pensively on the riverbank, contemplating both future and past as he watched the occasional eddy swirl in the mocha before him. Not yet having reached his twentieth anniversary of existence on the planet, the youth could claim neither the sophistication of adulthood nor the innocence of childhood, but his experience brought him realization enough to know that he did not like his name.

Early on, given the constant derision and insufferable teasing heaped upon him from his first days in school, he’d sought a nickname capable of ushering him expediently through the minefields and carrying him safely into adulthood. It was bad enough that the kids looked at him funny and snickered as he walked past, pausing to whisper to friends before the giggling commenced, but when teachers and other adults paused before trying to pronounce his name as though they suddenly must master a foreign language before proceeding, the world closed in upon him and forced him to deal with a lingering sense of anger and disillusionment. Over the course of his grammar school years, many sobriquets were tested, each failing dismally. Somehow, no one could develop a moniker from his given name. ‘Miér’ didn’t work, ‘Than’ lacked the ability to persist, and he was unwilling to consider ‘Korn’. Similarly, he learned to attach an uncommon disdain for nicknames such as ‘Bubba’, ‘Stinky’ or ‘Butch’, narrowing the possibilities for acceptance even more. Naturally, his intense, white-hot rays of embarrassment and displeasure radiated into society as a whole, his parents becoming the focal point that would magnify them and provide the intensity necessary to burn anyone who spoke to him. The words of Johnny Cash swirled before him as powerfully as the water he now stared into, “Life is tough for a boy named Sue”.

What were they thinking about? How could his parents have done this to him? Miércoles Thanatopsis Kornblatt, for Christ’s sake? Yes, mother tagged herself a born-again hippie and dad laid claim to a posture that labeled him a self-loathing Jew, but neither embodied the depth of belief in either culture to establish themselves to the world; Mom ran a flower shop and Dad masqueraded as a mid-level pencil pusher for a second-rate book publisher—while their son developed no identity whatsoever past that of an inveterate loser devoid of social skills.

Long ago he’d briefly researched the origins of both names before inquiring of his mother as to her motivations for giving him his name. Miércoles means ‘Wednesday’ in Spanish, he found out, and while the name sounded exotic, it carried less-than-scintillating gusto. Thanatopsis, with all its multi-syllabic involvement, presented more possibilities. Coined by a Nineteenth-century American writer, William Cullen Bryant, it was spawned from the Greek thanatos ("death") and suffix ‘-opsis’ (literally, "sight"); and is translated to mean ‘meditation upon death’.

Now, imagine a woman who recently completed twenty-four hours of labor pains and pushed out a healthy baby boy. In the presence of doctors, nurses and, of course, her husband, holds him for the first time and while smiling through her sweat and tears, proclaims “Welcome to the world, ‘Think about it, you’re going to die on Wednesday’ Kornblatt”.

Twenty years, in the fullness of time, represents less than a pinpoint on a chart, but to Miércoles Thanatopsis Kornblatt it seemed sufficient duration to realize the folly and futility of a world dedicated to madness. Resolutely, he stood and tossed a pebble into the river before again scaling its bank. Today, February 14, 2007, the world would celebrate St. Valentine’s Day. After crossing the bridge, he would zip up his parka to protect him against the chill and walk approximately one mile into the downtown venue of the Remington Arms Company. The elevator would expedite him to the basement office of Incoming Freight, where he’d hand a note and the package to the clerk and step back one pace. Then, a wry closed-mouth smile still parked precariously upon his lips, he’d reach into his coat and touch a button igniting the twelve pounds of plastic explosives. The note contained the words “Today is Wednesday…call me Cullen”.

"Yes, Dear, I'll be right there..."

I’m not a trained sociologist nor have I ever played one on TV, however, my experiences as a married man probably should be published because of their intrinsic value to roughly half of the world’s population. For example, I’ve observed that the average American man, over a period of roughly the last thirty years, has had increasing trouble relating to his wife, given her insistence upon garbage being stacked neatly in the garage, reliance upon her yoga instructor’s help during times of marital stress, and reluctance in accepting my semi-weekly requests for sex.

Spouses repeated verbal requests (also known as ‘nagging’) for some frivolous action by the husband, especially during the fourth quarter of a Broncos game or the last fifteen minutes of John in Cincinnati can aggravate husbands to the point where they retreat to the basement or garage or office for three or four hours of silence, ultimately causing him to mutter unkind insults under his breath such as ‘castrating hag’ and ‘ball-buster crone’, all the while hoping that the heating duct doesn’t transmit sound efficiently. It does.

At some point, her laugh can begin to annoy, especially if she’s talking on the phone to her sister. After many years, a husband’s patience (though severely tested) morphs into an acceptance of sorts, though the conscious act of overlooking it can lead to the extra glass of scotch after dinner accompanied by several hours spent in the Barcalounger®, resulting in yet more lack of acceptance/understanding by a marital partner.

While I’m on the subject, her insistence that a husband get dressed before walking to the curb for the morning paper (as if the neighbors really give a damn at 7 a.m.) or the occasional piss over the railing of the back deck only serves to widen the rift in communications, resulting in delayed or non-expressed intimacy, reduction in the ‘cuddle factor’ and cognitive dissonance in the American male.

I’ve also learned that the ‘duct tape cure’ doesn’t work, long-term. Most spouses, once the tape is ripped off, tend to misunderstand the husband’s attempts at corrective action and respond with a concerted vehemence unparalleled in personal marital experience.
On second thought, I now doubt the need for publication. Anyone who could benefit from it is probably too far gone to help. Well, gotta go… time for my morning dose of Seconal.

...pants on fire

For reasons that, in all likelihood, are painfully obvious to anyone who has read more than one or two of my pieces, I don’t write many tributes. Chalk it up to my curmudgeonly persona if you will, or attribute it to any one of a number of character faults that I openly admit, the most obvious being pride, avarice and gluttony, but the list is certainly not limited to the aforementioned. Be that as it may, the subject of tributes resides somewhere deep within my cranial structure, and unless prodded by some unintentional source, might never exist at all within my conscious intellectual processes.

However, just such a prod recently found its way between the more prominent synapses such as sexual thoughts, desire for alcohol and/or debauchery, need to know that the Yankees lost and the more or less constant pangs of hunger, to my secret cache of admiration for characters unlauded by society’s majority— liars.

Yes, that’s right, you heard me correctly… liars. After all, liars’ proliferation dominates all sectors of society, yet their near-overwhelming need for secrecy prevents them from receiving their highly deserved adulation from those of us inclined to do so. Moreover, even if they are identified and praised, they’d likely deny it, choosing instead to berate their identifier in a voice that would leave no doubt as to their displeasure. Biting the hand that feeds them is the stock-in-trade of prevaricators near and far, but the quality and skill of their craft allows them the comfort of acceptance as they weave their way through the very fabric of society unrecognized. Stealth becomes the liars’ cloak of invincibility, and in the case of politicians, it is supplied by the stature of office. For an elected official, simply stating the lie, in most cases, will achieve the acceptance of at least 51% of the masses, and when enough tall tales are amassed, this becomes known as party platform, a veritable coups.

So, the next time you listen to a candidate speak, be kind in your assessment of him or her, regardless of your opinion of his/her ideas… remember that the ability to tell the same lie over and over, never once letting the truth slip in, requires a superior memory and a prodigious set of cajones.

Bless all the liars, for without them our recorded assessment of events might reveal scenarios much less palatable. Never forget that history is written by the victors and generally amounts to a compendium of lies agreed upon.

