Stream of Consciousness

John Wayne.  Marion Morrison.  Jim Morrison.  Bruce Wayne.  Marian Cunningham.  Dandy Featherwafer.   George H.W. Bush.  Abraham Lincoln.

Ok so I don’t know the lyrics to REM’s hit single “It’s the end of the world (as we know it).”  I don’t even know if that’s the actual name of the song.  I’m just picturing a 45 (type of vinyl music disk) with the words as shown above.  Later on, if I feel like it, I may actually look up the name of the song.  Right now, it’s Thursday (I never could get the hang of Thursdays) and I’m trying to get to somewhere in the vicinity of 1500 words.  As I type this (pre-edit), MSWord has me at 120 words.  

Here’s the deal.  I don’t have any stories right now.  I only have an obligation to blog something by tomorrow.  Maybe in a few minutes, I’ll have a story.  Maybe I’ll pick up one of the threads of storyline I’ve been working on the last several weeks.  But I’m pretty sure I’m keeping these words in either way.  These 180 words. 

So where was I?  Oh yeah – those names above.  They are all linked somehow.  I look at it this way.  When I was a kid, we were astonished that big tough, masculine John Wayne was from Iowa.  Just kidding.  That actually makes sense.  What amazed us was - what kind of name was Marion Morrison?  First of all, the only Marion we ever knew Was Mr. C’s wife on Happy Days.  And the only Morrison we knew was, well we’d never heard of Jim Morrison (and he was already dead).  Oh I’d heard the song “People Are Strange (when you’re a stranger.  Women seem wicked, when you’re alone).”  Ok, I don’t know what that song is called either.   I had heard of The Doors, of course.  And as you probably know, Aldous Huxley’s “Doors of perception ( AKA trippin’ balls)” – might not have that title correct either – was required reading for all 3^rd graders who took Mr. Featherwafer’s 3^rd grade English class.  I remember it like it was yesterday …

“Ok who’s next,” Featherwafer asked, “Oh yes, I’ve been looking forward to this one.  Fred Hinsley, you’re up.”

“Actually, it’s pronounced Hinsley,” I corrected.

It was my turn to read my poem.  After weeks of struggling with this assignment, I had come across a brilliant idea.  The poem basically wrote itself as I listened to the radio one day.

Head down, I pulled myself from my seat near the back of the room toward the podium where I was to recite my poem.  I could sense all eyes on me as I looked down at the floor.  This was crazy.  These were my classmates.  We play together every day.  But now, they are my enemies.  Burned into my brain as I make the long walk to the front of the room is the type of shoe that each child wears.  Mark Anderson’s shoe is all ripped out, I notice.  It looks a lot like mine.  Delia Davenport’s Shoes are seriously tidy and clean.  My face feels hot as I turn to face the 30 or so Benedict Arnolds in the room.  How can they be so cruel.  Yes.  I know.  I’ve mercilessly ripped into every poem so far, cracking jokes and generally being class appointed heckler.  But that doesn’t make it right.  At least I have an ace up my sleeve.  My poem is literally a hit.  No way they will laugh at this masterpiece. 

Standing silent, waiting to begin.  Stalling,  I look at the class, sweat dripping from my bangs.  I then look  down to the podium.  No paper of course.  I have memorized my poem.  Finally, I lift my eyes toward Mr Featherwafer who nods for me to begin.  So I do:

“I remember all my life,” I start as several kids who were carving into the desk, stop and look up to me, “Raining down as cold as ice,”  Not the best rhyme, but I kind of lisp it to make it work.

“A shadow of a man, a face through a window …“ now all eyes are on me.  Some of the children begin rockin’ to the natural cadence of “My poem”

Then I dramatically slow down my reading …

“Crying in the night,”  I confess as tears begin to well, “The night goes into,”  Then overtaken by the beauty and emotion, I skip a big huge section of my poem and sing as other join, “Oh Mandy, well you came and you gave without taking”  and so on.

“That was, Um, not very original was it?”  Featherwafer judged

.

“No, I guess I might have heard it somewhere before,” I admitted.

Our grading system was 1, 2, 3, 4 and 5.  It equated directly to A, B, C, D and F.

“Well I’ll tell you what.  You can take a 5 on the assignment and remain “Fred Hinsley” the way you pronounce it.  Or I’ll give you a 3 if we can just call you Barry for the rest of the year.”

“I’ll take the 3 sir.”

“Wise decision young Barry.  You see class, what Master Manilow did here is called pandering to his audience.  It’s also called plagiarism. He knows his audience too well.  So he can get away with it.   Sit down Barry.”

“Thank you Sir,” I was so glad that was over.  A 3!  And all I had to do was sell out.  Sweet. 

  

895 words.  You know what.  I’m not going to edit this.  It’s going in as written.  Sorry everyone, but there’s football on tonight.

Ok, so what’s next?  I always thought that if Marian Cunningham had hooked up with Batman and got Married she would be called:  “Mrs. Bruce Wayne”.

There are precisely 2 problems with this, of course.  The first is nobody wants to watch a show called “Happy Days,” where the main character’s mother runs off with a superhero and leaves the lovable Mr.  C to drown in misery.  That’s not a Happy Day at all.  The second problem is that a move like that (Marion marries Bruce Wayne)  would surely be a ratings gimmick.  And instead of the familiar “Jumping the shark,”  We might be saying “Marrying Batman”  Or possibly “Marian Batman” to play on several linguistic thingies all at once.

The First president of the United States who was named George Bush was related to Abraham Lincoln.  I don’t actually know if that’s true or not, but once I dated this girl who claimed to be related to George Bush, Abraham Lincoln and Marilyn Monroe.  What are you doing hanging around with me, I sarcastically thought.  What I really thought was wow, Marilyn Monroe is related to Abe Lincoln? 

Every summer, Dad took us all on vacation somewhere.  Sometimes we went to Colorado or the Grand Canyon.  Sometimes we went to Florida or California.  But we always went somewhere. 

Every place we went had tourist shops.  Places to buy souvenirs.  We could spend an hour in these places, looking at the coolest stuff.  But dad would never let us buy any of those “trinkets” because they were a huge ripoff as he put it. 

Anyway – every single one of these places had, somewhere in the shop – a certain plate.  It was fascinating, this plate.  My brother and I always looked for it.  It was a little game.  Who can find the plate.  Usually it was dad because “spoiling the fun” was what dad often mistook for fun. 

The plate had on the left side a list of things about Abraham Lincoln.  On the right was a list of eerily similar things about John Fitzgerald Kennedy. 

Things like “Kennedy drove a Lincoln.  Lincoln’s barber was named Jackie O” or something. I don’t really remember.

  Anyway – when this girl said indirectly that Marilyn Monroe was related to Abe Lincoln, I thought of yet another entry for the plate. 1323 words exclusive.

Well that was lazy of me wasn’t it?  It’s unfortunate and rude of me – I know to post this unedited effort in.  I was mildly entertained by it, but most of all, it was really easy.  It is possible, but unlikely that I will make a better effort next time, but you never know.  Ok here’s the deal.  We don’t have work tomorrow or Monday.  I’m kind of in weekend mode.  I think I will do one thing that I suggested earlier and see what that song is called.

Oh my god I’m laughing pretty hard.  The name of the song is:  “It’s the end of the world as we know it (and I feel fine).”  Way to give it all away, REM.  Why don’t you just name “The Crying Game”  “The Crying game (because it’s a dude)” Or how about we call “Fight Club”  “Fight Club (Tyler Durdin is the narrater)” One more; “The Sixth sense (is being able to see dead people, like say Bruce Willis’ character, for instance.  Just Sayin’)” 1500.

Boomer and Cube go for a bike ride

“I really think she’s into me,” Boomer said, watching the tall, strawberry blond waitress run off to get our drinks.  She was good looking in a wholesome way.  She was probably 25 or so, whereas Boomer was almost 19.  I was well into my 20^th year.  (I was 19), so I figured I had a much better shot with her.

“Why don’t you just take her friend,” I suggested, referring to the girl neither of us had seen, but were destined to meet the following night, “Surely she’s more into you than Laura.  She hasn’t met you yet.”

Somehow, Boomer and I had coerced the girl to bring a friend the next night for drinks. Wednesday, according to Laura, was her night off.  We had become regulars at the lounge below the dinner theater downtown.  It was one of the few places in town an underage guy could get a drink and unlike Louis’, it was filled with hotties.  They weren’t called hotties back then, though.  They were called foxes, but anyway.

