Favorites from Run That by me Again

No One Expects a Dark and Stormy Nightmare  |  The friends that you keep

Where there's a will, there's a nightcap  |  Life in the slow lane  |  Who shot the elephant?

Spartacus and Cleopatra  |  Chattanooga - oh yes!  |  How much chic can I stand?

The Great Ostrich and its it  |  Does it have to be a dead cat?  |  The hole in the bishop's hat

No One Expects a Dark and Stormy Nightmare

It was a dark and stormy night. Thunder rolled and lightning lit the sky as rain pelted the roof and lashed the shutters.

"Why am I always the one to be lashed?" asked a shutter. "Do you suppose I might like to be pelted now and again for a change, then? Lash, lash, lash ... is that all you writers know?"

"Well if you had been pelted as often as we have you'd be glad to settle for a lashin'," said the roof. "Peltin' is no picnic, I tell you."

"And what about the rest of us?" said another shutter. "All well and good for you to be pelted, then, but 'Enry and me has come to like a bit of lashing now and then."

"Stimulates the blood, it does," said Henry.

It was raining, okay? Let's just get on with this.

"Get on with it, he says. How often 'ave you been pelted, Ducky?"

Look, drop those accents. This house is the home of Lord ...Fatheringshmarr, Third Duke of ... Qwatney. So we all have very upper-class accents, right?

"Oh, so that's 'ow it is, eh? Well I never knew so much as one blinkin' roof what was at all aristocratic and it ain't I that am about to start a new trend 'ere."

"And us shutters, then? How much of a aristocrat can you be, hangin' out all day and night in the weather?"

I've already sold this plot outline. It's going to be a movie shortly after the book is published. And there are not going to be speaking parts for the roof and the windows.

"How about us cattle?"

No, no, no! The only things that speak are people.

"Coo, would you listen to him," said one pig to another. "Only people, is it? And where would that have left that fellow Orwell, only people speakin'?"

That was different, that was ...

"A blinkin' best-selling prize winner is what, isn't it then?"

"And the blinkin' pigs all 'ave speakin' parts in the film, they does."

"Well the cows talk, too, you know, ducky."

"If you cows are talkin' to us ducks, please don't speak in the direction of them swine."

"When we swine are in charge ..."

"There they go again, ducky! Maniacs, they are."

"Well let's get back to the peltin' and the lashin', if you please. As one shutter out of forty or fifty odd of us, I casts my vote for remainin' in the lashin' end of things."

"You would, wouldn't you? You're on the lee side of house, too, ain't you?"

"And how many votes does us roof get, 'eh? Us roof, you hear? We're a shingled roof, we are, and 'ave you got any idea how many shingles will cast their votes for the status-blinkin'-quo?"

"Coo, the roof gets one vote, I say. How much commonsense can a warped shingle 'ave?"

"Them that is warped have all been treated and released, we'll 'ave you know."

All of you, stop it! This is my novel. I'll write it the way I want to write it. Now, it was a dark and stormy night, thunder rolled and lightning lit the sky as rain pelted the roof and lashed the shutters, and if anyone doesn't like that you can leave the story!

"Believe I might. I 'ear they're lookin' for shutters for a remake of Wutherin' Heights. Me grandad worked with that Olivier chap on that one', he did. What say, old girl, shall we catch the next blow and float on over to that set?"

"Oh, 'Enry, you got the worst timin'. Me and them three shingles up there by the chimley been keepin' company on the days you been shut and I been open, and I just can't leave 'em, I can't. Especially the one what's been split by that last lightnin' bolt. I've taken a real shine to 'im, I 'ave. We was gonna talk to you about a divorce, see ..."

"Emeline! We're C of E, you know."

"If Prince Charlie could do it ... but you're right, we're C of E."

"You'll do Wutherin' Heights with me, old girl?"

"I been with you through more dark and stormy nights than this writer fella ever seen, ain't I?"

"You're a peach, old girl."

"Just one thing, 'Enry. I'm in a family way, see. Me and the shingle, I mean."

"That's all right, old girl. I'll bring the little shake up like he was me own. Just loosen your hinge pins a bit and we'll catch the next gust 'o that lashin' breeze."

"Hey!" came a cry through the windowpanes the shutters shielded. "What's to become of us bed linens when the rain breaks the windows and we get soaked and start to mildew?"

"Hook yourselves to Me and Emmy and we'll do the blinkin' semaphore version of Wutherin' Heights."

Wait! If you go, everyone else can leave. I wasn't expecting this. What will I write about?

"Try the blinkin' Spanish Inquisition. No one will expect that."

Copyright 2009, Robert A. Markwalter

The friends that you keep

My father used to tell me, “You are known by the company you keep.”

I often wondered what he meant. The company I kept included Jimmy Horner from next door. Jimmy liked to eat beetles, the big ones you sometimes find inside rotten logs. He ate them right out of the log, raw.

Would I be known as a beetle-eater? I would glance around at my classmates at school and wonder if they thought of me as “Ronald the beetle eater.”

I also hung with Thomas Jeffers, who lived on the next block. Thomas would never eat anything raw. In fact, Thomas threw up every time he saw Jimmy eat a raw beetle. Did my classmates think of me as “Ronald who throws up a lot?”

Then there was Billy Jones. Billy liked to tie cans to the tails of cats. This was hard to accomplish but the results were edifying, at least to Billy, and in truth to the rest of us. If you have never seen a cat running in circles trying to catch the cans tied to its tail you have missed something, and let’s leave it there.

