JUST WONDERIN', which I wrote and directed, features one of my favorite actors, Jim Noble.
TWISTED SHORTS
Monday, May 5, 2014
JUST WONDERIN'
JUST WONDERIN', which I wrote and directed, features one of my favorite actors, Jim Noble.
Friday, April 18, 2014
A FAREWELL TO ARCH
On his old TV show Steve Allen had a
great bit, where he would open the daily newspaper and read aloud the Letters
to the Editor, sent in by cranky readers.
Steverino would declaim in a voice of sputtering indignation, making the
complaints seem absurdly overheated. “Dear
Editor: Now you’ve gone too far! This is too much! I am truly peeved! Enough is enough! You have lost my business! Signed, Irate!” And we would all laugh at the extravagant,
operatic outrage being expended on the pettiest of grievances. The things people get worked up over!
Well, I am truly peeved. Someone has really gotten my goat.
I was on Facebook last week, and in the course of my
browsing I glanced over at the Trending
side-bar, which is an essential tool for the modern social-media maven (“What’s
trending? Who’s trending? Am I trending?”), and there I saw three words
that acted like a syringe of ice water to my veins –
“DEATH OF ARCHIE”.
Death of Archie?
Archie who? Surely not ----?
Yes, Archie Andrews.
Son of Fred and Mary Andrews, perpetual student at Riverdale High
School, fickle beau of Betty Cooper and Veronica Lodge, habitué of Pop Tate’s
Chocklit Shoppe, lifelong rival of Reggie Mantle, friend of Jughead Jones.
Archie is dead.
Or will be, come July.
The bastards are killing him off. In the final issue of the infelicitously-titled
“Life with Archie” series, the beloved comic book character will be murdered - knifed
or shot, trying to help a friend, thus dying a hero’s death. I
don’t know the specifics, but there’s a picture of Archie on the sidewalk, or
maybe it’s a subway platform, and there’s blood pouring from his stomach, and
Betty and Veronica are by his side while spectators stand by with anguished
looks.
This is not the way I wanted Archie to go. I thought he would last well into his golden
years, happily married to Betty (we all know that if he’d married Veronica
first, the marriage would have foundered swiftly under the weight of economic inequality,
and Betty would have snagged him on the rebound, fresh from her own misbegotten
marriage to that slick-haired heel Reggie).
They would have had a brood of little Archies, male and female, who
would have followed in Dad’s madcap footsteps, and then there would be
grandchildren and a whole spin-off industry.
Archie would join the country club and drive a Prius, and finally
succumb from old age, surrounded at his
bedside by family and remaining friends.
Jughead would be there, gray-haired and feeble but still wearing that
inane pointy hat.
But no.
Instead, he’ll be cut down in his prime, barely out of college, his
whole fictional life ahead of him, leaving the rest of us with nothing but
questions. No more Archie - how can this
be? Why
can this be? What backroom genius
hatched this benighted idea, and who approved it? I can imagine the creative honchos gathered
around a table, trying to cobble together a neat gimmick to revive their tired
franchise. Up pops a bright young man
with an outside-the-box vision: “How about this? Archie dies!” A bewildered pall sits over the gaggle, as
the enormity of this suggestion seeps into their collective brainpans like oil
from a leaky filter. “Archie dies? But Archie is our raison d’etre. Archie is our
tentpole character!” “Tents are for wimps!” the young man replies, and with
such savvy conviction that it almost appears he has said something
meaningful. “This will be a
game-changer! It’ll be hailed as a bold
narrative leap, and a searing social statement! And it will make us a bucket of
cash!” Now the idea passes around the
room from one bean-counting head to the next, and a consensus forms. Somebody starts to do the Slow Clap, and the
Young Man beams, besotted with himself and his transformative mind.
All well and good for the suits. For the rest of us, this is
confounding. It violates everything
we’ve learned about the comic universe. Nobody
dies in the comics, especially not in Riverdale. Crusty money-grubbing Mr. Lodge didn’t
die. Nor did the morbidly obese Mr.
Weatherbee, or the dessicated Miss
Grundy. So why Archie – Archie, the very
spirit of youth and promise, the can-do kid, the guy you wanted to be best
friends with, because he was popular but not stuck-up, he drove a cool jalopy
and he had plenty of girls around him, including his foxy cousin Josie, who was
a band chick and you know what that meant – a ringside seat at the submarine
races!...Why does Archie have to go? What’s the point? Is the comic-book world really better off
without him?
Not to worry, the publishers say. Archie’s
not really gone. His earlier adventures will continue, in the regular Archie
series, where he’ll still eat pizza and ogle bikinis. There will always be an Archie!
But it’s no
fun now. How can I take pleasure in
17-year-old Archie’s juvenile escapades when I know that five scant years hence
he’ll be clutching his punctured gut and gurgling a death rattle as he drifts up
towards the light? His teenage life
was ordinary enough; now it will retroactively become trivial and clueless.
