Digressions of a Dilettante

Digressions of a Dilettante
Vignettes of Inanity by Bud Hearn

Friday, August 22, 2014

Lipstick and Other Superfluous Secrets


Nothing is more stimulating, or revealing than things that are off-limits, out of bounds, like snooping in someone’s mail, or eavesdropping on gossip or, God forbid, violating the sanctity of someone’s diary. Same thing applies to women’s handbags. I made that mistake once.

**********

I’d like to say the incursion was unintentional, but truth won’t stretch. It was instigated by an inner compulsion, like the nights you promise yourself to lay off the chocolate before bedtime, only to find you have gnawed your nails to the nub in the futile attempt. The chocolate bar melts as you squeeze it with lusty palms.

My wife and I are sitting around talking. She says, “Would you please hand me my handbag?” Bright men oblige all spousal requests. I am a bright man by training. I do this routinely. It’s an understatement to say her bag is heavy. A bellman wouldn’t touch it for a $100 bucks.

Expletive. “What’s in here?” I ask. The mistake!

Things. Things I might need. Anyway, it’s none of your business,” she answers.

Now, I don’t know about you, but when something’s ‘none of my business,’ I’m simply powerless not to make it my business. She eyes me with suspicion. I simply shrug my shoulders, do my best pretense to convey, “Who cares.” But it falls flat. Women can see through men in an instant.

For a few days she kept a tight grip on her handbag. But it would soon be left unguarded, not if but when. I waited, slumbering through several sleepless nights, dreaming of the secrets housed in the Veneta bag.

As it happens, I suffer a late-night gastric assault by a Ben and Jerry’s addiction. It drives me into the kitchen for relief. And what do you know, there it is, her handbag, the very object of my preoccupation. Serendipity has its moments. It lay on the table, unguarded, vulnerable. My exuberance boils over.

My trembling fingers touch it tenderly. They caress the exquisitely crafted leather, feel its sensuous curves, trace the silky skin of its texture. My nerves tingle with excitement at the forbidden pleasures the moment holds. A torrent of adrenaline tears through my veins at the intoxicating risk of peering into the inscrutable mysteries hiding inside.

Sanity leaves me stranded. I become powerless and can’t refrain from the compulsive craving to clutch the bag with a passion inexplicable. So intense is my fetish that it devours all better judgment. Like a grubby grave robber, my manic curiosity digs in, exposing the bag’s enigmatic skeletons.

I unceremoniously empty the voluminous treasures on the table. There, scattered before me are the ‘things’ she needed, the ‘things’ that were indispensable, the ‘things’ that were none of my business. In that microcosmic moment Dr. Gray’s eponymous metaphor made perfect sense: “Men are from Mars, and women are from Venus.”

There, in plain sight of my eyes and those of Ben and Jerry’s Chunky Monkey, the typical American woman lies bare, stripped of all essentials, disrobed, defenseless and strewn atop the table. Wow! An epiphanic and seminal moment occurs.

I pick at the pieces, attempting to make sense of the absurd tableau. Such dichotomy of disarray is unintelligible to human logic. A thermometer appears. I recall my daughter telling me that her mom used this when shopping at Neiman’s. Apparently it registers the heat of her intensity in the jewelry department.

In the mix is a pistol. Loaded. It lies next to a ring of unfamiliar keys and a large padlock. Go figure. What’s with the wad of scratch-off lottery tickets? I get the pharmaceutical palliatives and emollients…. Age does have its downside! The colossal wreckage reminds me of a gigantic jigsaw puzzle, crafted by an unhinged mind for no apparent purpose.

Reconstructing the chaos into a coherent whole is impossible. The incongruity lying before me is incomprehensible. The challenge at hand is now the repacking of this monstrous assemblage of female paraphernalia. My effort is a miserable failure. The bulging bag refuses to zip. So much for explorations into things that are ‘none of my business.’

