One of these days (just wait and see)
I'll sail away to a southern sea.
I'll find an island with a palm-lined coast;
I'll lie on sand as warm as toast.
I'll eat papaya and abalone stew;
I'll top it all off with a mango or two.
I'll drink spring water and coconut wine.
I'll pick big berries right off the vine.
I'll swim in the sea, but I'll never bathe;
I'll race with dolphins from wave to wave.
I'll live in a hut without any doors,
I'll sleep in a shack without any floors.
I'll have some friends (maybe one or two)
On the next isle over, just out of view.
I'll invite 'em all when the weather's fine
To come help drink some coconut wine.
We'll dive for pearls and sunken loot;
We'll sing and dance and holler and hoot.
We'll wear grass clothes or none at all
We'll swing through trees; we'll have a ball.
So if you wake one fine spring morn,
And find me gone, don't weep or mourn.
Don't fret yourself; and don't be sad;
Think instead of the times we've had.
Just smile to yourself and know I'm free,
Sailing somewhere on a southern sea.
Monday, March 31, 2014
Friday, March 28, 2014
The Craft of Napping
Guppies at
work are bored a lot. Boredom leads to drowsiness, and
drowsiness leads to naps. Since management generally
disapproves of sleeping on the job, Guppies must develop
good clandestine napping skills to get the rest they need to
be sharp and alert after work when their real day begins.
Napping is about equal parts art and craft; the art you are
born with, but the craft can be learned. Here, then, are
the basic principles for the craft of napping:
To prevent these sorts of embarrassing disasters, learn to use triangles in your nap postures. The triangle and its relative the pyramid are the strongest, most stable of the geometric shapes; if you ensure that your head and upper body are supported by triangles, you can snooze for hours in rock-solid security. There are many triangular postures--some quite daring and exotic and recommended for experienced nappers only--but the most basic is the old chin-in-the-hands position: lean forward, place your elbows on the desk at about shoulder width, and place your chin on the joined heels of your two hands with the fingers resting comfortably on each cheek. Your face should point to your terminal, as if you are studying something intently on the screen. This is a tried-and-true technique and, if other conditions are right, will give you many hours of peaceful slumber.
Bathrooms are good for naps, but sitting on a commode for long periods tends to make your legs fall asleep. The danger is that the company will call a surprise fire drill and you will have to be carried out of the building. Sleeping in the bathroom also can be hazardous if you tend toward hemorrhoids. I once worked with a man who spent at least four hours of every work day locked in a stall in the bathroom, sound asleep. He complained a lot about hemorrhoids, and we speculated that he used them for a snooze alarm. The theory was that he sat on the commode and slept until his hemorrhoids hit the water; the shock would wake him up so he could return to his desk for a while until the next nap attack struck.
It was nap heaven.
I drifted peacefully in and out of consciousness for several days, delighted and well-rested in my new surroundings, before a curious sound intruded to disturb my naps. I began to notice that every few minutes a short beep sounded. It wasn't loud, but it was like a leaky faucet--I couldn't sleep for thinking about it. At first I was mystified; I thought the illustrators must be doing it, but I soon discovered that it came from Leroy's direction. I turned around quietly (we sat back-to-back) and watched him. He seemed to be working. He was leaning back in his chair, his left hand supporting his chin in a good napping position, but his right hand was on the keyboard and he seemed to be scrolling up through a file looking for something. Suddenly, the scrolling stopped at the top of the file, and the terminal emitted the offending beep. Leroy, as if treated to an electric shock, immediately roused up and took a quick look around to ensure nobody had sneaked up on him. He then placed his finger on the right arrow key and began scrolling back down through the file while he went back to sleep. When it hit the end of the file, it beeped again, rousing Leroy for another quick perimeter check before he reversed the process again. He spent all day scrolling up and down through the same document and getting lots of rest.
But for his most entertaining nap sessions, Harvey used the bobbing-for-apples technique. I can close my eyes and--if I don't fall asleep--I can still see him: He sits hunched over his desk, pencil touching the pad of paper before him. Slowly his head begins to sink. At first it is a slow, gradual lowering, as if he is trying to get closer to what he is writing. But the lower he goes, the more speed he picks up. Finally, after he has attained terminal velocity, lowering his forehead toward the desk at a frightening speed, he suddenly snaps to a stop and pops back up. But he doesn't recover quite as far as his starting position. He starts another descent, and, like a bouncing ball, each bounce is a little lower in amplitude than the one before. Miraculously, he never descends to the point where his head bumps the desk. At the end, when the bounces have died out, he is sitting with his forehead about three inches above the pad, sound asleep. He starts to snore.
Achieve a Stable Posture
This is the first principle of napping on the job. Part of the great attraction to napping is the relaxation response that occurs when all of your muscles let go as you drift peacefully off into the arms of Morpheus. But when this happens, unless you are either lying down or are in a structurally sound position with bones bracing and supporting your body parts, you are likely to experience some sort of collapse. Nothing detracts from a good nap more than falling out of your chair, or dashing your face painfully into the keyboard--both considered extremely poor form, by the way.To prevent these sorts of embarrassing disasters, learn to use triangles in your nap postures. The triangle and its relative the pyramid are the strongest, most stable of the geometric shapes; if you ensure that your head and upper body are supported by triangles, you can snooze for hours in rock-solid security. There are many triangular postures--some quite daring and exotic and recommended for experienced nappers only--but the most basic is the old chin-in-the-hands position: lean forward, place your elbows on the desk at about shoulder width, and place your chin on the joined heels of your two hands with the fingers resting comfortably on each cheek. Your face should point to your terminal, as if you are studying something intently on the screen. This is a tried-and-true technique and, if other conditions are right, will give you many hours of peaceful slumber.
Select the Napping Site Carefully
It is perfectly acceptable to sleep at your desk if you have a modest amount of privacy from bosses or nosey passersby, but if your desk is exposed, you may have to select another nap site.Bathrooms are good for naps, but sitting on a commode for long periods tends to make your legs fall asleep. The danger is that the company will call a surprise fire drill and you will have to be carried out of the building. Sleeping in the bathroom also can be hazardous if you tend toward hemorrhoids. I once worked with a man who spent at least four hours of every work day locked in a stall in the bathroom, sound asleep. He complained a lot about hemorrhoids, and we speculated that he used them for a snooze alarm. The theory was that he sat on the commode and slept until his hemorrhoids hit the water; the shock would wake him up so he could return to his desk for a while until the next nap attack struck.
Have Explanations Handy
Sooner or later, somebody is going to catch you napping. When that happens, it helps--particulary if the catcher is a boss--to have a plausible explanation ready. If all else fails, claim narcolepsy.Great Nappers I Have Known
In my thirty years as a Guppie, I've had the opportunity to observe many nappers and their techniques. Three stand out in my memory for their creativity and style.Leroy
Leroy and I shared a cube in a secure area that was protected by a locked door, so surprise visits from the boss were not a problem. A couple of illustrators worked in the cube next to ours, and they insisted that the overhead lights be kept off because reflections on their CAD screens gave them headaches.It was nap heaven.
I drifted peacefully in and out of consciousness for several days, delighted and well-rested in my new surroundings, before a curious sound intruded to disturb my naps. I began to notice that every few minutes a short beep sounded. It wasn't loud, but it was like a leaky faucet--I couldn't sleep for thinking about it. At first I was mystified; I thought the illustrators must be doing it, but I soon discovered that it came from Leroy's direction. I turned around quietly (we sat back-to-back) and watched him. He seemed to be working. He was leaning back in his chair, his left hand supporting his chin in a good napping position, but his right hand was on the keyboard and he seemed to be scrolling up through a file looking for something. Suddenly, the scrolling stopped at the top of the file, and the terminal emitted the offending beep. Leroy, as if treated to an electric shock, immediately roused up and took a quick look around to ensure nobody had sneaked up on him. He then placed his finger on the right arrow key and began scrolling back down through the file while he went back to sleep. When it hit the end of the file, it beeped again, rousing Leroy for another quick perimeter check before he reversed the process again. He spent all day scrolling up and down through the same document and getting lots of rest.
Harvey
I shared an office with Harvey back in the days before computers, when we wrote everything by hand on yellow legal pads. He was the best napper I've ever seen; he was always on the verge of taking one. He took a morning nap, and an afternoon nap, and during lunch he put his head down on the desk and took a lunch nap. To Harvey, napping was a devine right. He made little effort to conceal it when he felt the urge to doze. I've seen him sit reared back in his office chair, arms hanging straight down on either side almost to the floor, head lolled back so that he faced the ceiling, slack jawed, mouth open, snoring like a dirt bike, and not giving a damn who walked by and saw him. The man was a master.But for his most entertaining nap sessions, Harvey used the bobbing-for-apples technique. I can close my eyes and--if I don't fall asleep--I can still see him: He sits hunched over his desk, pencil touching the pad of paper before him. Slowly his head begins to sink. At first it is a slow, gradual lowering, as if he is trying to get closer to what he is writing. But the lower he goes, the more speed he picks up. Finally, after he has attained terminal velocity, lowering his forehead toward the desk at a frightening speed, he suddenly snaps to a stop and pops back up. But he doesn't recover quite as far as his starting position. He starts another descent, and, like a bouncing ball, each bounce is a little lower in amplitude than the one before. Miraculously, he never descends to the point where his head bumps the desk. At the end, when the bounces have died out, he is sitting with his forehead about three inches above the pad, sound asleep. He starts to snore.
Richard
I shared a cube with Richard right after he retired from the service. His great napping talent was his ability to fall asleep in the middle of a conversation. He loved to talk and tell war stories, so he usually initiated the bullshit sessions. But after he had told his story, and it was your turn to respond with one of your own, he would sit and look you right in the eye and smile and nod as if he were following what you were saying, but his lids would droop and finally close completely. All you could do was stop talking, turn back to your desk and go back to work. After a while, he would wake up and, as if nothing had happened, start telling another war story. I heard later that he was diagnosed with narcolepsy, but it was damned disconcerting to watch him fall asleep while looking you right in the eye.Cowboying
My first
inclination as a lad was to follow the cowboy profession. I
discovered cowboying through Saturday double-feature
matinees. In those pre-television days, it was customary
for parents to deliver their children to the local movie
theater on Saturday with a quarter to cover the price of
admission and refreshments, and a promise to pick them up
three hours hence. It was the high point of the week for
the children and the parents, although, I suspect, for
slightly different reasons. The only ones who failed to
enjoy these weekly rites were the theater employees, who
were usually high-school kids working their first jobs to
earn money for dates or college or a car. They all aged
noticeably by the end of the second feature, and, as a
result, the turnover in these jobs was fairly brisk.
There were two distinct and antithetic schools of cowboy thought in those days, each based on the work of one of the two foremost practitioners of the cowboy art: Roy Rogers and Gene Autry. We kids were about evenly divided between those who maintained that Roy could out-shoot, out-ride, out-fight, and out-sing Gene, and those who swore that the opposite was true. Arguments raged frequently between the two constituencies, and friendships sometimes ended abruptly in fisticuffs.
I was a staunch admirer and defender of Rogers--until, that is, one Saturday when he committed the unforgivable sin: he kissed a girl. Sounds of shock, disgust, embarrassment, and derision filled the theater. The Autry admirers hooted and taunted, and we in the Rogers crowd could only sit and take it. Some, unable to bear the humiliation, got up and left the theater. I hunkered down there in the dark and stayed to the end of the picture, but I vowed on the spot to have nothing more to do with The King of the Cowboys.
