Finding Strength
(Note: This story was entered in a GlimmerTrain writing contest. I have borrowed the names of the characters (Victor, Elizabeth and Henry) from Mary Shelley's great story 'Frankenstein' published in 1818. Claire is Mary's step-sister who ran off with Mary's husband, Percy Bysshe Shelley, and had a lurid affair after Mary gave birth to a premature baby which died. The ending will tie it all together.)
P.L. Ellars
“OK, buddy, here ya are, 1818 Shelley Street. Hoo! what a night. That’s some rain, ain’t it?” the cabbie said as he shifted the taxi into Park.
The rain beat down on the roof of the cab. The fare, a slender man in his early twenties, was staring intently through the window at the house. He was deep in thought. A few seconds passed and the young man made no movement to leave.
“Oh, God,” he was thinking to himself, “this is it. What will they do? It’s not like Elizabeth and I had any control over this; like we planned it or anything.”
“Hey pal, we’re here. Ya owe me $18.60 for the fare. Kinda wet out there, ain’t it?” the cabbie said to him.
“They may never speak to me and Elizabeth again.” the young man thought to himself. “What if they don’t want to see us ever again? I wouldn’t blame them. Oh, Elizabeth, Elizabeth, I love you so much. How could we not have seen this coming?” The rain ran down the cab’s window like tears, blurring his vision of the front door under the porch light.
“Come on buddy, I got to get goin’ here. That’ll be $18.60.”
“All right. Just give me a second, will you?” the young man said to the cabbie. Looking back towards the house, he returned to his thoughts. “I can see Dad now, as soon as he opens the door he’ll be glad to see me. Probably say something corny like, “Victor! Come on in before you melt. Claire! come down, Victor’s here!” and then his Mom’s voice from upstairs; “Keep your wig on, Henry, I’m coming.” Victor knew that once he told his parents of his and Elizabeth’s wedding plans, they would be devastated. Devastated. Ha! That would be an understatement; he might as well rip their hearts out then and there.
Victor gave the cabbie $22.00 and slowly started to get out of the taxi.
“You better hurry pal, if ya don’t wanta get soaked!” the cabbie yelled after him.
The cab drove off into the night leaving Victor standing on the sidewalk staring at his parent’s house. His eyes wandered up to the second floor. He tried to look into his old room, to picture himself living, sleeping there again; safe in his room again. Oh, as a child, how he loved his room. His parents let him decorate it the way he wanted; it was his. After tonight, he thought, he will never see it again.
He slowly started to walk towards the front door. “I can do this. I have to do this. Elizabeth and I are too much in love. We can’t have it any other way; I wish we didn’t have to hurt them, though.” His thoughts flashed to Elizabeth. He pictured her sitting alone back at his apartment. Waiting. Waiting for his return. They would be together then. Comforting each other. Holding hands. Oh, God, this is harder than I thought it would be.
Tears started to run down his cheeks. Thank God it is raining.
He went up the few stairs and wiped his nose on his sleeve before ringing the doorbell. “Oh, Elizabeth, this is for us.”
He could hear his Dad’s footsteps padding up to the door and then he saw the curtain drawn back and his father’s face looking through the glass to see who it was that was calling at this time of night and in the rain. The father’s face lit up when he recognized his son standing on the porch. Victor heard the clicking of the lock being opened.
“Victor, for gosh sakes, come on in before you catch pneumonia! You’re soaking wet. Get in here quick! Claire, bring a towel, it’s Victor, quick, before he melts.” Hearing his Dad say that caused a lump in Victor’s throat. He thought he was going to be sick right there; how could he and Elizabeth do this to them?
“Hi Dad, I’ve got something I need to talk to you and Mom about and it can’t wait. I’ve agonized about this for…”
“Sure, sure, son, but come on in first. You don’t have to tell us out here on the porch.”
“Hi Mom, thanks for the towel.” Victor used the towel to quickly wipe away the rain and tears from his face.
“So, what’s up, son? What’s so important?”
“It’s about me… about me and Elizabeth, Dad, Mom.”
“Elizabeth? How is your sister?”
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Club Parodee
Ahhh! La Belle France.
Club Parodee
by
Paul L. Ellars
Paris, October 1, 1925
“Bon jour, Sangfroid, will you breakfast with me?” asks the little man, lighting a Gauloise. He is speaking to a tall, dark, muscular, impeccably dressed Frenchman in an immaculate cream colored double-breasted suit with blazing turquoise silk tie, matching breast pocket hand kerchief and two-tone white and cream shoes.
“Non! Well, oui, d’accord. Bon jour, Patois, what do you say?” Sangfroid asks, lighting a Gauloise. “Garcon! A la recherché du Pain Perdu.” he yells over to the waiter, exhaling a cloud of smoke.
“Oui, monsieur, d’accord!” the waiter answers, lighting up a Gauloise.
“Ah, Sangfroid, I see you still mourn the passing of Marcel. You have had that same breakfast for three years now, your grief must be deep.” Patois says gingerly, blowing small smoke rings into the air above his head. He knows how easily it is to upset Sangfroid and speaking of Marcel is tricky business.
Sangfroid rests his large frame in the chair at the table with his back against the wall. His dark eyes dart around the room, watching who comes and goes at the club. He is in his late twenties, powerfully built, with black hair shining from too much pomade. He pulls thoughtfully at his pencil-thin mustache with his right hand and with his left fingers the deep, masculine cleft in his dark, swarthy Gallic chin as his eyes come to rest on Patois. He inhales deeply on his Gauloise. Sangfroid is a small-time gangster, petty thief, hit-man, pimp, crook, drug dealer, and pamphleteer. Lately he has been upset over the number of Americans that have been moving to Paris, particularly Montparnasse, his neighborhood, and Montmarte, where Torche La Flame, his girl and chanteuse at Club Parodee, lives.
“You know, Patois, these goddam Americains, they are everywhere; they are really making me very angry. I can’t go anywhere anymore without running into a crowd of them; La Rotonde, Café Le Dome, La Closerie, La Coupole, even the goddam Dingo Bar is lousy with these batars! I would puke if I thought I could do it without ruining my suit! And they think they are so clever, so artistic, so literate and sophisticated. Ha! I’ve read some of their crap; it’s very childish and repetitive; “A rose is a rose is a rose…” mon dieu, I could write tripe like that! What brains does it take to do that eh, mon ami?” Sangfroid was starting to work himself into a fever.
“Sangfroid don’t be so hot-blooded! You will upset your stomach and you’ve not even had your breakfast. Eat. We will talk more of this later, though if it will comfort you, I did hear that they found a dead Americain behind Le Select last night, on rue de Day. He had been shot six times, stabbed six times, and bludgeoned six times on the head.”
“A six crime obviously or, perhaps... it was a suicide?” offers Sangfroid.
“Well, the police, naturally, thought of that first, but there was no note.”
“Well, we do not want to disappoint them, do we Patois? I shall mail one to the police today; I shall write to them: ‘Adieu cruel world. I made this look harder than it really was. Messy, n’est pas?’” and he burst out laughing.
“You have the Gallic sense of humor, Sangfroid.” Patois says as he and Sangfroid both nod and make a moue.
“I have heard that in the last five years or so the number of Americains in Paris has increased from 6,000 to over 30,000.” Patois says, inhaling deeply on his Gauloise.
“Sacre fromage! I will move to Marseille if one more goddam Americain moves to Paris!” Sangfroid says puffing angrily on his Gauloise.
“But, Sangfroid, you must admit that the Americains do have a certain joie de vie we should admire, yes? They light up Paris.” argues Patois.
“Only Frenchmen can light up Paris, you imbecile!” Sangfroid quickly clips Patois on the jaw, knocking the Gauloise out of his mouth putting him into a deep sleep. Patois sits slumped over in his chair just as the waiter brings Sangfroid’s breakfast.
“Monsieur has very quick hands.” says the waiter making a moue and taking a deep drag on the Gauloise dangling arrogantly at the corner of his mouth. “You did not even knock the ash off your Gauloise; very impressive. More coffee, monsieur?”
Suddenly the air is pierced with the high-pitched shriek of a classically trained female voice.
“Sangfroid! You brute, what is the meaning of this? Are you an animal? Are you uncivilized? Are you a savage beast? Are you crazy? Can you not control your hot blood, Sangfroid? Zut Alors!”
It is Torche La Flame. The Gauloise between her lips is dancing madly up and down as she blasts Sangfroid, her arms gesturing wildly like an Italian at a hornet’s convention. Here is a fiery redhead that nature has drawn with a French curve…et Dieu crea la femme, oooh la lah! She has just arrived for morning rehearsal and saw Sangfroid knock Patois out.
“I will debate the brute part since you made it a statement, but as for the questions: there is no meaning; oui; somewhat, though I am working on it; non, not really; I don’t think so, but then that’s not for me to say, n’est pas? and finally; oui, most of the time I can.”
He leaps to his feet like a jaguar. Grabbing the Gauloise from his mouth with his left hand he flicks it away; he then wraps his powerful right arm around Torche like a gorilla, pulling her in close to him, squeezing her like a python in heat. She struggles. Sangfroid’s left arm comes around and, like a spider, he holds her immobile as he brings his face in close to hers, his lips puckering up like a chimpanzee.
“Stop it! Stop it, Sangfroid! You know I don’t like this in public! Oh, you beast!” Torche cries, trying to free herself. She manages to get loose enough to slap his face.
Sangfroid stops and looks menacingly at her.
“You would not have done that if I were Jean-Luc Claude Balls, would you, cheri?” he growls. Jean-Luc is Sangfroid’s competition for the heart of Torche La Flame. He is a petty thief, assassin, jewel thief and network marketer. Their rivalry goes back years. Each has had many opportunities to kill the other, but. . . c’est la vie, c’est la guerre, say no more.
Sangfroid, lighting up a Gauloise, returns to his breakfast.
“It’s just that, sometimes, you know, Sangfroid, you act like such an animal, and a reptile, and an arachnid, and a primate.” Torche says tenderly.
“You know, Torche,” he says making a moue and exhaling a long cloud of smoke, “I just might go see that new negress opening at the Theatre des Champs-Elysees tomorrow night. You know the one, Josephine Baker? I’m sure you have heard of her. They say she is pretty hot, for an Americain.” he says tauntingly, avoiding her eyes and concentrates on his breakfast.
“Pteww!” Torche spits and turning on her heel storms off to the stage. Sangfroid chuckles as he puts his Gauloise out in the remains of his breakfast.
“Garcon! Deaux coffees!” he yells at the waiter and then nudges Patois who is starting to come around.
“Come my friend, wake up! Here, let’s have a Gauloise. You should sleep at home and not in clubs; didn’t your mother teach you manners? Ha ha ha ha ha!” Sangfroid laughs derisively at his friend.
“You are such an ordinary little man, Patois.” Sangfroid chides, blowing a cloud of smoke affectionately into his friend’s face.
“I am as ordinary as the sheepskin lining in other men’s codpieces.” replies Patois philosophically.
“Ah, spoken like the true Parisian, mon ami!” Sangfroid says, nodding thoughtfully and makes a moue as he slowly exhales a large cloud of smoke that completely envelops his head.
Chapter Deaux – La Fin
Later that night at Club Parodee, Sangfroid is sitting alone at his small table in the shadows off to the side of the stage where Torche La Flame is singing:
“Por que moi? Por que moi! Non! Oui? Non! et Non!! Por que moi!? Pooorrrrr quuuueeeee mmmoooooooiiiiiiii!?!?”
She finishes her song and, lighting a Gauloise, makes a moue and accepts the crowd’s applause. She saunters over to Sangfroid’s table, sauntering as only a true Parisian boulevardier can saunter.
“Bon nuit, Sangfroid. I like this crowd. This is a good crowd. I like this good crowd. This is a good, likeable crowd. A crowd that is good and likeable. I like it. It is good.”
“Dammit! You biche! You’ve been reading Hemingway! Sacre Coeur de Fromage! What have I told you about these goddam Americains!” Sangfroid inhales half of his Gauloise in one drag and, looking up to the ceiling or heaven, whichever gets in his way first, exhales a large, mushroom shaped cloud.
“For your information, mon cheri,” he continues, “most of these “good and likeable” people are Dadaist! So what do you think now, eh? Eh? I say, eh?” Sangfroid is indignant. The Gauloise is quivering between his lips like a playing card vibrating against the spokes of a bicyclette as it speeds out of control down rue Fatale.
“They are anti-art, cheri! And you, spouting bourgeois, nouveau-pauvre, artistic, faux intellegentsia bullmerde! Ha! What a pathetic little pedantic creature you are, mon cheri. Well, it’s what you get, I suppose, for going to Universite du Pedant. Dear old P.U., and that is what I think of your fauxniness – P.U.!”
The Gauloise in Torche’s mouth hangs limp with shame. It dangles just off-center of her full ruby red lips; lips that have brought much pleasure to Sangfroid, to Sangfroid and many, many, many, many other men, as well as quite a few women, plus some teenage boys and girls. The smoke from her dangling Gauloise curls up into her eyes making them water; they shine like two sparkling diamonds on a sea of blancmange. With shame and embarrassment so unusual in a chanteuse at Club Parodee, Torche looks around the room at the crowd. Dadaist. Of course! How could she have been so wrong? They had been around so long that she forgot that they had started as an anti-art, anti-mainstream anti movement. Dadaist are now considered an art movement, not anti-art. Oh, mon dieu, she thought, I’m so confused; so ashamed. How could I not get it right? I’ve read Sartre, young Sartre, but Sartre nevertheless. Did I not understand? Do I not understand? Sartre must be to blame. Oh sure, I made the choice of my own free will and went from anti-art to art; or was it the other way? It was of my own free will; but the Dadaist are to blame, too, becoming so ambiguous, blurring lines…no it’s Sartre who’s to blame… no, no it’s the Dadaist, no… no… it’s… no. . . . The room starts to spin, the smoke from her Gauloise is choking her and she cannot breathe.
“Fresh air, I need to get some fresh air.” It was Torche’s last free will anti-thought before her world spins out of control like a French politician at a summit meeting. She collapses on Sangfroid’s table, spilling his newly refilled glass of absinthe into his lap. Sangfroid leaps to his feet like a gazelle in springtime, the Gauloise arcing away from his mouth and across the room like the trapeze artiste at Le Raunchy Ranine, as he curses her, “You Corinthian cow! You Bulgarian bovine! You Saracen swine! You Abyssinian…”
“SANGFROID!” It is Jean-Luc Claude Balls. He has just that moment come in through the front door and hears Sangfroid screaming curses at the woman he loves. Jean-Luc looks down at her lying there on the floor at Sangfroid’s feet, the Gauloise slowly dropping millimeter by millimeter until it falls out of her mouth and joins the hundreds of others of its brethren there on the dirty drink splattered floor in a sad post-mortem pastiche of liberte, egalite and fraternite.
“Well, mon ami,” Jean-Luc says in a cold, menacing voice, lighting a Gauloise and eyeing the spreading green stain on Sangfroid’s crotch, “it looks like you will be taking a trip to the free clinic – one way or the other!”
Sangfroid, turning, calmly eyes Jean-Luc, and putting a Gauloise in his mouth, makes a moue, then reaches into his jacket pocket as if for his lighter, instead whips out his .32 caliber Colt’s model 1903 semi-automatic pistol, a gift from his father, Chaudfroid, the night he took him to the brothel, Le Turgide Fontainespew, for Sangfroid’s twelfth birthday. Standing by the stage he quickly snaps off a shot at Jean-Luc who, near the front door thirty meters away, is only grazed on his left thigh by the bullet. Diving behind the nearest table he taunts Sangfroid.
“Ha! You shoot like my mother. . .or is it my sister? Anyway, you shoot like a female member of my family, batar!” Jean-Luc knew his taunt hit its mark when he hears Sangfroid trumpet like a rogue elephant in musth. First making a moue, he then smiles at his petty victory. After lighting a Gauloise to replace the one lost while making his dive, he grabs a dazed midget that is standing by a potted fern and, holding the midget in front of him for a shield, races from potted fern to potted fern towards the stage. When they are only five meters apart Jean-Luc throws the dead, bullet riddled body of the midget at Sangfroid. The dead midget bounces off his powerful, muscular physique like an uncooked champignon. Sangfroid puts a fresh clip in his Colt and a fresh Gauloise in his mouth. His eyes narrow as he looks at Jean-Luc who, in the meantime, has drawn his own gun, a .32 caliber Colt’s model 1903 semi-automatic pistol, a gift from his father, Jean-Luc Sauvaged Balls, the night he took him to the brothel, Le Turgide Fontainespew, for Jean-Luc’s (that would be Jean-Luc fil’s) twelfth birthday.
“NOW I HAVE YOU, CHIEN OF A BATAR!” they yell simultaneously.
“Sacre Fromage!” “Baton de Poisson!” “Avec Fromage!” they yell back and forth, calmly and stoically facing each other, guns blazing away. The room fills with smoke from the guns and the Gauloises Jean-Luc and Sangfroid smoke with fierce determination. Each bullet finds its mark. Jean-Luc’s Gauloise is the first to fall, to join its brethren there on the dirty drink splattered floor in a sad post-mortem pastiche of liberte, egalite and fraternite. Jean-Luc, making a moue, slumps to his knees and looks one last time at Sangfroid. Sangfroid stands there wavering, the Gauloise dangling weakly from the corner of his mouth. His immaculate cream-colored suit and blazing turquoise silk tie and two-tone white and cream shoes are now splattered with blood from the growing red splotches where Jean-Luc’s bullets found their mark. Deep inside his Gallic soul he knew that, because of the red spots all over his suit and the large green absinthe stain on his crotch, he was going to die looking like a flocked Christmas tree.
“Joyeaux Noel, batar!” Jean-Luc croaks and falls forward face down in the Gauloise butts.
“Joyeaux Noel, mon ami, I forgive you, and I forgive you, too, Torche. I did not mean what I said about your fauxniness. You are the one true thing in life, Torche, in my life, the one true and good thing. You are good. And you have been as true as anyone could expect from a chanteuse here at Club Parodee. I forgive you. Your goodness is true, and you have been true to your goodness. Oh, mon dieu, now I am starting to sound like Hemingway! Sacre fromage! Forgive me, Honore, forgive me, Guy de. Marcel, I am coming! I am coming, Marcel!” Sangfroid collapses on Torche La Flame, dying, his last Gauloise burns a little remembrance of him on her left cheek. She will carry that with her until she too dies years later in a shootout at a boulangerie, fingering the scar she calls ‘mon sangfroidette’ as she takes her last breath.
The patrons of Club Parodee start nervously to come out from behind the bar and potted ferns and furniture after the shooting and the shootists die away. A general murmur sweeps the room; here and there people are lighting Gauloises. There is a commotion by the front door; a dark woman with an entourage is entering Club Parodee. As each person recognizes her they let out an audible gasp; the maitre d’ approaches.
“Mademoiselle Baker! What an honor! Please, entrée, to what do we owe this pleasure?” he asks, bowing deeply.
“Why, I’ve come to see the show, of course. You do have a singer called Torche La Flame here, don’t you?”
“Oh, oui, oui, that is her over there, on the floor, under the Christmas tree. She’ll be going on in twenty minutes, at 9 o’clock.”
“Excellent, then champagne for everyone, I am buying!”
A cheer goes up. The furniture is put back in order and a special table for Mademoiselle Josephine and her entourage is set up in front of the stage. Jean-Luc and the midget are dragged off behind the stage and Sangfroid is lifted off Torche La Flame and put next to them in the empty dressing room, the maitre d’ taking care to pocket both pistols. Torche is lifted under her arms by two men and dragged to her dressing room, her heels scraping across the wooden floor until one of her shoes comes off.
“Trouble, monsieur maitre d’?” Mademoiselle Josephine asks.
“Oh, no, no, Mademoiselle Baker, it is nothing, really, just the usual; just another night here at Club Parodee!”
Club Parodee
by
Paul L. Ellars
Paris, October 1, 1925
“Bon jour, Sangfroid, will you breakfast with me?” asks the little man, lighting a Gauloise. He is speaking to a tall, dark, muscular, impeccably dressed Frenchman in an immaculate cream colored double-breasted suit with blazing turquoise silk tie, matching breast pocket hand kerchief and two-tone white and cream shoes.
“Non! Well, oui, d’accord. Bon jour, Patois, what do you say?” Sangfroid asks, lighting a Gauloise. “Garcon! A la recherché du Pain Perdu.” he yells over to the waiter, exhaling a cloud of smoke.
“Oui, monsieur, d’accord!” the waiter answers, lighting up a Gauloise.
“Ah, Sangfroid, I see you still mourn the passing of Marcel. You have had that same breakfast for three years now, your grief must be deep.” Patois says gingerly, blowing small smoke rings into the air above his head. He knows how easily it is to upset Sangfroid and speaking of Marcel is tricky business.
Sangfroid rests his large frame in the chair at the table with his back against the wall. His dark eyes dart around the room, watching who comes and goes at the club. He is in his late twenties, powerfully built, with black hair shining from too much pomade. He pulls thoughtfully at his pencil-thin mustache with his right hand and with his left fingers the deep, masculine cleft in his dark, swarthy Gallic chin as his eyes come to rest on Patois. He inhales deeply on his Gauloise. Sangfroid is a small-time gangster, petty thief, hit-man, pimp, crook, drug dealer, and pamphleteer. Lately he has been upset over the number of Americans that have been moving to Paris, particularly Montparnasse, his neighborhood, and Montmarte, where Torche La Flame, his girl and chanteuse at Club Parodee, lives.
“You know, Patois, these goddam Americains, they are everywhere; they are really making me very angry. I can’t go anywhere anymore without running into a crowd of them; La Rotonde, Café Le Dome, La Closerie, La Coupole, even the goddam Dingo Bar is lousy with these batars! I would puke if I thought I could do it without ruining my suit! And they think they are so clever, so artistic, so literate and sophisticated. Ha! I’ve read some of their crap; it’s very childish and repetitive; “A rose is a rose is a rose…” mon dieu, I could write tripe like that! What brains does it take to do that eh, mon ami?” Sangfroid was starting to work himself into a fever.
