by Walter Witty
“Here,” Mrs. Robbins words drifted to us through the late August air, “is your beer, darling. Want a roast pork sandwich?”
“Yeah,” answered the fat man. “Thanks.”
“After that,” said Mrs. Robbins pleasantly, “I’ll fix you some short ribs with potatoes and gravy. Won’t that be nice?”
“You’re. . .feeling all right, are you, Alice?”
“Sure, sure. Never better. Let’s stop our arguing.”
My heart sank, weighted down by her words. Why was she smiling at him? Didn’t make sense.
Ernie started whining then, and reached for my periscope. ”Shhhhhh,” I hissed, and slapped his hand.
The Cyclist lolled his head in our direction. His face was. . . I don’t know how to put it. . . pasty-looking. Like spaghetti that’s been overcooked. I held my periscope rock-steady thinking he’d spot it. But he didn’t.
“So what’s the tub a’ lard doin now?” Pete said after a minute, very bored.
“Shhhhh. Just drinking a beer. Wait. Here she comes again!”
While Jonny tugged at my sleeve I stared at what pretty Mrs. Robbins was carrying to her husband.
I let Pete have a peek. ”Well, that’s just. . . unnatural,” Pete said, mildly intrigued.
“Isn’t it, though,” I said, watching her peel off another can from the six pack she carried. Then I added, “unless. . .” I paused a moment, trying to think up something good so Pete would stay. I remembered what Dad said about the Cyclist going to the hospital after he tried to ride his bike at the park one Saturday. A couple of maintenance men found him sprawled out next to the ball field, clutching his chest. So trying to sound important, I whispered, ”Listen, I heard this psychologist say some men marry just to have someone clean up after them like they were used to growing up. He said exercise is what you watch other people doing on the tube, along with fast food commercials. Well, just suppose Mrs. Robbins decided she doesn’t want to watch her life go down the crapper like everyone she knows. What does she do? Maybe just what she’s always done. Only somewhere along the way, she’s crossed that thin line.”
“What thin line?”
“Like the man said, the one between love and hate. Suppose she’s decided subconsciously to pamper him to death. Like some cholesterol sludge in his veins breaks off, jams something up, an’ he just. . .”
“Dies?”
We stared at my periscope for the longest time as I turned it round and round nervously in the half light under faint stars. It was getting dark in a hurry.
A cricket chirped.
The weeping willow wept.
Over the fence, a very fat see-foodie sat in a circle of television light like a swallowing machine, a human disposal. Behind him, against the garage, was what was once a beautiful Italian-framed racing bike, its Campagnolo pantographed components now crusted, its spokes rusted from neglect and rain.
Still, Peter Fibbs was not impressed.
“You’re crazy,” he said. ”You need school.”
“But Mrs. Robbins isn’t screaming anymore,” I insisted, defensively. ”And here she is, pumping him big as a blimp, bringing him God knows what for dessert. What would you think?”
“I’d say they made up,” Pete said. ”And so would anyone else.”
“But that’s exactly my point!”
“Give it up, Wally.” He sighed. ”You been watching too many episodes of The Family Guy.”
“Oh sure,” I said, dully. ”That’s it, sure.”
Just then, the screen door opened on our house. Mom leaned out. ”Time for supper!” she called.
“See you tomorrow, Stewie,” Pete said, his back to me already.
I watched him mount his Schwinn and glide out and down the street without pedaling, with all the time in the world. Peter Fibbs. Sometimes I wonder why I bothered. Where was his sense of adventure, anyway? How did I rate such a dullard for a friend in the first place? And with a dad who sold life insurance, no less.
After Pete was gone I tugged Jonny’s hand and, reluctantly, we went in to eat.
In the dining room Dad sat, drinking coffee. Meanwhile Mom was serving dinner: veal cutlets and mash potatoes.
“Dad?” I said.
“Yes, son?”
“Dad, I don’t suppose you’d believe me if I told you I have a theory about Mrs. Robbins trying to murder the fat. . . I mean, Mister Robbins. With a heart attack.”
Dad let out something like a war hoop, and slapped his own widening paunch. ”It wouldn’t surprise me, son!” he laughed.
