by Ron Charach
—Yeah, and who’s gonna keep us in breathable air an’ drinkable water way galloway’s been doin’—you? You got the science for that? Derisive laughter.
—Yeah, says morgan, noddin’, I guess crusty old harold has us all by the science. Excuse me if I can’t see my way clear t’bein’ one of his distinguished medical staff, he takes a dig, pickin’ out Doc Halverson who looks down at his shoes.
—mister morgan, I have not invited you here today to add fuel to the fire…
But morgan’s guns spin at the mister—a mock Colt .45 in each hand with the action of a Glock or Beretta—and he holds ’em straight in front of galloway’s pill-speckled face.
—You clam the fuck up, Mr. Airsoft. I’m not gonna make the same mistake cabana’s making—of treatin’ you as unfair game just because you’re unarmed and wear a tie; I know you hemorrhoidal corporate types galloway—I know bein’ cruel comes natural to you…
The baker an’ plumber both bolt up real-quick, haulin’ sawed-off shot guns out from under their coats as morgan spins like a carnival wheel, firin’ bullets that graze their calloused hands, drawin’ screams as their weapons fly out of those hands like soft machines—lost promises…
morgan backs down the steps, off the stage and down the aisle—guns up front, straight out the doorway, addin’ insult as he goes: —You’re all blowin’ it…again…drivin’ away yore only honest link with the eight in yourselves—
—You save it! cry the peanuts, an’ Doc Halverson rushes open his bag to help the wounded. galloway scribbles a memo and soon he’s supervisin’ the evacuation of the wounded and their wives, who are oh honeyin’ them, an’ then poundin’ his gavel for some order.
From John Gideon: —May the Lord Jesus Christ forgive that unrepentant sinner, to which he supplies his own Amen. —He has the nerve to claim he hails from an Abrahamic faith! Wander on, thou faithless heathen.
When the crowd settles, great Gideon rises up and moves that the town send old galloway himself as a personal messenger to the eight, with some concrete proposals—but galloway rules him out of order on a pro-ceed-yural mattuh an’ the entire town, even the mutations, c’n only sit back an’ laugh. An’ laugh.
Even Sheila Gordon is a-laughin’ ’til she’s cryin’, and it’s welcome that laugh ’cause it loosens the tension and some of the men’s wives found the meetin’ mighty depressin’ ’til now.
Morris Schulberg the banker manages a motion that galloway does let through: —I move that the town bring in cavalry, and I myself am willing to foot half the bill—or perhaps the town can haul in the country’s acting head of Homeland See-curity to the next town-hall meetin’, jest fly him in t’hear his advice-like…
The town vote on that unlikely motion—’cause the hour is so late—is you-nanimous. ’Cept for two li’l abstentions, namely Gideon and Mrs. Sheila Gordon, red-eyed but without tears now—dry-eyed an’ dry-brained enough t’know there ain’t no cavalry out there. No see-curity either.
An’ the town feels its problem’s on the way t’bein’ solved, what with a bona fide help as good as on his way—and on Schulberg’s money yet—and cavalry armed with huge raffles an’ bullits an’ handsome turned-up mustaches ridin’ hard like in a Kevin Costner epic gone way, way over budget… Everyone jest wants to git on home ’cause the big ones’ll soon be out—when galloway opines that they’re not through yit ’cause there’s still one small issue left t’deal with.
—There’s an item of business that an indecent man might just run by himself and not bother t’consult the townfolk ’bout. But I aim to maintain full respect for this here body.
—Hurry up, galloway, our kids are locked in at home—alone. And people here are hurtin’...
—There’s a young girl with neither father nor mother campin’ on my lands—she’s been hidin’ away with a small baby she can’t possibly care for...and...
—What’s the matter, galloway—you worried you can’t co-llect taxes from her, ha ha—
—Or from the baby, ha ha ha.
—Order, order. Let’s not be cynical! I ask this town council to approve my calling in a reputable adoption agency to safely remove the little one before both the girl and the baby come to harm.
—Wait! A strong call from a faint voice.
