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I'm gonna tell you this just like I told Dale, but I'm gettin blamed tired of tryin to figure how many of them quotation marks I gotta be puttin everywhere. So you just go ahead and trust your ol' pal Pat that I ain't fancied this story up none since its previous tellin. And if I have, then it's only just because I thought it would sound better with an addition or two.
1939 looked like dawn in America. The dust across Oklahoma had settled and the oakies finally left California for their old ancestral homes. The stock market was finally recoverin from the haymaker it took to the face in '29. FDR was payin people to lean on shovels and payin novelists to write travel guides. But that happiness wasn't gonna last. Over in Germany, Hitler was clawin his way to power. In Japan, the empire was growin and settin its sights on the Pacific. And in Bend, Oregon, robots had just broke through the crust of the Earth and started shootin people with their death rays.
Now, you may think them first two problems was more serious, because you read about them in your fancy pants history books, but I tell you what, when you got an army of robots givin Oregon a whole sack of death ray up the fudge hole, you better believe you're gonna take that seriously. At least, you would if you were FDR and you was tryin to get elected for the 800th time. So he did what he could, he sent in the army. Sure, it seems like a good idea now, but what you're forgetting is that, after the Great War, all the people between twenty and thirty disappeared mysteriously one day. They returned to their previous lives on August 5th, 1940, but they were never the same again. For starters, from then on, they knew a whole lot more about science. Also, they all had eyes where their belly buttons used to be. None of them said what happened to them, and researchers have been trying unsuccessfully to figure it out since then. And that's why, to this day, they're called the "lost generation".
When all them young people disappeared, FDR had made some tough choices to fill the ranks of the army back up. At first, he'd recruited hobos, who had become the largest segment of the population during the great depression. They were surprisingly willing to do the job for about six months or so. Nearly all the hobos passed basic training but, as soon as it got cold, they wandered off with nary a warning. After that came a series of failed recruitment experiments; the baboon brigade, the disastrous zeppelin force and the embarrassing 'children's crusade' which ended far too similarly to the original children's crusade for anyone's comfort. By the time the robots had broken through the crust, the army had been reduced to a handful of beat poets, whatever baboons hadn't gone to work for the Russians and a loaf of week old bread that had, through a combination of poor baking temperatures, super strong yeast and proximity to a uranium mine, gained sentience.I tell ya, though, when you hear the words "death rays", you use whatever you got.
By the time the word got out to the army that the robots were attacking, the deadly, metal force had advanced to the Willamette Valley. General Bread Loaf made the tactical decision to trap them there, push them back against the mountains and then smash them, then stomp on them, then break them into small pieces, then wee on the pieces and then reassemble the robots without the death rays so they would have to wander around smelling like baboon wee. I don't think I mentioned this before, but General Bread Loaf was a bit of a psychopath, but he was the only one who applied for the position of general, so he really got it by default. Not to say he was a poor tactician, just that he tended to take things farther than really necessary.
He sent the baboons in first, those poor, ignorant bastards. They may have funny red bottoms, but them guys are meaner than a nicotine addicted badger who just quit smokin and got kicked in his privates. One time, I even seen a baboon pull the trunk right off an elephant when he thought the elephant was laughin at his behind. It was later discovered that the elephant had just thought of a really funny parrot joke and was about to tell it to the baboon. The baboon tried to sew the elephant's trunk back on, but as you well know, baboons can't sew a lick and so the elephant had to wander around with his trunk danglin useless from his face. He never did tell that joke, either, which is sad, because elephants usually have good jokes. But that's neither here or there. The point is, baboons may be mean little cusses, but they got no armor against death rays. They went boldly into that valley and the only thing that came out was a river of baboon goo. Well, that and an army full of angry robots. Boy, you think robots are angry when they're just firin off their death rays willy nilly, you just wait and see how angry they get when you send a whole baboon platoon after them. They stormed outta that valley, their eyes flashing red and death rays blarin. The brave beats tried to hold the line, but they were reduced to a smoking pile of bongos and berets in an hour.
Well, after that, it was really downhill for the US. The robot spread themselves all over the country, cutting a path of death and destruction in their wake. The defeat at Willamette Valley was a crushing blow to General Bread Loaf. He later wandered into the ocean in a butter tub. I hear legends he landed on a pacific island where, according to some, he's worshipped as a god or, according to others, he was eaten with coconut marmalade.
It looked bad. The president went into hiding in a secret bunker, the vice president decided it was time the vice president finally had his own secret bunker and began construction on it. Farmers didn't harvest their crops for fear of running into a robot death ray in the field. The robots themselves had the run of the roost. But then came the hobos.
They had been secretly organizing themselves by word of mouth, hobo code chalked up in towns and jungles. They'd been striking at the robots secretly, testing their strengths and weaknesses. What they discovered astounded the nation.
As you well know, hobos have long been masters of the harmonica. But what you didn't know is that the harmonica was invented by gnomes to control their robot creations in case something were to go wrong or in case they needed someone to carry them home after drinkin a little too much geyser booze. The harmonica design was then stolen by a golem who was, at the time, a mortal enemy of the gnomes, but later became friends after it was discovered the golem was an avid bridge player but didn't have anyone to play with and that drunk gnomes are easy to beat at bridge. The design travelled far and wide without anyone knowing its significance.
As it so happens, the hobo harmonica prodigy Scoop Shovel Scotty was working on a new song while riding a freight car coast to coast. He played the following sequence:
3 4 4 -3 3 4 4 -3
3 3 4 4 -4 -4 5 6
when, lo and behold, a robot just outside the train collapsed, twitching and writhing. When it got back up, it began harvesting the fields and placing the crops in the farmer's barn. Over the course of the next month, Scotty shared this revelation with the other hobos around the country. They coordinated a strike and disabled all the robots at once.
The hobos had saved the day with their song. There were parades and feasts held in their honor. The life of the hobo and proficiency on the harmonica became much desired. So much so that entire neighborhoods were built out of freight cars on circular tracks so that people could like the life of the hobo and still know where their house was. When the national month of celebration was over, the hobos were offered anything they would like as a reward.
They convened the Hobo Convention in Britt, Iowa to discuss it. Some pressed for their own country while others said they should ask for legal immunity. In to the middle of the argument strode Charles Noe. He wove them a tale of his underground land in the shadow of the Big Rock Candy Mountain and convinced them that they wanted to live there. By the end of the convention, nearly all the hobos were ready to go, but they railway was never finished. So Scoop Shovel Scotty returned to the President and told him, "We have debated and decided, but we want two things."
"You were only offered one," replied the President.
"Yes, sir," Scotty twisted his hat in his hands, "that is true, but one is such a small thing."
"State your request," Roosevelt was skeptical.
Scotty bowed, "Thank you sir. First, we request you build a mile of rail track from the depot in Bend Oregon to the hole the robots broke through. Second, we ask that you let us hobos disappear from the land and from history, so we can live our lives in peace."
Roosevelt thought for a long time. The tension was so thick you'd have to cut it with a saw, if you were so inclined. Finally, Roosevelt looked Scotty in the eye and uttered one word, "Granted."
With that, all mention of the power of the harmonica, the hobo army and the Great Robot War of '39 was stricken from the records. Over time, the memory of that dark month faded and, with the return of the Lost Generation in '40 and the start of the War shortly after that, people didn't have the time to reminisce. Most of the hobos took the westbound train to Charles Noe's land and they've lived in peace under the Earth ever since. Pa returned home to find and raise me for a time, but the old wanderlust got deep into his bones and he took that westbound train when I was in my 20s. As for me, I stayed around in Iowa until I ran into the Squimonk, opened a business and found myself in McClawenstein's living room.
And, as amazing as this story may be, it was nothin compared to what Dale was about to tell me.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Sunday, July 5, 2009
Update
Hey all, sorry about the recent stops and starts in posting. As I said earlier, I quit my job. I finally settled on something else for the year, but it involves me moving out of the country. For the last month or so, my wife and I have been selling most of our stuff and packing up. Right now, we're hanging out with my folks for a month and then we'll be out of the country. I think that I should be able to get back to regular, multi-times-a-week posting about September. Thank you all for hanging in there with me. I promise I've got some good stuff up on deck and I'll get it to you as soon and as well as I can.
Pa's Adventure Part 3
By the time Dale returned with the coffee, I'd started to think about other things. Why was I sitting here, in what looked like my grandma's living room, having coffee with Dale McClawenstein, when I was supposed to be defeating him and his nefarious, meth dealing schemes? Also, why did it seem like this afternoon was stretching on for weeks? And finally, what kind of coffee was this? I was durned good coffee, I tell ya, and I had some mean cups of coffee in my day. In fact, when I was in my early 20s, I set off in search of the perfect cup of coffee. I travelled around the world, often stowing away on boats bound for South America, the Pacific and beyond. I went hither and yon, eating nothing but donuts and toast for 5 long years. I rarely showered and I never shaved, which was the first time I grew a beard, until, at last, my quest was complete. I found the perfect cup of coffee on a small chain of islands where giant hair is the norm and everyone shouted "Bula!" as a greeting; where the sand is white, the ocean is blue, and the coffee is black as John Hodgman's heart. I spent a fortnight in the country of Fiji, travelling to its many islands, sampling the local brew and paying for my hotel stays in stories and beard hair, which, until 2004, was the official currency of Fiji. Soon, out of stories to tell and bald-chinned once again, I wandered back home to Iowa to settle down and dream of island life and Fijian coffee. This coffee that Dale had was in the top 20, 25% of all the coffee I'd ever drunk, if I were forced to place it. Sure, it was no Fijian coffee, but little is.
