My name is Speedy Shine, but that’s just what The Smelly Old Man calls me. The Big Man with the Biggerer Houseses used to call me Speedy, and The Woman With The White Hair calleded me Hubert.
White Hair Woman didn’t like me very much because I made too many poopsers, and I would always try to get the foodsers from her plate and then she would hit my nose, and it hurteded. She took me to the place with the other dogsers and I lived behind the glass thing and sometimes I went out with the other dogsers and we would bark at each other. I was never scared of them, though. They were bigger than I am, but they didn’t know about my Secret Identity. I can’t tell you about it because of Practical Cats.
Then The Man With The Biggerer Houseses took me to his great big huge place and there was lots and lots of room for me to have my Zoomies. I likeded that part.
But he getteded mad at me about chewing on the soft things and pulling all the floofsers out and putting them on the floor where everyone knows they really belong. He used to yell at me, and he spankeded me and that hurt, so I trieded to bite him and he took me back to the place where the glass house and the other dogsers were. I madeded friends with one of them, but then he wasn’t there anymore. I seeded a hooman take him to the room where the dogsers don’t come back. I guess nobody wanteded him. I’m sorry for him. That’s a sad part.
I was a little bit afraid they were going to take me to that room because lots of hoomans came to see me, but then they didn’t want to take me home when they heareded that I like to chew on things.
Then The Smelly Old Man and The Pretty Girl came to see me. I likeded The Pretty Girl because I could smell the other dogsers on her. The Smelly Old Man was just smelly, so I thought I would be better off with her. But after we getteded in the car and left, she leavededed me with The Smelly Old Man and I misseded her right away. She’s only come to see me one time, and that makes me sad.
The Smelly Old Man nameded me Speedy Shine because there was this other girl on the glass thing who sang about “Shine,” and he knew that should be my name because, he said, I make him Shine.
He’s figuring out my Secret Identity, I think, because I keep waking him up when he is about to die. He knows about Love. He knows it’s the most powerful force in the universeses. I wonder if he will ever understand that I am secretly all the love in the universe in a furry fourteen-pound package. That’s just me.
Martin Zephyr was irritated when he opened his eyes to find his son, Jack’s, tattered teddy bear on his chest. He frowned and sat up to look at the clock. 2:43 AM. He could see snow falling in the moonlight outside his window. He looked back at the teddy bear. He snapped on the lamp on the bedside table. Where was Jack? He looked to his right and saw his wife, Marion, sleeping soundly. He lifted the covers. Jack really had to stop crawling in bed with them. He was 8 years old, for Chrissake. He’s way too old for… Jack wasn’t under the covers.
Martin shook Marion gently. She grumbled something incoherent, and rocked his hand off her.
“Marion, did Jack come get in bed with us again?”
“I’m sleeping!”
“So was I until Teddy wound up on my chest.”
“What? That’s nonsense. Go back to sleep.”
Martin smacked her head with the teddy bear, and she rolled over.
“Ow! What the hell, Martin?”
“Oh, cut it out. That didn’t hurt. It’s a goddamn stuffed animal.”
“It’s awfully hard. Cuddly it’s not.” She took the teddy bear. “Where did this come from?”
“He woke me up. He was bouncing on and off my chest.”
“That’s crazy. You were dreaming.”
“Okay. I was dreaming. Whatever. I don’t care. How did Teddy get in here if Jack didn’t bring him?”
“I don’t know. Jack must have come in and dropped him on your chest. Maybe he knows you hate when he gets in bed with us. He woke up after a nightmare or something, and he wants you to…”
“What? Go check on… What is that sound?”
They both heard it now.
“That’s Jack’s CGM!” Marion sprang out of bed, grabbed her robe off the back of the door, and started down the hall. Martin was right behind her, wearing only his underwear and T-shirt. They burst into Jack’s room to hear his Continuous Glucose Monitor squealing. Martin flipped the light on, and Marion ran to her son. Martin picked up the CGM from the floor next to the bed, and set it, still beeping, on the bedside table. He knocked over a plastic cup, spilling dirt all over the floor, a tiny bean sprout still buried within it.
Marion began shaking the little boy – hard — but he wouldn’t wake up. “Get the Glucagon pen!” Her voice was quivering.
Martin ran down the hall to the bathroom.
“Jack, it’s Mama. Wake up, honey. Wake up now!!” She pulled his eyelids open, and she saw fear sparkling blue.
“Here!” Martin shouted at her, running back into the room. He bumped the little desk, and the computer screen lit up. “Password, please,” it asked mechanically.
Marion pulled up Jack’s shirt and injected him with the Glucagon. She waited a moment. Nothing happened. “Call 911! Get the paramedics.”
The sound of numbers dialing came from the speaker above her. “911. What is your emergency?”
“My son is in a diabetic coma,” said Martin as calmly as he could manage. He kneeled on the bed. “Come on, buddy, wake up!”
“Paramedics are on the way, sir. You can’t wake him?”
“If we could wake him, we wouldn’t have called you!” shouted Marion.
“Do you have Glucagon?”
“My wife just injected him, but he’s still unconscious.”
“Do you know CPR?”
“Yes,” said Marion. She was already giving Jack chest compressions. She felt the bed getting wet beneath her. She looked down and saw urine flooding it. “He just peed himself!”
“How old is your son, sir?”
“He’s 8. How long until the paramedics arrive?”
“They’re enroute sir. Two minutes.”
They heard sirens in the distance. The room went dark, and there was a quiet rustling of the covers.
“What the fuck?” shouted Martin. “Bedroom lights on!”
The speaker in the ceiling came back with a computer-generated voice. “For which bedroom do you want to turn on the lights?”
“Jack’s!”
“There are several lights Jack’s room refers to. Do you want them all on?”
“Yes!”
The lights came back on, and Jack opened his eyes.
“Good morning, Mother.”
Marion grabbed Jack and hugged him tightly. “Are you all right honey?”
“Uh huh. I was dreaming about Christmas. Oh my…” He sat up, his mother still clinging to him. “I seem to have had an accident, Mother. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay, baby.” She rubbed his back and rocked gently back and forth with him in her arms.
“We won’t tell Santa, pal.”
Jack rolled his eyes. “Santa is a logical impossibility, Father. To do what he is reputed to do would require his reindeer to move at just less than 3 million miles an hour. At that speed, he and his reindeer would certainly be vaporized.”
The paramedics pounded on the door downstairs.
“Go let them in, Martin.”
Martin nodded, kissed his son’s forehead, and left the room.
“Father is quite slow, isn’t he?”
Marion let go of Jack and looked into his eyes. “He’ll be right back. Don’t worry.”
“No, Mother. I meant he’s not very bright. He honestly thinks I still believe in Santa Claus?”
“What were you dreaming about Christmas, then, if not Santa Claus?”
“I dreamt of children all over the world opening their presents and getting a living teddy bear.”
“You don’t think that’s as silly as Santa?”
“No, Mother.” He picked up Teddy, who was lying next to him on the pillow. “I already invented one.”
She stared at the bear. “How did he…”
Martin came back into the room with the paramedics.
“How you doing, buddy?” asked the young man in a black t-shirt.
“I wet the bed. I don’t think that requires paramedics, though.”
The other paramedic, a woman in her 30s, bent over and took the CGM from the nightstand. She silenced the alarm. The room became oddly quiet.
“Okay,” she said. “We’re just going to check you out to make sure you’re okay, all right?”
Jack extended his arm. She put a blood pressure cuff on it.
“What’s his name, sir?”
“Jack.”
“Jack,” asked the man, “can I take a little of your blood? You’ve done the finger pricking a lot, haven’t you?”
“More often than I wish.” He extended his left forefinger.
“Can you tell me what day it is, Jack?” The man pricked Jack’s finger with the lancet.
“It was Thursday when I went to bed. I don’t know what time it is, but if it’s after midnight, it’s Friday.”
“You said he’s 8?” The woman looked at Martin.
“Yeah. He’s a little… you know.”
“He’s a prodigy, Martin. Just live with it.” Marion glared at her husband.
“Can you look at me, Jack?” asked the man.
“I’d rather not.”
“Why’s that?”
“He doesn’t know you,” said Marion. “He’s not going to look you in the eye. He can’t deal with that.”
“He’s autistic?” asked the man.
“There’s nothing wrong with my son.” Martin was getting defensive.
“He’s diabetic, you said?” asked the woman.
“Except for diabetes, there’s nothing wrong with my son. He’s not a prodigy. He’s not autistic. He just likes his computer, and he reads really well.”
“My name is Howard. This is my friend, Connie. We’re glad to meet you, Jack.” Howard turned to Connie. “Blood sugar is 72.”
“Blood pressure is 124/82.” Connie looked at the CGM. She pressed a few buttons, and then showed it to Howard. “His blood sugar was 38 fifteen minutes ago.”
“That’s the most recent reading?” he asked her.
“Yeah. It must have dropped pretty quickly. It’s set to go off at 60.”
“Jack, could I see your eyes just for a minute now that we know each other?” Jack looked reluctantly in his direction, and Howard shined a light in them. He watched Jack’s eyes get smaller. “Pupils are responsive,” he told Connie.
“How are you feeling, Jack?” Marion pushed his dark hair back from his face.
“Embarrassed.” He said nothing more.
“Can we talk to you two in the other room, please?” Connie asked quietly.
Martin nodded to Connie, and he and Marion followed the paramedics out of the room. The door closed quietly.
“All lights out in Jack’s room, please.” The room went dark. He cuddled his teddy bear. “I love you, Teddy,” he whispered.
The snow fell silently as Jack closed his eyes. The moonlight crept through the window and shone on Teddy and Jack. A toddler-like, but mechanical, voice, noticeably like Jack’s, seeped from the covers. “I love you, too, Jack.”
It is probably unwise to do this episode because it’s likely to cost me some of the Patreon support that has helped me to get to the life I have always wanted. Sometimes when someone thinks I’m doing all right, they stop supporting me because they feel like I don’t need it anymore. To be clear, I’m nothing approaching wealthy. I’m never going to be. I do, however, if I am very careful, have enough to live every month. This is, in large part, because of the help my Patreon supporters, and several other good friends of mine, have given me. I have, for example, one friend who is the mother of one of my classmates from my days in high school who sends me lovely cards with $40 in them from time to time. She thinks of it as nothing, but it makes it possible for me to get through just a little longer, and I couldn’t be more grateful.
My Valentine
Another friend got his taxes back, and, for absolutely no reason, sent me $75. Those unexpected gifts help me to get the little extras. I just got another blanket that has no stuffing because of my friend’s tax return gift. Speedy Shine can’t ruin it. My room isn’t covered in feathers anymore. My life is better, and I get to enjoy luxuries I wouldn’t otherwise even consider.
Without my Patreon support, I would never make ends meet every month. Without having the good fortune of renting a place for half price, I would never make ends meet every month. If I still had a car, I would never make ends meet every month. I’ve learned to adjust my life to my meager means. I can’t afford to buy every book I want (but one of The People on The Porch – Frau Bleucher — just bought me Valerie Bertinelli’s latest book, for which I could not be more grateful), and I still can’t afford my bookcases or to get my plumbing fixed, but I don’t spend every day worrying about getting evicted, or losing my electricity, or paying for my internet, because all of those things are covered in my wildly reduced rent.
(Update: My best friend has become a Notorious Furniture Flipper. She buys furniture cheaply at something called Offer Up with the intention of selling it at a profit. She’s gotten the furniture several times now, but she’s never sold any. Either she or her boyfriend decide they love it and want to keep it. Using these newfound skills, she is shopping for 4 big bookcases for me for a total of $50 or less. I’m hopeful she will be successful. It would be a huge step toward making my life complete.)
