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Favorites from the newspaper column (Archive page four) Al and G.W. fight for the drumstick | TR was a sickly lad who carried a big stick You want that with apparitions? | The routine that emptied San Francisco Armed with dangerous tiny reindeer | To party, or not to party? Al Gore and George W. Bush glared at each other across the lone drumstick on the Thanksgiving table. All the other diners had long since finished desert, but the plates before the presidential candidates had barely been touched. Gore said, "The waiter gave that drumstick to me first." "But then he took it back and gave it to me," Bush countered. "So now we don't know whose it is," Gore said. "Yes we do, because it's closer to my plate than it is to yours," Bush told him. "We had the distance measured with a laser beam, if you'll remember, then we re-measured it with a laser beam. It's been measured twice with a laser beam, and laser beams are very accurate." "But this turkey had a dimple," Gore countered, "and I also think it was pregnant. That would throw your laser beam way off. I'll bet if we get a ruler and measure, we'll see it's closer to my plate." "I don't trust rulers," Bush said. "Too much room for human error and corruption. I think we ought to measure everything with laser beams." "People have been measuring stuff with rulers for centuries," Gore told him. "If you want to be really accurate, you have to do it by hand." "Laser." Bush and Gore looked for several minutes at the drumstick, then Bush tucked his napkin under his chin. "What are you doing?" Gore asked. "Well, someone has to be ready to eat when that waiter finally makes up his mind," Bush said. "I am only trying to appear ready to be the next diner." They sat and looked some more, then Gore tucked his napkin under his chin, telling Bush, "I invented dining, so I can look just as ready as you can." "But I have dined more than any other governor of my state," Bush assured him. They looked some more at the drumstick, then Gore said, "There is something irregular about this turkey." "I don't see anything irregular," Bush said. "I think it was a regular turkey and I think we ought to accept that as final." "Then how come it had only one leg?" Gore asked. "What's irregular about that?" Bush wondered. "Turkeys have two legs," Gore told him. "Maybe it was genetically engineered by the government," Bush said. "I don't trust the government, I trust the people. Except for that waiter who can't make up his mind. Where is he?" "I invented genetic engineering," Gore said. "But I was the first Texas governor to keep a genetically engineered armadillo as a pet," Bush countered. They stared some more at the drumstick, then Bush said, "You know, I remember someone else running around here with a drumstick." "Yeah, I do too," Gore agreed. "Hey, Nader! Did you eat the other drumstick so we'd be left arguing about this one?" At the far end of the table, Ralph Nader mussed his hair, rumpled his suit, looked thoughtful, and said, "You guys are so predictable. You go out and get a turkey that has been fed irradiated grain - didn't buy it, I'll bet, but took it as a gift from one of the 39,714 corporate lobbyists in Washington - and then you are surprised when it has only one leg. I do not eat irradiated turkey, so I brought my own dinner - tofu and peanut butter made from peanuts I grew myself in the back seat of a junked Corvair. And the rest of you people here at the table, you're nuts if you ever eat anything these two serve. Come on over and get some peanuts from my Corvair." Bush said, "Well, if it wasn't him, maybe Buchanan got his hands on it." "Not likely," Gore decided. "I don't think he can eat a whole drumstick." From out in the hall, Pat Buchanan cried, "Can too! What's more, I can shoot the turkey with my trusty American rifle. If I had a rifle made in Mexico, I probably wouldn't be able to hit the cab of a truck driven by a six-year-old Mexican who hadn't had his brakes checked for seven years. That's what this Thanksgiving dinner was all about." Bush and Gore stared some more at the drumstick. It was a big drumstick, but it seemed smaller now than when the waiter brought it to the table. Gore took a moment to look especially thoughtful, then said, "I would like to propose a compromise. I will accept whatever ruling the waiter makes about this drumstick if you will not argue about the giblets." Bush looked especially thoughtful, then answered, "I believe this meal has already been served and that we should just go ahead and eat it." "Then I am going to insist that we recount the legs," Gore said. "They've