The Rainbow Horizon - A Tale of Goofy Chaos

by Karen S. Cole

  Chapter Nine

 

  YE NEW TESTYMINT

  Ornaments of Gold,

  Revelations Well-Expounded:

  THE D*A*V*E CYCLE

  8*8*8*8*8*8*8*8*8

  That Which Is Coming

  --Armadillios!!!!!!...!!!

  And the death of our Civilization,

  But only after Christmas.

  “…THOUGH BARELY a quarter of a century has passed since man succeeded in making the first powered flight, a man's dream of flying began in the pages of mythology. And, while not wishing to belittle or to stand in the way of progress, it is your pastor’s well-considered opinion that it will always remain that--just a dream. Or, in its practical application, a dangerous toy.

  “I am inclined to believe, with the leading military and business minds in this country, or airplane as it is more commonly called, the modern-day flying machine will never become sufficiently developed to be of any effective military or commercial use. Let’s be reasonable about this thing. If God had meant Man to fly, He would have given him wings…”

  --the veriest Reverend Gardner, at a twenties youth meeting, held inside the First Methodist Church (and not a beer hall), on June 1rst, 1921, in the Newknighted States, Illinois, a place where trains moisten red bandannas. Where a chile lawyer name Lincoln spent not one second lookin’ young. He wus born old, mature people have a tendency to do that.

  --I believe I’ll have another beer. Five!

  Remember those two cute little kids in that popular mimegraphed office drawing, both naked from the waist up, peering down into their drawers…diapers, really…to see what the big diff is between their salaries? And not even married yet. They are looking for their wings. Unfortunately, neither one of ‘em has a pair. And you can't fly with one wing along, Now, can You? You always Do require two. Somehow or other…brother and mother.

  What we need here is a way to combine math with poetry. I think math could be very poetical. Yet algebraic equations don't show up in free-verse poetry a lot.

  Why is that?

  Hard work and soft plays make Jack a daily lunch? No, no no no, no no no… Madison Avenue is but only a street name, izzat soo? Anymore? Did they overcome Jew when I wasn't looking? Lantern Jaw rules beyond creativity now? I'll give you the outskirts in three words: ET, cigarettes, and Japan. Don't worry, they all get married in this book. But I seem to recall, in my dimmer moments, a book about Mad Ave (ah-vey, not oy-veh) with the word Hiroshima in the title. THAT EMOTION AGAIN.

  “The REAL purpose of scientific method is to make sure Nature hasn’t misled you into thinking you know something you don't actually know. There’s not a mechanic or technician alive who hasn't suffered from that one so much that he's not instinctively on guard. That's the main reason why so much (information) sounds so dull and so cautious. If you get careless or go romanticizing about scientific information, giving it a florist here and there, Nature will soon make a complete fool out of you (so why do I feel like such an incomplete fool?) It does it often enough anyway, even when you don't give it opportunities. One must be extremely careful and rigidly logical when dealing with Nature; one slip, and an entire scientific edifice comes tumbling down. One false deduction about the machine and you can get hung up indefinitely."

  --p. 94 Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance,

  Robert M. Pirsig, never strung up definitely!

  Oh, yeah. To make me into a complete fool, aerobicize Nagasaki. On time. Last time, a mother bathed her disabled cerebral palsied daughter, exposed to nuclear radiation, two Japanese ladies who almost seemed like they usually felt.

  It’s funny, but everyone is checking to see what flavor the stick up your ass is. Mine is chartreuse. We all have one, that crack in the back, but some of us prefer to clean out our problems. What appears is how it appears, and hopefully it will do so. It’s healthier that way. But I don’t want to step on anyone’s Popsicle toes. I offend far more easily than anyone else! I don’t have freckles; you do. I simply don’t have an all-white, one color of face.

  MY LIFE, THOUGHT Gabe “Beau Hooter, Sancto,” is not rotten—yet. However, if I am not too careful, drink too much, hang out in bars too often, swelling with drink, and let too much time slip past me, rot will happen. Look at my friend, Artie Blend.

  He’s been drinking since he was a kid and just the other day he admitted, “Gabie, I’m an ol’ man already, 42, a drunk, those used just fly on by, ain’t no stoppin’ them. Why’n cha finish mah beer?”

  Artie was fun to hang out with. He had one of the last of the great all-time hippies. Like he stepped off the Berkeley campus, after handing out leaflets on peace and love and ending the Vietnam War, or destroying Desert Storm. No, that's not Artie.

  Accept it Gabe thought: Artie was really just another drunk, entranced by Bacchus and cohabitating with him on a continuous weekend bender, somehow never quite in touch with overall realities that were seldom his own. Two Gabe, though, he was a good drinkin’ buddy. And he did have a little something to say at times.

  “They still goin’ to war, man. They still doin’ it for cheap thrills. Ah tells you, it’s for nothin’ but that, an’ it never will be. So help me, help me and us all, God.” Artie would characteristically lean far over to swat the balls hard across the pool table, never looking squarely at Gabe as he spoke.

  “Don’t you go, man, wouldn’ you rather lead your OWN life? Ah think so. Not gonna ever see me in no suit no uneeform no tight parts. Hey. Ah got me a woman; a lady, a job, an’ a real home, and tha’s all ah needs. Somebody, maybe ah lay off the beer and have no fear.”

  Gabe would look at Artie walk around the pool table in a single stride, watching him set up the next shot in roughly two seconds and getting it in, often after having drunk an entire six-pack. Many times Gabe never drank anything at all. Artie had learned not to protest Gabe’s non-alcoholism during their binges of bar-hanging and pool-playing. Perhaps, Artie reflected, the younger man didn’t quite belong there, wastin’, with them. “You don’ got no hollow leg, man! Gabers wasn’t sure.

  Artie, spoiling for more active sport, but finding none available, liked to size up nearby available women (those lurking nearest the bar were his fairest game) and then attempt to offhandedly dismiss them, trying to keep any who were within hearing range from actually overhearing him. But, as Gabe noticed, he liked to toss out a woman first name. So she could hear him, but muy just barely. Sometimes he got her name right.

  Gabe wasn't very fond of this particular tendency of Artie’s. On the other hand, he was certainly known to affect it while pretending Artie had led him into it. Obviously, he hosted such tendencies, too. Probably…one time two ladies named Sharone Bitters and Cloadia Tager, both of which I’ve introduced to you, went fun-seeking from their neighborhood uptown, which they have recently settled into. This was back-a-ways in time. It had been rumored that they bedded together, as they appeared that way in public, and up close, but this was in doubt, as Cloadia had been seen with a highly visible young man. They were wearing suede shammie jackets, trimmed with red and gold. Cloadia was one describle as stacked, foxie, having a bee waist, sumptuous natural red hair, and a bosom the size of perpetual proportion. Attractive to male attention spans, in dark bars, without even trying, almost incapably so.

  The big blonde guy’s straining voice drifted their way as they settled into their barstools. Cloadia, easing into a rum-and-Coke, grateful to be resting after a day of Unionville waitressing and back-roads commuting, sat up straighter in perpetually arriving introduction to the concept of non-privacy during leisure time.

  “You know, burppp, ah heard someone named Clo gave a hicky to a guy from Pittsburgh who, uh, fropped by to say “thanks and top ‘o th’ day” to Mr. Goneschlaw for, uh, breathin’ right or somethin’…” Artie pretended greater interest in billiards, but directed his patter at the two women, one of whom turned towards him.

  “I’m Cloadia,” she spaked, teddibly casua
lly and with a bright and cheerful smile. ‘That’s right.” She looked at Artie as if to say, gee, you should know me pretty well by the company I keep. “Yeah, I did what you say. And…

  “…afterwards, we sky-dived from two thousand feet from a helicopter. A big mistake. His chute caught in the rotors and ripped it up and sucked him in, and, like, you never saw such a mess in your life. I floated safely to the ground, but…" She smiled and waved her hand in the air.

  “Well, gosh, uh, Clo, I never thought…gee, I’m so sorry,” stumbled Artie, “about your, uh, boyfriend. Shoot. I’m real sorry.”

