342. Realities

“Hey,” I said, “wake up.”

“Grnmmpt.”

“Wake up. It’s almost noon.”

C.W. was asleep in my favorite chair in the shape of Wrangler Bill. He wore dark clothing and had a broad-brimmed Stetson hat in his lap. Imagine a cross between “The Gambler” and a carnival barker. He had been snoring with loud grunts when I walked in. Now he opened one eye in partial wakefulness. “Screw you,” he said.

“You’re going to think screw you if my wife catches you tossing cookies to her dogs again. She said she counted ten separate piles of crumbs on the kitchen floor.”

He opened the other eye. “Mrs. Big Dope’s problem,” he said, “is that she is still stuck in a reality-based world that doesn’t exist anymore.”

I stepped closer to him. “Now where did you learn that phrase?”

“On TV,” said. “Ask Sean Hannity. Sean Hannity knows. Sean Hannity, Sean Ha…”

He drifted off to sleep again. His hat slid off his lap and onto the floor. I picked it up and swatted him the face with it. “Wake up,” I said. “She’s coming back soon. Do you have that ten dollars you borrowed from her?”

“Don’t worry,” he said. “It’ll trickle down.”

“It will what?”

“It will trickle down to her,” he said. “Or at least it would if there were no taxes.”

“No what?”

“Taxes. If we didn’t have to, well …,” he stopped or a moment, “if you didn’t have to pay taxes, the ten dollars would be back in her hand in days.”

“Where did you hear such an idea?”

“At the Libertarians’ Club meeting I attended last night.”

“You told her you would pay her back today.”

“I never said that.”

“You said that. I heard you.”

“I never said that.”

“We both heard you say it.”

“I never said that.”

“I think she will agree with me.”

“Sure she will,” he said. “You’re both liberals … all bound up and constrained by facts.”

“The fact is,” I said, “she will make you regret it if you don’t pay her back.”

“I have a detailed proposal for doing or achieving something.,” he said.

“A what?” Then I thought. “Do you mean you have a plan?”

“That’s what I said.”

“Your Galactic Universal Translator needs adjusting again.”

“My GUT is fine,” said. “I have the best GUT in the country. Everyone admires my GUT.”

“But what kind of plan do you have to pay your debts?”

Using this man for validity would
 be like using  Bernie Madoff for

 financial advice if you ask me. - C.W.

“A great plan,” he said. “It will be the greatest plan you ever saw.”

“That’s what you told me when you promised to clean your room and didn’t.”

“I never said that.”

“I’ll tell you what.” I said.

“What?”

“My wife has plans to deal with people, and that includes you, who don’t operate in a fact-based world.”

“I have a plan to deal with Mrs. Big Dope,” he said. “And it is a great plan.”

“Really? What’s the plan?”

“The same one I use to deal with all women.”

“And that is?”

“I just look them in the eye and grab their …”

“Shut up,” I said. “Stop. Not another word.”

“Hand,” he said, “then I tell them to trust me. It works every time.”

“You disgust me,” I said and turned away. The back door opened and I heard a female voice.’’

“Do you have the money you owe me?” it said.

“Yes I do,” C.W. yelled toward the voice. “I gave it to Big Dope to give to you.”

I swirled around, but he had vanished.

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341. Fear and Awe

Well, who should walk in this morning as I having my first cup of coffee. Yep, it was Shorty George, middle-school kid, one of C.W.’s favorite shapes. This morning, he was wearing an Arkansas Razorback tee-shirt, a Chicago Cubs baseball hat, and what appeared to be a pair of decades-old basketball sneakers with a faint ‘NC’ visible on them. Sort of a walking advertisement for broken dreams.

Shorty George is not the sharpest pin in the cushion, but what he lacks in acumen, he makes up for in adorableness. It’s usually a pleasure to see him.

“Hey George,” I said. “What’s up?”

He took on a look of uncharacteristic solemnity. “There’s a monster in the woods, and he wants to come live with us.”

“A monster?” It took a few seconds for this to register. “What kind of monster?” With children struggling to understand the world, it’s a good idea to humor their thought processes.

“He kills people,” he said, “and eats them.”

“My goodness,” I said. “Aren’t you afraid?”

“Oh no,” he said. “He doesn’t eat little white boys.”

“Oh?”             

“No, just the black ones, and other ones of color.”

