Dacha Diving For Dollars

“What was that again? I’m trying my best to track every important point here.”

F. Drumpf, Jr was admiring the design of the detailed tile work on the smaller man’s indoor pool while Vlad the Blade continued to gab on in that gobbledygook of his. The man believed he was pretty smooth in his delivery, that’s for sure. He must have dreamed he was conducting a big Russian orchestra, compensating for being so short. The interpreter was nodding his head as if he got it. But, got what? Drumpf, Jr frowned and looked at the walls as if he was deep in thought. The walls were not bad either, some kind of smooth plaster, except smoother. But, how much longer can a guy go on about what it is he’s got to say? The deal’s done. Everybody gets what they want. It’s 1992 already. A no good year if there ever was one for real estate. First real estate goes south, then the banks. Now, time’s a wasting.

Drumpf,Jr said, “I wouldn’t mind another spritz of that bubbly seltzer of yours before I have to shove off. That stuff’s good for a gurgling gut.”

Who knew what the hell time it was in what zone way out here nowhere and how much longer it was going to take? Why would a guy with thirty one mil in cash to invest wisely build his showplace estate out in the boonies where it was so cold and dark? Not even a beach or palm tree or a golf course in sight.

“You say this comes from an underground spring? But still, all it is is water. I wouldn’t mind having a piece of that action.”

This foreign pussy he had waiting in the plane had better be worth the overtime rate. She was probably freezing her tight buns off. She better know how to find the switch that turns on the heat. But, this was the man who had the short term cash he needed to stay on the upside so what was he supposed to do, grab it, and say what a pleasure Vlad, nice digs, see ya later, let’s do it again next year, gotta run to seal another deal? Even if it was true for a change?

“Yeah, that stuff really hits the spot. I can feel it gurgling down deep.”

Nothing beat the beautiful feel of a green paper dollar, though, fresh from the bank. No expensive pussy could touch it. 1992 right from the beginning had been a brutal year for borrowing what with all the Johnny-Come- Lately’s driving up rates. London and Hong Kong, too. Some big shots had to hit the bricks. About the most a man can do when it hits hard like that is get it back fast where the getting’s good. Thirty one mil and change is not bad for a day’s work, he had to admit. Even if he did have to go all the way to the end of the Earth to collect. The politicians loused up the whole economy with their taxes when it was running so smooth.

“Remind me to have my people send your people a coupl of cases of this drink you’re all gonna love we got only in New York called Yoo-Hoo.”

Drumpf, Jr was alone but his people had his back. They better if they know what’s good for ’em. That was a big part of the art of the deal. Don’t let no two parts know your business who don’t need to know on a need to know basis. But, never be really all alone like it looks. There were more parts, too. But they’d have to get into that another time. The recording devices installed by KGB agents in the walls and ceilings would be turned on then too. They were sitting on soft turquoise lounge chairs hand stitched in a cinder block sweatshop on Garfield Ave. in East L.A. The grand dacha on Lake Komsomolskoye was surrounded by tall trees that blocked the sunlight and did nothing to bring out the pastel highlights. The chairs’d go good color wise with the color of the water in Palm Beach. It would be a smart idea, Drumpf, Jr decided, to order some of these chairs myself. Small Mexicans in East Los Angeles knew how to get a good stitch tight. It helped they were closer to the ground.

After an exchange of puzzled looks and mutterings with Putin, the interpreter asked, “How you correctly spell this Yoo-Hoo?”

Drumpf, Jr was leaning forward in his chair as if he was a cat paying careful attention to a rat hole and ready to spring. A frisky in and out boytoy of Roy Cohn’s, some fruity yet studly drama coach on Lower Broadway who sucked hard, used to call it pinpoint emoting. Putin sat straight in his chair when he was not standing to elaborate as if someone in a distant room might be missing a sugary bon mot. The short man needed to learn how to loosen up if he wanted to last. He was wasting a lot of pinpoint energy. Their one lone interpreter claimed to speak six languages, and be able to work for the both of them, even Steven, but Drumpf, Jr was skeptical. Sure, the guy sounded good but how much does that ever mean? Speaking is easy to fake. Russians knew how to do tile work, though, he had to admit that.

Sitting in the stiff position is what gets hard. That’s where a good game of golf comes in. Excellent for stiffness. Nine holes was okay, but the full eighteen turned the real trick. He wouldn’t mind if he wasn’t in a rush to dive into that pool a time or two. That board looked mighty springy. He used to be a pretty great diver at military school in Valley Forge but had to give it up because of pressure on his braces and his ears.

Diving was all about timing. Diving after expensive pussy, too. The springy cat knew it and he knew it better than any man alive and it was about time that Vlad the Blade knew it too.

“This is not the only major winning deal in the shiny new platinum pipeline, you know.”

No rat coming out of a hole or grubby con man after a hard night working in a gulag had ever been any happier than Drumpf, Jr when Vlad seemed to be finally petering out after all of the extravagant gestures with his pendulous arm. He was able to squeeze in and add before the short man who has no doubt compensating for size had the chance to get going again with a second wind, “You’ll find out this is going to be the start of something big.”

Vlad did not disagree. The unnamed Cayman Island account inherited by his lovely blonde daughter with the skin as thin and papery as a drift of Eastern Siberian snow still showed a balance of $62,357,404, the net profit after expenses from the oil, gold, and diamonds dug from the Mirny mine in Eastern Siberia, the worlds deepest hole, for which Vlad the Blade as the agent of authority had been compensated in full. There was no way in the new, fair, and just post-revolutionary regime developing out of the former Soviet Union into an enterprising system of privatization that he would be successfully accused of corruption by enemies of freedom when the Iowa corn, beef, and pork to be received in exchange for the valuable Russian commodities inexplicably became lost in transport or at sea though no fault of his own as the official administering and adjudicating all procurement issues of note for St. Petersberg.

“That about wraps it up.”


“I’ll be sure,” Drumpf, Jr added as he stood stiffly to shake out the kinks, “to hit one straight down the middle of the fairway in honor of beautiful international relations for you and yours.”


Posted in humor, short stories, wtf | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Cocktails and Cuddling

Harold G. Hargill preferred to begin his daily cocktail hour during the work week at a civilized 2 PM. As a flexible and tolerant man, he permitted his cocktail hour the intrinsic freedom to stretch out and expand from there. He considered it the most productive part of his day. There was no more need to waste time playing with food. Inspiration struck, often. His wit was at its most dazzling, often.

As a smaller man Harold had grown to know big and bigger. As a rich man Harold knew rich, richer, and richest, of which he was titanically all of the above from birth. The conditions of his employment presented no obstacle to his intrinsic freedom because he was the sole owner of Harold G. Hargill Associates, at 33,000 square feet of splendor the largest and most luxurious showroom in The Dallas Design District. To the simpatico few who knew, The Dallas Design District was the heart and soul of elegance in Big D, where big was never big enough.

Harold’s top salesman of many years, dapper Jack Bowie, along with many of his better clients, also for many years, would join him for cocktails, often. Plenty of ice in silver buckets was on hand. They would sit in finely carved and stuffed reproductions of Louis XV furniture, a classic vignette featuring a pair of awkward and uncomfortable fauteuils, and a misshapen settee upholstered in a blue/gold silk damask, a favorite. Harold would smoke one of the many Benson & Hedges Gold cigarettes that would collude in history with genes and the abundance of alcohol to cause a good man to die young, and maintain good cheer. After the cocktail hour, he liked to cuddle, suck, kiss, fuck, and get as well as give, but not so much in the ass.

As it turned out, Jack Bowie enjoyed it in the ass just fine. He was not the ace crackerjack salesman at the top design showroom in Dallas because of his good looks alone, which were certainly at least better than just okay. Nothing wrong with that. Many interconnected parts are required to construct a cohesive whole. He also worked tirelessly around the clock sipping classic martinis with Tanqueray gin alongside vendors from companies in the interior design trade who possessed inexhaustible expense accounts in pursuit of high class representation in the booming Dallas market. The stylish lounge of the Mansion on Turtle Creek was the preferred venue. Sparkling glassware was hoisted. Many pinkies were raised in salute. From there, more flexibility was again likely to occur, often.

Jack Bowie liked to entertain his out of town prospectors by employing his most ironic Texas cowboy accent, saying, often, “Shall we?”

He was engaged in just that, giving and getting juicy gossip of the trade in a plush standard room on the second floor from a darling of a national sales representative for Jack Lenor Larsen Fabrics in New York when he became aroused.

“Did I just hear what I just heard?”

“It depends on what you heard.”

“I know I did.”

“Did I say something?”

“It’s something I’m remembering.”

“If there’s anything I can do.”

The national sales rep, whose name was Ronnie Medrano, traveled on a regular schedule to design showrooms in twelve cities pushing his dated line of boring screen prints thought clever by prisoners inside of tiny New York apartments. He knew everyone who knew anyone in the D&D Building, in the Pacific Design Center, in the Merchandise Mart. He was not only darling, but cute as a button, flat belly, just the right amount of hair on his chest. And smart, and disciplined. And going places.

Big D, however, did not do tiny.

“I’m sorry. It’s not you, it’s me.”

“But wait,” Ronnie said, “until you get a load of this.”

Ronnie had an ace slipped way up his handsome sleeve. He had beautiful, graceful hands. As soon as he started to speak, he became excited. His hands danced a cha-cha-cha. The longer he spoke the more excited he became. Jack Bowie was well known by many of the national sales representatives in the incestuous interior design trade to be a sucker for a well slipped ace. Jack Bowie soon became excited as well. And then some.

Jack Bowie absorbed as much raw information as he was able to digest before he had to stop so he would be able to digest again.

“Would you be able to repeat that?”

“I’ll slow down this time.”

