Digressions of a Dilettante

Digressions of a Dilettante
Vignettes of Inanity by Bud Hearn

Thursday, October 28, 2010

Two Old Geezers Have Lunch

Gordon calls, wants to have lunch. I’m all over the idea. Food is one of the few pleasures left to old men. He suggests Goldberg’s Deli. Says he’d kill for a corned beef on rye. Says he’ll buy, says I bought last time. He forgets…he bought the last three times. We avoid score cards and rely on brains. Only fools use sieves for the repository of such profundity. I avoid confusion and agree.

I remember lunches with George and John. They’re not fools. They’re rich and keep score. Maybe that’s why they’re rich. We go to the same French restaurant located next to a Department of Correction’s parole office where recidivists practice panhandling skills. We sit at the same table in our assigned chairs. It never changes. We order the same thing: Hawaiian chicken salad in hulled-out pineapple halves. We eat early. Regularity is important in old age.

Women keep score by simply asking for separate checks. Waiters know this, so they avoid groups of ladies. Women ask each other, “What are you having, sweetie?” They share and no one dares order the same thing. Men don’t give a kevork what anybody’s having and share nothing. To eat from another man’s plate is to risk loss of an arm.

Back to now. “When?” I ask. “Today,” he says. “What time?” I ask. He thinks. “Pick you up at 11:20,” he says. “Why so early? Is there a run on bagels? Besides, I just finished a cardboard cereal breakfast,” I add. “Fiber’s dangerous,” he warns. “I know a man who ate part of a tablecloth for fiber. Things got ugly fast.” I knew… I tried it once.

He arrives on time, gets out smiling holding a bulging white garbage bag. “What’s with the garbage?” I ask. “Gift for your cute assistant,” he says. “She has me,” I say. “That’s garbage enough.” He agrees, but still gives her the bag. It’s filled with giant pine cones. “Christmas decorations,” he says proudly. She says thanks. But the truth is not in her today. She’s an actress.

The restaurant parking lot’s packed. For appetizers we joust with a blonde in an SUV on a cell phone for the last parking space. It’s a stand-off. Nobody moves. She curses us. We surrender when we see the pistol. She thanks us with a finger, still talking on the cell. We park somewhere near Mars.

We beat the crowd. Gordon grabs the waiter and demands a corned beef on rye. I order lox and eggs. He assaults the sandwich like a ravenous animal. We get heartburn discussing the economy. His eyes drift. “Who you looking at, man?” I ask. “That lady. Look!” he drools. I warn him not to let his eyes take him on a trip his body can’t handle. His eyes re-enter the body.

We finish. He demands a to-go container for his scraps. It’s clear plastic. He fills it with pickles soaked in brine. It weighs a little less than ten pounds. “Where’s your jacket, Gordon?” I ask. “I forgot it,” he says. He finds it lying on the floor. It now looks like a bad oriental rug. He puts it on!

We get in line to pay. Two high school girls stand behind us. They’re a little younger than last week’s news. Gordon starts up a conversation. I warn him there’s a prison term for such reckless behavior. He ignores me. The girls are mortified mutes. He asks if they’re thinking about college. They look at one another, wishing they were invisible. I tell Gordon they are not thinking, they’re praying. They’re begging God that their friends won’t see them. They’re thinking how to vindicate themselves if they’re spotted talking to geezers. They remain mute in the dilemma. I consider they may also be deaf.

The cashier, a little smaller than a tank, growls at Gordon. “That’ll be twenty extra bucks for the pickles, pal. Say? I think I know you. Empty your pockets. Are you the one stealing the Splenda and sugar packets? And is that our oriental rug you’re wearing?” I pretend not to know him and ease on out.

Gordon looks for the exit of the parking lot. After four attempts he finds it. A policeman taps on the car, asking if we’re lost. I pretend to sleep. Somehow we arrive at my office without further incident.

We shake hands and plan another lunch. “My time to pay,” he says. I let it go, thankful to have hungry and forgetful friends.