“Oh?”

“And girls,” he said. “He eats girls, but that doesn’t bother me.”

“Oh?”

“No, as long as he won’t eat me, I think he would make a nice pet.”

“And what does my wife think?”

“I can’t repeat what Mrs. Big Dope said. You remember that talk we had about using dirty words?”

“I remember it very well,” I said. “But why would you want a monster for a pet?”

“I like the way he growls and stomps the ground ... it’s, like, awesome. It scares people that I hate. And I’m, like, wanting to be his friend so I can scare people too.”

“I’ve asked you to forgo ‘awesome’ and not to insert ‘like’ into every sentence,” I said.

“What does ‘forgo’ mean?”

I sighed. “Never mind. Does your monster scare my wife?”

“Oh no,” he said. “He wandered up close one day. When she went out, he growled a challenge and stamped the ground so hard it made the trash can fall over.”

“What happened then?”

“She grabbed a broom and started toward him.”

“And?”

“He started making this gurgling sound, then he turned, ran, hid in the woods, and wouldn’t come out for three days.”

“What makes you think he wouldn’t change his mind and start eating little white boys?”

“Oh, there are so many others for him to eat first. There’s the blacks, the kids of color, there’s some lame kids who can’t run from him, and there’s lots and lots of girls … besides …”

“Besides what?”

“Once I got him here, I could train him to do other things than eat people. Nice things. I could train him to eat dog food and play the piano.”

Only those who have never read
 history believe they can control
a monster in the woods. - C.W.

“You’re sure?”

“Oh, yes sir. I could handle him. Can I? Can I? The other boys want me to.”

“What about my wife?”

“Oh,” he said. “I can handle Mrs. Big Dope.”

“You can?”

“Oh yes. I know stuff on her that she wouldn’t want you to know. I can keep her under control.”

“Oh?”

“Have you ever wondered what happened to that harmonica you loved to play so much?”

I thought. “I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t know about keeping her under control. She’s sort of the female human version of the country of Afghanistan as far as exerting control over her.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, lots of people have tried,” I said. "None have succeeded."

“What’s a ‘aftercanistand’”?

“Never mind.” I said. “I think you better study up on monsters before you take this on.”

“But, I don’t like to study.”

We left it at that.

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340. Music and Awe

 C. W. was waiting for me when I arose this morning. At least let’s say Arnold Awesome was waiting for me. In this shape, C.W. is an eighteen years old boy that’s full of wonder and admiration for all things earthly. He can be inspiring at times, but tedious at others. Somehow he had found an old tie-dyed slipover and some bell-bottom pants in the attic. Of course I have no idea from where they came.

“Awesome,’’ he said. “Did you see the sunrise this morning?”

“I’ve asked you not to use that word,” I said, “it’s the most overused word in our country these days and has totally lost its meaning.”

“Like, it was really cool,” he said.

“And don’t insert the word ‘like’ in a sentence when it isn’t necessary to convey an image or idea.”

“Like,” he said, “when you say ‘far out’ for no apparent reason?”

“That’s different,” I said.

“How?”

I thought. “It just is.”

“Awesome.”

“Why are you up so early? Just to catch the sunrise?”

“How do you ‘catch’ a sunrise? Wouldn’t that burn your hands?”

“Just a figure of speech,” I said.

“How can speech have a figure? Women have figures and accountants figure and you are always figuring to do something for Mrs. Big Dope and then you don’t. I can’t figure your language out at times.”

I ignored him. “So what else have you been doing?”

“Remember when we went to that rock concert? The awesome one,” he said. It was obvious he was being evasive.

“Have you been on my wife’s computer again?”

“You changed the password on yours.”

“Answer me.”

“Just a little bit,” he said, “I was waiting for the sun to rise and, like, got bored.”

“You weren’t back on those …”

“Oh no,” he said, rubbing the side of his head in an unconscious gesture. “She explained about that. I was just watching, uh, the news, that’s it,” he said. “The news.”

“And what was on the news?”

He thought. “Football scores?”

“Is that a question for me?”

“There is this guy who may be elected as your president who has no qualifications whatsoever. They had posts of these news reporters talking about what a great job he would do because he would, like, bring a fresh face to politics through his ineptitude and ignorance.”

“Those weren’t news reporters,” I said.

