FEWER INTERRUPTIONS

It would appear, sir, that your goose is cooked.

But I did not order goose!

Well goose is what you get. It’s our only fowl of the evening.

No…not your only foul. Your Temperament leans hard in that direction, as well.

Oh?

That’s right.

So I would be wise to lighten up?

Enlightenment dawns.

Please continue....

My wife, Mrs. Neal, is having affairs with young boys…lads half her age and last night I was awakened by a man talking…a rather Germanic…Austrian…young...  A boy, with cellular phone tight to his ear. I did not recognize the voice, or the words spoken, but there was a rhythm – distinctly Germanic. He laughed. The mood in the middle of the night, a man pacing on the wet street below my window was decidedly light. Something was astir. He laughed. He spoke loud and was eager as he picked up the pace of his stroll, executing a clipped, tight, one-footed pivot at each extreme. His foot falls and voice ricocheting off building walls, surely waking others, but he seemed oblivious and uncaring. Twenty feet up, spin, twenty feet back, spin, and so on. "Stop laughing aloud, ha-ha, and just continue walking," I begged, but I suspect he had arrived at his destination and was biding his time. I watched him, a stranger, and I knew he was speaking to her. Flirtatious. Then I wandered the entire flat before realizing she had not come home that evening. Oh, I often go to bed before her. She closes down, I open up. It’s just the nature of the business and the beast I thought I knew, but perhaps her nature is more carnal than I ever considered. She says she feels she gets the most done after-hours  when there are fewer interruptions and ten o’clock is not untypical. Now I’m starting to suspect that it might be true. Fewer interruptions. Somebody needs to run the business. I trust her to do that. What about the stranger? Do I trust him? Do I trust them? I pulled back the blind to see and he looked straight up. I think he saw me watching, but it did not faze him and he laughed into his cell phone. I suspect she was laughing with him.

In that case, may I recommend the Goose?

I think so.

Driving

“I could just sit here and listen to the frogs…”

"You need a jacket?"

"That might be good. Getting damp."

She was right, the mist was just rising from the pond and a light breeze was drifting it our way.

"I’ll get one from the car."

A few minutes later I was back. I kept a softball jacket in the trunk in case I got cold or had to do mechanical work on the old clunk in an emergency, and on the odd chance I was dressed nice. Ruined a good suit jacket one night, on one such odd occurrence, just jumping a dead battery. One hundred forty dollars is a big loss nowadays and I learned a lesson: Cover the nice threads.  

She was curled up staring into the pitch black water.

“Here you go,” I held it up, not much more than a rag in her eyes, I could tell.

“Oh great.” She said, grateful despite the soils.

“Watch out for the grease. It ‘s a work jacket…all I got.”

“It’s warm. That’s all that counts. Smells good…”

“Ha,” I wasn’t ready for that one. “Must be the grease.”

“Yes. The grease and the sweat. It’s a man’s jacket. A bit of aftershave, maybe… no cheap cologne ever smelled this good, and that’s pretty much the type I seem to get – Overwhelming and Assaulting.”

“Fishing in the wrong ponds?”

“Fishing where there are big fish…wearing cologne.”

“Then you can’t complain. Your choice.”

"Got no choice."

"You know…Sometimes you snag a nice prize up some of these back hill creeks…ponds like this here...and they can put up a real good fight…”

“Oh I am sure. But that takes time, luck, and patience and those are things I don’t have.”

“Why. What’s the rush?”

“Man chasing me.”

“Cologne man?”

“He was before prison. I suspect he’s one again.”

“He’s out?”

“Uh-hmm”

“Is this a chase? He chasing you down?”

“I suppose.”

“You the rabbit?”

“You can’t tell?”

“Oh yeah. The ears.”

“ The tail.”

“I DID notice the ears…”

“He angry at you?”

"Very."

"Should he be?"

"Very."

"Very very?"

"Is 'Kill me'…very, very…enough?"

"Very much so."

"That’s what he’s thinking."

"And you’re saying he’s somehow justified?"

"Not in the eyes of the law, but perhaps in the eyes of the lord."

"A mortal sin?"

"Were it only one…"

"So you were both sinners."

"At one time that would be fair to say."

"But murder?"

"Justifiable homicide."

"Is there such a thing? And are you worthy of his justification? His Justice? I mean...I doubt the Lord would approve."

"Ha! I doubt the Lord, period. And he hates him..."

"Does he?"

"He’d spit in his face."

"And risk eternity in hell?"

"He’s already done that... been bit and hit before... Hell is where he lives. In his head are mean squirming demons screaming to get out. Screaming to get ME..."

"And he’s capable..."

"Oh yes. He is capable at a passing fancy, and even more so when driven."

"And he’s…?"

"Driving."

bleu euc

All Off for Tuscaloosa

They say I died in Tuscaloosa

En route to Miami Florida

Bus pulled in for scheduled stop

Dinner at a Five and Dime countertop

Meat loaf, mashed,

       green beans, brown gravy

             ...some white bread to sop

A fine Last Meal it was. 
But then...

Men at a booth

they start yellin

One with Panama

He rose quick

Gun in hand 

he shot the other

Then the waitress

The owner

And me. 

That’s it.

