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 white 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.” 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 is sleeping,” 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, what about your cell?” I ask. “Oh, I was standing near the toilet. Cell phones are attracted to water. The cell slipped from my hand. I watched it fall in slow motion. 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 wine, 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.

The voice answers, “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 wine 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 first!

Bud Hearn
January 30, 2015

Cuddling…the End of Ennui

It’s a new year. Abandon tedium, replace redundancy. Renew the excitement of life. Get into cuddling, the next new thing.

**********

It’s a dismal, gunmetal gray day on the Georgia coast. No sun. The kind of day to cuddle up with something: a bottle, a book or a blonde. Or Waffle House hash browns.

Ace Blackbanks, an old friend (chronologically speaking) drops by, shambles upstairs. He wants to commiserate on the state of things, mainly his state of apathy. Boredom drips from him like raindrops down the window.

Ace needs an ear. I listen, the hallmark of friendship, but continue trimming my nails, trying to hone my diminishing ability to multi-task.

Some may remember Ace, a highly decorated special ops CIA operative who was singularly responsible for demolishing the Berlin Wall 1989. I wrote an expose on him and was interrogated harshly for divulging his identity. Witness Protection goons mean business.

Me: “Sit down, pal. You look troubled.”

Ace: “I am. No fire in the belly. Life’s dull. Retirement sucks. I’m bored. Life has passed me by. My sunset years are not like the TV ads.”

Me: “Which ones, Cialis, Disney Cruises, Downton Abbey?”

Ace: “Nah. Advertising bunk. Why did I quit working? Excitement surged through me then. Better than an overdose of T shots.”

Me: “Go no further. That’s your problem. You quit life, hopped off the merry-go-round, bought into the faux life of leisure. Too many naps. You lost your soul.”

Ace: “Right. Now I’m irrelevant. Girls call me ‘Sir.’ Hanging around the house is driving me mad.”

Me: “Get yourself a job. Use your brain again. Your brawn left a long time ago, remember?”

Ace: “Job? You kidding? Who’d hire me? I might fail the drug test. Say, what is the half-life of a stout scotch and soda anyway? Besides, they run criminal background checks.”

Me: “You still worried about that incident in college when you exploded a cherry bomb in the toilet?”

Ace: “Mistaken identity, but it keeps popping up. Even the preacher asked me about it recently.”

Me: “Harmless childhood prank. Forget it. Besides, remember the Berlin Wall? Now, that was an explosion.” He laughs.

I toss him an article from the WSJ.

Me: “Read this, Ace. Says cuddling is the next new thing. Open a cuddling studio. You’ll be an overnight sensation, the talk of the island, the envy of your boring golf buddies.”

He reads it. His eyes sparkle. His nerves twitch. His brain wakes from its slumber. Life crawls out of the cave.

Ace: “What will my wife think?”

Me: “Cut her in on the action. You’ll have the only couples cuddling company in the area. You’ll be rich overnight.”

Ace: “Who’ll want to cuddle with two old people?”

Me: “Look, change your names. Calvin and Clarissa. Buy some wigs, some colored tight silk tees, a few gold necklaces and some Ray Bans that cover your face. Dim the lights, dig out your cornball one-liners, like, ‘Honey, your daddy must be a terrorist, ‘cause you’re the bomb.’”

Ace: “Now you’re talking. How much will folks pay to be cuddled?”

Me: “Says $80 to $400 an hour. Look, low overhead, government tax credits for employing some low work-ethic ne’er-do-wells. Plenty around here. Cheap. No Social Security.”

Ace: “I’m feeling empowered. Where do I start?”

Me: “Convert your guest bedroom into a brothel look-alike. Re-wallpaper with some used red and black flocked French castoffs from Las Vegas on e-Bay. Be sure they still reek of stale cigarette smoke. Hang a few velvet Elvis pictures on the wall, install some red lights and pipe in mood music from Perry Como.”

Ace: “What about my clients?”

Me: “Take anybody. Start with your married friends over 50. An under-served market. They haven’t had a good cuddle in years. Rent a high school kid, dress him in a kitty cat costume and stick him out on Frederica Road with your sign, Cuddles Anonymous.”

Ace: “What about widows?

Me: “Forget widows. They’ve had enough male proximity. They’re starved for attention, for sure, but constant jabbering about bridge destroys the cuddling ambience.”

Ace: “Credit cards?”

Me: “No credit. Cash only. No refunds. No IRS intervention. Pure profit.”

He mulls the possibility over. Suddenly, he springs up, throws down his cane and bolts for the door.

Me: “Where you going?”

Ace: “Home to write a business plan. Great idea. Thanks.”

**********

If the art of cuddling has arrived, can The Au Pair Man franchise be far behind?

Life is there for the taking. Grab it. The sun will shine again.


Bud Hearn
January 16, 2015