A. Hicks Hope

Creativity, Expression, & Entertainment Sought

March 06, 2011                                ISSUE: AHH-11-2 

The Technique of Wit

"Whoever has had occasion to examine that part of the literature of aesthetics and psychology dealing with the nature and affinities of wit, will, no doubt, concede that our philosophical inquiries have not awarded to wit the important role that it plays in our mental life."                                                   

                                                           S. Freud             

West Los Angeles Police Substation: Robbery / Homicide Division - April 2, 2001; 01:37 AM,

Intruder / Break-In Report form:           DR-02-08-402-01

Transcript from initial Interview:

Persons:

Witness 1:        Gerald (Gerry / Dad) Fain, Ph.D. - Chemistry, 38 years old male

Witness 2:        Edward (Ted) Fain, 9 years old male

Witness 3:        Jonathan (Jon) Fain, 6 years old male

Detective:        Detective Sergeant Franklin (Frank) Worthington, Non-specified age, just some old

                        white guy.

Account:

Detective:        You don't mind if I record this do you?

Witness 1:        No, sure, go ahead.

Detective:        My typing is so bad; I get one of the typists to input it.  Less errors that way.  I can also

                        give my attention you and not this damn electronic demon.

Other

Detective:        Frank, I'm certain it feels the same way about you.  (Laughter, then shushing)

Witness 1:        Put down my sons’ names, Ted and Jon.

Witness 3:        That's  J, O, N, no H.

Witness 1:        Thanks Jon, that was very good . . . They saw it too.

Witness 2:        I sure did.

Witness 3:        Me too, I did too.

Detective:        All being recorded . . . Everybody's on the record.  Even that joker over there at the

                        paper dump of a desk.  (Raspberry noise)  Sorry about that, some people have never

                        grown up.

Witness 3:        I'm six.

Detective:        Hear that Roo?  He's only six, what's your excuse (Another Raspberry noise)  Sorry

                        again.  Let's get this down.  I understand how important this situation is to you otherwise

                        why else would you be down here in the middle of the night!?

Witness 1:        Well, actually I don't really know why I came here to report what happened.  You won't

                        believe it anyway.  We just didn't want to stay in thehouse after . . . It.

Witness 3:        I wanted to stay.  I'm sleepy.

Witness 1:        Sorry Jon, just curl up in the chair.  Here's my coat.  Should I start from the beginning?

Detective:        Start wherever you like.

Witness 1:        Well, I, it, well, tonight . . . Last night actually.

Witness 2:        Called my Dad on my cell phone because there was this old man in our room.

Witness 3:        Yeah, Mommy will be mad.  He was smoking.

Witness 1:        We got Ted the phone for emergencies. 

Witness 2:        It seemed like one.

Witness 1:        You did fine.

Detective:        Where's the mother?

Witness 1:        Oh, she's in Chicago.

Detective:        Split up?

Witness 1:        Uh, no business trip.  She's a business consultant.  I'm a professor of chemistry at Cal

                        State.  I was grading tests; it was about 10:50 when Ted called me, about the old man in

                        his room.

Detective:        What did you do.

Witness 1:        At first, I thought he was dreaming.  But he insisted.

Witness 2:        I know when I'm sleeping.  The old man was there and he was smoking a cigar and he

                        was talking, but I couldn't understand him.

Witness 3:        Yeah, he talked funny.

Witness 1:        I believe you Ted.  We just have to tell this man the story.

Witness 2:        Okay.

Witness 1:        Ted held the phone in direction of the old man and I could hear a faint mumbling, it.

Detective:        It what?

Witness 1:        It was German.  I studied German in college.  I have my degree in chemistry, but I was a

                        psychology major as an undergrad, so I'm fluent in German.

Witness 3:        I know Spanish.  Kaye passa?

Witness 1:        Thank you Jon . . . I dropped the phone and run up to their room.  After all these child

                        abductions, I . . . I was careful opening the door.  There was only a night-light.

Witness 2:        It’s for Jon.

Witness 3:        Is not, Mommy wants it so she can see me when I sleep.

Witness 1:        The room was brighter than it normally would be.  There was a light around the old man. 

                        He was there standing on the footlocker at the end of the bed.  It was simply bright.  I

                        don't know?  It sounds odd, but I didn't really think about it at the time.  I was too

                        worried about the boys.

Detective:        (Rustling of papers) The old guy, did he make any threatening gestures or try to grab you

                        boys?

Witness 2 & 3: Nope!

Witness 1:        No, he just stood there mumbling in German.  It was old German.  He was an old

                        German.  White hair, white beard, glasses, old style three-piece gray wool suit.  I thought

                        he must have wandered off from some care facility.  How he got in the boys room was

                        confusing.  In fact, I felt very confused, but as I listened to his voice mumble on, I

                        became reassured.  Weird but that's the way I remember feeling.  Why would I feel that

                        way?

Detective:         Stressful situations can do odd things to the brain. Ted, is this what you saw; the way you

                        felt? 

Witness 2:        Well, I wasn't scared.

Witness 3:        Me neither.

Witness 1:        Jon, please let Ted finish.

Witness 3:        Well, I wasn't.  (Shushing noises followed by grumpy noises)

Witness 2:        His suit was black though.

Detective:        Okay, but did you understand anything the old man was saying?

Witness 2:        Nope, well yeah, kind of?  He seemed like he was telling a story or something, like the

                        bedtime stories grandpa use to tell.

Detective:        Where is your grandpa now?

Witness 3:        He died.

Witness 1:        Yes, about a year and a half ago.  (Sound of rustling papers)

Detective:        Other older male relations in the area?

Witness 1:        None, but . . . It . . . I began to get use to the old man's pronunciation, then I was able to

                        understand his words.  It was like Ted said.  He was telling stories.  I think they were

                        supposed to be funny, but they weren't.

Detective:        Oh?

Witness 1:        I remember this one, “Two Jews meet near a bathing establishment. ‘Have you taken a

                        bath?’ asked one.  ‘How is that?’ replied the other.  ‘Is one missing?’”

Detective:        That's a very old joke.

Witness 1:        Yeah, and then he mumbled something about mis-appropriate thinking and told this

                        story.  “Ike was serving in the artillery corps.  He was seemingly an intelligent lad, but he

                        was unwieldy and had no interest in the service.  One of his superiors, who was kindly

                        disposed toward him, drew him aside and said to him: ‘Ike, you are out of place among

                        us.  I would advise you to buy a canon and make yourself independent.’”

Detective:        I don't get it.

Witness 1:        Yeah, neither did I until he told this one.  “A physician, leaving the sick-bed of a wife,

                        whose husband accompanied him, exclaimed doubtfully: ‘I do not like her looks.’  ‘I

                        have not liked her looks for a long time.’ was the quick rejoiner of the husband.”   Then I

                        realized I knew these jokes.  I told Ted to run down to my study and get the big book by

                        Sigmund Freud.  He had written an article on Jokes, Wit he called it.  I remember it so

                        well, because none of the stuff he talked about was funny.

Witness 2:        I found the book Dad sent me to get.  It was big and heavy.

Witness 3:        I could have gotten it.

Witness 2:        Ah, the, ah cover came open as I was running back up the stairs and it, the picture?

Witness 1:        Go a head and tell him.  It was the old man.

Detective:        What was the old man?

Witness 2:        The picture in the book.  The old man in my room looked like the guy in the book.

Witness 1:        Sigmund Freud?  The old man in the room and Freud?

(Giggles in the background)

Detective:        Oh, I get it.  You think this intruder was a psycho with Freud delusions.  That shouldn't be

                        too hard to track down.  You want them to come and pick him up? (Rustling of papers)

Witness 1:        No, it's not like that.  Although, I thought that too at first, when Ted showed me the

                        picture.  He even had the same type of round lens in his glasses.  I found the article and

                        sure enough they were the same witticism, almost word for word.  But?

Witness 2:        I told Dad that I didn't smell the cigar smoke.  Why was that?

Witness 1:        That made me try to talk with him, but the old man ignored me.  I know he noticed when

                        Ted left the room.  He made a comment about young boys' bladders.

Detective:        Dementias cause all kinds of personality abnormalities.  We’ve seen quite a few around

                        here.

Other

Detective:        Sure have and some work here.  (Laughter)

Witness 1:        I know that, it sounds weird to me but, I looked at him closely, his face was odd, then I

                        realized why.  You could just make out the wall behind him.

Detective:        You said the lights were dim.  It casts odd shadows.

Witness 1:        No, you could see through him, just barely.

(Laughter and rustling of papers)

Witness 2:        Not only that, his feet were sunken into the top of the footlocker.

Other

Detective:        The best place for them.

Detective:        (Laughing) Oh, so this was Sigmund Freud's ghost, come back to lecture your family on

                        April First at 11:00 at night?  (more laughter)  This is wonderful.

Witness 1:        Well, yes and no, I think it was Freud's ghost but he wasn't there for a lecture.

Detective:        Okay, this has been good so far, I'll bite, what?

Witness 1:        I felt, well, ghosts are thought to be, exist, because they haven't finished doing something

                        they wanted to do in this plane of existence.

Other

Detective:        This is much better than the Giant Testicle sightings we had in here earlier.  (Laughter and

                        shushing).   Frat boys are generally too drunk to be funny.

Witness 1:        This really happened, I know it’s hard to believe. . .

Witness 3:        Don't laugh at my Daddy.

Detective:        Sure kid, we'll play along.  So what was this thing that Sigmund’s apparition wanted to

                        finish?  (Distant giggles).

Witness 1:        After the first time I read that article on Wit.  I always thought Freud really wanted to be

                        an entertainer. . . .(Louder laughter) . . . No really, he seemed like he wanted to do        

                        comedy.  (More Laughter)

Detective:        Freud, the Stand Up Comic.  There's a Freudian double meaning if I have heard one. 

                        (More laughter)  So where is he?  We should all see Mr. German Entertainment.

Other

Detective:        (Laughing)  Austrian actually.

Witness 1:        Well, I . . . He's . . . I thought that maybe all he wanted was to get a laugh.  (More

                        giggling)  Maybe then he would be satisfied and cross over.

Other

Detective:        Sure, why not?

Detective:        This is the best.

Witness 1:        I told the boys to laugh when he paused at the end of his story.

Other

Detective:        Timing is everything in comedy.

Witness 2:        He did.

Witness 3:        We did.

Witness 1:        Yes and after three more stories.  He just wasn't there anymore.  (Much more laughter)

Other

Detective:        Frank, this is right up your alley, a real Missing Persons case!

Witness 2:        No, I saw him bow before he vanished.  (Laughter and pounding)

Witness 3:        Stop laughing at my Daddy!  (Sound of a chair falling over)

Detective:        The kids are a great touch.  (Laughter)  You win the April Fools prize for sure.  Great

                        story, just great, good set up.  No naked aliens, no three-headed mayors, just a good

                        joke ghost.

Witness 1:        But it happened . . .

Detective:        Sure, sure, keep it going, great!  When we get this typed up, you sign a release; we could

                        publish it.

Witness 1:        I told you, you wouldn't believe me.

Detective:        Sure we do.  Sure we do.  A favor though.

Witness 1:        What?

Detective:        If the ghost of Carl Jung stops by have him call me.  I wanted to ask him something.

Other

Detective:        Same with Martin Buber.

Detective:        Who?  (More laughter) Roo, you always say the screwiest things.

Other voice:    Buber was an Austrian theologian and philosopher.

Detective:        Christ, that's just what I mean, theologian, philosopher, shit!  (Distant giggling again)

Witness 1:        We should go now.

Detective:        Come back tomorrow and I'll split the prize money with you.  Great story, Just great! 

                        (Laughing)

Witness 1:        Come on boys, let's go.

Witness 2:        But it happened.

Witness 3:        Yeah, it happened!

Detective:        Sure kid, sure, great delivery, all three of you were wonderful. 