Bud Hearn
October 28, 2010

Monday, October 25, 2010

The Woman in the Mirror

Justine walked into the office carrying Saturday night’s baggage of memories and unanswered questions. Depression followed her like a bad perfume. She had that awful feeling that this Monday would not be her best day. She was wrong.

An ornate mirror hung from the office wall. It attracted everyone’s attention. It was said to have been stolen from the Hall of Mirrors in Versailles. But Sotheby’s could not always be trusted to provide authentic documents of antiquity or legacy. Perhaps the company had a purpose in mind for hanging it there. She didn’t know. Or even care for that matter, especially this Monday.

The mirror had a certain old-world charm. Everyone noticed it. Its frame was of gilded artistry and spoke of affluence. It had a smoky hue that distorted images in its reflection. Its diffused quality reminded her of those mirrors found in the fairy tales she’d read as a child. Was it Through the Looking Glass she remembered? She couldn’t be sure. She was certain no one lived happily ever after.

Like all the staff, she gazed into the mirror as she entered, making final adjustments to her outfit or hair. In fact, the mirror seemed to have some power of attraction. Like the other girls, she glanced into her reflection each time she passed it. She felt it was drawing her into itself. She wondered if the others thought the same. But she never asked them. Pride will allow only so much publicity. Besides, she never thought herself overly vain, at least not like some of the other girls who shamelessly primped if front of it throughout the day. Her mother had taught her not to make an open show of vanity…it’s not proper, she’d said.

But there was something strange about the mirror on this particular day. She stopped in its presence as though it beckoned her. Her body had a tingling sensation that she could feel but not describe. She stood there speechless. The mirror seemed to have invisible arms that reached out and held her in a powerful embrace, like a hypnotic trance. What? She asked aloud, gazing full into its smoky surface. Her image reflected a silent response. She wrestled with its hidden strength but could not free herself. Its energy field held her tightly. Time stooped.

Suddenly the office door opened. Lisa entered. The door slammed shut, the trance ended. Time began again. “Good morning,” Lisa said with enthusiasm. “How’d your weekend go?”

Don’t ask,” Justine answered. “Just awful. My now ex-boyfriend cancelled our Saturday date, said he’d met someone, like it was just no big deal. After all I’d done for him. You can guess the rest of the story. He could have at least had the nerve to tell me in person. Instead he just sent a text with the bomb. I should have never trusted him. I knew better. Lisa, he’s just like all the others. It’ll be a cold day in hell before I ever trust another one, I promise.”

Oh, I’m so sorry,” Lisa said, her voice genuine. “Just try to shake it off, Justine. It’s happened to all of us at one time or another. Life goes on. You’ll be fine in a few days. There’re plenty of ‘em out there, girl. The next one may be just who you’re looking for. You gotta be receptive. And be glad you got rid of this dirt bag when you did.” Lisa looked into the mirror, brushed her hair back and walked away.

Justine called after her, “Lisa, do you believe that mirrors can have magical powers?”

Lisa turned around, laughed and said, “Only in fairy tales. But then again, I guess it’s possible. It may depend on who’s looking in it. And what they want to believe. Why?”

Oh, I was just wondering. Never mind.” Lisa flung her a puzzled look, shrugged and walked off. Had she imagined it? She became bewildered and tried to let the thought go, but couldn’t. It held her like the mirror had done.

She poured a cup of coffee and sat at her desk. The phone and email messages attacked her. Another typical day, she conceded. But the mirror had added a dimension. It intrigued her. She glanced at it again. Something was all wrong about it. It didn’t belong in here, she thought. The office, decorated in modern furniture by a minimalist, was not the place for such an artifact. I don’t belong here either, she said to herself. Never have, come to think of it. The thought troubled her.

Something’s all wrong for sure, she concluded. Why have I stayed here for three years? I don’t like the job. The same old same old, every day. Booooring. Renting apartments. Listening to the same stories from different people, the phony smiles, the counterfeit countenances, the lies, the complaints, the management hassles. What kind of place is this for me? Hell, for anyone? She felt her anger rising.