  “Oh, its okay, we didn’t know each other real well. We…”

  Suddenly, not like usual, Cloadia lost all her composure. She bent over forward hunched, off-base with linear gravity. The bar stool squeaked. Her friend, Sharone, who was lithe and black and well-fitted in tight pants, put her thin left hand on her friend’s right shoulder. Cloadia began to shake a little. It played towards laughter, uh, the sound. But THEN she paused momentarily and said, without breathing:

  “I’m sorry, but my God, it HAPPENED. It actually happened.” And then she broke down into full scale sobbing, and shakily reached for her brandy snifter, with a sniff, a glance over at Artie. The look was filled with lack of understanding, but contained no sadness. She took a drink, setting the glass down lightly, with re-composed grace. Her friend was lightly chuckling to herself.

  But they were serious. “It actually happened. Oh God, I can’t believe it, it really, actually happened.” Finally, she cried. Tears streaked her face, cascading in sheets like chunky rain, magically transporting us to another time and space.

  WHAT HAPPENED?

  It seems Cloadia and a young man named Dave Velasquez decided, after a date involving minor acts of heavy petting, that something in the realm of a thrilling adventure required to be accomplished. They went skydiving. Dave knew a guy who owned a helicopter, and that very afternoon they went up for a jump. Drunk, taking nothing seriously, and with no previous training. Illegally. This "friend" of theirs arranged for their chutes, packs, everything.

  By miracle, Cloadia jumped safely. Her first time. "It feels like the last thing I’ll ever really remember is a whipping sound, and how I visually followed it up… and…I tried to grab him in passing, but he slipped through my arms, legs and shoes, I almost grabbed a shoe, then FWWUUUPPPFWWWUUUPPP!!! Just like that. And, instantly there was this horrible grinding noise. LOUD.”

  People had said, Dave was the sort to do weird things from time to time. "I did not hear him scream. Not even once." She looked away, over towards the pay phone.

  That was the last one, Gabe thought, as he and Artie left the Krakatoa.

  "Can you imagine," said Gabe to Artie as they walked part way to Artie's apartment, before "Beau" continued home, "I can't believe it. Dave fell…"

  Here, Gabe stopped talking and using his hands to illustrate his point for Artie –he thrusted his arms into the air, hands palms up. “He fell…up!”

  “Yeah,” muttered Artie, disgruntled. “I can imagine.”

  DAME GRETCHLEY ENVISONED modishly appearing on every US TV channel, an Asian promoting the Christian lord, Christian love, and the idea that viewers should send in money if they want anything like "free" entertainment to stay alive and boring. She sickened, metaphysically speaking.

  I’d rather be entertaining to people in person and in the flesh, she reaffirmably reasoned, and every Sunday is sufficient for now. Rather do that than be a money-grubbing Jesus shyster at strangers. She asked for volunteer help at the church and got plenty, and otherwise produced the whole shebang herself.

  She rented recent movies, talked on various books, open discussion panels, had a wide variety of guest speakers, and held a potluck every other Thursday night. She even led nature hikes to listen for owls, where participants received the blessing of multiple mosquito bites and occasional chiggers.

  She promoted Jesus as being “the reason that you’re here, that is, here in the church with the rest of us. Here, you are safe. You're not tempted to smoking, drinking, doing drugs, or making undue love acts happen. Instead there's good honest this conversation, laughs, food, deep philosophical discussion, and group relaxation techniques being taught next Sunday, be there - Aloha Mubuhay!” The Dame didn’t always get her own ethnicity right; she was Christian about it.

  Weddings, however, were never held in the church. Dan Nuts had spread a story about a local haunted dead couple that was so jealous of their own hot ‘n heavy love affair that whenever a wedding was held in the basement of the mission "you could hear Spanish moaning and groaning, to the rhythmic sound of castanets! You don't wanna get married in this church!" The bride was rumored to be a debauched Mormon prostitute from 1877 – secretly the gay man who had begun the practice of traveling in pairs. It may be that the Dame was not legally entitled to perform marriage ceremonies, and was functioning under an assumed identity. Perhaps she was secretly wanted for bank robbery, ghostwriting, or performing abstract higher mathematical functions in a manner too suggestive for external publicity. Incidentally, she owned a grey and white Persian cat, named Thurbernaut. Ever guess what James Thurber died from? His eyesight gradually disappeared, and he died awfully young. During those formidable-individualistic 1960s. Perhaps he died, too quietly, of Thurberism. Or life in stuck-up Ohio, in general.

  Mr. DaLieken wanted to open a monastery and become its first inhabitant therein, as he couldn't seem to get a date. He wanted the Dame to finance the project. "Lately, I can't find me a girlfriend to save my soul, lady. But if I were a monk I'd be able to walk with God all day, wandering into da fadder, he'd be wearing this li’l short bishop’ hat, black, locus classicus, with the titlike peak, and he'd put his arm around my shoulder, and he'd say, "Son, I can tell something’s troubling you, I know you too well not to notice, what can I do to help you…" At this point, Thom had his arm around the Dame’s shoulder and was blithely strolling her outside the basement door, into the sunlight, which she became well-lit. The Dame summarily crossed herself, in case she happened to be part-vampire and not know it.

  They walked blithely all the way down to the Krakatoa, further than the Dame had gone for awhile—Thom too was huffin’ and puffin’—where Dame begged off. She turned, testily remonstrating, on Rudnick Street, laughingly telling Thom “bye-bye” as she jogged, eerily and miraculously fleet of foot, back to the sanctuary. Thom, worried, stood watching her for a brief while. About halfway back she slowed to a reasonable walking pace. Then, this friendliest local example of the average locquacious and moratorily elocutious Italian goomba, strode with confidence into his other public residence and meeting place of note.

  MRS. EMILIA BITTERS was quite restless in her new job as the Krakatoa’s alternate week-end bartender. It was very boring and largely entailed sitting. When customers arrived she asked them what they wanted, and swiftly got it for them. Then there was nothing to do but to sit, again.

  At least Thomas DaLieken, whom she knew from the old Rotary Club, was here tonight. He was good for some words. He was even casually sidling towards the bar, right now.

  Emilia , who was elder faded beauty was no longer sufficient to charm the souls of younger men than her husband, counted on a matronly, imperial black attitude of grandmotherly largesse to entice those spectators sophisticated enough to appreciate the elusive, transcendental qualities of…

  “HEYYY!! Emily! Can ya grab me a tab pitcher fer a buck-fifty, like on the sign there? I’m run out ‘til payday, can ya put it on my tab? I got a thirst that’ll wilt yer socks off. I need some grub too, you sweet ol’ babe, how’s it shakin’ with ya? I hear your ol’ man is suiing the bast-no, I mean those rotten Ridgeview creeps—that terminatored him to weasel you outa what’s rightfully yours. Izzat so, for real? ALLLL RIIIGGHHTTTT!!! Thom finally paused to get his breath. Emilia, nearly blown entirely off her laid-back Krakatoan ambience course, had to reset her sails to billow properly in the correct direction. She harumphe
d into her nail-polished hand.

  “Uh, yes, my husband Ed, Mr. Bitters, is taking the management of his former company to court in order to retain his position there as Level III Administrator. Or, in lieu of that, to retain his benefits package.” She was drawing the pitcher as she spoke carefully tipping the head of foam off as Thom, regathering his forces of speech, began to exposit at her once again.

  “How do ye do, how do ye do. That’s wonderful! Our town oughta be proud of men like Ed Bitters. They hang in there when the going gets touch..I mean, he sticks it out! That is, I believe that man is one tough dude, period. I hope you folks win big time!!” Thom accepted the preferred pitcher, waving it in a grand manner that spilled not a drop. The motion seemed also peculiarly Italian, although how it was so is not something that can be easily described to the written word. He seemed to offer it back, salud, to Mrs. Bitters, without quite clearly doing so; then he swung it ‘roun’ and took off for a table, leaving a tiny trail of white-bearded form in his bruising wake. Emilia pealed loudly with laughter, a nifty habit she'd gained over several years’ time and practice. Her laughter rang like elves’ bells off the beer foam, jiggling the light streaks on the polish of the thick, massive bar, glittering elves of light that danced and captured the sight and sound of beer being swung darkly through the indoor shadowy air.

  “I’ll tell you, they ain’t gonna come after anyone in this burg after Ed’s through with them! They don't know what’ll hit ‘em, m’am. He’ll put them down for the count, TKO, over and out! Wham, bam, their name is spam."