“Sangfroid don’t be so hot-blooded! You will upset your stomach and you’ve not even had your breakfast. Eat. We will talk more of this later, though if it will comfort you, I did hear that they found a dead Americain behind Le Select last night, on rue de Day. He had been shot six times, stabbed six times, and bludgeoned six times on the head.”
“A six crime obviously or, perhaps... it was a suicide?” offers Sangfroid.
“Well, the police, naturally, thought of that first, but there was no note.”
“Well, we do not want to disappoint them, do we Patois? I shall mail one to the police today; I shall write to them: ‘Adieu cruel world. I made this look harder than it really was. Messy, n’est pas?’” and he burst out laughing.
“You have the Gallic sense of humor, Sangfroid.” Patois says as he and Sangfroid both nod and make a moue.
“I have heard that in the last five years or so the number of Americains in Paris has increased from 6,000 to over 30,000.” Patois says, inhaling deeply on his Gauloise.
“Sacre fromage! I will move to Marseille if one more goddam Americain moves to Paris!” Sangfroid says puffing angrily on his Gauloise.
“But, Sangfroid, you must admit that the Americains do have a certain joie de vie we should admire, yes? They light up Paris.” argues Patois.
“Only Frenchmen can light up Paris, you imbecile!” Sangfroid quickly clips Patois on the jaw, knocking the Gauloise out of his mouth putting him into a deep sleep. Patois sits slumped over in his chair just as the waiter brings Sangfroid’s breakfast.
“Monsieur has very quick hands.” says the waiter making a moue and taking a deep drag on the Gauloise dangling arrogantly at the corner of his mouth. “You did not even knock the ash off your Gauloise; very impressive. More coffee, monsieur?”
Suddenly the air is pierced with the high-pitched shriek of a classically trained female voice.
“Sangfroid! You brute, what is the meaning of this? Are you an animal? Are you uncivilized? Are you a savage beast? Are you crazy? Can you not control your hot blood, Sangfroid? Zut Alors!”
It is Torche La Flame. The Gauloise between her lips is dancing madly up and down as she blasts Sangfroid, her arms gesturing wildly like an Italian at a hornet’s convention. Here is a fiery redhead that nature has drawn with a French curve…et Dieu crea la femme, oooh la lah! She has just arrived for morning rehearsal and saw Sangfroid knock Patois out.
“I will debate the brute part since you made it a statement, but as for the questions: there is no meaning; oui; somewhat, though I am working on it; non, not really; I don’t think so, but then that’s not for me to say, n’est pas? and finally; oui, most of the time I can.”
He leaps to his feet like a jaguar. Grabbing the Gauloise from his mouth with his left hand he flicks it away; he then wraps his powerful right arm around Torche like a gorilla, pulling her in close to him, squeezing her like a python in heat. She struggles. Sangfroid’s left arm comes around and, like a spider, he holds her immobile as he brings his face in close to hers, his lips puckering up like a chimpanzee.
“Stop it! Stop it, Sangfroid! You know I don’t like this in public! Oh, you beast!” Torche cries, trying to free herself. She manages to get loose enough to slap his face.
Sangfroid stops and looks menacingly at her.
“You would not have done that if I were Jean-Luc Claude Balls, would you, cheri?” he growls. Jean-Luc is Sangfroid’s competition for the heart of Torche La Flame. He is a petty thief, assassin, jewel thief and network marketer. Their rivalry goes back years. Each has had many opportunities to kill the other, but. . . c’est la vie, c’est la guerre, say no more.
Sangfroid, lighting up a Gauloise, returns to his breakfast.
“It’s just that, sometimes, you know, Sangfroid, you act like such an animal, and a reptile, and an arachnid, and a primate.” Torche says tenderly.
“You know, Torche,” he says making a moue and exhaling a long cloud of smoke, “I just might go see that new negress opening at the Theatre des Champs-Elysees tomorrow night. You know the one, Josephine Baker? I’m sure you have heard of her. They say she is pretty hot, for an Americain.” he says tauntingly, avoiding her eyes and concentrates on his breakfast.
“Pteww!” Torche spits and turning on her heel storms off to the stage. Sangfroid chuckles as he puts his Gauloise out in the remains of his breakfast.
“Garcon! Deaux coffees!” he yells at the waiter and then nudges Patois who is starting to come around.
“Come my friend, wake up! Here, let’s have a Gauloise. You should sleep at home and not in clubs; didn’t your mother teach you manners? Ha ha ha ha ha!” Sangfroid laughs derisively at his friend.
“You are such an ordinary little man, Patois.” Sangfroid chides, blowing a cloud of smoke affectionately into his friend’s face.
“I am as ordinary as the sheepskin lining in other men’s codpieces.” replies Patois philosophically.
“Ah, spoken like the true Parisian, mon ami!” Sangfroid says, nodding thoughtfully and makes a moue as he slowly exhales a large cloud of smoke that completely envelops his head.
Chapter Deaux – La Fin
Later that night at Club Parodee, Sangfroid is sitting alone at his small table in the shadows off to the side of the stage where Torche La Flame is singing:
“Por que moi? Por que moi! Non! Oui? Non! et Non!! Por que moi!? Pooorrrrr quuuueeeee mmmoooooooiiiiiiii!?!?”
She finishes her song and, lighting a Gauloise, makes a moue and accepts the crowd’s applause. She saunters over to Sangfroid’s table, sauntering as only a true Parisian boulevardier can saunter.
“Bon nuit, Sangfroid. I like this crowd. This is a good crowd. I like this good crowd. This is a good, likeable crowd. A crowd that is good and likeable. I like it. It is good.”
“Dammit! You biche! You’ve been reading Hemingway! Sacre Coeur de Fromage! What have I told you about these goddam Americains!” Sangfroid inhales half of his Gauloise in one drag and, looking up to the ceiling or heaven, whichever gets in his way first, exhales a large, mushroom shaped cloud.
“For your information, mon cheri,” he continues, “most of these “good and likeable” people are Dadaist! So what do you think now, eh? Eh? I say, eh?” Sangfroid is indignant. The Gauloise is quivering between his lips like a playing card vibrating against the spokes of a bicyclette as it speeds out of control down rue Fatale.
“They are anti-art, cheri! And you, spouting bourgeois, nouveau-pauvre, artistic, faux intellegentsia bullmerde! Ha! What a pathetic little pedantic creature you are, mon cheri. Well, it’s what you get, I suppose, for going to Universite du Pedant. Dear old P.U., and that is what I think of your fauxniness – P.U.!”
The Gauloise in Torche’s mouth hangs limp with shame. It dangles just off-center of her full ruby red lips; lips that have brought much pleasure to Sangfroid, to Sangfroid and many, many, many, many other men, as well as quite a few women, plus some teenage boys and girls. The smoke from her dangling Gauloise curls up into her eyes making them water; they shine like two sparkling diamonds on a sea of blancmange. With shame and embarrassment so unusual in a chanteuse at Club Parodee, Torche looks around the room at the crowd. Dadaist. Of course! How could she have been so wrong? They had been around so long that she forgot that they had started as an anti-art, anti-mainstream anti movement. Dadaist are now considered an art movement, not anti-art. Oh, mon dieu, she thought, I’m so confused; so ashamed. How could I not get it right? I’ve read Sartre, young Sartre, but Sartre nevertheless. Did I not understand? Do I not understand? Sartre must be to blame. Oh sure, I made the choice of my own free will and went from anti-art to art; or was it the other way? It was of my own free will; but the Dadaist are to blame, too, becoming so ambiguous, blurring lines…no it’s Sartre who’s to blame… no, no it’s the Dadaist, no… no… it’s… no. . . . The room starts to spin, the smoke from her Gauloise is choking her and she cannot breathe.
“Fresh air, I need to get some fresh air.” It was Torche’s last free will anti-thought before her world spins out of control like a French politician at a summit meeting. She collapses on Sangfroid’s table, spilling his newly refilled glass of absinthe into his lap. Sangfroid leaps to his feet like a gazelle in springtime, the Gauloise arcing away from his mouth and across the room like the trapeze artiste at Le Raunchy Ranine, as he curses her, “You Corinthian cow! You Bulgarian bovine! You Saracen swine! You Abyssinian…”
“SANGFROID!” It is Jean-Luc Claude Balls. He has just that moment come in through the front door and hears Sangfroid screaming curses at the woman he loves. Jean-Luc looks down at her lying there on the floor at Sangfroid’s feet, the Gauloise slowly dropping millimeter by millimeter until it falls out of her mouth and joins the hundreds of others of its brethren there on the dirty drink splattered floor in a sad post-mortem pastiche of liberte, egalite and fraternite.
“Well, mon ami,” Jean-Luc says in a cold, menacing voice, lighting a Gauloise and eyeing the spreading green stain on Sangfroid’s crotch, “it looks like you will be taking a trip to the free clinic – one way or the other!”
Sangfroid, turning, calmly eyes Jean-Luc, and putting a Gauloise in his mouth, makes a moue, then reaches into his jacket pocket as if for his lighter, instead whips out his .32 caliber Colt’s model 1903 semi-automatic pistol, a gift from his father, Chaudfroid, the night he took him to the brothel, Le Turgide Fontainespew, for Sangfroid’s twelfth birthday. Standing by the stage he quickly snaps off a shot at Jean-Luc who, near the front door thirty meters away, is only grazed on his left thigh by the bullet. Diving behind the nearest table he taunts Sangfroid.
“Ha! You shoot like my mother. . .or is it my sister? Anyway, you shoot like a female member of my family, batar!” Jean-Luc knew his taunt hit its mark when he hears Sangfroid trumpet like a rogue elephant in musth. First making a moue, he then smiles at his petty victory. After lighting a Gauloise to replace the one lost while making his dive, he grabs a dazed midget that is standing by a potted fern and, holding the midget in front of him for a shield, races from potted fern to potted fern towards the stage. When they are only five meters apart Jean-Luc throws the dead, bullet riddled body of the midget at Sangfroid. The dead midget bounces off his powerful, muscular physique like an uncooked champignon. Sangfroid puts a fresh clip in his Colt and a fresh Gauloise in his mouth. His eyes narrow as he looks at Jean-Luc who, in the meantime, has drawn his own gun, a .32 caliber Colt’s model 1903 semi-automatic pistol, a gift from his father, Jean-Luc Sauvaged Balls, the night he took him to the brothel, Le Turgide Fontainespew, for Jean-Luc’s (that would be Jean-Luc fil’s) twelfth birthday.
“NOW I HAVE YOU, CHIEN OF A BATAR!” they yell simultaneously.
“Sacre Fromage!” “Baton de Poisson!” “Avec Fromage!” they yell back and forth, calmly and stoically facing each other, guns blazing away. The room fills with smoke from the guns and the Gauloises Jean-Luc and Sangfroid smoke with fierce determination. Each bullet finds its mark. Jean-Luc’s Gauloise is the first to fall, to join its brethren there on the dirty drink splattered floor in a sad post-mortem pastiche of liberte, egalite and fraternite. Jean-Luc, making a moue, slumps to his knees and looks one last time at Sangfroid. Sangfroid stands there wavering, the Gauloise dangling weakly from the corner of his mouth. His immaculate cream-colored suit and blazing turquoise silk tie and two-tone white and cream shoes are now splattered with blood from the growing red splotches where Jean-Luc’s bullets found their mark. Deep inside his Gallic soul he knew that, because of the red spots all over his suit and the large green absinthe stain on his crotch, he was going to die looking like a flocked Christmas tree.
“Joyeaux Noel, batar!” Jean-Luc croaks and falls forward face down in the Gauloise butts.
“Joyeaux Noel, mon ami, I forgive you, and I forgive you, too, Torche. I did not mean what I said about your fauxniness. You are the one true thing in life, Torche, in my life, the one true and good thing. You are good. And you have been as true as anyone could expect from a chanteuse here at Club Parodee. I forgive you. Your goodness is true, and you have been true to your goodness. Oh, mon dieu, now I am starting to sound like Hemingway! Sacre fromage! Forgive me, Honore, forgive me, Guy de. Marcel, I am coming! I am coming, Marcel!” Sangfroid collapses on Torche La Flame, dying, his last Gauloise burns a little remembrance of him on her left cheek. She will carry that with her until she too dies years later in a shootout at a boulangerie, fingering the scar she calls ‘mon sangfroidette’ as she takes her last breath.
The patrons of Club Parodee start nervously to come out from behind the bar and potted ferns and furniture after the shooting and the shootists die away. A general murmur sweeps the room; here and there people are lighting Gauloises. There is a commotion by the front door; a dark woman with an entourage is entering Club Parodee. As each person recognizes her they let out an audible gasp; the maitre d’ approaches.
“Mademoiselle Baker! What an honor! Please, entrée, to what do we owe this pleasure?” he asks, bowing deeply.
“Why, I’ve come to see the show, of course. You do have a singer called Torche La Flame here, don’t you?”
“Oh, oui, oui, that is her over there, on the floor, under the Christmas tree. She’ll be going on in twenty minutes, at 9 o’clock.”
“Excellent, then champagne for everyone, I am buying!”
A cheer goes up. The furniture is put back in order and a special table for Mademoiselle Josephine and her entourage is set up in front of the stage. Jean-Luc and the midget are dragged off behind the stage and Sangfroid is lifted off Torche La Flame and put next to them in the empty dressing room, the maitre d’ taking care to pocket both pistols. Torche is lifted under her arms by two men and dragged to her dressing room, her heels scraping across the wooden floor until one of her shoes comes off.
“Trouble, monsieur maitre d’?” Mademoiselle Josephine asks.
“Oh, no, no, Mademoiselle Baker, it is nothing, really, just the usual; just another night here at Club Parodee!”
Organo Motors: Home of the Biped-O-Sphere
ORGANO MOTORS:
Home of the Biped-O-sphere
written by
copyright 2008 P.L. Ellars
“Prosperity.” said the salesman, greeting the man and teenage boy as they entered the showroom of Organo Motors.
“Prosperity to you.” replied the man.
“And how may I be of service to you, Mr…?”
“Murkin. Harold Murkin, and this is my son, Little Harry; although he’s not so little anymore.”
“Indeed not! Prosperity, Little Harry.” replied the salesman.” “Thank you, sir, and prosperity to you, too.” Little Harry said. “My name is Michaux, Pierre Michaux.” the salesman went on.
“Well, Mr. Michaux, Little Harry and I are here to see about buying one of your Biped-O-spheres. Little Harry will be graduated from university this year, with honors, I might add, and his mother and I promised him some form of “wheels” if he did well. He has his heart set on one of your new Biped-O-spheres, but I must confess, I don’t know much about them. Little Harry has been online to your website for ages and has his Biped-O-sphere already configured.”
“Excellent! Not many people are familiar with our products, actually. It is really a very simple and ingenious means of ecologically friendly transportation. I’m surprised someone did not think of the concept ages ago. Most of the technology has been around for a long time. Like most great ideas, it just took someone to put it all together.”
“Well, then, Mr. Michaux, tell me about them.”
“All right, Mr. Murkin. Well, basically you choose the platform you want, either a solo or a single-passenger carrying platform where the passenger sits next to the driver. We also have a solo and a passenger carrying two-wheeled vehicle, just like a motorcycle. All of our platforms are made of carbon fiber, very strong and very light. Next, you decide on how much power you want. Our power units start at 90 days and go up in 15-day increments to a maximum of 180. We also have a beginners power unit that is rated at 75 days, and that is required by law for those that have absolutely no driving experience at all. After the beginning driver has acquired the mandatory three months of driving experience on the 75-day organic power unit Biped-O-sphere, it is a very simple matter of swapping out the 75-day power unit with any power unit of your choice. We have a buy-back program for the 75-day unit, providing, of course, it has not been abused, and that there is still some ‘life’ left in it. In fact, I would recommend that to you for Little Harry. You will save money on buying a ‘previously experienced’ power unit and can apply the savings and the buy-back amount towards the power unit you really want once you’ve met the requirements. You see, the Biped-O-sphere is a modular design. So when Little Harry completes his three-month learning period, he can go straight to any organic power unit he desires. You can mix-and-match different platform styles and different levels of power units. It really is a remarkable concept.”
“And how do the power units work? That’s the part Little Harry was trying to explain to me, but I just wasn’t getting it.”
“Well,” continued Mr. Michaux, “Our president and founder, Mr. Kirkpatrick MacMillan, from Drumfriesshire, Scotland, remembered experiments from his early science classes where the students attached electrical wires to dissected frog legs and, by applying an electrical charge, the students were able to make the muscles contract. He always thought that, one day, that might be turned into a source of power. Later, when science had perfected the cloning of human cells, he had the idea to put the two together in the form of the Biped-O-sphere. He experimented with trying to clone just the leg muscles of humans. That is where the different day designations come in. In the laboratory, he started growing muscles. Test tube muscles, if you will. At 75-days, the muscles were more than strong enough to power a bicycle; at 90 days, the muscles were as strong as a professional bicycle racers muscles. As he extended the growing time, the muscles grew larger and stronger. Mr. MacMillan, through experiments, determined that 15-day increments in growing time allowed for a noticeable increase in power developed. He stopped at 180-days, because beyond that, there is no noticeable difference in performance, just more fuel consumption. Which brings me to what the Biped-O-sphere runs on. It uses a scientifically blended water based solution of salts, sugars, liquid vegetable proteins and vitamins. It is called H2Otein, and is pumped through the organic power unit with a very small, battery powered pump. Through selective cell development, Mr. MacMillan was able to reproduce, in the laboratory, a modified version of the lower half of a human being without it actually being a human being. There is no need for a heart, brain, nerve cells, reproductive parts, or waste elimination systems, just two well–developed, very strong, laboratory designed muscles to power the Biped-O-sphere. The 90 through 135-day units consume approximately one pint of H2Otein per hour of normal use. Naturally, the larger the organic power unit, the higher the rate of consumption. For the higher powered units, 150-days and above, we recommend H2Otein Plus, which has higher levels of sugars, salts, vegetable protein and is oxygenated. I can tell you this has not made Mr. Macmillan and his Biped-O-Sphere popular with the oil producing countries and our own petroleum companies. Imagine, being able to make a fuel in your own kitchen, if you wanted to, that would propel a vehicle using nothing more complex than water, sugar and salt, and some vegetable protein. Once our product began to appear in scientific journals and neared production, Mr. MacMillan started receiving threats, and then a series of ‘close calls’, shall we say; any one of which could have been fatal.”
“That is absolutely amazing, Mr. Michaux. I had no idea that science had come so far.” Mr. Murkin said.
“Well, this is the 22nd Century, Mr. Murkin.” replied Mr. Michaux.
“I have to admit, though, that it seems a little, well, creepy to me to be using something you call an ‘organic power unit’ that is, in fact, a human being.”
“But, Mr. Murkin, it is not a human; not even close, only muscle. As I said, there are no nerve cells to pass on feeling or stimulation to a brain, because there is no brain to process pain or thought; and the unit has no reproductive organs. Have we not used animals throughout history as ‘organic power units’? We have ridden horses for centuries; strapped them onto carts, wagons, stagecoaches, mill wheels, any number of conveyances and machines, as well as mules, oxen, elephants, camels, llamas, ponies, even man’s best friend, the dog, has been harnessed in carts. The list goes on endlessly. Lots of creatures have had their power harnessed to serve man. Why, man himself has powered bicycles, rickshaws, pedi-cabs, and other assorted vehicles, on land, sea and air.” said Mr. Michaux.
“Yes, that’s all true, when you think about it. But, getting back to burning the fuel, the…what did you call it? H2Otein? What sort of waste or emissions does it produce? Since the Biped-O-sphere is organic and is running on a “fuel”, so to speak, doesn’t it produce any emissions or waste?”
“Perspiration, Mr. Murkin, nothing more than simple sweat, which evaporates into the atmosphere. Non-toxic and non-accumulating, so there is nothing to dispose of, ever. So, as you can see, it really is an environmentally friendly form of transportation.”
“Well, then, that brings up another question. If the organic power unit is perspiring, it must be running warm. How can you tell if it is overheating?”
“Yes, that’s true. Our organic power units do have an ideal operating temperature. The core temperature of the Biped-O-sphere’s organic power unit is monitored with the rectometer gauge.” said Mr. Michaux.
“The rectometer gauge?” repeated Mr. Murkin.
“Yes, the rectometer gauge on the dashboard, or nacelle, in the case of the motorcycle version, indicates the operating temperature of the organic power unit. Let’s say you have been operating at a sustained high speed, if the core temperature of the organic power unit starts to overheat, the needle on the rectometer gauge will start to go into the pink area. When that happens, you should slow down and let the unit cool, again, as indicated by the needle on the gauge. If you continue to overheat the power unit, the needle will continue on through the pink area and into the red. If this happens, you could cause serious damage to the organic power unit. A sudden cramp could have disastrous results. It could cause an accident. As long as you keep the needle on the rectometer gauge just outside the pink area, you will have no problems as all.”
“I see. Well, how do you drive it? I mean, gas, brakes, gears, etc. How does all that work?” asked Mr. Murkin
“The ‘gas’, as you call it, is a floor-mounted pedal that operates an electrical rheostat. The motorcycle uses the familiar twist grip. As you start to depress the accelerator pedal, or twist the grip, an electrical current flows to the organic power unit from a small battery initially, which also powers the lights, horn and stereo when you’re not moving. Once you are moving, a generator, located in the hub of the right, rear wheel takes over and provides the electrical current needed to drive the power unit. As you continue to depress the pedal, a larger current is sent to the power unit from the generator and you go faster. There is a single generator on models up to 135-days. On the higher-powered units, 150-days and up, two generators are provided, one in each of the rear wheel hubs, and on the motorcycle, one in each wheel. As for gears, the Biped-O-sphere has either a sporty six-speed manual, for those that like to shift; or an automatic, constant velocity transmission. To reverse the Biped-O-sphere, you simply flip this toggle switch on the dash, which reverses polarity to the power unit. Top speed with the 90-day unit is around 50 miles-per-hour. The higher units have top speeds that are impressive, indeed. The 150-day and 165-day organic power units can cruise all day at 75 miles-per-hour with short bursts to 90 miles-per-hour, useful for passing. Our top-of-the-line 180-day power unit will cruise at 85 miles-per hour all day long, top out at 100 mph and consume only 2 pints of H2Otein Plus per hour. Braking is by hydraulically operated, 5-inch stainless-steel rotors, drilled for lightness, mounted on narrow 20-inch carbon fiber spoke wheels.”