been counted," Bush told him. "They were counted with a laser beam." "Were not," Gore said. "And even if they had been, they need to be counted by hand." "How will we do that?" Bush asked. "If there had been any other legs, they would be only bones now." "We'll search some of the plates, see what we turn up," Gore suggested. "This meal is over," Bush insisted. "The drumstick is mine." As the expectant diners glared over the drumstick, the waiter came back into the room, a half-eaten drumstick in his hand. He looked at the drumstick on the table and said, "Haven't you guys finished? Everyone else is through." "Bill?" said Gore. "I thought that waiter looked familiar," Bush cried. Bill Clinton looked down at the drumstick, wagged his finger, and said, "I did not have ..." Copyright 2000, Robert A. Markwalter Theodore Roosevelt, the first president of the United States credited with shooting three moose, two buffalo, and a park ranger on the same day, was born in New York City in 1858. He became the youngest President of the United States in 1901 when he mistook his boss, William McKinley, for a prairie dog and shot him. He was forgiven by the public, which also thought of McKinley as a prairie dog. Prior to becoming president, Roosevelt had been a sickly lad who frequently threw up on his mother. His mother never said much about this but just as frequently beat him with a big stick. It was a lesson young Theodore was to remember, for when he was president he frequently beat his cabinet with a big stick. Luckily, it was a heavy metal cabinet and no harm was done. Theodore graduated from Harvard, Yale, and Exeter Academy in 1878 and was sent to an oxygen tent in Warm Springs, Georgia, for six years. While in the tent, he determined to make himself a healthy and robust youth and applied for an internship as a cowboy. Thus it was that in 1884 he set out for the west, armed only with 30 or 40 guns, a retinue of porters and guides, and about $40,000. The trek was difficult, but the frail youth somehow survived and soon was punching cattle on the open range. Then he started hitting the cattle with his big stick and got fired, cattle being your basic commodity on the open range. Undaunted, Roosevelt bought his own ranch and punched cattle until they all had Parkinson's Disease. Then he hit them with his big stick until they all said they didn't have it. Then he dug a canal and made them all pay to swim through it to the slaughterhouse in Boise. "This Roosevelt is an up and coming young man," said Boss Tweed, the political correspondent for the New York Times. "Someday, he will dig a canal across the Isthmus of Panama and make every cow in South America swim through it." This prediction made Roosevelt pretty much a laughingstock and did the same for Boss Tweed, who left journalism for corrupt politics. "TR," as Theodore became known when he once went out to pick up the newspaper in his monogrammed boxer shorts, kept punching cattle and waiting for his chance to make a name for himself. That chance came in 1898 when the State of Maine was blown up in Havana Harbor by mad Cuban insurrectionists under the direction of the grandfather of Fidel Castro. Actually, only a small part of the State of Maine was blown up, since not very much of it could fit into Havana Harbor, but this was conveniently overlooked by William Randolph Hearse, a New York funeral director looking for business. Hearse immediately blamed everyone in Cuba and called for the United States to declare war on Spain. (This has confused several generations of historians, and seems destined to do the same for several more.) To inflame Congress and the public, Hearse sent Boss Tweed a telegram which said, "You supply the story, I'll tell you why it's Spain" Now heavily into the political game, Boss tweed ignored this telegram, to the chagrin of past and future historians. Hearse cast about for another way to foment war and remembered TR, whose horse he had buried after one of the robust young man's frequent gunning accidents. Hearse sent TR a telegram which read, "Raise a troop of cavalry and charge up San Juan Hill." Unfortunately, the telegram was garbled in transmission and when it reached Roosevelt it read, "San Juan Hill, a hootchie dancer in Cuba, wants you to drop by for a few days. Bring several hundred of your armed friends." Roosevelt said, "Bully!" (see above re: confused historians) and boarded a ferry for Havana with a party of favorites. On their arrival, they were astonished to see the grandfather of Fidel Castro exchanging wedding vows with San Juan Hill, who was in truth not a hootchie dancer but a transvestite from Berlin or