—What now, Sheila?
—I’ll take her in—gladly; you just arrange to have her brought to me. My house is feelin’ mighty empty...
—But Sheila, you can’t be up for...
—I’ll decide what I’m up for! I said I’ll take her; what more do you need?
And a vision floats by in galloway’s mind—of big ned returnin’ from his goose chase in the mood to cook some goose...
But it’s late an’ the town is shufflin’, and any chairman knows what t’do once murmurs can’t be gaveled away.
—Thank you, Mrs. Gordon, on behalf of the town, and wait! Everybody sit down and let me properly adjourn this meeting. But they remain standin’ and some take to movin’ for the arena doors—passin’ by the little refreshments stand next to where the wounded were tended to just a moment ago. Steppin’ past warm droplets of fresh blood soakin’ into the wood floor. The whispers die down the moment they enter the damp tunnel system t’start walkin’ like race-walkers for to git home afore the silhouettes of big ones gallop by headin’ for ma’s or wherever else they go for the few hours of sleep they need to recharge ’em.
galloway alone now in the huge eerie space, cursin’ himself for his misguided decision to invite morgan. Might as well invite John Gideon to preach. Pours another glass o’ water an’ sits down on the center stage and remembers that most of the town is due for their injections next week. But all he can think about is ned’s forearms—that look more like thighs. ned who can barely read the thoughtfully worded note he left him. (ma will help him out Montessori-like.) ned who’s likely fixin’ “t’torture him fust”—a’fore killin’ him cruelly with the hairy fielder’s mitts ’at only his own mamaw would call hands. An’ galloway just sippin’ at his water, starin’ out the doorway for the light to come in an’ eventually say Mohnin’—lettin’ him know that still more time has run out.
At least mine are temporary setbacks; at least I know who I am—not like that refugee from mid-life mr. henry m., the erstwhile good Doctor Henry Morganstern. Here I sit, a billionaire, craving the likes of that imposter as a friend. How pathetic I must have looked standing next to morgan (since when do they grow Jews that big?)—with that goddamn bulge in those pretentiously laced buckskins. galloway looks down at his tweed dress slacks—slacks is the right word—flatter than a pancake at the crotch, an’ reaches down into his pocket t’gather up a couple hazelnuts and push ’em forward in imitation. Then stares at the tassels on his Guccis only to shake his head, grit his teeth and remember: that’s just how the world fell apart in the first place. It was the inability of other men to back down from the brink of destruction that gave him, harold the great galloway, the run of this little horror-show.
I invited morgan to be part of my technosphere, but he chose to be part of the entertainment underneath these leaky domes. It was a mid-life thing. To be durable enough to survive—an underrated virtue.
An’ he pours himself a splash of coffee from the urn at the end of the stage—an urn so empty you’d think it was the tail-end of an AA meetin’— sippin’ it with a teaspoon (why risk a burned lip?) and then in a move straight out of a spaghetti Western, he spins around like henry m., his hands reachin’ for imaginary guns. Then chucks his stainless spoon clear-down on the wood floor where it skips a few times and hits a front-row seat. Then freezes with a shee-yit! an’ vows t’try on a pair of his very own buckskins real soon in a securely latched fittin’ room in one of his underground-mall stores—the kind ’at has a mirror inside each fittin’ room so you don’t have to give a little fashion show in front of the sales clerk
s, let alone the other customers.
Once I was king of FaceTime and Instagram, lord of the conference call, maven of all apps, master of one. Showing up in person was for losers: I had outreach!
Reaches for the outside pocket of his murse, jest to remember there ain’t no cell phone there, an’ words lak wireless are no longer the pur-view of everyman.
All the while knowin’ he’s gettin’ carried away—carryin’ on, like an unsung, unrecognized member of the eight. The price you pay for mixing with the entertainment...
carla’s purr
As henry morgan ambles back t’ward Carla’s, he gives little thought to how his havin’ been away must’ve looked—his havin’ taken leave of a card game he’d been winnin’ with a simple Scuse me boys and struttin’ off into the night to visit his wife or do somethin’ equally wussy.