“Well, Mr. Michaux, I’m impressed! I had no idea you could get that kind of performance out of an organic power unit.”
“Oh, yes.” said Mr. Michaux. “Of course, keeping the weight down is critical, less is more, as they say. Mr. MacMillan and his team are currently experimenting with blending cells from various animals; lions, tigers, cheetahs, horses, bears, gorillas, etc. to produce more power in a smaller unit, and they are having encouraging success. But what is more important is the aerodynamic design of our vehicles. The slipperier the vehicle, the less power it takes to achieve high speeds, and as you can see, our Biped-O-spheres are low to the ground, very sleek and have an extremely low drag coefficient, something in the neighborhood of .10. Once Mr. MacMillan has perfected his next generation of smaller, more powerful units, acceleration and top speeds will go up dramatically and fuel consumption will go down. We are very excited about the future here at Organo Motors. Mr. MacMillan, to promote the performance aspect of the Biped-O-sphere, has sponsored a local boy, “Flash” Harte, to put on exhibition drag races using experimental 195-day power units. “Flash” is running a drag racer that uses three of these experimental units and is achieving 0-60 miles-per-hour times of just under 5 seconds and quarter-mile sprints of 120 plus miles-per-hour in the 11-second range. Very impressive performance, indeed, for organic power units running on standard H20tein Plus. They achieved even more spectacular results by running the power units on H20tein Plus that had been modified with caffeine and 20 per-cent alcohol. Unfortunately, after two or three runs with this fuel, the power units developed what we call “the staggers”.
“Well, good luck to “Flash” Harte. Little Harry, I suppose you knew all of this already?” Mr. Murkin asked his son. “Of course, Dad, I’ve been dreaming about this for months. Let’s go ahead and get the order going. I’ve got my color scheme already picked out. I hope they have it in stock.” Little Harry said anxiously.
“OK, Mr. Michaux, we’re sold. Little Harry said he has a color scheme picked out already. Do these come in many colors?” asked Mr. Murkin.
“Oh, yes sir, although the word ‘color’ doesn’t quite describe it.”
“Oh, what do you mean?” asked Mr. Murkin with a puzzled look on his face.
“Well, these are ‘organic’ power units, and therefore, not painted, although the platform can be color-matched to the power unit. I think it will become clear to you, Mr. Murkin, as Little Harry fills out the order form.” replied Mr. Michaux.
“Yeah, Dad, it’s going to look cool. I’ve configured it on my computer hundreds of times. I want the platform to be two-tone with the bottom half Negro and the top Asian, and for the interior, I want Caucasian seats and dash with Negro piping and carpets.” Little Harry said, practically jumping up and down.
“I don’t know if you are aware of our latest feature, Little Harry,” Mr. Michaux said, “but you can now have your organic power unit personalized with tattoos. Order the power unit in Caucasian, Asian, Navajo, or Octoroon, it makes for a better blank canvas, and our in-house artists will apply whatever design you want, or you can take the unit to your own artist and have the work done there. Of course, depending on what you have done, it could affect resale value when it comes time to sell. As you know, most tattoos are a personal statement that may not have the same meaning or significance to the next owner.”
“Yeah? That is new, I didn’t know about that. Wow, that’s really cool! Then I want the power unit in the same Asian as the top of the platform. This is going to look so cool! I have some friends that can do the tats for me.” Little Harry said excitedly.
“OK, Little Harry, but you’re going to have to pay for the tattoos. Your mother and I said we would get you the wheels, but you know how she feels about tattoos.” Mr. Murkin put in.
“Yeah, Dad, no problem. Like I said, I’ve got friends that will do them for me. This is going to be so cool! I can’t wait to get started. I’m going to have to start thinking of what designs I want. I’ve got three months of using the 75-day unit, anyway. Can we go ahead and buy the replacement power unit, Dad?” Little Harry continued. “That way my friends can be working on it and when the three months are up, it’ll be ready and Mr. Michaux can have it installed.”
“Sure, son. That sounds like a good plan. You’ve worked hard for this and I’m glad to see you excited.” his father said. “Great, Dad! I was thinking the 165-day organic power unit would be…”
“Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! No. We are not starting off with a Hot Ped! Your mother would kill me and she’d never let you near it! We will get the 105-day unit, though. I think you’re responsible enough to have a little more oomph than the basic unit. Later, if you feel you need more… well, we’ll talk about it then.”
“But, Dad…” Little Harry pleaded.
“No. Sorry, sport, but that’s the decision for now.” Mr. Murkin said firmly.
“Oh, OK. You’re right. The 105-day unit will be enough for now. Thanks, Dad. I was getting carried away. I guess I inherited your horsepower loving genes.”
“Well, Mr. Michaux, what next?” asked Mr. Murkin.
“We will have to order the Biped-O-sphere in the color scheme that Little Harry has configured, but that will only take three days. Not long at all, although to a young man getting his first set of “wheels”, it will seem an eternity.” replied Mr. Michaux. “Shall we go into my office, Mr. Murkin, finalize the paperwork and how you wish to pay for it?” asked Mr. Michaux.
“Yes, with all this information you’ve been giving me, Mr. Michaux, I never thought to ask what all this is going to cost.” said Mr. Murkin as the three of them entered Mr. Michaux’s office.
“Actually, I think you will be surprised at how little it will be.” said Mr. Michaux, indicating two chairs for Mr. Murkin and Little Harry to sit in. “The price has been coming down over the past year due to Mr. MacMillan’s desire to price the Biped-O-sphere aggressively which is possible now that initial R&D costs have been recovered. These vehicles are becoming very, very popular. Mr. MacMillan is able to fund future development from sales alone. So, let’s see, you have the basic passenger carrying platform, and you want the 105-day organic power unit in Asian for future installation. The only additional charge would be Globals 375 for the two-tone color matching on the platform. Your total price, out-the-door, is Globals 11,875. Of course, when, in three months you turn in the 75-day unit under our buy back program, you will receive around Globals 900 back, depending on its condition, of course.” said Mr. Michaux.
“Excellent.” said Mr. Murkin. “Well, Little Harry, are you satisfied? Have we forgotten anything?”
“No, Dad. I think that’s it. Gosh, this is so exciting. I can’t wait to tell the guys. I’m going to show them my configured Biped-O-sphere on the computer as soon as we get back home. This is too cool! Man, three days is going to seem like three years!” Little Harry mourned.
“Well, it will be over before you know it, son. Thank you, Mr. Michaux, I guess we’re done here. Will you call me, please, when Little Harry’s Biped-O-sphere is ready? We’ll be back and pick it up then.” said Mr. Murkin.
“Of course, Mr. Murkin, and congratulations to you and Little Harry. I know you will both be very happy with your new purchase. Until later, Mr. Murkin, prosperity.”
“Prosperity to you, Mr. Michaux, and thanks.” said Mr. Murkin.
“Prosperity, Little Harry.” said Mr. Michaux.
“Yes, thank you for everything, Mr. Michaux. Prosperity.”
And with that, father and son happily exited the showroom of Organo Motors: Home of the Biped-O-sphere.
AN ADDENDUM FROM THE PUBLISHER:
Dear Reader, it is with much sadness that we regret to inform you that the author of the above piece, Mr. Paul L. Ellars, was assassinated three days after publication of this story. The assassins, hired by members of a certain “royal family” and their cohorts in the oil industry in this country, were caught and have confessed all. We extend our heartfelt condolences to Mr. Ellars’ loving wife and family. Sincerely, The Publishers.
Home of the Biped-O-sphere
written by
copyright 2008 P.L. Ellars
“Prosperity.” said the salesman, greeting the man and teenage boy as they entered the showroom of Organo Motors.
“Prosperity to you.” replied the man.
“And how may I be of service to you, Mr…?”
“Murkin. Harold Murkin, and this is my son, Little Harry; although he’s not so little anymore.”
“Indeed not! Prosperity, Little Harry.” replied the salesman.” “Thank you, sir, and prosperity to you, too.” Little Harry said. “My name is Michaux, Pierre Michaux.” the salesman went on.
“Well, Mr. Michaux, Little Harry and I are here to see about buying one of your Biped-O-spheres. Little Harry will be graduated from university this year, with honors, I might add, and his mother and I promised him some form of “wheels” if he did well. He has his heart set on one of your new Biped-O-spheres, but I must confess, I don’t know much about them. Little Harry has been online to your website for ages and has his Biped-O-sphere already configured.”
“Excellent! Not many people are familiar with our products, actually. It is really a very simple and ingenious means of ecologically friendly transportation. I’m surprised someone did not think of the concept ages ago. Most of the technology has been around for a long time. Like most great ideas, it just took someone to put it all together.”
“Well, then, Mr. Michaux, tell me about them.”
“All right, Mr. Murkin. Well, basically you choose the platform you want, either a solo or a single-passenger carrying platform where the passenger sits next to the driver. We also have a solo and a passenger carrying two-wheeled vehicle, just like a motorcycle. All of our platforms are made of carbon fiber, very strong and very light. Next, you decide on how much power you want. Our power units start at 90 days and go up in 15-day increments to a maximum of 180. We also have a beginners power unit that is rated at 75 days, and that is required by law for those that have absolutely no driving experience at all. After the beginning driver has acquired the mandatory three months of driving experience on the 75-day organic power unit Biped-O-sphere, it is a very simple matter of swapping out the 75-day power unit with any power unit of your choice. We have a buy-back program for the 75-day unit, providing, of course, it has not been abused, and that there is still some ‘life’ left in it. In fact, I would recommend that to you for Little Harry. You will save money on buying a ‘previously experienced’ power unit and can apply the savings and the buy-back amount towards the power unit you really want once you’ve met the requirements. You see, the Biped-O-sphere is a modular design. So when Little Harry completes his three-month learning period, he can go straight to any organic power unit he desires. You can mix-and-match different platform styles and different levels of power units. It really is a remarkable concept.”
“And how do the power units work? That’s the part Little Harry was trying to explain to me, but I just wasn’t getting it.”
“Well,” continued Mr. Michaux, “Our president and founder, Mr. Kirkpatrick MacMillan, from Drumfriesshire, Scotland, remembered experiments from his early science classes where the students attached electrical wires to dissected frog legs and, by applying an electrical charge, the students were able to make the muscles contract. He always thought that, one day, that might be turned into a source of power. Later, when science had perfected the cloning of human cells, he had the idea to put the two together in the form of the Biped-O-sphere. He experimented with trying to clone just the leg muscles of humans. That is where the different day designations come in. In the laboratory, he started growing muscles. Test tube muscles, if you will. At 75-days, the muscles were more than strong enough to power a bicycle; at 90 days, the muscles were as strong as a professional bicycle racers muscles. As he extended the growing time, the muscles grew larger and stronger. Mr. MacMillan, through experiments, determined that 15-day increments in growing time allowed for a noticeable increase in power developed. He stopped at 180-days, because beyond that, there is no noticeable difference in performance, just more fuel consumption. Which brings me to what the Biped-O-sphere runs on. It uses a scientifically blended water based solution of salts, sugars, liquid vegetable proteins and vitamins. It is called H2Otein, and is pumped through the organic power unit with a very small, battery powered pump. Through selective cell development, Mr. MacMillan was able to reproduce, in the laboratory, a modified version of the lower half of a human being without it actually being a human being. There is no need for a heart, brain, nerve cells, reproductive parts, or waste elimination systems, just two well–developed, very strong, laboratory designed muscles to power the Biped-O-sphere. The 90 through 135-day units consume approximately one pint of H2Otein per hour of normal use. Naturally, the larger the organic power unit, the higher the rate of consumption. For the higher powered units, 150-days and above, we recommend H2Otein Plus, which has higher levels of sugars, salts, vegetable protein and is oxygenated. I can tell you this has not made Mr. Macmillan and his Biped-O-Sphere popular with the oil producing countries and our own petroleum companies. Imagine, being able to make a fuel in your own kitchen, if you wanted to, that would propel a vehicle using nothing more complex than water, sugar and salt, and some vegetable protein. Once our product began to appear in scientific journals and neared production, Mr. MacMillan started receiving threats, and then a series of ‘close calls’, shall we say; any one of which could have been fatal.”
“That is absolutely amazing, Mr. Michaux. I had no idea that science had come so far.” Mr. Murkin said.
“Well, this is the 22nd Century, Mr. Murkin.” replied Mr. Michaux.
“I have to admit, though, that it seems a little, well, creepy to me to be using something you call an ‘organic power unit’ that is, in fact, a human being.”
“But, Mr. Murkin, it is not a human; not even close, only muscle. As I said, there are no nerve cells to pass on feeling or stimulation to a brain, because there is no brain to process pain or thought; and the unit has no reproductive organs. Have we not used animals throughout history as ‘organic power units’? We have ridden horses for centuries; strapped them onto carts, wagons, stagecoaches, mill wheels, any number of conveyances and machines, as well as mules, oxen, elephants, camels, llamas, ponies, even man’s best friend, the dog, has been harnessed in carts. The list goes on endlessly. Lots of creatures have had their power harnessed to serve man. Why, man himself has powered bicycles, rickshaws, pedi-cabs, and other assorted vehicles, on land, sea and air.” said Mr. Michaux.
“Yes, that’s all true, when you think about it. But, getting back to burning the fuel, the…what did you call it? H2Otein? What sort of waste or emissions does it produce? Since the Biped-O-sphere is organic and is running on a “fuel”, so to speak, doesn’t it produce any emissions or waste?”
“Perspiration, Mr. Murkin, nothing more than simple sweat, which evaporates into the atmosphere. Non-toxic and non-accumulating, so there is nothing to dispose of, ever. So, as you can see, it really is an environmentally friendly form of transportation.”
“Well, then, that brings up another question. If the organic power unit is perspiring, it must be running warm. How can you tell if it is overheating?”
“Yes, that’s true. Our organic power units do have an ideal operating temperature. The core temperature of the Biped-O-sphere’s organic power unit is monitored with the rectometer gauge.” said Mr. Michaux.
“The rectometer gauge?” repeated Mr. Murkin.
“Yes, the rectometer gauge on the dashboard, or nacelle, in the case of the motorcycle version, indicates the operating temperature of the organic power unit. Let’s say you have been operating at a sustained high speed, if the core temperature of the organic power unit starts to overheat, the needle on the rectometer gauge will start to go into the pink area. When that happens, you should slow down and let the unit cool, again, as indicated by the needle on the gauge. If you continue to overheat the power unit, the needle will continue on through the pink area and into the red. If this happens, you could cause serious damage to the organic power unit. A sudden cramp could have disastrous results. It could cause an accident. As long as you keep the needle on the rectometer gauge just outside the pink area, you will have no problems as all.”
“I see. Well, how do you drive it? I mean, gas, brakes, gears, etc. How does all that work?” asked Mr. Murkin
“The ‘gas’, as you call it, is a floor-mounted pedal that operates an electrical rheostat. The motorcycle uses the familiar twist grip. As you start to depress the accelerator pedal, or twist the grip, an electrical current flows to the organic power unit from a small battery initially, which also powers the lights, horn and stereo when you’re not moving. Once you are moving, a generator, located in the hub of the right, rear wheel takes over and provides the electrical current needed to drive the power unit. As you continue to depress the pedal, a larger current is sent to the power unit from the generator and you go faster. There is a single generator on models up to 135-days. On the higher-powered units, 150-days and up, two generators are provided, one in each of the rear wheel hubs, and on the motorcycle, one in each wheel. As for gears, the Biped-O-sphere has either a sporty six-speed manual, for those that like to shift; or an automatic, constant velocity transmission. To reverse the Biped-O-sphere, you simply flip this toggle switch on the dash, which reverses polarity to the power unit. Top speed with the 90-day unit is around 50 miles-per-hour. The higher units have top speeds that are impressive, indeed. The 150-day and 165-day organic power units can cruise all day at 75 miles-per-hour with short bursts to 90 miles-per-hour, useful for passing. Our top-of-the-line 180-day power unit will cruise at 85 miles-per hour all day long, top out at 100 mph and consume only 2 pints of H2Otein Plus per hour. Braking is by hydraulically operated, 5-inch stainless-steel rotors, drilled for lightness, mounted on narrow 20-inch carbon fiber spoke wheels.”
“Well, Mr. Michaux, I’m impressed! I had no idea you could get that kind of performance out of an organic power unit.”
“Oh, yes.” said Mr. Michaux. “Of course, keeping the weight down is critical, less is more, as they say. Mr. MacMillan and his team are currently experimenting with blending cells from various animals; lions, tigers, cheetahs, horses, bears, gorillas, etc. to produce more power in a smaller unit, and they are having encouraging success. But what is more important is the aerodynamic design of our vehicles. The slipperier the vehicle, the less power it takes to achieve high speeds, and as you can see, our Biped-O-spheres are low to the ground, very sleek and have an extremely low drag coefficient, something in the neighborhood of .10. Once Mr. MacMillan has perfected his next generation of smaller, more powerful units, acceleration and top speeds will go up dramatically and fuel consumption will go down. We are very excited about the future here at Organo Motors. Mr. MacMillan, to promote the performance aspect of the Biped-O-sphere, has sponsored a local boy, “Flash” Harte, to put on exhibition drag races using experimental 195-day power units. “Flash” is running a drag racer that uses three of these experimental units and is achieving 0-60 miles-per-hour times of just under 5 seconds and quarter-mile sprints of 120 plus miles-per-hour in the 11-second range. Very impressive performance, indeed, for organic power units running on standard H20tein Plus. They achieved even more spectacular results by running the power units on H20tein Plus that had been modified with caffeine and 20 per-cent alcohol. Unfortunately, after two or three runs with this fuel, the power units developed what we call “the staggers”.
“Well, good luck to “Flash” Harte. Little Harry, I suppose you knew all of this already?” Mr. Murkin asked his son. “Of course, Dad, I’ve been dreaming about this for months. Let’s go ahead and get the order going. I’ve got my color scheme already picked out. I hope they have it in stock.” Little Harry said anxiously.
“OK, Mr. Michaux, we’re sold. Little Harry said he has a color scheme picked out already. Do these come in many colors?” asked Mr. Murkin.
“Oh, yes sir, although the word ‘color’ doesn’t quite describe it.”
“Oh, what do you mean?” asked Mr. Murkin with a puzzled look on his face.
“Well, these are ‘organic’ power units, and therefore, not painted, although the platform can be color-matched to the power unit. I think it will become clear to you, Mr. Murkin, as Little Harry fills out the order form.” replied Mr. Michaux.
“Yeah, Dad, it’s going to look cool. I’ve configured it on my computer hundreds of times. I want the platform to be two-tone with the bottom half Negro and the top Asian, and for the interior, I want Caucasian seats and dash with Negro piping and carpets.” Little Harry said, practically jumping up and down.
“I don’t know if you are aware of our latest feature, Little Harry,” Mr. Michaux said, “but you can now have your organic power unit personalized with tattoos. Order the power unit in Caucasian, Asian, Navajo, or Octoroon, it makes for a better blank canvas, and our in-house artists will apply whatever design you want, or you can take the unit to your own artist and have the work done there. Of course, depending on what you have done, it could affect resale value when it comes time to sell. As you know, most tattoos are a personal statement that may not have the same meaning or significance to the next owner.”
“Yeah? That is new, I didn’t know about that. Wow, that’s really cool! Then I want the power unit in the same Asian as the top of the platform. This is going to look so cool! I have some friends that can do the tats for me.” Little Harry said excitedly.
“OK, Little Harry, but you’re going to have to pay for the tattoos. Your mother and I said we would get you the wheels, but you know how she feels about tattoos.” Mr. Murkin put in.
“Yeah, Dad, no problem. Like I said, I’ve got friends that will do them for me. This is going to be so cool! I can’t wait to get started. I’m going to have to start thinking of what designs I want. I’ve got three months of using the 75-day unit, anyway. Can we go ahead and buy the replacement power unit, Dad?” Little Harry continued. “That way my friends can be working on it and when the three months are up, it’ll be ready and Mr. Michaux can have it installed.”
“Sure, son. That sounds like a good plan. You’ve worked hard for this and I’m glad to see you excited.” his father said. “Great, Dad! I was thinking the 165-day organic power unit would be…”
“Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! No. We are not starting off with a Hot Ped! Your mother would kill me and she’d never let you near it! We will get the 105-day unit, though. I think you’re responsible enough to have a little more oomph than the basic unit. Later, if you feel you need more… well, we’ll talk about it then.”
“But, Dad…” Little Harry pleaded.
“No. Sorry, sport, but that’s the decision for now.” Mr. Murkin said firmly.
“Oh, OK. You’re right. The 105-day unit will be enough for now. Thanks, Dad. I was getting carried away. I guess I inherited your horsepower loving genes.”
“Well, Mr. Michaux, what next?” asked Mr. Murkin.
“We will have to order the Biped-O-sphere in the color scheme that Little Harry has configured, but that will only take three days. Not long at all, although to a young man getting his first set of “wheels”, it will seem an eternity.” replied Mr. Michaux. “Shall we go into my office, Mr. Murkin, finalize the paperwork and how you wish to pay for it?” asked Mr. Michaux.
“Yes, with all this information you’ve been giving me, Mr. Michaux, I never thought to ask what all this is going to cost.” said Mr. Murkin as the three of them entered Mr. Michaux’s office.
