I was commanded to make a reservation for four. I did. We show up at seven, me from the gym and three women, bridge addicts, who are intoxicated from the tournament. We sit at a table in the middle of a local bistro. Conversation begins.
With three women, conversation always begins. They rehash each and every bridge hand played. They ignore me. I become a Teflon frying pan where sausage sizzles…nothing sticks. My wife says I may want to change tables, find someone who likes to hear bench press and sit-up stats. She says that’s irrelevant to this table.
I decide to sit it out and listen, figure I may learn something. They remind me of golfers discussing strokes. Who cares? I’m Teflon. Besides, who wants to stick more boredom into their life? Remember Bobby Fischer, the chess guru? He went crazy. Said he sat alone on park benches, mumbling about chess. When asked about this strange behavior, he began to drool, saying he remembered every move in every game he ever played. That boy needed a squirt of Teflon. I repeat the story, warning these ladies that someday such benches may be their future. Can you guess the collective response? I suddenly become a Velcro strip being ripped from a useless garment.
The conversation begins to drift sideways, which with women is a normal occurrence. It stuck on the subject of tossing out the clutter in our lives. Margaret remembers a book by Gail Blanke, “Throw Out Fifty Things.” They lament as to how stuff just sticks around, from households, to offices to people. Diane says, “We need to become Teflon.” The others agree. Carolyn carries forward the logical sequence, saying, “We need to rip this stuff out.” I suggest they begin with bridge and golf, but I picture my hunting jacket becoming Velcro.
When we exhume our recent past, we find examples of both Teflon and Velcro. Remember ‘The Teflon Don’, John Gotti? And The Gipper, ‘The Teflon President?’ Very little sticks to mobsters and politicians except money. Other notables to whom the term Teflon is ascribed include Tony Blair and Vladimir Putin. I’m now a member of an exclusive cult.
Velcro is an interesting concept. Did you know that David Letterman made cultural history and put Velcro into the national spotlight? He wore a Velcro-covered suit and, with a running start, leapt into the air, hurling himself against a Velcro-strip wall. He stuck there, hanging from the wall like a dead fly. He had to be ripped off. Because of this, Velcro has now become one of the favorite bar activities in New Zealand. Will Olympic competition be next?
They soon discuss ways to lighten the load from their respective homes. I suggest they begin in their closets and open shoe stores. Can you guess the looks I get? Diane informs me that she has her wardrobe organized on an Excel spread sheet, listing the clothes, costs and depreciated value of each article. She must be a Lutheran.
They become animated. They move from room to room, ripping out everything that’s unnecessary. You know where this is heading, right? Right! My imagination goes wild…no more guns, ammo, boots, camo outfits, running shoes, narcissistic photos of myself and all evidence that a man actually lives in the home. I get the distinct feeling that I am a Velcro strip about to be ripped from the premises.
Then they begin discussing the disgusting habits of men. I could only think of two. At this point I’m trying to become Teflon. The table discussion has not yet centered on me. But, I know it’s coming. I begin deep breathing exercises to grease up my Teflon. Sticks and stones, you know, a man’s survival mantra. But it’s not working. I endure a few more minutes and ask for the check before I’m assassinated. It arrives.
The ladies have a sudden urge to join one another in the ladies room. Have you ever wondered why it takes three to….oh, forget the thought. They finally return and head to the door. I hear a weak, “Thanks” as they depart the restaurant. I shout, “What about the bill?” They become Teflon, disappearing into the darkness.
So I sit here, finishing my beer and feeling like Velcro…. ripped off. Teflon is a male illusion…we always gets stuck with the check!
Bud Hearn
January 27, 2011
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Invasion of an Alien Species
Aliens have invaded my office. Two of them. Things are not the same!
Until their arrival, my office flourished in chaos. Men are anarchists at heart and thrive in disorder. Ask any woman, especially a wife. Aliens disrupt the unstructured order of men.
Men are basically slobs at heart. I remain under this indictment after almost 45 years of marriage. Women howl, “Why would any woman put up with…?” But all women know the answer. They, too, are surviving a similar fate with a slovenly live-in. I have to give my wife credit, however, for her perseverance. She’s still sane and remains determined to organize an unkempt mess of a man.
It serves no purpose to argue with alien species. I’m discovering the wisdom of my father’s advice, “Son, there are only two ways to convince a woman of anything. And neither one works.” Men, listen to this advice: don’t waste precious time trying to come up with novel ideas. There’s no way to justify our untidy existence. Nothing works, short of death.
