NO FRENCH
By Patrick Plummer
My boss hated French. He despised France, including the French people, but he had a peculiar bias toward their language. For example, we could not take a cigarette break but we could go outside for a smoke. When dining out he would never order an entrée and called it the main course. And forget driving down a boulevard.
I suppose he thought French was trying to dominate the alphabet by using up all the vowels.
I’m certain the obsession eliminated things from his life. Champagne, crepes suzette and Audrey Tautou. I would consider the later the biggest loss. He’d never be able to admire at the actresses’ beauty.
It cramped his hiring, no one could submit a resume. Even though it doesn’t have the little accent marks in English anymore, it was poison to his mind. As his assistant, I would screen promising applicants and tell them to remove the word from the top of their work history. I advised them not to commit a gaffe and say “résumé” as they handed the document to him. Some excellent people slipped up. It is so common now to submit a you know what.
We could go to the john or the head but not the toilet. He went to lunch at a beanery and never a café.
I had learned to watch my mouth and keep my job at the beverage distribution company. A year ago I made a mistake the very first week and told him a truck was en route.
In what? He asked me the question as he put down his glasses and stared at me.
On they way, I answered.
That’s better, he advised me, never use that language around me again or you’re fired. Even if it is not French, but only sounds like it, you’re gone. Got it?
He was gauche.
I’ve lasted a year, which is longer than anyone. I learned think before I spoke. How can you not go out to lunch at restaurant? Or describe a pretty brown-haired girl as a brunette?
One day he asked about the framed picture of my fiancé on my desk.
This is a photograph of my wife to be, I said to him
Lovely woman, he said. What does she do?
I had to answer carefully because she worked as marketing director for the City Ballet.
She promotes a dance company.
He shrugged and left my office satisfied with his attempt to be my faux amis. That was a close one but I succeeded with my façade.
The day came when he was confronted with the inevitable. The visitor was the coupe de gras to his career. A short man with a hook nose came to our offices. He was dressed in a suit and carried a brown leather attache case. He intruduced himself to me as Andre Pompadeau and that he must see my boss immediately. The French accent made me smile.
Was he expecting you?
I shall meet with the both of you.
The stiff English is common with people who learned it formally. I escorted him into my boss’office. He glanced up from his desk and bluntly asked, What?
Pompadeau intruduced him self and this made my boss cringe. It got worse for him, better for me.
I am from the Nestlé Corporation.
I liked the way he said corporation, with all the nasal twang on the last syllable.
So what? My boss looked him up and down with contempt.
We have purchased your distribution company and I am present to observe.
Observe what?
Le operation.
Got to love the sound of “o-per-a-shown”.
My boss rose from his chair and leaned over his desk and asked, You mean I have to work for you?
Oui.
Is this a joke? He turned to me with a hateful stare and demanded, Did you put this clown up to this?
Let me assure you, Pompadeau said, the situation is serious.
All the weird, non-essential accents drove my boss over the edge. He screamed at Pompadeau and said he’d rather quit than work for the French.
As you wish.
My ex-boss grabbed his jacket and left the office cursing the entire way down the hall and out the warehouse door.
I turned to monsieur Pampadeau, extended my hand, bowed my head in appreciation and said, Merci beaucoup.
Saturday, November 6, 2010
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Quality Of Death
QUALITY OF DEATH
We relieve their pain of living, I began my lecture to the training class, and give them hope.
It was larger class than usual. The recruiters are attempting to build a national sales force. Corporate wants more people in the field to sell our services. They want closers who can explain our service, sign the [recipient] and transmit funds immediately before they can change their minds.
It is my job to eliminate ninety percent or more of the students. Only the very best may work for EI.
Those who show any doubt that we are enabling the dignity of human beings are sent away immediately. I will not allow real compassion in the field, only false sincerity.
As I continue my lecture I paced back and forth before the eighteen seated men and one woman. To have a woman in my class was a first. Recruitment is slipping.
I continued my lecture with a series of questions.
When is life worth living? And when is it a living hell? This human coil will eventually fail us. And we will become the victims of corporate housing. Not knowing our own name or the names of our children and loved ones. That is true oblivion. Why not make a choice while you have one?
A hand was raised by a pimply faced young man who asked, Mr. Aboli, who can say what life is worth living?
Didn't you listen to anything during recruiting? We are giving them a choice before it is too late. And it is their choice, not yours.
I'm supposed to help them make that choice
If you are tentative, perhaps you should sell hydroelectric automobiles.
I picked up his training packet and told him to leave. I wouldn’t have passed him anyway. Too young, too full of expectations. My most successful graduates where men with grey hair, closer to the age of the prospect, and able to relate to declining life.
Anyone else timid about this opportunity?
They were all there because of the incredible money to be made. No one spoke, but I saw some who where beginning to question their decision. They could dress the part, in their expensive clothes, short hair and clean nails. But could they ask the question?
I spotted another young man perhaps in his thirties. His right leg was shaking nervously. You, I said as I pointed at him, what do you think this position is about?
We sell, he said and stammered, people a way to kill themselves?
Absolutely the wrong answer. We don't sell anything. We educate, give them options. And we certainly don't encourage suicide. I don't think this is for you. Get out.
Is anyone here familiar with pre-planning?
The class raised their hands to the rhetorical question, but the last to raise her hand was the woman dressed in black. She was a well-dressed, attractive blond, about thirty-five. Although she appeared professional, she had little personality. Usually these sales types were all smiles. Congenial to a fault. I picked upon her.
What does it mean to you? I asked.
Being prepared for the inevitable, she responded.
The woman's face was ridged. Her eyes stared at me without emotion.
That is an excellent answer, I complemented her. Even though I was certain I would fail her.
I chose to give them all a quick test.
Use the keyboard on your desk to type the full presentation you have been given to memorize.
But, Mr. Aboli, we were only given it last night, said a man in his late fifties.
That was a pity. He had the right look, but I could make no exceptions. The front office was trying to push people through and I had to be stringent.
It is our presentation and, for legal purposes, must be accurate. Have you studied the material?
I read it over, he responded, but I thought we'd work on it in class.
You were instructed to know it verbatim today. If this is a problem you may leave. The test will be graded by the amount of errors in the text. Anyone who hasn't committed it to memory may leave now.
The man who had complained was the first to rise, followed by several other men. It was unfortunate that somel of the men were appropriate for our profession. Older, distinguished, still with a future in the business. In the beginning, I would work with a promising applicant. Drill them, groom them in the nuance of the presentation. I have been doing this for over forty years and, because of aggressive hiring practices, I’ve had to eliminate many a good man before I could mentor them.
As they typed the proposal, the computer would score them. Anyone falling below eighty percent failed. The machine made a distinct sound, a buzzer that ended their hopes. The screen would instruct them to go to the receptionist and turn in their temporary badge.
All that remained in my training room were two men and the woman.
She had scored a 97.8. The men had scored 89.6 and a miserable 78.2. The lowest scored was dismissed from class.
This is where the fun begins, I said them, I prefer to work one on one with the right man.
The man smiled at me, a self-assured, arrogant salesman with an acceptable ability to remember four pages of text. Probably a trained actor, but I hadn't looked at his resume. I don't care to even know their names until the real training commences.
I'm your man, he said.
His confidence irritated me.
I turned to her and noticed she had absolutely no expression.
Well? I asked her.
She said coldly, I came here to facilitate people who desire comfort.
It was directly from the opening of the presentation, delivered perfectly, even without my coaching. She was an impassive professional and would make an excellent consultant. If she only weren't a woman.
Too bad the salesman continued to talk. He said,I can deliver any pitch and handle and objection to close the deal.
First and foremost, I said to him, this is not a pitch.
His smile began to fade.
I don't want a huckster representing this company. You may leave.
When the door slammed I looked at her and noticed a sign satisfaction upon her face. It was the slightest upturn of her mouth.
Then I suppose this makes me your man, she said.
It will be a first. But, this has been a long day one. In the morning we will continue with the delivery of the presentation.
She rose from the table and I noticed how tall she was, with an athletic build, and her broad shoulders filled out the black suite. She picked up her hand bag and then joined me at the front of the classroom.
Thank you for this opportunity, she said and extended her hand. She had a strong handshake and held me tightly.
What is your name? I asked. Since she had passed, I wanted to address her properly.
Angela Lorilei, she said, still holding my hand. My mother was Lana Lorilei. Does that name sound familiar?
No, I said and wondered why she still gripped my hand.
You sold her a kit.
I did?
My palm was beginning to perspire in hers.
Yes, she continued, several years ago. During a field training.
I've sold many kits over forty years.
But this was to a woman who wasn't dying. Had she lived just a few more weeks they would have administered a cure. But she stopped taking her medication. Because of your advice, she gave up hope.
Angela, would you please let go of my hand.
She stopped her dosage and died. Before the kit arrived.
I pulled at her grip but I was too frail to release myself. I saw her reach into her bag and pull out the purple disk, model 605. It worked in minutes.
How many more years of life do you have? she asked.
With modern science, I said, twenty.
But I could not take my eyes off the model 605 in her large hand.
I began to struggle but she was too powerful. She pressed the disk over my heart and activated it. I lost my breath but grasped at the device.
This is for the twenty years my mother could have had, she said.
I collapse to the floor. She stared at me and waited. I struggled to release the kit, but it was too late. I succumbed and my heart stopped.
We relieve their pain of living, I began my lecture to the training class, and give them hope.
It was larger class than usual. The recruiters are attempting to build a national sales force. Corporate wants more people in the field to sell our services. They want closers who can explain our service, sign the [recipient] and transmit funds immediately before they can change their minds.
It is my job to eliminate ninety percent or more of the students. Only the very best may work for EI.
Those who show any doubt that we are enabling the dignity of human beings are sent away immediately. I will not allow real compassion in the field, only false sincerity.
As I continue my lecture I paced back and forth before the eighteen seated men and one woman. To have a woman in my class was a first. Recruitment is slipping.
I continued my lecture with a series of questions.
When is life worth living? And when is it a living hell? This human coil will eventually fail us. And we will become the victims of corporate housing. Not knowing our own name or the names of our children and loved ones. That is true oblivion. Why not make a choice while you have one?
A hand was raised by a pimply faced young man who asked, Mr. Aboli, who can say what life is worth living?
Didn't you listen to anything during recruiting? We are giving them a choice before it is too late. And it is their choice, not yours.
I'm supposed to help them make that choice
If you are tentative, perhaps you should sell hydroelectric automobiles.
I picked up his training packet and told him to leave. I wouldn’t have passed him anyway. Too young, too full of expectations. My most successful graduates where men with grey hair, closer to the age of the prospect, and able to relate to declining life.
Anyone else timid about this opportunity?
They were all there because of the incredible money to be made. No one spoke, but I saw some who where beginning to question their decision. They could dress the part, in their expensive clothes, short hair and clean nails. But could they ask the question?
I spotted another young man perhaps in his thirties. His right leg was shaking nervously. You, I said as I pointed at him, what do you think this position is about?
We sell, he said and stammered, people a way to kill themselves?
Absolutely the wrong answer. We don't sell anything. We educate, give them options. And we certainly don't encourage suicide. I don't think this is for you. Get out.
Is anyone here familiar with pre-planning?
The class raised their hands to the rhetorical question, but the last to raise her hand was the woman dressed in black. She was a well-dressed, attractive blond, about thirty-five. Although she appeared professional, she had little personality. Usually these sales types were all smiles. Congenial to a fault. I picked upon her.
What does it mean to you? I asked.
Being prepared for the inevitable, she responded.
The woman's face was ridged. Her eyes stared at me without emotion.
That is an excellent answer, I complemented her. Even though I was certain I would fail her.
I chose to give them all a quick test.
Use the keyboard on your desk to type the full presentation you have been given to memorize.
But, Mr. Aboli, we were only given it last night, said a man in his late fifties.
That was a pity. He had the right look, but I could make no exceptions. The front office was trying to push people through and I had to be stringent.
It is our presentation and, for legal purposes, must be accurate. Have you studied the material?
I read it over, he responded, but I thought we'd work on it in class.
You were instructed to know it verbatim today. If this is a problem you may leave. The test will be graded by the amount of errors in the text. Anyone who hasn't committed it to memory may leave now.
The man who had complained was the first to rise, followed by several other men. It was unfortunate that somel of the men were appropriate for our profession. Older, distinguished, still with a future in the business. In the beginning, I would work with a promising applicant. Drill them, groom them in the nuance of the presentation. I have been doing this for over forty years and, because of aggressive hiring practices, I’ve had to eliminate many a good man before I could mentor them.
As they typed the proposal, the computer would score them. Anyone falling below eighty percent failed. The machine made a distinct sound, a buzzer that ended their hopes. The screen would instruct them to go to the receptionist and turn in their temporary badge.
All that remained in my training room were two men and the woman.
She had scored a 97.8. The men had scored 89.6 and a miserable 78.2. The lowest scored was dismissed from class.
This is where the fun begins, I said them, I prefer to work one on one with the right man.
The man smiled at me, a self-assured, arrogant salesman with an acceptable ability to remember four pages of text. Probably a trained actor, but I hadn't looked at his resume. I don't care to even know their names until the real training commences.
I'm your man, he said.
His confidence irritated me.
I turned to her and noticed she had absolutely no expression.
Well? I asked her.
She said coldly, I came here to facilitate people who desire comfort.
It was directly from the opening of the presentation, delivered perfectly, even without my coaching. She was an impassive professional and would make an excellent consultant. If she only weren't a woman.
Too bad the salesman continued to talk. He said,I can deliver any pitch and handle and objection to close the deal.
First and foremost, I said to him, this is not a pitch.
His smile began to fade.
I don't want a huckster representing this company. You may leave.
When the door slammed I looked at her and noticed a sign satisfaction upon her face. It was the slightest upturn of her mouth.
Then I suppose this makes me your man, she said.
It will be a first. But, this has been a long day one. In the morning we will continue with the delivery of the presentation.
She rose from the table and I noticed how tall she was, with an athletic build, and her broad shoulders filled out the black suite. She picked up her hand bag and then joined me at the front of the classroom.
Thank you for this opportunity, she said and extended her hand. She had a strong handshake and held me tightly.
What is your name? I asked. Since she had passed, I wanted to address her properly.
Angela Lorilei, she said, still holding my hand. My mother was Lana Lorilei. Does that name sound familiar?
No, I said and wondered why she still gripped my hand.
You sold her a kit.
I did?
My palm was beginning to perspire in hers.
Yes, she continued, several years ago. During a field training.
I've sold many kits over forty years.
But this was to a woman who wasn't dying. Had she lived just a few more weeks they would have administered a cure. But she stopped taking her medication. Because of your advice, she gave up hope.
Angela, would you please let go of my hand.
She stopped her dosage and died. Before the kit arrived.
I pulled at her grip but I was too frail to release myself. I saw her reach into her bag and pull out the purple disk, model 605. It worked in minutes.
How many more years of life do you have? she asked.
With modern science, I said, twenty.
But I could not take my eyes off the model 605 in her large hand.
I began to struggle but she was too powerful. She pressed the disk over my heart and activated it. I lost my breath but grasped at the device.
This is for the twenty years my mother could have had, she said.
I collapse to the floor. She stared at me and waited. I struggled to release the kit, but it was too late. I succumbed and my heart stopped.
Saturday, July 3, 2010
Cancel It
Cancel It
By Patrick Foley Plummer
(Excerpt from the unpublished novel The Way of Fu Jing.)