“They claimed to be. They even called it a news channel where they report and we decide.”

“Whatever.”

He cocked his head. “Whatever what?”

“Just whatever,” I said. “It’s a figure of speech.”

“There you, like, go again,” he said. He shifted gears. “Hey,” he said, “have you ever listened to those old songs that were popular when you were a child? You know, Bessie Smith and such?”

“I wasn’t a child when Bessie Smith was alive,” I said. “But yes, I have heard her music.”

“Gimme me a pig foot and a bottle of beer,” he said. “That’s awesome.”

I groaned.

“Wait,” he said. “There’s a better one … my sportin’ man … his barrel’s hot … he rams his ramrod in …”

“Hush,” I said, “you’re going to wake my wife.”

“I think I heard her,” he said. “She’s already up.” He stopped and turned white. “Uh oh,” he said.

What can I say? - C.W.

“You didn’t,” I said.

“Maybe,” he said. “I was listening to one when the sun started to come up.”

“And what were you listening to?”

“It was a song about your capitalistic system of finance.”

“Oh,” I said. I relaxed. “What was the name of that song?”

“I think,” he said, “it was called ‘You Can’t Git That StuffNo More.’”

“Oh no,” I said. I started to get up

Too late. A voice erupted from the next room. “Get in here right now.”

“I think she means you,” C.W. said and nodded in the direction of the voice. “Better see what she wants.”

“I’ll be back,” I said and started toward the door.

“Awesome,” he said.

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339. Advice

It’s hard not to like C.W. when he shows up in the shape of the late Edward R. Murrow. I always liked him, and, boy, to we miss him now. Only problem occurs when he lights up a cigarette. Not allowed in this house. But anyway …

I was feeling a bit blue for some reason. It has been a rough summer and the news hasn’t helped. So when C.W. showed up as the former newsman, I knew he had come to offer kindness and solace.

“What the hell is the matter with you?” he said, loud enough to wake the entire house.

“I’m okay,” I said. “Just feeling a little nostalgic today.”

“Well snap the hell out of it,” he said, lighting a fag. “We’ve got some important stuff to talk about.”

“You won’t talk about anything if my wife smells that smoke.”

“Mrs. Big Dope and I are getting along better now,” he said. “We’ve found common ground to belittle.”

I raised my head. “What common ground?”

“You,” he said. “Now what’s on your mind?”

“Just thinking about very old friends,” I said, “Friends I knew before the Navy. From college. My old liberal friends … comrades of many peace marches, sit-ins, and demonstrations. I haven’t heard from any of them in years.”

“To hell with them,” he said. “Now snap out of it.”

“I think it may link back to my ‘Yossarian Period.’ You know, the character from Catch-22, the Joseph Heller novel. What do you think?”

He knotted his brow. “I think,” he said, “that a BJ would help.”

That snapped me to attention. “A what?”

“A BJ. You know … the new app for my Galactic Universal Translator. Officially it provides a ‘Bibliographical Juxtaposition,’ for when I need to find a literary allusion. The Elders sent it with a note that said a BJ would make my GUT work better.” He stopped and stared at me. “What?”

“I think you might find another name for it,” I said. “Maybe a ‘citation reference app.’”

“You mean you want me tell folks that I need to take a …”

“No, no, no,” I said. “Let’s talk about it later.”

He concentrated. “Okay,” he said. “So this Yossarian was a bomber pilot in one of your world wars and he did what?”

“Contacted his friends.”

He concentrated again. “I’m finding something,” he said. How’s this?” He began to recite verbatim from the book.

“To everyone he knew he wrote that he was going on a very dangerous mission. They asked for volunteers. It's very dangerous, but someone has to do it. I'll write you the instant I get back. And he had not written anyone since.”

He stopped there. “Ah,” he said. “So what did you do while in your so-called ‘Yossarian Period?’ that makes you so somber?”

“It was the third day of the Tet Offensive,” I said. All hell was breaking loose and it was kind of scary where I was.”

“And?”

“I was a little pissed because I felt my old friends had deserted me when I went off to war.”

“And?

“I wrote them all letters.”

“And?”

“I told them that things looked pretty bad, but I would write and let them know if I made it through safely.”

“And?”

“I forgot.”

“And?” He blew a big cloud of smoke my way.

“I’ve never heard from any of them.” I stopped. “Except one. I ran into her at a book festival a couple of years after my discharge.”