Just as I was gettin ready to hitch a ship back to my island paradise, Dale came back to the living room with two more cups on his tray.
"Sorry about the wait," he told me. "I had some problems with the coffee maker. I thought I'd turned it on brew, but I really just had the timer turned on. I kept waiting for it to start brewing, but it never did. I got it in the end, though. I hope the wait wasn't too long."
"Nah," I replied, "not too long at all. Maybe for someone else, it woulda been a long time, but I'm patient."
He set the cups down on the coffee table. "Now, where were we? Right, you were just about to tell me about the building of the train to the center of the earth."
"That's right," I nodded, sipping my coffee, "Pa and Mr. Charles Noe were tormented by their plan for two straight weeks. They knew the land would be perfect for hobos and that hobos loved trains, but how would they get a train to the land of the big rock candy mountain. But the problem was that the land had no way to perform any work.
"Then, it struck Noe like lightning out of the clear blue sky, or cave roof, or whatever lightning comes out of when you're in the middle of the earth. 'Hey,' he told pa.
"'Hey is for horses,' pa shot back. He'd invented that saying just a week before, and he was getting as much mileage out of it as he could.
"'And correction is for grammar teachers,' responded Noe, who was sick of hearin that line every time he tried to get pa's attention. 'Anyway, I was just thinkin. WE may not be able to build us a railroad, but there's no reason it can't be built for us.'"
"'Whaddya mean?' asked pa.
"Well, Charles explained to pa that his land weren't the only land in the center of the earth. Apparently, according to him, there was all sortsa underground empires keepin things quiet down there. They was surrounded by dinosaur valleys, elf fortresses, troll caves and, most importantly to him, right to the south was a whole gnome village. Maybe they could just mosey on over there and ask the gnomes, who are known worldwide for their industriousness, to build them a railroad. And that's exactly what they did, well the moseyin anyway. When they got to the gnome village, it was a different story altogether.
"That gnome king, called Ulthibalthazar, was facing a revolution not seen since he lead the revolution against the previous gnome king Frankulikik, who lead the revolution against the previous king, Doug. Pa and Charles Noe came upon the king pacin around his chamber yellin, 'What am I going to do? What am I going to do?'
"When Charles asked him what was the matter, Ulthibalthazar told him that, despite their reputation as hard workers and clever machinists, gnomes, as a society, were incorrigible drunks. This was typically sated by the liquor geysers that dotted the gnome landscape. Those geysers would shoot liquor out every fifteen minutes and said liquor would be collected in wooden barrels by a special squadron of gnomes, the Tap Brigade. Every time a barrel was filled, the brigantine carrying it would ring a bell to summon a donkey. When the donkey arrived, they would strap the barrel to the donkey, tap it and the let the donkey roam freely through the village. Any gnome that wanted a drink, and it was likely to be every gnome, would fill his glass from the donkey's back, swill his liquor, and then return to work, or maybe he would take a nap, it was about fifty fifty. This was such a vital part of gnomish life that they chose the biggest drinker from among them to be king. Once king, Ulthibalthazar didn't have to make anything any more, he just had to use his mystic, big drinkin power to keep the geysers runnin. Of course, there weren't no instructions on how to do this, because kings usually left office quite suddenly and unexpectedly, not to mention that they were usually dead at the time.
"Well, this particular gnome king had just kept drinkin and assumed that, as long as the geysers were goin, he was doin everything right. But, the week before pa arrived, the geysers just stopped workin. Now, he was facin a horde of hungover, grumpy, shaky gnomes with the DTs who wanted his head on a pike, or a drink, either one would satisfy them.
"That gnome king was sure in some desperate straits. He was offerin pa and Noe anything they wanted if only they could get the geysers turned back on. Now pa, he was wily. He told that Ulthibalthazar, 'Now, sir, I ain't sure I could get them geysers back on for ya, but I may have a way that you don't need them anymore.'
"But that king shouted out, 'I'm not goin to any more of those meetings. 12 steps my eye! If I wanted to quit drinkin, I wouldn't have become a gnome king, I would have been a priest or a teacher or something like my mom wanted me to be.
"'I ain't gonna convince you to quit drinkin,' pa told Ulthibalthazar, 'I got a way to get you a supply of fresh, sweet booze that you can keep for emergency purposes.'
"That made the king interested, but still wary, 'And what do you want in return?'
"'We just want a railroad!' cut in Mr. Noe. 'And we want you to build it for us!'
"But the king explained to them that gnomes didn't build railroads. There wasn't no challenge in building a thing unless it had at least a thousand moving parts and, as was the custom of the current king, had death rays mounted on it. To give them an example, Ulthibalthazar showed them a brass bird he made, no bigger than a swallow. He opened up the back and showed them how it was run by clockwork gears, some only as big as the head of a pin, others, or so he says, were invisible to the naked eye and had been carved out of dust motes. 'There,' he explained proudly, 'that's a challenge! Now you're askin me to waste all this gnomish talent layin down some bars on some sticks? Not gonna happen. But I tell you what, if you can get me the liquor you say you can, I'll get my boys to build you a whole slew of railroad buildin robots.'
"Right there, the deal was struck. Pa and Charles Noe led the host of hungover, angry gnomes to the land of the big rock candy mountain and let them dig a ditch, rerouting one of the alcohol streams through a series of tunnels and finally into a reservoir they could use for boating and, in times of emergency, drinking. When they'd finished their work and spent a week blacked out from the new source of alcohol they set to work designing and building a thousand railroad laying robots."
"And that's how pa got home," I closed, "he camped out underground while the robots were building and emerged just as the screaming started."
"Wait," said Dale, his coffee poised an inch from his mouth, "the screaming?"
I was surprised at his ignorance, but I didn't want to be rude. "Well, yeah, it was the great robot war of '39. Don't you remember the newsreels?"
"I can't say I do," he admitted. "What are you talking about."
So then, I had to explain to him all about the great robot war, which is gonna have to wait until next time.
Just as I was gettin ready to hitch a ship back to my island paradise, Dale came back to the living room with two more cups on his tray.
"Sorry about the wait," he told me. "I had some problems with the coffee maker. I thought I'd turned it on brew, but I really just had the timer turned on. I kept waiting for it to start brewing, but it never did. I got it in the end, though. I hope the wait wasn't too long."
"Nah," I replied, "not too long at all. Maybe for someone else, it woulda been a long time, but I'm patient."
He set the cups down on the coffee table. "Now, where were we? Right, you were just about to tell me about the building of the train to the center of the earth."
"That's right," I nodded, sipping my coffee, "Pa and Mr. Charles Noe were tormented by their plan for two straight weeks. They knew the land would be perfect for hobos and that hobos loved trains, but how would they get a train to the land of the big rock candy mountain. But the problem was that the land had no way to perform any work.
"Then, it struck Noe like lightning out of the clear blue sky, or cave roof, or whatever lightning comes out of when you're in the middle of the earth. 'Hey,' he told pa.
"'Hey is for horses,' pa shot back. He'd invented that saying just a week before, and he was getting as much mileage out of it as he could.
"'And correction is for grammar teachers,' responded Noe, who was sick of hearin that line every time he tried to get pa's attention. 'Anyway, I was just thinkin. WE may not be able to build us a railroad, but there's no reason it can't be built for us.'"
"'Whaddya mean?' asked pa.
"Well, Charles explained to pa that his land weren't the only land in the center of the earth. Apparently, according to him, there was all sortsa underground empires keepin things quiet down there. They was surrounded by dinosaur valleys, elf fortresses, troll caves and, most importantly to him, right to the south was a whole gnome village. Maybe they could just mosey on over there and ask the gnomes, who are known worldwide for their industriousness, to build them a railroad. And that's exactly what they did, well the moseyin anyway. When they got to the gnome village, it was a different story altogether.
"That gnome king, called Ulthibalthazar, was facing a revolution not seen since he lead the revolution against the previous gnome king Frankulikik, who lead the revolution against the previous king, Doug. Pa and Charles Noe came upon the king pacin around his chamber yellin, 'What am I going to do? What am I going to do?'