“Actually, I think you will be surprised at how little it will be.” said Mr. Michaux, indicating two chairs for Mr. Murkin and Little Harry to sit in. “The price has been coming down over the past year due to Mr. MacMillan’s desire to price the Biped-O-sphere aggressively which is possible now that initial R&D costs have been recovered. These vehicles are becoming very, very popular. Mr. MacMillan is able to fund future development from sales alone. So, let’s see, you have the basic passenger carrying platform, and you want the 105-day organic power unit in Asian for future installation. The only additional charge would be Globals 375 for the two-tone color matching on the platform. Your total price, out-the-door, is Globals 11,875. Of course, when, in three months you turn in the 75-day unit under our buy back program, you will receive around Globals 900 back, depending on its condition, of course.” said Mr. Michaux.
“Excellent.” said Mr. Murkin. “Well, Little Harry, are you satisfied? Have we forgotten anything?”
“No, Dad. I think that’s it. Gosh, this is so exciting. I can’t wait to tell the guys. I’m going to show them my configured Biped-O-sphere on the computer as soon as we get back home. This is too cool! Man, three days is going to seem like three years!” Little Harry mourned.
“Well, it will be over before you know it, son. Thank you, Mr. Michaux, I guess we’re done here. Will you call me, please, when Little Harry’s Biped-O-sphere is ready? We’ll be back and pick it up then.” said Mr. Murkin.
“Of course, Mr. Murkin, and congratulations to you and Little Harry. I know you will both be very happy with your new purchase. Until later, Mr. Murkin, prosperity.”
“Prosperity to you, Mr. Michaux, and thanks.” said Mr. Murkin.
“Prosperity, Little Harry.” said Mr. Michaux.
“Yes, thank you for everything, Mr. Michaux. Prosperity.”
And with that, father and son happily exited the showroom of Organo Motors: Home of the Biped-O-sphere.
AN ADDENDUM FROM THE PUBLISHER:
Dear Reader, it is with much sadness that we regret to inform you that the author of the above piece, Mr. Paul L. Ellars, was assassinated three days after publication of this story. The assassins, hired by members of a certain “royal family” and their cohorts in the oil industry in this country, were caught and have confessed all. We extend our heartfelt condolences to Mr. Ellars’ loving wife and family. Sincerely, The Publishers.
Brave Heart
Existentialism comes to Trona, California
BRAVE HEART
Written By
P.L. Ellars
December, 2008
I was sitting alone at an outdoor table at my favorite little bistro just off boulevard Papillon de Guerre here in beautiful, downtown Trona, California, the other day, enjoying a cup of Typhoo, when these two, how shall I describe them, fellow “Boulavardiers” sat down at the table next to me. The shorter one, the one doing most of the talking, was going on and on to his friend about pain.
“My old man was right, for once in his miserable life. He told me a long time ago, ‘You want to live longer, you marry a redhead.’”
“A redhead?’ I says. ‘And how’s that going to make you live longer?’ and he says, ‘Well, you don’t really… it just seems longer.’ and then he started laughing this… this, well, the only way I can describe it is, it sounded like a Browning Automatic Rifle. Huh, huh, huh, huh, huh, huh, huh, huh, huh, on and on like he thought he was funnier than, well, I don’t know who, but somebody.”
When he finally stops laughing at his own joke, he tells his friend, “You’re my dentist. You know all about pain. You deal with it every day! Hell, you probably deal with it every hour! I mean, what if you got a patient that starts twitchin’ and floppin’ around like some kind of dying fish in your chair, screamin’ bloody murder, getting’ everybody in the waitin’ room all worked up, you just gas ‘em or stick a needle in ‘em, right? Calms ‘em right down, right?”
“Yes,” his friend answered, “I am able to anesthetize those whose threshold for pain is low. If we could only do that in our day-to-day dealings in this world, when the pain gets to be unbearable, we would not suffer so.”
“And that’s probably why there are so many boozers around. And dopers. Boozers and dopers, self-anesthetizing themselves. Well, I don’t need any of that stuff.” the short one continued. “I got a really high threshold for pain. You know that. Remember when I had that wobbly wisdom tooth and you had to pull it out? I didn’t need no painkillers, did I? No sir! It was halfway out anyway. In fact, speakin’ of pain and how it don’t affect me, did you ever hear the story about the time when I tied a bowling ball to a fifty foot rope and had my friend, Rickles, drop it from a third story building to let it swing down and smash me in the nuts? Me and Rickles was talkin’ about pain and life and whatnot, just like you and me’s doin’ now, and I told him pain didn’t ever bother me none and he dared me that I wouldn’t let a bowling ball swing into my nuts. He’s got this friend, Scrotty, that was workin’ the crane over at that construction site on Mirkin Street, so we go over there at lunch time, we tie this bowling ball…”
“But where did you get a bowling ball?” his friend interrupted.
“In Trona? Are you fuckin’ kiddin’ me? So anyway, we tie the bowling ball to this 50 foot rope, the other end to the hook on the crane, Scrotty raises the ball up to Rickles, who was up on the third floor of the building they was makin’…”
“I didn’t know they were building a high-rise in Trona.” his friend interjected.
“Yeah? Well, they are. So anyway, Rickles reaches out, grabs the bowling ball, Scrotty backs the crane up so the ball can get a good swing, I go and stand under the end of the crane arm and then gives the signal to Rickles to let her rip! He lines up his shot and lets go of the ball.”
“Well,” his friend said, “you’re sitting here and not permanently bent over double and talking in falsetto, so I take it your friend Rickles missed!”
“Missed!” shorty said, “Hell yes he missed! You need at least a four-story building to get a swing on a fifty foot rope. So Rickles lines up his shot, drops the ball and it swings down and goes thud into the ground twenny feet in front of me. Didn’t come nowhere near my jools. I knew it wouldn’t! Whaddya think I am, nuts? I’m brave, but not stupid! So anyway, the point is, that I did it, or at least I attempted it. I got no fear of pain. Pain is nuthin’ to me. Raised my stature wid’ the guys, I can tell you. They’re still talkin’ about it.”
The waiter, in the meantime, had brought out their coffees. I was sure they would both settle down now and quietly enjoy their coffee until I heard…
“GODDAM IT!” the short one exploded. “GODFUCKINDAMMIT! I burned my fuckin’ mouth! Damn, that shit is hot! Ah fuck, that hurts! Jeezis Christ on a cracker!”
The short one had pushed himself away from the table and was half standing, yelling.
“Dammit, I can feel a blister the size of a football on my tongue! By God, I’m gonna sue this place and…”
By this time I had finished my cup of Typhoo, which was delicious, and got up to go, leaving my money for the bill on the table. It was a beautiful day and I still had most of it ahead of me. I looked up to see patches of blue sky teasing me through the Trona haze. I closed my eyes and savored the warm embrace of the sun on my face. I opened my eyes just in time to see a small bird fly into a large storefront window in the building across the street from the bistro, knocking itself out and fall to the sidewalk to lie unconscious at the feet of a startled young mother and her two little girls that had been shopping.
Yes, into each life a little pain falls; it must be so. I continued my stroll down the boulevard.
BRAVE HEART
Written By
P.L. Ellars
December, 2008
I was sitting alone at an outdoor table at my favorite little bistro just off boulevard Papillon de Guerre here in beautiful, downtown Trona, California, the other day, enjoying a cup of Typhoo, when these two, how shall I describe them, fellow “Boulavardiers” sat down at the table next to me. The shorter one, the one doing most of the talking, was going on and on to his friend about pain.
“My old man was right, for once in his miserable life. He told me a long time ago, ‘You want to live longer, you marry a redhead.’”
“A redhead?’ I says. ‘And how’s that going to make you live longer?’ and he says, ‘Well, you don’t really… it just seems longer.’ and then he started laughing this… this, well, the only way I can describe it is, it sounded like a Browning Automatic Rifle. Huh, huh, huh, huh, huh, huh, huh, huh, huh, on and on like he thought he was funnier than, well, I don’t know who, but somebody.”
When he finally stops laughing at his own joke, he tells his friend, “You’re my dentist. You know all about pain. You deal with it every day! Hell, you probably deal with it every hour! I mean, what if you got a patient that starts twitchin’ and floppin’ around like some kind of dying fish in your chair, screamin’ bloody murder, getting’ everybody in the waitin’ room all worked up, you just gas ‘em or stick a needle in ‘em, right? Calms ‘em right down, right?”
“Yes,” his friend answered, “I am able to anesthetize those whose threshold for pain is low. If we could only do that in our day-to-day dealings in this world, when the pain gets to be unbearable, we would not suffer so.”
“And that’s probably why there are so many boozers around. And dopers. Boozers and dopers, self-anesthetizing themselves. Well, I don’t need any of that stuff.” the short one continued. “I got a really high threshold for pain. You know that. Remember when I had that wobbly wisdom tooth and you had to pull it out? I didn’t need no painkillers, did I? No sir! It was halfway out anyway. In fact, speakin’ of pain and how it don’t affect me, did you ever hear the story about the time when I tied a bowling ball to a fifty foot rope and had my friend, Rickles, drop it from a third story building to let it swing down and smash me in the nuts? Me and Rickles was talkin’ about pain and life and whatnot, just like you and me’s doin’ now, and I told him pain didn’t ever bother me none and he dared me that I wouldn’t let a bowling ball swing into my nuts. He’s got this friend, Scrotty, that was workin’ the crane over at that construction site on Mirkin Street, so we go over there at lunch time, we tie this bowling ball…”
“But where did you get a bowling ball?” his friend interrupted.
“In Trona? Are you fuckin’ kiddin’ me? So anyway, we tie the bowling ball to this 50 foot rope, the other end to the hook on the crane, Scrotty raises the ball up to Rickles, who was up on the third floor of the building they was makin’…”
“I didn’t know they were building a high-rise in Trona.” his friend interjected.
“Yeah? Well, they are. So anyway, Rickles reaches out, grabs the bowling ball, Scrotty backs the crane up so the ball can get a good swing, I go and stand under the end of the crane arm and then gives the signal to Rickles to let her rip! He lines up his shot and lets go of the ball.”
“Well,” his friend said, “you’re sitting here and not permanently bent over double and talking in falsetto, so I take it your friend Rickles missed!”
“Missed!” shorty said, “Hell yes he missed! You need at least a four-story building to get a swing on a fifty foot rope. So Rickles lines up his shot, drops the ball and it swings down and goes thud into the ground twenny feet in front of me. Didn’t come nowhere near my jools. I knew it wouldn’t! Whaddya think I am, nuts? I’m brave, but not stupid! So anyway, the point is, that I did it, or at least I attempted it. I got no fear of pain. Pain is nuthin’ to me. Raised my stature wid’ the guys, I can tell you. They’re still talkin’ about it.”
The waiter, in the meantime, had brought out their coffees. I was sure they would both settle down now and quietly enjoy their coffee until I heard…
“GODDAM IT!” the short one exploded. “GODFUCKINDAMMIT! I burned my fuckin’ mouth! Damn, that shit is hot! Ah fuck, that hurts! Jeezis Christ on a cracker!”
The short one had pushed himself away from the table and was half standing, yelling.
“Dammit, I can feel a blister the size of a football on my tongue! By God, I’m gonna sue this place and…”
By this time I had finished my cup of Typhoo, which was delicious, and got up to go, leaving my money for the bill on the table. It was a beautiful day and I still had most of it ahead of me. I looked up to see patches of blue sky teasing me through the Trona haze. I closed my eyes and savored the warm embrace of the sun on my face. I opened my eyes just in time to see a small bird fly into a large storefront window in the building across the street from the bistro, knocking itself out and fall to the sidewalk to lie unconscious at the feet of a startled young mother and her two little girls that had been shopping.
Yes, into each life a little pain falls; it must be so. I continued my stroll down the boulevard.
Winunktahassett Inn
Winunktahassett Inn
By
P.L. Ellars
Barley was pretty excited on his drive home from work that day. He had finally decided on where to take Winnifer for their 15th wedding anniversary and he couldn’t wait to get home and tell her. The last time they had gone off together was before the children were born and the kids were now 8, 10 and 12.
“Hi lovey lips, I’m home.” Barley said as he came in through the kitchen door.
“Hey you, what’s up? You seem to be in pretty good spirits. Get a raise or something?” Winnifer asked when she saw him.
“No, I did not get a raise but I did get next Thursday and Friday off and have made reservations for us to go away for a long weekend to celebrate our anniversary next week.”
“But what about the kids? Are they going too?” Winnifer wanted to know.
“No way, Winnie. It’s just you and me, a book, some well earned silence and…and…and…”
“And who is going to watch the kids?” Winnie asked.
“Well, we’ll ask Granma and your sister to watch them. The kids love them and we’ll be gone only four days. They can come and stay at our house or we can drop the kids off at Granma’s house on our way.”
“On our way where?” Winnie asked with the slightest tinge of anxiety in her voice. She had known Barley long enough to know that some of his surprises were more surprising than others. In fact, some turned out to be shockers that on one memorable occasion had the distinction of including a visit by the police with a free ride in a squad car for Barley. Nothing serious, and after some questions he was allowed to go home.
“Listen, snugglebumps, I hear, very faintly but clearly, that little bit of anxiousness that appears in your voice every so often when I have a flash of brilliance. It is like your voice tightens up a little and goes up about 1/10th of an octave. I know something about you, you know!” he exclaimed, not really surprised at his wife’s concern.
“OK, then, where are we going for this idyllic, peaceful four days of rest and relaxation that I admit sounds like heaven?” Winnie queried.
“One of the guys at work was telling me about this place he and his wife went to up in the Sierra Nevadas that was absolutely breathtaking. It’s called Winunktahasset Inn. It’s at about 4,000 feel elevation, clear skies, clean air, mountain streams, hiking trails, horseback riding, archery, canoeing on the lake, 4 star restaurant, pool, fireplace in the room, and not very crowded. It used to be a stage rest stop and hotel right after the Civil War and has operated as an inn since. It oozes charm from every board and the place is crawling with nature. It’s oozing. It’s crawling. You’ll love it.” He realized that he was starting to sound like the Inn’s website, but, what the heck, from the pictures he saw it looked like just the place they could relax and unwind.
“OK, OK, sign me up! I’m ready.” Winnie said excitedly. “A long weekend of room service, drinks with little umbrellas, I’ve got a great book going and to be able to read it in a comfy chaise lounge and nature all around with no distractions does sound good.”
“Great!” Barley was excited too. He knew that these vacations were too few and far between for them. They both worked hard and were good parents and he was hoping they could actually get away as planned without feeling pangs of guilt for the pleasure they were expecting to immerse themselves in.
Thursday morning arrived and they were off. It took Barley a little over three hours the night before to eliminate all the evidence of children and clean out the minivan they were going to use to drive up to Winunktahassett Inn.
Barley and Winnie were acting like children themselves again. They hadn’t done this in so long that it felt a little strange at first knowing that they were selfishly running away to enjoy some time alone without their beloved children. The pangs of guilt kept gnawing away until finally Barley pulled the minivan over at a rest stop and said: “Listen, Win, we have to make a pact and agree that we are GOING TO HAVE FUN this weekend and not feel guilty about taking this time for ourselves. Otherwise there will be these three little clouds over our heads all weekend. Okay? Can we do this?” His eyes were larger than normal and Winnie could see the “edge of strain” starting to descend on Barley. He was normally pretty stable but could wind himself up tighter than an idiot’s watch if left to himself and those internal “conversations” as he called them. Stress affects people in different ways and Barley was definitely no exception. It was his stress induced spiral windup that got him that little ride with the police a few years back.
“No problem, Kemosabe.” Winnie replied. “I can definitely do it – can you?”
“Why, yes. Yes I can.” he said in this curious, almost theatrically calm voice.
“Good. Then, let’s get going. We should get there in time to check in and have a cocktail in the bar before the evening festivities.” Winnie offered.
“Excellent!” Barley yelped in his best imitation voice of Meistrich from the movie ‘Imposters’.
Winnie started to relax at hearing that. She knew from past experience that when Barley started quoting lines and impersonating characters from their favorite movies he was starting to unwind and have fun.
It was shortly after 3pm when they arrived at the front door of the Winunktahassett Inn. It was a charming place. It reminded them both of the old Stanley Hotel, used in the movie ‘The Shining’ with their favorite whacko Jack Nicholson. Not a large and pretentious building but one that was solid and comfortable and stood out with its freshly painted white clapboards against the rich, dark green forest surrounding the area.
After checking in, they were introduced to Mr. Glibby, the General Manager of Winunktahassett Inn who welcomed them and hoped their stay would be all they imagined it would be and if there was anything he could…blah blah waffle waffle. Barley’s eyes started to glaze over. The porter helped them to carry their luggage up to their room on the second floor.
“Doesn’t Mr. Glibby look like the spitting image of Franklin Pangborn to you, Winkums?” Barley asked Winnie on the way up to their room.
“Who?”
“Franklin Pangborn, you know, that unctuous character actor from the old 30’s and 40’s movies. He even has some of Pangborn’s mannerisms. Central Casting at the Winnunktahassett Inn certainly got their General Manager right!” Barley said.
The room was at the front of the inn just off to the left side from the main entrance. It commanded an incredible view of the Winunktahassett Valley floor below and they could watch the other guests come and go through the front entry way from either of the two windows. The room was decorated completely in antiques.
“Barley, look at this! I don’t think there is anything, other than the bed of course, and the ceiling fan, that is newer than World War Two in here. Just look at these antiques!” Winnie was jumping up and down over the furnishings. Their home was, by necessity, childproofed. Their house was tastefully furnished but it definitely had the look of active, healthy children living there so that if anything broke (an inevitability) you did not feel like crying over it. To be here in a room filled with such antiques was, for Winnie, like staying in a museum. She was thrilled and even threatened to not leave the room for the entire four days. Barley, on the other hand, was less enthusiastic.
“Yeah, yeah, very nice. Just be careful and don’t break anything. Probably cost a small fortune to replace any of it.” was Barley’s romantic answer.
“OK, Winkers, what say we mosey on down to the bar and wash some of the road dust down with a little aperitif or two before dinner? We are, after all, on vacation.” Barley said heading for the door.
The bar was one that exuded old West elegance. The original dark mahogany bar gleamed from 140 years of being lovingly oiled and polished. The walls had various western paintings and the occasional animal head for decoration.
As it was mid-summer, it would not be dark until nearly 9pm that night and the temperature was still comfortably warm. They decided to have their drinks out on the terrace just off the bar through the wide French doors. They chose the corner table near the front of the inn so they could watch the sun as it slowly lowered itself in the sky and bathe the valley below in what they like to call “the pink hour”. The railing around the terrace was wide enough to act as a ledge to set your drink on as you leaned on the rail gazing at the view.
The waiter came and took their order.
“I’ll have a glass of Merlot, please.” Winnie said to the waiter. “And I’ll have a White Russian!” Barley said, probably just a little too loudly. The waiter took their order and left. Barley was starting to have fun. Looking around he noticed some Western scrub jays watching them from the rail. He remembered seeing bowls of peanuts on the tables inside the bar and went inside and took one from an empty table.
“I wonder if these guys will eat these peanuts out of my hand like the ones we feed at home?” Barley mused holding out a peanut to the nearest jay. The jay looked straight at Barley and then cocked his head first on one side and then on the other. He would not come closer than 2 or 3 feet so Barley ended up tossing the peanut to the jay and exclaim “Stupid bird!” The jay grabbed the peanut and took off towards the ground with the idea to bury it. As soon as the first bird took off another one took his place waiting for his peanut. He too, would get no closer than 2 or 3 feet so Barley, feeling a little peeved, tossed him a peanut, too. More jays saw what was going on on the deck and they swooped down to get their share. First it was scrub jays and then Stellar jays. It did not take more than 5 minutes to empty that bowl of peanuts. Barley was in the process of feeding the last peanut to a particularly aggressive Stellar jay when the waiter came out to see it they wanted more drinks.
“Please, sir, we would rather you did not feed the birds. That’s why we don’t put peanuts out on the deck tables. These birds tend to get aggressive and we have to chase them off.” the waiter said.
“Oh, sorry, I didn’t know. We have them at home and I get them to eat out of my hand.” Barley told the waiter. “I’ll have another White Russian, please.” Barley said to the waiter. “How about you, honeychunks?”
“No, thanks, I still have half a glass.”
They finished their drinks and headed back to their room. Passing through the bar Barley quietly grabbed a handful of peanuts from one of the tables when he thought no one was looking.
Back in their room they unpacked and relaxed a little before going down to dinner. Barley stood at the window and, glowing with White Russians, enjoyed the panoramic vista that spread out before him.
The birds were still pretty active. In fact, they were getting pretty noisy out there. Probably out having their own dinner before settling down for the night. Barley remembered the peanuts he took from the bar and fishing them out of his pocket he set them down on a small table near the window. He tried opening the window with the idea of tossing a few to his feathered friends. The window was stuck and would not open. He felt like it wanted to open, it just needed some encouragement. Using the palm of his hand he banged on the top part of the lower frame of the window. He thought he felt it move a little. He also thought he heard that cracking sound a window makes when it breaks free. He banged it again with his palm. It’s starting to move he thought to himself. He gave it a tug and then a harder bang.
“Almost got it.” he said to himself. He gave it an even harder bang and this time the glazing around the glass crumbled away and the pane fell out, just scratching the edge of his bare foot, giving it a small cut.
“Oh, Great!” he yelled. “Damn birds. This is all their fault! Honey, do you still carry bandaids in your purse?”
“Yeah, why?” Winnie yelled back from the bathroom where she was getting ready for dinner.
“I’ve cut myself and need one.” Barley giggled. He was going over in his mind what had happened and, probably the two White Russians had a part in it, thought how utterly stupid the whole scene must have looked. While waiting for Winnie to bring the bandaid he looked back at the window to see how much damage had been done. There, sitting on the wooden frame that once held a window pane was perched a jay. It was just sitting there eyeing him and looking around the room. It’s eye stopped when it came to the peanuts on the table by the window. The jay looked at Barley, and then at the peanuts, and then back at Barley. Barley just stared at the bird. He did not want to move otherwise he would drip blood all over the place. This was getting funnier and funnier to Barley and he started giggling again when Winnie arrived with the bandaids.