She tried to put it out of her mind by recalling her recent trip to France. Gone for a whole month, heaven. The village life with family, quaint, serendipitous, easy. Paris, with its vibrancy, its promise, its sidewalk cafes, its art, its possibilities for her. But here I am, my head in France, my body stuck in this cesspool of traffic-clogged Atlanta, toiling in a dead-end job nobody appreciates and in a city full of egotistical men. I should leave. Maybe I will, she thought. She became afraid of the suggestion.

She’d often had these thoughts. They seemed to precede necessary decisions, some delayed choices life demanded. Did they always have to reach some volcanic crescendo before she’d make the choice? Did she always have to have another failed love affair to get disgusted with things as they are? What would it take for her to make a change? The baggage of memories and unanswered questions got larger, almost too heavy to tote. The effort of lugging it around made her weary.

Suddenly a stranger walked in. She looked up from her desk and froze. Her world stopped moving. He was tall, maybe six-two, slim. His skin had the smooth glow of a Mediterranean summer. He wore a pair of black silk trousers and a brilliant blue silk shirt under a pale yellow Canelli linen jacket. His hair was thick, the color of night, a hint of gray highlighted the temples. A movie star? He looked every bit the part. He was clearly out of place, she though. What’s he doing here?

The mirror had arrested his attention. He stood and quietly gazed into it. He seemed to be waiting on someone. Just then another man bolted through the door. She recognized him as one of the many older transient tenants who came for a few days each month. She knew nothing else about him, except that he was friendly and his rent checks cleared. The men talked in low whispers for a minute. The tenant hurriedly excused himself and disappeared into the property manager’s office.

Justine sat at her desk like a corpse and stared at the man. Was he French? Possibly. Italian? Hard to tell, she thought, but clearly European. No one of his comportment had come through the doors of this apartment complex in her three years. She knew that. She suppressed her curiosity her, but fear held her from approaching him. The stranger just stood there, disinterested in his surroundings, and looked into the mirror.

Her eyes had captured the stranger and were feasting on him. She noticed he seemed not to be looking at himself at all, but looking through the mirror, as if there were something, or someone, on the other side. He might have been looking into the future, she thought. Is that possible? What did he see? She had no answers. But she longed to know.

The other girls were occupied, so she shoved her fear into in the desk drawer, pushed back and walked up to him. “Hello,” she said. She wanted to say more, but when he turned and looked at her with his dark eyes, she became mute. Her lips moved, but no sound came from them. He simply said in return, “Hello.”

May I assist you while you wait for your friend, perhaps get you a cup of coffee?” she said.

He turned, looked into her eyes and said nothing. Only his eyes spoke. Her soul heard their voice. She trembled. He noticed. His eyes surveyed her body in a swift look-over. She felt his glances. They felt good. His lips parted and curled into a slight smile that revealed a hint of mystery and very brilliant white teeth. He shook his head and said, “No, thank you.” That was all. He turned and continued to gaze into the mirror, seemingly oblivious to her presence.

The encounter had ended. She returned to her desk feeling stupid, embarrassed and highly disappointed. For what, she thought? What did I expect from a total stranger? Oh, well, another day on the job. Her eyes did not return to work, but continued to feast on this man. Across the aisle Lauren mouthed a silent sentence, “Who is that good-lookin’ stud?” Justine shrugged. She wanted desperately to know.

He continued to stand there, unmoving, statuesque, concentrating on something. She wished she knew what, or who. What did the mirror know? Should she ask him? No, that’d be rude. More questions without answers. The baggage bulged.

His friend suddenly materialized and slapped him on the shoulder, saying, “I’m done here. You ready to go? We have just enough time for a quick lunch before I drop you at the airport.” Justine’s heard these words. Her heart sank. But not for long.

“Yes, just one moment,” the stranger said, his accent unmistakably French. He slowly walked towards Justine. She feigned busy-work. Her face gave the ruse away. He offered his hand, she shook it. Her face flushed when he said, “I hope I was not rude to you. You see, that mirror mystified me. It seemed to have some power and I was drawn to it. I couldn’t resist. Please forgive me.”

I totally understand,” she said. “Strange, it did the same to me when I came in a few minutes ago.”

You look French. Are you?” He said. Her heart almost stopped.

