A Demanding Enquiry (WWI, Przemysl)

A Demanding Enquiry
(WWI, Przemysl)


From the balcony, he stood looking down the street, it was mid April, 1915, winter snow was being sucked up by the ground, and melted by the sunlight, the sun was high, and the streets slippery the Russians had invaded the city, of Przemysl, (Ukraine).
His back was to the white outer door that had a big and long window, the stone building was painted deep-purple red, and he almost blended into the building. The Caretaker was behind the second door, listening to the Russian soldiers below, an officer, he held the door open an inch or two,
“What is to become of him now?” he said, as if asking a rational question, only to get an incomplete answer, if he got one at all, and he didn’t get one, it was really a rhetorical question.
It had all started so simple, the man on the balcony told himself, a occupant of the hotel: implying to his subconscious: this old Jew had nothing to do with it, matter of fact the whole world was being destroyed because of some person named Fernando got murdered during a visit in Serbia, and that got the Russians involved on one side, with the French and British, and the Germans, and Austro-Hungarian empire on the other, which stretched now to India, Africa, China and Japan, and was swallowing up all of Europe slowly. How could this be over one assassination? The who world under arms, and now it was being called The Great War of all wars.
The city was one third Jew, and now the Russians were weeding them out, and taking them off doorsteps, out of synagogues, and who knows where they were bringing them, only half returned.
The old Jew was handing the Russian officer some papers, he had a long white beard, and long white sideburns, and was old, very old. His wife in the doorway, he put his hand out to her, “Stay back,” he told her. He was very careful to say it softly, not to disrupt the Russian officer’s thinking.
When he had finished reading the papers of the old man, he took him into a small room of a nearby hut, “You will sign this paper,” he told him; it was giving him the rights to his house, like a deed.
“No, sir, Colonel,” the old Rabbi answered.
He leaned back in his chair, ripped up the papers, saying, “I didn’t enjoy reading them anyway.”
Outside the sun had went behind the buildings, a soldier came in and put some wood into the iron stove in the middle of the room, “Be quick,” said the officer, and he was, and left him alone, he was one of the Colonel’s orderlies.
The Russian had a dark-face, from the sun and wind burnt, from the cold of the previous winter, which was not completely over. They now left the hut; the orderly carefully shut the door behind them.
“Rabbi,” the Colonel called.
The Rabbi had started to walk over to his wife, thinking the Colonel was done with him.
“Yes sir, Colonel?”
The Colonel walked up to him face to face, as if he had no blood in his face, pale like, eyes staring, shoulder to shoulder,
“Stay here, who said you were relieved?”
The Colonel laid his hand on the old man’s shoulder, the old man was perhaps five-feet eight inches tall, the Russian, six foot. His long fingers reached up to his ear, his fingers wrapped around it, having a full grip, lightly stretching it to feel if it was grasped securely, the old man’s pinkish dark flesh, turned lightly red, and he started to squeeze,
“If you move I’ll have you shot,” said the Colonel; then looked straight into the old man’s eyes you could see silent pain.
“How old are you old man?” said the near thirty year old Colonel, still squishing and pulling his ear, several Russian soldiers standing nearby laughing, joking.
The old man didn’t answer, “You love your wife?” asked the Colonel.
“How do you mean?” said the Rabbi.
“Love, are you in love with her —or not?” and he started to pull and twist the old man’s ear again, the old man trying not to grind his teeth, to withstand the sharp pain.
“Have you ever been with any other girl?” asked the Colonel, “I shouldn’t ask that but I have to, and you better say yes, so my comrades can hear you and your old bag of a wife over there can hear!”
“Yes, sir Colonel, I am in love with her.”
“Are you sure?”
“I am sure.”
“Rabbi,” the Colonel said in a more fanciful voice forgetting that he had said he needed him to say he was with another girl, said,
“Can you hear my soldiers talking; they want me to rip your ear off your head?” And just then, he jerked it, and blood came pouring out, and it ripped, tore.
There was no talking from the soldiers now, and the Colonel looked at him sternly, and quickly ripped the ear with all his force, in a twist and a pull, and his finger slipped off the old man’s small ears, and it was just hanging from the upper seam of the ear, the lobe part was tangling freely.
“You Jews are corrupt, you know that right?”
“I don’t know what you mean, corrupt,” said the old Jew.
“All right,” said the Colonel, “you needn’t play the better here.”
The Colonel looked at the ground, the mud, his horse; the old man’s face was in a lamenting despair,
“Orderly,” he said in a sharp and stern tone, “bring a sharp knife, or razor out, cut his beard off and his sideburns and if he moves, you three over there, shoot his wife.”
The three soldiers dropped their apples, and one had a cigarette and he did the same, and aimed their rifles at the old lady, as the orderly brought a razor he had pulled out of his pocket, and brought it up to the old man’s face, and without any soap or water, shaved him clean on the spot.

The old man now was beardless, his wife had her hands over her face, and then the Colonel without a smile walked around him,
“And where is all that Jewish gold, you really don’t want to die do you?”
The Colonel now paused, waiting for an answer, the old man was looking at the ground, the mud, he knew he could not win, that you greet death the same way as you greet life; and he was too old to greet it any other way, and so he greeted it without fear, and knowing he was at peace with God. The old man folded his arms and hands.
“Do you want anything of me?” he asked.
“No,” said the Colonel. Then he told a soldier in back of him, “Strap him onto the back of my horse, and when I am gone, beat his wife.”
The old man heard it, and the Colonel wanted him to hear it, and he looked his last look at his wife of sixty-years, she still had her hands folded over her mouth, so she’d not be heard.
Awkwardly he mounted his horse, and dragged the old man down the cobblestone street, out of the city, towards the mountains, as the orderly brought more wood for the stove so when the Colonel returned he’d be warm, and the three soldiers went over to the old woman, and with the butts of their rifles, they beat her half to death.
When the Colonel returned, he went into his little hut, it was warm, and he opened a bottle of wine, and lay back in his bunk, looking at his uniform, and all its medals he had on it, his helmet, his mud covered boots, and said, to himself,
“The old devil took a lot of silent pain before he croaked, thought he never would.”