                        (More laughter, sound of someone rolling on the floor).

"An undertaker is one who always carries out what he undertakes." S. Freud.

Reference:  Wit and Its Relation to the Unconscious.  By S. Freud, from The Basic Writings of Sigmund Freud, Trans & Ed. A.A.Brill, The Modern Library, Random House, NY. 1995.

 THE END

Copyright 2006 MWC

“Too Many Cooks!”

The metallic box of a room was bare except for the two men, the closed door and one large window.  The window was covered with a steel mesh that gave the room a shadowy, sinister mood.  The shorter man leaned his face on the high window sill and moaned, “They’re gonna kill us, Frank!  They’re gonna kill us!”

            Frank stood over in the far corner rubbing his face, “God, Eric don’t you ever shut up?”

            “But they’re gonna kill us.”  Eric moaned again.  “You said the restaurant was a gangster proof business.  You did say that.”

            “Well, it would have been if you had kept your mouth shut.” 

            “You said that after the first restaurant was a success the mob guys would come and lean on us.”  Eric lifted his head from the sill.

            “They did, didn’t they?”

            “Yeah and we just gave it to them.  You didn’t even try to pay ‘em off.”  Eric shook his head and then put it back on the sill.

            Frank nodded, “Yeah, that was part of the plan, wasn’t it?”

            “Yeah, but then we started another restaurant, right away.”

            “Again, part of the plan.”  Frank walked over to Eric. “So?”

            “Well, our new one was a success and theirs failed.  All our old customers found us and came to our new one.”

            “The plan.  The plan!”  Frank nodded again.  “And if you’d kept quiet, we wouldn’t be here right now.”

            “But the mob guys got angry and came to the new restaurant.  What was I suppose to do, give them the new place?”

            Frank nodded more vigorously,  “Yes!  That’s part of the plan.  You definitely weren’t supposed to tell them how we made the food irresistible.”

”But they were really mad.  They kept asking me.”  Eric almost cried.  “Right in my face they were yelling.”

“So, again?”  Frank sighed.  “What exactly did tell them?”

“You know about the retro-virus, how you gene spliced it so it had the human brain pleasure molecules, the endorkin, in it.  You had fiddled it so we could turn it on even when it’s in a person’s head.”

“Endorphins, but go on.”  Frank shook his head.

“And, and how we infected people with the fiddled virus by smearing it on the marketing mailers announcing the restaurant and on the free coupons for the ‘Smiley Face’ dishes.”  Talking made Eric feel a little better.  The coolness of the window sill helped too.  “So, they want the ‘Smiley Faces dishes.  So they order the right things.”

“You told them about the Smiley Faces?”

“Yeah, sorry, but the Smiley Faces mean that that food has the chemical inducer in it and then when customers eat it the endorkin gene comes on real strong and then they feel really good,  'cause the fiddled viruses in their heads.  How you’d say it?  The pleasure - reward you called it, would condition them without their knowing.  Bonding them to the restaurant with pleasure and then they always come back.”

Frank rubbed his face vigorously and the demanded, “When these guys come back keep your mouth shut.  They maybe nitwits but they’re smart enough to buy Truth Bracelets from the Newer Radio Shack, so they know when we’re lying.”

“But you never told me what the chemical inducer was, so I couldn’t tell them, I didn’t tell ‘em, that’s why they got even madder and put us here.  It was you who told them.  Not me!”

“Would you calm down and try to stay with me here in late 21^st Century planet Earth.  Just keep quiet, they’ll be back soon.”  Frank heard muffled voices at the door.  “See!  They’re here.”

Eric whined, “Ohhh.”

“Who had the keys, dammit?”  “Not me boss.”  “Willy has ‘em.”  “Nope.”  “I got ‘em”  “Well put down the bags and open the damn door.”  “Okay, sorry boss.”  “Opps”.  There was a bang.  The door flew open.  A four-foot long Atlantic cod fish slid into the middle of the room.

Frank looked down at the fish.  “Well, I see you got the fish.  I hope you got the other things I asked for?”

“Shut up, get back.”  The Boss walked into the room followed by four fat guys holding grocery and other shopping bags.  They dumped the contents on to the floor.

Frank bent down picking up a large plastic bottle, “Great, you got the galactose.”

“Had to beat up a college kid to get that.”  Said one of the fat guys.  The Boss frowned him into silence.

“So, that the ‘ducer?”  Inquired the Boss. 

“This the ‘ducer.”  Frank said holding up his left wrist so the Boss could see the green light on the Bracelet.

“Good, okay, but how do we know it’s safe?”  Said the Boss.  All the guys nodded their heads in unison.

“We’ll all try it at the same time.”  Frank poured some galactose into a cup.

“Looks like sugar.”  Said the Boss.

“Exactly what it is, everyone put a finger in.”  Frank popped his galactose-coated finger into his mouth.  Everyone else followed.  “Starting to feel good, right?”

“Yeah,” everyone started to smile.

“But cooking with it makes it even better.”  Frank held up his wrist to the Boss.  The Boss’s smile got bigger.

“Go ahead.”

“It’s best if I make the fish ‘Blackened’, burned you know.  It can get real smokey, so we need the door opened.”

“Okay, boys do it.”  The Boss sang.

“Almost done.”  Frank turned the fish over one more time.  It sizzled and smoked.  Smoked and blackened, deeply blackened. “Get a plate.  There’s enough for everyone.  Come on, get a big piece.”

“But I don’ like fish.”

“You will with this one.”  Frank smiled as he divided the fish evenly.  “Everyone eats.  You too Eric, stop sulking over there.” 

The fat guys ate greedily.  The Boss was cautious at first, then wolfed down his fish looking for more.  Frank and Eric ate their portions more slowly.  The fat guys smiled fat smiles.  The Boss smiled a satisfied Boss smile.  Frank smiled a satisfied smile too.  Eric was just perplexed.

“Okay, guys,”  Frank waved at the fat gangsters, they waved happily back.  “Now throw all your weapons out the door.” 

Guns, knives, trazers, and something Frank didn’t recognize flew out of the room.

“Now go sit in the corner.”  Frank pointed to the back of the room.  They did just that with sleepy smiles.

“But what?” Asked Eric.

“I made a special virus for the mob.  I infected these guys with it every time they came around.”  Frank walked to the door.  “It has a special promoter that gets hyper-active when the galactose is caramelized, that is burned black.  It’s why I burned this fish and to keep the door open.  I also included some special genes to make them do what I say.”

“Wow, but won’t they come after us when it wears off.”  Eric looked back at the fat guys from the doorway.

Frank shook his head and kicked a stray gun down the vacant, hollow hallway.  An echo responded from somewhere.  “No, the induction for them is like a chain reaction.  It just gets bigger and bigger; amplifying the pleasure exponentially.  They’ll die from extreme happiness.”

“I guess we can start a new restaurant?”  Eric asked after Frank.

“Nope, the old one will do just fine.”  Frank was already down the hallway.  He left the pile of obsolete weapons in their useless pile, which differed only from the fat gangster pile by not giggling.                          

THE END

Copyright 2006 MWC

Jack and the Beans of Immortality

A very grim Faerie Tale

“She’s dead!” exclaimed the small boy standing by the large, darkly ominous, knurled tree.  The extensive roots were bigger than he was.  He was thus hard to see against the big old tree.  He was so small and about the same color as its old broken bark.  The musty old, faded, but dirty rags he worn were referred to by his annoyed peasant father as kid’s clothes.

“What makes you think that?”  Said the smallish fellow that suddenly popped his head around the tree.  He was soiled, this fellow, much dirtier than the boy.  He was so soiled that he could have been a pile of dirt except that he had eyes, arms and walked on legs.

The boy pointed at the headless body of a very old woman propped against the tree trunk.  “Cause her body’s here and her head’s over there.”  The boy then pointed at what had to be her head.  Even though it was so ugly it was hard to tell, exactly.

The smallish soil fellow looked at the old woman’s head laying on the ground a few paces from the body.  “Oh, that’s doesn’t meaning anything.  She’s a witch.”  The smallish fellow waved his hands in the air as he walked over to the head.  “She’s so old that her joints are getting loose.”  He reached down only a little bit and grabbed up the head.  “When she goes to sleep, ah.”  He shrugged his soil shoulders with earthly resignation.  “These things happen.”

“I did it!  I found a Witch!”  The boy stated, not questioned.  The boy then thought hopping with excitement was appropriate and did so.

“Yeah, gives a whole different meaning to nodding off doesn’t it?”  The smallish fellow gave a muddy laugh.  He bounced her head in his hands.  “What you doing wandering around in the dark enchanted forest by yourself?”

“Oh, I’m Jack.”  The boy stopped his hop and then put out his hand to shake acquaintance.

The smallish fellow shrugged again with the same earthiness looking down at the head.  He needed both small hands to hold.  It was as big as it was ugly.

“Oh, yes, uh, my Father sent me out here to find a Witch,”  Jack pointed first at the headless body and then the head,  “and I’m to trade our cow for some magic beans when I do.  I just did!  So I will.”

The smallish fellow looked behind Jack.  There were only old and older trees.  “Where’s the cow?”

“Oh, I was to find the Witch, get the beans first and come back with the cow as payment.”  Jack also looked behind himself at only trees.  As if to confirm his statement, there was no cow. 

"Con a Witch?"  The smallish fellow smiled.  “Your dad doesn’t like you much, does he?”

“No, he does . . . doesn’t . . . uh, no, he likes me.  He just gets angry sometimes.  Ah, a lot a times.  Why?”  Jack was getting confused.  Should he have brought the cow?

“One of them homing cows, I guess.”  The smallish fellow said to himself.  “So what’s so magic about these beans?”  He tossed the head up into the air.  "She's asleep.  She'll never know."  He giggled dustily.

“Oh, Father said that anyone who had even one of these magic beans in their pocket would never grow old or get sick again.”  Jack watched the sleeping head rise into the air again.  “Mother is always getting sick and then a baby appears.  We have a lot of babies around.”

“The ole Beans of Immortality, ay?”  The fellow laughed a smile as he gently caught the head.

“Yeah, Em-more-tal-ity . . . That’s the word he used.”  Jack smiled back.

“Boy, Jack!”  The fellow shook his own head this time.  “Your dad didn’t like you too much.”

“Just enough!”  Said Jack smiling in his wit.  His father always said, half a wit was better than no wit at all.  “What about the magic beans?  Give them to me and I'll go get the cow.”

“Oh, those?  We’re fresh out.”  The fellow put the Witch’s head down in her lap.  “Used them all up on the turtles and trees.  Go home, boy.  If you can find it?  Say Hi to mean ole Dad for me.”

“But I can’t, not without the magic beans.  Beans first!”  Jack looked extremely disappointed.  Then he brightened with a thought.  “I want to ask the Witch herself.  Could you wake her up?”

The dirt fellow looked at the long shadow caused by the old tree.  “It’s about that time anyway, hand me her head.”  Jack did.  “Thanks, get a good hold on her body.  She sometimes thrashes around quite a bit when I wake her.  But I’m warning you, be careful about asking her stuff.  She is a witch.”

“What does that mean?”  Jack got a hold of her headless shoulders.

The fellow held the head above the body.  “What do witches do?”

“Bad thing?” Jack wasn’t sure.

“Extremely bad things, for sure.  Hold her still.”  The fellow quickly jammed the head onto the neck and stepped back.

There was a heart-ripping scream penetrated the forest primeval.  The headed Witch and Jack rolled violently around the forest clearing.  The soil fellow put his smallish frame behind a different large tree and tried not to watch Jack bang his head against the ground as the witch fell over backwards.  Jack let go and the Witch sprang to her feet.  She moved her head in ways it should not be able to move.  Suddenly, it was calm except for Jack’s labored breathing.   

The Witch pulled down on her ear lobes to further adjust her head placement.  “What’s all this then?”  She said looking down at the grounded Jack.