Ronnie had heard of an opportunity from Tony, a designer of wallpaper, Choate Class of ’60, Princeton Class of ’64, who was in love though he knew it was wrong with Ian, Princeton Class of ’68, who heard from his most dearest ever friend Amy with a good heart who would always tell the most God’s honest truth, Bryn Mawr Class of ’71, who developed a deep bond and heard at a fat farm in Connecticut from the wife of Andy, still in the closet, Brown Class of ’81, feeling enough pressure without a wife who wanted to be an impossible size 12, though he knew who knew for a fact from a reliable childhood source trading worthless junk bonds at Deutsche Bank with no remorse, made millions, Alfred, Brown Class of ’77, due to the closeness of his sister, Anya, Sarah Lawrence Dropout, married to Carson, Cornell Class of ’74, formerly a major cocaine dealer in Coral Gables now in custom mini-mansion construction, who played poker in Palm Beach with Butch, Harvard Class of ’67, Harvard Law Class of ’69, Harvard Ph.d Class of ’71, who controlled billions in hedge fund program trading that unleashed proprietary cutting edge mathematical formulas he developed as a hobby, and brokered private money loans at Indian casinos while successfully counting cards, though he refused to do any business whatsoever with distant and removed Alfred.

“How sure?”


It was confirmed by innumerable eyewitnesses, On paper, funds were deposited in the Cayman Islands.

Big plans going somewhere. All it takes to get in on at the start before it begins is ten million dollars.

“How big again?”


“This is Big D.”


“Why have I never heard of him?”

“You will.”

As it was, and is, and will be, because money does not blow away like leaves from trees, old money does not need to be cutting edge to work as well as ever. Money does not suffer arrested development or limp projections. It does not evaporate over long periods of time. It hangs in there like a champ. It learns to kick back and relax in the balmy Cayman Islands.

Jack Bowie, Fayetteville HS, Class of ’49, was in a position to know that Harold G. Hargill might not be overly concerned by the state of affairs represented by a minor ten million dollars if requested politely over cocktails. He might propose a toast. Nothing wrong with that.

“How big again?”

“Big in Atlantic City.”


“Drumpf Tower.”



“I don’t know.”

“You never know.”

“Why does he need to borrow money if he’s big?”

“Everybody needs to borrow money.”

Ronnie Medrano had heard right. It’s not only those who double down on dumb losing bets in Atlantic City who need to borrow money. Everybody needs to borrow money. Borrowing is the hormone on which round mounds of money depend to grow big and strong. Side effects like grotesque pimples are easily popped and forgotten. Addiction is sort of too bad but not too much. How else do crooked numbers get put up high above the bleachers on the big electronic scoreboard in the sky?

No one, however, knew how to sniff out deep pits containing money to borrow, wherever it was buried, any better than a genetic Drumpf. They had always been very close in clannish history to their dogs in the hunt. Insular New Yorkers tend to cling to traditional ways and borrow their money from known quantities on Wall St. Nothing wrong with that. But Drumpf did not care where. He had on call operators to speak any language. There were several large continents of land from which to pick. Drumpf broke ground somewhere near daily. Who or whom? Fuggedaboutit. Drumpf cared about how much.

“And you say there’s a finders fee.”

“I hear it’s a done deal getting ready to max out and close.”

After Harold G. Hargill, SMU Class of ’55, heard the unoriginal though amusing tale from beginning to somewhere near the middle from Jack Bowie, who was forced by call of duty to trot off and sell a sofa for $21,000 and change to a far-sighted friend from parched Odessa who just flat out simply adored her classic reproductions to pieces, and before he became too bored to speak glibly after retinting the amber in his drink, he relaxed on a dull modern sofa the color of watery oatmeal, and considered the weakness of a narrative that could use some fresh fruit in the blender. Though he would never personally be caught alive with his pants down anywhere nearly as garish and tacky as Atlantic City, he knew many who would, and drop everything on short notice and journey far for a thrill.

He picked up a red telephone with an extra long cord to accommodate traveling to distant locales, and dialed.


“I just heard a story you’re going to adore.”

Nothing wrong with that.

Posted in coming out, Commentary, culture, family, fiction, writing | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Beside Himself

Charming Vlad ‘The Blade’ Putin was sculpting quite an impressive bust of himself in the showrooms of influential New York design circles. He had a slipper chair upholstered in red mohair nicknamed in his honor by Angelo Donghia, a tufted ottoman in charcoal microsuede dubbed by suave Christopher Hyland, and he inspired a stringy wall hanging with razor blades, wampum, and crystal orbs that perked up an executive elevator leading to a private balcony overlooking the fragrant East River. He was on a first name-dropping basis with Holly, Sally, Billy, and Dakota. Drumpf, Jr. was impressed not only with all he’d heard, but seen in the flesh. The man had moves, that’s for sure. He was known to dance all night at Studio 54 in tight Levi 501’s and polished black boots with his shirt off, causing quite the stir in the packed back rooms, and be doing roadwork in Central Park at ten. And then begin to spar with a flunky using twelve ounce gloves before noon. He could pull off wearing a red handkerchief in his left pocket and a blue handkerchief in his right, ready for anything. That did not even begin to describe how deeply open he was to new experiences. Paisleys, damasks, chintz, no problem. Adapt, no problem. Elude, no problem. Defend, no problem. Attack, no problem. It helped, as it always does, to be a natural blonde. Those who snidely called him Douche Putin were all wet and slimy green with envy, that’s all. Opinionated analysts with rent controlled apartments on the upper Westside and poorly paid free lance journalists who could not compete.

“His sneer makes me shiver.”

“Such cold eyes.”

“Cruel and unusual.”

“A big show-off.”

As if. But, those in the know knew. Vlad was on his way to creating a revolutionary new brand of mythology in prime underground time. His latent soul had been set aflame late that very first night on center stage when he danced with graceful Rudolf under the hot lights. A vision of a vast obedient empire came to him. Whip the froth until rich and gooey and eat it up. How so yum and so very yum. He swore he felt the warm, glowing presence of St. Alexius, and the gnarly fingers of Peters, I, II, III caressing his lats in tandem, as the infinite depth of his pure Aryan spirit was released and set free to rise and engorge and expand.

Why New York? Why Berlin? Why not St. Petersburg? Why not all Russia?

Why not be the hardest, the strongest, the best of all eternal time? Why not slip and slide both? Who’s got the ice? Who lasts longest? Who’s cooler than cool? You got something better?

Even if that late night illumination was early morning mist.

His swelling chest, glutes, quads, and abs surged with a feeling greater than brutal ambition from that moment on. Also, his groin. He wasn’t unfeeling like his enemies claimed. Au contraire. The truth was far more twisted and complex than that, The truth was he in fact felt so much, so deeply, so uniquely, and on so many convoluted levels of unconsciousness at all times, that he was burdened by exceptional needs. Anyone exceptional could see that. Exceptional needs require exceptional efforts to reach minimal satisfaction. Even as a burden becomes a blessing. What more than satisfaction is so vital to be had? Just like profit. A man must be a man at all times. Demonstrations of strength are required. It wasn’t only, for example, that Vlad could move his pecs in a semi-circle by merely gritting his false teeth. There was so much more than the truth to him. He could also pull off an impressive number of push-ups and great squat thrusts by cheating in tight pirated jeans. Both required great discipline. And great thighs. A disciplined mind was key. Every truly great man’s man knows that.

Drumpf, Jr. had not yet understood what he had been looking for until he discovered Vlad. They were introduced by a modestly well connected middleman from Deutsche Bank, Danny Murktry, who traded AAA bonds on Wall St. packaged from the disguised dregs of BBB bonds backed by used car loans, and who frequented a wallpaper showroom on the seventh floor of The D&D Building after hours, a very exclusive floor. Danny Murktry was always good at math. But, his needs included more than more money. From the information Drumpf, Jr. had been able to purchase from reliable clandestine sources, the man liked it rough, nothing wrong with that, his code name Paladin, though with his leather buttery soft underneath, and preferably, when in current stock, a pale peachy mauve from Zimmer & Rohde of Oberursel.

“He won’t let you down,” Jr. was assured. “All you need to do is get one glimpse of him on top of a roan stallion. He offers the full package.”

Danny Murktry had earned a chill million dollar commission on the bonds derived from his doomed auto loans. It wasn’t going to be him getting screwed in the end. Jr. had no cause to be overly suspicious. The guy was nearly a genius. He was happy to provide a service and a favor in return for the thrill of being owed.

“Set up the next meeting.”

“Consider it done.”

Jr. met with Vlad to explore areas of interests on an Aeroflot prop plane with rudimentary recording devices operated by rigged switches in a hangar at LaGuardia. A live and colorful demonstration in quadraphonic sound followed. Stiff soldiers in starched uniforms were buff and polished. Highlights of the demonstration featured sensual jujitsu, sticky sword play, Swedish body work, and modified Mandarin massage by skilled professionals. Sophisticated video and audiotapes were distributed by obedient assistants.

Jr. recognized a winner when he saw one. He came across scumbags, posers, hucksters, and frauds every day trying to put one over on him. But, real savvy requires more than brains. Or math. No more stellar example existed in all of human history than Jr. himself. A sideshow carny must master slight of hand, hip fakes, and shifts. There are shrugs to employ, empty gestures. Practice, practice, practice trumps theory. But, had Jr. ever felt satisfied? No fucking way. He could not afford to be, not with interest rates soaring. The subtleties of size in spinning balls make all the difference to a man who juggles. Jr. had learned how with no more than a penny ante stake on a table to show off the lopsided bounce of his balls, to borrow hundreds of millions of dollars from Bear, Stearns, Merrill Lynch, Morgan Stanley, Sunni sheiks, Schoolteacher pension funds, AIG, Teamster pension funds, Conservative Jews, inherited trust accounts, and benevolent and fraternal orders of former Neo-Nazi deniers from Antwerp and Brussels. And yet, though no ball bounces higher than an unstuck greenback dollar, discounted rubles coming from a resurrected KGB survivor, and with such an array of additional services to offer, were something new and exciting. Plus, looted gold and jewels from a crushed empire tossed in as a symbol of true fidelity. Good will like that went a long way to cementing a lasting relationship.

