The (Mostly) True Story of Jack and Horace.

 

Jack Parminter and Horace Vindholm were quite adamant about joining me while I looked under each of the smallish cups for a missing raisin which was to be a treat for our mis-gendered parakeet, Joramu Halsmer. We're talking here about upwards of two thousand cups, some hand-done, the others factory-perfect. They seemed to be evenly spaced, but as the sound grew louder still, I could no longer hide my all-enveloping grief from Jack and Horace. Jack's in the trades. Horace recently completed a Program. Each has a long history with corrupted evidence. I think of them as my honorary foster step-sons. They seem to prefer that I not hold them to a prior agreement. These kinds of things work both ways. If you said that I liked holding their tiny feet to the fire, you wouldn't be half wrong. You could, though, be drastically over-stating the case. The truth is, neither one of their cases is far from complete. And, when you add in the inherent frustration of coping with their disastrous complexions, you can see that this is no day at the beach.

Yes, you're right, we were nowhere near this or any other beach. The size of the place alone could have you seeing double. Now that I think about it, I still can't remember her name. I think it starts with a 'U'. Far be it from me to criticize the way people concentrate their toxic emotions. It's between them and their God,.. or what passes for one in our current debacle. While Josh and Henry leafed through my UCNA yearbook, I stole a glance at the telltale markings which littered a roadside bistro, ... the walls, the floors, the whole shebang. When I got back to my car three hours later, Jack was standing near a tree not far from the US-Canadian border. Horace had all his tiles out, displayed evenly like the 'good soldier' he is. I was at a loss to explain the looks on their faces, OR the look they gave me when I tried to protect them from a former friend who, I knew for a fact, didn't have their best interests at heart. It was all I could do not to give up then and there. I bit my lip and sat down and started driving. Josh didn't like the look of things, so he bailed when we hit our first light at Fleamont. Hank said it looked like I'd seen a ghost. I replied that it made perfect sense, no matter what he thought.

We rode in silence for what seemed like a minute or two. Finally I'd had enough. I raised my voice. Then I blew a load. Then I went in search of a neat explanation. I found it in a digital file of approximately 27 Kilobytes on a thumb drive in the glove department of an abandoned department store. The funny thing was, I worked in this very store when I was first starting out. That would be about 1983, if I'm not mistaken. Even then I was rarely taken into a room off base and asked about some mysterious surcharge. People often tried to get me to talk but, no matter what they said or did, I just wouldn't shut up. Not about that or anything else. It's very important that you believe me. There's a lot riding on this. Including my ability to feed my family. No matter how ungrateful they are, I'll always be there for them, crouching down in one of the other buildings looking for stuff. Just not the kind of 'stuff' you think, that's what. Told you!

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Elemental Considerations.

 

This Time It's For Real!

 

There are reports that the guy we were in business with is set to come back on the 16th. In the years before the accident, his parents had a habit of loading up our wagon in the hopes of making a sanctioned 'sympathy play' to induce our foreign born neighbors into your garden variety fight-flight-or-freeze response. Little did they know that each of the body parts upon which they'd counted for so long was sitting pretty at the DA's office, courtesy of Mordecai Zimmler Associates LLC. It had always been assumed that a bracing jeremiad from a tongue-tied neonatal oncologist would do the trick to get them seated ringside at a highwire free-for-all which only one person in three has any right to feel comfortable about. No one expects this more than a coterie of missing relations on our side of the Lumberton Causeway. That's why they make them that way.

I can no longer hope to sell my share of this byzantine arrangement without getting the go-ahead from my partner before he quits the scene with an expectation of going straight. He's a guy who everybody thinks goes for the improvised dragnet even though people of his size and weight have always had trouble getting their heft to swing at just the right angle of distension. Some of us are convinced that when he wears my vest in public, any suspicions he arouses will bounce back on me for all the wrong reasons. I don't know anyone here in town who doesn't have at least one story of leaning near one of our famous windows, all the while plotting to hide freely in just about any setting you can imagine. The one who gave us the most grief liked the alternative spelling of his first name (with an 'e' in place of the 'a') so much that he could be counted upon to always play the part of the 'wet towel' when the rest of us decided that deciphering peripatetic hand signals would give us a new outlook on cabins in the rain. He stuck to his guns and now we have nothing to show for all our years in a brightly lit Novitiate's wheelhouse. You get the picture. But now I've sold even that. So where am I? You know. Or you would if I didn't have to tell you. That's it.

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Explanations Proffered, Questions Asked.

