How NOT to Get Caught Off-Guard.

 

The sentiments expressed in the opening letter raised expectations three-fold. I had been administered the standardized tests and came up short. So much so, in fact, that I wasn't sure where—or even if!—I'd be able to put my shirt on, even if a table were to open up before dawn the next day. Once we got through reading said letter in the customary circular formation, people began turning toward the rear wall in search of inanimate emotional support. That's where we used to hide the little trinkets they brought with them from 'the outside' on that day long ago when they insisted on being scooped up, of their own accord, in stately columns, wringing what remained of their hands and paying tribute to the inevitable 'guest host du jour'. We call 'em as we see 'em. But no one ever said it'd be easy, is all I'm trying to say.

So, we rounded the corner and now the angular witlash succumbed to an orderly process whereby I would escort each one into a mottled waiting pen until the nitrogen tanks arrived from our Bangkok affiliate. Inside the tiny furnaces, they were allowed, as if by some kind of musical infirmary code, to freely think of any topic under the Sun and then come to a conclusion sure to raise the ire of the pre-industrial forestry management pinheads on site from Day 1. I sat with my front facing the back of the Hall and silently counted the Blessing Chips I'd been corralled into keeping moist so as not to bring a duty transfer down on my upper segment. When Brenda Seatcover motioned to me from across the way, I realized that I'd forgotten the all-important grinding slot which was to be my ever-present companion in the weeks leading up to our species-specific ingestion prolapse.

I 'just knew' that Brenda needed a good talking-to. So, I arranged to have her charged with third degree burglary so that she'd have an excuse to travel overseas in a matter of seconds. Meanwhile, my wife's parents had been blocked from entering our desert stronghold just in the nick of time. With that in mind, I moved some pieces of finely grained teak service-potties into position just outside Departure Gate 12 at O'Hare International Trolley Wigwam. There, my former 'best friend', Chuck Stewart, had set up a rolling delay pattern to throw folks off balance just enough so we could credibly aver that no one had remained uncounted while we duked it out with a trio of magnetic specimens. The first one was over in a flash. The second one sported a collection of articles from Sports Illustrated affixed to his ozymandinus jumper. The third was the last to go but he insisted on mis-pronouncing my name. Not just once, but over and over and over. With that, we knew that he couldn't be allowed to move forward. His dunking license was removed from his glove box and I made him swear that he'd never been invited in the first place. And this is where we sit now. Is anyone surprised? Or, is that too much to ask? You're the one with all the answers, so please, just GO THE FUCK AHEAD! 

___________________________

The Ulterior Destiny of Missing Items.

 

While I continue to find that all manner of missing items have been donated to a svelte brunette who goes by Jerbine Parsker, I'm still not sure which tunnel I originally met her in. It must have been in the Summer months, either before or after 2011. I say that because in that year I was away on assignment for the National Drift. Prior to that, I engaged in numerous conversations about the practicality of inscribing any old variety of legend on the lower quadrant of a stack. With only one inch to spare I still managed to reach solid ground in under an hour. The light down there was horrible, but, really, it's the smell I'll never forget. I'm reminded of the time I passed a picture to a friend who was on his way to an underhanded affair. Prior to that, no one had thought him capable of independent action. Now he was even walking through casual get-togethers while pretending to ram into unsuspecting park-goers without giving it a second thought. I knew I had to get involved when his name was brought to me as photographed on the interior of a soiled platinum pellet. It was all I could to to avoid tossing my cookies. That's how shocked I learned to become. Their hair even became stiffer with time under a belt. This defies belief in a 'supreme being'. Not including Howard Hughes.

For all I know, people who live in sandstone structures sometimes feel as if the whole world owes them a special debt of gratitude. In my own life, it came at a particularly difficult time. My spouse was just getting used to seeing things appear in just a few seconds flat. For my part, it was a struggle to learn the ropes and maintain a consistent income stream while going out of my way to approach strangers with warnings of things unseen. Unseen, that is, if all you do is stand there with your head buried in your hands to avoid the light on the top side of an invidious comparison. In my own way, I always made a special effort to include the children of prehensile fabricators. They always seemed so innocent in their saddle shoes with persimmon braids. When one would call to me from the shed, I'd go in there to find them performing a scene from My Fair Lady as if no one could tell that the lines they mouthed weren't originally intended to be spoken with such an icy countenance. I would sometimes stoop to give their temperature the 'once over'. If I thought they were ready, I'd escort them to one of our larger fields and have them try their hand at throwing a miniaturized doll collar at one of the staffers who'd been collecting security medallions on our lower half. That would teach them a good way to become involved in notional matters. They'd never know the difference once their home had been painted in modest earth tones.