“Well whatever.  I don’t care.  It’s just that she said her friend was a brunette …,” Boomer reminded me, knowing I was a complete sucker for dark hair.

“Enough about that shit.  Were you serious about riding to work tomorrow?” I asked.

“Yeah – you know I’ve been riding a lot in Lincoln.  I’m pretty good now.  I don’t think you’ll be dropping me this year.”

“Oh that’s nice.  Alrighty then.  Let’s ride to work,” I was overconfident.  I hadn’t been on my bike for months.  I was a masher.  I had never heard of spinning.  Boomer learned about it at school from other cyclists. 

The plan was to ride from the neighborhood out to work, which was about 12 miles.  We both worked at the cabinet shop, so we risked ridicule from the big manly men.  But we sort of thrived on that. 

Early the next day, I rode the 8 blocks or so up to Boomer’s house.  I was wearing my sensible bike shorts.  I had on a nice pocket T and some LOOK shoes that were designed with the clipless system in mind, but I still had toe clips.  I had some really nice crew length white socks to complete the ensemble, and my helmet, as always, was probably somewhere in the garage.  The shorts were specially designed for riding.  Cannondale was the brand name.  They had a zipper, pockets and a snap.  Pretty much everything you’d expect on a pair of shorts that had nothing to do with biking.  The only thing that distinguished them as official bike gear and not just a pair of two dollar casual shorts from Target was that they cost 31 dollars.  Oh and I bought them from Olympia on 40^th and Hamilton. 

Clipped onto the pocket of my “bike” shorts was my craftsman 20’ tape measure.  Scratched crudely across the top of the tape measure were the letters C-U-B-E, as instructed by Roland at the cabinet shop.

Fade to cabinet shop memory …

“You might wanna put your name on that or sumpin.  There’s a lot of foreigners working here,” Roland told me. 

“And they want to steal my tape measure?”  I asked in all sarcasm.

“You never know,” Roland responded in all seriousness.

Then we both stood there for a moment, hands in our pockets, looking off into the distance through an open garage door at the cabinet shop, contemplating just how dishonest foreigners can be.  Perhaps the silence went on too long because Roland abruptly jerked to alertness as if waking from a nightmare, “Well anyway, get your name scratched on there and start measuring some pieces of wood or something, kid.”

And off he went.  Leaving me to measure wood, if you know what I mean.  Hardy har har.  I’m pretty sure if he’s still alive, he drives a pickup truck, the back window covered with a stunning scene of a waving American flag behind the profile of an extremely serious bald eagle.  You can tell the eagle is upset about something.  It’s almost certain that the events of 911 will haunt that eagle until the end of time.  Or at least until Roland trades that pickup in for a Prius (at which time, the terrorists win). 

Anyway – flashback level 2 will now meld back into flashback number one.

Arriving at Boomer’s house, I was already feeling tired and trying to look fresh.  Boomer was waiting, sipping on a cup of coffee and smoking a Salem.  Then as he stood to mount his bike, I realized he had done it.  Boomer was the first person I knew personally to go full Lycra.  I had to look away due to my modest Midwestern sensibilities.  I knew I had always wanted to wear clothing like that when I rode, but I didn’t dare.  I didn’t even think it was legal.  That settles it.  First thing tomorrow …

We took off easily enough.  We were going from about 50^th and dodge to 144^th and Industrial road.  So naturally since we were 19, we didn’t even dream of taking any route other than what we normally took in our cars.  60^th street to L street to 144^th and industrial.  Heavy traffic.  Especially heavy truck traffic.  Lots of honking.  Probably because of Boomer’s cool shorts, but we hardly noticed.  What I did notice though was Boomer was better.  A lot better.  He was in such an easy gear I couldn’t believe how fast he was going.  I thought the only way I’d be able to catch up with him would be to get into a bigger gear and push harder.  Of course that didn’t work.  Boomer dropped me hard on the hill up to 84^th street and waited at the top, sipping his coffee, smoking his cigarette, etc.

“Told you,” Boomer said.

“No shit.  You are good.  I mean I think I’m about the same as I always was and I can’t keep up with you,” I confessed.

“Yup.  Um I hate to tell you this, because you’ll get better fast, but you want to be pedaling at no less than 90 rpms.  Otherwise, you’ll tire out too quickly.  It’s called spinning.”

“90 RPMs?  Spinning?  I don’t think so,”

“Just try it.  It’s not like you’ll go any slower.” Boomer observed.

I wasn’t able to pull the rest of the way to the shop, but I wasn’t getting dropped as hard either.  It was amazing.  Now I hate to tell you this, reader (Wesley), because you’ll get better fast, but 90 RPMs is still too slow.  Get on some rollers were you’ll hang out at 110 for long periods.  Take that shit on the roads and you’ll see speeds you’ve never seen before.  I think probably the higher the better.  I’m sure there’s no upper limit.  That’s why I’m now training at about 600 rpms.  But of course that’s metric so you do the math.

At work that day, my legs were all wobbly and I dreaded the idea of the ride home.  Plus we still had to go meet those girls downtown later on.  I think Jim, my roommate, sensed all this and asked Boomer and me if we needed a ride home.  Yes.  What a life saver.  Obviously, I said to Jim:

“Well I think I’d rather just get another good ride in today, but ask Boomer.  If he doesn’t want to ride the bike back, we’ll both go with you.”

So in classic Boomer and Cube form, we added a few miles to the bike ride on the way home, just because.

Dying up one of the last hills, just hoping I can make it all the way home in the autumn heat, Boomer came up with a life saver of a plan and began to sing our favorite customized song,

“Treat me like a fool,” Boomer began in his best Elvis Presley voice.

 I was obliged to continue, “Treat me mean and cruel,”

Then both of us, “But love me …”

“Tie me to a chair,” Boomer wailed.

“Burn my pubic hair,” I finished.

Then both, “But Love me.”

“Well if-a you ever go …” and so on.

Then I did the farmer nose blow snot thing, and a big chunk of brownish sawdust-snot came out. 

Damn that was cool.

Autumn Approaches

Cube didn't like his boss at the Architectural firm.  There were the 2 survey crews at the firm.  The one Boomer was on was supervised by Ed.  With the exception that Ed insisted on listening to country music, he was a good guy to work for.  Dean led the other crew.  That was the crew that Cube was on.  The best thing about Dean was that he insisted on listening to country music.  Cube really disliked Dean. 

Cube was not in college, but this was really sort of a summer job for college kids.  It was seasonal work.  So as soon as the season ended, Cube found a job in the high tech fast-paced world of custom cabinet making.

Cube knew nothing about making cabinets.  He had taken wood shop in Jr. High (N.K.A Middle School) where he spent the entire semester building a Chess board.  The end result was a horribly uneven hunk of wood that was a hazard to play.  Say, for instance you decided to pull a fancy “castle” move or whatever the hell it is you do in Chess.  You were more likely to suffer a debilitating splinter wound and bleed on your king than protect him.

Cube’s roommate was Jim.  Jim worked at the cabinet shop.  Jim’s girlfriend was a friend of Cube’s.  She coerced Jim to put in a good word for Cube at the shop.  “Just look at that glorious chessboard,” Erin would say. 

“Erin, these guys are craftsmen.  It wouldn’t be fair to anyone,” Jim protested.

“Have you actually looked at the Chess board,” Cube attempted.

“Uh …” 

“Listen Jim, all this talk about Cube not having a job is giving me a headache.  I’m going to bed, BB.”

‘BB’ was Erin’s nickname for Jim when he wasn’t going to get any.

Jim had worked at the cabinet shop for nearly 10 years.  He was sort of a legend there.  Kind of an oddity.  Co-workers would frequently visit him while he was joyfully sawing away.  “C’mon Jim, let’s see ‘em.”

“Really guys?  Again?,” Jim would always say, a little shy.   Then “fine,”  at which point, he’d hold up both hands, palms out to reveal 10 perfectly intact fingers.

“Wow.  He hasn’t even got any tips gone,” one would say.

“I know, right?” the other would say, confusing everyone in the room since the year was 1984.

“I’m telling you Dave, the kid is just like me.  His self control is amazing.  I’ll lay down whatever odds you want, that not only will he never lose a finger, I’m willing to bet he’ll even find some.  He’s a smart kid.  A good egg.  He’s fucking brilliant, I tell you.  Oh yeah and he’s my roommate, So I can give him a ride and make sure he’s here every day,”  Oh Erin, you are so paying me back for this tonight, Jim thought (correctly).