Jr. was confirmed by his religion to be faithfully orthodox zero-sum, not a flaky win-win kind of guy. There were always conditions to be met in charades of commerce. But, still.

So many enemies on his list needed to be dispatched with ruthless speed, cunning, and aggression. All his lists.

“Let’s start out with something small.”

“Standard or custom, no minimums, no money down, multiple options, satisfaction guaranteed, no problem.”

“I’ll point at a target.”

“Say when.”

“I don’t say how.”

“Build it up, tear it down, no problem.”

“You take it from there.”

“Manufacturing, mining, forgery, revenge, no matter.”

“I choose.”

“Name it.”

“Dirty tricks.”

“Tricks for real.”

“Multiple choices.”


“We never forget tonight.”


“We never had this conversation.”


“We’ll crush one pesky bug at a time.”

“All we need is one name.”

“I will choose one who’s totally out of control.”

“There must always be control.”

Jr. flexed his exceptional intelligence and considered multiples options in real time. He closed his eyes and focused in the darkness on a target. Who said multiple choice tests were easy? He was squeezing his flabby ass as hard as any black hole. All choices beyond true and false were hard. Forget goony essays. Words were never going to be as powerful as numbers ever again. Jr. learned that at Wharton as well as the hard way. He calculated cost and insurance until spittle began to grow solid. What small potato bug would satisfy most to squash as the start of something big?

He was momentarily stumped until inspiration came in for a slick landing between his shoulders. He nearly smacked his own head in the same soft spot pioneered by the hand of Drumpf, Sr. How could he forget that his best judgments always came in a snap? There were so many enemies that deserved to disappear, but why not start at the beginning?

Any nag trailing the field right out of the starting gate is destined to become glue anyway.

“My mind’s made up.”

Let the dust rise and fall.

Posted in coming out, fiction, humor, satire, writing, wtf | Tagged , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

The Gate Swings Open

Bonnie waved her good-bye without looking back and the gate closed behind her. She had arrived fortified with certainty, purpose, and intent, and was leaving confused. Zeno did not appear to be the loathsome and irredeemable creature described to her. What if the truth and nothing but turns out to be missing another link and spins between magnetic poles once again? She knew what that was like. Bonnie was a hard worker. She strived to be thorough in the fulfillment of her tasks. She was conscientious and accountable. But, without the security provided by her certainty she was prone to historically drift. Wasn’t that how she ended up sleeping in the street outside of the gates at Sri Aurobindo Ashram in Puducherry, India? Or starving in a string hammock stretched above a floor of mud in El Yunque where the rain never ebbed, only flowed? It was always a man at fault. She had too much proof of the truth and consequences to forget. Isn’t that the reason why she was done with men for good?

Her perplexity was captured by the first of several cameras attached to rolling platforms in a pair of red manzanita trees that flanked the rocky road. All angles of the only way in and out were covered. The remotely controlled cameras were silently activated each time the gate opened or closed on a constant loop. Duane Von Witzel had designed and written all of the code, flawlessly. No fuzzy thinking or displays of emotion from his corner. Bonnie stopped to check her hair in the rear view mirror and fret. She was nearly thirty years old. The hair was turning into a dry, stringy mess, her lips chapped, skin on her arms flaking and beginning to freckle and spot. Her pink cheeks and creamy white skin could be such a burden. She dug into her purse for a tube of lotion and added a touch of lip gloss. The license plate on the rear of her thrifty Isuzu hatchback was clearly framed in the second camera, along with a colorful array of bumper stickers, Clinton/Gore, Save Our Shores, Pack Your Trash, Barbara Boxer Gives a Damn.

Later, after all of the data had been entered, the graphs, charts, and formulas updated, and the images transmitted in real time to a monitor inside of a double wide trailer located on the adjacent ninety-seven acre property, a valuable parcel which was stuck in a complicated escrow bind pending approval by Santa Cruz County Commissioners of a highly innovative and idealistic development project featuring a world class golf course that was planned to beneficially clearcut, grade, and level a combined 12000 years of redwood tree growth, Duane Von Witzel would try to maintain focus on the comforting image of Bonnie’s smooth red Anglo-Saxon lips. It helped to block out the horrific portrait that came to mind of the mongrel Jew cunt, Barbara Boxer, U.S. Senator from California.

He called his contact in the Eastern time zone with a concise verbal summary in outline form of the latest documentation soon to arrive at the office by speedy courier. Sort of. An apparent dispute manifesting between erratic individuals in the construction trades was causing tumult at the warehouse location in Flushing, Queens. The level of decibels in the background was painfully high. It made straightforward communication more difficult than usual. Duane had previously attempted to explain the basics of ascii in the simplest of layman terms to provide helpful pedantic context to the mutt prior to delivering the meat of his remarks. But, alas, to little avail. There are those who can and then there are those who cannot. But in the big picture, Duane was no teacher. He was a doer.

He heard, “Yeah, I’ll be waiting with bated breath. What else you got?”

Believe me, this is only the beginning.”

Ordinarily, Duane Von Witzel allowed little of his dynamic intellectual energy to be squandered on the dismal affairs of weak and inadequate misfits and lowlife scum, but he understood that a chain of command based upon practice and proximity in Flushing, Queens had to be maintained. Of course no one could be expected to match his intellectual output back there, or anywhere. He was a uniquely creative and elevated thinker, born to rise high above the mewling crowd. He was wholesomely raised by pure and authentic pioneer stock, a gleaming lineage he could trace back to the Hohenzollern Brandenburgs circa 1415, destined to be kings of mighty Prussia. No reprobates, delinquents, or quitters there. His academic achievements remained historic in the annals of Indiana secondary schools. Nothing less than an A in mathematics, ever. That included the college level calculus course he aced as a second semester junior in high school. He was certified a genius by the Tippecanoe Valley School District, not once, but twice, first time ever. Foreign languages and physical education did not count. He defiantly refused to countenance not only Marxism-Leninism, fuzzy thinking, folk music, dark skin, big noses, slant eyes, unshaven legs, school busing, gun control, equal rights, uncuffed trousers, foul mouthed humor, imported cotton, and untoward public displays of female emotion, but loud colors, abstract theories, religious heresies, marijuana, government handouts, evolution from apes, and especially majority rule. By definition, a majority performed at a level below average, or nearly so, which languished too close to the presence of apes to be comforting. Even workaday dolts burdened with dull, pointless lives should be able to understand that much, for their own good, and stand respectfully aside.

Don’t bother calling again until you got something good.”

The trend is up, up, and climbing.”

Yeah, like all I got to do all day long is follow the next loony-toon trend circling the next drain.”

Duane began experiencing instant success in the illuminating hush-hush field of information extraction and management for the F.D. Drumpf Organization during his hyperactive summer of 1973, assisting in the promotion of what turned out to be a cataclysmic tennis contest of asexual prowess between Bobby Riggs, a major disappointment, and Billie Jean King, another vile cunt. The job soon evolved into a personal as well as a professional crusade for him, an affirmation of alpha over beta, heaven risen higher than mud. Elements unable to rise by nature deserved to drop like lead. Socially, too. Perhaps especially socially. He had finished the bulk of work on his M.S. at M.I.T. at the time, and was considering several offers. There was never a doubt that the choice he made was 100% correct.

The practical experience he garnered in the trenches turned out handsomely from the very beginning. At the deepest level Duane became immersed in the fundamentals of ground shattering parabolic surveillance. Nothing fuzzy about it. Performers perform. Period. Those seated in the strategic inner circle of the Drumpf Corporation appreciated and understood best. He hit it off particularly well with the scion F.D. Drumpf, Jr., another dynamic personality who possessed unbridled magnetism and character. Duane was not surprised to learn of the genetic ancestry shared between their ancient families. Doers do. It’s what’s always been done. Period. The commingling of the pure Aryan roots between the Drumps and the Von Witzels went back to the black woods of Baden-Wurtemberg, a dark and promised land bounded by the beauteous Rhine Valley. They were all deep and profoundly unhappy people back then, and they made it work.

Duane began to derive and extrapolate revealing data from Bonnie’s license plate as soon as he arrived home from his nominal day job at Sun Microsystems in Santa Clara, where he was achieving ground shattering results in limitless storage capacity daily. He stretched out on the padded avocado green carpeting of his uniquely unfurnished condominium to minimize discomfort from a minor case of irritable bowel syndrome and munched finger licking chicken forms as he pecked at the keyboard. Deftly, he probed at the weaknesses in Bonnie’s digital defenses. It was pure pleasure. He created charts, lists, compilations. He was soon able to glean a stream of high value data from her credit card purchases. The joy of superior achievement was unmatched. Of course, he licked his fingers. Who could resist? The secret blend of corn oil, salt, saltpeter, and dextrose monohydrate was enormously satisfying. He washed it down with the economical rain barrel size of Diet Dr. Pepper, straight, no ice, as he delved deeper. And a gooey tub of generic sweetness as a reward.

Bonnie’s recent credit card purchases included two sets of twin size sheets and pillow cases featuring copyrighted characters Tigger, Kanga, and Rabbit, from Winnie the Pooh Authorized Trademarks, Inc. and two sheet sets featuring pirated versions of unlicensed characters from Star Wars at The Little People Store. Plus a cute night light with bunny ears and a rubber ducky for the tub. A day earlier she bought finger paints, crayons, and chalk at Palace Arts in Capitola, plus a half ton load of mini fir bark delivered by Evergreen Landscape Supply. Duane felt he would have to look deeper into that and assess the potential of arson as a motive. Earlier, she drove from the revamped and expanded Safeway in Soquel, where she stocked up on a large assortment of cranberry, cran-apple, and cran-grape juice packs, to The Buttery in Santa Cruz, where she placed a large deposit on a birthday cake to be picked up the following Saturday.