I don't care what Big Dope says. I
think more POKES and BJs would make
a big difference in your politics. - C.W.

“And?”

“I think it frightened her to see me.”

“And?”

“She mentioned something about a memorial service and ran away.”

“Mrs. Big Dope is right,” he said.

“About what?”

“You are an idiot. Now,” he said, “if you will excuse me, I going out to interview some young women and ask them for a POKE.”

“A what?”

“A ‘practice on kindness evaluation.’ Why?”

“Uh,” I said. “I think maybe you …” I stopped. “Never mind. I’ll see you later. I feel much better now.”

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338. Shopping

People ask me how I manage an unearthly creature with a strange sense of humor. I tell them it isn’t easy. For example, I made the mistake of taking him to Big Mart yesterday. Never again.

He had assumed the form, usually one of his least troublesome, of Sanford the Senior Citizen. He wore shorts that stopped just above his knobby knees and a bright shirt with “Been There. Done That” printed across the top. A sporty hat of straw completed the look.

He usually converses in a plain and honest fashion when shaped up as Sanford. Honesty works at home, but not so well byond I found out to my dismay.

We did fine until we reached the vegetable section. Actually, it was the first place we reached as we began going counter-clockwise around the store. He stopped me there and demanded that we go clockwise. I patiently explained to him that one did not go clockwise through Big Mart, and he began to yell that he was much more knowledgeable about how to go through stores than I. A man behind us asked politely if we might take our argument elsewhere. We moved over and allowed him to pass. I heard C.W., Sanford, whoever, say, “Up yours sonny,” to him as he passed. I pretended to examine the cabbage.

We moved a few feet and were, ourselves, stopped by a woman talking on a cell phone. She spoke loud enough to be heard a block away, but C.W. eased up directly behind her, leaned in, and cupped a hand to his ear. I picked up a package of carrots and studied them.

The lady seemed to be talking to a friend about her husband, or boyfriend, one or the other, for she listened a moment and announced, “I told him he ain’t getting’ that stuff no more ‘til he straightens out. No sir.”

C.W. turned to me and pointed at her with a lewd grin. She listened to the phone, then spoke again. “I told him I didn’t know where that thang had been, so he could just keep it to hisself.”

At that point, C.W. took a large cucumber from a stack and offered it to her. “Tell him you done found a replacement for him anyway,” he said to her.

A large crowd and an assistant manager later, we moved over to the meat section. Another woman blocked our way, Words fail me in describing her. C.W. called her “the circle woman,” pointing out that her height and width radii were equal. She was wearing a short pullover and, evidently, nothing else. Did I mention that it was short?

A voice rang through the store. “Look at them hams,” I reversed direction and pretended I had never seen the speaker. I managed to avoid him until I turned into an aisle in the health goods section. There he was, maybe thirty feet away. He formed his hands into a megaphone and yelled at the top of his voice, “Hey, Big Dope. Here’s them Tampons you wanted.” Every head within hearing distance turned toward me.

I rushed over and pulled him aside. “This is not the place for jokes,” I said.

“That’s what Mrs. Big Dope said when I came with her,” he said. Then he grew serious, pointed toward the main aisle, and said, “If this is not the pace for jokes, explain that.”

I don't understand it. Big Dope doesn't cook, but
always heads for the cookware section. - C.W.

He pointed toward the sporting goods section at a man with a three-day growth of beard, and who had a Jim Beam hat perched back on his head. A dirty shirt with the sleeves cut out revealed half his midsection behind meaty arms. He wore cutoff jeans and high-top tennis shows that hung loose and untied. An enormous stomach protruded a good foot beyond the waistband of his jeans. The arm nearest us sported a tattoo of an unrecognizable creature of some sort with, barely readable below it, the words “Kiss me. I’m Irish.” He must have gotten the work done when he was a much thinner man.

“You’ve got a point,” I said to C.W. “Now let’s get out of here.”

“Wait one,” he said. “I’ve a marketing idea I want to pass on to this guy.” The same assistant manager we had met before walked over when C.W. beckoned.

“This is a college town, right?” C.W. asked.

“Why yes sir, it is,” the man said.

“Have you considered,” C.W. said, “the potential increase in sales if you were to stock the Raman Noodles and condoms side by side?”

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