Ruminations upon approaching my 100th birthday – while still able to scooch, sidle, shimmy, snuggle, squat..
January thirteenth deux thousand and fifty nine only x squared number months away. Courtesy of global warming the howl of old man winter long fostered, linkedin, relegated... to the meteorological dustbin of Earth's history. This indignity to enraged Gaia. Subsequently she gingerly foisted upon bipedal critters blistering, scorching, withering,... temperatures. Hellacious for any fool who dared to amble, ferry, scuttle..., across the crusty burnt offering mantle of said oblate spheroid basically, essentially and literally liquidated the once diverse four seasons into one hot long summer. Despite dire doomsday prognostications countless elapsed generations blithely ignored stepped up iterations Mother Earth could go kaput fell on deaf ears. Analogous to the boy who cried wolf, the honest to dog diehard devil in the details got nay sayed, poo pooed, trumpeted, et cetera as “FAKE” news. Undisputable, undeniable, uncontestable, irrefutable... scientific data blithely skirted courtesy pant tum mime ming politicians. Hardcore scientific data claimed as ploy to distort, hoodwink, muckrake as odious Republican party. Though no conspiracy theory, this realization undermined quality of all life and stultifiedall creatures great and small each compromised delicate thread, viz seriously threatened uber World Wide Web. Human civilization namely soaring disenfranchised bajillion populations contributing most spike, asper hungry mouths to feed plan net absolute zero elimination of fossil fuels materialized beyond the "talking heads" stage. Serious irreparable environmental degradation diversity regarding species diversification took Kamikaze nosedive , whereby bipedal hominids, i.e. specifically Homo sapiens to whit made final endrun touchdown. Only a few toke ken flora and fauna endowed with privilege from said self anointed, elected, and jackknifed biosphere. Total mortal kombat desecration long since declared upon all other creatures large and small lame odds against most formidable fee fie foe fum I smell blood of Everyman. The ability for scientists of all stars and stripes definitely greater than fifty plus perfected the ways and means to synthesize, albeit do it yourself cloning kits recreating with minimal mutations impossible mission to distinguish once upon a time authentic animals (particularly humans), and plants versus mutation free replicas version xyz. Each man, woman, and child inherently capable, feasible, permissible to forage, (or forge) any extinct life form after genetically modified bot size organisms became chromosomally integrated. Yea quite a hullabaloo scores of decades back. These vehement uproars (protesting outright novel manipulation - leftist kindled jibber jabber walking iconoclasts) by good n plenti madding crowd sourced with austere outlook nonestablishmentarian. Popular protests against agribusinesses (amateur blind faith knowledge) frequently led to misguided disastrous results. I refer, while simultaneously taking deep inhalation of homemade reefer to age of discovery and exploration. Now nonpareil sophistication generically trademarked, mere pennies on the dollar prevailed for mom and pop boutiques "cell bait shops," more so for exotic breeders to catercorner a niche market heartily throve. Interestingly enough, more conservative advocates (initially no surprise liberal revolutionary types) pressed government(s) to assert regulation. Unlikely severe checks and balances could be implemented at this foregone stage, cuz plethora of custom designed ecologies promulgated, kindled, inculcated, et cetera at initial terrestrial hermetically sealed tougher genetic ware of select fertilization. Such accustomed, embedded, gerrymandered, et cetera paradigm part and parcel of humanity analogous to the aromatic, organic, and universalistic controlled environmentally fractionally formulated, distilled, brewed... air supply people breathe. Software applications readily proliferate, though most of us quite able minded to code for prospective fathers, mothers, or avowed single parent available to tinker, fiddle and finely tune an offspring. The latest purported technological advancement blends computer fostered instituted quasi android with deoxyribonucleic acid these latter twenty first century primates culled, but basic understanding of biochemistry allows, enables, and provides cutting edge fantastic glowing harvested innovations, where fertile imagination stretched to outer limit of twilight zone meant outer reaches of cosmos the limit.
Similar to any exploratory craft fabricating, honing, and interweaving the blend of microelectronics insync with carbon life forms takes artificial intelligence into the sketchy realm of science fiction supreme sensate beings. Thus, the prolongation of telomeres lifespan, a quandary gaining significant realization since prelapsarian times, harkening back when my bubba's zayda to the power of Google) increased longevity of the average human. Actually, even pets and/or other domesticated creature included within sweep of keeping a check on aging cells, perhaps helps to explain the title of this vignette. Naturally, mine bicentennial circuit denoting seventy thousand days warrants accommodation of loved ones. This thrifty Pennywise papa of E_ L_ and S_ A_ tried level best to guide his two lovely daughters toward enlightenment.
Turn it Up
… turn it up!
Those quietly spoken words follow Ed King’s first, meticulous little guitar riff in the original recording of Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Sweet Home Alabama.”
I clearly remember riding with my father in his pickup truck back when I was in the fourth or fifth grade (which, by the way, was a long, long time ago). It was the first time I remember hearing the song. Ronnie Van Zant’s words, “turn it up,” rattled in to us from the WANV radio station where my mother worked through the truck’s static-y, AM speakers. I remember watching in awe as my father’s hand subconsciously reached for the volume button. The singer of the song had asked my dad to “turn it up,” and the old man was actually doing it? It was both a mystery, and a revelation at once. My father liked to make it known that he had no use for what he called “hippie music,” yet here he was, “turning it up“ on command. Furthermore, as he was “turning it up” with the one hand his other one was tapping out the beat atop the steering wheel. And even more uncharacteristically yet, Pop was singing along with the chorus!
”Sweet home Alabama
where the skies are so blue.
Sweet home Alabama,
Lord I’m coming’ home to you.”
My father wasn’t big on singing, though he liked music well enough, Hee-Haw mostly, yet he somehow recognized this song well enough that he could sing along in parts. I’d only ever heard my dad attempt to sing a few times, and then he was more likely to be singing along with The Statler Brothers, or maybe The Temptations, some of his favorites. What can I say? The old man was partial to harmonies. At least I come by that right.
Yea, Pop!… turn it up!