2-28-2009 (Partly based on actual events)
Dedicated to my Grandfather of WWI, Anton Siluk•

To Another Country (a short story, in Augsburg, Germany, 1970)

To Another Country
(Augsburg, Germany, 1970)


We, the soldiers at the 1/36 Artillery, in Augsburg, Germany, in March, of 1970, understood the war in Vietnam could call us at anytime; we could be put on the allocation list, and so we formed friendships, kind of like to like, to pass the time of day away. My room in the barracks was dimly lit, and the hallways were noisy and smoky, and we had certain hours we could be up and around, and then bed check; and there were always sergeants checking this and that. On the other hand, people were bringing in girls on the weekends, along with the Mexicans with their loud music, and blacks high on dope, and whites, drunk as skunks. And all of us to a certain degree took on the behaviors of the others, at one time or another. We were mostly privates and Private First Class Soldiers, some Corporals, only a few Buck Sergeants within the barracks, and there were four to a room usually.
And I, I suppose I was like a few of the others, patriotic, and I believe a few of my buddies were the same, but not many of us were, we simply were draftees. Two of them were from the south; I think Alabama, and North Carolina. We hung around with the adjectives removed, and just got drunk, walked the parks and streets and visited the guesthouses in Augsburg, Germany.
Perhaps we needed each other, so it seemed at the time, it was kind of a small group we had, and remained friends against outsiders you might say. It had been different there, in Germany, away from home.
I was not ashamed of my homeland, but the longer I stayed in Germany, the more I liked it, I was getting used to the German soil, the night clubs, the food, the culture. I could have imagine myself taking a European Out, as they called it, and living in Germany, once my tour was up, but I’d ended up in Vietnam, so that was only food for thought for a small period of time.
The three of us, Private First Class Bruce Wilcox and Buck Sergeant, John Sharp, , and I, Chick Evens, were seen as almost being attached to one another, the first three months I was in Germany, even Simon, a Private like me, joined the group, as we drifted here and there. And I liked them all, thought perhaps we’d not have to be separated from one another, and we’d spend our time here in Germany together.
When I got promoted to a special project, in the security area this question came up, being separated from my buddies. They had complimented me on the so called promotion, but now our hours were irregular for us to hangout. So they were wondering, as I was wondering, if I was going to accept the promotion, it wasn’t in rank, rather in position.
This all made me think, ‘was the promotion a promotion or a demotion?’ I would get a private room, which normally only sergeants got, my hours would rotate, but be fixed for the most part, and I’d not have to go out to those horrible thirty-day training sessions in the cold wilderness a hundred miles away. But my friends, I said, what about my friends?’ questioning myself.
Sergeant First Class Myers approached me; he was ahead of the Security Force at Reese Military Base, said,
“You have your new job if you want it, I’ve talked to your Company Commander, he was reluctant at first, but I had the Colonel back me up, but it has to be accepted willingly, otherwise your commanding officer will request you come back into his Command.”
“I’m trying to work it out in my head, it’s has more to do with leaving my friends than anything.” I said.
“The more of a fool you are, to let a good chance pass you by that you may never be able to recover. But let your conscious be your guide,” said the Sergeant First Class.
“Why, Sergeant Myers isn’t friendship important?”
He seemed very angry, “Don’t call me Sergeant, I am a First Class Sergeant, that is my title, it took me eighteen-years to get it.”
“Sorry Sergeant First Class, I do respect you, and your rank, and I see your point.” I said, trying to smooth things out.
“You cannot pass up opportunity, if you are to advance, here you are subject to me, there with the Captain, you will not even be noticed among the other 160-men he has, and forgotten for promotion for good deeds done, in this position you lose nothing, and gain everything.”
I wanted to say something else, and he simply said, “Don’t argue with me private, I don’t have the time, you have five minutes to make up you mind, and then I’ll find your replacement, it’s as simple as that.”
I could not be rude, so I didn’t say another word, rather leaned against the stone wall of the Barracks, to the security building. Then in five minutes he came out.
“Oh—“ he said, “they are biting their lips over at your company area to have you back, they are low on men for guard duty, and kitchen clean up and so forth, I told them I’d be sending you back soon, since it is so difficult for you to resign yourself from your old duty and friends, the soldiers that work here are also good friends, matter-of-fact, wherever you go in life you will meet new and good friends, and have to say farewell to the old ones, that is simply life.”

“You must forgive me, for being so indolent in my choice, when I had in the first place asked for this new duty assignment. Yes, I will be more than glad to accept it. You are right, an opportunity missed, my never appear again, and who knows what road it will lead to. And it was at that moment my confidence in decision making was completely restored.

2-27-2009•

The Defeated (Cockfight at El Rosedal/Chusco vs. Aji Nergo)