“Careful now, dear,” said Mom, holding the table steady, and then, seeing me toy with my fork, “Now what made you say something like that, Wally?”
I told her. She stared at me with a face like a game show judge about to buzz.
“Maybe you should check it out, Ebon,” said Mom, still expressionless.
Dad shook his head, no dice. ”The playoff’s on in a minute. I can’t miss that.”
“But this is important,” I pleaded one last time.
Dad gave me a so’s this look. And then that same sense of sadness came over me, just like it had with Peter Fibbs. But this time it was multiplied by the feeling of farewells. Farewell to summer, hello to long gray autumn days of drizzle and homework. Farewell to Junior High, hello to acne and a future cabbie license after failing in real estate sales.
“No dessert tonight, Donald?” asked Mom as I pushed back my plate.
After dinner, Mom went into the kitchen, and started on the dishes. Lips sealed. Of course I never really expected her to take my side, because she was neutral. Like Saudi Arabia. Maybe it was safer that way since she had to live with Dad while I was at school, getting wedgies by jocks.
I watched Dad go into the living room and cut on the TV, having already forgotten about me. He just settled back into his leather armchair, and gave out this little self-satisfied sigh, almost like he’d mastered the secret of how to make us kids invisible. ”Bring me a beer, will ya?” he called to Mom.
Mom opened the refrigerator.
Mom passed us with Dad’s beer.
“Time for bed,” she said finally, turning Jonny toward the hall with her hand. “School tomorrow, bright and early.”
I saw on the TV there was an advertisement about a show featuring cyclists racing across America. They all looked exhausted, but thin and healthy. Watching this, Dad was expressionless, just sitting there, staring like one of those department store mannequins, and I was reminded of that fat kid who had a transmitter planted in back of his head by Stewie, who remotely controlled him. But when Mom came in, he suddenly seemed to see her pulling at Jonny, who was whining, “Do I have to—”
“MOVE!” said Mom.
Mom was acting odd, somehow. And there was something in the way she’d looked at me over dinner, too. I figured she’d wanted to go out that night, only Dad got his way again because he could talk louder. Mom would never try and shout back at him, of course. Usually she just went into her room and closed the door for a while.
Usually, but not that night.
We went to our room. Jonny started to slam the door, but I stopped him, and left it open a crack. For some reason I wanted to hear what Mom said, and if she was all right out there with Dad, the robot. But when Jonny started punching me, I had to defend myself.
“Well, I thought it was a good theory,” I said, trying hard now to imagine the sirens going, the fat man sitting there limp and pasty-faced next to his rusted racing bike, the TV blaring, and that one woman smiling. ”I thought so, anyway.”
As I unbuttoned my shirt and threw it down, Jonny went over to where Mom had laid out our school clothes across the bureau. ”You need school,” he mimicked Peter Fibbs exact words. Then we slid into bed and cut the light.
It was in the pitch darkness a moment later that Jonny said, like it had just hit him, “Summer’s over.”
“Imagine that,” I said sadly, and pulled the covers snug.
We listened to the m
uffled TV noises coming from the living room, and once or twice more heard Dad call, “Another beer in there!” and Mom answer, “Coming right up, dear. . . .You want another roast pork sandwich?”
DIEry ENTRY 7: The Comparison Game
Whoever said that beauty was truth (or truth beauty) hasn’t seen many infomercials for cosmetics (or Joan Rivers.) Beauty may be skin deep, but if you want to be on Fox News (or President of the United States) you’d better be an America’s Next Top Model contestant or you’re going to be sorting hate mail in the basement. (If President, you’ll have SS human shields who do that.)