"When Charles asked him what was the matter, Ulthibalthazar told him that, despite their reputation as hard workers and clever machinists, gnomes, as a society, were incorrigible drunks. This was typically sated by the liquor geysers that dotted the gnome landscape. Those geysers would shoot liquor out every fifteen minutes and said liquor would be collected in wooden barrels by a special squadron of gnomes, the Tap Brigade. Every time a barrel was filled, the brigantine carrying it would ring a bell to summon a donkey. When the donkey arrived, they would strap the barrel to the donkey, tap it and the let the donkey roam freely through the village. Any gnome that wanted a drink, and it was likely to be every gnome, would fill his glass from the donkey's back, swill his liquor, and then return to work, or maybe he would take a nap, it was about fifty fifty. This was such a vital part of gnomish life that they chose the biggest drinker from among them to be king. Once king, Ulthibalthazar didn't have to make anything any more, he just had to use his mystic, big drinkin power to keep the geysers runnin. Of course, there weren't no instructions on how to do this, because kings usually left office quite suddenly and unexpectedly, not to mention that they were usually dead at the time.
"Well, this particular gnome king had just kept drinkin and assumed that, as long as the geysers were goin, he was doin everything right. But, the week before pa arrived, the geysers just stopped workin. Now, he was facin a horde of hungover, grumpy, shaky gnomes with the DTs who wanted his head on a pike, or a drink, either one would satisfy them.
"That gnome king was sure in some desperate straits. He was offerin pa and Noe anything they wanted if only they could get the geysers turned back on. Now pa, he was wily. He told that Ulthibalthazar, 'Now, sir, I ain't sure I could get them geysers back on for ya, but I may have a way that you don't need them anymore.'
"But that king shouted out, 'I'm not goin to any more of those meetings. 12 steps my eye! If I wanted to quit drinkin, I wouldn't have become a gnome king, I would have been a priest or a teacher or something like my mom wanted me to be.
"'I ain't gonna convince you to quit drinkin,' pa told Ulthibalthazar, 'I got a way to get you a supply of fresh, sweet booze that you can keep for emergency purposes.'
"That made the king interested, but still wary, 'And what do you want in return?'
"'We just want a railroad!' cut in Mr. Noe. 'And we want you to build it for us!'
"But the king explained to them that gnomes didn't build railroads. There wasn't no challenge in building a thing unless it had at least a thousand moving parts and, as was the custom of the current king, had death rays mounted on it. To give them an example, Ulthibalthazar showed them a brass bird he made, no bigger than a swallow. He opened up the back and showed them how it was run by clockwork gears, some only as big as the head of a pin, others, or so he says, were invisible to the naked eye and had been carved out of dust motes. 'There,' he explained proudly, 'that's a challenge! Now you're askin me to waste all this gnomish talent layin down some bars on some sticks? Not gonna happen. But I tell you what, if you can get me the liquor you say you can, I'll get my boys to build you a whole slew of railroad buildin robots.'
"Right there, the deal was struck. Pa and Charles Noe led the host of hungover, angry gnomes to the land of the big rock candy mountain and let them dig a ditch, rerouting one of the alcohol streams through a series of tunnels and finally into a reservoir they could use for boating and, in times of emergency, drinking. When they'd finished their work and spent a week blacked out from the new source of alcohol they set to work designing and building a thousand railroad laying robots."
"And that's how pa got home," I closed, "he camped out underground while the robots were building and emerged just as the screaming started."
"Wait," said Dale, his coffee poised an inch from his mouth, "the screaming?"
I was surprised at his ignorance, but I didn't want to be rude. "Well, yeah, it was the great robot war of '39. Don't you remember the newsreels?"
"I can't say I do," he admitted. "What are you talking about."
So then, I had to explain to him all about the great robot war, which is gonna have to wait until next time.
Friday, June 19, 2009
Pa's Adventure, Part 2
"You want some coffee?" Dale asked me.
"Sure," I said, "I'm feelin mighty parched from tellin this here story. You know, coffee's good for story tellers and listeners."
"That's true," he concurred, "I, as a listener of this story, feel that coffee is improving my enjoyment of this yarn tenfold."
"Most true, most true. I would suggest that anyone listening, or possibly reading, a story of this nature would want to go get themselves a cup of coffee now. I'd even sit here and wait a tick while they did."
With that, Dale got up from the modified stool he'd been sittin on and went into the kitchen. While he was there, I took the opportunity to look around some more. I was seated on a floral patterned couch that had been covered in plastic. Next to me, on a small oak table, was an old fashioned oil lamp that had been converted to electric. All along the aged wooden walls were pictures from Dale's time in the circus; fliers for his act, adverts for places far flung, exotic places such as Altus, Oklahoma and Shreveport, Louisiana, and, on the mantle a portrait of young Dale with his parents standing in front of an aquarium, stuffed full of hope like a shark full of cocaine. The whole place was covered with a thin layer of dust and smelled like a library that had coffee brewing.
"Here's the coffee," Dale announced. He was carrying two thin china cups painted with roses on a silver tray with an angel motif inlaid.
"Thank ya kindly," I told him. Even when you're having coffee with a half man/half lobster that's sold meth to kids and killed people with his pernicious poots, it's important to remember your manners. "So, where was I?"
"Your dad had just fallen into a lake of stew in the middle of the earth," he told me.
"Right," I launched into the story again. "So there was pa, floating in a great lake of beef stew. He couldn't see no shore line or nothin out there, and he was so tired out from his fall and voiding himself of all that sand (if you know what I mean), that he just wanted to lay there and maybe eat a bit. Luckily for him, stew is dense and it takes no effort to float on top of it.
"There was pa, laying in the stew, lookin around him. He was in some sort of giant cave that was lit up, from where, he couldn't tell. The ceiling of the cave was so far above him he couldn't see it. He only knew it was there because he had recently passed through it. The light in the cave would wax and wane with what he thought was a copying of night and day, but without his watch, he couldn't tell how regular it was.
"He'd been layin there, occasionally rolling over to eat some stew, for three of those cycles when he spotted something on the horizon. At first, it looked like just another pea floating at the edge of his vision, but it became steadily larger as he watched it. It grew from a pea to a carrot, then to a potato, then to the size of a chunk of beef. Soon, it was larger than any of the food chunks floating around him and it began to resemble a small sailboat.
"When it got within hailing distance, pa yelled out, 'Hey! Over here!'. He waved his arms a bit until he saw the ship turn towards him. As it got closer, he saw that, instead of being a sail boat, it was a bathtub that had been rigged with a flag pole in the drain hole and a bed sheet tied to the pole acting as a sail. Steering this vessel was a small, black haired man wearing a black, three piece suit, the vest of which was white with red diamonds on it, and a black bowler hat.
"The man pulled the boat up alongside pa, dropped the sail, leaned over and shouted, 'What in tarnation are you doin in ma stew lake? You're befoulin it! Befoulin, I say!'
"Pa stayed calm, 'Well sir, if I'd had my choice, I'd not have fallen in your stew lake and befouled it, but, if you was to pull me into your fine vessel there, I'd be happy to stop befoulin it.'
"'Not before you tell me how you got here,' the man shouted.
"So that's just what pa did. He filled the small gentleman in on the whole story. When he finished, the man told pa, 'That's quite a story. I'd say that story alone is worthy of a trip into town, climb aboard. What's your name, stranger?'
"Pa told him, 'Evan, Evan O'Neil.'
"In turn, the small man introduced himself. 'Charles Noe,' he shook pa's hand. 'And I'm king of this here land.'
"Pa was duly impressed, especially seein as how it was only the third king of an underground land that pa had ever met, and he was pretty sure one of those had been lyin to him. He bowed, as he thought he out to, but Charles Noe was havin none of it. He told pa that he was king of the land by default, seein as how there was no one else there to share in the bounty. He was a king without people. That bein the case, he wouldn't have no one bowin or scrapin or callin him 'Sir'. Just plain ol' Charles. Or, if one was feelin fancy, Mr. Noe would do.
"As they sailed, pa asked all about the land, the cave, and especially about Charles Noe. The cave itself was beyond any measurement system Charles could devise, but, by his own admission, he wasn't much of a deviser. If it couldn't be measured with a length of string or less than twenty paces, it was unmeasurable to Charles Noe. The light, he told pa, ran on regular 12 hour cycles, though he, too, could never figure out where it came from. His theory was that the mountain in the center of the cave, clear as it was, went all the way to the surface of the earth and acted as a sort of skylight, but that was never confirmed. Whatever it was, it kept the land clear and bright.
"After sailing for two more days, they reached the shore of the stew lake. Charles Noe escorted my father to a camp site, explainin to him that the whether was so fine, he never felt he needed to build a house. In fact, since he'd been there, he'd slept out every night. Not to say there were no buildings. There was barns around, all of 'em full of hay which never rotted and never caused hay fever. There was also a coupla jails around. 'Don't worry about those, though,' Charles told my dad, 'they're made out of tin. You can walk right out again as soon as you are in.'
"That got them talkin about how long Charles HAD been there. He said he couldn't rightly say. He'd tried keepin track once, but gave up around the 3,000,000 day mark. There'd been some days before that, and a whole lot of days after that. He spent it mostly explorin, whittlin and playin the harmonica. It was a pleasant existence, he told pa, just a little lonely sometimes. He'd had a coupla visitors in his time. The first one was the man who invented work.