“You say he has no experience,” Dave asked, caught between Jim and some completely unqualified kid.

“Worse, he took wood shop in Jr. High (middle school)”

“Oh shit.  Really?  Are you sure about this kid, Jim.” 

“No shit Dave.  He’ll be running ‘Doors’ within a year,” Jim affirmed.

“Alright send him in.  I’m still gonna put him through hell in the interview.”

Turns out it's not ‘what you know’, it's ‘who you know’.  ‘What you know’ has its benefits.  Like if you want to keep all your fingers.

"What's this thing called again," Cube asked Dave.

"Well let's see ...  It looks kind of like a table, doesn't it?  And that pointy round thing sticking out of the middle?  That's a blade.  A saw blade."

"Got it.  A saw table.  I remember now," Cube boasted.

"Yeah.  You'll do.  Ok this stack of panels here needs to be cut down to the size written on each one.  You know how to read a tape, right?"

"A tape? Like a cassette?"

"No. like that thing clipped to your jeans."

"Oh, the tape measure?  Yeah I can read it.  I took wood shop in Jr. High."

"Ok, these panels have to be exact.  Within a 32nd of an inch.  Never Short.  Good luck."

After some confusion about width and height and a couple of mishaps related to the meaning of "exactly", Cube was up and running as the Table Saw guy for the cabinet door panel things.  At first, none of the other guys really hung out with Cube except for his roommate, the legend.

The Framers were the guys who put together, well, the frames or something.  This was considered the coolest job in the shop.  The framers were like when you were at a concert with your date, then some guy starts hitting on her.  Then he walks up on stage and turns out to be Eddie Vedder, lead singer for the band that’s playing. Yeah, you were never going to get to be a framer.  What you will get from time to time however, while you're sawing away, is a well placed 16 penny nail to the chest from a bored framer's nail gun about 20 paces away.  Man, they were accurate with those things.  Occasionally, the nail will bounce off you and ricochet with great velocity off the saw blade.  Good times and high fives all around.  

As saw man, under certain conditions you would also get a standing ovation.  Seems like no matter how careful you are, once in a while, a piece of wood is going to bind up in the blade and kickback toward your crotch.  The natural (and wrong) reaction is to try to grab the piece of wood.  Do that, and there's a good chance the wood will pull your hands into the blade.  No, the right thing to do is raise your hands like you're under arrest and let the wood slam into your jeans.  The kickback makes a loud and distinctly scary sound.  Afterwards, the cabinet shop turns silent as everyone in the place stops what they're doing to see which route you chose.  If they see a man standing there, hands in the air, holding firm as the pain from the flying lumber to the groin registers, they collectively sigh, drop their equipment and begin the slow clap that soon becomes a thunderous round of laughter and applause.  That's the good one.  The other one happened to Cube's friend and earned not applause, but a mad search for the man's pinky finger and a trip to the hospital.  

Cube was working the second shift that day.

"So what's with the huge stack of panels," Cube asked as he stomped out his cigarette into the sawdust at the foot of the saw.  Normally the stack of panels was about 6 feet high.  Today it was more like 11 or so.  In answer to Cube's question, Roland, a manager jerked his thumb in the direction of the "Number of days without an accident" board and started to walk away.  "Is Ravi ok?"

"He'll be fine.  Just lost a finger.  Happens to all of us one day.  They can probably reattach it, but he says he's not coming back.  Oh and some of those panels have a little blood on them.  Don’t worry, the sanders can get most of it out.  True story,"  true story.

From that day on, Cube became known as "Waxer" mostly because he insisted on waxing his table about 4 times a shift.  But also because it implied masturbation or something, which is always funny.  There is simply no exception.

"Jeez Waxer, you could play air hockey on this thing," Dave, the boss once noted of Cube's nice shiny table saw.

"I just like having all my fingers," Cube said.

"I get it.  More fingers to 'Wax' with, eh Waxer?"

And at that they both had a good hearty laugh.

Cube worked hard and safely at the cabinet shop.  With the possible exception of Jim, Cube was easily the smartest person working there. 

And within 3 months, Cube had learned every part of what it takes to make a door.  He had even spent some time doing the untouchable job of sanding.  There was actually nothing wrong with this work other than it was mind-numbingly boring.  The sanders were hunched over panels all day, smoothing them out.  The sanders always wore facemasks.  The leader of the sanders was a really cool guy.   His name was, true story:  Texo Daro.  Cube Always thought that was the coolest name anybody could have, but he wasn’t sure why.

Cube was now basically running the whole cabinet door part of the shop.  Just like Jim the roommate had predicted.

When Summer rolled around,  Boomer came back into town and was gonna pick up at old KMA (The architectural firm), but Cube put in a good word for him at the Cabinet shop.

“I know one thing about Boomer.  He never took wood shop in Jr. High, Dave.”

“If you say so Waxer, I’ll give him a chance.”

“Actually, that’s ‘Cube’, with  ‘C’”, Cube corrected.

“Whatever you say Pube Waxer!”

And they both laughed for a while.  Cube, because Dave was the boss.

~~
Edit: I guess the leader of the sanders was actually Dara Texo.  But it was a long time ago.  It's still a cool name, though.

The End (of one story)

Sitting at Marv’s childhood home, waiting for Old lady Carson to return from the kitchen with the iced tea he had flatly refused, Dr. Johnson began to get impatient.  He looked at the walls covered with the pictorial diary of Marvin Carson’s life.  At least up until he moved away shortly after Dr. Johnson had met him. 

Coming into the front room from the kitchen, carrying a tray of iced tea glasses and a pitcher and all that, Mrs. Carson yelled, “No I haven’t seen him in about 15 years.  Of course, I always get the birthday and Mother’s day calls.  He’s a good boy.  Just busy.  You understand that, don’t you Herman?  Big smooth walking Dr like yourself?

So the old lady still had that same old ornery streak.  Well two can play at that game, thought Johnson as they fell into their same old routine from nearly 2 decades ago …

“Why don’t you stuff it you crusty old bitty!” Herman shouted playfully, grabbing a glass from the tray, causing old lady Carson to nearly topple the whole thing with the unexpected weight shift.

“Suck the shit out of my ass, you scrawny little so and so …” shot back the good lady Carson.

But now, Dr Johnson couldn’t continue.  He was here on serious business.  As much as he’d love to finish the game, he needed information.  Mrs. Carson, sensing his somber mood, became concerned.

“What is it, baby?  You know you can always tell mama Carson anything,” Mrs. Carson incorrectly stated.

Because no he couldn’t tell her that sweet Marv was not a big exec out West, but a cross dressing, hash slinging waitress down at Cecil’s.   Except he wasn’t slinging hash today.  Today he was in the ICU from accidentally poisoning himself trying to kill the good Dr.  Oh yeah, and also he was only being kept alive by an experimental genetic concoction thrown together by a brilliant, but careless young veterinary student.  This same concoction that will eventually turn Marvin the cross dressing waitress into Marvin the frog if Dr Johnson cannot decipher the contents of the poison immediately and somehow reverse the effect.  And this bitch wants to make tea and chat!

“I need to find Butch,” Dr. Johnson finally blurted out.

“Oh him,” Mrs. Carson believed that Butch was somehow responsible for Marvin going away and she’s held a grudge since.  Luckily for the Dr., she had no idea that Marvin was actually all gay for him and Butch had nothing to do with Marv’s relocation.

“I suppose you can find him at his hangout.  I hear from his mother, whose heart he’s repeatedly broken, that he spends most days and nights down at The Original Chico’s”

“Never was much of a talker was he?” Johnson said.

Note:  The Italicized stuff really really happened.

Jack slowly walked the center aisle of the movie theatre looking for any signs of disruption.  He paused nearly imperceptibly as he reached row 19.  This row was currently being nicknamed in Jack’s mind.  “Row Trouble” was his working title.  A light sniff of the air in the direction of the ne’er-do-wells to his left served as subtle, but powerful warning that not only was good behavior expected, it would be enforced at any cost.  Unfortunately, the boys were too busy looking for their toilet paper to worry about “Porky, the rent-a-pig.”

Dejected, Jack moved on to the very front of the movie theatre.   As he made a left turn in front of the screen to walk back up the left side aisle, an unfortunate little accident happened.  Jack was aware that he was walking in front of the screen, partially blocking the view.  This was a test.  It was intentional.  What he didn’t know was that nobody in the theatre gave a shit.  This was “The Rocky Horror Picture Show”.  Most of these kids had seen it dozens of times.

