Luck and a Good Woman

The back door opens, closes. Whoosh. Stifling heat follows him.
“Whew! Damn, it’s hot!” He says. Words more wheezed than spoken.
His breath hisses like exhaust from a balloon let loose.
Sweat bubbles up, rolls from his face, falls to the floor and fractures.
“I need a drink,” pushing his cap back, looking into the mirror.
He grabs a towel, mops his head and tosses it into the sink.

She hears him, fills a glass with chunks of ice, then water.
The ice explodes—pop, crack, pop. Frost enshrouds the glass.
“Here. Sit down, cool off,” she says, handing it to him.
He takes it, shakes it and raises it to his lips. Then the phone rings.
“Visa again?” He curses like the intrusion of another IRS agent.
He sets the water down, answers it.

“Hello,” he says. A faint voice is heard. Silence fills the room.
Then, “Really?” He listens, draws tiny circles on the frosted glass.
She stands, looks at the man. Now what, she thinks.
His shoulders suddenly slump, he leans against the kitchen counter.
“What?” he says. “You kidding? When?” His demeanor visibly stiffens.
She moves closer, wipes sweat from his neck. “What?” she mimes.

He looks at her, then the water, picks it up and shuffles his stance.
The Voice continues to speak. He listens, shakes the ice cubes.
They clink. Condensation forms, beads up, then drops.
“Could it be a mistake?” he says to The Voice on the phone.
She moves closer, asks who. “Charles,” he lip-syncs. She stands rigid.
He sets the glass down, picks up a pen, “Repeat that.”

He scribbles a number, an address, a date and a time.
“What now?” he asks The Voice. The glass sits in a pool of water.
“What if I can’t find it?” he says.
The Voice is agitated. “Ok, Ok, I’ll look now. Hold on,” he shouts.
He lays the phone on the counter. She hands him the glass of melting ice.
“Here,” she says. “Not now,” as he brushes past her, his eyes flicker with fear.

She stands still, waits. He returns, picks up the phone and sits down.
“Guess what?” he says. Then, “That’s right.” He listens some more.
An expression of pain appears from the wrinkles on his glistening forehead.
She brings him the water glass. The ice is melting. He sweats profusely.
He nods a thank-you, raises it to his lips, feels the cool edge of the glass.
Then, “Remember, I asked you what if….” The Voice interrupts, he listens.

His shirt is wet, stained, soaking into the chair’s fabric.
She grabs his arm, shifts him to a stool.
The water glass sits on the table, ignored, unused, pooling.
She takes it, wipes the table, refills with ice.
“Did you keep a copy?” he says to The Voice. “What?”
“You forgot? You forgot? You’re my lawyer, and you forgot?”

She asks what he’s looking for. He tells The Voice to hang on.
“Hon, it’s a large brown envelope, has a paper I need,” he says.
“What paper?” she asks. “Our future, or our funeral,” he says.
“I’ll look. You couldn’t even find a truck in your mess.”
She leaves. He says to The Voice, “She’s looking.” Then, “No, I never told her.”
He stares at the water glass, it glares back. Suddenly his thirst burns.

He and The Voice exchange blame. She returns, holding an envelope.
“This it?” she asks. He grabs it, rips it open, looks inside. “Yes!” he shouts.
“Found it,” he tells the Voice. “We still have time. On my way.”
He smiles, his first. He gets up, hugs her, pours the water in the sink.
“What are you doing?” she says. “Thought you were thirsty.”
He says, “Baby, water’s cheap. Open the champagne. We just won the lottery.”

Ah, the value of Luck AND a Good Woman…what a combination!!

Bud Hearn
September 21, 2011

Mirror, Mirror on the Wall

This morning I stagger from bed to bathroom, flick on the light and look in the mirror. Horrors! “Damn, you’re ugly,” I shout. “Takes one to know one,” it responds. So begins another day with Body Dysmorphic Disorder, a life-long love/hate relationship with mirrors.

Oh, the furtive glances we make at our reflections, the inordinate time spent in front of mirrors, prepping to meet a world that does likewise. We’re strangers to ourselves, made-up manikins at the masquerade ball.

This morning I asked my mirror for a divorce. The flower of youth had faded and the mirror was treating me with contempt. It grinned and said, “You’ll be back.”

I can’t recall when I fell in love with mirrors. They seduced me, became addictive. Perhaps it started when acne assaulted my face, or, with razor in hand, my anticipation of finding facial hair sprouting from my chin.

With girls it’s different. They search for other signs of maturation---bulges here, curves there and early exploration with mama’s Mary Kay. Boys don’t have much anatomy worth looking at early on. Mirrors just mock them. Bikes rule. But when girls replace bikes, mirrors take on new meanings.

I know these things. My friend, Robert, had a sister named Judy, a voluptuous beauty who matured early. She was 16, we were 13. She sat nearly nude in front of a mirror ringed with lights. She thought herself an actress. Most girls do, I later learned.