The fry cook took cover

Behind his window slot

Came out throwing

Kitchen paraphernalia 

Panama’s head nailed by a big stew pot

His hand, cleaver-severed 

Just dangled and dropped

Boning knife deep in his thigh

He staggered, jaw slack

The damage now done

Floundered like a fish

flapping on his back

Cook kicked him hard

Broke some bones

then square in the face

Broke the guy's shades

Shattered the man's teeth

And dreams of his own

in a life, too real

Turns out Cook 

was the one deemed

'Illegal'.

And here I knew

nothing of this

Until I finally read

my own obit.

A Long Long Distance

Pay-phone at the Movie house....

Discipline is not something that came readily to Leland. Self Disciple was easy enough for him to avoid, but Imposed Disciple really pissed him off. It got his juices flowing again, like a valve stem blowing out…got his anger up, and that was not only not good, it could prove to be very destructive. Explosive.

“If you hang up on me I will…”

“You will do nothing but harm to yourself.”

“You know me that well you think.”

“I know the sight of your fist in face. I know the feel of bone shattering. I know the pain and disfigurement.”

“What disfigurement?”

“You forget what my nose looked like we first met? Go back and look at the bumper-car pictures if you still got one.”

“I…”

“You tore them up in a fit of fury, didn’t you?”

“Burnt them up…used them to start the trailer.”

“Well, there you go. Now you are stupid and homeless. Not an un-rare combination, I suppose.”

“Do you have someplace?”

“I have a very good place, which you will never see.”

“Wasn’t asking for that reason. Just wanted to be sure we did not share the same fate. It’s humbling.”

“Something you never got around to before. How’s that feeling?”

“Pisses me off.”

“Then you have not yet been properly humbled. Wait ‘til you give up the fight – that’s humble. But enjoy the taste. It only gets more bitter, and a taste I’m tasting right now.”

“So you still hating me?”

“ No, more like stomach acid…”

“Emotions have nothing to do with it?”

“Not a thing. And no pill to put it to rest.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“Makes no difference.”

“You have a good day tomorrow.”

“If I don’t die.”

Go To The Flag

The man came in through the garage. I was under Unit 9 and I saw his feet go shuffling by. I called to him and he waited while I rolled out.

“Can I assist you sir?”

“Where’s the cops?” is what he says. I told him he was turned around and this was the City Yard. He pointed to ‘9’ and says, “Cops.” I tell him “You are a block away from the Police Station.” I walked to the back bay and pointed out the flag pole. “That flag is at the Police Station. Understand?” He looked confused. “Go to the flag.” I saluted instinctively, and he saluted me back. Right snappy, like he’d done it before. He nodded and walked out.

**********

That man has been whittling for the last three months. He never whittled before in his life, he said, but he had a purpose this time, just never told no one what that purpose might be. His hands hurt and he grew frustrated, I could tell, finding half finished objects, almost like a child’s carving. Looked something like an airplane – like a Cub Scout might try. Tossed them out his front door in a tantrum…scattered all around on his yard. At first I worried about the knife and him cutting himself, but he seemed to avoid it, and handled it proper, that I could see and thought maybe it was some good therapy.  Then, I asked him that very same week, what he did to his hands. You saw the hands. They were black. Inky. Like dye. He said he scrubbed and scrubbed and just couldn’t get it off, but he needed it for his project. I offered to help, maybe with a brush, but he yelled at me said he needed no help, and he wasn’t my child. Who was I to argue? I let him be after that. He’d been through a lot. Losing his wife. He was a most kind man. They both were. Laughing…!!! Sweet people. Life don’t stay the same.

I saw him walking up the street that morning. I was worried because he had gotten lost on two occasions recently….and…you don’t know about some people’s state of mind. The police brought him home before, and I talked to them. They asked questions about his family…his care. I told him I was a close neighbor and try to keep ‘an eye..’, but that’s about all he had left. They said something about Social Services, but I don’t know what transpired. They had my number, but no one called. I watched him walk up that street. How could I stop him? Why should I stop him? If I’d known, I would have stopped him.

**********

What time did he enter the building?

10:48.

Front door? Scanner?

East Entry, Front. He ‘Passed’ the scan. He looked to be lost. Stood in the middle of the lobby gazing around, so I approached him. He fumbled with something in his pocket. I thought maybe he was stashing a pint. He was disheveled. I smelled no booze. He cursed to himself and withdrew his hand…looked like it was covered with grease, like a mechanic. I took a closer look to make sure it wasn’t gangrene at his age, but found it more like some blue-black ‘ink’. He said he wanted to talk to ‘cops’. I ask if I could help but he shook his head. I thought I looked the part, but apparently he didn’t agree. I asked if he wanted to file a report, witnessed a crime or needed our services. He nodded yes, and said “…crime.” I wondered if this ‘crime’ might include counterfeiting…with the ink… so I asked him to take a seat on the bench. He did. He sat for awhile, then moseyed on down to the drinking fountain, then the men’s room. When he comes out, he’s smiling. He shuffles past me, into the duty room and the next thing I know 14 guys are unloading their weapons…like a firing range in there. He was here on a mission and he finished it. Wooden gun and shoe polish…damn sad ending. Hope he got where he wanted to go.

Isolation –

an insulation of despair,

with the weight

of guilt,

grinding regret

and the fear

of being forgot.

Don’t fear.

Don’t fret.

You are Not.

...and that's all I got.

                                   - Amen.