Digressions of a Dilettante

Digressions of a Dilettante
Vignettes of Inanity by Bud Hearn

Thursday, June 28, 2012

Coat Hangers and Other Conundrums


Enigmas rule. They thrive in closets. Coat hangers…a dangerous menace to mankind, a riddle that defies the Law of Probabilities.

Pull one out, they all come. You curse. They hang tough, come at your throat. You dodge the assault. You lose patience, use brute strength. They defy you. You beat back the aggression, win the wrestling match, scratched and scarred. They litter the floor, elongated, misshapen. You kick them into a pile of useless scraps of wire. Today, my friend, Ace Blackbanks, is not so lucky.

He calls, panic in his voice. “Get over here, now. A coat hanger attacked me,” he shouts. “I’m bleeding.” He’s maniacal.

I laugh. “Are you drunk?” I ask. “Man, this is no joke. I’m dying,” he moans. The phone dies. I hustle over. Attacked by a coat hanger? Interesting. It happens.

He staggers to the door. A ghastly sight…a black coat hanger hangs from his eyeball. It swings side to side as he walks. I recoil in horror.

Do something!” he yells. My adrenaline surges into crisis mode. “Talk to me, man, don’t lose consciousness. What happened?” I shout.

I grabbed a shirt. It jumped me. Get it out,” he begs. I grab the hideous hanger. He howls, “No, no, pain.” I let go. “Where’s your wife?” I ask. “She fainted,” he says. “Never could stand blood.” I go over, nudge her with my foot. She snores. Useless. I call 911.

A machine answers, says, “Hold on.” After an eternity a cheery voice answers “You called?” I say it’s urgent, send an ambulance. A man may die. “Yeah, yeah, they all say that,” the voice says.

Look, my friend has a coat hanger hanging from his eyeball. He’s bleeding, needs immediate medical attention.” I’m insistent. “Calm down, sir. You’re number 5 in the queue. How did it happen?”

It’s complicated. Alcohol may be involved. His wife’s passed out,” I say. “Hmmmm. Fishy,” the voice says. I say it’s a riddle, the Law of Probabilities. The voice laughs. “I had one of those days recently.” I ask what happened. “Cell phones don’t float,” the voice says. “Huh?” I say. Meanwhile, Ace doesn’t move. I jiggle his hangar. His eyeball quivers.

OK, about your cell,” I say. “Oh, I was standing at the toilet, you know, doing my business. The cell slipped out of my hand. I watched it fall. Splash. Sunk like the Titanic. I stood there looking. No good option, a conundrum. How’s your friend?”

Looks dead,” I say. “Quick, mouth-to-mouth, beat on his chest,” the voice says. “Are you kidding? He has dentures and bad breath. I have another idea. Hold on, I’ll be back,” I say. I find his wife’s hair drier, shove it down his throat and turn it on high. I slam my foot into his chest. He bolts upright, gasping. Back from the brink. I’m relieved.

I’m back. How long now?” I ask. The voice answers, “Soon. They’re on break. Two ahead of you.” I yell, “He’s in pain. What can I do?”

I’ll Google. Hold on,” the voice says. “OK. Does he drink?” I answer, “No, he guzzles. Why?”

The voice responds, “Take his best whiskey, a funnel and pour half down his throat, the other half in his eye. Wait ten minutes.” I do. He convulses, screams in pain, passes out.

Now, this is the hard part…” The voice explains the medieval procedure. “Can you perform it?” I look at Ace, wonder if there’s a choice. “Are you sure?” I ask. The voice responds, “That’s what Google says.” We wait.

We pass the time discussing life’s conspiracy theories. Why do white shirts attract tomato sauce? Does one always lick their fingers to turn magazine pages? How can paper clips come hooked in a chain? Why do dropped coins always roll under a dresser? Ten minutes pass. Showtime for Ace.

“Ready?” I ask. “Hold on, another call.” Ace gets worse. Code blue now. I pray. His impaled eyeball glitters wildly as I affix a crucifix on his chest. Ah, the conundrums of life that flesh is heir to…

Seconds are critical. Ace smiles, the whisky works. It’s time. With my foot firmly on his forehead, the coat hanger gripped in my hands, the Lord’s name on my lips, I take a deep breath and jerk…

At times life can go sideways. At other times? Well, ask Ace. If life’s conundrums get you down, forget 911…consult Google!