The next day she immediately recognizes that her bag has been plundered. Her eyes accuse, her voice is inaudible. I’m trapped, a monkey with his hand in the cookie jar. She removes the thermometer. The air heats up.

**********

Dr. Gray’s theorem of the planetary distinction between the sexes remains inviolate, proven once again by the simple fact that men can survive with only a fat wallet and a Swiss army knife….

Bud Hearn
August 22, 2014





Friday, August 15, 2014

Leaving in Pieces


Humpty dumpty sat on a wall;
Humpty dumpty had a great fall.
All the king’s horses and all the king’s men,
Couldn’t put Humpty back together again
.” English Nursery Rhyme


**********


Albert Gooney discovers that somewhere along the way he had become like Jimmy Hoffa…invisible. Only his name remains, evidenced by recurring American Express bills and occasional snippets of gossip at dinner parties.

He wasn’t surprised. In fact, it had been happening for years. Slowly but surely, he was breaking up, coming apart. Life was diminishing him, inch by inch. Bits and pieces were breaking off like fragments of a burned-out asteroid, flying off at the seams, scattered indiscriminately in the vast darkness of space.

He had once considered the alternative…exploding himself. One quick second, bang! All over. A suicide bomber, go out in style. One second of fame, lots of news press. No more attrition, the drip, drip, drip torture, the wasting away into irrelevance in miniscule pieces.

He meditates on the post-explosion idea. He imagines the scene. He would scarcely recognize the colossal wreckage and scattered scraps of himself. They would lie strewn in careless, disorderly disarray. He thought of his poor wife. She obsessed on perfect order. She would never approve of the body placements. He would never be able to explain this unthinkable legacy.

Still, the idea intrigued him. He remembers lines from an obscure poem, “We leave in pieces.” They circumambulate in his brain like a stupid song, one that’s stuck on a 45 rpm record, spinning round and round on a ‘50’s turnstile.

He spots a couple of finger digits embedded in the wall. One wears his wedding ring. It whispers, “I’m a metaphor.” He assesses the situation as if it were symbolic of his marriage, remembering how the silent spaces slowly sapped the substance of relationship. It seeped out little by little until saying ‘goodbye’ was all that was left.

Across the room he recognizes his once-enormous mental data base, a memory repository brimming over with the sum total of his life’s events. Including every golf shot he ever made. It now resembles a wad of wet spaghetti that’s been slung against the wall. Its empty essence slowly trickles down the wall in tiny crimson rivulets into a pool of oblivion.

He considered that ‘one and done’ is not nature’s way. It thrives on comedy, and the joke is always on us. It laughs hideously when the numbered hairs of our heads retire slowly south, one at a time, until they number zero.

He also knew that most things didn’t just pack up and leave all at once. Like visits from Flake, his third cousin twice removed. He wished family were more like money…here today, gone tomorrow. But no, Flake was like inflation, a voracious parasite that eats one out of house and home.

Just recently he had kissed goodbye to his wisdom teeth and his wallet. The dentist said hello to a new BMW. Even the Tooth Fairy shafted him, leaving only a prescription for amoxicillin under his pillow. One man’s loss is another’s gain. Some even say it refers to divorcees.

He’d heard about Age and Gravity, formerly wastrel angels. Cast out from their first estate, they set up a shop in Hollywood, posing as artists. The diabolical duo specialized in re-crafting faces and bodies into caricatures and grotesque remnants of the former tenants. Albert cursed every time he looked at his sagging skin, his widening wrinkles. Somewhere in the distance he heard the demons laughing at their masterpieces.

Albert remembers skipping out on his college girlfriend. The torrid affair was too much. In retrospect, leaving her early was good insurance against getting left. Fortunately for Albert, he dodged getting left holding the bag or the baby…all leaving is not necessarily a bad thing (but some puns are!).

**********

He lingered long amid that horrific scene of the former Albert Gooney. The only solution to his dilemma was reinvention of himself with whatever parts he could scrape up. It would dawn on him soon.