“He’s looking for magic beans.”  Said the fellow from behind the tree.

“Magic beans?  Isn't that the giant?  I have no magic beans.”  The Witch spit her reply at Jack as he got up from the dirt.

“But?”  Whispered Jack.

“I told him, but he’s really looking for Em-more-tal-ity.”  The fellow giggled, still behind the tree.

“Em-more-tal-ity?”  The Witch further wrinkled her already very wrinkled brow.

“Yes,” said Jack, as he stood up straight like his Mother always told him to.  “So, I won’t ever grow old or be sick again.”

The Witch looked at the soil fellow as he stepped from behind the tree.  “His Daddd sent him to find you, by himself.”

"Find a witch in the dangerous forest?"  The Witch looked perplexed and ugly.  “Dad doesn’t like him very much does he?”  The Witch turned back to Jack.

“He does, uh, doesn’t, uh, he likes me.”  Jack remained confused on this issue.

“Never grow older than now.  That what you want?”  The Witch squirmed this question out of her throat.

“Exactly!”  Jack looked contemptuously at the soil fellow.  The pile of dirt that was the fellow just shrugged his dirt shoulders, again.  He was very good at that.

“With magic or without?”  She squirmed out another one.

“Oh, with magic.  That would be ever so much more fun.”  Jack said as the soil fellow abruptly ducked behind the tree.

“Fine!”  The Witch screamed as a bolt of dark light shot from her mouth.  It enveloped Jack in black.  When the darkness parted Jack was now gray, hard and stony.  His appearance fit him well because, he was now made completely of granite.

“Never grow old that way.”  Said the pile of dirt with eyes from behind the tree.  “I warned him.”

“Warned him, what?”  The Witch just stood there exhausted after her excursion.

“That you were a witch.”  The fellow stuck out his dirt head.

“That I am.  So?” 

“That you do bad things.”  The fellow stepped from behind the tree.

“Extremely bad things!”  The Witch giggled evilly and then cried out in pain.

The smallish fellow knocked at the stony Jack with his dirt hands.  “Kid was kind of dumb though.  Cute and dumb.”

“Too bad, maybe I should have kept him around for amusement?”  The Witch caused herself further pain by attempting to smile.  The earthy fellow looked back at her with surprise.  “No, I didn’t need anyone new.  You’re dumb enough for me.”  The Witch hurt herself again with a laugh.  "Cute is not required.  Lucky for you."

            The fellow gave her a painless, dirty smile back.  “That Witch?”  He chuckled to himself.  “So, what was the non-magic way of not growing old?”

            “I would have stabbed him in the heart with my broom.  But that’s so messy.”

            “Yeah, this is much cleaner.”  The dirt pile walked toward the Witch.

            “Human blood makes the broom stick sticky for weeks.  Ugg.”  The Witch ran her hand up and down her broomstick.

            “Yeah, very inconvenient and inconsiderate of them, I’d say.”  The smallish pile of dirt with eyes, arms and legs gave a laugh.  The Witch hurt herself again in response.

THE MORAL:  Don’t trust anyone, especially witches!

THE END

Copyright 2006 MWC

Martin and the Water

by

Max Porter Zasada

Martin squeezed his eyes shut, holding his net still. The brilliant summer glare was really starting to get to him, both from above and from the surface of the almost-clean pool. For the five thousandth time in the five hours since noon, he wished he hadn’t left his wide-brimmed hat at home. He opened his eyes to the sunlight once again and strained his shoulders at the warm aluminum in his hands. The net scraped across the bottom of the clear bluish pool, gathering a last leaf, almost black from bonding with the chlorine Martin had put in last week.

Hearing footsteps behind him, Martin turned, then gave the standard strained smile pool cleaners always give to the pool owners. I’m cleaning, says the smile. Stay out of my OCD cleanfest, you fucking neophyte. But this guy ignored or missed the message, and stood around for a few moments, staring into his pool with slight distaste. Martin tugged the pole out of the water, careful as always to keep the leaves pressed against the netting. Though he knew his caution was obsessive, he would never repeat that first experience ten years ago, when he’d had to start all over.

His first time on the job, with his brief stint wearing a beard and his unopened cases of chemicals, had been a horrible experience despite his freshly painted van and his checklist of tasks. The owner of that pool had worked in pool maintenance at some huge school swimming pool, and hung around criticizing and commenting on Martin’s greenness the whole two hours. Martin had gotten some chlorine in his beard somehow, and cut himself that night when he’d shaved it off. He’d had to wash and scrub his face raw just to remove the horrible feeling of contamination. And of course, with the added pressure he’d let the leaves escape the net again and again.

It made a good story though. He’d befriended with his neighbor David by telling that story. As a writer, David seemed drawn to tales of all kinds, even mundane ones, though he rarely wrote about mundane things. He was a good guy, if a bit pretentious.

For some reason, Hope and David always laughed when Martin told them pool stories. It was as if Hope could imagine what the hundreds of little black leaves had looked like, scattering into the once pure water like demonic fish. When Martin was alone with Hope, she’d laugh on her own. But David always began the laughter first when he came over for dinner, which was often. Only then did Martin’s blind girlfriend Hope turn her face to him and laugh too.

Martin couldn’t understand the reason for their amusement, but accepted it anyway. As college graduates who had both been English majors, the education David and Hope both possessed seemed to give them an understanding of humor on a higher plane. Martin thought them a bit affected sometimes. He would tell how he cleaned and cleaned for hours on end, but whether catastrophes happened or not, he was always painfully aware that the pools weren’t really clean. Clean, clear water was so hard to find. These ideas just made the two of them laugh, however.

The pool owner left as Martin put on his mask and began to lug his bucket of chlorine to the brick edge. He was thankful for the privacy. No one needed to know exactly what went into a pool to keep algae away. Let the pool men handle it. Theirs was the job of getting to know the pool water, knowing what made the pools so bright and clear. Invisible chemicals engaged in a kind of biological warfare.

Martin didn’t even see pools as bodies of water anymore. No, these were battlefields, with varied and equally horrible armies. There was the chlorine, burning all organic material, including Martin himself or any swimmers. Of course, it had to be carefully measured and monitored, or the burning would actually be felt. Too little was even worse than too much. When there was some but too little, bacteria broke down the chlorine into a useless but dangerous chemical that burned flesh even worse than regular chlorine. For now, the chlorine remained an insidious and subtle foe, burning away just a few cells at a time. The algae struggled to grow, both the benign green and the terrifying black algae, which was next to impossible to remove, short of draining the pool and taking a steel brush to it. Green algae covered the walls in thin slimy sheets; black algae grew in little black spots like a gruesome disease from the Middle Ages. Martin had come to hate the algae even as he had come to hate the chemicals filling the water. The last combatants were the swimmers, who soaked up chlorine and knocked in leaves that Martin had worked so hard to control. It would be better if no one used the pool. That illusion of clear, clean water would be so much easier to maintain.

Ladling a careful scoop of the white powder in, Martin quickly screwed the top back on the chlorine bucket. He pushed open the gate he’d unlocked an hour before and put the bucket back in his van. On the driver’s seat, folded, was a page ripped from an old high school notebook, the notebook he’d had the year he dropped out to head west to Los Angeles. It held the numbers for all the gates of all the pools Martin had to keep track of. Cursing himself for leaving something so important on his seat, he put it in the glove compartment and headed back through the black iron gate. To think that he complained to David about Hope’s carelessness.

Feeling ill and sunburnt, Martin wondered whether he would die of the sun or of his deep disgust for the contaminations of water he had to work with. Or maybe he’d just spilled some of that white stuff on himself again without realizing it, or maybe chlorine had evaporated off the water and stuck to him. Martin shuddered at the thought as he replaced the fence around the small pool, loaded his poles, test chemicals and other equipment, and locked the gate. 

He hit traffic immediately. As the cars crawled along the 405 in the late afternoon heat, Martin listened in growing fury to the trickle of his broken air conditioner. The water, he thought. Or some manufactured chemical to make the gas that’s pumped out of a pressured container to cool the air around it. Liquids. The stuff we put in ourselves, the stuff surrounding all the landmasses. All of it filled with impurities, all of it dirty.

It was all so different from the way everyone else saw water. Once when he’d come home tired and thirsty and given her a hug, Hope had felt his face as usual, then thrown her arms around him and exclaimed excitedly that David had written a poem about Martin’s job. She explained how Martin helped the pools, which were sisters of the great sea all around, stay clean. It made his job sound so important. Sometimes Martin got a little jealous of the literary interest David and Hope shared, but he knew how lonely she got alone at home all day with her blindness. David helped out a lot when Martin wasn’t there to take care of Hope. In the end, it was good that Hope had an outlet for her love of literature. Besides, David wasn’t exactly the manly type. He’d never even have the guts to make a move on Hope, if he were interested. He’d just suffer from afar, and write little poems about it.

Martin blinked at the heat shimmer mirages coming off the road, which looked exactly like puddles, bending the light so they’d even mimic reflections. Clean water was about as real as those mirages. In a thoughtless fit of aggravation, he tossed his half-empty water bottle to the side of the freeway. Purity was a dream. Even the oceans were full of garbage and oil spills. Contaminated! It’s all fucking contaminated.

He blinked, wiped sweat from his forehead and smeared it on the dashboard. The salty liquid glistened on the grey plastic. He imagined algae growing there, living off the moisture and minerals in the perspiration. Blind life clinging to his car in a hopeless drive for existence. The idea reminded him of David’s depressing short stories. Martin remembered the last one quite well. He’d come home to find David reading aloud to Hope. She’d stood up and asked Martin to join their little literary tea party. She’d sat straight and stiff in his lap while David continued reading. It was a story about somebody’s grandmother and how her obsession with chicken soup recipes ended up ruining everyone’s lives. When he’d finished, David had grinned and told them which “lit mag,” as he called it, had published the story. Martin failed to recognize the name, but Hope had made impressed noises, practically purring in his lap, so maybe it was a better story than he thought.

By the time Martin arrived home, he was drenched in sweat. Even though the sun was gone, the air was warm.  

The apartment he and Hope shared was on the third floor of the building, whose windows spread wide like staring eyes out of a body of blistering paint. The whitewashed mass seemed to huddle by the side of the road in the gathering twilight like a gigantic toad.

Martin pulled his rumbling, grumbling van up to the curb. He always wondered whether he woke the whole neighborhood with that rusty muffler.

After reorganizing his equipment in the back of the van, he locked it and began to trudge up the dimly lit stairs. This was the loneliest part of the entire day, this minute of climbing the stairs from his empty van. He always had to wonder what he would find at the top. Even though he’d decided that David’s visits didn’t bother him, it wasn’t an entirely pleasant prospect. Plus, the lighting and concrete walls added to his apprehensive mood, raising his tension even more. He remembered the thrown water bottle suddenly, and the irony struck him. He’d littered even while obsessing about contamination. How fucking hypocritical.

As he trudged up the concrete stairs, his shadow flowed crazily along the walls, orange-lit by the light of the dying bulbs above him. His door was marked by the gleaming metal number 33. David’s was right next door, and closer to the stairs, marked 32. He stared at David’s door as he passed. How silly to ever be jealous of that benevolent little writer.

Martin’s girlfriend was sitting at the well-worn kitchen table, running her fingers over the raised bumps of a Braille book. She read faster with her fingers than he did with eyes. She could absorb so much information so fast that he often credited her blindness with getting her through high school and college whereas he’d quit just before finishing high school, unable to take it any more. “Marty? I hear your step. You’re home early.” Carefully, she took a sip from a large glass of ice water on the table beside her book. He doubted that she’d double-filtered it, as was his habit. Hope was one to drink straight from the tap, with all the fluoride and iodine and whatever they put in the reservoirs.