The afternoon continued to be busy at Nirvana Books. The owners had little to say to each other and talked on the phone, or with customers browsing the racks, without allowing their disagreement over the advertising budget to affect their work. But when they would find themselves in the same row of books, or even on the same floor of the bookstore, they would move apart. The cramped office was avoided altogether.
Inevitably the mid-afternoon began to slow down and they were finding less and less to do. The coffee had gone stale and the smell drifted from the little office, filling the first floor of the bookstore. Neither woman made a move toward the office where the coffee pot continue to cook. It was Te's idea to always keep a fresh pot going. But Kathy had made the coffee this morning and Te’ refused to clean it up. The coffee stench rivaled their stubbornness.
A young man dressed in a white shirt, red tie and dark slacks entered the bookstore and asked to speak to the owners. The clerk pointed them out.
“Hi!” the young man said to Kathy. His pimple-faced smile irritated her as she looked down at him. She waited for the sales pitch. “I’m Douglas with KSLX radio. I think we talked on the phone.”
“I don’t remember talking to you,” Kathy said.
“Then it was the other owner—I must be mistaken. Ma’am!” Douglas with KSLX called to Te’. “Did I talk with you about the advertising?”
“When?” Te’ asked.
“Yesterday.”
“I don’t remember. I talked to so many reps.”
“I had a message from you today to cancel the contract.”
“I don’t usually handle the advertising. You’ll have to talk to Kathy,” She said and pointed in her partner's direction.
Douglas turned to Kathy.
“How much is it?” Kathy asked gruffly.
“If it’s about the money we could reduce the schedule,” Douglas said with his perpetual smile. “But that would affect the spot rate.”
“Cancel it if you want to, Kathy.” Te’ walked to where Kathy and the sales rep were standing.
“It’s already running,” the rep said and tried to pose a serious question but Douglas’s young brow only contorted while his smile turned into a pained expression. “You want a successful promotion, don’t you?”
“We’re having a successful promotion,” Kathy argued.
“And we at KSLX want to be part of your success. We’re your advertising partners.”
“Kathy and I are partners,” Te’ said tersely, “and we have made a decision to cancel the ads.”
“But you agreed—“
“Who agreed?” Kathy interrupted the rep.
“One of you must have. I have a signed fax.”
“Which one?” Te’ asked.
“Which one what?” the salesman was getting flustered.
“Which one agreed? Who did you talk with?”
“It was a woman. Uh,” the rep tried to read the signature on the fax, ”it says Teu Alkuma?”
“Te' Walakuma,” Kathy looked at the signature and turned to Te'. “Then it must have been you. Don’t you remember who you talked with?”
“How should I know? There were so many stations.”
“I know. That’s why I began canceling the spots,” Kathy began to raise her voice.
“So cancel it then,” Te’ huffed.
“I will.”
“Good.”
“Bad.” Douglas continued in an apologetic tone, “We’ll have to raise the rates because you’re reducing the frequency.”
“Have we paid for the spots yet?” Kathy asked.
“No, we haven’t invoiced you.”
“Then I’ll pay the original rate whatever that was.”
“Look, young man,” Te’ said to him, “my partner wants to cancel the ads. Just stop running them.”
“But KSLX had an agreement with you and now you’ve changed it. Don’t you understand anything about advertising?”
“No,” Te’ was becoming impatient. “Do you know anything about our business?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Then how can you really help us?”
“What station did you say?” Kathy asked as she went to the counter and picked up the registration book.
“KSLX. Number one in Saint Louis.”
“Right,” Kathy grumbled as she looked over her crude tracking system, “you all say that.”
“But we are number one in sports coverage and—“
“Does this look like Busch Stadium?” Kathy stared the rep down.
“No, ma’am.”
“And stop calling us ma’am,” Te’ complained. “It makes us sound old.”
“But you—“ young Douglas choked back the word ‘are’ and swallowed as Te’ fumed at him.
“Well, your in luck,” Kathy said as she surveyed the registrations. “Looks like being on your Cardinals baseball update has actually produced some registrations for the men’s seminar.”
“Does that mean you’ll continue the advertising?”
“No!” Te’ corrected him.
“Possibly,” Kathy said and put out her big hand. “Give me the schedule.”
“You’re not seriously considering this,” Te’ asked and put her fists on her hips.
“Oh,” Kathy smiled with contempt, “yes I am.”
“Great!” Douglas beamed.
“Say what?” Te’ become more agitated. “Are you doing this to spite me?”
“No, I’m doing what’s best for the business.”
“But I thought you said we couldn’t afford to pay for all this.”
“What?” the sales rep asked.
“We can’t, but if something is working we might as well continue.”
“Then how are we going to pay for it?” Te’ asked.
“We’re not,” Kathy said matter-of-factly.
“You’re not?” Douglas was becoming more concerned.
“Kathy, you’re being obstinate.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Are you going to run the schedule?” Douglas asked.
“Yes,” Kathy said.
“No,” Te’ countered.
“I’ll run it but I won’t pay for it,” Kathy said.
“But you have to pay for it or I can’t run it,” Douglas pleaded.
“Let her pay for it,” Kathy indicated her business partner and handed the contract back to the sales rep. “She’s the one that bought it.”
“I want to cancel it!” Te’ exclaimed.
“So cancel it,” Kathy shrugged.
“Wait!” Douglas of KSLX held the sheet of paper up to them and insisted, “We had an agreement.”
“Not now,” Te’ said. “I want to cancel it.”
“Why?” Douglas was confused. “She just said it was working. Don’t you want to stick with something that brings results?”
“I don’t care about results,” Te’ said becoming more illogical as her agitation grew. “I just want this to not run.”
“Okay,” Kathy shut the registration book, “then cancel it.”
“Now you agree?” Te’ was baffled.
“Sure.” Kathy put the registration book behind the counter and said with her back to Te’, “Do what ever you like.”
“Oh, I see what you’re doing.” Te’ moved toward Kathy.
“I think you should reconsider,” the rep began to sell again.
“Quiet!” Te’ shouted at him. She stepped toward Kathy. “You think you’re so clever, don’t you Kathy.”
Kathy was slyly smiling and turned toward Te’.
“What in the world do you mean?” Kathy asked with an innocent voice.
“You pretended to want the advertising just to be contrary.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“I ought to continue the ads just to show you.”
Douglas held out the KSLX contract and a pen.
“Go ahead,” Kathy said, “but I’ll never pay for it.”
Douglas pulled his arms back.
“We have to pay for it if I sign a new contract,” Te’ said and reached for the papers.
“Go ahead, but you’ll have to use your own money.”
“I’m not going to do that. We’re supposed to be partners.”
“I didn’t buy that station.”
“But it worked,” Douglas whined.
“We know it worked,” Kathy said, “and now it won’t work.”
“Just because I happen to do something right, you want to change it.”
“Like I said, you want it, you pay for it.”
One last time Douglas extended the contract and the pen toward Te’.
“Why are you still here?” Te’ said abruptly. “I told you the schedule is canceled.” She stomped away from him.
Douglas turned to Kathy with the contract.
Kathy shook her head, “I hope you haven’t spent your commissions.”
By Patrick Foley Plummer
(Excerpt from the unpublished novel The Way of Fu Jing.)
The afternoon continued to be busy at Nirvana Books. The owners had little to say to each other and talked on the phone, or with customers browsing the racks, without allowing their disagreement over the advertising budget to affect their work. But when they would find themselves in the same row of books, or even on the same floor of the bookstore, they would move apart. The cramped office was avoided altogether.
Inevitably the mid-afternoon began to slow down and they were finding less and less to do. The coffee had gone stale and the smell drifted from the little office, filling the first floor of the bookstore. Neither woman made a move toward the office where the coffee pot continue to cook. It was Te's idea to always keep a fresh pot going. But Kathy had made the coffee this morning and Te’ refused to clean it up. The coffee stench rivaled their stubbornness.
A young man dressed in a white shirt, red tie and dark slacks entered the bookstore and asked to speak to the owners. The clerk pointed them out.
“Hi!” the young man said to Kathy. His pimple-faced smile irritated her as she looked down at him. She waited for the sales pitch. “I’m Douglas with KSLX radio. I think we talked on the phone.”
“I don’t remember talking to you,” Kathy said.
“Then it was the other owner—I must be mistaken. Ma’am!” Douglas with KSLX called to Te’. “Did I talk with you about the advertising?”
“When?” Te’ asked.
“Yesterday.”
“I don’t remember. I talked to so many reps.”
“I had a message from you today to cancel the contract.”
“I don’t usually handle the advertising. You’ll have to talk to Kathy,” She said and pointed in her partner's direction.
Douglas turned to Kathy.
“How much is it?” Kathy asked gruffly.
“If it’s about the money we could reduce the schedule,” Douglas said with his perpetual smile. “But that would affect the spot rate.”
“Cancel it if you want to, Kathy.” Te’ walked to where Kathy and the sales rep were standing.
“It’s already running,” the rep said and tried to pose a serious question but Douglas’s young brow only contorted while his smile turned into a pained expression. “You want a successful promotion, don’t you?”
“We’re having a successful promotion,” Kathy argued.
“And we at KSLX want to be part of your success. We’re your advertising partners.”
“Kathy and I are partners,” Te’ said tersely, “and we have made a decision to cancel the ads.”
“But you agreed—“
“Who agreed?” Kathy interrupted the rep.
“One of you must have. I have a signed fax.”
“Which one?” Te’ asked.
“Which one what?” the salesman was getting flustered.
“Which one agreed? Who did you talk with?”
“It was a woman. Uh,” the rep tried to read the signature on the fax, ”it says Teu Alkuma?”
“Te' Walakuma,” Kathy looked at the signature and turned to Te'. “Then it must have been you. Don’t you remember who you talked with?”
“How should I know? There were so many stations.”
“I know. That’s why I began canceling the spots,” Kathy began to raise her voice.
“So cancel it then,” Te’ huffed.
“I will.”
“Good.”
“Bad.” Douglas continued in an apologetic tone, “We’ll have to raise the rates because you’re reducing the frequency.”
“Have we paid for the spots yet?” Kathy asked.
“No, we haven’t invoiced you.”
“Then I’ll pay the original rate whatever that was.”
“Look, young man,” Te’ said to him, “my partner wants to cancel the ads. Just stop running them.”
“But KSLX had an agreement with you and now you’ve changed it. Don’t you understand anything about advertising?”
“No,” Te’ was becoming impatient. “Do you know anything about our business?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Then how can you really help us?”
“What station did you say?” Kathy asked as she went to the counter and picked up the registration book.
“KSLX. Number one in Saint Louis.”
“Right,” Kathy grumbled as she looked over her crude tracking system, “you all say that.”
“But we are number one in sports coverage and—“
“Does this look like Busch Stadium?” Kathy stared the rep down.
“No, ma’am.”
“And stop calling us ma’am,” Te’ complained. “It makes us sound old.”
“But you—“ young Douglas choked back the word ‘are’ and swallowed as Te’ fumed at him.
“Well, your in luck,” Kathy said as she surveyed the registrations. “Looks like being on your Cardinals baseball update has actually produced some registrations for the men’s seminar.”
“Does that mean you’ll continue the advertising?”
“No!” Te’ corrected him.
“Possibly,” Kathy said and put out her big hand. “Give me the schedule.”
“You’re not seriously considering this,” Te’ asked and put her fists on her hips.
“Oh,” Kathy smiled with contempt, “yes I am.”
“Great!” Douglas beamed.
“Say what?” Te’ become more agitated. “Are you doing this to spite me?”
“No, I’m doing what’s best for the business.”
“But I thought you said we couldn’t afford to pay for all this.”
“What?” the sales rep asked.
“We can’t, but if something is working we might as well continue.”
“Then how are we going to pay for it?” Te’ asked.
“We’re not,” Kathy said matter-of-factly.
“You’re not?” Douglas was becoming more concerned.
“Kathy, you’re being obstinate.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Are you going to run the schedule?” Douglas asked.
“Yes,” Kathy said.
“No,” Te’ countered.
“I’ll run it but I won’t pay for it,” Kathy said.
“But you have to pay for it or I can’t run it,” Douglas pleaded.
“Let her pay for it,” Kathy indicated her business partner and handed the contract back to the sales rep. “She’s the one that bought it.”
“I want to cancel it!” Te’ exclaimed.
“So cancel it,” Kathy shrugged.
“Wait!” Douglas of KSLX held the sheet of paper up to them and insisted, “We had an agreement.”
“Not now,” Te’ said. “I want to cancel it.”
“Why?” Douglas was confused. “She just said it was working. Don’t you want to stick with something that brings results?”
“I don’t care about results,” Te’ said becoming more illogical as her agitation grew. “I just want this to not run.”
“Okay,” Kathy shut the registration book, “then cancel it.”
“Now you agree?” Te’ was baffled.
“Sure.” Kathy put the registration book behind the counter and said with her back to Te’, “Do what ever you like.”
“Oh, I see what you’re doing.” Te’ moved toward Kathy.
“I think you should reconsider,” the rep began to sell again.
“Quiet!” Te’ shouted at him. She stepped toward Kathy. “You think you’re so clever, don’t you Kathy.”
Kathy was slyly smiling and turned toward Te’.
“What in the world do you mean?” Kathy asked with an innocent voice.
“You pretended to want the advertising just to be contrary.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“I ought to continue the ads just to show you.”
Douglas held out the KSLX contract and a pen.
“Go ahead,” Kathy said, “but I’ll never pay for it.”
Douglas pulled his arms back.
“We have to pay for it if I sign a new contract,” Te’ said and reached for the papers.
“Go ahead, but you’ll have to use your own money.”
“I’m not going to do that. We’re supposed to be partners.”
“I didn’t buy that station.”
“But it worked,” Douglas whined.
“We know it worked,” Kathy said, “and now it won’t work.”
“Just because I happen to do something right, you want to change it.”
“Like I said, you want it, you pay for it.”
One last time Douglas extended the contract and the pen toward Te’.
“Why are you still here?” Te’ said abruptly. “I told you the schedule is canceled.” She stomped away from him.
Douglas turned to Kathy with the contract.
Kathy shook her head, “I hope you haven’t spent your commissions.”
Friday, July 2, 2010
NATIONAL MORTGAGE REFINANCE
NATIONAL MORTGAGE REFINANCE
Hello, this is Tray Benson with National Mortgage Refinance.
Is your paycheck swallowed up by credit card debt?
Does that humongus SUV payment making your children go hungry?
Relax, I’ve got the answer at National Mortgage Refinance.
Consolidate all your debt into one convenient low monthly payment that you will never pay off. Your great grand-children will still be paying the interest on our loan.
Why do we offer this service? Because you are in debt and will die in debt and we want to be certain we get your money.
So mortgage the lives of all your future generations.
You live comfortably and let them pay.
What if you miss a payment? That is no problem for National Mortgage Refinance.
I will personally come out and foreclose on your home.
You, your wife and children, will be destitute. All your neighbors will see you on the street while I resell your home.
National Mortgage Refinance: Pay just a little a month. Forever.
Hello, this is Tray Benson with National Mortgage Refinance.
Is your paycheck swallowed up by credit card debt?
Does that humongus SUV payment making your children go hungry?
Relax, I’ve got the answer at National Mortgage Refinance.
Consolidate all your debt into one convenient low monthly payment that you will never pay off. Your great grand-children will still be paying the interest on our loan.
Why do we offer this service? Because you are in debt and will die in debt and we want to be certain we get your money.
So mortgage the lives of all your future generations.
You live comfortably and let them pay.
What if you miss a payment? That is no problem for National Mortgage Refinance.
I will personally come out and foreclose on your home.