“Here, let me look at your foot. How on earth did you do that and what are you giggling about?” Winnie asked. “Well, it’s nothing serious. Just a tiny scratch. A little rubbing alcohol and the bandaid should do it.” It was then that she noticed the missing window pane and the jay perched there surveying the peanuts on the table. Before either of them could move the jay had swooped down and snatched a peanut and was out the window.
“Good Grief.” Winnie sighed. “Come on, Barley. Let’s get you patched up.”
“Here, I can do this, Winklets. Why don’t you call the consommé and have them…”
“Concierge.” Winnie said quietly.
“What?” said Barley.
“Concierge. You said consommé and I’m sure you meant concierge.”
“I’m sure I used the right word, Miss Winktionary!” Barley quipped. “Anyway, call that soupy Franklin Pangborn looking guy and tell them we heard a loud thump and when we came in the room, the window pane was on the floor. Tell them it was probably a bird or something. I’ll finish my foot.”
Winnifer called the front desk and yes, they would send up a maintenance man right away.
Dinner was a long drawn out pleasure. They could not remember the last time they were able to spend time over a meal like they had that night.
When they returned to their room the window had been fixed and there was a note on the small table. It read: ‘Window fixed. Found several jays stealing peanuts from this table when I came in. I was able to scare them off but they made a mess, which I also cleaned up. I guess a bird did knock this window out. Sorry for the inconvenience. Both windows should now open. Maintenance.’
The next morning was Friday and they decided to go horseback riding after breakfast. The weather was in the high 70’s and the sun was shining brightly. A perfect day to be out-of-doors. On their way to the stables Barley stopped in at the mini-mart to get some bottled water, snacks and he also found a bag of peanuts he thought he’d take along in his day pack to feed the birds.
It was a little after 10 am when they arrived at the stables.
Jim, the manager of the stables, was very helpful after Barley told him it had been a long time since he and Winnie had ridden a horse. Jim said “No Problem. We get lots of guests that haven’t been on a horse in a long time. I’ll give you Buttercup and Bluebell, our two horses that are most guest-friendly. You should have no problems at all.”
“Great!” said Barley. “We’re only going to be gone for about an hour or so. We want to be back in time for lunch.”
“Fine.” Said Jim. “Just stay on the trails and don’t try and gallop the horses – I don’t think you could anyway. They like to mosey along and smell the roses, if you know what I mean.”
“Sounds perfect.” Winnie said.
After a little confusion at the start with communicating the right signals to Buttercup and Bluebell they were on their way down the trail.
They had been gone for about half an hour and were about a thousand feet higher than the Inn and on a single-track trail when Barley noticed quite a few jays around them. He actually heard them first which made him take notice of them.
“Hey, Winkster! Does it seem like there are more birds up here than down by the Inn?”
“Yeah, I was just starting to notice that, too. I thought it was my imagination that I was hearing a lot of these jays. Why don’t you toss them a peanut or two?” Winnie said.
So Barley fished the bag of peanuts out of his day pack and tossed 3 or 4 out onto the trail in front of Bluebell, the horse he was riding. The birds swooped in from several directions. One came swooping in from behind Bluebell’s head and just brushed her ear. Bluebell gave a startled little jump, which caused Barley to grab for the saddle horn spilling his bag of peanuts directly under the horse. The sudden rush of dozens of squawking and fluttering jays directly under Bluebell’s belly was more than she could stand. The birds were in a feeding frenzy, fighting each other over every peanut, raising quite a commotion and a cloud of dust. They were fluttering into her belly and flying between her legs and in and out of her tail. It only took a few seconds of that before Bluebell panicked and bolted at a gallop down the trail ahead in a wild, desperate attempt to escape. Barley was trying to reach the reins that he had dropped when he grabbed the saddle horn. He couldn’t stand up in the stirrups because his legs just barely reached them. His first sensation was that Bluebell seemed to be going up as he was coming down and the painful pounding he was experiencing convinced him he would never have children again, and if this kept up much longer, he might not have marital relations ever again, as well. Bluebell was in a panic. Ears flat and mane flying, it was all Barley could do to hang on. He tried to clench his jaw shut, but the terrible pounding he was receiving from the horse caused his mouth to open and shut painfully. He looked like a ventriloquist’s dummy chatting away on a runaway horse. Every time he and the horse collided and his teeth snapped shut, his vision went blurry. He could not even see the trail ahead, let alone focus on it the bouncing was so bad. Each pounding jarred his eyes to the point where he felt he was looking through Karo syrup. The only sensation that seemed to be working was his hearing and he didn’t trust that either. He could have sworn someone was singing opera out there. Later, Winnie told him she started screaming when she saw Bluebell rear up and tear off down the trail with Barley on the back hanging on for dear life. Barley was on the edge of tears and wondering how long this was going to last when Bluebell took one final, desperate leap and then came to a sudden stop launching Barley over her head into a berry bush. With the weight off her back and the birds gone, Bluebell started to settle down into her old, composed self and occupied herself with nibbling the berries. Barley extricated himself from the thorny berry bush just as Winnie came up crying and practically in shock. He must have looked a sight. He had cuts and scratches everywhere. His shirt was torn and bloody from the abuse he had received. He got up to walk over to Bluebell and was acutely aware of another pain the pounding in the saddle had caused. Winnie helped him back on Bluebell.
“Winkth, I can’t wide back. Thith ith too painful. Bluebellth hath gibben me bluebalth.”
“What are you saying? I can barely understand you!” Winnie looked at him with amazement.
“I bid my dung, thweetumth, theberal timeth in all that damb bounthing awound!”
He would have to walk back to the Inn. Taking Bluebell by the reins he and Winnie slowly made their way back to the stables, stopping frequently to rest and drink from their water bottles, occasionally dabbing away the blood from the deeper cuts.
Jim saw them coming and ran out to meet them.
“What in the world happened to you?” Jim exclaimed. “Is anything broken? Do you need a doctor?”
“No, I juth fell indoo a bewwy bush. I’ll be okay wunth I get back to my woom.” Barley said. Jim gave Barley a long and searching look, wondering if he had been boozing it up out on the trail.
“Well, hop in my jeep and I’ll drive you folks back to the Inn.” Jim told him.
“Thankth.”
When they got back to their room Barley took a warm bath and soaked his sore parts for awhile. Winnie took the ice bucket down the hall and filled it so Barley could put some ice in his mouth to relieve his swollen tongue. It felt wonderful to be back to the safety of their room and clean again. They both took a long nap before dressing and going down to the restaurant for dinner. That night Barley had an extra White Russian and Winnie had a second glass of Merlot.
“How’s your tongue feel, love?” Winnie asked.
“Much better, thanks. That ice really helped the swelling go down. It just hurts like hell.
Tomorrow” Barley said “we go canoeing. No more jackhammer horses. We’ll just float on the lake and maybe do a little fishing.”
“Sounds good to me. What could possibly happen out on a lake?” Winnie chuckled.
Saturday morning found them both up early and famished for breakfast. Apparently the activities of the day before had sharpened their appetites. On their way down to the lake Barley again stopped in the mini-market and stocked up with sandwiches, soft drinks, some candy, chips, pretzels, string cheese, beef jerky and a couple bags of peanuts.
“WHAT! More peanuts! Are those for the birds? Haven’t you had enough yet?” Winnie practically shrieked.
“Hey, relax, Winkareeno. It wasn’t the bird’s fault yesterday. It was that skittish horse.”
“Right. Come on. Let’s go fishing.”
Sharon, the boat lady, was very friendly and full of local knowledge. She was glad to rent them the canoe and enough fishing gear to keep Barley and Winnie both happy for hours. She gave them an extra net bag so they could keep their drinks cold by hanging them over the side of the canoe.
Winnie got in the canoe first and steadied herself in the bow. Barley climbed in aft and started rowing them in the direction of a cove Sharon said was a good one to fish from. It was about a mile from the boat rental place. Barley had also not rowed a canoe in a long time and it took several hundred yards of rowing before he sorted it out and was able to row in a more or less straight line. Winnie lolled in the bow resting her head on a cushion and breathing in deeply the clean, pine scented air. This was more like it.
After three quarters of an hour of rowing they arrived at the cove Sharon had told them about. They were the only ones there. The cove was no more than a quarter of a mile wide and surrounded with pines right down to the water. They positioned themselves close to the middle of the cove and Barley started to get the fishing gear together and bait the hooks with worms.
“Barley, this was a good idea! I’m starting to relax and forget about yesterday already. How about you?” Winnie asked.
“Yesterday? Did we have a yesterday?” Barley asked. “Haven’t given it a thought, la belle Winks.”
Barley gave Winnie her prepared fishing pole and she cast the hook out. Barley got his and cast his hook on the other side of the canoe. Then they both got out their books, propped themselves up on cushions and got on with the serious business of fishing.
After an hour they had still not caught anything. The fish here were very clever at removing the worms from the hooks without injury or loss of freedom to themselves. Barley was feeling peckish so he broke out the snacks and sandwiches he brought along.
While they were having lunch Barley would occasionally tear off small pieces of bread from his sandwich and toss them into the water and watch the fish come up to the surface and feed. Turning around he saw that Winnie was dozing away in the bow of the canoe and above her head watching his every move was a single jay perched on the top curve of the canoe’s bow. Barley tossed a piece of bread to the jay which the bird completely ignored. He remembered the peanuts so fished one of the bags out of his day pack and tossed a peanut out into the water. Well, the jay liked that and was able to scoop the peanut out of the water without getting wet. It flew off towards the shore, either to eat the peanut in peace or to bury it. No sooner had the one jay left than a second one appeared on the bow of the canoe. Barley tossed another peanut into the water and at the same time heard a third jay land on the canoe’s stern behind him. Turning around to feed the newest visitor he noticed 4 or 5 more jays heading towards him from the shore. He immediately flashed back to the previous day’s fiasco with birds but figured nothing could happen out on a calm lake. After all, whoever heard of a skittish canoe? He had things under control, tossing the occasional peanut out in the water and then watching several birds go for it. The lucky one would snatch the peanut out of the water and then head for shore squawking its head off. It wasn’t long before most of the jays in the neighborhood could see what was going on out there on the lake. Meanwhile, the canoe was drifting closer to the shore. The squawking of the jays and the flapping sounds eventually woke Winnifer up. Seeing all those bluejays flying around the canoe and Barley throwing peanuts left and right made her relive the day before, too. She shot up into a sitting position immediately yelling “BARLEY! What are you doing?!” Barley was just leaning over to the port side throwing a peanut out when Winnie’s sudden yell and movement to sit up quickly started the canoe to lean over rapidly. Barley thought the canoe was going to capsize and quickly grabbed the opposite rail with both hands. That sudden lunge spilled one half pound of peanuts into the bottom of the canoe. The jays did not miss a thing. Suddenly a dozen or more jays were dive bombing the canoe in a swift attempt to get the peanuts. Barley started swatting at the birds and Winnifer started yelling and trying to stop the canoe from its sudden side to side motion. Unfortunately, they both happen to lunge to the same side of the canoe at the same time and before they could stop it, the canoe went over. Fishing poles, drinks, food, bait, everything they brought out with them for the day went over the side as the canoe capsized. Fortunately they had drifted to within one hundred yards of the shore so were able to swim towards it without much trouble. They had only gone 50 yards or so when they could feel the bottom and walk the rest of the way.
“Win, go on into the shore. I’ll go back and get the canoe and whatever’s floating and bring it in.” Barley told her.
Barley turned around, walked out to where the bottom gave way, swam to the canoe, collected the oars and his daypack, put them in the canoe, and pulled it in towards the shore. He knew trying to climb back into the canoe would be useless.
Once on shore they sat down on a fallen log and caught their breath. Looking around they were surprised to find that they were being watched by dozens of bluejays, all of them making a horrible racket.
After they got their breath, they got in the canoe and paddled their way back to the boat house.
“Barley?”
“Yes, dear?”
“I’m wet, cold, I’ve lost my book which now I won’t be able to finish, will probably come down with pneumonia and, in general, am having a memorable anniversary weekend. You know, the kind you tell your grandchildren, if I get out of prison in time to see my grandchildren AFTER I KILL YOU!!!”
“Well, Winklets, I really don’t see how you can possibly blame me for all this! You’re the one that shot up in the boat like an Atlas rocket taking off, first one way, then another. There I was trying to save your life, and you, trying to feed me to the sharks. Don’t you know to sit still in the center of a boat?”
It was a long, uncomfortable trip back to the boat house.
When they got there, it was all Sharon could do to not laugh, let alone smile.
“Well, what happened to you two?” She asked trying to suppress a chuckle.
“I suppose you could call it a difference of opinion in boat management.” Winnie said.
“No Way! It was killer birds! I was…I mean, we were attacked! We’re lucky to be alive! They were blue raptors! Big leathery, vicious, hawk billed raptors. Hundreds, no! thousands of them. We didn’t have a chance!” Barley barked. Winnie gave him a quick look. She recognized his ‘hysteria on the horizon’ building up in him. If she did not nip it in the bud quickly, it wouldn’t be long before he launched himself and somehow manage to involve everyone in a one mile radius in God knows what. You couldn’t tell with Barley. It was different each time. Usually, nothing harmful, just eccentric behavior that eventually needed to be explained to some authority figure.
“Come on, Barley, let’s get back to our room, take a hot bath, build a fire and have a hot buttered rum. Come on, let’s hurry before we do catch pneumonia.” Winnie pleaded.
Barley stopped winding himself up and looked at Winnifer. It was a few seconds before the nostrils stopped flaring, breathing returned to something approaching normal, and that unidentifiable, peculiar look left his eyes.
“Right! Let’s go.”
“Shall I put the lost items on the same charge card as the canoe rental?” Sharon asked.
“The what?” Barley said giving her a quizzical look.
“Well, the fishing poles, reels, net sacks, bait bags, you know, all the stuff you took with you this morning which you came back without.”
“Oh, yeah. Yeah, I guess so. We lost it somewhere in the cove.” Barley was starting to think this whole weekend was beginning to get a little more expensive than he originally thought. And he was beginning to think of taking up bird hunting when he got home. Horses, birds, canoes, how much more nature could he take. Oh well, tomorrow was Sunday and they would be headed home…home sweet home.
That evening, after a long hot soak in the tub and an even longer nap, they went down to the bar to have a cocktail before dinner.
“This…this unusual weekend is not exactly what I had in mind when I thought we would get away for a quiet, romantic weekend.” Barley started off.
“Yes, I know, Barley. It has had some unusual moments. You know, though, on the whole, it has been memorable. I wish I had been able to get some pictures of you yesterday on the runaway horse. And some of you banging on the window in the room breaking it, and some of you swatting at those birds in the canoe.”
“It’s just as well you didn’t, I suppose.” Barley sighed.
They could not help overhearing a conversation between two older couples that had just sat down at the next table.
“Damndest thing.” the one older gentleman was saying to the others. “Stephie and I checked in last Monday and for the first few days it was very peaceful, very quiet, here. Almost too peaceful. And then Thursday evening we started to notice…well, we actually heard it first, birds gathering outside. Not just one or two, like you usually see, but dozens and dozens. Probably more birds that night then we had seen or heard since our arrival. It was verified the next day on our nature hike. I asked the guide about it and he said he noticed it, too. “Just look around you now.” He said and sure enough there were twice as many birds as we had seen all week. And today there are even more birds. I’d say that we were on some migratory flight path except all these birds are jays..bluejays and stellars. Quite remarkable. Here, see for yourself. Look out there on the deck. There, on the railing and flying around. And listen to that racket! I think jays have one of the most unpleasant calls in all of birdom. Let’s go out and have a closer look.”
With that the two couples got up and went out onto the deck to watch the gathering birds.
“Well, Barley, maybe the birds have heard of your generosity with peanuts and they are looking for you!”
“Crikey, Winkums. Give me a break. They’re just stupid birds looking for a free meal. You know how they are. Look, I’ve got another bag or two left in my daypack from today’s, ahem, adventure. I’ll toss them out in the field tomorrow before we take off. They’re welcome to them.”
Sunday morning came and with it a pretty loud squawking sound from outside the windows to their room. The sun was shining brightly and it was starting to warm up.
“Winks, would you turn on the overhead fan and get some air moving in here? Thanks.”
Winnifer turned the overhead ceiling on high and went back to finish dressing in the bathroom. Barley peered out over the blankets towards the window where he could hear the birds making their raucous noise. Several were perched outside the window on the sill looking in at him and at the table by the window where he had spread the wet peanuts from his daypack out to dry. He threw a towel at the window hoping to frighten them off but without success. He looked around for something else he could throw. His shaving kit was on the nightstand next to the bed and from it he pulled his plastic traveling soap holder.
“Maybe if I hit the wall with this it’ll scare ‘em off.” He thought.
He gave the soap holder a toss, not too hard, but hard enough to make a good bang on the wall. Mid-trajectory the soap holder opened. Barley thought it looked like a flying oyster opening its shell and spitting out its precious cargo, but in reality, it was a nearly new bar of Irish Fling soap. Very big and very heavy. The plastic holder fell to the floor while the bar of soap continued on its trajectory to and then through the lower left window pane.
The tinkling of broken glass brought Winnie rushing out of the bathroom.
“What the…!” she exclaimed.
There was more yelling coming from outside the window, down near the front entrance to the inn.
Barley leapt out of bed and crawling on his hands and knees so as not to be seen, approached the window. He had to get into a squatting position in order to see over the window ledge to the scene unfolding below. A red faced, middle aged, stoutly built man with a bald head was holding up the bar of soap, yelling and pointing to Barley’s broken window. Mr. Glibby, the General Manager of the inn, was racing down the front steps to see what was going on. Barley is to be forgiven for being distracted by all the commotion going on below and therefore not see the first two jays power dive through the window to get at the peanuts on the table behind him passing within inches of his head. He was caught completely off guard. He let out a whoop and his arms shot skyward, probably in a sign of surrender, but the birds did not know that. From his squatting position he started traveling backwards rapidly. He was trying to regain his balance but it turned into a cross between a backwards duckwalk and a leap that brought him into contact with the table and the peanuts. They both went down with a crash, Barley rolling around on the floor and the peanuts pretty much staying where they landed.
By now the third and fourth jays were coming in through the broken window. Barley jumped up and started waiving the birds off trying to keep them from coming in.
“BARLEY! DO SOMETHING!!” Winnifer was screaming.
He ran to the bed and grabbed the first thing he could put his hands on that might work as a cape to shoo the birds back out the window and keep any more from coming in. He ran back towards the window waving it frantically over his head.
“NOT MY SWEATER! BARLEY! NOT MY BLACK CASHMERE SWEAT…” Winnie did not quite get to finish her sentence. Her volume and commanding tone arrested Barley’s attention. When he turned to look at her in mid swing he was holding on to one of the sleeves of her sweater. The other sleeve was suddenly being held by the overhead fan, which Winnifer had turned on high at Barley’s request. It was a matter of seconds before the fan had made about ninety-eight revolutions wrapping Winnifer’s expensive, yet delicate, black cashmere sweater around the hub. By the time Barley felt the tugging on his arm, all the slack the sweater had to offer had been taken up. Barley, in his surprise, looked up in time to see two things happen simultaneously: one of the four fan blades break off and the plaster holding the fan to the ceiling give way. Now the fan was making a horrible gronking noise as it started to wobble back and forth. A few more revolutions and the plaster gave way and the fan dropped three feet to the end of its wire, cocked itself at a 30 degree angle and wobbled violently back and forth. Barley was beginning to wonder who was becoming more unbalanced, he or the broken fan.
The broken, now detached, fan blade, thanks to centrifugal force, arced out across the room taking one of the antique water pitchers next to the bed with it on its journey to the floor. Barley let go of the worthless sleeve now and returned to the front lines by the broken window where more jays were coming in. Overhead, the fan was wobbling more and more, and hanging down by its cord swinging wildly in the middle of the room but still rotating the best it could. The next thing Barley was aware of was a thwacking sound followed by a thump and sometimes a thwacking, a thump and a crash of something. Looking around he went nearly rigid when he saw that the sound was being caused by jays flying into the broken, yet still oscillating, fan and being swatted, like golf balls at a driving range, to various points of the room. Thwack, thump, crash, there went a bird into the mirror on the wall next to the armoire. Thwack, thump, there went one into a bare spot on the wall. Thwack, thump, crash, there goes one into the painting over the fireplace. Next to go was the reading lamp on the bedside table. “Good Lord!” he thought. He had to keep these birds out before they completely wrecked the place. Racing back to the window he started waving his hands at the birds again.
“WINKERS! Turn off the fan! Turn off the fan!” he started yelling frantically.
Winnifer ran to the light switch panel by the door and started furiously flipping switches up and down. Lights were going on and off all over the place. Floodlights, table lights (those that were left), in fact, every light in the room could be controlled by that one panel but not the fan, it was controlled by a chain hanging from the hub. Barley was getting desperate. He wasn’t used to this kind of stress. It was at that moment that Mr. Glibby, having recently come from placating the first of Barley’s victims, reached their floor and was rushing down the hall. He could see what looked like a lightning storm going on in the offending room. The first thing he saw after striding through the open door was Winnifer hunched over the light switches maniacally flipping switches with a curiously detached look in her eye. The light show was very disconcerting and gave him a little pause. Had Mr. Glibby been watching where he was going instead of distracted by Winnifer’s strange performance, he would have had the pleasure of seeing Barley put the finishing touches on a particularly athletic reverse spinning backhand in amongst the birds. Instead, he felt the sharp pain of walking directly into it, receiving the full force of the blow, breaking the third metacarpal bone of Barley’s right hand and his, Mr. Glibby’s, one and only nose. Fortunately for Mr. Glibby, (or not) the blow sent him reeling backwards at great speed, arms wind milling, directly into the armoire where the back of his head crashed into the heavy glass mirror on the door breaking both mirror and door of the armoire and bringing Mr. Glibby heavily down to his knees in a limp heap where, falling face first, he received his third and final blow. Mr. Glibby, mercifully now feeling no pain, was down and out for the count.