Would anyone ever express even the mildest surprise if all that had come before became somehow shielded, even without resort to metallic siding? The scope of the thing was, quite frankly, astonishing. I know only one person who insists that they never stood a chance when the pleats were withdrawn. A lubricator who incessantly lives in my shadow has taken to creating giant loops which would draw the attention of a certain tight-lipped constable whose appearance leaves  nothing to the imagination. By the time a remarkable dullness has invaded his clothing choices, you could count on him to try to set up a temporary soda station down by the tracks where our collections are stored for safe-keeping. He would sleep at all hours. I tried to get him interested in mandatory activities. He then accused me of working for 'them'. When I asked, 'Who is 'them'?', he answered 'Who isn't?' and then turned tail and ran into the middle distance where he was recorded asking around about positions in the recording industry writ large. I took that as a cue to take on a bigger load at work. Now when I think about it, I have to admit he had a point. But, I had one too. But it was concealed. In the sole of my left shoe. I couldn't get to it in time. So I had to wake up in the hospital and start enlarging my footprint. Is that an idea that people could live with? Not likely.

______________________________ 

Punsecker's Promise: Are You On Board?

 

Mr Faralu Punsecker has promised to give our people several moments to gather themselves under his tree while waiting to see whether word will come. As they intermittently traded comments to the effect that this seemed a bit unusual, I made my way through to help a woman lift her arms to adjust a seasonal hat. Constructed with oatstraw witten, it provides a corner from which a person is expected to repel inelegant sound. Only the sight of a mauve tusket is sufficient to engage the attentions of the ravaged few who stood in line near a door to our tropical problem. I asked the first one if he would mind sleeping on the other side of a field which has been owned by my family for a week or two. He gently took my hand, licked his lips, withdrew a toothpick from his trousers and insisted that he'd never met me before. I knew this wasn't true since I met his niece at a soccer match in the Old South. He denied ever having a niece and pushed me into a box of standard fare. I no longer felt that I was getting the best of him. It was now certain that my flight would be cancelled. I stroked my forearm in dismay. This was not what I'd hoped for when I set out from Chicago, Kansas in the years before the current decade.

The triumph of our swiftest critter has conferred hope on an already maladjusted swinger's mate named Horace Fremson. He spends his time puttering with friends in a garage he shares with my former Uncle, John Lambit. I laugh when I see him coming through our foyer because, whatever else may be said, this is no forceful interloper that we have on our hands here. Far from it, in fact. What we must figure out is how to deal with, is a definite decline in the granularity of our aversions, to the point where Senior Physicians are asking to be released from long term rentals in a resort area named after a very well known person. You can almost hear them whispering among themselves if the wind is just right. If not, you'll just have to do yourself a favor and imagine it sneaking up on you in your spare time while trying to keep your name out of the papers. The trouble is, most folks would prefer to forget that they ever had a problem in the first place. That's why they can never speak fast enough when you inquire about what they are considering doing in their 'golden years'. It isn't enough to provide flashing lights and blunt objects if you fear an incident. No. You've got to ride this thing all the way out to sea and back if needs be. No one needs to hear that. Especially at this time of year. You'll see.

___________________________ 

Urn-Baking Irks a Spurious Clone: Preliminary Report.

 

We kept arguing about whose turn it was. That would be my sister's boyfriend, his golf partner's stage manager, and her (the stage manager's) weekend house-sitter. As per my 'bitter' nature, I insisted on going last. Every time I made a move in that direction, the house-sitter would get this 'crazy' look in her eyes and start to hum very softly as if there was nothing more to be gained from an insightful dialogue. While I sincerely wanted to take that as a personal affront, I knew that if I could make definitive inroads on their icy resolve, I'd stand a chance to flip the whole situation on its furry little head. That way, if any liability was soon to be assessed, I'd be free and clear to get out of this thing in one piece, or at least what passes for that in the 'frozen zone' which we call, simply, 'home base'.