Back to the aliens’ invasion. These two prefer to travel in pairs, it seems. My office life, which I prized for its chaos, is now in disgusting order. I can find nothing. It’s a disgrace to have an orderly office. Leon is my termite man. He says Dick Tracy predicted such an invasion from Venus sometime in this century. He says that my office is the perfect Petri dish due to its disorder. That boy’s been drinkin’ his own juice.
You think I’m jokin’? Listen… you hear ‘em? Aliens are among us, everywhere. I’m being invaded. They’re talking in the other room. I open the door, they shut up. They give me a malicious stare, as if to say, “Beat it, buster. Why are you invading our space?” I protest, they shout me down. They’re even inside my computer, having access to my email secrets. They’re everywhere!
They seem to prefer invading the privacy of men. They’re stealthy little demons. These weird creatures stake out strange spots to incubate. Dog’s tongues, pocket change and movie seats are no comparison to their creativity of invasion. Today my Social Security check arrives. I open the envelope. A voice says, “I’ll take that.” Aliens are all around us, men. Open your eyes.
My assistant is a prayer warrior. She’s called that because she carries armor against all forms of malevolent fiends. She claims she can actually see germs and angels. Says I resemble a certain insidious strain. She prays for everything, including door knobs. Why doorknobs? I ask. She says doorknobs are dangerous. I sometimes feel safe in her aura. But she refuses to pray for my predicament. Says she thinks the aliens are female angels. She just ain’t right!
Last week I show up for work, open the door and enter my office. A strange atmosphere greets me. The air vibrates with electricity. I pause, listen. Sounds of vague voices waft through the stairwell. Aliens are always talking. My nose twitches, sniffs the air. What, perfume? What’s perfume doing in a man’s escape cave? I check the bathroom. It’s not Lysol.
I approach the stairs carefully, tiptoe up and peer into my office. The chaos is missing. A year’s accumulation of newspapers, magazines, Starbuck’s coffee cups, five pair of running shoes and stinky workout clothes. All gone. My heart sinks.
Their talking immediately ceases. Laptops hum. Four eyes stare at me. It’s an eerie atmosphere. I manage to blurt out, “Who are you, and what have you done to my poor office?” They just smile. I ask, “Why have you done this? Are you aliens? Did my wife send you?” They order me to sit down. I do.
They explain they’re actually angels, sent to deliver me from myself. I tell them I can’t remember asking for any angels, that I like my sloppy self. They tell me I’ll come to love perfect order. Now I know my wife is involved. “Where’s my Clint Eastwood autographed poster?” I demand. We replaced it with your wife’s picture they say. It gets worse, but that’s another story.
Men, take my advice: Beware of hiring women posing as angels. But if you must, learn to leave the lid down.
Bud Hearn
January 20, 2011
Until their arrival, my office flourished in chaos. Men are anarchists at heart and thrive in disorder. Ask any woman, especially a wife. Aliens disrupt the unstructured order of men.
Men are basically slobs at heart. I remain under this indictment after almost 45 years of marriage. Women howl, “Why would any woman put up with…?” But all women know the answer. They, too, are surviving a similar fate with a slovenly live-in. I have to give my wife credit, however, for her perseverance. She’s still sane and remains determined to organize an unkempt mess of a man.
It serves no purpose to argue with alien species. I’m discovering the wisdom of my father’s advice, “Son, there are only two ways to convince a woman of anything. And neither one works.” Men, listen to this advice: don’t waste precious time trying to come up with novel ideas. There’s no way to justify our untidy existence. Nothing works, short of death.
Back to the aliens’ invasion. These two prefer to travel in pairs, it seems. My office life, which I prized for its chaos, is now in disgusting order. I can find nothing. It’s a disgrace to have an orderly office. Leon is my termite man. He says Dick Tracy predicted such an invasion from Venus sometime in this century. He says that my office is the perfect Petri dish due to its disorder. That boy’s been drinkin’ his own juice.
You think I’m jokin’? Listen… you hear ‘em? Aliens are among us, everywhere. I’m being invaded. They’re talking in the other room. I open the door, they shut up. They give me a malicious stare, as if to say, “Beat it, buster. Why are you invading our space?” I protest, they shout me down. They’re even inside my computer, having access to my email secrets. They’re everywhere!