  Thomas enthusiastically began to pour himself a glass, but he was forced to raise his eyebrows in shocked horror when the lack of a bottom to the glass became readily apparent. He held aloft an undeniably moist hand. “Whaaa?”

  “Here,” called out Emilia, who couldn’t let the incident dampen her outlook, no siree, but who had to take her time and enjoy the spectacle she'd created. She lightly tossed a rag across another empty glass. It gleamed with three dripping golden dots, popping and squeaking in the thin, yellow, and neon-generated colorful lights, which were emanating from six different framed bar signs in eight different colors, and which preceded the lady Bitters and concealed her partially in outer darkness as she came out from the oasis of the island behind the bar.

  “It’s the least I can do for a fan such as you, you eye-tal-ian, you.” Stationary and startled, Thom felt the well-defined thump of hard glass on equally hard table. For a moment he idiotically feared for the polish on the table. The glass sat in beer. Emilia began wiping the beer up, lifting the second class to do so. Didn't take long.

  “I’d stay and slurp with you, but I have to mind my station, or I'll stand accused of commiserating with the consumers." She stepped gaily back to the bar. “WE wouldn't want that to happen, now, would we?"

  “No, ma’am,” stated the still shocked DaLieken, who for the first instance of his life had attempted to take a drink from his hand. He remembered, staring at his slippery fingers and doping out what had occurred, when his father had told him that “da folks” were part Indian “because everybody is, this is America." He'd given Thom a book of very florid short stories on Indians…one of the better ones described in-depth how some Native Americans had a custom of taking drinks with their hands from mountain streams. Yeah, there were these weird little malicious beer commercials with funny guys in leiderhosen and straw hats wearing red, black and white snow-bunny costumes that, uh, pour. Pour, poor, poor poor, yeah. Glug, glug and glug, glug, and gulp. Ahhhhh…

  “You know, the last person to call me an Eyetalian also mangled up the word ‘nuclear,’ like in nuclear submarines. He called it ‘nucular.’ Do you think maybe it’s a regular, legitimate pronunciation? I don’t think so, nah.

  “Hey, Mrs. Bitters! Let’s pass a law. I want it to read, anything real that you ever need from life is rendered completely legal, so you're always be happy, as long as nobody else suffers, unless they stink, and no little kids pass out from lack of oxygen. That way, maybe you won't do so many old-hat party gags at me, okay? And oh, yeah, is tomorrow Darts Night?”

  “Or what?” staccatoed Emily, slapping the bar with one hand. It, ah, vibrated.

  “Or what?” stammered Thom. “If it’s not Darts Night, I’m gonna stay home, eat blue corn chips, watch high-definition TV - there’s bound to be a rerun of Mario Puzo on cable. It’s safer than dealing with you!”

  CRITICIZE THE FIENDS, or Needless to Say,

  All through the 80s, lots of

  THE RIGHT TRIANGLE - I saw Sillies

  (‘Member how there weren’t any female bodies to show off? The thing where they lift up their t-shirts hadn’t started yet. Instead, the 80’s were the era of The Wet T-Shirt Contest, or the public throwing of water over the heads of girls and women wearing only a white t-shirt, no bra, and it revealed a lot once wet.)

  An early history of recent lack of complexity:

  All the sexism in the world is since the birth of James Thurber. He single-handedly re-invented sexism. By hating it, but having a giant black-haired woman keep bugging him and mostly ruining his life. I think it was his Mom. But in the end, The Last Flower expressed his need for peace, and one fancy dream of mine involving having exactly one child between me and the Man.

  So, let there now be Tin Drums and Bearskin Dresses, already (originally, the bearskins were dressed, but I couldn’t figure out in what, so…)

  QUESTIONS you may have in about now, scuseski

  That is, you May, you know

  1)What happens, viz Caza’s problems?

  2)Workers of the World, Inc., or WWII—how was it born? Was it a labour

  issue?

  3)What was the origin/end of the nice slime mold? Politics?

  4)Describe Sara’s apartment in depth, including the dust.

  5)Tell us more about the Cloadia/Dave/Sharone love nest triangle; for

  example, did they ever square things?

  6)What happened after Ed Bitters left evil Ridgeview for good?

  7)Who owns the Tomatoe Grocery? Are Tomatoes orange? Is it small? Is it

  Expensive…is it for sale? Is it open?

  8)How about the hairdressers? How ‘bout ‘em?

  9)Is the river gully important? Does it relate to the glowing, dead Mexican

  from 1902?

  10)Who was Gabe’s mystery obscene phone caller? Wotan? The Klan knows.

  What?

  11)Where did Phoebe Sommers go? Long time passing. The gas crisis of the

  30s. Someday, have some eyesight on me.

  12)Did the pigeons, buy any chance, go fourth to Capistrano by accident,

  having swallowed their pride? It’s pigeon pride Week.

  13)What happens to Sharone and Dan as they move, presumably separately, to

  LA?

  14)What was Gabe there doing with the devil? Mutual masturbation?

  15)What scared Mabel so much about Dave’s reappearance? Was he ugly?

  16)Did Thomas DaLieken ever become a monk—as promised?

  17)Who the hell is “Fred?”

  HARMIN BOOLE BALANCED at the bar. On a hard stool, scrunching up his tiny wrinkled butt. Extremely retired, for life. Disgusted yet easy-going fellow 77, he fagged out easily. Years of drinking, smoking, and spouting off to townies doing him in. This was also one of those days when his legs bothered him. Edema, and gout. Filling his knuckles, wrists and toes with agony. Maybe people would be in. Older people, with luck. They were slower and more patient with the likes of him. He sat, nursing a whisky sour, muttering to himself in a voice that echoed with the haunting sentiments of country music.

  A young man, one whom Harmin had never seen, but had known several of, sauntered into the bar. A Mexican, perhaps. He walked over to Harmin. He was a blurry form. This could mean a pool game, Harmin thought, but I don’t think I can take it. My goddamn legs!

  “Excuse me,” sighed the exasperatingly tall young man, “Have you seen Cl
oadia Tager? She’s my girlfriend.”

  “No,” scraped out old Harmin, in a pronounced whisky voice. “I don’ know her well. Sometimes she’s in with that skinny black gal. She the real cute tallish gal? The one who has to bend over the pool table when taking a shot?”

  “Yes,” replied the young man. He tossed his formidable swath of hair back. Harmin had a light dusting of grey left. "I want to see her very badly. Do you know anything about her, where she's living like that? I only dated her twice, but I loved her, I simply have to see her again. Please tell me what you know."

  They stranger said on a barstool. The weekday bartender was on. Mabel was watching TV in the back, her favorite soap, and possibly she was composing a plot for her next romance novel. These actually sold. She made about $75,000 a year from them.

  “Mabel School Jones might be able to answer your questions, young man. Hey, Mabel! Ffreet! There’s a Mexie here wants to find Cloadia Tager. Says she’s his girl. Izzat a fact?”

  “Hi,” said Mabel, coming out from the back. She wielded a cloth, like she usually did, and began wiping stuff off with it. "Sees not a regular. She's in here sometimes with another girl."

  “I must see her again, uhhh, I owe her some money. No," said the ‘Mexie,’ laughing. "I love her, I want to talk with her, but she's very, uhhh, flighty. I don't know where she lives. Do you?"

  “Ahhh, no,” Mabel said, reflectively. She wiped a pitcher. "I have no idea. Wait a minute, I think maybe she's up on Silvedale past the park. I used to have an address list. People drove people home and I didn't have to look through the wallet. But I don't got her address now, sorry."

  “Oh, well, better luck next time for me, I guess. Thank you so much!" said the young man, warmly. He smiled, placing a dollar bill on the counter. "I must go, thanks I don't have time for a drink."

  “Take some sunflowers," Mabel yelled, tossing him a package of shelled, salted seeds, a freebie on his way out. "Thanks!" yelled Dave Velasquez. And that was the last the Krakatoa saw of him, for a while.

  About a week later, Cloadie, Sharone and Saragina all stopped in for a pitcher.

  “We WON! We won all three games, now we’re fifth overall in the league!” revelled Cloadia. The gals were on a bowling team representing the Krakatoa. "Pledge we’ll come back carrying a trophy!"

  “Hey, Clo,” said Mabel. "There was a guy came in looking for you last Wednesday. Said you were his girlfriend but he didn't know where you lived. I told him you were probably past the park on Silverdale, but I didn't have your address. I don't like to give ‘em out to strangers."