He isn’t thinkin’ about much else other than how nasty it was to have had to inflict flesh wounds on two townsmen to whom he would’ve once givin’ tetanus shots.
He passes by some dozy-lookin’ housies you could enter through exits in the tunnel system and a few storefronts boarded up for the night and the bank and the general store—nothin’ specific sold there—each piece o’ property straight off a Monopoly board, each geared more towards some Disney concept of the Wild Wild West or the cover of a Zane Grey novel. ’Til he comes to a steel door marked Authorized Personnel Only. Once through, it’s only a ten minute walk to the outskirts and Carla’s saloon with them deep-brown, heavy-swingin’ oak doors—doors that keep swingin’ for an hour after you walk through ’em.
He flings them open nice ’n definitively and comes upon the big ones—all ’cept for big ned—sittin’ there in a circle—jest flickin’ kings, queens ’n aces, sippin’ whiskey an’ peerin’ out the brims o’ their hats for Cahhh-la.
Soon’s henry comes in, Carla eases herself off the tabletop, flows towards the beer tap ’n pours him some foamy like cabana himself had directed her to do so. But henry just stands at the end of the crowded table without quite re-assumin’ his place—his hands at his guns in a pre-conversant stance as he surveys the game play and awaits his cue.
Then spots a huge vanadium hand arcin’ a dirk of a first finger.
C’mere is the motion and the finger is cabana’s...
The rest of ’em appear ab-sorbed in playin’. fat-ass jake (no bluffer) yellin’ Feck it! as he sizes up his hand, but the others for the most part posin’, half-watchin’ t’see how henry reacts to his callin’ as he moseys on closer to card land. henry coolly re-claims his seat on cabana’s right in a chair which has grown icy cold of late—though no one’s yet struck up a search committee t’fill it. And just says —Deal me in.
Silence and lack o’ motion at Carla’s. The bar-kitten herself frozen-still at the beer tap, her slender hand cupped around a shot-glass, waitin’ for news to break. Lucy is out back in the kitchen thawin’ frozen potatoes, and when she walks in jest about to call out Carla’s name, she is struck by the silent frame as cab’s eyes pierce straight ahead an’ she drops her potatoes, fallin’ down in a faint, her head crashin’ onto the keys of the player piano.
cab freezes the automaton keys into one of them deserted desert silences—the kind that ned might break with a beer fart to the giniral mirth of everyone who’d all simultaneously reach for their noses and guffaw sayin’ OK, who died? Anyone junior to ned who’d try that would end up with a few extra blowholes out the backside for his trouble.
henry places one of his hands like ginger on the table while the other slides snail-slowly around his belt. Feelin’ sweat startin’ to lake around the temples jest inside the hat brim.
An’ cab’s eyes swerve t’wards henry, on henry, as he gives his sandpaper chin a trapezoidal stroke an’ opens his thin bloodless lips just a smidge so that slidin’ out through gaps in his shark teeth comes a look as if t’say:
Where ya bin?
henry feelin’ kind of dizzy—as if there was old wax leanin’ on his eardrums in need of an Ear-Nose-and-Throat man with a stainless steel curette—tries to look up at the gleam radiatin’ from cabana’s direction, halfway succeedin’ as he lifts his second hand—now heavy as lead—off his buckle an’ onto the table with his first. Jest sort o’ puts ’em both t’gether an’ leans his silvery GQ mane forward, restin’ his chin on folded hands of confident non-belligerance. Takes a deep slow hatha-yoga breath an’ says in a steady voice: —cab Ah been at the town-hall meetin’.
An’ cab don’t say nothin’. Jest sort of smiles, gives a nod t’wards the wall-eyed Lucy whose head stirs in Carla’s lap—she reads the All Clear and eases back up on wobbly legs to allow Carla t’fetch henry his beer while black amos barton deals him back in.