This is the land of new beginnings, the international capital of reincarnation…all that’s needed to start again is a name, real or fictional. Is America great, or what?

Bud Hearn
August 15, 2014




Friday, August 8, 2014

Friday Night Frenzy


Nothing unglues the fabric of small towns faster than Friday night high school football. The blood of this gladiatorial sport flows hot and red. Every father relives his own glory days. Bragging rights are on the line.

I know these things. My name is Harold. I survived it.

**********

I was a reluctant warrior. My father begged me, “Son, don’t cast shame on the family by playing trumpet in the marching band.” I hated to see him cry. I was in the tenth grade. Weight, soaking wet, 145 pounds. I sacrificed myself on the altar of the gridiron.

One day Coach Roy knocked on the back screen door. “I want Harold!” he said. He was bigger than life. Small children begged for autographs. Grown men shrank and women swooned when he showed up. The word ‘No’ was not in his vocabulary. My father offered me up as the family’s token football sacrificial lamb without conditions.

Practice started on a scorching August afternoon. The sun and sweat melted us. The grass was seared, brown, limp and lifeless. Heat devils danced on the sagging goal posts. An apparition appeared under the bleachers. It resembled the bones of former players.

Coach Roy sized me up and shook his head. “Did you leave your legs at home, son?” he asked, laughing. I glanced down to find two knees, knocking together. “Boy, you’re at a disadvantage. You were born with a neck.” The analogy escaped me at the time.

He put his arm around me. “Son, you’re gonna be a ‘tight end.’” Later, I told my father. He looked despondent, muttered something about a quarterback. I wasn’t quite sure what position a tight end played…until the Homecoming game. Some things can only be discovered experientially.

Playing football can be a spectacle for embarrassment, like the night I recovered a fumble and ran…the wrong way. The crowd screamed, “No! No! No!” My thoughts of fame overruled. Fortunately, my teammates nailed me on our own goal’s one-foot line. Coach Roy swallowed his Skoal. “Kid, next time you pull that stunt you’re gonna know where this football’s going.” The visceral image remains vivid.

My girlfriend was a majorette. She twirled fire with her baton. One night the flambeau found her blonde curls. Her hair was never the same afterwards. That’s another story. Anyway, we ‘liked’ one another.

‘Liking’ someone is the first stage of romance. It happens when a boy works up his nerve to hold a girl’s hand. I had scored twice and was convinced she ‘liked’ me. ‘Liking’ is the precursor to ‘going steady,’ which is a doubled-edged sword. ‘Breaking up’ also follows… good training ground for the future divorce.

Skinny guys have no business playing football. On the field they resemble skeletons with colorful helmets bobbing up and down. They’re best used as practice dummies. Coach Roy devised this torture routine to insure discipline.

Here’s how it works. The dummy lines up across from Mean, Dumb and Nasty, three meathead goons. The coach pitches him the football and shouts to the hit men, “Get him!” There’s no escape. The ensuing carnage is a ghastly scene.

Homecoming games are sacrosanct. They’re must-wins at all cost. Honor hangs in the balance. Coach Roy found me hiding behind the water bucket. “Harold,” he said, jabbing his index finger into my chest, “You’re starting as tight end tonight. Make me proud.” It was my first start after the unfortunate fumble incident.

See that boy? He’s your man. Take him out.” An audible groan erupted from the spectators as I tiptoed onto the field. Nobody applauded. We lined up for the kickoff. I looked at my assigned enemy. Goliath stood there grinning, 390 pounds of testosterone. My eyes rolled back in my head. It gave new meaning to the term ‘tight end.’

He pointed his finger at me. His lips moved, “You’re dead meat.” The National Anthem played like a dirge. My heart throbbed. Something warm and wet trickled down my pants leg. I inched toward the sidelines. Coach Roy growled. I fainted.

That was my last football game. My mother sobbed inconsolably. My father dodged the shame by hiding behind the hot dog shack. The next week I took up the violin. Life goes on.