Armando Martinez, climbed down the steps with his friend, Eza Ponze, in the El Rosedal Restaurant’s back area (in Lima, Peru) where they had a small open arena for cockfights. He sat down, about ten-feet away from the arena area, with Eza, this was his first cockfight, and his girlfriend Martha was getting sandwiches, with Eza’s wife, Maria. There were perhaps two-hundred people surrounding this little arena, the owner of the white cock (rooster) by the name of Chusco, stood silent and erect in the side isle, overlooking the arena, proud with his bird of prey, in his hands, holding him under the stomach, and caressing the back of his head.
Armando felt a mixture of unexplained excitement, and anxiety, he wasn’t sure if it was right to watch two birds, cocks, fight one another, perhaps to the death to entertain the two hundred spectators.
“Armando,” said Eza, listening to him whispering to himself, “You ok with this?”
He didn’t respond.
He’s doing some heavy thinking, Eza thought.
“Armando,” he said, and stomped his feet.
“I’m here, I’m here, just daydreaming I guess I was looking at the green floor to the arena, and the yellow strip around it.”
“You want to bet?” said a voice in back of the two.
“No thanks, we’re betting between ourselves,” said Eza.
“People bet on the cocks?” asked Armando.
“Sure what one do you want, the white one, he’s Chusco, or Aji Negro?” Eza said.
Someone over a loudspeaker said, the cockfight was going to start in five minutes to get seated. Martha and Maria were now coming back with sandwiches and coffee, making their way through a horde of knees to sit down by their mates.
Smoke was filling the room, descending down upon everyone, as another three hundred people, who were in the restaurant eating chicken, and drinking beer, standing around talking, suddenly, all up and left to join the others and watch the fight; people yelling “Chusco!” and “Aji Negro!” “Chusco!” and “Aji Negro!” There was so much noise in the arena area, Eza’s wife could only just understand her husband’s complaint somewhat, “The coffee’s weak, sour…” he said.
“What?” she responded?
“It’s awful, the coffee, it’s awful!” said Eza, making faces, putting the coffee under his seat.
“Oh, that’s the only coffee I could find.”
Another man was pushing his way through the isle in front of them, he had a box, the other cock was in it, Aji Negro, and he placed the wooded box near where the speaker of the house was, the one with the bullhorn. He was a small man, compared the Chusco’s master. From different sides they brought their fighters into the arena area. The speaker, with his red jacket left his spot, and walked out into the arena, checked both cocks out, gave his ok, then returned to his spot, in front, a little to the right side of Armando and Eza.
The youthful, and taller man, owner of Chusco, had now released his fighter, as did the shorter man release Aji Negro, and everyone leaned forward, even Armando to see the cocks as they circled one another to find the other’s weakness.
“Are they going to kill one another,” asked Martha, closing her eyes a bit, covering them with one hand, looking everywhichway through her open fingers, hoping to miss the forthcoming attacks.
“That’s why we’re here,” said Eza, “to see a good fight,” and Eza raised his hand, as did a hundred others in the arena, and yelled, “Aji Negro!” he had bet ten-soles on him with Armando, whom got “Chusco.”
“How many cockfights you been to?” asked Armando to Eza.
“Many, many…” said Eza not wanting to talk.
“This is my first one,” said Martha to Maria.
“Just this one, haw?” replied Maria.
“That’s all!” she said, then Eza, made a remark by saying what perhaps he believed to be the truth, at least for him, “It’s good for the soul, feeds your spirit, makes you more alive, stops your complaining of little things in life.”
Then she stuck out her tongue at him as he went back to see the ongoing fight between the two cocks, they were know chasing one another, ripping at each other’s necks, trying to jump on each other’s backs, digging in their claws, wherever and whenever possible, trying to take down the other, get the advantage, find the opening, rip the other part if possible. Eza leaned back in his position, looked at Armando, he looked like a stiff bull, as if he had killed his brother.
In front of Eza, people were passing down large beers, drinking out of glasses, pouring the beer as fast as they could, filling their glasses to the rim, then hurriedly went back to refocusing onto the fight, whistling, and yelling and stomping their feet, flicking cigarette ashes everywhere, whenever, on everybody next to them and around them, clapping and yelling each fighter’s name out loud.
Ten-minutes had passed, someone blew a whistle, and the man with the red jacket stepped back out into the arena—the given time period for the fight had elapsed, without a killing, one fighter was wounded, the other, Chusco, was running around the ring, like a champ, and he was the champ.
“Here,” said Eza to Armando, extending his hand outward with a ten-solo bill, “Chusco won!” He seemed a bit surprised.
Armando looked at Eza, smiled, he had heard of cockfights before, he even felt a certain national pride in them, an interest that said he should attend a fight, it was a custom, tradition, a way of life for his countrymen, and he’d remember today, he told himself, but perhaps not attend another fight. On the other hand, Eza was so excited, he went out to meet the owner, and the winner Chusco, and got to hold him, take a picture with him, and well, he felt like a kid again, at sixty-years old; as Martha, Maria, and Armando kept their distance incase the great white cock, went mad.


Written in Lima, Peru, 2-26-2009 (the actual cockfight took place, May of 2008
Dedicated to Armando and Martha (Eh)

An Interview with Agaliarept, the Henchman

Interview with:
Agaliarept, the Henchman
(Subservient to, Lucifugus)


An Interview by Chick Evens and

Ruler of the Tenth Hour of the Night
(Tent in Rank, in the Order of Demon in Hell)



Note: This interview is being given to Chick Evens, by of a third party (THN), who is asking Chick Evens’ questions to Agaliarept, since this can not be done in person:




THN: Agaliarept, what’s your nationality?

Agaliarept: Heaven

THN: What is your patriotic allegiance?

Agaliarept: My loyalties are to the Infernal Alliance first and foremost

THN: What is your age?

Agaliarept: for the most part, eternal, perhaps looking 48 or so, it’s hard to tell, I shape change, and can be often seen as animalistic looking

THN: What is your full title?

Agaliarept: I am a demon who is a grand general of Hell and commander of the second legion, I hold sway over Europe and Asia Minor and to control the past and future, Tarihimal is my sidekick, and we are rulers of Elelogap, and we also govern matters connected with water.

THN: What are your characters you’d like others to know about you?

Agaliarept: I am intelligent, not like all my profoundly unwise followers, I am not open-minded, nor care to be, I have no sincerity or sense of justice. I have very little aristocratic appeal, nor am I a gallant gentleman of demons, I am the opposite, and love it; bright lights cause me pain, I am a perfectionist, and have little use for the other type. I voice is hoarse, not soft like, and often not clear, and surely not soothing. I am likened to a brilliant energetic Minister of Hell, a commanding officer, in high rank and I like others to notice that.

THN: What Kind of powers do you have?

Agaliarept: invasion of dreams, choking, and producing nigh mares. These of course are just little ones. I have Telepathy, clairvoyance, flight and teleportation: also capable of generating fire, inducing illusions; able to resurrect corpses, in a zombie like manner, if their souls are hell bound, and cause unconsciousness by a gesture or a hiss to non-Christians. Extensive knowledge in armed and unarmed combat with unnatural strength, speed, agility, stamina comparable to or near to, an angelic being, but far from an archangel.
Ability to manipulate both mortals and immortals into deceit, spite, insanity, hate and pride; also to attain possession of them, for satanic worshippers, make people have ungodly sexual preferences and other ungodly acts: I cannot the present or future, but I can have my Master, Lucifer invest such powers in me for a period of time; I can produce spells to the weaker minds. My invisibility rhetoric, logic, politics and knowledge of many languages allows me to summon in warlike matters.