So Jack thought he himself was being addressed when at the moment he chose to walk in front of the screen, “The Criminologist, An Expert” appeared to the traditional screams from the crowd of “ASSHOLE!!!”

With catlike blubbery agility, Jack spun to face the yelling crowd.  Incredibly, they were still yelling.  How can this be?  Saddened by his total lack of affect on the crowd, he slumped into a seat in the front row, defeated.  Head in his hands wrecking his carefully designed combover, Jack began to quietly weep. 

“You’re weak, bruiser,” Jack thought, using his high school nickname on himself, “You just can’t put the fear in them anymore.  Why are they still yelling?”  Pulling out of his man-breast pocket one of those nasty old snotrag things old guys always carried around with them, he dried his eyes and looked around.  “Ah, they’re yelling at the screen, dummy,” with a relieved chuckle and long blow into the snotrag, Jack regained composure, hurriedly readjusted his combover with the fingernails of his right hand and replaced his rent-a-cop hat.  Standing again to partially block the screen, Jack noticed that some of the kids had newspapers draped over their heads.  “What the …” That’s when Jack became aware of a light mist mysteriously falling as if it were raining in the theater.

Which, um, precipitated the great sprayer bottle confiscation of 1983.

While Jack and a couple of ushers went row by row, collecting spray bottles, Jack noticed he was tapping his toe to the beat.  He found himself humming, something about the “Pelvic thrust.” 

Just as Jack reached the very back of the theater, it happened.  His favorite midnight movie sound in the world.  The sound of an empty beer bottle rolling to the front, underneath the seats.  Jack and his crew had exhaustively experimented with empty beer bottles in the theater’s off hours.  They could pinpoint with amazing accuracy ground zero if they could find where the bottle came to rest.   Midnight movie protocol dictates that if you hear a beer bottle rolling your way, you must raise your feet to allow gravity to naturally take the beer bottle as far as it can before being stopped usually by a theater chair leg.  Giggling is optional, but always appreciated.  A few seconds after it began. The rolling sound stopped with the obvious clank against a seat leg somewhere.  Over Jack’s earpiece, he got the news he needed.  “27 R, left.  Repeat 2 – 7 – Romeo, Lima.”  No surprise there.  “27R left” decoded to 19 M or N, depending on release with the bottle pointing left or right.  Accurate enough to indict the flophead gang.

“Nice going Boomer.  Now he’s coming over here,” Cube complained.

“Then I guess we better get rid of the evidence, then, huh?”

At that, every bottle in the row was released to the general vicinity of row 27 making, well, a glorious ringing noise that caused Jack’s blood pressure to venture to new heights, his ears, an extraordinary vibrant glowing red.

“Hey Flopheads.  Consider this a warning.  Any more floppiness out of any of you, and you’ll be outta here.”

“Sorry sir,” Butch attempted.

“Don’t ‘sorry sir’ me.  Just settle down and stop your flopping,” Jack simultaneously yelled and whispered, spraying the boys with enough saliva that Cube pulled the newspaper back out for protection.  “And give me that paper!”

Unfortunately for the boys, they would never get to yell Cube’s favorite line.  The Criminologist, An Expert appeared on the screen at exactly the same moment Jack was demanding the contraband from Cube.  Cube was a purest and had no choice.  He was forced by tradition to scream  “ASSHOLE!” at that exact moment.  It totally had nothing to do with Jack Hughes.  You think that mattered?  You think Jack Hughes believed him?

“No Louise, I didn’t believe him,” Jack, proudly confessed to his gal Louise, bacon grease running down his chin,  “I grabbed that little punk by the ear and threw him out of the theater.  For good.  The rest of them just got up and left.  Problem solved.  I doubt those boys will ever be back to my 6 West Theater.  You know I might be the best thing that ever happened to that place.  With me around to keep the peace, The 6 West Theater will enjoy years and years of success.  I’ve actually gone from embarrassed by my role to proud to be a part of the most successful movie chain of all time.”

Louise’s love for Jack had never been greater. “My hero,” she said at last, back turned to Old man Hughes as she prepared a “little more” cheesy scrambled bacon lard eggs and coffee. 

With a nod and a chuckle, Jack sipped at his coffee, pensively staring off into the distance at a future that looked brighter than it had in nearly a decade.

“You know what, Weezy?  Whaddya say we get the bikes out of the garage and go for a spin around the park?”

Raising her head to look up at the cupboards above the stove and prevent her tears from dripping into the frying pan,  Louise, voice trembling in joyful disbelief, said, “That will be just fine, Mr. Hughes.”

And they lived happily ever after.

--

Ok I’m officially lost.  I don’t recognize any of these places.  Of course it doesn’t help that I’m such a dummy.  Literally.  Essentially a block of wood with a clever series of mechanisms designed to facilitate the illusion of speech and emotion.  But I have neither.  Nor do I have thoughts.  I do not exist except in a purely physical form.  I’d argue that you are no different, but I am also incapable of arguing. 

Where did I get off track?  I just wanted to step outside and clear my little wooden head.  After furball escaped my grasp and ran loose at the hospital, I tried to do the right thing.  I reported it immediately.  Well, I tried to.  But the nurses at their station thought it was all some elaborate joke.  “Who’s making the dummy walk?”  I may not have a soul or feelings or a brain or a heart, but some things are just mean.  Looking at my ridiculous reflection in the plate glass of some unknown Jewelry store, I realize I just need to sit down somewhere and be quiet for a while.  

I continue down the rain-slicked sidewalk, ignoring the stares and gasps of horror from all the people regarding my approach.  I know.  It’s a miracle someone like me is walking at all.  And granted, it doesn’t look very realistic when I do it.  Something about the way my legs bend looks unnatural to humans.  Maybe it’s the fact that my knees are actually just a seam where the pantleg fabric has been sewn straight across so my legs hang “naturally” in the seated position.  I was not made for walking.  I was made to be seated on a man’s lap.  “Dummies are to be seen and not heard,” they all say.  Or “There’s just something inherently creepy about a dummy.”  Yeah thanks for that one.  Feels great.  Fortunately, I don’t have tear ducts or my face would warp.  Hey, what’s this bar up ahead?  Maybe they don’t care if a guy comes in and just wants to keep to himself …

Chico's

Everybody knows about Chico’s.  But few know the story of how it got started.  Because of the very nature of Chico’s it’s tough to get a straight answer from anybody.

Chico or “Little Guy” was born to a poor family in southeast Omaha.  Chico’s father worked long hard hours as a CEO for the largest company in town.  At least that’s what he told Chico.  Actually, he was a cat burglar.  He chose his profession in hopes of conquering his fear of heights, but it didn’t work.  Chico’s mother, the iron-jawed Penelope Featherwafer, was left with the difficult task of providing for the whole family.  While old man Featherwafer was out, dressed all in black, quietly leaning against ground floor walls, trying to muster the courage to climb to a first story window ledge, Penny was putting in extra shifts at the laundry washing place.  And you know what?  It didn’t pay too well either.  So what I’m saying is they were poor.  I have a reason for saying this.  So pay attention. 

Chico came from poverty.  It’s not like ‘Chico’s’ just fell into his lap is what I’m saying.  This is a story of how a guy in this country can go from rags to, well, Chico still dresses in dirty old t-shirts and torn up jeans, but he doesn’t have to if he doesn’t want to.  I mean, his mother works in a laundromat for God’s sake.  Though they rarely had enough food on the table, there was always an extra helping of love at the Featherwafer house.  Sniff. 

As soon as Chico was old enough to work, he got a job at his uncle’s neighborhood bar, cleaning up.  “I remember when Uncle Don first showed me how to use the sar-dust to clean up the barf,” Chico recalled on Letterman that time he was on just after Charles Grodin. 

“Sar-dust?” Letterman asked, making a goofy look and sticking his tongue out sideways, then letting out a high pitched “Wee-heee,” Causing Paul Shafer, Charles Grodin, the studio audience and most of the people waiting for Craig Ferguson, to laugh at dumb old Chico.  Well Chico was no dummy.  He sensed he was being made sport of, stood up and began reciting his motto to the audience.  As if in a trance, the audience joined in chanting the motto in the creepiest monotone you’ve ever heard.  David Letterman, obviously uncomfortable with the sudden turn, took an index finger to his collar and gave a tug in hopes of loosening the solid grip his tie seemed to have on his neck.  Grodin also looked concerned, but he was just “acting”.