Billy may have been the most interesting of my friends, because the cat trying to catch the cans was surpassed as theater by Billy trying to tie the cans to its tail. Cats are notoriously solemn about their tails, not generally broaching any foolishness in that region. Billy paid a heavy price for his love of cats and cans; his nickname was “Scarface.”

“Tie it to a dog,” Jimmy would say. “Dogs don’t care, and they wreck more stuff when they start running around.”

“Where’s the challenge?” Billy would say.

The rest of us did not understand then what he was talking about, and I’m not sure I get it even today. But Billy knew. He grew up to run a multi-million dollar empire until his wife sued for divorce, his girlfriend left him, and he opened a taco franchise.

Was I known in school as a cat-can tier?

I wondered about these things until my father left home to join a circus troupe where he became a sword swallower. I reasoned that I had kept company with my father but was certain I could never swallow a sword (in truth, I gagged each time Jimmy ate a beetle) and so “Ronald the sword swallower” was simply not a possibility. Hence the company I kept could not really have much to do with how I was known.

My mother was very supportive of my father’s decision to leave home.

“Take your whetstone,” she told him.

At least it seemed supportive at the time. And my father made a name for himself as a sword swallower, went on to add fire-eating to his act, then branched into work as a clown. He visited me several years ago and entertained at my son’s birthday party.

“Daddy,” my son asked after Grandpa had departed, “will I be a clown?”

I wasn’t sure what to say. I had not grown up to be a clown, a sword-swallower, fire-or for that matter beetle-eater, or can fancier, nor do I have a particularly strong gag reflex. I told my son, “Who knows? But I’d avoid fencing classes.”

That has been the sum of fatherly advice I have given. Practical advice – something I think entirely different from the fatherly kind – is another matter. Just the other day I counseled, “Stay away from hedge funds.”

My son nodded solemnly and said, “The hedge is full of stickery things.”

My therapist nodded solemnly when I told him about this and said, “The world is full of stickery things.”

I will, of course, get into call margins, selling short, and various mortgage options as my son gets older, but not into being known by the company one keeps. My son currently had a best friend named Stinky. Advice about company could damage the boy’s psyche.

And so I live my life today in the house where I grew up. Mother has a room down the hall, right next to my wife. My boyhood friends still live in the neighborhood and we see each other often. Tonight, for example, we will grill beetles at Jimmy’s place.

Thomas and Billy and their families will be there. Jimmy, of course, will hide his cats, and Thomas won’t join us until the beetles have cooked for a certain time. I will bring my sword to chop the salad, my wife will blow on the charcoal to light it, and everyone will look out for my mother lest she trip over the ridiculously big shoes she always wears.

But we will talk of the future, of the bigger beetles Jimmy is breeding, Billy’s collection of cat tails, mother’s bunions, and the large winged creatures which carry me each night to the fastness of the gods in the frozen north, nor of a clinging past where one was stamped by the company he kept.

And just perhaps father will show up, bringing elephants.

Copyright 2009, Robert A. Markwalter

Where there's a will, there's a nightcap

"I say, let's get this right," said Nigel. "A, er, recap, as the colonials might put it seems to be in order."

"Recap?" squealed Daphne. "I love recaps."

"You love nightcaps, Daphne," said Clive.

"Oh, yes, let's have several," squealed Daphne.

Clive went to the bar and began to mix drinks. Arnold sat on the arm of a couch and lit a cigarette. He drew the smoke in through his nostrils. Daphne sat in an overstuffed chair and squealed.

"Two olives?" said Clive.

"Three," said Arnold. "I haven't had lunch."

"Rotter," said Nigel.

"Thanks awfully."

Nigel frowned. He went to the humidor and stuffed tobacco into his pipe, lit the pipe, and let it hang carelessly from his mouth. Daphne squealed.

Nigel puffed thoughtfully at his pipe, took it from his mouth, and said, "Last night, we all gathered in the study with father. He started to read his will. He had almost finished when he dropped dead."

"That was father who dropped dead?" said Clive as he poured drinks. "I thought it was Wilton, the butler. But then, I never could tell them apart."

"Neither could mother," said Arnold.

Nigel shot him a withering glance and said, "Father's will left everything to me, the eldest son. Everything but Cavendish Manor, the land on which it stands, and father's stocks, bonds, and other securities."

"You forgot the cash," said Arnold. "He left you no cash."

Nigel shot him a withering glance and said, "Thank you. Just as father's body hit the floor ..."

"I thought it was Wilton," said Clive.

"... the lights went out."

"Well, he was dead," said Clive.

"Not his lights, the lights in the drawing room," said Nigel. "Oh, excuse me, I forgot to shoot you a withering glance. Take that."

"Thanks."

"Welcome. We milled about in the dark for a time ..."

Daphne squealed.

"... and when the lights came on again the Star of Calamari was missing."

"I was always terrible at astronomy," said Clive.

"You were always terrible at everything but mixing drinks," said Nigel. "The Star of Calamari is the fabulous jewel that has been the cornerstone of the Cavendish fortune since it was retrieved from ashes of an Indian Fakir in the sixteenth century by the Third Earl."

"How wonderfully gruesome," said Arnold. "And, if I may finish your colonial recap, father's will was also nowhere to be found when the lights came on. So we can only assume he left the Star to the person's name he was about to read when he expired. And since I have the will ..."