“Why, sort of,” she said. “My mother and some of my family live there. I visit often. I’d love to move there one day.” Her nerves quivered, her heart pulsated. She felt weak all over. She forgot about the baggage.

Please pardon me, but you are a dead-ringer of someone I recently knew,” he said. “I saw your reflection in the mirror and it reminded me of her.”

Oh, her, she thought, just what I needed to hear…somebody else’s love problems. She smiled and said, “Of course.” Still, her heart beat faster, not believing what she was hearing. Before she could stop herself, she said, “Someone special?” She bit her tongue. How stupid, she thought. Why’d I say that?

Well, yes,” he replied, “But that was last year. We were engaged to be married, but it didn’t work out.” He looked at the floor, embarrassed.

I’m sorry,” Justine said. She lied. She wasn’t. “I understand very well,” she said. “It’s happened to me, too. Recently.”

He shook his head, smiled and laughed. "I knew we had things in common. What is your name?” In a response too quick, she blurted, “Justine. Justine Boston.” Oh my God, that was totally un-cool, Justine, she said to herself. What’ll he think? He didn’t seem to notice, or care. She had consumed his interest.

His friend called, “Hey, get a move on. I’m hungry, and Atlanta traffic is murder.”

He looked around, nodded and said, “Coming.”

Oh, no, she thought. She prayed for no. Please, no. We’re just getting started, and now he’s leaving.

He reached into his jacket, pulled out a business card and handed it to her. “My name is Emile Rousseau. This is my first visit to Atlanta. If things work out for me, I’ll be back. When I do perhaps we can continue our conversation.” It was more of a question than a statement, a way to engage and not be committed or rejected. She wasn’t new to the subtleties of dating. Things were beginning to get interesting.

Your name. Are you related to…?” She didn’t finish the sentence before he said, “Yes, I’m afraid so. He was my great, great-grandfather. It’s hard to live down his reputation! But I’m in publishing, not art” She couldn’t believe what her ears heard. Publishing. And she wanted to write a book? Things were getting very interesting indeed!

He turned and walked towards the door. As he opened it, he cast a backward glance and smiled at her. A smile that was real, she thought. The sun rays cast his shadow across the mirror as if to imprint his body within it. He said. “Justine, if you ever get to Paris, would you please call?” And that was it. The door closed behind him as he walked out of her life. She sighed and said to no one, “Just my luck with men!” But she knew she’d see him again. And soon, she hoped.

The hours crawled by in the mundane tasks of her job. All excitement had been sucked from the day after her brief encounter with Emile. She dragged herself through the remaining hour in slow motion. The day finally ended. The others had gone. She thought about the strange events of the day as she cleared her desk and prepared to leave.. It had started with the mirror and ended with a stranger’s smile. She imagined the possibilities.

She stopped in front of the mirror. She looked into it, wondering what had captivated Emile’s interest. She looked into its vast smoky darkness. Something moved, ever so slightly, in the shadow’s recesses. And moved again, perceptively. Movement was slow at first, as if coming from a great distance. Closer and closer it came. A woman appeared, dressed in a low-cut, emerald green dress, perhaps an Armani, carrying a Vuitton tote bag. A diamond necklace dangled seductively from her neck.

The woman smiled as she drew near and approached the mirror’s outer edge. She had a familial quality about her. As she drew closer, Justine saw that the woman’s shape and face looked like that of her own. Impossible, Justine thought. She shook her head, rubbed her eyes. What’s going on? She was confused.

Who is this woman? She looks like me, Justine thought. Is it me? She wondered. This is ridiculous, she knew. How could it be? In the midst of these thoughts the woman stepped from the mirror onto the floor. Time moved in reverse. Emile was just leaving. The woman called to him, “Emile, wait for me.”

Emile turned, flashed a large smile and said, “Where have you been for so long?” They embraced, kissed, retreated arm-in-arm into the sunlight and disappeared. Justine didn’t move. She stood there, incredulous.

She tried to piece the day together…Emile, the phantom woman in the mirror, the improbability of it all. What did it mean? Was she hallucinating? She got no answers. But didn’t Emile say she reminded him of someone? Could the woman in the mirror have been her in another life, another time, another place? Could she actually step out of a mirror into Emile’s life? So many questions, so few answers.