And given this new somber direction, what’s going to
happen at the funeral? Will Moose break
down at the casket and declare his forbidden love for Archie? Will Big Ethel hook up with Dilton Doiley and
repair to some motel off the interstate in a sad and desperate attempt to rewrite
the past? Afterwards, will Veronica
forsake her wealth and join one of Bono’s African crusades, will Betty start
hitting the bottle and become a bloated mess haunting the aisles of WalMart?
Where, in other words, did all this gassy pretentious
solemnity come from, and where is it going?
It all started, I suppose, with Marvel, and their embrace
of the neurotic superhero. Prior to
that we had the mighty DC crew:
Superman, Batman, the Flash, Wonder Woman; simple, straightforward
characters with no dark brooding inner torments. All
they cared about was Truth, Justice and the American Way. They saved the world, and then went back to
whatever they were doing. Then along
came Spiderman and the Hulk and all those other conflicted Mutants with Issues. And people – that is to say, the more
evolved nerds - lauded the introduction of mature themes and adult conflicts. Finally, comic books were growing up.
But why should they grow up? They’re comics,
for christ’s sake. Books, with pictures, for
kids.
Every Sunday after church, we would go to the
stationery next to my grandparent’s house, and buy a handful of comic
books. My grandfather would give us a
dollar and say “Here, get some for everybody”, and my brother and I would pick
out our favorites – Jack loved Superman and Action Comics, I preferred Batman
and Flash, but in lieu of that we would grab Justice League of America, Green
Lantern, Richie Rich, Beetle Bailey, Casper the Friendly Ghost – we’d get my
cousin Gail a copy of either Wonder Woman or Wendy the Good Little Witch, but
we would read them first – and we’d also grab an issue or Archie, or Betty and
Veronica, or any of the various Riverdale collections.
And after breakfast we would sit on the overstuffed
chairs in the living room and read them.
We, the kids. Nobody else. Grandpa paid for them, but he didn’t read
them. He read The Journal-American, and The Sporting News, and Grit and Steel, the official magazine of competitive
cockfighting. He apparently read
Playboy, which we occasionally found stashed in the back of the magazine rack,
and I’m sure he enjoyed the sophisticated cartoons scattered therein. But he didn’t read comic books. Because they were for kids.
I have no problem with Marvel raising the stakes and
making their superheroes complex and “interesting” (although I can live without
the ponderous noisy semi-Wagnerian movie versions of same), but you can easily ride that gravitas train into a cul-de-sac of pomposity, where dramatic license checkmates
common sense and the narratives become as weighty and overstuffed as my
grandparent’s chairs. And killing off
Archie Andrews is, I submit, the tipping point.
Archie simply doesn’t lend himself to serious
consideration. He’s got freckles, and
he wears varsity sweaters and sneakers, and he drinks milkshakes. That’s as deep as he gets. He also has some
kind of hashtag on the side of his head, which denotes something inscrutable
about his hair. The only major
discussion his comic-book world has ever generated is the parlor game of
personal taste that supposedly illuminates the landscape of the individual male
psyche: Betty or Veronica?
The correct answer, of course, is “Betty” (just as the correct answer in the corresponding “Gilligan’s Island” is “Mary Anne”), and all guys know this.
They know that no girl outwardly identifies with Veronica, the spoiled entitled
rich Wasp, so to select her would
ipso facto demonstrate a total lack of appreciation for a real woman.
In his secret heart of hearts, however, the true answer
for any adolescent boy would be, I’ll take anyone: Veronica, Betty, Sabrina the Teenage Witch, whoever makes herself
available. Like I’m in a position to choose?
An even more measured response would be, none of
them. I would choose none of them because,
hello, they’re not real.
Some would chide me here for being too literal and
unimaginative. Don’t be so
pedantic! It’s just a game! We know they’re not real!
Do we? Do we
know that Tony Soprano is not real? Do we
know that Hans Solo and Yoda are not
real? Do we know that Bill O’Reilly is
not real? (see, now it gets tricky)
The Betty/Veronica litmus test is harmless enough as
a sociological experiment. It’s when
the borders between reality and fantasy get redrawn more often than a
Congressional district that we have to wonder, how much undeserved weight can we keep giving to these
childish otherworlds before our ability to distinguish true value, and the
value of truth, completely collapses?
Identifying with fictional characters or
famous personages from the past is nothing new. There have always been people who thought
they were Napoleon or Julius Caesar. But
unless they had a great deal of money at their disposal, they were considered
nuts. Nowadays, we’re not so
judgmental. Maybe they’re channeling. Maybe they’re performance artists. Maybe they’ve stepped through a wrinkle in time.
This tradition of delusional identification is given
a populist twist on Facebook, with the ubiquitous “What character from Harry
Potter/Downton Abbey/Mad Men/Game of Thrones/ The New Testament/50 Shades of
Grey are you?”