You, your wife and children, will be destitute. All your neighbors will see you on the street while I resell your home.
National Mortgage Refinance: Pay just a little a month. Forever.
encumbered by time
encumbered by time
i lumbered over thoughts
& dreams: sublime
transient, irrelevant
persistent existence
this life of mine
or is it my life at all?
i lumbered over thoughts
& dreams: sublime
transient, irrelevant
persistent existence
this life of mine
or is it my life at all?
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Predilection
Predilection.
By Patrick Plummer.
“I don’t like the phrase,” Andy said. “Orientation sounds like something you do the first day in college, or at a job. What does it have to do with sex?”
Dana gulped the beer and decided to be less confrontational than usual.
“What would you call it?” Dana asked.
“Sexual predilection defines it better,” Andy said and flicked the lighter again and again but produced no flame.
“Here,” Dana said and took the cheap lighter from Andy and with one thumb popped up a flame and lit Andy’s cigarette. Andy touched the back of Dana’s hand to steady the flame upon the tip.
“Orientation implies that we are directed. I don’t believe that.” As Andy spoke the gray fumes drifted out, making the words hang in air.
“What does it matter?” Dana asked. “We came to the same place.”
“No one brought me here.”
Dana fired up a cigarette and blew out the smoke with exasperation. “And here we sit, waiting.”
“I don’t think Sue will come back,” Andy said.
“She left her things.”
“She packed a bag.”
“But her photographs, she would never leave those.”
“Well, Dana, she may come back for them. For the first two weeks I thought she’d moved in with you.”
“Would that have bothered you?” Dana asked.
“It wouldn’t have surprised me.” Andy tapped the ash onto the saucer and took a drink of beer, letting the coolness sooth his throat. “I know how much she enjoyed you.”
Dana slumped at the kitchen table, her broad shoulders were supported by her elbows. The thick arms were muscular and black armpit hair stuck out of the soiled muscle shirt.
“I know you were with her,” Andy said, “I could smell you on her.”
“It wasn’t a secret. We weren’t trying to hide anything.”
“I know,” Andy said as he crushed the fag into the saucer. “She told me, but I already knew. You were her fantasy. And it took months to finally invite you over. To see what would happen.”
Dana smiled, smoked and drank in the beer and the memory of many evenings in their apartment.
“Do you think we pushed her too far?”
“I don’t think we pushed at all, Dana.”
They sat quietly in the kitchen drinking beer and thinking about Sue.
“She’ll be in contact when she’s ready,” Andy said.
“Did you two have a fight?”
“We never argued.”
“Did she give you any sign that she was upset or confused?”
“She just left, Dana.”
“Left us both.”
“Without a word.”
Andy got up to grab two more beers from the frig. As he came back to the table he admired Dana’s strong, bare back. He put the beer in front of her and looked at the thick thighs exposed by the loose shorts that had ridden up her hairy legs.
“I used to trust you implicitly when I thought you were a lesbian,” Andy said and laughed. “Now that I know you’re bi-sexual I only trust you half as much.”
Dana opened the beer while contemplating her response. She gulped the drink and said after belching, “You were delicate enough.”
“It surprised me, that you would let me inside.”
Andy touched her hand and she squeezed his fingers with her thumb.
“It was the passion of the moment. And I knew that Sue enjoyed watching us.”
“But you came.”
“I hadn’t been with a man in twenty years. And having Sue. She was so ready to please me. And you didn’t intrude. You were just there.”
“I enjoyed pleasing you too.”
“Did she ever talk about me?” Dana asked and pulled another cigarette from his pack.
“She did. Always with affection. But she thought you put up a front, trying to be tough. You’re gentle inside, Dana.”
She lit the cig, blew out smoke and scratched her large, sagging right breast.
“I wish she would call. Or send an email.”
“She’s done this before. Sue likes to be alone sometimes. It’s nothing we’ve done.”
“The last time,” Dana said, “I was rough.”
“She liked it.”
“After that, did she change?”
“We made love again after you left that morning. It was nothing you did. She was gone when I got home from work.”
Dana smoked, and he watched her thin lips press the filter and drag. She was a handsome woman. Wore no make up, made no pretense.
“Would you like something to eat, Dana?”
“I’m not hungry. But you go ahead.”
“I can fix us something. You’re welcome to stay.”
Dana put her calloused hand on top of his.
“I don’t want to be alone right now,” she said.
“Neither do I.”
By Patrick Plummer.
“I don’t like the phrase,” Andy said. “Orientation sounds like something you do the first day in college, or at a job. What does it have to do with sex?”
Dana gulped the beer and decided to be less confrontational than usual.
“What would you call it?” Dana asked.
“Sexual predilection defines it better,” Andy said and flicked the lighter again and again but produced no flame.
“Here,” Dana said and took the cheap lighter from Andy and with one thumb popped up a flame and lit Andy’s cigarette. Andy touched the back of Dana’s hand to steady the flame upon the tip.
“Orientation implies that we are directed. I don’t believe that.” As Andy spoke the gray fumes drifted out, making the words hang in air.
“What does it matter?” Dana asked. “We came to the same place.”
“No one brought me here.”
Dana fired up a cigarette and blew out the smoke with exasperation. “And here we sit, waiting.”
“I don’t think Sue will come back,” Andy said.
“She left her things.”
“She packed a bag.”
“But her photographs, she would never leave those.”
“Well, Dana, she may come back for them. For the first two weeks I thought she’d moved in with you.”
“Would that have bothered you?” Dana asked.
“It wouldn’t have surprised me.” Andy tapped the ash onto the saucer and took a drink of beer, letting the coolness sooth his throat. “I know how much she enjoyed you.”
Dana slumped at the kitchen table, her broad shoulders were supported by her elbows. The thick arms were muscular and black armpit hair stuck out of the soiled muscle shirt.
“I know you were with her,” Andy said, “I could smell you on her.”
“It wasn’t a secret. We weren’t trying to hide anything.”
“I know,” Andy said as he crushed the fag into the saucer. “She told me, but I already knew. You were her fantasy. And it took months to finally invite you over. To see what would happen.”
Dana smiled, smoked and drank in the beer and the memory of many evenings in their apartment.
“Do you think we pushed her too far?”
“I don’t think we pushed at all, Dana.”
They sat quietly in the kitchen drinking beer and thinking about Sue.
“She’ll be in contact when she’s ready,” Andy said.
“Did you two have a fight?”
“We never argued.”
“Did she give you any sign that she was upset or confused?”
“She just left, Dana.”
“Left us both.”
“Without a word.”
Andy got up to grab two more beers from the frig. As he came back to the table he admired Dana’s strong, bare back. He put the beer in front of her and looked at the thick thighs exposed by the loose shorts that had ridden up her hairy legs.
“I used to trust you implicitly when I thought you were a lesbian,” Andy said and laughed. “Now that I know you’re bi-sexual I only trust you half as much.”
Dana opened the beer while contemplating her response. She gulped the drink and said after belching, “You were delicate enough.”
“It surprised me, that you would let me inside.”
Andy touched her hand and she squeezed his fingers with her thumb.
“It was the passion of the moment. And I knew that Sue enjoyed watching us.”
“But you came.”
“I hadn’t been with a man in twenty years. And having Sue. She was so ready to please me. And you didn’t intrude. You were just there.”
“I enjoyed pleasing you too.”
“Did she ever talk about me?” Dana asked and pulled another cigarette from his pack.
“She did. Always with affection. But she thought you put up a front, trying to be tough. You’re gentle inside, Dana.”
She lit the cig, blew out smoke and scratched her large, sagging right breast.
“I wish she would call. Or send an email.”
“She’s done this before. Sue likes to be alone sometimes. It’s nothing we’ve done.”
“The last time,” Dana said, “I was rough.”
“She liked it.”
“After that, did she change?”
“We made love again after you left that morning. It was nothing you did. She was gone when I got home from work.”
Dana smoked, and he watched her thin lips press the filter and drag. She was a handsome woman. Wore no make up, made no pretense.
“Would you like something to eat, Dana?”
“I’m not hungry. But you go ahead.”
“I can fix us something. You’re welcome to stay.”
Dana put her calloused hand on top of his.
“I don’t want to be alone right now,” she said.
“Neither do I.”
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Oak Love
Oak Love
She saved me. When they were asking her parents to clear the lot she tied a plastic red ribbon around my trunk.
Daddy, we can put up a swing.
She pointed up at my sturdy lower limb. Her father smiled and touched the back of her head.
The crews came and cut down the rest of my friends. I remained in what became their back yard. I was surrounded by bushes and shrubs and roses. Not that I have anything against them, but I miss the pair trees. They were messy but didn’t deserve the chain saw.
After the house was built the family moved in and she played in the back yard. She climbed my trunk and sat in my branches and sang. Her father kept his promise and used a ladder to reach my thick bough safely. After tying the two ends of the hemp rope around me, he climbed down and secured a plank onto the loop. It was too high for the young girl to easily sit in and he had to pick her up and place her in the swing.
You’ll grow into it, he said. Hold on and I’ll swing you.
They spent a glorious afternoon in the backyard. He pushed her and she delighted at the swish of air blowing her little girl dress up and then the swoop back, which threw her forward and caused her long chestnut hair to blow across her face. It was her first swing.
Indeed, she did grow into it, as her father had predicted. Griping the rope, she hoisted her body up, with her developing limbs, and sat on the board and swung herself.
More families moved into the development and the children would gather in the back yard and play under my shade. I enjoyed those times too. They climbed up me, sat on my majestic limbs and sang songs. Sometimes they pretend to be pirates on a ship and my leaves were the sails. I swayed with the wind and they delighted in the movement.
For me, the best time was when she swung alone.
Nothing last forever, even for a tree.
Seasons passed and she became an adolescent. She had grown from a sapling to a flowering timber. She still sat under my cooling foliage and read books, made from some distant cousin of mine. Sometimes she would put down the book and sit in the swing and have a few melancholy swoops. Her limbs had developed, her long legs and pointed toes could barely miss the grass. They were muscular now as were her arms and hands, which gripped the bleached hemp rope tightly. She could catapult her body forward and then arch her back in preparation for another self-propulsion. But her face no longer showed the giddy girlish delight.
One afternoon she sat under me with a boy. They had school books but never opened them. Instead of studying, they leaned against my massive trunk and talked while holding hands. The parasite put his hands on the back of her chestnut hair and pulled her to him. There was no resistance to the kiss, she embraced him and pressed her mouth upon his with innocent passion.
He was the first but not the last.
She continued to mature. Her thighs had begun to thicken and she practiced routines with other cheer leaders in the back yard. Of all the girls, she was the strongest and could leap up and extend her legs and arms perpendicular to the earth and land squarely on her feet. She seemed to fly like a bird, even though she was bigger than the other girls. They were all limber, but she had a sinuous grace and vigor. They always placed her in the center of the line.
One night, after the cheers of he crowd at the stadium had subsided, she brought a young man to the back yard. They crept across the grass and sat beneath me. She asked if he’d brought them and he opened the package. After removing her panties and he stripped off his jeans, they attached something to his stalk, which he put inside her. After he started, she raised her legs and entwined them around his back while he methodically stroked her. When he began to call out she covered his mouth with her hand and shushed him. He remained on top of her and she lowered her legs.
Things continued to change. One hot afternoon, with the sun wilting my leaves, she brooded in the swing. Her father came out and walked directly to her.
Why did mom have to go?
It was before her time.
Couldn’t we have done something?
We’ve tried everything.
I’ll stay here.
Don’t postpone college, he said. She would have wanted you to go, as we planned.
She stood up and wept in his arms. Her father cried too but silently.
He continued to mow the grass but neglected the plants. The hedges grew wild and the rose bed was filled with weeds. Eventually he had a boy mow the back yard and I rarely saw her father again.
She was gone for many seasons, only visiting during fall and winter. On one occasion she sat on the swing and gently pushed with her feet to move back and forth. Her father came outside to announce that some relatives had arrived. She walked across the grass to the back door but her posture had changed and her head and shoulders bent down under some invisible oppression.
This melancholy saddened me, and if could have embraced her with my limbs I would have, but that was not possible.
The grass grew in the spring and no one came to cut it. By summer it was a foot high and she walked into the yard by the back door dressed in a white uniform. She had matured into a woman. Her breasts were plump and her ample hips filled out the fabric. Her trunk was sturdy and she surveyed the abandoned yard with a beer in her hand.
The next day men came and mowed the grass and tended the shrubs. She cared for the roses herself. Clipped them back so they would bush, cut one bud and stuck it under her nose. She walked around the yard smelling it and finally came to the swing where she sat, with the rose in her hand and smelled the fragrance until she bored with the pleasantry.
Humans are annuals. They come and go while I remain. She sits in the swing with a rose stuck behind her ear. And she began to swing.
She saved me. When they were asking her parents to clear the lot she tied a plastic red ribbon around my trunk.
Daddy, we can put up a swing.
She pointed up at my sturdy lower limb. Her father smiled and touched the back of her head.
The crews came and cut down the rest of my friends. I remained in what became their back yard. I was surrounded by bushes and shrubs and roses. Not that I have anything against them, but I miss the pair trees. They were messy but didn’t deserve the chain saw.
After the house was built the family moved in and she played in the back yard. She climbed my trunk and sat in my branches and sang. Her father kept his promise and used a ladder to reach my thick bough safely. After tying the two ends of the hemp rope around me, he climbed down and secured a plank onto the loop. It was too high for the young girl to easily sit in and he had to pick her up and place her in the swing.
You’ll grow into it, he said. Hold on and I’ll swing you.
They spent a glorious afternoon in the backyard. He pushed her and she delighted at the swish of air blowing her little girl dress up and then the swoop back, which threw her forward and caused her long chestnut hair to blow across her face. It was her first swing.
Indeed, she did grow into it, as her father had predicted. Griping the rope, she hoisted her body up, with her developing limbs, and sat on the board and swung herself.
More families moved into the development and the children would gather in the back yard and play under my shade. I enjoyed those times too. They climbed up me, sat on my majestic limbs and sang songs. Sometimes they pretend to be pirates on a ship and my leaves were the sails. I swayed with the wind and they delighted in the movement.
For me, the best time was when she swung alone.
Nothing last forever, even for a tree.
Seasons passed and she became an adolescent. She had grown from a sapling to a flowering timber. She still sat under my cooling foliage and read books, made from some distant cousin of mine. Sometimes she would put down the book and sit in the swing and have a few melancholy swoops. Her limbs had developed, her long legs and pointed toes could barely miss the grass. They were muscular now as were her arms and hands, which gripped the bleached hemp rope tightly. She could catapult her body forward and then arch her back in preparation for another self-propulsion. But her face no longer showed the giddy girlish delight.
One afternoon she sat under me with a boy. They had school books but never opened them. Instead of studying, they leaned against my massive trunk and talked while holding hands. The parasite put his hands on the back of her chestnut hair and pulled her to him. There was no resistance to the kiss, she embraced him and pressed her mouth upon his with innocent passion.
He was the first but not the last.
She continued to mature. Her thighs had begun to thicken and she practiced routines with other cheer leaders in the back yard. Of all the girls, she was the strongest and could leap up and extend her legs and arms perpendicular to the earth and land squarely on her feet. She seemed to fly like a bird, even though she was bigger than the other girls. They were all limber, but she had a sinuous grace and vigor. They always placed her in the center of the line.