Kaiser Wilhelm or perhaps even Queen Victoria (again, historians). The outraged Roosevelt shot three Cuban moose and most of the interim government, then beat their corpses with his big stick, dug a canal, and threw the bodies into it. This later became known as the Monroe Doctrine or the Organization of Americanized States. Thoroughly sick of Cuba, TR charged San Juan Hill with bigamy and ordered her to become the Sick Man of Europe whatever her sexual preference. He sent Fidel Castro's grandfather to live in the hills. And he ordered the State of Maine re-floated and towed back to its proper place. TR was now a famous man and the next logical thing for him to do was run for political office. He went to Wyoming to think about this, where he shot numerous things, posed for numerous pictures, and beat himself with a big stick every night before bed. After several months, he decided he was qualified to be a politician. His closest political advisor, Louise B. Mayer, thought he should run for Governor of Ohio. But the astute Roosevelt quickly saw a flaw in this plan, namely that he was not a resident f Ohio and in fact had never been to the place. He quickly fired Mayer (who took a job selling tickets in a vaudeville house) and ran for governor of New York. Elected in a landslide, TR called out the National Guard and dug a canal through the accumulated mud and dirt. He then beat himself over the head with his big stick and declared, "If I had a length of garden hose, I'd rather use that to beat myself. This stick is beginning to raise welts." Roosevelt's niece, FranklinandEleanor, soon saw how welty and unhappy the governor was. She suggested that the muck from the landslide be raked instead of canalized, and so began the muckraking of New York. Muckrakers raked mud for several years, until muckrakers could no longer rake mud or chuck wood. By this time, TR had beaten himself insensate and was being considered presidential timber. "Really?" he asked. "Well, if I am going to be timber we will have to have national places where it will be illegal to cut down presidents. I therefore declare myself Yellowstone National Park and will erupt every afternoon at 3:30." The rest is history. Copyright 2000, Robert A. Markwalter Once there was a house for sale. It was a cute little house, according to everyone who saw it, but for some reason it had been on the market for a long time. This bothered the house. It hurt its pride, but just a little. It hurt its idea of itself as real estate, but not too much. What it hurt most, and hurt a lot, was its sense of self-worth. The house felt rejected. At first, when people came to look but never called its Realtor back, the house thought it was overpriced. But when it surveyed the other houses people in the neighborhood were buying it decided that was not the trouble. The house looked at its lawn, and decided it was well kept. It checked its roof and siding, and found they were in fine shape. It felt its furnace spreading a warm glow and knew that was not the trouble. It looked at its living and dining rooms and saw they were warm and inviting. Its bedrooms and bathrooms were everything a person could want. Its basement was clean and free of water. The house thought for a long time about what its problem might be, then called its Realtor. "Hello," said the realtor. "Hello," said the house. "I am your property at 2772 Magnanimous View Court, and I have decided why I have not sold: I am not friendly enough when people come to view me. If you will bring a prospective buyer tomorrow, I will be the friendliest house you have ever seen." The Realtor looked around the office to see which of his colleagues was making the call, decided it was Fred, who was known for such things, and called, "Hey, Fred! %$$*&%! And that goes for the rest of your family." The realtor slammed down the phone and went out to eat salami. Fred, who was the Realtor's brother-in-law, shook his head and said, "Gus is working way too hard, even subtracting the fact that tirade came from an in-law." Now it happened that the very next day someone called and wanted to see the little house that wasn't selling. Gus the Realtor scheduled an appointment for that afternoon and pulled into the driveway of the house about 15 minutes early. The house peered at Gus as he got out of his car and walked to the door. It felt good when Gus put his key in its lock because the owners of the house had moved to another state many months ago. Gus's feet felt good on the carpets of the house and his fingers felt good on the light switches and the house sighed as he turned up the heat. Sixty degrees was bearable, but 70 