"Charles told pa, 'We didn't get on too well. He was a bit of a jerk. I ended up havin to hang him.'
"The second was this fancy pants science fiction writer names Verne who came down there. He'd been a bit too uppity for Charles' taste; actin like he was too good for the land. Charles asked Verne if he'd write about this land when he got back home, and the guy said he would, but when he got back, he ended up writin a bunch of drivel about dinosaurs and whatnot, not exactly the tourist lure Charles was hopin for.
"'But you don't need to worry,' Charles told pa, 'there ain't really dinosaurs down here.'
"Well, pa and Charles Noe ended up becomin good friends. Charles showed him all around that underground land. To the north was the stew lake, which dad was already familiar with. On the southern end of the cave was a second lake, filled with whiskey. On the shores of this lake lived packs of feral bulldogs. Charles walked right up to those bulldogs and wiggled his bottom at em, yellin, 'You want some of Charles Noe, you come get some of Charles Noe!'
"Them bulldogs took off at him like a barrel full of puppies shot from a cannon, growlin and barkin, but he didn't move an inch. They pounced on him at full speed, openin their maws wide to take the largest bite they could. Pa was convinced Mr. Noe was crazy and suicidal then, but he walked away unscathed.
"Dad stood there astonished and asked Charles, 'What kind of magic is that?'
"Noe just laughed, slapped my pa on the back and told him, 'It ain't no magic, Evan. Them bulldogs all have rubber teeth. They can't do no one no harm. You hungry?'
"They spent ten years wanderin that land, eatin handout grown on bushes, fruit straight from the farmers' trees and soft boiled eggs laid by the hens. When they got thirsty, they drank from the little streams of alcohol tricklin down the rocks and when they wanted to relax, they sat beneath the cigarette trees and smoked.
"One day, as they was sittin in their latest campsite, havin a drink and a smoke, talkin about how to populate this land of plenty, pa turned to Charles and said, 'I think I got it! You know who would love this place? Hobos.'
"'Hobos, huh?' confirmed Charles. 'I never thought of that. But how do we get them here?'
"They thought for a bit about that, the alcohol makin it tough. They had to think about things that hobos liked. Finally, they had it, trains! Hobos like trains.
"They was excited about that until Charles said, 'No, no, that ain't gonna work. There ain't no trains that come here.'
"Despondent, pa said, 'Yeah, you're right.' Then he fell asleep for a bit.
"Round about midnight, he woke up, 'We could build tracks!' he yelled to Charles in the night.
"'Ain't gonna work,' Mr. Noe told pa. 'There ain't no axes, saws or picks round here. But I still think it's a good idea. Let's sleep on it.'"
"You need a refill on that coffee?" Dale cut in.
I looked down to find that I did. "That'd be mighty kind of ya," I told him. "And when you get back, I'll tell ya all about the train to the center of the earth."
"Sure," I said, "I'm feelin mighty parched from tellin this here story. You know, coffee's good for story tellers and listeners."
"That's true," he concurred, "I, as a listener of this story, feel that coffee is improving my enjoyment of this yarn tenfold."
"Most true, most true. I would suggest that anyone listening, or possibly reading, a story of this nature would want to go get themselves a cup of coffee now. I'd even sit here and wait a tick while they did."
With that, Dale got up from the modified stool he'd been sittin on and went into the kitchen. While he was there, I took the opportunity to look around some more. I was seated on a floral patterned couch that had been covered in plastic. Next to me, on a small oak table, was an old fashioned oil lamp that had been converted to electric. All along the aged wooden walls were pictures from Dale's time in the circus; fliers for his act, adverts for places far flung, exotic places such as Altus, Oklahoma and Shreveport, Louisiana, and, on the mantle a portrait of young Dale with his parents standing in front of an aquarium, stuffed full of hope like a shark full of cocaine. The whole place was covered with a thin layer of dust and smelled like a library that had coffee brewing.
"Here's the coffee," Dale announced. He was carrying two thin china cups painted with roses on a silver tray with an angel motif inlaid.
"Thank ya kindly," I told him. Even when you're having coffee with a half man/half lobster that's sold meth to kids and killed people with his pernicious poots, it's important to remember your manners. "So, where was I?"
"Your dad had just fallen into a lake of stew in the middle of the earth," he told me.
"Right," I launched into the story again. "So there was pa, floating in a great lake of beef stew. He couldn't see no shore line or nothin out there, and he was so tired out from his fall and voiding himself of all that sand (if you know what I mean), that he just wanted to lay there and maybe eat a bit. Luckily for him, stew is dense and it takes no effort to float on top of it.
"There was pa, laying in the stew, lookin around him. He was in some sort of giant cave that was lit up, from where, he couldn't tell. The ceiling of the cave was so far above him he couldn't see it. He only knew it was there because he had recently passed through it. The light in the cave would wax and wane with what he thought was a copying of night and day, but without his watch, he couldn't tell how regular it was.
"He'd been layin there, occasionally rolling over to eat some stew, for three of those cycles when he spotted something on the horizon. At first, it looked like just another pea floating at the edge of his vision, but it became steadily larger as he watched it. It grew from a pea to a carrot, then to a potato, then to the size of a chunk of beef. Soon, it was larger than any of the food chunks floating around him and it began to resemble a small sailboat.
"When it got within hailing distance, pa yelled out, 'Hey! Over here!'. He waved his arms a bit until he saw the ship turn towards him. As it got closer, he saw that, instead of being a sail boat, it was a bathtub that had been rigged with a flag pole in the drain hole and a bed sheet tied to the pole acting as a sail. Steering this vessel was a small, black haired man wearing a black, three piece suit, the vest of which was white with red diamonds on it, and a black bowler hat.
"The man pulled the boat up alongside pa, dropped the sail, leaned over and shouted, 'What in tarnation are you doin in ma stew lake? You're befoulin it! Befoulin, I say!'
"Pa stayed calm, 'Well sir, if I'd had my choice, I'd not have fallen in your stew lake and befouled it, but, if you was to pull me into your fine vessel there, I'd be happy to stop befoulin it.'
"'Not before you tell me how you got here,' the man shouted.
"So that's just what pa did. He filled the small gentleman in on the whole story. When he finished, the man told pa, 'That's quite a story. I'd say that story alone is worthy of a trip into town, climb aboard. What's your name, stranger?'
"Pa told him, 'Evan, Evan O'Neil.'
"In turn, the small man introduced himself. 'Charles Noe,' he shook pa's hand. 'And I'm king of this here land.'
"Pa was duly impressed, especially seein as how it was only the third king of an underground land that pa had ever met, and he was pretty sure one of those had been lyin to him. He bowed, as he thought he out to, but Charles Noe was havin none of it. He told pa that he was king of the land by default, seein as how there was no one else there to share in the bounty. He was a king without people. That bein the case, he wouldn't have no one bowin or scrapin or callin him 'Sir'. Just plain ol' Charles. Or, if one was feelin fancy, Mr. Noe would do.
"As they sailed, pa asked all about the land, the cave, and especially about Charles Noe. The cave itself was beyond any measurement system Charles could devise, but, by his own admission, he wasn't much of a deviser. If it couldn't be measured with a length of string or less than twenty paces, it was unmeasurable to Charles Noe. The light, he told pa, ran on regular 12 hour cycles, though he, too, could never figure out where it came from. His theory was that the mountain in the center of the cave, clear as it was, went all the way to the surface of the earth and acted as a sort of skylight, but that was never confirmed. Whatever it was, it kept the land clear and bright.
"After sailing for two more days, they reached the shore of the stew lake. Charles Noe escorted my father to a camp site, explainin to him that the whether was so fine, he never felt he needed to build a house. In fact, since he'd been there, he'd slept out every night. Not to say there were no buildings. There was barns around, all of 'em full of hay which never rotted and never caused hay fever. There was also a coupla jails around. 'Don't worry about those, though,' Charles told my dad, 'they're made out of tin. You can walk right out again as soon as you are in.'
"That got them talkin about how long Charles HAD been there. He said he couldn't rightly say. He'd tried keepin track once, but gave up around the 3,000,000 day mark. There'd been some days before that, and a whole lot of days after that. He spent it mostly explorin, whittlin and playin the harmonica. It was a pleasant existence, he told pa, just a little lonely sometimes. He'd had a coupla visitors in his time. The first one was the man who invented work.
"Charles told pa, 'We didn't get on too well. He was a bit of a jerk. I ended up havin to hang him.'
"The second was this fancy pants science fiction writer names Verne who came down there. He'd been a bit too uppity for Charles' taste; actin like he was too good for the land. Charles asked Verne if he'd write about this land when he got back home, and the guy said he would, but when he got back, he ended up writin a bunch of drivel about dinosaurs and whatnot, not exactly the tourist lure Charles was hopin for.
"'But you don't need to worry,' Charles told pa, 'there ain't really dinosaurs down here.'
