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Favorites from the newspaper column (Archive page three) The Jonahs attend the Dust Bowl | Jungler, is that you in my tree? The third grade goes to the zoo | Titanic: the true story The Dust Bowl had been in operation for three years when the Jonahs bought tickets for the 1935 game. "This is the first tickets we've sold," Hiram Dust, who organized the event, told Ma Jonah when she phoned. "Maybe now we can get a team to come and play. Maybe even two. Will you be putting that on your charge card?" "No," Ma told him. "We'll be mailing you a pig. Maybe two chickens, it's hard to find the livestock with this parade going on. Pa, why do they do this every New Year's Day?" "Where is it you're calling from?" Hiram asked. "Pasadena," Ma told him. "Do you perhaps want a small goat, and how do we get to the Dust Bowl?" "Send me a spare tire," Hiram countered, "and to get here, find the Mojave Desert, cross the Rocky Mountains, then look for the driest, hottest, dustiest place in the country and ask directions at the gas station." So the Jonahs loaded the livestock, the kids, two peanut butter sandwiches, all their furniture, and a jar of mayonnaise into their Mercedes and headed east for the Dust Bowl. "Ma, I'm gonna get myself one of them pennants to wave," Tom said. "I'm gonna wave it for one of the teams that's going to play, except maybe if there's only one team and then I guess I'll just be waving it for both teams, and for every guy who ever started east in a Mercedes." "We're the people," Ma agreed. "Have some mayo." The Jonahs soon found the Mojave Desert and shortly had a flat tire. "I guess I'll be changing this flat for every guy who ever started east in a Mercedes," Tom told Ma. "I guess you won't," Ma told Tom, "because we mailed our spare to the man at the Dust Bowl." "But we're the people," Tom answered. "And we're gonna be more of the people," Marryjoe wailed from atop a rocking chair on the hood ornament, "because I'm about to have a baby!" So while Ma delivered the baby and Pa looked confused, Tom stole a spare tire and the Jonahs were again on the road to the Dust Bowl. As they crossed the Rocky Mountains, their food ran out. "I guess I won't be eating for every guy who ever started east in a Mercedes," Tom told Ma. "Shut up," Ma told Tom, "and go kill something." While Marryjoe had another baby, confusing Pa even more, Tom killed an elk in a national park, then bound and gagged the park ranger who tried to arrest him. Tom said, "I guess I'm gunning down endangered species for every guy who ever..." "Have some mayo," Ma told him. "I think it's rancid, but so are you." The Jonahs ate the elk and started down the Rocky Mountains, only to find their brakes failing. "No sweat," Ma told everyone, "because we're out of gas and we'll coast farther this way." And indeed they did, coasting all the way to the driest, hottest, dustiest place in the country, where they ran over the pumps at the gas station and caused a conflagration that consumed half the county. "Is it almost game time?" Tom wondered. "I wanna get there in time to get my pennant, to wave it for every guy..." "Shut up," Ma told him, "and go look for the Dust Bowl. Big place with hard seats and white lines on the grass." "Not since the conflagration," Hiram Dust told them. "No grass, no lines, no seats, no game. You people are worse luck than the weather around here." "But did you save any pennants?" Tom asked. "Shut up and steal one," Ma told him. "After all, we're..." "One more!" Marryjoe announced. Copyright 1998, Robert A. Markwalter "Jungler? Is that you up in my tree, Jungler? What are you doing up in my tree at three o'clock in the morning?" Jungler sat very still on the branch, hoping the beam of Wilson's flashlight would not find him. The sprayer was balanced on another branch and Jungler had one hand on his branch and one hand on the sprayer. "Jungler, have you got that sprayer up there again? You leave my leaves alone, Jungler." The sprayer began to decompress, making a little hissing sound. "I heard that! You're spraying my leaves green again!" Jungler laughed silently, remembering Wilson's face the previous fall when he walked out to pick up the paper and saw the green tree. The beam of Wilson's flashlight trolled through the brown and gold of the leaves, flashed across Jungler's face, then flashed back. "Aha! Up there again committing ... committing ... leaficide!" Jungler began to laugh out loud and the beam of the flashlight spun through the leaves as Wilson erupted into a torrent that a sailor might have envied. Lights began to come on in houses up and down the street and Wilson's front porch