One night, after the cheers of he crowd at the stadium had subsided, she brought a young man to the back yard. They crept across the grass and sat beneath me. She asked if he’d brought them and he opened the package. After removing her panties and he stripped off his jeans, they attached something to his stalk, which he put inside her. After he started, she raised her legs and entwined them around his back while he methodically stroked her. When he began to call out she covered his mouth with her hand and shushed him. He remained on top of her and she lowered her legs.
Things continued to change. One hot afternoon, with the sun wilting my leaves, she brooded in the swing. Her father came out and walked directly to her.
Why did mom have to go?
It was before her time.
Couldn’t we have done something?
We’ve tried everything.
I’ll stay here.
Don’t postpone college, he said. She would have wanted you to go, as we planned.
She stood up and wept in his arms. Her father cried too but silently.
He continued to mow the grass but neglected the plants. The hedges grew wild and the rose bed was filled with weeds. Eventually he had a boy mow the back yard and I rarely saw her father again.
She was gone for many seasons, only visiting during fall and winter. On one occasion she sat on the swing and gently pushed with her feet to move back and forth. Her father came outside to announce that some relatives had arrived. She walked across the grass to the back door but her posture had changed and her head and shoulders bent down under some invisible oppression.
This melancholy saddened me, and if could have embraced her with my limbs I would have, but that was not possible.
The grass grew in the spring and no one came to cut it. By summer it was a foot high and she walked into the yard by the back door dressed in a white uniform. She had matured into a woman. Her breasts were plump and her ample hips filled out the fabric. Her trunk was sturdy and she surveyed the abandoned yard with a beer in her hand.
The next day men came and mowed the grass and tended the shrubs. She cared for the roses herself. Clipped them back so they would bush, cut one bud and stuck it under her nose. She walked around the yard smelling it and finally came to the swing where she sat, with the rose in her hand and smelled the fragrance until she bored with the pleasantry.
Humans are annuals. They come and go while I remain. She sits in the swing with a rose stuck behind her ear. And she began to swing.
Sunday, June 6, 2010
I Saw Elvis Crying In The Chapel
I Saw Elvis Crying In The Chapel.
By Patrick Foley Plummer
(If you think Elvis is alive you are wrong. If you think Elvis is at rest you are also wrong. --------Las Vegas Book of the Undead)
[Author's preface: There is no artificial substance that precipitated this experience. I do not do drugs. In my daily practice of meditation I do not channel Angels, Saints, Buddha, Gods, Goddesses, Satan, the spirits of ancestors or Houdini. Occasionally I hear something from the Holy Spirit but only when I am really quiet. (I do not always follow Her revelations.) I am not subject to psychotic trances but would not have the self-awareness to know if I did. With all that said I feel I must relate, with some trepidation, the following experience.]
I became aware of soundlessness. This was startling because I usually can hear the sounds of nature and mechanical-man. There were no chirping birds or trees rustling in the breeze. No whoosh and clatter of traffic. No clocks, hiss of air-conditioning or hum of a refrigerator. There was no sound to transcend.
I have never experienced such silence. It was not as peaceful as I had expected it would be. I was not asleep and I was not awake. I was simply aware of the eerie inertness.
Only one thing to do: peak. Open one eye slightly to see what was going on and then return to the meditation. Just to ground myself. What I saw was even more alarming.
I was not in my home--not in my front room facing the Eastern light. I opened booth eyes wide and found myself standing alone in an empty room with white stone walls that gradually curved around me. There was no ceiling and the walls went up for an indeterminate distance and then faded into indigo.
Was I in some guided meditation? No, I gave them up. I found them too fallacious and self-serving of the guide.
I looked down at my body dressed in a long white robe made of plain cotton with long sleeves. A simple black thread hemmed the sleeves. The garment’s bottom touched the floor. Well, at least I did not have a harp.
This was it? No, I must be having some Biblical imagery meltdown. I am in a dream. But the hands, I recognized the large hands of Patrick Foley Plummer--a life I thought I was still living. There was one test--the left arm. It remained mutated from a compound-complex fracture. The bones were bent and weak all of my life. Pulling the sleeve back I noticed the two-inch scare was gone. I touched the forearm and it was perfect. In the afterlife our bodies became perfect. Those Christian mystics were right!
I became aware of a sound. It was a soft whisper repeating phrases. I was not certain of the language but recognized the cadence of a litany.
The voice was behind me. Turning around I saw an archway in the wall. Engraved in gold above the archway was the phrase “Ignis Fatuus.” Is there delusion on the other side?
The archway led from the anteroom into a larger square room with rows of pine pews. There was a lone figure at the other end of the chapel--the source of the whispering.
The walls were bare. I searched them for icons. There were none! Not one representation of any religion. No Crucifix, Star of David or Yin Yang symbol. No empty Zen circles or statues of Buddha. Not even one white haired old man or multi-armed woman. It was a plain and simple chapel.
The figure either was not aware or did not acknowledge my approach. He (I presumed the figure to be male) continued with his vespers completely absorbed in prayer.
The person was bald. This might be one hint as to the religious origin of the chapel. A Buddhist would shave his head. Is this Nirvana? It seemed disappointing but having only just arrived I should not judge the place too quickly.
The man was dressed in a long white robe with a high collar and garish gold trim. He was kneeling but slouched resting his butt on the pew. He was reading intently from a parchment. I stole a glance at the title: “Prayer of the inconsequent vertebrata.”
“What prayer is that?”
He quickly rolled up the parchment and turned and flashed luminescent blue eyes at me. The face seemed familiar. The large ears stuck out from the baldhead. The bone structure was long and handsome. The jaw line came down to a long point at the chin. But the most striking feature, or lack of one, was the fact that he had absolutely no body hair--not even eyelashes!
Where had I seen this face before? The nose had a thick bridge and large nostrils. The upper lip was thin and bottom lip full. He stared dispassionately at me and then smirked. The teeth, lips and eyes came together in the dimness of the chapel to form the face of Elvis.
“Is it really you?”
He grunted in a deep southern way, maybe saying yes and perhaps not speaking any language at all.
“What’s left,” he said without emotion.
“Is this what happens to us?”
“Its what’s happenin’ to me. And as soon as I get rid of this,” he indicated his body with a slow gesture, “I can stay with the rest.”
“Elvis, what about your hair?”
“Every time some fool imitates me I lose a hair. There are so many I can’t grow them back fast enough.”
“Even," I hesitated for a moment but my curiosity over came the embarrassing question. "Even the pubic hair?”
“That went first.” He touched his ear and muttered, “Then the side burns.”
It was true. Not one follicle remained.
"So many people tryin' to be me. Why? Why won't they leave me alone? Right now thousands are conjuring me up--putting on shades and sequins and shakin' their hips. Leave me alone!"
I wanted to change the subject--or object--whatever! I chose unwisely.
"Elvis, have you seen your mother?"
"Ma' ma?" His sad eyes pierced me and filled with tears. He was the saddest soul I'd ever seen.
"They won't let me see her." He looked away for a moment then wiped his face and shook his head. "No, that's a lie. I'm--I'm afraid to face her 'cause. . ." After an eternal pause, "I made such a mess of things back there."
Elvis laid his hairless head on my shoulder and sobbed. His head was weightless but his remorse bore down on me like a bale of wet tobacco.
I looked around this small chapel with its cold stone floor and walls. It was so dark I could not see the ceiling, if there was a ceiling. The pews were made of unfinished pine and the kneelers were austere and unpadded.
"Is this hell?" I asked.
"This?" Even Elvis had to think about it, which raised my anxiety.
"You don't know hell until you have to look back on what you did before. Not what you could of done, but what you did."
"Then this is purgatory?"
"You got the wrong religion. This is where I chose to be 'cause. . ."
"Why, Elvis?"
"I can go back and do it right or stay here and become one with the rest."
"Go back--as in reincarnation?" The Hindus were right!
"You get one chance but it’s all the same life."
"I don't understand."
"I can see every life from now on and I chose to stay here. But, I can't go into the rest 'cause they keep makin' fun of me. Pretendin' to be me. Eventually, in a couple more centuries all the imitators will pass and I'll be free of my false self."
Holy smokes! The Buddhist were right!
“They’re all right,” Elvis said. He could read my mind.
“And all wrong,” I added, reading his.
The hairless Elvis stared at me with a twinkle in his cool eyes. One side of his mouth drew up until a fold appeared below his cheekbone to become the famous smile, smirk and sneer. This is Elvis! He still lived!
A beam of soft orange light fell upon his face and a drone of human voices began.
“Choir practice!” he said enthusiastically and stood up abruptly with renewed spirit.
"But, Elvis! I have so many questions."
"I don’t have any answers for you."
"Why me? Why'd you meet with me?"
Elvis chuckled to himself and then put his hairless hand on my shoulder.
"Two reasons. 'cause you didn't ask and you never dressed up like me."
Guilt raced through my being. I had "imitated" him at times: the voice, the pelvic thrust and hips.
"Just don't try to sing like me. I have to hear it and you're tone deaf. It's okay to listen to my music. . .but tell them to quit with the masquerade. . .well, it doesn't matter. They'll all die off. But it would be nice if they'd just let me be."
He moved toward an opening of the chapel where a bright white light shimmered. The droning sound coming from beyond the chapel was neither Gregorian nor Zen chant--not anything the human voice could replicate but only attempt to imitate.
As he stood in the light of the doorway his silhouette was recognizable even with the bald crown. Without turning to face me he raised up a right hand, paused and then walked out of the chapel.
What was beyond that opening? As I approached the passageway the unisonant sound reverberated in the stone room. I could hear his deep vibrato joining in for a moment and then it blended with the rest.
I caught a glimpse of him walking into the valley filled with people dressed in long white robes with high collars and garish trim. So the robe was not just Elvis's heavenly threads.
I watched his bald head in the masses but his image became too tiny within the countless throng that gathered around a crystal lake.
Light either reflected off or emanated from the lake. As they surrounded it on the valley's slope the optical illusion of a tunnel began to form.
When I looked up at what should be the sky I saw more multitudes. It was an Escheresque perspective and in every direction I saw the same swirling blend of humanity in a white background with tiny dots of heads of every color integrated and indistinguishable from each other.
All of this sight and sound tugged at my guts and vibrated my diaphragm. A sweet fragrance entered my nose and pallet. I tasted its honey and felt it fill my lungs. The sound was imposing and seductive. It drew me into the vortex and I began to feel on my collarbones the tiny points of the robe’s high collar beginning to grow.
I was about to take a step through the gateway from the simple chapel, to blend into the Supreme Soul, to be one with the All.
At the last moment I turned from the light and ran back into the chapel so abruptly that I stepped on the long robe and when sprawling onto the rock hard floor.
I put out my hands to brace my fall. My left wrist smacked the concrete. It throbbed from the impact. The forearm, so perfect a moment ago, had now returned to its twisted shape.
It was dark, and the aroma went from mystic to miasmic. The dank smell of mold and raw sewage replaced the heavenly sent. I felt the chill of the concrete floor gritty against my naked body. My eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness and I made out the small oblong window. I was in my basement in St. Louis.
I found my way to the light switch and looked in amazement at the junk filled basement. I was not certain if I was glad to be back.
For the last seven years I had meditated everyday to attain Union and when I apparently got the chance I bolted.
All that is left of the adventure is the fading memory of an incorporeal American icon stripped of his plumage.
His last request was to be left alone so that his spirit could join the rest.
Copyright 2002 by Patrick Foley Plummer
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Crying in the Chapel
(words & music by Artie Glenn)
You saw me crying in the chapel.
The tears I shed were tears of joy
I know the meaning of contentment
Now I am happy with the Lord
Just a plain and simple chapel
Where humble people go to pray
I pray the Lord that I'll grow stronger
As I live from day to day
I've searched and I've searched
But I couldn't find
No way on earth
To gain peace of mind
Now I'm happy in the chapel
Where people are of one accord
We gather in the chapel
Just to sing and praise the Lord
Ev'ry sinner looks for something
That will put his heart at ease
There is only one true answer
He must get down on his knees
Meet your neighbor in the chapel
Join with him in tears of joy
You'll know the meaning of contentment
Then you'll be happy with the Lord
You'll search and you'll search
But you'll never find
No way on earth
To gain peace of mind
Take your troubles to the chapel
Get down on your knees and pray
Your burdens will be lighter
And you'll surely find the way
By Patrick Foley Plummer
(If you think Elvis is alive you are wrong. If you think Elvis is at rest you are also wrong. --------Las Vegas Book of the Undead)
[Author's preface: There is no artificial substance that precipitated this experience. I do not do drugs. In my daily practice of meditation I do not channel Angels, Saints, Buddha, Gods, Goddesses, Satan, the spirits of ancestors or Houdini. Occasionally I hear something from the Holy Spirit but only when I am really quiet. (I do not always follow Her revelations.) I am not subject to psychotic trances but would not have the self-awareness to know if I did. With all that said I feel I must relate, with some trepidation, the following experience.]
I became aware of soundlessness. This was startling because I usually can hear the sounds of nature and mechanical-man. There were no chirping birds or trees rustling in the breeze. No whoosh and clatter of traffic. No clocks, hiss of air-conditioning or hum of a refrigerator. There was no sound to transcend.
I have never experienced such silence. It was not as peaceful as I had expected it would be. I was not asleep and I was not awake. I was simply aware of the eerie inertness.
Only one thing to do: peak. Open one eye slightly to see what was going on and then return to the meditation. Just to ground myself. What I saw was even more alarming.
I was not in my home--not in my front room facing the Eastern light. I opened booth eyes wide and found myself standing alone in an empty room with white stone walls that gradually curved around me. There was no ceiling and the walls went up for an indeterminate distance and then faded into indigo.
Was I in some guided meditation? No, I gave them up. I found them too fallacious and self-serving of the guide.
I looked down at my body dressed in a long white robe made of plain cotton with long sleeves. A simple black thread hemmed the sleeves. The garment’s bottom touched the floor. Well, at least I did not have a harp.
This was it? No, I must be having some Biblical imagery meltdown. I am in a dream. But the hands, I recognized the large hands of Patrick Foley Plummer--a life I thought I was still living. There was one test--the left arm. It remained mutated from a compound-complex fracture. The bones were bent and weak all of my life. Pulling the sleeve back I noticed the two-inch scare was gone. I touched the forearm and it was perfect. In the afterlife our bodies became perfect. Those Christian mystics were right!
I became aware of a sound. It was a soft whisper repeating phrases. I was not certain of the language but recognized the cadence of a litany.
The voice was behind me. Turning around I saw an archway in the wall. Engraved in gold above the archway was the phrase “Ignis Fatuus.” Is there delusion on the other side?
The archway led from the anteroom into a larger square room with rows of pine pews. There was a lone figure at the other end of the chapel--the source of the whispering.
The walls were bare. I searched them for icons. There were none! Not one representation of any religion. No Crucifix, Star of David or Yin Yang symbol. No empty Zen circles or statues of Buddha. Not even one white haired old man or multi-armed woman. It was a plain and simple chapel.
The figure either was not aware or did not acknowledge my approach. He (I presumed the figure to be male) continued with his vespers completely absorbed in prayer.
The person was bald. This might be one hint as to the religious origin of the chapel. A Buddhist would shave his head. Is this Nirvana? It seemed disappointing but having only just arrived I should not judge the place too quickly.
The man was dressed in a long white robe with a high collar and garish gold trim. He was kneeling but slouched resting his butt on the pew. He was reading intently from a parchment. I stole a glance at the title: “Prayer of the inconsequent vertebrata.”
“What prayer is that?”