Now that you've had time to think about it, would you say that I did the right thing or is the preponderance of opinion that I was my usual selfish self? I really want to know and your honest estimation would go a long way toward helping me dispose of a very troublesome partner. His name is Vince Margulies (not his real name) and we've been together for what seems like hours. He has this way of signaling to invisible waitresses while we're shoveling shit in the backyard. For my part, I know that he can't be trusted with the time of day, let alone the defeat of an implacable foe. If I see him pestering his own fingers one more time while we drive to the station, I think I may be due for a major coronary incident involving law enforcement from multiple jurisdictions.

Here's what I'd like to know: why am I always the 'bad guy' here? I mean, it's not as if I haven't got time to make adjustments on the fly when someone looks straight through to the other side as if all that stood between us was a tidy disagreement over price differentials. What will it take to get you to understand that if I leave something behind in a third room, it will occur to absolutely no one that you were somehow involved? In fact, somewhere here on my desk, I have a very reliable pen and ink illustration which testifies to that very fact. If you don't return the info-sheets to my office within the week, I'll have some major explaining to do. Which won't be fun. Or easy. Or even particularly interesting. Don't you think that now would be the right time to 'come clean'? It can't hurt that your name isn't Les Wittinger,.. or is it?

__________________________ 

Once Inside, You're on Your Own!

 

The farther we strayed from the point of entry, the more irritable we became. I adjusted my visor but that seemed to only make things worse. Speaking of 'working', who is it that always plays the part of the 'watchdog'? That'd be your first clue. Some of us had known about each other since before the date was set. Everyone made a good faith effort to remain calm in the face of biting criticism. Now and then, I'd reach into my temporary sack and pull out one of the miniturized models which we'd practiced on to see if hope was still on our side. The second time I did that, my row mate, Jack Claminty, withdrew an unheard of sum from one of his overseas accounts and made like a big shot around some of the older women. I could tell he wasn't getting very far when the face of the one nearest to him resumed its icy cast. By the second series, I could tell that she was lost in a very special little world all her own. Why she ever wanted to assume the challenge is enough to make me want to cry. Fortunately, not all those attaining Masterhood on the Southern Disc would have any trouble saying the same. Even if you throw one in, no one hereabouts is likely to go chasing a smaller version when all he had to drink was a 2 oz. glass of soy milk. You have my symphony, I'm sure...

Points were made and tasks were assigned. Finally we'd each taken a turn dismantling a functional array. Only a discreet, yet muffled, tone from behind the third false partition helped stabilize our respiration. From the eyes forward, when alternate sides took turns marching, shouting, eating, shooting and stabbing, those among us who'd been through this particular mill more times than we'd care to remember, got it into our heads to begin targeting our remarks with ever increasing precision. On the ground, no one would ever guess that we were the ones they'd promise to never stop waiting for. However, when altitude becomes an issue for the common man, the only banner worth raising is one you might find in the distance while you innocently scope the spread. This is not about disease, it's about tried and true protocols. You can't win if you walk around pretending not to be overwhelmed by invisible enemies. Face it: This dog won't bark.

Thelma Harlingkoo and Marie Chendir have made it quite clear that credit will be assigned at a time and place which we've only begun to process. I inspect their paltry shack weekly to ascertain their ranking on this play-net. From the looks of it, a person who once fit their description could be counted upon to lift a regularized object and firmly attach it to a secret molding. As we take the readings, the two of them take turns launching obscure votaries into massively selective hiding caves. They used to live in my town and were known widely for their unguarded pomposity. Anyone who thought this was normal were required to attend a mandatory seminar on passive induction dynamics. In my cabinet there's a generous tube of clarified gel. The person who most deserves its application is believed to be all but finished, not to put too fine a point on it. Does this count? Go ahead.

______________________________ 

A Cute Story About My Dad.

 

We lived on a toll road in the Southern Abascoms near a water machine which rendered some of the more sensitive types speechless by inclination. My Dad specialized in trickery of all sorts and he made the most of meals taken inside one of the smaller inner rooms. I would bring him the vestments but he could only think about opportunities to train new members for dangerous missions. When he got bored, no one within miles could understand where he found the time to spread leakages whereas before only a smoother kind of crime victim could be seen sitting under a sun lamp locking eyes with anyone who dared to speak up. We might have considered having him write a few words on a pressure stamp to allay ungrounded fears, but then where could we retreat to when the current was suddenly cut off mid-stream?