This didn’t come easily. I’m the recipient of more kindness and generosity than I could possibly deserve. I never forget that for even a moment. But, I also worked hard to get where I am. I worked at grocery stores when I was a kid. I worked at Day Care Centers when I was a little older. I went to NAU for a little more than 4 years (we don’t talk about my first semester, thank you), I became a teacher, and I did that for 29 years. I taught Defensive Driving on weekends during the final five years of my Elementary School teaching career because my salary wasn’t keeping up with inflation. Rent kept going up, but my checks didn’t. When I quit teaching, I took most of a year off, and I lived the life I had always wanted. I had to go back to work, and I sold Direct TV for quite a while and taught all the Defensive Driving classes I could get. I drove for Postmates. And when my Diabetes finally destroyed what was left of my health, I spent nearly 3 years trying to get my Disability.
Disability pays my half price rent and my phone bill. Everything else is funded by Patreon. The license I just got for the software I use to do this show was paid for by The People on The Porch. When I have to renew the license for the music I use, that will also come from the money I get from Patreon. It took me more than 2 years, doing at least one episode a week, to get to this point. I’m proud of my success.
I no longer live The Life of The Desperate. I did. I lived it for a long time, and, I have to tell you, it sucks. If it weren’t for you (and, let’s face it, if you’re listening to this show, you’re almost certainly one of The People on The Porch. I don’t think very many others listen.) I could never have made it this far. You made my better life possible. And I couldn’t be more grateful. Please please please don’t stop. I am beating my depression for the first time in years, and it’s because my circumstances are no longer anxiety producing. You did that for me.
When you think (as I often do) that doing the little things doesn’t matter, I want you to know what you are really doing. You are helping me to have this life, and without you, it would be impossible. Every single dollar goes into creating the life I think everyone ought to be able to have. This show is mostly about trying to create a world where everyone has the kind of life you have granted me.
What is that life like?
Waking Up
This morning, without an alarm, I woke up a little after 6 AM. The first thing I felt was my dog, Speedy Shine, cuddling next to my leg. I smiled. I took my first conscious breath. I took a moment to appreciate the beauty of that experience. We shared loves and cuddles until he woke up, did his morning shake, and then gave me kisses. I felt good before I was even out of bed. We laid there a little longer. He needed a few more minutes of cuddling before we both went to take care of our morning business. While I did mine, he came in and put his paws on my lap to remind me he loves me. After he did his, he came over to my backyard chair to tell me he was a Good Boy. We went in for Treatsers, but he didn’t really care about them. He just wanted to show me how good he was.
I went back out for a morning cigarette and to see what happened in the world while I was asleep. People had responded to my pictures of Speedy Shine and the new covers that wouldn’t spread feathers all over my room. They had nice things to say. Speedy Shine laid on the blankets by the back door so he could watch me. It was too cold for him out there, but he wanted to be sure I was still around. I wish I could find the words to explain how good that makes me feel.
I texted my best friend to tell her I hope she slept well, that I hope things are going well with her boyfriend, that I hope work goes well, and that I continue to love her most. That always sets her up with a nice start to a day that is going to be much more difficult than mine. I know. I did what she’s doing today every day for 29 years. Teachers can use all the emotional resources they can get. I make sure that I tell her I love her whenever we’re done talking or texting for a bit. I recognize I could easily be dead before we communicate next. I want to be sure the last thing she hears from me is that I love her. I do the same thing with my Mother. I do the same thing with Speedy Shine. I do it sometimes with you.
I played a game of Clue on my phone. We used to play that when I was a kid, and my brother and sister frequently beat me at it. I hadn’t figured out the logical way to proceed yet. For those of you who have never played the game (infants!), it’s a murder mystery. Someone has been killed. There are 6 suspects, 6 possible murder weapons, and 9 rooms where the murder might have taken place. We all have six cards that are some combination of suspects, weapons, and/or rooms. Three are in in the envelope in the middle of the board. These are the solution. The objective is to figure out the murderer, the weapon, and the room. You do that by travelling from room to room and “suggesting” who might have done it, the weapon that was used, and the room in which the crime was committed. It’s really a children’s version of The Scientific Method. What do I mean?
It helps if you have at least one suspect, one weapon, and one room in your hand. When you arrive at a room you don’t have, you suggest a suspect and a weapon in your hand. (The rules require you to use the room you’re in as the scene of the crime.) You know those two elements. You’re testing for the third. If no one has it, you have found the room where the crime occurred. If they do, you can eliminate it from the 9 possibilities. If you arrive at a room you have in your hand, you choose either a suspect or a weapon you don’t have to test whether others do. They are required to show you a card if they have it. If they have two or three of the cards, they need to show you only one.
The Scientific Method teaches us to control all the variables except the one for which we are testing. We know this method works. Evidence for that can be found in the fact you’re listening to this podcast. The computer on which I’m typing, the one on which I’ll record later, and the computer, or phone or whatever other device you’re using to play this are all direct results of the application of The Scientific Method.
When I first started playing this game on my phone back during my California Adventure, I always chose the option to play against the AI. I was afraid of seeming stupid in front of other humans I would never actually see or hear. The game doesn’t even have a chat feature. It’s not like they can TELL me how stupid I am. I play as Front Porch Fred. They won’t even know my name. But they might think I’m stupid. Yes, these were things about which I worried. After I had won 100 games against the AI, I felt confident enough to try it in front of other humans. And I was shocked by the results.
I’ve explained how to play the game correctly. It’s not difficult. Few of my opponents ever play it according to The Scientific Method. They suggest three elements they don’t have in their hand. Sometimes I will have two of them, and the third player shows them a card. Now I know what the third player showed. There’s only one possibility. That’s free information. It’s like playing Texas Hold Em and intentionally exposing one of your hole cards. My assumption is that people hope to get lucky. “I’m going to take a wild guess and see if I get it right.” It’s frustrating for me when they do this on the first turn, and, before I’ve even gotten the chance to roll the dice, they’ve solved the crime. That happens a little more than 1% of the time. Statistically, it should occur much less often. I assume someone has taken the time to hack the game. I can’t imagine why they would do that. Everyone, however, should get to spend their time as they see fit, so long as they’re not hurting anyone else. The damage they do to me is negligible. I’m annoyed for, perhaps, 15 seconds. I think I’ll survive.
It takes me between 10 and 15 minutes to play a game of Clue. I win 89% of the time. Now and then, I encounter another player who also knows how to play correctly, and then it’s a true race to see who can find the right room first. We tend to find the killer and the weapon almost simultaneously.
When I want a shorter game, I play Othello. This is another game we played as kids. You flip tokens from black to white and back. You’re either black or white; your opponent is the opposite color. Whoever has the most tokens at the end of the game wins. It’s another great little logic puzzle that allows me to think without taxing my brain sufficiently to make me frustrated. I won’t play that online at all. Even at the Very Easy level, I still sometimes lose to the AI. A smart player can crush me, and I don’t enjoy that as much as one would think. Again, I feel embarrassed. I’m less interested in competition than I am in spending a few leisurely moments thinking a little.
Othello
Shorter still is Solitaire. If the game takes more than 3 minutes to win, I think of it as a failure. I’m sure you’ve played that before. It’s a card game we all learn as children. I used to cheat as a child, and the phone won’t let me do that. Sometimes the deck is unwinnable. I can always play another one.
I read when I want now. Normally, it’s during the daylight hours because I like to read outside with a cigarette. I used to read in bed, but now I like to listen to my show when I’m going to sleep. First, I can use the numbers. Second, I prefer talking to myself about whatever is on the show to letting my brain run wild all night to remind me of every mistake I’ve ever made and let me know what a horrible person I am. My podcast voice generally drowns out the voice of my Prosecutor. (You’ll find him in Episode 97: “The Prosecution Never Rests.”) Finally, my voice saying, “Fred’s Front Porch Podcast is made possible by…” has become a signal for Speedy Shine. Before I even turn the bedside light out, he’s diving under the covers to secure the best cuddle spot before I go to sleep. How lovely is that?
After my morning routines, I like to come and sit at my computer and write. I play my Spotify playlist (no, I don’t feel like arguing about Neil Young and Joe Rogan right now; I’m in a good mood.). I look over my shoulder from time to time to make sure Speedy Shine isn’t destroying anything that might hurt him. Other than that, I am essentially talking to myself through my fingers on the keyboard. I’m rethinking my ideas. I’m clarifying them. I’m understanding my life a little better. It’s a wonderful experience.
When I start to get hungry, I go make a microwave breakfast. I’m ecstatic that I finally got enough in Food Stamps that I can afford to eat now. I don’t ever worry about going hungry anymore. This is a fantastic luxury. I love that feeling.
Breakfast is always in bed. As far as that goes, so is lunch and dinner. I don’t have, nor do I really want, a kitchen table. I have my TV in my bedroom, and I like to watch some Dick Wolf show while I eat. I enjoy most of the Law & Order shows, the One Chicago shows, and I just started FBI. They aren’t more challenging than I can handle. They are new to me. The characters become my friends over time. No, it’s not Aaron Sorkin, but I can recite nearly every word of every episode of television he’s ever written. A person needs something else. Some of the new Star Trek shows are pretty good. I love Picard. Prodigy is surprisingly good. Obviously, I’ve already seen all of The Original Series and The Next Generation more times than I can count. So… Dick Wolf is part of the meal ritual.
Speedy Shine has learned “lay down.” When I finish more than 90% of my meal, he knows he will get a little if he is a good boy. He is always a good boy. I share the last of the meal with him, and, in a little while, we’re either going to pull up the covers and start up the podcast, or we’re going to get up and go read outside. I love a nice morning nap.
I get to choose now what to do with every minute of my life. I have a few alarms on my phone. I had to change the Mom call from 7:37 PM to 6:25 because she’s getting tired earlier. She’s 91. No one gets to complain about what time she goes to bed. I have an alarm set for 1:45 every Wednesday so I get to Weekly Wacky Wednesday by 2, my time. I have an alarm for 4 PM to remind me to take my Lantus. When I have a doctor’s appointment, I have an alarm for that. Everything else, though… those minutes are up to me. I get at least 1 nap a day. Sometimes, if I’m caught up on the show, I manage 2.
I have the time I need to write my show at a leisurely pace. I try to have the script finished by Friday so I can record, score, and Horace on Saturday. I bounce the episode, find about 60 seconds to use for “Next Week On Fred’s Front Porch Podcast,” and then I’m ready to go. Sunday, I assemble all the pieces for this week’s episode, knowing I already have next week’s episode done, and I can relax.
I spend far too much time worrying about whether anyone likes my show. I obsess about numbers, but I keep trying to stop that. I’m checking my numbers less frequently. At first, it was just ego. Now that I’m deriving a little income from this, I find I really don’t want to lose the life I’ve worked so long to get. You are the reason I can live my way. I want us all to work together so everyone can choose how to spend their minutes without worrying about whether they will be able to pay rent and eat. Everyone deserves what it took me nearly 60 years to get. Is it possible? Why, yes. Yes, it is. I know that because I’m doing it. I want you to have a life at least as good as mine. You deserve it every bit as much as I do. And I couldn’t be more grateful for the life you’ve given me. I love you very very much.
“What? Did you think this was YOUR chair or something?” — Sir Speedy Shine
Henderson, Nebraska Sunday, September 28, 1969 2:03 PM
And it’s run for the roses As fast as you can You fate is delivered Your moment’s at hand It’s the chance of a lifetime In a lifetime of chance And it’s high time you joined In the dance
Dan Fogelberg
Grandpa
sighed, set his newspaper down, and got up slowly. It cost him some
effort, and he grunted and pushed himself up using the arm of his
regal chair for support. “I’m getting up,” he moaned. Having
made it to his feet, he sighed deeply, looked at Horace, and gave him
a warning look. “I’ll be back presently. Do not leave this room.”
