A WEEK AT THE SHORE

There was, at first, a question and it's answer was evident.

"Do you need a vacation?"

Of course I do, but I am not disposed to take one, due to my many responsibilities. The arrangements that would be required to be made would take as long to convey as the vacation itself. So, sort of self-defeating. But after some rather adamant convincing from senior management, I managed the time in my schedule to do it. It was done very quickly...too quickly for my taste, but with management breathing down your neck it's wise to get out of town rather quickly.

With only last minute arrangements, I managed a stay at the seashore. The fact that it was February didn't cross my mind ‘til I got there and found it wet and dreary. 

The accommodations themselves were 'obvious'. I couldn't afford The Ritz so my choices were the Bayfront, and...well, there really wasn't an "and", because the Bayfront's what I could afford, so the Bayfront it was.

The room itself was adequate, if you didn't mind the draft, and the mold. The mold wouldn't be so bad if you could open a window.. If you could open a window, which means, of course, you'd freeze your nuggets off.

For laughs, I'd take long dreary walks in the rain, just to get out of the room. Meals tended to be a choice between greasy or bland, so I tried to eat in balance, so's the 'constitution' wasn't disrupted. It was disrupted on that Wednesday when I erupted, and didn't leave the room. Next day was 'bland', and then I was back on track. The owner of the inn was a surly old bastard, especially in the off-season, when the staff was thin, as was his skin, and he didn't take lightly to being put-upon, so I tried to keep my distance which was his plan all along. When I had the 'disruption' I had to suffer in relative silence rather than request something from the nearest pharmacy. But we learned our parameters, that day. 

Did I mention this "innkeeper" had a daughter? He did. A most stunning young girl of maybe seventeen. Too young for me, but captivating nonetheless. I finally got to meet her, and when the old man went out for supplies, I did my best to charm her ass off, ‘til he got back. I found myself trying to impress her with witty banter and card tricks. She laughed and laughed, but it was all I had up my sleeve, and after an afternoon of it, I could tell she'd had enough. Then he returned and it was business as usual, which meant, 'Go back to your room until dinner.' 

I read magazines, I read books, I did jigsaw puzzles and I walked in the rain. Such was my week.

Mercifully I returned to work.

But that one afternoon, it was magic. 

V

BADGER'S UNDOING

 

Badger knew every element. The ups the downs, the bumpy ride, yet he never complained. He went about his business in an efficient, friendly manner. One wouldn’t call him ‘cheerful’, and certainly not “carefree”. “Carefree” he was not. The banter had it that he had troubles at home…with, the Wife. But that was no one’s business, and as long as we’re accounting for our time, there is NO time for Mr. Badger’s domestic affairs. It’s all, Business As Usual.

Yet it was a sad predicament. So sad, that, …after hours, I found myself thinking of him. What was he going through at this very moment? Was she depraved, or depressed? …or both? Was he suffering her slings and arrows, or shaking her awake from some somnambulistic trance. Was she high-as-a-kite, strung out, or anesthetized?  

This was of course, nonsensical, since I had no real read on the situation. But I am sensitive to those that suffer in silence, and I sense, Badger was one of those. 

I had taken a chance, not long ago, and ventured a query of Badger, asking if he’d like to join me for a drink, after work…just the two of us, but he declined in a reticent, yet stoic manner. I could not convince him if I’d tried, but I didn’t. I let it slide, and bid him a  ‘…goodnight’. Perhaps if I had pressed him…

This weekend past, Badger met with his maker. His wife had succumbed as well. They called it a murder-suicide, I call it a pity. Didn’t really matter who pulled the trigger, the damage was done.

V

MISSING MY MACHETE

 

I am missing my machete. This concerns me. It concerns me on several levels, but mostly it concerns me because I don’t want to buy a new one. I know you probably saw it as an ‘at risk’ issue, but my sense was for the immediate, and as long as I wasn’t being ‘pounced upon’ by ‘said, borrower’… (I’ve checked the house, it’s clean.) ...but to be out another $20 to $40…(cheap steel is fine with me)…otherwise, it’s rather obscene, I think.

So, this machete…it’s old and rusty. Anyone that knew anything about gardening would know immediately that it was useless as a tool. However, an Amateur, might seize upon it as a weapon. A tool for thrashing…hacking away. His madness found in the splay…

But I digress, and state, once again – I’ve checked the house and it is clean. So let’s put that issue to bed. The perpetrator is not present. Thankfully.

That would lead one to imagine that the perpetrator is ‘at large’ in a very large city, wielding a weapon, stolen from my tool shed…or, the garden box…or the garage. There may be some confusion, but it’s not to be found. End of story.

Or is it?

I try not to picture a mad man, slashing his way through Brentwood, or the slaughter at the Mall.

“Swing!..” it sings, fresh drawn from it’s scabbard.

Not hard to imagine the horrific images splashed across your widescreen. 

Try not…just try.

Rather, rest easy with me. Buy the ‘short-term’. Be inconvenienced…put-off, but casual. No need to breed panic in the street when it was potentially, accidentally, misplaced…is there? 

And yet…

          SWING.

V

THE 'WISPER'

 

Lyle knew the limitations, and yet, forged ahead. It wasn’t him to make excuses or use deceitful ruses. Lyle will shoulder this burden, and the next…and the next, if need be. That was just his making. He rejected fear, and embraced it, simultaneously. He was the source of balance and gravity, grace and brute force. Lyle was the Ultra.

But would you know it from the looks of the nebbish standing before you? Is that you, Chameleon ?  I wonder…no, I marvel, at your sorcery. The way you underplay…there is no breath on the mirror… You are, in fact, no longer here. Are you? 

Instead your shadow stands, a little man, in a big suit, barely able to stutter a response. Why?

Or is this part of the act?

Are you only a ‘wisper’?

Shallow. Hollow. Vaporous.

Infinite.

One senses the dilemma.

The Ultra is everything.

V

THE PUPPET

 

I was on the verge of berserk, just a shade off of panic. The unimaginable lingered within the width of a fingertip. Mania gone full throttle. Something is very wrong. Someone is the matter. It’s a blind pledge I take with the unconscionable. Deaf to the chorus, deaf to the chatter.

What will mama think?, is not in the equation.

Mama keeps a clean house, a neat house, a tidy house, a meticulous house…You get? 

But Mama pissed me off one-too-many times and eventually, grown old together, your regret, it manifests - you resent, you despise, because she’s gone toxic…sadistic…dark as the storm, and ten times as fierce. As tamable as a hurricane hurled in off the coast. Not in a romantic way, more in a frantic, tragic…hopeless, way - you seek shelter and hope to ride it out. 

If any other but her life, it was a waste, … but awaited and expected, as it was, just another gruesome outcome, there was no alternative, it was time for her to go. 

You can rightfully call it homicide if one side is psychotic. But both? 

It didn’t register, the splay, until the room had cleared of the swirling demons, that I noticed and knew it was me. No need to explain. It falls on ears uncaring. It crashes the skull of the unthinking.

A puppet is driven away, and put back in the box where he belonged, unblinking.

V