During the weeks in the Summer, especially before 1975, we'd bring some of the animals with us as we traded on the Chicago Mercantile Exchange. Everyone remarked on their behavior and how some of the survivors would get funny feelings if anyone showed signs of feeling downcast. Inasmuch as one of our creameries was experiencing grave repercussions, I took it on myself to set aside a few moments a day to collect whatever I could in the form of iron tailings downwind from the germinary where we'd placed mulched faith. To test the limits of our loyalty, I instructed a local tribune to deposit random names  in roadside integuements, band them with chipper colors, and then, when the last speculator placed desirable firmware in our sidepill rectory, we would initiate a process of living slowly and eating very little. Everyone's hair seemed a bit 'funny' (not the ha-ha kind).

When Sheriff Jake Birnbaum gave us the boot on October 12, 1997, we hitched a ride East with the last docitel. You may have seen this one since the checkered apparati were well covered on local segments. After we lost our sequence and were forced to incite foreign factions to undertake immoderate tactics, not a few remaining stragglers were given to gross exaggerations. Anything from wind speed to finger lengths was open to incessant, deep questioning. All I knew was that answers would never be forthcoming unless we were given our due and restored to an aging power arrangement where no one would ever again be reluctant to express profound misgivings. I live by the code which I inserted on that very day. The scars on my hands will amply testify to that. And if anyone else decides to make a commitment to our cause, they should be given all the room they need to settle in a sparkling glade and ruminate in sanitary remonstrance. Please give us a second...

__________________________ 

Likeability Is Its Own Reward.

 

A likeable sort with mixed feeding habits lives by his wits even as the ban has been declared 'official'. I am hyper-critical of him but struggle with his admiration which only gets worse with time. On the positive side, no one who rarely sees him ever fails to wince as his face assumes its normal laconic posturing. We've had talks about this. When he mentions his agreement with the basic fallacy, I can tell that we're due for a severe emotional blow-up. Which never comes. Or, if it does and I'm out somewhere in the car that we've shared since before our wives had 'the operation', he'll turn to me and ask if I've ever known him to steal convenient items from one of the people I've brought in to help heal a divided community. I characteristically reply that I'm hardly the one to ask. He needs to spend some time in one of the tunnels which ring our property and get some of the folks there to give him pointers on how to ask for help in a way which no one will see coming. Especially if they've gone for a few years without a positive test.

Now that I've removed all the tubes from the lower portion, something which closely resembles, but most definitely is NOT a cufflink will make a nice addition to our Family Plan. It will have closely guarded protrusions which will usually fit the mood if and when a call goes out. I'm fairly certain that I've never been a fan of those whose idea of it borders on a dream implement. Those who require measurement could be out of luck. Even so, a possible blue stain will be a reasonable indication that a  delicious indoctrination is about to get underway. When we hold our hands in a slavish position and move into a posture which invites development, then a Safety Number, not unlike the one you remember, is apt to be held over your head until one of us takes steps to discretely alter our place of residence. It all depends on how likely a person may be to slide through an estate project and enable a widowed ticket agent to start taking prints in a field of little interest. This is where we come in. Not to be outdone, but we got here first.

The first step will come all at once and then fade to a dull russet. The manual lays it out in strict die-cast. Most are expected to claim an exalted status which clearly doesn't foot the bill. When my own limit is within sight, the trail of expiated quilt will help the newcomers get settled in their very own bottle. Yes, it will be empty, but that's half the fun. Long about three point six, you should start to notice that our stability is up for grabs. Usually, if I didn't know you better, I'd say that one of your finer traits is displayed to best effect when you slowly ponder the meaning of an archaic term while wandering through a deserted mall just prior to closing. Everyone seems to think that your hair is just another 'coping mechanism'. I point out to them that you've never been seen underneath a car at our compound. In fact, all they've ever done to earn the respect of our Team is to sit with their hands folded in prayerful contempt without making a move that they'd later regret. No one is sorry if this doesn't play well in the 'lamestream media'. It helps us break the mold on how things are done in a feeding situation. I can't help asking them to expose my family to mysterious substances. I'll give them your number. That should do it.

______________________