"Well, pa and Charles Noe ended up becomin good friends. Charles showed him all around that underground land. To the north was the stew lake, which dad was already familiar with. On the southern end of the cave was a second lake, filled with whiskey. On the shores of this lake lived packs of feral bulldogs. Charles walked right up to those bulldogs and wiggled his bottom at em, yellin, 'You want some of Charles Noe, you come get some of Charles Noe!'
"Them bulldogs took off at him like a barrel full of puppies shot from a cannon, growlin and barkin, but he didn't move an inch. They pounced on him at full speed, openin their maws wide to take the largest bite they could. Pa was convinced Mr. Noe was crazy and suicidal then, but he walked away unscathed.
"Dad stood there astonished and asked Charles, 'What kind of magic is that?'
"Noe just laughed, slapped my pa on the back and told him, 'It ain't no magic, Evan. Them bulldogs all have rubber teeth. They can't do no one no harm. You hungry?'
"They spent ten years wanderin that land, eatin handout grown on bushes, fruit straight from the farmers' trees and soft boiled eggs laid by the hens. When they got thirsty, they drank from the little streams of alcohol tricklin down the rocks and when they wanted to relax, they sat beneath the cigarette trees and smoked.
"One day, as they was sittin in their latest campsite, havin a drink and a smoke, talkin about how to populate this land of plenty, pa turned to Charles and said, 'I think I got it! You know who would love this place? Hobos.'
"'Hobos, huh?' confirmed Charles. 'I never thought of that. But how do we get them here?'
"They thought for a bit about that, the alcohol makin it tough. They had to think about things that hobos liked. Finally, they had it, trains! Hobos like trains.
"They was excited about that until Charles said, 'No, no, that ain't gonna work. There ain't no trains that come here.'
"Despondent, pa said, 'Yeah, you're right.' Then he fell asleep for a bit.
"Round about midnight, he woke up, 'We could build tracks!' he yelled to Charles in the night.
"'Ain't gonna work,' Mr. Noe told pa. 'There ain't no axes, saws or picks round here. But I still think it's a good idea. Let's sleep on it.'"
"You need a refill on that coffee?" Dale cut in.
I looked down to find that I did. "That'd be mighty kind of ya," I told him. "And when you get back, I'll tell ya all about the train to the center of the earth."
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Pa's Adventure Part 1
"So, wait," began Dale McClawenstein. "You were raised by harbor seals?"
"Thass right," I told him.
He looked skeptical. "But I've met your parents. You've had me over for dinner with them and everything. How could they be around if they fell through the dock like you said?"
"Well, first of all," I corrected, "that woman you've had dinner with ain't my biological mom. My dad got hisself remarried a ways back. That's why I just called her Darlene at dinner."
He shrugged. "Huh, I thought you were calling her darling. Frankly, I thought it was a bit weird that you would call your mom darling, but I figured it wasn't any of my business. But what about your dad? Is he your biological father?"
I had to give him the sad truth. "Yeah, he's my real father, as much as it pains me to say it."
"How can that be? This story isn't making any sense. Are you making this up?" He sounded a bit more accusatory than I woulda liked, so I told him so.
"You sound a bit more accusatory than I would like," I told him. "I know I been know to make up a thing or two now and then, but this is all completely true. And it'd make a lot more sense if you'd just listen instead of tryin to jump the gun on everythin here."
Now that he was properly chastised, I could go on with my story. "You see, what I didn't mention is that my pa is one competitive son of a didgeridoo. He and my ma had been walkin along the boardwalk, as I said, and they happened by a side show. Now, this bein the off season, the sideshow was havin a hard time gettin themselves good talent. They couldn't find them no bearded lady, so they had to go with a mustacioed child. If you ask my dad, he'll swear up and down that it was just a midget and then he'll start screamin 'bout how he got ripped off and then his face will turn all red and that vein in his forhead, you know the one, will start pulsing with a cha-cha beat and he'll look like his face is about to explode. I 'spose I wouldn't ask him."
"Nah, I suppose not," Dale concurred.
"Now, after seein that mustacioed child, my dad was in the mood for seein somethin really amazin. It turn out that the sideshow owner had some talent of his own. He held the world's record for eating the most sand in one sittin. Well, my pa, never bein one to shy away from attemptin to break a world's record, challenged that man to a sand eating contest.
"An hour later, my pa walked out of that tent with a belly full of sand and a heart full of defeat. That man had beaten my old man by a full bag and a half of sand. When my dad gave in, that man just sat in his chair lookin like a beached whale and laughed and hooted and hollered until he was shootin a steady stream of grit out his mouth and ears. There was nothin pa could do but just fold over like a burlap sack and slink away.
"So then came the accident. The pier gave out and my parents went tumblin into the drink. Ma wasn't no strong swimmer, but she managed on her own, though that's a different story for a different time. Pa, on the other hand, had been a swimmin champ in college. All that sand was makin for some tough doggy paddlin, though and he was sinkin like a cargo ship full of blasphemy and hubris.
"I don't know what came over him in that deep, dark ocean, but he stopped fightin and started swimmin down. He never said what he was tryin to accomplish; whether it was a stroke of genius or madness, or whether he was just tryin to hurry the inevitable. Whatever it was, he swam straight down faster than he'd ever managed to swim sideways. Between his breast stroke, ll the sand he ate, and sheer, dumb O'Neil luck, he built up so much speed that when he reached the sea bed, he kept right on goin.
"When he realized what he'd done, he tried to arrest his movement by doin the backstroke, but he was already travellin to fast to stop right away. His main concern at this time was hittin the ball of magma at the earth's core. Either that or tunnelin straight through the Earth to China. Sure, he'd picked up some Chinese during his merchant marine days, and he felt confident that he could get home, but China is just so muggy in the summer, and he was too darn full to put up with too much humidity.
"Grabbin backwards with both hands, pa managed to slow himself to somewhat reasonable speeds just before he dropped into the cave. He fell and fell. He says he didn't know how long he was fallin, coulda been weeks or months. I told him he stole that from Alice in Wonderland and he told me if I wasn't careful, he'd show me Alice on the Back of His Hand. I didn't think it was too witty, but I got the point enough to be quiet and hear out the story.
"My pa tumbled ass over elbows through the cold night under the earth, sleepin occasionally, voiding hisself of sand when he could. After some time, his eyes adjusted to the gloom and he could see land somewhere below him. A lot of people would spend time frettin about what was gonna happen when the land got closer, but not my pa. He just kicked his feet up, relaxed and decided to let come whatever would.
"That was prolly a good decision because, as the land resolved itself, he saw he was over a lake he estimates to be as big as New York. My pa ain't never bee to New York, so I don't know how he would know, but that's what he says. Though I never been able to pin him down on whether he means New York city or state. Well, when he saw he was gonna land in that lake and prolly be all right, my pa stared the greatest high dive known to history. I don't remember the whole thing, but it involved over a hundred flips, just as many twists, a coupla gainers, a nice superman in the middle, the Alamaba loop-de-loop (which can only be accomplished if your dive last more that 15 minues) and a Jim Crackin Alligator (which has only ever been done by two people; Jim Crackin and my dad, and requires three full shaving kits, a bowl of prepared mustard and a live weasel).
"When he come to the bottom of his dive, pa entered that water perfectly straight up and down. He spread his arms and legs out like a fan unfolding, turned towards the surface and broke through with enough momentum to complete a second Jim Crackin Alligator, which wore the weasel right out, I tell ya.
"Finally done with all his fancy acrobatic stuff, pa just leaned back on the surface of the lake and rubbed the viscous liquid outta his eyes."
Dale cut in, "Viscous? Did he fall in oil or something?"
"Nah," I responded, "my dad found himself floating on the surface of a lake of stew."
"You're kidding!"
"Wish I were," I drawled, "wish I were."
"Thass right," I told him.
He looked skeptical. "But I've met your parents. You've had me over for dinner with them and everything. How could they be around if they fell through the dock like you said?"
"Well, first of all," I corrected, "that woman you've had dinner with ain't my biological mom. My dad got hisself remarried a ways back. That's why I just called her Darlene at dinner."
He shrugged. "Huh, I thought you were calling her darling. Frankly, I thought it was a bit weird that you would call your mom darling, but I figured it wasn't any of my business. But what about your dad? Is he your biological father?"
I had to give him the sad truth. "Yeah, he's my real father, as much as it pains me to say it."
"How can that be? This story isn't making any sense. Are you making this up?" He sounded a bit more accusatory than I woulda liked, so I told him so.
"You sound a bit more accusatory than I would like," I told him. "I know I been know to make up a thing or two now and then, but this is all completely true. And it'd make a lot more sense if you'd just listen instead of tryin to jump the gun on everythin here."
Now that he was properly chastised, I could go on with my story. "You see, what I didn't mention is that my pa is one competitive son of a didgeridoo. He and my ma had been walkin along the boardwalk, as I said, and they happened by a side show. Now, this bein the off season, the sideshow was havin a hard time gettin themselves good talent. They couldn't find them no bearded lady, so they had to go with a mustacioed child. If you ask my dad, he'll swear up and down that it was just a midget and then he'll start screamin 'bout how he got ripped off and then his face will turn all red and that vein in his forhead, you know the one, will start pulsing with a cha-cha beat and he'll look like his face is about to explode. I 'spose I wouldn't ask him."