He quickly rolled up the parchment and turned and flashed luminescent blue eyes at me. The face seemed familiar. The large ears stuck out from the baldhead. The bone structure was long and handsome. The jaw line came down to a long point at the chin. But the most striking feature, or lack of one, was the fact that he had absolutely no body hair--not even eyelashes!
Where had I seen this face before? The nose had a thick bridge and large nostrils. The upper lip was thin and bottom lip full. He stared dispassionately at me and then smirked. The teeth, lips and eyes came together in the dimness of the chapel to form the face of Elvis.
“Is it really you?”
He grunted in a deep southern way, maybe saying yes and perhaps not speaking any language at all.
“What’s left,” he said without emotion.
“Is this what happens to us?”
“Its what’s happenin’ to me. And as soon as I get rid of this,” he indicated his body with a slow gesture, “I can stay with the rest.”
“Elvis, what about your hair?”
“Every time some fool imitates me I lose a hair. There are so many I can’t grow them back fast enough.”
“Even," I hesitated for a moment but my curiosity over came the embarrassing question. "Even the pubic hair?”
“That went first.” He touched his ear and muttered, “Then the side burns.”
It was true. Not one follicle remained.
"So many people tryin' to be me. Why? Why won't they leave me alone? Right now thousands are conjuring me up--putting on shades and sequins and shakin' their hips. Leave me alone!"
I wanted to change the subject--or object--whatever! I chose unwisely.
"Elvis, have you seen your mother?"
"Ma' ma?" His sad eyes pierced me and filled with tears. He was the saddest soul I'd ever seen.
"They won't let me see her." He looked away for a moment then wiped his face and shook his head. "No, that's a lie. I'm--I'm afraid to face her 'cause. . ." After an eternal pause, "I made such a mess of things back there."
Elvis laid his hairless head on my shoulder and sobbed. His head was weightless but his remorse bore down on me like a bale of wet tobacco.
I looked around this small chapel with its cold stone floor and walls. It was so dark I could not see the ceiling, if there was a ceiling. The pews were made of unfinished pine and the kneelers were austere and unpadded.
"Is this hell?" I asked.
"This?" Even Elvis had to think about it, which raised my anxiety.
"You don't know hell until you have to look back on what you did before. Not what you could of done, but what you did."
"Then this is purgatory?"
"You got the wrong religion. This is where I chose to be 'cause. . ."
"Why, Elvis?"
"I can go back and do it right or stay here and become one with the rest."
"Go back--as in reincarnation?" The Hindus were right!
"You get one chance but it’s all the same life."
"I don't understand."
"I can see every life from now on and I chose to stay here. But, I can't go into the rest 'cause they keep makin' fun of me. Pretendin' to be me. Eventually, in a couple more centuries all the imitators will pass and I'll be free of my false self."
Holy smokes! The Buddhist were right!
“They’re all right,” Elvis said. He could read my mind.
“And all wrong,” I added, reading his.
The hairless Elvis stared at me with a twinkle in his cool eyes. One side of his mouth drew up until a fold appeared below his cheekbone to become the famous smile, smirk and sneer. This is Elvis! He still lived!
A beam of soft orange light fell upon his face and a drone of human voices began.
“Choir practice!” he said enthusiastically and stood up abruptly with renewed spirit.
"But, Elvis! I have so many questions."
"I don’t have any answers for you."
"Why me? Why'd you meet with me?"
Elvis chuckled to himself and then put his hairless hand on my shoulder.
"Two reasons. 'cause you didn't ask and you never dressed up like me."
Guilt raced through my being. I had "imitated" him at times: the voice, the pelvic thrust and hips.
"Just don't try to sing like me. I have to hear it and you're tone deaf. It's okay to listen to my music. . .but tell them to quit with the masquerade. . .well, it doesn't matter. They'll all die off. But it would be nice if they'd just let me be."
He moved toward an opening of the chapel where a bright white light shimmered. The droning sound coming from beyond the chapel was neither Gregorian nor Zen chant--not anything the human voice could replicate but only attempt to imitate.
As he stood in the light of the doorway his silhouette was recognizable even with the bald crown. Without turning to face me he raised up a right hand, paused and then walked out of the chapel.
What was beyond that opening? As I approached the passageway the unisonant sound reverberated in the stone room. I could hear his deep vibrato joining in for a moment and then it blended with the rest.
I caught a glimpse of him walking into the valley filled with people dressed in long white robes with high collars and garish trim. So the robe was not just Elvis's heavenly threads.
I watched his bald head in the masses but his image became too tiny within the countless throng that gathered around a crystal lake.
Light either reflected off or emanated from the lake. As they surrounded it on the valley's slope the optical illusion of a tunnel began to form.
When I looked up at what should be the sky I saw more multitudes. It was an Escheresque perspective and in every direction I saw the same swirling blend of humanity in a white background with tiny dots of heads of every color integrated and indistinguishable from each other.
All of this sight and sound tugged at my guts and vibrated my diaphragm. A sweet fragrance entered my nose and pallet. I tasted its honey and felt it fill my lungs. The sound was imposing and seductive. It drew me into the vortex and I began to feel on my collarbones the tiny points of the robe’s high collar beginning to grow.
I was about to take a step through the gateway from the simple chapel, to blend into the Supreme Soul, to be one with the All.
At the last moment I turned from the light and ran back into the chapel so abruptly that I stepped on the long robe and when sprawling onto the rock hard floor.
I put out my hands to brace my fall. My left wrist smacked the concrete. It throbbed from the impact. The forearm, so perfect a moment ago, had now returned to its twisted shape.
It was dark, and the aroma went from mystic to miasmic. The dank smell of mold and raw sewage replaced the heavenly sent. I felt the chill of the concrete floor gritty against my naked body. My eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness and I made out the small oblong window. I was in my basement in St. Louis.
I found my way to the light switch and looked in amazement at the junk filled basement. I was not certain if I was glad to be back.
For the last seven years I had meditated everyday to attain Union and when I apparently got the chance I bolted.
All that is left of the adventure is the fading memory of an incorporeal American icon stripped of his plumage.
His last request was to be left alone so that his spirit could join the rest.
Copyright 2002 by Patrick Foley Plummer
{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}
Crying in the Chapel
(words & music by Artie Glenn)
You saw me crying in the chapel.
The tears I shed were tears of joy
I know the meaning of contentment
Now I am happy with the Lord
Just a plain and simple chapel
Where humble people go to pray
I pray the Lord that I'll grow stronger
As I live from day to day
I've searched and I've searched
But I couldn't find
No way on earth
To gain peace of mind
Now I'm happy in the chapel
Where people are of one accord
We gather in the chapel
Just to sing and praise the Lord
Ev'ry sinner looks for something
That will put his heart at ease
There is only one true answer
He must get down on his knees
Meet your neighbor in the chapel
Join with him in tears of joy
You'll know the meaning of contentment
Then you'll be happy with the Lord
You'll search and you'll search
But you'll never find
No way on earth
To gain peace of mind
Take your troubles to the chapel
Get down on your knees and pray
Your burdens will be lighter
And you'll surely find the way
Saturday, June 5, 2010
The St. Louis Arch: Diocese Conspiracy
The St. Louis Arch: Diocese Conspiracy
By Patrick Foley Plummer as Dick Johnson
I waited in Duffy’s for the moron. He had information and evidence that would shake the core of this Catholic town and rip the foundation from the Midwest’s most prestigious tourist attraction. I waited, smoked and sipped cheap Vodka. I was working after all.
He entered the restaurant with a tattered brown expandable file folder stuffed with worn manila folders. I could see papers sticking out. And dark blue folded pages. And yellowed newspaper clippings. I hated that and ordered another Martini.
Unfortunately he ascertained my presence.
“Mister Johnson?” he whispered with pathetic clandestine apprehension. “Are you Dick Johnson?”
“He’s dead,” I said, and threw back the last of the first drink. “But if you’re looking for the press, I’m it.”
He stuck out his tiny hand and declared, “I’m Herman Sheman.”
“And I forgive you,” I accepted his shake and wanted to crush it, but gave brief compassion to this possible story.
He looked around the bar, at the people eating at tables, at the bartender mercifully setting down my Martini and asked, “Should we go someplace more private?”
“This is my office,” I said.
“What can I get you?” Fred the bartender asked.
“I don’t drink,” he said.
“Pity,” I quipped, and lit another Marlboro.
“Do you have any fruit juice?” the little nerd asked.
Fred looked toward me like I’d turned gay.
“This is an interview, Fred,” I said in self defense. “Give the man some orange juice.”
“I’d prefer apple. Less acidic.”
“This is a bar,” Fred glared at him through his thick glasses.
“Just give him some soda with a lime,” I said. “On me.”
“Thank you, Mister Johnson, and thank you for seeing me.”
“My pleasure, what do you have there?” I indicated the thick brown parcel.
“This,” Herman paused dramatically, looked around Duffy’s again and whispered, “is evidence.”
I could barely hear him.
“You’re gonna have to speak up,” and added to my own mythology, “lost some hearing in ‘nam.” Which was true.
“Mister Johnson, you never know who is listening.”
“If you don’t want the public to know why are you talking to a reporter?”
He clutched the stuffed folder, looked at me with deplorable blue eyes and said, “It is with much trepidation that I finally bring this out.”
I softened, not because of his sincerity, but because the smell of a story overcame my belligerence. I pulled out the bar stool and beckoned him to sit. Once he climbed up his short legs couldn’t touch the floor.
“What do you want to bring out?” I asked and took the cheap wire notepad and Bic pen from my shirt pocket. I thumbed through the pages for a blank sheet. I looked him in the eyes and smiled attempting to gain his trust.
“It’s a fifty year old secret,” he said. “The Church would not want this out.”
“There are lots of things they don’t want out.”
“But this changes everything.”
“If you pull out a print of the Mona Lisa and start talking about secret codes I’ll kick your ass,” I warned him.
“This is bigger. This is real. This affects every woman born and raised in Saint Louis.”
I fired up another smoke and clicked the Bic.
I turned my good ear to him and said, “I’m listening.”
“I have the real plans of the Arch.”
“You mean the Arch Diocese?”
“No, the Arch.”
“You mean the Saint Louis Arch?” I added with some disappointment, “I thought this was about the Catholics.”
“It is.”
“So is it about a tourist attraction or the Church?”
“Both,” he said, and as he grinned, I counted his crooked teeth. “But it’s no tourist attraction. It’s a transmitter.”
“Is it speaking to God?” I gritted my teeth thinking that I had wasted my time with this idiot. Well, it wasn’t all bad. I could expense the drinks.
“It transmits Omega waves.”
“And what does that do?”
“Omega waves suppress women’s sexual desires.”
“So that’s why I can’t get laid.”
“Exactly,” he said and leaned toward me. “Every woman who has lived here since the Arch was constructed has been bombarded with Omega waves. It takes a while, sometimes years, but it erodes the woman’s desire for sex. It is the Catholic Church’s way of imposing morality.”
I wasn’t certain if it were the Martini or his earnestness, but I was beginning to believe him.
“Where is your proof?” I asked.
“It’s all in here,” Herman said, as he patted the file folder still on his lap. The lid had fallen off and the papers stuck out like a pile of garbage. He gently withdrew a thick blue folded paper.
“This is the original plan,” he said. I looked at the drawing and recognized the Saint Louis Arch immediately. He unfolded the blue print further, grinned and gloated, “And this is what lies beneath.”
The schematic of the Arch had what I expected. There was a drawing of an underground room where tourists could get into the claustrophobic elevator and ride up into the Arch. What I did not anticipate was the lower level.
“This,” Herman’s bony index finger pointed to the bottom level, “houses the transmitter that sends the Omega waves up through the Arch and broadcasts the sexually suppressive waves through out Saint Louis.” He tapped the blueprint. “And it is all controlled by the Bishop.”
I sipped and contemplated.
“Do you have any more proof besides an old blueprint? It could have been faked, you know.”
“I have verified the authenticity. And oh yes!” He quickly pulled a laminated page from the folder. “A memo from the Vatican.”
I stared at the Papal seal. My Latin was a little rusty.
“I’ll have to trust you on the translation,” I said with mild disappointment and ground my butt into the ashtray.
“I’ve had it translated. It congratulates the Jesuit who spearheaded the project.”
“Jesuit. That’s no surprise.”
“There’s more,” he started to whisper again. “There are other Omega transmitters. The Seattle Space Needle, for instance. And the Sears Tower in Chicago.”
“I’m from Chicago,” I countered, “I never had a problem with women there.”
“You from the ‘burbs?”
“Oak Brook.”
“Doesn’t transmit that far.”
“Lucky me.”
I finished off the Martini with one gulp and then my entire story collapsed.
“Dick!” the fat, blusterous bore of a Priest said as he offered his consecrated paw to me.
When Herman Sheman saw the collar he panicked and grabbed the blueprint and plastic enshrouded Papal letter and stuffed them into the thick file folder.
“Where’ve you been keeping your self?” The obnoxious cleric, and sometimes drinking buddy, stuck his bulging belly between me and the story of a lifetime.
“I’ve been around.”
Sheman hopped off his stool and I screamed, “Wait!”
But I was too late, the little nerd scampered out the door of Duffy’s and into the cool St. Louis night. When I got outside he was gone and the story with him.
By Patrick Foley Plummer as Dick Johnson
I waited in Duffy’s for the moron. He had information and evidence that would shake the core of this Catholic town and rip the foundation from the Midwest’s most prestigious tourist attraction. I waited, smoked and sipped cheap Vodka. I was working after all.
He entered the restaurant with a tattered brown expandable file folder stuffed with worn manila folders. I could see papers sticking out. And dark blue folded pages. And yellowed newspaper clippings. I hated that and ordered another Martini.
Unfortunately he ascertained my presence.
“Mister Johnson?” he whispered with pathetic clandestine apprehension. “Are you Dick Johnson?”
“He’s dead,” I said, and threw back the last of the first drink. “But if you’re looking for the press, I’m it.”
He stuck out his tiny hand and declared, “I’m Herman Sheman.”
“And I forgive you,” I accepted his shake and wanted to crush it, but gave brief compassion to this possible story.
He looked around the bar, at the people eating at tables, at the bartender mercifully setting down my Martini and asked, “Should we go someplace more private?”
“This is my office,” I said.
“What can I get you?” Fred the bartender asked.
“I don’t drink,” he said.
“Pity,” I quipped, and lit another Marlboro.
“Do you have any fruit juice?” the little nerd asked.
Fred looked toward me like I’d turned gay.
“This is an interview, Fred,” I said in self defense. “Give the man some orange juice.”
“I’d prefer apple. Less acidic.”
“This is a bar,” Fred glared at him through his thick glasses.
“Just give him some soda with a lime,” I said. “On me.”
“Thank you, Mister Johnson, and thank you for seeing me.”
“My pleasure, what do you have there?” I indicated the thick brown parcel.
“This,” Herman paused dramatically, looked around Duffy’s again and whispered, “is evidence.”
I could barely hear him.
“You’re gonna have to speak up,” and added to my own mythology, “lost some hearing in ‘nam.” Which was true.
“Mister Johnson, you never know who is listening.”
“If you don’t want the public to know why are you talking to a reporter?”
He clutched the stuffed folder, looked at me with deplorable blue eyes and said, “It is with much trepidation that I finally bring this out.”
I softened, not because of his sincerity, but because the smell of a story overcame my belligerence. I pulled out the bar stool and beckoned him to sit. Once he climbed up his short legs couldn’t touch the floor.
“What do you want to bring out?” I asked and took the cheap wire notepad and Bic pen from my shirt pocket. I thumbed through the pages for a blank sheet. I looked him in the eyes and smiled attempting to gain his trust.