“What
will I do?”
“Reflect
in Solitude,” muttered Grandpa, as he shuffled off to the kitchen.
“Damp
it!” mumbled Horace, and then slapped his hand over his mouth. He
looked around guiltily to ensure no one had heard his horrible
language. Satisfied he was secure, he went to the couch where he
found his old black and white, one-eyed, tattered Teddy Bear laying.
He picked him up. “You know what, Teddy?”
“What?”
asked Teddy. His nonexistent lips didn’t move. Horace’s did.
“Grownups
are poops. They make you stay in the room. They never let you throw
your Batterang. And they never even let you watch…” Horace’s
eyes went to the TV. “Maybe there’s a baseball game,” he said
carrying Teddy to the television.
“Or
Batman,” squeaked Teddy.
“Nah,”
said Horace, turning on the TV, “he’s only on Wednesdays and
Thursdays.”
The
black and white TV glowed just a little, and in a moment, the sound
of Herb Alpert and The Tijuana Brass’s “Whipped Cream” came from
it. In another moment, the picture faded in. A voice off screen
said, “And now here’s the host of The Dating Game… Jim Lange!”
There was applause, and then a man walked on stage. “Thank you,
Johnny O,” said the man, “and welcome, ladies and gentlemen to
The Dating Game. Tonight, sit back and watch while we bring you what
we hope… will be the beginnings of a lifelong love affair.”
He winked at Horace and Teddy. “And let’s meet the contestants
now.”
It was
then that Grandpa returned carrying two plates with coffee cake.
“Terminate
that tripe instantly,” said Grandpa.
Horace
looked up. “Huh?”
***
Wells, Maine Friday, October 19, 1979 4:17 PM
“That Smut, Piss, and Corruption, or whatever they’re called,”
said Hal.
“You mean Earth, Wind, and Fire?” Horace asked, turning the music
down.
“Right… whatever you call it; it’s awful.” Hal Singleman, Horace’s father, was a tall man, but not terribly heavy. He was known for his nearly Vulcan calm and intellect. And he had no tolerance for things he thought were less than great Art.
“We’re playing it tonight at the football game. I really have to
know what I’m doing.”
“There’s nothing of value to do with that.”
“Well, the fans may disagree.”
“They’re there to watch over-sized boys knock each other over.
Whom do you feel the need to impress?”
Jimmy, Horace’s brown haired, bespectacled best friend laughed.
“Women,” he told Hal.
“Women who are impressed by trash are not worth impressing.”
“There’s a case to be made, Professor Singleman,” said Jimmy,
“that Earth, Wind, and Fire are not trash. They are, if nothing
else, three of the Four Elements.”
“Right. The Four Elements turned out also to be trash. Don’t they
teach about atoms in high school Science Classes anymore?”
“Yes,” Jimmy said as he pushed his glasses up his nose. “They
also teach the beginnings of Science. It was a reasonable guess in
the absence of any data.”
Hal was about to reply, when Horace said, “I just think September
is a cool song. It was Sheldon who talked Mr. Spicer into doing it.”
“Your brother is an expert in music, but his taste in it still
leaves much to be desired. And he’s your teacher, so be… you
know… respectful.”
“Student teacher,” Horace corrected him. “We’ll keep it down.”
“That’s an excellent idea.”
Hal left the room, closing the door behind him.
“I know it’s ridiculous,” Horace told Jimmy, “but I really do
wonder whether she’s happy. I mean, she looks that way from all I
can see, but how do you know what’s really inside of someone… you
know?”
“You don’t. You can only guess based on the outside. And she looks great from the outside.”
***
Henderson, Nebraska Sunday, September 28, 1969 2:07 PM
“Turn
that horrible stuff off, Horace. Your Grandfather is a Man of God.”
“Oh,
it’s not horrible Mrs. Fiddle Bottom. It’s Ed’s Vacational.”
Owen
handed Horace a plate, and asked, “What’s Ed’s Vacational?”
“You
know,” said Horace. Mrs. Fertlebom handed him the glass of milk.
“Like Sesame Street. Thank you, Mrs. Fiddle Bottom.”
“What’s
Sesame Street?” asked the rapidly aging, nearly round woman.
“It’s
a show with this big yellow bird, and a big hairy green monster who
lives in a garbage can, and there’s this frog-”
“Right,”
said Grandpa. “Garbage. Turn it off.”
“But
it’s good for me. Mom says it teaches stuff.”
“Your
mother never learned anything from this show,” said Owen as he
eased himself slowly into his chair. Again, there was a grunting
sound. “Thank you, Mrs. Fertlebom,” Grandpa said, hoping
Horace would catch on.
Horace
didn’t. “No, not this one. Sesame Street. Sesame Street is an
Ed’s Vacational show because it teaches stuff.”
“What
do you learn from frogs and birds?”
“I
hope it’s not birds and bees,” said Mrs. Fertlebom. When Owen
glared at her, she fell silent. She descended upon the couch.
“I can
sound out hard words. There’s this man in a cartoon who sounds out
words, and then something funny happens to him. One time he sat in
some wet paint.”
“I can
barely control my laughter at the man’s misfortune. And what do you
learn from monsters? Do they teach you how to terrorize civilian
populations for fun and profit?”
“No,”
said Horace, shaking his head. “We haven’t learned that yet. But,
Kermit the Frog and Grover, who is this funny blue monster, taught us
about Near and Far the other day. Can I show you?”
Grandpa
sipped his milk and then looked down at Horace. He and Horace were
both afflicted with milk mustaches. “Do I have a choice?”
Horace
put his weight on his hand, got up slowly, grunted, and moaned, “I’m
getting up.” He then leapt instantly to his feet. Grandpa rolled
his eyes. “Okay. Right now I’m near.” He suddenly ran out of
the room and down the hall. “Now I’m far!”
Grandpa
wondered where Horace was after a moment, and he leaned back in his
chair to look down the hall. “Horace!”
In another moment, he heard Horace’s voice, singing, “Na na na na na na na na na na na na na….” and when Horace reappeared he had a blue towel tied around his neck. “Batman!” He wore a mask and a San Francisco Giants cap. He plopped in front of the TV again. “Now I’m near again.”
“You’re
also weird again. Now turn that off.”
“But
it’s -”
“Ed’s
Vacational. I know. What do you think you’re going to learn from
that show?”
“I’m
going to watch two people falling in love.”
“Not unless that show goes on for 40 years, you’re not.” Grandpa finished his coffee cake.
***
Wells, Maine Friday, October 19, 1979 7:27PM
“You really have to stop staring, Horace. You’ve been looking at
her for like 40 years.”
Horace looked to his left. Gary Marx, a better drummer who was a
year Horace’s junior, was glaring at him. Gary was not as tall as
Horace, but he was built much more sturdily.
“What do you mean?”
“Rhiannon. You gotta quit staring at her.”
“Well, she’s sort of the conductor. I have to watch to make sure
I’m playing along properly with the cheerleaders.”
“Yeah. You never look at Norm Spicer that way.” Gary stuffed
some popcorn in his mouth.
Horace smiled. “Yeah. Okay.” He drank his soda.
Gary
poked him. “Play!”
Evidently, there had been a touchdown. He couldn’t possibly have cared less. But there was Rhiannon, jumping up and down, and suddenly his attention was absorbed. He played in perfect rhythm with the rest of the drum section. Perhaps she would look up. Perhaps she would see him. Of course, she would have to turn around and face the stands instead of the football field. That would be years from now. He just stared in his adolescent hormone haze.
***
Henderson, Nebraska Sunday, September 28, 1969 2:13 PM
“They’ll
show you something
on that show, Horace. But it won’t be love. That’s something
different from what you’ll see on this show. On this show, they’ll
show you lust, and you don’t want to watch that.”
“What’s lush?”
“It’s when a man and a woman want to commit the sin of adultery
together because they like the way each other look.”
“What’s adultery?”
“You sure ask a lot of questions. I think you must be that
question mark man.”
“No, you are! You’re the Riddler! Where’s my Batterang?”
“Turn off the TV.”
“But I wanted to see about this Love stuff.”
“Turn off the TV, and I’ll tell you about it.”
“Deal!” yelled Horace leaping to his feet. He went to Grandpa,
grabbed his left hand, and shook it.
“Other hand,” said Grandpa, correcting the situation.
Horace turned off the TV. “Well…”
Owen picked up his newspaper. “Well, what?”
“How do you know when you’re in love?”
“How old are you?”
“Seven years old. Almost.”
“Then you’re not.”
“But how will I know when I am if you won’t tell me how I’ll know
when I am?”
Grandpa Owen Leal set his newspaper in his lap, sighed, and then adopted his Pastor Leal voice. “Being in love means that you want to spend the rest of your life with someone doing God’s work. Sometimes it even means you want to bring children into the world with them. That’s good if you’re married. Like your mom and dad. They’re in love.”
“So, when you get married, then you fall in love?”
“Oh, I should say not. Never, ever, Horace, get married thinking
you’ll fall in love after you get married. You need to be in
love a long time before that.”
“Okay… so… if I want to spend my whole life with someone then
I’m in love?”
Grandpa rubbed his mustache. “Well, yes, but you have to think
about what that really means for a little while. It means every
morning, forever and ever and ever, when you get up you’re going to
be with that person, and it means they’ll be there every night when
you go to bed, and for all the other times too.”
Horace rubbed his milk mustache. “Well, I want to see Mom and Dad
every day for the rest of my life. Does that mean I’m in love with
them?”
“Heavens
no! You love them. That’s different from being in
love. Being in love
is, well…” He had to think a moment. “Well, if you’re lucky,
God might give you one chance really
to be in love. Everything else is just something that happens on the
way there.”
“Yeah, but what happens?”
“Hmmm….
I guess you might begin to suspect there’s something
going on when you can’t stop thinking about some girl. Although,
more often than not, that’s just a case of overactive hormones. But,
it is
a part of it. If you think a girl is really pretty, and you think
about her all the time, and if you wonder if she has enough to eat,
and if she’s safe, and when nothing makes you happier than making her
happy, and all of that sort of thing… well, maybe, just possibly
you’re in love. But, I wouldn’t count on it.”
“Are you in love with Grandma, Grandpa?”
Owen frowned. “Do you know what a personal question is?”
“Something Mom says is rude to ask. But I didn’t ask how old you
are.”
The smallest beginnings of a smile crossed Owen’s face. “Yes, I’m
in love with your Grandmother.”
“Do you think she’s pretty?”
“Of course I do.”
“As pretty as the girls on the TV?”
“Did you ever see your Uncle Melvin’s cornfields?”
Horace nodded.
“They’re pretty aren’t they?”
“I
like it when the wind rolls over the corns like it was this big
invisible ball in this invisible pinball machine. But that’s not
pretty like a girl.”
“Do you like to look at it?”
“Yes.”
“If you like to look at it, it’s pretty. I like to look at your
Grandmother the same way I like to look at cornfields or an Austrian
mountainside or even…” He trailed off and his eyes became
slightly moist. “Have you ever been to Blue Stem Lake?”
Horace shook his head.
“When I was one and twenty….” Grandpa laughed. “Okay, two
and twenty, ’tis true, ’tis true!”
“Huh?”
“It’s from a poem. When I was twenty two, I had a cabin out by
Blue Stem Lake. I built it with my own two hands.”
“Is this one of those stories where you had to walk twelve miles to
school, ‘cuz -”
“No!” snapped Grandpa. “I built if for your Grandmother and
me. ‘Course, she never knew she’d be livin’ in it.” He smiled
now. It was a genuine, sentimental smile. It seemed to fill his
entire being.
“You weren’t married yet?”
“No, no. But, sometimes, she would come out in her daddy’s milk
wagon. I remember how I’d hear those bells around the horse’s neck
jingling and jangling in the distance, and I would jump up and tidy
up the cabin.”