THN: What is your weakness?

Agaliarept: I’d bet you’d like to know that. Let me just put it this way, the very few that I have are not worthy to tell, but since I agreed to this interview, I’m sure the read would like to know. Angels! I am a demon, not an angel, and I can be removed by them; or a healthy heart towards God, Jesus Christ. Guns, accidents, all those kinds of things I create, they do not harm me; bother me, to the contrary. I don’t enter churches willingly, nor do I care to look at crucifixes, but I can; I avoid them, like holy water, it burns. My brothers often like playing the game of demigod, and when invoked, they try to play Lucifuge Revocable, duplicating him, I don’t care for that game, contrary to my belief, and he is our commander and chief.

THN: What kind of weapons do you use?

Agaliarept: Well, first of all I have them, I do use them, but I don’t need them. Let’s get that clear first. I have can, or sometimes an umbrella, black in color, a silver handle, like my master, it blocks the bright light from me, and I can trip a few folks when I become visible. I do have a concealed 58 cm, blade, a good weapon; it was forged from fires of Hell, it is burning hot, and I start fires with it, and I burn hands with it.

THN: What kind possessions do you have?

Agaliarept: A sliver ring with a big red stone in it, bequeathed to me by Master Focalor that is it.

THN: Who are your closest Friends?

Agaliarept: No sense in using the friend word, I have none, but I do have close affiliations, or better yet, trusted subordinates, whom I really do not trust, such as Buer and Gusoyn, and even Botis; they belong to the second Legion of Spirits, which I command. The assist me in finding out, and discovering the secrets of all the courts in the world.
THN: If I wanted to conjure up a demon, how would I do it?

Agaliarept: First of all, it is not wise to play in areas you are not willing to give your soul to. But on the other hand for the curious minded person, as I know Chick Evens is, you may want to check out, the ”Book of the Key of Solomon” (Sepher Maphteah Shelomoh).

THN: Can you give us the ranks of the underworld?

Agaliarept: The three superior spirits: Lucifer, Emperor, Beelzebuth Prince Astaroth Grand Duke. After that, are six inferior spirits: Lucifuge Rofocale, Prime Minister, Satanachia, Commander-in-Chief, Agaliarept (me), Another Commander, Fleurety, Lieutenant-General Sargatanas, Brigadier-Major Nebiros, Field-Marshal and Inspector-General.

THN: Do Demons Lie?

Agaliarept: That is like asking, “Do humans breath,” of course we lie, it is part of our nature, we are good at it to, professional, we practice it everyday, and even quiz ourselves.

THN: Can you give me the names of some demons off the top of your head working in the world today?

Agaliarept: of course I can, but not sure what for, it isn’t going to do you any good knowing, but ok, I should never have agreed to this review, but you see how I keep my word, make sure, when you write this out, you make me look good. Anyhow, I’ll give you some of the ‘A B & C,’ demon; otherwise this interview will take all week:

AGLASIS; he can transport anything throughout the world.
BARTZABEL: Kabbalistic Demon of Mars. He has the power to raise storms.
Bartzabel has black wings. He is bald with a small black haired ponytail and he is a little chubby.
BECHARD: has power over winds and storms, lightening, rain, hail. BRULEFER: He makes one beloved.
BUCON: He has the power to incite hatred and jealousy between the sexes.
CARNIVEAN: He was a Prince of the Order of Powers. He bestows confidence, boldness and strength.
CARREAU: He was a Prince of the Order of Powers. He gives one control over emotions and bestows strength.
CLAUNECK: has power over goods, money and finances. He can discover hidden treasures and bestow great wealth.
CLISTHERET: She can make day into night and night into day. She is under the power of the Duke "Syrach." She has a green complexion and a large bulbous head like Lucifuge Rofocal and Valefor. She is friendly. -High Priestess Maxine
ELELOGAP: Elelogap is ruled over by Agaliarept and Tarihimal. He has power over the element of Water.


THN: Agaliarept, Mr. Chick Evens, says thank you for the interview, is there anything you’d like to add?
Agaliarept: I kind of operate the secret police down here, and let me warn you up there, there are a number of so called, pantheonic gods who rebelled against being forgotten and, in many cases assumed the names and aspects of a variety of us Demons; so be ware of who you are call up, you may not get what you are looking for, also, a word to the wise, beware of the Demons with cock's heads, huge bellies & knotted tails, they are ruthless.

Written for posterity sake, 2-26-2009

The Horese of Venice (a short story)

The Horses of Venice
((In the City of Bridges) (A Chick Evens Story))





It has always seemed to me that Venice has been omitted as a place to go to for archeological observations; more for the tourist or interested person on the romantic side of life’s scale. We have many charming and sound accounts of Venice by writes of bygone years, within this genre. Can we not hope to furnish the reader with a few rational and interesting facts about old Venice, and perhaps give some food for thought, by providing an archeological treasure, in particular The Horses of Venice? I hope so.
I was twenty-seven years old, a Staff Sergeant in the United States Army, I was stationed a hundred miles from Venice, in April of 1980, and a new found friend, at my army base, upon my first week there, asked me one weekend if I wanted to go to Pisa, or Venice, for the afternoon. And I picked Venice.
I could not contemplate the excitement that was building up inside of me, on the early morning train ride to Venice, with my friend, Sergeant Goodman, I was near breathless. To me, Venice was this obscure part of the world, a thing that was of importance, to the unconquered, and those folks who had money, on vacation. And back in 1980, not a lot of Americans to my knowledge were heading towards renowned places for the weekend; it was famous in my eyes, a place of faith, love and a journey of inspiration.

Once at the gates of Venice, we headed down the Grand Canal, it was lightly raining, and it was cool. The railing on the boat was cold from the rain. It all seemed a fitting enough trip on the canal, or down the Canal to St. Mark’s Square, where we’d be swamped with pigeons, it all looked as if the folks were accustomed to our presence, less incongruous on the boat than they would be later on when we walked back to the gate entrance, through the city across the many bridges.