I would learn later in life that while recording the song, what Ronnie was actually doing was asking the song’s producer to give him more sound in his headset before he started singing. “I need more volume,” he was telling Al Kooper. Upon hearing the recorded playback Al wanted to edit the words out, but Ronnie stopped him. Ronnie knew he had a great song, and he knew that kids listening in their cars would do exactly what he’d just been telling Al Kooper to do, and conversely what my father had done. Those kids would “turn it up!” And, as usual, Ronnie Van Zant’s instincts were spot on.
Speaking of instincts, less than a week before that recording session Ronnie had called Al up in the middle of the night. “I need some studio time,” he’d told Al. “We’ve got this song, and it’s perfect right now. If we wait the song is gonna change. They always do. We need to record it right now.” So The Lynyrd Skynyrd Band took the long bus ride to Doraville, Georgia, where they laid out their soon-to-be rock and roll classic nearly a full year before the rest of the album was cut. Apparently it paid to follow along with Ronnie’s instincts.
… turn it up, Al!
The funny thing about the song though is what I learned from my dad that day in his pickup truck. Sweet Home Alabama appeals to nearly everyone. While the song is unmistakably rock-n-roll, it somehow manages to take a savvy listener on a four and a half minute southern musical odyssey. The airy, initial pluckings of Ed King’s guitar have a blue-grassy sound, being almost mandolin-ish, while Gary’s country, slide guitar accompanies it. The rhythm section which follows in behind those guitars only complements that bluegrass sound with a slow, very steady, stand-up bass feeling. When Ronnie’s voice joins in it is light and articulate, coming off as being almost untrue to his redneck persona. When the Honkettes (JoJo, Leslie and Cassie) join Ronnie in the chorus their harmonies bring in an almost hymnal quality, their “ooohs and aaah’s“ raining down from the holier, upper pews. The guitar solos are steeped heavily in the Memphis blues, and the sprinkling in of boogie-woogie piano finishes it all off. The music itself is very nearly the coming together of all the great, southern musical styles into one pop-rock perfection.
And then you have the lyrics. Home is what the song is about. It tells you right there in the title. The song is about home, about wanting to be home after a long stint on the road, and about loving one’s home, warts and all. Yes, the song was inspired by Neil Young’s song “Southern Man”, and yes Ronnie takes a pretty good dig at Neil Young in the second verse, but that is all in loving one’s home, and in refusing to see it disparaged by someone who isn’t even American, much less southern. “Fix your own house before you stick your nose into mine,” Ronnie fairly enough reminds Neil Young, “A southern man don’t need you around, anyhow!” It was the early 1970’s, a time when it was already rightfully difficult being southern, but no weed-smoking, sandal-wearing Canadian had any business piling on, did he? Young had tried it twice now, beating up on southerner’s, but not again he wouldn’t. And the funniest thing about it was, Ronnie wasn’t even from Alabama. But even though he never lived there Ronnie felt a kinship to her people, people who were sharing the same struggles that his folks over in north Florida were.
“Big wheels keep on turning.
Carry me home to see my kin.
Singing songs about the southland.
I miss Alabamy once again (and I think it’s a sin, yea).”
For fifty years now I’ve rocked out to “Sweet Home Alabama.” I’ve heard it hundreds of times, maybe thousands, and I still “turn it up” every time it comes on, my toes instinctively tapping along to the radio. I heard it at the end of Forrest Gump, when Jenny and Forrest had become “like peas and carrots once again.” Reese Witherspoon made a whole movie out of “Sweet Home Alabama.“ The song has been covered by just about everyone; to include Nirvana, Rihanna, Poison, and Justin Bieber. Kidd Rock wrote a tribute song about this song that was a response to another song. I’ve heard symphony's attempt it, and marching bands, and even a bagpipe ensemble. I live in Nashville, where you cannot to this day walk down Broad Street without hearing it blare from at least one live music bar, and more often then not from two or three at once.
Oh yea. I’ve heard Neil Young do the song he inspired too (and he did it with much respect, too. Thank you for that, Friend).
Hey Neil! ... turn it up!
After much careful consideration about this prompt I have decided that “Sweet Home Alabama” has what it takes to be the “Soundtrack of my life” (which is not a mantle easily bestowed). It is not my favorite song. It is not even my favorite Lynyrd Skynyrd song, and may not even be my favorite song on its own album, Second Helping, which also boasts Curtis Loew and Swamp Music. But I am choosing it due to it’s popularity, and because the song is very nearly everything I believe I am while also managing to remain relevant for nearly as long as I have been around to hear it. The song is upbeat, straight shooting, contemplative, artistically diverse, it features a fantastic arrangement of driving guitar work, and it brings some attitude along to boot. Those are the very things I am about. That description happily meets me out there afloat somewhere on the big, slowly rolling river that is the Dixieland Twelve Bar Blues.
So take a tip from me, Ronnie, Al, Neil, and my old man. The next time you hear those light, plucky strings followed by Ronnie's suggestion that you, “turn it up,“ don’t just sit there...
Reach for the damned dial, already!
..…
Chapter Twenty – Appearances
“So, you guys know each other, I still get my cut” The student insisted. Mark paid the student and the student, who was satisfied with his cut, went on his way.
“What are you doing here?” Mark asked the old man.
“I escaped the same as you.” The old man replied, “Isn’t it great here. If only we could have been born a century or two later. Imagine all the things that we missed, and we don’t have to worry about being overrun here. This is the most peaceful country on the planet.”
“We think we should give the princess back her memories. She’s remembering in her dreams; she might as well remember when she is awake.” Mark explained.
“Remembering in her dreams is a problem.” The old man answered, “She’s getting better at controlling them and if she figures out that everything in the dream is real, she could send us back.”
“That’s why she needs to wake up, so we can convince her to stay.” Mark continues.
“I don’t know.” The old man replies, “The only thing that will wake her up permanently is ‘true loves’ kiss.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.” Mark answered, “That is pretty cliché, don’t you think.”
“It’s cliché for a reason.” The old man answered, “true love is the most powerful magic there is.”
“We don’t even know who her true love is.” Mark went on, “It’s not Toby. We already tried that.”
“Even if she gets her memories back, there is no guarantee that you will be able to convince her and if you can’t do that, we’ll have to defeat her in battle.” The old man warned.
“Isn’t there anything you can do?” Mark begged.