  “What’d he look like?" "Oh, young, cute, Spanish, kinda dark. Had lotsa hair. Maybe west coast. Sound familiar?"

  Cloadia gulped. She picked up a cigarette and looked at it, turning it round and round in her fingers with fast pronounced casualness. "Only guy I knew like that is Dave Velasquez, but he's dead…he was killed by a helicopter. I mean, we went skydiving, and, and it sucked him up into it. Into the rotor blades."

  Mabel, on the other side of the bar, paled. "Gosh, how awful! I'm so sorry! But this must be some other boy. He was perfectly fine, looked okay. He just wanted to know where you were."

  Cloadie looked down. She began sort of intentionally bumbling with her cigarette, began. “I dunno,” she heavily muttered. "I don't know any other suchlike dudes. That bloke was it; Mr. Dave. God. I dunno.”

  Then, as Sharone reached out to comfort her, Cloadia Tager looked up, seemingly at something. “Waitaminute,” she called out, loudly and imperiously. "I did useta pray to the old Greek God Poseidon. But it doesn't make sense…"

  Mabel frowned. This wasn't her glass of beer. She was a mom-type and could handle legitimate problems, but what was this? "What Greek God Poseidon? What are you talkin’ ‘bout, honey? Are you, like, okay?"

  "Poseidon--he was the Sea God. Lord over all of the Earth's oceans. He had absolute power over all waters, everywhere. He called to my blood, my spinal fluid, my…I useta do this special prayer for him at parties. I said, look, he's in the beer, right? Mostly for laughs. Not too serious.

  "Maybe he has something to do with Hispanics, ‘cuz they’re ‘middle people,’ you know, they’re between the two extremes. Tears? Neptune, or Poseidon, is the god in between Zeus and Hades. You hardly hear about this Guy. Has to do with water. Yeah. Beaches. And they were really too sexist to women.

  “But…Dave was killed in Zeus’ realm, the sky. I never prayed once to Zeus, not even in regular church, and my LIFE. Honest!" Cloadia finished, pulling at her glowing cig. She wondered exactly how much like a lost space cadet she sounded. A silence dropped over the bar. Sunlight maneuvered over faces, alternately lightening and darkening them. Shadows crept in on the floor. “Isn’t Zeus the, uh, predecessor to the Jewish God, y’know, our regular ol’ God god?” asked Mabel.

  “Don’t know,” called our Harmin Boole, astutely, sticking both his hands in his pockets. "Not my Tonka Truck, those things." Harmin, a regular, was indubitably standing by. He was grinning and rocking back and forth with the balls of his feet.

  “Who asked you, Harmin?” teased Sharone Bitters. Her mom tended bar weekends, relief for Mabel. Her father was a hospital administrator for the local “sickness mausoem,” Ridgeview Hospital, but he’d been layed off.

  Budget cutbacks were blamed. But Mr. Bitters had immediately gotten a new job as local office manager for Estrada Corporation, in spite of these setbacks and cutbacks; not bad, less pay, but much lower pressure; howsoever, he’d lost his former benefits package. Not good indeed…

  “I ast myself, look,” Harmin said, too robustly. "A fella comes in looking for Clo, right? Let's not stray away from reality…it's not her dead boyfriend. It's not the undead god Poseidon. Dead folk don't take to walkin’ again. Right? Right. So, of course, either her boyfriend’s still alive or it was someone else.

  “Now, isn’t that the case? Fair enough? Harmin started off, limping, and also chuckling, back to finish his pool game with Artie. Harmin liked to act swell, wise and all-knowing. He knew Rama. Acting in on things was his way.

  “Never mind that old Harmin,” said Mabel. There was a pause, a silent acceptance of reality. She looked into the distance, as though something meaningful were in force, but she indicated nothing whatsoever, save perhaps that she was holding back tears. And then she smiled stiffly, turned swiftly, and all but fled back to the bar.

  “I’m scared,” Cloadia whispered, to Sharone and Saragina.

  “Chin up, old gal. This’ll resolve some weird dudes’ silent fantasies. No, it'll resolve itself, ah’m sure. Maybe they heard you got a thang for Spanish duders and they actually managed to get it all together and sent out a scout. Never fear. Shar and Sar be hyar.” Sharone poked Sara in the side and they laughed uproariously, in unison, as though on cue.

  Later, Mabel was closing the bar for the night, waiting for her husband to pick her up when, while locking the back office, the probable truth floated up to her mind about what was happening with the Mysterious Reappearances of Dave Velasquez Velasquez. She shuddered, and, standing patiently at the front glass doors, she hoped fervently her Bill would show up, very soon. He did.

  LOST. AT SEA. A sacrifice to Poseidon, awash on the ocean of dreams…

  All the way out in Shell Park, on the beach, all alone, on a picnic table, in between a holy trinity, of a kind, sat Gabriello Sancto. Sat, reciting: Saragina’s place, Caza and Artie’s room, and Cloadia and Sharone’s digs composed a Trine. What a hard care is lust…

  To the north and the west and the south of Gabe lurked four beautiful women. Nothing known to be female was to the east. Gabe sat on top of his splintery picnic table at 4:38 am on a weeknight, in the autumn, awaiting for the sun to rise in the east. Or for Him to freeze to death, whichever occurred naturally first. It was a cool night in October. He'd been there since roughly 1:30 a.m. It was chilly. His bones ached. His legs were numb.

  But he had an erection, the false one-eyed God of sexual deceit. Th
is description had been by a priest of Gabe’s early acquaintance, not by anyone real. “Why ‘one-eyed’ when the thing hides two openings, Hose A and Hose B?” he mused miserably.

  Saragina DeSoto would not, repeat, would not, repeat, would not ever…Gabe HAD. Many times. Already. Saragina had of course been previously married. Gabe needless to say had not. Why? But, not why? Why not. Humongous expellations of diaphragm-dwelling air (did I ever tell you about “The Ring of the Nibbled-On?”). That oughta heat the environment, dragon-breath.

  I’ve done this before (being rudely interrupted by me.) When Monica-Lisa would, but would not the second time. Nor the third time. Nor the fourth time. By the fifth time, I took her dog for a walk instead. It was almost more fun. Not quite. But, Phoebe put up with me. For two-plus whole years. We were almost REAL. Oh, almost…

  So here am I, sitting by any drunken Navajo TV, waiting tenuously for Yaga Bar to show up and overtly criticize my seating posture. “Growll! Your back is all crooked. SLLASHHH!!! Now you’re sittin’ up straight. Ooooops, looka the blood. Lick, lick, lick.” Gabe flinched. His imagination was running away with him, or perhaps with the picanic basket. Where’s Ranger Smith when you need him? He put his shaggy, short-furred head in his hands. He was freezing, but it was only about 58 degrees out. Practically tropical. Barely a Nip in the air. A few. Please?

  Buttoning his jacket up to his neck helped. He did so with numbing hands. The moon was buxomly gorgeous, and becoming swiftly more so. Full, golden, watery and globular, quicksilver imbedded—no, sort of flatly—in the atmospheric, shadowy, romantic slate greyness of dying, oppressive nighthead. He wasn't there yet, never in a single day.

  Gabe’s eyes felt old, older, three times as old as he already was, near temporary death, obese, ready to quit forever, solid as a petrified rock, and happy as a lightly-steamed clam. Such is youth. He wasn't shaking much. The breeze was light and warmly soothing. Like Saragina’s hand stroking his clean-shaven cheek. God save me, it's dark.

  “Beau” frozenly smiled the marionette’s tragic smile of deformity, as though practicing for death, making his smile come from the lovelornly, brainlessly, ridiculously damned and condemned fool. He bonelessly slumped over sideways like a child's long-deserted clown doll. His head flopped limply, he spread his entire bony faced to the limits, mimicking a candleless Jack O’Lantern. It was an attempt to keep awake.

  He was envisioning becoming a gruesome corpse. He’d look awful in this suit.