“You could jump up then? You didn’t have to grunt or anything?”
Owen ignored him. “Then she’d stop the wagon out in front of the
cabin, and she’d take a bottle of milk out, and she’d come to my door
for my weekly delivery. We’d be terribly business like, and I’d
thank her for coming so far out of the way, and I’d invite her to
stay a while and have some tea and rest up before her long journey
home. At first, she would just blush and decline; she had to get
home to her Daddy. But, after a while, she took to staying a few
minutes. And then she’d stay longer, and sometimes, I even got her
to take a long walk by the lake with me, and we’d just listen.”
“What would you listen to?”
“Nothing. Just all the things you can’t really hear, you know? I mean the things no one pays attention to. We’d hear the songs of the birds… the childish gurgling of the water… or maybe just our own voices, saying nothing that mattered, but fitting in very nicely with Nature’s Symphony… Your Grandmother was so beautiful…” He sighed almost rapturously. “And when she’d leave, I’d cut her a rose from the bush I grew outside my door. And she’d say, ‘thank you’ ever so politely… so sweetly… so… so sincerely.”
“Sounds like the story you told us in Sunday School last week.”
Grandpa frowned. “Which one?”
“The one about Adam and Eve.”
“I didn’t tell the story of The Garden of Eden last week.”
“No. That story about the ding-dong voice of Eve and the bird
songs.”
He smiled again. “That’s ‘daylong voice of Eve,’ and it’s not a
story. It’s a poem. By Robert Frost.”
“Tell it again.”
“Do you really understand that poem?”
“It’s pretty and it has neat words like that Greentree Whitileaf
guy has. Dad reads him to me a lot of times.”
“All right….” And Grandpa recited.
He would declare and could himself believe That the birds there in all the garden round From having heard the daylong voice of Eve Had added to their own an oversound, Her tone of meaning but without the words. Admittedly an eloquence so soft Could only have had an influence on birds When call or laughter carried it aloft. Be that as may be, she was in their song. Moreover her voice upon their voices crossed Had now persisted in the woods so long That probably it never would be lost. Never again would birds' song be the same. And to do that to birds was why she came.
There
was silence for a few blissful moments. And then…
“I’m in love with…”
***
Wells, Maine Friday, October 19, 1979 8:31 PM
“… Rhiannon Stark.”
“Shut up and march,” shouted Gary as the band took the field.
“2, 3, 4!”
And the drums began playing Peg Leg Cadence. The band marched, and
Horace looked to the sidelines. Rhiannon wasn’t there.
“Focus!” Gary Marx would grow up to be a Marine, and a good one.
He was already practicing his authoritarian tendencies and displaying
his love of precision. Horace had neither of those traits. It was
all he could do to keep in step with the band.
Suddenly the trumpets blared. Horace flipped the cowbell attached to
his snare drum up, and his drumstick upside down. He had practiced
the hell out of that. He didn’t want to screw it up.
He pivoted and began giving serious attention to the cowbell
performance, playing in his head the song he had been listening to
for the last week. He could distinctly hear Maurice White singing,
and he could feel the music. He was one with it. He never had
talent, but when the moments came, as this one just had, he could
play a bit. (Play the original track again. There’s some tricky
stuff going on with that cowbell!)
“Trip-el-let!” he could hear his brother yelling at him when he
had walked by Horace’s room last night. And he played the triplets
correctly. No one in the world knew, but Horace was beaming with
pride.
When he turned again, he saw the cheerleaders returning to the field.
Rhiannon was holding a fresh soda. She was looking back at the rest
of her squad as she trotted to the sidelines. She set her soda down
on a folding table, and Horace was forced to turn again and lost
sight of her.
He marched. For the first and only time in his life, he marched
perfectly. He knew she was there. He had practiced. She had been
nice to him in March. She had smiled as she passed him in the hall
on Wednesday. This was all he could want.
When the band finished the show, the entire stadium erupted in
applause. It was, Horace was certain, because of the cowbell. In
another couple of decades, Bruce Dickinson would be proud.
Horace looked over and saw Rhiannon’s eyes glowing with pride, and inside he felt a cold joy. When they started their exit cadence, he saw the football players running onto the field behind the band. Bob, the quarterback, smiled across the field at Rhiannon. Horace’s stomach dropped into his feet. He tripped over it, and Gary grabbed and steadied him.
***
Henderson, Nebraska Sunday, September 28, 1969 2:18 PM
“I was
afraid you’d say something dumb like that.”
“Well,
I am!”
“Fine.
Tell her. Not me.”
“Do
you think I should kiss her?”
“I
think you should ask her.”
“What
if she says no?”
“Then
you don’t kiss her.”
“But
what if I want to anyway?”
“That
doesn’t matter. Not in the least. And, to be honest, she should
probably say no, and you probably shouldn’t ask her.”
“Why?”
“Because
you’re too little for that.”
“Why
do you think that? I’m old enough to be Batman. Sometimes I’m
Captain Kirk, and he kisses girls, and he never asks.”
“Do
you know what I think?”
“What?”
“I
think I’m an old man, and I think being awake anymore is not in my
best interests.”
“Why
do old men get tired so soon?”
“Their
bodies are probably practicing for The Big Sleep they’ve got coming
up. It’s usually unexpected, but if you get to be old enough, you
can be ready for departure.”
“What’s
The Big Sleep?”
“Huh? Oh! It’s a movie with Humphrey Bogart. I’m going to sleep. You need to mind Mrs. Fertlebom.”
***
Wells, Maine Friday, October 19, 1979 8:49 PM
The band was off the field, and the football players were streaming
onto it. Horace looked up when he heard a scream from among the
cheerleaders. He saw Bob Amity grabbing Rhiannon, turning her
around, throwing his helmet to the ground, and kissing her full on
the mouth. Horace stood frozen, infuriated, for just a moment, and
then unsnapped his drum and let it fall to the ground.
His insides were suddenly, it felt, physically burning. His skin
turned red. His vision glazed over for a bit, and Rhiannon’s image
was nothing more than a glow. Horace had never felt anything like
this before. It was anger. It was jealousy. It was horror. He
would spend decades afterward wondering whether it had been love. He
never decided. At that moment, there was only one decision he could
make. Bob had to be stopped. Rhiannon had to be saved. And that’s
when Gary grabbed his arm.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“He can’t do that! He didn’t ask. She didn’t want it.”
“And what did you think you were going to do?”
Horace tried to wrest his arm from Gary’s firm grip. “Stop him!”
Gary smiled. “He’s twice your size. He’s in better physical
condition. He’ll kick your pansy ass.”
“I don’t care! Let go!”
Rhiannon was backing away, trying to escape Bob’s grasp, and the
football players were whooping and hollering. “Get some, Bobby,
boy!” yelled the place kicker.
“Even if you could take him, the rest of the football team would
kick your ass. Then I would have to go back you up, and I can’t take
out more than maybe 3 of them, and then I’m getting my ass kicked,
too.”
The cheerleaders rushed off their benches toward the incident, and
suddenly there was a crack that shocked the entire field into
silence. Rhiannon’s slap was the shot heard round the World of
Wells, Maine.
Bobby stood frozen in disbelief. His left cheek was even redder than
Horace’s forehead. There was a noticeable glint of a tear in his
eye.
Horace’s heart grew three sizes at that moment, and he found himself
hovering a solid 3 inches off the ground as a hush fell across the
stadium. He felt pride. He felt ecstasy. He felt respect. He felt
the Joy of 10 Horaces… plus two! He felt a Poet born in his heart.
“She doth teach the torches to burn bright,” he whispered to
himself.
Rhiannon
maintained her fighting stance slightly sideways to Bobby, with her
eyes locked on his. Her right arm was extended toward Bobby, palm up
and fingers extended. After a brief awkward moment, Rhiannon slowly
flexed her index and middle fingers, twice. taunting Bobby to try her
again. The frank menace in her unblinking glare left little doubt of
the meaning of her gesture. The air was thick
with tension. For a seemingly endless moment, no one spoke or moved.
Then Bobby’s posture suddenly deflated. This was no win for him.
Whatever he did or said, he knew he had already lost. Best to beat a
retreat. As he broke the grip of her stare, Rhiannon made
not a sound, but her eyes spoke clearly to anyone who could see them:
“You will remember
this if you ever think about assaulting a woman again.” She looked
around the stadium at everyone watching. The edges of her lips
climbed imperceptibly before she looked back at Bobby, as though to
say, “No
amount of popularity will ever give you the right to take dignity
from a woman. Try that again and a slapped cheek will be the least of
your worries.”
Rhiannon
took a breath, turned, and walked silently off the field, being sure
to keep her head held high. The silence was unabated. First one,
then another, and in moment, all the cheerleaders followed her off
the field. They were all done for tonight. The team could play
without them.
“So
shows a snowy dove trooping with crows, as yonder lady o’er her
fellow shows,” Horace whispered.
Gary
put his drum back on, motioning for the rest of the section to do the
same. He shouted out, “Children of Sanchez… 1…2… 1,2,3….”
And the entire section erupted with the cadence, and marched with the
cheerleaders off the field.
The
crowd cheered, and leapt to their feet. The band director’s son,
Michael, played the Chuck Mangione melody on his trumpet. He was
playing with the pride and polish of Gabriel playing his horn. He
led rest of the band, following the cheerleaders off the field.
In a few moments, The Poe High School Panthers football team was standing alone between the goal and the 20 yard line. First, Rhiannon, then the cheerleaders, then, finally, the marching band crossed the opposition’s goal line and went through the metal doors that led out of the stadium. The music stopped. The football players began wandering off the field, and fans began leaving. As the last supporter left the field, the metal rang like a bell as the door fell shut.
***
Henderson, Nebraska Sunday, September 28, 1969 2:23 PM
“All
right,” said Jim Lange’s voice coming from the TV, “that’s the
signal Farrah, and now you must make up your mind… will it be
Bachelor Number One, Bachelor Number Two, or Bachelor Number Three?”
“It
doesn’t matter who she picks,” Horace whispered to Teddy. “She
always finds out later it was the wrong one.”
“Which
one gets the date?” asked the TV.
“Number
Two,” Farrah’s voice replied.
“Number
Two, all right! Can I ask what it was that made you choose him?”
“It
was the flower.”
And then
a fight broke out between the three bachelors.
“That’s
only ‘possed to be on Batman,” said Teddy, while Horace’s lips
moved.
“Cool!”
Owen
groaned, “I’m up, I’m up, I’m up,” as he woke from his doze, got
out of the chair, and walked to the TV. He turned it off, while
Horace groaned in disappointment. Grandpa lumbered to the couch,
laid down on it, and pulled the blanket off the back of it and
covered himself.
Teddy
looked up at Horace. “Your Grandpa’s wise, huh?”
Horace
nodded. “He’s God’s best friend.” He looked down at his bear.
“But we have to be quiet. Grandpa’s going to sleep now.”
Horace
watched Owen a while, and then he took Teddy, climbed on top of
Grandpa, and fell asleep.
“Heavens to Betsy!” exclaimed Mrs. Fertlebom as she came back in the living room. “The Pastor sleeps.”
***
Wells, Maine Friday, October 19, 1979 9:07 PM
“How about a bougainvillea?” Jimmy was walking around the flower bushes near the parking lot of the stadium. “It’s close.”
“No!” snapped Horace. “It has to be a rose. She chose him
because of a single rose bud.”
“Who did?”
“Some girl named Farrah, on The Dating Game, the day my Grandfather
died. I give her the rosebud, and I’m Bachelor Number Two.”
“Wait. Seriously?” Jimmy grabbed Horace by the arm and stopped
his search. “Are you laboring under the delusion that if you give
Rhiannon Stark a rosebud, she’s going to let you take her out?”