Arnold pulled a paper from his coat pocket. Nigel gasped. Daphne squealed. Clive mixed another drink. Nigel snatched the will from Arnold, looked at it, and sputtered, "This is no will. This is done in Crayola."

"Just because a colonial disc jockey wrote it ..." said Clive.

"Crayons," said Nigel. "It's a fake. Arnold, you're a rotter. And not a true Cavendish!"

"Only half true," said Arnold. "Yes, Wilton the butler is my father, but I am half brother to you all."

"I was also terrible at math," said Clive.

"How are you at scandals?" said Nigel. "Our mother? Wilton the butler? Have you no shame?"

"Terrible at that as well."

"How are you at living without an inheritance?"

"I should hit the light switch?"

Daphne squealed. The lights went out. Chairs crashed and glass broke. When the lights came on, Wilton the butler stood in the center of the room.

"I still say there is a resemblance," said Clive.

"Indeed," said the butler. "Except, it was Wilton who 'dropped dead' last night. I am your father, and this has been a test."

"I'm terrible at tests," said Clive.

"You see, Wilton and I are twins, separated at birth. There is no Star of Calamari, it's always been paste. All three of you were adopted. And the only way any of you will inherit a farthing is to write a scathing expose of the decadent upper class of this country."

"My penmanship ..."

The lights went out. Daphne squealed. Nigel shot her a withering glance. Arnold lit a cigarette. Clive doused it with his drink, then mixed another. Lord Cavendish said, "Where is Wilton?"

Lady Cavendish called, "I'm sure I don't know, dear."

Copyright 2009, Robert A. Markwalter

Life in the slow lane

Scuffy was tired of being a turtle.

"Everything happens in slow motion," he said.

"So you can enjoy it that much more," said his mother.

"It takes my birthday forever to roll around."

"That much more worth waiting for," said his granny.

"The day goes by so slowly."

"All the more time to seize it," said his father.

Time rolled on ...

"Limped, actually."

... and Scuffy still did not like to be a turtle, so he ran away from home.

"Very funny."

He stood by the side of the highway with his belongings in a bandana hung on a pole and watched the cars whiz by, wishing he had a thumb to stick out. Suddenly, a car squealed to a halt. A young lady got out and ran back to Scuffy.

"Poor little thing," she said. "You'll get hurt."

She carried Scuffy across the road and set him down on the other side.

"There, now you can be on your way."

"I didn't want to cross the road," said Scuffy. "I was trying to catch a ride."

"A talking turtle?" said the young lady. "I think you want to meet my boyfriend."

The young lady's boyfriend was a theatrical agent. He was making the young lady a star.

"I'll make you a star, too," he told Scuffy.

"Then I won't be a turtle anymore?"

"Well you'll still be a turtle, but you can be a turtle in racy sports cars filled with glamorous young starlets."

"Can I drive?"

Scuffy went to Hollywood where he had his nails filed and painted, his shell polished, and his hair professionally styled so it appeared he had just stepped out of a rumpled bed.

"I didn't know I had hair."

"You don't," said the agent. "La Voluptia Salon can do anything, anything."

Scuffy appeared in several commercials, had bit parts in a few detective shows, appeared on a reality series where he ate twice as many flies as his nearest competitor, then was signed to play the lead in "Ben Hur - The Early Years."

"Funny, I don't look Jewish," said Scuffy.

"You don't even look human," said the agent. "That's why you're the lead horse."

"But I don't look like a horse, either."

"Have you seen yourself since that last visit to La Voluptia?"

Scuffy played the lead horse and got rave notices. He was tapped for the lead in "My Friend Flicka," then started his own production company for "Black Beauty."

"Something is missing in my life," said Scuffy as he lounged by the pool surrounded by voluptuous starlets.

"You want another sports car?" said the agent.

"I want to be myself," said Scuffy as he dropped a fly into his martini.

"That's about as yourself as it gets in this town," said the agent.

Scuffy decided to remake "Caesar and Cleopatra," doing both parts himself.

"I don't know if even La Voluptia ..." said the agent.

The film was a smash. Scuffy won the Oscars for best direction, film, actor, and actress.

"You should have written your own music," said the agent.

"This is all oddly hollow and empty," said Scuffy.

"You just need a smaller car," said the agent.

"I need to go home," said Scuffy, and he did.

"We waited supper," said his mother.

"Six years," said his father.

"I ate yours after it got cold," said his granny.

"You all were right," said Scuffy. "Life in the fast lane is not for me. I want to watch the day drag by, to enjoy it, to sip a martini as the sun sets, and sets, and sets ..."

"The flies are slower here, too," said his father. "Easier to catch for the martinis."

"You know about martinis?" said Scuffy.

"Why do you think Francis X. Bushman retired as talkies came in?"

Copyright 2010, Robert A. Markwalter

Who shot the elephant?

"An elephant fell over on Mrs. Harding today."

"Don't talk with your mouth ... what?"

Jeremy chewed his peanut butter sandwich as Mrs. Tower looked up from the stove.

Jeremy swallowed and said, "At second recess. Killed her."

"What? Mrs. Harding is dead?"

"No, the elephant. Somebody shot her. That's why she fell on Mrs. Harding. Broke her leg, Mrs. Harding's I mean. They think. She was still under the elephant when the buses came."

Mrs. Tower looked into the bowl where she had been massaging the mess she hoped would emerge as the night's meatloaf. She took her hands out of the bowl, began to wipe them on a towel, and said, "Go turn the news on the television."