Regarding the four horses of Venice, it is a fact one can become accustomed to the sight of things that have been in place for a long time. People were talking about the horses of Venice, as the Sergeant Goodman, and I walked around St. Mark’s Square. One woman said,
“It is quite shocking, I’ve been to Venice twenty-times, I’m so used to seeing those Four Horses of St. Mark’s, standing over the main entrance of the church (above the Gothic addition) the only existing specimen of an ancient Roman monumental four-horse chariot.”
I looked up and sure enough there were no horses, I looked to the side of the church, and there they were, being nailed into wooden crates, for renovation, storage, and future display.
“They are going to be replaced with replicas,” said the middle-aged, well preserved lady who wanted to cry, thinking all this was unreal, and the fact that there were no horses in place at the moment did much to rob the beauty of the Church, so she protested.
I must admit, frankly the shock I saw in that woman’s eyes looking at those four horses, found in Constantinople in AD 1204, said to originally have adorned a Roman triumphal arch, brought her to near hyperventilating.
I remember after we had walked closer to the horses, along with the lady, how heavy they seemed, in their still existent portions, she wanted to touch them, leaned over a rope fence to do so, tremendous energy of a explosive type appeared to fill her face when she did, as if she lit up for folks to see her a considerable distance away.
The fact that it had been so immediate, the guard stood as if he was dead in his position, and I felt a little uncomfortable, as if I was to be removed from the square for bringing this woman to do such a thing.
“In 1797,” the woman said to me and Goodman, “Bonaparte took the horses to Paris, but we got them back here in 1815.”
The surprising thing, next to her progressive inattention to all life that surrounded her at this moment, but those horses, she was no longer scattered- brained, but rather calm.
“If they hadn’t brought the horses down,” I told her, “you’d never been able to touch the horse; they would have been up there another hundred years.”
“Shoo,” she said, “that’s so true.”
After a short time, the guard moved closer to the horses, in case the woman decided to repeat her offence. All consequently lay on her face, but it looked like she could live with it, indicative she could try again, but she refrained herself.
Now, as I was about to leave she said in a more natural way, clearing her throat, her little wound healed, “I suppose the air pollution damages the horses—so I’ve read—and I suppose inside the Basilica, will be a nice home for the horses, so let the replicas stand now for 800-years, see what happens to them, they don’t make thinks like they used to you know.”
And then off Sergeant Goodman and myself went walking our way back along the Canal, across a dozen bridges or so, grabbing a slice of pizza, at one of the musing deli’s, nearby, passing a few ill-mannered citizens. There was nothing we wanted to do in particular. But after a while we stopped and rested, listened to a fiddler by another church, playing for spare coins, I dropped a quarter into his hat; he was a young hippie, so it seemed. I saw a few other American military men walking about. And we took the late afternoon back to our military base, got home about 7:00 p.m., and had a long hardy sleep.

Written, 2-24-2009

In the Garden of Scheol (a short story of a young women with schizophrenia tendencies)

In the Garden of Scheol

They were living in Babenhausen, Germany then, and the bridge to the brewery, crossed a canal that ran from one end of the township to the other end. They could see the Old Tower, built in around AD 1714 from their 3rd story apartment windows. Up a ways from the center of town where they lived, was a park, and the Babenhausen, Schlosshof (where there was a café and art shows, along with small concerts).
It was a town-let, sort of, where people wore—for the most part, back in the early to mid seventies—wore common and plane cloths, a hard working class community, along with a hard drinking class, of German stock, that filled the guesthouses every night of the week. There were also, a few select bars where the young folks hung out.
It was a city were folks rode their bicycles as much as they drove their cars, across the two bridges, the second one being in the center of town, where a creek run through, paralleling the bridge a mile away near the brewery.
Kids wildly escaping the grip of their mother’s hands, to run up to the few venders selling bratwurst, with mayonnaise and French Fries, with mustard on the side. It was for the most parks, thought Sherwood Sullivan.
They drank—more so him, than her—in the cafes and guesthouses in Babenhausen during those days. There were three in particular he preferred.
It was early in the summer of 1974, and everyone in town was seemingly busy. It was a warm and somewhat friendly town, and the young couple liked their furnished apartment, which only had three rooms, and a thin hallway.
The apartment they lived in looked similar to the hotel room Ernest Hemingway rented out while living at the Hotel Ambos Mundos, in Havana, Cuba, in the late 1930s; it had many windows and a balcony, and from the balcony, you could see the Old Tower from there, and the top of many houses.