For a time I threw my allegiance to the Autry camp, but the kissing incident had so tarnished my concept of cowboy life that it was never the same for me again. If there was the remotest possibility that one would have to kiss girls in the course of cowboy work, I wanted no part of it. Of course this attitude soon began to change, but by then it was too late--the time for cowboying had passed and I was never able to get the excitement back.
I've never forgiven Roy for that.
There were two distinct and antithetic schools of cowboy thought in those days, each based on the work of one of the two foremost practitioners of the cowboy art: Roy Rogers and Gene Autry. We kids were about evenly divided between those who maintained that Roy could out-shoot, out-ride, out-fight, and out-sing Gene, and those who swore that the opposite was true. Arguments raged frequently between the two constituencies, and friendships sometimes ended abruptly in fisticuffs.
I was a staunch admirer and defender of Rogers--until, that is, one Saturday when he committed the unforgivable sin: he kissed a girl. Sounds of shock, disgust, embarrassment, and derision filled the theater. The Autry admirers hooted and taunted, and we in the Rogers crowd could only sit and take it. Some, unable to bear the humiliation, got up and left the theater. I hunkered down there in the dark and stayed to the end of the picture, but I vowed on the spot to have nothing more to do with The King of the Cowboys.
For a time I threw my allegiance to the Autry camp, but the kissing incident had so tarnished my concept of cowboy life that it was never the same for me again. If there was the remotest possibility that one would have to kiss girls in the course of cowboy work, I wanted no part of it. Of course this attitude soon began to change, but by then it was too late--the time for cowboying had passed and I was never able to get the excitement back.
I've never forgiven Roy for that.
Soldiering
When I was in
high school, World War II was still fresh in our minds, the
Korean War had just ended, and the draft was a fact of life
for young males. Boys who had graduated in previous years,
returned to town in spiffy new uniforms with shined shoes
and neat haircuts, and I saw how the girls watched them
shyly, and how the old folks treated them with a respect
that hadn't been there when they were mere damp-eared
students like me. Soldiering seemed an exciting and
rewarding way to earn one's living, so I announced that the
military life was for me, and, shortly after graduating, I
enlisted in the Marine Corps.
The problem with soldiering, I soon discovered, was that the Corps did not view my decision to join in the same light that I did. I had naturally assumed--based on the assurances of the local recruiter (a scurrilous class of scoundrels, I later found out, who are notorious and shameless liars)--that the Corps would be exceedingly glad to see me when I reported for boot camp. Indeed, I expected to be welcomed with smiles and, if not open arms, at least handshakes and slaps on the back. I expected some gratitude on their part because I had consented to become one of them.
But the sergeant who picked me and seven other enlistees up at the airport, didn't seem glad to see us at all. Instead of welcoming us like future heroes, he treated us like vile members of the criminal class. He remarked--in language that, although certainly colorful, is not suitable for repitition here--that the country was in a sad state when such scum as we were allowed into his Marine Corps. He said that he suspected we were communist agents whose only purpose was to screw up his Marine Corps, but that he was on to our plot and he was going to personally see that we did not succeed.
At first we assumed that he was just having a bad day, but when we got aboard the base we discovered that everybody else in the Corps was apparently having a bad day, too. This mass ill humor persisted the next day, and the next, and the next, until it dawned on me and my fellow recruits that this was how it was going to be every day.
I concluded early on in my tour--that first day, in fact--that my decision to enlist had been a bit hasty, but I was unable to prevail upon the Corps to let me reconsider my contract. I served the entire four years, and it has cured me of any hint of the soldiering urge to this day.
The problem with soldiering, I soon discovered, was that the Corps did not view my decision to join in the same light that I did. I had naturally assumed--based on the assurances of the local recruiter (a scurrilous class of scoundrels, I later found out, who are notorious and shameless liars)--that the Corps would be exceedingly glad to see me when I reported for boot camp. Indeed, I expected to be welcomed with smiles and, if not open arms, at least handshakes and slaps on the back. I expected some gratitude on their part because I had consented to become one of them.
But the sergeant who picked me and seven other enlistees up at the airport, didn't seem glad to see us at all. Instead of welcoming us like future heroes, he treated us like vile members of the criminal class. He remarked--in language that, although certainly colorful, is not suitable for repitition here--that the country was in a sad state when such scum as we were allowed into his Marine Corps. He said that he suspected we were communist agents whose only purpose was to screw up his Marine Corps, but that he was on to our plot and he was going to personally see that we did not succeed.
At first we assumed that he was just having a bad day, but when we got aboard the base we discovered that everybody else in the Corps was apparently having a bad day, too. This mass ill humor persisted the next day, and the next, and the next, until it dawned on me and my fellow recruits that this was how it was going to be every day.
I concluded early on in my tour--that first day, in fact--that my decision to enlist had been a bit hasty, but I was unable to prevail upon the Corps to let me reconsider my contract. I served the entire four years, and it has cured me of any hint of the soldiering urge to this day.
Dreams
I know people
who claim they never dream, but I can't imagine a writer who
doesn't. Writers deal in dreams, and, as a consequence, I
suspect that they dream differently than normal people; they
spend so much time inside their own heads that things are
bound to be a bit bizarre in there. The solutions that
writers seek nearly always come from some deeper resource
pool that can often be tapped only after a good (or bad)
night's sleep. When you wake in the morning to find the
plot solution or word association that eluded you the
previous day there awaiting your order, you can bet that
during the night, your dream-self went rummaging back
through the dusty attic of your subconscious to retrieve it.
You may or may not remember the dream, but the night shift
has probably put in a good day's work to have it ready for
you when you woke.
Most of my best dreams occur in the hour or so just before I arise in the morning, when I meander back and forth across the border between sleep and wakefulness. It is a fertile dream time for me, and I find that my mind sometimes likes to play semi-erotic word association games. A few years ago, in this pre-awakening state, I suddenly found the word "virgin" intruding insistently into my dream thoughts. The word floated in and out through the open jalousies of my mind like a white butterfly. Every time I shooed it outside, and tried to resume my journey toward consciousness, the darn thing would sneak back through a side window and dance white and tantalizing there before me, obscuring everything else. Suddenly, as if to neutralize the confounded thing, another word, a brown furry word, sprang in through a window and grabbed the white apparition in mid air; they fell heavily to the floor in front of me and lay there writhing and struggling, as if demanding my attention, insisting that I recognize some association between the two of them. The other word was "infallible". I was puzzled. Why had these two words juxtaposed themselves in my morning reveries? Then, by changing the spelling, I saw the relationship, and almost laughed aloud in my sleep. The relationship went like this: virgin = inphallible.
Another time, I was again making my hazy way up toward the light, when I saw hundreds of plastic breasts, such as department store manikins have, raining down before me. There was nothing gruesome or particularly erotic about the scene, it just kept forcing itself into my thoughts, insisting that I notice it. I struggled with the meaning of this vision for a while, and was getting nowhere with it when the word "bra" flashed into my mind and established the connection that I had seemingly been tasked to find: bra = breast pockets.
I am one of those who, from time to time, records dreams in a journal. I don't get them all, for dreams are vaporous wispy things that vanish quickly in the light, and sometimes they evaporate before I can capture them on paper. I tend to be cranky on those days when a good dream has escaped.
On five occasions, astounding secrets have been revealed to me in dreams--secrets so profound that I knew immediately I had been given the keys to the universe. On each of these occasions it was as if a rainbow appeared in the heavens with the Universal Answer to Everything writ large across it. I felt overwhelming joy, amazement, and relief that the solution to all of life's problems and mysteries was so simple and obvious. The fear that I would not be able to remember the revealed truth in the morning roused me from the dream just long enough to scribble it on a pad beside the bed. I then plunged happily back to sleep, knowing that when I woke I would save the world.
I have kept the five secrets in my journal for years now, and periodically I go back and review them. Something happened between the time I saw and understood everything in the dream, and the time I awoke to find the cryptic messages scrawled on the bedside note pad--the simple and obvious meanings that so excited me in the dreams evaporated in the daylight. I still ponder the messages from time to time, and occasionally I catch glimpses of the shadowy meanings behind them, but I cannot quite make them out, and I cannot figure out how to apply them. The gods giveth and the gods taketh away.
As a service to mankind, here are the five great cosmic secrets of the universe, as revealed to me in dreams. Maybe you can figure them out and save the world--but you'd better hurry. Time is running out.
Most of my best dreams occur in the hour or so just before I arise in the morning, when I meander back and forth across the border between sleep and wakefulness. It is a fertile dream time for me, and I find that my mind sometimes likes to play semi-erotic word association games. A few years ago, in this pre-awakening state, I suddenly found the word "virgin" intruding insistently into my dream thoughts. The word floated in and out through the open jalousies of my mind like a white butterfly. Every time I shooed it outside, and tried to resume my journey toward consciousness, the darn thing would sneak back through a side window and dance white and tantalizing there before me, obscuring everything else. Suddenly, as if to neutralize the confounded thing, another word, a brown furry word, sprang in through a window and grabbed the white apparition in mid air; they fell heavily to the floor in front of me and lay there writhing and struggling, as if demanding my attention, insisting that I recognize some association between the two of them. The other word was "infallible". I was puzzled. Why had these two words juxtaposed themselves in my morning reveries? Then, by changing the spelling, I saw the relationship, and almost laughed aloud in my sleep. The relationship went like this: virgin = inphallible.
Another time, I was again making my hazy way up toward the light, when I saw hundreds of plastic breasts, such as department store manikins have, raining down before me. There was nothing gruesome or particularly erotic about the scene, it just kept forcing itself into my thoughts, insisting that I notice it. I struggled with the meaning of this vision for a while, and was getting nowhere with it when the word "bra" flashed into my mind and established the connection that I had seemingly been tasked to find: bra = breast pockets.
I am one of those who, from time to time, records dreams in a journal. I don't get them all, for dreams are vaporous wispy things that vanish quickly in the light, and sometimes they evaporate before I can capture them on paper. I tend to be cranky on those days when a good dream has escaped.
On five occasions, astounding secrets have been revealed to me in dreams--secrets so profound that I knew immediately I had been given the keys to the universe. On each of these occasions it was as if a rainbow appeared in the heavens with the Universal Answer to Everything writ large across it. I felt overwhelming joy, amazement, and relief that the solution to all of life's problems and mysteries was so simple and obvious. The fear that I would not be able to remember the revealed truth in the morning roused me from the dream just long enough to scribble it on a pad beside the bed. I then plunged happily back to sleep, knowing that when I woke I would save the world.
I have kept the five secrets in my journal for years now, and periodically I go back and review them. Something happened between the time I saw and understood everything in the dream, and the time I awoke to find the cryptic messages scrawled on the bedside note pad--the simple and obvious meanings that so excited me in the dreams evaporated in the daylight. I still ponder the messages from time to time, and occasionally I catch glimpses of the shadowy meanings behind them, but I cannot quite make them out, and I cannot figure out how to apply them. The gods giveth and the gods taketh away.
As a service to mankind, here are the five great cosmic secrets of the universe, as revealed to me in dreams. Maybe you can figure them out and save the world--but you'd better hurry. Time is running out.
- Ones and nudes are palaces.
- The Bedlam Duchy.
- Twenty-seven thousand dozen puck appointments.
- Bits o' bars and bite buckets.
- They live like Seikhs in shacks that leak like sieves.
Fog
Fog always
reminds me of Camp Pendleton. I spent four weeks there in
the winter of '59, in Charlie Company, 2nd Infantry Training
Regiment--ITR for short--learning the basic infantry skills
that all Marines know. Every Marine, regardless of his or
her job, whether it be mess cook, office pinky, wing wiper,
or embassy guard, is trained first to be an infantry
rifleman. The Corps demands that all Marines be ready and
qualified to man the front line in times of crisis. ITR is
every Marine's first stop out of boot camp, and it is where
they first begin calling you "Marine", rather than
boot, or screw, or maggot, or shit coolie, or any of a dozen
other colorful pet names the Corps uses to keep its
initiates properly humiliated and humble.