Her stared at her face. Hope’s face always fascinated him. Her default expression was a questing, inquisitive one which always reminded him of a cat that’s heard someone trying to sneak past. She was thin and straight of posture despite all her reading, graceful and delicate. Everything the pensive, heavy-limbed Marty wasn’t. Hope always said she was comforted by his “earthy male presence,” though he was never totally certain what she meant. Hope often spoke in poetic phrasing with an air of enjoyment.

Marty cleared his throat and muttered, “Not really. There was traffic. The freeway was congested, just full of cars.”

Hope smiled.  To Martin, her pure amusement seemed to light up the room. Hope did indeed look radiant, with her exquisite face haloed by bright blond hair. Somehow she always looked perfect when he got home.

“Alright, Marty. You go wash up and we’ll have dinner, if it is dinnertime. And here I thought I was learning to have an internal clock!”

Her pure-noted laughter followed him to the juncture of the bathroom and bedroom. Their two-room apartment was centered around this bottleneck point, where the once-white carpet was stained by old unwiped shoes. Whether you wanted to go to the bedroom, bathroom, or the combination living room and kitchen, you had to pass through here. Martin hated the spot. It reminded him too much of crappy piping in a filter system. He always wondered how those hydraulics guys with degrees and everything could create such lousy designs.

Martin stepped on something round and yielding. Taking his dirty sneaker off the thing, he discovered a small white plastic bottle with a pink label, lying on the carpet. Picking it up, he stared from the bottle to Hope, whose blind eyes looked at nothing while her fingers flowed over the letters below her. As she sipped again from her glass, Martin checked the bottle again in gathering disbelief. It was a bottle of lubricant.

“Marty?” Hope called. “I don’t hear you washing, what’s up?” She set the glass down softly.

He walked up to her, holding the strange bottle. It was a white cylinder, with a pink label. The color was garish and it smelled unpleasant. The plastic was bent now from the weight of his foot.  “What’s new with our friend next door?”

“Oh, David? I think his sink is broken or something. Poor man, he’s very much an intellectual. Though he can out-quote me in Shakespeare, he’s not much for working with pipes and things. Why do you ask?” Hope laughed again, and Martin stared as her hands fidgeted from her book to her glass and back again.

When he spoke, it was in a rough whisper. “How long?”

Hope’s amused smile faded away as she asked, “What? How long what?”

“How long, how long, how long?” Martin choked out as he set the bottle in her hands and clenched the table in painful anger.

Hope turned the little plastic thing in her sensitive fingers, an expression of bewilderment on her thin, pretty face. Then, as Martin glowered at her, awful realization crept in. Hope whispered, “It’s not…I didn’t…”

“Answer the question.” His voice was rising now.

Hope looked older, weary and afraid. “A few months, Marty. Just a few months.”

Martin began to shout. Out in the hallway, the next door apartment’s door opened, though no one could have heard at this point. “How could you? How could you? What do I mean to you? What do you think when you feel my face?”

 Hope shook her head. “Marty. You…you’re a good person, Marty, but you just don’t understand.”

 “Oh, I understand.” He picked up the glass of ice water and dashed it in her face. Hope screamed, fluttering her hands around. He stared for a moment at the cold water dripping down her skin. “And that’s what you understand.”

He opened the door and stepped into the hallway expecting to find a frightened little man in glasses staring at him.

David was there, but he seemed different in the dim orange light of the hallway. His thin, heavily freckled face held an expression of fierce anger. His light brows curved over his reflective glasses. Those dangerous brown eyes looked long and hard at Martin.  David wore a form-fitting green t-shirt and brown pants stained with black spots. The lines of his body were taught and strained. He was more muscular than Martin had thought. He must have been working out recently. “What’s going on?” David demanded. His voice was deep for a small man, grating and emotional. He smelled of fresh sweat.

Martin roared, “You fucking slime! You fucking slime!” and swung wide at him with the glass still in hand. David ducked away, and the wet glass slipped and hit the wall, where it shattered, spraying glittery shards over the floor.

“What are you doing?” David stared over the tops of his glasses. “Stop this, Martin.” His voice was powerful, commanding. He seemed entirely in control of the situation. “You can’t go on like this!” he thundered.

Martin straightened. Choking out a scream, he started forward with more violence in his heart. David’s thin, serious face shimmered in front of him. As he moved, Martin’s limbs felt the air around pressing close and quiet against him as though he were drowning. It was like he’d fallen into a pool as vast as the universe itself.

            His right foot came down on a shard of wet glass. Without traction, his feet went from underneath him.

THE END

A Real Asshole

            Frank LaPlique was an asshole; a full-fledged, jerk-off, asshole.  But unlike most assholes, Frank knew he was an asshole.  Frank actually liked being an asshole.  Frank was also a Republican.  He wasn’t a Republican because he believed in their agenda.  He was a Republican because it got him invited to their parties and fund raisers.  He had his own agenda, which was getting the rich Republicans to give Frank their money.  This agenda, of course, made Frank more of a Republican than he would ever admit, but lying to yourself was a big part of being an asshole.  Frank wanted to be around Republicans because Republicans seemed to truly believe their own bullshit and thus making them an easy mark for a con or fraud or any old foolish business deal.  In Frank’s long experience, he had found that the conventional wisdom, “You can’t bullshit a bullshitter,” was wrong, like most conventional wisdoms; he had found that “You can always bullshit a bullshitter.”  The bullshitter fell for bullshit every time; the bigger the bullshit the better.  Any short term thinker looking for the fast buck with no concern for the consequences; anyone who would do anything to make a profit, (another definition of selfishness and greed and assholery) thus would say any old “bullshit” that worked for them at that particular moment.  Thus bullshit became as comfortable as their old hat, so they bought the bullshit hat every time.  Selfishness, greed and assholery were not actually their goals though; in their minds they were just being “Good Capitalists”.  What’s Good for them was simply just Good!  It made them blind to their own greed and assholeness, thus a LaPlique-style easy mark.    

            LaPlique was always amused by the philosophical conclusions derived from all of this, that a Capitalistic society was a society of assholes.  Thus as a rich, established pillar of a capitalistic society, LaPlique didn’t mind being called an asshole; he thought it only proper: it was his nature, his calling, his fun.  Also, it was always amusing to take these high-handed, holier than thou, stupid jerks down a notch or two.   If LaPlique could take everything from them, along with any dignity they had left, it was much better.  Just a whole lot of fun!

            LaPlique was also a Christian, again not because he believed in God or anything else but himself, but because it accentuated another weakness of all the other in-the-closet assholes.  They actually didn’t like being assholes.  They might be punished by God for it.  Thus they wanted to be Good, at least in God’s eyes.  They thought somehow that worshipping God would get them in good with the Ole Guy.  Being his friend, God would thus give you a better reservation at God’s Afterlife resort, Heaven.  The philosophical conclusions from this demented reasoning made LaPlique chuckle regularly.  The assumption was that God was as coy and naïve as an adolescent girl and his head could be turned as easily.  That God was so simple-minded that he could be flattered into giving these assholes a break.  Ergo, in their demented minds, God was as big an asshole as they were! 

            Maybe not an asshole, but God certainly was a bullshitter.  “Fear not; Believe only!”  God or Jesus said somewhere in the Bible.  LaPlique had his own version of that phrase, “Trust me!”  LaPlique always got a good healthy laugh from “Trust”.  LaPlique loved trust.  Trust was his major tool; fools tool; getting others to trust LaPlique.  The smarter, the more educated the Truster the better LaPlique liked it, the bigger was the laugh.

            So now, LaPlique sat at the LaPlique Investment Ventures LLC’s largest conference table across from a couple of regular, standard issue, closet assholes that were trying to beat LaPlique at his own game; they wanted LaPlique to invest in their “Project”.  Their presentation wasn’t going well.  Of course, they didn’t realize this.  In LaPlique’s mind they were too obsequious; they were too smarmy to be really successful.  They could take a moderate amount of money from their targeted prey, some Christian group or other, but LaPlique wasn’t paying that much attention.  These guys were too small time and too dumb for LaPlique.  There was no challenge here.  LaPlique thus did the thing that would maintain the LaPlique character.  LaPlique just walked out of the conference room without saying a thing.

            “See how dumb they really are by how long they sit there.”  LaPlique said to one of his assistants in the hallway.  LaPlique went back to his office and left the door open.  The open door was a signal to his four assistants to watch him.  He was going to need something soon and they needed to guess what it was.

            As usual, the homosexual male got there first.  LaPlique didn’t care about a person’s sexual preference.  LaPlique didn’t care who anyone fucked.  Homosexual males seemed to be willing and able to take LaPlique’s assholery better than heterosexual men or women or homosexual women.  LaPlique never quite understood this.  LaPlique just knew he could abuse a gay Republican male more than anyone else; next to them were fundamentalist Christians of either sex.  This similarity between the two groups fit well in LaPlique’s world view.  Homophobia, LaPlique knew, was simply explained.  The fundamentalists always said it out right.  They were threatened by homosexuality, they were afraid of it.  A strong person never feared something that didn’t affect them.  The gay life style threatened fundamentalists simply because they were attracted to it, they were tempted by it.  Obviously, fundamentalists were gay but didn’t have the balls to admit it.  LaPlique thus thought God must have invented homosexuality just to test his flock.  The fundamentalists of any religion’s whole reason d’etre was to fight temptation for God’s glory, to torture one’s self for God.  If God did things like this just so his worshippers could torture themselves and agonize over it, God was almost worthy of LaPlique’s adoration, but not quite.

            LaPlique thus hired as many gay Republicans as he could find.  He made them all work with the fundamentalists businesses.  The gay Republicans were always so neat, clean-cut and properly dressed.  It all was most amusing to LaPlique because, contrary to what one would have thought, no one of those Christians ever complained.  That was how big an asshole LaPlique really was.  It made him laugh out loud at inappropriate moments, but he just couldn’t control his amusement, sometimes. 

            Terry Bono thus stood at the open office door pointing at the phone.  “Excuse me, Mr. LaPlique, Dr. Phillip Edge, CEO and President of Flangene on One.  You bought his small biotech four months ago.”

            “Terry, how many times have I told you, call me Frank.”  LaPlique said this every time he talked with Terry.  Terry was good enough of a professional though, to never call him Frank.  “Have I ever spoken with him before?”  LaPlique never could or cared to remember the people he talked to.  Only to never with.

            Terry looked down at the file.  “Only pre-purchase.  No, you have never given him the Call.”

            LaPlique smiled.  Terry always answered the question LaPlique asked and the one LaPlique didn’t ask.  “Great!”  LaPlique meant that comment for both Terry’s abilities to predict what LaPlique wanted and that this “Dr. Phil” was a virgin to the Call.  There was fun to be had.  LaPlique put on the speakerphone.  “Hey, Dr. Phil, why haven’t you called me?”

            “Oh, ah, is this Mr. LaPlique?”  Dr. Edge waited for an answer.  LaPlique smiled in silence.  “Was there a call scheduled?”  LaPlique remained silent listening to the confused, muffled voices on the other end of the line.

            “I own the assets of this company.  You can’t keep me in the dark.”  LaPlique chuckled to himself.  He didn’t give a shit about what they do or did.  One of his assistants would flip this company as soon as it had any value.  LaPlique just liked to jerk these Eggheads by their PhDed dicks every once and awhile.  LaPlique generally liked to keep people off balance, just to keep them feeling insecure and annoyed.  They were easier to manipulate in an uncertain, irritated state of mind.

            Dr. Edge’s voice was confused.  “We have been e-mailing in the monthly P&L’s.  I speak with a MS Doogin and a Mr. Flank, at least, once a week.  I assumed they were relaying the required information to you.”

            “But you have never called me.”  LaPlique sounded petulant.  “Have you?”

            “Ah, no, I have not.”  Dr. Edge’s voice changed its tone again.  There was a rustle of paper.  “I will establish a regular call with you, if you like?”