The television made a blipping sound, the living room began to glow, and Mrs. Tower heard the five o'clock news announcer say, "The perambulating pachyderm plodded into the public school playground where it proceeded to ..."

"If you put one more 'P' word in that sentence I'll kill you," said the other announcer.

Jeremy returned to the kitchen, sat, and took another bite of his sandwich. Mrs. Tower dried her hands and sat at the table. She said, "What?"

"The people who don't like circuses to have animals had a demonstration out in front of school today," said Jeremy. "They said the circus people beat animals and whip them and tie them in chains. Somebody dressed up like an elephant in chains and there was blood all over it. It was pretty cool."

"So the elephant pretended to be dead and fell ..."

"No, that elephant fainted when the circus people showed up with a real elephant. It was a lot bigger than the dressed-up person. And it pooped a lot. I brought some home for you to see ..."

Mrs. Tower sobbed.

"... but I left it on the bus. That's how Mrs. Harding got under the elephant. She slipped on some poop and the elephant got excited when she said the naughty words. The principal got excited, too, and boy does he know a lot of naughty words."

From the living room, Mrs. Tower heard, "Animal rights activists have strapped themselves to the elephant's colossal carcass ..."

"You're gone."

"Who shot the elephant?"

"The circus trainer. He slipped on the poop, too. He said, 'Nellie, I told you what would happen if you did that again,' then he pulled out a big gun and ..."

"Put down the pistol, Thelma. Don't do something ruefully rash."

"I can't stand it."

A gun crashed, Mrs. Tower jumped, Jeremy swallowed another bite of peanut butter sandwich and said, "The circus guy's gun was a whole lot louder than that. So was Mrs. Harding when she screamed when she saw the elephant falling. And do you wanna hear what the principal said then?"

"No. Was anybody else hurt?"

"Just the circus guy, when the animal people beat him. And the animal person the circus guy shot. And the two policeman who were laughing so hard they slipped on the elephant poop. Their guns went off and they grabbed their feet. That's when all the other policemen started laughing, but they didn't shoot themselves."

"So Mrs. Harding is still under the elephant?"

"I don't know. I was watching the two bus drivers who ran into each other argue."

"Can anyone arrange the arrival of an ambulance?"

"No, but I hear a hearse hereabouts."

The gun crashed again. Mrs. Tower went back to the bowl and looked at the still formless main dish, wondered briefly if it was elephant, shook her head, and resumed massaging the amorphous mass of meat.

"Just because you're writing this, don't expect immunity.

Jeremy looked at the last bite of his sandwich and said, "Do elephants get gangrene, or were the people in the white coats talking about Mrs. Harding?"

"Did the people in the coats have a spare jacket with them, one with big long sleeves?"

"I don't think so, but they gave Mrs. Harding a big old shot that must have hurt a lot. You know, she started laughing and singing after they gave her the shot. Mom, who is Barnacle Bill the Sailor?"

Mrs. Tower had a vision of Mrs. Harding stumping her way around the classroom, looked at the meatloaf, found she had formed it into the shape of an elephant's leg, and threw the bowl through the window. Jeremy looked at the shattered glass and said, "Gosh, Mom, do you know any naughty words?"

Copyright 2010, Robert A. Markwalter

Spartacus and Cleopatra

Once there was a gladiator named Spartacus who was dissatisfied with his lot.

"Whassamatta?" said his friend Disemowelicus. "We got three bowls of gruel a day, we got a leaky hovel to sleep in, we got a threadbare blanket to keep us warm, and they send the dancing girls in every six or seven years. You got a problem?"

Spartacus had a problem.

"I really don't like to kill people," he said. "That, and my hair gets all messed up when I'm fighting."

"Shave your head like I do," said Disembowelicus, "and close your eyes when you stab somebody. That or wear protective goggles."

"I think I'll revolt instead," said Spartacus.

Spartacus led a slave revolt. He started with a handful of gladiators and gathered strength as they rampaged through the countryside. Spartacus organized the gladiators, slaves, peasants, and students whose loans were falling due into an army.

In Rome, there was panic in the streets.

"But there's always panic in the streets," said Gaius Cluelicus.

"Yes, but the panicers don't usually storm the senate," said Purilus Nastimus.

"I think I'd better take charge and straighten this out," said Debauchlium Schemeculus.

"How come all our names end in 'us'?" said Ferd Longbottomus.

Spartacus marched on Rome, but the Romans tricked him and marched on Carthage. Spartacus marched on Carthage but the Romans tricked him again and marched on Greece.

"Stand still and fight," Spartacus told the Romans.

"Shut up and meet us in Egypt," said Julius Caesar.

"What's in Egypt?" said Spartacus.

"Cleopatra," said Caesar.

"Hey, how come his name doesn't end in 'us'?" said Ferd Longbottomus.

So Caesar and Spartacus marched to Egypt, where Cleopatra fell out of a rug to greet them.

"Sorry," she said. "Spring cleaning in the palace, you know, and good help is so hard to find."

"Hey," said Ferd Longbottom, "How come her name ..."

"Can we put him to death?" said Cleopatra.

"No, he's our comic relief," said Spartacus.

"Who does your hair?" said Cleopatra. "It's a mess. I love it."

"Who does your gowns?" said Spartacus. "At least, what there is of them."

"I have a hairdresser, too," said Caesar. "Don't you like my forehead?"