Fortunately, a wide crack separated the French doors. We spent our time staring through that space into her Paradise. The mirror stared back with the image of its Starlet. One night it reflected our voyeurism. Screams and curses ensued. Life for us was never the same. We fled on bikes with only memories of the mirror’s reflection of Judy’s anatomical attributes. Ah, youth, sweet youth.

I soon grew facial hair and learned to drive. Our car’s rear view mirror took on great significance. I glamourized it with an enormous pair of white, fuzzy-foam dice. Nausea describes my father’s disgust. Fortunately, he had a sense of humor. I later learned just how he felt when my own son….well, you know, the fruit falls not far from the tree.

The rear view mirror revealed both a fading view of home and enthusiastic activities in the back seat on double-date nights at the drive-in movie. Ah, pity such education is absent from schoolroom curriculum these days. It’s rumored that the elimination of bench seats in cars caused the closure of all drive-in theaters.

But these are silly things. Age abolishes childish ways. Mirrors now rule. Count the mirrors in any home. Our home has just under 1,000, not counting picture frames. Some have good light. In the ‘right’ light, I look differently. You do, too. We avoid harsh reality mirrors.

Excessive preening at mirrors is not in itself a symptom of a serious psychotic state. Unless, of course, the image speaks. It’s the first thing we do in the morning, the last thing at night. We can’t escape ourselves, don’t want to. Face it, we’re in love with what we see.

LaRochefoucauld, an obscure French philosopher, postulated that we put on outward appearances to look how we want to be thought. He concluded that society is entirely made up of assumed personalities. The mirror is a co-conspirator. But then, what do the French know beyond food, wine and roundabouts anyway?

Women have torrid love affairs with mirrors. Men are less inclined, having little to conceal. And L’Oreal’s Mascara for Men cannot outsell Old Spice, some circles excluded. Men like gym magnifying mirrors, which enhance male egos. Egos are on steroids.

We live in a carnival House of Mirrors. Its reflection exaggerates and sometimes makes grotesque our forms and shapes. Why people pay money to be seen in such ways is a mystery. But carnivals often cast reflections of society. We behold ourselves, forgetting that we’re only exaggerated dusty vapors with short shelf lives.

Our home’s ‘back-door’ mirror is my last chance for a full-body scan before leaving. Today I recanted my request for a divorce. Apology accepted. We’re back on again. Who else would put up with my narcissistic notions?

I dredged up some compost today, but one memory is still missing…O, Judy, where are you?

Bud Hearn
September 15, 2011

The Knee Jerker...A Southern Trilogy Part I

Metter, GA, Sunday, heat index 112.

Henry promised to introduce me to Willie, his brother. Locals call him The Knee Jerker. He’s now a Prophet. We finish the fried chicken from Edenfield’s Buffet, grab a tooth pick and leave.

Willie lives where he works, in the annex behind the Tabernacle of The Absolute Rapture. The Tabernacle, painted a brilliant red, reminds me of a Twilight Zone movie.

I ask Henry about Willie’s knee jerking. He says a restless spirit lives in his legs. “Some say it’s the devil,” he says. “When his knees get to jerking, he speaks in tongues. People get raptured and fall flat on the floor.”

He adds, “The preacher and deacons laid hands on his legs to cast out this spirit. But his legs twitched and he got to talking in tongues. They anointed him a Prophet right there on the spot.” I’m incredulous.

“Is this a hoax?” I ask. Henry says no. He says when Willie walks into the Tabernacle, it happens. My head shakes in disbelief. I tell Henry the world’s full of knee-jerkers. Some even have devils, I say. He asks me to explain.

Henry obviously knows the devil, so I figure he would understand. I tell him they were also born with deviant spirits, but they usually knee-jerk with their mouths, not their knees. He cocks his head and looks at me. His eyes are luminous and wild.

I try to make it simple. “It’s hard to explain, Henry,” I say. “You see, some people put their mouth in motion before they put their brain in gear. They have foot-in-mouth disease.” He says he never heard of that affliction. I let it drop.

The Tabernacle is enormous. Its vastness looms like a fiery apparition from a hilltop. It overlooks a desolate swamp at the dead end of a railroad track. A red caboose sits there, silent, waiting. For what? I’m afraid to ask. Just in case, I slide my wallet under the seat.

The parking lot is pregnant with Cadillacs and Lincolns. People stand in serpentine lines. They shuffle restlessly, waiting to enter the Tabernacle. They’re dressed in dazzling pastels, black and white. Some have luggage. “My God, Henry, what’s this?” I ask. He grins. Far out!

Two enormous men block the back door. Odd shapes bulge beneath their blazers. A Brinks truck waits in the distance. Henry high-fives. They eye me with suspicion and curiosity, then, let us enter.

Inside, a white-robed choir sways and sings, “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot.” Shouts of Hallelujah, Glory and Amen mingle with weeping and wailing. Strange tongues fill the cavernous sanctuary. I search for Dante.