            “No, no, I never know my schedule.  You need to call me more often or I will look for a person who will.”  LaPlique wanted to make Dr. Phil angry.  Threats always were the crux point. 

            Dr. Edge’s voice finally showed anger.  “That’s not necessary to say.  We’re not hiding anything. . . .”

            “I don’t need excuses.  I need results.  If no results come, I’ll find a way to make results appear.”  LaPlique smiled.

            “We will. . . .”  Dr. Edge’s voice was cut off as LaPlique hung up.

            Terry knew that if Dr. Phil called backed to complain, not to put Dr. Phil’s call through; what Dr. Phil needed was to be moved on and out.  It was likely it was Dr. Phil’s ego that had caused the company to go bankrupt.  Arrogant fools!

            LaPlique opened the middle drawer of his desk.  At its bottom, covered and protected by thin glass, were pictures of LaPlique’s two children. Joy was from wife number one; Ted was from wife number three.  Both were dead; Joy from a drug over dose; Ted, a suicide.  The only other things LaPlique kept in this drawer were his old slide rule and packets of cough drops.  When he talked too much his throat got sore.  The cough drops helped.  The boxes of different flavors were lined up in a row.  One of LaPlique’s assistants kept the boxes full and added any new flavors that became available.  LaPlique chose lemon.  LaPlique called out the door.  “Did Dr. Phil call back?”

            MS Doogin appeared at LaPlique’s door.  “Yes sir, he did.  Relatively indignant at that!  I was already making preparations for his removal.  He has substantial stock in that company.  We need him out of the way for the flip.  I’ll schedule a Board meeting in two weeks for a vote.”

            “Good, Good, maybe teach the impractical bastard a lesson.”  LaPlique said.

            “I speak with him regularly, I don’t think it will.”  Added MS Doogin.

            “Well then he deserves what he gets.  Good job.  Let me know how much we make on that deal.”

            “Yes sir.”  MS Doogin closed the office door.

            LaPlique sat there in silence for a moment sucking the lemon out of his cough drop.  He then reached in and got another.  It took him a moment to choose the ever-popular flavor, cherry.  He knew it made his tongue red.  He always liked that.  LaPlique looked over at the only thing on his desk top, the phone console.  Only one of the multitudes of buttons had anything written on it.  That one button said “FRIEND“.  LaPlique pushed that button.  The speakerphone came on and the phone automatically dialed the number.

            “Matt Chow.”  Came the voice at the other end of the “FRIEND” button. 

            “This is GOD.”  Said LaPlique in a deep voice.

            “Oh, Hi Frank.”  Answered Matt casually.  “I’m stuck here on the 405 freeway.  I haven’t gotten a chance to look at the. . . .”

            The armored blast door and window shutters banged closed simultaneously.  The room lights automatically increased their brightness.

            “What was that?”  Matt shouted.

            There were distant gun shots.  They were quickly getting closer.  “Oh, just one of our annual drills.  Gotta go!”  LaPlique disconnected.  LaPlique sat there calmly as the gun fire got loader and loader and then, as the Press would describe it, there was a hail of fire followed immediately by silence.  More silence, more silence, then the blast shutters and door snapped open.  The lights automatically compensated for the change in brightness. 

MS Doogin stood in the doorway.  “Sorry about this.”  She held a large caliber marksman’s target pistol in her left hand.  The pistol had an extended capacity bullet magazine.  She pointed at the body of a man on the floor behind her.  “Sorry, he got so close sir.”

            LaPlique leaned to the side of his desk to get a better view.  MS Doogin stepped to the side.  The body was covered with Kevlar / composite resin armor.  Despite half of his head being missing, LaPlique could see that the man had close cropped blond hair.

            “We don’t know who he is yet.”  MS Doogin stepped back in to the doorway. 

            “Looks clean-cut, well-groomed.”  LaPlique sat back in his chair.

            “And well armed.”  MS Doogin said.

            “Two out of three are like this, Republican types, if I remember correctly.”

            “Yes sir, approximately.” MS Doogin turned her head toward the body.  “With this one it maybe seventy five percent.”

            “You’ll take care of the Press?”  LaPlique looked for another cough drop, maybe mixed fruit this time?

            “Certainly sir, this time it will be a hunting accident.”  MS Doogin said without humor or expression.

            “Good job! Excellent!  These hot-headed would-be entrepreneurs, get-rich-quickers just don’t seem to understand that we’re just doing good business and that we are just damn good at that business.”  LaPlique looked over at the gun in MS Doogin’s left hand.  It had a laser sighting mechanism.  “Now that we’re getting to know each other better, can I ask you a personal question?”

            “Certainly, sir.”  MS Doogin followed LaPlique’s line of sight to the gun.

            “Are you a lesbian?”  LaPlique then looked directly into MS Doogin’s hazel eyes.

            “Marksmanship was a prerequisite for the job, sir.  You made that specification yourself, sir.”  MS Doogin’s comment had no emotion attached.  It was her special attribute to only answer the truly important, unasked questions.

            “That I did.”  LaPlique nodded his balding head.  “That I did.  You know MS Doogin.  You can say one thing about Frank LaPlique.”

            “That is, sir?”  MS Doogin said.

            “I may be an asshole, but I’m a careful asshole.”  LaPlique smiled.

            “That you are, sir.”  MS Doogin maintained no emotion in her voice, but she waited.  He hadn’t finished.

            LaPlique looked at her emotionless face, and then at the armored legs on the floor behind her.  “Oh, and if the security guards at the main entrance are still alive, fire them!”

THE END

Copyright 2006 - MWC

Job Security!

            The short guy with the reversed baseball cap stopped dead in his tracks.  “I'm not digging anywhere with that cat sitting there!”   

            The taller guy walked over to the headstone swinging his brown leather bomber jacket at the large drowsy black cat.  It fell sleepily to the ground.  The cat hissed and then ran off into the blackness of the moonless night.  The taller guy hissed back at the cat quickly placing his jacket over the face of the large grey granite grave headstone where the cat had just been napping.

            “There, all gone!  Christ!  Wesley, you'd think this was the 1600th century by the way you act.  Black cats and superstition!  Geez!  And you want to be a doctor?”

            “Never liked cats, except to dissect them.”  Wesley dumped his shovel and pick onto the damp cemetery lawn.  A muffled thump verifying that gravity had worked, always reassuring.  “Let's get this over with.”

           “My sentiments exactly!  Now dig!”  The taller guy pointed at the fresh grave, straddled its, now, covered headstone.  He then tried to get as comfortable as the cat had been.

            “Hay, what about a hand Stan?”  Wesley said as the pick dug deeply into the loose soil of that fresh grave.

            “The pleasure is all your's Wesley.”

            “What ja mean, all mine?”  Wesley stopped swinging and stood up looking with distain at Stan.

            “Wes, you lost our cadaver, so you dig up the replacement.”

            “Can't we get another one some other way?”  Wesley shrugged, threw down the unnecessary pick and then started to dig with the shovel.

            “Oh sure, I'll just tell the Dean of Medicine that my moron of a lab partner took our prepped stiff to a masquerade party dressed up as a bag lady and then he lost her!  So, can we have another, please?”

            “It was supposed to be a joke and I didn't lose her.  One of those Frat-head jerks kidnapped her!”  Wesley kept on digging. 

            “Corpse napping.”  Stan said while he lit a cigarette. 

            “Can't we have some light here?”  Wesley whined and shovelled.  Efficient was always an adjective associated with Wesley.

            “Of course, not!  Would you hurry, we still have to prep this stiff before tomorrow's mid-term exam, for God’s sakes.  I'll have to do most of that prep anyway.”  Stan hopped off the headstone. Cold stone was never comfortable.  Stan rubbed his butt vigorously as a verification of that fact.  “I think I'll have a little nap over there.”  Stan pointed at a pile of lawn clippings.  “Wake me when you get down to it.”

            “Oh sure, sweet dreams! Hell, I can just see myself in forty years, Gee, Granpa, what did you do in Medical school?  Oh, I would dig up bodies and then lose them at parties.  What a funny guy I am.  Ho . . . Ho . . . Ho!”

            “Wes, shut up and dig!”  Stan pulled his cap over his face making the graveyard dark extra dark for his nap.

            They both stood in the now, unfilled grave.

            “Stan, can't we lift out the coffin first?”

            “No, it's too heavy for one thing and it needs to stay to fill in the grave.”  Stan straddled the casket working at the edge of the lid with pliers.  “There!  It's coming open.  Now, I'll just slide this little old lady out of her not so eternal resting place.  She's not too heavy at all.  Just the size we need.  Wes, get up there over by the headstone, so I can pass her up to you.”

            “Oh, okay, just let me put on some examination gloves.”  Wesley pulled off his work gloves and pulled on a pair of latex examination gloves.  The snap echoed off into the darkness.  A cat hissed back in response to being startled awake.

            “Christ, would you be quiet and come on.  She's light but I can't hold her this way all night!”  Stan held the small desiccated body at arms distance from him.  Stan looked up at Wesley calmly working the fingers of his gloves.  “Come on, dammit!  Take her! Put her in your car.”

            Wesley bent over the open grave extracting their fresh specimen from Stan’s arms extending from the dark hole.  Stan then jumped out of the blackness onto graveyard lawn.  “Put her in the trunk.  I'll start filling in the hole.”

            A scream came from where the cars were parked.  Stan ran over to Wesley who was staring astonished into the trunk.  “Jesus, Stan!’

            “What?  What's the problem now?”  Stan looked at the small corpse curled up so compactly in the lighted trunk.  The trunk carpet was green and plush.  She looked almost comfortable there.

            “Christ!  Stan, this is my Grandmother!”  Tears twinkled in Wesley's eyes.

            “Yeah, so, she was the only recent burial that my friend could find that fit our cadaver's features!”  Stan covered the body with a wool Indian blanket.  “I was surprised that you didn’t recognize the grave.”  Stan patted her covered shoulder.  “Anyway, we'll be good to her, won't we?”

            “But my Grandmother!”  Wesley reached out for her hand.  Stan stopped him.  “I didn’t go to her funeral, because of those all day microbiology exams.”

            “Whatever.  You always told me that she wanted you to be a doctor.  Now she can help you do that like no one else can!  Right?  You don't want to be digging graves or rotting in jail for the rest of your life?  Do you, Wesley P. Westmore?”

            “Yeah, no, ah . . . I guess . . . yeah, you're right about that!” 

            Stan slapped Wesley on the back, “Let's finish filling in that hole.  We still have a lot of work ahead of us before the mid-term.”

            Wesley nodded, as Stan turned to go back to the grave, “Guess you're right.  See, you later Granma.”  Wesley slammed the trunk lid and turned to join his partner Stan.

THE END

Copyright 2006 - MWC

WEDDING BELL BLUES!

The Art of Planning the Perfect Wedding

By Sheila T. Brann

            Wouldn’t you think planning a wedding would be an easy task? It’s simple. Just get a Bride’s Magazine that tells you the ten easy steps to plan the perfect wedding. We’ve all seen those centerfolds, you know, the list on the left hand page is for the bride and the list on the right hand page tells the groom his responsibilities. Well, I thought it would be a simple recipe, too, that is, until I had the opportunity to plan my own wedding. This editorial should be titled “High Anxiety”, The Art of Frustration” or “Planning a Wedding … Easy Steps to Utter Chaos and Provocation”.

THE CHURCH

            The first step to planning a wedding (besides meeting your fiancé, getting engaged, and setting the date) is to set up an appointment with your clergyman and book the church. Sounds easy enough? R-i-i-i-i-i-ght!!!!! But, surprisingly enough, this sometimes has to be accomplished a year in advance to guarantee the date you want. That was the easy part, I think. We only had to change our wedding date three times to book the church.