Spartacus and Cleopatra began a mad affair. Caesar just began to be mad. Ferd Longbottomus couldn't think of anything to say for comic relief. The Egyptian peasants went on building pyramids.

Back in Rome, Marc Antony got wind of what was happening in Egypt and sailed for Cairo. Unfortunately, he sailed for Cairo, Illinois, and was stuck on a sandbar in the Mississippi River for the next 40 years.

In Egypt, Caesar led his army in an attack on Spartacus, but Spartacus tricked Caesar and marched on Rome. Caesar tricked Spartacus and marched on Cleopatra. Cleopatra tricked everyone and left Egypt to become a snake charmer.

In Rome, Spartacus marched on the Senate and demanded equality for everyone, but the Senators tricked Spartacus and played a double header in Cleveland that weekend. Spartacus and his army rampaged through the streets, killing, maiming, looting, burning, and tying cans to dogs' tails.

"I thought you didn't like to kill people," said his old friend Disembowelicus.

"That was before I got into politics," said Spartacus. "And besides, I'm wearing a hairnet."

The Senators were scheduled to return to Rome for four games with the Yankees, and figuring enough of their blood would be shed on the field they invited a touring circus to play the Coliseum. To lure people to the circus, they offered free beer and pizza.

Spartacus stood in a deserted street and said, "Where'd everybody go?"

"Free beer at the Coliseum," said Disembowelicus. "Come on."

"Nah," said Spartacus. "My hair is a mess. I think I'll just hang out on the Appian Way."

"Well have a good time," said Disembowelicus, "and remember, always look on the bright side of life."

Copyright 2010, Robert A. Markwalter

Chattanooga - oh yes!

"Me and Hulbert, we went up to Chattanooga last weekend and had ourselves a big time, oh yes, a big time."

Ray put a bottle of beer on the bar in front of the man who had the big time in Chattanooga and asked, "How come you got money to go up north, Bentley, but not to pay down your bar tab?"

"We had a big time, we did," Bentley affirmed.

"Then I guess you ain't got any money left, is that it?" Ray asked.

"But we had a big time, oh yes," said Bentley.

At the other end of the bar a woman said, "I been to Chattanooga."

"I bet you had a big time, too," said Ray. "At least judging by the size of your tab."

The woman had faded blonde hair and wore a loose-fitting dress over a figure that had once drawn admiring stares. She smoked the butt end of a thin cigar, leaning on the palm of her hand as she let the smoke trail out of her mouth and around her face.

She took another puff from the butt end of the cigar and said, "I am good for it." The cigar smoke came from her mouth in little clouds as she talked.

"You are always good for it," Ray told her. "Everyone is always good for it. This is why I have never been to Chattanooga and probably will never go there. But I have financed many a trip to Chattanooga by extending credit to those who have made the journey."

The woman said, "You have not missed much in Chattanooga. I had terrible heartbreak there."

"Vivian, you have had terrible heartbreak everywhere," said Ray.

"But I had a big time in Chattanooga," Bentley reminded no one in particular. "Hulbert and me, we both had a big time. Oh yes."

"Did you get arrested?" Vivian asked him.

"Not that I can recall," Bentley answered. "But certain parts of the visit are still hazy in my memory."

"What you had for breakfast is still hazy in your memory," said a man who had walked into the bar.

"You have not had a big time in Chattanooga until you have been arrested," Vivian said as the smoke clouded around her face. "I had a big time and got arrested and married the officer who handcuffed me and escorted me into the paddy wagon. He was real gentleman, he was. Until we got married."

"They're all real gentlemen until they marry you," said the man who had walked in.

"Shut up, Hulbert," Vivian told him. "You know nothing of my married lives."

"But he knows of Chattanooga," Bentley said. "Oh yes, he knows."

"We had a big time," Hulbert said.

"Oh yes."

Vivian let the cigar smoke trail around her face and said, "I'd like to go to Chattanooga once more and have a big time, maybe even get arrested again."

"You got too many ex-husbands to do that," Hulbert told her.

"I am serious," said Vivian. "I am so serious I could cry."

"Ain't it kind of early for that?" wondered Bentley.

"Shut up," Ray told him. "Now listen here, Vivian, you can't start crying just yet. It's way too early and you will run off the walk-in trade."

"I can't help myself," Vivian said as the smoke curled around her watery eyes. "I am remembering my gentlemanly Chattanooga police officer husband who cuffed me and put me so gently into the paddy wagon. I will never forget him."

"Is he the one you shot?" asked Hulbert.

"He was not," said Vivian. "But I remember that one, too, and he was a real gentleman even though he had a previous wife to whom he forget to tell me he was still married."

"I knew you would not shoot a man for frivolous reasons," Hulbert said.

"You might be an exception," Vivian said.

Ray sighed and said, "Let's all have a drink, on me."

"I'll buy," said Bentley. "Put it on my tab."

Ray sighed again and set a round of drinks on the bar. Vivian sniffled, then took a long drink, followed by a deep drag on the dwindling end of her cigar. She looked up through the smoke that wreathed her head and then smiled into the mirror behind the bar.

"That's the spirit," Ray told her.

"I was pretty in Chattanooga when he led me so gently to the paddy wagon," Vivian said.

"You're still a fine looking woman," Hulbert told her.

"Do you really think so?"

"Of course I do. If I had the money, I'd take you to Chattanooga right now. But Bentley and me ..."