Soon it’s right-noisy again with jake doin’ hee-haws, billy goofin’ like a kid with every card he gits, and black amos flashin’ his priceless set of ivories whenever he wins a hand.
cab jest sippin’ at a googol of whiskey, refrainin’ from usin’ those God-awful eyes ’at can win him a hand whenever he wants ’em to. Carla has Lucy up and around, creepin’ through the back room sippin’ coffee. With bloody willy burpin’ up his drink at trapper dan who’s been laughin’ an’ sloshin’ ’round near an hour’s worth of burpin’s himself. As willy hollers —Kam ’n set with us ’n give us a bit of thet lucky purr o’ yores, Missy Cahhhlaa—
Carla smiles an’ reproachfully gives her lush ’n loose mane a bit of a shake ’n walks the minefield of men for another night. Headin’ straight-on towards each one, she can sense the heat of their glarin’. And when she comes to refill their glasses, she does it slow an’ deliberate. As she leans to fill cabana’s drink high, she e-mits that little purrrr. Her smile facin’ up t’wards one of cabana’s three profiles. But with her eyes on henry morgan.
honesty
henry morgan pounds at the door of his wife’s place, his own place. At 4:30 a.m., the card game over and the other seven long gone to ma’s. Then Claire’s hoarse whisper: —henry morgan, enough with the “shave-and-a-haircut” knock. Find a better time to visit!
—Goddamn it, Claire, don’t be coy. Lemme in.
—Coy! Did it ever dawn on you, “morgan,” that maybe I’ve had it with you. That it’s more a decision of the gut than the heart to never want to see you again! My eyes are achin’, so for God’s sake—leave. A pause. —Or promise if I let you in, you’ll go straight to bed and not bother me.
—Ah, the wiles of long marriage, when fondlin’ her derriere becomes buggin’ her ass...
—You’ll be a lot funnier in six hours, she says, and starts to lock the window shutters.
—Go on, abuse me... Why don’t you give me some really far-fetched excuse like you can’t see me ’cause you don’t want to wake the kids...
—What did you say?! And she opens the shutters to glare at him, her head venturing out the window. —What did you say? Monster!
—Okay, okay that was the whiskey talkin’. Let’s not do Sid ’n Nancy here.
—henry, you keep taunting me about our infertility... Why?
—I don’t know why I always aim low. Just let me in, so I don’t have to break in...
—For Chrissake, wait ’til I slip on a robe.
morgan holds his tongue.
And she opens wide. ’n he walks in cool, undoin’ his holster carelessly and flingin’ it over the back of the sofa.
—Dammit! Don’t throw those weapons around like that! You know I can’t stand it!
morgan mutters to himself.
—Sorry isn’t good enough…
Goddamn junkie-nerves. Her eyes are always bloodshot these days—beautiful as they still are—and she’s carryin’ less weight than she looks good at. She can’t be gettin’ much exercise in here all day.
She heads for the kitchen to brew him some coffee as he tries again.
�
��You know, Claire—Claire, can you hear me in there? It felt good a moment ago t’hear you talkin’ about slippin’ into a bathrobe. And it feels real nice t’have you frettin’ about makin’ coffee and the like. I guess, well...
—You guess that maybe there’s something that you miss while you’re down there at That Woman’s.
—Now, don’t go finishin’ mah sentences.
—I’m really honored that there’s still some joy in seeing your own wife...that you’re not totally happy every waking hour you spend away from me.
—You through?
—Maybe I should’ve said those women—after all, there’s ma, ma who can out-cook me, out-bake me, an’ who knows jest WHAT other things she can do better ’n me, henry—or are those feminine functions the sole preserve of your li’l Mizzy Cahhhluh...?
—You through?
—Yes.
—Then wipe yourself. Now, pour my coffee and hear me out...
—Can I say something too? she asks.
—What do you mean?
—I mean, after missing you for days on end, can I get out a word of my admittedly less important feelings before you start speaking your piece?
—Yeah, sure, o’ course. I expect you to feel it when I’m away on these long—and I know they have been long—
—Desertions.
—I was going to say gigs but desertions will do. No more than long games o’ golf would be, though, I reckon.