Bob Church© 7/14/07

The Law According to Mrs. Withers

Dear Station Manager,

I’ve just about had it with your local weather coverage. I turn on the Channel 46 News at 5, and for the first 17 minutes (including commercials) I get wonderful, beaming smiles and perfect hairdos on news anchors who banter back and forth amidst features that stress the hominess of our CBS affiliate… some nights I'm so touched by the ‘Our Kids Care’ feature that I break down and cry in my TV dinner. I just can't get enough of those anchors!

But then, when it's time for the weather with Channel 46 meteorologist Stormy Darke, it's a one-way ticket to Slug City. It's all weather, weather, weather and zero personality. Most African-American men that get on TV have wonderful smiles, but not Stormy.

Everyone else besides Stormy gets along like one big happy family. But that weatherman sticks out like a third boob! Teri in the local news chair always asks Dan, her co-anchor, about his new daughter, Megan. Actually, it's a shame they don't have more time in their busy lives to catch up on each other's personal lives while off-camera, but I know how busy they are. (Teri is a caring mother of two, dealing with the issues of a working single mother who also enjoys the outdoors and community choral concerts mixed in with an active social life.) Rod Single (I suspect that’s a stage name, but I guess that’s to be expected), the sports anchor, also seems very concerned with his fellow newscasters, and often teases Dan—good-naturedly, of course—when Dan's favorite teams lose, which is 87.55% of the time over the last 8 years.

But when Rod is through with sports, and he turns to Stormy Darke, Channel 46 meteorologist, with a chipper, "Did ya get some sun today, you’re looking a little burnt?" Stormy never even answers him. He just launches into his weather forecast, and I don’t think it has anything to do with the fact that he’s an African-American man. We never find out what Stormy does with his day! He rarely even comments to Rod about the sports events he just announced, and he speaks with that creepy voice that doesn't sharply rise and fall or pause dramatically. It sounds just like you or me talking, and you know, Stormy’s smile just doesn't seem as wide or as bright as the others. He really should try a whitening toothpaste and just a dab of Vaseline on the front teeth… they could be so pretty, being as large as they are.

I called the Channel 46 "We Care Line" (46-WE-CARE) to give some feedback on the weather portion of the show, such as my recommendations about the toothpaste and some bright geometric patterned ties like the other anchors wear, but no one ever called me back. If they truly cared what I think, like the ad for the "We Care Line" says they all do, they would have called.

Even the Channel 46 song says how much my CBS affiliate cares about me: "Channel 46 is there for you, Channel 46 cares—the news is you!" It's very reassuring to know that my news station isn't some faceless company that's just after advertising dollars. Channel 46 really cares about the community! You can tell by watching Thursday's “Special Neighbors” features.

While everyone else at Channel 46 is working hard saving animals from the pound and lauding elderly rubber band collectors and videotaping retarded people playing softball, Stormy is just talking about rising barometers and high-level clouds. Where's the human kindness in that? Where are the viewer snapshots of county fair animal husbandry projects and zucchini-growing contests? I don’t want to think it’s just because he’s an African-American man.

That weatherman makes me downright nervous. All the other news segment displays have cursive lettering in calming pastel colors, but the weather has harsh, plain typeset. Network weathermen like Al Roker and Willard Scott always wish people a happy birthday, but do you think Stormy Darke would ever do the same for me? Fat chance!

I hope I don’t have to do it, I really don't want to, but if things don’t change pretty damn quickly, I may switch over to Channel 67's weather report. Clarence Spinks may not have the latest Accu-Weather Doppler radar technology at his fingertips like Stormy does, but at least he knows what a smile is!

And before you go thinking it’s just because he’s an African-American man, that has nothing whatsoever to do with it, even if he doesn’t care to make the most of his physical attributes. I have almost as many African-American friends as I have Caucasian friends, it’s just that most of them don’t spend much time at local Republican caucuses, where I spend most of my time. Go Elephants! (That’s a little joke. I’d actually vote for an African-American Republican, just so long as he didn’t have an arab name like Barack Obama—but he’d have to take a little better care of his teeth.)

Respectfully (and having nothing to do with the fact that he's African-American),

Clara Withers

It's very simple, really

I've come to understand that as a man, I'm capable of only two emotions, horny and hungry. So, if you see me without an erection, please be so kind as to fix me a sandwich.

Cooperstown the Beautiful

I’m finding myself more and more prone to get up in the morning, fire up the computer and immediately go check the standings in Major League baseball, and I don’t know why because I have no dog in the fight. Living, as I do, in the cultural wasteland known as mid-Missouri, I suppose I ought to declare an allegiance to one of the two teams situated on either side of the state, but I’m slow to do so due, at least in part, to my short tenure as a Missourian. I’d hate to develop an affinity for the wrong team only to have my allegiance questioned by this or that local who happens to support the team on the opposite side of the state. I’d hate to be the only Democrat in a sea of Republicans…

It should also be stated that becoming a Kansas City Royals fan would likely subject a person to a lifetime of abuse by any casual fan who witnessed any demonstration of such loyalty, such as the wearing of a T-shirt with the team logo emblazoned upon it. The Royals have fallen into disrepair since their glory years of two decades past, the result of mismanagement by an owner (the heir to the Wal-Mart fortune) richer than Croesus and stingier than Midas. Since the franchise is run like a business instead of a rich man’s dalliance, salaries are limited and very few, if any, premier players can be kept in the organization past their apprenticeship years. They come into the league, show flashes of brilliance, and sign contracts with the Yankees or Red Sox or Mets for twice what they made in Kansas City. Sorry, Royals fans, but you understand… it’s the American way. So the rich get richer, the poor get poorer (comparatively speaking, of course… there are no poverty-stricken franchises or players) and the beat goes on.

Before you draw the conclusion that I’m some sort of anti-free enterprise, Socialist wacko, I should point out that I rather enjoy the drama created by the disparities in salaries, especially when the Yankees (complete with payroll nearly triple that of the Royals) fall flat on their collective asses and stink up the stadium with play so inept that using the term ‘amateurish’ to describe it carries the risk of hyperbole. Besides, professional football and basketball both have salary caps to ‘level the playing field’ (I want to throw up every time I hear that phrase). There are thirty-two teams in each league and the same five or six teams still win the championship every year.

Professional baseball is America in microcosm. Immigrants now make up a huge percentage of the rosters, labor has a token union to speak for it that is closely controlled by management, the consumer pays ever-increasing, inflated rates for consumption of the product without any retreat of a free-market economy, powerful families control the destiny of the venture, free expression of dissent are not tolerated without banishment, franchises occasionally become homeless, and the decline of the middle class has become the hallmark of the venture. I guess the Iraq mess is the one real difference, although border skirmishes break out whenever the Yankees and Red Sox meet at either venue, but at least, unlike our government’s efforts, the league is able to control the sectarian violence with a minimum of loss and there is the promise that the war might someday conclude.

So, I’ll continue to read the stats sheet and check the standings, but become a fan of a specific team? Sorry… can’t afford it.

Bob Church©6/24/07

Jack

“Retork squiddle whup whup, skiddley whup whup-doo!”

Fingers poked through threadbare cotton gloves, wiggling and gyrating at me, his face now a confused amalgam of concerted bluff and imposition as he continued his doomed attempt to intimidate me. Before I could grab him, his eyes glazed over and he assumed a pose with one leg off the ground and both hands extended in mid-air, fingers still wiggling stupidly. Lips pursed and loudly sucking in air, I thought he might pass out.

“Stop it, Jack, it won’t work on me. You don’t scare me, unless you count my worry that you may hurt yourself and the cops might try to blame it on me… you don’t know kung fu and your gibberish doesn’t sound anything like Bruce Lee’s Chinese, so do us both a favor and quit trying to act like a badass before I forget my manners and slap the shit out of you.”