It became abundantly clear to Duane that a likely X was leading by default to a definitive model Y. Bonnie’s character, or lack of, was not only lamentably flawed, but common. Another presumably unmarried hippie fornicator, unschooled, unwise, and inherently unstable. They continued to flock like primitive lemmings to the central coast of California, to grovel without shame on the beach and in the waves, and to clamor for their entitlements and handouts. The fragile existence of uplifting technology, scientific advancement, stock options, and property rights was in constant jeopardy wherever such an irresponsible and disproportional majority ruled.

Duane knew what had to be done. No one understood the implications better.

Of course they would misguidedly attempt to block the cutting edge achievement represented by a world class golf course carved out of an empty redwood forest. Of course, they would remain incapable of understanding that tall trees pay no property taxes. Of course, they had to be stopped everywhere, but nowhere more than here and now, once and for all.

Posted in environment, humor, shopping, short stories | Tagged , , , , , | Leave a comment


Zeno could not get a flight to any Bay Area airport. Not Oakland, not SFX, no way San Jose. Telephone service was down and electricity out all over Santa Cruz County. No buses, no trains. Bridges required support and tunnels testing. Landslides blocked Highway 17 over the Santa Cruz Mountains. Likewise Hecker Pass to the south. No dice on Highway One along the rocky northern coast. A tsunami warning had been issued for Monterey Bay. Deputy Sheriffs from three counties had been deployed in full riot gear to maintain order. No place to run wild and no place to hide out. Debris filled the streets of Santa Cruz and Watsonville and dust fanned flames that were rising with the moon along a key stretch of Freedom Blvd. No place to come home to. Stay the fuck away.

A tidy man in a loose suit lied, “It’s for your own good.”

Zeno heard the words differently. He heard them spoken in the voice of Joe Avergan. What means you to you does not mean me to me. Not as long as I do my own choosing. Don’t ever forget, kid, it’s not what you say, but what you do.

As an American born in the heat of July, Zeno did not waver. He maintained his unsteady and erratic pace at full tilt and speed. All of his mistakes came entangled in a tidy package with unintended consequences. As a requisite, he stopped only for banging into walls. It required a heavy hand and a light touch. He rated his ability to twitch and overcome resistance as top notch. What’s more modern and American than trendy high self-esteem in service of a soft, ripened ego? Even if fake and highly overrated. He stuffed some loose crap into his small bag and flew like a moth because he was so familiar with flames.

He followed the dusty trail north by northwest in a rented car that was less than second best but would have to do. A creased map covered his lap. He was aiming to tiptoe around the edge of Western Civilization without tipping over the edge. No contradictions would pause for crossing. The goons on his tail were on their own.

One goon conjectured wisely, “What’s the big deal?”

“We could take it easy and still be there.”

“Or say we did.”

“Who’s to know, Mr. Whazahootchie with the false face and hair?”

“Only we know.”

“Silly putty and powder.”

“Write it down.”

“Yeah, right.”



There was no doubt in Zeno’s right mind that he was heading in the right direction. Even when that right mind was facing left. Either way, the destination was the same. Even goons employed by a clown knew that much.

He followed a trail of garlic in bloom that led as far as Gilroy. Then roadblocks, smoke, dust, fumes, vapors. A dam below Coyote Reservoir had broken out in blotchy red bumps and there was fear of contagion. Humans are such easy touches like that, susceptible to bruising. Meanwhile, a toppled electric pole was smoking in a dyspeptic zone. The siren emanating from a fire truck with two flat tires repeated like a scratched record. He skirted Hollister and San Juan Batista where another steeple had toppled. Cracked pumpkins fallen off of hay wagons seemed to be grinning back at him with jagged teeth. Gulleys grew overnight into bold canyons. Boulders were brought to their knees like pebbles. Ancient spores escaped solitary confinement. Brave dandelions stood tall.

Zeno paused in respect and listened to the roar as he recklessly approached an unstable edge. Monterey Bay was flexing cocky like a hoodlum in front of a corner liquor store. Ten foot waves steamed into Pleasure Point like locomotives. An excited symphony of humpback whales was tooting riffs from a hot spot above a deep pool at 36.704 N. They had arrived to check out the commotion caused by crumbling, superficial cliffs. At depth it was still trending cool and bubbly, consciousness mightily expanding. One standout trumpet reminded Zeno of Freddie Hubbard before his discovery of electricity. The whales were patiently waiting for the purity of water to rise and more cliffs to to crumble. Grey whales, too. What elevated creature with a vast memory to fill would not welcome a little extra head room to spread out and think whale sized thoughts?

But humans sadly were going to be left behind in the lurch. Deep thoughts were not what Zeno had in mind. He eyed the line of cars squeezed like anchovies into slots on Highway One with dismay. Overheating engines were backing up to the artichoke fields of Castroville. Deputy Sheriffs from Monterey County had blocked the road at Moss Landing. Chain link fences protected the power plant from intrusive teenagers and rodents performing sex acts. Deputy Sheriffs from Santa Cruz County were patrolling Watsonville on the other side of the river. Word was out. Forget all impure thoughts and desires. No crossing, gringo. Go back to where you came from.

Zeno turned and backtracked east into gilt hills hugging croplands surrounding Aromas. Strawberry Rd. to Hidden Valley to San Miguel Canyon. Lettuce, cukes, broccoli, beans, squash. No few cracks in the earth had the power to unsettle roots. He found his idyllic spot at the end of a dirt road leading to a pitted rut of mud where he parked under a sickly weeping willow. By then the professional goons were enjoying a delectable mulch derived from eggy substitutes at a Denny’s in Hollister. Zeno left the keys in the unlocked car and plunged down a sandy bank at Murphy’s Crossing. The aroma of sulfur beckoned. He matched digits and limbs with an unwelcoming committee of burrs, barbs, bristles, and thorns, and came out the loser, cut, slashed, gashed, bruised. Then he encountered their identical mates on the other side. Interlopers deserved no warnings in advance of attack and he received all he deserved. Bones, blood, deliverance. The river was shallow but the mud deep. He hopped a fence, took a fall, shed some skin. Rats were catching mice on the levee. The regular homeless encampment at Salsipuedes Creek had grown tenfold. What better guise to blur intentions that mud? Expectations continued apace.

On East Lake Ave. in Watsonville he passed families from Oaxaca and Michoacan huddled under tribal blankets salvaged from former homes leaning obtusely west. The National Guard patrolled the river levee at Lincoln St. and practiced marching on the oval high school track. The football field was newly trimmed. None of the windows in the laundromat with extra large dryers had made it out alive. The dryers had tumbled to the mat, went down for the count. The Quik Mart was boarded up, and plastered with help wanted signs. A mixed pair of B.F. Goodrich tires that had escaped the tyranny of retail enclosures bounced like lunatics on the crooked byways. The cheap Baptist church that owed back rent to the grubby landlord had been transformed miraculously into rubble. The sharp nails of the one God’s mightily calloused hands appeared to be in dire need of a fair and just clipping.

Zeno, however, proceeded undeterred, immutable, obsessive. His relocated mountain remained roughly indivisible above a haze that evaporated at the end of flattened Freedom Blvd. Four lanes had become a junkyard and required skills in hopscotch and long jumping to traverse. Schools, churches, banks, bars, had jumped ship. A Motel 6 pancaked on top of a franchised IHOP and the U-Do Self-Wipe car wash behind sagged. The Super Taqueria 8 stood not tall on the corner, but stood. Taxco Ornamental Iron and Rojas Sheet Metal were closed but the Four Star Plumbing Supply outlet was selling sheets of plywood that mysteriously fell from a truck primed for unloading at a Home Depot in Salinas.

Zeno chanted for sustenance in the authentic contralto of a Leni-Lenape rattle shaker, “Huyuyuyuhuyuhuy-huyuyuyuhuyuhuy,” and naturally, like duh, repeated. It was, after all, a chant. Rattle shakers can’t dance. They would if they could. The dancers get to spin. All he was able to do was shake.

He did not connect the strange looks he received from his fellow travelers to any wayward behavior that had any meaningful connection to his until a 2nd concerned citizen stopped him, and along with a helping hand, offered, “You really need to go to the hospital.”

He said, “Huh?”

He heard,”That’s a lot of blood to lose.”

He said, “Are you talking to me?”

He heard, “Not to mention the danger of infection.”

He wasn’t in the mood to argue metaphysics with a stranger who was obviously suffering classic symptoms of anxiety and distress. There were no lofty tautological pinpoints that occurred to him on the surface to be contested and proved in a European clash of ideas. But Freedom Hospital was in fact empirically located right on his way home to the Santa Cruz Mountains where Freedom Blvd. begins to become hilly and he couldn’t miss it. The wobbly neon sign was knocked askew as if gorged on loco weed from the Sonora Desert and the light fixtures and telephone poles were bob and weaving like the icing on hot cross buns. And business was booming.

There was a lot of commotion in front, sirens, lights, hysterical reactions. In the rear, too. It used to be the imposing red brick building south of Airport Blvd. now missing a pair of chimneys, electrical power, a parking structure, and a recently renovated maternity wing generously funded by donations spearheaded at St. Patrick’s Church on Main St, which had also been reduced to rubble. Holy smoke was rising from dust and ashes. Maybe, Zeno conjectured, they will give me a medicinal booster of some juju juice to assist me in the climb.

Wisely, he concluded, what the fuck? It was not a question. The question he asked was, “How can it hurt?”

He stopped in uninvited to inquire about the likelihood of a quickie. That set off a cacophony in which he was manhandled, mauled, rotated, and jerked. He was pushed by a volunteer in a wheelchair to the head of the line. All that blood apparently carried a lot of clout, though the volunteer was wary. There appeared to be an unmistakable aura of pathogens in the proximal air. Then a contingent of mothers attached to newborn babies were wheeled out of the newly renovated maternity wing and moved ahead of him in line.