"Nah, I suppose not," Dale concurred.
"Now, after seein that mustacioed child, my dad was in the mood for seein somethin really amazin. It turn out that the sideshow owner had some talent of his own. He held the world's record for eating the most sand in one sittin. Well, my pa, never bein one to shy away from attemptin to break a world's record, challenged that man to a sand eating contest.
"An hour later, my pa walked out of that tent with a belly full of sand and a heart full of defeat. That man had beaten my old man by a full bag and a half of sand. When my dad gave in, that man just sat in his chair lookin like a beached whale and laughed and hooted and hollered until he was shootin a steady stream of grit out his mouth and ears. There was nothin pa could do but just fold over like a burlap sack and slink away.
"So then came the accident. The pier gave out and my parents went tumblin into the drink. Ma wasn't no strong swimmer, but she managed on her own, though that's a different story for a different time. Pa, on the other hand, had been a swimmin champ in college. All that sand was makin for some tough doggy paddlin, though and he was sinkin like a cargo ship full of blasphemy and hubris.
"I don't know what came over him in that deep, dark ocean, but he stopped fightin and started swimmin down. He never said what he was tryin to accomplish; whether it was a stroke of genius or madness, or whether he was just tryin to hurry the inevitable. Whatever it was, he swam straight down faster than he'd ever managed to swim sideways. Between his breast stroke, ll the sand he ate, and sheer, dumb O'Neil luck, he built up so much speed that when he reached the sea bed, he kept right on goin.
"When he realized what he'd done, he tried to arrest his movement by doin the backstroke, but he was already travellin to fast to stop right away. His main concern at this time was hittin the ball of magma at the earth's core. Either that or tunnelin straight through the Earth to China. Sure, he'd picked up some Chinese during his merchant marine days, and he felt confident that he could get home, but China is just so muggy in the summer, and he was too darn full to put up with too much humidity.
"Grabbin backwards with both hands, pa managed to slow himself to somewhat reasonable speeds just before he dropped into the cave. He fell and fell. He says he didn't know how long he was fallin, coulda been weeks or months. I told him he stole that from Alice in Wonderland and he told me if I wasn't careful, he'd show me Alice on the Back of His Hand. I didn't think it was too witty, but I got the point enough to be quiet and hear out the story.
"My pa tumbled ass over elbows through the cold night under the earth, sleepin occasionally, voiding hisself of sand when he could. After some time, his eyes adjusted to the gloom and he could see land somewhere below him. A lot of people would spend time frettin about what was gonna happen when the land got closer, but not my pa. He just kicked his feet up, relaxed and decided to let come whatever would.
"That was prolly a good decision because, as the land resolved itself, he saw he was over a lake he estimates to be as big as New York. My pa ain't never bee to New York, so I don't know how he would know, but that's what he says. Though I never been able to pin him down on whether he means New York city or state. Well, when he saw he was gonna land in that lake and prolly be all right, my pa stared the greatest high dive known to history. I don't remember the whole thing, but it involved over a hundred flips, just as many twists, a coupla gainers, a nice superman in the middle, the Alamaba loop-de-loop (which can only be accomplished if your dive last more that 15 minues) and a Jim Crackin Alligator (which has only ever been done by two people; Jim Crackin and my dad, and requires three full shaving kits, a bowl of prepared mustard and a live weasel).
"When he come to the bottom of his dive, pa entered that water perfectly straight up and down. He spread his arms and legs out like a fan unfolding, turned towards the surface and broke through with enough momentum to complete a second Jim Crackin Alligator, which wore the weasel right out, I tell ya.
"Finally done with all his fancy acrobatic stuff, pa just leaned back on the surface of the lake and rubbed the viscous liquid outta his eyes."
Dale cut in, "Viscous? Did he fall in oil or something?"
"Nah," I responded, "my dad found himself floating on the surface of a lake of stew."
"You're kidding!"
"Wish I were," I drawled, "wish I were."
Friday, June 5, 2009
Wakin Up McClawenstein
Honestly, I don't know how I get myself in these situations. There I was, just tryin to be neighborly by helpin a guy carry a package, and I end up passed out. Right now, you may be askin yourself what kind of weird, diabolical situation I woke up in. What kind of trap had McClawenstein laid for me and how would I get out of it? Also, what should you have for lunch? That doesn't go along with the other questions very well, but it's still probably something you're asking yourself right about now. The answer is tuna salad. You should have a tuna salad sandwich for lunch. Maybe even a tuna melt. With fries. Or coleslaw. Whatever you do, though, don't have the meatball sandwich. It's Friday, after all, and you're gonna have to go back to work with sauce stains all over your tie or blouse, and then you'll be sleepy, not so much from the meatball sub, but because you're unable to eat a meatball sub without drinkin a vodka tonic. You've never been sure why this is. Your dad used to always say it was because your family had a mixed heritage. But after some research, you discovered that you were English/German, which has nothing to do with meatball subs OR vodka. So you began to expect it was just an excuse for your dad to knock back a little vodka at lunch, which was totally understandable because he had himself a tough job as taster down at the old vodka and meatball factory. You know the one, Grandma Genoavich's Old Time Vodka and Meatball Combo Meals. They ended up getting shut down, you know. It turns out some people, after two meals, forgot which part to microwave, and they'd chip their teeth on the frozen meatballs, then drink the hot vodka, causing all their teeth to explode and send fragments flying all through their houses and heads. But, despite working at the vodka and meatball factory as a taster, your dad would still wander down to Papi Luiginik's Fresh Meatball Subs and Vodka Tonic Place of Relaxation every day for lunch and dinner. Your mom, at her wit's end, tried to lure him home by making meatball subs and vodka tonics every day for lunch and dinner, but when he didn't show, she would announce, "Well, somebody's gotta eat all this!" And your poor, saint of a mother would hint about her vodka allergy and her vegetarianism and so you, in an attempt to please her, would try to eat and drink it all, just hoping she would smile at you and your dad would come home and you would be a happy family again. But it was not to be. Your poor dad keeled over at his tasting desk one day, face full of meatballs like tiny, sauce covered hamsters devouring his face. Your poor mother, heartbroken and lonely, would turn to pool boy Renaldo to ease her in her time of need. But Renaldo would soon be launched into space because of his secret life as an intergalactic spy. There, he would be bombarded by cosmic radiation and return home able to change his shape at will. He then discovered his parents murdered in their sleep and vow revenge, turning to life as a super hero, for which he would need to move to a large city and take on an innocuous job like reporter or photographer because superheroes, if they're not incredibly rich, always have to work for a newspaper. Finally suffering a break with reality, your mother would would vow to rid the world of vodka, meatball subs and space rays. She apparently planned to do this by bombarding the food and drink with the space rays and then devouring them all. When last you saw her, she weighed eight thousand pounds, was covered in liver spots and parts of her flesh crawled around on their own, looking like two puppies fighting in a sack made out of silly putty. Wait. Wait a minute. I think I've confused you with a person I made up just now. Sorry 'bout that. Still, you should have the tuna salad for lunch.
I spose you'll be wantin those other two questions answered now. Well, the nefarious trap I found myself in, or on, I should say, when I woke up was this: a couch. That's right, I woke up on a couch. It was orange and green plaid with some frilly stuff around the edges and a couple of stains that looked like eggs, but they could have been boogers. I sat up and looked around. It seemed like I was in a grandmother's living room. Everything was wood beads and frills. There was a record player, but no tv anywhere. Over in the corner, was a glass fronted hutch filled with tea sets made of delicate bone china, roses painted all over 'em. There were two oak end tables with brass lamps setting on 'em and, right in front of me, a glass bowl filled with spice drops and ribbon candy.
Then I heard his voice behind me. "Well, look who decided to wake up," chimed Dale. "Good morning sleepy-head."
I looked behind me and there he was, wearing a pink, frilly apron and carrying a tray with what smelled like coffee and looked like fresh cookies. I was utterly lost. This was either a very clever trap or everything had gone topsy-turvy on me.
"You look confused," he said as he sat on a bench, "let me clear things up. Coffee?"
"Yes, please," I murmured. Never turn down a free cup of coffee.
"Would you be willing to tell me what you know?" he asked as he poured.
So I did. I told him I knew about his accident as a kid and how that led to a life of crime, culminating in his being the regional meth distributor for Clan Platypus. I told him about his deadly gas and his network of operatives in the 99 cent stores.
He gasped, "Oh my god, the slugs..."
"That's right," I declared, triumphant, "the slugs! They're working for us now."
"Oh no," he melted in his chair, "I'd forgotten all about the slugs. Oh, this is going to haunt me forever now."
"What do you mean?" I was still suspicious.
"Oh, dear. Oh," he began to fidget. "You...I...you got it mostly right, I have to admit. I'm not proud of it, but there was a very dark time in my life and I'm still dealing with the consequences, it seems. But, you see, Pat," he looked me in the eyes, "I'm retired."