light came on, then the door opened. "Clancy? What are you doing out here at this hour?" Wilson explained it to his wife, who covered her ears and retreated. Jungler quieted his laughter, then moved the sprayer nozzle and clamped down the trigger. The sprayer hissed and green paint sifted through the leaves. "Stop that, I say! Stop it, Jungler, before I ... I ..." A police car pulled up to the curb, its lights flashing. Tom DeHaney, the town marshall, hefted his bulk from the car and walked to stand beside Wilson, leaving the car door open. "Morning, Clancy," Tom said. "Up there again, is he?" "Shoot him!" Wilson demanded. "I can't do that," Tom answered. "For one thing, I don't carry a gun, and for another, painting leaves in the wee hours of the morning is not a capital offense." "Well it should be," Wilson grumbled. "A man waits all year for his tree to take on the golden hues of fall, and this jerk paints it green." "It must be frustrating," Tom agreed. "Well then, shoot him!" Jungler noticed the sprayer was losing pressure, repositioned himself to pump it, lost his footing, and tumbled onto the branch below. The sprayer hung itself up on a higher branch and began to cover Jungler with green paint. "Shoot him!" Wilson demanded. "Get your big flashlight out, the one you beat people with, and find him and shoot him!" A dump truck rumbled by, taking the door off Tom's police car. "Gotta remember to close those things," Tom mumbled, before telling Wilson, "I'll find him with my flashlight, but I can't shoot him." "I'll loan you my gun," Wilson offered. "The one your great grandfather used in the Civil War?" Tom asked. "I'll pass, even if I did want to shoot him, which I don't. Jungler, have you been drinking that Irish whiskey again?" In truth, Jungler had been at his bottle of Olde Blarneystone, and as he savored the memory he lost his grip on the branch and fell, landing at Wilson's feet. Wilson grabbed Tom's flashlight and began to swing it wildly, then the sprayer fell, lost its top, and covered all three men with green paint. Wilson's wife appeared at the door, looked, listened, and retreated. Copyright 1998, Robert A. Markwalter "I've found him!" Mrs. Grimmle cried. "Which one?" Ms. Johannsen asked. "Charlie," Mrs. Grimmle answered, giving a final jerk to the ear of the boy she was towing before depositing him in front of Ms. Johannsen. "He was standing with the penguins, very quiet and still. I almost didn't notice him, but then he ..." "Don't tell me," Ms. Johannsen said with a wave of her hand. There were things a third grade teacher did not need to know. Ms. Johannsen sighed as she checked Charlie's name off the list. She was slipping. The tuxedo he had worn to school should have been a dead giveaway. Just then Mr. Hartleg, the principal at Johannes Brahms Elementary, scurried around the corner of the elephant house and asked, "Do you have everyone? We've only got three to go from Mrs. Hill's room, and one from Mr. Sutter's. How about you?" Ms. Johannsen looked at the list, though she didn't need to, then said, "Ernest. Ernest Maybrier." Mr. Hartleg paled. Mrs. Grimmle said, "Don't look at me. He wasn't in my group." Ms. Johannsen sighed again. Ernest had been in her group, as had William "The Cat" Johnson, Perry "The Torturer" Williamson, and Arlene Speckhouse, aka "The Grappler." Ernest had slipped away while she was retrieving Arlene from the gazelle compound and convincing the police that William and Perry had not really intended to kidnap a peacock. Mr. Hartleg was looking from Mrs. Grimmle to Ms. Johannsen, swallowing rapidly and working his mouth, trying to say something that would not come out. Mrs. Grimmle had a drained look. Finally Mr. Hartleg managed, "Is everyone else in your room on the bus?" "Yes," Ms. Johannsen nodded, grabbing Butch Donsig as he darted by and handing him to Mrs. Grimmle. "If you'll stay here, I'll go for Ernest." Mr. Hartleg started to nod but jerked his head toward a loud howling which erupted from the direction of the apes and monkeys. Ms. Johannsen nodded grimly and stepped off around the corner of the elephant house, where she was met by Mr. Gordon, the zoo director. He had a wild look in his eyes and little bits of spittle flecked the corners of his mouth and he rasped, "Never, never again! Johannes Brahms is never, never to come to my zoo again. Do you know what that boy just did to my lemurs?" Ms. Johannsen waved the hand. She had all year to know all about Ernest, and she was in no hurry. "My lemurs are huddled on the island," Mr. Gordon told them, his breath ragged and fast. "At least, the ones who aren't on the cross-town bus. Or climbing the construction crane at the