This seemed to break the spell, at least somewhat. He turned his head inquisitively, his expression still defiant, if no longer martial artist. Jack pushed his chest out and posed with his hands on his hips. “Give me one reason why I shouldn’t keelhaul ye as you stand, and feed ye to the sharks, ye scurvy dog!”

Mercifully, he didn’t actually own a saber, so his Captain Jack persona failed as well. But, at least he was speaking English again, so I took that as a step in the right direction. Our little impromptu therapy sessions had actually started to bear a little fruit. Jack now abstained from liquor on Tuesdays and every other Wednesday in months that ended in ‘ber’ (his choice as a counter-offer to my suggestion of bathing on a semi-weekly basis).

“So now you’re a pirate? What’s next, Eli the Wonder Llama?”

No doubt about it, the suggestion gave him pause. His face, fixated on my own with his best Johnny Depp stare, suddenly morphed once again and confronted me with his best limp-wristed, tortured-artist Truman Capote pout. A grin escaped as he lisped, “There’th never been anyone quite like me.”

“Well…” I confessed, “this one shows some promise, but if you’re going to pull it off, you need to dress a little better and maybe get yourself one of those cigarette holders that all the fairies carried in the ‘60s. Tell me, what was it like living in western Kansas when you wrote In Cold Blood?”

Jack sat down and covered his head with his arms. I couldn’t tell whether he was weeping, but it wouldn’t have surprised me. His mercurial personality changes had to be difficult to deal with, even considering the length of his history with mental illness.

I jotted a few notes on a legal pad. “Can I speak to Jack?”

Nothing. He didn’t move.

“Okay, have it your way. You stay the enigma that you are, forced to exist in two or three worlds simultaneously because of your inability to accept your place in any one of them… while the rest of humanity continues to regard you as a pathetic wackjob, dedicated to your quest for egocentricity.”

Slowly, his face an overflowing palette of remorse, he stood up and placed a crisp fifty-dollar bill on the table. “Here… for your services.”

I looked at it for a few seconds before speaking. “I usually get a hundred.”

Turning to open the door, he stopped and stared at me. “Usually you supply the reefer.”

Damned if he didn’t have me there. Oh, well, easy come, easy go. It was drinking money, even if it’d never pay for medical school.

Once Upon A Coney

“Five-fifty for a freakin’ hotdog? Why don’t you just reach in your pocket and stick a gun in my face… you’re robbin’ me either way!” The Gentlemen's Quarterly poster child reached into his pants pocket. A ten-spot emerged from a gold money-clip and disappeared just as quickly into the vendor’s meaty right hand.

Control came easy for Jamie these days, but it hadn’t always been so. It was an acquired skill, one honed over years of dealing with the denizens of New York. His cart, The Spirit of Pawtucket, rolled to its present position every Monday through Friday, come hell or high water.

“Yea? Well, give it back then, you cheapskate hump! Walk five blocks over and eat that garbage that Mohammed puts out. It'll give a whole new meaning to the word 'hotdog' when you bite down and it barks!” Jamie reached for the change in his pocket as he watched the impeccably dressed man slather mustard, onions, ketchup and relish onto the bun. A hint of a smile betrayed his mandatory New York toughness.

“Jesus God, take it easy on the condiments, fella’, or I’ll have to take it back and charge you by the pound! I sure as hell hope your secretary carries breath mints, or your afternoon will contain nothing more exotic than a three-hour nap.” A quick sleight-of-hand left four one-dollar bills tucked neatly under the napkin holder.

Christian Dior fastidiously bit into the huge sandwich, a bouquet of napkins secured in his hand. “You know, with your diplomatic skills, you should have become a lawyer instead of a hotdog vendor.”

Jamie continued to wipe down the small counter on his cart, never looking up. “Yea, I applied for law school, but they wouldn't accept me because I know who my father is. Besides, why would I want to take a cut in pay?”

Botany 500 shook his head and harrumphed. “Everyone’s a critic these days… next, you’ll be telling me you’re out of horseradish!” His right hand extended over the counter, reaching for the unmarked white plastic squeeze bottle. He began to apply a light-green paste onto his hot dog before stopping suddenly.

“Why is the horseradish green?” he said, biting into the concoction.

Arms folded over his apron, Jamie stared disdainfully at the man. “Well, if you’d had the common courtesy to ask for horseradish, perhaps you wouldn’t be asking stupid questions. It’s not horseradish, Einstein, it’s salsify.”

“It’s what?” He’d stopped chewing now, his face suddenly transformed into a grotesquely hideous mask. “It tastes like raw oysters, for Chris'sake!” Leaning forward fastidiously to avoid getting any on his suit, he spat small chunks of partially chewed sandwich into the gutter alongside the cart.

“Salsify. It ranks as one of the most salubrious of culinary vegetables; being antibilious, cooling, deobstruent and slightly aperient, should be used sparingly.” Jamie’s grin revealed his obvious satisfaction with his customer’s displeasure.

Wiping at his mouth, Bill Blass reached for Jamie’s lapel, snarling, “Gim’me my money back!”

“Ah-ah-ah! You wouldn’t want me to introduce you to Messieurs Smith & Wesson, now would you?”

Three-piece set the remainder of the hot dog on the counter and rubbed his hands together. “Okay, but put the horseradish back in the white bottle tomorrow, okay?”

Jamie held his hands up in front of him, mea culpa. “I’ll see what I can do, but no promises.”

Oscar de la Renta started to walk away, but stopped when he heard Jamie’s voice. “Aren’t you forgetting something?” He looked back and saw the vendor pointing at the counter where his change lay.

“Oh, yea…” he said, and reached for the bills. Jamie pushed the half-eaten hotdog in front of his hand and pointed at the trash container alongside the building.

Calvin Klein walked the four steps and tossed the refuse into the can. Once again, he glanced at the counter. The bills had mysteriously disappeared.

“I’d like my change, please.”

“Pardon me?”

There was little point in arguing. Pursing his lips, Giorgio Armani paused before pantomiming a pistol shot with his fingers. Whirling around, he started to walk away. “Don’t forget… horseradish tomorrow, Jamie.”

The hotdog vendor grinned yet again, “Say hi to Mom for me, little brother!” Kids, these days… you gotta love ‘em.

Scrap Metal, Steelheads and Me

This past weekend, while looking for a pastime worthy of expense for a man with dwindling caches of such allotments, I happened upon a surplus iron yard complete with wrecking ball and acres of stuff capable of withstanding the ravages of wind and weather.

Actually, a friend told me about it in terms leaving no uncertainty whatsoever as to the yard’s contents and their magical qualities to entice a man with an open mind and/or pockets. We’d recently enjoyed a meal at his place and I couldn’t help noticing that he’d replaced one entire wall of his house with a window roughly the size of Rhode Island. He said he’d purchased it at the surplus iron yard just because of the price. Now, if one walked into the rear portion of his home, he could share my friend’s bird’s-eye view of the Randolph County Medical Center. Of course, his six-foot cedar grape stake fence obscured the view of the parking lot, but it was a small price to pay for the grandeur of the second-floor operating arena and a few patient rooms, especially with the aid of the binoculars he provided his guests. For nearly twenty minutes I watched a homely old woman in a hospital gown try to eat her evening meal of mashed peas, apple sauce and butterscotch pudding before trying to sit up and grab her IV pole for a quick trip to the bathroom, ultimately summoning a nurse’s help. I hate peas her lips repeated over and over as she finished every last drop of the squamous green material hardly worthy of a poultice, much less a meal.