“It’s a fifty year old secret,” he said. “The Church would not want this out.”
“There are lots of things they don’t want out.”
“But this changes everything.”
“If you pull out a print of the Mona Lisa and start talking about secret codes I’ll kick your ass,” I warned him.
“This is bigger. This is real. This affects every woman born and raised in Saint Louis.”
I fired up another smoke and clicked the Bic.
I turned my good ear to him and said, “I’m listening.”
“I have the real plans of the Arch.”
“You mean the Arch Diocese?”
“No, the Arch.”
“You mean the Saint Louis Arch?” I added with some disappointment, “I thought this was about the Catholics.”
“It is.”
“So is it about a tourist attraction or the Church?”
“Both,” he said, and as he grinned, I counted his crooked teeth. “But it’s no tourist attraction. It’s a transmitter.”
“Is it speaking to God?” I gritted my teeth thinking that I had wasted my time with this idiot. Well, it wasn’t all bad. I could expense the drinks.
“It transmits Omega waves.”
“And what does that do?”
“Omega waves suppress women’s sexual desires.”
“So that’s why I can’t get laid.”
“Exactly,” he said and leaned toward me. “Every woman who has lived here since the Arch was constructed has been bombarded with Omega waves. It takes a while, sometimes years, but it erodes the woman’s desire for sex. It is the Catholic Church’s way of imposing morality.”
I wasn’t certain if it were the Martini or his earnestness, but I was beginning to believe him.
“Where is your proof?” I asked.
“It’s all in here,” Herman said, as he patted the file folder still on his lap. The lid had fallen off and the papers stuck out like a pile of garbage. He gently withdrew a thick blue folded paper.
“This is the original plan,” he said. I looked at the drawing and recognized the Saint Louis Arch immediately. He unfolded the blue print further, grinned and gloated, “And this is what lies beneath.”
The schematic of the Arch had what I expected. There was a drawing of an underground room where tourists could get into the claustrophobic elevator and ride up into the Arch. What I did not anticipate was the lower level.
“This,” Herman’s bony index finger pointed to the bottom level, “houses the transmitter that sends the Omega waves up through the Arch and broadcasts the sexually suppressive waves through out Saint Louis.” He tapped the blueprint. “And it is all controlled by the Bishop.”
I sipped and contemplated.
“Do you have any more proof besides an old blueprint? It could have been faked, you know.”
“I have verified the authenticity. And oh yes!” He quickly pulled a laminated page from the folder. “A memo from the Vatican.”
I stared at the Papal seal. My Latin was a little rusty.
“I’ll have to trust you on the translation,” I said with mild disappointment and ground my butt into the ashtray.
“I’ve had it translated. It congratulates the Jesuit who spearheaded the project.”
“Jesuit. That’s no surprise.”
“There’s more,” he started to whisper again. “There are other Omega transmitters. The Seattle Space Needle, for instance. And the Sears Tower in Chicago.”
“I’m from Chicago,” I countered, “I never had a problem with women there.”
“You from the ‘burbs?”
“Oak Brook.”
“Doesn’t transmit that far.”
“Lucky me.”
I finished off the Martini with one gulp and then my entire story collapsed.
“Dick!” the fat, blusterous bore of a Priest said as he offered his consecrated paw to me.
When Herman Sheman saw the collar he panicked and grabbed the blueprint and plastic enshrouded Papal letter and stuffed them into the thick file folder.
“Where’ve you been keeping your self?” The obnoxious cleric, and sometimes drinking buddy, stuck his bulging belly between me and the story of a lifetime.
“I’ve been around.”
Sheman hopped off his stool and I screamed, “Wait!”
But I was too late, the little nerd scampered out the door of Duffy’s and into the cool St. Louis night. When I got outside he was gone and the story with him.
Saturday, May 29, 2010
The New Guy
“I smell coffee,” Lucinda said. She sniffed at the air as she entered the phone room. Kalo and John followed her and all three telemarketers moved slowly. They were already late and found no reason to rush. Lucinda’s legs lumbered with her weight and her heels scraped the carpet.
“I hate the taste of coffee but I love the smell,” she rattled on, “and they kept trying to serve me coffee at breakfast but I just wanted my sausage and eggs. Oh, that sausage was so good. My Atkins diet says that I can eat all the sausage I want so I had a double order. I just have to watch my carbs.”
When Kalo noticed the man dressed in a shirt and tie she immediately went to his cubicle.
“Who are you?” Kalo asked.
He held up his index finger and smiled politely as he continued taking the phone pledge.
“He must be the new guy, Kalo,” Lucinda said. She pulled out the padded chair from her cubicle. “Now don’t start flirting.”
“I don’t flirt!”
“You flirt with anything in pants,” John joked with her. He was the last to get to his workspace and carried a cup of coffee with him. As he lowered his pudgy, pot-bellied body to the folding chair the metal groaned with the weight.
All three telemarketers were obese but Lucinda was the biggest. She ate hot pork skins from a plastic bag and sipped a diet cola. She arranged these items at her small cubicle and lowered her rotund bottom into the large padded chair.
“Looks hot,” Kalo said. She sat down at the cubicle next to Lucinda.
“Are you talking about the new guy?”
“No, the pork skins. But I do like a man in a tie.”
“You just like men,” John said as he drank some coffee.
John completely ignored the fact that the new guy was busy writing down information from the pledge. “You make this coffee? It’s strong! But I like it.”
“Thanks,” the new guy said to John. He hung up the phone and immediately went to the tally board.
David wrote down another hash mark beside his name. He already had three pledges for the Children’s Foundation Jail-Bail fundraiser.
“You must be David,” Kalo said as she read his name from the board. She walked to the board and stood as close to him as she could without touching him.
She was coy and pointed at her name listed on the sales board, “I’m Kalo.” She indicated his score with a painted finger nail. “You’ve been busy.”
“I’ve been here since eight-thirty. Three pledges in forty-five minutes. Is that good?”
“Too good,” Lucinda said as she munched on a fried pork skin. “You got to pace yourself, like you’re at a buffet. Sylvia used to ask for twelve pledges per shift, but we straightened her out.”
“But aren’t the pledges what you’re paid to do?” David asked.
“Paid?” Lucinda bellowed. Her large lungs could shout with very little effort. “They pay us peanuts.”
“Ten dollars an hour,” the new guy reminded her.
“Right. Because it’s part time. Twenty-seven hours a week—can’t even buy new underwear with that—or a decent lunch. Hey! Gloria! Where’s Gloria? We need to order lunch.”
“Hi,” Kalo said. She was still standing by David.
“Hi.” David smiled at her and asked, “Have you been here long?”
“About a month.”
“No, it’s been longer than that,” Lucinda interrupted. “It’s been two months.”
“A month and a half.”
“Hello, I’m John.” John stuck out his big hand to David but remained seated.
“David Davidson,” he shook John’s hand firmly.
“Ha!” Lucinda laughed, “your parents named you twice! Want some pork skins?”
“No thanks.”
“How come you’re wearing a tie?” Kalo asked. She touched his tie with her fingertips. “It’s nice.”
“Because it’s his first day!” Lucinda shouted from her chair. “You don’t have to impress nobody around here.”
John put two marks beside his name.
“Sand bagger!” Lucinda screamed at him.
“I got them this morning.”
“I didn’t hear you on the phone,” Kalo said suspiciously.
“You were too busy making eyes at David,” John said.
“I wasn’t! I was just introducing myself.”
“Did you really just get two?” David asked.
“Sure,” John grinned. “Now I’m only one behind you but,” he turned to Lucinda, “two in front of you.”
“Sand bagger!”
“Really,” Kalo agreed.
“Well girls,” John said as he went back to his station, “we’ll see who wins today.”
“I beat you yesterday! I got eight before lunch,” Lucinda said. Her stomach groaned and she looked toward the hallway and called out, “Gloria? Where is Gloria? Kalo what do you want for lunch?”
“I don’t know.”
“Let’s get something from Beefboy’s Deli. I like a big Greek salad.”
“I’d just like a big Greek,” Kalo tried to be sultry.
“With double dressing.”
“A Greek undressing.”
“Are you girls talking about food or sex?” John asked.
“Both!” Kalo laughed.
“Right, both,” Lucinda grumbled. “But I don’t remember much about sex. That Spaniard takes me and then rolls off me like a pig and goes to sleep.”
David looked at the huge woman. Her legs were squeezed into jeans and a roll of fat hung over her belt, if she were wearing a belt, he could not see it. Her breast lay flat on her big round belly and her flabby arms continued to shove food into her mouth as she licked her thick fingers. He could not imagine anyone on top of her and having sex.
“What are you looking at?” Lucinda asked him gruffly.
“Nothing,” David answered. “Well, good to meet all of you.”
“David, take off that tie,” Lucinda ordered him.
Kalo smiled at David and said, “I like it.”
“You like anything in pants,” Lucinda said.
“Not true!”
“You’re just a flirt.”
“I don’t flirt with John.”
“John don’t count. He’s just a fat hog like us.”
“I’m not as fat as you,” Kalo reminded her and took one of the pork skins from Lucinda’s desk.
“You’re not as old as me. You’re only nineteen with one kid. I’m thirty with three kids. You’ll be as fat as me in ten years. When you’re as old as me you’ll—”
“That would be eleven years,” John corrected her math, “and probably more.”
“Shut up! Sand bagger! You’re just trying to show off ‘cause of the new guy.”
“I’m kicking your big ass today.”
“So everyone did pretty good yesterday,” David said reading the board. “Lucinda had eight, John had seven and Kalo had—“
“I only worked in the afternoon but I got four.”
“Well, I’m sure you’ll do better today.”
“You remind me of an actor,” Kalo frowned as she tried to remember who David resembled, “but I don’t remember his name.”
“Here we go,” Lucinda spoke with her mouth full of pork skins. “Damn these are hot!”
“Shut up! He does look like an actor.”
“Get a new line,” Lucinda said. She made a sputtering noise with her bulbous lips.
“He hasn’t heard it,” John chuckled. He began to tap a phone number onto the keypad.
“Shut up, both of you!” Kalo turned to David and asked, “They are so mean to me, are you going to be mean to me?”
“I’m not here to be mean to anyone.”
“Sit down, Kalo,” Lucinda commanded as if Kalo was a little girl. “Give the new guy a break.”
“I’m David.”
“All right, David the new guy. I don’t want to see any more pledges from you this morning until we catch up.”
“Why not?” David asked.
“Because! We don’t want to work that hard. God these are hot,” she spoke into the diet cola can and washed down the pork skin. She wiped her mouth with the back of her thick hand. “Phew! I wish I’d never bought the hot ones.”
“Then don’t eat them,” David suggested with a shrug.
“I can’t stop. Hey!” Lucinda said loudly, “Are you starting with me?”
“Starting?” David asked.
“Right. Starting. Don’t start with me. I know I’m fat. But I’ve lost ten pounds and I’m on the Atkins diet and I can eat these and still lose weight.”
“I was only saying--”
“I know what you were saying,” she interrupted.
“If they are too hot don’t eat them.” David said. After a moment he added, “Or eat something else.”
“You are starting with me. You’re saying I can’t stop eating.”
“You can’t,” Kalo spoke with her back to Lucinda.
“I know I have a problem but I’m working on it. What are you doing about your problem, Kalo?”
“I diet.”
“I guess we should get back on the phones,” David said. He looked over his list and picked up the phone.
“Relax! You got three.” Lucinda raised her voice again as she pointed to the board, “You trying to impress them? Don’t bother. They don’t care. Sylvia got a promotion for doing nothing. We did all the work and she took all the credit.”
“I thought our goal was twelve,” David said.
“Hey, let me put you straight. We don’t have to do that many. They’ll keep us around anyway. Who are they going to get to do this? So relax. Get a couple more and call it a day.”
David looked at her beautiful face stuck on top of the baggy turgidity. If she lost a hundred pounds she might be attractive. He turned back to his phone list.
“Don’t give him a hard time,” Kalo whined, “he’s nice.”
“I’m not giving anyone a hard time except you. Here, have a pork skin.” Lucinda held out the bag to Kalo.
“No, they’re too hot.”
“No they’re not.”
“Then why are you breathing funny?” Kalo asked.
“Gloria!” Lucinda screamed and David put a finger in his ear to try and hear the person on the phone. “Are you here? We have to order lunch soon or it won’t get delivered by noon! Where is she?”
“She’s going to be late,” David said as he hung up the phone.
“How do you know?” Lucinda asked.
“She called into the office.”
“Why would she tell you?”
“I answered the phone.”
“Why’d you do that?”
“It was ringing.”
“It don’t ring back here.”
“I was at the receptionist desk.”
“Why didn’t Janet answer?”
“She was in the restroom.”
“Janet has a bladder problem,” Kalo told David. “I think they should move the phone into the toilet for her.”
“So what’s with Gloria?” Lucinda asked.
“Her little girl had a seizure.”
“Again?”
“How sad,” Kalo added.
John stood up and went to the board and put a third mark beside his name.
“Damn you! Why don’t you add those two you sand bagged back onto yesterday’s total!”
“Then I beat you yesterday.”
“No you didn’t.”
“And I’ll beat you today.”
“Shut up!”
“Can you hold it down?” David held his palm over the phone, “I’m trying to talk here.”
Lucinda glared at him and blew out a breath to try and cool her tongue. She immediately ate another spicy pork skin and drank a swig of diet cola. When David finished the call he put a fourth mark on the board.
“You don’t get it do you?” Lucinda scolded him.
“Sylvia told me the goal was twelve.”
“Well, Sylvia ain’t here. We never did twelve. It was too hard.”
“I don’t see why. I have four and it’s not even ten in the morning.”
“I don’t care what you got.”
“And could you lower your voice. People on the phone can hear you shouting.”
“You’re saying I’m a big mouth?”
“I’m saying you could lower your voice.”
“You don’t tell me what to do. I’ve been in this phone room longer than anyone. And I’ll still be around after you quit. People like you don’t work out.”
“What do you mean?”
“With your shirt and tie. Come on. You’re doing this while you’re looking for a better job. Unless you can’t find a job.”
“I’ve done all right.”
“You have? Then why’d you end up in a place like this Maybe there’s something we don’t know about you. Some secret. You been in jail or something.”
“No.”
“What then?”
“I’m from Philadelphia.”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“I just moved here.”
“You moved here for this job? That doesn’t make sense. Something’s not right.”
“B four!” John exclaimed, “I’m going for a bingo!”
“Get out!” Kalo said, and immediately picked up the phone receiver.
“Damn it, John!” Lucinda complained. “I give up this morning, but I’m going to kick your ass this afternoon.”
“You’re not going to make any calls?” David asked.
“You don’t worry about it. New guy.”
“David.”
“Right, David,” she snarled at him. “You just stop making calls so we can catch up.”
“How can you catch up if you don’t make any calls?” David asked.
“You’re a smart ass, ain’t you. I don’t like a smart ass.”
“I’m not here to be liked,” David stated in an intimidating tone.
“You stay out of my way,” Lucinda fired back.
“That would be a challenge,” John said.
“Shut up, John!” Lucinda saw Gloria in the hallway and called to her, “Hey, Gloria! How’s your girl?”
“She’s stable,” Gloria spoke from the hallway, “thanks for asking.”
“Get in here! We have to order lunch.”
“Why don’t you start making calls?” David asked her.
“Why don’t you kiss my fat ass?”
“Lucinda,” Gloria said as she entered the phone room, “where you thinking of ordering—“
Gloria stopped speaking when she saw David.