As Chico left the studio, about half of the audience went with him where they found the nearest Chico’s and enjoyed a quiet sulking drink.

So Chico helped the family make ends meet by working at “Donny’s Spirits and Grill” all through high school.  Don would let the boy do his schoolwork at the bar when there was no “Sar-dusting” to do.  Even so, the boy usually had to work until 2 or 3 AM, so he dropped out of school on his 16^th Birthday.

One late night, walking alone to his house, he thought he heard a noise as he passed an alleyway.  More curious than scared, he started to walk into the alley to investigate.  “Hello,” Chico offered warily into the darkness, “Is there somebody there?”

Just then, he felt his insides drop to his feet as something swiftly and tightly gripped his wrist, but still he saw nothing.  Thrashing, unable to free himself, he slumped down, beaten and confused.  Still not knowing who or what held him.

“I hear you quit school today,” came the familiar voice of his father.

“Dad?”, asked Chico, incredibly relieved, but more confused, “What are you doing?”

“I’m not really a CEO, son.  In fact I’m not much of anything.”  Chico’s father confessed.

“Wha wha, I don’t” stammered Chico.

“Just listen, son and I’ll tell you about the cat burglar who was afraid of heights.”

As Chico’s father began to tell of his failed life as a father and husband, Chico and his father seemed to get farther away.   Chico’s father’s voice fading out and then coming back as the story finished,  “And now you know the whole story of how I am not a very good cat burglar, son.”

“Well dad, you stole my heart in the middle of the night,” Chico said.

“You keep saying shit like ‘at, you might need to run back to Donny’s and get that Sar-dust,”

And they both laughed and laughed.  But really.  Chico had found new respect for his dad after learning of his lifelong struggle and eventual complete failure in everything.

“I guess what I’m saying son, is never give up on your dream and you can be like me.”

“You mean, quit dreaming and finish school?”  Chico asked.

“Same difference, little guy.”

Two hours later, as Chico came down for breakfast to make good on his promise to his dad, he found a quiet table.  Nobody eating.  Nobody talking.  Everyone looking down. 

“What’s going …,” Chico began

“Shhh …” mother warned.  Chico had no idea what to make of this.  Tears streamed from his silent mother’s eyes.  Nobody was talking.  The house was silent.  Then Chico’s father slid the morning edition across the table toward where Chico was standing.  Looking down, Chico was surprised to see the smiling face of his uncle Don.  Reading the headline, Chico collapsed to the nearest empty chair with the realization that he was now unemployed.

“When uncle Don left me that bar, I was stunned.  We all walked around in a daze for a week,”  Chico told Oprah Winfrey as she was searching for her earrings in the soiled sheets of the cheap hotel they had rented for the hour. 

In the years he’d worked at Don’s, Chico had basically learned the whole business.  In fact he was left to open the place up on the very day Don died.  All the regulars came in, but the night was anything but regular.  No one said a word.  Everybody just looked down at their drink and silently honored Don in their own way. It was like the foreshadowing scene from breakfast earlier that day.

At about 8:30, a couple of drunk college kids came in making all kinds of noise and disrupting the reverent tone of the place.  Chico asked if they could take it down a notch and they began to get surly.  That’s when all eyes turned to the strangers.  Old Marvin Tastyblanket stood up to address the young men.  He was about 65 years old, and obviously nervous.  His hat dampened from the sweat of his hands clenched tightly around the brim.  “Please sirs, we don’t want any trouble in here.  We’ve just lost a good friend and all we ask is that you find a seat, get a drink, and shut the fuck up.”

“What’s that old timer,” College boy with the more yellow sweater asked.

“My friend here was suggesting that you two stop talking,” said Old Crusty McNeill, standing to Marvin’s side as others began to take a stand, rising against the noisy educated duo.  When there were enough old guys to overwhelm the youngsters, they had a change of heart and not only did as Marv suggested, but College boy with not quite as yellow sweater made a nice plaque for the bar with Marv’s words on it.  It became the motto of Chico’s.  “Find a seat, get a drink, and shut the fuck up.” 

Nobody could have possibly guessed what had been started. A few days after the “College boy” incident.  Chico’s started getting a little busy.  Although you’d never know it just walking by.  Walk into the place and it’s packed.  Packed and silent.  Everyone pouting into their drinks.  Chico throwing on a sad face while he licked his thumb to rifle through the wad of cash he counted. 

After a couple of weeks, there was a very sad, quiet line to get into Chico’s.  Then a few months later, Chico’s West.  Then just this morning, the first of surely many Chico’s Japan opened to dragging feet and a soul crushing depression that can be found at any one of over 340 Chico’s, now worldwide.

That’s basically the story of how world famous Chico’s, the bar for people drowning in self-pity got started.  The night clubs, sports bars and neighborhood bars are fine if you want some company or are in need of a good cheering up.  But if you want to be left alone to wallow in your pathetic miserable little troubles, Chico’s is the place for you!

Janer, Phone Home.

“It’s ok Lenny, you can tell me.  In fact, I think you’d better,” The brilliant Dr. Johnson had just explained to the young veterinary student, now part human, part cat, part frog, how he had pieced together what had happened.  Early on, Dr Johnson had dismissed his ideas as pure fiction, but after talking to Professor Lincoln at Lenny’s school, he learned of the highly experimental work being done. 

“No, it sounds like you pretty much know as much about it as I do.  Can it be reversed, doc?”  Lenny asked, eyes downcast.

“I’m not going to say no because I think it would be discouraging if I told you you were destined to spend the rest of your days with a weird frog, cat, human hybrid body.  But I’m also not going to lie to you.  Stop that!” The Doctor warned as Lenny licked at his paw then snatched a fly out of the air with his tongue.

“All I’m saying kid, is if we don’t figure out a way to slow down the mutation, you may be all frog or all cat in a few weeks.  You probably understand a little bit about how this stuff works.  Your teachers say you’re the brightest they’ve seen.  But I’m going to explain it anyway because I have an idea about your treatment.

“When you jack around with DNA hybrid stuff, there’s a pretty good chance that one genome will take over and change the organism back into one of the original beings.  This completely unobserved phenomenon is known as “science fiction”.  And the DNA never reverts back to Human.  We know this from all of the science fiction documentaries.”

“Meow, you were saying you had an idea?”, Lenny asked, eyes bulging a little.

“It’s far too early to say, but I’ve been mulling it over.  I have a little bit of investigative work to do.  Well, you’re a scientist, maybe I can explain my idea.  Actually, a good friend gave me the idea inadvertently when he or she tried to poison me.  I’m not sure.”

“You don’t know if your friend tried to poison you?”, Lenny said tired and confused.

“Oh no, he or she did.  What I don’t know is if it’s a he or a she.”

“Doc if you don’t know the gender, why don’t you just say Shim. That’s what they’re called.”

“Seems like kind of a rude name.  I’ll stick with ‘it’.  Anyway, my friend had a friend who was working on a new strain of super-coolant.  He had planned to devise a practical super computing device.  Unfortunately, the substance was as dangerous as it was effective for cooling.”

“Maybe, I’m still not 100% doc, but I don’t follow.  What do you mean?”, Lenny asked, gaining hope and interest.

“Well, you know how plain old anti-freeze is dangerous to dogs?  This stuff is like a thousand times more powerful than anti-freeze in every way.”

“Weird, but if you can somehow tell me-ow what that has to do with my condition, I’ll be truly amazed.”, Lenny said, now gaining a bit of skepticism.

“Me too,” Admitted the doctor, “It’s just a hunch.  I’m going to have to think about it for a couple of days.  In the mean time, I’ve had the nurses set out a big plastic box of litter beside your bed if nature should happen to call,” 

“Oh man, you don’t know how bad I have to go …”  a relieved Lenny Johnson said, slipping out of the hospital bed to squat into the 4 foot square box and grunt all regal and everything, just like an embarrassed cat.  Oh the weeks of pent up, ahhhh ….

“Well then, I’ll leave you to it,”  a totally grossed out Dr Johnson informed, “Oh by the way,  My friend is going to be staying in the other bed in this room.  She’s in pretty bad shape, but I think she just might pull through if I can get a hold of her friend the coolant creator guy and we can devise an antidote.  In the meantime, I'm keeping her alive with the DNA treatment you originally developed.  You see the ...”

"Frog DNA.  Of course.  Frogs are not effected by anti-freeze.  That's pretty clever doc, but what about side-effects,"  Lenny asked, holding up a paw, and almost losing his balance in the cat box.