They were always broke, but they ate well, and he smoked two packs of cigarettes a day, and had his six-pack of beer nightly, either at home, or at the bar, or guesthouse.
He ate breakfast at home usually; the Germans could never satisfy his American tastes in that category. He liked two eggs, sunny-side up, toast, bacon, and dark strong coffee, and if time allowed fried potatoes (he was twenty-seven years old, she, twenty, he had met her when she was seventeen, and he had just come home from the Vietnam War).
Breakfasts seemed to help him with his hangovers, recover faster, especially the dark coffee, he liked it plain.
She drank it to reduce her headaches; she had them quite often, too often for the likes of her husband (coffee, coke or chocolate, anything with caffeine in it).
On this morning, he was not in a hurry as often he was to find a quiet place to do his writings (he was working on a book called “A Romance in Augsburg,” where he had spent a year of his life, back in 1970, prior to going to Vietnam, in 1971), he was with his wife Carla, and he stopped at a corner guesthouse, one he often frequented, along the creek, and bridge, that lead towards the Schlosshof, ordered two hard boiled eggs, knowing they didn’t make the kind he liked, salted them down, ordered some sweetbread with jam, coffee, and her, she ordered a pouched egg, they were all small he noticed, but he knew better then to complain, it wouldn’t do any good, it was that or nothing, he happily, half swallowed and half chewed them down, washing it down with coffee.
In the middle of the night they had made love, or had sex, it was quick and unemotional, and sparse, in that they only had sex once every three to four months now.
They both watched the cars and bicycles go by, she was buttering her sweet bread.
“What are you thinking of?” asked Carla.
“Nothing much, why?”
“It must be something, you’re kind of are daydreaming it seems.”
“Just feeling alone, that’s all.”
“How can that be, I’m here! Right here by your side:”
“Yes, you seem happy.” Sherwood replied.
“I like feeling happy,” she said, adding, “isn’t that normal?”
“Oh…yes, of course,” then hesitated, but added, “you’re not happy all that much,” he said almost in a whisper.
“Ah,” she said, in a disappointed tone, “I don’t care I’m happy now, and we don’t have to worry, or even think of anything in particular, do we?”
“Not one thing.” He answered.
“What do you want to do today?” She asked frigidly.
“I don’t know, you tell me.”
His mind was drifting, daydreaming as she had mentioned, and it was on an issue he didn’t bring up—not after it happened anyhow, he had put it to rest because it wouldn’t do any good to belabor it: it was about her cutting up with a scissor, all his cloths, except the cloths he had on his back, and those he picked up at the drycleaners after that event. She had gotten mad, with jealously, painted herself up like a whore, and when he came home, was dancing about, trying to lure him into bed, saying ‘You like whores, here I am!’ and when he went to change cloths, he noticed all his cloths was shredded, that was two weeks ago, and he was waiting for a check to purchase more, then he’d head up to Darmstadt, where he usually bought most thing, such as steno equipment, cloths, shoes, and so forth.
“I want to go somewhere, anywhere, I’ll stay happy, I promise! Maybe to Dieburg, I like the little shops, or to Darmstadt, no, Munster, we can catch the train there and go on to Frankfurt and spend the day. Or go see that pink camel in Aschaffenburg?”
“Let’s think about it after breakfast, when we get to the park, there we can decide what to do, I’ll not write today.”
“No! I think I want to go back to the apartment and take a nap!”
“Wow! That’s a sudden and new idea,” he said,
“You know I get these abrupt flashes of depression and agitated behavior, I’m not happy anymore, take me back.”
“Ok,” he said, knowing she could be destructive. Matter of fact, it was just yesterday in a shop in Dieburg, a town a few miles away, she had a manic explosion in front of the clerk, who begged him to take her out of the store quickly before she called the police…



The Shop in Dieburg


(Carla wanted to do some shopping in Dieburg, a gift for her sister in Erie, Pennsylvania, for their new son).

It was early in the afternoon, and the two, Sherwood and Carla, had taken a bus from Babenhausen, to Dieburg, there was no trains, the black road crossing the streets, the dark blue sky, right above their heads, the boulevard that seemed long and stretched out, the hot sun like a desert over their shoulders and penetrating her neck, it all seemed to fall flat onto Carla’s brain. Sherwood could almost see her mood change, her thoughts coming through her eyes, he knew by instinct, something was being planted. Some cars rode by, young people in them, slowly she looked at the magnificent orange car, a BMW,
“It’s a lovely car,” she said to her husband.
“There’s the shop, let’s go see what we can get for your sister’s child.” Sherman said, trying to change the subject before he’d end up in the middle of the street arguing about why he couldn’t buy a new car like that for them, he knew, and was learning more about her dreadful behaviors, it could destroy the whole day, and too often did erode good parts of one just by a moments incitation of some mishap, or difference of opinion, logical or not. This illness she had he didn’t fully understand but it was biological in its origins he figured, because she had no control over it.

On, and into the shop they went, she looked about, as normal as anyone would, and the proprietor, a middle aged woman, slim, dark brown hair, perhaps thirty-five years old or so, asked, “Can I help you?” Then pointed to some wooden figures, saying, “These things over here are strange little men, the baby can play with when it gets older,” said the shopkeeper.
“I suppose so.” Said Carla, “but it also can chew on it and end up dead, lead poisoning or something like that. Yes, yes, yes, yes, it all looks good, oh yes it all looks like a playful thing, so awfully new and nice, so new and new and nice, nice, nice, nice…but it will kill, yes kill, kill the child, but it is a wonderful gift, such a wonderful gift, but you shouldn’t sell it to a child, give it to a child, a small child, what is the matter with you…tell her so Sherwood, be once on my side, be my good friend, be on my side, tell her, tell her, her behavior is ill meant, not helpful…! Be on my side for once.”
“Sir, what is the matter with your wife? Please keep it down, or leave, matter of fact it would be better if you both did leave” said the shopkeeper in a calm voice that was becoming fearful with Carla’s manic behavior.
She moved close to her husband, her head was on her shoulder, as if her head hurt, she then saw a wooden horse, a rocking horse,
“That’s good,” she said, “That’s what I’m looking for. That’s safe, but it’s…its, too something, something not sure what, but something I don’t like about it.”
“Its $80-dollars Ms,” said the shopkeeper.
“Mrs. I’m a Mrs., I’m married, can’t you see that!” said Carla in a high energetic voice.
She was feeling some high, irritable and sad feelings, high energy, overly “high” with some restlessness, excessively along with some euphoric m ood when she saw the rocker, thinking about her nephew, but she was shifting like the approaching dark shadowy clouds in the sky.
The shop lady saw her anxiety mounting, “If she’s going to go off again, you to take her out of here, I can’t take her, I rally can’t, if she starts up again I will have to call the police.”
“Sure,” Sherwood said, and he nudged her lightly, saying, “We’ll have a good time looking in the other stores, let’s go. There are plenty of places to go to, we might even find a better deal.”
“God,” she said as loud as her voice would carry, “that would be just wonderful, and we’ll look across the street.”
The proprietresses smiled, said, “Then go….”
“You know dear, I haven’t done anything wrong today, I had to let her know, you know that.”
He didn’t say another word on the subject (as they walked across the street), he just listened to her babble on, then entered another store where they purchased a shaggy looking rocking horse, for $120. Dollars, that looked like a horse, more so than the previous one. And he wiped his forehead, knowing he had saved the day for while, she was happy again.