Consider for a moment that you have one person alone in a room. Now realize this: for the moment that person is complete and inviolate. At least until another person walks in. What happens then? Add #2 and comparisons arise. The same goes for two dogs, two leaves, two shrimp, two Gordon Ramsays. If there’s a pair of human eyes in the room, they will focus on one thing, and then the other, and then back again. Assessing and valuing. We just can’t stop. Nor can Gordon Ramsay. It’s instinctive, fundamental. Call it a genetic abnormality, if you must. Ever since homo sapiens acquired a slight intellectual edge over Neanderthals, and used this edge to crush their bony skulls, mankind has evolved a taste for perfection. Because, I mean, why stop with beetling brows? The cosmetic industry got its start on the banks of a roaring African river when some cad we shall call Kudzelgeek placed a fistful of clay into his girlfriend’s hand, and she used it to smooth out those tiny lines and wrinkles in her forehead. “Hey, lookie here,” Zeebeeaum told her best friend Wilma. “I pretty. . .you not so much.”
Now, you might ask, what happens if two snowflakes enter a room? Each is unique, but also the same size, same color, same temperature. So how do you decide which is superior? (By the way, this experiment was run at Cal Tech. Two people were asked to judge two snowflakes. The first chose the one on the left, which he later said resembled his family coat of arms. The other chose the flake on the right, after torching the left flake with his flicked Bic. . . because in the pre-interview the other judge said he’d voted for “that fake flake Obama.”)
* Witty Observation: “If two sets of identical twins are dating and one of them has amnesia, then not only won’t he know which twin he’s dating, he won’t know which twin he is.”
So why can’t we all just get along, and accept each other for who we are? It’s because we must compare everything and everyone, and tie our huge inflated egos to it. Meaning we’re doomed to endlessly repeat our bloody mistakes, (although we might be able to shave a second from our lap times or a stroke off our golf game. . .and that’s the important thing.)
See where I’m going? Really, I’m a speck of dust, and know it. A grain of sand no more significant than any grain on an impossibly distant beach circling a dying red supergiant, itself destined to implode and create a particle of infinite density and zero volume (i.e. a singularity.) That’s how big I am. (You too.) So it’s hard to swallow the assumption that these little grains of sand here need to compete with those grains over there on the other side of the sandbox in order to maintain feelings and delusions ludicrously associated with superiority and “grandeur.” What about, for instance, the sandbox seven hundred thousand trillion miles away, at the other end of our own galaxy? What exactly is the concept of ownership with that in view, (or our US vs. THEM obsession), considering we can’t even detect someone staring at the back of our head four feet away at a TED conference (on the remote viewing of global warming)? Do we all really need another trophy for that dusty trophy case we’ve kept lighted ever since high school? Do we really crave some vulgar Czarist medal? (Actually, having gold in the medal would be good for when the economy collapses due to the misallocation of employee and student time. Those who actually deserve a medal, though, are those who realize these truths and manage to change their actions to match reality in time. Meaning no medals at all can be passed out at the Pentagon or on MADison Avenue.)
DIEry ENTRY 8: Which Religion is More Insane?
If you’re a sports nut, you really can’t talk about Scientology or Mormonism or Baptists or Catholics or even the religious choices of terrorists. Well, you can, but the logic for doing so escapes me. Although it’s true that the religion of sport boasts the most acolytes willing to sacrifice their lives (and the futures of their children) to the glories of battle, isn’t it just a wee bit hypocritical to denigrate other religions when your own is so screwed up? I mean, come on. Who gets more emotionally lathered than a fan, painting his face purple and waving his arms like an Aborigine on LSD? Ye Gods, even “scouts” are referred to as “headhunters!” And you’ve terrorized anyone within earshot with your mindless litany of scores and hoop dreams! When does it end?
“Never!” one worshipful soccer fan vowed through shattered teeth at a recent stadium tramplefest.
Examining the pernicious virulence of this ubiquitous and elephantine disease, we can trace the strains of the vampiric virus across many iterations and mutations, from the game of Trojan Horse (balls of burning peat scoring via open windows) to the Natural Selection in choosing actors for The Natural. . .to today’s match-ups between police and post-game rioters (dodge ball with gas canisters VS. Honda flipping.) Besides the usual top four religions—plus golf, tennis and soccer—there is lacrosse, bowling, ultimate Frisbee, ping pong, Wiffle ball, billiards, horseshoes, fencing, knife throwing, bow hunting, ice skating, racquetball, racketeer ball-peining, volleyball, handball, squash, kickball, kick balls bullying, shot-putting, grenade throwing, wrestling, boxing, cock fighting, javelin throwing, bayoneting, pizza eating, hot dog eating, belching, lawn darts, and board games like Operation (e.g. Doctor, Doctor!), and about 1600 other strains of madness. Of course it all goes back to the original virus, carrying its hidden hematophagy genotype deep inside our junk DNA, and which one can never defeat unless they stop drinking Coke (HFCS or diet), and learn the true meaning of “Open Happiness” (e.g. Open Madness.)