Bud Hearn
June 28, 2012


Thursday, June 21, 2012

Playing With Fire


Some days I’m superstitious. Today’s one of them. I get the feeling that something exhilarating will happen. It does.

I’m sitting in my real estate office on the second floor of the airplane hangar. It’s a metal building with rip-away siding to make it easy on hurricanes. It’s not built to last. What is? Outside summer swelters, temperature over 200, humidity the same. Shimmering heat monkeys dance like swooning spirits on acres of asphalt tarmac. Nothing else moves. Like my business. I crank the AC down to 35.

I’m putting the final touches on an algorithm that disputes the Biblical notion of the ‘Deceitfulness of Riches’ and that will assure vast, easy money from Wall Street. Johnny Cash is singing on Country 98.9, “Love is a burning thing, and it makes a fiery ring.” I twirl a long-neck Bic lighter, contemplating some burning of my own, and wishing I were holding a frosty, long-neck Miller.

It’s a typical day in this business…sit, wait, pray. Sometimes the phone rings, mostly it doesn’t. The news is disgusting…who cares about Putin’s Botox injections? Who’ll strike the spark that combusts another world conflagration? Syria, Greece? Silence is the answer from prayers. So, I turn up Johnny, “I fell into a burning ring of fire, I went down, down, down and the flames went higher.” I twirl the lighter, thinking.

I decide to torch my old files, repositories of the ‘old days’ I keep around for amusement. It’s good to remember the ‘old days,’ when our exploits were savage and reckless, and how the wild-fires of youth burned uncontrollably across our landscape. O, such memories, now only lifeless chronicles, yellowed scraps of paper, embellished stories that attest to the fact we once lived. I look at the jets parked in the hangar and wonder what one spark of the Bic would do to the strong scent of Jet-A fuel. I decide to risk it.

Memories, boxes of crap…all that’s left. Their fangs dig deep. I’m ruthless…slash and burn. No mercy. Fire is the only solution. Ah, a financial statement from 1973. I read it and laugh. What a joke. Was I a comedian? No wonder the SunTrust thugs tossed me into the street. All smoke, no fire…now cold as the ashes of lovers past. Whoosh, up in flames. Johnny sings on, “And it burns, burns, burns, the ring of fire…”

Whatta you know…old letters. What? I put that in print? Jails and cemeteries are crammed full of writers of such smut and heresy. Some pictures surface. What was I thinking? There’s enough incriminating evidence here to get one divorced, murdered or partially dismembered. Whoosh. Reduced to smoke. Johnny’s words echo, “Bound by wild desire, I fell into a ring of fire.”

What’s this? Thousands of business cards, stuffed into a used manila envelope covered with Kilroy-Was-Here doodles. I flip through them. Who are these people? Some have pictures. Mostly women. They disguise reality by pasting college sorority photos on the cards. Facebook is full of frauds.

Later, I stagger in from lunch, bloated on burritos. Humidity clings like a wet wool shroud. My superstition nags. Nothing yet. I collapse on the sofa for a nap.

The downstairs door opens. A female voice, silky and assured, calls my name. “Are you here?” I stumble from the sofa and wring the sweat from my shirt. “Yes, come up.” Her perfume precedes her. Johnny sings, “The taste of love is sweet when hearts like ours meet.”

Eighteen steps separate us. Her spiked heels click, closer, closer. She mocks the paper Mache tiger and Hindu evil eye that keep guard on my Inner Sanctum. My heart flutters. Then she emerges. My heart soars, my jaw drops.

Hi, I’m Sophia. You don’t know me…yet. I came by to offer you an intriguing business opportunity.” Even my checkbook can feel her smile. She has plenty of legs. Her gilded toenails wink at me. She offers her hand. I tremble. My weak voice offers her a chair.

She sits down. Her white linen dress is in stark contrast with her beach-tanned legs. I fiddle with the Bic. “What’s with the lighter?” she asks. I reply, “Oh, deleting memories, just burning some old bridges I should have burned years ago.

How about building some new bridges?” she says. My heart races. “I’m listening. What’s your plan?” She explains. In the back of my mind I hear Tom T. Hall singing, “It’s faster horses, younger women, older whiskey, more money.”

