Murphy patted his old friend on the shoulder and started his tour of the house to give Lucas some final instructions.
As they headed towards the basement, Murphy expressed regret that he was unable to help Lucas with the dismantling and evacuation of the house. They both understood, however, that there was nothing either could do about that. The moving crew they hired would have to wait until Murphy was gone, for their own safety. Lucas told Murphy that they were scheduled to start their work in a couple of weeks.
Much of Murphy’s belongings would go to the Salvation Army, Goodwill, and other charities. What they couldn’t donate or find a home for would be hauled to the city dump. A few of Murphy’s prized possessions, like some of his musical instruments, Lucas would send to the monastery once Murphy had settled in.
As for his beloved dog, Lot, the old boy was the hardest thing to leave behind. For reasons neither Murphy nor Lucas understood, Lot was impervious to Murphy’s luck. He never suffered anything but the threats shouted at him by his master’s neighbors. A loyal and good-natured dog, Lot took the neighbors’ hostility in stride and rarely barked or growled. Instead, he preferred to leave steamy presents on the carports of offending neighbors when no one was looking. The neighbors could never prove the poop came from Lot, but they had their suspicions.
Murphy felt certain that the dog would be in loving hands, as Lucas and Lot had known each other since Lot was a puppy. They were family. Still, Murphy was heartbroken over the coming loss. The pooch was the closest thing Murphy had ever had to a companion. Lot followed him wherever he went, room to room, backyard to front yard, basement to garage. Murphy was a man of routines, and Lot knew every one of them. Although all the clocks worked now in the Drummer house, Murphy didn’t need to look at one. A lick to the face let Murphy know when it was time to rise. A nudge of Lot’s snout said time to eat. A trot to this or that item or work meant it was time for Murphy to practice one of his hobbies. And finally, curling up on Murphy’s bed, Lot informed Murphy that it was time to call it a day.
“Thanks again, Lucas, for taking care of my pets and handling the storing of my things.”
“Don’t mention it, Murph. It’s the least I can do for old Hank. He was a damn good friend to me.”
“I still wish I could stay,” Murphy mumbled.
“It was your grandpa’s last wish, Murph. I’m old. I’m sick. And I won’t be around much longer myself. Your grandpa just couldn’t stand the thought of you living all by yourself for the rest of your long life, and I have to agree. It’s a sorry thing, loneliness.”
“But I have Lot,” Murphy said, squatting onto his haunches and cupping the dog’s face in his hands.
“Lot is already pushing the envelope for a dog of his size, Murph. He’s…well, living on borrowed time. You know that.”
“Yes, but…” Murphy choked up. “I-I can wait until that time comes, can’t I?”
Deeply pained, Lucas said, “You can, but the monastery can’t. It ain’t a hotel and hasn’t much in the way of vacancies. Lot’s a surprising dog, and well, maybe he can still squeeze out a couple more years, God willing. I don’t know. But the place you’re going won’t likely be so accepting by then. Also, the fellow in charge over there was a pal of your grandpa. He’s old too. When he’s gone, the odds that they’ll take in a guy with your, um, situation…well, the odds aren’t so good.”
Murphy nodded in understanding, then said, “I’m really not that lonely, Lucas. I keep pretty busy, you know.”
“Never knew anyone busier,” Lucas admitted. “But who will do your food shopping? Who will run your errands? Who will pick up your supplies and other stuff? Lot is one talented pooch and knows more tricks than any dog I’ve ever seen, but even he can’t do those things.”
“Some of them I can do through the mail or Internet,” Murphy offered weakly.
“But where will they deliver to? You know that the mailman won’t deliver here, and neither will UPS, DHL, or FedEx. They’ve all boycotted you. Everything comes to my place. Besides, what about haircuts and stuff? And most important, after I’m gone, who will you talk to? I ain’t much, but I’m all you got. This monastery place your grandpa spoke of, he said they’re special. He checked it out himself, ya know. Just a few months back, after he found out that his journey was coming to an end. He was mightily impressed, Murph.”
“But do they understand about my…situation? How could they, really?”
“Hank said he ‘splained everything to ‘em, Murph. Laid it out for ‘em as flat and honest as you know he was. They told him that they got a small cabin at the edge of the grounds. You’ll be safe there.”