“Why not? Since that night in March, she’s smiled at me 5 times in
the hall, and she said hey to me twice.”
“She called you Howard.”
“So she made a mistake. She still might like me.”
“She’s dating Bobby Amity.”
“Not after that debacle tonight, she’s not.”
Students were congregating in the parking lot, now, many of them
heading toward buses. Horace spotted a cheerleader holding a bouquet
of roses her boyfriend had just given her. He moved without
thinking, Jimmy on his heels.
Horace suddenly stopped and turned to Jimmy. “I only have three
bucks. How much have you got?”
Jimmy looked in his wallet. “I have… 6… no, 7.”
“Give it to me, quick. I’ll pay you back, I swear it!”
Jimmy frowned and handed Horace his cash. Horace continued his dash.
“Hey!” The girl and her boyfriend looked over at Horace as he
rushed up. “So, those are beautiful flowers. He obviously loves
you. But… I really need just one of them. I have ten bucks I can
give you.”
“But, then I won’t have a dozen anymore.”
The football player took the money and pulled a rose from the
arrangement. “I’ll buy you another one tomorrow,” he said to the
girl. He handed Horace the rose.
“What in God’s name do you think you’re going to do?” Jimmy asked
as Horace started toward the cheerleaders’ buses.
“I’m giving it to Rhiannon, of course.”
Jimmy stopped him. “Okay, Horace, I really need you to listen to
me. I’m not Gary. I’m not some macho wannabe Marine giving you
advice. I’m your best friend for the last 5 years. That’s like a
third of our lives. So, you really, really need to listen to me.
Can you do that?”
Horace looked again at the bus. Rhiannon was nowhere near it yet.
He sighed. “If you can make it quick.”
“Okay. What you want is to give her the rose… like on The Dating
Game… Like your Grandpa gave your Grandma at Blue Stem Lake. And
then, you think it’s going to work out for you. I have that right,
don’t I?”
Horace nodded.
“I’m not looking to hurt you here, pal, but that is never… NEVER
going to happen. You’re not in her league. You would be better off
writing more letters to Valerie Bertinelli. It won’t work out for
you. You’re not a hot guy like Bobby Amity. You’re not rich. You
drive your father’s 1970 Dodge Dart when you drive at all. You spend
most of your Saturday nights with me on the roof of the Mormon Church
across the street from my house drinking Mickey’s Big Mouth. You’re
not cool. You’re not good looking. You play Dungeons
and Goddamn Dragons, dude. Your only distinction is being a Greatest
Nothing of The Poe High School Nothings. The sooner you listen to
Socrates, and know thyself, the sooner life gets easier for you. Can
you see that?”
“Yeah. I know. A ship in a harbor is safe…”
Voices approached from behind them. Rhiannon walked past quickly,
moving toward the buses, and Bobby Amity’s voice rose in the
distance. Horace saw her, and he couldn’t hear him.
“But that is not what ships are made for,” Horace told Jimmy, and
started walking toward Rhiannon.
“Ree!” shouted Bobby, and in another moment, he shot by Horace,
dodging him as though Horace was an opposing player between the
quarterback and the goal line.
Bobby stopped a couple of feet behind Rhiannon, who whirled on him
contemptuously. He threw his hands in the air. “It’s cool. I’m
cool. I’m here to apologize.”
Horace stopped where he was. A few football players gathered. The
rest of the band was already on the bus. They would certainly be
looking for Horace any time now.
“Go ahead,” said Rhiannon.
“Oh…” Bobby looked around. He was at a loss for words. “Um…
yeah. So, look, I’m sorry, okay?”
“He’s an eloquent bastard, I’ll give him that,” whispered Jimmy.
“She’s never going to buy that,” Horace whispered back.
Jimmy looked over to Horace. “Seriously? You need to read a
little research. Come down to the library and go through the
microforms with me. Abused women often forgive their attackers.”
“Where the hell did you get that?”
“It was in an English paper called The Daily Mirror.”
Across the parking lot, Bobby was smiling in what he hoped was a
charming way. “Huh?” He threw his arms open. Rhiannon glared.
Horace grinned. “Well, you’re full of it. We’ll settle it at The
Chelsea Drugstore, Mr. Jimmy. Loser buys.”
Jimmy laughed. “My favorite flavor, Cherry Red. You know Jagger’s
Chelsea Drugstore used to actually exist on King’s Road in England?”
“Where the hell did you get that?”
“At the Library. The Daily –”
“Mirror… yeah, okay.” Horace looked back to the bus.
“Come on. I said I’m sorry, right? What else do I gotta do?”
Bobby grinned.
Rhiannon sighed. She looked at him a while longer, and then turned
around to board the bus. “The fact that you even have to ask…”
She went up the stairs, and the door shut behind her.
“There it is,” said Horace. “You’re buying.”
Jimmy shrugged. “Hmm. You may be right.” He turned around to
walk away.
“I’m giving her the rose,” Horace announced, heading toward the
bus.
And that was when it happened: Bobby began to sing.
“Rhiannon,” was all he sang. But it was clearly the melody of
the Fleetwood Mac song. And Bobby had a surprisingly good voice for
a football player.
“He’s got to be kidding, right?” Horace asked, freezing in place.
Bobby sang it again. And again. Football players gathered around
him. They began singing, too.
One of the cheerleaders walking toward them from the other side of
the parking lot, made a sympathetic, “Aww…” sound. Horace
looked incredulously at the girls.
First Julie, the short blonde sympathy uttering girl, then Jenny, and
two other girls started singing, “Rhiaaaaanon…” as they
traveled like a wave toward the bus.
The parking lot was filled with the name, sung over and over, and the
sound was seductive. Before he knew it, even Horace was singing
along. Jimmy glared at him incredulously. He smacked Horace
in the arm, and Horace looked over and stopped singing.
The singing continued. The sound was surreal, echoing almost
supernaturally through the parking lot. Cars that had been on their
way out, stopped, their lights shining on the bus.
And it went on. 30 seconds… 45… more than a minute. The moment
was covered in unreality. It became a Siren’s Song. And it finally
had its effect. The bus door burst open, and Rhiannon exploded from
within it. She fell into Bobby’s arms and a flashbulb went off.
Horace swallowed hard. While the assembled crowd sighed as one, a
tear formed in his left eye.
He went home that night, and pressed the rose between the pages of
his father’s copy of The Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier.
At the bottom of the page on the left, it read:
“God pity them both! and pity us all, Who vainly the dreams of youth recall;” At the top of the next page: “For of all sad words of tongue or pen, The saddest are these: “It might have been!”
***
Phoenix, Arizona July 9, 2019 2:43 AM
The writer shut down the computer, and the library was lit now only dimly by the flickering candlelight. He stood slowly. “I’m getting up,” he groaned as he used his left arm to steady himself against the arm of his secondhand office chair. He picked up his 1980 yearbook from his desk, closed it on the page with a black and white picture of Rhiannon in Bobby’s arms standing at a bus, and he took it to the bookcase. He pulled down “The Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier,” and opened it. The faded, scentless rose was still there. And in the silence, he heard her voice. “… to do that to the roses was why she came…”
Thanks to my many collaborators: Janet Simpson Shipley, Andrea Whiffin Grinstead, Mark Rozema, Ross Ross, Kim Woolbright, Warren Brown, Denise Schroeder Hayes, Theresa Marie Londono, Chuck Curry, James P. Kemp, John G. Willis, Jamie Sasse, Robin Bartley, Deanna Pine, and Mark Shipley.
Because I’ve always wondered why people say, so… Special Thanks to people whose words I stole: Ross Ross, Jamie Sasse, Theresa Marie Londono “Good writers borrow from other writers; great writers steal from them outright.” — Aaron Sorkin
I believe that all Mothers, simply by giving birth, qualify as heroes. I don’t for a moment claim that all Mothers are good people. Some of them are obviously not. We’ve all seen Sybil, whose Mother abused her so horribly that Sybil developed multiple personality disorder to be able to cope with the stress. And Norman Bates’s Mother certainly would not be in the running for Sainthood.
But, what is a hero? I
maintain that heroism requires sacrifice and some form of danger, and
that it is an act to benefit someone other than oneself. The fireman
who runs into the house to save a child is sacrificing his safety and
is facing the very real threat of a horrible death. The kids that
jumped in front of their friends in the school shootings this week,
as well as those who did the same in the Jewish Synagogue, are
heroes. They sacrificed their lives to save others. The benefits of
their actions were not necessarily their own. (This is not to say
there are no benefits to Motherhood. But not all Mothers get those
benefits for any number of reasons.)
A hero might also be an
artist. This is someone who has accomplished something you admire
deeply. Some of my heroes are Shakespeare, Aaron Sorkin, Snuffy
Walden, and Gene Roddenberry. None of them, to my knowledge, faced
any particular danger, but don’t believe for a moment they
accomplished what they did without sacrificing their time, their
energy, and their efforts. And their accomplishments benefit me, and
millions of others. I’m not sure if these are the same sorts of
heroes as firefighters and those who stop shooters. So, perhaps the
word has a broader meaning for me.
But, a Mother certainly fits
any reasonable definition. She sacrifices her body, her comfort, her
well being for the benefit of another. I’m told that even the
easiest, least painful birth is excruciating. Having never given
birth, myself, I don’t really know. But, I feel sure it’s less fun
than lying in bed reading a good book. Giving birth is dangerous;
women, even today, die in the process. They do this to benefit
another person. They bring life into the world at the expense of, at
the very least, physical pain. That, for me, is heroism.
Some Mothers continue to be
heroes, in lesser or greater ways, throughout the rest of their
lives. Others abandon the status promptly.
Regardless of whether your
Mother was as good as mine (and mine is as good as anyone could
hope), or she was horrible as Sybil’s, she sacrificed herself for
you. You owe her your life. If not for her, you’re not here. I
think, sometimes, that’s worth remembering.
“…the person that had took a bull by the tail once had learnt sixty or seventy times as much as a person that hadn’t, and said a person that started in to carry a cat home by the tail was getting knowledge that was always going to be useful to him, and warn’t ever going to grow dim or doubtful.”
Mark Twain
I
never liked cats. I found them arrogant, rude, and dangerous. The
first one with whom I ever dealt scratched my hand deeply enough to
draw blood. I hated him. He never said I wasn’t allowed to pick him
up. I learned… the hard way.
After
that experience, I gave all felines a wide berth. My parents
inherited a cat from my brother. I don’t actually recall the details
of the transaction, but every time I would visit, there would be
Jamie, or as he was called by my father, “Stupid Cat of No Possible
Value or Worth,” wandering around enslaving my parents. Up and
down my father would get whenever Stupid Cat wanted to go in or out.
Yes, he was an outdoor cat. Mom required Dad to stand at the door
and call him every night before they went to bed. And Dad might be
there for half an hour at a time before His Highness would deign to
return. I wanted no part of any such ritual. I never understood why
my father did, except that he loved my mother, and my mother loved
everything with a heartbeat.
Cats
had no time for me, and I had none for them. I refused to believe
all the Cat People who told me that their cats were sweet and kind
and loving. That described no cat I had ever encountered. I was too
arrogant to deal with the Arrogance of Cats.
Dogs,
on the other hand, I have always loved. There is nothing so
wonderful as being jumped by four-legged fur when you come through
the door. Her tail is wagging and she’s covering you with kisses as
though you were the most important and wonderful being that cells
ever combined to form. I have two ex-wives. Neither of them was
ever in the league of a dog for making me feel loved. However,
neither Missy nor Darilyn ever pooped on my floor, so perhaps it
evens out a bit.
In
July of 2017, I was in the hospital, and when I got out, I was going
to have nowhere to go. My nephew had gotten me a motel room for a
couple of weeks to keep me from being homeless. That ran out,
though, while I was suffering from extreme Diabetic Ketoacidosis.