Surprise, surprise. Of all the sports listed by Sports Illustrated writer Rick Reilly in his book SPORTS FROM HELL the dumbest one he could find was. . .(See BASEBALL. . . and then weep, oh ye of great faith.)
CHAPTER 7: Witty Curses
Hi, and thanks for Dr. Phil’s number. Jon assumed an out-of-order signal meant Dr. Phil’s number was up, so he took half a sleeping pill in order to let me be interviewed by Phil and Joan on Ghost Hunters. . .(or the Twilight Zone, flip a coin.) If we didn’t get the answers we hoped for, we planned to visit their graves and do this via séance. And we will. Anyway, in the meantime here’s the first transcript. I’ve substituted the “F” word with “Frak,” which was also the substitution on the show Battlestar Galactica (a ship which I helped design, if you must know.) For the “S” word, I’ve substituted “Feces.” That’s necessary because I don’t want to give ammunition to critics from the young-Earth hell-fire (concentration) camp we attended, who might dismiss this book before praying that radical Islamic terrorists take us out (because they don’t want to get their own hands dirty. . . although they have no problem passing a gold embossed collection plate among the trailer park residents in the audience.)
DR. PHIL) Walter. . .you have a large number of issues. Do you think your ego is also large, and how do you think your self image stacks up to Joan’s?
WALTER WITTY) What is this, IHOP at the edge of the universe? How did you feel about being buried in the B-List graveyard?
PHIL) I’m going to go out on a limb, now, and suggest that you suffer from SPD or schizoid personality disorder. Along with split personality disorder. Same acronym.
WITTY) Your board certification is not in jeopardy here, huh.
PHIL) You’re the victim of abuse, ridicule, isolation, and a chronically overactive imagination, or COI. Aren’t you?
WITTY) That limb you’re on just cracked. Are you on LSD? I am an imagination. And you forgot to mention my being ignored whenever I ask a question. Like why is it that I’m always considered to be abnormal
compared to guys watching the NBA on NBC in their BVDs eating BLTs in front of their HDTVs?
PHIL) And you, Joan, why did you feel that you needed to curse so much?
JOAN RIVERS) Can we talk? Frak is a word, is it not? One of the most used words in the English frakin’ language, if you ask me. Frak!
PHIL) Doesn’t the word lose its power through overuse, though?
JOAN) Tell that to the censors. Or to college students.
PHIL) Isn’t the word “like” used more often by students?
JOAN) You’re, like, right, doc. That’s why I said “one of.” So can you, like, cut me a frakin’ break?
PHIL) Plus, didn’t you think that using words like frak and feces is immature?
JOAN) I was into my second childhood, Phil, so I was frakin’ immature. Feces! Shouldn’t people who’ll need a colostomy bag soon be allowed to, like, have some frakin’ fun?
PHIL) Maybe, but could you explain why you hated yourself so much that it manifested as hatred for others?
JOAN) How do you know that my hating others didn’t, like, spill over into hating myself?
PHIL) Because that’s not how it works.
JOAN) Who told you that—Freud? That dweeb is so screwed up he still wants to frak his own mother.
PHIL) It’s quite obvious that you did hate yourself, Joan. And still do. But why? Have you thought about that? Why use comedy as a blunt instrument to avoid this question?
JOAN) Feces, I’m not avoiding anything except admitting I’m dead to everyone in Hollywood! When I was alive I figured if I talked about aging often enough, maybe it would go away. Frak death, I say. Frak it! What do you say to that?
PHIL) I say that I can see that this subject still hasn’t lost its powerful death grip on you, Joan.