“You mean they will be safe from me,” Murphy rejoined. “Or so they think, anyway.”
Lucas frowned in acknowledgement. It was true, he knew, but he didn’t like admitting so. In his eyes, Murphy was an angel; about as kindhearted and caring and generous as one could be. He had never heard a nasty word or thought slip from Murphy’s lips. He was cheerful as a summer morning, as loyal as the North Star. That in others’ eyes Murphy was Beelzebub himself saddened Lucas profoundly.
“Think positive, Murphy,” Lucas said, descending the stairs to the basement, sorry he couldn’t put more conviction into his voice.
“I always think positive,” Murphy said. “But I have to be realistic too. What if things don’t work out at the monastery? What if, despite their best efforts, I am asked to leave, just like everywhere else I have ever been? I won’t have a home. I’ll have nowhere to go.”
Murphy opened the door to the basement and turned on the lights. Even after all these years, Lucas still couldn’t get over the many transformations Murphy had performed on the old house. He remembered what the basement looked like over twenty years back—the clutter, the dust, the moldy walls, the dank darkness. It was a depressing place; even a little scary, he had to admit.
The basement now looked like a sparkling laboratory; brightly lit, well ventilated, clean and organized. Computers and servers, printers, operant conditioning chambers, spectrophotometers, calorimeters and other specialty equipment suggested the presence of a serious-minded scientist. Along one wall ran a large white board covered with mathematical equations and notes. Against another was a bookcase filled floor to ceiling with science-related literature. Noting the lab tables, Bunsen burners, microscopes, beakers and other laboratory glassware, Lucas asked Murphy where he was keeping Frankenstein.
Not wanting to tempt luck, Lucas remained by the basement door, motionless and hands at his side. A lab, he thought, was the last place you wanted to start throwing wrenches into the works. To be around Murphy was to mess with the laws of nature, and Lucas learned a long time ago that taking certain precautions was vital. If Murphy issued one of his peculiar warnings—don’t ask, don’t think, don’t hesitate; just do what Murphy said.
Returning to Murphy’s question, Lucas said, “Well, Murph, should things not work out at the monastery, then I ‘spose that leaves plan B.”
“Montana,” Murphy stated with an air of resignation. Retreat to complete and total isolation. Murphy had sent Lucas on a mission a few years back to buy a hundred acres of land in Montana miles away from the closest neighbor. Just in case.
“You have land and you have money,” Lucas said. “In the worst case scenario, you’ll just have to accept your fate and start over again. I pray that ain’t the case, but if it is, that is what you do.”
Lucas didn’t know how much money Murphy had, but he knew that investing was among his many hobbies. And just like with the others, he was damn good at it. Murphy did well with ‘The Hobby Guy,’ his popular syndicated column, but where he really seemed to excel was at foreseeing downturns and crashes in different markets, especially stocks, real-estate, and commodities. Apparently, his murphometer extended beyond his immediate surroundings. Because of this, Murphy had an uncanny ability to buy at the bottom and sell at the top.
Lucas didn’t know how much money Murphy had, but h
e knew how much he himself had made by acting on Murphy’s advice: a small fortune. And he knew that his recently deceased friend, Hank, had been taking Murphy’s advice longer than he. Whatever Hank had made he had left to Murphy.
With Plan B in mind, Murphy pointed out to Lucas what things needed storing in the likely event that he would indeed have to start over again in his Montana hideaway.
From the basement they proceeded to the garage where Murphy did his carpentry work, welding, and other construction and artwork. From there, they headed to Murphy’s favorite part of his home: the backyard.
For Lucas too, this was his pride and joy, as he was instrumental during the lot’s genesis, working side by side with Murphy and Hank. He could still recall the plans that little Murphy had shown him so many years ago. They were ambitious designs back then, but they proved only the beginning of what would be come a lifelong passion for Murphy. The more adept Murphy became at his hobbies and undertakings, the more time and energy he invested into his yard. Since Murphy couldn’t step out into the world, he brought the world to him.
Over the course of years, Murphy converted the acre lot of dirt and weeds and wind-carried trash into what Lucas and Hank liked to call “Club Murphy.”