"We had a big time," said Bentley. "Oh yes."

"The story of my life is men who have had big times," said Vivian. "They have had big times and left me."

"I thought you weren't going to cry," Ray said.

"I am not," said Vivian. "I am going to finish this drink and remember Chattanooga."

"That's the spirit."

Hulbert held his glass aloft, said, "Chattanooga!" and drank.

"Oh yes," said Bentley.

"Ray, let's have another round to Chattanooga," said Hulbert. "On my tab."

"Oh yes."

Copyright 2004, 2010, Robert A. Markwalter

How much chic can I stand?

Baltimore, the travel article said, was "humming with energy. It was "burgeoning, vibrant, hip, and chic."

Mr. Johnson wondered how loudly the city hummed. It had not hummed the last time he was there. Would it keep him awake at night? Would the hotel where he stayed supply ear plugs? Mr. Johnson always stayed at first class hotels. If he forgot his toothbrush, the hotel supplied him one. He reasoned ear plugs would also be available.

Burgeoning was quite something else. He tried to imagine a city burgeoning. The vision of burgeoning buildings, streets, taxis, and pedestrians staggered him for a moment, but he recovered and sought a solution.

If he wrote the chamber of commerce, would they ask the city to stop burgeoning while he visited? Or at least, ask it not to burgeon so much? Burgeoning, he reasoned, would probably be noisy, but he had that covered with the hotel's ear plugs. Perhaps he could live with a bit of burgeoning.

Vibrant might be something else. It sounded a lot like vibrating. Noisy, once again, but there were the ear plugs. And he had always wanted a vibrating bed ...

Chic was the stumbling block.

"Helen," he asked his wife, "how much chic can I stand?"

Helen looked up from her magazine and said, "Little or none, dear."

"That's what I thought. But it says here that Baltimore is very chic."

"We're going to visit mother. End of conversation."

"It also vibrates."

"I grew up in Baltimore. Vibrating was the least of my worries."

"Humming?"

"Only the Star Spangled Banner."

Mr. Johnson went back to the magazine article. He liked his mother-in-law. But Helen's sister was always there.

"My sister will be there too, so don't bring her up."

Baltimore, the magazine said, was also full of boutiques. Mr. Johnson had never been sure just what was and was not a boutique. Sometimes a flower shop was a boutique, sometimes it was just a flower shop. Sometimes a boutique smelled terribly of perfume, sometimes not. He had once referred to Starbucks as a boutique and been laughed at.

Baltimore was also artsy. He hated artsy. Artsy people drank tiny drinks and ate meals that consisted of tiny portions garnished with large green, orange, and purple foliage he could never identify. Artsy gatherings always left him hungry and terribly thirsty.

Yet Baltimore was unpretentious. That, he reasoned, left its artsy folk crowded into a small corner where they were seldom seen or heard. Heard he had covered, with the hotel earplugs, and if they were out of sight with their tiny portions ...

"We could go to the art museum," he said.

"We're going to visit mother, not the art museum."

"But the Baltimore arts scene is percolating with unpretentious, quirky diversity."

"What are you reading?"

"Well, it actually didn't say all that in one sentence, but that's the general tone of things in Baltimore."

"You're going to sit on mother's couch and admire her doilies."

Actually, the pictures of the Baltimore cultural scene looked confusing. There were lots of paintings, most of which looked like someone had ruined them by spilling paint on the canvas in huge globs, and a statue or two that seemed vaguely obscene.

The next paragraph said the city was ebullient. He had the earplugs lined up ... got to remember to mention that with the reservations ... but didn't ebullient involve a lot of jumping and yelling and running around?

"Remember, Doctor Thompson said I shouldn't exert myself too much."

"Just don't admire the doilies too strenuously."

In the last paragraph about Baltimore, Mr. Johnson read that no visit to the city would be complete without a trip to one of its many squares ... a square ... was he seeing this correctly? ... where one could rendezvous for ... martinis?

"I think I will be galvanized by Baltimore," Mr. Johnson said. "Just as this article predicts. It is a percolating hub of everything that appeals to me."

"You got to the part about the bars?"

"Just reading about a stroll one can take."

"Maybe mother and sister can join you. The doctor says they should walk more often."

Copyright 2010, Robert A. Markwalter

The Great Ostrich and its it

They rode over the saddle between the two mountains and the trail went to the right and become a very narrow ledge. They let their horses pick their ways around the ledge and around a sharp rock formation and then the trail widened and began to slope gently down the mountainside to the valley below.
There was a town in the valley with a main street running in and out of it. There were a few side streets and then the streets ended and some shacks and shanties and garden plots petered out into the scrub grass that filled the valley.

Jake reigned in his horse, took off his Stetson, shaded his eyes, and said, "What's that thing in the middle of that street that runs through the middle of that town?"

Arland shaded his eyes and said, "Looks like a statue of an ostrich."

"Don't look like an ostrich. Got no head."

"That's not its head stickin' up. Got its head in the sand."

"You mean that's its ... it stuck up into the air like that?"

Jake and Arland let their horses pick their ways down the sloping side of the mountain then pulled the horses heads toward the road and went into the little town in the valley. As they got closer to the town the ostrich got larger and larger. They stopped at the first of the buildings in the town and looked down the main street at the ostrich.

The ostrich's it was about four stories tall, two stories above any of the other buildings in the little town. It was a very well done ostrich statue, very realistic, even lifelike, especially the it part.