You answer a few flattering personality questions,
and then you get to declare, “I’m Lord Grantham!” “I’m Hermione!” “I’m Gollum!”
“I’m the Second Thief on the Cross, the
one who befriended Jesus and told the other thief to shut up and die already!” (full disclosure: I’m Bates)
Now theoretically we all realize that we’re not
these fabricated characters and they are not us, and we’re just engaging in a
lighthearted lark. Right?
I'm not sure. When seemingly sensible people spend hours
upon hours fighting XBox zombies and surfing cat videos and gorging on
“reality” shows which are about as real as unicorns – watching semi-actors
wrestle catfish and build duck decoys and buy houses in Costa Rica and raise
octuplets – when our friends and neighbors spend half the waking day living
other people’s lives - I have to wonder.
But as you see, I’ve fallen into the trap
myself. I’ve started taking reality
personalities and video avatars and comic book characters seriously.
When I was a kid, my favorite magazine of all time
(before I lost my innocence and became addicted to “Mad”), was “Famous Monsters
of Filmland.” It came out once a month, and featured articles on all the great
monsters – Frankenstein, Dracula, etc. – both in their original Universal
incarnations and their full-color Hammer revivals. Other monster movies were spotlighted too: The Creature from the Black Lagoon, the Incredible Shrinking Man, the Amazing
Colossal Man, the Beast from 20,000 Fathoms, the Monster from Piedras Blancas, The
Thing from Outer Space…All manner of beasts were represented.
I loved monsters as a boy, and that magazine spoke
to me like no other. It was edited by
Forrest J. Ackerman, as heroic a figure to me as JFK. He treated monsters seriously, as I
did. The worst monster films ever made
were accorded respect in his pages.
In the back of this seminal magazine, as in all
comics, there were ads and offers for all kinds of interesting novelties. You know, joy buzzers and sea monkeys, and
the famous X-ray glasses which could see right through a woman’s clothes –
yowza!
And one time, a set of Monster Decals. Frankenstein, the Wolf Man, the Mummy… Six in
all. Stick them on your wall, on your
car window. Scare the bejeezus out of
your friends! For a mere 3.99, these
fearsome, frightening creatures can be yours!
I had to have them.
I talked my mother into sending a check, and I paid her back with my
communion money. My mind raced with the possibilities. I would put a Frankenstein decal on my
bedroom door, and a Wolfman decal on my bookbag, and a Dracula on the
refrigerator…!
I waited months.
The ad said, “allow 6 to 8 weeks for delivery.” It took longer than that. Every day I checked the milk box where the
postman left our mail. Every day,
nothing.
Finally, a small envelope arrived, and I recognized
the return address. Puzzled but excited,
I opened the envelope, and pulled out a small single sheet. The decals were attached. There they were, Frankenstein, Dracula, the
whole crew. Frightening and fearsome, and no more than two inches tall.
I was devastated.
They were barely bigger than the ad.
And their heads were comically oversized, so that they looked less like
monsters than munchkins. It was reminiscent of that scene in “This is
Spinal Tap”, when the miniature Stonehenge is revealed. This is it?
I waited three months for this cheap crap?
Even though I knew they weren’t directly responsible
and had merely sold the ad space to some third-party shyster, my faith in
Famous Monsters and Forrest J. Ackerman was forever tainted. How could
they allow their devoted readers to be rooked like this? How
could they impugn the integrity of their own monsters?
That’s when I knew the game was rigged. Buy into our fantasy, swallow our belief
system, and we’ll dash your dreams on the way to the bank.
It’s no different now. The Archie-killers can make all the grandiose
claims they want about taking bold narrative risks and injecting gravitas and
delivering a moral statement for our times, but we all know the real goal is to
gin up sales before they close the books on an ill-advised business venture. They don’t have any real understanding of the
Archie ethos, and they don’t care.
And if Archie were alive today, you know how he’d
feel about this transparently craven assault on his legacy? Well, he’s too wholesome and all-American to
say it, but I will:
It’s baloney!
And I think Pop Tate and Miss Grundy, and even Reggie, would agree.
Tuesday, April 8, 2014
THE BALLAD OF BRUCE FOSTER
BAR STORIES
THE BALLAD OF BRUCE FOSTER
Every neighborhood bar has its roster of stock characters: the bullshit artist, the practical joker, the windy philosopher, the
sports nut, the husband-and-wife
alcoholic tag team, the insufferable know-it-all, the Wall Street asshole, the outright
psychotic. It’s called Local Color, and it’s an
inescapable fact of bar life.
Similarly, every bar has a Bruce Foster – a guy who
seems to embody all the aspects of the term “loser”. A chronic screw-up, a bonehead, a reverse
alchemist who can turn gold into dross. He’ll have a nickname like “Sully” or “Weed”,
or maybe something ironic like “Chief”.