I
had just recently begun a horrible job selling DirecTV to
unsuspecting old women. I made little money, and to make any amount
that would give me any chance to sustain my existence, I had to be
successful at getting people to trade their little pieces of green
paper for something that is mostly worthless. When I made a sale, I
was both ecstatic and wracked with guilt. But it was in this
horrible place that I met Hilary.
When
I was in the hospital, she called me every day. I have almost no
memory of that because the entire experience is a blur in my mind. I
was heavily drugged, and I was almost entirely incoherent almost all
the time. But, Hilary told me that when I got out of the hospital, I
could stay with her, and her wife, Rebecca, and their three cats,
Cynna, Buster, and Oliver until I could get back on my feet. And my
dog, Melanie, whom I feared I was going to have to give away to
anyone I believed would take good care of her before I dragged her
into homelessness with me, would be welcomed there, too. She would
have died on the streets, and my former roommates were about to be
evicted from my old house, which is where Melanie had to stay while I
tried to find shelter for us both. It was an offer that saved my
life, and Melanie’s, and, subsequently, made me a Cat Person.
When
I arrived, Rebecca showed me my bedroom, and I collapsed onto the
blowup mattress and passed out. I slept for more than 30 hours. I
think it was closer to two full days. And when I finally came back
into the world, Oliver had to find out who I was. He kept looking
at me, and I thought it was a little creepy. What the hell did he
even want from me?
It
was a couple of weeks before I moved in and Oliver decided I was
acceptable. The cats seemed willing enough to tolerate Melanie after
their initial meeting. Buster and Cynna, however, wanted nothing to
do with me. See why I hate cats?
Oliver
came and got in my lap for the first time almost a month to the day
after I began occupying his space full time. I was surprised, but it
was a nice surprise. He stayed nearly an entire minute, and he let
me pet him. And you know what else? He didn’t even scratch me.
Over
time, he began to visit me any time I was in the bathroom. Closing
the door meant only that Oliver’s little paw would appear underneath
it, letting me know he needed to come in. And, being the basically
lonely guy I’ve always been, I’d let him in. It wasn’t long before
Oliver was following me around, laying in my lap, and doing the
things Melanie had gotten too old to do anymore. Melanie could
barely make it onto her own personal couch. She couldn’t get on the
bed anymore, and Oliver started visiting me there. He wouldn’t stay
long, but he would swing by to check on me. When I got sick, as I
did with alarming frequency, he would come and lie on my chest. I
think it was his way of telling the girls something was wrong. They
would look for him, find him, and see whether I was dead, dead tired,
or in need of hospitalization.
Oliver
stayed close to me all the time we lived in Mesa.
In
July of 2018, we all moved to our nice 3 bedroom house in Phoenix.
We had a backyard so Melanie could go out and relieve herself without
the need for a leash and a trip up and down a set of stairs that
would, given time, certainly have killed me. And it was in the new
house that Buster decided to adopt me.
For reasons passing understanding, he decided my bedroom was actually his. If I laid down, Buster would join me within less than ten minutes. And he wouldn’t just sit there. He insisted that I be petting him. Having my phone in my hand was simply not allowed. That was giving my attention to something other than him. When he’s not chewing on the tube that goes from my tummy to my insulin pump, we do very well together. He’s become an expert cuddler. He lies with his back to my chest, and he purrs contentedly so long as we’re together. When I leave, he becomes visibly depressed. If I ever meet a woman like that… well… no… never mind. I would rather just have Buster. He takes up much less space on the bed.
Oliver
has to be with me at the computer now. He frequently feels the need
to add to whatever I’m writing, and if I stop petting him when he’s
in my lap, he will hop up to the desk, stroll across the keyboard,
and jump to the window above me to see what’s happening in the
backyard. He’s managed to obscure 2/3 of the characters now, and I
have to try to remember where they all are. I’m hoping to get a new
one soon. (A keyboard, not a cat… three is plenty, I swear.)
Cynna
continues to be royalty. When the girls went to Las Vegas for some
sort of convention a couple of months ago, His Majesty began to take
notice of my existence. He made sure I knew when he needed to be
fed. And, he assured me, no matter what his Mothers had said, when
he needed to be fed was simply constantly. Since their return he has
visited me twice, for a total of nearly 90 seconds. I expect that in
another year or two he’ll come to see me without the expectation of
food. Maybe he’ll let me pet him more than twice. One can only
hope.
I
will always love Melanie with all my heart. The fact that she is
getting too old to walk anymore scares me more than my own death.
There is little to be done, but I can still give her loves and kisses
while she’s lying on her couch. She simply isn’t capable of giving
me all she once did. I know her love is still there. She just can’t
express it physically any longer.
The
cats can. They’ve taught me there are ways of expressing their love
without jumping on me. I’m told that when Buster or Oliver looks me
in the eye, and they close their eyes for a moment, they’re saying,
“I love you.” I don’t know if that’s true. But I do know,
they’ve made me love them because they simply won’t allow my heart
any other choice. The cats have become a part of me. I’m a Cat
Person.
“For who knows what magic takes place in his world…”
Tony Banks
Wells,
Maine
Tuesday,
March 13, 1979
10:23
PM
This
attic was the only place Horace could find to hide. There were so
many people out there, but here, in this empty room, he was alone
with the full moon whose light was slipping feebly through the tiny
window.
He
couldn’t imagine what he had been thinking when he’d accepted Bob’s
invitation. It had been so entirely unexpected, though, there was
nothing else he could do. The star quarterback of the high school
football team had invited him to a party… at the home of the single
most beautiful cheerleader who had ever graced the halls of Poe High
School. And Horace was the head of the Poe Nothings. Horace knew
himself well enough to know that Rhiannon would never actually
talk to him, but there was that Glimmer of Hope. Just a little Hope
can make the heart beat a bit faster. Horace enjoyed the feeling, so
he accepted the invitation. And now he was in the attic, hoping he
could find a way out of here.
All
of these people were light years beyond his social class. None of
them had ever seen an episode of Star Trek. He knew absolutely
nothing about the sports that they discussed with the precision of
scientists debating quantum mechanics. They were all well built,
outgoing, attractive people. Horace was thin, gangly, socially
inept, and unattractive in any conventional sense. He was the only
virgin in the entire house. What had Bob been thinking?
He
didn’t belong. He wanted to leave, but it was awfully cold in March,
and it was a 17 mile walk from Wells back to Biddeford. Hiding
represented his only chance to survive, and he couldn’t get away with
the bathroom for more than about 5 minutes at a time. There were way
too many people, drinking way too much, and they all required a
restroom.
But
this room looked like it was hiding, too. It wasn’t even a
full-sized room. It was accessible only by a narrow, winding
staircase at the last corner of a very dark hallway. As his eyes
adjusted, he was able to perceive that against the wall to his
right, there was an old, worm-eaten wooden table filled with what
Horace decided must be an artist’s supplies. There were notched
candles. There were cloves. There were strangely shaped bottles
filled with various colors of oils. When he walked to it he observed
seeds, matches, and a shot glass.
He
turned around when he heard the door open behind him, and he moved as
quietly as he could out of the light. Rhiannon backed into the room,
a round candlestick in her hand. She turned and glided silently
across the room, and when she crossed the moonlight, the room seemed
to glow with her.
She
went to the table, and lit the notched candle using the tall thin one
attached to the holder. She mumbled something, but Horace couldn’t
make out what it was. He could see her silhouette moving her hands
up the bizarrely shaped candle, bottom to top, 9 times. He counted.
She sighed confidently.
When
she turned around to leave the room she saw him, and they were both
startled. Horace, already in the corner, tried to back away, but
just smashed his body awkwardly into the wall. She dropped her
candle, and it rolled, lit, across the wooden floor toward him. He
knelt, nearly falling over, and picked it up. He stood up, and found
her standing directly in front of him. He handed it back to her.
“I’m sorry,” he whimpered.
Rhiannon
smiled compassionately at him. “Me too.” She looked briefly
over her shoulder at the strange candle, and disappointment tinted
her blue eyes.
Horace
couldn’t look at her. He noticed his shoelaces didn’t match.
“I
really am trying my best.” She looked back at Horace. “To be a
decent person I mean. I know a lot of people think I’m stuck up, or
whatever, but, really, I’m not.”
Horace
said nothing.
“Okay?”
She whispered.
He
looked up. “Okay.” His stare, while entirely unintentional, was
almost rude in its intensity.
There
have been, throughout human history, quite a few women renowned for
their beautiful hair. None of them, however, had anything on
Rhiannon. Lady Godiva and Rapunzel, for example, were each known for
the lengths of theirs. Rhiannon’s didn’t come close to such a
ghastly stretch. It fell, seemingly effortlessly, down her neck and
covered her shoulders as a quiet brown river lightly licking its
banks, or a blanket under which the slender shoulders snuggled
greedily.
Helen
of Troy and Lucretia Borgia were sufficiently beautiful that they
seemed almost to be able to cast a spell on men simply by looking at
them. They were Anti-Medusas. Horace was as inspired as any
Trojan.
When
she saw Horace staring through his hormone haze, she smiled shyly and
brushed her hair slowly back from her forehead. Then she nervously
moved her fingers through it like a tide stealing sand from a moonlit
beach as it slides up and down.
“I
mean, do you ever ask yourself if it’s even possible to make
everyone happy without hurting someone?”
“No…
not until just now.”
“If
you ever figure it out…” her eyes shimmered in the candlelight.
They both smiled. Rhiannon, he decided, was a girl who knew how to
run her fingers through her hair. They were having a moment.
The
banging on the door made them both jump, but Rhiannon held firmly to
her candle, and Horace slithered back into his dark corner silently.
“Rhiannon?
You in there?” Horace recognized Bob’s tenor voice.
She
took her hand away from her hair. “I’ll be right out.” The
moment was over.
“There’s
a party downstairs, and you’re being a lousy hostess.”
She smiled, almost tenderly at him, and left the room, the notched candle burning. Horace was alone in the dark.
***
“Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale Her infinite variety…”
Shakespeare
Yesterday
“She’s
married?” Rhonda asked as Horace lit his little glass pipe.
He
held the hit a moment, squeaking in an unflattering way, exhaled, and
then looked up at Rhonda.
“What?”
“Your
secret internet girlfriend. She’s married?”
“Yes,
she is.”
“So,
she’s cheating on her husband?”
“Certainly
not. She’s entirely unaware that she is my girlfriend.”
“How
stoned, exactly, are you?” Rhonda asked. She lit a cigarette. “To
be your girlfriend would require that she has some part in the
relationship, wouldn’t it?”
“She
does. She accounts for nearly 3% of it. The other 97% exists
exclusively in my mind.”
The
metal screen door from the house opened, and Rita sauntered into the
backyard.
While
Rhonda was only in her mid twenties, Rita was in her 40s. They had
been together for quite a few years before Horace had stumbled into
their lives, and they had, essentially, adopted him.
When
one of them was in the hospital (which happened far too frequently;
all three of them had health problems. Horace was nearly deaf, Rita
had chronic Lyme Disease, and Rhonda had genetic cardiac problems.),
Rita and Rhonda identified each other as wives. For Horace, they
were roommates.
Rhonda
looked up at her instantly, and said, “Your roommate is a weird
stalker dude.”
Rita
sighed, and sat down in the nearest patio chair. “Where are the
cigarettes?”
“I’m
nothing of the sort. I shall certainly never see her again. I am,
however, allowed to have whatever thoughts I choose, thank you Miss
Orwell.” Horace picked up Rita’s cigarettes from the barely
standing bedside table they had put on the patio to hold their
accessories, and he tossed them unceremoniously to her.