A frantic voice carrying on undeterred from close quarters demanded, “ What happened to the doctor? This cervix is fully dilated. We need to rush.”

Zeno politely stepped aside and swooned. He’d encountered the word of course, because what experience manly man hasn’t, as well as evidence of vital fluids leaking, sort of, but could not exactly define what in fact a cervix was or did or where or how it was done, and to whom. But it appeared to be important. He leaned on a strategic wall for support.

A roving explorer carrying a clipboard on a mission jabbed at him with a pencil and snapped, “Name, address, date of birth, social security number. Blue Cross or Blue Shield if you have it.”

He said, “Give me a minute.”

It would take more than a minute but he did not let on. The revelation of bare, broken skin was enough exposure for him. The clipboard provided a steadying platform for reams of punched paper forms in pastel colors and parts that would become feed for voracious machines dedicated to harsh and total rule by the dictates of unfeeling automatons. He considered all of the complex alternatives, real, in kind, in trade, outright pseudo, and utterly concocted, and then opted to fill the void with a standard version of the truth as he knew it.

“Zeno Sol. That much I know for sure. As for the rest of the unknown, any address and numbers remain still to be determined.”

In the awkward pause he required to add additional dates, facts, digits, data, a nearby nurse trilled, “Oh you must be the father. No wonder you didn’t show up. Look at you.”

“Are you still talking to me?”

“You may look like a mess now but we’ll get you fixed up.”

“I’m not the one you’re looking for.”

“We’ll do a thorough examination to search for a head injury.”

“Don’t you think I’d know?”

“How many other men with the name Zeno Sol do you think reside in Santa Cruz County?”

“That’s what I’d like to know.”

It seemed like a good idea at the time, and it was. To find out, that is, to find out what it is, where, why, and who. If not, what else is? He was never trying to fake his identity on purpose. That was for sure. And forget how. How was always least likely. Sort of. But he knew like no one else that he could be no known or unknown father under current conditions. Though he also knew it’s not easy to be real. For that, he’d have to find the missing person impersonating an unknown self. And then become what had never been. No pantomimes, no impersonations, no dramatizations, no hieroglyphics, no falsies, no apologies, no regrets.

It would take a long time to find out, but he did, and when he did, he would finally become the last to know.

Posted in environment, fiction, Uncategorized, wtf | Tagged , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Muy Caliente

The flight across the Florida Straits took less than an hour in the spanking new DC-7. The fuselage, which was partly constructed from a tinny new light weight material invented to maximize profits, shook like the roller coaster at Million Dollar Pier. The Kid refused to touch the gloppy mess they tried to pass off as authentic hot food, but he enjoyed his bouncy view of the sheer water from a window seat, next to Henry, who wasn’t looking so good.

Welcome to Havana, senor.”

Henry was wearing a white seersucker suit, a yellow silk shirt, and a jaunty straw Panama hat. He had been attempting to copy the look of a suave backup singer in Ricky Ricardo’s band but something wasn’t hanging right. Maybe it was the extra hundred pounds he packed. He was drenched with sweat the instant the plane touched ground.

Welcome to Havana, senor.”

Joe was wearing an elegant cream colored jacket, with interwoven strands of amber wheat that were nearly golden, and custom tailored white linen trousers that looked as if they had been rolled up into a ball, and shrank, but no hat, a mistake he realized as soon as they descended the stairs from the airplane into the grip of the ferocious sun. He tapped the pack of Camels in his shirt pocket to feel safe.

Welcome to Havana, senor.

The kid was wearing a red and blue madras shirt, white Bermuda shorts, and blue knee socks. His hair was full of stuff that made it stiff. It stayed stiff under his Phillies cap. He’d rub it off as soon as he jumped into the pool.

Joe asked earlier, “So what’s it gonna be this week?”

Just call me Kid.”

That’s what I usually call you.”

That makes it easy.”

What happened to the name, Peanuts?”

It was okay for a while but never for always.”

Or Chico.”


You could keep going like that and try for the whole Phillies infield.”

That only leaves Ed and Puddinhead to go. I could never stand to be called Ed.”

I don’t blame you.”

I’ll figure it out.”

So, that’s it?”

For now.”

No way was the Kid going to wear the goofy hat his mother picked out for him. It wasn’t her head. What was he supposed to look like, a jockey? The stretchy socks were as far as he would go. He never asked to look like a little gentleman either. But he wasn’t going to spoil his best birthday ever by far. On a need to know basis, his mother would never know.

Give and take,” Joe Avergan advised. “Understand that, and you’ll do okay.”

I’m not the only one who needs to understand.”

Not everyone can.”

But anyone can.”

Was it gave and take that stuck him with this affliction of a name that was stuck right there on his passport picture sticking out of his back pocket? What a dumb law it was that would not allow him to choose his own name on his own passport. Wasn’t it enough he had to suffer from the taunts at school? His mother had to add up to no less than a co-conspirator in that. Even if she did throw up her arms in surrender as if she was the victim of a sad story in which she had no starring role. And even if that push was pull. Or amounted to as much as war and peace.

Don’t bet on it,” Joe replied.

It was less a name than a curse to be overcome, every day. It smelled as rotten and stinky as the smoke of a Red Auerbach cigar after a win by those cheating Celtics over Wilt and the Warriors. No matter how it was spelled out or explained, it was a girls name. Who cares how many a’s or e’s i’s or l’s it takes in an unfair sentence where he was the one to end up rotting in jail. He wasn’t having any of this creepy Merle person sticking anywhere close to him. No law abiding parent, yet alone a shameless pair of abettors, should be able to inflict a wound like that due to some dumb reason that had something to do with some dead guy and some bet on some bed that had nothing to do with him.

You can be a stubborn kid.”

When I’m right.”

You think you’re always right.”

What’s so wrong with that?”

You’re a kid.”

But still.”

The Kid might need to employ a well positioned lie or two at times in order to assure safe passage through a tough day in a tough town, or a juke or a feint or a bit of chicanery, especially to cover up and protect from the tyranny of a pair of parents who did not care to understand the concept of free will, or he might plot and connive, and certainly he would sneak around by any means necessary and hide to get out of doing what he did not want done, but not from his grandpop.

Part of any kid is nothing but a wild savage, you know.”


Just as long as you understand the difference.”

Parts fit into other parts to make a whole. Yeah, I know”

Remember what part is what.”

What if I’m not doing anything?”

Just don’t get caught.”

Don’t you think I know that?”

The Kid was sitting on top of a suitcase in the front seat of the big ’57 DeSoto to get the best view of the wide boulevards of Havana The DeSoto had his favorite fins of all the ’57 models on the road. The kid was looking forward to the ’58 models that would be rolling out in another month, but he hoped the fins would stay.

Can’t change a dead horse,” Henry contributed.

That’s beat,” Joe corrected.

Who said anything about beating?”

Beat a dead horse.”

Who’s kidding who here? No dead horse is ever gonna be in the running.”

Henry blew an alto instrument out of his mouth that registered less in decibels than in booms. He had once been accused while holding neighborhood court on the corner of 6th and Pine in Society Hill of impersonating a chainsaw. At the time, he’d been sitting regally in his beach chair at a wobbly round table, making an important point about leftover dog shit on the curb. Why didn’t some son of a bitch just kick it into the street? As a proud survivor of massive gassing in WWI, the war to end all wars, Henry received an annual pittance as compensation. He strolled the few blocks down 6th St. to Old Original Levis and celebrated each check with a hot dog, lots of onions and relish, and a cherry soda.

Just don’t encourage the kid,” Joe scolded.

Look who’s talking,” Henry jabbed.

Joe had never known the exact year when he was born, or precisely where, but he was too young for WWI and too old for WWII. If he was still back somewhere backward like Russia or Prussia, he’d be dead. When he questioned his plain dumb luck, as he often did when he was sure he was getting a bum deal, just like the one he had come to try to spin into gold and rescue here in Havana, he thought of that, and usually settled.

Yet, he concluded, “Feh.”

The Kid had already tuned out the back and forth in the back seat and was trying hard to figure out what the signs in a foreign language were telling him. He knew what a bakery looked like all right so that had to be a panaderia. It was frustrating to be unable to read. Then he started to get excited, as he sometimes did for no apparent cause, often with questionable effect, and flail his arms and point. He finally sputtered, “Stop.”

Sometimes Joe couldn’t help but think the Kid had to be at least a little bit meshugeneh, but he learned to keep most of his unpopular decisions to himself, or face the barb of his wife Yetta who would snap back, “Bite your tongue,” and show she meant it.

What now?”

Over there. That.”

You’ll give me my next heart attack.”

He flicked the ashes from his unfiltered Camel out of the window. The Kid was pointing to a folding table set up on a busy street corner, but it was difficult for Joe to pay precise attention. He was assessing and reassessing the sticky situation coming up ahead with the man he was in Havana to meet who had only agreed to meet him here and now in a foreign country. How much justice was that jurisdiction likely to turn out? The outdoor table was piled high with an array of strange fruits like none the kid had ever seen. A trio of local kids about his age were sucking thick white milky goo from what looked like a bright green prickly cactus the size of a football. They were all smiles. One of the kids was wearing Mickey Mouse ears.

Guanabana, senor.”

The Kid laughed and said, “Say that again.”

The driver pulled contentedly to the curb. The meter ran smoothly. Henry continued to sweat. Joe lit another Camel from the stub of the one still burning.