We had the actual Bruce Foster. He didn’t have a nickname; he was Bruce
Foster. Bruce wasn’t the original loser,
the template for all losers to come, but he was perhaps the apotheosis. Clueless, bumbling, his own worst enemy, Bruce
would instinctively put himself in the wrong place at the wrong time. He was
never the guy you wanted on your side, because he would always find a way to
make things worse. As John Crimmins
would say, “That guy could fuck up a wet dream.”
Everyone had a story about Bruce Foster. I have one too, and although it’s probably not
the strangest predicament he’s ever gotten himself into - not the most
precarious, nor the most ridiculous – it’s still a representative sample of the
tribulations that regularly dotted his life’s path.
I’m guessing it was spring, because it was still
light out at 6 o’clock, but would be dark
soon after. Bruce was coming home on the
6:04 train. He was working at the time
in Mineola, I think. Bruce was always
working somewhere; you never knew where
- sometimes the bowling alley, sometimes the car wash – and you never knew
why. Because you couldn’t imagine anyone willingly
employing Bruce. It had to be a desperation hire. “At this point I’ll take anybody!” Anybody was Bruce.
The bar was reasonably full that evening when Bruce
came in the back door. He was wearing his
default Bruce Foster outfit: faded black jeans, a blue plaid shirt and a NY
Yankees hat. Bruce was a rabid Yankee
fan, in the literal sense that he would almost foam at the mouth. Under the influence of various chemicals, he’d
stand right beneath the television and scream with every base hit and shout profane
imprecations at every error. Sometimes
he’d wave a Yankee pennant right in front of the screen, antagonizing not only the
sizable segment of bar regulars who were Met fans, but also the Yankee fans who
wanted to see the game. “Get the fuck out of the way!” they would suggest, but he wouldn’t, because that was the thing
about Bruce, he didn’t have an internal gauge on the corrosive effect of his
behavior. He couldn’t sense when he was
pissing people off. Just when he thought he was being brilliant
and clever and entertaining, someone would suddenly punch him out, or a group
of irate strangers would join forces to hurl him out the door, and it always
mystified him. What was their problem?
No matter the slings and arrows that Bruce suffered, he always
came back. People would break his chops
mercilessly - he was such an easy target - and he would accept it as a natural
consequence of his existence. Once we got a group together to go to Shea
Stadium, and we took up two rows in the loge section. Bruce was sitting in front of us, wearing a
hooded sweatshirt. In the course of the
game – during which Bruce was doing his usual obnoxious screaming fan shtick, drawing
dark hostile looks from the Met faithful – somebody in our second row had the inspiration
of tossing an empty peanut shell into Bruce’s open hood. That opened the floodgates: by the end of the game the sweatshirt hood was
brimming with peanut shells, contributed from all directions. He was completely unaware, of course – he
went through life completely unaware - and it wasn’t until we were walking back
to the train and it started drizzling that Bruce pulled up his hood and his head was showered with peanut shells. “What the
fuck…?” He immediately looked up at the
sky, as if the gods were responsible for yet another indignity, but then he caught us laughing.
“Oh,” he said, “Real funny.” And it was.
Bruce had a girlfriend named Maria. Maria was a tough cookie, thin and hard, her
sharp-angled body taking its lead from the hatchet-like nose that defined her
face and her character. Maria was, to
put it mildly, possessive. She had her
hooks into Bruce, and she wasn’t going to let him go until she was good and
ready. He belonged to her, and you got
the sense that if he even tried to wriggle free she would kill him. She would actually kill him.
Accordingly,
Bruce was always trying to avoid her. One day the bar phone rang, and Bruce gave
a warning wave: “If that’s Maria, I’m
not here!” I answered the phone. It was Maria.
“Bruce isn’t here,” I told her.
“Bullshit!” said Maria. “I’m
sitting in the parking lot right now, and I can see him through the window! Put him on the phone!” Defeated, Bruce trudged to the phone booth,
closed the door, and spent the next fifteen minutes nodding disconsolately into
the receiver as Maria reamed him out. Then he emerged from the booth with a
springy bravado, declaring, “It’s all good!”
Another time Bruce was sitting at the bar and
Maria’s car pulled up in front, the wheels squealing to an angry stop. That’s all Bruce needed to see. He jumped off his stool and raced to the
men’s room to hide. A moment later Maria burst into the bar like a
charging rhino, and marched straight across the room to the bathroom door. She hammered on it with Thor-like thunder: “I know you’re in there!” She always seemed to know. She waited with arms folded and nostrils
snorting until Bruce emerged sheepishly, head bowed, like a dog waiting to be
beaten, and off they went without a word.
They were, in short, a perfect match. And yet it came as no surprise when Maria
suddenly wound up engaged to somebody else.
She was no bargain, but even she deserved better.