“Who
are you calling Miss Orwell?” asked Rhonda, flipping her dark hair
off to one side.
“You’re
being the Thought Police,” said Rita, opening the pack. “Let the
man think what he wants.” She lit a cigarette, and then opened the
book she’d brought outside with her. Her blonde hair fell in her
face when she looked down at it, and she pushed it quickly out of the
way.
“You
want to live with a crazy man?”
“I
want to read my book.”
Rhonda,
unobserved, rolled her eyes at Rita and turned back to Horace.
“What’s her 3%?”
“She
likes my posts on Facebook sometimes. Once in a while, she even
comments. She says she likes my writing.”
“So
she’s messaged you? That could be construed as cheating.”
“Oh,
heavens no! Nor have I ever sent her a message. That would increase
our involvement, and that would ruin it. 3% gives birth to hope.
10% gives birth to hassles.”
Without
looking up from her book Rita muttered, “100% give birth to
children.”
“So
how do you know she likes your writing?” Rhonda glanced back at
Rita. Her eyes seemed to be losing focus.
He
took another hit, and then, holding his breath, said, “She clicks
like.”
“Lots
of people like your stuff.” Rhonda seemed a little annoyed.
Horace
exhaled. “Yes,” he said as he emptied the remainder of the pipe
into the little red measuring cup in which he kept his supplies. He
covered the carb, and blew into the pipe to remove any clogs. He
began gathering bits from the bottom of the 1 ¾ cup container, and
loaded them gingerly into his pipe. “I’m not, however, secretly in
love with lots of people.”
“So,
what’s the other 97%?” Rhonda watched Rita’s eyes begin to droop.
“The
other 97% consists of messages unwritten except in my head, enjoying
the intimacy of my thoughts connecting with hers, even if only for a
few hundred words on my page or my blog, and vague leftover fantasies
from the last time I saw her nearly 40 years ago.” He smiled
nostalgically. “She was burning candles in her attic.
Rita’s
head fell to her chest.
“Get
her cigarette,” Rhonda said. “I don’t want her to burn herself.”
Horace
reached for the cigarette dangling loosely between Rita’s fingers,
and her head snapped up quickly. “I’m fine.”
Horace
watched her another moment to be sure she was coherent, and then he
turned back to Rhonda. “And I get to experience great joy when she
says or does something nice. I don’t, if you hadn’t noticed, get a
lot of joy.”
“You
get to live with me. How much joy do you need?”
He
picked up the clipboard, pulled the pen out from behind the clip, and
began to cross out something on the printed paper. “More than
that,” he said without looking up.
“I’m
going to throw something at you. And it’s going to hurt.”
“I
would very much prefer if you didn’t. That would decrease my joy.”
Rhonda threw nothing. “What’s her name?”
***
“Said you’d give me light But you never told me about the fire”
Stevie Nicks
“Rhiannon rings like a bell in the night…”
Stevie Nicks
Biddeford,
Maine
Saturday,
May 7, 1983
2:43
PM
Horace
had bought his mother a candle for Mother’s Day, every year for the
last 14 years, but always something basic, from Wal Mart or K Mart.
He was in college, now, and it was time to do better. Pier One
Imports would, he was sure, have something classier.
The
place smelled of strange foreign spices, and the light came from the
sunroof in the middle of the ceiling. The store was an eclectic
collection of items from anywhere other than Maine. There were
strikingly beautiful statues, and there were cheap, tasteless
trinkets. He walked through several aisles before he found the
candles. He studied them, but none of them stood out. There were a
few layered candles, with colors bleeding from one layer to the next,
but there was nothing unique. They were all variations of each
other.
“Did
you figure it out?”
Horace
turned around, and his eyes widened to see a singularly beautiful
woman standing in front of him. “Rhiannon?” he said after the
moment it took him to recognize her.
“You’re…
Howard, right?”
“Horace.
But close enough.”
“God,
I’m sorry. It’s been a long time since last I saw you.” She
looked him up and down. “You’ve changed a little.”
“I
got my shoelaces to match.”
She
laughed a little too hard. While Holden would have found it
appalling and phony, Horace found it appealing and charming, nearly
enchanting. “Were you funny in high school?”
“I
thought I was. But, I’ve always been unreasonably arrogant for
someone entirely lacking in social skills or physical attractiveness.
So, maybe I wasn’t.”
Her
laughter rang like a bell throughout the store, and Horace expected
someone to come and see what was wrong. No one did. And that’s when
he realized the store was, other than the two of them, empty. “Isn’t
it boring to be here with no customers?”
“Sometimes
it can be.”
“You
should hire someone to come and talk to you when you’re bored.”
“Want
a job?”
“No.”
He was too frightened to give any other answer, but he was determined
not to show it. “I want a unique candle. I’d love one of those
weirdly shaped ones you had years ago.”
Her
face darkened for a moment. “You won’t find one of those here.”
“Pier
One is too commercial?”
“Well,
we can’t make everyone
happy, so we just avoid hurting anyone.” She smiled again. “None
of these candles can be seen as offensive.”
“Or
interesting.” He looked around. “Have any artistic ones?”
When
he looked back, he saw her head turning as she scanned the entire
store. She looked back at him, and he couldn’t help but notice the
way she brushed her hair from her forehead.
“We
have a carved candle that really is beautiful, but it’s incredibly
expensive.” She walked toward the front of the store. Inside a
glass case at the front counter sat a candle that must have weighed
ten pounds. It was rich, dark green, and there was a cottage, in a
forest, in a glade carved onto it with exquisite detail. He could
almost see a light on in the attic.
“That’s…
incredible…You could never burn that. It would almost be a crime
against the Art.”
“If
it has a wick, Horace, it wants to be burned.”
He
couldn’t keep himself from staring, and he knew it, and he hated it
about himself. She didn’t seem to mind. Her eyes were like a
singer’s asking if the audience had any requests. He looked back at
her like a regular patron asking the bartender for “The Usual.”
And, for a moment, she slid her fingers lightly through her hair.
The
door opened, causing a bell to ring, and Rhiannon looked away to see
who it was.
They
were two lost hippies, women who were out of their time. They wore
their very long hair down, they each had a straw hat, long necklaces,
and bracelets that jingled whenever they moved. They wore plain gray
skirts that nearly touched the floor. “We’ve come for chairs,”
announced the taller one.
“Wicker
chairs,” said her companion.
Horace
watched Rhiannon scamper off toward them.
An
old man in a black hat moved behind the display case to which
Rhiannon had led him. “May I help you?”
“I
want to buy this candle,” said Horace pointing. He pulled out his
very first credit card, an American Express, and couldn’t help but
watch Rhiannon and the women discussing the comfort of wicker, in its
natural state, as opposed to processed material.
When
The Man In Black handed him the receipt and the boxed candle, Horace
nodded to him and walked toward the door.
Rhiannon
was behind a high backed wicker chair, and as she heard the bell ring
when he opened the door, she looked around the side of it, smiled far
too broadly, and waved to Horace. She was a woman who knew how to
wave from behind wicker.
***
“She is like a cat in the dark and then She is the darkness”
Stevie Nicks
“She comes back to tell me she’s gone As if I didn’t know that As if I didn’t know my own bed As if I’d never noticed The way she brushed her hair from her forehead”
– Paul Simon
Last
Night
Rhiannon
was beginning to take shape in the flickering candlelight of the 3 AM
darkness, as she often did while Horace was half conscious. She
wasn’t the 16 year old girl with whom he had been pointlessly in love
40 years ago, but she wasn’t the woman in her current pictures,
either. She was a lovely, if foggy, combination of those two
memories, and he was beginning to smile without being aware of it.
The cat crawled across his slowly rising and falling stomach, laid
his head down on Horace’s chest, and yawned wide and long. The bell
around his neck tinkled softly.
They
both jumped when the banging on the door began. “What’s wrong?”
He pulled his covers down. The breeze from the motion blew the
candle out. Rhiannon retreated to the depths of his misted brain, and
Horace rolled to his right and flipped on the bedside light.
“I
need you to get Christine out of my room,” came Rita’s not entirely
coherent voice.
Horace
frowned. “My sister’s in your room?”
“She’s
on the bed. She won’t leave.”
Mr.
Brown jumped from the bed to the floor, his tail high. “I really
don’t think she’s there, Rita.”
She
was almost crying outside the door now. “I just told you she is.
Make her go away.”
Horace
sighed and got out of the bed. He pushed his feet into his slippers
and walked to the door. When Horace opened it, Mr. Brown scampered
out of his room and across the hall into Rhonda and Rita’s room.
Rita nearly collapsed onto Horace who supported her the best he
could.
He
walked her back into her bedroom. Rhonda was sleeping deeply on her
side of the bed. There was no one else there. Horace pointed that
out to Rita.
“Where
did she go?” Rita was genuinely surprised by Christine’s absence.
“I
really don’t know. Maybe you could go back to bed.”
“I
wanna have a cigarette.” She started down the hall toward the
library, and its backdoor to the patio. Horace glanced at Rhonda,
still completely oblivious, and decided to follow Rita. He found her
on the best chair lighting a cigarette.
“Was
she really beautiful as a little girl?” Rita asked as he stepped
outside.
“My
sister? Yes, I suppose she was. My parents said as much. I never
found her beautiful, though.”
“She
looks like she must have been a beautiful little girl. She has the
prettiest hair. When she was young, I bet all the boys loved her.”
“I
don’t think you’ve ever met her, Rita.”
“Duh.
Just now? She kept playing with her hair. It was almost spooky.
And she didn’t seem like she was where she meant to be. I think she
got the wrong room.”
Horace
took a cigarette from his pack. “You talked to her?” He sat
down across from her.
“No.
I just freaked out when she woke me up and came and got you.”
He
watched her silently as she took a drag from her cigarette. In
another moment, her eyes drifted shut. He got up, took the cigarette
from between her fingers, set it in the ashtray, and then went to
wake Rhonda. It was evidently time to change Rita’s meds again.
He
locked his bedroom door.
Rhiannon
didn’t return that night.
***
“When I whispered I thought I could love her She just said, ‘Baby, don’t even bother to try.’”
Seth Justman
“Horace Wimp, this is your life Go out and find yourself a wife…”
Jeff Lynne
Orono,
Maine
July
10, 1986
3:27
AM
He
watched the woman beside him sleeping silently, and then Horace
rolled over in the bed and retrieved the remote. The TV came on
louder than he had anticipated, and he looked over to her as he
quickly turned it down. She was unfazed.
Jimmy
Durante was singing while the credits rolled on a romantic comedy
whose title Horace couldn’t quite remember. “Make
someone happy, Make just one someone happy…”
He
flipped the channel and a news reporter began explaining, in a far
too optimistic way, a crash that had occurred on Route 1 that
afternoon.
At
least, thought Horace, he had lost his virginity. He wasn’t stuck
with that particular badge anymore. If he ever returned to
Rhiannon’s attic, he would be at least a bit closer to her category.
He
was 23; she was 43. She was a divorced mother who had been far too
drunk at the bar. She had sought him out. Horace never, ever asked
anyone to dance. He was no good at it; it embarrassed him. He just
liked the band. And tonight, they had let him sit in on drums,
because everyone was a little drunk, and this particular crowd would
have loved them even if they played polka tunes in Ancient Coptic.
Horace wouldn’t hurt anything.
When
he came off stage, the woman, a complete stranger to him, had run
across the dance floor and thrown her arms around him. She hugged
him embarrassingly tightly. She had insisted on dancing with him the
rest of the night, and he obliged. They couldn’t really talk. The
music, particularly on the dance floor, was far too loud.
There
was nothing wrong with her. She was probably a very nice woman when
she was sober. She wasn’t unattractive. She had just moaned too
much about knowing young flesh would be good. Horace had no clue
what he was doing. It just felt wrong to him.