It had all been too much for one day. She needed a drink. She shook her head and laughed to herself. She left the office and the magic mirror, locking the door behind her. As she walked to her car she heard Emile’s parting words, “Justine, if you ever get to Paris…” She knew that was real, and she knew already what she would do…and soon!

It felt good to have finally made a decision. Now she only had one more to make. She dropped the baggage of life’s memories and unanswered questions behind her on the sidewalk and moved on, unencumbered into a new world of infinite possibilities…

Bud Hearn
October 25, 2010

Thursday, October 21, 2010

The Phone Call

The phone rang but the caller ID failed me. I took a chance and answered. This level of extreme bravery should not be attempted unless you already have an exit strategy. I didn’t and paid for it later.

Sometimes I enjoy these calls. Often it’s some poor schmuck chained to a chair in Bangladesh enduring dog cussing and insults about his mother, all the while getting a continuing-ed degree in American street slang. I pretend to be the idiot housekeeper. It opens up creative possibilities.

Hello,” the voice slurs. “Is Mr. or Mrs. Gharn available?” (double-vowels are difficult!) They live elsewhere, I answer. The voice asks if there’s another number. I tell the voice their ashes currently reside in a bronze urn which has an unlisted number. The voice asks if it could speak to the urn. I respond that the urn sometimes grunts and groans, but it has not yet spoken. It’s expected to, however, I say. I ask the voice if it wants to leave a message in case. It hangs up. I convulse with laughter.

Back to the phone call. An old friend was calling. All our friends are old now. Her nasal voice says, “Let’s have dinner.” I delay answering. She takes my silence as a yes. She hears things unsaid, always has. Women are like this. She’s married to a golfer who is basically a deaf mute except when the subject of golf is discussed. Most golfers have this trait. They’re boring and the cause of boredom in others. So a date was set and we met at a mutual spot. Mutual spots are preferred. It’s easier for salmonella attacks if things get out of hand.

The appointed night arrived. Table conversations usually begin with ‘do you remember,’ or ‘did you hear about.’ You know. It morphs to ailments. She’s a living ailment. Only miracles allow her to live and tell. Her husband sits there, mute with his martini. We ignore him and golf. I may yet survive this, I thought.

The conversation exhumes a certain old friend. Anything, even golf, I plead. But not her. But no, we have to go there. Her name hits the table and my mind swoons. She once called before the marvelous invention of caller ID. I shouldn’t have answered. “Come to my home tomorrow for a surprise,” she said. I’m no fool, so I went. Mistake.

I arrived. She came to the door. Candlelight flickered. Shadows danced on the walls of the darkened house. Wow, I thought. What’s this? Candlelight? A surprise? Not what I expected.

Seems she and her accomplice had recently been certified by some off-brand Pentecostal congregation to perform rituals of casting out demons. My name came to mind first, she said. Nice to be thought of first, I thought, so I played along, expecting a joke.

I sat in a chair and they laid hands upon me. Unsettling. They squeezed my head while incoherent gibberish spewed from their lips. They jumped on the demons, commanding, “Depart from him, be cast into the Chattahoochee River!” This went on for some time. They began to sweat and became more urgent in their petitions. My head ached. I gotta get outta here, I kept thinking. My body shook, my knees oscillated wildly. To top it off I shout, “Hallelujah, free at last, free at last.” I fall to the floor, writhing in a hallucinogenic state. I once saw this trick on a TV healing show. A command performance. I fled from that house.

I return to our table conversation in time to hear her say, “I have auras, I can read minds. I know who’s dark and whom to avoid.” I asked if I were dark, hoping to get the same avoidance. She promised to let me know when the spirits spoke. The golfer had yet to speak, though his lips did move silently. He smiled at odd times, but I think it was gas, for he looked relieved each time. I felt sorry for him, but not enough to mention golf.

Suddenly I commanded the salmonella bug to attack. I fled from the table. My wife recognized the clue and left them sitting there, she, calling on the spirits, and he, discussing every game he ever played.