was so much nicer. The house said, "We're gonna get 'em today." Gus stopped in his tracks and looked around. He shook his head, then smacked himself upside of it, and walked into the kitchen. The house said, "I am gonna bowl these people over. They will leave here thinking they have never seen a house like I am a house. Whaddaya say, Gus? Yes! Yes!" Gus pulled a bottle from his pocket and took a long drink. He was not a big drinker, but the housing market had fallen in on itself and hallucinating about a talking house called for a drink. "Go easy on that stuff," the house said. "First impressions are important." Gus took another drink and said, "Fred, are you in the basement? Fred, if you're in the basement ..." The doorbell rang. The house drew itself together and fairly exuded charm. Gus took another drink and went to the door, exuding alcohol fumes. He opened it and looked out at the people standing on the porch. "Hello," said one of the people. "We're the Doofungises, Marj and Henry. My, what a cute little house but it seems to have a lot of problems and we will therefore be sure to offer less than the asking price." "I know I have problems," moaned the house. "My self esteem is at a low ebb and my plumping is beginning to corrode. Oh God, Gus, I didn't mean to say that." "Corroded plumbing?" asked Marj. "Henry, could that be serious?" "I'm not sure," Henry decided. "Is it contagious?" Gus told them, "I'm sure you were vaccinated in kindergarten. House, shut up!" "I was going to be so friendly," groaned the house. "This house groans a lot," Marj observed. "Is that normal, Henry?" "I'm not sure," Henry decided. "But I don't think it's contagious." The house drew itself up to its full one story and said, "I have never been contagious. Also, I have never had termites, silverfish, or mildew, and my last chimney inspection found me clean as a whistle. Can you say as much?" "Well no," Henry admitted. "But my proctolo ..." "Would you like to see the dining room?" asked Gus. "Not really, we're restaurant people," Henry told him. "We dine out every night." "I guess that means the kitchen won't count," the house groaned. "There it goes again," said Marj. "Does this house have a ghost?" "Perish the thought!" said Gus. "What a shame, I like ghosts," Marj confided. "Moan, groan, and moan again," moaned and groaned the house. "I am the Ghost of Christmas Past." "Dickens?" said Marj. "I hate Dickens." "How about if I make your head spin?" asked the house. "How about if you just knock a few of my late mother-in-law's teacups off their shelves once or twice a year?" suggested Marj. "Done," said the house. "You want apparitions with that?" "Supersize me," Marj decided. Gus emptied his bottle and the house burped. Copyright 2000, Robert A. Markwalter Appleman glanced over his shoulder and saw that the giant kneecap was gaining on them. He cursed for the thousandth time the day he became a space jockey. Always some giant thing or another chasing you around some strange planet when you were a space jockey. Could have gone into insurance, too late now. They emerged from the purple, leafless trees of the forest and saw the ship off to their left. It would be close. The crew were waving them on, then they disappeared up the gangway. Appleman dug harder and heard Kleebee just behind him, digging too. They hit the gangway and collapsed as the big door clanged shut. They heard the kneecap slam into the door. Appleman grinned at Kleebee as they felt the ship's jets belch to life and lift them from the ground. They staggered, still breathless, to a porthole and saw the kneecap becoming steadily smaller. It already was showing a big purple bruise and Appleman laughed grimly, thinking there would be no ice on a planet as hot as ... he couldn't remember the planet's name, knew it didn't matter. "That was close," Kleebee said as they slumped to the deck. "Too close." "But we got what we came for," Appleman reminded her, taking the little vial of clear liquid from his pocket. "All that for something so small and ordinary looking," she said. "How many of the crew did we lose? How many giant kneecaps did we vaporize before our power gave out? Is it really worth all that?" "The Grand Council says it is," Appleman said. "And the Grundian Federation thinks so, and the Intergalactic League, and maybe a thousand or so space pirates, and even a few freelance traders like ourselves. Come on, we'd better go forward to be sure the scanners are fully opera ..." The ship was jarred briefly, then a loud hum enveloped them. "Tractor beam," Kleebee shouted over the noise. Appleman staggered to his feet, punched open an intercom circuit