Before Lucas stretched a lush park. The park included an open grassy field to play ball and Frisbee with Lot, and an extensive and clever obstacle course for keeping fit. It also had various schoolyard equipment, things Murphy had missed out on when a little boy. Inside the park was a basketball hoop, a soccer goal, and tennis, badminton, and volleyball nets.
Club Murphy boasted a 25-meter swimming lane and a small, amoeba-shaped lake that Murphy called his “swimming hole.” The lake contained boulders, a bubbling brook to feed it, and swimming here and there were colorful Japanese koi. Within the park were also a Zen rock garden, vegetable and flower gardens, and a putting green. A jogging trail ran the club’s perimeter. But what most impressed Lucas was Murphy’s aquaponics food production system. It was a clever contraption that combined the raising of fish with hydroponics in a symbiotic environment.
As Murphy walked through the yard with Lucas he gave Lucas instructions about how to best dismantle things. It was a melancholy stroll. Both men knew how much time and effort they had put into the various projects it contained. They remembered well the many, many joyful days spent in Club Murphy.
“Why don’t we hold on to the place until I’m settled in at the monastery?” Murphy suggested. “If things don’t work out, I can come back here. Why bother starting over in Montana?”
“But of course that’s the most logical thing,” Lucas replied. “But how are you going to fight off your neighbors, the city, and all their damn lawyers? They’ve been trying to get rid of you for years. Without me and Hank battling the bastards on your behalf—raising hell at town meetings, in court, at the police station, and the rest—who’s gonna do it? They’ll eat you alive. They’ll find some pansy-ass reason to condemn the property or get you on some picayune law or somethin’, and they’ll kick your ass out. Then you’ll really be screwed, Murph. They nearly succeeded a couple of times already, ya know.”
Murphy did know, and he was eternally grateful to Lucas for all he had done for him over his lifetime. Murphy put his arm around Lucas’s shoulder and they walked the grounds for the final time, Lot at Murphy’s side. Each man recounted this or that memory from happier days: splashing around in the swimming hole, the little ‘Olympics’ they held, and their first harvests from the gardens and aquaponic farm.
“Lucas?”
“Yeah, Murph?”
“You won’t die on me without telling me first, will you?”
“No, Murph. I’ll let you know when the day approaches.”
“Thank you. And—”
“Yeah, Lot too.”
“I’ll never forget you, Lucas,” Murphy said.
Lucas swallowed hard, and blinked the mist from his eyes. And then he said something he hadn’t said since he was a young father to his own children. “I love you too, son.”
Highway to Hell
Murphy, dressed in a blue suit and tie—the only suit and tie that he owned—stepped onto a brand-spanking-new Greyhound bus. With deliberation he scanned the bus for a vacant aisle seat. He located the one remaining aisle seat near the back of the Greyhound, and keeping alert, made his way towards it. He carefully stored and secured his small suitcase on the rack above and took his seat. Fearing the worst, he proceeded to sit sentinel, ready to leap into action at the first sign of trouble.
It took but a moment before trouble arrived in the person of a bearded and brawny man in a black Guns N’ Roses tank top. Tattoos covered his thick arms and he reeked of bacon. The man stomped down the aisle and, to Murphy’s chagrin, pulled up next to him. The man heaved his green canvas duffel bag onto the overhead rack and scowled down on Murphy. Murphy raised his eyes to the brutish-looking fellow and gulped.
“Scoot over, pal,” the bruiser commanded.
Murphy looked at the window seat with dread and said, “If you don’t mind, sir, I’d really prefer the aisle seat. It’s kind of important.”
“I do mind,” the man snarled. “I need the leg room.”
Murphy sized up the lout with his trained eye. “Actually, sir, we’re both about five-feet eleven and a half inches tall, and I believe that my legs are three inches longer than yours.”
The man glowered at Murphy. “Listen, buddy, we got eighteen hours together in this sardine can, and this is about as good a mood as I’m ever gonna be in. So don’t give me no lip. Got it?”
“I really—”
“I feel a mood swing comin’,” the man growled.
Murphy sighed and scooted over to the window seat.
“‘Atta boy.”