“Well, Winks, I hear the ambulance. It’ll be here shortly. Why don’t you pack up our stuff, check out, give them whatever contact information they need from us and pick me up at the emergency room down in the town. I imagine it’s going to be one hell of a bill with all the antiques and whatnots added to it.” Barley and Winnifer were sitting in the lobby of the Winunktahassett Inn. Barley’s right hand was swollen and turning black and blue. Mr. Glibby was still up in the room. It was felt that it was best not to move him as much as possible. Leave that to the ambulance personnel.
Winnifer had retrieved her cashmere sweater and put it on to see if it still fit. Other than having sleeves hanging10 inches below her hands and a diagonal cant to it, it didn’t look that bad. She would probably garden in it during those cool months ahead.
“Well, Winkums, all in all it wasn’t a bad weekend. It could have been worse…somehow. You know, it’s been a great 15 years being married to you and I want you to know how much I love you. How much I love you and the kids. I’m just glad they weren’t here to see all this. It would be all over town and every kid in your school would know about it by day’s end. It wouldn’t do to let children know that teachers are human too. So there is something to be grateful for.”
“And I love you too, my BarleyWarleyPooh.” Winnie said putting her arms around his neck, letting her sleeves hang halfway down his back.
They heard the ambulance arrive in front of the inn. Winnifer walked Barley out to it, holding his left hand in her cashmere covered right. They both stood off to the side as the gurney carrying Mr. Glibby was wheeled out and down the steps, a little too roughly, Barley thought, poor guy, and into the waiting ambulance. Barley and Winnifer kissed one last time before Barley headed for the paramedic to be helped in to sit next to Mr. Glibby. The paramedic, a young man in this early thirties, asked “What happened here, mister?”
“Birds, my friend, would you believe it? Birds.” was Barley’s quiet reply.
“ That’s probably why this place is called Winunktahassett Inn.” said the paramedic.
“What do you mean?” Barley asked.
“Winunktahassett is an ancient word from the local Indian tribe. It means ‘Birds on Warpath’.” Barley turned to look at Winnifer. She was standing at the foot of the stairs at the entrance to the inn, waving goodbye with what looked like a little black flag. Their eyes met and nothing had to be said. As he turned to climb into the ambulance, Barley heard one last chorus of raucous squawking and felt something soft land in his hair. Ah well, insult to injury, he thought philosophically
By
P.L. Ellars
Barley was pretty excited on his drive home from work that day. He had finally decided on where to take Winnifer for their 15th wedding anniversary and he couldn’t wait to get home and tell her. The last time they had gone off together was before the children were born and the kids were now 8, 10 and 12.
“Hi lovey lips, I’m home.” Barley said as he came in through the kitchen door.
“Hey you, what’s up? You seem to be in pretty good spirits. Get a raise or something?” Winnifer asked when she saw him.
“No, I did not get a raise but I did get next Thursday and Friday off and have made reservations for us to go away for a long weekend to celebrate our anniversary next week.”
“But what about the kids? Are they going too?” Winnifer wanted to know.
“No way, Winnie. It’s just you and me, a book, some well earned silence and…and…and…”
“And who is going to watch the kids?” Winnie asked.
“Well, we’ll ask Granma and your sister to watch them. The kids love them and we’ll be gone only four days. They can come and stay at our house or we can drop the kids off at Granma’s house on our way.”
“On our way where?” Winnie asked with the slightest tinge of anxiety in her voice. She had known Barley long enough to know that some of his surprises were more surprising than others. In fact, some turned out to be shockers that on one memorable occasion had the distinction of including a visit by the police with a free ride in a squad car for Barley. Nothing serious, and after some questions he was allowed to go home.
“Listen, snugglebumps, I hear, very faintly but clearly, that little bit of anxiousness that appears in your voice every so often when I have a flash of brilliance. It is like your voice tightens up a little and goes up about 1/10th of an octave. I know something about you, you know!” he exclaimed, not really surprised at his wife’s concern.
“OK, then, where are we going for this idyllic, peaceful four days of rest and relaxation that I admit sounds like heaven?” Winnie queried.
“One of the guys at work was telling me about this place he and his wife went to up in the Sierra Nevadas that was absolutely breathtaking. It’s called Winunktahasset Inn. It’s at about 4,000 feel elevation, clear skies, clean air, mountain streams, hiking trails, horseback riding, archery, canoeing on the lake, 4 star restaurant, pool, fireplace in the room, and not very crowded. It used to be a stage rest stop and hotel right after the Civil War and has operated as an inn since. It oozes charm from every board and the place is crawling with nature. It’s oozing. It’s crawling. You’ll love it.” He realized that he was starting to sound like the Inn’s website, but, what the heck, from the pictures he saw it looked like just the place they could relax and unwind.
“OK, OK, sign me up! I’m ready.” Winnie said excitedly. “A long weekend of room service, drinks with little umbrellas, I’ve got a great book going and to be able to read it in a comfy chaise lounge and nature all around with no distractions does sound good.”
“Great!” Barley was excited too. He knew that these vacations were too few and far between for them. They both worked hard and were good parents and he was hoping they could actually get away as planned without feeling pangs of guilt for the pleasure they were expecting to immerse themselves in.
Thursday morning arrived and they were off. It took Barley a little over three hours the night before to eliminate all the evidence of children and clean out the minivan they were going to use to drive up to Winunktahassett Inn.
Barley and Winnie were acting like children themselves again. They hadn’t done this in so long that it felt a little strange at first knowing that they were selfishly running away to enjoy some time alone without their beloved children. The pangs of guilt kept gnawing away until finally Barley pulled the minivan over at a rest stop and said: “Listen, Win, we have to make a pact and agree that we are GOING TO HAVE FUN this weekend and not feel guilty about taking this time for ourselves. Otherwise there will be these three little clouds over our heads all weekend. Okay? Can we do this?” His eyes were larger than normal and Winnie could see the “edge of strain” starting to descend on Barley. He was normally pretty stable but could wind himself up tighter than an idiot’s watch if left to himself and those internal “conversations” as he called them. Stress affects people in different ways and Barley was definitely no exception. It was his stress induced spiral windup that got him that little ride with the police a few years back.
“No problem, Kemosabe.” Winnie replied. “I can definitely do it – can you?”
“Why, yes. Yes I can.” he said in this curious, almost theatrically calm voice.
“Good. Then, let’s get going. We should get there in time to check in and have a cocktail in the bar before the evening festivities.” Winnie offered.
“Excellent!” Barley yelped in his best imitation voice of Meistrich from the movie ‘Imposters’.
Winnie started to relax at hearing that. She knew from past experience that when Barley started quoting lines and impersonating characters from their favorite movies he was starting to unwind and have fun.
It was shortly after 3pm when they arrived at the front door of the Winunktahassett Inn. It was a charming place. It reminded them both of the old Stanley Hotel, used in the movie ‘The Shining’ with their favorite whacko Jack Nicholson. Not a large and pretentious building but one that was solid and comfortable and stood out with its freshly painted white clapboards against the rich, dark green forest surrounding the area.
After checking in, they were introduced to Mr. Glibby, the General Manager of Winunktahassett Inn who welcomed them and hoped their stay would be all they imagined it would be and if there was anything he could…blah blah waffle waffle. Barley’s eyes started to glaze over. The porter helped them to carry their luggage up to their room on the second floor.
“Doesn’t Mr. Glibby look like the spitting image of Franklin Pangborn to you, Winkums?” Barley asked Winnie on the way up to their room.
“Who?”
“Franklin Pangborn, you know, that unctuous character actor from the old 30’s and 40’s movies. He even has some of Pangborn’s mannerisms. Central Casting at the Winnunktahassett Inn certainly got their General Manager right!” Barley said.
The room was at the front of the inn just off to the left side from the main entrance. It commanded an incredible view of the Winunktahassett Valley floor below and they could watch the other guests come and go through the front entry way from either of the two windows. The room was decorated completely in antiques.
“Barley, look at this! I don’t think there is anything, other than the bed of course, and the ceiling fan, that is newer than World War Two in here. Just look at these antiques!” Winnie was jumping up and down over the furnishings. Their home was, by necessity, childproofed. Their house was tastefully furnished but it definitely had the look of active, healthy children living there so that if anything broke (an inevitability) you did not feel like crying over it. To be here in a room filled with such antiques was, for Winnie, like staying in a museum. She was thrilled and even threatened to not leave the room for the entire four days. Barley, on the other hand, was less enthusiastic.
“Yeah, yeah, very nice. Just be careful and don’t break anything. Probably cost a small fortune to replace any of it.” was Barley’s romantic answer.
“OK, Winkers, what say we mosey on down to the bar and wash some of the road dust down with a little aperitif or two before dinner? We are, after all, on vacation.” Barley said heading for the door.
The bar was one that exuded old West elegance. The original dark mahogany bar gleamed from 140 years of being lovingly oiled and polished. The walls had various western paintings and the occasional animal head for decoration.
As it was mid-summer, it would not be dark until nearly 9pm that night and the temperature was still comfortably warm. They decided to have their drinks out on the terrace just off the bar through the wide French doors. They chose the corner table near the front of the inn so they could watch the sun as it slowly lowered itself in the sky and bathe the valley below in what they like to call “the pink hour”. The railing around the terrace was wide enough to act as a ledge to set your drink on as you leaned on the rail gazing at the view.
The waiter came and took their order.
“I’ll have a glass of Merlot, please.” Winnie said to the waiter. “And I’ll have a White Russian!” Barley said, probably just a little too loudly. The waiter took their order and left. Barley was starting to have fun. Looking around he noticed some Western scrub jays watching them from the rail. He remembered seeing bowls of peanuts on the tables inside the bar and went inside and took one from an empty table.
“I wonder if these guys will eat these peanuts out of my hand like the ones we feed at home?” Barley mused holding out a peanut to the nearest jay. The jay looked straight at Barley and then cocked his head first on one side and then on the other. He would not come closer than 2 or 3 feet so Barley ended up tossing the peanut to the jay and exclaim “Stupid bird!” The jay grabbed the peanut and took off towards the ground with the idea to bury it. As soon as the first bird took off another one took his place waiting for his peanut. He too, would get no closer than 2 or 3 feet so Barley, feeling a little peeved, tossed him a peanut, too. More jays saw what was going on on the deck and they swooped down to get their share. First it was scrub jays and then Stellar jays. It did not take more than 5 minutes to empty that bowl of peanuts. Barley was in the process of feeding the last peanut to a particularly aggressive Stellar jay when the waiter came out to see it they wanted more drinks.
“Please, sir, we would rather you did not feed the birds. That’s why we don’t put peanuts out on the deck tables. These birds tend to get aggressive and we have to chase them off.” the waiter said.
“Oh, sorry, I didn’t know. We have them at home and I get them to eat out of my hand.” Barley told the waiter. “I’ll have another White Russian, please.” Barley said to the waiter. “How about you, honeychunks?”
“No, thanks, I still have half a glass.”
They finished their drinks and headed back to their room. Passing through the bar Barley quietly grabbed a handful of peanuts from one of the tables when he thought no one was looking.
Back in their room they unpacked and relaxed a little before going down to dinner. Barley stood at the window and, glowing with White Russians, enjoyed the panoramic vista that spread out before him.
The birds were still pretty active. In fact, they were getting pretty noisy out there. Probably out having their own dinner before settling down for the night. Barley remembered the peanuts he took from the bar and fishing them out of his pocket he set them down on a small table near the window. He tried opening the window with the idea of tossing a few to his feathered friends. The window was stuck and would not open. He felt like it wanted to open, it just needed some encouragement. Using the palm of his hand he banged on the top part of the lower frame of the window. He thought he felt it move a little. He also thought he heard that cracking sound a window makes when it breaks free. He banged it again with his palm. It’s starting to move he thought to himself. He gave it a tug and then a harder bang.
“Almost got it.” he said to himself. He gave it an even harder bang and this time the glazing around the glass crumbled away and the pane fell out, just scratching the edge of his bare foot, giving it a small cut.
“Oh, Great!” he yelled. “Damn birds. This is all their fault! Honey, do you still carry bandaids in your purse?”
“Yeah, why?” Winnie yelled back from the bathroom where she was getting ready for dinner.
“I’ve cut myself and need one.” Barley giggled. He was going over in his mind what had happened and, probably the two White Russians had a part in it, thought how utterly stupid the whole scene must have looked. While waiting for Winnie to bring the bandaid he looked back at the window to see how much damage had been done. There, sitting on the wooden frame that once held a window pane was perched a jay. It was just sitting there eyeing him and looking around the room. It’s eye stopped when it came to the peanuts on the table by the window. The jay looked at Barley, and then at the peanuts, and then back at Barley. Barley just stared at the bird. He did not want to move otherwise he would drip blood all over the place. This was getting funnier and funnier to Barley and he started giggling again when Winnie arrived with the bandaids.
“Here, let me look at your foot. How on earth did you do that and what are you giggling about?” Winnie asked. “Well, it’s nothing serious. Just a tiny scratch. A little rubbing alcohol and the bandaid should do it.” It was then that she noticed the missing window pane and the jay perched there surveying the peanuts on the table. Before either of them could move the jay had swooped down and snatched a peanut and was out the window.
“Good Grief.” Winnie sighed. “Come on, Barley. Let’s get you patched up.”
“Here, I can do this, Winklets. Why don’t you call the consommé and have them…”
“Concierge.” Winnie said quietly.
“What?” said Barley.
“Concierge. You said consommé and I’m sure you meant concierge.”
“I’m sure I used the right word, Miss Winktionary!” Barley quipped. “Anyway, call that soupy Franklin Pangborn looking guy and tell them we heard a loud thump and when we came in the room, the window pane was on the floor. Tell them it was probably a bird or something. I’ll finish my foot.”
Winnifer called the front desk and yes, they would send up a maintenance man right away.
Dinner was a long drawn out pleasure. They could not remember the last time they were able to spend time over a meal like they had that night.
When they returned to their room the window had been fixed and there was a note on the small table. It read: ‘Window fixed. Found several jays stealing peanuts from this table when I came in. I was able to scare them off but they made a mess, which I also cleaned up. I guess a bird did knock this window out. Sorry for the inconvenience. Both windows should now open. Maintenance.’
The next morning was Friday and they decided to go horseback riding after breakfast. The weather was in the high 70’s and the sun was shining brightly. A perfect day to be out-of-doors. On their way to the stables Barley stopped in at the mini-mart to get some bottled water, snacks and he also found a bag of peanuts he thought he’d take along in his day pack to feed the birds.
It was a little after 10 am when they arrived at the stables.
Jim, the manager of the stables, was very helpful after Barley told him it had been a long time since he and Winnie had ridden a horse. Jim said “No Problem. We get lots of guests that haven’t been on a horse in a long time. I’ll give you Buttercup and Bluebell, our two horses that are most guest-friendly. You should have no problems at all.”
“Great!” said Barley. “We’re only going to be gone for about an hour or so. We want to be back in time for lunch.”
“Fine.” Said Jim. “Just stay on the trails and don’t try and gallop the horses – I don’t think you could anyway. They like to mosey along and smell the roses, if you know what I mean.”
“Sounds perfect.” Winnie said.
After a little confusion at the start with communicating the right signals to Buttercup and Bluebell they were on their way down the trail.
They had been gone for about half an hour and were about a thousand feet higher than the Inn and on a single-track trail when Barley noticed quite a few jays around them. He actually heard them first which made him take notice of them.
“Hey, Winkster! Does it seem like there are more birds up here than down by the Inn?”
“Yeah, I was just starting to notice that, too. I thought it was my imagination that I was hearing a lot of these jays. Why don’t you toss them a peanut or two?” Winnie said.
So Barley fished the bag of peanuts out of his day pack and tossed 3 or 4 out onto the trail in front of Bluebell, the horse he was riding. The birds swooped in from several directions. One came swooping in from behind Bluebell’s head and just brushed her ear. Bluebell gave a startled little jump, which caused Barley to grab for the saddle horn spilling his bag of peanuts directly under the horse. The sudden rush of dozens of squawking and fluttering jays directly under Bluebell’s belly was more than she could stand. The birds were in a feeding frenzy, fighting each other over every peanut, raising quite a commotion and a cloud of dust. They were fluttering into her belly and flying between her legs and in and out of her tail. It only took a few seconds of that before Bluebell panicked and bolted at a gallop down the trail ahead in a wild, desperate attempt to escape. Barley was trying to reach the reins that he had dropped when he grabbed the saddle horn. He couldn’t stand up in the stirrups because his legs just barely reached them. His first sensation was that Bluebell seemed to be going up as he was coming down and the painful pounding he was experiencing convinced him he would never have children again, and if this kept up much longer, he might not have marital relations ever again, as well. Bluebell was in a panic. Ears flat and mane flying, it was all Barley could do to hang on. He tried to clench his jaw shut, but the terrible pounding he was receiving from the horse caused his mouth to open and shut painfully. He looked like a ventriloquist’s dummy chatting away on a runaway horse. Every time he and the horse collided and his teeth snapped shut, his vision went blurry. He could not even see the trail ahead, let alone focus on it the bouncing was so bad. Each pounding jarred his eyes to the point where he felt he was looking through Karo syrup. The only sensation that seemed to be working was his hearing and he didn’t trust that either. He could have sworn someone was singing opera out there. Later, Winnie told him she started screaming when she saw Bluebell rear up and tear off down the trail with Barley on the back hanging on for dear life. Barley was on the edge of tears and wondering how long this was going to last when Bluebell took one final, desperate leap and then came to a sudden stop launching Barley over her head into a berry bush. With the weight off her back and the birds gone, Bluebell started to settle down into her old, composed self and occupied herself with nibbling the berries. Barley extricated himself from the thorny berry bush just as Winnie came up crying and practically in shock. He must have looked a sight. He had cuts and scratches everywhere. His shirt was torn and bloody from the abuse he had received. He got up to walk over to Bluebell and was acutely aware of another pain the pounding in the saddle had caused. Winnie helped him back on Bluebell.
“Winkth, I can’t wide back. Thith ith too painful. Bluebellth hath gibben me bluebalth.”
“What are you saying? I can barely understand you!” Winnie looked at him with amazement.
“I bid my dung, thweetumth, theberal timeth in all that damb bounthing awound!”
He would have to walk back to the Inn. Taking Bluebell by the reins he and Winnie slowly made their way back to the stables, stopping frequently to rest and drink from their water bottles, occasionally dabbing away the blood from the deeper cuts.
Jim saw them coming and ran out to meet them.
“What in the world happened to you?” Jim exclaimed. “Is anything broken? Do you need a doctor?”
“No, I juth fell indoo a bewwy bush. I’ll be okay wunth I get back to my woom.” Barley said. Jim gave Barley a long and searching look, wondering if he had been boozing it up out on the trail.
“Well, hop in my jeep and I’ll drive you folks back to the Inn.” Jim told him.
“Thankth.”
When they got back to their room Barley took a warm bath and soaked his sore parts for awhile. Winnie took the ice bucket down the hall and filled it so Barley could put some ice in his mouth to relieve his swollen tongue. It felt wonderful to be back to the safety of their room and clean again. They both took a long nap before dressing and going down to the restaurant for dinner. That night Barley had an extra White Russian and Winnie had a second glass of Merlot.
“How’s your tongue feel, love?” Winnie asked.
“Much better, thanks. That ice really helped the swelling go down. It just hurts like hell.
Tomorrow” Barley said “we go canoeing. No more jackhammer horses. We’ll just float on the lake and maybe do a little fishing.”
“Sounds good to me. What could possibly happen out on a lake?” Winnie chuckled.
Saturday morning found them both up early and famished for breakfast. Apparently the activities of the day before had sharpened their appetites. On their way down to the lake Barley again stopped in the mini-market and stocked up with sandwiches, soft drinks, some candy, chips, pretzels, string cheese, beef jerky and a couple bags of peanuts.
“WHAT! More peanuts! Are those for the birds? Haven’t you had enough yet?” Winnie practically shrieked.
“Hey, relax, Winkareeno. It wasn’t the bird’s fault yesterday. It was that skittish horse.”
“Right. Come on. Let’s go fishing.”
Sharon, the boat lady, was very friendly and full of local knowledge. She was glad to rent them the canoe and enough fishing gear to keep Barley and Winnie both happy for hours. She gave them an extra net bag so they could keep their drinks cold by hanging them over the side of the canoe.
Winnie got in the canoe first and steadied herself in the bow. Barley climbed in aft and started rowing them in the direction of a cove Sharon said was a good one to fish from. It was about a mile from the boat rental place. Barley had also not rowed a canoe in a long time and it took several hundred yards of rowing before he sorted it out and was able to row in a more or less straight line. Winnie lolled in the bow resting her head on a cushion and breathing in deeply the clean, pine scented air. This was more like it.
After three quarters of an hour of rowing they arrived at the cove Sharon had told them about. They were the only ones there. The cove was no more than a quarter of a mile wide and surrounded with pines right down to the water. They positioned themselves close to the middle of the cove and Barley started to get the fishing gear together and bait the hooks with worms.
“Barley, this was a good idea! I’m starting to relax and forget about yesterday already. How about you?” Winnie asked.
“Yesterday? Did we have a yesterday?” Barley asked. “Haven’t given it a thought, la belle Winks.”
Barley gave Winnie her prepared fishing pole and she cast the hook out. Barley got his and cast his hook on the other side of the canoe. Then they both got out their books, propped themselves up on cushions and got on with the serious business of fishing.
After an hour they had still not caught anything. The fish here were very clever at removing the worms from the hooks without injury or loss of freedom to themselves. Barley was feeling peckish so he broke out the snacks and sandwiches he brought along.
