Yes, No, Maybe

Life’s questions can often cause linguistic conflicts. Choose responses carefully.

**********

It’s a typical morning. They sit around having coffee, reading. She glances up as if heaven is speaking. The look portends trouble for him.

“Honey, will you do me a favor today?”

He hides behind the sports section pretending not to hear. The ploy has worked before; maybe he’ll get lucky today. He says nothing.

The question hangs heavy in the silence.

“Sweetie, did you hear me?”

“Uh, sorry, what did you say?”

His weak voice quivers in a thinly-veiled attempt to feign deafness. Doesn’t work. Never has. Never will. A response is required. He wiggles in the trap.

She repeats the question with emphasis.

His mind spins in wild gyrations for an answer. Three choices appear: Yes, No, Maybe. He contemplates the options while the consequences of the choices crawl slowly by.

It’s a simple question. Yet today, it upsets his plans. He bites his tongue. Which answer will get him off the hook this time?

“Maybe,” he says, a timid knee-jerk reply.

“Maybe? What does that mean?” she asks.

Oops, he’s backed into a corner. How can ‘Maybe’ be explained, he wonders. It’s his go-to secret weapon, the best straddle-the-fence escape word in the language. It’s a favorite of lawyers, politicians and charlatans.

He considers answering with ‘Probably.’ But unlike ‘Maybe,’ the word will not extricate him from this tight spot, nor will it buy breathing room to devise a credible plan of avoidance. Diversionary plans are critical to preserve self-esteem.

From previous experience, he knows that ‘Probably’ is a milquetoast response, a coward’s way out. Might as well go ahead, be a hero and bow to ‘Yes’ and be done with it. Besides, ‘Probably’ concedes that any response will always be in the affirmative ~ not if, but when. No exit here.

“It’s a small favor. Pretty please?” she intones.

Her kindness tightens the noose on his neck. “I’m thinking, I’m thinking,” he says. He feels like a camel trying to crawl through the eye of a needle, a neat trick but tough to pull off.

He drifts along on a cloud of uncertainty and confusion for what seems like an eternity. His thoughts are fugitive. He considers a simple ‘No’ response, just blurt it out, prepare for the worst. He’s conflicted and dances around it. His nerves twist up in knots.

He has good reason to avoid the ‘No’ response. ‘No’ is a bludgeon, a crude instrument of finality. Nobody likes to hear it. The consequences are unpleasant and tend to outweigh the benefits. ‘No’ is a harsh word, it frightens him. It reminds him of a judge’s gavel that pounds the desk and declares, “Lock him up, and throw away the key.”

He’s back to square one now. One option left: ‘Yes.’ It stands quietly in the shadows and waits. He considers saying it, but it won’t leave the tongue. It just dangles there, enjoying the battle. ‘Yes’ is the sound of defeat, the loser’s peace treaty of utter capitulation, of emasculated manhood.

“How about it, honey?” she says.

His dilemma grows. His conscience enters the turmoil. ‘Maybe’ is becoming impotent. The reed he’s leaning on gets weaker with each passing second. The old tricks, the tried and true avoidance schemes, all up in smoke.

‘Maybe’ begins to crumble, letter by letter, and finally collapses in bits and pieces. He stands alone, stark naked, his defense ripped and hanging in shards and tatters. ‘Maybe’ has failed him. He’s tangled in a Gordian knot of indecision.

She intuits his breakdown, and with surgical precision says, “You’re so sweet, I know you’ll do it.”

Her sword of kindness pierces his soul, the final coup de grace. The contest ends. Another ‘Maybe’ bites the dust.

Finally, he mumbles, “Ok, Ok.” His response is about as close to ‘Yes’ as he can get and maintain his masculinity.

But as soon as he says it, a strange sensation overwhelms him. He feels free again. Could ‘Yes’ be the key to unlock the cell that ‘Maybe' put him in? It’s worth considering, he concludes.