"I had to act immediately.  She was dying.  I figured I'd just worry about the horrible mutant thing later."

“So now you’re just saying it’s a ‘she.’” Lenny challenged.

“Probably wishful thinking on my part kid, now get some rest. I gotta get out of here before you do the ol’ cleaning cat salute thing.”  Doctor Johnson confided.

“Hairball,” Lenny suddenly shouted.  Then, “Just kidding Doc.”, a smile crossing his face for the first time this month.

 As Jack Hughes, rent-a-pig, sat on his little stool outside the ticket window of the AMC 6 West movie theater, he reminisced.  Floating away from the present situation of ensuring kids weren’t sneaking toast into the Midnight showing of ‘The Rocky Horror Picture Show’, Jack’s mind went to a more heroic time.  The day he just about died saving his partner.

It was about 20 years before this night.  It had all started out as a routine bust.  A neighbor had reported a lot of in and out traffic at a house across the street from her.  So Jack and His partner Coop were staked out about 3 houses down from where the neighbor lived waiting to see something suspicious for themselves.  Coop’s real name was Steven Roberts.  But he thought “Roberts” sounded too cliché for a cop.  So he liked to go by ‘Coop’.  The year was 1963 and in Omaha, the Reefer scene was going great guns. 

“I’ll tell you Hughes, America has lost her innocence,” Coop continued on his monologue while Jack worked the crossword, “You see these kids, what are they 17?  18?  Brains all smoked out on this shit.  I tell you.  It’s the beginning of the end if we don’t nip this marijuana thing in the bud,” Coop was not making some clever play on words.  Neither Coop nor Hughes thought in terms of ‘buds’.

“Hey Steve, what’s a 6 letter word for ‘Shut the fuck up’.” 

“Try ‘eat me’”, Coop suggested.

“Let’s just agree to disagree then.”

“No.”

“Did you know that Hemingway said ‘write drunk, edit sober’?”

“Interesting.  What’s editing? Who’s Hemingway?  Is he in homicide?”

“Never mind Coop.  Or Hughes.  Whichever one of us isn’t talking right here,”  Said Hughes, obviously distracted.  Looking out the car window toward the house in question, he glanced at the tire swing in the front yard.  What kind of drug dealer has a tire swing?  It reminded him of the time he was a kid down at the summer cabin his folks had on the riverfront.  Jack would swing on that thing for hours.  In the evenings they would all gather around the big speaker radio and listen to the adventures of J.C. Owens at the 1936 Olympics.  Jack was 13 that year and Jesse was his hero.  He showed that evil Nazi Bastard how we do it over here.  Jack wanted to be a hero like Owens.  If only they had “Tire swinging” in the Olympics, he’d show that tough customer Hitler what’s what.

While sitting on the tire swing one day, Jack was about to reflect on yet another simpler time with yet another flashback, when he was jolted back to reality.  Coop was shaking him, “What gives Hughes?  We’re up,” Nodding toward the house, Jack realized something wasn’t right.  This can’t be happening.  Then it hit him.  He had been about to go triple flashback and still had one more to jump out of before getting back to the present.

“Well what do we have here,” Hughes thought, watching the grand entrance of Boomer, Cube, Marv, Butch, and at first he only saw Dr. Johnson (not yet a Doctor) behind them.  Then, looking again, he saw the towering figure of a young Burt Rasson.  “How did I not see that guy at first?  You’re losing it Jackie boy.” 

These kids looked like trouble in every sense of the word.  Well, they didn’t look like “draw your sidearm” trouble.  But they were definitely “stern talking to and finger waving” trouble.

“Welcome to my theater, Gents,”   Jack Hughes mumbled, surprised at his sudden improvement in mood.  All the anxieties of earlier in the week melted away at the prospect of some real peace officer work.  “I was born for this shit, excuse me, er doo-doo.”  He’d later tell his loving wife.

“Thanks for the invite there, daddio!”, The Future Dr Johnson replied.  “We expect to have one hell of a time in here.”

“How did he hear that?” Johnson mumbled to himself and immediately regretted it.

“YOUNG PEOPLE CAN HEAR BETTER!”  explained Boomer earning a slap in the arm from a snickering Marv, L.K.A. Janey.

“So I know you’re probably not the person to ask, being how you’re just a security guard, but do you know how I could get on the force as a detective?  I’m thinking ‘vice’,” Cube asked in all seriousness, sucking on one end of his ray-bans.

“Why don’t you boys just go buy your tickets and enjoy the show.  And no horseplay OR tomfoolery.”, Hughes advised, “I’ll be watching you”.

“Ooooooooooooh,” thought, but didn’t say, all the boys.  Not until the story was being retold.

Walking up the stairs to the theater, but still within earshot of Hughes, J said, “Ever since that movie ‘Colors’, they really take movie security seriously.”

Confused looks all around.  Except for R who was shaking his head at J.  J had maybe had too much to drink.  He was forgetting where he was again.  Or more accurately, “When he was.”

“What movie?” Butch asked.

“Oh, um it’s a French movie.  Probably won’t be released here for another 5 years or so,” said R. clearly panicking trying to cover for his best friend’s mistake.

“Hey – is there this balloon that follows this kid around in it?”, Boomer asked.

Then Marv said, “I think it’s a movie from the future and that’s why it won’t be released here for 5 years.

And I also think Janer are time travelling aliens.  Who walks that smooth, anyway?”

There was silence as the boys all tried to figure out if Marv was joking or just crazy.  Standing in a small circle looking at each other, Butch said, “Hey where are Janer anyway.”

And just like that, they were gone.

“I was just kidding,” said Marv.

“Well, if they ever work their way back to this dimension or time or whatever, you are totally apologizing to them,” Butch assured.

“Whatever.  Let’s get in there.  I don’t want to miss Riff-Raff’s lips,” encouraged Cube hopping from foot to foot.

No one is bluer. Or truer.

As Jack watched the setting sun in the amber sky, he became aware of a heightened sense of alertness within himself.  Leaning against the sun-heated bricks that composed the westernmost wall of the Westroads shopping mall, Jack was awaiting the beginning of his shift.  The last of the day’s shoppers were slowly clearing the lot as night fell.  Holding a hand up to his face, Jack examined the Marlboro Light 100 he was enjoying.  Jack was not officially a smoker.  Neither was he officially a bacon, egg, cheese, french fry or hamburger eater.  Dr Snotnose’s orders.  And his own wife conspired with the Dr. to ensure the last few years of his existence were brutally joyless. 

There were few perks as a security guard, but confiscating cigarettes from minors wasn’t too bad.  “That shit’ll kill you, you stupid flopheads!”  Jack would yell at the teens he caught smoking in the exact ‘out of the way’ spot he now stood. Exhaling a stream of that delicious Virginia gold, the irony completely escapes Jack. 

Turning his thoughts to the night ahead, Jack was surprised by a sudden anticipation.  For the past several days, he had been filled with anxiety.  The Rocky Horror Picture Show had been showing at the movies at midnight at the Westroads for a few weeks, but this was Jack’s first time on the beat.   He’d heard stories.

Several ex-cops, good men, had retired early after facing the unspoken horrors of crowd management at one of these god-forsaken, perverted freak-fests.  Jack’s old compatriot, Sully Menkovitchz, after what he heard and saw at “The Rocky Horror Picture Show” 3 weeks back, awoke the next morning with an overwhelming calm.  Smiling as the last of his sweet dreams faded, slowly becoming aware of a pulsing warmth.  Before even opening his eyes, he was mentally running down the day’s itinerary. Breakfast, lawn mowing, a little game of catch … when something jolted him from his nice comfy dream state.  Pulsing warmth?  A flash of a memory.  A pick ax.  A man in O.R. scrubs and Playtex rubber gloves had just murdered Eddie.    As poor Sully turns to tell his wife about the True Horror of Rocky Horror, He understands.  There will be no lawn mowing.  No breakfast.  No playing catch.  Only prison.  He had scant memories of the events after he arrived home from the shift at the midnight movie.  But it was all coming back as he peered into the open, lifeless eyes of his one true love.  I’m pretty sure he was also upset by what he found in his children’s rooms, but I honestly don’t want to talk about it.  Oh and anyway, he was the one who did it, so I don’t know what he’s crying about.

~~~

“Sully?  That nut case?  You’re worried about him?”  Bob couldn’t believe Jack.  This was not the kid he’d trained all those years ago.  That boy had fire.  He was foolish, but fearless.  After just 5 years on the sidelines, old Jack Hughes appeared to be a shadow of his former self.

“I dunno Bob, it just seems like, you know, I’m not as quick or strong as I used to be.  These kids, they …”

“Jack.  Listen to me.  You and I both know that Sully was  psycho.  Just because he decided to murder his whole family after dealing with a few rowdies at the theatre doesn’t mean you’ll have any problems.  This is not the Hughes I know.  Maybe you’ve lost a step or 2, but think man.  You’re Jack Hughes.  You can handle a few punk rocker movie goers.  I don’t care how old you are.”