Now, after nearly four decades, images from that time still appear, but always, it seems, out of the fog.
Once, when I was flanking a firewatch post around the company perimeter in the lonely hours before dawn, a ghostly platoon of recon Marines came double-timing out of the thick fog on their customary morning run. They were the Corp's version of the Army's Green Berets and the Navy's Seals. They trained constantly to drop behind enemy lines or to go ashore on an enemy coast undetected to gather information and do mischief. I stood beside the road and watched in awe as they passed, for we had all heard tales of these clandestine warriors and their exploits. Looking neither right nor left, they padded past me into the mist, chanting their macabre anthem in cadence, "RE-con, RE-con, KILL, KILL, KILL."
The foggy dampness seemed to penetrate my field jacket, and I suppressed a sudden shiver as, for the first time it came home to me that we were not just a bunch of grown boys playing John Wayne fantasy war games. This was deadly serious business we were about.
Another time, on a particularly foggy morning, Staff Sergeant Tucker, our head training NCO, called us out onto the company street for roll-call and morning chow formation. Our mess hall was about a mile down the road from our barracks, and we and all the other training companies in the command had to march to and from chow in formation each morning before the day's training started.
After the roll call was completed, Sergeant Tucker called me to the front of the formation. I was right guide for the second platoon, which meant I was a sort of junior platoon leader. I did a quick mental check of recent events to try and anticipate why I was being singled out. I couldn't think of anything I had done that warranted an ass-chewing, but I had been in the Corps long enough to be worried and wary. I double-timed up to him and snapped to quivering attention, as any good boot should.
Sergeant Tucker was Marine to the core. He was a wiry little mule of a man, a Korean War veteran with a raspy voice and a thick, slow, Tennessee drawl that made everything he said sound extremely important.
"Right guide," he said, "Take charge of the formation and march the company to chow. Have them back here ready to go to work by 0730."
I was barely able to blurt out, "Aye, aye, sir". It was unheard of for a trainee to be put in charge of a company. I had marched smaller formations--work details, fire teams, squads, even the platoon a couple of times--and I knew how to call cadence and give the proper commands as well as any DI, but an entire company! And in the fog to boot! Standing at the customary spot at the center of the formation, I could not see the lead platoon on the left nor the last platoon on the right.
I knew that one moment of indecision, or a command issued in error or at the wrong time, could turn a well-drilled, 250-man company into an aimless, meandering mob in the fog. But, by shuttling forward and back along the formation, and always thinking ahead to the next command and maneuver, I managed to get the company to and from chow in good order.
Somewhere within me there is still pride in that nineteen year old kid, not long out of the Ozark mountains of Missouri, barely four months a Marine, and in charge of a 500-legged creature that disappeared into the fog fore and aft and responded to his commands like a finely tuned machine. The fog-muffled crump, crump, crump of 250 boot heels striking the pavement in unison comes back to me now whenever I see fog, and it is heady stuff.
Now, after nearly four decades, images from that time still appear, but always, it seems, out of the fog.
Once, when I was flanking a firewatch post around the company perimeter in the lonely hours before dawn, a ghostly platoon of recon Marines came double-timing out of the thick fog on their customary morning run. They were the Corp's version of the Army's Green Berets and the Navy's Seals. They trained constantly to drop behind enemy lines or to go ashore on an enemy coast undetected to gather information and do mischief. I stood beside the road and watched in awe as they passed, for we had all heard tales of these clandestine warriors and their exploits. Looking neither right nor left, they padded past me into the mist, chanting their macabre anthem in cadence, "RE-con, RE-con, KILL, KILL, KILL."
The foggy dampness seemed to penetrate my field jacket, and I suppressed a sudden shiver as, for the first time it came home to me that we were not just a bunch of grown boys playing John Wayne fantasy war games. This was deadly serious business we were about.
Another time, on a particularly foggy morning, Staff Sergeant Tucker, our head training NCO, called us out onto the company street for roll-call and morning chow formation. Our mess hall was about a mile down the road from our barracks, and we and all the other training companies in the command had to march to and from chow in formation each morning before the day's training started.
After the roll call was completed, Sergeant Tucker called me to the front of the formation. I was right guide for the second platoon, which meant I was a sort of junior platoon leader. I did a quick mental check of recent events to try and anticipate why I was being singled out. I couldn't think of anything I had done that warranted an ass-chewing, but I had been in the Corps long enough to be worried and wary. I double-timed up to him and snapped to quivering attention, as any good boot should.
Sergeant Tucker was Marine to the core. He was a wiry little mule of a man, a Korean War veteran with a raspy voice and a thick, slow, Tennessee drawl that made everything he said sound extremely important.
"Right guide," he said, "Take charge of the formation and march the company to chow. Have them back here ready to go to work by 0730."
I was barely able to blurt out, "Aye, aye, sir". It was unheard of for a trainee to be put in charge of a company. I had marched smaller formations--work details, fire teams, squads, even the platoon a couple of times--and I knew how to call cadence and give the proper commands as well as any DI, but an entire company! And in the fog to boot! Standing at the customary spot at the center of the formation, I could not see the lead platoon on the left nor the last platoon on the right.
I knew that one moment of indecision, or a command issued in error or at the wrong time, could turn a well-drilled, 250-man company into an aimless, meandering mob in the fog. But, by shuttling forward and back along the formation, and always thinking ahead to the next command and maneuver, I managed to get the company to and from chow in good order.
Somewhere within me there is still pride in that nineteen year old kid, not long out of the Ozark mountains of Missouri, barely four months a Marine, and in charge of a 500-legged creature that disappeared into the fog fore and aft and responded to his commands like a finely tuned machine. The fog-muffled crump, crump, crump of 250 boot heels striking the pavement in unison comes back to me now whenever I see fog, and it is heady stuff.
Thursday, March 27, 2014
The Shooter
A young traveler paused atop a ridge to rest and survey the way that lay before him. Road dust filled his trouser cuffs and caked the sweat stains on his shirt. He shook out a red bandanna and, removing his hat, wiped first his brow and then the sweatband in the hat. He waved the hat before his perspiring face, creating a hot breeze that gave neither pleasure nor relief as he squinted toward the horizon.
The landscape shimmered under the midday sun. Ridges rolled away before him like ocean swells, patterned by irregular blotches of wilted timber and parched pasture. A dust devil pirouetted listlessly along the crest of the next ridge. The road bisected the panorama in a more or less straight line to the horizon, mounting ridge after ridge in a succession of narrowing vertical dashes.
Redonning his hat, he prepared to resume his journey when something--a wink of bright color--caught his attention. It was too far away to identify; all he could see through the hot wavering air was a shape squatting beneath a large oak tree three ridges ahead. When he topped the next ridge, he saw that the object was a small building painted bright red, with yellow and blue designs on the side and front; gaily colored pennants and streamers stirred listlessly in a meager breeze. From atop the second ridge, he saw that the building was a roadside stand of some sort--probably fruits and vegetables, he thought--with a waist- high window across the front, and painted signs above and below the window. He thought he heard a calliope wheezing faintly across the hollow. As he trudged up the last ridge, he saw that it was indeed a business stand, but, contrary to his expectations, the sign across the top of the structure announced in bright yellow, foot-high letters that this was:
"ANNIE'S WORLD FAMOUS SHOOTING GALLERY!"
Other equally bright but smaller signs plastered the building, exhorting non-existent customers to take a chance:
EVERYBODY A WINNER! TEST YOUR SKILL! PRIZES GALORE! FUN FOR THE WHOLE FAMILY! TRY YOUR LUCK! PRIZES! PRIZES! PRIZES! MAKE YOUR DREAMS COME TRUE!
On the counter, a small sign read:
ONLY 10 CENTS A SHOT!!!
Next to the sign a rifle, anchored with a chain, lay pointing at targets in the far end of the building. Machinery whirred and clanked softly as it drove the targets--five rows of flat wooden ducks swimming in alternate opposite directions--through blue- painted plywood waves. At the top of the target pyramid, a golden star flashed briefly in a narrow window at random intervals. Carnival music issued from three loudspeakers mounted in a fan arrangement on top of the facade.
A young woman sat near one end of the counter, chewing gum energetically and manicuring her nails with a long file.
"Hello," the young man said.
"Hi." She barely glanced up from her work. She looked to be a Gypsy; a red scarf held lush black hair back from her face, and silver rings dangled from her earlobes. Long lashes veiled dark eyes as she continued gazing intently down at her hands.
"Uh....How's business?" the young man asked.
"Not bad."
The young man waited, but she did not elaborate. "This is an unlikely place for a shooting gallery," he observed.
"I suppose."
"Do you get many customers?"
"Not many."
"I'm not surprised. Surely you could do better in town."
"I suppose."
"Are you Annie?"
"No. I just work here."
"I see." The young man removed his hat. "How far is it to the next town?"
"Not far. You can be there in an hour."
The young man waved the hat in front of his face. "This shade feels good. Do you mind if I rest here a while before I go on?"
"Nope."
The traveler sat with his back against the oak tree and gazed out across the dusty country. He picked up fallen acorns and tossed them out into the sunbaked road. He shook the dust from his trouser cuffs. He glanced at the young woman several times, but she remained absorbed in her manicure. After a while, he approached the counter again. The young woman was applying a coat of crimson polish carefully to her left little fingernail.
"I hate to be a bother, but could I trouble you for a drink of water?" he asked.
The young woman extended her left hand, dropped her head first to one side and then the other, and inspected the scarlet nails critically. "You'll have to shoot for it," she said, making her gum pop.
"Pardon?"
"You'll have to shoot for it. The boss won't let me give away anything for free."
The young man was puzzled. "You mean...shoot...with the gun?" he asked.
"Yes. If you hit a duck, I can give you something to drink. It's the rules of the house." She blew gently on her nails and waggled her fingers. "It only costs a dime," she said, smiling at him for the first time.
The young man placed a dime on the counter, took up the rifle, sighted, and jerked the trigger. He wasn't sure where he had aimed, but a duck on the bottom row dropped from view. He turned smiling to the young woman, and was surprised to find a tall pitcher of water before him with ice tinkling against the sides.
"There you go," she said, sliding a crystal tumbler toward him.
"Where did that come from?" he asked.
"Isn't that what you wished for?"
"Well...yes." The young man poured and drank a tumbler full of water. It was cool and sweet on his tongue, and his thirst evaporated. He felt remarkably refreshed, as if he had awakened from a restful sleep. He smiled and thanked the young woman.
"How long have you been doing business here?" he asked.
"Not long."
"I notice that you don't seem to have any prizes displayed. Isn't it customary to offer kewpie dolls and teddy bears and such to attract customers?"
"This isn't that kind of shooting gallery."
"It isn't?"
"Nope."
"Well...what kind is it?"
"We grant wishes."
"Wishes?"
"Yes. If you hit a duck, we grant you a wish--for anything tangible. We don't deal in intangibles--except for the grand prize, that is. If you hit the gold star, we give you an intangible prize."
"And what is that?"
"Wisdom."
"I see." The young man laughed. "This is...ah...hard to believe."
"Try it again. You'll see. It only costs a dime."
The young man smiled skeptically, but he laid another coin on the counter.
"What can I wish for?" he asked.
"Anything you want."
"Anything?"
"As long as it's tangible."