  I’ll never suicide, no, not me. But, what if? I fall asleep, right, and the cold takes me. Like the Little Match Girl. Uh, red, red wine. Nothing ever would bring me back. Nobody’d care. My funny body is discovered by wide-eyed little children. They pour red, red wine all over the sleeping me, and I feel nothing until he they throw the matches. That they stole from the match girl. The WOOMPH! is incredible. It's like a Roman candle. The flames lick the highest heaven. Smoke is visible in the Carolinas. Perched on her roof, Gramma reads understandable words into it. They say, “Your grandson won't darken your door one more time." They mix me up with the Hologram Vectors when I make heaven he in ruddy-colored flames. While BRRRring. But then they find out otherwise. The Little Match Girl points the finger. The mother-haughty angels, blonde or (Indian father and white male mother!) well, it kills time.

  Blonde, or dark-haired, loveless, violent, perfectly stone cold, flawed but having forgotten ‘em, tear me apart with their merciless, numerous, bulging, inhuman nine-foot wide arms. Like a chicken thigh. They cast the pieces back down to lovely hell, hoar in Rama, for sleeping around with girls so much. I scream in pathetic, dire, hideous, self-immolating eternal torment. Without even trying, I take the picnic table to hell with me. It catches like a matchstick. Old wood sure burns good. I am one with the table. Wow, it hurts! The burning flesh smell re-attracts Yoga, who proceeds to eat me in addition to the other extremely intolerable and unspeakable pains. I finally relish these death agonies as an orgasmic, cosmic atonement, purging my evil, carnal soul, like a middling good laxative. Well, it kills time.

  I supremely declare (that I want out of all politics because I have no group) to the infernal skies, amplified one thousand times, or so, that none of this compares to the bottomless pain of not having Sara to fornicate with, and no one else knowing that, in any way, shape or form, because they have no brains. Ma’m. Zowie.

  So tightly enclosed in my arms and cradled in my bosom and immediately right there with me, if not sooner. My sweet love! I've heard…nah, I haven't heard any such thing….Yaaugh!

  I burn harder, in perpetual torment. The ferocious bears’ remorseless teeth (naturally there’s more than one gigantic, hirsute, malevolent bear, three or four, I can't tell) I really can't, cruelly sink into my throat, destroying my lower jaw; my rended arm is being gently remove, as though by nurses; my foot, mangled, immolates; the center of my body bloats and explodes…

  …I collapse into the brilliant daylight outside, where my numb legs unwind to greet m’lord or m’lady the recently repainted sun, and I (as my whole, unfailing self) fall gracefully off the pic-a-nic table. Oh, look, what a fascinating rock. I believe it's deeply embedded in my calf. Perhaps corrective surgery to remove my brains, especially to replace them into my calves, so they'll “moo-ve,” is in order.

  The flames appear to be extinguished. I cannot feel either of my legs. I cannot, as we shall say, rise.

  I’m going to just lie in this fine position rat cheer for a great, long while.

  No kidding. Perchance those maiden aunts will succulently Indulge. No, they all resemble Sara, or I, and are super-coy. Or, are they—there’s one—ouch.

  Oooooooooch. At least a few of them aren’t. Itches!! I slowly wobble upwards from necessity, scratching fiercely, rising northwards like the moon, committing a daylight shadow performance, an imitation unseen by any audience. No, here come some freaky people. How embarrassing. Would they react if I threw rocks? But, what if they felt sorter hurt? And threw ‘em…back?

  “Gabe! Gabriella! What’re you doing out cheer so early?" It was Mariko Yamaoka and her teeny tots, a boy and a girl, taking a walk among the evergreens spreading so verdant and pure, to feed the ducks early. It only takes a little bread, and then the ducks, geese, pigeons, seagulls, chickadees, swans, grebes…etc. A rainbow of water colored birds, circling above you ‘til you drop food at their rubbery feet.

  I stammered around for the reply, coughing up and swallowing three-quarters cup of phlegm. Well, maybe a tablespoonful. Would you b’lieve a teaspoonful? A pinch. I try to pinch Mariko, thinking she was Lydia, but my fingers wouldn't touch. I made an OK sign instead. Blatantly.

  “Oh, I killing time until it begs for mercy." "No kidding? Me too. “Cept I brought the kids, having nothing else to do with them today. Apartment is colder than outside. Nature calls. Look out!" cried Mariko, swiftly leaping forward to stop Gabe from falling over again. He made a whooshing sound with his lips, and Mariko set him down on the bench. Camera moves back. Premature senility, depicting an Impressionist painting in the muted soft haze of incoming daylight. Zoom in to camera close-up.

  “I was sitting on the table. Much less comfortable." The bench began to touch his behind as though it were extant in his cosmogeny. "Why were you doing that?" came gently the voice of a Japanese Mother, Finestkind, to his ears. But, his eyes Responded.

  Blink. Blink, blink. Blinkies. “I guess I was, uh, going to turn the tables on someone. Like in a restaurant.”

  Soft, brown, time-oriented Asian like-a-tadpole fish eyes hovered like filled nut-meg accidentally-on-purpose placed in clove containers. In mid-air. Where else?

  “You can't do that! Hang on. I will run to grocery, buy you nice cup coffee!"

  Clucking softly, she sprinted away, a Japanese lightening flash of Speed on sandaled feet. She likes sandals best. A pixie sprite. To Gabe’s muggy, fogged-over airport of a mind she shrunk magically into the trees. As Asiatical of a dryad as could be was borned. Mystic glowing embers remained f
rom the imaginary fire, surrounding and blurring her Asiatical form. Bores. Boris.

  “Watch my kids! Keep ‘em safe and occupied. I'll be right back!" Speaking truly, her back vanished, right side first, in a puff of streaming daylight. The sandy dry ground kicked up under her a stupendous halo of dust. Gabe almost choked. She was a pen-prick. She was Gone. So was the erection, long gone?

  “Sha-za-yiam,” Gabe yelled distantly at the ghostly sprinter who wasn't there. He strained to look wildly at the kids; yup, they were playing nearby, the pokes. No, they WEREN’T playing. They were building cars! The same old ones! Nope…

  They were standing, as though frozen in time, and were FROWNING quite tellingly.

  Unmistakably, neither liked him. That's okay, Gabe figured, I'm a Ralph Benchley fan. And Malcolm X. I’ll fall asleep now. He did.

  Saragina’s alarm went off, it rang, or bludgeoned her awake at 6:45 a.m. On the dot. She went back into the bedroom and shut it off. “Member those stories ‘bout perfect white ladies with just one thing wrong with ‘em?

  Breakfast was quite good. However, the eggs were slightly runny. She stuck them in the micro for ten. She used a salt substitute called oregano. First thing she walked in the door at Ridgeview food service, the intake worker said they were absolutely out of orange juice, and that meant a total emergency. Read screaming light time! Who cared if every other CNA didn't even show up?

  He was such a despondent, dependent, dented fellow, or so. "What the heck can we all do here?" As though it was all over for Breakfast in America, for all time and terrible twisted, convoluted Space. He made a terrifically drooping face.

  “We’ll hafta solve grape juice, in the Stead. It’s bahh-ter anyhoo, it’s LOWER acid for the, uh, the patientttsss…everyone may drink if safely.” The service workers acted on Lady Sara’s comment, more people drank their morning juice. Woes end!

  The Yamaoka kids were rediscovered by their returning, black-coffee bearing Mama, remaining in a seated position - a row of Golden tater tots with their expensive clothing defining them, and while holding down Gabe.

  The whimsically big boy and girl casually explained Dot and Ditto-style that they were there strictly for his safety. Concerned and protective, like a split suit.

  “He might fall over again. We don't like to see that! He’s a good guy…though he stayed overnight in a public park…know what we mean?"

  NOBODY FOUND HIS BODY. Because the Bo was still alive. Cloadia explained this to Gabe when he asked her why there’d been no official funeral services.

  “Do you believe in faith healing?" she asked him. He was playing pool with Artie Blend an hour before they were due to join a group taking a truck out to a job site.

  “No, but I believe his good solid tales. You got one?” Gabe said, tsking at Clodia, and winking. Cloadia showed small upset. She was very pretty, always wearing fringed leather vests lined with shiny beadwork to match her near-stilleto-heeled cowboy boots, and her hair shone with glamour. She acted surprised, tsking back. "I'm not making anything up, honestly. Dave actually was killed funny. Honest! The helicopter sucked him up away from me. I saw it." She strolled elegantly, clicking her heels on the hard wood floors, over to the other side of the pool table to watch Artie shoot.