on the bulkhead, and cried, "Power, Johannsen! Full power to the jets. Forget the shields, put it all to the propulsion." "We are," came the faint answer. "It isn't helping. The beam is too strong." Appleman cursed and sat next to Kleebee. Nothing now but to wait, see who had them, why. He glanced out the porthole and groaned. The ship that had them looked like a Sockosian battlewagon but it had no markings, which meant it probably was in the hands of pirates. He said, "Well, Janice, this has been an interesting day." "And it's not over," she sighed. A few minutes later they were standing before the pirate captain, who resembled a medium sized yak except for his four arms and the small hump on his side. He used one of his arms to scratch the hump, smiled slightly at Appleman and Kleebee, and said, "So, we meet again, captain." "Wish I could say it's nice to see you, Proller," Appleman said flatly, "but my mother taught me never to lie." "That is a lie because you had no mother," Proller answered, chuckling at his own joke. He scratched again at the hump and said, "Tell me, who is your charming companion?" "No one who wants to know you," Kleebee told him. "I like a female with spirit," Proller said with something as near to a leer as he could get out of his yak face. "But enough of this. I want to vial you took from the giant kneecaps." "Kneecaps?" asked Appleman. "I do not have time for games," Proller spat. "I saw the dent in your gangway. Now give me the vial." "And if I don't?" Proller scratched his hump with one arm and with another motioned to a Vanadian dwarf standing at his left. "We have ways," he said. "Now, Appleman, the vial." "What does he do?" Kleebee whispered. "Stand-up comedy," Appleman told her. "Huh?" "Bad stand-up comedy. The worst stand-up comedy in the galaxy, maybe even in the universe. I know of a case where he broke a seasoned undercover agent in less then two minutes, left the poor fellow a slathering mess, I think he's still in a hospital." Proller walked closer to them, eyeing Kleebee. She moved closer to Appleman and took his hand. Proller saw the motion, raised one of his three eyebrows, and asked, "You two are perhaps ... well acquainted?" "We're shipmates, that's all," Appleman said. "I think not," Proller told him. "Kildoff, take the female into the joke room and do your routine for her." The Vanadian stepped forward, pried Kleebee's hand from Appleman's arm, and led her away as she squirmed and twisted. Appleman started after them, but two Hovernian guardsmen blocked his way, locking their tentacles in front of him. Behind him, he heard Proller laugh. He turned on the yak and hissed, "You are sick and twisted. But I will not give you the vial. That kind of power in your hands would mean the end of the universe. I'll see Kleebee a raving lunatic before I ..." The door to joke room swung open and the Vanadian staggered out and fell face-first onto the deck. Proller motioned to one of the Hovernians, who stooped, laid a tentacle on the dwarf, and said, "Dead. Can we have him for lunch?" "Impossible!" Proller shouted. "One joke is usually enough, and sometimes he only has to start the gag." Kleebee strolled out of the joke room. There was a little smile on her face. The Hovernians backed out of her way as she walked to Appleman and Proller, and Proller took a few steps back as she moved close to Appleman and took his hand. "How ..." began Appleman. "I worked my way through college as a waitress in an open-mike comedy club," she explained. "He just thought he was bad. Now, Proller, release the tractor or I'll do the routine that emptied San Francisco." Copyright 2000, Robert A. Markwalter Inspector Cheesemore stroked his mustache, looked about the room, and told Constable Barnstable, "I suspect the little rotund chap in the red suit." "That's what I surmised when I looked through the window and saw the little bloke," surmised the constable. "And, I did a little checking. Seems there is a sled full of toys parked on the roof. What do you make of that, Inspector?" "Aha!" cried the inspector. "So, little fat person, you broke into this house to steal all the toys laid out under this tree! Tree? I say, there is a tree in this house." "I caught that m'self," said the constable "Figured the place was probably inhabited by some of them daft ladies and lords and such, they do things like that you know." "They bring trees into their manors and place toys under them?" the inspector asked. "Well, live and learn." "That's always been my motto," the constable assured him. "Shall we beat the little bloke until he confesses?" "Oh, I believe that is illegal," the inspector