garage across the street. What is that boy, an anarchist in training? Are you people under an FBI watch or something? You should be, you know." Ms. Johannsen shook her head and said, "Well, children will be ..." "... shot on sight if they show up here again," Mr. Gordon clipped. "And I'm not talking tranquilizer gun, either." The zoo's giraffe herd rounded the corner of the elephant house and Mr. Gordon's eyes grew even wider as he was run over. He managed to get to his knees as the giraffes trampled a refreshment stand and headed for the open gate of the parking lot, where the three buses from Johannes Brahms erupted with cheering. Mrs. Grimmle went to kneel by Mr. Gordon and pulled a little first aid kit from her purse. Ms. Johannsen sighed again as a herd of zebras came into view behind them. Copyright 1998, Robert A. Markwalter The steamship Titanic was launched in 1912 and set out two weeks later on its maiden voyage for a casting call in New York. Most of its passengers were impossibly handsome, impoverished young men planning to make new lives for themselves as vinyl siding salesmen in the New World, unaware that the brutal upper class was planning to strand them on an ice floe near Newfoundland. When someone in Hollywood got wind of this voyage, a producer, two scriptwriters, and a casting couch were quickly assigned to keep track of the ship and its passengers. The producer and writers chartered the motor yacht Lusitania, hoisted the couch aboard, then set out to intercept the Titanic just south of Hollywood and Vine. The Lusitania's crew were a surly lot who soon mutinied, casting the couch, the producer, and the writers over the side. But the undaunted producer hoisted a makeshift sail and continued on course. Unfortunately, the makeshift sail consisted of a pocket hanky and a pair of wool socks, so the going was slow. Also unfortunately, the producer had no idea how to navigate a couch and was headed for the Solomon Islands instead of Grauman's Chinese. As luck would have it, the Titanic was also off course, having strayed through the Panama Canal when a drunken radio operator ignored warnings of a shift in the wind as he changed his skivvies. The ship's aging captain might have noticed something amiss, had he not been in his cabin having an affair with an impoverished young lady who planned a career as an opera star in Australia. The Titanic headed north for the shrimp beds of Alaska as the Hollywood lot turned east to take advantage of the doldrums in the horse latitudes. At the same time, a glacier in Alaska slipped its moorings and began to drift south. Sensing the makings of a disaster, the Governor of Alaska filed claim to film and print rights to the story and announced he would run for president of the Screen Actors Guild. Two caribou were drafted to take the news to New York. Meanwhile, the mutineers from the Lusitania had settled on Pitcairn Island. Finding they could not live on sand fleas, they again put to sea and headed for Vancouver, intent on becoming hockey pucks. This left the Titanic heading north, the casting couch heading east, the Lusitania heading northeast, and the glacier heading south, all on a course for film immortality of unimaginable length. The caribou were pretty much out of it after a stop at a pub near Nome. At about two o'clock in the morning, as the band in the main lounge of the Titanic played their traditional last call rendition of Nearer My Oscar To Thee, the great ship struck the Lusitania, which was shoved into the casting couch, which in turn struck the glacier and began to sink. The producer radioed for help, but we know how far that got him. Finding a criminal lack of lifeboats on the couch, the Hollywood crew were forced to slip themselves into a bottle where they floated helplessly toward Hawaii. Alarmed at having struck something besides willing women, the captain of the Titanic ordered all the poor people to abandon ship so the rich could watch them struggle in the water. Sensing a certain lack of fair play, the poor people invaded the first class buffet and set upon the roast beef. The mutineers aboard the Lusitania, seeing an opportunity, stormed onto the Titanic in search of food, finding instead only picked over ors d'oeuvres and yellowing radio messages. At this instant, a German submarine under the two ships tried to surface, sending everyone to the bottom and precipitating the Russian Revolution (or the Boxer Rebellion). The glacier continued south, where it melted. The crew in the bottle were rescued on Waikiki Beach by Jack Lord's grandfather, and the rest is history. Copyright 1998, Robert A. Markwalter |
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