 

We live with the pains of a bygone era. But, so far, no one has thought to steal the wreck where I keep my knives. I've given them every possible indication, yet they remain perfectly still, never going so far as to crave attention from this or another gender. I've heard that if you feed them garden stories, the more inscrutable ones will assume a mystical posture of gross defiance. So, I keep my distance with the best of them. The calls arrive daily. Even so, I have my vow to consider, then make light of, for the amusement of a coterie of blind magicians who insist on calling this place their 'home turf'. No one says it better than they do. But sometimes when the light hits the shade 'just so', I can just barely see the outline of their favorite stain. This is the one redolent of steamed poplar. You'd know it if you'd ever spent time in internal exile. That's how they keep pharmers and the like under subdominant mastery. You see, it's just a game to them. It's the young people who suffer, though. I have a picture of every last one of them. Take it from me, no one wants to do this kind of work.

The framing device for these types of examinations usually involves either a vehicle, a structure, or maybe even a journey through time's fetid byways. Often one or more persons are mentioned. There may be a name, but an occupational designation will often get the job done just as well. Now, when various diseases or other biological issues make an appearance, more often than not it's to get the reader into a specific mood. No one can say for sure when the desired effect will 'click in'. We leave that up to our predecessors who paved the way long ago. You could say they 'wrote the book', but that might tempt the worst of them to stage a fake re-appearance just as you let your guard down. And the thing about guards is, if you've not already been apprised, when you accidentally-on purpose let one slip only 'this' far through a not-so-well tarnished crevice, it's as if the whole world wants to shout your third false name in unison. Then it's all downhill. Because, the  more they try, the weaker they get. Then you've got a whole passel of dissatisfied customers on your hands.

Now I suppose you might be wondering where you fit in. In what world could see yourself applying for membership? Is it safe to assume that you'd be willing to meet us halfway? Do mandated uniform colloquies give you the creeps? Was there ever a time in your life when someone approached you near a building and performed a subtle, yet vague, hand gesture which seemed to produce a burning sensation at a location remote from your physical specimen? Do discreet conversations about sexual requirements leave you wondering, 'Is that all there is?' Has anyone ever told you that your clothing choices make them nervous? How would you react if I offered you a one-time payment? Do you feel that my numerous food allergies are any of your business? And finally, at what age did you learn to swim? And, if so, why?

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Our Trip South.

 

If our smallest car runs out of coolant on our trip South, I've decided to be the 'big man' and take full responsibility. It never doesn't get old when one's personal characteristics come under official scrutiny. We all live with the knowledge that our days of casting furtive glances cannot continue much longer without a major upgrade. If you try to tell the least among us how and where they might find a new and refreshing pattern, they could go on to surprise those whose doors remain closed to uncomfortable truths. When leafing through uncountable pages of a piebald hodge-podge, it might serve the interests of well ensconced cineastes if some exceptions could be spelled out in excruciating detail. For what reason could anyone feel free to destroy the reputation of an entire generation of indoctrinated potentates? None that I can think of, that's why.

When I returned to my place of birth in the Lower Maritimes, I encountered a man who, for all intents and purposes, could be a virtual stranger to my extended family and its future prospects. When I glared seductively at the back of his head while he pretended to adjust the artificial cord that sometimes extends from his left elbow just prior to an infinitesimal explosion, he caught the vibe and pointed to a spot on the wall which could, he said, constitute a clue left by a former inmate. I had my doubts but was willing to follow him into the outer yard where he proceeded to make a primitive illustration in the dirt with the tip of his left shoe. It was a series of lines, most just slightly off-center, and some boldly curved. He told me that if I or anyone in my family ever thought it wise to cast aspersions on this diagram, it would cause him a deep personal pain. I let him know that this was a very unusual situation and that I would need to consult my psychiatric attorney. As it happens, I'm not the 'first funster' to play this game. This goes back years and so far, no one has any idea how it will end or who will get hurt.

In the following weeks I received a letter from a trusted friend. It told of a secret internal journey he'd made at the behest of his defrocked Pastor. When my Supervisor got hold of a makeshift service belt that I'd left behind the radiator in the infant breakroom, he asked if I'd consider getting a vasectomy. I replied point-blank to his face. I used some very bold language. No one seemed able to get through to me. I wondered if perhaps some mistake had been made. After that I calmed down with a bowl of chili. To be perfectly honest, it's very obvious that my future depends on my developing an ability to paint innocent and bland nature scenes. This will free up time to deal with my love addiction. As if you care... (HA!)