**********

You might want to know the question that triggered the conflict. It was a simple request: “Honey, will you wash the dog?”

Remember the admonition, “…how great a matter a little fire kindleth.” Responses…they’re linguistic matches.


Bud Hearn
March 31, 2017

Confessions of a Fried Chicken Addict

Sunday is fried chicken day in the South. Ask anybody.

Last Sunday my wife and I were in church. I was suffering the DT’s from my Lenten vow of no fried chicken.

We’re sitting in row three, front left. It’s not our regular ‘place.’ Row two is. Interlopers, apparently Northern refugees, have evicted us. I’m annoyed. In the Methodist tradition pew positions are sacrosanct---only death opens up a new space. You just don’t sit in someone else’s seat!

Our pews fill from the back forward. It’s easier to sleep or exit early without detection in case of tummy tantrums or visiting preachers. Plus, one can beat the Baptists to the buffet—no easy feat. But I prefer action, so we sit down front.

Sitting up close has perks. Weird facial grimaces, head fakes and tongue wags tend to liven up dull sermons. Such silliness spooks the preacher. He stammers, struggling to locate his spot on the iPad. Snickers are heard. “You’ll get yours,” his eyes say. They cast a vengeful glance.

First Sundays are always Communion Sunday. But they compete with fried chicken day everywhere else. Church crowds thin out early on this day. Contrition and absolution can’t compete with fried chicken. Nothing can. The church tried it once. Big mistake. The youth group cooked. Bad idea. The ER was packed later that day.

The day’s sermon was, “Man Cannot Live by Bread Alone.” For emphasis, our preacher digs deep and discovers the word, “efficacious.” He likes the sound and gesticulates wildly when using it…twelve times in the prologue alone. It portends disaster for me.

Why? “Efficacious” was my grandmother’s favorite word. She used it while cooking Crisco-greased fried chicken in her iron skillet. “Child, fried chicken is efficacious for whatever ails you,” she’d say. So, by simple word association, the preacher sets off an intense burning lust in me for fried chicken.

There’s plenty of space on a Methodist pew. Sitting elbow to elbow is not the Methodist way. We’re not like Presbyterians…we need space. It’s a ‘touch’ thing. Like, who sits on an airplane and enjoys rubbing skin with a total stranger? It’s not what Methodists do. Nasty rumors and lurid gossip might arise. Today, there’s plenty of room on our pew.

My troubles begin when the preacher gets warmed up. He punishes the congregation with lashes of the “efficacious” whip, 49 times at least. Suddenly, from the pit of my stomach, a gurgle emerges. It grows, growls, and rumbles like a ravenous dog longing for a drumstick. It’s impossible to suppress.

I fumble through my jacket for crackers. Crumbs. Gum. Anything. Nothing’s there. I suck my thumb, try to ignore it. Useless. It gets louder. People fidget, become unsettled. They slide sideways, close ranks. Elbows touch, proximity shrinks. My hunger pangs rage. My stomach roars in the final throes of starvation.

Before the pew totally empties, Communion is served. Just in time. We kneel at the altar. I savor a morsel of stale bread. Chase it with a sip of grape juice. I confess everything. My stomach is assuaged. The noise subsides. I contemplate remaining there for a second helping, just in case. But my wife gives me ‘the look.’ We return to our pew. It’s now empty.

Time crawls. I check my watch. Ten minutes to go. The church empties faster. Anxiety assails me as we sing one last song…a dirge. It has ten verses. My stomach screams. I picture a long queue for the Sunday buffet. I fear only the dregs will remain.

Finally, the benediction. With heads bowed, eyes closed, the preacher prays, reminding us that man cannot live by bread alone. “Amen!” I shout. I can smell the chicken cooking.

The church empties before the preacher can again utter that cursed word, “efficacious.” The exits are jammed. Pushing and shoving ensues. Canes and walkers lay strewn in the aisles like an abandoned battlefield. The lame walk, the blind see. Such is the salvation power of fried chicken on Sunday.