~~~

But now there was a calm that swept through Jack’s being.  Bob’s words had reminded him that he was good at this.  Sure, his best years were behind him.  He would never again remove a dangerous criminal from the streets.  But he was sure as hell going to remove any disruptive patron from the movie theater.  Sometimes that had to be enough.

Throwing down the cigarette butt with no small amount of disdain, Jack adjusted his security cop cap, straightened his spine, set his fleshy, but prominent jaw, and headed toward destiny – a little stool that was placed just outside the ticket window of the movie theater.

Running Against the Wind

Note:  I’m currently reading Invisible Monsters by Chuck Palahniuk.  He is one of my favorite writer guys.  When I first had Jane show up I couple of posts back, I knew she was evil but I wasn’t sure why.  I wouldn’t call the following plagiarism, but maybe it is.  Here’s the thing.  Jane turns out to have a lot in common with one of the characters in that book.  It’s not coincidence.  Chuck Palahniuk is so graphic in his descriptions of pretty gross stuff that it kind of won’t go away real easy.  Plus it’s really easy to come up with crazy ideas if you just read them off of a piece of paper.  So seriously.  Go read Invisible Monsters.   It’s really weird.  Or even better, Damned by the same guy.  Or I guess you could read “Fight Club” if you don’t have a DVD player.

 ~~~

Everything is perfectly perfectly ready.  It’s just good fortune the good Dr Johnson (no relation) didn’t get the courage to ask me out while I was still madly in love with him.   Of course he wouldn’t have had anything to do with me back then.  He spurned my advances so vehemently I had to learn fancy words to describe what had happened.  Oh I’ve known Jack (Herman) for a lot longer than he thinks.  I was just a goofy kid when I first laid eyes on him.  I was instantly in love, but knew it was not possible.  No way he’d fall for someone like me.  He was just too old fashioned and I was just …

But I did my homework.  I did what it took to become a woman he’d take notice of.  If you really want something.  Anything.  It can be yours.  But you must be willing to make the sacrifice.  Everybody gets everything they truly want.  If it’s too hard, you just don’t want it bad enough.  At least that’s what I believed when I first embarked on this journey.  I gave up everything to become what I am now.

I was not the classic beauty.  Hell, I was not any kind of beauty.  I was heavy.  Big boned, they always said.  So I did what was necessary.  I had a single goal.  Win over the smooth walking Dr. Herman Johnson. 

When we first met, he said he liked me, but I knew because of my plain looks, we were destined to be “Just friends.”  For the first few years, I thought as he got to know me better, maybe his feelings would change.  He’d see that we were meant to be together.  But I was wrong.  That’s when I decided he would never love me so the thing to do was become somebody else.

But I also knew that if I started dieting and exercising and getting the necessary plastic surgeries required to become the woman of his dreams, I couldn’t do it while he watched.  No, he’d always see that other person.  The person I hated most.

So I had to move away for a while.  I said my goodbyes to everyone and disappeared.  When I returned, I had a new face and a new name.  Not even my parents recognized me.  I’ve served them coffee hundreds of times and they haven’t a clue.  They think I’m some big successful executive out west.

The irony is that after I went through the pain to become what I thought Herman wanted, I no longer wanted him.  I have desired a man for years who would never love the real me.  Only the mutilated me.  And that shit ain’t right.  That’s why I have to kill that buttery gait bastard.

~~~ 

It is the evening of the day.  That is what Burt Rasson was thinking as he sat at Dr Johnson’s kitchen table fiddling with the card lock thing he used to enter the premises.  “Oh great, now I’ll have that stupid song stuck in my head,”  He thought as he gazed out the window, watching the children outside play.  He was amazed that the games they were playing were the same old games he used to play, but of course everything is new to children.  He thought about these thing as black tears soiled the good Dr.’s kitchen table top. 

When did everything change?  He and Dr. Johnson had been inseparable for many years.  He wasn’t a doctor yet.  Hell, they were about 15 years old when they started hanging out occasionally.  Then all the time after Burt saved Herman.  There was a fire at a second hand store downtown.  Herman worked there in the afternoons counting things or something.  The fire had started a couple of doors east of the shop, but the whole block of shops was one huge brick structure that was built around the 1890’s.  Once the heat was enough to set the bricks ablaze there was no stopping it.  It moved down to where Johnson was working on the second floor of the shop.  He was completely oblivious to the fire because he had his Rolling Stones cassette tape blasting into his ears thanks to his brand new Sony Walkman.  “My riches can’t buy everythi-i-i-ing …” young Johnson screamed along with Mick Jagger as he inventoried some stuff or something.

By the time anybody realized he was in there, the lower floor was all flames.  Nobody would go in after him.  There was a really dramatic scene where the fire chief yelled at Burt Rasson saying the skinny, smooth walking kid probably got out and anyway, nobody’s going in there.  It’s just too dangerous.

“Oh yeah, that’s cool.  Ok.  Bye.”  Went Rasson’s little trick as he sidled to the back of the building where there was, ahem, a fire escape.  He scaled the stairs wondering why Herman wouldn’t have just come out that way.  The steps were hot enough that Burt’s shoes were sticking to them and he couldn’t use the handrail, because … it was hot too.   Once he got into the second floor room of the second hand store, smoke and visibility were issues.  He didn’t see Herman anywhere.  “J”  he shouted several times, feeling his way around. 

Eyes stinging, throat burning, choking, he turned to leave when he saw movement under an old military style metal desk.  Blinking ferociously, he ran to the desk to find his friend trapped where part of the floor had given way and toppled the desk onto J’s leg.  Adrenaline went to work as Burt effortlessly tossed the desk aside and dragged a delirious “J” to safety.

“Smiling faces, I can see, but not for me …” Johnson continued, but it was all warped sounding because the heat had damaged the cassette.

“Don’t quit your day job J,”  Rasson joked.

“Looks like I got fired R,” Johnson replied all raspy and stuff.

After that day, they only went as “J” and “R”.  Since they were always together, people just addressed either one of them as “Janer”

But as Burt now sat at the good Dr’s kitchen table wearing his best melancholy, he tried to work out when he and the Dr started to drift.  Burt figured it was his own damn fault.  He had no other friends and everybody liked “J”.  Burt had been jealous.  When one of J’s friends, Marv, started hanging around more and more and J had no intention of blowing him off, Burt voluntarily walked away.  “Stupidest thing I ever did, I realize that now.”

That’s about the time Burt’s new lifelong friend, “Joe the bottle of Gin¹,” came along.

~~~

I’m looking through the glass in the early autumn evening.  Already darkening outside, but still warm.  I see my reflection like a ghost.  My hatred obscured by lots of makeup.  I am ready.  The Dr will be here any minute.  Should I go with him to the carnival or coerce him in for a drink and get it over with.  Still.  I like fun houses.  And there’s nothing like the feeling of having a handsome fella hand you some piece of shit stuffed animal he won “for you”.  I suppose if you can knock over milk containers with a baseball, I should spread my legs for you.  No wait.  That’s not right.  Oh it escapes me.  Anyway, I’ll take the fuzzy panda or monkey or whatever the hell it is.  Yeah, I guess I can lug the damn thing around.  I’ll throw it on my bed with the others.  The other failed attempt at the real prize.  There on the bed.  A reminder to all suitors.  You’re not the first guy to knock over my milk bottles, if you know what I mean.  Wink Wink.

After a day at the café, I’m dead tired.  I don’t want to stand anymore, let alone walk to the carnival.  Yes, it’s less than 3 blocks away, but my feet are swollen and hot.  But Dr Johnson never drives anywhere.  Who can blame him?  The finest Cadillac doesn’t glide down the road as smooth as Johnson down the sidewalk.  That settles it.  I’m poisoning him before the carnival.  Seriously, I’m just too tired to walk to the carnival and I don’t know when I’ll get the chance again.  I suppose I could just tell him to stop calling me Madge.  Then the headaches might stop.

 

Ok, where’s that brown bottle.  It was just here.  Let me know if you see it.  It’s got a skull and crossbones on the side with a big XXX underneath it.  Oh wait, never mind.  It’s in the toy room.  Hang on.  Ok, just a couple of drops into the tumbler on the left and the years of struggle will certainly die with “J”

Oh what’s this?  There a smooth Cadillac pulling up to the curb out front.  Who could that … It can’t be!  Johnson drove?!? What gives?