The next day we changed our phone number and had it de-listed. I didn’t want to know if I had a dark aura or more demons. Life has been good since then, and the housekeeping idiot has bought more National Inquirers for new stories for telephone solicitations. Call me, and I’ll try ‘em on you.

Bud Hearn
October 21, 2010

Thursday, October 14, 2010

Getting Over It…

His wife took up the habit of golf a couple of years ago. She’s improving (on some days). It’s a work in progress. Like all golf habits, on any given day progress can back up on you.

It’s not difficult to figure out how the game went when she gets home. (Did I hear an ‘Amen’?) It’s also a dead giveaway on how the remainder of the day will go.

Today she came in with a smile…a good sign. She sat down and said, “I had a great round today. I’m gonna keep my clubs after all! Except there’s a problem that still plagues me.” Did he hear the word ‘problem?’ No husband wants to hear that word spoken by his wife. Why? He still bears the scars of problems past, those he created, actual or otherwise. He kept silent.

She continued, “Do you want to hear about my problem?” she said?

Of course,” he replied. He lied sometimes, too. “Is it about me?” She looked at him for a moment and said, “Well, you’re usually to blame, but not this time. At least not yet.” Whew. He breathed an audible sigh of relief.

She continued. “I just can’t get over it,” she said. “Over what?” he asked. “The marsh on number 10,” she said. “Doesn’t the cart path skirt it?” he ventured, sticking a toe in his mouth. “Are you listening? I’m talking about hitting the ball over the marsh from the tee box to the green. Don’t be obtuse,” she said.

He didn’t know the meaning of obtuse. So he stuck another toe in with the first one and asked, “How many balls…” She cut him off before he finished. “Don’t go there,” she said. He pushed it. He knew better but had a big mouth after all. It kept him in the traps and roughs most of the time. “How many did you lose today?” he said quickly.

You’re ruining my perfect mood,” she said defiantly. “Enough! Just listen for once in your life.” Her stare would have melted a block of ice. Familiar territory, he thought. And the toes tasted badly today.

Why can’t I hit over the marsh and how can I solve this problem?” she asked. “You’re asking me, a person who’s never played golf in his life? Try hitting down the cart path,” he said. “Very funny today, huh? Go ask some of your pals,” she said. “Ok,” I said, “I’ll ask around. Haha, a good pun, huh?” She looked disgusted.

Women ask profound questions. Answers to them can usually be found in gyms, bars and locker rooms. He tried them all. Carl said, “She has a brain. Tell her to quit using it.” Speaking of obtuse. He asked Terry. “Easy. Tell her to give up the sport and stick to bridge,” he said. Ouch. He doesn’t know what a bad day is if she loses at bridge.

Funerals are not on the A-list, but he ran into Howard there. “Pure physics,” Howard said. “Tell her to take the club back further and hit the ball harder.” He ignored that idea. Too early for his funeral. The interrogatories continued. He ran into Don in the bar. Good scotch makes all things clear. He explained the dilemma. Don took a long swig and answered.

Matter over mind,” Don said. “If she has the physical strength to hit over it, the rest is easy. Gotta kick failure out of the brain. She has a brain, right?” He avoided the question. “Tell her to grab a bucket of old, cheap balls, don’t count the strokes and hit until it gets across. Repeat it. Failure will move out.”

“Brilliant. Let me buy the next round?” Don looked at his empty glass and said, “OK, and I’ll tell you one more trick.” He did and he did. “Never use the $10 balls. She’ll start counting the cost, and you know about women and costs,” Don said. Who didn’t know that!

He reported to her his research. She was pleased. Cooked him dinner. All’s well that ends well, he thought…until the next problem. But until then, he had a problem of his own to get over. He called Don and asked if he knew how to get his toes out of his mouth. Don said…..

Bud Hearn
October 14, 2010

Wednesday, October 13, 2010

The Pool of Narcissus …an Allegory

Narcissus fell in love with the wrong person…himself. Bad choices make for unhappy endings. His did.