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A Preview of the Ordeal.

 

We will now explore your five-minute ordeal. There will be a three-second adjustment period, meaning, if we read you correctly, that by the second half of the third second, the bodily expression will be maintained, by force if necessary, but we hope it won't come to that. Our wellspring of choice is now dangerously oblique. Even with the equipment that we've stolen, there is simply no guarantee that our grip will put you into position to release a formulaic knowledge cluster into a sample population. Each of them will have had exposure in the recent past. The ones who, by their very appearance will suggest a novel conveyance to our Central Load Magnet, are certain to be very close to your segment if and/or when we decide to act with undue slowness. It irks us that sometimes you refuse all offers of malendric assistance.

When our beam is silenced and your own slat seeks its customary balance point, more than a few of our aspiring penitents will appear on premises to await your decision on the roiling cap impression. Our withdrawal through the gate is always a possibility. But, you should know that if only three of our past-life tokens are separated from the master coating, the now wider gap should offer you a means of egress from an untenable lapse of process. There will be a beverage available should you tire of unyielding fusion. Any who offer a question in place of a specious reply are to be immediately sanctioned by your nearest clerbity person. You will find one such affixed to a frightful numeral in our anteroom. As you make the maneuver, please remember that they are not likely to take kindly to your habits of rotation. Each has been given a flask and instructed to stand in a dimming light for the remainder of the five minutes. Once you notice some residue on your flant, be sure to initiate conflict with your nearest soyboy. If you could only imitate a safely occupied container, we will never be sure that your aspirations match our flightless goals. This can be your time for a Precinct Medallion. It starts now.

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More About Our Upstairs Neighbor.

 

There's a dark-haired man who lives on the third floor of our house. It seems to us that he moved in about two years ago during my wife's surgery, so we weren't playing especially close attention. Some of the folks in my circle have hinted that he might work at the local TV station. That doesn't fit, though, with the lumbering gait that is his wont just before he calls it quits for the night. Don't get me wrong. We've never actually seen him up close. It could be that we never saw him at all, except maybe across a field at a park about six miles from here. Other than that, there's been the odd grainy photo glimpsed through a partially obscured window at our neighbor's time-share in the Lower Valley. The sounds in our heads work quite well to keep us alert and up to date. The only fires that he's been known to set are small-bore affairs which bear all the telltale signs of stress-induced nostalgia.

It seemed to us that the most pragmatic way to approach this situation would be to arrange for a meeting with a guy who knew our upstairs neighbor's ex-wife when she was just starting out in the South Crenshaw section of Los Valdes, Idaho.  When he saw us at his door in the wee hours of a recent Wednesday morning, he reached into the pocket of his bathrobe and pulled out something about the size and shape of a postage stamp. The thing was, though, this was no postage stamp. Not by a long shot. In fact, I'm not even sure it was alive. It could be there was something 'in the air', because, after I came to, my wife announced, quite abruptly I thought, that she wanted a divorce. I advised caution since we didn't really know what—or who!—we were dealing with.

The first person to come down the hill that night showed identification to the effect that his 'name' was Phil Patmin. We took turns running his numbers until we hit 'paydirt'. It turns out that no one ever decided to act like that at all. In fact, all meal plans at the College had been canceled the previous Spring due to the Ebola outbreak.  Now that I've been living in my van for all of two weeks and my girlfriend has finally gotten her drinking license, we plan on driving down South and setting up a Quarterblaine Shop on the campus of BGNL. That should see us through until my Dad finishes his prison term. For maybe the first time ever, it's possible that he'll show us his collection. Rome wasn't built in a day, but you could've fooled me, is all I'm saying, okay?

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Bottom Line: You Win.

 

The smallest piece I could've kept is one that's always been a bit troubling. The rounded edge where the light hits it is where I've noticed that a subtle itching starts, usually in the winter months. If one goes so far as to remove the semi-permeable membrane, a sharp buzzing can be induced in the forehead of one you know well (if you want to play that kind of game). It's suggested, though, that you hold off until you can be sure that all the parts are included with your plan. When a picture comes up, as if out of nowhere, you'll have to use even greater force to ram it in. Don't worry if you see cracks. That's what we call a 'built-in flaw'.

Now that we've captured your struggle on film (or is it video?), you'll want to know what in-kind payment we'll need you to provide. This will be gone over later when you're good and drunk. A hospitality suite will be provided for your visiting associates so they're not apt to question any insect releases. If you notice a subtle swelling, please resolve to learn to sing more gently. You'll find that once your son is through with your car, you will no longer have any memory of the agreement. Your daughter will find work in the Garment Center where she will feel right at home. Her husband will be given a promotional physical therapy opportunity in the basement of the Social Center. Frankly, our lips are dripping with envy.