They seem to prefer invading the privacy of men. They’re stealthy little demons. These weird creatures stake out strange spots to incubate. Dog’s tongues, pocket change and movie seats are no comparison to their creativity of invasion. Today my Social Security check arrives. I open the envelope. A voice says, “I’ll take that.” Aliens are all around us, men. Open your eyes.
My assistant is a prayer warrior. She’s called that because she carries armor against all forms of malevolent fiends. She claims she can actually see germs and angels. Says I resemble a certain insidious strain. She prays for everything, including door knobs. Why doorknobs? I ask. She says doorknobs are dangerous. I sometimes feel safe in her aura. But she refuses to pray for my predicament. Says she thinks the aliens are female angels. She just ain’t right!
Last week I show up for work, open the door and enter my office. A strange atmosphere greets me. The air vibrates with electricity. I pause, listen. Sounds of vague voices waft through the stairwell. Aliens are always talking. My nose twitches, sniffs the air. What, perfume? What’s perfume doing in a man’s escape cave? I check the bathroom. It’s not Lysol.
I approach the stairs carefully, tiptoe up and peer into my office. The chaos is missing. A year’s accumulation of newspapers, magazines, Starbuck’s coffee cups, five pair of running shoes and stinky workout clothes. All gone. My heart sinks.
Their talking immediately ceases. Laptops hum. Four eyes stare at me. It’s an eerie atmosphere. I manage to blurt out, “Who are you, and what have you done to my poor office?” They just smile. I ask, “Why have you done this? Are you aliens? Did my wife send you?” They order me to sit down. I do.
They explain they’re actually angels, sent to deliver me from myself. I tell them I can’t remember asking for any angels, that I like my sloppy self. They tell me I’ll come to love perfect order. Now I know my wife is involved. “Where’s my Clint Eastwood autographed poster?” I demand. We replaced it with your wife’s picture they say. It gets worse, but that’s another story.
Men, take my advice: Beware of hiring women posing as angels. But if you must, learn to leave the lid down.
Bud Hearn
January 20, 2011
Thursday, January 13, 2011
In a Bad Mood
In a Bad Mood
“I see the bad moon arising, I see trouble everywhere. I see earthquakes and lightenin’, I see bad times today.” Creedence Clearwater Revival
I came home last night in a bad mood. My black cloud follows the moon.
I slam the back door. My wife knows the clue: Bad mood.
She gets the Lysol, sprays the house. Bad moods stink.
I sit down, slide into the chair. She hands me a Balvenie 12 and water. I sulk.
She’s smart, says nothing. Continues cooking. I sip, continue sulking.
She has bad-mood armor, puts it on. She has black-cloud experience.
She gives me the it’s-ok-to-vent look. The venom in my voice spews forth.
Did you see the news, I say? What news, she says? She sets the stage.
The Atlanta blizzard, I reply. The closet-sized apartment held me captive.
No food. No beer. No TV. No radio. No way out. Claustrophobia strangled me.
She speaks in simple sentences. Bad moods have no cognitive functions.
Oh, sweetie, how tragic. I agree, sip more. What terrible punishment, she says.
What did you do? I cursed my predicament, I say. She throws me a smiley frown.
Did it help, she asks. No, but I unloaded the gun, I answer, sampling more scotch.
My wrath continues. I tell of my struggles to find food. The miseries gush forth.
My complaints continue. I repeat them. She gets bored. Time to chill, I think.
My glass now jingles. Ice cubes bounce, become pin balls. She hears, pours me another.
I haul my bag to the bedroom. Hang up the unworn clothes. The cloud is lifts.
The coat hangers hook up. I separate them. They tangle more. Like lovers.
They entwine, hopelessly entangle. I leave them to love. What can separate lovers?
I make it back to the kitchen. My anger abates, the cloud vanishes. Peace is restored.
Meat loaf and potatoes sit steaming on a plate next to wine. They beckon me. I oblige.
Conversation is civil. My epic struggles subside. She pats my hand.
We toast, “Here’s to whiskey, amber, pure and clear; it’s not so sweet as a woman’s lips, but a damn sight more sincere.” We laugh, finish dinner, become coat hangers.
Bud Hearn
January 13, 2011
The island is full of wonderful writers. Last year I formed Coastal Literary Society, LLC. Member writers will periodically contribute to my weekly vignettes. Today I include an excellent piece by Wendy Jennings. I think you will like it.
The Simplicity of Security
Once upon a time, I washed my three year old daughter's security down the drain. How? I laundered her 'blankie'. Her cumulative life experiences went with it. Her security blanket became a blank slate.