The Bic twirls faster while Johnny sings louder, “I fell for you like a child, Oh, but the fire went wild. I went down, down, down, and the flames went higher.”

Suddenly flames spurt from the Bic. The fuse is lit. The flares erupt.

Bud Hearn
June 21, 2012







Thursday, June 7, 2012

The Pickle Jar Caper and Other Absurdities


It starts out as ‘one of those days.’ The ones when even sunlight augurs ill, your skin crawls and you’re certain The Fates are stacking the deck against you. Your Horoscope warns with words like, “Beware, seek cover, blood, taxes, bankruptcy.” You can feel ‘it’ coming. Not if, but when.

I leave home wary. A black cat crosses the road; a rollerblade skater freaks out. The aftermath is ugly. I scrape her off the street, search for her missing teeth while fumbling with the Band-aids. The stupid strips won’t open. I rip them and curse. They mock me. Time is precious. Aghhh, what idiot packages these, I scream. The woman writhes in pain. I can’t open the bandages. Life hangs in the balance. Somehow she survives.

I walk into my office. Just my luck…the printer’s out of ink. The replacement cartridges are packaged for life. They defy extrication from their clear plastic sarcophagus. I search for opening instructions. In 9-font print I read, “Beware. Good Luck.” Is this a joke? Does this guy package Band-aids too?

I pull, bend, tear and rip at the Gordian enigma. Nothing moves. I search for an entrance. Surely there’s one somewhere. Ah, more small print in the corner. “Try a knife,” it reads. I do. I plunge the dagger into the skin of the steely beast. The plastic cover is like glass. The knife glances, lacerates my hand. Blood spurts. I utter the ‘S’ word. Twice. Somewhere the packaging monster is laughing. I contemplate carving out its heart. Meanwhile, my blood pours from my veins.



One hand is now useless, so I get a bigger knife. I slash open a small crack. I stab again. Oops, mutilation of the other hand. I utter a double-word expletive. Then instantly pray for forgiveness. Blood everywhere. I attack the repugnant package with my teeth and gnaw it like a ravenous dog on a bone. With help from scissors, the package opens. I assess the cost… a quart of blood and two hours of my life.

While having a blood transfusion, the cell rings. It’s the neighborhood security patrol. “Sir, we have bad news for you. It’s your wife. She’s safe, but we have her in custody and under observation for her own protection.”

Huh? What? Did she have a pickle jar?” I ask. The voice says, “Yes, in fact. We apprehended her as she hung from the back bumper of the UPS truck. We wrenched an unopened jar of pickles from her iron grip.” I ask for details. I regret it.

He says, “Witnesses say she was standing on the curb, clutching a jar of pickles, shouting for help to open the jar. Somehow she chased down the UPS truck. The driver dropped her off here at the guard gate. Can you retrieve her?”



I pick her up along with the pickle jar. I inquire, “What were you thinking, chasing the UPS truck down the Drive?” As cool as a pickled Cairo cucumber, she says, “I was starving, made a turkey sandwich but couldn’t open this pickle jar. I had no choice. What are turkey sandwiches without pickles?”

I’m about to warn her of the consequences of such outrageous behavior when she blurts, “Do something!!” A woman’s short, emphatic sentence, punctuated by exclamation points, requires immediate action. With mangled hands I open the pickle jar and then call the Cairo Pickle Plant. I plan to give them a piece of my mind.

They expect my call. A mechanical voice answers. It advises me to listen, as the options have changed. An hour later I choose Option 186. The machine sounds sympathetic, says to wait, that other customers are being assisted. Two hours later I hang up. Some packages can’t be opened by design.

Things get quiet. She’s on the phone embellishing yesterday’s hole-in-one on # 7. I pick up the paper. The headlines are bleak: wars, rumors of war, famines, pestilence, disasters and protests everywhere. Some pollster reports the Presidential race is tight. Says the respective machines have ‘neatly packaged’ each candidate. Can’t wait to see what crawls from those packages in November.

As I ponder the day’s absurdities, the words of my Horoscope hound me: beware, seek cover, blood, taxes, bankruptcy. I can feel ‘it’ coming. Not if, but when…and sooner than later.


Bud Hearn
June 7, 2012