Substantial white buckets swell with cash and fungible lucre, sacrifices considered sufficient to secure a ticket to heaven. Multitudes of acolytes throng the shining throne of Willie, The Knee Jerker. Only today, he’s Willie, The Prophet, clothed with a scarlet vestment trimmed with tiny mirrors.

Petitioners come, offer oblations and touch his knees. They jerk, or don’t, depending on the size of the alms. “Is this legal?” I ask. Silence answers. Soon Willie takes a break, joins us in a back room. Henry introduces me. My tongue is Velcro. It clings to the roof of my mouth.

Willie says, “We have a ‘Rapture Ministry’. People are hungry for heaven, afraid of the devil and ready for the Rapture. We offer hope.” He continues. “The devil’s favorite color is red, so we paint everything red and shove it in his face.”

My tongue finds its voice. “What’s with the red caboose?” I ask.

Willie answers. “Oh, that. It’s symbolic. It represents the last train out. It sits there as a reminder that it’s never too late, even if it is the last train out.”

He says, “It’s not a hoax. The money we collect feeds the hungry. We only pay expenses. We don’t even have a Cadillac or a jet…..yet!”

I ask, “Willie, I gotta know. Do your knees really jerk? Or just your mouth?”

He laughs. “Brother, all things are possible to them that believe.” We exchange benedictions, retreat to our worlds.

I ask Henry if I can get a last-minute ticket for the caboose. He winks. “Son, like the Good Book says, ‘Money answereth to all things.’”

And so it goes. Metter, GA, a Sunday in August, heat index 112.

Bud Hearn
September 8, 2011

Mule Blinders

Some things never die…they just change application. Mule blinders are one of those things.

I came by a much-used set last Saturday. They were hanging as a wall ornament in a beer and hamburger joint in Woodbine, Georgia. It’s a disgrace for a venerable, utilitarian device to be relegated to such a low-rent status. Age feels its pain of irrelevance. The owner gave them to me.

People with metaphorical minds are reckless. They can get excited by such silly things as mule blinders. They can run wild and exponentiate concepts into frightening heresies. They transcend tradition. They leap into the future, synthesizing new ideas. They explode entrenched enterprises and set on fire the course of predictability. They are perfect candidates for mule blinders.

But blinders began as a control feature for mules. The mule is a 1,000 pound brute with hot donkey blood. It’s impossible to handle if its mind gets distracted by the neighbor’s greener grass or a greater interest in the barn. It must plow its proper row, straight and narrow, no diversion, no independent thinking. Blinders keep its eyes focused on the dull duty of plowing.

Imagine if you were a mule, having to wear this medieval device. Before long you’d be in life’s proverbial rut. I know many such mules. They wear it everyday. It’s who they are, what they do, what they think. They’re Democrats or Republicans, Baptists or Lutherans, white or black, rich or poor. It keeps their eyes focused on staying in the row they’re plowing.

Once on, it’s difficult to have these blinders removed. Mules get used to them. They become like all other mules, members without distinction of the same pack. They feel good about themselves. The blinders keep them in their comfort zone. Boooooring!!

Old habits die hard. I wonder what the mule would do if, one day, a farmer led him to the field and said, “Ok, Mule, no blinders today. Plow a straight row.” Can you imagine the chaotic consequences? If not, think about what happened recently in Egypt, Syria and Libya. Or, when art moved from the rut of tradition to expansive impressionism, or analogue to digital, or smoke signals to cell phones. The list is long.

Ah, but I’m plowing in treacherous soil now. No telling what crop it’ll produce. Best put my blinders back on. Besides, Big Brother’s listening, watching. He has no blinders on and does his best to keep ours on. Orwell, where are you?

These mule blinders I found were dusty, with a rusted bit and weathered leather. They were perfect for my experiment. I intended to create the ultimate fashion statement that would make even Mr. Polo envious. They’ll be the gift of choice for all husbands whose wives have difficulty with unbridled shopping. A dumb idea, you say? Think about it.

Women in malls are highly distracted by bright lights, mirrors, colors and glitzy enchantments like jewelry. They’re a danger to themselves and a menace to others. Imagine the destruction and chaos resulting if two women happen to see the same handbag at the same time. Horrors!

Mule blinders, with some tweaking, would also be good gifts for men. Since men have rather hard heads, they could be fashioned from a used football helmet with a favorite team logo on the eye flaps, or, on the side of a baseball cap turned backwards. They’d be perfect for husbands who have eyes that wander into his neighbor’s ‘greener grass.’ It would totally eliminate the genus, Divorce Lawyers. Imagine the possibilities.

Finding the mule blinders was the best of days, and the worst of days. I showed them to Mama Gruber, our Hangar House Mother. She runs a tight operation. Seeing them, she lit up and plotted. (Maybe she’s a CIA infiltrator.) The next day she called me into her office. She fitted me with my very own pair, and shoved a rusty bit into my mouth.

I’m now back plowing my own row, eyes straight ahead and no danger to society. I dare you to remove your blinders for just one day and live dangerously.

If you do, it’s wise to keep your eyes off your neighbor’s greener grass.

Bud Hearn
September 1, 2011