It didn’t bother Bruce. He moved blithely on to the next adventure,
the next disaster.
As in that fateful evening, when he got off the 6:04
train and strode purposefully through the back door of the bar like a man on a
mission. “Hey Freddy” (he always called
me Freddy, which was annoying in itself), “can I borrow your car?”
“My car?” I
said in disbelief. This was an
incredible request. I couldn’t think
of any circumstances under which I would ever let Bruce borrow my car. I didn’t
even like having Bruce in my
car. He was the kind of person whom bad
luck followed, to the point where you suspected that his mere presence in the
passenger seat would pull an oncoming tractor-trailer into your lane like a
magnet. And you dreaded the thought that
everyone at your wake would be whispering about the strange turn of events that
left you, in your last moments on earth, sitting next to Bruce Foster.
“I just have to run up to the house and get my
wallet,” he said. He was sharing a house
up on the hill in Colonial Park with a couple of friends (“friends” being the flexible term for a
bunch of guys who needed a live body to share the rent, and were generally too
coked up themselves to notice those qualities of Bruce’s that would make him a
less than desirable housemate). “I’ll be
right back,” he promised.
Now I had seen Bruce in action many times, and I had
a pretty good idea of where his level of fucked-upness was at any given moment. As I studied him now, I was struck by the
unnatural clearness of his eyes. He was
probably as stone cold sober as I’d ever seen him.
I quickly weighed the pros and cons of this
decision. Bruce definitely needed his
wallet, because he had long since exhausted the privilege of running a bar tab,
and without cash he wouldn’t be able to hang out. Did I want him hanging out? No, but still, a customer was a
customer. If he was going to get drunk,
he might as well do it here.
What about my car?
It was a 1983 Cutlass Ciera, with
plenty of miles on it, nothing special. The downside appeared to be small.
So I gave him my keys. “Come right back,” I told him.
“Oh yeah,” said Bruce, as he headed down the back
steps.
Matt McDonnell, always a sage if cynical observer of
the human condition, had been watching the transaction from a few stools
removed. He was mildly incredulous. “You’re lending Bruce your car?
“It’s okay,” I said. “He’s sober.”
Matt shook his head. “You’re crazy.”
I knew he was right.
Bruce was going to screw this up somehow, that was a given. But it was too late now, he was gone.
Not two minutes after Bruce left, a tall beefy fellow
with a red face came in the back door.
I recognized him as a Glen Cove city cop, Reggie something. He was off-duty now, and in a state of
agitation. He surveyed the room, and
didn’t find what he was looking for. So
he came to the end of the bar and called me over. “Did a guy with a plaid shirt and a Yankee
hat come in here?”
There are moments in bartending when it seems not
only prudent but necessary to lie, and simply by observing the undulant
rippling of the purple veins on Reggie’s forehead, I could tell that this was
one of those moments. “No,” I said.
“No? Are you
sure?” He gave me the classic cop look:
eyes narrowing, back straightening, restrained menace in his aspect. His body language was clear: “Are you shitting me? Because you’d better not be shitting me.”
Nevertheless, I proceeded to shit him. “I didn’t see him,” I said. Be assured, if I thought this was official
police business, I would have given up Bruce in a minute. As Rick
Blaine would say, I stick my neck out for no one. But I got the impression that this was more
of a personal matter, and I wasn’t going to toss Bruce to the wolves until I
knew the exact nature of his folly. “Why?
What happened?”
Reggie looked towards the two exits, perhaps hoping
that the plaid-shirted Yankee fan would walk in now, and he could summarily
take care of business without having to disclose the nature of his discontent
to a relative stranger. But as there was
no sign of Bruce, he finally came out with it:
“What happened?
This joker exposed himself to my wife on the train! That’s what happened!”
I did not see that coming. “Really?”
“My wife. Just now.
On the train.”
“Wow.” I was
sincere in my horror. This was about as
unpleasant and disturbing an image as one could conjure. Bruce, with his scruffy beard and Yankee
hat, opening his pants on the LIRR and…yecch.
“Then he followed her off the train and into the
parking lot. She was scared for her
life. She said he walked down the
driveway and came in here.”
“Really? In
here? Well, I didn’t see him…”
Reggie repeated with extra emphasis, just to make
sure I got the picture: “He was wearing a
Yankee hat and a plaid shirt!”
Had this been a movie, this would have been the optimal
moment for Bruce to stroll in the back door - in his Yankee hat and plaid shirt
- and hand me the car keys. “Thanks for
letting me use your car, Freddy!” And then all hell would break loose: broken
bottles, chairs flying, Bruce thrown through the back bar mirror, etc.
But Bruce didn’t walk in, and I was eager to get rid
of Officer Reggie before he did. “Maybe
he went to Wimbledon’s,” I suggested.
Wimbledon’s was a disco right down the street, and you could access it
by cutting through our backyard.