A new bottom is never out of reach. But if the top is seen to be false, we can insure that any gloved hand will be enough to loosen the barrel from the conderuptive seeds. In so many words, how would people who've seen this before react to a trail through a field? Could it be that one more overage would cause fewer announcements relative to experimental surgical procedures? Some who have journeyed to the Soloman Islands report that a novel carpel bloom could do the trick when other matters are set aside. Try to hone your game on the inside fraction. Greet a person of studied height with a pledge of eternal loyalty. It would help if we could see you in the back for a moment. Please bring your plenary trick into our oxidation chamber. Do not hold our names close to your ribcage. Reports of burning sensations persist. If anyone feels free to laugh out loud, they will be asked to amount to something. Otherwise, a summer camp will be converted to an icetray factory. Our bod is still flimsy. You win.

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Super-Duper 3-in-1 Spectacular! (*)

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*Note to readers (HA!): This post contains three selections, two possibly unrelated chapters

from Version Preta-Volno in the main section separated by a horizontal line, and a third

comprising the 'captions' of the accompanying images, read in sequence, top-to-bottom

from Version Kosimu-Losmita. Yes, dear ones, there WILL be a test, so please read carefully!

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The woman who will accompany our family to an Oral Roberts Jr Revival Crusade at the Tulsa Oklahoma International Fairgrounds on the 27th of July, 2026 has been accused of placing a nondescript smallish  piece of dull gray metal near a municipal parking facility in a neighboring community. When I've tried to console my wife she snaps at me like I'm the 'bad guy' here. I try to explain to her that my hearing aid is quite expensive and I haven't even begun to piece together the sequence of events that seems to have us stymied in more ways than one.

When I received a call from my brother, Dr. Ralph Pesmo, who serves as Adjutant Physician with the United States Emergency Corps in the suburban Chicago area, I was at that very moment engaged in a bitter real estate consolidation/impalement arbitration process with a third party land-trust enfeeblement mismatch league that had been dragging on for what seemed like several hours. So you can see that I wasn't in a particularly stable frame of mind when my brother asked me to lend him the equivalent of sixty-five Scottish farlings to help him settle a gambling debt to an Albanian racquetball champion who'd been diagnosed with terminal Alfa-Baster syndrome: life expectancy fifty one seconds.

When my wife rolled our remaining vehicle into the side alley, which abuts the Hirshorn Dishware Outlet, in an obviously hopeless strategy to cultivate an image of 'casual cool', I just about hit the roof. I slapped the kitchen table with my right hand and said a word that I'd never before uttered and—may God be my witness—hope to never utter again. Once I extinguished the overhead lighting in the den everything fell back to Earth and an eerie calm prevailed in a way that, frankly, wasn't quite 'right'. Since my third youngest son, Milver, is starting middle school in a few weeks, time is of the essence. I've been informed that Connecticut Law Enforcement will be commencing remote sensing operations in our District within the month so, as is readily apparent, there's barely a moment to spare.

If I could give anyone who might read this one piece of advice, it would be done in a way that would induce full and complete cooperation. Then I would escort them into a peripheral escutcheon and roundly praise their decision to resist the urge to raise their voice in situations that would seem to be quite ripe for that sort of response. And I wouldn't think twice about it, just so you know.

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There is an argument which often breaks out when the six of us, by now approaching our middle namelessness with not one ounce of despair, are seen to walk near a transparent display case containing a scale model of an unfamiliar non-earthlike planet. For my part, it's a cardinal rule to never participate in any sort of dispute, unless food is involved. The token, which I've taken to calling 'the brimby', a small copper affair with a long string, is rectangular and fits snugly beneath my huge and odorless blanket. I'm oversold on the notion of flight or fright at all costs, however, my third oldest temporary companion, Josh Ribner, needs to have an operation the next morning, so we have to walk quietly and argue using only soundless abstract symbols, or other things you'd never see underwater if you knew what you were doing.

I've been donating a carefully curtailed sense of exhaustion to an orphan who once lived in a dry streambed in anticipation of a unique separation from his native time zone. The six of us are given to understand that the way he likes it is not to be trusted. Our knees tell the whole story to anyone who cares to look, but still we pull ourselves forward in a jagged line. We've been warned that 'tongues will wag' but our torpulence forges a bond with like-minded appendetars the world over and any undue concern is no longer at issue.