"OK, I'm tired of walking. I would like to have a car. In fact, I would like to have a Cadillac." The young man watched to see what effect this would have on the Gypsy.
She began applying polish to her right thumbnail. "Fine," she said.
The young man shouldered the weapon, pulled the trigger, and was again surprised when a duck dropped from sight. He looked at the young woman, and then out at the road.
"Well?" he said, smiling. "Where's my car?"
The young woman grimaced and reached under the counter. She brought up a shiny metal token grasped gingerly between her freshly-painted thumb and forefinger. She slid it across to him.
"When you get to town, give this to the Cadillac dealer," she said. "He'll fix you up."
"Oh ho ho!" laughed the young man. "So that's the scam."
"Scam?"
"Yes. The scam. The flimflam. I'm not the bumpkin you take me for. I've been to the state fair a time or two, you know." The young man said this in a good-humored way. He looked about, smiling and bouncing on his toes, as if he were struggling to keep a belly laugh inside. He felt exceedingly well after the drink.
"Suit yourself," the young woman said as she leaned back over her nails. "Like I said, I only work here."
The young man frowned. He had not meant to offend her. "I will admit, however, that this seems fairly harmless," he said. "You can't fleece anyone very badly at a dime a shot." He waited, but she didn't speak or look up. "In fact, I'd like to shoot some more." He pulled a crumpled bill from his pocket and smoothed it on the counter before passing it across to her. "I'll take ten shots," he said.
She took the bill and said, "OK, name your first wish."
"I'd like to be rich," he laughed. He raised the weapon and fired. A duck fell in the third row.
"Here you go. Present this at the bank when you get to town." She pushed another token toward him. He chuckled and dropped it into his pocket without looking at it.
"Next, I'd like a new wardrobe."
Another shot, another duck fell. The young woman offered another token. "Take this to the men's store," she said.
The young man continued wishing and firing and pocketing the tokens the Gypsy gave him until he had used nine of the ten shots. By then, he had run short of ideas. He had tokens for a boat, an airplane, an estate, as well as some silly things that he named simply because it was all in fun and he didn't believe any of it, anyway. But he thought long and hard about the tenth wish. Finally, he smiled and said, "Love".
"Pardon me?" the young woman asked.
"I wish for love."
"That's intangible. We don't deal in intangibles. The best I can do is to get you the woman of your choice. Whether love happens will be up to the two of you."
"Fair enough."
The young man shot and dropped a duck.
"Give this to any woman that you want, and she's yours," the young woman said, sliding another token to him.
"Suppose I gave it to you," he said.
"It doesn't work for me. Employees and their families are not eligible."
The young man smiled and pocketed the token. He poured himself another tumbler full of the water and drank it.
"Well, I've enjoyed the game," he said, tipping his hat. "But the sun is sinking, and I have business in town. Thanks for the water." He stepped back into the road, and strode away.
Two hours later, the young man had completed his business in the town, and was walking about looking for a suitable hotel for the night, when he happened to pass the Cadillac dealership. The pocketful of tokens jingled as he walked, and he smiled as he thought of the young woman and the shooting gallery. On a whim, he turned into the showroom and walked about admiring the shiny automobiles. He was especially dazzled by a white convertible with red leather seats. A bored salesman who obviously considered the dusty young traveler a poor prospect, approached, took the toothpick from his mouth, and said, "Can I fix you up with that beauty?"
The young man blushed and laughed. "Not unless you'll sell it for this," he said, holding out a token.
The salesman's manner changed in an instant. He shepherded the young man into the sales manager's office, introduced him, and showed the token. To the young man's astonishment, within half an hour he left the dealership driving the white Cadillac. It happened quickly, and he felt sure he was merely dreaming.
"But I might as well enjoy the dream," he reasoned.
At the bank, he shyly pushed a token across the counter to a teller. She looked surprised, excused herself, and returned shortly with the bank president. He took the young man into his private office and personally showed the young man where to sign to open an account that, the banker assured him, already had one million dollars on deposit.
The young man stayed in the town, exchanging the tokens for the wished-for items, and, at the end of the second day, he had redeemed all but one--the love token.
The next day, he had business in the mayor's office. (He was already an important person in town.) During their conversation, the mayor's daughter came in to speak with her father. She was just home, having graduated from an exclusive eastern school the week before. She was a tall blond girl with a face and figure that drew an involuntary sigh from the young man. Her name was Dorothy, and she spoke in soft cultured accents--obviously a young woman of intelligence and breeding.
The young man loved her at once.
"Will you marry me?" he asked, handing her the last token.
"Of Course," she replied, her eyes shining with love and admiration.
The entire town stopped to celebrate their wedding the following week. After the ceremony the mayor made a speech on the courthouse steps and proclaimed that the day officially belonged to the happy couple. The young man said a few words of thanks for the honors and affection heaped upon him and his bride. The people cheered, for they liked the young man, and some even hinted that he was a foreign prince who had decided to settle among them. The couple waved to the crowd, got into the Cadillac, and set off on their honeymoon.
As it happened, they drove back over the same dusty road that the young man had traveled the week before; when he saw the shooting gallery still there beneath the oak tree, he stopped the car, and got out.
The young Gypsy woman still sat on the stool at the end of the counter, engrossed now in a paperback novel.
"Hi," the young man said. "Remember me?"
"Oh, sure," the young woman said. She put down the book and smiled at him, and at Dorothy sitting in the white Cadillac.
"Looks like things have gone your way."
"Yes. I had no idea things like this were possible. I just stopped to thank you, and to apologize for doubting you.
"No problem."
The young man noticed that all of the duck targets were still. The only target moving was the golden star at the top.
"Is something wrong with your machine?" he asked.
"No, the boss just decided to stop offering the tangible prizes. We only offer the one prize--wisdom--now. Care to try your luck?"
"Yes, as a matter of fact. I feel lucky." He laid a dime on the counter. The Gypsy smiled and pointed to the new sign that stood there. It read:
ONLY $10,000 PER SHOT!
The young man looked stunned. "Are you serious?" he asked.
"I'm afraid so. Wisdom is a very valuable commodity. Most people live their entire lives and never get a drop of it. Besides, what's ten thousand dollars compared to all that you have?"
The young man thought for a moment. Suddenly, wisdom seemed very desirable. What good are possessions if you are not wise, he thought.
"OK, I'll try it once," he said. He took out his checkbook, wrote a check, and passed it to the Gypsy. Taking up the rifle, he watched the golden star wink three times in the window while he sighted. The star appeared and disappeared so quickly and at such random intervals that it was impossible to anticipate when it would appear. The young man jerked the trigger when he saw it the fourth time, but the star was gone before the bullet arrived.
"Tough luck," said the young woman.
"Darling, what are you doing?" Dorothy called from the car.
"Be there in a second, dear," the young man said. He turned back to the Gypsy. "I'll take another shot," he said as he scribbled another check.
He timed the shot correctly this time, but his hands shook, and the projectile struck beside the window for another miss.
"Perhaps it would help if you braced against the counter," the Gypsy suggested.
"Yes, you're right." He wrote another check.
Dorothy got out of the car and approached just as he fired and missed again. "What are you doing?" she asked.
"Don't worry, darling. This is just a little unfinished business that I need to take care of before we go." He said this while writing another check. Dorothy watched silently, but with an expression of growing concern, as he repeated the procedure twice more. When he began writing another check, she cried, "Stop!"
"Please wait in the car," said the young man. He was sweating now. Dorothy laid a hand on his arm, but he shrugged away from her. She stepped back a few paces and covered her mouth with a trembling hand. After the young man shot and missed five more times, she began to cry.
"You're wasting our entire fortune," she said. "Please stop."
The young man turned a baleful gaze upon her and she retreated another step. He shot and missed again.
"If you don't stop this minute, I'm going back home," she sobbed. But the young man had gone too far to stop. He wrote another check.
He continued to shoot and write checks for an hour, and it wasn't until he had written the check that cleaned out his bank account, that he noticed that Dorothy had taken the car and driven back to town.
"That's the last of my money," he said to the Gypsy.
"I'm sorry," she said.
The sun was high in the sky by this time, and the young man mopped his brow with a clean linen handkerchief.
"Look," he said. "I've got an airplane. A jet. Brand new. How many shots can I get for it?"
"One," the young woman said.
"But it's worth three million dollars!"
"Sorry. The boss is very strict about that. Only one shot each for tangible assets."
The young man rested his head in his hands for a moment, but in the end he agreed. He missed the shot badly. The same fate soon disposed of his yacht, his estate, and all the other possessions, both valuable and frivolous.
When he had fired the last shot and missed, he laid his head on his crossed arms and remained still for a long time. The Gypsy went back to reading her paperback, until the young man's sobbing disturbed her.
"Look, I'm sorry," she said. "You were so close. Here, have a glass of water on the house." She placed a tall glass of ice water before him. The young man ignored the water and continued to sob. The Gypsy rolled her eyes skyward and sighed loudly.
"OK," she said. "The boss will fire me if she finds out, but I can't stand to see a grown man cry. I'll give you one more shot, on the house. But you must promise never to tell."
The young man raised his head and gazed at her with sad red eyes. He wiped his nose on the sleeve of his silk shirt, and stood up. He took up the rifle slowly, brought it to his shoulder and pointed it at the small window where the golden star winked. He was suddenly very calm.
He pulled the trigger smoothly and the star disintegrated into a thousand golden fragments.
"Great shot!" said the Gypsy. "Congratulations."
The young man stood motionless, looking at the shimmering pile of shards on the floor. "Do I get anything?" he finally said.
"You get wisdom."
"Where is it?"
"You've got it now."
"Are you sure?"
"Positive."
"I don't feel wise."
"Believe me, you are."
"It doesn't seem right not to get a prize. Something . . . tangible."
The young woman sighed again. "OK. If it makes you feel better, you can have this." She reached under the counter and brought up a small teddy bear.
The young man took the bear and stared at it absently for a long time. Finally, he tucked it under his arm. "Am I still wise?" he asked.
"Sure."
The young man turned and stepped out into the sunlight. He stood at the edge of the dusty road and looked back toward the town. The dust from Dorothy's dash in that direction had long since settled. He sighed once, turned, and, without a word or nod to the Gypsy, began trudging along the road in the direction from which he had come days before. The Gypsy watched him mount successive ridges until he disappeared at the horizon. Then she went back to reading the paperback novel.
The landscape shimmered under the midday sun. Ridges rolled away before him like ocean swells, patterned by irregular blotches of wilted timber and parched pasture. A dust devil pirouetted listlessly along the crest of the next ridge. The road bisected the panorama in a more or less straight line to the horizon, mounting ridge after ridge in a succession of narrowing vertical dashes.
Redonning his hat, he prepared to resume his journey when something--a wink of bright color--caught his attention. It was too far away to identify; all he could see through the hot wavering air was a shape squatting beneath a large oak tree three ridges ahead. When he topped the next ridge, he saw that the object was a small building painted bright red, with yellow and blue designs on the side and front; gaily colored pennants and streamers stirred listlessly in a meager breeze. From atop the second ridge, he saw that the building was a roadside stand of some sort--probably fruits and vegetables, he thought--with a waist- high window across the front, and painted signs above and below the window. He thought he heard a calliope wheezing faintly across the hollow. As he trudged up the last ridge, he saw that it was indeed a business stand, but, contrary to his expectations, the sign across the top of the structure announced in bright yellow, foot-high letters that this was:
"ANNIE'S WORLD FAMOUS SHOOTING GALLERY!"
Other equally bright but smaller signs plastered the building, exhorting non-existent customers to take a chance:
EVERYBODY A WINNER! TEST YOUR SKILL! PRIZES GALORE! FUN FOR THE WHOLE FAMILY! TRY YOUR LUCK! PRIZES! PRIZES! PRIZES! MAKE YOUR DREAMS COME TRUE!