“She said he came in here.” Reggie glanced into the back room.
“He’s
not back there, is he?”
“No. Go ahead
and look.”
Reggie paced some more, clenched his fists a couple
of times, and then issued his final word on the subject. “If this prick comes in, you tell him, if I
ever catch him, I’m gonna bury his head in cement!” He turned and left.
I looked over at Matt. “Did you hear that?”
He heard it.
“Bruce was waxing his bean!” he chuckled.
“Dashing Dan!”
“He was dashing his dan, all right.”
“That guy’s gonna kill him.”
“Yeah,” Matt agreed. And we both laughed. Because, even if it weren’t true, it was such
a quintessential Bruce move: exposing yourself to a cop’s wife. Classic!
About ten minutes later, I saw my white Cutlass
cruising through the parking lot and pulling into the back driveway. I was anxious to give Bruce the news: he
needed to get the hell out of here, and burn his hat and his plaid shirt
pronto. It was truly a matter of life
and death.
But when the back door opened, it was a very different
Bruce who walked in. His eyes were red,
his nose was redder. He was walking
sideways. He was coked to the gills.
“Thanks, Freddy,” he said, tossing my keys on the
bar and falling into a stool. “Can I
have a beer, please?”
I couldn’t believe it. “What happened
to you?”
He looked at me , his eyes watery and
unfocused. “What?” he asked, genuinely
puzzled.
“You were only gone ten minutes. How did you get so coked up?”
“I’m not coked up,” he insisted.
“You’re stoned out of your mind,” said Matt with
flat disdain.
“No I’m not,” said Bruce, looking vaguely in Matt’s
direction. Then he smiled in recognition.
“Hey, Matty!”
“Listen,” I said, “you have to get out of here.”
“Come on, just one beer. I have money now.”
”A cop was in here looking for you.”
“A cop?” He gave a semi-smirk. “Why?”
“Because you exposed yourself to his wife,” I
explained.
Bruce frowned, thought this over, and returned to
the original subject. “Just one beer…”
“Bruce, did you hear me? You’re in a lot of trouble. This woman says you exposed yourself on the
train, and her husband’s a cop, and he’s looking for you. He says he’s gonna bury your head in cement!”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Bruce stared down at the bar. I could see he was still trying to figure out
how to get a beer.
“You have to get out of here,” I tried to impress
upon him. “He might come back any
minute.”
“I don’t
care. I’ll tell him she was wrong.”
“She was wrong? And what, you think he’s going to believe you?
You’re totally fucked up.”
“I’m not fucked up.
I’m fine. I’m not afraid of any
cops. Can I have a beer, please?”
I had other customers to deal with, so for the
moment I left Bruce to his altered mind-state.
By the time I got back, planning to make one more plea to his sense of
self-preservation, he had already come up with a new tack:
“Freddy - can I borrow your car again?”
“What?”
“I ordered a meatball hero from Sal’s Pizza. I have to pick it up.”
“No, you can’t borrow my car. You’re totally stoned!”
“I’m fine.”
“Will you get out of here? Someone is coming to kill you! Don’t you understand? You already dodged one bullet – now you want
to go driving around when you’re all drugged-up?”
“I’ll be right back, I promise.”
I walked away, shaking my head. Why
was I wasting my time with this guy? Let Officer Reggie beat the shit out of
him. It might be the best thing in the
long run anyway.
But Bruce wanted that meatball hero, and once again
his marvelously stupid resilience came to the fore, as he spotted Lou Noon at
the other end of the bar. Lou Noon was
an older regular, and one of the nicest guys in the world. He would do anything for you. He’d even loan you his car, if he was
awake.
Which at the moment he wasn’t. Lou worked a night shift as a security
guard, so he had a tendency to fall asleep at any time, especially after a
surfeit of Budweiser. Right now he was
sleeping peacefully with his head down on the bar.
This did not deter Bruce Foster. He walked over and nudged Lou’s
shoulder. “Hey Lou, can I borrow your
car for a minute?”
Lou Noon raised his head sleepily. “Sure.”
He handed his keys over, and then lowered his head and went back to
sleep. I don’t think he even knew who he
was giving his car to.
Keys in hand, Bruce headed out the front door. “Bruce…!”
I called after him. “at least take off
your hat!” But he was gone. Driving stoned in somebody else’s car with
an off-duty cop looking for him…This couldn’t end well.
It was only fifteen minutes later when a police car
pulled up in front of the bar. In the
front seat was – Bruce.
‘Oh shit.”
“They got him,” said Matt. “Dashing Dan.”
But it wasn’t Officer Reggie driving, it was some
other cop. What was this about? Why was Bruce in the front seat? And why did they bring him back here?
After a moment, Bruce and the Cop got out of the car
and came inside. As the Cop waited by
the door, Bruce waved me over to the side of the bar, obviously bearing some
distressing news. He tried to break it
to me as gently as possible.