I needed to go see if I could find anything worthwhile at this place. Upon first glance from the road, all I saw were rusted cars and old iron roofs stacked like cordwood, extending as far as the eye could see. I wasn’t currently in the market for a ‘74 Tempo with no front end, but I decided to go inside and talk to the proprietor anyway, having driven nearly six miles out of my way to get here. I told him that my neighbor had purchased some merchandise from him and that I would like to look around if he had anything left of a non-automotive nature. He said he’d just taken a couple of acres of Washington rain forest in trade for two sections of Shawnee County mushroom pasture, and if I’d like to step into his stockroom, he’d be happy to show it to me.

Well… I certainly didn’t want to appear too eager, so I allowed as how I’d take a quick look at it, but that I was just looking around and wouldn’t be buying anything today. ‘No pressure’ his look told me, so I followed him past an old tobacco-curing barn, a few pieces of equipment that I recognized as beer duns and something that appeared to be the side of a mountain, then we walked into an area containing a forest glade that caught my eye.

As far as the eye could see was wilderness of pine trees, moss-covered granite boulders and a lush meadow with a small pond complete with cattails. On one side a stream ran swiftly past.

“Any trout in that stream?” I queried, trying not to sound too interested.

“Of course, in fact, just yesterday, one of my employees caught two rainbows and a German brown after work. The amazing part is, I know he’s a lousy fisherman.”

“How big?” Immediately, I regretted having asked. I’m sure I appeared too interested and he’d raise the price, but something about the sound of the rushing water enchanted me and lowered my defenses.

“Oh, I don’t think they were huge, probably not bigger than 22” in length of more than five or six pounds… just average-sized.”

“How much?”

“Well, we’re piecing it out, selling the waterfalls separately, of course, as well as the ferns, grass, etc., but the stream sells for $2.50 a lineal foot for the first thousand feet, but we’ll attach any added length you’d like for only $2.00 a foot. Where I come from, that’s a bargain.”

“How much for the birds?”

He hesitated for a minute, pausing to think. “Well,” he muttered, “I guess we could let ‘em go for say… oh, how about fifty cents apiece? I’ll throw in the trout at no extra expense if you don’t make me warranty the birds. I used to guarantee them until I took in some Chinese birds and ended up with the bird flu… since then I’ve sold them on an ‘as is’ basis.”

“Sounds reasonable…” I uttered stupidly, removing all doubt that I was a future customer, “what about width, how much for that? That stream looks pretty wide in spots.”

I swear I saw dollar signs in his corneas. “I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” he replied enthusiastically, his confidence bolstered by my interest, “if you’ll take it off my hands today, I’ll throw in not only the width, but the depth as well. How does that sound? Do we have a deal?”

His hand reaching for my mine, I knew I was beaten. “Okay,” I whimpered, in a voice barely audible, “if you can deliver it to me free of charge, wrap up enough to fit on two acres and bring it out to me later this afternoon.”

While he pumped my hand with his own, he suddenly became the grand macaw, grinning and whistling, “No problem, we’ll cut it into sections and load it up on our flatbed, and I’ll check and see if we have any critters we can throw in… maybe a few deer and even a bear or two, just to make sure that you get full enjoyment out of your purchase. Would you care to look at a waterfall or box canyon while you’re here? Either one would sure dress up that stream…”

I allowed as how I was all stocked up on box canyons, but I’d take a look at a waterfall if it weren’t too expensive. We passed an enclosure filled with grizzly bears, pumas, skunks and various other large and small animals, but the smell alone discouraged me from looking closer. In a smaller container next to it was a cage marked INSECTS that I refused to enter.

So, I now have the only trout stream that I know of in Randolph County… and no mortgage to pay off, either. No, I don’t get to watch any patients out the back of my house, but my diet is now healthier, given the amount of omega-3 oil in the fresh trout that I eat.

Bob Church©6/4/07

Alpha, Omega and the Two-Rood Muse

I’ve been going through a rough stretch for a while, my mood pretty much matching the balance in my bank account. Not that being poor is a sin, but it does make it harder to adopt the rosy outlook I see plastered all over the faces of people I watch greeting each other on the street. ‘Course, none of it is meant for me, they don’t know me from Adam, and I guess I can’t blame anyone for being selective about when and where to spend their gestures of civility. Evidently, smiling at strangers, especially those who tend to lack the means for designer haircuts and/or clothes, is not a priority, and I’m cool with it… I understand, really I do. What if a friend were to happen by and catch you acknowledging the presence of a homeless man or nodding your head at a bum… I’m sure there’d be uncomfortable questions to answer at your Happy Hour gathering, and as I recall, there’s nothing tougher in life than listening to your pals make snide comments about your new ‘buddy’ and having to defend yourself or explain that it really wasn’t what it looked like, that all you were doing was trying to get him to leave you alone. Hell, if you weren’t careful, you might find yourself looking for a new foursome for Saturday morning’s Best-ball Scramble at the club or a new workout partner to spot you at the gym. So, I get it… don’t think a thing of it, I know you have more important matters to concern yourself with. If the Market doesn’t rebound soon, you stand to lose your Mercedes and I know how embarrassed you’d be if forced to drive a Beemer.

But enough… this story isn’t about them it’s about me. Forgive my self-indulgence if you can, but there’s very little point to the story if you don’t understand a little about my history. It’s of no importance where I come from, so I won’t bore you with details, but please understand that destinations planned early in life are seldom reached and never recognizable as originally conceived. For many years, I embraced the old adage, ‘fail to plan and plan to fail’. Like many young people, I set up a timetable of accomplishments to be achieved, and worked toward the satisfactory completion of each step, carefully assessing my progress and evaluating the next plane. And it all made sense. Maybe it worked a little too well, I can’t be sure, but at some point I felt the uncomfortable pangs of niggling doubt start to work their way into my psyche. The victories became muted and the ever-increasing setbacks proved difficult to dismiss. I found out that when one sets a goal, only three things can happen, and two of them are bad. One can fail, die before reaching the goal’s finish line or satisfactorily achieve the desired end point. Even if you make it, while temporarily basking in the euphoria of success, you face the realization that you now must set another goal, and the process repeats itself… again and again and again.

At some point, it ceased to make sense. I realized that I couldn’t eat more than one meal at a time, no matter how full my refrigerator might be. It became clear to me that I could erect tall walls of stone and post a guard at the gate, but I couldn’t keep the real enemies out, I could only keep myself in. My coffers overflowed but I was dead from the neck up. More and more often, when I was sober enough to realize it, another old adage swam effortlessly through my mind, ‘Be careful what you wish for’. Eventually, my ambition became my accuser, judge and jury, and I was convicted of fraud and sentenced to a refuge from reality that became my prison. One by one my friends and family came to visit less and less often, not that I could have acknowledged their presence in any event. I slid further and further down the slippery slope paved of drugs and alcohol, the mind-numbing pain-killers that facilitated my descent into oblivion.

Oblivion… almost sounds Biblical, even magical, doesn’t it? The Thessalonians shall smite the lawless and claim the land of Oblivion for the just. Amen. But I know better, because I’ve been there. It exists deep in the darkest jungles of despair; it is a quagmire of muck and filth more wretched than sin and denser than society’s impenetrable heart. My journey there took a path I could never have anticipated; after all, I was one of the chosen.