How could I let my mother’s aversion to germs take precedence over the comfort she had created? That blanket had captured the scents of her entire past. How careless of me?
Have you ever thought about the bits and pieces of security we glean from our daily life? A collection of familiar and comforting scents (even those from 'Chuckie Diseases' as we so fondly recall) accumulate in a favorite Paddington Bear or a blanket. They became anchors for the security for my child.
Remember when we would run a highly successful under-age Busch brewery out of our high school lockers? And how the college of our choice rewarded us with acceptance letters to further our security? Four years later, we land a job at Busch Gardens, solidifying the security of all things hoped for in our future.
We select mates, sign our future earnings away on a mortgage. We add introductory dependents (posing as pets) to form our new and improved version of security. We have crossed the Rubicon River of no return in the quest for our security. All is irrevocably challenged.
We willingly trade our soft, cuddly blanket for a vibrating Blackberry that dictates our every move. We become slaves, trading our 'free time' for security. We work harder. The security blanket we now crave must be large enough to cover our sub-prime mortgage on the McMansion, the two household vehicles, dance ransom and the home equity draw for a trip to the Magic Kingdom. The yard stick of our security is measured against our close friends and neighbors. We curse the day the Jones' were ever born!
If we are blessed, we live through the financial carnage. We examine what we have created as a stand-in for security. Later realizing it is not genuine security. Building relationships is the most solid form of security. People feed our souls, not our wallets. As the 'Housing Bubble' continues to burst, the attempt at false security leaves us underwater. We refocus and envision the Paddington Bear of our past. We smile in its simplicity.
Will my children have me committed in the morning when they find me in an embrace with my teddy bear instead of my Blackberry? I guess the answer will determine how secure I really am! Where do you find security? - Wendy
“I see the bad moon arising, I see trouble everywhere. I see earthquakes and lightenin’, I see bad times today.” Creedence Clearwater Revival
I came home last night in a bad mood. My black cloud follows the moon.
I slam the back door. My wife knows the clue: Bad mood.
She gets the Lysol, sprays the house. Bad moods stink.
I sit down, slide into the chair. She hands me a Balvenie 12 and water. I sulk.
She’s smart, says nothing. Continues cooking. I sip, continue sulking.
She has bad-mood armor, puts it on. She has black-cloud experience.
She gives me the it’s-ok-to-vent look. The venom in my voice spews forth.
Did you see the news, I say? What news, she says? She sets the stage.
The Atlanta blizzard, I reply. The closet-sized apartment held me captive.
No food. No beer. No TV. No radio. No way out. Claustrophobia strangled me.
She speaks in simple sentences. Bad moods have no cognitive functions.
Oh, sweetie, how tragic. I agree, sip more. What terrible punishment, she says.
What did you do? I cursed my predicament, I say. She throws me a smiley frown.
Did it help, she asks. No, but I unloaded the gun, I answer, sampling more scotch.
My wrath continues. I tell of my struggles to find food. The miseries gush forth.
My complaints continue. I repeat them. She gets bored. Time to chill, I think.
My glass now jingles. Ice cubes bounce, become pin balls. She hears, pours me another.
I haul my bag to the bedroom. Hang up the unworn clothes. The cloud is lifts.
The coat hangers hook up. I separate them. They tangle more. Like lovers.
They entwine, hopelessly entangle. I leave them to love. What can separate lovers?
I make it back to the kitchen. My anger abates, the cloud vanishes. Peace is restored.
Meat loaf and potatoes sit steaming on a plate next to wine. They beckon me. I oblige.
Conversation is civil. My epic struggles subside. She pats my hand.
We toast, “Here’s to whiskey, amber, pure and clear; it’s not so sweet as a woman’s lips, but a damn sight more sincere.” We laugh, finish dinner, become coat hangers.
Bud Hearn
January 13, 2011
The island is full of wonderful writers. Last year I formed Coastal Literary Society, LLC. Member writers will periodically contribute to my weekly vignettes. Today I include an excellent piece by Wendy Jennings. I think you will like it.
The Simplicity of Security
Once upon a time, I washed my three year old daughter's security down the drain. How? I laundered her 'blankie'. Her cumulative life experiences went with it. Her security blanket became a blank slate.
How could I let my mother’s aversion to germs take precedence over the comfort she had created? That blanket had captured the scents of her entire past. How careless of me?
Have you ever thought about the bits and pieces of security we glean from our daily life? A collection of familiar and comforting scents (even those from 'Chuckie Diseases' as we so fondly recall) accumulate in a favorite Paddington Bear or a blanket. They became anchors for the security for my child.