“Freddy – don’t get upset – but somebody stole your
car!”
“What?”
“I came out of Sal’s Pizza, and your car was gone! Somebody must have stolen it! I looked everywhere!”
Somebody stole my car? In the midst of the general madness, I
momentarily believed him. But then I walked
to the back door, and looked out into the yard.
My car was right where he’d parked it.
“Bruce,” I pointed out, “My car is right there.”
Bruce went blank for a moment. He looked at my car as if he were experiencing
some kind of miraculous vision. Then he
started fitting the pieces into place, and it was a wondrous thing to see his slack
face slowly crystallize into a Sherlock-Holmesian moment of illumination. “Oh!” he realized, and I believe he actually
slapped his forehead. “I have Lou Noon’s car!”
By now the Cop had picked up a few intimations that
things weren’t quite what they seemed, and he approached us looking for an
explanation. “What’s up here?” he
asked, with a definite edge in his voice.
Bruce was apologetic. “It was a mistake. I thought I had Freddy’s car, but I had
someone else’s. It’s probably still at
Sal’s Pizza. That’s funny.” He gave a
rather goofy, stillborn laugh.
“So there’s no stolen car?” said the Cop. He looked pissed.
“No,” said Bruce meekly.
The Cop stared at Bruce a moment, probably trying to
think of a good excuse to run him in. Bruce started to launch into a fuller
explanation, but the Cop stopped him in mid-sentence: “Okay pal, you wanna get
your fucking meatball hero out of my car?”
After the Cop had driven off, and Bruce had the sandwich
tucked safely under his arm, we explained the train situation to him one more
time. The intervening stress had apparently
sobered Bruce up a little, because he was finally receptive to the story’s
implications, and he quickly formulated a game plan. “I’m getting the fuck out
of here.”
Which he did, taking his meatball hero with
him.
And that was it.
Officer Reggie never came back to bury Bruce’s head in cement, and we
never did find out if Bruce had actually exposed himself on the 6:04 train or
not.
Nobody really wanted to know.
About an hour later, Lou Noon woke up from his nap,
took a last sip of beer, and walked out the door.
He returned a moment later. “Where’s my car?”
Monday, December 23, 2013
AWAY IN A MANGER
(Midnight
Mass at St. Edward the Confessor’s.
A
church altar, with a crèche scene to the side.
In the crèche there are statues of Joseph and Mary, Wise Men, Shepherds,
and various livestock; but the manger crib itself is empty.
FATHER
MIKE is at the altar, assiduously cleaning up the chalice after communion. Oddly, he appears to be humming softly to
himself an amalgam of carols, from “O Come All Ye Faithful” to “Rudolph the
Red-Nosed Reindeer”. After setting the
chalice in place, he approaches the pulpit, just a bit unsteadily – he may have
had a drink or two - and addresses the congregation)
FATHER MIKE
We will close tonight’s
Midnight Mass Service by the traditional placing of the baby Jesus in the
manger and the singing of our concluding hymn, “Joy to the World” – always a
moment to treasure - but first I have a few announcements.
(reads from a sheet)
(reads from a sheet)
I’d like to thank the Ladies’
Eucharistic Society for giving so generously of their time and talent in decorating
the church for Christmas. The magnificent
poinsettias gracing the altar, and the wreaths adorning the walls, were donated
by Hick’s Nursery, and we thank them as well. The church has never looked more beautiful.
(Father
Mike looks up from the sheet, checks out the altar, and shrugs. He resumes reading)
We also want to thank the
custodial staff for getting the church cleaned up in time for tonight’s
Mass. We had a Living Nativity for the
children this afternoon, and some of the animals got a little over-expressive.
(points off left)
It was mostly over in this
section. You can’t smell anything now,
can you?
(back to the sheet)
Kudos once again to the adult
choir, led by our esteemed choirmaster, Edward Fartstain – Fairsteen, I’m sorry. As always, they sang like the heavenly host itself.
I
heard notes tonight I’ve never heard before.
And of course a special nod
to the New Ambrosian Bell-Ringers and their spirited rendition of one of my all-time
favorite carols, “Ding Dong The Witch is Dead.”
(reacts to o.s. whisper)
What is it...? “Ding Dong Merrily on High”! - of course. Just kidding.
(tries a joke)
Speaking of bell-ringers, did
you hear about the riot at the Quasimodo Look-alike Contest? Things were going fine at first, but then the
crowd turned ugly.
(chuckles)
That’s an old one.
(back
to the sheet)
Looking ahead, the schedule
for New Year’s Day will be the same as a regular Sunday; we will be celebrating
the Feast of the Holy Family. Which in the old days was the
Feast of the Circumcision. I guess somebody nipped that in the bud. Heh heh.
(checks sheet)
Anyway, that’s it for
announcements.