On the counter, a small sign read:
ONLY 10 CENTS A SHOT!!!
Next to the sign a rifle, anchored with a chain, lay pointing at targets in the far end of the building. Machinery whirred and clanked softly as it drove the targets--five rows of flat wooden ducks swimming in alternate opposite directions--through blue- painted plywood waves. At the top of the target pyramid, a golden star flashed briefly in a narrow window at random intervals. Carnival music issued from three loudspeakers mounted in a fan arrangement on top of the facade.
A young woman sat near one end of the counter, chewing gum energetically and manicuring her nails with a long file.
"Hello," the young man said.
"Hi." She barely glanced up from her work. She looked to be a Gypsy; a red scarf held lush black hair back from her face, and silver rings dangled from her earlobes. Long lashes veiled dark eyes as she continued gazing intently down at her hands.
"Uh....How's business?" the young man asked.
"Not bad."
The young man waited, but she did not elaborate. "This is an unlikely place for a shooting gallery," he observed.
"I suppose."
"Do you get many customers?"
"Not many."
"I'm not surprised. Surely you could do better in town."
"I suppose."
"Are you Annie?"
"No. I just work here."
"I see." The young man removed his hat. "How far is it to the next town?"
"Not far. You can be there in an hour."
The young man waved the hat in front of his face. "This shade feels good. Do you mind if I rest here a while before I go on?"
"Nope."
The traveler sat with his back against the oak tree and gazed out across the dusty country. He picked up fallen acorns and tossed them out into the sunbaked road. He shook the dust from his trouser cuffs. He glanced at the young woman several times, but she remained absorbed in her manicure. After a while, he approached the counter again. The young woman was applying a coat of crimson polish carefully to her left little fingernail.
"I hate to be a bother, but could I trouble you for a drink of water?" he asked.
The young woman extended her left hand, dropped her head first to one side and then the other, and inspected the scarlet nails critically. "You'll have to shoot for it," she said, making her gum pop.
"Pardon?"
"You'll have to shoot for it. The boss won't let me give away anything for free."
The young man was puzzled. "You mean...shoot...with the gun?" he asked.
"Yes. If you hit a duck, I can give you something to drink. It's the rules of the house." She blew gently on her nails and waggled her fingers. "It only costs a dime," she said, smiling at him for the first time.
The young man placed a dime on the counter, took up the rifle, sighted, and jerked the trigger. He wasn't sure where he had aimed, but a duck on the bottom row dropped from view. He turned smiling to the young woman, and was surprised to find a tall pitcher of water before him with ice tinkling against the sides.
"There you go," she said, sliding a crystal tumbler toward him.
"Where did that come from?" he asked.
"Isn't that what you wished for?"
"Well...yes." The young man poured and drank a tumbler full of water. It was cool and sweet on his tongue, and his thirst evaporated. He felt remarkably refreshed, as if he had awakened from a restful sleep. He smiled and thanked the young woman.
"How long have you been doing business here?" he asked.
"Not long."
"I notice that you don't seem to have any prizes displayed. Isn't it customary to offer kewpie dolls and teddy bears and such to attract customers?"
"This isn't that kind of shooting gallery."
"It isn't?"
"Nope."
"Well...what kind is it?"
"We grant wishes."
"Wishes?"
"Yes. If you hit a duck, we grant you a wish--for anything tangible. We don't deal in intangibles--except for the grand prize, that is. If you hit the gold star, we give you an intangible prize."
"And what is that?"
"Wisdom."
"I see." The young man laughed. "This is...ah...hard to believe."
"Try it again. You'll see. It only costs a dime."
The young man smiled skeptically, but he laid another coin on the counter.
"What can I wish for?" he asked.
"Anything you want."
"Anything?"
"As long as it's tangible."
"OK, I'm tired of walking. I would like to have a car. In fact, I would like to have a Cadillac." The young man watched to see what effect this would have on the Gypsy.
She began applying polish to her right thumbnail. "Fine," she said.
The young man shouldered the weapon, pulled the trigger, and was again surprised when a duck dropped from sight. He looked at the young woman, and then out at the road.
"Well?" he said, smiling. "Where's my car?"
The young woman grimaced and reached under the counter. She brought up a shiny metal token grasped gingerly between her freshly-painted thumb and forefinger. She slid it across to him.
"When you get to town, give this to the Cadillac dealer," she said. "He'll fix you up."
"Oh ho ho!" laughed the young man. "So that's the scam."
"Scam?"
"Yes. The scam. The flimflam. I'm not the bumpkin you take me for. I've been to the state fair a time or two, you know." The young man said this in a good-humored way. He looked about, smiling and bouncing on his toes, as if he were struggling to keep a belly laugh inside. He felt exceedingly well after the drink.
"Suit yourself," the young woman said as she leaned back over her nails. "Like I said, I only work here."
The young man frowned. He had not meant to offend her. "I will admit, however, that this seems fairly harmless," he said. "You can't fleece anyone very badly at a dime a shot." He waited, but she didn't speak or look up. "In fact, I'd like to shoot some more." He pulled a crumpled bill from his pocket and smoothed it on the counter before passing it across to her. "I'll take ten shots," he said.
She took the bill and said, "OK, name your first wish."
"I'd like to be rich," he laughed. He raised the weapon and fired. A duck fell in the third row.
"Here you go. Present this at the bank when you get to town." She pushed another token toward him. He chuckled and dropped it into his pocket without looking at it.
"Next, I'd like a new wardrobe."
Another shot, another duck fell. The young woman offered another token. "Take this to the men's store," she said.
The young man continued wishing and firing and pocketing the tokens the Gypsy gave him until he had used nine of the ten shots. By then, he had run short of ideas. He had tokens for a boat, an airplane, an estate, as well as some silly things that he named simply because it was all in fun and he didn't believe any of it, anyway. But he thought long and hard about the tenth wish. Finally, he smiled and said, "Love".
"Pardon me?" the young woman asked.
"I wish for love."
"That's intangible. We don't deal in intangibles. The best I can do is to get you the woman of your choice. Whether love happens will be up to the two of you."
"Fair enough."
The young man shot and dropped a duck.
"Give this to any woman that you want, and she's yours," the young woman said, sliding another token to him.
"Suppose I gave it to you," he said.
"It doesn't work for me. Employees and their families are not eligible."
The young man smiled and pocketed the token. He poured himself another tumbler full of the water and drank it.
"Well, I've enjoyed the game," he said, tipping his hat. "But the sun is sinking, and I have business in town. Thanks for the water." He stepped back into the road, and strode away.
Two hours later, the young man had completed his business in the town, and was walking about looking for a suitable hotel for the night, when he happened to pass the Cadillac dealership. The pocketful of tokens jingled as he walked, and he smiled as he thought of the young woman and the shooting gallery. On a whim, he turned into the showroom and walked about admiring the shiny automobiles. He was especially dazzled by a white convertible with red leather seats. A bored salesman who obviously considered the dusty young traveler a poor prospect, approached, took the toothpick from his mouth, and said, "Can I fix you up with that beauty?"
The young man blushed and laughed. "Not unless you'll sell it for this," he said, holding out a token.
The salesman's manner changed in an instant. He shepherded the young man into the sales manager's office, introduced him, and showed the token. To the young man's astonishment, within half an hour he left the dealership driving the white Cadillac. It happened quickly, and he felt sure he was merely dreaming.
"But I might as well enjoy the dream," he reasoned.
At the bank, he shyly pushed a token across the counter to a teller. She looked surprised, excused herself, and returned shortly with the bank president. He took the young man into his private office and personally showed the young man where to sign to open an account that, the banker assured him, already had one million dollars on deposit.
The young man stayed in the town, exchanging the tokens for the wished-for items, and, at the end of the second day, he had redeemed all but one--the love token.
The next day, he had business in the mayor's office. (He was already an important person in town.) During their conversation, the mayor's daughter came in to speak with her father. She was just home, having graduated from an exclusive eastern school the week before. She was a tall blond girl with a face and figure that drew an involuntary sigh from the young man. Her name was Dorothy, and she spoke in soft cultured accents--obviously a young woman of intelligence and breeding.
The young man loved her at once.
"Will you marry me?" he asked, handing her the last token.
"Of Course," she replied, her eyes shining with love and admiration.
The entire town stopped to celebrate their wedding the following week. After the ceremony the mayor made a speech on the courthouse steps and proclaimed that the day officially belonged to the happy couple. The young man said a few words of thanks for the honors and affection heaped upon him and his bride. The people cheered, for they liked the young man, and some even hinted that he was a foreign prince who had decided to settle among them. The couple waved to the crowd, got into the Cadillac, and set off on their honeymoon.
As it happened, they drove back over the same dusty road that the young man had traveled the week before; when he saw the shooting gallery still there beneath the oak tree, he stopped the car, and got out.
The young Gypsy woman still sat on the stool at the end of the counter, engrossed now in a paperback novel.
"Hi," the young man said. "Remember me?"
"Oh, sure," the young woman said. She put down the book and smiled at him, and at Dorothy sitting in the white Cadillac.
"Looks like things have gone your way."
"Yes. I had no idea things like this were possible. I just stopped to thank you, and to apologize for doubting you.
"No problem."
The young man noticed that all of the duck targets were still. The only target moving was the golden star at the top.
"Is something wrong with your machine?" he asked.
"No, the boss just decided to stop offering the tangible prizes. We only offer the one prize--wisdom--now. Care to try your luck?"
"Yes, as a matter of fact. I feel lucky." He laid a dime on the counter. The Gypsy smiled and pointed to the new sign that stood there. It read:
ONLY $10,000 PER SHOT!
The young man looked stunned. "Are you serious?" he asked.
"I'm afraid so. Wisdom is a very valuable commodity. Most people live their entire lives and never get a drop of it. Besides, what's ten thousand dollars compared to all that you have?"
The young man thought for a moment. Suddenly, wisdom seemed very desirable. What good are possessions if you are not wise, he thought.
"OK, I'll try it once," he said. He took out his checkbook, wrote a check, and passed it to the Gypsy. Taking up the rifle, he watched the golden star wink three times in the window while he sighted. The star appeared and disappeared so quickly and at such random intervals that it was impossible to anticipate when it would appear. The young man jerked the trigger when he saw it the fourth time, but the star was gone before the bullet arrived.
"Tough luck," said the young woman.
"Darling, what are you doing?" Dorothy called from the car.
"Be there in a second, dear," the young man said. He turned back to the Gypsy. "I'll take another shot," he said as he scribbled another check.
He timed the shot correctly this time, but his hands shook, and the projectile struck beside the window for another miss.
"Perhaps it would help if you braced against the counter," the Gypsy suggested.
"Yes, you're right." He wrote another check.
Dorothy got out of the car and approached just as he fired and missed again. "What are you doing?" she asked.
"Don't worry, darling. This is just a little unfinished business that I need to take care of before we go." He said this while writing another check. Dorothy watched silently, but with an expression of growing concern, as he repeated the procedure twice more. When he began writing another check, she cried, "Stop!"
"Please wait in the car," said the young man. He was sweating now. Dorothy laid a hand on his arm, but he shrugged away from her. She stepped back a few paces and covered her mouth with a trembling hand. After the young man shot and missed five more times, she began to cry.
"You're wasting our entire fortune," she said. "Please stop."
The young man turned a baleful gaze upon her and she retreated another step. He shot and missed again.
"If you don't stop this minute, I'm going back home," she sobbed. But the young man had gone too far to stop. He wrote another check.