“I do have a temporary solution.” The old man offered, “Get her to take a few sips of this and she will remember for a few hours.” The old man handed Mark an old plastic milk container that had a potion in it. Mark took the container.
“Thanks” Mark responded.
“Good luck and be careful” The old man warned. With that, the old man left Mark standing all by himself. Mark left for Carla’s house.
“You will never guess who I found?” Mark states after he gets to Carla’s house.
“Who?” Carla asks.
“The Wizard” Mark replies, “He’s here.”
“What?” Carla asks stunned.
“The Wizard is here.” Mark states again.
“I thought the Wizard just sent us here. I didn’t think he would also send himself.” Carla replied.
“He said he was escaping, like the rest of us.” Mark explained.
“We’ll, I guess that makes sense.” Carla thought,” But why did he send any of us here. Why didn’t he just come here himself. He didn’t have to bring us with him. He didn’t have to save the princess.”
“I don’t know” Mark answered.
“There’s something he’s not telling us.” Carla declared, “There’s some other reason we are all here.”
“He said that the princess can only get her memories back permanently with ‘true loves’ kiss.” Mark continues.
“Seriously?” Carla responded, “’true loves’ kiss? That’s what he told you.”
“Wait, you don’t think he’s lying, do you?” Mark replied.
“Of course he’s lying. He doesn’t want the princess to get her memories back. It could ruin everything.” Carla explains.
“If that’s true, why did he give me this.” Mark asked as he held up the container with the potion.
“What’s that?” Carla asked.
“It’s a potion that will temporarily give the princess her memories back. We just have to get her to drink it.” Mark stated.
“How are we going to do that, she doesn’t trust us anymore.” Carla shot back.
“We have to find some way to get her to take it.” Mark declared.
That night Mark had a dream.
Mark had been training his entire life to become a knight. He worked hard to build up his muscles to handle the heavy armor that knights wore and to hold up a heavy sword that was the knight’s primary weapon of choice.
Because Mark was young, he wasn’t a knight. He was a knight in training. That meant that he had to do whatever his mentor told him to do. His mentor worked him hard because when the time came to rely on him in battle, he had to be ready. Day after day it was the same grueling routine. He was up at the crack of dawn. He spent the day doing all manner of things and then he slept. It wasn’t exactly the life of hardship that the peasants enjoyed, but it was a life of hardship.
One day after Mark had completed a hard day, he laid down in his bed to get some well-earned rest, a man appeared to him. This man wore a cloak. Mark jumped up ready to battle this unexpected visitor.
“Calm down.” The visitor said, “I’m not your enemy.” Mark relaxed slightly.
“Who are you?” Mark asked.
“I am a powerful wizard. I know you are not a true knight, but I have seen your heart, and you have true courage. In three days, the kingdom will be attacked and overrun. The entire royal family will be put to death with the sword. I have foreseen it and there is nothing anyone can do to stop it. The King has asked me to select someone brave and noble to escort his daughter to safety. I have selected you for this important task. I am going to use my magic to send you both somewhere safe. Will you serve your King by accepting this honor?” the wizard explained.
“I am honored to accept the task my King has chosen me for.” Mark responded. Mark worked hard and never complained. He knew what he had to do to become a knight. To be chosen for this important task while being so inexperienced made no sense to Mark but it wasn’t his place to question orders. It was his place to obey. So that is what he did.
Mark was told to wait in the shadows in the cave until he was needed. He watched while Carla brought the princess to the wizard. The princess was beautiful, but he had never seen anyone like Carla before. Carla’s resourcefulness impressed him. She was someone he wanted to get to know.
The princess was restrained but soon her restraint was gone. She didn’t look scared at all.
“You can come out Mark, I know you’re there.” It was the voice of the princess. Mark came out of the shadows. The princess was gaining confidence, gaining more control over the dream.
Marks armor and weapon disappeared, and Mark was now the one restrained. Carla and Toby were also restrained.
Gina casually walked toward the wizard, who still looked unconcerned at this turn of events. When she got close to the Wizard, who was now restrained himself, she held a dagger to his throat.
“Give me one good reason not to kill you right now?” she demanded.
The Day the Whispers Began
The day the whispers began was the last day of Ramadan. Many--almost two billion people--believed Gabriel was giving new revelations to the faithful.
The whispers were unintelligible, felt to be some exotic dialect, long extinct.
Then, Catholic women were hearing them, too. Again, it was felt to be the angel, Gabriel, because of his message given so long ago to the blessed mother. But Catholic men began hearing them a week later. Again, the whispers were unintelligible
The Jews were next, but only their first-born children. Again, unintelligible.
Soon all religions had those who heard them. Even the atheists began hearing them, with the unsurprising decline in the world's atheist numbers. Yet, the Pope, Imans, rabbis, and any official church representatives were deaf to them.
The whispers could not be recorded. Only silence was laid down when this was attempted. Linguistic experts weighed in, but a consortium of scholars was unable to put down in writing what was being heard by each faction.
The whispers, when mimicked by talented speakers into voiced utterances, remained gibberish.
Whispers are as much an exclusively human thing as music, literature, poetry, art, and--now--religion. Yet, unlike those, which augment the human "to be" to new heights of fulfillment, a whisper is a degradation, a devaluation--not of what is being said, but of the one saying it. Whispered just so, the speaker's message can be without gender, age, accent, or any other identifiable mien. It is stripped down of all speaker attributes except for one:
Urgency.
Whispers are delivered furtively. In secret. In the shortest possible distance from mouth to ear. And a proper secret, always whispered, also is always urgent. Something meant for just one person to know.
Urgently.
Those of faith heard the urgency but couldn't listen. Listening required the ear of gestalt to glean the message of an aggregate hearing--perception--flowing together from the different whispers.
Thus, the only way the whispers--this urgency, this message--could be properly delivered to the faithful was when they reconciled their individual disparate beliefs with all other beliefs vying for the One True Religion--and truly began listening.
Thus, the urgency went unanswered. It was the message in a bottle, and it was floating away.
Nothing does Exist
A name, a norm,
a weathering storm can
best describe our nothing.
"I was sitting at my computer doing nothing". Meaning a simple art form of not moving and thinking at the same time.