It's when we round the final clump of bastardized rail furniture that an idea hits me like a jumbo package of lozenges. All along I've been making ends meet by selling access to a Phase 3 hideout in a rickety padded velmation cell and all the while a grievous rift has opened like a gaping artificial maw between myself and our retired notation inspector. If I were to place a dull flavored substance inside his tightest set of non-flammable injection vests, I'd soon be free to monitor a partial settlement agreement between the renegade Cayuga tribemembers who congregate in Borough Park on hot Summer evenings and a couple of Irish retards who have skin in the game. I could take all the colors and still be free to assemble a king-size mattress from scratch. This is where people like you could help me by trying to do a better job of fitting in. You might try watching TV once in a while or even walking as if still alive. Also, don't steal my candy anymore, if you don't mind. I'm going to eat your brain.

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If This Doesn't Help, Nothing Will.

 

Those who I know are involved have been waiting to witness the placement of a curated dream on a delicious board. The routine variants puncture our sleep in a weak imitation of landing in a misappropriated cove. The lighting gives way and now we sink and sway to the tin-hearted sounds of a melodious removal. We believe that at least some of the stagehands will stand and fight but continue to nurse doubts about the staying power of those without a controlled fiber. For those in need, a connection to a fabricated ribcage can be concealed for about the cost of a moderately priced cup of coffee per day. Speaking of which, why does it always seem to be the unlikeliest member who is called on to supply our most under appreciated tasking foe with his or her own laminated febrantic cording wreck?

Yes, it's true that we often take turns guessing. But it's very important to understand  that as the occasion of our group funeral approaches, we each, in our own special way, will need the approval of a cribbed applicant before receiving clearances from the Topmost House. In my own way, I endeavour to increase the tolerance of internal drippage for most of the altered turncoats. Now and then one will approach a newly imbued celebrant and hound him or her to provide a rationale for full scale recalibrations of our libidinal co-sports. I will bring an imported list in my flange and hope for the best. She will gently peel away the now useless cells as I try to maintain an impressively statuesque upheaval. If you or anyone hears my voice assuming an increasingly gray songtone, you are to lightly grip your personal solinoid and train a pustulating tractor beam on our ovarian Manterclé. Once you've complicated your oath of obversion with a lemon-scented hamkerwipe, then no one will deny you your final extruded pellet. The only action that we can recommend is to sit near a specified plant, memorize a scant list of yogic breathing patterns and greet some of the Brothers with a roundly fatuous Marnie Carson joke. That should do the trick. (Don't count on it.)

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A Very Special Baby.

 

There's a baby who lives only in my mind. It's common knowledge that he's a smart kid, but also not a little clumsy. When he's dressed in his striped pants and ceremonial longcoat, people go on to remark that he resembles someone in a foreign film. I am asked to inform them that their opinions are of little moment. Characteristically, they'll invite me over for a bite later. If I'm not too full on the upside, I'll see if I can make do with amending my appointment calendar. Often more than a few callers to my show take a stab at disputing a bit of common sense which I've previously shared. They are dismissed with prejudice. But always with a smile, though.

Once the baby has become a larger person—too large even to be carried in one of the contemporary containers—someone suggests that we invest in a liner. Some are sound-proof, others only repel the more viscous species of liquids at our disposal. It will take several of the wise members of our Committee to determine which is best. Do we have any plans to visit a desert in the near future? Will alcohol come into play? Should anyone be interested in the long term effects of mild electric shocks? Anyone can tell you they know, but only the few with skin in the game are worth listening to. That's what some call 'folk wisdom'. Others just settle for snarling innocently before they sit down. I will take it upon myself to give them a tiny stick as a reminder. Next time they might think twice. If that's what it takes, so be it.

Is it just me, or does anyone else find it curious that the baby's name hasn't come up yet? You see, there's a book of names on the shelf opposite to where I'm sitting right now. There are even small scraps of paper inserted in several of the pages. No one thinks I have the courage to look at it a second time. They tell me that it's obvious I'm trying to intimidate them. That couldn't be further. But (and this is a bit BUT), the more they try to insinuate themselves in what should be a strictly private concern of myself, the Committee and our assistants, the more they're risking their inclusion in a gala occasion which is still in the planning stages, on the drawing board and subject to vainly insolent speculation. The box which I've brought is still sitting empty. But there IS a picture taped to the outside. That's the thing that you need to remember. You won't get far without it. Just sayin'.

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