“Mister Davidson,” Gloria gasped, “I thought you’d be in your office.”
“Office?” Lucinda asked.
“I wanted to check out the phone room first.” David rose from his seat at the cubicle.
“Why you calling him Mister? He’s just a loser like us.”
“Lucinda, Mister Davidson is Sylvia’s replacement.”
“Get out,” Kalo said. She started randomly punching the keypad on her phone to look busy.
John began to snicker.
“That’s right, Lucinda. I’m the new guy. And I wanted to find out why pledges were low in this office.” He looked directly at her, “Now I think I see the problem.”
“I do better than anyone around here.”
“I’d like to see you in my office, Lucinda,” David tersely instructed her.
He left the phone room with Gloria following behind him.
“Gloria! Why didn’t you tell us?” Lucinda asked.
Gloria shrugged her shoulders.
“You screwed up this time,” John smirked.
“I didn’t screw up! He should have introduced himself instead of spying on us. He’s just a sneaky spy.”
Her voice was carrying through the walls and she shouted loudly, “I don’t need this job!”
“Apparently not,” David said as he stuck his head back into the phone room. “I want to see you now. Before lunch.”
“I hate the taste of coffee but I love the smell,” she rattled on, “and they kept trying to serve me coffee at breakfast but I just wanted my sausage and eggs. Oh, that sausage was so good. My Atkins diet says that I can eat all the sausage I want so I had a double order. I just have to watch my carbs.”
When Kalo noticed the man dressed in a shirt and tie she immediately went to his cubicle.
“Who are you?” Kalo asked.
He held up his index finger and smiled politely as he continued taking the phone pledge.
“He must be the new guy, Kalo,” Lucinda said. She pulled out the padded chair from her cubicle. “Now don’t start flirting.”
“I don’t flirt!”
“You flirt with anything in pants,” John joked with her. He was the last to get to his workspace and carried a cup of coffee with him. As he lowered his pudgy, pot-bellied body to the folding chair the metal groaned with the weight.
All three telemarketers were obese but Lucinda was the biggest. She ate hot pork skins from a plastic bag and sipped a diet cola. She arranged these items at her small cubicle and lowered her rotund bottom into the large padded chair.
“Looks hot,” Kalo said. She sat down at the cubicle next to Lucinda.
“Are you talking about the new guy?”
“No, the pork skins. But I do like a man in a tie.”
“You just like men,” John said as he drank some coffee.
John completely ignored the fact that the new guy was busy writing down information from the pledge. “You make this coffee? It’s strong! But I like it.”
“Thanks,” the new guy said to John. He hung up the phone and immediately went to the tally board.
David wrote down another hash mark beside his name. He already had three pledges for the Children’s Foundation Jail-Bail fundraiser.
“You must be David,” Kalo said as she read his name from the board. She walked to the board and stood as close to him as she could without touching him.
She was coy and pointed at her name listed on the sales board, “I’m Kalo.” She indicated his score with a painted finger nail. “You’ve been busy.”
“I’ve been here since eight-thirty. Three pledges in forty-five minutes. Is that good?”
“Too good,” Lucinda said as she munched on a fried pork skin. “You got to pace yourself, like you’re at a buffet. Sylvia used to ask for twelve pledges per shift, but we straightened her out.”
“But aren’t the pledges what you’re paid to do?” David asked.
“Paid?” Lucinda bellowed. Her large lungs could shout with very little effort. “They pay us peanuts.”
“Ten dollars an hour,” the new guy reminded her.
“Right. Because it’s part time. Twenty-seven hours a week—can’t even buy new underwear with that—or a decent lunch. Hey! Gloria! Where’s Gloria? We need to order lunch.”
“Hi,” Kalo said. She was still standing by David.
“Hi.” David smiled at her and asked, “Have you been here long?”
“About a month.”
“No, it’s been longer than that,” Lucinda interrupted. “It’s been two months.”
“A month and a half.”
“Hello, I’m John.” John stuck out his big hand to David but remained seated.
“David Davidson,” he shook John’s hand firmly.
“Ha!” Lucinda laughed, “your parents named you twice! Want some pork skins?”
“No thanks.”
“How come you’re wearing a tie?” Kalo asked. She touched his tie with her fingertips. “It’s nice.”
“Because it’s his first day!” Lucinda shouted from her chair. “You don’t have to impress nobody around here.”
John put two marks beside his name.
“Sand bagger!” Lucinda screamed at him.
“I got them this morning.”
“I didn’t hear you on the phone,” Kalo said suspiciously.
“You were too busy making eyes at David,” John said.
“I wasn’t! I was just introducing myself.”
“Did you really just get two?” David asked.
“Sure,” John grinned. “Now I’m only one behind you but,” he turned to Lucinda, “two in front of you.”
“Sand bagger!”
“Really,” Kalo agreed.
“Well girls,” John said as he went back to his station, “we’ll see who wins today.”
“I beat you yesterday! I got eight before lunch,” Lucinda said. Her stomach groaned and she looked toward the hallway and called out, “Gloria? Where is Gloria? Kalo what do you want for lunch?”
“I don’t know.”
“Let’s get something from Beefboy’s Deli. I like a big Greek salad.”
“I’d just like a big Greek,” Kalo tried to be sultry.
“With double dressing.”
“A Greek undressing.”
“Are you girls talking about food or sex?” John asked.
“Both!” Kalo laughed.
“Right, both,” Lucinda grumbled. “But I don’t remember much about sex. That Spaniard takes me and then rolls off me like a pig and goes to sleep.”
David looked at the huge woman. Her legs were squeezed into jeans and a roll of fat hung over her belt, if she were wearing a belt, he could not see it. Her breast lay flat on her big round belly and her flabby arms continued to shove food into her mouth as she licked her thick fingers. He could not imagine anyone on top of her and having sex.
“What are you looking at?” Lucinda asked him gruffly.
“Nothing,” David answered. “Well, good to meet all of you.”
“David, take off that tie,” Lucinda ordered him.
Kalo smiled at David and said, “I like it.”
“You like anything in pants,” Lucinda said.
“Not true!”
“You’re just a flirt.”
“I don’t flirt with John.”
“John don’t count. He’s just a fat hog like us.”
“I’m not as fat as you,” Kalo reminded her and took one of the pork skins from Lucinda’s desk.
“You’re not as old as me. You’re only nineteen with one kid. I’m thirty with three kids. You’ll be as fat as me in ten years. When you’re as old as me you’ll—”
“That would be eleven years,” John corrected her math, “and probably more.”
“Shut up! Sand bagger! You’re just trying to show off ‘cause of the new guy.”
“I’m kicking your big ass today.”
“So everyone did pretty good yesterday,” David said reading the board. “Lucinda had eight, John had seven and Kalo had—“
“I only worked in the afternoon but I got four.”
“Well, I’m sure you’ll do better today.”
“You remind me of an actor,” Kalo frowned as she tried to remember who David resembled, “but I don’t remember his name.”
“Here we go,” Lucinda spoke with her mouth full of pork skins. “Damn these are hot!”
“Shut up! He does look like an actor.”
“Get a new line,” Lucinda said. She made a sputtering noise with her bulbous lips.
“He hasn’t heard it,” John chuckled. He began to tap a phone number onto the keypad.
“Shut up, both of you!” Kalo turned to David and asked, “They are so mean to me, are you going to be mean to me?”
“I’m not here to be mean to anyone.”
“Sit down, Kalo,” Lucinda commanded as if Kalo was a little girl. “Give the new guy a break.”
“I’m David.”
“All right, David the new guy. I don’t want to see any more pledges from you this morning until we catch up.”
“Why not?” David asked.
“Because! We don’t want to work that hard. God these are hot,” she spoke into the diet cola can and washed down the pork skin. She wiped her mouth with the back of her thick hand. “Phew! I wish I’d never bought the hot ones.”
“Then don’t eat them,” David suggested with a shrug.
“I can’t stop. Hey!” Lucinda said loudly, “Are you starting with me?”
“Starting?” David asked.
“Right. Starting. Don’t start with me. I know I’m fat. But I’ve lost ten pounds and I’m on the Atkins diet and I can eat these and still lose weight.”
“I was only saying--”
“I know what you were saying,” she interrupted.
“If they are too hot don’t eat them.” David said. After a moment he added, “Or eat something else.”
“You are starting with me. You’re saying I can’t stop eating.”
“You can’t,” Kalo spoke with her back to Lucinda.
“I know I have a problem but I’m working on it. What are you doing about your problem, Kalo?”
“I diet.”
“I guess we should get back on the phones,” David said. He looked over his list and picked up the phone.
“Relax! You got three.” Lucinda raised her voice again as she pointed to the board, “You trying to impress them? Don’t bother. They don’t care. Sylvia got a promotion for doing nothing. We did all the work and she took all the credit.”
“I thought our goal was twelve,” David said.
“Hey, let me put you straight. We don’t have to do that many. They’ll keep us around anyway. Who are they going to get to do this? So relax. Get a couple more and call it a day.”
David looked at her beautiful face stuck on top of the baggy turgidity. If she lost a hundred pounds she might be attractive. He turned back to his phone list.
“Don’t give him a hard time,” Kalo whined, “he’s nice.”
“I’m not giving anyone a hard time except you. Here, have a pork skin.” Lucinda held out the bag to Kalo.
“No, they’re too hot.”
“No they’re not.”
“Then why are you breathing funny?” Kalo asked.
“Gloria!” Lucinda screamed and David put a finger in his ear to try and hear the person on the phone. “Are you here? We have to order lunch soon or it won’t get delivered by noon! Where is she?”
“She’s going to be late,” David said as he hung up the phone.
“How do you know?” Lucinda asked.
“She called into the office.”
“Why would she tell you?”
“I answered the phone.”
“Why’d you do that?”
“It was ringing.”
“It don’t ring back here.”
“I was at the receptionist desk.”
“Why didn’t Janet answer?”
“She was in the restroom.”
“Janet has a bladder problem,” Kalo told David. “I think they should move the phone into the toilet for her.”
“So what’s with Gloria?” Lucinda asked.
“Her little girl had a seizure.”
“Again?”
“How sad,” Kalo added.
John stood up and went to the board and put a third mark beside his name.
“Damn you! Why don’t you add those two you sand bagged back onto yesterday’s total!”
“Then I beat you yesterday.”
“No you didn’t.”
“And I’ll beat you today.”
“Shut up!”
“Can you hold it down?” David held his palm over the phone, “I’m trying to talk here.”
Lucinda glared at him and blew out a breath to try and cool her tongue. She immediately ate another spicy pork skin and drank a swig of diet cola. When David finished the call he put a fourth mark on the board.
“You don’t get it do you?” Lucinda scolded him.
“Sylvia told me the goal was twelve.”
“Well, Sylvia ain’t here. We never did twelve. It was too hard.”
“I don’t see why. I have four and it’s not even ten in the morning.”
“I don’t care what you got.”
“And could you lower your voice. People on the phone can hear you shouting.”
“You’re saying I’m a big mouth?”
“I’m saying you could lower your voice.”
“You don’t tell me what to do. I’ve been in this phone room longer than anyone. And I’ll still be around after you quit. People like you don’t work out.”
“What do you mean?”
“With your shirt and tie. Come on. You’re doing this while you’re looking for a better job. Unless you can’t find a job.”
“I’ve done all right.”
“You have? Then why’d you end up in a place like this Maybe there’s something we don’t know about you. Some secret. You been in jail or something.”
“No.”
“What then?”
“I’m from Philadelphia.”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“I just moved here.”
“You moved here for this job? That doesn’t make sense. Something’s not right.”
“B four!” John exclaimed, “I’m going for a bingo!”
“Get out!” Kalo said, and immediately picked up the phone receiver.
“Damn it, John!” Lucinda complained. “I give up this morning, but I’m going to kick your ass this afternoon.”
“You’re not going to make any calls?” David asked.
“You don’t worry about it. New guy.”
“David.”
“Right, David,” she snarled at him. “You just stop making calls so we can catch up.”
“How can you catch up if you don’t make any calls?” David asked.
“You’re a smart ass, ain’t you. I don’t like a smart ass.”
“I’m not here to be liked,” David stated in an intimidating tone.
“You stay out of my way,” Lucinda fired back.
“That would be a challenge,” John said.
“Shut up, John!” Lucinda saw Gloria in the hallway and called to her, “Hey, Gloria! How’s your girl?”
“She’s stable,” Gloria spoke from the hallway, “thanks for asking.”
“Get in here! We have to order lunch.”
“Why don’t you start making calls?” David asked her.
“Why don’t you kiss my fat ass?”
“Lucinda,” Gloria said as she entered the phone room, “where you thinking of ordering—“
Gloria stopped speaking when she saw David.
“Mister Davidson,” Gloria gasped, “I thought you’d be in your office.”
“Office?” Lucinda asked.
“I wanted to check out the phone room first.” David rose from his seat at the cubicle.
“Why you calling him Mister? He’s just a loser like us.”
“Lucinda, Mister Davidson is Sylvia’s replacement.”
“Get out,” Kalo said. She started randomly punching the keypad on her phone to look busy.
John began to snicker.
“That’s right, Lucinda. I’m the new guy. And I wanted to find out why pledges were low in this office.” He looked directly at her, “Now I think I see the problem.”
“I do better than anyone around here.”
“I’d like to see you in my office, Lucinda,” David tersely instructed her.
He left the phone room with Gloria following behind him.
“Gloria! Why didn’t you tell us?” Lucinda asked.
Gloria shrugged her shoulders.
“You screwed up this time,” John smirked.
“I didn’t screw up! He should have introduced himself instead of spying on us. He’s just a sneaky spy.”
Her voice was carrying through the walls and she shouted loudly, “I don’t need this job!”
“Apparently not,” David said as he stuck his head back into the phone room. “I want to see you now. Before lunch.”
No French
NO FRENCH
By Patrick Plummer
My boss hated French. He despised France, including the French people, but he had a peculiar bias toward their language. For example, we could not take a cigarette break but we could go outside for a smoke. When dining out he would never order an entrée and called it the main course. And forget driving down a boulevard.
I suppose he thought French was trying to dominate the alphabet by using up all the vowels.
I’m certain the obsession eliminated things from his life. Champagne, crepes suzette and Audrey Tautou. I would consider the later the biggest loss. He’d never be able to admire at the actresses’ beauty.
It cramped his hiring, no one could submit a resume. Even though it doesn’t have the little accent marks in English anymore, it was poison to his mind. As his assistant, I would screen promising applicants and tell them to remove the word from the top of their work history. I advised them not to commit a gaffe and say “résumé” as they handed the document to him. Some excellent people slipped up. It is so common now to submit a you know what.
We could go to the john or the head but not the toilet. He went to lunch at a beanery and never a café.
I had learned to watch my mouth and keep my job at the beverage distribution company. A year ago I made a mistake the very first week and told him a truck was en route.
In what? He asked me the question as he put down his glasses and stared at me.
On they way, I answered.
That’s better, he advised me, never use that language around me again or you’re fired. Even if it is not French, but only sounds like it, you’re gone. Got it?
He was gauche.
I’ve lasted a year, which is longer than anyone. I learned think before I spoke. How can you not go out to lunch at restaurant? Or describe a pretty brown-haired girl as a brunette?
One day he asked about the framed picture of my fiancé on my desk.
This is a photograph of my wife to be, I said to him
Lovely woman, he said. What does she do?
I had to answer carefully because she worked as marketing director for the City Ballet.
She promotes a dance company.
He shrugged and left my office satisfied with his attempt to be my faux amis. That was a close one but I succeeded with my façade.