(tosses the sheet aside, and takes a moment)
Now, on a personal note: as
you may know, this will be my last Midnight Mass here at St. Edward the
Confessor. At the end of January I’ll
be leaving for another parish. I was
hoping to stick around for the Super Bowl party at the Moose Lodge, which is
always a blast, but apparently my new church needs me desperately. Although they haven’t told me where I’m going
yet. Anyway, if I happen to win the
pool, please give my winnings to the poor.
Actually, I’ll send a forwarding address.
(loses his footing momentarily)
Whoa! They always put too much wax on this marble…Or maybe it's me. We had a little Christmas
Eve get-together in the rectory this evening, and truth be told, I’m a little
toasted. Not that this in any way
compromised my solemn observance of the liturgy. I’ve been much worse than this, believe
me. I’ve said Masses where I was
half-blind. Father Andrew will bear me out on this.
(chuckles)
In fact, he almost did bear me out one time. Last Pentecost Sunday, remember? - I was
speaking in tongues. Gonna miss you,
Andy. My old drinking buddy. Maker’s Mark!
(expels a deep breath)
Anyhoo…I’ll be going soon,
and leaving behind a lot of memories. I’ve
been here at St. Edward’s for 26 years, and as I look out over this congregation
I see so many familiar faces. And I just
want you to know that I will miss all of you, and by that I mean I will miss
some of you.
The rest of my flock have left scars on my faith that will never be healed. I’ve heard things in the confessional that
would turn most people’s stomachs. And
by the way, I knew who you were, no matter how you tried to disguise your
voices. Frankly it’s only because I’m
filled with the love of Jesus that I can look at you without throwing up.
But - let he who is without
sin cast the first stone, as the Good Book says. And in that spirit of humility, I’d like to make
a few confessions of my own before I go:
You all know me as wise,
affable, saintly Father Mike, but that’s not who I am. For one thing, my name isn't Mike. It's Gaylord. I didn't think “Father Gaylord” really sent the right message.
(points to his hair)
This is a wig. Not sure how many of you knew that.
For the last ten years, I’ve
been copying all my sermons off the Internet.
I didn’t even know what I was talking about half the time.
I never met the Pope. That picture in my office is photoshopped.
Remember back in ’96, we had
that fire in the old rectory, and I was a big hero for saving Monsignor Keller and
Father Tom, who were both passed out in the parlor? Well - I was the one who started the fire in
the first place. I was smoking in bed,
and I dozed off watching Letterman. As
the kids say, my bad.
And then there was the time
the Bingo money went missing, and we had to fire Carlos the landscaper, because
I spotted him sneaking out the back of the parish hall with a brown paper bag?
(shakes his head)
Never happened. I took the
money myself. Bought a nice big flat-screen
TV at Best Buy.
As for that retreat upstate with
the CYO traveling team, I still deny that anything untoward occurred. If it did, I was frankly too plastered to be
responsible. That whole weekend was a
blur. Maybe they took advantage of me
– how about that?
But I can tell you this: when I’m sober, I’m as straight as a prize stallion. If you don’t believe me, ask Sister Mary
Geraldine; or better yet, her
obstetrician. I sometimes wonder what
happened to that kid of ours. I think
they shipped him to Minnesota. Maybe I’ll
spend some of my free time trying to find him.
Eh, whatever.
Finally, as I look back over
my life in the priesthood – what, 35, 40 years – I am struck by the fact that it was probably a colossal waste of time. I don’t even know why I became a priest; I’m
not really religious. But you know, I
didn’t have a job at the time, and the draft was still on, and I thought it
would be cool to be a bishop someday. Never
happened. Never got to wear the big
hat. And now that they’re shipping me
out to pasture, I guess it’s Game Over.
(shouts up heavenwards)
Thanks a lot, pal! If there’s ever anything I can do for you…!
(to congregation)
That’s a waste of time
too. If there is a God up there, He
sure as hell isn’t listening to me. I
know, this is pretty heavy stuff for Christmas Eve, but what can I say? It is what it is. I’m not a sacred conduit, I'm not a vessel of divine light; I’m a powerless
cipher. I can’t do anything for
you. I can’t intercede, and I can’t forgive your sins. I can’t forgive my sins…
(after
a beat; Father Mike brightens, and picks
up the statue of baby Jesus)
But that’s why this little
guy is here - right?
(faces the statue of Jesus out to the crowd)
Check it out, kid. Everyone came to wish you a Happy Birthday! Not bad, huh?
Packed house! You’ve still got
it! Okay, Manger Time - let’s do it!
(Father Mike staggers as he approaches the stable.
At
the last moment, just before he crashes into the tableau, he suddenly pulls
himself up straight, and gently places the baby in the crib. He kneels and bows his head in prayer. After a moment, he rises
and turns to the congregation)
FATHER
MIKE
Merry Christmas.
(As he walks off tipsily, the choir sings “Joy to the World”)
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