"I stood on the corner for hours and saw nothing." Meaning my eyes and thoughts were looking for a figure to react in some way that could be described. "If I had it, I'll give it to you, but unfortunately I have nothing.". Meaning, something was in the place of what's there now or could be there now, making this a destination.
So MY conclusion is Nothing exist in so many forms that one day it will be something.
What People Don’t See
I recently submitted a rather distasteful story to the manuscripts section. Various responses were received; some puzzled, some troubled, but some understood the message behind the story, which was authentic and recalled vividly in the harshest of terms.
Don't let my grandmotherly smile fool you. My memory is a stinker. It recalls all the dirty details of my life in living color, and I, as the truth-teller of my family, must share every bit of minutiae. I have always been like this. It's a sickness, according to my mother, who prefers to let pain and embarrassing family history get moldy in the basement. Writing these events is not necessarily soul-cleansing and healing. Sometimes, it hurts to dredge these things up.
The healing comes when another abuse survivor says, "I thought I was the only one," and you both become a bit stronger.
My story described being dragged to an orgy by an abusive boyfriend. I was twenty and he was thirty-three at the time. He had total control over me. Over my body, my travel, my money, and my contact with friends and family. I remained steadfastly snarky and belligerent because that was the only freedom I had. I could go along quietly or go along with blackened eyes. I always chose the latter.
The irony of this story was that my abuser warned me not to embarrass him at the orgy because he knew the people who would be there. This would have been hysterical if it was fictional. We were going to an orgy to have unprotected sex and do drugs with perverts, but he was in fear of me saying something to embarrass him. What? How bad does someone have to be to embarrass you at an orgy?
I was not a drug taker, so, when urged to take a puff of marijuana, it hit me hard. I remember standing in the bathroom of the home we were at, thinking it was the next day, and it was all over. The rest of the evening was a blur of being passed around, like that joint, and finally, coming to with my boyfriend dragging me off the husband of his girlfriend, who accidentally ended up at the same orgy.
He wanted to humiliate me by showing me who he was cheating with. I was horrified by my first sight of female genitalia in action and repulsed when he tried to force me to join him with her. He did nothing to me at the time. But for months afterward, I was frequently reminded that I had let him down, and that was why he had to have other women.
Every time he wanted to have other women, he would first beat me so that I’d run out of the apartment to escape his fists. Then, he would be free to bring these women into our bed. I had asked for refuge from so many people in our apartment complex that, eventually, they stopped allowing me to stay with them. I was on my own with whatever I was wearing when he began hitting me — usually in the dead of Winter.
People could see the bruises and cuts. What they could not see was the constant state of anxiety I lived in. Would I have to run away tonight? Tomorrow? The night after? If I ran to a neighbor and banged on their door, would they ignore me or let me in? Not only do abused partners live with constant fight-or-flight anxiety. They live with shame. A deep, intense, burning shame that only abuse survivors understand. I spent years being ashamed of what someone else had done to me.
Friends, family, bystanders, and strangers always commented, “Why don’t you just leave?” They could never understand how completely he owned my life. I had no vehicle. I had no money, as he would scoop up my pay every night I worked. I had no friends who would take me in. No access to help, except when police were called. Then, even the police would tell me I probably wouldn’t stay away, so all they did was postpone another beating. No one ever referred me to a women’s shelter or any other kind of help.
When I attempted suicide to escape, the hospital would send me home with my abuser and enough drugs to kill a herd of elephants, which he would steal and sell. If I ever managed to escape, he promised to find me and kill me or kill my pets. He made good on that promise by running over my dog, Gus, to repay me for running for my life once when I was sure he was going to kill me.
When someone beats you regularly and saps the life out of you, you do what you’re told. If they threaten to kill you when you escape, you believe them. I’m seventy years old and still find myself getting hostile when my actions are questioned, or someone tries to prevent me from going where I’d like to go or doing what I want. Not just a little hostile, but angry, furious. Which is funny to watch, I suppose, because I’m about 4'10" tall. It's sort of like watching an angry munchkin on steroids. And, God help you if you laugh at me.
The anxiety never really goes away completely. The shame, lack of trust, and fury remain with us forever as well. These are the unseen bruises of abuse.
My Sweet Petunia Chapter 4: Tom Junior
“Mornin’ Ralph.”
“Mornin’ Sam. Sam, I said a lot of things last night I shouldn’t have said. I feel real bad about it. It wasn’t right, and I hope you’ll forgive me.”
“No Ralph, everything you said last night was right. You gave me my comeuppance, and I rightly deserved it.”
“Sam, you look like you’re gonna cry.”
“I’ve been crying since the minute you left. I love you Ralph. I love you dearly, as if you were my own flesh and blood, and I ain’t saying that as some washed up, wanna be father.”
“I love you too Sam. I really do. Now, let’s get them sheep. What time we meeting Tom Junior on Thursday?”
“Ain’t decided yet.”
“What do you mean you ain’t decided yet!? What are you waiting for, the Canadian crows to fly south for the winter? Goddamnit Sam! Can’t butter up Tom Junior ’till we know when we’re meeting him!”
“Maybe I already buttered him up on the side.”
“Why you gotta do it on the side?”
“Because you don’t know him like I do. You can’t go talk to him like I can.”
“What do you mean?”
“I know him a little. You don’t.”
“What do you mean you know him? What are you, friends with Tom Junior Sam?”
“For God’s sake, no Ralph! We ain’t no friends. I just know him a little, that’s all. I’ve been working on the farm a long time. You can’t help but talk with people.”
“I see. So what do you two love birds talk about?”
“Jesus Ralph, stop it! You’re acting like we’re in cahoots or something.”
“Well, are you?”
“No!!! I just told Tom Junior that he was a good little boy, and that we’d like to take him out for drinks. Said we’d come up with a time later.”
“It’s getting later all the time Sam.” “Alright, I’ll go talk with him now.”
*****
“Eight o’clock. He said he’d meet us Thursday night at eight o’clock.”
“Where?”
“Jude’s Tavern. Let’s get there a little early to plot strategy, say 7:30.”
“Alright, 7:30 then.”
*****
“Well, you made it here old boy, right on time, 7:30.”
“I ain’t feeling so good about this Sam.”