The Kid turned into all smiles, too, with the first sweet slurp that enveloped him. It wasn’t easy to pull off the skin, because the small thorns sticking out jabbed his thumbs, but the seeds, the milk, the pulp, the sinew, the meat from the guanabana, all soon dripped from his face down his madras shirt into his shorts and socks. The red and blue dye in the madras shirt started to bleed and blend into a washed out version of the color purple. With sticky fingers, he grabbed a moist gringo dollar from his pocket and picked out a mango, a guava, and a papaya from the table. Even if that purple was mere puce. The kid with the Mickey Mouse ears took note and pulled out a red bill and a yellow bill of his own, each a fine crumpled example of dinero de Cuba, and offered to trade both for a lone green yankee dollar. The Kid was considering the odds until the cab driver started to rant and yell and chased the opportunistic rodent with the big ears away.

Joe scolded, “Whatsa matter with you? Don’t you know any better than that?”

I was only thinking it over.”


It was a good thing that Yetta Avergan was not there to witness the disgraceful mess made of her grandson in the care of her irresponsible husband as they checked into the Havana Hilton, even though no one paid any attention to her grandson in a big hotel like a Hilton, who after all was only a kid, for whom allowances are created, and an ever better thing for the unreliable husband, who could never win.

Henry plopped into a comfortable seat in the lobby as Joe counted out cash, and loud enough for numerous heads to turn, although not that loud for him, surveyed the scene and proclaimed, “Swanky.”

Joe handed him a key to the room and said, “I’ll be back later.”

Henry said, “You better be.”

The Kid complained, “I need a key of my own.”

The Kid was soon performing jack knifes and swan dives into the Olympic sized pool on the roof that was open to the spectacle of puffy clouds shooting past Havana like cue balls with spin. At the same time, Joe was getting his knife stuck squarely in the back, sitting on the edge of a spindly wicker chair on the terrace of a private suite on an upper floor of private suites where no small key in a pocket guaranteed entry. The man who spoke to him as if he was a nobody was not alone. That prick Fred Drumpf was there with his usual smirk on his face, not saying a word. As if he was too important to waste a precious breath on a nobody. How was Joe supposed to give it all away to a cheating son of a bitch like that? The man dyed his hair black, for Crissake. It was no big surprise, though, not even to him.

You’re not our kind of team player.”

I’ve been doing more than okay for a long time.”

Not on our team.”

You know what I can do.”

You might just be another Communist spy for all I know.”

C’mon, who’s kidding who here?”

Isn’t it a fact most of you Jews are Communists?”

Okay, now I get it all right.”

There’s no one to blame but yourself. When you’re not good enough, you’re not good enough.”

But good enough to get cheated out of what I made on my own.”

You know the way out.”

Don’t think this is the end of this,” Joe ventured, though he knew better. Who’s kidding whom here is right.

Once the door closed behind him, he muttered, “Feh.”

The Kid was treading water in the deep end by the time Joe returned to the empty room, thinking of trying a back flip again because swan dives and jack knifes were getting too easy. The pool contained too much chlorine in the mix and burned his eyes but he wasn’t going to stop. He had conquered a small measure of fear earlier in the Summer and pulled off a few back flips at the Ritz in Atlantic City, but then clipped his head on the diving board visiting Henry at the La Concha, only a little, no tears, a small bump, no big deal. But, still.

He was considering the evidence and the circumstances required of courage at the edge of a three meter diving board when his attention was diverted by the loud spectacle of another kid marching into the pool area. This unbelievable dipshit kid was wearing the drab gray uniform of the Valley Forge Military Academy. It was painstakingly modeled after the drab gray uniforms worn by gung-ho cadets at West Point. It was sewn from that kind of thick itchy wool woven with no regard for the skin suffering underneath.

The Kid thought to himself, “Who does this dipshit bozo think he is?”

The afternoon in sunny Havana, Cuba had turned out to be seasonably hot and sultry. There were graceful palm trees that provided no shade as the fronds rippled in sunny Havana, Cuba. White birds were diving for silver fish in the aqua sea. Green and blue parrots squawked in the branches of flowering Cuban magnolias. And this dipshit kid was marching like a toy soldier, not pretending, next to a swimming pool. He was supporting a lethal weapon on his thin shoulders. The Kid could not understand. A large hairy man in a tight teeny bathing suit was barking at this dipshit kid in a foreign language, following closely from behind. He was counting out a cadence in words and numbers that added up to no more than beans to the Kid. It wasn’t Italian, Yiddish, British, or Jamaican, languages he recognized best. The Kid could see this man’s hairy foreign balls hanging out of his teeny bathing suit. It looked like one of those teeny bathing suits worn by champions standing atop a pedestal, and televised on Saturdays by ABC Wide World of Sports. Why come to a swimming pool under a buoyant afternoon sky to hang out and march? This dipshit kid was turning pink like a piglet and sweating his hairless balls off as he marched. He marched back to where he came from and started doing it again. What was this, some kind of test? Isn’t every dumb kid taught that it’s a mistake to keep going on and on after enough is enough? His drill instructor was stern, stout, loud. Unlike a perfect little gentleman the Kid started to laugh. He laughed until it began to hurt. Before too long, snot was coming out of his nose. That’s always funny. His ass not only laughed, but felt compelled to fart in short, staccato bursts. The Kid could not help but fall laughing into the pool at an odd angle, no jack knife, swan dive, or flip. Bubbles from his ass continued to laugh seven feet beneath the surface.

Henry meanwhile was getting burned up top not only by the sun. Who knew that such a cloying froth like a Mojito could pack such a punch? He had devolved deep into a sleek lounge chair from which he would need to be rescued before long. But first his skin had more superficial burning to do. How else does a big rugged guy get his manly tan?

When the time came, as it always does, and always will, and Henry needed a strong helping hand, the hairy drill instructor made an enthusiastic dash to the spot. He assumed the ideologically correct position and snatched, grabbed, and lifted, just as he had in the 82.5 kg weightlifting event at the glorious 1952 Olympics in Helsinki, the first historic participation by the Soviet Union in the Olympic Games.

Henry yowled like a refugee. Pale skin that once had been useful slipped away into unplanned obsolescence. A red sea of pain and suffering parted and spread in the desert under his white hair. Bats were shaken in belfries. Ancient sea birds took flight in fear.

Once Henry was on his feet, though, the Kid was satisfied that he had seen it all before. No harm, no foul, rub a little dirt on it. He returned to those iffy thoughts of a back flip. Henry accepted a free drink from management as recompense. The good Russian Samaritan, a moderately promising KGB agent assigned to monitor comrades of Fidel preparing the city for the soon to come triumph, accepted the offer to join him. It felt like good old times. Happy days were here again.

The dipshit kid was at first flummoxed by the interruption, and sputtered and stalled. He stood awkwardly on the sidelines at what passed for a militaristic at ease, awaiting further commands. The evidence of mere human pain and suffering in front of his eyes proved insufficient to move him. There were those to count and others to discount. Everyone knew that. He’d been taught by professionals that the weak get no less than what they must deserve. So what’s the big deal?

But, still.

He called out, “Hey kid.”

The Kid languidly turned, and looked this dipshit up and down in the street wise manner of his municipal birthright. The Kid knew what was coming because he had been there and doing that since he was six years old. This dipshit kid was a few years older, a few inches taller, heavier for sure, though clearly not smarter. And he looked marshmallow soft. There was hardly any need to state the obvious, but he did anyway, because just because.

Who’re you?”

There is a particular accent and attitude learned and enforced at an early age in all neighborhoods of Philadelphia, which by popular mandate celebrates the declaration of independence in all of those neighborhoods, with exuberance if not more so, under severe penalty of schoolyard law. It is accompanied by a matching glare that fits intricately beside the brief yet complex message of those words like a pair of steel balls crammed into a single tight pocket. “Who’re you?” is distinctively not a question in the City of Brotherly Love. You get it or you don’t. Who’s kidding who here?

I just want to show you something.”



There was a lot of stuff the Kid was sure he knew well, and not just for an eight year old, and a lot of things he knew how to do. He knew the daily line-up of the Phillies and the standings of all eight teams in the National League as they changed each day. He knew how to choose the right peach from a basket and climb on one roof in order to jump to another. He knew the Top 10 hits on Dick Clark’s American Bandstand that changed every week and the new songs that changed every night on WIBG. He knew where and how to transfer to the Broad St. Subway from the S bus on Olney Ave. and go downtown to mess around. He knew that Nixon was lying when he spoke sincerely into the camera on the Huntley-Brinkley Report on NBC. He knew his father was wrong about that, too. He knew to be wary of grownups. Grownups did not change every day or every week. Some were plain and simple scary at all times. And he knew how to block a right hand punch from an older and taller dipshit with his left forearm and how to hit back hard into an unguarded stomach. His estimation of softness proved to be correct. He knew it.

The dipshit kid in his heavy wool uniform ended up in the deep end of the swimming pool because it seemed like a good idea to the Kid at the time. Sure, the Kid had to admit under pressure from a hotel detective that it wasn’t absolutely necessary for him to push another kid who was already gasping for breath into the swimming pool. But, how was he supposed to know that the wool was heavy enough to drag the dipshit under? And the dipshit did not drown, not even close. So why such a fuss?

The Kid refused to say he was sorry. It was worth it.

I didn’t start it.”

That’s not what he says.”

He’s lying.”

If I ask him, he’ll say you’re lying.”

Don’t you know how to tell the difference?”

Later, over a juicy plate of tref in the swanky dining room that wasn’t half bad, Joe Avergan tried to provide the proper direction that every stubborn savage kid needs to follow as a beacon in the course of life and life only. Sort of.

Kid, here’s a lesson you will need to learn and learn good and never forget. And you might as well start remembering here and now.”

I’m listening.”

You see, that kid was Drumpf, Jr.”

So, who’s he?”

Posted in family, fiction, food, humor, writing | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Blood Transfusion

Zeno lost the tip of his left pinky in a collision with an entitled birth mother ramming a high end Aprica stroller through a lovely park in Beverly Hills. He skinned his knee too but that’s no big deal. She was wearing a sharp push-up bra with detachable wires for optimal support. The wires may have been picking up signals from sub-orbit. Respectable opinions differ. Whatever forgettable t-shirt and pair of jeans Zeno was wearing was strictly second rate in comparison. The sleek Aprica stroller, the first time mother’s first, came with aggressive gears that required shifting, and thingamajigs standard. Top of the line to the max. She had every right to push hard at high speed. If you don’t push in Beverly Hills, you’re done.