Who are the chosen, you might ask; why do they fall? We’re the pre-anointed, easily identified, can’t-miss effete. The almost brilliant, the nearly noteworthy, and the faux elite fill our legions. We’re smart enough to pass the entrance exams of nearly any university yet we have no idea what we’ll study once we get there. Have a test you want passed? Merely tell us where and when! We’ll parse your sentences, correct your arithmetic, and help you set your goals, even though we have none of our own beyond those we’re expected to achieve. While we’re at it, we’ll do your taxes, wash your car, clean your pool and figure out ways to help you stretch your entertainment dollar. Very little sneaks past us even if we’re slow to admit it. Oh, if only we’d found a star to which we could hitch our wagons.

But, we seldom do. Just when it appears that we might prevail, either circumstance or kismet taps us on the shoulder and reminds us that we needn’t trouble ourselves any further, that we just don’t have the right stuff. And off we go, dreams stashed neatly in one or another pouch of our backpacks, to chase yet another star, to inevitably choose the road to Oblivion regardless of our intentions. You see, we are what we are, the well-meaning odd-man-out with the capacity to accept many burdens and the ability to handle all but those conducive to our benefit. Then, mired in the confusion created by public labor and private torpor, we listlessly accept whatever scraps we’re thrown off the side of the chuck wagon as we pack up and head on down the road, grateful we’ve lost the gnaw of hunger but weary of the effort, desire having long since been swapped for temporary satiation. Even hormonal lust, at some point, accepts its muted ambivalence in some hidden cache whose flap button can be opened by neither sober fingers of intention nor clumsy whiskey-fueled digits of twisted revenge, becoming just another bullet to discharge just because we want to chase away the demons a little while longer.

But enough about oblivion—just understand that for those of us who through choice or chance find ourselves on the road, hope is a precious commodity. The concept itself carries a watered-down implication; a subdued resignation reaped from a raw sense of reality that most wouldn’t understand except as a theoretical exercise or experiment. Struggle is basic to life on this planet and acceptance of a certain amount is necessary for everyone, but when one is forced to struggle through every thought and every daily movement, at some point the reality of failure becomes the norm rather than the exception, making the merest victory over the elements stand out as treasures to be defended at all costs. When a man is willing to kill for a pair of cast-off sneakers rescued from a dumpster, the paradigm of hope becomes a hollow, meaningless phantom.

Now, phantoms, on the other hand, exist in my world as surely as night follows day, and they don’t always wait for darkness to make their appearance. The fact that they choose to interact with me exclusively makes them no less real. Just like you, my perceptions form my reality, and I make no apologies for them, although I do sometimes wish they’d go bother someone else. Coincidence that ‘phantom’ and ‘perception’ start with the same letter? I think not, but when push comes to shove, it matters little; in fact, I’m willing to wager that you’d never considered it yourself until just now. We all tend to think in terms of the literal rather than the abstract, don’t we? Besides, I have nothing to wager, unless it would be one perfectly good set of Reeboks (nobody ever throws away Nikes anymore unless the cat pisses on them and even I wouldn’t consider wearing them… that’s just disgusting) that I recently came upon. We’ll consider it a gentlemen’s bet and move on, the point is moot in any case.

Unless someone is seriously fucking with my head, even I have to assume that the 1900-pound concrete statue of Jesus Christ of Nazareth standing in the Silver Creek Memorial Garden is pretty much just an abstraction, a religious symbol meant to bolster Christian mourners’ congregation with the Almighty as they either plant a loved one or spend a little time in meditation with a grave stone (which, by the way, no one would consider odd in the least, even though many say God actually talks to them). Further, my observation that the statue weighs 1900 pounds is merely an educated guess, although common sense and a better-than-average understanding of physical laws came to bear before I hazarded an estimate given the statue’s height, girth and materials of construction. For those scientists among you, I’m sure it’s conceivable that the damn thing could weigh as much as 20% more or less, and I hope it makes you feel better to question my math, I know how important it is for you to always be right. Consider the source, I’m a contemptible drunk and an anchor tied to society’s hind end. I get it, trust me…

So when this 10-foot off-white monolith with two iris-less chicken eggs for eyes started following me as I moved about the headstones, it startled me at first. His long white hippie-hair didn’t move, his robe didn’t bustle at all, even with the 10 mile-per-hour breezes blowing from left to right as I looked at him, but those damn eyes followed me ever so slightly, almost imperceptibly except to the trained eye. His out-stretched arms moved, too, following me so that they were squared up in front of me, even when I moved behind him. Please notice that I didn’t capitalize ‘him’ at the end of the last sentence; I don’t need to pretend that it was actually Jesus Himself, I’ll leave that to all of you Christians in the audience. I’m not trying to pick a fight, I’m just trying to explain my feelings at the time—and don’t send me letters, either, I promise you I won’t answer them. (Note: That was a joke… I couldn’t possibly answer them seeing as how I don’t have a mailing address or post office box. But I’ll bet that you knew that, didn’t you? Okay, let’s move along, it’s getting pretty close to suppertime and I’m thirsty… er, hungry. Yea, I meant hungry.)

After a few minutes, I might have forgotten all about it if the thing hadn’t winked at me. Honestly… it closed one eye and wiggled his left index finger a little. Who knew Concrete Jesus was left-handed? I guess it wouldn’t be out of the realm of possibility, but since Catholics are supposed to make the Sign of the Cross with their right hand unless amputation or stroke or some other affliction affecting their right arm prevents it, I guess I’d always assumed that Jesus was right-handed. Go figure… who knew?

Anyway, now Left-Handed Concrete Jesus is winking at me and beckoning me to come closer. I have to be honest, at this point— considering the behavior of a fair number of Catholic priests— I began to question the entire concept of religion as it relates to celibacy. Was it merely a front for a multitude of salacious sex fiends preying upon the weak, the very young— the most naive members of the flock? Have the wolves really infiltrated the ranks of the shepherds? I have to admit, that might explain chastity… Don’t give it up here on earth, ladies, I likes Me some virgin pussy!

Sorry… that was uncalled-for. I’ll try to keep it clean. I know how easily your sensibilities become upset and I wouldn’t want to be responsible for any late-night gastric distress. Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea ultima culpa. (Don’t you just love Latin? Sometimes I just about get a nut just thinking back on all the Latin phrases I learned as a kid. In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. And who can possibly forget Dominus vobiscum, et cum spiritu tuo?) Ah, yes… makes me think back on all the time I spent on my knees at St. Dominic’s, getting the crap beat out of the back of my head with a ruler by one of Christ’s Black-and-White’s who evidently seemed to regard my predisposition for slumber as a sign of disrespect for the Lord. I’m sure the Lord demands that one or more of His confederates walks point on little boys in church while they’re supposed to be praying, so I forgive them—I’m sure they were only doing what they were told and their corporal propensities had nothing whatever to do with the sexual frustration they had to be experiencing given their eschewal of all things carnal.

Now, I admit that I may have enjoyed four or three smallish carafes of Ripple’s finest port that morning/afternoon, and that I could see a little better if I closed one eye, but nothing could have prepared me for being hit upon by Suggestively-Lewd Left-Handed Concrete Jesus. Even for a tipsy homeless man, this can be disconcerting.

But there I was, nevertheless. Suddenly, I felt the need for speed, but my legs didn’t want to cooperate. If you’ve ever experienced the fight-or-flight syndrome, I’m sure you can understand how a dedicated pacifist might opt for the latter. Now, I could see a bulge under his robe in the area of his crotch. Yes, it was an act of cowardly desperation, but I had no desire whatsoever to become the love slave of a Suggestively-Lewd Apparently Homosexual Left-Handed Concrete Jesus With a Dick the Size of a Louisville Slugger, so I began whimpering like a naughty puppy whose owner just caught him pissing on the living room rug. In fact, when he started to bend down toward me, I was pissing, only it was just in my pants, an eventuality for which I hold no pride, I assure you. Now, wet pants chafing at my legs, I began to run like I’d never run before, my stride suddenly rivaling that of an Olympic sprinter, my heartbeat surging in my ears with each footstep. On occasion, I looked back to see my nemesis closing on my position, although he certainly couldn’t approach my deer-like pace. Apparently, he experienced no fear of discovery, that someone might witness his reprehensible behavior and turn him in to the Cemetery Elders and risk banishment or at least some form of retribution for his hideous felonies upon me.