“Why not?”
“It still bothers me you didn’t set this up a little more beforehand. Why’d you have to wait so long to see when Tom Junior wanna meet?”
“Don’t call him Tom Junior. He don’t like it.”
“Since when you care what Tom Junior likes?”
“I don’t. I just mean don’t call him that when we meet. Well, here comes little ol’ Tom Junior now. ‘Tom! How you doing ol’ boy?”’
“Right fine, I guess. Didn’t expect you and Ralph to take me out for drinks.”
“Why not, Tom? You and I been working here together for a long time. Ralph is my colleague and my dear friend. You can trust the both of us.”
“Question is Sam, can we trust him?”
“Fair question. Can we trust you, Tom Junior?”
“Don’t call me Tom Junior Sam!”
“Alright, sorry Tom. Won’t happen again. Will it Ralph?”
“I didn’t call him Tom Junior. You did.”
“Yeah, you can trust me. I ain’t got nothin’ on ya.”
“Alright then. Getcha a beer, Tom?”
“Sure.”
“Ralph, how ’bout you step up to the bar there and get us a few beers?”
“How ’bout you do it Sam?”
“Alright, alright… It’s too fine a night and too many pretty girls to be wrangling. ‘Hey hon, bring us a few beers over here, will ya?’ So, Tom. I've been working for your father a long time. You notice things. And I can’t help but notice that you bust your ass around here, and you don’t get nothin’ for it.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well Tom, seems to me when someone puts in a hard day’s work, they should get something out it. Don’t you agree?”
“Yeah.”
“You don’t get paid nothin’ for what you do on the farm. Do you Tom?”
“No.”
“Don’t that make you a little mad son? Don’t that get you a little hot under the collar sometimes?”
“Yeah, it does.”
“Would me, too. Come to think of it, I’ve never seen your father give you the time of day, much less pay you anything.”
“He don’t.”
“No, he don’t, do he? Man, them beers taste real good on a hot summer’s night. Real good. Alright, so where were we?”
“Yeah Sam, where were we?”
“C’mon Ralph. I’m just trying to help Tom Junior here see things a little more clearly.”
“Goddamnit Sam! Don’t call me fucking Tom Junior! I don’t like it!”
“Yeah Sam, don’t call him fucking Tom Junior! He don’t like it!”
“Tom, you know I don’t think of you that way. I’m just trying to make a point.”
“Well, make it then.”
“Tom, I’ve been working on the farm for 28 years, and it’s plain as the ass on an orangutan that your father keeps you under his thumb, every goddamn minute, of every goddamn day. He treats you like a child when you’re all but a man. Ain’t that right? You’re a whisker away from being a full-grown man, ain’t ya Tom?”
“Yeah, I am.”
“That’s right. Well, don’t you think maybe you should be man enough to do something about your father?”
“Like what Sam? Shoot him in the back?”
“Hell, boy, shoot him in the front!”
“I ain’t shooting nothing! Jesus Christ Sam! You brought me here to ask me to kill my father!?”
“No Tom, of course not. I ain’t asking you to kill your father. Man signs my checks. Pays me at least.”
“Fuck you, Sam!”
“Alright, now hold on, hold on. Calm down. I ain’t talking nothin’ about shootin’ your father. I believe he’s leaving town soon anyway, going with your mama, bless her little heart. What’s that, maybe a week or so from now?”
“Week and a half.”
“And you’ll be here running the farm pretty much by yourself, wontcha Tom?”
“Yeah.”
“Won’t get paid nothing for it, will you?”
“No.”
“All that wasted potential. You could run the whole goddamn kit and caboodle yourself. There’s a lot of money on that farm Tom, especially the sheep. Beaucoup dollars.”
“What? You want me to give you a good deal on some sheep Sam?”
“No Tom. I ain’t lookin’ to buy your sheep. Why would I? Your father pays Ralph to steal ’em. Now you might not know this son, but there’s a long-standing feud between your family and the McCoys, going way far back.”
“So? There ain’t no McCoys around here no more.”
“Oh yes there are Tom. Not the original ones of course, but their flesh n’ blood. The Hatfields up and gone a while back, but some of the McCoys still around. I don’t think even your father knows that. But I do. I even sees one or two of ’em occasionally. And I just happened to be talking with one of ’em the other day. You see Tom, the reason your family even have them sheep is ’cause your great grandfather stole them, at least their forebearers, from the McCoys. The real McCoys. ’Course that never set right with them, and they’d sure like to get ’em back. Not just for the money, though there’d be a lot of it, not to mention the lamb chops, but to wave their middle finger in your daddy’s eye. It’s personal Tom. But it ain’t so easy stealin’ flocks of sheep in this day and age. There’re all sorts of cameras, electric wires, booby traps all over that farm, even some you don’t know about. ’Course your daddy pays off the law to make sure there ain’t no thieves getting in. Hell Tom, they even arrest the wolves. Put little wolf handcuffs on them. You never see no wolves
on the farm, do you Tom? Point being, only way the McCoys could get them sheep is if it were an inside job. You see what I’m gettin’ at here boy?”
“There ain’t no way my pa let them get away with it, McCoys or anyone else. My pa ain’t scared of nothin’. He’d hunt them down, shoot ’em, and hang ’em himself.”
“Not if weren’t in town he wouldn’t. Couldn’t if he wanted to, could he Tom?”
“No. He couldn’t. But why should I want to do this anyway?”
“Them sheep worth a lot of money Tom. A lot. I’ll make sure the McCoys give you a cut. How much you want?”
“Jesus, I ain’t doing this!”
“Could be a couple hundred dollars Tom.”
“Couple hundred dollars!?”
“Yeah Tom, I’m telling you, them sheep are worth a lot of money! I’m in good with the McCoys. They know they can’t get ’em without you. I’ll make sure they take care of you. Of course, that’s not the only reason you want to do this Tom.”
“Yeah, what’s the other?”
“Ah, c’mon Tom, what do you think? We both know how much you resent your pa, and you should too, rightly so. Get some revenge. Now I know revenge is a dirty word Tom, and it don’t exactly capture what’s in your heart, though maybe it does, but you’d get some satisfaction out of it, probably a lot. A little grin, grin, grin, under your chinny, chinny, chin. You’d carry that secret with you the rest of your life. You could dangle your middle finger at your pa any time you want, in your mind of course, but that’s where all our feelings are.”