While they were having lunch Barley would occasionally tear off small pieces of bread from his sandwich and toss them into the water and watch the fish come up to the surface and feed. Turning around he saw that Winnie was dozing away in the bow of the canoe and above her head watching his every move was a single jay perched on the top curve of the canoe’s bow. Barley tossed a piece of bread to the jay which the bird completely ignored. He remembered the peanuts so fished one of the bags out of his day pack and tossed a peanut out into the water. Well, the jay liked that and was able to scoop the peanut out of the water without getting wet. It flew off towards the shore, either to eat the peanut in peace or to bury it. No sooner had the one jay left than a second one appeared on the bow of the canoe. Barley tossed another peanut into the water and at the same time heard a third jay land on the canoe’s stern behind him. Turning around to feed the newest visitor he noticed 4 or 5 more jays heading towards him from the shore. He immediately flashed back to the previous day’s fiasco with birds but figured nothing could happen out on a calm lake. After all, whoever heard of a skittish canoe? He had things under control, tossing the occasional peanut out in the water and then watching several birds go for it. The lucky one would snatch the peanut out of the water and then head for shore squawking its head off. It wasn’t long before most of the jays in the neighborhood could see what was going on out there on the lake. Meanwhile, the canoe was drifting closer to the shore. The squawking of the jays and the flapping sounds eventually woke Winnifer up. Seeing all those bluejays flying around the canoe and Barley throwing peanuts left and right made her relive the day before, too. She shot up into a sitting position immediately yelling “BARLEY! What are you doing?!” Barley was just leaning over to the port side throwing a peanut out when Winnie’s sudden yell and movement to sit up quickly started the canoe to lean over rapidly. Barley thought the canoe was going to capsize and quickly grabbed the opposite rail with both hands. That sudden lunge spilled one half pound of peanuts into the bottom of the canoe. The jays did not miss a thing. Suddenly a dozen or more jays were dive bombing the canoe in a swift attempt to get the peanuts. Barley started swatting at the birds and Winnifer started yelling and trying to stop the canoe from its sudden side to side motion. Unfortunately, they both happen to lunge to the same side of the canoe at the same time and before they could stop it, the canoe went over. Fishing poles, drinks, food, bait, everything they brought out with them for the day went over the side as the canoe capsized. Fortunately they had drifted to within one hundred yards of the shore so were able to swim towards it without much trouble. They had only gone 50 yards or so when they could feel the bottom and walk the rest of the way.
“Win, go on into the shore. I’ll go back and get the canoe and whatever’s floating and bring it in.” Barley told her.
Barley turned around, walked out to where the bottom gave way, swam to the canoe, collected the oars and his daypack, put them in the canoe, and pulled it in towards the shore. He knew trying to climb back into the canoe would be useless.
Once on shore they sat down on a fallen log and caught their breath. Looking around they were surprised to find that they were being watched by dozens of bluejays, all of them making a horrible racket.
After they got their breath, they got in the canoe and paddled their way back to the boat house.
“Barley?”
“Yes, dear?”
“I’m wet, cold, I’ve lost my book which now I won’t be able to finish, will probably come down with pneumonia and, in general, am having a memorable anniversary weekend. You know, the kind you tell your grandchildren, if I get out of prison in time to see my grandchildren AFTER I KILL YOU!!!”
“Well, Winklets, I really don’t see how you can possibly blame me for all this! You’re the one that shot up in the boat like an Atlas rocket taking off, first one way, then another. There I was trying to save your life, and you, trying to feed me to the sharks. Don’t you know to sit still in the center of a boat?”
It was a long, uncomfortable trip back to the boat house.
When they got there, it was all Sharon could do to not laugh, let alone smile.
“Well, what happened to you two?” She asked trying to suppress a chuckle.
“I suppose you could call it a difference of opinion in boat management.” Winnie said.
“No Way! It was killer birds! I was…I mean, we were attacked! We’re lucky to be alive! They were blue raptors! Big leathery, vicious, hawk billed raptors. Hundreds, no! thousands of them. We didn’t have a chance!” Barley barked. Winnie gave him a quick look. She recognized his ‘hysteria on the horizon’ building up in him. If she did not nip it in the bud quickly, it wouldn’t be long before he launched himself and somehow manage to involve everyone in a one mile radius in God knows what. You couldn’t tell with Barley. It was different each time. Usually, nothing harmful, just eccentric behavior that eventually needed to be explained to some authority figure.
“Come on, Barley, let’s get back to our room, take a hot bath, build a fire and have a hot buttered rum. Come on, let’s hurry before we do catch pneumonia.” Winnie pleaded.
Barley stopped winding himself up and looked at Winnifer. It was a few seconds before the nostrils stopped flaring, breathing returned to something approaching normal, and that unidentifiable, peculiar look left his eyes.
“Right! Let’s go.”
“Shall I put the lost items on the same charge card as the canoe rental?” Sharon asked.
“The what?” Barley said giving her a quizzical look.
“Well, the fishing poles, reels, net sacks, bait bags, you know, all the stuff you took with you this morning which you came back without.”
“Oh, yeah. Yeah, I guess so. We lost it somewhere in the cove.” Barley was starting to think this whole weekend was beginning to get a little more expensive than he originally thought. And he was beginning to think of taking up bird hunting when he got home. Horses, birds, canoes, how much more nature could he take. Oh well, tomorrow was Sunday and they would be headed home…home sweet home.
That evening, after a long hot soak in the tub and an even longer nap, they went down to the bar to have a cocktail before dinner.
“This…this unusual weekend is not exactly what I had in mind when I thought we would get away for a quiet, romantic weekend.” Barley started off.
“Yes, I know, Barley. It has had some unusual moments. You know, though, on the whole, it has been memorable. I wish I had been able to get some pictures of you yesterday on the runaway horse. And some of you banging on the window in the room breaking it, and some of you swatting at those birds in the canoe.”
“It’s just as well you didn’t, I suppose.” Barley sighed.
They could not help overhearing a conversation between two older couples that had just sat down at the next table.
“Damndest thing.” the one older gentleman was saying to the others. “Stephie and I checked in last Monday and for the first few days it was very peaceful, very quiet, here. Almost too peaceful. And then Thursday evening we started to notice…well, we actually heard it first, birds gathering outside. Not just one or two, like you usually see, but dozens and dozens. Probably more birds that night then we had seen or heard since our arrival. It was verified the next day on our nature hike. I asked the guide about it and he said he noticed it, too. “Just look around you now.” He said and sure enough there were twice as many birds as we had seen all week. And today there are even more birds. I’d say that we were on some migratory flight path except all these birds are jays..bluejays and stellars. Quite remarkable. Here, see for yourself. Look out there on the deck. There, on the railing and flying around. And listen to that racket! I think jays have one of the most unpleasant calls in all of birdom. Let’s go out and have a closer look.”
With that the two couples got up and went out onto the deck to watch the gathering birds.
“Well, Barley, maybe the birds have heard of your generosity with peanuts and they are looking for you!”
“Crikey, Winkums. Give me a break. They’re just stupid birds looking for a free meal. You know how they are. Look, I’ve got another bag or two left in my daypack from today’s, ahem, adventure. I’ll toss them out in the field tomorrow before we take off. They’re welcome to them.”
Sunday morning came and with it a pretty loud squawking sound from outside the windows to their room. The sun was shining brightly and it was starting to warm up.
“Winks, would you turn on the overhead fan and get some air moving in here? Thanks.”
Winnifer turned the overhead ceiling on high and went back to finish dressing in the bathroom. Barley peered out over the blankets towards the window where he could hear the birds making their raucous noise. Several were perched outside the window on the sill looking in at him and at the table by the window where he had spread the wet peanuts from his daypack out to dry. He threw a towel at the window hoping to frighten them off but without success. He looked around for something else he could throw. His shaving kit was on the nightstand next to the bed and from it he pulled his plastic traveling soap holder.
“Maybe if I hit the wall with this it’ll scare ‘em off.” He thought.
He gave the soap holder a toss, not too hard, but hard enough to make a good bang on the wall. Mid-trajectory the soap holder opened. Barley thought it looked like a flying oyster opening its shell and spitting out its precious cargo, but in reality, it was a nearly new bar of Irish Fling soap. Very big and very heavy. The plastic holder fell to the floor while the bar of soap continued on its trajectory to and then through the lower left window pane.
The tinkling of broken glass brought Winnie rushing out of the bathroom.
“What the…!” she exclaimed.
There was more yelling coming from outside the window, down near the front entrance to the inn.
Barley leapt out of bed and crawling on his hands and knees so as not to be seen, approached the window. He had to get into a squatting position in order to see over the window ledge to the scene unfolding below. A red faced, middle aged, stoutly built man with a bald head was holding up the bar of soap, yelling and pointing to Barley’s broken window. Mr. Glibby, the General Manager of the inn, was racing down the front steps to see what was going on. Barley is to be forgiven for being distracted by all the commotion going on below and therefore not see the first two jays power dive through the window to get at the peanuts on the table behind him passing within inches of his head. He was caught completely off guard. He let out a whoop and his arms shot skyward, probably in a sign of surrender, but the birds did not know that. From his squatting position he started traveling backwards rapidly. He was trying to regain his balance but it turned into a cross between a backwards duckwalk and a leap that brought him into contact with the table and the peanuts. They both went down with a crash, Barley rolling around on the floor and the peanuts pretty much staying where they landed.
By now the third and fourth jays were coming in through the broken window. Barley jumped up and started waiving the birds off trying to keep them from coming in.
“BARLEY! DO SOMETHING!!” Winnifer was screaming.
He ran to the bed and grabbed the first thing he could put his hands on that might work as a cape to shoo the birds back out the window and keep any more from coming in. He ran back towards the window waving it frantically over his head.
“NOT MY SWEATER! BARLEY! NOT MY BLACK CASHMERE SWEAT…” Winnie did not quite get to finish her sentence. Her volume and commanding tone arrested Barley’s attention. When he turned to look at her in mid swing he was holding on to one of the sleeves of her sweater. The other sleeve was suddenly being held by the overhead fan, which Winnifer had turned on high at Barley’s request. It was a matter of seconds before the fan had made about ninety-eight revolutions wrapping Winnifer’s expensive, yet delicate, black cashmere sweater around the hub. By the time Barley felt the tugging on his arm, all the slack the sweater had to offer had been taken up. Barley, in his surprise, looked up in time to see two things happen simultaneously: one of the four fan blades break off and the plaster holding the fan to the ceiling give way. Now the fan was making a horrible gronking noise as it started to wobble back and forth. A few more revolutions and the plaster gave way and the fan dropped three feet to the end of its wire, cocked itself at a 30 degree angle and wobbled violently back and forth. Barley was beginning to wonder who was becoming more unbalanced, he or the broken fan.
The broken, now detached, fan blade, thanks to centrifugal force, arced out across the room taking one of the antique water pitchers next to the bed with it on its journey to the floor. Barley let go of the worthless sleeve now and returned to the front lines by the broken window where more jays were coming in. Overhead, the fan was wobbling more and more, and hanging down by its cord swinging wildly in the middle of the room but still rotating the best it could. The next thing Barley was aware of was a thwacking sound followed by a thump and sometimes a thwacking, a thump and a crash of something. Looking around he went nearly rigid when he saw that the sound was being caused by jays flying into the broken, yet still oscillating, fan and being swatted, like golf balls at a driving range, to various points of the room. Thwack, thump, crash, there went a bird into the mirror on the wall next to the armoire. Thwack, thump, there went one into a bare spot on the wall. Thwack, thump, crash, there goes one into the painting over the fireplace. Next to go was the reading lamp on the bedside table. “Good Lord!” he thought. He had to keep these birds out before they completely wrecked the place. Racing back to the window he started waving his hands at the birds again.
“WINKERS! Turn off the fan! Turn off the fan!” he started yelling frantically.
Winnifer ran to the light switch panel by the door and started furiously flipping switches up and down. Lights were going on and off all over the place. Floodlights, table lights (those that were left), in fact, every light in the room could be controlled by that one panel but not the fan, it was controlled by a chain hanging from the hub. Barley was getting desperate. He wasn’t used to this kind of stress. It was at that moment that Mr. Glibby, having recently come from placating the first of Barley’s victims, reached their floor and was rushing down the hall. He could see what looked like a lightning storm going on in the offending room. The first thing he saw after striding through the open door was Winnifer hunched over the light switches maniacally flipping switches with a curiously detached look in her eye. The light show was very disconcerting and gave him a little pause. Had Mr. Glibby been watching where he was going instead of distracted by Winnifer’s strange performance, he would have had the pleasure of seeing Barley put the finishing touches on a particularly athletic reverse spinning backhand in amongst the birds. Instead, he felt the sharp pain of walking directly into it, receiving the full force of the blow, breaking the third metacarpal bone of Barley’s right hand and his, Mr. Glibby’s, one and only nose. Fortunately for Mr. Glibby, (or not) the blow sent him reeling backwards at great speed, arms wind milling, directly into the armoire where the back of his head crashed into the heavy glass mirror on the door breaking both mirror and door of the armoire and bringing Mr. Glibby heavily down to his knees in a limp heap where, falling face first, he received his third and final blow. Mr. Glibby, mercifully now feeling no pain, was down and out for the count.
“Well, Winks, I hear the ambulance. It’ll be here shortly. Why don’t you pack up our stuff, check out, give them whatever contact information they need from us and pick me up at the emergency room down in the town. I imagine it’s going to be one hell of a bill with all the antiques and whatnots added to it.” Barley and Winnifer were sitting in the lobby of the Winunktahassett Inn. Barley’s right hand was swollen and turning black and blue. Mr. Glibby was still up in the room. It was felt that it was best not to move him as much as possible. Leave that to the ambulance personnel.
Winnifer had retrieved her cashmere sweater and put it on to see if it still fit. Other than having sleeves hanging10 inches below her hands and a diagonal cant to it, it didn’t look that bad. She would probably garden in it during those cool months ahead.
“Well, Winkums, all in all it wasn’t a bad weekend. It could have been worse…somehow. You know, it’s been a great 15 years being married to you and I want you to know how much I love you. How much I love you and the kids. I’m just glad they weren’t here to see all this. It would be all over town and every kid in your school would know about it by day’s end. It wouldn’t do to let children know that teachers are human too. So there is something to be grateful for.”
“And I love you too, my BarleyWarleyPooh.” Winnie said putting her arms around his neck, letting her sleeves hang halfway down his back.
They heard the ambulance arrive in front of the inn. Winnifer walked Barley out to it, holding his left hand in her cashmere covered right. They both stood off to the side as the gurney carrying Mr. Glibby was wheeled out and down the steps, a little too roughly, Barley thought, poor guy, and into the waiting ambulance. Barley and Winnifer kissed one last time before Barley headed for the paramedic to be helped in to sit next to Mr. Glibby. The paramedic, a young man in this early thirties, asked “What happened here, mister?”
“Birds, my friend, would you believe it? Birds.” was Barley’s quiet reply.
“ That’s probably why this place is called Winunktahassett Inn.” said the paramedic.
“What do you mean?” Barley asked.
“Winunktahassett is an ancient word from the local Indian tribe. It means ‘Birds on Warpath’.” Barley turned to look at Winnifer. She was standing at the foot of the stairs at the entrance to the inn, waving goodbye with what looked like a little black flag. Their eyes met and nothing had to be said. As he turned to climb into the ambulance, Barley heard one last chorus of raucous squawking and felt something soft land in his hair. Ah well, insult to injury, he thought philosophically
My Road
My Road
by
Paul Ellars
My road lies just on the edge of civilization. It’s a dirt road off a back road off a two-lane country road off a...well, you get the idea. I found it purely by accident. It was Halloween; I took the day off from work (being self-employed has some benefits), and thought I would go for a long, leisurely ride out in the country. It was mid-morning and no one else was on any of the roads but me. It was one of those rides where I had no place to go and all day to get there; I was just following my nose, bimbling along. My nose led me down smaller and more remote roads until I came upon this one: my road. I nearly rode right past it and had I been tearing along at my usual pace I would have gone right by it, never even seen it.
But I did see it and slowed even more and turned onto it to see where it went. As soon as I got on ‘my road’ I had to stop; it felt unlike any road I had been on before. It went on in a straight line off to the horizon under a canopy of trees with the sunlight filtering between the branches as a gentle breeze gave sound and motion to the leaves, and yet there was a strange feeling of stillness to this road. I looked as far down ‘my road’ as I could and there at the other end I could see the road disappear into a light mist. It reminded me of early morning mist I had seen over a lake or pond. I put my bike in first gear and moved ahead slowly. Off to the right the trees were sparse at first and then grew thicker so that by the time I had gone about a hundred yards the trees were dense enough not to be able to see through. To the left, a thin row of trees lined the road forming part of the canopy. Looking through these trees I saw open meadows, clear untended fields and low, rounded hills. The road itself was a mixture of light brown and rust-colored hard packed dirt.
I continued on, shifting the bike into second gear, enjoying the peace and tranquility of ‘my road’. This is one of my favorite ways to travel – a new road and experience and riding slow. In time I drew nearer to the mist and tried to look through the trees to see if there was a lake or something nearby that was causing the foggy condition but could not see anything. Fortunately, I heard the other motorcycle coming up from behind in time to pull over more to the right side of this narrow dirt road to give him room to pass. I first saw his big headlight in my left rearview mirror and wondered what kind of motorcycle it was. It did not sound like anything familiar to me. I maintained my speed of about 15 miles per hour and kept near the right shoulder and watched him as he passed. The rider passed going only a few miles an hour faster than me. He was decked out in a brown leather jacket, thick tan-colored corduroy trousers with lace-up brown leather boots that came up to his knees. He was wearing an old-style leather helmet, gauntlet gloves and large goggles. His motorcycle, which popped and clacked as it went by, looked like it was from the early 1900’s. It was long and narrow with a slab-sided dull green gas tank and large wheels. I started to laugh inside my own modern helmet; this guy was into the whole antique scene, complete with period clothing to match his old motorbike. I heard his engine revs climb as he sped past and it was then that it happened. I had to pull over and stop. It is said that smells are the most powerful stimulant to conjure up memories; I believe that to be a true statement. As he passed I was enveloped in the sweet smell of Castrol motor oil. I closed my eyes and was transported back to an earlier time, as a kid of 10, once again sitting behind Dad on his Norton, my arms wrapped tightly around his middle, feeling scared and happy as we flew down the road. I loved riding with him. A few years later he taught me to ride. He rode for as long as his health lasted. Opening my eyes again, I watched the old motorcycle disappear down the road into the mist ahead, the rider’s white scarf snapping like a flag in the wind.
I was so preoccupied with watching the guy on the antique motorcycle that I did not see or hear the other two motorcycles that came roaring up quickly from behind until they were practically on top of me. They were fast and loud, as if they were running straight pipes. The first one passed at 50 or 60 miles per hour at least. I paid more attention this time to the bike than the rider. All I saw of him was a slender figure in all black one-piece leathers wearing an old pudding-bowl helmet with leather flaps and goggles. I remember his bike though, all silver and black; I could hear each deep note the hammering piston made. That exciting sound was like the pounding heart of a young man and his first love. The man in black thundered past on his Manx Norton followed immediately by another rider wearing what looked like a brown military uniform complete with Sam Browne belt riding a Brough Superior. My first reaction was that they must be nuts riding hell-bent for leather over a dirt road like this. Those antiques bikes were worth a fortune and their owners were caning them pretty good. Both bikes roared past singing their basso profundo arias and disappeared into the mist ahead. I hope they don’t plow into the first rider that went into the mist. Out here it would be a long time before medical help could arrive.
I rode into the mist and felt the temperature drop; it wasn’t uncomfortable but it was cool enough to get your attention. I continued down the road for maybe a half mile or so, the mist starting to clear, when I saw a large group of motorcycles and riders in a field to the left and also in a large clearing in the trees to the right. Three more vintage motorcycles passed me, their riders each dressed in appropriate attire for his mount. This must be some kind of antique motorcycle rally I thought. I wonder why I haven’t read about it in the magazines or why no one in the group I ride with said anything about it.
As I rode closer a few of the riders turned to watch as I turned off the road into the clearing in the trees. I wanted to have a closer look at all of the fabulous machines.
I parked my motorcycle, which seemed strangely out of place here, on the edge of the clearing. Several of the riders were walking over towards me.
“Good morning, friend.” It was the rider on the Brough Superior wearing the military uniform that was speaking; he had taken his goggles and helmet off and was now wearing an officer’s hat.
“You have come a long way. What an unusual looking machine you have there. I’ve never seen anything quite like it. What is it?” he asked, watching me intently.
“Hayabusa. It’s a Hayabusa.” I replied. “They’ve been out quite a while now. They’re very popular.” I told him. I had a strange feeling talking to this man and it was causing me to answer him in a distracted, detached way. There was something unusual about him, about all of them. Then it struck me; it was the way they were looking at me with their eyes. Their eyes did not seem to have pupils and yet there was something moving there. Looking into their eyes was like looking through an endless void. It was the deep infinite space you see when you look up at the sky; I was looking into space that had no end. I was now near enough to the man in the brown military uniform to see that the movement in his eyes appeared to be clouds the color of silver and steel.
“My name’s Lawrence and you’re welcome to stay, if you like. We’re just having our annual get-together.” he said waving his arm towards the hundreds of riders gathered on both sides of the road.
“Your timing in coming down this particular road on this particular day, that is to say, Halloween, is spot-on, my friend.” he continued.
“Yes, I would like to stay, thank you. I’ve never seen so many antique and classic motorcycles together running and actually being ridden, especially by riders in period costumes. You and your friend passed me at a pretty good clip on my way in.” I told him.
“Yes, well, I like a spirited motorcycle!” he said and started to laugh.
“I take it, judging by your outfit, that you are supposed to be Col. T.E. Lawrence, you know, “Lawrence of Arabia”, and that must be your Brough Superior over there. I have to say, you look the part, it’s very authentic, just like photos I’ve seen of him.” I said. The silver and steel clouds flashed in his eyes and the corners of his mouth turned up in a smile.
“’Supposed to be’?” he said laughing. “My friend, I am Col. Thomas Edward Lawrence. . . or, as you say, “Lawrence of Arabia!” At that the group of riders behind him joined him in laughter.