He continued to shoot and write checks for an hour, and it wasn't until he had written the check that cleaned out his bank account, that he noticed that Dorothy had taken the car and driven back to town.
"That's the last of my money," he said to the Gypsy.
"I'm sorry," she said.
The sun was high in the sky by this time, and the young man mopped his brow with a clean linen handkerchief.
"Look," he said. "I've got an airplane. A jet. Brand new. How many shots can I get for it?"
"One," the young woman said.
"But it's worth three million dollars!"
"Sorry. The boss is very strict about that. Only one shot each for tangible assets."
The young man rested his head in his hands for a moment, but in the end he agreed. He missed the shot badly. The same fate soon disposed of his yacht, his estate, and all the other possessions, both valuable and frivolous.
When he had fired the last shot and missed, he laid his head on his crossed arms and remained still for a long time. The Gypsy went back to reading her paperback, until the young man's sobbing disturbed her.
"Look, I'm sorry," she said. "You were so close. Here, have a glass of water on the house." She placed a tall glass of ice water before him. The young man ignored the water and continued to sob. The Gypsy rolled her eyes skyward and sighed loudly.
"OK," she said. "The boss will fire me if she finds out, but I can't stand to see a grown man cry. I'll give you one more shot, on the house. But you must promise never to tell."
The young man raised his head and gazed at her with sad red eyes. He wiped his nose on the sleeve of his silk shirt, and stood up. He took up the rifle slowly, brought it to his shoulder and pointed it at the small window where the golden star winked. He was suddenly very calm.
He pulled the trigger smoothly and the star disintegrated into a thousand golden fragments.
"Great shot!" said the Gypsy. "Congratulations."
The young man stood motionless, looking at the shimmering pile of shards on the floor. "Do I get anything?" he finally said.
"You get wisdom."
"Where is it?"
"You've got it now."
"Are you sure?"
"Positive."
"I don't feel wise."
"Believe me, you are."
"It doesn't seem right not to get a prize. Something . . . tangible."
The young woman sighed again. "OK. If it makes you feel better, you can have this." She reached under the counter and brought up a small teddy bear.
The young man took the bear and stared at it absently for a long time. Finally, he tucked it under his arm. "Am I still wise?" he asked.
"Sure."
The young man turned and stepped out into the sunlight. He stood at the edge of the dusty road and looked back toward the town. The dust from Dorothy's dash in that direction had long since settled. He sighed once, turned, and, without a word or nod to the Gypsy, began trudging along the road in the direction from which he had come days before. The Gypsy watched him mount successive ridges until he disappeared at the horizon. Then she went back to reading the paperback novel.
The Great October Possum Massacre
The Great October Possum Massacre
This story is based loosely on a possum hunt Dad organized shortly after we moved to the farm down on James River. I was thirteen, and it was my first (and only) possum hunt. So far one has been enough.
One chilly autumn evening when I was ten and Teddy was eight, Dad announced at dinner that we were going hunting.
"Oh, boy!" said Teddy.
"Great!" said I.
"Henry, are you sure?" Mother said.
"Of course I'm sure," Dad said defensively. He always bristled when Mother questioned one of his Great Ideas. "Hunting is important for boys. It teaches them to read and understand nature's subtle signs, to recognize trees and animals and rocks and...and...rocks."
"Oh, boy!" said Teddy.
"Gee," said I.
Mother sighed.
"Hunting is a basic human instinct," Dad continued, trying hard to sell the Great Idea. "Our earliest ancestors were hunters..."
"But Dear," Mother interrupted, "our ancestors had to hunt. They didn't have supermarkets."
Dad grimaced and shook his head. "Women just don't understand," he muttered to Teddy and me.
"And besides," Mother said, "what do you know about hunting?"
"Aha! You forget that I grew up in the country. I spent many pleasant hours as a lad, tramping the woods and meadows."
"That was a long time ago."
"Nonsense. Hunting comes natural. Its in every man's blood."
"But Dear..."
"Now, Margaret, my mind is made up. It's time these boys learned something about life outside the suburbs. It'll do them good to get out in the open, breathe fresh air, test their wits..."
"What are we going to hunt?" I asked. I imagined myself stealing silently through the forest, stalking a bear, or a mountain lion, or, at the very least, a deer.
"Possum," Dad said.
Mother left the table holding a napkin to her mouth and making sputtering sounds.
"Possum?" Teddy said. "What's possum?"
"They're like big rats," I said.
"They are not!" Dad said. "Possums are wild beasts. They live in the woods and they're very...stealthy. They only come out at night."
I knew about possums. A classmate of mine brought one to school in a box once. She had caught it with her bare hands in her back yard. The idea of purposely stalking one of these lethargic beasts sounded about as thrilling to me as searching under the sofa for a pet hamster. But Dad was adamant. He launched into another enthusiastic sales pitch.
"What you do," he said, "is get a lantern, a dog or two, and a gun. Then you go out at night in the fall of the year when persimmons get ripe, and..."
"What's persimmons?" Teddy asked.
"They're like plums," Dad said. "Possums love persimmons more than almost anything. Why, I've seen times when every persimmon tree in the country had a possum in it. Some had two."
"Gosh," Teddy said.
"Anyhow, you go out at night, and when you find a persimmon tree with a possum in it, the dogs bark, somebody holds the lantern to make the possum's eyes shine, and you shoot the possum out of the tree." He paused and looked expectantly at Teddy and me.
"Why?" I asked.
"What do you mean, 'why'?"
"Why do you shoot the possum?"
"Because, that's what you're hunting."
"But...what good is a dead possum?"
Dad narrowed one eye and looked dangerously at me. "Hunting is a sport," he said. "You shoot the possum for the by-god sport, that's why."
"Oh," I said.
Dad's plan called for us to leave Saturday and drive to Aunt Lena's farm down in the southern part of the state. "That's good possum country," he said. "We can be there in time to hunt most of Saturday night. Your mother can visit with Aunt Lena while we hunt. Then, we'll drive back home Sunday."
So, for the rest of the week, Dad, Teddy, and I met in the garage each evening after dinner to lay plans and collect provisions for our adventure. Dad believed in thorough preparation. He made a comprehensive list of everything that we might need under any imaginable circumstance. He spread a tarpaulin on the garage floor and checked each item off a list as we placed it on the tarp. We had, among other things, jack knives, hunting knives, ropes, a kerosene lantern, a compass, a snake-bite kit, canteens, a hatchet, matches dipped in wax for water proofing, back packs, the old single-shot .22 rifle that Dad kept locked in the closet, flashlights, raincoats, a change of socks, long underwear, a first aid kit, and chocolate bars for quick energy. By Saturday, with a few Sherpas, we could have launched a respectable assault on Everest. We left most of the stuff behind because there wouldn't have been room in the car for us if we had packed it all, but it was fun making plans and collecting it.
Saturday dawned cold and frosty, and by mid-morning we were loaded and ready to go--except for the dogs. We brought them out last. I suspected they were the weak link in the whole plan. Button, the family dog, was a middle-aged dachshund fond of long dreamful naps in the sun by the patio door, while Teddy's dog, King, was a nasty-tempered miniature poodle. King's favorite activity was running away from home. If he got out of the house or yard, he ran, barking and yapping joyously, in whichever direction he happened to be pointed at the time, and he continued until caught. Twice that summer the whole neighborhood had turned out to corner and catch him. Dad said King was insane, but I suspected he got that way from watching Teddy play football. In our neighborhood games of touch, we had learned never to give the ball to Teddy, because once in possession of it, he, too, took off in any convenient direction, giggling and shouting, ignoring sidelines, goal lines, and the rules of the game. Teddy was the only thing, animate or inanimate, that King didn't growl at and try to bite.
We had to keep the dogs separate in the car because they hated each other. At home, they maintained a fragile truce based upon territorial imperatives. Each dog claimed exclusive rights to certain areas of the house, and as long as boundaries were mutually recognized and respected, and as long as they stayed at least six feet apart, they ignored each other and coexisted in relative peace. Any breach of these rules, however, resulted in a snarling, barking, biting, melee that could be stopped only by a few swats with the broom that Mother kept behind the kitchen door.
"Don't worry," Dad said. "Hunting instincts will take over once they get out in the woods; they'll forget their feud."
We arrived at Aunt Lena's farm in the late afternoon in time to unpack, visit a while, and have a delicious supper composed of foods from Aunt Lena's harvest. Aunt Lena was Dad's older sister, and our favorite aunt. After her husband died in the war, she stayed on the farm, tending a herd of cattle, a flock of chickens, assorted dogs and cats, and a large garden. She was a big, happy, loud-talking woman who prided herself on her ability to outwork, outthink, outfarm, and outcuss any man in the country, while still keeping a clean house. She also made the best sugar cookies imaginable.
After supper, Dad, Teddy, and I stepped out on the back porch to check the weather. Stars were snapping on one by one in the incredibly clear night sky. With the sun gone and no wind or clouds to moderate the cooling, the temperature was already in the upper twenties, heading for a hard freeze by morning. "Ideal possum hunting weather," Dad said.
"Ideal pneumonia-catching weather," said Mother. She insisted that we all don multiple layers of everything, especially Teddy, who was prone to catch colds. He stood and watched while Dad and I selected the gear we were going to take, because he couldn't bend over in all the clothes. Mother had wrapped a thick wool scarf around his head so that only his eyes showed, and everything he said sounded muffled, as if it came through a wall from the next room.
When we were almost ready, Mother brought each of us another sweater. "Just to be on the safe side," she said. Teddy mumbled something through his scarf and I could see sweat beads standing between his eyes.
"Now, Henry, you be careful," Aunt Lena said as we prepared to begin our adventure. "Don't start acting afool and get these boys hurt. I remember how you fell out of a tree when you were a boy and broke your leg on one of these silly skunk hunts of yours."
"Possum," Dad said. "We're hunting possum.
"Whatever. It's all foolishness, if you ask me. And stay out of that pasture across the creek," Aunt Lena added. "My cows are in there for the night, and there's a young bull with them that might fight."
"Come on, men," Dad growled.
Outside, a full moon peered over the eastern horizon, bathing the landscape in crisp silver light that left inky black holes for shadows. The dry frozen grass crunched underfoot as we crossed the yard.
We turned the dogs loose when we got out behind the barn, and they ignored each other, just as Dad had said they would. King trotted out in front like a true hunting dog, while poor short-legged Button waddled along behind and did his best to keep up.
We hadn't gone far before Teddy stepped in a cow pie. He stood on one foot saying, "Ugh," and "Yuck," while Dad took the shoe off and wiped it on the grass, but it was still a mess when he put it back on. Teddy insisted that we light the lantern after that. He said he didn't want to step in any more cow pies and he especially didn't want to step on any snakes.
"It's too cold for snakes," Dad said.
"I realize that," said Teddy. "But I'd feel much better with the lantern on."
So Dad lit the lantern and let Teddy carry it. For the next three or four hours, we hiked through the fields and woods; we must have looked at a hundred persimmon trees, and it was fun being out in the clean night air even though we didn't find any possums.
We did see one skunk.
Actually, the dogs saw it first and thereafter we had to throw rocks at them occasionally so they wouldn't come too close. Their enthusiasm for the hunting business seemed to cool noticeably as a result of all this.
It was around midnight when Teddy finally said, "I'm tired."
I was delighted that he brought it up because I had lost interest in the whole thing by then, too.
Dad, however, was not easily discouraged. "I know where there is one more giant persimmon tree," he said, in his best sales-pitch voice. "I'll guarantee that if there is only one possum left in the world, he is in that tree right now."