“Yeah, but he ain’t gonna believe the McCoys did it.”
“Be funny if he did. What’s he gonna do? Round up a posse to chase down the McCoys? He’d be laughed outta town.”
“No, c’mon Sam, he’d know I was in on it. And I would be.”
“Yeah, I know Tom. That’s why we’re here.”
“My pa be spittin’ bullets! He’d kill me for it! I ain’t lying.”
“Oh, c’mon Tom…”
“He would Sam! You’ve never seen him in a fury. You’ve never seen him when he drinks. When my pa drinks, he can scare the coil off a rattlesnake’s ass. He’d fly off the handle and beat me with the pan, right there on the stove. He’d burn me too before he’d kill me. Push my hand to the gridle, throw boiling water on my face, just to hear me squeal like a pig. You don’t know him like I do Sam. He already tried to kill me once, I mean for real. If my ma weren’t there he’d a done it too. Hell, he’d kill her if he could.”
“Oh Tom, Tom, Tom. You really believe your father would think you were in on it? That you helped plan it? Little Tom Junior? Your father thinks you’re a stone butt idiot and you know it, more than I do. He ain’t gonna suspect you Tom, c’mon.”
“I don’t care what he thinks of my brains, he’d have to figure I was in on it.”
“Alright Tom, how about this? Let’s say we roughed you up a little. Not real hard of course, just enough to make it look like you tried.”
“Fighting off the McCoys?”
“Jesus Tom, there ain’t no McCoys around here no more!”
“Why’d you say there were Sam?”
“Yeah, why’d you say there were Sam?”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ve been in the business a long time. I know plenty of folks be real happy to have them sheep. Pay good money for ’em.”
“I ain’t doing this shit Sam!”
“What, you afraid boy? Man can take a punch.”
“It ain’t that Sam.”
“Well what then?”
“It ain’t gonna work! It just plain out ain’t gonna work!”
“You don’t think so, huh Tom? Maybe you’re right. I don’t think you’re right, but maybe.”
“I ain’t talking about this no more Sam! I ain’t doing it, and that’s it!”
“I see. Well then let me ask you something, Tom.”
“Yeah?”
“This conversation never happened, did it?”
“Nah.”
“Ain’t gonna tell your pa nothin’ about it?”
“No Sam, of course not.”
“Sure about that Tom?”
“Yeah Sam, I’m sure about it. What are you, threatening me now?”
“No Tom, I can’t believe you’d ask me that. Now I know we ain’t confidants. As your father’s employee, wouldn’t make no sense that we were. But we’ve never had a squabble. Even had a few laughs now and again. I even think of you as a friend sometimes. Dontcha ever think about me that way? Just a little?”
“Yeah, I do Sam. I’m sorry.”
“That’s alright son. I know you’re a man, and you know you’re a man. I think you’re making a big mistake Tom. I really do. But you gotta make your own way in life. Your own
decisions, your own actions, all of it. I don’t know what more to say. Let’s shake like men. Feels good to be a man, don’t it Tom?”
“Yeah, it does.”
“You’re a good boy Tom. Get you another beer? My treat of course.”
“Nah, I best be going.”
“Alright then. Not a word.”
“Not a word Sam. I give you mine.”
“That’s good. Now go in peace to love and serve the Lord.”
“You too Sam. You too Ralph. Good to see you outside the job.”
*****
“Goddamnit Sam! What the fuck! Why’d you let him get away like that! He done up and left! He ain’t gonna do it!”
“Yeah, I know Ralph. I was sitting at the same table as you.”
“You said you were sure as shit he’d go along with the plan!”
“I don’t think I put it quite that way, but yeah, I did say something like that.”
“You traitor!”
“Traitor!? You callin’ me a traitor! I outta knock your ass to the floor, right here in public! I tried every goddamn thing I could think of to get Tom Junior to do it! Didn’t I?”
“You shouldn’t have said nothing about beatin’ him up. I think that’s why he didn’t do it.”
“Nah, that ain’t why.”
“Why then?”
“I overestimated Tom Junior. I gave him too much credit.”
“For what?”
“For his determination to get out from under his daddy’s thumb. But he couldn’t do it. I guess Tom Junior just ain’t a man.”
“You knew it wasn’t gonna work, didn’t you? The whole time.”
“I didn’t know for sure, but I suspected it might not. It’s a tall order for a boy to cross his father, especially a father like Tom Junior’s. I figured it’d be hard to win him over.”
“Did you even want to win him over?”
“I wanted you to think I did.”
“Why?”
“Because I wanted you to think I had the guts to quit the job. So I gave it a try, and I left it up to fate.”
“Fate? You believe in fate?”
“Sure want to.”
“Why?”
“Because then I’m absolved.”
“Of what?”
“Of failure. If I try and fail, I’m not chagrined. If I don’t try, I’m not ashamed. Ain’t no hangdog either way. It’s all in the hands of fate. Que sera, sera.”
“So fate gives you an excuse.”
“It gives me a reason not to care.”
“I don’t understand Sam. What are you so afraid of?”
“I’m afraid of everything Ralph. I’m afraid of life. You said it yourself. You said I wanna be your father, so I can live my life through you. You’re right. I do wanna be your father. But I don’t wanna be the father that raised me. That father was a cruel man. He hated himself, and he hated me for knowing it. You said I want you to succeed, so I can be proud you’re my son. My father didn’t want me to succeed because I was his son. He didn’t want to live his life through me; he wanted to stop me from livin’ mine. He wanted me to fail, not to excuse his failings, but to take me down with him. And I’m afraid I’m trying to take you down with me Ralph. That’s the thing I’m most afraid of. I’m terrified at the thought of it. But I won’t do it. I’d burn in hell before I’d let that happen. Thank God for that. ’Least the good Lord got something right. He got another thing right too: He gave you the wherewithal, so that neither me nor anyone else could take you down, including the Almighty Himself. You’re not bound by fate Ralph. You’re alive. You’re truly alive.