  “Uh huh. Yeah. Well, there’s a guy looking for you and claiming to be Dave Velasquez; therefore, isn't it extremely likely that Dave is still, ah, sorta alive?” Artie’ shot worked and the three ball thunked into the east side pocket, chlormph.

  “Look, mi amigo, just because my believability quotient is going downwards--that doesn't mean anything. I AM is your president. Why… Why would you all think I was lying? You are the ones wanted to talk, ‘member?”

  Many were the mythical events occurring on an informal basis in this backwater, otherwise dull noncosmic burg. Gabe had seen several; there was the incident of the slime mold in the park, the town of Rama, the time he was orgasmically shot twice while picking up his weekly paycheck, the berserker deluging of the town of Rama by crazed weirdos on bicycles, Idaho, but as for political events…

  He never had reason to disbelieve Clo, but wanted to storm something on horseback –but not alone. The story was starting to radiate carcinogens.

  “Dave lives, lady, you're putting us on. Don't tell me?" Gabe purred pettishly …pettishly. “You have a $100,000 life insurance policy on Dave. I won't breathe a word, not to a soul, not to save my life." Gabe actually was running out of succulent breath. He'd been drinking schnapps and copa largoes, tall ones, and both reality and time were slipping away, away…even ol’ Artie looked fuzzy ‘round his edges.

  Laughing, Cloadia flashed an elvish grin at her watch. "No such luck, Paul. I'd scarcely known him a month. Cute man, plucky, but about as bright as I. After that par-tic-‘lar night, that is saying less and less." Clo collected her fringed leather purse and fringe jacket. “’Scuse me, I have an airplane to board. Sayonara.”

  The bar was darkened. So, there was a loss of light. Artie had drifted out the door somehow. Gabe was reluctantly reminded to get going (omigod, I just thought of WHY there’s a Madonna again, the "rubber knife", nothing to do with Marilyn Monroe) to take the truck back, before Nightfall. Nightfall. He finished his last drink and split, twenty minutes later. As though dragging his feet.

  On the way out he ran smack dab into Caza Zooweiler. She grabbed his arm and stared him in the face. With the drifter’s smile (thin.) Gabe opened his mouth, feeling deep, but momentarily lost for his "little sister."

  “Artie and I saw a thin Hispanic dude on Silverdale, looking up and down the road. Artie went over to say hi, but he, uh, vanished. What's going on?" She swallowed, looking hopeful.

  “Dunn,” Gabe offered. “And I hafta go drive a truck. Can't deal with that. Say hi to Artie for me." He left Caza standing there and walked to where the truck was parked. It wasn't there. They’d left already. He was over ten minutes late. Ooooops.

  Hokay. He figured, it’s a sign, from Zeus, maybe. Or from the god Landrover. He went out to Silverdale, to look around for days. He walked all the way up and down the street. He'd never met Dave. Tired, he dropped by Col and Shar’s place, hoping for miracles. He rang the bell.

  A moment, black-and-white, passed; the door was opened. A young, then, Hispanic man stood there, stark-staring naked under a bathrobe, blankly measuring Gabe. “Beau’s” neck hairs prickled. They were unshaved. And unshared. But, who was it, Dave Velasquez?

  “Jew, are you?” inquired the alleged helicopter victim. “I am Dave.”

  “Oh, nobody important. I hang out at the Krakatoa. We all heard you folks were having a problem, and I'm also with the church, so I came out to say hi…"

  “Are Jew the cops?” mustered the door-devil, unkempt three-foot hair, and all.

  “No,” answered Gabie, calmly. “I’m a friend of Cloadia. Squalling, they stormed the town…no…”

  “SORRY, we’re busy. Can’t talk to Jew right now. Later." ‘Dave’ started closing the door. “Gotta go. Hope it wasn't no trouble for Jove.”

  “S’alright…” Gabe was facing a door. Not a doorway. He left.

  Waltzing, only mentally dazed, back down Silverdale, Gabe saw Sharone Bitter’s auto go past. Her face appeared, blurrily, momentarily, before his watery eyes, hovering within the suspension of a single moment's time. It was young, smooth, describably angelic, and for that moment’s own sake, if not for the sake of infinity’s, definitely not a boy’s, not ugly or ugly’s, and not a man’s…

  …then there was a flash of smooth gray metal slipping by, and she parked the car in the “Pah-king” lot of the edificio des picos where she and Cloadia lived. He walked away, thinking of his potentially lost job and that it would all probably be okay, he’d go to the pay phone at the Krak and call in and tell them and apologize.

  He almost heard Shar’s wide car door open and really heard it close, and saw the sun set, towards his right, longing to run over and kill men in Idaho, as he ambled casually to the, the altogeth
er giant toilet flushed drinking establishment that was so necessary for the absolute promotion of Rude alcohol demises.

  He thought, it could have something, ANYTHING, to do with water! I’m thirsty. Also, for a change lately, I’m getting HUNGRY. Starved, ipso facto. Facto Factotum ad Absurdum. Quaint. There aren’t any strange people here, never have been.

  Maybe I should head for the Fantastic Café instead. No, tomorrow when it’s open for big fat breakfast. I need to buy two dozen jelly-filled donuts. As my big fat apology to the WWII Big Fat Crew. They have money, and no soul.

  Mustn’t forget the decaf coffee, samovar-style. It’s what a Grecian urns, causes bladder cancer if you drink it mostly. You get breast cancer from no children. So have a kid every day, in order to prevent wearing pink ribbons.

  ANOTHER FAVORITE HANGOUT for the boys, girls ‘n goats of Rama, WA, is the Fantastic Café. It’s an art deco wonderment, but subdued, and prematurely greyed-out, possessing a broken-down interior and generationally grown dust ground-in every bit as though it were forty years old in there, and it probably was. The redecoration took place in the mid-70s.

  Originally it was a breezy, airy li’l lunch counter, wide-open all-glass front, dusty, oblique, with round padded stools that badly needed recovering, and an earlier incarnation of Mabel Jones presiding. Her name was Thu Breckinbrack, she of the white aging Afro, and she slaved daily over the regular service of Rama’s restaurant food and phosphates. She’s dead now. She died of liver failure from alcohol poisoning.

  More time on the part of the local masses tends to be spent at the Krakatoa, anyway, with her distracting rip-roaring volcano, at the base of which was once an equally roaring fireplace until it cut loose one night after closing (improper banking technique by a fly-by-night barkeep) and burned out most of the back wall. The original artificial plastic volcano, which was much smaller, melted, and it costs $10,000 to pull it all out and replace the wall. Back then the bar was named "King Author’s Palace."

  John Harcourt, the current manager at THAT time, Robert Goneschlaw, who was then still able to talk, agreed with a local contractor with a fetish for kitschy restaurant decor, who was "in love with the place" for money, and they installed a ten-foot artificial "live" plastic volcano, replacing the defunct prior fireplace completely. Harcourt renamed the place "Krakatoa," after the disaster. After all, what disaster?

  This turned out to be a terrific idea and it jam-packed in the customers. The new volcano gave off twice as much light, no heat whatsoever, and was "lots prettier." The whole bar glowed womblike and invitingly, with softly flickering reds, oranges and gold. It put you to sleep while waking you up, simultaneously, as it should.

  Oh yeah, there’s also those ubiquitous pool tables at the Krak, and a stowed-away Ping-Pong table being saved for special occasions by Goneschlaw, a foozball table with two broken plastic men, and three of those old-fashioned pre-video, uh, game machines that go "tilt" if you rock ‘em. Pinball right? And four video games, besides, the newest one being over three years old. At least those got used.

  Only food, drink, and a daylight open view for you at the Fantastic Café. Of course there was and is a Daily Special.

  Hamburgers are the out-and-out mainstay at the Fantastic, and cost a mere $1.99 for a third-pound of beef, with a toasted sesame-seed bun, all condiments, letters, a dill pickle or sliced sweets, onion, and a side of potato salad or a bag of chips. You can get ‘em salt-free. Cheese is 35cents extra per slice and you have to figure the tax. Coffee is an incredible twenty-five cents with a burger or sandwich, sixty cents for a cup alone. Free refills, up to three. No more and let its decaf.

  You can tell by that last piece of info that it's not a crowded room.

  The original idea was to supply the lunch throng of hungry factory workers from the nonexistent factory that never arrived, despite all attempts toward its western extraction, in Rama, or close by. That's why no crowds. But two people a day?