I sighed and Teddy groaned, but Dad didn't take the hint. We straggled along behind, and he led us through a field down to the creek, which we crossed on a big tree trunk that had fallen across like a bridge.
"Dad," I said, when we reached the other side, "Isn't this where Aunt Lena said the bull was?"
"Your Aunt Lena tends to exaggerate things. Those cows are all the way down at the other end of the pasture." I could hear the cowbell off where he pointed, and it was true that it sounded a long way off. There was a hill between us and the cows, too, so they couldn't see us.
"Besides," Dad said, holding up a wetted finger, "we're down wind from them." I started to point out that there was no wind, but I knew it wouldn't make any difference to Dad. "They'll never know we're here," he said. "Even if they do discover us, we have the dogs and they can handle any old baby bull."
The tree we were headed for stood by itself in the middle of the field. When we had covered about three-quarters of the distance between the creek and the tree, Teddy suddenly stopped and said, "What's that?"
"What's what?," Dad said.
I stopped and listened. Teddy was right. It wasn't a sound exactly. It was more as if the ground was shaking--like an earthquake.
"Dad," I said, "I think something is coming."
Dad listened for a second. He looked at us and he looked at the creek and he looked at the tree. We were closer to the tree.
"Uh...men, lets just sort of trot on over to that tree." His voice sounded calm, but he looked nervously over his shoulder while he spoke.
Just then the top of the hill, over toward the sound of the cowbell, heaved and bulged and changed into the silhouette of the biggest bull that I have ever seen. He carried his head high, like he was looking for something, and jets of white steam were shooting from his nostrils. Each time one of his hooves struck the earth, a small tremor rippled beneath our feet. When he spied us, he broke into a full gallop and bellowed, and, I swear, smoke and flames poured from his mouth. I have been in and out of my share of tight spots in the years since that night, but I can honestly say that I have never been more scared than I was at that moment.
"It's the b-b-bull," Teddy observed as he started to run.
Dad immediately sprang into action: he pointed at the charging bull and shouted, "Sic 'im, dogs!"
King snarled once, lunged at Button, and tried to tear Button's ear off. The two dogs got so occupied with trying to kill each other that they completely ignored the bull. Dad cursed and kicked at them, but he missed and nearly fell down. Then, remembering the gun, he quickly pulled the hammer back, and fired a warning shot above the bull`s head. The pitiful pop of the .22 did not impress the bull in any observable fashion; he continued to charge. With no time to reload, Dad dropped the useless rifle and said, "Run."
I still remember how effortless, how dream-like, that run was, almost as if my legs were working by themselves. It felt as if I were flying, as if I got about an inch off the ground and stayed there until I reached the tree. Teddy was already half way to the tree when I started, and I passed him. I could hear Dad behind us, shouting encouragement.
"Run, dammit, run," he said.
I was already in the tree when Teddy arrived. He jumped a couple of inches off the ground, wrapped his arms and legs around the trunk, and began to squall at the top of his voice. Dad grabbed him by the seat of his pants and collar, jerked him off the tree, and threw him up among the branches where I managed to grab him and pull him up on the limb with me. Dad shinnied up beside us just as the bull thundered to a stop beneath us. He began circling the tree, bellowing and rolling his eyes and pawing dirt up over his back.
Dad said bulls have very short attention spans, and that this one would eventually get tired and wander off to graze or to check on his heifers or something, and we would make a dash for the creek. While we waited for this prediction to come true, Teddy suddenly pointed above Dad's head and said, "What's that?"
In a tree fork just above us sat a rather mangy looking animal, staring calmly at us with what appeared to be weak eyes.
"Hey, that's a possum!" Dad said.
Teddy began to whimper, but Dad said he would show us how harmless possums were. He broke off a branch and poked the beast a couple of times. The possum curled up in the fork and stopped moving.
"He's sulled up," Dad said. He stood up and lifted the possum out of the fork. He handled the possum, turned it upside down and every which way, and still the possum didn't move. "He pretends he is dead to fool his enemies. He stays like this until they leave. Right now, he is perfectly harmless."
The possum bit down on Dad's thumb. Dad howled and shook his hand and the attached possum vigorously. The possum, quickly tiring of this phase of the demonstration, let go of the thumb and went crashing through branches, landing with a thump on the ground. He scurried off into the darkness while Dad cussed and examined his thumb by the flickering light.
That's how we noticed the fire.
Apparently, when Teddy started running for the tree, he had thrown the lantern, because it had broken and set the grass on fire.
A grove of cedar trees stood in one corner of the pasture, and when the fire got in under them, things began to happen. Cedar trees are difficult to ignite, but when one gets hot enough to start, it goes up with a whoosh like a can of gasoline.
The trees began to light up one at a time, and it was like a Fourth of July fireworks show. Teddy and I laughed and clapped our hands and said, "Wowee," each time a tree exploded. Dad sat on the limb with his head in his hands saying, "Oh me, oh my."
Aunt Lena and Mother finally saw the glow from the fire and came to rescue us. Aunt Lena threw rocks at the bull and called him some ugly names, and he walked away stiff-legged, with his head up high, as if he were offended.
Aunt Lena called Dad some ugly names, too, and said that she had been saving those cedar trees for fence posts, and what the hell was she supposed to do for pasture now that Dad had burned the best one she had, and she went on like that for a long time. Dad didn't even try to answer.
By that time, the countryside was awake; some neighboring farmers came in their pickup trucks to see what the commotion was about, and it was lucky they did, because we needed help putting out the fire.
The trip home next day was strangely quiet. Dad seemed absorbed in his driving. Mother hummed and chuckled under her breath some, but she stopped each time Dad glared at her. We were all covered with soot from the fire; Dad had a bandage around his sore thumb where the possum had bitten him; Teddy had dried cow flop all over his shoe and pants leg, and the dogs reeked of skunk.
We were tired but happy.
The Crowd
The Crowd
The young man stood on the narrow perch and gazed contemptuously down at the horseshoe-shaped throng of upturned faces twelve stories below.
He hated them. Even through the nauseous spasms of fear, he hated them. They're gathered like hyenas, hoping I'll kill myself, he thought. He had seen the same ghoulish types at auto races and prize fights and football games--the ones who prayed secretly for something to go wrong, who sat on the edges of their seats and craned their necks, hoping to glimpse gore.
"Well, you'll have your thrill," he muttered bitterly. "I won't cheat you."
The wind was unobstructed and cold at this height; it sapped his body heat and sent small troops of chill bumps racing across his flesh. But he ignored the discomfort. It would be over soon.
A sudden slight dizziness caused him to lift his head to regain his equilibrium. Off in the distance he saw the smooth blue ocean with the sun glinting on its surface. There was a stretch of white beach; and the sand, even from here, looked warm and inviting. I could back out, he thought. I don't have to go through with it. Others before him had lost their nerve at the last--had allowed themselves to be talked out of it, or had talked themselves out of it. I could just step back from the edge and it would be over, he thought. Later, I could lie in that same warm sand that I see from here, and none of the others around me on the beach would know.
But the crowd would know. The damned crowd.
A faint murmur of wind-borne laughter floated up to him and he looked down again. They were getting impatient and somebody had said something clever. He could see their hand-shaded faces and the tiny, pink, gaping mouths. He couldn't see their eyes, it was too far; but he could feel them, squinted and eager, anticipating.
I could spit on them, he thought.
He had been standing on the edge for a long time now, fighting the fear, trying to reason with his cowardly body, trying to convince it that there would be no pain: But he knew there would be.
The trembling had stopped and his knees no longer felt as if they might buckle. He raised his eyes once again to the horizon and took a long deep breath. It was time to go.
Don't think, he thought.
He spread his arms as though offering himself in sacrifice and stood frozen for a long moment, fighting the sudden embarrassing urge to urinate. There was no sound from the crowd.
"All right you bastards, here I come." Slowly he tilted forward and fell into emptiness.
He turned one long, slow somersault on the way down and he thought once that he heard a woman scream, but it was impossible to be sure over the roar of the air rushing past his ears. The fall seemed to take forever, and he prayed for it to end. Then, suddenly, there was the pain--crushing pain in his legs and shoulders and a sudden explosive roar in his ears...
After what seemed an eternity, his head broke through the surface and he heard the voice on the loudspeaker:
"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, THE WINNER OF THE ROYAL BEACH HOTEL HIGH DIVING COMPETITION!"
The crowd was applauding and cheering wildly, and he smiled and raised a hand in salute as he climbed from the pool. They were wonderful lovely people and he adored them.
Running Start (Is Jogging Really Good For You? Ask Any Body.)
Copyright 1978
Roger L. Deen
Excepting reformed smokers and successful dieters, nobody wearies the soul of normal mankind as does the habitual jogger. Jogging freaks, fashionably gaunt and smug, delight in flaunting their pedestrian exploits before normal (non-jogging) people. When a jogger lets drop, "I'm shooting for a hundred and fifty miles this month," the fact that you walk the dog around the block twice a day hardly seems worth mentioning.
Before jogging became such a rage, you could deal easily with jogging snobs -- you just avoided them. But now they are everywhere; they have literally overrun the country. In every neighborhood, park and vacant field; at all times of the day or night, in all sorts of disagreeable weather, you see them plodding along with that air of detached superiority that makes you vow guiltily to shed a couple of pounds.
Here, for those who have secretly envied jogging junkies, who have read the books and articles extolling the joys and benefits of running, who have promised themselves they are going to try it first thing tomorrow, is what jogging is really like. The following is based on eighteen months of personal research, in which I tried mightily (and vainly) to discover some secret that would transform what is essentially a dull, boring, painful activity into something pleasurable. It represents the typical beginning of a jogger's day. If there is any fun in it, I failed to find it.
MIND: Huh? What? Oh.
MIND: Hey, Body, you awake?
MIND: Bod?
BODY: Mumpf.
MIND: Let's go. Time to get up.
MIND: Body?
BODY (exasperated): What?
MIND: Move it!
BODY (stirring): Go away. (An eye opens and immediately slams shut again.) Are you crazy? It's still dark! What time is it?
MIND: It's six minutes past five.
BODY: Good lord!
MIND: Come on, let's go. We've got to go running this morning.
BODY: Why?
MIND: Because it's good for us. Think how great you'll feel after it's over.
BODY: Ha!
MIND: Come on, let's go.
BODY (turning over and pulling the blanket securely up beneath the chin): I'm feeling a little puny this morning. You go on without me.
MIND: I said GET UP!
BODY: Awright, Awright, you -- (mumbles something obviously derogatory)
MIND: Are you still awake?
MIND: No you don't! On your feet!
BODY: Ow! What the... What happened?
MIND: You ran into the bathroom door. It's closed. If you'd open your eyes, you'd know that.
BODY (limping back toward the bed): Listen, I really hurt myself. I can't run now. I might damage something perman--
MIND: Forget it! You're not hurt. That's only a small bump on the forehead, and we don't run with our forehead.
BODY: Oh yeah? What about the toe? The toe hit the door too, you know. And it feels like it could be broken. Tell him, Toe.
LEFT BIG TOE: Yeah, boss, I think I hurt pretty bad. Maybe we should see a doctor or something.
MIND: Okay, listen up everybody. I'm sick of the whining and bellyaching every morning. We will jog this morning. We will not return to bed, and we will not have breakfast until the roadwork is finished. Is that clear?
RIGHT CALF: Ow! Ow! Ow! That hurts. I think I've pulled something.
LEFT KNEE: Hey, take it easy. Remember my ski injury.
LEFT ANKLE: How about me? I was hurt worse in that ski accident than you were.
LEFT KNEE: Sit on it.
MIND: All right, you guys, knock it off.