The day came when he was confronted with the inevitable. The visitor was the coupe de gras to his career. A short man with a hook nose came to our offices. He was dressed in a suit and carried a brown leather attache case. He intruduced himself to me as Andre Pompadeau and that he must see my boss immediately. The French accent made me smile.
Was he expecting you?
I shall meet with the both of you.
The stiff English is common with people who learned it formally. I escorted him into my boss’office. He glanced up from his desk and bluntly asked, What?
Pompadeau intruduced him self and this made my boss cringe. It got worse for him, better for me.
I am from the Nestlé Corporation.
I liked the way he said corporation, with all the nasal twang on the last syllable.
So what? My boss looked him up and down with contempt.
We have purchased your distribution company and I am present to observe.
Observe what?
Le operation.
Got to love the sound of “o-per-a-shown”.
My boss rose from his chair and leaned over his desk and asked, You mean I have to work for you?
Oui.
Is this a joke? He turned to me with a hateful stare and demanded, Did you put this clown up to this?
Let me assure you, Pompadeau said, the situation is serious.
All the weird, non-essential accents drove my boss over the edge. He screamed at Pompadeau and said he’d rather quit than work for the French.
As you wish.
My ex-boss grabbed his jacket and left the office cursing the entire way down the hall and out the warehouse door.
I turned to monsieur Pampadeau, extended my hand, bowed my head in appreciation and said, Merci beaucoup.
By Patrick Plummer
My boss hated French. He despised France, including the French people, but he had a peculiar bias toward their language. For example, we could not take a cigarette break but we could go outside for a smoke. When dining out he would never order an entrée and called it the main course. And forget driving down a boulevard.
I suppose he thought French was trying to dominate the alphabet by using up all the vowels.
I’m certain the obsession eliminated things from his life. Champagne, crepes suzette and Audrey Tautou. I would consider the later the biggest loss. He’d never be able to admire at the actresses’ beauty.
It cramped his hiring, no one could submit a resume. Even though it doesn’t have the little accent marks in English anymore, it was poison to his mind. As his assistant, I would screen promising applicants and tell them to remove the word from the top of their work history. I advised them not to commit a gaffe and say “résumé” as they handed the document to him. Some excellent people slipped up. It is so common now to submit a you know what.
We could go to the john or the head but not the toilet. He went to lunch at a beanery and never a café.
I had learned to watch my mouth and keep my job at the beverage distribution company. A year ago I made a mistake the very first week and told him a truck was en route.
In what? He asked me the question as he put down his glasses and stared at me.
On they way, I answered.
That’s better, he advised me, never use that language around me again or you’re fired. Even if it is not French, but only sounds like it, you’re gone. Got it?
He was gauche.
I’ve lasted a year, which is longer than anyone. I learned think before I spoke. How can you not go out to lunch at restaurant? Or describe a pretty brown-haired girl as a brunette?
One day he asked about the framed picture of my fiancé on my desk.
This is a photograph of my wife to be, I said to him
Lovely woman, he said. What does she do?
I had to answer carefully because she worked as marketing director for the City Ballet.
She promotes a dance company.
He shrugged and left my office satisfied with his attempt to be my faux amis. That was a close one but I succeeded with my façade.
The day came when he was confronted with the inevitable. The visitor was the coupe de gras to his career. A short man with a hook nose came to our offices. He was dressed in a suit and carried a brown leather attache case. He intruduced himself to me as Andre Pompadeau and that he must see my boss immediately. The French accent made me smile.
Was he expecting you?
I shall meet with the both of you.
The stiff English is common with people who learned it formally. I escorted him into my boss’office. He glanced up from his desk and bluntly asked, What?
Pompadeau intruduced him self and this made my boss cringe. It got worse for him, better for me.
I am from the Nestlé Corporation.
I liked the way he said corporation, with all the nasal twang on the last syllable.
So what? My boss looked him up and down with contempt.
We have purchased your distribution company and I am present to observe.
Observe what?
Le operation.
Got to love the sound of “o-per-a-shown”.
My boss rose from his chair and leaned over his desk and asked, You mean I have to work for you?
Oui.
Is this a joke? He turned to me with a hateful stare and demanded, Did you put this clown up to this?
Let me assure you, Pompadeau said, the situation is serious.
All the weird, non-essential accents drove my boss over the edge. He screamed at Pompadeau and said he’d rather quit than work for the French.
As you wish.
My ex-boss grabbed his jacket and left the office cursing the entire way down the hall and out the warehouse door.
I turned to monsieur Pampadeau, extended my hand, bowed my head in appreciation and said, Merci beaucoup.
Friday, May 28, 2010
Corpus Christi
Corpus Christi
By Patrick Foley Plummer
He answered her with an arrogant smile, “What a man does in adverse situations is acceptable.”
“Is that your defense?” she asked.
He studied the intense green eyes and sullen, somber face surrounded by long waves of gray hair, which she refused to cut. Kathleen remained a beauty even though she approached sixty. Age made her gorgeous.
“Am I on trial?” he asked.
“Should you be?”
She touched the button on the timer and started the free consultation.
“One hour,” he commented. “Is that all I get after what we’ve been through?”
“I have other appointments.”
“Couldn’t we talk tonight?”
“No.”
“You have plans?”
“I agreed to see you for one hour. I don’t even owe you that.”
“Oh, Kathleen, your bitterness is unbecoming.”
“My bitterness is all I have left of you.”
He avoided her eyes and looked at the back of the polished Maple desk, at the lush pile carpet and at his own worn black loafers.
Kathleen had seen his head hung down before, but the hair was grayer now and the shoulders slumped unevenly. The left shoulder dropped, perhaps from some injury of which she knew nothing. Perhaps it was only age. She recalled gripping his younger and stronger shoulders while he entered her body and she immediately repelled the memory.
Kathleen wanted the session to be finished but continued with her commitment. She asked, “Why did you come to see me?”
“I wanted to.”
“To what?”
He looked up and the sly smile appeared full of innuendo and wanting.
“Jack, if you’re not here to see me in my professional capacity, you’re wasting my time.”
“But I need your counsel.”
“You can’t afford me.”
“This hour is free.”
“Then you’d better get to the point.”
He breathed a sigh and studied her lips and wondered why she chose the amethyst shade. The lipstick contrasted with her white hair and emerald eyes. He recalled the morning after they had drunk a magnum of merlot and her lips and tongue were stained violet. He teased her about it and she laughed and stuck out her dark livid organ, which he promptly sucked.
“You’re staring,” she said.
“I was thinking about the time we…”
“Don’t remember anything,” Kathleen warned him.
“Memories are all we have left.”
“Please don’t include me in it. I have my own life now.”
“Really?” He looked around the large desk for any evidence of a relationship. “Who are you seeing?”
“Jack, I did not agree to the counseling to discuss me.”
“So you’re not seeing anyone.”
She reached her left hand toward the timer and Jack quickly held up his hand and said, “I’ll let it go.”
Kathleen’s bony and ringless fingers paused over the clock. He gestured with both hands imploring her to allow him to continue.
“I really do need your advice,” he said.
She quietly folder her hands together on the desk and waited.
“I’ve made a mistake,” Jack said unconvincingly.
She cocked her head to the side.
“Only one?” she asked and clinched her jaws. The jowls sagged slightly but were attractive to him.
“Many,” he rushed his speech. “Many, many mistakes. One after another. And one bad judgment led to another. I’m sorry it ever involved you. I know I hurt you and that is something I’ve never forgiven myself for.”
“I told you not to include me.”
“But how could I not include you. I know I’ve hurt you more than anyone.”
“We’d have to go through a long list of women to determine who you hurt the most. That would exceed your free hour.”
“Do you hate me?”
Kathleen began to grind her teeth as she muttered, “No, Jack, I don’t hate you.”
His sarcastic grin returned, “That sounds like denial.”
“Don’t you dare! Don’t you dare analyze me!”
“That’s good, Kathleen. Express your anger.”
“I’m not,” she caught her breath and slowly exhaled, “angry.”
Jack examined her rigid posture, her clinched fist and her beautiful, taut lips painted purple. Directly behind her was a small table with a photograph of her parents. Beside it was a snapshot of Kathleen and a dog. The picture was framed in black metal. Jack was about to ask about her parents but presumed they were dead. He thought to ask about the pet but a third object caught his eye. It was at the back of the table on a stand. The smooth curve and pearl finish appeared just above the black frame of the pet photograph. It was almost hidden but still there.
“Perhaps it was a mistake coming to see you, Kathleen.” He stood up and looked at her surprised face and then glanced at the shell again. “I thought if we talked again you’d get over me.”
“I am most certainly over you.”
“Really?” He walked around the desk and she rose from her chair. “Then we can shake hands and I’ll go.”
Kathleen sighed, “That might be best.”
“I still upset you.”
“You have that ability.”
“Do you know why?”
Kathleen contemplated the question as he stood close to her. Jack was slightly shorter than her. His face had aged but the dark brown eyes remained youthful and captivating. He was beaming at her and it made her nervous.
“Well?” He asked her again, “Why do I upset you?”
“Too much is unresolved.”
“But I always made you emotional. Sometimes it was good.”
“That was decades ago.”
“But you continue to hold on, Kathleen.”
“I most certainly do not!”
Jack pointed toward the table.
“What?” she asked.
“Corpus Christi. I bought this sea shell for you and filled it with flowers and presented it to you in bed one morning.”
Kathleen flushed. She had kept the memento all these years.
Jack picked up the shell and held it in both hands and offered it to her. Kathleen reached out, touched the warm backs of his hands and accepted the shell again. He moved closer to her and only the mollusk separated them. He kissed her gently.
“That’s a good girl,” he whispered.
She pressed the old present to his chest and pushed him away. Kathleen reached below her desk and brought out a wastebasket. She put the shell into the garbage and clicked off the timer.
“Session over,” she said. When he moved toward her again she demanded, “Go.”
Kathleen stepped away from him. Jack left her office without another word. His silent exit relieved her. When he was gone she retrieved the pearl colored shell from the trash and returned it to the display stand on her table.
Corpus Christi
By Patrick Foley Plummer
By Patrick Foley Plummer
He answered her with an arrogant smile, “What a man does in adverse situations is acceptable.”
“Is that your defense?” she asked.
He studied the intense green eyes and sullen, somber face surrounded by long waves of gray hair, which she refused to cut. Kathleen remained a beauty even though she approached sixty. Age made her gorgeous.
“Am I on trial?” he asked.
“Should you be?”
She touched the button on the timer and started the free consultation.
“One hour,” he commented. “Is that all I get after what we’ve been through?”
“I have other appointments.”
“Couldn’t we talk tonight?”
“No.”
“You have plans?”
“I agreed to see you for one hour. I don’t even owe you that.”
“Oh, Kathleen, your bitterness is unbecoming.”
“My bitterness is all I have left of you.”
He avoided her eyes and looked at the back of the polished Maple desk, at the lush pile carpet and at his own worn black loafers.
Kathleen had seen his head hung down before, but the hair was grayer now and the shoulders slumped unevenly. The left shoulder dropped, perhaps from some injury of which she knew nothing. Perhaps it was only age. She recalled gripping his younger and stronger shoulders while he entered her body and she immediately repelled the memory.
Kathleen wanted the session to be finished but continued with her commitment. She asked, “Why did you come to see me?”
“I wanted to.”
“To what?”
He looked up and the sly smile appeared full of innuendo and wanting.
“Jack, if you’re not here to see me in my professional capacity, you’re wasting my time.”
“But I need your counsel.”
“You can’t afford me.”
“This hour is free.”
“Then you’d better get to the point.”
He breathed a sigh and studied her lips and wondered why she chose the amethyst shade. The lipstick contrasted with her white hair and emerald eyes. He recalled the morning after they had drunk a magnum of merlot and her lips and tongue were stained violet. He teased her about it and she laughed and stuck out her dark livid organ, which he promptly sucked.
“You’re staring,” she said.
“I was thinking about the time we…”
“Don’t remember anything,” Kathleen warned him.
“Memories are all we have left.”
“Please don’t include me in it. I have my own life now.”
“Really?” He looked around the large desk for any evidence of a relationship. “Who are you seeing?”
“Jack, I did not agree to the counseling to discuss me.”
“So you’re not seeing anyone.”
She reached her left hand toward the timer and Jack quickly held up his hand and said, “I’ll let it go.”
Kathleen’s bony and ringless fingers paused over the clock. He gestured with both hands imploring her to allow him to continue.
“I really do need your advice,” he said.
She quietly folder her hands together on the desk and waited.
“I’ve made a mistake,” Jack said unconvincingly.
She cocked her head to the side.
“Only one?” she asked and clinched her jaws. The jowls sagged slightly but were attractive to him.
“Many,” he rushed his speech. “Many, many mistakes. One after another. And one bad judgment led to another. I’m sorry it ever involved you. I know I hurt you and that is something I’ve never forgiven myself for.”
“I told you not to include me.”
“But how could I not include you. I know I’ve hurt you more than anyone.”
“We’d have to go through a long list of women to determine who you hurt the most. That would exceed your free hour.”
“Do you hate me?”
Kathleen began to grind her teeth as she muttered, “No, Jack, I don’t hate you.”
His sarcastic grin returned, “That sounds like denial.”
“Don’t you dare! Don’t you dare analyze me!”
“That’s good, Kathleen. Express your anger.”
“I’m not,” she caught her breath and slowly exhaled, “angry.”
Jack examined her rigid posture, her clinched fist and her beautiful, taut lips painted purple. Directly behind her was a small table with a photograph of her parents. Beside it was a snapshot of Kathleen and a dog. The picture was framed in black metal. Jack was about to ask about her parents but presumed they were dead. He thought to ask about the pet but a third object caught his eye. It was at the back of the table on a stand. The smooth curve and pearl finish appeared just above the black frame of the pet photograph. It was almost hidden but still there.
“Perhaps it was a mistake coming to see you, Kathleen.” He stood up and looked at her surprised face and then glanced at the shell again. “I thought if we talked again you’d get over me.”
“I am most certainly over you.”
“Really?” He walked around the desk and she rose from her chair. “Then we can shake hands and I’ll go.”
Kathleen sighed, “That might be best.”
“I still upset you.”
“You have that ability.”
“Do you know why?”
Kathleen contemplated the question as he stood close to her. Jack was slightly shorter than her. His face had aged but the dark brown eyes remained youthful and captivating. He was beaming at her and it made her nervous.
“Well?” He asked her again, “Why do I upset you?”
“Too much is unresolved.”
“But I always made you emotional. Sometimes it was good.”
“That was decades ago.”
“But you continue to hold on, Kathleen.”
“I most certainly do not!”
Jack pointed toward the table.
“What?” she asked.
“Corpus Christi. I bought this sea shell for you and filled it with flowers and presented it to you in bed one morning.”
Kathleen flushed. She had kept the memento all these years.
Jack picked up the shell and held it in both hands and offered it to her. Kathleen reached out, touched the warm backs of his hands and accepted the shell again. He moved closer to her and only the mollusk separated them. He kissed her gently.
“That’s a good girl,” he whispered.
She pressed the old present to his chest and pushed him away. Kathleen reached below her desk and brought out a wastebasket. She put the shell into the garbage and clicked off the timer.
“Session over,” she said. When he moved toward her again she demanded, “Go.”
Kathleen stepped away from him. Jack left her office without another word. His silent exit relieved her. When he was gone she retrieved the pearl colored shell from the trash and returned it to the display stand on her table.
Corpus Christi
By Patrick Foley Plummer
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