Remember when we would run a highly successful under-age Busch brewery out of our high school lockers? And how the college of our choice rewarded us with acceptance letters to further our security? Four years later, we land a job at Busch Gardens, solidifying the security of all things hoped for in our future.
We select mates, sign our future earnings away on a mortgage. We add introductory dependents (posing as pets) to form our new and improved version of security. We have crossed the Rubicon River of no return in the quest for our security. All is irrevocably challenged.
We willingly trade our soft, cuddly blanket for a vibrating Blackberry that dictates our every move. We become slaves, trading our 'free time' for security. We work harder. The security blanket we now crave must be large enough to cover our sub-prime mortgage on the McMansion, the two household vehicles, dance ransom and the home equity draw for a trip to the Magic Kingdom. The yard stick of our security is measured against our close friends and neighbors. We curse the day the Jones' were ever born!
If we are blessed, we live through the financial carnage. We examine what we have created as a stand-in for security. Later realizing it is not genuine security. Building relationships is the most solid form of security. People feed our souls, not our wallets. As the 'Housing Bubble' continues to burst, the attempt at false security leaves us underwater. We refocus and envision the Paddington Bear of our past. We smile in its simplicity.
Will my children have me committed in the morning when they find me in an embrace with my teddy bear instead of my Blackberry? I guess the answer will determine how secure I really am! Where do you find security? - Wendy
Thursday, January 6, 2011
The Baptism of Lazarus
Lazarus is a skeleton. Some say he’s my alter ego. He sits at the head of the office conference table. He reads Rolling Stone. He’s looking for a resurrection.
I found Lazarus sitting underneath an ancient oak tree on my land. Judging from his smile, I assume he is a former real estate tycoon. He apparently ate his own flesh for the last few years, waiting for the market to return. He’s looking for a resurrection.
He has no more flesh to eat. He now writes. He must think he can add fictional flesh to his bones. He has no brain, either. He needs a resurrection in a bad way.
Apparently having been in the dirt business, it may be assumed Lazarus has buried some skeletons of his own. On New Year’s Day he declared his 2011 resolutions. Short and sweet: “More dirt.” Which is it, dirt for cover, or dirt to write? One wonders.
Being compassionate, I want to help Lazarus overcome his dilemma. I ask the Higher Authority for advice. I am warned by angels in a dream that any skeleton seeking resurrection must first show proof of having been baptized.
I ask Lazarus the whereabouts of his baptismal paperwork. He thinks. He offers up facts of his induction into the Sigma Nu frat at Dawg U., the Masonic Temple and resignation from the KKK. I tell him Authority has no dogs in those hunts and doesn’t buy swamp land. He shrugs his bony shoulders.
I call George, we cook up a plan. We dress Lazarus in his Vineyard Vines swimsuit, put on his Chinese emperor’s robe, a straw hat, lather him with 95 sun screen and take him to the January 1st Polar Bear Plunge into the icy Atlantic Ocean.
People there swarm the skeleton, are incredulous. They ask questions, seek autographs, make pictures. Tiny children shake Lazarus’s hand, kiss him. Grownups have their pictures made with him. A lady asks him to marry her, says he might not snore. Lazarus remains mute. He ain’t dumb!
A lunatic throng lines up the ocean’s edge. The air fills with shrieks and cries of hyperthermia, Titanic. Apprehension and fear hover. The Atlantic awaits its victims. Survival is in question. We look for a preacher to baptize Lazarus. No last rites are necessary. Others join in. A Lutheran is found, sipping from a silver flask. He refuses, muttering something about blasphemy.
We ask why. He says no preacher gives last rites or baptisms on shifting sand. He recites something about building houses on sand and rock. We leave him mumbling incoherently and taking comfort in the contents of his silver chalice. We make other plans.
The whistle blows. Like a herd of Gadarene swine, the maniacal mob rushes into the swirling surf like a pack of loosed lunatics. They are swallowed up by the Atlantic. Some survive, retreat to hot chocolate. Some still remain MIA. The waves cease. Calm prevails. The sea is satisfied.
We find The Lutheran lying on the sands, singing Scottish hymns. We ask if the most efficacious form of baptism is aspersion or submersion. “Submersion,” he slurs. We leave him in his stupor and walk into the bone-chilling waters. Lazarus attempts to escape. Too late, we tell him. Resurrection is imminent, we promise.