I don’t know about any of you out there who are currently married, but my fiancé and I had to go through six months of instruction on how to have a successful marriage. Like that’s an achievable task? We had to take compatibility surveys, have face-to-face encounter sessions, and even complete homework assignments after every session. Then we had to do the same thing all over again with a sponsor couple, who were supposed to be the model married couple. I wonder if they are still married? It got to the point that we thought they were trying to get us to divorce court before we even got married. Fortunately, we passed the test with flying colors.

LET THEM EAT CAKE  

The next step is to find a room for the reception. Again, if you want to book a banquet hall or a posh hotel you must book six months to a year in advance to ensure getting the date you’ve requested. But, don’t judge a book, I mean a hotel, by its cover. The catering people are always so-o-o-o kind and courteous. One hotel I checked, an internationally acclaimed hotel at that, had a beautiful lobby, just perfect for what I wanted. I was told upfront that they could book me in the piano bar area in the lobby. The clincher was that since I was planning such a small reception (less than 40 people) that I would be bumped and put into a small, dingy, banquet room if a larger party needed the space. Needless to say, I immediately decided on another hotel. So much for customer service and feeling special.

CASH, CREDIT, OR YOUR FIRST BORN

            You must have lots of money when planning a reception. For instance, a bottle of their house champagne, of course the very finest Spanish champagne, which you can buy in the liquor store for $2.99, is at the price of $30.00 per bottle. Considering the price is jacked up ten times, not a bad price, huh? Have you ever heard of a wedding cake being sold at $5.00 per slice? If you have a small reception of 40 people, your cake costs $200.00 plus gratuity. Now I know the price of flour and sugar has risen over the years, but doesn’t that sound ridiculous?

            Also, to get credit at the hotel, credit meaning you pay half up front and pay the balance 30 days after the reception, you practically have to pledge your first-born child. Considering I’ve never had kids, guess I would have been stuck with pre-paying the bill. They don’t even have to check your credit bureau score. All they need to know is the balance in your checking and savings account. The balance today is certainly not the same today as it will be on the wedding date, especially after you’ve drained your account to pay for all those necessary wedding expenditures.

COUTURE OR RENTAL ANYONE?

            I think every girl’s dream is to find that perfect wedding gown and envision herself walking down the aisle like Cinderella waiting to marry her handsome prince. I don’t know about you but I must not be very sentimental about the attire. Some women actually antique their wedding gowns and store them in the attic for years. I guess they always think their future daughter will want to wear the rag. Actually, I thought I was being very practical. I can’t see spending loads of money on a gown that I will wear one time for two or three hours. So, I decided to rent a wedding gown. Sounds simple enough. If the groom can rent his tuxedo, why can’t the bride rent her wedding gown? There were only two stores in the town where I got married that rented wedding gowns and I went to both of them. If you like polyester, that’s great, but I couldn’t’ take it when I read the sign that said, “Please remove this strip before wearing. This dress has been sanitized”. The sales lady, who had been empathetic with my view on renting a dress, immediately began showing me dresses to buy for only $2,500.00. My matron of honor and I went to 11 different stores before we found the perfect attire. Of course, we ended up buying the gowns instead of renting. But this isn’t all. Don’t forget the shoes, special undergarments, and a hat or a veil, which you’ll never wear gain. I was encouraged at this point because I did find something I liked, even though my budget had just quadrupled, until I heard a young couple having an argument with the owner of the store. Apparently, they did not receive the right size and color of the dresses they ordered and their wedding was only a few weeks away. All the store manager could say was that it was not his fault and that he had no control over the manufacturer in New York. The same thing happened to me. My wedding gown and my matron of honor’s wedding gown arrived two days before the wedding. No time for alterations, either so, my matron of honor had to wear safety pins in the waist of her dress to make it fit. And they dyed her shoes the wrong color to “match?” the dress. Oy Vey! I hope no one noticed.

GO DIGITAL … SAVE A TREE!

            Once you’ve made all of your plans then you must develop a guest list and order wedding invitations to the event. The invitations and announcements fortunately, were printed correctly. However, here’s another game the merchants play with you. You have to order in increments of 50 or sometimes 100. So, if you only need 26 invitations, you have to order 50. What do you do with all of those left over invitations? Use them for wallpaper? Then they don’t give you clear instructions on how to stuff the envelopes, either. You have an inner envelope and an outer envelope and the invitation and the reception card and envelope and don’t forget the tissue paper. You would have to have to be a rocket scientist to figure it out. My suggestion … just go digital and send your invitations out via e-mail or via the Internet. It will definitely save a few trees.

FLEUR-DE-BOUQUET, ANYONE?

            Every wedding must have flowers. There’s no way to skimp on this. But frustration lies here, too, when you get to deal with unqualified employees. I went to a florist I had dealt with in the past and is very reputable. However, they let me talk to an elderly woman who gave me a book with pictures of all kind of flowers. She didn’t know the pricing; she couldn’t advise me as far as coordinating the colors, and made no suggestions whatsoever. Why would I need her advice if I had already been an expert? So, I finally had to talk to the two floral designers to get anywhere. The flowers looked beautiful but they showed up at the church literally ten minutes before the wedding started. I was in such a panic; I thought I wouldn’t have a bouquet to throw.

REHEARSAL DINNER … WHAT REHEARSAL DINNER?

            Even the rehearsal dinner plans didn’t go smoothly. First of all, no bargaining is allowed. When the price is quoted, that’s it. Then they give you such special treatment by arranging for the dinner to be in a private, air tight, small room, or out in the open with the rest of the clientele. The rehearsal dinner’s expense is practically as much as the reception. Unless you confirm, confirm, and confirm again, they’ll forget about you as that happened to me. We arrived at the restaurant on time and nothing was ready for us, even though my fiancé had confirmed the event the day prior. They had totally forgotten about our rehearsal dinner. How could that have happened? Go figure! Fortunately, they had enough food in the kitchen to serve us and our guests were none the wiser. I told my fiancé not to leave a tip after that horrible experience. Unfortunately, the tip is included in the final price.

THE SOUND OF MUSIC

            The next step is to find an organist and a singer for the wedding and reception. Fortunately, the arrangements for this went fairly smoothly. So I won’t belabor this point. We found the typical “lounge lizard” singer with the tuxedo with the wide lapels, a black moustache, and a voice like Frank Sinatra. He was a pretty good piano player, too.

REMEMBERING THE EVENT … NOT!

            The final task is to find a photographer so that you can remember all of the wonderful things that happened at your wedding. For some reason or other I have a mental block about interviewing photographers, so I saved this task for last. After I began my search I realized why. One photographer I talked to works out of his house. My fiancé and I got there after driving 1.5 hours to find the place. The moment he opened the door I thought I was staring at a TV evangelist. Come to find out he is a missionary and is building a church. He must be a “born again” shutterbug. He’s a terrific salesman, though.  After two hours of listening to him, I was ready to pay him anything just to get out of there. Then there’s the photographer who is like a used car salesman. He can meet or beat any other price. And then there's the photographer with the creative photos showing the groom placing the wedding rings in his nose like a pig. That one was a real winner. I was definitely ready to put my deposit down on that one. Another photographer I tried to get in touch with for two weeks. I left several messages on his answering machine. He finally returned my call but unfortunately my boss happened to walk into my office at that time so I couldn’t talk. The photographer seemed very annoyed with me and said he would call me back in 15 minutes. Needless, to say, we‘ve never heard from him again. And, that was 23 years ago.

SEALING THE VOWS WITH GOLD

            And don’t forget the wedding rings. My fiancé and I selected our golden bands, ordered them, and ordered them again and ordered them again. For some reason they never arrived. And, this was from a very reputable and famous jewelry store with a 90210 zip code, if you get my drift. Me thinks it must have been a problem with the salesperson. In a panic, we went to a department store jewelry department and settled on something a bit less satisfying. But, at least the rings were ordered, arrived on time, and were sized properly. After 23 years of marriage, I still haven’t got the wedding band of my dreams. Maybe on our 50^th wedding anniversary.

THE MORAL OF THE STORY

            These are just a few of my favorite experiences that I wanted to share them with you. Those of you are married can empathize, I hope. Those of you who are not married, I have five suggestions:

1.                   Have lots of money!!! And I mean lots of money!!!!!

2.                   Have your parents arrange the wedding and pay for it.

3.                   Hire a wedding planner and leave the frustrations to them. After all, that’s    why you’re paying them the big bucks. See note no. 1 (HAVE LOTS OF MONEY!)

4.                   Elope to Las Vegas.

5.                   Never, ever get divorced so you never have to go though planning a wedding again.

### THE END ###

Time Limit:

Continuum I

            “I want to go!  Why won’t you let me go?”  The short man in a dark suit waved his arms around the hallway between the departure area and the administrative offices. 

            Two employees in white lab coats tried to calm the excited client.  “Please Mr. Ronson?  Please!  Stay calm!  We are doing our best.  We’ve tried three times.” 

The Counter-Clockwise, Inc. corporate logo filled the entire area of one wall of that hallway.  Dinosaurs and Victorian English ladies dotted the Aztec and Egyptian pyramid laden landscape.  The word’s “Anywhere; Anytime.”  Ghosted the background.  

“I need to see the Manager!”  Mr. Ronson was trying to keep his voice down but still show his upset.  Maintaining the proper expression of his emotions at the appropriate moment was important to him.

“Right down the hallway here to the left.”  Said the female tech.  “Go right in the door.  There’s no problem.”

Mr. Ronson turned completely around in his dismay.  The male tech gently corrected his path smiling at Mr. Ronson warmly, with reassurance.  “No problem at all, sir.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.”  Mr. Ronson said weakly, pulling his clothes together as he walked toward the Manager’s office.  “Pay your fees, on time at that, and then nothing, nothing.  Looking forward to this all year.  Some kind of Time Travel Agency this is?  I’ll complain to Management.  I’ll complain to the Authorities.”  Mr. Ronson pushed his right index finger into the air for emphasis as he walked into the office he was met by a tall casually dressed man.

“Mr. Ronson, sir, please come in, please do.”  The man waved him into the inner office chamber.  Behind the lone desk was a glass-encased chamber.  Small wooden balls lined the shelves in that glass enclosure.

“Are you the Manager?”  Mr. Ronson sat in one of the two wooden chairs in the white-walled room.  He sat in front of the desk.  It was wooden, too.

“Better!  No mere manager!  I’m the owner and working manager of this modest establishment.”  The man sat down too, but  behind the desk.  Wood was between them and behind them.  The Owner / Manager liked that.  “Call me Fred, if you like.  Cup of tea or cup of anything?”

“Don’t try to appease me with tea.”  Mr. Ronson was trying to remain firm, to maintain the appropriate stern emotion.

“Wouldn’t think of it, sir.”  Fred took out a pocket computer from his shirt pocket.  “We seem to have a problem, don’t we?”

“Well, uh, yes, uh an . . . a problem.”  Mr. Ronson was losing his anger.  Was that appropriate?  “I’ve been hearing so much about these time trips back into the past.  Everyone’s doing it.  They say it’s so Interesting and Fascinating.”  Mr. Ronson bent forward as he talked for emphasis.  He had learned the importance of proper body language and making your point in a night course some years back.

“Oh, they are.  I can personally guarantee. . . .”

Mr. Ronson’s anger came back with enough force for him to do the unusual and interrupt.  “Then why are you keeping me from my trip?  I paid in advance like you asked.  It can’t be my money.  Is it my race?  You won’t let someone like me represent our time in the past?”  Mr. Ronson’s anger had gotten the best of him.  Righteous indignation it was, now.  Still, anger didn’t feel right to him.

“We most certainly are not keeping you from your trip.”  Fred had a shocked look on his face.  He sat bolt upright as he said, “and we most certainly do not discriminate on one’s race.  We are heavily regulated and the government won’t let us ask what your race is, let alone act on it in a negative fashion.  We don’t even know your race, officially.  I assume that your wife is the same race as you, whatever that is, and she has had a satisfactory experience in the past, has she not?”  Fred looked around the barren room at the completion of this statement.