The man plopped down beside Murphy, raised a butt cheek in Murphy’s direction, and farted. “Bacon and eggs for breakfast,” he snickered. And then he added menacingly, “And there’s a lot more where that came from.”
Murphy tucked his nose and chin into the collar of his shirt and turned gloomily to the window.
The Greyhound pulled away and began its long journey to California. Pinned in by the smelly ruffian, Murphy grew increasingly anxious. While everything appeared normal to his fellow passengers, his murphometer was registering imminent disaster.
Murphy noted a woman opening her compact in preparation to make up her face. He groaned. The placement of some luggage in the overhead rack troubled him. His frown deepened and he shuddered. A man by a half-open window withdrew an envelope stamped with a red lipstick kiss from his coat pocket. The man sniffed at the envelope, smiled, and pulled out the letter. Murphy moaned. He saw a man sip hot coffee from a thermos. Murphy cringed. He spied a woman with a milk bottle nursing a baby on her lap. Murphy whimpered.
The bus entered upon the open highway. For most passengers this signaled that the tedious part of the trip was behind, and that from here on out it would be smooth sailing ahead. The Greyhound barreled forth, and the travelers relaxed and began to go about their business.
Suddenly, the love letter that the man was reading and rereading flew out the window. He reached desperately for the keepsake, and then mouth agape, watched as the letter fluttered down the highway.
Seconds later, a passing sports car swerved recklessly into a tight gap just ahead of the bus, narrowly avoiding a head-on collision with a box truck. The Greyhound driver slammed the brakes, jerking the shrieking passengers forward in their seats. The truck, a Ben & Jerry’s delivery vehicle, blasted its horn. Stuck like flypaper to the windshield of the sports car was the love letter.
Murphy’s worst fears were realized. The jolt of the slamming breaks sparked all-out pandemonium. He watched in dismay as every ominous observation unfolded before his eyes.
The sudden pump of the brakes sent the hand of the woman applying her makeup scribbling mascara across her face.
The feeding baby, now covered in milk, began to wail as the top of the baby bott
le rolled down the aisle.
A piece of luggage fell from the rack above and smacked edge-first onto the outstretched leg of the burly man sitting next to Murphy. Enraged and howling in pain, he clambered out of his seat, stood and roared. Then he went limping and cussing up and down the aisle demanding that the owner of the luggage fess up.
The man who was sipping coffee from his thermos yelped and squirmed in his seat, his lap soaked and steaming.
Unbeknownst to anyone on the road, high above a flock of migrating birds had recently passed. In its wake drifted down hundreds of little milky-white turds. The bus’s windshield collided with the flurry and now looked like it had been plastered with an immense doily.
Thinking fast, the bus driver flipped on his wipers to squirt and clean away the bird droppings. But there was no squirt, just a couple of spits, and the wipers served only to smear the bird poop across the entirety of the windshield. The doily turned into a translucent tablecloth. The panicky driver pumped the windshield fluid button but to no avail. He flipped the wipers off, but they wouldn’t turn off. Instead, all the lights in the bus began to strobe and the air conditioning went out.
Passengers shoved open their windows and hollered in protest as the driver fiddled desperately at his console. The back emergency door unlatched and swung open. A whoosh of warm air swept through the bus. Newspapers, a handkerchief, and a silk scarf were the first items sucked out. They were soon followed by a baseball cap, playing cards, a sack lunch, and a half-knitted sweater. Then, to Murphy’s continued horror, he watched an old woman’s wig sail down the aisle and out the back of the bus.
Bang!
Through the open back of the bus Murphy saw a belched, dense cloud of black smoke trail off behind them.
Unscratched by the myriad of misfortunes swirling around him, Murphy shook his head and checked his watch. He sighed. It was going to be a long trip.
Bang!
Parcae
Sporty in her tasteful tennis wear, Joy Daley, thirty-one, with thick blond hair and emerald green eyes, sat alone at a table at The Parcae Cafe. She sipped her cappuccino and took in the pretty red-bricked patio. She liked its trellis of grapevines and flower boxes of marigolds, cosmos, and zinnias. She observed the other customers, friends and couples enjoying lunch or beverages.
Murphy’s Luck Page 3