I raced toward an open gravesite, hoping that someone might be there to help me. Typically, as my luck would have it, the workers had gone home for the day, leaving behind a makeshift fence, a crude rope spread between four posts, evidently meant to sequester the site from the curious. Quickly, I stopped and pulled the rope from its stanchions, coiling it as best I could, although I could have done much better had I a bit more time and a bit less buzz. It would have to do, and since I saw no judges, I renewed my now-somewhat-less-than-gazelle-like gait as best I could, trying to decide exactly what the hell I could do with this damn rope. I couldn’t shoot it, it wasn’t worth a damn as a cudgel, and I wasn’t at all sure that you could hang a Possibly Murderous Suggestively-Lewd Apparently Homosexual Left-Handed Concrete Jesus With a Dick the Size of a Louisville Slugger.

But, it was all I had, and I had to formulate a plan, so I adjusted my beer goggles and settled into full cogitation. Almost instantaneously, I decided to climb a tree and find a limb that would support me, somewhere out of his reach, hoping that he couldn’t jump or climb, although certainly in my world almost anything was possible. I slung the rope over my shoulder, allowing myself a moment to wonder if I looked anything at all like one of those Con-Ed pole climbers with the spikes on his boots, and began my ascent of a huge old oak tree that decorated the property’s outer fence. The going was tough at first, my tree-climbing skills severely tested by the rough exterior bark that both aided and impeded my progress. Once I reached the first branch, I used them as steps to gain enough height to discourage the most outrageous of Saviors. Reaching a large horizontal limb, I sat down and began to tie the rope to the branch, making sure to secure it with my best approximation of the double half-hitch knot I learned while a Boy Scout, another societal attempt to make me neurotic before I celebrated my thirteenth birthday. The rabbit comes out of his hole and goes around the tree and over the hill, then crosses the stream and goes around the tree again before he goes back in his hole. Honestly, that may be totally wrong, I tended to let my mind wander a good bit during those days and I never claimed total recall. Suffice to say, the knot appeared to hold, so I wrapped the rope around my chest and made a noose. If any manifestations of non-secular abomination tried to pull me out of the tree, perhaps the rope would prevent it.

Unfortunately for me, he found me. Now, he reached upward, his prodigious hard-on now growing at an exponential rate as it progressed through the branches in search of its quarry, the penultimate nexus of my virginity, my poopchute. I realized that if he ‘sniffed’ me out, I was a goner, so I tried to hide behind the trunk. I elected not to move a muscle as the now-giant dildo reached my branch and craned its ‘neck’, one large eye looking directly at me.

Now with no further options available to me, I steeled myself (so to speak) and tightened the noose, only this time I moved it up to my neck. If he wanted me, I couldn’t stop him, but he wouldn’t get me while my heart still beat in my chest. The fall would snap my neck and I wouldn’t suffer. A serene ambience fell over me as I looked down at my size 12, slightly dirty Reeboks for the last time and for the first time bemoaned the fact that my feet are size 10. As I tried to step off the branch, the extra toe length built into my sneakers caused me to hurdle ass over applecart, hitting every branch before striking my head on the trunk of the tree and knocking me cold as a beached mackerel.

Worse, when I woke up, the cops were pulling me down from the outstretched arms of a certain 10-foot tall 1900-pound concrete statue of Jesus Christ of Nazareth. Well…

I used my jail time well, I think. It provided me the opportunity to assess that afternoon in greater depth and search for a conclusion that would explain the events that either did or did not transpire, depending upon your point of view. However, two facts were now inextricably cemented upon my psyche; I had one very sore bunghole and more importantly, a new appreciation for the concept of irony.

T.C.’s Place

A normal viaduct in most respects, this concrete structure nonetheless harbors secrets; gives sanctuary to demons and angels alike. Since it resides on the outskirts of our town (a fact represented by the dearth of graffiti adorning its facades), it presents opportunity for motorists or other travelers needing respite from a storm. One evening in late May, I found out that storms rage out of control in places where few choose to look, even on the brightest lit days.

T.C.’s viaduct, as I now choose to call it, is technically designated as 11M265, Milepost 126. It almost sounds like the service number of some dog-faced washout from the war in Viet Nam. Perhaps the engineers who named it had a gift for irony or possessed a little precognitive power. More likely, the reference is mine and mine alone. I tend to think in terms of long past events that mean little to others.

It is not totally kismet that I stop here. Little Skunk Creek runs directly underneath the viaduct, and the sloping dirt road leading to its banks are usually passable under most conditions. The willow bushes have grown taller than a man and offer camouflage from all but the most stalwart intruder, a handy place to relieve myself when the distance between The Pump House and my house exceeds my bladder’s ability to store waste products. There is something sinfully delightful about pissing in a stream that I know runs directly into the city water plant. Most likely, I’m quite properly classified as a small-time urban terrorist. No matter, they could never prove it. My DNA will combine with that of every deer, raccoon, frog, water moccasin and sasquatch that ever anointed the stream. I doubt the CIA’s abilities in this respect, although I’ll get the bill for cleanup nonetheless.

I saw the little man quite by accident. He had chosen MY spot to answer the call of nature. There is something fascinating about the psychology of two men standing at adjoining urinals. It is nearly impossible for either to avoid making eye contact with the other. Such was the case, today.

“Mind if I join you, my back teeth are floatin’!” I’m nothing if not polite.

He looked up at me, then back down. “Free country… or haven’t you heard?”

It was obvious to the most casual observer that he held no regard for me whatsoever, so no more conversation ensued. Since he was there first, he completed his task and sat down against the abutment, staring at me through eyes of sad experience. His weathered green field jacket carried the grime of the road and he didn’t sweat, although it was almost ninety degrees. Instantly, I was fascinated by him and wanted to know more.

“Excuse me for intruding, but it’s hot, and I have a couple of beers in the truck, would you care for one?”

“Mister, I’ll drink every beer you got, but you make any move which suggests to me that you’re a homo, and I’ll field-strip you before you can holler, we understand each other?”

I held my hands up in front of me, palm outward, and walked back to the truck for the twelve-pack of Budweiser I had purchased for the weekend. We sat in the shade for hours; he shared stories of the road and I mostly nodded my head and listened politely. He was very likeable, and I couldn’t help but wonder what made him so different. Given his attire, my thoughts inevitably turned to the Viet Nam War. Instinctively I suspected he was a veteran, as am I, so I decided to find out.

“HMM-163, 1st MAR DIV, I-Corps, Khe Sahn, 1968.” The look he gave me, I’ll take to my grave. Then, he tossed his empty bottle onto the sand, reaching for another.

“Yea… somethin’ like that…” was all he said.

“Sorry… I didn’t mean to pry. I have a brother who is MIA”.

He stood, picked up his backpack, and raised his bottle to me. After giving me a grin that I recognized from my boyhood, he replied, “No you don’t.” Then, he slogged across the stream and disappeared into the woods on the other side.

Memorial Day will not ever be the same again…not for me. All the tributes and cemetery visits in the world couldn't replace the feelings generated inside me that day. I’ve not laid eyes on Thomas Edward Church since, but it’s not important. My brother's doing whatever it is that he's meant to do, and now I know that all those times when I feel his presence, I'm not crazy.