He tried but couldn’t breathe life into his image. Grief stricken, he plunged a dagger into his heart, ending the torment. He exhaled, “Alas! Ah, youth, beloved in vain, farewell.” So much for an unrequited love affair with himself. Only a flower bearing his name remains. So the myth goes.

The Greeks invented this guy, and sometimes myths take on a life of their own. Narcissus is the avatar of subtle seduction, enslaving those who fall in love with themselves. Self-reflections are delusions to be avoided. Yet we don’t, not in our culture. A friend explained to me the modern equivalent of this fable.

Mike owns a printing company located in an old warehouse. It bears no resemblance to a reflecting pool. He prints my business cards. Recently I showed up in his shop. Strewn on his counter were business cards and publications picturing beautiful women and handsome men. Their self-replicas smiled seductively at the world, photoshopped and airbrushed to perfection.

Mike, what’s all this?” I asked. “Oh, those,” he said with an indifferent smirk. “The latest crop of over-achievers.”

Terrific crop,” I said.

Nothing new. See it all the time,” he said. “Wanna look behind the scenes? Come on.” I followed him to his dark-room.

He grabbed a stack of photos. “See these?” he said? “They’re the same ones you saw up front. Take this one, for example.” He laid the photo next to a finished card. I examined it.

Mike, no way this is the same person,” I said.

Wrong,” he said laughing. “Masterful job of wizardry, huh?” he boasted. Pride hid his humility. “Man, you should have been a cosmetic surgeon.” I said. “The pay’s better.”

They pay me big money to make ‘em look young and alluring,” he replied, smiling. “Learned the trade from my uncle. He’s a mortician. His cosmetic makeovers are legendary. They make lifeless corpses ready for resurrection before they even leave the chapel.”

Amazing,” I said. “Who are these people?”

“The new hot shots around town,” he said. “Professional types. They gotta look good to get client interviews. It’s all flash. I take their best head shots, do a clean-up and make ‘em irresistible. They put these clean-ups everywhere…Google, Facebook, web sites, Match.com, magazines, you name it. These are today’s Narcissistic pools. Even the President’s all over it. Didn’t he say, ‘We’re the ones we’ve been looking for?’ We’re a ‘me’ culture, in love with ourselves. There’s a new crop of ‘em every year.”

And it’s not just women,” he said. “Look at this guy.” A magazine cover showcased a young man looking like he’d walked off the cover of GQ. He appeared just a little younger than my used Lexus.

Wow. Work your magic on me.” His laughter shook the building. “Not even I am that talented, pal. Save your money.”

“Ok, ok. Why are people so vain?” I asked.

Competition,” he said. “Look, it’s a dog-eat-dog world. People judge on looks, then on credentials. Can’t blame ‘em for doing this. It gets ‘em in the door, that’s all. Then they’re on their own.”

You know Greek mythology?” he asked. “A little,” I said. “Well, they’re seeing their reflections in the pool of Narcissus. Remember him?” I did, vaguely. “Explain,” I said.

OK,” he said. “This fellow Narcissus hung out around his pool, contemplating his life. He saw his reflection and fell in love with it. He kept looking at himself, hung up on his reflection. He worshipped his reflection in the pool and went mad trying to possess it. He finally fell on his own sword.”

Mike quoted an obscure Dryden poem. “O, thou strong seducer, opportunity.” He continued, “Our culture is changing. People fall in love with themselves all the time. It’s how they get on in life. They’re riding on a smile and a shoeshine. Looks and smiles will get them in the door, but they need substance to back ‘em up. Doors swing both ways.”

He added, “It’s hard to tell fact from fiction anymore. I feel guilty contributing to the ruse, but looks are often all they have to cling to. I help them grasp their reflection and make something out of it.” He looked sad.

I’d heard enough. I picked up my dull business cards, thanked him for his soliloquy and left. So far I’ve avoided reflecting pools, but just wait till you see my new business cards…

Bud Hearn
Copyrighted 10/13/10

Thursday, October 7, 2010

Poverty or Prosperity…The Rezoning Episode

Land speculators have a saying, “You’re only one deal away from poverty or prosperity, and you never know which.” It’s a hellish way to live. It’s what I do. Monday night I had a rezoning in Kingsland, Georgia. Here’s the story.