We slip out the side door and sprint to the car, all the while praying for forgiveness for what I am about to do. In the future, I’ll be more circumspect with my Lenten vows.

Overall the day ends well. The collection plates overflow, I get my fix of fried chicken and the club cook leaves early. Only a couple of drum sticks remained and no banana pudding.

And so it goes in the South……Sunday is fried chicken day. Get in line!


Bud Hearn
March 24, 2017

A Memory of March

March is mainly a Pisces, unpredictable. Its sliver of the year is either hot or cold, neither winter nor spring. It can’t seem to make up its mind which to be. It happens to be the month of my birthday. I have difficulty in deciding things, too.

As if turning 75 a few days ago isn’t bad enough, I have come down with the flu like the rest of the world. Adding insult to injury, it’s also Lent, which demands the devout to yield up something precious to demonstrate their commitment to repentance. March blew in the perfect trifecta of life’s woes.

The 75 number is not too much of a bother, assuming you can dismiss the social stigma of how others think you should act at this age; or, if you can somehow ignore the reality of aches and pains while wandering through life with a silly smile on your face. You deceive no one.

Now the flu is another matter altogether. You hover helplessly in a nether world of confusion while running the rapids of the River Styx clutching a bottle of Robitussin. You become a pariah to all living creatures. Your own family shuns you, shouting as to a leper, “Unclean, unclean.”

But worst of all is the hasty vow taken on Fat Tuesday, pledging daily repentance from the addiction of chocolate until Easter. It’s a cheap act of contrition, I admit, and probably on par with the promise of flossing your teeth every day. Neither will get much recognition in the after-life.

Today’s howling winds tend to unsettle my somewhat unstable thoughts, and my mind drifts off to its own version of ‘the end times.’ I think of all the things I did in life, and things I wanted to do and never got around to them. C’est la vie.

We tend to forget a lot of what we did do. Old photographs and certain recurring aches remind me of them. I once fell in love with the book, “Bridges of Madison County,” read it three times. I supposed myself to also be an itinerant photographer in similar situations. But like my ideas, it amounted to fiction, and my expensive film camera died along with Kodak.

There was a time when I wanted to be a piano rock star, have my own band, play on TV. But Jerry Lee Lewis beat me to it. Now look at him. I got lucky the winds blew me in another direction. Besides, a guitar is the money instrument.

Most of what I missed could be chalked up to silly dreams and illusions of possibilities, and most of them unrealistic. But there’s not a March that comes and goes that I don’t regret going barefooted.

The thing about March is you never know from one day to the next what the weather will hold. And in the little town of my youth we could hardly wait until the ground got warm enough to pull off our shoes and feel the sand and clay squish between our toes.

One day is special in my memory. It was after school one afternoon. The rain had come and gone. The sun was bright, the air cool. The winds had scattered the brown leaves from water oaks across streets and lawns.

A newly-plowed field lay between town and the Spring Creek. Two of us, both 13, shucked our sneakers and walked across that field in our bare feet. The wet, red clay oozed between our toes like stepping in a tub full of mayhaw jelly.

I admit that no 13-year old thinks philosophically, unless it’s about food, music or the mystery of females. But that day, that simple yet strange experience, was the first time I can recall feeling connected to something solid, something greater than myself. Some memories are inexplicable.

Maybe you don’t have recollections of red clay, of shooting baskets in backyard sandlots and going barefoot around town. Still, everyone has their own special days and times. They tend to have meaning beyond the reality of the moment and carry significance greater than the actual experience.

Today my feet are tender like yours. I can barely walk a few steps over the gravel driveway to grab the newspaper. I keep saying I’m gonna toughen them up, but the stones continue to mock my feeble attempts.

Sometimes just the simple memories of those red-clay days in March are sufficient to survive the day.