“…
and in our final story, a scandal involving local celebrity Rhiannon
Stark.”
Horace’s
attention went immediately to the television. He turned it up a bit.
“That’s
right, Danny, she was Miss Kensington County of 1985, and now she may
be disqualified because of rumours of her participation in
witchcraft. There are accusations of a practice called Astral
Projection…”
The
woman stirred, and Horace muted the television while he gazed at
Rhiannon’s face filling the screen. “So wild,” muttered Horace as
he watched her standing there with her hands in her hair. As she
walked from the courthouse steps, past the paparazzi, the breeze blew
lightly, and it lifted from her shoulders so that it glowed with the
late afternoon sun behind her. Rhiannon was a woman who knew how to
ignite cold contempt in the hearts of men toward any woman who had
the misfortune of not being Rhiannon.
Horace rolled over, as far from the woman as he could, and laid, shivering, in the dark.
***
“She rules her life like a bird…”
–Stevie Nicks
“All your life you’ve never seen A woman taken by the wind”
Stevie Nicks
Today
He
was nicely, serenely stoned. Her picture was on the 21.5 inch
monitor in front of him. He would have loved to see her in her
yearbook pictures from high school, to help him construct The Perfect
Rhiannon inside his mind, but these served as a reasonable guide. Her
previous beauty had been preserved flatteringly. “Age doth not
stale nor custom whither,” he muttered.
Horace
smiled unconsciously, and then clicked back over to the essay he was
writing. She would like this, he felt sure. It was close as he
would ever come to saying he loved her. But it was more than close
enough… if she ever read it.
“We’re
home!” came Rhonda’s voice.
Horace
looked up from the screen and watched the girls come into the library
from the kitchen.
“They
have me on a whole new set of painkillers,” said Rita. “I’m
sorry about last night.”
“We
brought you a present,” said Rhonda, handing him a donut.
“Oh,
thank you!” Horace was genuinely delighted. He took the donut, and
jelly dripped almost immediately onto his t shirt. He collected it
onto his index finger, and licked it off. “And it’s fine. It was
just a little weird.”
“She
doesn’t hallucinate often,” said Rhonda. “In the five years I’ve
been with her, it’s only the third time it’s happened.”
“Did
you wake up in the middle of the night while you were dreaming or
something?”
“No!
Your sister sat down on the bed, and she asked me some bizarre
question.”
Horace
smiled, perhaps somewhat indulgently. “What’d she ask you?”
“I
don’t know. I think it
was like whether you could make anyone happy without hurting
everyone, or something like that. What the fuck does that even mean?”
Horace
considered the question a moment. “That would be a hell of an
achievement.” He smiled. “And I think you reversed it.”
“It
means it was time to change your meds,” Rhonda said to Rita. She
turned to Horace. “We’re going to smoke. Join us.”
“Maybe
not,” muttered Horace as the girls went outside.
Rita
stuck her head back in the door. “What?”
Horace
stared into space a few moments. He was thinking of Rhiannon’s
candles. There was something he had heard about candles once, but he
couldn’t for the life of him remember what it was.
Mr.
Brown strutted into the library, and looked up at Horace sitting at
the desk. There was an essay being written, and Mr. Brown felt
obliged to make his contribution. He jumped into Horace’s lap, and
Horace reflexively started stroking his fur. He looked once into
Horace’s eyes, closed his own for a moment, then opened them again.
He hopped up onto the desk, strolled across the keyboard, and the
screen glowed with Rhiannon’s picture again. Mr. Brown’s bell
tinkled gently.
Rita
started to yell at the cat, when her eyes caught the image in front
of Horace. “There she is!”
“Who?”
He looked from Rhiannon to Rita.
“That’s
who came into my room the other night. That’s your sister, isn’t
it?”
“No,”
said Horace, shaking his head slowly. “It’s not.”
When
the cat crossed the desk, and leapt from the mouse to the window
above, her status appeared: “Do you suppose you could make
everyone happy without hurting anyone?”
Mr.
Brown searched the backyard for birds.
Tomorrow
“Dear Horace, Please don’t write about me anymore.”
I
agree with Dostoevsky, but for that to mean anything, we’ll need to
work out what we mean by Love.
The
word is wildly overused. I love pastrami, and I love Star Trek, and
I love Genesis, and I love To Kill a Mockingbird. But, I think what
I really mean when I say those things is that I have a strong
preference for them. I’m not saying that I would put the needs of
any of those inanimate objects above my own. I’m not willing to die
to protect my sandwich.
When
I love a person, I mean that I am willing to put their needs above my
own. How much I love them determines how far I will go. There are
people for whom I would die, without hesitation, if the situation
required it. There are people with whom I’ll share my last
cigarette. There are people I will turn down, even for that small
request.
I
wrote earlier that in some ways I like to think I love all people,
but not in a way that is likely to change my behavior very deeply.
For that to be affected, they have to have secured themselves a place
deep in my heart. And, more people than I had thought have done so.
Being
in love is, again, something entirely different. I’m not in love
with the vast majority of the people I love. For me, being in love
requires an element of desire. Yes, a part of it is sexual, but
mostly it’s having “grown accustomed to her face.” It’s the
feeling of needing her presence in my life in order to be content.
It’s the Joy of believing somewhere, somehow, she’s thinking of me.
It’s the happiness I feel whenever I think of her. I miss being in
love. Valerie Bertinelli notwithstanding, I’m not entirely sure I
ever will be again. I joke often about being in love with her, but,
honestly, I’ve met her only once, for just over 30 seconds. That’s
hardly enough to call being in love.
But,
what would life be without the ability to love at all? If I can
never see or feel for anyone beyond myself, that would severely limit
my ability to feel at all. And, for as much as I worship at the
Vulcan Altar of Logic, I believe we all exist to experience feelings.
I believe Love to be the first emotion we ever feel. It’s usually
to and from our parents. And from there, it expands. We meet
people, and we learn to love them. And when we do, our lives are
enriched. There is more reason to continue to live, just for the
chance to love and be loved one more time.
I
don’t try to limit my love. I always hope to expand it. I love my
dog. I’ve learned to love the cats with whom I live, but mostly
because they forced me to do that by showing me love. When a cat
cuddles you as your dog becomes too old to do it, there’s a wonderful
feeling of being special, being important. It’s a feeling that you
matter.
You
matter to me. What does that mean? It means I think about you from
time to time. It means I want your life to go the way you want it to
go. It means I’m probably willing to make efforts, within my
pathetically small abilities, to help you reach those goals. It
means that I gain satisfaction from your happiness.
If
I couldn’t feel those things, life would, I’m convinced, be Hell.
There is no love quite like
the love you can get from your dog. She will come running up to you
and cover you with kisses when you get home from work. She’ll make
you feel loved and special, as though you are the greatest and most
important being who ever existed in the universe. I have two ex
wives. Neither of them ever came close to my dog, Melanie, for
making me feel loved. On the other hand, neither of them ever pooped
on my floor, either, so perhaps it evens out.
Your dog will lie with her
head in your lap or on your chest. She will be by your side through
the worst times. She can provide protection. But, more than any of
this, she simply works her way into your heart in ways no human can.
She’ll never lie to you. She’ll never tell the secrets you share
with her. Melanie doesn’t mind in the least that I am old, broken,
and not particularly attractive. She loves Me, not my body. I’ve
never known a woman about whom I could honestly say that. She makes
me smile, and laugh, and sing. (I sing to Melanie for Breakfast and
at Bedtime. Fortunately, she can’t tell that I suck.) A dog will
show you Joy you never knew was possible. And, finally, she will
break your heart.
Melanie is a part of my
routine. The day will come, I know, when I don’t get to sing The
Breakfast Song to her anymore. Her head won’t be on my lap when I’m
sad. I won’t see her tail wagging joyously simply because she sees
me. And my world will be just a little emptier.
There are those who will
tell you, “It’s only a dog; get over it.” These people are to be
ignored. They don’t understand the depths of your feelings. She was
there all the time. She relied on you for her survival, and you
relied on her for the only feeling of being Completely Loved that you
will ever really have. It doesn’t need to be rational. Love rarely
is.
What do you have left? You
have your memories of the good times you had. You can recall her
highs, her lows, her joys, her woes, and the moments you shared with
her. You have the look in her eyes that told you how she was
feeling. You have, still, and always, the love she gave to you
without expecting anything in return. You have a Badge of Honor
because you can say, “I have been loved by a dog.”
And when your dog is gone,
those who love you will help you through the loss. I probably don’t
know you, but if you have lost your dog, you are worthy of love. I
hope these words might have helped to fill in just a little part of
the massive hole your dog’s departure has left in your heart.
“…you shouldn’t blow the chance When you’ve got the chance to say I love you…”
Olivia Newton John
There
are 2 people to whom I say I Love You daily. There are 2 others to
whom I say it almost daily. There are 3 cats and a dog who hear it
from me several times a day. There are 7.68 billion people to whom
I never say it at all.
I
don’t recall the last time I said it in a romantic sense. It’s
almost certainly been a decade. It’s been at least that long since
I’ve heard anyone say it to me in that way. I wouldn’t be surprised
if I never say it or hear it that way again. Nor would I be unhappy
about that. It’s gone badly for me in almost all cases. I can be
done with that now.
Why
do I say it and hear it so rarely?
Let’s
begin with what I believe I Love You means. For me, to love someone
means that their happiness is at least as important to you as your
own. It means you will, whenever possible, act in ways designed to
increase that person’s happiness.
Now,
it’s absurd to think I could feel that way about 7.68 billion people.
I will never see, let alone meet, well over 99% of them. How can
their happiness really be at least as important to me as mine? In
any meaningful way, it can’t.
But
what can I feel about the rest of the humans who share this planet
with me? I would prefer none of them suffered. I would prefer that
they all practice and receive Kindness. To a greater or lesser
extent, I can empathize with them. Whether it’s an impoverished
mother from a tiny tribe in Africa, or the richest woman in a high
rise in Manhattan, no mother wants her baby taken away without her
consent. I can imagine how that must feel. It’s basic to being
human. Their experiences are different from mine, but there are
certain aspects of life that we all share. Our hearts all, I
suspect, feel joy and pain about many of the same experiences. We
are more alike than we are different.
But
do I love them?
I
don’t think I do in the deepest sense of that word. But I recognize
that their happiness is, if not necessarily to me, as important as
mine, as yours, as anyone’s, at least to them. I hope others love
them too. There’s no reason you, or the person next to you, or
someone who has never seen a cell phone deserves less from life than
I do. So, while I might not love them, individually, I love their
existence.
I
find I enjoy being able to say I Love You. It makes me feel good.
Perhaps that’s because I can empathize with the person to whom I’m
saying it. I like to believe hearing or reading it makes that person
happy. It may make me feel good because I can feel the reflection of
their happiness. Or, maybe it’s just that I enjoy it in the same way
I enjoy pastrami. I don’t get enough of that, either, anymore.
I
loved my Father deeply. But, I think I can count on one hand the
times, after my childhood, that we said it to each other. We didn’t
need to say it; it was always clear to us both. He is gone now; our
love continues unabated.
It
isn’t necessarily clear, however, to the rest of the planet that I
love their existence. Either you or I may be gone tomorrow, too.
That makes today the ideal time.
I
probably don’t know you. I’ll almost certainly never meet you. And
if I do know you, we’re probably not in the habit of saying it to one
another. (There are, as you know, only about 4 people out of the
7.68 billion running around, with whom I regularly exchange that
phrase.) So, let me say what I can.
I
love your existence. It’s at least as important to me as my own. I
do my best to act in ways designed to increase your happiness. And,
if you are nothing more than your existence, as some would posit,
then I suppose it would be fair for me to say, in a very general way:
Fred's Thoughts 