“I’m bleeding.”

“Don’t you dare point that finger near me.”

Zeno would admit to feelings of ambivalence about mothers. Fathers, too. And entitlements. He had been visiting the park to witness a live demonstration of aqua glass blowing and meander on a crowded path among masterful consumers before returning north. Nancy Reagan would have felt right at home wearing red in the setting. It was a sticky Saturday in July. Who knew that AIDS was lurking in blood nearby? No one yet, that’s who.

“This man needs help.”

“Where’s a cop when you need one?”

“There are innocent children watching.”

“Someone help him up.”

“It’s only a little blood.”

“It looks like a lot of blood to me.”

“Someone get him out of here.”

“It’s just a finger. Why can’t he walk?”

The pushy mother, who refused to reveal her true identity, had come out to strut her revealing stuff in a gauzy lycra blend camisole with accessories purchased at the fabulous Jane Fonda Workout on Robertson Boulevard. Working out at a fast and furious pace paid off big time in pounds shed, six gone in only sixteen days. She had gained twenty four pounds during pregnancy, her first to fruition, better than average, but she still had twelve pounds to lose. Average would never do. Everybody knows that. The latest facsimile of Jane Fonda preached a positive outlook along with high kicks, rhythmic lunges, and heavy breathing. It was tres au courant among those in the know on the Westside. Her accessories also included an opal pendant, silver bracelet, and her short husband, an up and comer of a talent agent at William Morris. He did his best to maintain a distance from the commotion.

In the end, which took not much more than an hour to reach, Zeno was informed in the emergency room at Cedars-Sinai Hospital that a tiny bit of finger could not be helped or saved. It had become caught and occluded in the cogs between spinning wheels, craft, and commerce. A doctor defined an occlusion for him in medical terms. That explained it all. Then he was late in checking out of his hotel in West Hollywood and incurred additional charges.

Zeno understood later he had no business to be there on a Saturday. His business in L.A. was done. Several known jerk-offs said they’d get back to him. Yeah, right. Opportunists, parasites, and scavengers hunting prey. He blamed the recession on the idiot Reagan following the idiot Carter. How did they manage to pull off a recession alongside inflation rates of 18%?

By the time he returned almost whole to the Santa Cruz Mountains, it was nearly dark. His arrival elicited no joy among the natives. A young red tailed hawk was crying from the top of a redwood tree. An irate blue jay chased an interloper from the seed of a pear. He smelled skunk. It was what it is. There were lots of other seeds to share in the dirt but there was no one at a higher level to greet Zeno with empathy or a hug.

The most recent woman who used to greet him with plenty of empathy recently claimed he did not listen. The woman before that said pretty much the same thing. Then, there were words. But, how could that be? He listened all right. He heard a whirring noise like a buzz saw. But then what? Was he supposed to jerk a knee and goose step into line? What was so great about worldwide procreation anyway? How did that help to mix and stir a bowl without spilling regrets?

Zeno proved to be a tireless provider of the same incorrect answer to the question. A bowl has limits, any bowl, he reasoned. According to basic logic too much is neither necessary nor sufficient. It’s not just an urban myth that disposable diapers cause clogs in pipes. Am I right or am I right? Which is why he found himself later that night enduring the taunts of a pseudo-blues band with unfortunate disco tendencies at a redneck bar overlooking Rio Del Mar Beach. He was sipping Hornitos reposado, because what kind of tastelss cretin gulps Hornitos, and diligently taking his yellowish pills according to prescribed directions, sort of, for his severely moderate pain. The beer after beer he was drinking merely served to quench his advanced case of dry mouth, a side-effect, no more than that.

He said, “Keep ’em coming.”

Sadly, what kept coming included a mind numbing version of Disco Duck. Isn’t that what led to violence at Comiskey Park? Zeno was shaky on the details. The consideration of that quandary led naturally enough to more beer. What goes around, came. It takes practice to learn how to perform with aplomb. His vision, however, was clear. He observed a pair of white men who did not dance to the music object to a trio of black men who did. There was a little tit for tat back and forth. Several white women also became involved, swaying to and fro along with the incendiary beat. At first, Zeno thought nothing of it. This was a classic redneck bar, after all, in the unenlightened year of 1982. The tide ebbing in Monterey Bay was unfazed. Soap operas like Dallas on CBS still topped the Nielsen ratings. Loony Moonies were getting married en masse. Then Huey P. Newton punched a redneck smart alack in the fucking mouth. Then the huge bodyguard of Huey P. Newton started to kick the shit out of a different, dumber redneck. The bodyguard of Huey P. Newton appeared to be eleven feet tall and weighed a minimum of two trillion tons. The dumber redneck had no fucking chance. When he got up he staggered, both drunk and punchy. Then he was knocked down again. Then he started to crawl before he could walk or run. Then Huey P. Newton pulled out a gun. Then nearly everybody followed an invisible leader and started to lam the fuck out of there. But not Zeno. Zeno continued to observe with wide eyes from his prone position on the floor. Huey P. Newton at the time was a Ph.D candidate at the nearby University of California in Santa Cruz. He was charged later that night with attempted murder. He’d previously been there and done that. What a crock of fucking shit. All he aimed to shoot according to the evidence was a ceiling. Zeno did not need to be told to hit the deck right from the get-go. Which is why his wee frail pinkie started to bleed all over again. And then some.

When the smoke cleared, he opted to visit a second emergency room in a second hospital in a second city on the same day, a first. It made its own sense. But, the joint was jumping on a Saturday night in July. Gang bangers had converged on the Santa Cruz Boardwalk to exchange trinkets without values. Tourist season was peaking under a jaundiced moon. There were puddles of red blood and blue blood all mixed up that looked the same. He was forced to wait his turn. The plastic seat started to become molded to his ass.

Once one day has turned seamlessly into the next, there ain’t no stopping how it is what is is. And here and now. No logic or reason reigns. Hearts were attacked and broken. Babies were born and spit out gobs of goo. Victims of gravity staggered under heavy loads. A small pinkie finger was all Zeno had to offer. It wasn’t much.

He considered his options as the blood slowed to a trickle but stayed put. A reduction in speed may be no less of a hidden trap. Who says inertia has nothing uplifting to offer? Otherwise, the heat would rise, as it does, to frigid heights, as is does, too.

It was not until his tender finger became tended to by a nurse who turned out to possess an abundance of empathy to spare that one finger became enough. Enough trumps too much, too. He not only possessed the right stuff, but at the right time. This, he concluded, must be the place.

One thing led as it does to another. Nursing took no molded back seat to any higher calling. Logic won by a fucking TKO. Necessary and sufficient.

Posted in fiction, humor, Monterey Bay | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

A Tasteful Song and Dance

Little Michael Jackson all grown up was making a cameo appearance in the spotlight back home where he used to get a good whipping on his behind. He waved his white glove in a graceful arc above his conked head and faked walking backwards into thinner air. He never did quite get who was kidding whom, and where and why, but immersed in the here and now he was all about the yin and yang of in and out and out again. A big bed at Neverland Ranch awaited his naked ass near the bluffs overlooking the Pacific Ocean, not far from Lompoc, California. He briefly smiled and bowed, and he twisted like a whiz kid, and slipped, shuffled, swiveled, and swayed, before passing a sequined torch to bigger Stevie Wonder and lammed the fuck out of there. Stevie Wonder showed up every year to wave at the fabulous opening of the Detroit Auto Show and repay perpetual dues. Why would 1986 be any different?



“Dig it.”

Interested parties from many major continents showed up to wheel and deal in all the bountiful steel and flesh that Detroit had to offer. American autos remained big news in 1986, heavy duty. Nancy Reagan was also there in red just saying no, no, no. She was busy, busy, busy. She said it in the morning, she said it in the evening, and she said it at suppertime. Her red was not just any old red, either. It represented American values somewhere in the untarnished neighborhood between ruby and sapphire. Detroit was an important area to lift up by bootstraps with profits in capital gains and Republican contributors needed help to maintain sway in an important congressional election year amid such squalor. Detroit still looked as if it had been disassembled by a dud of a fragmentation bomb left over from Ho Chi Minh City. Famously, it smelled like a living hell, the real one.

The one and only First Lady in the present tense took a bow and a curtsy as an encore. She was doing a swell bang-up job. Progress was inevitable. Look how far Ronnie had come since starring in Death Valley Days. No one played better in Peoria than Ronnie. Reviews were glowing. The wunderkinds all knew it. To just say no was only a beginning for Nancy. She knew it better than anyone. A late supper was going to include poulet rouge in a juicy avuncular reduction created by the White House chef to coordinate with the shade of chosen lipstick on any given night. It was largely an alcohol free concoction, enabling her to stay on message while flying above it all on Air Force One, and served to feed the starving children as well. She would only need to taste a little while posing for the press corps in order to maintain her girlish stick figure.

She commanded, “Don’t forget a flattering shot in profile.”

If you weren’t bouncing on a glittery go-go stick and making a big splash during the Reagan Boom years, what was wrong with you? Something, that’s what, no matter who you falsely believed you could become by trying out new tricks. Nothing was wrong with Nancy Reagan, that’s for damn sure. She knew Stevie Wonder from way back in the Hollywood Hills when he was still Little Stevie Wonder and a spitting image who reminded her of Sammy Davis Jr., though without the benefit of at least one good seeing eye. But did that stop him from dancing? Fuck, no. Nothing wrong with that. Inflation at 11% was unbeatable. Nor was there anything wrong with the all new 1986 Pontiac Firebird that for the fifth consecutive year had the same unchanged factory fuel injection and four speed automatic transmission as the all new Chevy Camaro. Plus, it could be had for a song. No dancing required.