"Does an ostrich really look like that?" said Jake. "I've never laid eyes on one."

"I don't think they usually attain such size," said Arland. "But otherwise, this one looks very much like pictures I have seen of them."

"You gents new in town?"

There was a man standing in the street. He wore a suit and a bowler hat. His watch chain hung loosely from his vest and his shoes were shiny in the midday sun.

"Of course I know you're new in town," said the man. "Only one road in and out of town, and here we are tucked away in this little valley hidden in the mountains, so very few people come over the saddle and around the trail like you gents had to do to get here."

Jake looked at Arland, at the man, at the ostrich. and said, "What's this place called?"

"This here's Ostrich City," said the man. "I'm Henry Ostrich. I'm the president of the Ostrich City Bank and Trust Company. I'm also the mayor. You gents plan to stay long?"

"Passing through," said Arland.

"You might want to stay a while," said the gent. "Why don't you put up at the Ostrich House for the night? Get yourselves a bath, lose that saddle dust, wet your whistle at the Ostrich Branch, have a little dinner at the Ostrich Grotto, then drop by my house."

"That's mighty hospitable," said Arland, "but we're passing through."

"Well the thing is, you can't pass through tonight," said the gent. "This is the night the Great Ostrich takes his head out of the sand. That happens once every hundred years, then we all go back to sleep. So you see, you got to stay the night."

"And then we go back to sleep for a hundred years?" said Jake.

"Think of it as job security," said the gent.

"We'll just pass through," said Arnold.

"Can't let that happen," said the gent. "If the Great Ostrich sees you passing through, he won't stick his head back into the sand. Then we don't sleep a hundred years."

"Does singing and dancing go with this ostrich coming out of the sand?" said Jake.

"Do I look like I'm wearing a kilt?" said the gent. "The Great Ostrich takes his head out of the sand, we wake up and party all night, then he sticks his head back under and we sleep for a hundred more years."

"Must be some party," said Jake.

"Must be some hangover," said Arland.

"And it is some ostrich," said the gent.

"I wanted to go through farm country," Jake said to Arland. "All we'd have met there was farmers with their daughters in haystacks."

"This is a much better deal," said the man. "You don't have to marry anybody's daughter and you miss a lot. Why, when the ostrich stuck is head into the sand a hundred years ago we were about to have a war, the flu was raging, and the economy was going to tank. We slept right through all that."

"You a betting man?" said Arland.

"Forget it," Jake said to Arland. "With inflation, what'll your winnings be worth when you collect in a hundred years?"

"Am I missing something?" said the gent.

"Nothing you haven't mentioned," said Arland.

Copyright 2010, Robert A. Markwalter

Does it have to be a dead cat?

We did not look at each other as we shuffled our feet and scuffed our tennis shoes in the gravel of the school playground. Ref looked up at the swing seat he had worked for 20 minutes to wind around the high bar that held the seat's chains. That had been at the center of our attention before Murphy said, "Let's see if your grandfather is right about swinging the dead cat."

Ref had watched the swing seat jerk to a halt while the rest of us looked at Murphy.

"You know, he's always looking at Missus. Johnson's house and saying, 'There isn't room enough in that place to swing a dead cat.' Let's see if he's right."

My grandfather said a lot of things about cats. I was glad Murphy hadn't decided to see if there was more than one way to skin a cat, but swinging a dead cat in Mrs. Johnson's house seemed a much more ambitious way to spend a summer afternoon than winding a swing seat around the top of a swing set.

Roundy had asked if it had to be a dead cat. Murphy pursed his lips, closed one eye, then opened it and said, "Nope. Dead cat would be easier, but we can use Ole Eyebrow."

That thought made the project even more ambitious. Ole Eyebrow belonged to Mrs. Johnson. He was old, scarred, wary, and vicious. I don't know what Mrs. Johnson called him, but he was Ole Eyebrow to us because he had a single shaggy eyebrow that covered both eyes. It made his stare look like one of the villains in the Saturday afternoon movies we took in at the Palace as we tossed popcorn at each.

Slick absently drew a circle in the gravel with the toe of his shoe and said, "How we gonna catch Ole Eyebrow? And then how we gonna get into the house?"

Murphy spit into the gravel and said, "Missus. Johnson has gotta leave a window unlocked. Everybody in town leaves a window unlocked."

The rest of us figured Murphy would know about that. Some things you didn't ask about. But that left catching Ole Eyebrow.

An hour later five sets of eyes peered around the corner of the alley on Larch Street just beyond Birch's Drugstore. About 25 feet into the alley, at the back door of Glover's Market, one end of an orange crate was propped up on a stick. Tied to the stick was a string leading to the corner of the alley. Under the crate was a dead fish that had been in one of Glover's garbage cans.

Ole Eyebrow was known - to us at least - to dine in the garbage cans behind Glover's and he did not disappoint us. He crept into the alley from its far end, moving two and three padded steps at a time then crouching to look about. He reached Glover's half dozen filthy, battered garbage cans, sniffed at them, sat and surveyed the alley, then padded to the orange crate. The moment of truth had arrived.

I cold see Murphy's hand tense on our end of the string that held the prop. Ole Eyebrow took a step into the crate, hesitated, then leapt at the fish.

Murphy pulled the string and the crate dropped. Ole Eyebrow, front paws on the fish, looked around himself at the crate. He hissed, then growled. I felt a chill on the back of me neck. Ole Eyebrow felt something else and in the next second we became aware of the inherent fragility of an orange crate: it exploded.