“Yes, sorry, I . . . I am just disappointed.”  Mr. Ronson was calm enough now that embarrassment was appropriate.  His anger always embarrassed him as well as his wife.  

“Well, we understand.  How was your wife’s time excursion. . . ”  Fred looked at his pocket computer again, smiling.  “to, um, North Africa, circa two thousand years ago.”  Fred raised his eyebrows.  

“She liked it okay.  She, well, she said it was confusing.  Everyone was so short and so dark, so smelly and had bad teeth.”  Mr. Ronson was frowning.  His emotions were being diverted.  He needed to focus, concentrate.

“Yes, um, most people report that as their impression of the far past.  It’s why we recommend only short hops back into the past.  It provides a better frame of reference.  Ah ?”  Fred looked around the barren room again.  Still, no one else was there.  “Did she, well see, ah anyone special while she was back there?”  Fred made quote signs in the sir with his large hands.  “You know the government won’t let us ask about, well, religion either, so you know?”  Fred actually winked at Mr. Ronson. 

“No, she couldn’t understand anything that anybody said.  Except for some Roman soldiers.  They were speaking some German dialectic.”

Fred nodded his head.  “Certainly, that’s what everyone says.  It’s hard to know the exact time period to shoot for if you want to meet a specific historical figure.”  Fred winked, again.  “Keeping track of time has changed so much over the years.”

“But what about me?  Is the device broken?  If you’re not preventing me from going, why can’t I go back?”  Mr. Ronson was trying to keep on track.  Was confusion an emotion?  He hated interrupting too.

“Well, we can test that right now.”  Fred reached into the desk and pulled out a wooden ball about the size of his fist and a set of marker pens, various colors.   He handed them over the desk to Mr. Ronson.  “Use any color you like.  Please write down today’s date and anything else you want.”

Mr. Ronson took the materials questioningly, but proceeded to do as he was told.  Along with the date he drew a smiley face.  He held it up to show Fred.

“Certainly, good, whatever you like.  What’s the time.”  Fred looked at his pocket computer.  “14:24, okay put down 14:25 just to be safe and look over my shoulder to the first empty spot on the shelf behind the glass.”

Mr. Ronson did as he was told again.  He handed the ball to Fred.  Fred then placed it on the desktop. 

“Watch,”  said Fred.  As he pointed to the first empty spot on the shelf, the ball Mr. Ronson had handed Fred appeared in that spot.  Mr. Ronson looked down at the desktop.  The ball was still there.

“But the ball is still here.” 

“In a moment, the Maintenance technician will come in and take this ball to the time device you were using.  He’ll send it back to 14:25 in that spot.”  There was a knock on the door.  “See, there he is now.”  A white-coated male walked in and took the ball.

“It’s a trick.”  Mr. Ronson wasn’t a good conversationalist.  Spontaneity was difficult for Mr. Ronson, actually.  

“Believe it or not, the device is functioning perfectly.  So, you have to meet with one other person before you go.”  Fred got up to leave.

“But what about my trip?”  Mr. Ronson began to stand.  Fred waved him back in his seat.

“All will be explained with just a little patience from you.  Just a little bit longer.”  Fred looked at his pocket computer then placed it back in his pocket.  “Mr. Sudberry, from Temporal Regulation will be here in a moment to explain everything.”  Fred left as Mr. Sudberry entered.  Mr. Ronson didn’t know if he was to stand for the greeting or not, but Fred had wanted him seated, so he sat.  No emotions involved.

“Hello, sir.” Said Mr. Sudberry.

“Hello, Sir Retrograde.”  Mr. Ronson attempted to lighten the mood with humor.  He wasn’t good with humor, either. 

Mr. Sudberry frowned but sat down.

“It’s about my trip.”  Mr. Ronson tried assertiveness instead of wit this time.

“About your trip, indeed.”  Mr. Sudberry took his pocket computer out.  “It’s more about you than any trip.”

“Me?”  asked Mr. Ronson.  “No, it’s about my trip to the past.”

“There will be no trip to the past and it is about you.”  Mr. Sudberry won the assertiveness trial.

“Oh?”  Was the only come back Mr. Ronson could think of.

“Nope, no time trips for you.”  Mr. Sudberry nodded.

“But I paid.” 

“Doesn’t matter,”  Mr. Sudberry held up his hand to Mr. Ronson for quiet.  “You are of a choice few.  Of all the time trips being done these days, well over ten thousand a day now, every once and a while, there’s a person like you.”  Mr. Sudberry was looking directly into Mr. Ronson’s eyes. 

“Now, that was assertiveness!”  Mr. Ronson thought but said,  “I didn’t mean to get angry.  I was just disappointed.  I’ll apologize.”

“It’s not that, at all.”  Mr. Sudberry stood up.

“But, I?”  Mr. Ronson was confused and becoming afraid.  Fear was a too familiar emotion for him.

“You are among a special group that can’t and never will be able to travel in time.”  Mr. Sudberry walked to the front of the desk. 

Mr. Ronson looked at the ball with the smiley face in the glass case.  “Well, if a wooden ball can time travel, why can’t I?  I’m as good as wood.”

“Good or wood doesn’t seem to be involved.  We don’t know the exact reason, but we know that certain persons have so much impact on this time continuum that the random forces governing the universe prevents them from moving around in time.”  Mr. Sudberry’s eyes seemed to mist over.  It didn’t seem to be an appropriate emotion for this comment.

“I don’t understand.  You just said tens of thousands of people everyday are traveling back in time.  Nothing bad seems to happen from that.”  Mr. Ronson was completely confused, now.   

“Yes, and they do all kinds of things back there in the past and it seems to make no difference to us in this continuum.  We don’t ask, but it doesn’t matter what they do.”  Mr. Sudberry lowered his head.  “But there are a few, like you, in which it does matter.  It matters so much, that you’re stuck.  You’re just too important to time.”

“I’ve never heard about this before.”  Mr. Ronson hadn’t.  Truth wasn’t an emotion, either.

“No, and you wouldn’t have except that you are one of them.”  Mr. Sudberry reached into his pocket.  “Government secret.  What do you think the Great men of our time would do if they found out that they were not in the restricted category?  None are.  That they weren’t as important as they thought they were.”

“I don’t know, be upset.”  Mr. Ronson didn’t know.  He just guessed.  He wasn’t good at that, either.

“Yes, and you don’t want those kind of people, with their kind of power, to be upset.  So we, in the Temporal Bureau keep this a secret.”  Mr. Sudberry handed Mr. Ronson a plastic card. 

Mr. Ronson took it, absently.  All he could think of was, “I was right this time!”

“That card contains two million adjusted dollars.”  Mr. Sudberry pointed at the card.

Mr. Ronson dropped the card.  Mr. Ronson looked down at it on the floor.  “Excuse me.”  He said.

Mr. Sudberry picked the card up and handed it back to Mr. Ronson.  “All yours with the prevision that you keep your importance in time a secret from everybody.”

“I would be happy with a simple refund.”  Mr. Ronson was a cautious type.  Caution he was good at.

“The good citizen that you are indicates that, but I insist, your government insists.  Have some fun here in this time.”  Mr. Sudberry smiled and placed his pocket computer back in his pocket.  “I hate to say it, but it’s time to go.”  Mr. Sudberry smiled.  “Remember, loose lips sink ships.”  Mr. Sudberry placed his index finger over his closed lips.

“Ah, well, yeah, sure.  Certainly.”  Mr. Ronson suddenly realized he was as important in the scheme of things as he always thought he was.  He was even more important.  He mattered to Time itself!  Pride was an emotion he seldom thought appropriate until now. 

Mr. Sudberry stopped at the door and bowed before he made his exit.  

Mr. Ronson also realized that self-satisfaction was all he was ever going to get out of this knowledge.  Well, except for the two million, yes that was some help.  He wished there was a mirror in here, still he stood up straight, legs apart with arms akimbo and stated with no humility, whatsoever.  “Ronson of the Time Elite.”  He then felt extremely shy and he quickly went out the door.

THE END

Copyright 2006 - MWC

Time Limited:

Continuum II

            “I want to go.  Why won’t you let me go?”  The short man in a dark suit waved his arms around the bright hallway between the departure area and the administrative offices. 

            Two employees in white lab coats and embarrassment tried to calm their excited customer.  “Please Mr. Ronson, Please, stay calm.  We are doing our best.  We’ve tried three times.” 

The Counter-Clockwise, Inc. corporate logo filled the entire area of one wall.  Dinosaurs and Victorian English ladies dotted the Aztec and Egyptian pyramid laden landscape.  The word’s “Anywhere; Anytime.”  Ghosted the background along with Albert Einstein’s smile.  

“I need to see Management!”  Mr. Ronson was trying to keep his voice down but still show his agitation and excessive disappointment.

“Right down the hallway, here to the left.”  Said the female tech.  “Go right in the door.  There’s no problem.”

Mr. Ronson turned completely around in his dismay.  The male tech gently corrected his path and smiled at Mr. Ronson.  “No problem at all, sir.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.”  Mr. Ronson said weakly, pulling his clothes together as he walked toward the Manager’s office.  “Pay your fees, on time at that, and then nothing, nothing.  Looking forward to this all year.  Some kind of Time Travel Agency this is?  I’ll complain to not only Management, but I’ll also complain to the Authorities.”  He snapped his right index finger into the air emphatically.  Mr. Ronson liked doing this gesture whenever it was appropriate which was seldom.  As Mr. Ronson walked into the office he was met by an extremely tall, casually dressed man.

“Mr. Ronson, sir, please come in, please do.”  The man waved him into the inner office chamber.  Behind the lone desk was a glass-encased chamber.  Small wooden balls lined the shelves in that glass enclosure.

“Are you the Manager?”  Mr. Ronson sat in one of the two wooden chairs in the white-walled room.  He sat in front of the desk.  It was wooden too.

“Better, I’m the owner of this modest establishment.”  The man sat down too, but behind the desk.  The desk and chair appeared smaller now, compared to the Owner’s height.  “Call me Fred, if you like.  Cup of tea or anything?”

“Don’t try to appease me with tea.”  Mr. Ronson was trying to remain firm.  Remaining firm was difficult for him to do routinely.

“Wouldn’t think of it, sir.”  Fred took a pocket computer out of his shirt pocket.  “We seem to have a problem, don’t we?”

“Well, uh, yes, uh an . . . a problem for you.”  Mr. Ronson was losing his anger.  “I’ve heard so much positive about these time trips back into the past.  Everyone’s doing it.  They say it’s so Interesting and Fascinating.”  Mr. Ronson bent forward as he talked.  He practiced physical emphasis when he could, such as now.

“Oh, they are.  I can personally guarantee. . .”

Mr. Ronson’s anger came back with enough force for him to interrupt; a non-routine behavior for him.  “Then why are you keeping from my trip?  I paid in advance like you asked.  It can’t be my money.  Is it my race?  What?  You won’t let someone like me represent our time in the past?”  Mr. Ronson’s anger had gotten the best of him.  He needed to exhibit care there, always.

“We most certainly are not keeping you from your trip.”  Fred had a shocked look on his face.  “and we most certainly do not discriminate on one’s race.  We are heavily regulated and the Government won’t let us ask what your race is, let alone act on it in a negative fashion.  We don’t even know what your race is, officially.  I assume that your wife is the same race as you, whatever that is, and she has had a satisfactory experience in the past, has she not?”  Fred was looking around the barren room as he made this statement.

“Yes, sorry, I . . . I am just disappointed.”  Mr. Ronson was calm enough to be embarrassed.  Unfortunately, embarrassment was routine for Mr. Ronson.  

“Well, we understand.  How was your wife’s time excursion? ”  Fred looked at his pocket computer again, smiling.  “To, um, North Africa, circa two thousand years ago.”  Fred raised his eyebrows, inquisitively.  