**********

In retrospect, I felt sorry for Coach Roy that night. The loss was devastating. I recall his last words, “Boys, the bus leaves in fifteen minutes. Be under it!”

Bud Hearn
August 8, 2014




Friday, August 1, 2014

An Average August Evening


It’s August, 2009. Strange how some small events remain relevant.

**********

It’s sunset. I sit at a sidewalk table at Marcello’s Pizza and Subs, a neighborhood establishment best called a ‘joint.’ Twenty-six years qualifies it for that distinction. It’s where Miller Lite drafts go down in rapid succession. No one keeps score.

Marcello, the proprietor and the Emperor of Pizzas, joins me. We discuss the planet’s conditions. Between spurts of genius, we comment on the orange ball descending over the distant oak trees. The sky burns into a flaming sunset while music from The Godfather plays softly.

Marcello,” I say, “things are moving too fast… life is like a roll of toilet tissue—the closer to the end it gets, the faster it goes.”
He comments that the sunset didn’t appear to be in a rush, that every second has its own beauty with no wasted motion.

In the back corner of the deserted parking lot something stirs. It’s Bobby, a burly 30-something brute. He sits in his black Chevy Blazer, hiding within the silent shadows, waiting. He appears to be a viperous reptile. He boots cars for a living.

The sign at the parking lot clearly warns, “No Parking, Cars Will Be Booted or Towed.” Non-believers in the posted word continue to park there, hoping to get lucky. They look around innocently and stroll next door to Hal’s, where they indulge in expensive food and drink. They have no idea how expensive their evening will soon become.

Many return to find a yellow boot, clamped securely to their front tire. The cost to remove? About $75 bucks. Bobby is making a killing from this cottage industry. Life is getting better for him by the minute.

Next door is a yogurt shop. Teenagers come and go, but not before standing at the ATM and extracting some of daddy’s remaining dollars. Often it takes two or three of them pooling their money to have enough to buy that ‘low-fat’ yogurt. Clearly, some don’t restrict their diet to just fat-free yogurt. But who can tell teenagers anything?

A yellow Hummer cruises in as twilight falls. It stops within inches of my table. It intrudes like a bully on the block. I’m about to say something until the driver gets out. Hasty confrontations are always ill-advised. Tonight this advice pays dividends.

He’s about 40, bald, tattooed, wearing an all-black tank top with a black karate belt around his waist. His body-fat content is less than steel. It’s clear that he doesn’t subscribe for sissy food, like yogurt.

People of this sort are better as friends. Come to find out, he’s the guru of Craig’s Xtreme Training Camp. His business card sports a red skull and crossbones motif ~ he looks like the icon.

“How extreme is your training camp?”
I ask. He’s friendly and proceeds to tell me he makes men out of boys, Terminators out of women. He has assembled a field of old truck tires, ropes, chains, sledge hammers and other assorted torture devices and uses them for whipping folks into shape. I don’t inquire what shape they’re in when they graduate. I tell him that my peers are flabby. He drools at the image.

His last name isn’t American. He’s probably from the Czech Republic, Serbia or another of the extreme Eastern Europe bloc countries where torture without constraint is still condoned. I make a friend and plan to use him on the next contentious inquisition with a banker or lawyer.

Marcello soon leaves me with Jacque, a Greek immigrant. Maria, a waitress, keeps our table supplied with abundant sausage ziti. Lavish tips insure this treatment. The sunset has now faded, replaced by a winking red, blue, and yellow neon beer sign. It continues to incite my thirst and I see no reason to cease the support of such a venerable American institution.

At dark a younger crowd begins to assemble. Since age and youth have few mutual interests, I leave. There’s nothing like a quiet, neighborhood pub to reinvigorate the spirits.

**********

As I stroll out, The Eagles are singing, “Take it Easy.” On this average August evening, I promise myself to do just that.


Bud Hearn
August 1, 2014