The insightful First Lady continued to pose in stillness for the slowpokes who needed time to focus and then she too was out of there.

Not for the first time, Zeno never had a fair chance to get close enough to speak with her and self-righteously demand an explanation for her failure to ameliorate his sentence of incarceration at the U.S. federal penitentiary at Lompoc, California. Not one of his several hundred letters had been answered, not even with a formulaic thank-you note that would have falsely appeared in mixed company to be merely polite. Members of the Secret Service had memorized time-lapsed simulated snapshots of how he used to wear his face in order to stand like studs in his way.

Zeno was coincidentally attending the 1986 Detroit Auto Show because Steve Jobs had temporarily succumbed to a bad bipolar snit after his excision from the yearly list of top American billionaires. The list was overseered by slippery Texas oil men with rancid tubs of guts spilling out of extra large sharkskin and alligator suits, many of whom only appeared due to issues of marriage, divorce, inheritance, and fratricide. They just did not get how important Steve meant to become. In order to make ends meet in Detroit he required a constant supply of fresh baked cookies much like those for which Zeno had been unjustly jailed at the federal penitentiary at Lompoc, California. The THC content was higher than any daily requirement but Steve Jobs could take a licking and keep on ticking. He was no fucking wuss. He never got paranoid. If you believe falsely in the existence of coincidence, that is, which is certifiably incorrect. Zeno wasn’t fooled by that malarkey, however. He wasn’t just born yesterday. He knew he was only in Detroit with Steve Jobs for the money. He’d been there before, though never in Detroit.

In what arcane world did it matter that he had no idea what Steve Jobs was supposed to be doing at an auto show rubbing obsolescent wax into fake veneers surrounded by relics? Zen felt strongly like just another punchy working stiff on the clock. He knew how to assume the position and featherbed his nest as well as the best of them. He was unashamed to marvel at the raw marketing skills of grumpy codgers accompanied by leggy models at General Motors. And there was plenty of fossilized beef on the hoof for gawking. They did it on the road every day. That wasted lots of billable hours. He had no reason to question the reason why. It was freezing outside in desolate Detroit and he had nowhere else to run. The seat back to California on a shiny new Apple corporate jet would be cushy. And he was confident the check would not bounce. The sun would come out tomorrow and croon like the round pizza man in the moon. He would be able to start all over again from scratch with yeast and crust. His oven would smoke no less than Michael Jackson with the heat from his flaky pies.

If that did not make him proud to be an American entrepreneur, what would? Nothing, that’s what. By reduction, he would end up a hopeless case. Who wants that?

Posted in fiction, food, humor, legalize marijuana, satire | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

The Seating Chart

Steve was wearing his hair slicked back and a bashful bow-tie, but trying to be cocky yet vulnerable. The main event was still fourteen minutes away according to the imposing atomic clock on the table and he was jumpy. No perilous balancing act is ever simple. He might as easily start to choke up as smile. Zeno was reminded of Don Dunphy circa 1964 announcing a fifteen rounder from ringside at Convention Hall in Atlantic City, Sonny Liston and an unnamed loser, an instant Boardwalk classic. The atmosphere backstage at the Flint Center was slightly different however, somewhat tense and quasi-subdued. But who wears a bow-tie in 1984? Oh yeah, that’s right. An amalgamated conglom of nerds was sitting up alertly in assigned seats. The bow-tie of the boss did not stand out alone. A definitive ode to joy was building up from a mere murmur. Anticipation cloyed like a pink packet of saccharine. If that was not electric, then what?

Zeno said “Spiffy bow-tie, Steve.”

“I’m trying hard to make a difference here.”

“And looking good while hard at it.”

“And to rise above.”

“Does that mean, scram?”

“I need my space.”

Assigned seating capacity at the Flint Center was 2405. Seats were filling up fast. Simulated theme music from current East Bay faves, the Pointer Sisters, declared in stylized muzak, “I’m So Excited.” A version of Prince proclaiming, “Let’s Go Crazy,” had been seriously considered by the social committee but ultimately rejected for flouting of rules. 1984 was just getting started. Rules had come this far for a reason.

Zeno had the seating chart crumpled in his pocket. His waiters had been instructed to wait for quiet if not calm before delivering a custom cupcake to each assigned seat. Then a wine spritzer. Not all cupcakes contained spiced apples with bruised cloves, but most. Zeno did not reveal he refused to bake with mushy mcintosh apples and had switched to soulful pippens. Who was going to know?

The calculating gizmo still in the bag had made it all possible by delineating known tendencies. The bag remained covered up on stage. The cupcakes were color coordinated according to a complex code. The number of cupcakes containing cannabis butter had been divided by pi. Most contained the color green. Someone asked, why? Someone said, don’t ask. Someone said, don’t tell. On a need to know basis, Zeno was not one who knew.

Zeno had previously inquired, “What if someone wants to sits next to a good friend and switches seats?”

“These are engineers. Engineers follow rules.”

“But, what if?”

“It won’t happen.”

As it turned out, events would confirm the main man was right as usual. Once he uncovered the bag, the crowd stood and cheered like beasts shedding burdens. The decibel level nearly stretched to a rowdy definition of lewdness. Backs were slapped and pinkies grabbed. After that, what could go wrong? Of course Steve knew. Woz too, probably. If anything went wrong, Zeno would be blamed.

Then Zeno turned the waiters loose with a silly grin and a wave. He read about it next morning in the Santa Cruz Mountains when his newspaper was delivered in the rain.

Posted in culture, fiction, food, humor, legalize marijuana, short stories | Tagged , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

The Pen Is Not Mightier

Zeno had a vision in primary colors, not a dream. It occurred a few days before he was due to be sentenced to the minimum security federal penitentiary at Lompoc, California. The horse trading had concluded and the deal was done. He whinnied like a lame also-ran. The government took everything he owned and sent him to jail for baking delicious cookies, cupcakes, and all-natural granola. Not even his collection of lucky pennies inherited from Joe Avirgan was spared. The judge with the porky snout explained how fortunate he was to get such a good deal. Reliable waves from the Pacific Ocean he would never get to hear or feel for the duration were only a mile away. In a Texas prison, he’d be serving twenty years with scorpions. His coupled lawyers made out like bandits as they heartily shook his hand and slipped him dead skin. The dream was different. In the dream there were mothers and sons running. He ran alongside on the left. His head was aiming for the right. South and north had flipped. The nightmare came later. There were Cossacks in a dark forest hunting for sport, and wolves for game.

Later in the same dream, a different mother and son were waiting on his front step, but not for him. He invited them inside out of the frost. The wolves continued to howl. He noticed an indigenous rug had been single-handedly turned upside down and the dyed wool on the geometric sofa had been brushed with wires to face the wrong direction. Plus, the primitive blue in the nappy rug clashed with the front lines in the closed curtains that refused to concede artrificial turf. Compromised circuits could not handle the load. Sirens blew chunks and wads. The primary red was stained with mixed blood and used topsoil.

It was in the vision where he was caught in a transparent web, and clearly surrendered to the surveillance camera, arms up, head down. The focus and exposure were too explicit to deny. There were shiny new chains draped on the backs of stylish steel chairs. His chafed red hands were cuffed. He sat until the itch in his ass began to evolve.

The nightmare as it turned out was closest to the truth, a nebulous shade of black and white that merged into pale gray as it swirled. Time off to suck hard for good behavior moved like glaciers in inches. He still had three more months of stirring drab to serve.

He sat on his semi-detached bunk as he listened for the first clash of metal in the morning, modern locks and keys requiring advanced lubrication. It was time to rise above. He never forgot he was still running hard.

Right off, the guard wanted to know, “What’s on the menu for this morning?”

“Shit on a shingle for a select group of 1250.”

“Man, I love that stuff.”

“I won’t spit in yours.”

“I hope you never get out.”

“You’ll get fatter and your wife will get fed up.”

“I can live with that.”

Zeno was released on a sunny day in February that felt as if Spring had popped a stone fruit, a cherry or a plum. A small envelope discreetly padded with bits of cash was waiting for him in a locker at the Greyhound station. He walked a mile to the sand dunes on the other side of the Pacific Coast Highway that had not rolled over to play dead. Ebb tide still flowed. Cossacks had not chopped off any heads in the vicinity. Rats still picked like pros though piles of human trash. Lying pols kissed, told, and kept score. Nancy Reagan had never responded to his letters from jail. Ronald Reagan was still acting glib.

He crossed his fingers when crossing the road. A gull nearly shit smartly on his head, but missed. Sand still slipped through cracks. He still did not lie to himself.

He bought a tri-tip sandwich simmered slowly with lots of cumin in the dry rub and a six pack of Anchor Steam beer at a bodega in Santa Maria, and a 1976 Datsun with less than 90000 miles on the odometer from a humiliated beauty queen filling in for her insensitive father at the family friendly used car lot on the corner. He picked at pieces of meat that fell into his lap as he drove. The dry rub had seeped through the skin overnight. He followed the San Andreas fault north by northwest. Unsettled rocks lurked on the precipice of a fractured edge. Traffic seemed to shrink behind him. There went one of the California Missions. There went another used car lot. There went another church. There went another prison. Who knew a crappy Datsun had such oomph? The itch in his ass began to devolve as the sun began to dip into healing waters beyond Big Sur.

He did not stop until he reached the Santa Cruz Mountains and finished climbing. No longer a beginning, but nowhere near an end.

The man of the house was there to open the front door before he had a chance to knock. Woz had gained a lot of weight but not as much as he would soon. Some men eat when stressed while others starve.

Woz said, “I recognized the rumble. I used to drive a Datsun. What a piece of crap.”

First, they finished drinking all of the beer that Zeno had brought. Next, out came more.

Posted in culture, fiction, food, humor, writing | Tagged , , , , , | 1 Comment