•

“I feel unsafe again, maybe you ought to get rid of your gun in the apartment, I imagined you were going to kill me the other nigh, that’s why I woke you up, and pointed the gun at your head—are you still mad about that?” she asked.
“You look sleepy, I’ll take you home.”
“Really Sherwood, don’t lull yourself into some phony security, you see dear I could have pulled the trigger thinking it was not loaded, and you say it was.”
The both of them sat quietly there for a moment longer, almost as if they had lulled themselves into numbness.
“I’ll go home by myself, I know the way,” she said.




Babenhausen, Schlosshof (1974)
•

They stepped outside the guesthouse, onto the sidewalk, the morning sun was getting hotter, but there was a fresh breeze mixed into the warm air.
He gazed about for a moment, only a flash of a second perhaps or maybe ten-seconds at most, but a million bits of information flooded his cerebellum: he wished she was normal, like the majority of people, with ordinary behavior, with no ebbing consequences, no abrupt changes, that could take place in any minute of any day; he wish she and likewise, himself—being on the end side of her spectrum—would not have to endure anymore psychological bent emotions, or schizophrenia tendencies she’d produce somewhere in her mental makeup: she was so easily angered, and frustrated. She had mood changes likened to the flick of a card in pokier, long deep sleeping spells, those hard looking blank, rock like eyes when she didn’t get her way. He knew it was her genes, she didn’t even like her mood swings, for such a young and lovely, and intelligent woman (her ancestors being of German stock themselves), and she had no more control over them than the man in the moon, had over night and day. And so they fought back and forth like cats and dogs, rats and cats, and until he would leave and get drunk, that was the only thing that stopped the ongoing, enduring, squabbling, until he returned that is.
She was almost a constant shadow in his mind, he walked on egg shells when he was around her, and held his breath hoping she was asleep when he’d return from an afternoon walk, or writing period, or drinking spell in the evening; sex was a dreary event to say the least too, it was hard to have, to produce an erection, to get excited, when being beaten over the brow with scornful and hurtful, words throughout the day, hard to kiss, make love as if nothing had taken place, it was better often to go into the bathroom and do what you needed to do, to relieve the urge, lest you feel awful afterwards, and used like an old dirty rug, to be stepped on later on with those same dirty shoes from yesterday, or that very same day the praetor used. Oh it wasn’t all her fault, he knew that, but it was as it was, nonetheless, and enduring, agonizing, never-ending, a born-again cycle of being drained of your life’s resources. Therefore, he tried to allow himself daily to do some writing he could do, usually in the park, where he could find the right setting, a calm, sedate setting, where birds sang freely and without disruption, and the flowers seemed to reach out to you with adoration, not an expectant penitence for breathing God’s air, and the butterflies circled his head as if he were a prince and they wanted to give him a crown, and the mood to write his paragraphs, descriptions, dialogue, and explanations, would flow like a kite on a breezy day, and he’d work out his plot, and scheme, and theme, and so forth unabated.
He took another step, another quiet ten-second rushed his cerebellum, he acquired some anxiety looking at her staring with her blue unblinking eyes, he looked at her and his mouth went dry, she had taken an abrupt lunge, her continence in her face was wild like, a hellish look drooped over it like a purple curtain. He looked back around him, he heard something, and it was the waiter in the window he was cleaning up the table they had sat at.

“Well, take good care of yourself, I’m going home,” she said.
“There he stood as she started to walk away, he thought and thought, and thought, ‘What sort of wife is that? She’s happy one minute, the next she’s unhappy.’
He watched her walking down the street, knowing the only way to quiet her down was to tire her out, but in the process—which took hours--he got fatigued.
There was a darkness in this women, one he never fully understood, he had sent her to the psychologist, saying if she’d not go, he’d send her home, that was months ago, they gave her some Minnesota test, and it came out positive for paranoia schizophrenia, among some other mentally ill classifications. At times he even felt, he was a surrogate parent, not a husband.
But the psychologist seemed to be pretty much in the right area, when he talked to them both it all seemed to fit her profile, in that her reality was interpreted abnormally, especially with thinking he wanted to kill her so she’d kill him first with the gun. On the other side of the coin, she could function pretty well on daily matters, her memory was ok also, but her concentration was going down hill, and her suicidal behavior, she tried to drawn herself in the bathtub, and he told her, almost humorously, “You can’t kill yourself that way, your internal system will fight against it.”
He thought about that later, it was a bad thing for Carla to do, and there was no purpose in him making fun of it. That’s when the doctors put her on medication.
She had told him, “I want you to have friends, men or woman, it doesn’t matter, and just don’t fall in love with them.”
And when he’d bring them around, she’d get jealousy, and spiteful; one evening, when he had several professors from the University of Maryland over, she threw all the plates of food upside down by pulling, and jerking the table cloth. That was the end of the party, and a nervous bunch of friends.
She had told him, “I don’t run around with women or men, you know that.” And so that was her way of saying, she didn’t want friends. On the other hand, she told her husband, “Just be with me to help me, support me, do the laundry and we can sleep together now and then.”


No More Surprises


Sherwood noticed as he crossed the bridge, now in the center of it, that led to the park, an old man fishing, a few boys, seven or eight years old were in the shallow waters of the creek, playing under the surface, more at splashing, and blowing bubbles, it wasn’t at all that deep, perhaps three to four feet.
There were many more people walking by, across the bridge, walking each way, some kid yelled,
“Look, the old man caught one!”
Sherwood looked, the fish seemed lean, but it was a fish. That was what life was all about, he told his second-self, the one that hides in the back of the mind, in some hidden chamber. The one you talk to, and normally do not get answers back, but is a good listener.
Several men were doing some roadwork, a few of them were on a building across the street, kitty-corner, doing some construction work, they all had bottles of beer, larger bottles of beer, lying about, one took a drink, then put it back down and went back to work.
Then Sherwood leaned over the bridge, his elbows on the iron rail as a few more kids seemed to come out of nowhere to see the old man’s fish.
“What is he?” asked a voice, but Sherwood couldn’t make out the category the old man put the fish into, the species that is.
Next, he turned about; saw the guesthouse he had just left, the waiter saw him by himself, as he kept sweeping the edge of the street in front of his place of work. He had seen him and his wife there plenty of times, more often him though, than both of them together, and he was sure he caught their dilemma, that being, knowing they were not good for one another, yet they remained with one another.
The water in the creek looked beautiful, fresh and cool, clear as a clean glass window.
“Yes,” he said talking out loud, perhaps to his second-self, or to the railing, or to whomever, even God perchance—looking over into the water, “it’s so true, she’s getting more dangerous to herself then to me,” he said in a convincing tone.
He then lit a cigarette, mumbled, “I’m going to change,” his mumble was stern though, “more than change,” he added, “it’s for her sake, mine also. Therefore, no more surprises by her, yet every minute with her is a surprise.”
“Maybe I shouldn’t let her go, what will she do? Oh yes, it’s very sad, but I thought about it long enough, and just how long is enough, and how much is enough, it’s enough now, today enough; it is something that she and I really want. It really is. Yes, it’s all right!”
He was trying to convince himself to let her go, once and for all, critically thinking out loud, it zoomed to the top of his head, and out his mouth, “Good,” he said, “I’ll let her go, since she wants to go. Yes indeed, it’s better to be alone, I’m alone anyways, that will be my surprise for her, I’ll let her go this time, and not look back.”