The cell’s ring tone blasts out “Bad Moon Rising.” The dogs bark, my wife covers her head with the pillow. I rub my eyes, sit up. The clock winks, 5:43 AM. Aghhh. “Hello,” I mutter. “Who’s this?”

Your lawyer,” the voice says, slurring the syllables. “You fool, people sleep at this hour. Whatcha want?” I say, dragging myself from the bed.

Did I wake you? How careless of me,” he says. His raspy voice gnaws through my phone. “Smith, you lowlife, you ruined my dream. My wife’s picture had appeared on a Napa wine label and the bottles were flying off the shelves. I was about to cash in and you call and screw it up. You drunk?”

“No. I’m working. Bad headache,” he lamented. “You gotta handle the rezoning tonight on your own.” Voices of laughter and music echo in the background. He’s a bad liar. “You’re gonna have a real bad head when I catch up with your worthless butt,” I shout. Hubris affects most lawyers, especially those with streets named after them.

So here I am in downtown Kingsland, alone. I park my car on the shady side of Lee Street and get out. I arrive an hour early for the 6:30 hearing. The town lay deserted. Two lifeless legs protrude from a darkened doorway onto the sidewalk. My boredom kicks them. An invisible voice curses me. An empty wine bottle whizzes past my head. I duck and walk on.

The CSX railroad tracks run parallel to the street. A lazy train creeps by, perhaps the epitome of the town’s daily excitement. Two young boys throw rocks at it and run. The tracks reach an abrupt dead-end a mile beyond. I wonder if this augurs the town’s future.

My curiosity peers into a storefront next to City Hall. The window reads, Prophet Josiah V. Moon, VictoryLand Temple, Healing and Deliverance. The door’s locked. I knock. Svelte shadows sway in the dark hallway. A larger shadow follows. Three vestal virgins in diaphanous gowns appear briefly, giggle and disappear. A hunchback wearing a black, spiked collar that’s connected to a chain shambles to the door. He mumbles, “A roach, a roach, flush it, flush it.” The chain jerks and the dwarf retreats. A diffused light flings the mutant’s ominous shadow against the wall. Virgins in Kingsland? Incredible. I move on, knowing I’ll return.

A mob of good ole boys block the doorway of City Hall. Toothpicks dangle from their mouths, moving up and down as they speak. Gigantic bellies hang over their belts. One twirls a miniature noose. They see me and become silent. The gauntlet parts and I walk through. Bad idea, bringing a knife to a gunfight. Alligator loafers and tortoise-shell glasses didn’t help.

I sit next to an elderly lady for protection and study the commissioners. They look bored. They sit behind a long table doing warm-up exercises of thumbs up, thumbs down. This lasts for five minutes. Is my fate being decided by clowns? I start praying.

The meeting begins. They soon call my case. The City Planner attempts to persuade the Commission. They appear to be sleeping. The elderly lady springs to life, jumps up and delivers a raging harangue in opposition to my rezoning. They wake up and listen. The Chairman soon has enough. “Sit down and shut up,” he bellows. I move to another chair when I see her reach into her purse.

The Chairman shouts, “A motion, somebody.” A hush descends upon the crowd. Someone moves for acceptance. “OK, now a second.” A voice grunts, “Second.” The Chairman barks, “Thumbs up or down.” I think I’m a gladiator in Caligula’s Coliseum. Six thumbs point up. I live and breathe a sigh of relief.

The elderly lady becomes violent, charges the Commissioner’s table. Pandemonium ensues. The mob is confused. A bailiff enters, restrains the crazed woman. In the hysteria I slip out the back door. The woman is shackled and dragged out. Her husband smiles, waves goodbye and eases down to VictoryLand Temple. I leave Kingsland.

I join hundreds of pilgrims on the I-95 heading somewhere. Our headlights bore holes into the darkness for a few seconds. It closes in quickly behind us. Poverty or Prosperity? You never know. Tonight I’m lucky!

The road goes on forever and the party never ends. Is America great or what?

Bud Hearn
October 7, 2010