My father was afraid that God would send him to hell. He wished he was younger because he was afraid to die. I wish I was older because I’m afraid to live. He tried to cheat death. I try to cheat life. I was never gonna quit the job Ralph. I’d rather stay with what I know, even if it don’t ask much of me. Because it don’t ask much of me. That way, I can accept my lot in life and never fall short of reaching the stars. I’m lost in a netherworld of my own creation, more dead than alive, and I ain’t got neither the guts nor the brains to get out. That’s how I am. That’s how I’ll always be.”
“Stop it, Sam! You are alive! More than me sometimes. You got more guts and more brains than you know. I’ve seen ’em both. I’ve seen you take chances I would never take, wouldn’t have even thought to take. Hell, the way you masquerade them sheep sometimes confounds me. Yeah, you lose a few more than you win, but you take the chance, and the pay cut that comes with it. You’d get a lot more out of life Sam if you thought you deserved it. You’re not scared of losing Sam; you’re scared of winning. Thing you’re most afraid of in life is gettin’ your cake and eatin’ it too. You don’t try gettin’ it, ’cause you wouldn’t eat it. You wouldn’t eat it, so you don’t try gettin’ it.
You can’t think like that Sam, especially about Deborah. She’s a damn fine woman, and more prettier than not. Dumbest thing ever come out of your mouth, ’least the dumbest thing I ever heard come out of it, is that you don’t deserve her. You do Sam! You deserve her as much as anyone deserves anything.”
“Deborah is a wise woman Ralph. Wise beyond her years. Don’t know anyone wiser.”
“Then she ain’t no dumbass for liking you.”
Jinxed jesting jejune junior jobber...
just jabbering gibberish (A - J)
Again, another awkward ambitious
arduous attempt at alphabetically
arranging atrociously ambiguously
absolutely asinine avoidable alliteration.
Because...? Basically bonafide belching,
bobbing, bumbling, bohemian beastie boy,
bereft bummer, bleeds blasé blues, begetting
bloviated boilerplate bildungsroman,
boasting bougainvillea background.
Civil, clever clover chomping, cheap
chipper cool cutthroat clueless clodhopper,
chafed centenary, codifies communication
cryptically, challenging capable, certifiably
cheerful college coed.
Divine dapper daredevil, deft, destitute,
doddering, dorky dude, dummkopf Dagwood
descendent, dagnabbit, demands daring
dedicated doodling, dubious, dynamite,
deaf dwarf, diehard doppelganger, Doctor
Demento double, declaring depraved
daffy dis(pense)able dufus Donald Duck
derailed democracy devastatingly defunct.
Eccentric, edified English exile,
effervescent, elementary, echinoderm
eating egghead, Earthling, excretes,
etches, ejaculates, effortless exceptional
emphatic effluvium enraging eminent,
eschatologically entranced, elongated
elasmobranchii, emerald eyed Ebenezer,
effectively experiments, emulates epochal
eczema epidemic, elevating, escalating,
exaggerating enmity, enduring exhausting
emphysema.
Freed fentanyl fueled, fickle figurative
flippant fiddler, fiendishly filmy, fishy,
fluke, flamboyantly frivolous, fictitious,
felonious, fallacious, fabulously fatalistic,
flabbergasted, fettered, flustered, facile,
faceless, feckless, financially forked,
foregone, forlorn futile fulsome, freckled
feverish, foo fighting, faulty, freezing,
fleeting famously failing forecaster, flubs
"FAKE" fundamental fibber fiat, fabricating
fiery fissile fractured fios faculties.
Gamesomeness goads gawky, gingerly,
goofily graceful, grandiloquent gent, gallant,
genteel, geico, guppy gecko, gabbling gaffes,
gagging, gamboling, gestating, gesticulating,
garlic, gnashing, gobbling, gyrating,
gruesomely grinning, grappling, gnomadic
giggly, grubby, gastrointestinally grumpy
gewgaw gazing gesticulating guy,
geographically generically germane,
gungho, grave gremlin, grumbling, guiding,
guaranteeing, guerilla gripped gatling guns
ginning gumpshun.
Hello! Herewith halfway harmless hazmat,
haphazard haggard, hectored, hastily,
hurriedly, harriedly hammered, handsomely
hackneyed, heathen, hellbent hillbilly, hirsute,
hidden hippie, huffy humanoid, hexed, heady,
Hellenistic, holistic, hermetic, hedonistic
heterosexual Homo sapiens historical heirloom,
homeless, hopeful, holy, hee haw heretical hobo.
Indefatigable, iconographic, iconic, idealistic,
idyllic, inimitable, idiosyncratic, ineffable,
irreverently issuing idiotic, indifferent, inert,
ineffectual, ingeniously iniquitous, immaterial,
insignificant, indubitable, inexplicable, ignoble
itches, ineffectually illustriously illuminating
immovable infused ichthyosaurus implanted
inside igneous intrusions immensely
imperturbable improbable.
Jovial jabbering jinxed January jokester
just jimmying jabberwocky
justifying jangling jarring juvenile jibberish
jubilantly jousting jittering
jazzy jawbreaking jumble
justifying, jostling, Jesus;
junior jowly janissary joyful Jekyll
joined jumbo Jewess jolly Jane;
jammed jello junket jiggled
jeopardized jingled jugs.
Chapter Nineteen - Carla’s Dream
Carla needed to keep an eye on Gina. If Gina no longer trusted her, that would be a problem. She had a handle on both Toby and Mark and could control them as much as she needed to. That night Carla dreamed….
The Kingdom was at peace. Although Carla did not know it then, that peace would soon be shattered. She was a servant in the castle. She did not do things for herself, she did things for others. Her life wasn’t meant for personal satisfaction or accomplishment, it was meant to provide luxury to others. She hated it but she also knew there were worse fates. So, she had to be grateful. Every so often she would be in the presence of the princess. The princess was beautiful. Carla often thought about what it must be like to have that kind of privilege. To have people wait on you hand and foot and to never say anything that would displease you for fear of punishment.
She didn’t hate the princess, but she envied her position. This was her life day after day.
Carla had no hope of escape.