Ole Eyebrow, the rotting fish impaled on the claws of one front paw, shot into the air, his other three paws whirling like a buzz saw. It was the only time I ever saw Murphy's mouth hanging open.

Harlan Glover's mouth was also hanging open. He had walked out the back door of his store just as Ole Eyebrow shot out of the orange crate. Mr. Glover held two big paper sacks with overage lettuce, celery, and tomatoes flooding out of them. He was holding the door open with one foot and had bent to uncap a garbage can.

Ole Eyebrow seemed to regard the produce as a personal affront. He looked down from the top of his launch pattern, adjusted his downward trajectory, landed on Mr. Glover's balding head, stayed long enough to draw blood, then paused briefly to shred the garbage sacks before disappearing into the store, the dead fish on his paw thumping like a flat tire.

Mr. Glover, his head dripping blood and the rest of him dripping rotting produce, opened his mouth. Whether he had planned to scream, curse, or just hang his jaw open we would never know because the collective shriek that came from the back door of his grocery reduced him to a series of sobs. Murphy dropped the string and we ran.

It took Ole Eyebrow half an hour to find his way out the front door of the grocery. Glover's was closed for a week for the cleanup, which began with the volunteer fire department hosing the place out. The mayor spent to the rest of his term in office bearing the brunt of jokes about panicking and calling the state capitol for the National Guard.

The next day, as we stood under the swing set watching Ref wind a swing seat around the top bar, Murphy said, "We can find a dead cat out on the highway."

He looked around at us, closed one eye, and said, "Tomorrow."

Does it have to be a dead cat?

The hole in the bishop's hat

"How fast do you suppose that chicken was moving, William?"

William moved his lips and screwed one eye shut.

"Henry said it must have been doing about ninety when it left the grill."

William moved his lips and opened his eye.

"But it had to have slowed down by the time it put that hole in the bishop's hat."

"Mitre," said William.

"Gesundheit."

"No, that's what they call the bishop's hat, a mitre."

"Really? Why is that? And by the way, is she really a bishop?

William worked his lips some more and said, "Of course not, you fool. That's cousin Sarah. She just thinks she's a bishop. Grandma likes to humor her."

"Well that chicken sure put a hole right through that mitre hat of hers, bishop or not. How fast do you suppose it was moving? The chicken, I mean."

Grandma hobbled up and said, "The bishop is upset. She has a hole in her hat."

"Mitre," said Walter.

"Gesund ..."

"No, that's what they call her hat," said Walter. "I don't know why. William doesn't know, either, or at least he's not giving it up. But you're right, Grandma, she has a hole in her hat. How fast do you suppose that chicken was moving?"

Grandma speared Walter in the foot with her walker and said, "Don't tell me anything about hats, you young fool. I was wearing hats before you were born. Now you go in the house and call Ella Smith at the sew shop and tell her to get out here and patch the hole in the bishop's hat."

"I don't have to go in the house," said Walter. "I have a cell phone."

"I thought all they gave you was twenty dollars and a cheap suit when they let you go," said Grandma. "How fast do you suppose that chicken was going?"

"Henry said it was at least ninety when it left the grill."

"Well see if you can figure out where it went. The bishop is hungry."

Walter looked at William, who worked his lips and screwed his eye shut. Grandma speared Walter again and hobbled off. Walter said, "I believe Aunt Gertrude took a geometry class in high school. She might be able to figure out the trajectory and tell us where that chicken landed, provided Henry was right about its air speed when it left ..."

Henry came up. He looked at Walter and said, "Your foot is swelled all up."

"Grandma," said Walter. "You sure about that ninety miles an hour?"

"At least," said Henry. "Blew clean through the bishop's hat. Left a hole as clean as a cookie cutter would made in Aunt Ella's chocolate chip dough. I miss Aunt Ella."

"Mitre," said Walter. "And I miss Aunt Ella, too. But that's what comes from eating your raw cookie dough, you get that fish poisoning."

"Salmonella," said William.

"Gesundheit," said Henry.

"No, that's the bishop's hat," said Walter.

The bishop came up and said, "I have a hole in my hat."

"It's a mitre," said Walter.

"It's a hole," said the bishop, "and I believe I saw a chicken making it. How fast was that chicken going, anyway?"

"Henry says at least ninety," said Walter.

"Now next," said the bishop, "why in hell was that chicken going ninety miles an hour when it was supposed to be peacefully burning up on the grill?"

William worked his lips and opened his eye. Henry rubbed his chin. Walter said, "We were going to cook it with a beer can."

The bishop nodded, speared Walter's foot with her crook, and said, "That does not quite answer my question. Grandma, bring your walker."

"But we didn't have a beer can," said Walter, backing away. "At least not an empty one. Not at that moment. Henry?"

Henry rubbed his chin some more and said, "What we did have was an empty can of Mighty Juicer Fuel Additive. That's the stuff we use to juice up Grandma's old Falcon when we take it to the race track. Well there was the can. And there was that chicken all empty and waiting for something to prop its innards open when it went onto the grill ..."

"And now I have a hole in my hat," said the bishop.

"Gesundheit," said Walter.

"Tell it to NASA," said the bishop. "But where did the chicken go? I'm starved, and I have a wedding this afternoon."

"The hot dogs should be ready in just a minute," said Henry.

"Or less," said Walter as a hot dog split the bishop's crook. "We basted them in STP."