"Retired?"
"Yeah," he went on, "I paid my debt to the Clan, and I've retired. They have a very nice 401(k) plan and it's really set me up for life."
"Wait, what?" I was confused.
"That's how it works with the Clan," he explained, "you pay your debt and they funnel half that money into a 401(k) for you. When you've paid everything off, they turn the investment account over to you. They're very efficient that way."
"Really?!" I was taken aback a bit.
"Really," he said flatly.
"How long ago was this?"
He put a claw to his face, "Let's see...about three years now, I guess."
"But, wait, what about the slugs?"
"Oh Pat," he laughed, "slugs are slow. I sent that group out about, oh, I guess it'd be eight years ago now. I had so many things going on at the time, I guess I plum forgot about them. I hope they're not too mad at me."
I was at a loss for words. for probably the first time in my life, I had nothing to say. So I sat, drank my coffee and listened to McClawenstein explain that he was in Super Villain therapy now, in a group he goes to once a week. It helps him deal with his "issues", whatever that means, and he's working on getting "closure" on his evil deeds. I felt like I was on Oprah or something. Any moment, I expected Tom Cruise to come running out and jump on the furniture. Then he started to cry.
"You don't know what it's like, Pat," he sobbed, "living life as a freak. I never fit in! I was never man and never crustacean. Always living halfway between the two. Wanting the comfort of the sea and yet trying to live a normal life on land. You could never understand that kind of pain. I needed something to dull it. I know, meth was a bad idea. A really, really, bad idea. But what else could I do."
"Well, I dunno about that," I said, scratchin the back of my head, "I may be able to relate a little. I mean, I didn't exactly have a normal childhood, either."
"Unless your half man, half sea creature, I don't think your weird childhood is in the same leagues as mine," he seemed like he was gettin a bit angry.
"Well sir," I explained, "I ain't never told no one but Douggy this, so I'd appreciate it if you'd keep it to yourself. I was raised by harbor seals."
He stopped crying entirely. "What?"
In for a penny, in for a pound, I guess. "Yeah, I was raised by harbor seals. My real parent was down on the boardwalk late at night, out for an evenin stroll, I guess. They didn't see the sign tellin 'em the boardwalk was closed for repairs and I guess they was payin too much attention to the moon or each other or whatnot, and they just musta not seen the giant hole. So they fell in and drowned, but I was rescued by a harbor seal named Ackucucuck. That's seal language, you see. Well, Ackucucuck had just lost her baby to a shark and was a bit broken up about it. She saw my fall as a gift from the great seal in the sky. she took me on her back to seal island where she taught me all about fishing and layin on rocks. Later, I had to learn the seal wrestlin techniques. By then, though, I kinda suspected somethin was wrong. I mean, seals ain't got no thumbs, and I didn't have a protective layer of blubber to keep me warm.
"Then one day, this science boats came along and spotted me. They gibbered somethin at me in their human language, but I could only respond in seal. I guess they decided to tag me and study me with the hope of bringin me slowly back into human society. They'd visit about once a month and bring me stuff like clothes and shoes and whatnot.
"After that, word started to get around about the 'seal boy', as they called me, and more and more boats started comin. The good thing was, it scared off all the sharks, but the bad news was it scared off all the fish, too. The seal elders had a meeting and decided that I had to go with these strange creatures that looked like me so that the hunting would return.
"It was a sad day when I left my adoptive mother Ackucucuck behind. I think about here from time to time, still. Once a year, I go out to the coast and go fishin the old fashioned way, just to keep my skills up in case this whole 'human' thing doesn't work out."
Well, I guess my secret's out now.
I spose you'll be wantin those other two questions answered now. Well, the nefarious trap I found myself in, or on, I should say, when I woke up was this: a couch. That's right, I woke up on a couch. It was orange and green plaid with some frilly stuff around the edges and a couple of stains that looked like eggs, but they could have been boogers. I sat up and looked around. It seemed like I was in a grandmother's living room. Everything was wood beads and frills. There was a record player, but no tv anywhere. Over in the corner, was a glass fronted hutch filled with tea sets made of delicate bone china, roses painted all over 'em. There were two oak end tables with brass lamps setting on 'em and, right in front of me, a glass bowl filled with spice drops and ribbon candy.
Then I heard his voice behind me. "Well, look who decided to wake up," chimed Dale. "Good morning sleepy-head."
I looked behind me and there he was, wearing a pink, frilly apron and carrying a tray with what smelled like coffee and looked like fresh cookies. I was utterly lost. This was either a very clever trap or everything had gone topsy-turvy on me.
"You look confused," he said as he sat on a bench, "let me clear things up. Coffee?"
"Yes, please," I murmured. Never turn down a free cup of coffee.
"Would you be willing to tell me what you know?" he asked as he poured.
So I did. I told him I knew about his accident as a kid and how that led to a life of crime, culminating in his being the regional meth distributor for Clan Platypus. I told him about his deadly gas and his network of operatives in the 99 cent stores.
He gasped, "Oh my god, the slugs..."
"That's right," I declared, triumphant, "the slugs! They're working for us now."
"Oh no," he melted in his chair, "I'd forgotten all about the slugs. Oh, this is going to haunt me forever now."
"What do you mean?" I was still suspicious.
"Oh, dear. Oh," he began to fidget. "You...I...you got it mostly right, I have to admit. I'm not proud of it, but there was a very dark time in my life and I'm still dealing with the consequences, it seems. But, you see, Pat," he looked me in the eyes, "I'm retired."
"Retired?"
"Yeah," he went on, "I paid my debt to the Clan, and I've retired. They have a very nice 401(k) plan and it's really set me up for life."
"Wait, what?" I was confused.
"That's how it works with the Clan," he explained, "you pay your debt and they funnel half that money into a 401(k) for you. When you've paid everything off, they turn the investment account over to you. They're very efficient that way."
"Really?!" I was taken aback a bit.
"Really," he said flatly.
"How long ago was this?"
He put a claw to his face, "Let's see...about three years now, I guess."
"But, wait, what about the slugs?"
"Oh Pat," he laughed, "slugs are slow. I sent that group out about, oh, I guess it'd be eight years ago now. I had so many things going on at the time, I guess I plum forgot about them. I hope they're not too mad at me."
I was at a loss for words. for probably the first time in my life, I had nothing to say. So I sat, drank my coffee and listened to McClawenstein explain that he was in Super Villain therapy now, in a group he goes to once a week. It helps him deal with his "issues", whatever that means, and he's working on getting "closure" on his evil deeds. I felt like I was on Oprah or something. Any moment, I expected Tom Cruise to come running out and jump on the furniture. Then he started to cry.
"You don't know what it's like, Pat," he sobbed, "living life as a freak. I never fit in! I was never man and never crustacean. Always living halfway between the two. Wanting the comfort of the sea and yet trying to live a normal life on land. You could never understand that kind of pain. I needed something to dull it. I know, meth was a bad idea. A really, really, bad idea. But what else could I do."
"Well, I dunno about that," I said, scratchin the back of my head, "I may be able to relate a little. I mean, I didn't exactly have a normal childhood, either."
"Unless your half man, half sea creature, I don't think your weird childhood is in the same leagues as mine," he seemed like he was gettin a bit angry.
"Well sir," I explained, "I ain't never told no one but Douggy this, so I'd appreciate it if you'd keep it to yourself. I was raised by harbor seals."
He stopped crying entirely. "What?"
In for a penny, in for a pound, I guess. "Yeah, I was raised by harbor seals. My real parent was down on the boardwalk late at night, out for an evenin stroll, I guess. They didn't see the sign tellin 'em the boardwalk was closed for repairs and I guess they was payin too much attention to the moon or each other or whatnot, and they just musta not seen the giant hole. So they fell in and drowned, but I was rescued by a harbor seal named Ackucucuck. That's seal language, you see. Well, Ackucucuck had just lost her baby to a shark and was a bit broken up about it. She saw my fall as a gift from the great seal in the sky. she took me on her back to seal island where she taught me all about fishing and layin on rocks. Later, I had to learn the seal wrestlin techniques. By then, though, I kinda suspected somethin was wrong. I mean, seals ain't got no thumbs, and I didn't have a protective layer of blubber to keep me warm.
"Then one day, this science boats came along and spotted me. They gibbered somethin at me in their human language, but I could only respond in seal. I guess they decided to tag me and study me with the hope of bringin me slowly back into human society. They'd visit about once a month and bring me stuff like clothes and shoes and whatnot.
"After that, word started to get around about the 'seal boy', as they called me, and more and more boats started comin. The good thing was, it scared off all the sharks, but the bad news was it scared off all the fish, too. The seal elders had a meeting and decided that I had to go with these strange creatures that looked like me so that the hunting would return.
"It was a sad day when I left my adoptive mother Ackucucuck behind. I think about here from time to time, still. Once a year, I go out to the coast and go fishin the old fashioned way, just to keep my skills up in case this whole 'human' thing doesn't work out."