Bud Hearn
March 17, 2017

The Luck of the Draw

There are 52 cards in a deck and 52 weeks a year to play them. Possibilities are endless. Outcomes often depend on the luck of the draw.

In cards, like life, there are winners and losers. One can only play the hand they’re dealt. Fate is the dealer; nerves, skill and luck play the hand. But the game’s never over until the last card is played.

Driving along I-95 I pass a man walking. A blue duffle is slung over his shoulder, a wool cap pulled low. His ragged appearance suggests he’s drawn a hard hand to play.

**********

My friend, Pappy, plays poker every Thursday night. He’s had run-ins with losing hands. He usually drops by the next morning to boast or lament. His eyes reveal how the game went.

Today he eases into the leather chair in my office, all smiles. I ask how the game went.

He winks. “Got lucky,” he says.

“How so?” I ask.

“Well, I had this feeling, you know, like when my stars are in alignment.”

“Betting on that star algorithm again? Remember last time?”

He scratches the stubble on his chin. “Yeah, bad karma that night. Luck skipped out on me. But this time was different. Like my golf. I triple-bogie every hole, throw my clubs and swear I’m never playing again. Then one day a hole in one. I keep coming back for more ridicule.”

I laugh. “Well, Pappy, have you ever calculated your win-loss ratio, like having a budget for your habit?”

“Nah, man, nobody does that. It’s not about how much you win or lose; it’s all about betting and bluffing. Money is just the score. Besides, we play friendly poker.”

“Is money involved?”

“Of course,” he answers. “That’s the thrill of it.”

“Well, brother, where money’s concerned, there’s no such thing as a friendly game. Beyond a certain point there’s nothing friendly about money, especially if you’re losing.”

He thinks about it. “Never thought about it that way. I guess ‘friendly’ is a relative term, huh?”

“Poker is like fighting,” I say. “You have to play to learn, and you only learn when the cards are dealt and your money’s on the table. But forget about my philosophy. How’d it go last night?”

Pappy becomes animated, sits on the edge of the chair. “Get the picture. Six of us playing Texas Hold ‘em. We’re betting heavy. Everyone’s counting on luck. Me, I’m down to my last chips. Might be my last game. Good thing we’re not playing strip poker.”

“I’m sitting across from Leet Bohannan. He’s cornered most of the chips and looks smug. Nobody’s happy about that. He keeps grinning like a Baptist preacher who’s holding four aces in the Saturday night game.”

He continues. “Rocky deals ‘em up. I look at my two hole cards. Two deuces. I figure I might as well fold. Deuces never win.”

“The betting begins. Rocky deals three open cards on the table—a five, an ace and a deuce. Suddenly my hand’s starting to look interesting, so I hang in there and, bet and raise.”

“Already counting your money, huh?” I say.

“Yeah, man. That’s when this feeling about my stars kicks in.”

“Napoleon had the same star feeling, Pappy. Know what happened to him?”

He ignores the comment. “Rocky deals the 4th card. A queen. Leet raises. He sits there smiling like he just shook hands with God, but I think he’s bluffing. So I match him and raise. The others fold.”

“Leet raises again. I shove everything I have on the table, including my glass eye, Timex watch, truck keys and my last two Viagra pills, and call. The table gets so quiet you can hear the temperature drop.”

“I figure Leet maybe holds one ace and thinks three will win. Who wouldn’t? Hard to lose with 3 aces. He lights up a cigar. Rocky deals the final Showdown card. Can you believe it, a deuce?”

“I can’t believe it myself. My four lowly deuces trump his three aces. Who’d ever think deuces would win anything?”

“Leet withers, the others laugh. I buy the drinks.”

**********

Life deals us cards every day. Our money’s on the table. Some have more, others less. But everyone has chips. The question is, “Will we bet, bluff or fold?”

I think about the fellow walking along the interstate. How will he play his hand of deuces? I wonder how I’ll play mine. How about you?

Game on!


Bud Hearn
March 2, 2017