noted. "However, we can threaten him so long as we leave no marks and get our stories straight for the internal investigation that will follow. Little fat person, confess or I will ... shoot you with this Captain Moron Disintegrator Death Ray I see under the tree these disgusting rich people have brought into their home." The little fat person laughed and rubbed his ample belly, then said, "You really don't know who I am?" "Let us take your fingerprints, and Interpol can tell me in 10 minutes," the constable answered. "I have a new computer, see?" The constable held up his new palm-sized, wireless computer. The little fat person looked at it and said, "Would you like to have the newest model of that? I have one in my sack." "Bribery!" cried the inspector. "Oh, no, it's a gift," replied the fat person. He turned and shoved a hand into the sack behind him. The inspector drew his pistol. "Coo, I wish I could carry one of those," the constable remarked. "Make talking Lonnie at the pub into staying an extra 10 after hours a whole lot easier." "You must be an inspector and have a crack mind to carry one of these," the inspector told him. The little fat person pulled a tiny computer from the sack and held it out for the constable. "Coo, I want that more than the pistol!" "Well you can't have it!" the inspector cried, slapping the constable across the face. "Come to your senses, man! We have a dangerous criminal on our hands." "Criminal?" came a voice from the doorway. The inspector and the constable looked to see a beautiful woman in a leopard skin leotard. She had a glass of wine in her hand and wore a small parrot on her head. "Identify yourself," the inspector told her. "This is Lady Noblut," the parrot told him. "And I am her late husband, Clive." "Clive Noblut, Second Earl of Magoofy?" the inspector asked. "The Clive Noblut who perished in the boating accident in which his wife saved her tennis instructor by swimming two miles to shore with him, then had an attack of amnesia and forgot to go back for her husband?" "No that was my cousin the Third Earl," the parrot told him. "I have simply been reincarnated." "I wasn't aware you had died," the constable remarked. "We kept it out of the papers, for the children's sake," Lady Noblut remarked. "But didn't they ..." "After a time, but they came to accept it, and then when I turned up as a parrot they all left home," the parrot explained. "And not a bad thing at that, they were all little rotters. That's when we adopted the Dickens children." The inspector and the constable looked at each other and then back at Lord and Lady Noblut and shrugged. "The Dickens children never have anything," Lady Noblut explained. "They grow up without diapers or food or education, save for some clever underservant who befriends them. They start life with nothing. Their parents are all dead or at least dying or fated soon to die. They are destined to become common criminals of the worst sort." "Round them up!" the inspector cried. "I'll call the Yard." "But we have taken them in," the parrot explained. "We give them a home, and diapers, and an education. They will not only make their ways in the world, they will prosper!" "Blooming Chief Inspectors, what?" said the constable. "It is not my fault I am too busy to study for the test!" the inspector hissed. "I have a Chief Inspector's badge in my bag," the little fat person offered. "Who is this?" the inspector asked. "I dunno," said the parrot. "We stick an evergreen in the parlor, he shows up and stuffs toys under it. Cuts the overhead on the Dickens kids way down. He is a little messy, though, I mean with the reindeer parked on the roof ... they're definitely not housebroken." "I think I forgot to mention the reindeer," the constable told the inspector. "Eight of them, I counted, hitched to the sleigh. Very tiny reindeer, if I do say. I don't fancy how they can pull that sleigh with all those stolen toys." "Aha!" cried the inspector. "We'll see what the RSPCA has to say about this!" The little fat person shouldered his sack, put his finger aside his nose, and rose up the chimney. "Call Interpol," the inspector told the constable. "All-points bulletin, suspect is armed with dangerous tiny reindeer." Copyright 2000, Robert A. Markwalter "Not another party," he shook his head. "You remember what happened last year." They looked from the kitchen table into the living room where Robert sat before the television eating chips and drinking beer. "Well, maybe he'll go home this year," she suggested. "And maybe he has a brother, and the brother will show up, and we'll have two of them." "Like the two tubas from three years