“She liked it okay.  She, well, she said it was confusing.  Everyone was so short and so dark, so smelly and had bad teeth.”  Mr. Ronson frowned.  Mr. Ronson hated bad breath in others and, especially, himself.

“Yes, um, most people have that impression of the far past.  It’s why we recommend only short hops back.  It provides a better frame of reference.  Ah. . .”  Fred looked around the barren room again.  “Did she, well see, ah anyone special while she was back there?  You know the government won’t let us ask about, well, religion either, so you know?”  Fred actually winked at Mr. Ronson. 

“No, she couldn’t understand anything that anybody said.  Except for some Roman soldiers.  They were speaking some German dialectic.”

“Mercenaries are in every time period.”  Fred nodded his head.  “Certainly, that’s what everyone says.  It’s hard to know accurately the time period to shoot for if you want to meet a specific historical figure.  Time keeping has changed so much over the years.  It makes precise chronological calculations extremely difficult.”

“But what about me then?  Is the device broken?  Why can’t I go back if it’s not you then?”  Mr. Ronson was trying to keep on track.

“Well, we can test the device right now.”  Fred reached into the desk and pulled out a wooden ball about the size of his fist and a set of marker pens, various colors.   He handed them over the desk to Mr. Ronson.  “Use any color you like.  Please write down today’s date and anything else you want.”

Mr. Ronson took the materials questioningly.  “How do you test a time device with a croquette ball?”  He said but then shrugged and proceeded to do as he was told.  Along with the date he drew a smiley face.  He held it up to show Fred.

“Certainly, good, whatever you like.  What’s the time?”  Fred looked at his pocket computer.  “14:24, okay put down 14:25 just to be safe and look over my shoulder to the first empty spot on the shelf behind the glass.”

Mr. Ronson did as he was told again.  He handed the defaced ball to Fred.  Fred shook his head though and indicated for Mr. Ronson to place the defaced ball on the desktop between them.  He did. 

“Watch!”  Said Fred.  As he pointed to the first empty spot on the shelf, the defaced ball appeared in that spot.  Mr. Ronson looked down at the desktop.  The ball was still there.

“But the ball is still here.” 

“In a moment, the Maintenance technician will come in and take this ball to the time device you used.  He’ll send it back to 14:25 in that very spot.”  There was a knock on the door.  “See, there he is now.”  A white-coated male walked in and took the ball.

“It’s a trick.”  Mr. Ronson wasn’t a good conversationalist. 

“Believe it or not, the device is functioning perfectly.  So, you now have to meet with one other person before you go.”  Fred got up to leave.

“But what about my trip?”  Mr. Ronson began to stand.  Fred waved him back in his seat.

“All will be explained with just a little patience from you.  Just a little bit longer.”  Fred looked at his pocket computer then placed it back in his pocket.  “Mr. Sudberry, from Temporal Regulation will be here in a moment to explain everything.”  Fred left as Mr. Sudberry entered.  It was an efficient exchange of personnel.  Mr. Ronson didn’t know if he was to stand for the greeting or not, but Fred had wanted him seated, so he sat.

“Hello, sir.”  Was all Mr. Sudberry said.

“Hello, Sir Retrograde.”  Mr. Ronson attempted to lighten the mood with humor.  Not surprisingly, he failed. 

Mr. Sudberry sat down frowning.

“It’s about my trip.”  Mr. Ronson tried assertiveness instead of wit this time.

“About your trip, indeed!”  Mr. Sudberry took his pocket computer out.  “It’s more about you than any old trip.”

“Me?”  Asked Mr. Ronson.  “No, it’s about my trip to the past.”

“There will be no trip to the past and it is about you.”  Mr. Sudberry won the assertiveness trials.

“Oh!”  Was the only come back Mr. Ronson could think of.  It wasn’t a very good one.

“Nope, no time trips for you.”  Mr. Sudberry nodded and then shook his head.

“But I paid.” 

“Doesn’t matter,” Mr. Sudberry held up his hand to Mr. Ronson for quiet.  “You are of a choice few.  Of all the time trips being done these days, well over ten thousand a day now, every once and a while, there’s a person like you.”  Mr. Sudberry was looking directly into Mr. Ronson’s eyes.  Mr. Sudberry won on assertiveness. 

“I didn’t mean to get angry.  I was just disappointed.  I’ll apologize.”

“It’s not that, at all.”  Mr. Sudberry stood up without smugness.

“But I?”  Mr. Ronson was confused and becoming afraid.  He hated fear because it was so common an emotion in his life.

“You are among a special group that can’t and likely never will be able to travel in time.”  Mr. Sudberry walked to the front of the desk. 

Mr. Ronson looked at the ball with the smiley face in the glass case.  “Well, if a wooden ball can time travel, why can’t I?  I’m as good as wood.”

“Good or wood?  It doesn’t matter what it is, really.  Actually, we don’t know the exact reason, but we know that certain persons have so much impact on this time continuum that the random forces that govern the universe prevent them from moving around in time.”  Mr. Sudberry’s eyes seemed to mist over.  It wasn’t clear why.

“I don’t understand.  You just said tens of thousands of people everyday are traveling back in time.  Nothing bad seems to happen from that.”  Mr. Ronson was just confused, now.   

“Yeah, and they do all kinds of things back there in the past and it seems to make no difference to us in this continuum.  We don’t ask what, but it doesn’t matter what they do.”  Mr. Sudberry lowered his head.  “But there are a few, like you, in which it does matter.  It matters so much, that you’re stuck.  You’re just too important to time.  It won’t let you move around in it.”

“I’ve never heard about this before.”  Mr. Ronson hadn’t.

“No, and you wouldn’t have now, either, except that you are one of them.”  Mr. Sudberry reached into his pocket.  “Government secret.  What do you think the Great men of our time would do if they found out that they were not in the restricted category?  That they weren’t as important as they thought themselves.”

“I don’t know, be upset.”  Mr. Ronson didn’t know.  He just guessed.

“Yes, and you don’t want those kind of people, with their kind of power, to be upset.  Do we?”

“I don’t know.”  Seemed appropriate enough answer for Mr. Ronson.

“No!  We don’t!  So we, in the Temporal Bureau keep this a secret.”  Mr. Sudberry handed Mr. Ronson a plastic card.  Mr. Ronson took it, absently.  “That card contains two million adjusted dollars.”

Mr. Ronson dropped the card.  Mr. Ronson looked down at it on the floor.  “Excuse me.” He said.

Mr. Sudberry picked the card up and handed it back to Mr. Ronson.  “All yours with the proviso that you keep your importance in time a secret from everybody.”

“I would be happy with a simple refund.”  Mr. Ronson was a cautious type.

“The good citizen that you are indicates that, but I insist, your government insists.  Have some fun here in this time.”  Mr. Sudberry smiled and placed his pocket computer back in his pocket.  “I hate to say it, but it’s time to go.”  Mr. Sudberry smiled.  “Remember, loose lips sink ships.”  Mr. Sudberry placed his index finger over his closed lips.

“Ah, well, yeah, sure.  Certainly.”  Mr. Ronson suddenly realized he was as important as he always thought he was.  He was even more important. 

Mr. Sudberry stopped at the door and bowed before he made his exit.  

Mr. Ronson realized that the bow was completely appropriate with his important position in time.  He also realized that self-satisfaction was all he was ever going to get out of this knowledge.  Well, except for the two million, yes that was some help.  Still, with this money, since space and time were related, maybe he could try a time trip again from another country.  Maybe he could find out why he is so important to time from another space? 

“Yes, what could it hurt?”  Mr. Ronson thought he said to himself, but there was another man in the room.  He wore a black running suit.  “Oh excuse me.  I didn’t know anyone else was here.”

“Do I look like anyone else?”  Said the short man that looked very similar to Mr. Ronson. 

Mr. Ronson squinted, frowned and slowly shook his head. 

“Uggh!”  The other short man grunted.  “I’m not that much older by now.”

“Older than what?”  Mr. Ronson was returning to confusion.  “Ah, who?”

“You, you dumby.”  The other man shook his head vigorously.  “God, I didn’t realize I was so stupid back, uh, now.”  The other man looked confused, too.

“Me?  You’re?  You are me?”  Mr. Ronson asked weakly.

“Yeah, from the future.”  The other Ronson wagged his head and smiled.

Mr. Ronson pointed with his thumb at the wooden balls.

The other Ronson nodded.  “Yes, to stop you from wasting that two million you have there in your hand, ah our hand.”

Mr. Ronson held up the card and frowned.  “Mr. Sudberry told me to have fun with it, shouldn’t I?” 

“Yes, yes, do just that.  Don’t do what I did . . . you’ll do . . . ah whatever.”  The other Ronson shook his head more vigorously.  “I kept trying to go back in time, despite what they said.”

“But I’m . . . we’re . . .  special in time.”  Mr. Ronson looked back at the wooden balls.

“Yeah, so special that you . . . I . . . ah sorry . . .  thought that I should be able to do anything.”  The other Ronson said with contempt.  “Lost the money and the wife attempting trip after trip.  Nothing, nothing, nothing until now.”

“Here?”  Mr. Ronson pointed to the floor.

“Thought one last time . . . ah shit . . . try . . . might be able to stop you from being as foolish as I.  You could have fun with the cash, keep the wife around, not become a frustrated loser like me.”  The other Ronson sighed.

Mr. Ronson smiled knowingly, looked down at floor shaking his head, slowly.  “I don’t swear.  This is just a government trick isn’t it?  Just to make certain that I keep quiet.”   

“Dammit!.”  Said an older Ronson in a Hawaiian shirt and shorts.  “Listen to me this time.”

“Oh, how did you?  Where did you change your clothes?”  Mr. Ronson was re-confused on top of being surprised. 

“No, it’s me, but not the same me . . . you . . . from more in the future.”  The older graying Ronson waved his right hand in distain.  “You didn’t listen to the first me so I came back again to make you understand that you have made my life miserable.  Don’t try to time travel, you can only come back to this point in time, nowhere else.”

“Unbelievable!”  Mr. Ronson was now beyond confusion.

“No, it’s true!”  Said the greyer Ronson.

“No.”  Mr. Ronson pointed behind the greyer Ronson. 

The greyer Ronson turned to look at the white haired Ronson standing by the door.  “He still didn’t believe me did he?  Maybe you can help.” 

“Yes, you young ass, listen to us all.”  Said the white haired Ronson.  He was stooped and wore a thread bare dark suit.  It was the same suit Mr. Ronson was now wearing.  “I am so much in debt that I can’t die for another fifty years after borrowing money for this trip.  The future is a funny place.  They won’t let you die until you have paid up on all of your financial obligations.  No death clause for debt up there.”

“How do they do that?”  Mr. Ronson felt massive confusion leap at him.

The white haired Ronson waved in more distain.  “Don’t ask, just don’t do time travel.”

Mr. Ronson looked at himself and himself.  They all three blinked at the same time.  “Okay, okay, okay!”  Mr. Ronson held up the cash card.  “I’ll buy a boat.” 

The greyer Ronson looked at the white haired Ronson.  “Think he’ll do it?”

“Guess we’ll find out in a minute.”  Grunted the white haired Ronson.

And there was a slightly taller, better dressed Ronson smiling broadly.  “Yes, you all convinced me.  We can all go home happy.”

Then Mr. Ronson was alone.  “Odd, I seemed taller that time.”   Mr. Ronson shrugged, put the cash card in his pocket, slowly opened the office door and then looked back and forth, “I hope I don’t run into myself again.  It’s much worse than a photograph.”  Mr. Ronson said only to himself this time as he tip toed out of the room.

THE END

Copyright 2006 - MWC

===============

Just to be perfectly clear!

All Rights to this piece reside with the Author

[ Home ] [ Up ]

Send mail to webmaster@AHicksHope.net with questions or comments about this web site.
Copyright © 2008 A. Hicks Hope
Last modified:03/06/2011