November Creosote

Goddamn fog. Wally sat placidly at a table, surveying what little he could see out the plate glass window, his mood dour as the weather, the air inside the restaurant heavy as the pea soup outside. Arms folded at his chest, legs crossed, he calmly brought the Marlboro to his lips. Sweet, heavy, nicotine-laden smoke entered his lungs as he watched the crimson tip flare and rush toward his fingers. Wally held his breath to allow the poison quicker entry into his bloodstream and exhaled slowly as he crushed the now-tiny remains of his cigarette into the ashtray. He’d quit someday. Goddamn fog.

It was not unusual for Wally to feel pissy. In fact, lately his moods were becoming more and more somber and he couldn't pinpoint the reasons why. No catastrophic events had occurred, but an all-encompassing sense of ennui had overtaken him, and apparently nothing could be done.

Wally drained his fourth (fifth?) cup of bad Denny's coffee and realized he had absolutely no idea what he wanted or expected from life, not a single clue. He knew only what he didn't want. Neither did he particularly care what happened to the world. No identifiable desire to wish anyone harm sullied his heart, but the void was filled with an ambivalence born of non-achievement, or so he supposed. The clock ticked inside his head, reminding him that he was no longer the energetic youth who could change destiny merely by wishing it so, then making it happen. That unidentifiable spark was gone, and it was beginning to look like the departure might be permanent.

Where had it gone, this nebulous flicker? It was assuredly there when he chased derricks for Halliburton. The oilpatch was full of Wallys, indefinable young men seduced by the lure of adventure and big paychecks, men who possessed brawn and brains enough to walk the razor's edge between safety and fool-hardiness. Most of the rig hands in the Overthrust Belt were willing to fuck, fight, or go for their gun, and only afterward worry about the consequences. A toolpusher on a Cardinal rig sitting somewhere between Baroil and Rock Springs once told him there was virtually no difference between life and death, except life was more expensive. Wally would never forget this was the same man shot to death in the card room of the Glory Hole Bar in Casper, when he had accused the wrong man of taking some of his chips... so much for high finance.

Was it all just one big orgasmic thrust that had passed, just as he was learning how to really negotiate it? Isn't that the way of things, though? Wally wondered how other folks just stayed at a job for thirty or forty years. Had it been just a quick roll in the hay for them, too?

The answer would have to wait. Wally glanced up at the Seth Thomas on the wall and realized that time had gotten away from him. Quickly, he gathered his newspaper, piled four quarters neatly on top of the check, and walked out of the coffee shop. It was a four-minute walk to the mission, and if he didn't hurry, he'd miss the opening scene of Columbo.

Bob Church ©

Things of Consequence Large and Small

Thirty winters of neglect left him as rusty as the abandoned metal automobile shells currently occupying the outer reaches of the large hillock behind his shack. A quick glance out the kitchen window revealed the cancerous advances of corrosion upon their surfaces. Although the thick translucent plastic he’d duct-taped to the window’s exterior to serve as insulation against the cold tended to obscure his view, Thurmond Ledbetter learned to accept the distortions as the necessary result of economy and failing eyesight. Besides, the cars served as rabbit burrows and impediments to hillside erosion, so he figured they served a purpose, even if the county regarded them as an eyesore. He made mental note to remove them just as soon as he received notification that the county was now paying his property taxes… and he smiled broadly, his teeth resembling an octave of piano keys, with a-sharp and b-flat right in the middle.

His new string had arrived yesterday along with John Barnes and his mail sack. John hadn’t cared to step inside, he was a little strapped for time given the fact that his car would never have made the trip up Thurmond’s hill and he was forced to walk. Still, Thurman figured, it would have been neighborly of him to set a spell, but it would have been rude to insist, so he accepted the small parcel with a nod and a smile and shut the front door, although he did watch the diminutive postman walk back down the hill, stepping around and over the mud puddles that formed in the road ruts due to last night’s deluge. This particular part of Kentucky got lots of rain and with the county’s current attitude toward neglect of the less-used gravel roads, it was a small miracle that the route still existed at all, not that Thurmond gave a shit either way; past cousin Purdy’s semi-annual pilgrimage from Elizabethtown and Nellie Freeman’s occasional bouts with Satan and his demon rum, he got very few visitors. And he considered that to be okay, too, even if his songs did have to wait awhile before reaching the ears of anyone except Spottie’s.

Now that he had the sixth string back on his guitar, maybe he’d be able to spot the key change that was screwing up the refrain in his new song and properly figure out if he needed to capo that D-flat diminished to make the lament resound in proper fashion without giving the impression that someone had just castrated Spottie without the benefit of anesthesia. Quietly, he flipped open the aged case that held his glasses and with all the precision his long fingers could muster grasped the thin wire frames and lovingly placed them behind his ears, flicking the tops of his earlobes down to allow their passage. Once in place, he tapped the nosepiece to ensure that they didn’t slip off his face and picked up the copy of his song that he’d labored to write down. Thurmond didn’t really read music, although he understood what to play if he saw the chords written down, so he’d taken the time to write ‘a-flat’ and ‘C-minor-diminished’ and whatever notes were called for atop the words. Most musicians would have laughed at him if they’d ever seen his ‘music’, but Thurmond filed their derision in the long mental list he’d already compiled for anyone who didn’t like what he did, his list of people who could go straight to hell, never once stopping to pass ‘Go’.

With patience derived from years spent in practice of lethargy, Thurmond worked the new string into its assigned position alongside the others, carefully and meticulously tightening the tuners on his guitar’s neck with a strum on the appropriate string. After satisfying himself that his instrument was properly tuned, he stopped to once again familiarize himself with the song:

Loser’s Blues

Ain’t nothin’ in the world for me,

I don’t fit in, as you can see,

I couldn’t even steal

some piece of mind…

I’ve got glass cuts ‘round my mouth

from something layin’ ‘round my house,

I’m a lightheaded loser

burned out from all that booze.

(refrain)

So please don’t bury me

down in that cold, dark ground

while hairy spiders check me out,

they’re crawlin’ all around…

I don’t care what they said,

I just may not be dead,

appearances can be deceivin’,

liquored up from Shayna’s news.

Ol’ Black Jack’s my only friend,

the only one I don’t offend,

he don’t talk back or

leave me for another’s arms.

He won’t walk out on me,

and as you can plainly see,

ain’t much left to imagination

or, for that matter— charm.

So please don’t bury me

down in that cold, dark ground

while hairy spiders check me out,

they’re crawlin’ all around…

I don’t care what they said,

I just may not be dead,

appearances can be deceivin’,

liquored up from Shayna’s news.

Now there ain’t a day goes by,

I don’t get by just gettin’ high,

Eatin’ tater chips and

Sleepin’ in my clothes.

While it certainly may be true

I’d take a bullet just for you,

It also could be argued

You also took a few for me.

So please don’t throw my clothes

out on that cold, wet ground,

you know I love you just as much

as we pass the bottle 'round…

I don’t care what they said

Shayna’s love just isn't dead,

Appearances can be deceivin’,

When you sing the Loser’s Blues.

There’d be no supper tonight. Song followed song like summer follows spring as Thurmond Ledbetter did the only thing he really enjoyed doing, oblivious to time and space, ignorant of all things outside his shack and blessedly so. Spottie didn’t care one way or the other.

Bob Church©4/27/07

It'll Never Stop...

Have you noticed that you’re starting to get telemarketing calls on your cell phone now? I am now convinced that telemarketers are no longer paid by the number of sales they achieve from their efforts, but by the amount of time they can keep a prospective customer on the line. In fact, I don’t think they’re really representing specific companies at all, I think they’re all shills for the phone company—the longer they can keep you on the line, the more the phone company charges you.