~~~ 

“What gives, Dr Johnson?”

“Our date was supposed to be tonight right?”

“No, I know, but I’ve never seen you drive before.  I was just going to ki…”

“Well, I figured since you’re probably on those sweet gams of yours all day, they could use a rest.”

“Aren’t you sweet.  Care for a drink?”

“I’d love one,  I’ll just pour some of this whiskey into the tumbler on the right and give it to you.  You know Jane, you really should keep the brown bottle of poison in a safe place.  Now just a little whiskey for me in the tumbler on the left.  My left.  Jane?  What’s wrong.  Jane?  JANE!”

Oh no.  I’ve done gone and drank my own poison.  I can’t control myself.  Falling.  “Doctor.  I have to tell you something,”  Holy crap.  That was in my old voice from back before I was beautiful.

“Marv?  Is that you,”  The doctor has just kind of figured out my secret and now I’m going to die.

“Air – I need air.  Can’t breathe.”  It has started to rain outside, but the Doctor is pulling me out the front door.

“Seriously Marv, I totally did not recognize you at all until I heard your voice.  What a trip.  Oh and do you happen to know what that Poison was?  Because you appear to be dying.”

“Do you know where I came up with the name ‘Janey’”, I know he does.

“That’s the thing you called me when we met at Louis’ that one time,” J realized all philosophically and everything.

~~~

1.      Ok, sorry about this, but I just realized that I once read this book by Tim Sandlin, called “Sorrow Floats.” It was the second book of a story line, not really a trilogy per se.  But anyway, the narrator was a huge alcoholic and named each of her bottles of booze.  One day, I will have an original thought.

Anachronism

Ahh, the booth seat.  Its intended design of service for 4 worked perfectly as La-Z boy recliners for 2, albeit, using the cruel hard wall, ledge, window arrangement for a backrest.  Anything was better than having your feet down after a grueling day in the humid summer Nebraska sun.  The boys also had the option of resting their backs on the back of their respective booths and stretching their feet across to the opposing seat, but that had 2 problems.  First of all, it seemed kind of gay (Even to a guy dressed like Don Johnson ca. 1984).  But the main thing is the table worked nicely as a comfy armrest on one side, while the top of the seatback provided top shelf comfort for the other, less dominant arm.  Both boys were somewhat ambidextrous, but Boomer was more left handed, so there was no question as to the seating arrangement.

 

On the table, at the window side, were about a half dozen empty Guinness bottles and 2 half full ones.  Cube held in his hand the tiny little 8 oz. glass he had received in answer to the bar-wench’s query “Y’all wanna glass with them?”

 

Boomer also had a tiny little glass, but he was more interested in peeling off the Guinness label completely intact.  It was proof the he was either a virgin or not a virgin.  Neither boy remembered exactly how the story went.

 

“So since you’ve got 3 of them off whole, does that mean you’ve raged thrice or that you’ve explained to 3 different girls how you’re saving it for marriage,”  Cube asked, shaking out a match and spitting a tiny bit of fine Turkish tobacco off his tongue.  He let that extraordinary blend of premium hand-picked carcinogen nestle briefly in his nice juvenile lungs before attempting a string of smoke rings.

“This Guinness is too cold.  Look, it says right here – serve at between 40-50 degrees Fahrenheit.  You know that changes the whole bouquet or some shit,” Boomer complained

“Yeah, well, that’s just a bunch of crap because those limey bastards over there haven’t figure out how to make a good refrigerator.”

“Uh, yeah.  This is Irish beer.  See, it says it’s from Dublin,” Boomer corrected.

“Yeah – the Irish are known for their refrigerator skills,” Cube countered, “I’m pretty sure that if there are any refrigerators in Ireland, they bought them from England, and they suck balls for cooling down beer.  That is the exact reason our forefathers came to the Midwest and started the Amana colonies.”

“You should become a history teacher, Crockett,” Boomer teased.  But Cube like being called Crockett.  Seriously.  It was pathetic. 

“Well aren’t we a couple of dandies,” a large, well muscled man with a hand on each side of the edge of Boomer and Cube’s table.  Behind him was another man with a certain kind of hatred in his eye.  These fellas weren’t really looking for trouble.  They were just having a little fun.  They just meant to scare boomer and cube, 2 obviously underage patrons of Louis’ bar and grill.

But they picked on the wrong 2 guys for that.  See, these boys couldn’t fight at all.  And they knew it.  Problem was, neither one of them really scared too easy.  After a few minutes, the big men completely changed their mind and decided to beat the living shit out of Boomer and Cube.

“Hey Dan,”  Cube started, “Why don’t you tell these pussies who the real Elvis is,” unable to contain his laughter, blowing smoke into the face of his soon to be murderer. 

“Oh yeah, I was telling my good pal Cube here …”

“Who you callin’ pussy, pussy?” inquired beefy violent guy number one, knuckles whitening,  slight crunching noise emanating from the compressing tabletop in his grip.

“Look, you don’t want to mess …” Cube started to say, but was quickly rebuffed with a thunderous,

“You have no idea who you’re fucking with!”  And he was right.  They didn’t.  He was going to kill them in just a couple of minutes.  He just had to get a little more motivation from either one of these little punks.

“That’s true.  We don’t know you.  But I gotta tell you,” Boomer jumped in, “I’ve ruled out ‘English teacher’.”

“Yeah, Up High my man,”  Cube held up his right arm for the always dependable, never leave you hangin, Boomer High Five.  Yeah it’s capitalized.

And with that, the man stood to reach in and pull Cube out of his comfy booth spot as the silent partner went for Boomer.  Just then, there was a light slap on each of their backs as some weird guy, dressed like an early 40’s hepcat, delayed indefinitely the demise of Boomer and Cube.  Unfortunately, now all of the malice was aimed squarely at the zoot suited shoulders of the mystery man.

“Janer!  How’s it hangin, my good man!”  Boomer shouted, recognizing his old pal and savior, extending a hand in greeting.

“Hold on a sec, boomey.  So fellas – how ‘bout I get you cats a nice cool drink.  The boys talk shit, but they don’t mean anything by it …”

“Yes we actually …” Cube started, he really was stupid.  And also, getting his lines walked on a lot tonight.

“Ok, cubey – we know you’re joking.  Waddya say fellas?  Have a cold one on me.  I insist.”

“I’ll tell you what I say you little freak, I say we go all Jack Kerouac on your goofy ass and teach you a lesson …”

“Um, so.  You’re going to get drunk and do a poetry reading or something,”  Oh yeah, J was a smart-ass too.

“What the hell are you talkin’ about, ‘Janey’,”  completely misunderstanding the nickname.

Janer was the nickname for 2 guys.  “J” and “R”.  Nobody knew their real names. Just their initials.  You never saw them coming either.  They always just appeared.  Always together.  You always saw J first.  He would slide up with such grace, you’d swear he taught Michael Jackson how to moonwalk.  He was tall and thin, but a real cool cat.

R was never far behind.  Just as the 2 troublemakers turned their full attention to J, the room darkened as the towering figure of R either blocked all the light or made the light run away with fear.  Science is supposed to get back to us on that one. All I’m saying is R was a big mother fucker.  Most people just called him “Big Bob.”  They just assumed (incorrectly) that ‘R’ stood for ‘Robert’.  Anyway, he was big enough that most confrontations ended peacefully.  On this occasion, Butch and Marv (the 2 troublemakers) ended up buying the first round.

After a couple hours, it was time to move on.  So Butch, Marv, Boomer, Cube and Janer decided to hit the Midnight showing of the Rocky Horror Picture show.  “You’ll love it,” Cube explained to Butch and Marv, “There’s plenty of gay sex in it.”

At that, Marv pretended to get offended and lightly slugged Cube in the shoulder.  But thanks to Corey Hart’s advice, Cube was wearing his Ray-Ban’s which hid the stinging tears of pain leaking from his eyes.  

“Ow,” complained Cube as he pretended he was pretending to be in a lot of pain.

“For a big guy, you have pretty small feet,” Butch observed and reported to Big Bob.