  Well…Gabe took a copy of As I Look Back to the Fantastic, banging open the glass door on his way in. A high school kid, Jeannie Ontermeyer, was behind the counter. He knew her; he used to babysit her brother. They’d lived in the same neighborhood about two years ago, back when Gabe worked at the bookstore. After a while, a black kid Gabe didn't know came out from the back storerooms and joined her up front.

  “Jeannie!” yelled Gabe, waving his book. "How’s the roast beef? I got paid yestiddy and I need a good solid slice of beef on a bun." Gabe strolled casually up to the counter and slid neatly onto his usual recovered stool. Jeannie laughed merrily, winking at him. That's when the new kid Gabe didn't know suddenly appeared, bringing with adroit certainty two boxes, probably full of filled or unfilled donuts, or maybe crumpets, straight out of the mysterious back. Gabe craned his stubby brown neck up excitedly. He waved a non-threatening forefinger.

  “Hey, man, are those donuts? Are they jelly-filled? That's great, if they’re at least a little fresh at all? I need about two dozen of ‘em, in a box. I'll buy up all ya got, I need them DONUTS!!! Gabe shouted like an auction customer, both in imitation of his Artie buddy, who got away with stuff like that, and in lack of surety about what the black kid’s plans were, with those doughnuts. Surely he would be willing to sell "Beau" some of them. Would sweet talk be required?

  Ahhh…he looked at Gabe like, he was serious? "You must be hungry or what, or somepin’, Bo,” flatly stated the gangly, dark-black teenager. He was standing stiffly, not very open and friendly. "Beau" was turning him off.

  Nevertheless, Gabe did a double-take. “Howdja know my name, that's my real name, or do ya?” he inquired while searching the kids’ face for memories. Perhaps guesswork should be attempted. Did the name "Beau" involve genetic facial structural imprints, widely known to everyone? Probably not. He could swear he’d never seen this kid before, ever.

  “Yes, Bo,” the kid tiredly explained, in an’ I’ve-done-this-before kind of a voice, "I used to work for your mother. I delivered roses to her every day. Pure, unspoiled white roses. In bunches of twelve, with card attached." At this point, the youth, scarcely one hour over sixteen, jabbed a finger at "Beau,” while balancing both boxes on his other hand like a French waiter. Averting his shy and youthful gaze, he plopped ‘em down on the counter. He continued, very pleasantly, with an undertone beneath his speech of an intangible, mild, inaudible scream. Screaming coming from somewhere down deep inside. You could feel the strain in his body.

  “And with every bunch I delivered a single cream-filled chocolate-covered donut, at no extra charge. She was really sweet, your mother was, she tipped me $5 every time I delivered those flowers." He smiled, ever pleasantly, at the donut-seeking stranger.

  The black youth balanced carefully but staunchly on the counter-face with both hands palms down. “She even let me eat a donut with her every once in a great while.” The look on his dark face was entirely serious, but uncertain. Perhaps a stormy expression. "She died last year, I heard." He drifted away at this peculiarity, as though it was the type of event that never befell people like him…

  …”sudden-like. Now, what can I really get for you, a burger, a sandwhich, a milk-shake, all of the above, or some of our fresh roast beef, flown-in today from Ha-why-ya.” He said this last part with a New York accent. The strange new worker, at least strange from Gabe’s perspective, had apparently finished his speech quietly and with a slight smile. And he shrugged, sort of listlessly.

  Gabe just didn’t react. Or, did he? “No, shweet-haht, I’m serious. I gotta buy both boxes of donuts ‘dju got cheer’ (he jabbed a finger at the boxes) for my hungry work crew, an’ I wanna get wunna those orangeaid coolers, too, or a big samovar full of coffee, whichever’s cheaper. We’re headed to an outa-town work site. See, we work through the mission," Gabe explained, feeling as though he were falling back on an old bad habit, or relaying an important piece of news, "and we have a lotta guys ‘n dolls what needs their blood sugars raised, and their core temps maintained while they are
out-of-doors in the livable freezing cold."

  Gabe wasn't angry at the youth, who was beginning to look familiar, largely from being stared at for the last many minutes. He couldn't blame the guy for being upset at him either. Getting upset was the order of the day, and perhaps the day’s only one, at the Fantastic Café. Hey!

  “I see what your problem is. You come out from the back with your two flats of donuts, and just then in I waltz, slam, and I attempt to claim up all the pastries you’ve got, all at once. But, izzat really all you've got today, by any chance?" Gabe searched his face in an empty, quizzical manner.

  “Yep, no problem. We can order another two flats from…no, that's what the problem is. Jeannie?” Jeannie, who was off wiping tables at that point, almost instantly came right over. "Yeah, what's going on?"

  "This customer would like to buy us out for donuts, and I'd be very happy to sell them to him, but I, uh, have no idea whatsoever how to get any more of them today because we use Wally, you know Wally, and he told me that we can only get two flats of these on Monday or Thursday. He said we usually don't even buy them on Thursday. I'm sorry, Bo," said Ned, "to put you off, but these are all the donuts we have got access to for the whole week, maybe."

  Jeannie, who was listening closely but with a skeptical expression on her pretty, exquisitely made-up face, broke in helpfully.

  “We can too order more doughnuts, or any baked goods, from Smither’s. She turned to Gabe. "That’s the bakery, in Unionville, and if you have a car, you can drive to Unionville and buy dozens and dozens of really fresh doughnuts. All the jelly-filled donuts you’ll need for work tomorrow. These ain't even all filled.” Jeannie opened the top box and picked one up. She broke it in two. It smelled fresh.

  Ned got upset. “Hey, that’ll ruin the donuts for the Bo.”

  “Nah, it’s okay, it’s a baker’s dozen in both boxes and the wants twenty-four,” she laughingly said, handing a half to Gabe. "Try this helpers extra."

  Gabe chewed thoughtfully. "You wanted two dozen, all right? See, this isn't even filled. Go ahead, eat the whole thing, already! Kinda dry? They’re an afternoon old.

  “Jeannie, darling’, you’re givin’ away all our week-point secrets!" Ned frowned a big black frown down at Jeannie, who was sorta short for her age. She hiked herself up at him and shook herself defiantly, nyah nyah nayah. She looked to be very happy and ultimately forgiving. But tough. Ned was tallish and thin, unsurprisingly wiry.

  “Nonsense, we had to have ‘em delivered last night, and they were in the cold storeroom overnight. That's over a day old, and no fault of the café’s."

  Jeannie bit the other half; it was dry as bone dry would be, were bones that dry. She nodded, petitely, and frowned prettily. “Todja. Y’ should go to Unionville, Gabe Hooter, the bakery is open ever day, they're just slow on delivery. You can get ‘em all filled, finest-kind, just like Nedders used ta take to yer mum, g’wan you guys.” Jeannie poked Ned in the ribs with her finger. Today, she wore bewitchingly blonde hair interlayered with orange streaks, a cellophane dye. "You're kidding us, Nedders, you never took any filled dounts to Bo’s mum.”

  “’Course not!” Ned objected, agreeing. “They were all dry! His mom don't like ‘em filled. She's losing weight. Those filled pastries are chock-loaded with horrible death-defying calories." Ned reached in and grabbed a filled donut. He tore it gently in two. "Here, this is what these are like." He gave it to Gabe, who ate it. "Not bad. But dry, as you say. You sure you usedta deliver these to my mom? She lives on the east coast, three thousand miles away, give or take ten blocks."

  “Ohhh, no, you AIN’T Bo Ruskin, are ya?” I thought you were the Bo who played us on the football team, with Roosevelt High last year. I was opposite their team's wide receiver. Can't see too good to through those face masks." Here, Ned did a long dramatic pause--obviously he was beginning to have trouble keeping this improbable story up--and he looked Gabe square in the face, but he raised one black eyebrow about twice as high the other one, in a most novel manner. Apparently Ned was bored, but a trickier’n usual cuss.

  “Beau,” convinced something else was going on, remained maturely and calmly unimpressed with the youth’s antics. He was there to buy some apology food for his crew, having made himself late before from hanging out and picking on Cloadia too long.

  “All I want is a roast beef sandwich for me, pronto. I have to get a car out to Unionville and pick up those donuts. You two are right, that's a much better idea."