Well, I guess my secret's out now.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Me and Dale Learn New Things
I got this neighbor named Dale. Me and Dale been neighbors neigh on six years now, but we never talked that much. I been busy doin my thing, and I assume he's been busy doin his thing, too. Of course, he could very well have been sittin over at his house, lookin at my place, his chin tremblin like a newborn Chihuahua puppy, just wantin a little human contact, but too shy to say anything to me. Could be carvin up old ladies, too, for all I know. The long and short of it is, Dale and I ain't done much talkin until today when we happened to meet each other at the mailbox. He was strugglin with a giant package that looked like someone was shippin him fresh elephants, and I offered to help.
We was takin a break on the road when we got to talkin. I inquired about the package, tryin not to sound too nosy, and he told me it was somethin for his job. He said he got a package like that two or three times a week. When I asked him why he was tryin to carry it all on his own, he told me he had some helper up until about two weeks ago, but they left to pursue other opportunities. I told him that was too bad. Then we was quiet for awhile.
I was rootin around in my head for somethin to say, but all I could find was ridiculous stuff about robots wrestlin bears, and I didn't think he'd be interested. Meanwhile, he asked me, "Did you get new glasses or somethin, Pat?"
Every time I'd seen Dale, I'd been wearin the same old glasses. I been told by my nephew that they're old fashioned, bein horn-rimmed, tortoise shell rims on a long chain around my neck, and they may be ugly because they're held together by a combination of duct tape, JB Weld and sheer determination, but they sure worked to keep stuff out of my eyes while I was sanding. I didn't really need glasses, you see, but safety glasses is expensive and I picked these up down at the Goodwill for fifty cents. With the money I had left over, I bought myself a cup of coffee and a Tuesday newspaper. This was on a Thursday, I recall, and I wanted to relive the excitement that I felt before finding out that I, once again, did not win the powerball. I guess the moral of the story is, even if they're very distinct, sometimes people just won't notice you're wearin glasses. I do the same thing, sometimes. I went four whole years without noticin my sister was married and had a baby. Honestly, I don't even know what order the two came in. I tried doin the math on it once, but math ain't my strong suit and, by my calculations, the baby was born 3 1/2 months before my sister was born, but it was certainly born into wedlock. Like I says, I ain't too good at math. Either that or my family has a much more interestin history than I give 'em credit for.
I bring all this up with Dale and we start talkin about how easy it is to miss stuff, even on people you see regularly. It's right about this time I start to notice that Dale ain't got no thumbs. So I ask him, "Did you always have no thumbs, there Dale?"
"I used to have thumbs," he said, "when I was younger. There was an accident."
"Is that the same accident that made you all red?" I was tryin to be tactful, but I don't think I was successful at it.
"Yeah," he responded, "can we talk about somethin else?"
I felt bad for the guy. "Sure, Dale, whatever you say. What line of work are you in?"
"Distribution," he said bluntly.
"That's great," I told him, "what is it you distribute?"
"Can we change the subject?" he asked. He was gettin pretty dodgy and I was runnin out of things to talk about.
So I asked him, "If a robot wrestled a bear, who would you put your money on?"
"Pin or tap-out?"
"I dunno, does it make a difference?"
"It sure does," he said, "bears have large bottoms, so they're very hard to pin, but robots are notoriously good at submission moves. So, if it were a tap-out situation, my money would be on the robot, but if it were a pin situation, my money would be on the bear."
"Huh," I humphed, "I never knew those things. Where'd you learn all that?"
"You see a lot of weird stuff in the carnival, man."
All rested now, we carried the package the rest of the way to his house. As he opened the door, I caught a glimpse of a couple of black light posters hangin on his wall. I started to piece things together.
"Dale," I told him, "we been neighbors six years now, and I don't even know your last name."
"McClawenstein," he said, "Dale McClawenstein." Then he held out a hand to shake and I saw that it was actually a lobster claw. Now, one time, I had a rhino in my livin room for a whole month before I noticed, but I ain't never felt as unobservant as this.
As I shook his hand, he asked me, "You know, Pat, now that you mention it, I've never learned your last name, either."
"O'Neil," I told him, "Pat O'Neil."
"Wait..." he looked wary, "You're THE Pat O'Neil?"
"Well, I wouldn't say 'The' Pat O'Neil. Just google it, and you'll see that I'm really just one of many Pat O'Neils worldwide. It's a pretty popular name. Well, good talkin to ya, Dale, I gotta get going."
"Wait," he gently grabbed my arm with his claw, "we both know what's goin on here. I think we need to talk."
"Well, that's mighty neighborly of ya," I told him, wondering how on earth I was gonna get out of this, "but I got some weldin to do at home and some light paintin, plus, I got that friend I gotta call to ask about the bear/robot fight tonight. He's gettin it on pay-per-view, you should come by..."
He didn't release his claw. He did release a whompin butt bomb, though, and I felt very, very sleepy. Then I blacked out.
We was takin a break on the road when we got to talkin. I inquired about the package, tryin not to sound too nosy, and he told me it was somethin for his job. He said he got a package like that two or three times a week. When I asked him why he was tryin to carry it all on his own, he told me he had some helper up until about two weeks ago, but they left to pursue other opportunities. I told him that was too bad. Then we was quiet for awhile.
I was rootin around in my head for somethin to say, but all I could find was ridiculous stuff about robots wrestlin bears, and I didn't think he'd be interested. Meanwhile, he asked me, "Did you get new glasses or somethin, Pat?"
Every time I'd seen Dale, I'd been wearin the same old glasses. I been told by my nephew that they're old fashioned, bein horn-rimmed, tortoise shell rims on a long chain around my neck, and they may be ugly because they're held together by a combination of duct tape, JB Weld and sheer determination, but they sure worked to keep stuff out of my eyes while I was sanding. I didn't really need glasses, you see, but safety glasses is expensive and I picked these up down at the Goodwill for fifty cents. With the money I had left over, I bought myself a cup of coffee and a Tuesday newspaper. This was on a Thursday, I recall, and I wanted to relive the excitement that I felt before finding out that I, once again, did not win the powerball. I guess the moral of the story is, even if they're very distinct, sometimes people just won't notice you're wearin glasses. I do the same thing, sometimes. I went four whole years without noticin my sister was married and had a baby. Honestly, I don't even know what order the two came in. I tried doin the math on it once, but math ain't my strong suit and, by my calculations, the baby was born 3 1/2 months before my sister was born, but it was certainly born into wedlock. Like I says, I ain't too good at math. Either that or my family has a much more interestin history than I give 'em credit for.
I bring all this up with Dale and we start talkin about how easy it is to miss stuff, even on people you see regularly. It's right about this time I start to notice that Dale ain't got no thumbs. So I ask him, "Did you always have no thumbs, there Dale?"
"I used to have thumbs," he said, "when I was younger. There was an accident."
"Is that the same accident that made you all red?" I was tryin to be tactful, but I don't think I was successful at it.
"Yeah," he responded, "can we talk about somethin else?"
I felt bad for the guy. "Sure, Dale, whatever you say. What line of work are you in?"
"Distribution," he said bluntly.
"That's great," I told him, "what is it you distribute?"
"Can we change the subject?" he asked. He was gettin pretty dodgy and I was runnin out of things to talk about.
So I asked him, "If a robot wrestled a bear, who would you put your money on?"
"Pin or tap-out?"
"I dunno, does it make a difference?"
"It sure does," he said, "bears have large bottoms, so they're very hard to pin, but robots are notoriously good at submission moves. So, if it were a tap-out situation, my money would be on the robot, but if it were a pin situation, my money would be on the bear."
"Huh," I humphed, "I never knew those things. Where'd you learn all that?"
"You see a lot of weird stuff in the carnival, man."
All rested now, we carried the package the rest of the way to his house. As he opened the door, I caught a glimpse of a couple of black light posters hangin on his wall. I started to piece things together.
"Dale," I told him, "we been neighbors six years now, and I don't even know your last name."
"McClawenstein," he said, "Dale McClawenstein." Then he held out a hand to shake and I saw that it was actually a lobster claw. Now, one time, I had a rhino in my livin room for a whole month before I noticed, but I ain't never felt as unobservant as this.
As I shook his hand, he asked me, "You know, Pat, now that you mention it, I've never learned your last name, either."
"O'Neil," I told him, "Pat O'Neil."
"Wait..." he looked wary, "You're THE Pat O'Neil?"
"Well, I wouldn't say 'The' Pat O'Neil. Just google it, and you'll see that I'm really just one of many Pat O'Neils worldwide. It's a pretty popular name. Well, good talkin to ya, Dale, I gotta get going."
"Wait," he gently grabbed my arm with his claw, "we both know what's goin on here. I think we need to talk."
"Well, that's mighty neighborly of ya," I told him, wondering how on earth I was gonna get out of this, "but I got some weldin to do at home and some light paintin, plus, I got that friend I gotta call to ask about the bear/robot fight tonight. He's gettin it on pay-per-view, you should come by..."
He didn't release his claw. He did release a whompin butt bomb, though, and I felt very, very sleepy. Then I blacked out.
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