HEART (peevishly): Will someone please tell me what is going on?
MIND: It's about time you woke up. It's a beautiful morning, and we're jogging.
HEART: Not again?
BODY: Yeah, ain't this the pits?
HEART: How far are we going this time?
MIND: Never mind. You just keep pumping.
BODY: OK, that's a mile. Let's knock off and go have breakfast.
MIND: Keep running.
BODY: But I'm starving. I'm so hungry I've got the shakes. I'll never last another mile.
MIND: Well, just do the best you can. If you get too desperate, try consuming some of that roll around your middle. There's enough fuel there for several marathons.
BODY: I don't want that stuff. I want eggs and bacon and toast and butter and honey and...
MIND: Oh, shut up.
MIND: Hey, everybody, here comes another jogger.
BODY: Well, whoopee; just whoopee.
MIND: It looks like a girl. Let's just straighten up and look sharp as we pass. Stomach, suck it up; legs, pick up the pace a little.
LEGS: Are you kidding? We're about to collapse, and you want to go faster?
MIND: Get with it. Here she comes.
BODY: Nice stride.
YOUNG WOMAN (smiling): Good morning.
MIND and BODY: Good morning.
The young woman passes.
BODY: Nice stride.
MIND: You can say that again...Hey! What's going on? Who told you to stop? Let's get back to business.
BODY: How about a break? Let's walk a ways.
MIND: Keep running.
BODY: Walking is good exercise, too.
MIND: Keep running.
HEART: Are you aware that you could be causing some real damage?
LEFT BIG TOE: Yeah. I told you I was hurt on that door. I think I may be swelling and getting numb.
RIGHT BIG TOE: What makes you so special? I'm just as numb as you.
LEFT BIG TOE: Stuff it.
MIND: Cut the bickering, you two. Left Leg, why are you dogging it? Right Leg is doing most of the work.
RIGHT LEG: Yeah!
LEFT LEG: Dogging it? You're a fine one to talk. What exactly do you do besides sit up there and give orders? And who appointed you boss anyway? I think we should have a meeting and elect a new boss.
MIND: This is not a democracy. My function is to lead; I'm the only one suited for it. Your function is to obey orders, and right now the order is for all to step up the pace a little.
BODY: No.
MIND: What?
BODY: I said no. I'm not working any harder than this.
MIND: Okay, everybody, I was just going to stop after three miles, but just for that childish bit of insubordination, we're going to do an extra mile this morning.
RIGHT FOOT: Boo!
LEFT KNEE: Hiss!
HEART: Fascist!
RIGHT LEG: Shut up, you guys, or he'll make us do five miles.
MIND: Good advice.
ARMS: How much farther? We're getting tired.
LEGS: Tired? What the heck are you doing to get tired? We're doing all the work.
ARMS: We suppose you think it's easy to just hang here in the same position all the time. Try it sometime, and you'll see how tough it is.
LEGS: Pansies.
MIND: Knock it off, all of you. If you spent half as much energy running as you do griping, we'd be finished by now.
BODY: How much farther?
MIND: Only one more mile.
BODY (groaning): "Only," he says.
BODY: Hey, that was fun! I feel great!
HEART: It was exhilarating, wasn't it? I thought we all performed quite well.
LEFT LEG: I wasn't even tired. I could have gone around again.
RIGHT FOOT: Me too.
BODY: No sweat at all. Tomorrow, let's do five miles.
LEFT FOOT: Or maybe even six.
RIGHT KNEE: Yeah!
BODY: But now, let's hit the shower and go have breakfast. We deserve it.
MIND (sighing): You guys go on without me -- I'm exhausted.
Roger L. Deen
Running Start
(Is Jogging Really Good For You? Ask Any Body.)
by
Roger L. Deen
Before jogging became such a rage, you could deal easily with jogging snobs -- you just avoided them. But now they are everywhere; they have literally overrun the country. In every neighborhood, park and vacant field; at all times of the day or night, in all sorts of disagreeable weather, you see them plodding along with that air of detached superiority that makes you vow guiltily to shed a couple of pounds.
Here, for those who have secretly envied jogging junkies, who have read the books and articles extolling the joys and benefits of running, who have promised themselves they are going to try it first thing tomorrow, is what jogging is really like. The following is based on eighteen months of personal research, in which I tried mightily (and vainly) to discover some secret that would transform what is essentially a dull, boring, painful activity into something pleasurable. It represents the typical beginning of a jogger's day. If there is any fun in it, I failed to find it.
In a darkened bedroom an alarm sounds
MIND: Huh? What? Oh.
Body extends a groping hand, silences the alarm, then turns over and snuggles contentedly back into the pillow
MIND: Hey, Body, you awake?
Silence
MIND: Bod?
BODY: Mumpf.
MIND: Let's go. Time to get up.
Another long silence
MIND: Body?
BODY (exasperated): What?
MIND: Move it!
BODY (stirring): Go away. (An eye opens and immediately slams shut again.) Are you crazy? It's still dark! What time is it?
MIND: It's six minutes past five.
BODY: Good lord!
MIND: Come on, let's go. We've got to go running this morning.
BODY: Why?
MIND: Because it's good for us. Think how great you'll feel after it's over.
BODY: Ha!
MIND: Come on, let's go.
BODY (turning over and pulling the blanket securely up beneath the chin): I'm feeling a little puny this morning. You go on without me.
MIND: I said GET UP!
BODY: Awright, Awright, you -- (mumbles something obviously derogatory)
Listlessly, eyes still closed, Body assumes a slumped sitting posture on the bedside. He remains like this for a long time without moving.
MIND: Are you still awake?
No answer. Body starts falling slowly backward onto the bed.
MIND: No you don't! On your feet!
Groaning pitifully, Body stands and staggers uncertainly in the direction of the bathroom.
BODY: Ow! What the... What happened?
MIND: You ran into the bathroom door. It's closed. If you'd open your eyes, you'd know that.
BODY (limping back toward the bed): Listen, I really hurt myself. I can't run now. I might damage something perman--
MIND: Forget it! You're not hurt. That's only a small bump on the forehead, and we don't run with our forehead.
BODY: Oh yeah? What about the toe? The toe hit the door too, you know. And it feels like it could be broken. Tell him, Toe.
LEFT BIG TOE: Yeah, boss, I think I hurt pretty bad. Maybe we should see a doctor or something.
MIND: Okay, listen up everybody. I'm sick of the whining and bellyaching every morning. We will jog this morning. We will not return to bed, and we will not have breakfast until the roadwork is finished. Is that clear?
Grumbling noises issue from various parts of the body.
Outside, a few minutes later, the jogging begins.
RIGHT CALF: Ow! Ow! Ow! That hurts. I think I've pulled something.
LEFT KNEE: Hey, take it easy. Remember my ski injury.
LEFT ANKLE: How about me? I was hurt worse in that ski accident than you were.
LEFT KNEE: Sit on it.
MIND: All right, you guys, knock it off.
After the first quarter mile:
HEART (peevishly): Will someone please tell me what is going on?
MIND: It's about time you woke up. It's a beautiful morning, and we're jogging.
HEART: Not again?
BODY: Yeah, ain't this the pits?
HEART: How far are we going this time?
MIND: Never mind. You just keep pumping.
After the first mile:
BODY: OK, that's a mile. Let's knock off and go have breakfast.
MIND: Keep running.
BODY: But I'm starving. I'm so hungry I've got the shakes. I'll never last another mile.
MIND: Well, just do the best you can. If you get too desperate, try consuming some of that roll around your middle. There's enough fuel there for several marathons.
BODY: I don't want that stuff. I want eggs and bacon and toast and butter and honey and...
MIND: Oh, shut up.
After a mile-and-a-half:
MIND: Hey, everybody, here comes another jogger.
BODY: Well, whoopee; just whoopee.
MIND: It looks like a girl. Let's just straighten up and look sharp as we pass. Stomach, suck it up; legs, pick up the pace a little.
LEGS: Are you kidding? We're about to collapse, and you want to go faster?
MIND: Get with it. Here she comes.
BODY: Nice stride.
YOUNG WOMAN (smiling): Good morning.
MIND and BODY: Good morning.
The young woman passes.
BODY: Nice stride.
MIND: You can say that again...Hey! What's going on? Who told you to stop? Let's get back to business.
After two miles:
BODY: How about a break? Let's walk a ways.
MIND: Keep running.
BODY: Walking is good exercise, too.
MIND: Keep running.
HEART: Are you aware that you could be causing some real damage?
LEFT BIG TOE: Yeah. I told you I was hurt on that door. I think I may be swelling and getting numb.
RIGHT BIG TOE: What makes you so special? I'm just as numb as you.
LEFT BIG TOE: Stuff it.
MIND: Cut the bickering, you two. Left Leg, why are you dogging it? Right Leg is doing most of the work.
RIGHT LEG: Yeah!
LEFT LEG: Dogging it? You're a fine one to talk. What exactly do you do besides sit up there and give orders? And who appointed you boss anyway? I think we should have a meeting and elect a new boss.
A chorus of "yeahs" echoes throughout the body.
MIND: This is not a democracy. My function is to lead; I'm the only one suited for it. Your function is to obey orders, and right now the order is for all to step up the pace a little.
BODY: No.
MIND: What?
BODY: I said no. I'm not working any harder than this.
MIND: Okay, everybody, I was just going to stop after three miles, but just for that childish bit of insubordination, we're going to do an extra mile this morning.
RIGHT FOOT: Boo!
LEFT KNEE: Hiss!
HEART: Fascist!
RIGHT LEG: Shut up, you guys, or he'll make us do five miles.
MIND: Good advice.
After three miles:
ARMS: How much farther? We're getting tired.
LEGS: Tired? What the heck are you doing to get tired? We're doing all the work.
ARMS: We suppose you think it's easy to just hang here in the same position all the time. Try it sometime, and you'll see how tough it is.
LEGS: Pansies.
MIND: Knock it off, all of you. If you spent half as much energy running as you do griping, we'd be finished by now.
BODY: How much farther?
MIND: Only one more mile.
BODY (groaning): "Only," he says.
Back home after four miles:
BODY: Hey, that was fun! I feel great!
HEART: It was exhilarating, wasn't it? I thought we all performed quite well.
LEFT LEG: I wasn't even tired. I could have gone around again.
RIGHT FOOT: Me too.
BODY: No sweat at all. Tomorrow, let's do five miles.
LEFT FOOT: Or maybe even six.
RIGHT KNEE: Yeah!
BODY: But now, let's hit the shower and go have breakfast. We deserve it.
There is a chorus of "yeahs."
MIND (sighing): You guys go on without me -- I'm exhausted.
Editors' Preface
Editors' Preface
Our father, Roger Louis Deen, was many things to us. A technical writer by trade, he longed to be a "real" writer, and sell stories to the New Yorker to finance his carefree life on the Riviera. While he never achieved fame and fortune with his literary exploits, he never let that stop him from filling notebooks and journals with sketches, stories, and pomes (his word for his attempts at poetry).
Near the sunset of his life, and the dawn of the internet, he decided to "inflict (his work) on the entire civilized world by publishing it all on the Web". His original website, The James River Chronicles, still lives on in the digital ghost town that is Tripod. As we have been unable to divine the password he chose for this account, as well as the fact that much of his website is incomplete, we have decided to transfer as much as possible of his work (including stories that had yet to be typed up) to a new website (here). This is a work in progress, and may not ever be complete. We will try to adhere to his guiding principles, no flashy graphics, just text in a readable format. You provide your own pictures. We hope you enjoy what you find here. Non-commercial reproduction is allowed, as long as proper credit (and link to the original source) is given.
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