  “Gabe slapped the counter top, placing both palms, fingers flat, together and raised, directly on the counter’s edge, as though cutting his palms. "Capitol suggestion, that, in fact, mi varon, mi cara, absoLUTEly capitol! Would the senor brioso care to drive me out to Unionville? I know that Señorita Jeannie can handle all the customers presently located in this establishment excellente,” Gabe exulted, swinging his left arm outwards to indicate the total lack of anyone else resembling people in the entire place. "I'll pay you twice the gas, agradece-miento.”

  Ned did the same thing with his lips that Dame Gretchley had done when she was talking with Ed Bitters. He looked as though he were auditioning for a Hollywood part, but, where was the show? Gabe relaxed for a moment and attempted to enjoy the weirdness. That's what he usually did. It was all he could do.

  “All right…Jeannie can handle it. I'll drive you to Unionville and we’ll go donut-shopping.” Wiping his hands on his apron--they weren't even dirty, what from? --Ned went back in the back. He came out waving his car keys jingling high and he and Gabe quickly exited out the front. Ned quietly closed the fragile glass doors behind them. Gabe never did get his beef sandwich. On the way out to Unionville, Ned went ahead and told Gabe that the Reason for Ned was that Ned’s mother had killed horribly, summer of last year, with a wooden-handled, double-barreled shotgun. "She did drugs and had a lot of pain. Like that other lady on the news, years ago." Then he was silent the rest of the ride. “Beau” believed him.

  Unionville was slow, settled-in, and unobtrusive. The bakery emanated wonderful, cloying, overwhelming smells. Ned casually entered and picked up the two dozen donuts. When he returned, Gabe was gone, but Ned found him looking into a shop window at a pair of beautifully hand-crafted workman's boots. What a lovely collage, one that he never did go to, or create for himself. "I hardly ever get out there. Thanks!"

  “Like those boots?”

  “Too expensive, man, I can get better boots ‘n these through the JC Nedders’ catalogue. I will, when I get paid.”

  Ned dropped Gabe off at his apartment building. “I’m sorry if I was funny at you, “Beau.” You like Gabe better?”

  “You can call me Gabe or ‘Beau,’ but my name’s Gabriello,” chanted Gabe. “But now I have to call you Ned. If I may ask, Ned What?”

  “Ned England, if you can believe that. Your mom’s really on the east coast? Ah, me. You’re almost like me. My mom is really gone, gone for gone. My pop’s got a girlfrien’, though, an’ there’s hope for him. He ain’t lost, yet. Me, too…

  “Well, en-joyyy your dooo-nuts!” said Ned, dragging out every syllable. Gabe gently closed the car door. Ned spun away, trailing dust. The donuts felt light; the boxes were still warm.

  As Gabe trudged up the stairs, he accidentally dropped a box on the second floor landing, but it plopped down upright. Two of the donuts were mashed together, a pastry union, kinda sweetly funny. Un acoplar allegre.

  Being short on money, he was glad he had to fix a sandwich and a soup on his hotplate at home. This way, he still had plenty enough to take Saragina out. Wondrous Ned had bought him the donuts.

  On a heady night at the Krakatoa, Beer Bustin’ Night, the monthly event when beer cans gathered all over town were crushed for recycling purposes, herself Cloadia Tager showed up, dressed to the hilt, on the arm of an equally haute-coutered Dave Velasquez. They were greeted with cheerily abundant surprise by a very full bar. It was a most recycling-conscious turnout.

  Clo pulled up a chair and
sat down on it backwards, an event nearly made impossible by the revealing stretchy tights she wore. She cleared her throat and sat upright, waving her hands, and made the general announcement. SSSWWWWEEEEARRRRUHHH

  “I want to fix it up about a little problem, here. Listen up, comrade beeroid chill-out fixer denizens.”

  Everyone listened raptly, although there were occasional scrunching sounds.

  “Those were all Jeweesses, an’ this here good-lookin’ young man is Dave Velasquez. He’s no Jewess. He's also not dead, as you may have heard. I’m Cloadia Tager, his new boss, hi, y’all.

  “We’re gettin’ married, and you’re ALL invited, with grand solicitations, especially Jewesses,” Cloadia interrupted, indicating a certain waitress. She waved back. "To the wedding party," she finished. Slight pause here while Cloadia ladylike coughed into an incredibly long-fingered hand, or maybe it was the lightning. Scrunch.

  “When’s th’ hitchin’?” croaked Arthur Blend. Artie possessed a correct and legal and most definitively CURRENT birth certificate. “Ah gotta rent a decent tux! They done buried Graham Doonall in mah old suit ah lended ‘em. When?”

  Saragina and “Beau,” who were nodding together and sharing a pitcher, before leaning back in their respective chairs to burp comfortably, bolted up straight.

  “Now you tell me!” Gabe sputtered. “What day, Jose?” tittered, or tilted, Saragina, who tippingly lifted an ignorant glass. Gabe was, had been, experiencing concrete elbow again and those two were studiously doctoring Gabe’s pain with alcohol, taken internally. It appeared to be working.

  “This month, the 10th, 2 p.m. Magnolia Ave. Church, up north off the highway. Oh, don't forget to bring highly expensive presents. Or your highly expensive self, well, at least a card. Formal wear is required. That means they have to be good blue jeans, Artie. No holes!"

  “Fangs a bunch!” Artie slurped, slamming his beer down right on top of a pop can and crushing it neatly with the big bottom of the glass. "Wow, tha’s purty good. Swell, y’all headin’ fer a weddin’…congrats, salutes and sis-boom-bah! Hallelujah!” He flourished eight navy salute, not unsnappingly. Murmurs of amused approval circulated throw out the bar. No, the Krak. No, the Bar.

  “As part of our Wedding Announcement,” Cloadia continued, “Dave has a joke to share with you. His English ain’t so hot, so y’all listen up. And that’s all from me. Next time you folks see me, you can refer to me as Mrs. Velasquez, or maybe some of you kids can call me Mrs. Alaska." She stepped neatly away from the chair, clumping loudly across the floor and heavily hobnailed cowboy boots. SHE was the Goddess. Dave swiftly swung the seat under his small behind. He grinned a mile across at all the Krakapokes, as Mabel called ‘em. None were kids, most of them being over 30 and rather soused. Smoke was blown sideways.

  “Well, I have little that's good to say, so I'm going to tell you folk a joke. IN…English! Better than my being dead, right? Hokey? It sorta goes like this:

  The Young Priest

  The new priest at her first sermon was so afraid he couldn't speak so he asked the Monsignor how he could relax. The Monsignor said, "Next week it might help if you put a little vodka or gin in your water." The VERY next week the priest put some vodka in his water and readily preached up a storm. After Mass he asked the Monsignor how he had done. The Monsignor replied, “Fine, but there are a few facts you should get straight.

  “First: There are ten commandments, not twelve.

  “Secondly: There are twelve disciples, not ten.

  “Tertiary: David slew Goliath, not ‘beat the snot out of him.’

  “Fourthmost: We do not refer to Jesus Christ and his disciples as ‘JC and the boys.’

  “The Fifth: Next week there is a taffy-pulling contest at St. Peter’s, not a peter-pulling contest at St. Taffy’s.

  “Sickly: The Father, the Son and Holy Ghost are not referred to as Big Daddy, JC and the Spook.

  “Seventhly: Do not refer to the cross as the “Big T.’*

  “Burp: Last but not least, it’s the Virgin Mary, not ‘Mary with the Cherry.’”

  “Having finished, the Monsignor flipped the young priest’s surplice over his face,” Dave intoned sonorously. “And he just blew it off.” He sighed. “Story over.”

  “Yeah, I’LL say!” screamed an erstwhile inebriate gent in the back of the bar. "With the Cherry! A Cherry! A Cherry!" Laughter broke out, like the…in it's spontaneously startled manner, that, but WAS whistled dead by Thom DaLieken. “Hey, show respect for the bride, there.” Thom enjoyed the idea of TAKING marriage seriously.

  “See you at the WEDDING!” Dave called forth, taking Clo by the hand and escorting her to the front door, clump-clump-clump-clump-clump-clump. A momentary weighted silence held the bar crowd entranced, the bar quietly echoing with Clo’s footsteps.

  “Scary, man, downraht frahtful,” Artie wheezed. He lifted his massive fist. Crunch. It was time to begin crushing recyclables again, life as usual.