“OK,” I thought to myself, “these guys really get into their characters. Well, why not?” My eyes looked over his shoulder to the group watching us from several feet away. Some of the faces looked so familiar, like friends I haven’t seen in a long time; I know I must have met some of them before, somewhere. It’s then that I recognized several faces. Can this be true? Can it possibly be what I am starting to feel it is? That would be impossible, but it has always been a rule with me not to confuse the unusual with the impossible. This was turning into an unusual day.
I looked over to a short man in black leathers with a white belt criss-crossing his torso in the shape of an X standing at the front of the group. He is watching me, smiling.
“Stanley Woods? Are you Stanley Woods?” I asked him.
His smiles widens and he walks over to me raising his right hand to shake mine and at the same time is lifting a paper sack in his left.
“Aye, I am Stanley Woods; a pleasure, sir. Would you care for a toffee?” he said offering the paper sack to me, the silver and steel clouds dancing in his eyes. I reach in and take a couple of the candies, unwrap one, put it in my mouth and put the other one in my jacket pocket.
“Well,” he said, “if you’ll excuse me, I need to go and find Joey Dunlop and finish convincing “Yer Maun” that the fastest way around a course is by not spinning your rear tire! I nearly had him convinced last year. Enjoy your day with us, friend. Perhaps we’ll see you again next year, eh? Cheers.” He shook my hand again and strode off.
I wander around looking at all the different riders and their bikes. This is absolutely incredible. I’ve often felt that man’s spirit never dies; that life and death are two sides of the same coin and that coin is always here, somewhere. That our ‘spirit’ goes on after life has left the body. Maybe once we pass over we exist in some form on a different plane and occasionally, like on Halloween maybe, for a short while, those separate planes somehow align themselves together and, like turning a polarizing lens, you suddenly see what is always there on the other plane. I don’t know. I have more questions than answers, but, if that is the case, then today, this day, this Halloween Day, on this small, out of the way dirt road on the edge of civilization, I have chanced upon what must be the annual reunion of the spirits of motorcyclists who have passed on. They have gotten together to ride the motorcycles they will be forever linked with and to talk and visit after death has come for them. For this one-day, they and their motorcycles can meet again and share the ‘spirit’ of motorcycling, a truly unusual, yet not impossible, day.
I wander over to where I recognize several long low streamlined motorcycles and several naked ones. There next to them is Ernst Henne, Eric Furnihough, Cal Rayborn, Don Vesco, Rollie Free and Burt Munro deep in conversation, retelling their record runs complete with hand gestures of weaving at speeds and other horrifying near misses.
Over there is Mike Hailwood talking to Barry Sheene, who is wearing a Fred Gassit T-shirt. Walter Villa, Tazio Nuvolari on his 1924 Norton, and Rem Fowler; the list goes on and on and each one there smiling and laughing with his famous bike nearby.
I wander around watching the faces of riders and looking at motorcycles I’ve read about in Dad’s old magazines and books since I was eight-years old. George Wyman and “Cannonball” Baker comparing cross-country routes.
More and more motorcycles are coming down the dirt road out of the mist from both directions to join their fellow spirits. Soon there are thousands of famous motorcycles and their legendary riders. Steve McQueen, still looking like the King of Cool, and Bud Ekins arrive on a pair of Triumph desert sleds.
I spend the rest of the day and evening walking around standing on the edge near groups and listen in on their conversations. No one seems to mind my presence there. The dead are very tolerant.
I was getting thirsty and remembered the water bottle and a handful of power bars I keep in my tank bag when I go off on my daylong bimbles. I go back and get them and that becomes dinner for me that night for it has gotten dark. Campfires are being made and the spirits of long and not-so-long gone motorcyclist stand around until late in the evening talking. I probably should head home but I can’t tear myself away from them. I continue to walk from the clearing in the trees to the open field across the road looking at all sorts of famous motorcycles and their legendary riders.
It is going on midnight and I am getting tired and sleepy. I want to sit down and lean against a tree for a quick nap but I feel that if I go to sleep I will miss something. Exhaustion finally wins and I sit down under an old oak and doze off.
When I awake I can see that dawn will be here soon. I check my watch and see that it is 4AM. There are still hundreds of spirits still gathered although a lot of them are suiting up, preparing to leave. I watch as they depart in two’s and three’s down the road and disappear into the mist. All I can do is stand next to my bike and watch, still not really able to believe what I am seeing, of what I have been part of for the last 18 hours or so. As I am watching the spirits ride away I hear a familiar voice behind me.
“Hello, Larry.” Well nobody calls me Larry but my family. It’s what I was called as a kid growing up. I turn around and, sitting there on his old Norton, is my Dad, just as I remember him looking long ago.
“Dad!” I am shocked and for a moment speechless. We had grown apart towards the end due to hurt feelings and resentments. Then one day I got the call. He had just dropped dead from a heart attack. No lingering. No goodbye. Just gone. We weren’t speaking to each other very much by then so I never got to thank him for the things in my life he taught me that were, and still are, very important to me.
“It’s good to see you again.” he said.
“Dad, I don’t know exactly what all this is,” I said waving my arm around indicating all the riders and their motorcycles “or why I’m here suddenly talking to you after you’ve been gone seven years but I’m not going to lose the chance now to tell you thanks. Thanks for all the good things you did for me, something I should have told you when you were alive.”
The silver and steel clouds in his eyes remained motionless.
“I know, Larry, but you did thank me, not in words, but I saw it in the road you chose to follow. You have the same passion for motorcycles that I had, and still have.” he said, indicating the Norton he was sitting on. I looked down at the bike. After he died, I inherited the old bike. It should be sitting covered at home in my garage right now, but here it was, or at least the spirit of it was here.
“Well, Larry, it’s time to be going. Come on, I’ll ride down the road with you a ways.” he said as he went through the motions of preparing to start the beast.
“But, Dad, I want to talk more with you. There’s a lot I never got to say and now it seems like the time is over before it even got started.”
“Larry, you can talk to me anytime, anyplace. All you have to do is start talking. I’m here. I’ll hear everything you have to say to me.” he replied, the silver and steel clouds flickering.
“But how will you answer me?”
“Larry, if you don’t know how I would respond to what you say by now, then you need to go back and think about me and remember me the way I was. You know what I would say. Try it. We’ll always be connected.”
He kicked at the Norton and it fired up on the third try. I started my bike and put my jacket, gloves and helmet on as it warmed up. He put the old Norton in first and headed for the road and the mist. I followed him, my mind racing, still not sure what was happening around me. Other riders were leaving as well. There was hardly anyone left. I rode behind my Dad, following him down this road into the mist, as it got thicker. Then I saw him raise his left hand and wave goodbye as he gassed the old Norton. I heard its deep rumble and watched as its taillight disappears.
I got home about an hour later. My mind still not sure what it had experienced. A dream? Perhaps a hallucination? I had no answers. I put on the coffeepot and went out to the garage and uncovered Dad’s old Norton. There it was, in all its physical reality. I kept glancing over at it as I gathered up my riding gear and started to put it away. Must have been dreaming under that oak tree. None of this could possibly have happened. No way. I’m 59 years old, I don’t believe in ghosts. Probably an over excited imagination because it’s Halloween and I was tired. I opened up my tank bag and took out the water bottles, power bars, empty wrappers and my cell phone. Before hanging up my jacket I checked the pockets. I felt something small and hard, and pulling it out I looked at my hand and there was a piece of candy, an individually wrapped piece of Toffee.
If you should decide to go for a ride on your bike this coming Halloween and you come across a small, out-of-the way road somewhere on the edge of civilization, live a little and take it. If it is anything like ‘my road’, you may not know where it goes, but you just might find out from where you have come. I’m thankful I have chosen the road I’m on
by
Paul Ellars
My road lies just on the edge of civilization. It’s a dirt road off a back road off a two-lane country road off a...well, you get the idea. I found it purely by accident. It was Halloween; I took the day off from work (being self-employed has some benefits), and thought I would go for a long, leisurely ride out in the country. It was mid-morning and no one else was on any of the roads but me. It was one of those rides where I had no place to go and all day to get there; I was just following my nose, bimbling along. My nose led me down smaller and more remote roads until I came upon this one: my road. I nearly rode right past it and had I been tearing along at my usual pace I would have gone right by it, never even seen it.
But I did see it and slowed even more and turned onto it to see where it went. As soon as I got on ‘my road’ I had to stop; it felt unlike any road I had been on before. It went on in a straight line off to the horizon under a canopy of trees with the sunlight filtering between the branches as a gentle breeze gave sound and motion to the leaves, and yet there was a strange feeling of stillness to this road. I looked as far down ‘my road’ as I could and there at the other end I could see the road disappear into a light mist. It reminded me of early morning mist I had seen over a lake or pond. I put my bike in first gear and moved ahead slowly. Off to the right the trees were sparse at first and then grew thicker so that by the time I had gone about a hundred yards the trees were dense enough not to be able to see through. To the left, a thin row of trees lined the road forming part of the canopy. Looking through these trees I saw open meadows, clear untended fields and low, rounded hills. The road itself was a mixture of light brown and rust-colored hard packed dirt.
I continued on, shifting the bike into second gear, enjoying the peace and tranquility of ‘my road’. This is one of my favorite ways to travel – a new road and experience and riding slow. In time I drew nearer to the mist and tried to look through the trees to see if there was a lake or something nearby that was causing the foggy condition but could not see anything. Fortunately, I heard the other motorcycle coming up from behind in time to pull over more to the right side of this narrow dirt road to give him room to pass. I first saw his big headlight in my left rearview mirror and wondered what kind of motorcycle it was. It did not sound like anything familiar to me. I maintained my speed of about 15 miles per hour and kept near the right shoulder and watched him as he passed. The rider passed going only a few miles an hour faster than me. He was decked out in a brown leather jacket, thick tan-colored corduroy trousers with lace-up brown leather boots that came up to his knees. He was wearing an old-style leather helmet, gauntlet gloves and large goggles. His motorcycle, which popped and clacked as it went by, looked like it was from the early 1900’s. It was long and narrow with a slab-sided dull green gas tank and large wheels. I started to laugh inside my own modern helmet; this guy was into the whole antique scene, complete with period clothing to match his old motorbike. I heard his engine revs climb as he sped past and it was then that it happened. I had to pull over and stop. It is said that smells are the most powerful stimulant to conjure up memories; I believe that to be a true statement. As he passed I was enveloped in the sweet smell of Castrol motor oil. I closed my eyes and was transported back to an earlier time, as a kid of 10, once again sitting behind Dad on his Norton, my arms wrapped tightly around his middle, feeling scared and happy as we flew down the road. I loved riding with him. A few years later he taught me to ride. He rode for as long as his health lasted. Opening my eyes again, I watched the old motorcycle disappear down the road into the mist ahead, the rider’s white scarf snapping like a flag in the wind.
I was so preoccupied with watching the guy on the antique motorcycle that I did not see or hear the other two motorcycles that came roaring up quickly from behind until they were practically on top of me. They were fast and loud, as if they were running straight pipes. The first one passed at 50 or 60 miles per hour at least. I paid more attention this time to the bike than the rider. All I saw of him was a slender figure in all black one-piece leathers wearing an old pudding-bowl helmet with leather flaps and goggles. I remember his bike though, all silver and black; I could hear each deep note the hammering piston made. That exciting sound was like the pounding heart of a young man and his first love. The man in black thundered past on his Manx Norton followed immediately by another rider wearing what looked like a brown military uniform complete with Sam Browne belt riding a Brough Superior. My first reaction was that they must be nuts riding hell-bent for leather over a dirt road like this. Those antiques bikes were worth a fortune and their owners were caning them pretty good. Both bikes roared past singing their basso profundo arias and disappeared into the mist ahead. I hope they don’t plow into the first rider that went into the mist. Out here it would be a long time before medical help could arrive.
I rode into the mist and felt the temperature drop; it wasn’t uncomfortable but it was cool enough to get your attention. I continued down the road for maybe a half mile or so, the mist starting to clear, when I saw a large group of motorcycles and riders in a field to the left and also in a large clearing in the trees to the right. Three more vintage motorcycles passed me, their riders each dressed in appropriate attire for his mount. This must be some kind of antique motorcycle rally I thought. I wonder why I haven’t read about it in the magazines or why no one in the group I ride with said anything about it.
As I rode closer a few of the riders turned to watch as I turned off the road into the clearing in the trees. I wanted to have a closer look at all of the fabulous machines.
I parked my motorcycle, which seemed strangely out of place here, on the edge of the clearing. Several of the riders were walking over towards me.
“Good morning, friend.” It was the rider on the Brough Superior wearing the military uniform that was speaking; he had taken his goggles and helmet off and was now wearing an officer’s hat.
“You have come a long way. What an unusual looking machine you have there. I’ve never seen anything quite like it. What is it?” he asked, watching me intently.
“Hayabusa. It’s a Hayabusa.” I replied. “They’ve been out quite a while now. They’re very popular.” I told him. I had a strange feeling talking to this man and it was causing me to answer him in a distracted, detached way. There was something unusual about him, about all of them. Then it struck me; it was the way they were looking at me with their eyes. Their eyes did not seem to have pupils and yet there was something moving there. Looking into their eyes was like looking through an endless void. It was the deep infinite space you see when you look up at the sky; I was looking into space that had no end. I was now near enough to the man in the brown military uniform to see that the movement in his eyes appeared to be clouds the color of silver and steel.
“My name’s Lawrence and you’re welcome to stay, if you like. We’re just having our annual get-together.” he said waving his arm towards the hundreds of riders gathered on both sides of the road.
“Your timing in coming down this particular road on this particular day, that is to say, Halloween, is spot-on, my friend.” he continued.
“Yes, I would like to stay, thank you. I’ve never seen so many antique and classic motorcycles together running and actually being ridden, especially by riders in period costumes. You and your friend passed me at a pretty good clip on my way in.” I told him.
“Yes, well, I like a spirited motorcycle!” he said and started to laugh.
“I take it, judging by your outfit, that you are supposed to be Col. T.E. Lawrence, you know, “Lawrence of Arabia”, and that must be your Brough Superior over there. I have to say, you look the part, it’s very authentic, just like photos I’ve seen of him.” I said. The silver and steel clouds flashed in his eyes and the corners of his mouth turned up in a smile.
“’Supposed to be’?” he said laughing. “My friend, I am Col. Thomas Edward Lawrence. . . or, as you say, “Lawrence of Arabia!” At that the group of riders behind him joined him in laughter.
“OK,” I thought to myself, “these guys really get into their characters. Well, why not?” My eyes looked over his shoulder to the group watching us from several feet away. Some of the faces looked so familiar, like friends I haven’t seen in a long time; I know I must have met some of them before, somewhere. It’s then that I recognized several faces. Can this be true? Can it possibly be what I am starting to feel it is? That would be impossible, but it has always been a rule with me not to confuse the unusual with the impossible. This was turning into an unusual day.
I looked over to a short man in black leathers with a white belt criss-crossing his torso in the shape of an X standing at the front of the group. He is watching me, smiling.
“Stanley Woods? Are you Stanley Woods?” I asked him.
His smiles widens and he walks over to me raising his right hand to shake mine and at the same time is lifting a paper sack in his left.
“Aye, I am Stanley Woods; a pleasure, sir. Would you care for a toffee?” he said offering the paper sack to me, the silver and steel clouds dancing in his eyes. I reach in and take a couple of the candies, unwrap one, put it in my mouth and put the other one in my jacket pocket.
“Well,” he said, “if you’ll excuse me, I need to go and find Joey Dunlop and finish convincing “Yer Maun” that the fastest way around a course is by not spinning your rear tire! I nearly had him convinced last year. Enjoy your day with us, friend. Perhaps we’ll see you again next year, eh? Cheers.” He shook my hand again and strode off.
I wander around looking at all the different riders and their bikes. This is absolutely incredible. I’ve often felt that man’s spirit never dies; that life and death are two sides of the same coin and that coin is always here, somewhere. That our ‘spirit’ goes on after life has left the body. Maybe once we pass over we exist in some form on a different plane and occasionally, like on Halloween maybe, for a short while, those separate planes somehow align themselves together and, like turning a polarizing lens, you suddenly see what is always there on the other plane. I don’t know. I have more questions than answers, but, if that is the case, then today, this day, this Halloween Day, on this small, out of the way dirt road on the edge of civilization, I have chanced upon what must be the annual reunion of the spirits of motorcyclists who have passed on. They have gotten together to ride the motorcycles they will be forever linked with and to talk and visit after death has come for them. For this one-day, they and their motorcycles can meet again and share the ‘spirit’ of motorcycling, a truly unusual, yet not impossible, day.
I wander over to where I recognize several long low streamlined motorcycles and several naked ones. There next to them is Ernst Henne, Eric Furnihough, Cal Rayborn, Don Vesco, Rollie Free and Burt Munro deep in conversation, retelling their record runs complete with hand gestures of weaving at speeds and other horrifying near misses.
Over there is Mike Hailwood talking to Barry Sheene, who is wearing a Fred Gassit T-shirt. Walter Villa, Tazio Nuvolari on his 1924 Norton, and Rem Fowler; the list goes on and on and each one there smiling and laughing with his famous bike nearby.
I wander around watching the faces of riders and looking at motorcycles I’ve read about in Dad’s old magazines and books since I was eight-years old. George Wyman and “Cannonball” Baker comparing cross-country routes.
More and more motorcycles are coming down the dirt road out of the mist from both directions to join their fellow spirits. Soon there are thousands of famous motorcycles and their legendary riders. Steve McQueen, still looking like the King of Cool, and Bud Ekins arrive on a pair of Triumph desert sleds.
I spend the rest of the day and evening walking around standing on the edge near groups and listen in on their conversations. No one seems to mind my presence there. The dead are very tolerant.
I was getting thirsty and remembered the water bottle and a handful of power bars I keep in my tank bag when I go off on my daylong bimbles. I go back and get them and that becomes dinner for me that night for it has gotten dark. Campfires are being made and the spirits of long and not-so-long gone motorcyclist stand around until late in the evening talking. I probably should head home but I can’t tear myself away from them. I continue to walk from the clearing in the trees to the open field across the road looking at all sorts of famous motorcycles and their legendary riders.
It is going on midnight and I am getting tired and sleepy. I want to sit down and lean against a tree for a quick nap but I feel that if I go to sleep I will miss something. Exhaustion finally wins and I sit down under an old oak and doze off.
When I awake I can see that dawn will be here soon. I check my watch and see that it is 4AM. There are still hundreds of spirits still gathered although a lot of them are suiting up, preparing to leave. I watch as they depart in two’s and three’s down the road and disappear into the mist. All I can do is stand next to my bike and watch, still not really able to believe what I am seeing, of what I have been part of for the last 18 hours or so. As I am watching the spirits ride away I hear a familiar voice behind me.
“Hello, Larry.” Well nobody calls me Larry but my family. It’s what I was called as a kid growing up. I turn around and, sitting there on his old Norton, is my Dad, just as I remember him looking long ago.
“Dad!” I am shocked and for a moment speechless. We had grown apart towards the end due to hurt feelings and resentments. Then one day I got the call. He had just dropped dead from a heart attack. No lingering. No goodbye. Just gone. We weren’t speaking to each other very much by then so I never got to thank him for the things in my life he taught me that were, and still are, very important to me.
“It’s good to see you again.” he said.
“Dad, I don’t know exactly what all this is,” I said waving my arm around indicating all the riders and their motorcycles “or why I’m here suddenly talking to you after you’ve been gone seven years but I’m not going to lose the chance now to tell you thanks. Thanks for all the good things you did for me, something I should have told you when you were alive.”
The silver and steel clouds in his eyes remained motionless.
“I know, Larry, but you did thank me, not in words, but I saw it in the road you chose to follow. You have the same passion for motorcycles that I had, and still have.” he said, indicating the Norton he was sitting on. I looked down at the bike. After he died, I inherited the old bike. It should be sitting covered at home in my garage right now, but here it was, or at least the spirit of it was here.
“Well, Larry, it’s time to be going. Come on, I’ll ride down the road with you a ways.” he said as he went through the motions of preparing to start the beast.
“But, Dad, I want to talk more with you. There’s a lot I never got to say and now it seems like the time is over before it even got started.”
“Larry, you can talk to me anytime, anyplace. All you have to do is start talking. I’m here. I’ll hear everything you have to say to me.” he replied, the silver and steel clouds flickering.
“But how will you answer me?”
“Larry, if you don’t know how I would respond to what you say by now, then you need to go back and think about me and remember me the way I was. You know what I would say. Try it. We’ll always be connected.”
He kicked at the Norton and it fired up on the third try. I started my bike and put my jacket, gloves and helmet on as it warmed up. He put the old Norton in first and headed for the road and the mist. I followed him, my mind racing, still not sure what was happening around me. Other riders were leaving as well. There was hardly anyone left. I rode behind my Dad, following him down this road into the mist, as it got thicker. Then I saw him raise his left hand and wave goodbye as he gassed the old Norton. I heard its deep rumble and watched as its taillight disappears.
I got home about an hour later. My mind still not sure what it had experienced. A dream? Perhaps a hallucination? I had no answers. I put on the coffeepot and went out to the garage and uncovered Dad’s old Norton. There it was, in all its physical reality. I kept glancing over at it as I gathered up my riding gear and started to put it away. Must have been dreaming under that oak tree. None of this could possibly have happened. No way. I’m 59 years old, I don’t believe in ghosts. Probably an over excited imagination because it’s Halloween and I was tired. I opened up my tank bag and took out the water bottles, power bars, empty wrappers and my cell phone. Before hanging up my jacket I checked the pockets. I felt something small and hard, and pulling it out I looked at my hand and there was a piece of candy, an individually wrapped piece of Toffee.
If you should decide to go for a ride on your bike this coming Halloween and you come across a small, out-of-the way road somewhere on the edge of civilization, live a little and take it. If it is anything like ‘my road’, you may not know where it goes, but you just might find out from where you have come. I’m thankful I have chosen the road I’m on
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