With the power of madmen, George and I attempt to submerge Lazarus. We fail. He refuses to cooperate. He says we’re not John, says only a Baptist can guarantee success. We curse him, saying we’re empowered by angels. He gives us that swamp-land grin. We commit the stubborn skeleton to the power of the Atlantic. He floats, stands and walks on the water.
Curious spectators flee the scene. No dove descends. Two pelicans and a buzzard show mild interest in the spectacle. George and I are the only human witnesses to the miracle of a skeleton walking on water. We emerge with a grinning Lazarus, dry ourselves and find The Lutheran. He’s now asleep. We share his flask.
Later in the day the chill and the scotch wears off. George and I agree that Lazarus may not be a man after all. He must be a woman. After all, only women can walk on water. Ms. Lazarus is resurrected. We’ll all live happily ever after now!
Bud Hearn
January 6, 2011
I found Lazarus sitting underneath an ancient oak tree on my land. Judging from his smile, I assume he is a former real estate tycoon. He apparently ate his own flesh for the last few years, waiting for the market to return. He’s looking for a resurrection.
He has no more flesh to eat. He now writes. He must think he can add fictional flesh to his bones. He has no brain, either. He needs a resurrection in a bad way.
Apparently having been in the dirt business, it may be assumed Lazarus has buried some skeletons of his own. On New Year’s Day he declared his 2011 resolutions. Short and sweet: “More dirt.” Which is it, dirt for cover, or dirt to write? One wonders.
Being compassionate, I want to help Lazarus overcome his dilemma. I ask the Higher Authority for advice. I am warned by angels in a dream that any skeleton seeking resurrection must first show proof of having been baptized.
I ask Lazarus the whereabouts of his baptismal paperwork. He thinks. He offers up facts of his induction into the Sigma Nu frat at Dawg U., the Masonic Temple and resignation from the KKK. I tell him Authority has no dogs in those hunts and doesn’t buy swamp land. He shrugs his bony shoulders.
I call George, we cook up a plan. We dress Lazarus in his Vineyard Vines swimsuit, put on his Chinese emperor’s robe, a straw hat, lather him with 95 sun screen and take him to the January 1st Polar Bear Plunge into the icy Atlantic Ocean.
People there swarm the skeleton, are incredulous. They ask questions, seek autographs, make pictures. Tiny children shake Lazarus’s hand, kiss him. Grownups have their pictures made with him. A lady asks him to marry her, says he might not snore. Lazarus remains mute. He ain’t dumb!
A lunatic throng lines up the ocean’s edge. The air fills with shrieks and cries of hyperthermia, Titanic. Apprehension and fear hover. The Atlantic awaits its victims. Survival is in question. We look for a preacher to baptize Lazarus. No last rites are necessary. Others join in. A Lutheran is found, sipping from a silver flask. He refuses, muttering something about blasphemy.
We ask why. He says no preacher gives last rites or baptisms on shifting sand. He recites something about building houses on sand and rock. We leave him mumbling incoherently and taking comfort in the contents of his silver chalice. We make other plans.
The whistle blows. Like a herd of Gadarene swine, the maniacal mob rushes into the swirling surf like a pack of loosed lunatics. They are swallowed up by the Atlantic. Some survive, retreat to hot chocolate. Some still remain MIA. The waves cease. Calm prevails. The sea is satisfied.
We find The Lutheran lying on the sands, singing Scottish hymns. We ask if the most efficacious form of baptism is aspersion or submersion. “Submersion,” he slurs. We leave him in his stupor and walk into the bone-chilling waters. Lazarus attempts to escape. Too late, we tell him. Resurrection is imminent, we promise.
With the power of madmen, George and I attempt to submerge Lazarus. We fail. He refuses to cooperate. He says we’re not John, says only a Baptist can guarantee success. We curse him, saying we’re empowered by angels. He gives us that swamp-land grin. We commit the stubborn skeleton to the power of the Atlantic. He floats, stands and walks on the water.
Curious spectators flee the scene. No dove descends. Two pelicans and a buzzard show mild interest in the spectacle. George and I are the only human witnesses to the miracle of a skeleton walking on water. We emerge with a grinning Lazarus, dry ourselves and find The Lutheran. He’s now asleep. We share his flask.
Later in the day the chill and the scotch wears off. George and I agree that Lazarus may not be a man after all. He must be a woman. After all, only women can walk on water. Ms. Lazarus is resurrected. We’ll all live happily ever after now!
Bud Hearn
January 6, 2011
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