ago." "Wasn't that three tubas two years since?" "Lawn mowers," she told him. "The Fribble brothers stole all the lawn mowers in the neighborhood and three of them were never claimed." "We ought to have a yard sale next spring." "Let's just hope he's not still here to be part of that offering." They looked at Robert. He stuffed a handful of chips into his mouth, dribbling crumbs into the growing pile on the carpet by the recliner. He washed the chips down with beer, belched, looked up and waved the empty can at them then tossed it into the pile of crumbs and punched at the TV remote. "Did you remember to buy beer?" he asked her. "Of course, you know how he gets when we run out." Robert looked up from the remote, held up his palms and shook his head, and belched. She went to the refrigerator, took out a can of beer, and tossed it into the living room. They heard the can hiss open, then Robert's curse, followed by slurping and a belch. "Did you remember glass cleaner?" he asked. "You know how he gets when the television screen gets dirty." "I remembered." They sat at the kitchen table listening to Robert mumble. He mumbled often. They could never understand what he said, but if they watched his gestures and took a mental inventory of what he did not have they could usually silence him. "Where did we go wrong?" she asked. "We were good hosts." "Wonderful," he agreed. "We gave him everything he wanted." "More." "We never shouted or hit." "Maybe we could have read to him more often." Robert belched and an empty can sailed past them. "Maybe we gave him too much." "But we'd better give him another beer." He threw another beer into the living room, heard the hiss, the mumbled curse, the slurp and belch. "He must be getting low on chips," he said, going to the pantry then tossing a bag after the beer can. They listened as Robert ripped open the bag, munched noisily, slurped and belched, then began to mumble more loudly. "I didn't know there was a John Wayne movie on this afternoon," she said. "Did you remember to renew the TV Guide?" "Of course, you know how he gets." Robert cranked up the sound as the Duke began to shoot bad guys. He tossed another beer into the living room, then, raising his voice over the television, cried, "Maybe we should do the party! How much worse can it get?" "Remember the Gavortnot sisters!" They sat remembering the Gavortnot sisters. That had been five years ago. They found them under the bed on January 2, they stayed until July 4, and they ate like horses. "How did they ever get under that bed in the first place?" "Must have been on diets, spent the next six months making up for it." Robert belched, slurped, and the empty bag was followed by another empty can. He threw more chips and another beer, the Duke threatened someone then shot him, Robert slurped, belched, and mumbled, and she broke into tears. "It's only a movie," he told her. "Not that. I was just thinking ... I'll miss him, when he goes." "The Duke? Honey, he's already ..." "Not him. Him. He's sort of, familiar, you know?" Robert slurped and belched and he said, "I know. And I think we should get you some help on this one." "You're right, let's not have a party," she said. "No, let's!" he cried. "We'll have a band. Dancers. Fireworks!" "But what if he leaves? I don't think I could stand it." Robert threw a can, he threw a can back, said, "You can do mind-numbing drugs until you're over it." "No, but I have an idea. We'll adopt him." He went to the refrigerator, took out a beer, hissed it open, and drained it. "What?" "And the party will be a celebration of our adoption! We always wanted a son." He was still standing by the refrigerator. He took out another beer, opened it, put it to his mouth, then looked at the living room door to see Robert standing in it, staring at him. He gulped, put down the can, and pointed. She looked at Robert. He trailed chips from a three-day beard and his bathrobe was stained with months of beer. She smiled at him, stood, went to muss his hair, and pecked him on the cheek. "Isn't he adorable?" Robert mumbled, walked to the counter and picked up the beer, drained it, then opened the refrigerator and took out another. He hissed spray onto the nearest wall, took a long gulp, and padded back into the living room. "He's growing up," she mumbled. "The years go so quickly. Before we know it, he'll be driving. And one day, we'll have only an empty chair in the living room." He took out a beer, drained it, said, "You'd better run out for another case. You know how he gets, and I think I'm getting there." Copyright 2000, Robert A. Markwalter |
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