I got a call last night that went something like this:

“Hello?”

“Hey, how are you tonight? This is Larry, down at Merle’s Hardware, and I see that you recently bought some merchandise from us. I’m calling to follow up and make sure that you’re satisfied with your purchases. Would you mind answering a few questions for me, it’ll help us determine customer satisfaction levels and ultimately keep our prices low. Plus, as your reward for helping us out, we’ll be sending you a nice gift.”

“I’ve never stepped foot in a Merle’s Hardware store.”

“I see here that you used your MasterCard for your purchase. Could you please confirm your number and expiration date for me so I can make sure that it’s really you? I wouldn’t want to inconvenience the wrong Bob Church.”

“I don’t have a MasterCard, and even if I did I’d sooner allow you to strap me down and pull all my teeth out with a pair of Channel Lock pliers without the benefit of anesthetic before I gave you the number.”

“Wait… oh, I’m sorry, I was looking at the wrong line on my monitor, I’ll need your Visa card number.”

(After a short pause to recompose myself) “I’m not giving you my Visa card number.”

“It wouldn’t have been an American Express card, would it?”

“Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear… there isn’t a Merle’s Hardware store within a hundred miles of my house, and I certainly wouldn’t drive that far to buy hardware.”

“Well, Mr. Church—do you mind if I call you ‘Mr. Church’, I assure you I respect you and your time— let me ask you this, if there were a Merle’s Hardware store close to you, what credit card would you be using for your purchases and what is its number, including the four number identifier code on the back?”

“Please don’t force me to be rude, I don’t want to descend to your level, but I’m not giving you any credit card numbers.”

“Uh-huh… I understand totally, many people feel that way until they know that tonight only, I am authorized to offer you $5,000 worth of building materials for only $500 if you’re willing to put it on a nationally accepted credit card such as MasterCard, Visa, American Express, Discover or major department store. That’s a tremendous bargain, Bob, one that you’d kick yourself for tomorrow if you fail to act tonight.”

“I’m going to dress up like a drunken doctor in a Superman costume with a burrito stuffed into the crotch of his tights and give you a proctology exam.”

“Let’s assume for a minute that there was a Merle’s Hardware store close by, what card would you be using?”

“I fully intend to hunt you down and kill you.”

“From our conversation, I’m guessing MasterCard, am I correct?”

“I’m going to rape you, your wife, your kids and set your house on fire.”

“Say, that’s swell, Mr. Church, I understand, but you can’t claim the fabulous prize I’m about to offer you without a credit ca—”

CLICK

Canis Juris

The large dog sat quietly, watching. His posture mirrored the state of semi-awareness he showed the world, his weight primarily resting on his butt, with long front legs extended so that he could move quickly if necessary. Were he able to don a black robe, he might be mistaken for a judge overseeing a trial. Of course, he’d have needed considerable attention to his unkempt appearance, but his eyes reflected his equanimity and demeanor of fairness. After all, he had no interest in the proceedings past the overall concerns common to his species, those special loyalty traits bred into him that made him man’s best friend in the first place.

His head tilted slightly when one man struck the other with the stick, in recognition of the thud and muted groan, but the arena lacked any immediacy of threat and his human was not present, so it clearly was none of his business. A quick scan of the area revealed no other dogs coming to the human’s rescue, so, in keeping with his judicial bearing he minded his own business and merely watched as the victim lay bleeding in the street. Besides, the other human already left the scene.

Now, no stimuli other than the far-off city sounds transpired within his sight. His human had commanded him to sit and stay, so that’s exactly what he’d do. Hopefully, he’d be back soon and they could go find his bowl. Watching didn’t create the appetite of more physical activity, but it was long past sundown and he was, nevertheless, a little hungry. Still, it was easier to merely wait. If his human didn’t show up by morning, he’d go find some food, but for now, he was content to lick his balls and wait for something else to happen. Court stood in recess.

Psychic Brown-Out

I had a very strange dream last night. I dreamed that I was married and living on a farm and my wife and I were so happy that we could barely keep from smiling even in the face of tragedy. And it was a good thing, too, because during our evening walk, my wife was attacked and mauled by a savage pack of wolves. (Yes, I realize that it's a little far-fetched, but it was a dream... work with me here, will you?) As I held her close to me and her life poured out onto the earth, I’ll never forget her last words, “Darling, I shall wait for you in Heaven”.

Well… time passes slowly when you’ve experienced such a loss, but a few months later I met a wonderful young girl about half my age and we were married. The years flew like days and one day I made the unwise choice of trying to harvest my wheat crop while gorked on tequila. I slipped off the back of my combine and got caught in the thresher… it wasn’t pretty, but as my life ebbed, I looked up into the eyes of my faithful wife and told her, “Honey, I’ll be waiting for you in Heaven”.

As it turned out, I wouldn’t have too long to wait. Actually, it was something less than a minute since this was a dream and occurring very rapidly inside my head, but that’s beside the point and adds nothing to the story. Be that as it may, she, too, succumbed to a terrible accident. As she mucked the stalls, she was butted by a cow and fell face first into a large pile of manure, the stench of which invaded her nostrils and suffocated her.

There we were in Heaven, both my wives and I. Needless to say, I had some explaining to do, but eventually my first wife forgave me and accepted my second wife, but it wasn’t the sort of relationship I’d hoped for. After a period of time (it’s pretty tough to measure time in heaven, every day is pretty much like the last) I worked up the courage to ask them for a threesome.

Well… suffice to say that apparently God is less than accepting of shenanigans up in Heaven, because I’d no more than voiced my request than I found myself instantaneously transported into an ugly, muggy, humid, hot landscape filled with grotesque people getting stuck by hot pokers and taunted by hideous, impish beasts. I think I was in Hell, although I admit that I could have been inside a nightclub in downtown Miami.

I guess the moral of the story might be ‘Watch what you wish for’— either that or, 'Watch what you eat right before you go to bed... you might want to avoid the three-alarm-chili'. Morals are hard to interpret at four A.M... when you're hung over.

My friends now figure that my life is so utterly meaningless that I would care that rubber bands last longer if only I’ll keep them in the refrigerator (presumably right next to the half-eaten container of blueberry yogurt I can’t manage to force down), Winston Churchill was born in a ladies’ room during a dance, and Leonardo DaVinci invented the scissors.

Actually, I’m not sure what this says about them (or me), but the very fact that I’m reporting it is troubling. We live in a world where pissed-off ‘martyrs’ blow up innocent shoppers and whacked-out foreign exchange students emulating sad, miscreant killers take their blood lust to our campuses, yet I feel compelled to inform you that in the last 4,000 years, not a single new animal has been domesticated.

Now, while I occasionally pick up a scissors and I vaguely recall reading about a rather droll confrontation Winston Churchill once had with Lady Astor, but beyond these two instances, I rarely give either a solitary thought. But just now, I Googled both key words just to see what would show up. I can only assume that the activity temporarily forestalls thinking about the events unfolding in Baghdad and Blacksburg, and the dull, nagging, seemingly never-ending pain associated with both.

I don't know if any answers to the problems exist, but if they do, apparently no one has the balls or the influence necessary to implement them.

So, I’ll tell you that scissors are often confused with shears and that Winston Churchill once, when reminded by Lady Astor that he was drunk, purportedly quipped “I may be drunk, Madam, but in the morning I will be sober and you will still be ugly.”

If you’re looking for answers or rationale for the world, I fear you’ve come to the wrong place. I haven't made any decisions, as yet, about the rubber bands.