There was nothing that she could do to improve her position but sometimes fate does those things for you. Carla was in her small chamber, getting ready to rest her tired body when a man appears before her. If he meant to do her harm, he could have easily accomplished that task, and no one would have known about it, but this man presented an opportunity. The man was dressed in a cloak and was wearing a royal ring. Carla fell to her knees.
“Don’t be afraid.” The man started, “I am not here to hurt you, I’m here to offer you a way out.”
“I don’t understand.” Carla responded.
“I am the King’s magician.” The man announced, “I am a powerful wizard. I have seen into your heart. You have potential. Potential that is wasted here. How would you like to go to a place that you can live for yourself, instead of slaving for others?” Carla didn’t know what to think. Is this man really offering her freedom or is it just a trick to get her to do something.
“What must I do?” Carla asked.
“In three days, the kingdom will be attacked and overrun. Nothing can be done to prevent it. When that attack begins, I need you to lead the princess to a cavern near the sea. There I will send both you and the princess away to this place I told you about.” The wizard explains.
“The princess won’t follow me.” Carla declares.
“She will if her life depends on it. There will be chaos and she will be confused. She won’t know what to do. You show up and lead her to me.” The wizard continues.
“Did you tell the King?” Carla asks.
“The King is a fool. He deserves his fate. We can still save the princess.” The Wizard goes on.
“If everything happens as you say. I don’t want to stay here and die. I will do whatever you tell me.” Carla promises.
“Good. Once you are in this new land, the Princess will not remember who she is, but you will. You can befriend the princess and look after her. If she ever gets her memories back, she will want to try and return but if she does, she will die.” The wizard warns, “You must prevent her from doing that.”
“If you give me freedom, I promise I will do it.” Carla replies.
Carla wakes up. She can’t lose her grip on Gina. It could ruin everything. Her life here is a thousand percent better than life back in the kingdom. Carla gets to school and meets up with Toby and Mark.
“Gina doesn’t trust me.” Carla announces.
“That’s not good.” Mark remarks, “What are you gonna do about it?”
“I don’t know yet, did either of you find out anything?” Carla asks.
“I googled as many different ways as I could think of and came up with nothing.” Toby reported.
“Some nerd in the ‘Wizards and Warlocks’ club say he knows a guy that can get Gina back her memory, but it’s gonna cost me.” Mark announces.
“Okay, let me know how that turns out.” Carla orders.
Carla spent the rest of the day giving Gina some space. Toby on the other hand was done giving Gina space. Toby sees Gina walking in the courtyard and approaches her.
“Hey,” Toby starts off, “can we talk?” Gina ignores him and continues walking. Toby steps in front of her to block her path. When Gina tries to step around Toby, he refuses to let her pass.
“Okay, if you don’t want to talk, at least listen.” Toby demands. Gina stops trying to get away from Toby and just stands there with her arms folded across her chest and an irritated look on her face.
“I’m not sorry I kissed you. I’ve been wanting to kiss you since the moment I first laid eyes on you.” Toby explained, “It sucks the way Mark broke up with you, but Mark just wants you to be happy.”
“You’re not sorry?” Gina answered.
“How could I be sorry for kissing the most beautiful girl in existence?” Toby answered. Gina could feel her heart melt but only slightly, very slightly.
“It was a horrible thing to do.” Gina shot back.
“I know.” Toby affirmed,” Maybe some time you’ll let me make it up to you.”
“I have a lot to think about.” Gina said as she was leaving.
“Carla also wants you to be happy.” Toby added. Gina walked away without answering.
After school Mark meets up with the student promising magic. “Did you get the money?” The student asks.
“Did you get the potion?” Mark shoots back.
“I told my guy about your situation, and he said he wanted to meet you.” The student answered.
“Why does he want to meet me?” Mark asked.
“There aren’t a lot of people who want memory potions. So, he wants to talk to you first.” The student explained.
Mark got a lump in his throat. Anyone who could make potions could easily get rid of him if they wanted to.
“Okay, when do I get to meet this guy?” Mark asked.
“You get to meet him right now.” The student answers. The student leads Mark to a car
that is parked nearby. When Mark gets close enough, the window in the back rolls down revealing an old man’s face.
“I didn’t expect to see you again.” Mark exclaims.
Unsettling premonition kickstarts fiendish abomination
Consider the following
dogmatic, enigmatic, fantastic,
idiotic, jargonistic, kimetic, linguistic,
narcissistic, opportunistic,
poetic, quixotic, rhapsodistic,
scholastic, transformistic,
universalistic agglomeration
as an abbreviation
overactive imagination
wrought demonic manifestation
unaware reading dictionary
could engender garrison housing
Century 21 ghostly conjuration
paranormal shenanigans this
Lake woebegone resident
grudgingly attests perturbation
disembodied spirit betook
(analogous to Casper
the friendly ghost)
"FAKE" spooky introduction
primarily cause ethereal
phantom of the opera mine
diaphanous doppelganger actualization
forcing agonizing confrontation
blindly highlighting spectacular illumination
constituting undeniable declaration,
whereby stagnant existence
aligned stark juxtaposition
courtesy faux charade, escapade, facade...,
gimcrackery literary affectation
yielded (still does) negation
to befriend prospective logophile,
essentially begetting immediate amputation
as posited a posteriori said acquisition
regarding, kneading, experiencing...
inclusiveness feeling reviled discrimination
foisted linkedin with nonestablishmentarian
progressive, liberal, agnostic Unitarian
paradigm upbringing birth parents
decreed ideal articulation
to foster independent cogitation
among yours truly, and his two sisters,
at one time felt veneration
marble lustrous bead
felt towards (guess who) second born
only brother gifted with affliction
diagnosed recent as
schizoid personality disorder,
a mental health condition,
whereat emotional affinity
toward kin folk sundered
buzzfeeding self cannibalization
predicated on inchoate
in utero causation
insync with adaptation
(actually Putin on Ritz key conspiracy
incorporating Russian collusion)
in tandem with basket of deplorables
little rock and rolling
witnesses regeneration
frothy heady windblown
dyed in wool Taj Mahal size
pompadour toupee coronation
ego freezing troll defies decapitation
barley bubbling within hopscotching
mucky swamp characterization
capital hillbilly Phoenix
resembling archeopteryx alights
shrill screeching, digging lame talons
into trumpeting paunchy underbelly.