Evening Descending

He now found himself walking around the town aimlessly, as often he would, stopping at a few guesthouses, having a beer here and there a glass of red wine, ate a ham sandwich at one disco bar, listened to a Neil Diamond song, one he became found of, ‘Cracklin’ Rosie,’ he had heard it before, it wasn’t all that new new, but it was circulating throughout Germany, it made him happy, sad, and drifty in a nice kind of way, Cracklin’ Rosie was his bottle of beer, or wine his lover for the night, the girl he could have, because the one at home was the one he never did have, or would have. The exchange was a reasonable one he thought, as reasonable as he’d get (the song was befitting him, because his wine and his beer were all store bought as the song inferred, and it did make him sing like guitar humming. In his old neighborhood, they all bought cheap red wine and got drunk during the evenings, a Gallo product perhaps, a Ro-say wine, and the song brought him back to those far-off days also, so all in all the song made him melancholic).
Then he up and left the bar, told himself it was time to go back home, he told himself he’d have to make sure the gun was empty when he got home, he couldn’t sleep another night thinking she might be as dangerous as she says she feels.
He walked though the apartment door, “Good Evening,” he told his wife, the main room was dimly lit, and he was lightly drunk.
He was very careful not to disrupt her mood.
“Go back out and get drunker,” she told him, “come back when I’m sleeping, I’m going back to St. Paul, Minnesota tomorrow.”
He looked at her, she was curled up in a corner of the leather couch, with a cigarette in her hand, and he noticed three burn holes in the coach.
“Look at what you’re doing, I’ll have to pay for the whole coach now (it was a furnished apartment).”
She looked, “I think you did that a few nights ago!” she said, indifferently, “so don’t blame me, you’re drunk all the time, and you probably feel to sleep.”
“Did you take your medication?” he asked.
“Can’t you tell, I feel, and probably like a zombie?”
Sherwood reached up high on the bookcase, took his 45-automatic down, pulled the clip of bullets out.
“I see you’re taking my advice, smart boy.” She commented.
He had a beer in the refrigerator, he took it out, opened it up, sat in a chair, and smoked a Camel Cigarette, and dark a Beck’s beer, and let out a deep hidden sigh.

He tried to write a paragraph in his new book but everything seemed complicated. This was his third book, the previous two, “Romancing San Francisco,” and “Where the Bird’s don’t Sing,” were of the places he had been, between 1968, and 1971, this one was his third, about Augsburg, Germany, where he was in 1970. He crossed this out and that out until he couldn’t really see what was what, then dated it “July 5, 1974.”
He had come to the conclusion he was powerless in helping her, and for himself, he was becoming perhaps codependent, if not her on him, him on her, or both on each other, and he was fighting for his own preservation, to keep his own identity, before she swallowed it up, and he had none. They were like two drowning souls in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean without a life raft, naked as can be.
“Yes,” he said.
“Yes what?” she replied.
“Yes, I’ll find a ride to the train station in Aschaffenburg or Munster or Dieburg, one of the three, most likely, Munster by Dieburg, it’s closer, and buy your tickets for your departure, it will take you directly to ‘Frankfurt am Main,’ and you from there, can take a taxi to the airport, you got your passport, that’s all you need, and I’ll give you money tomorrow, I’ll go to the bank and take out $2000-dollars, that’s all we got until I get paid.”
“Give me a drink of your beer,” she asked.
“Good,” he said. She looked happy again. She had left him before, a number of times only to call him back up, wanting to return to wherever he was. But his thinking was different now; he knew it was a one way road for her, she couldn’t live on a two-way, and it would be a life of endurance, and more dangers by the pass of each year.
“I knew that would force you to send me home.” She said.
“What?” he asked.
“Telling you I’m getting more dangerous.”
“It’s a long night until tomorrow,” he said, “What do you want now?”
“Let’s go to bed, and do it!”
“I can’t,” he said.
Carla laughed heartily, “I swear you’re homosexual, and you like men don’t you.”
He shook his head, whispered to himself, as she went into the bedroom, and he moved over to the couch to sleep the night away, “I’ll wait (again the mood was dead).”

A New Morning


Sherwood woke in the morning, almost at first light, looked out the window, his legs were stiff from being crotched up in the couch. Sat on the edge, trying to wake up completely. He remembered everything that was said last night, and was hoping she’d had not changed her mind. He looked at her sleeping from the doorway of his bedroom, remembering how she was, her image when they first met, it was a good image. Then he went to the bathroom, took a warm shower, shaved, put on a t-shirt, and light windbreaker, a pair of slacks, and carefully looked back into the bedroom, she was awake; she stood up, she was sitting on the edge of the bed, and moved over to the door where he stood, and slammed it in his face without a word. Somehow he knew she’d be this way, she had to get her last sharpened lead out of her system, revolt against him once more for him marrying her. He figured it would be a dreadful morning, but perhaps the last with her.
She had finished all she needed to do, suitcase and her passport in hand, and said, “Let’s get to it.”


Departure


As she got onto the train, he found he knew much more about her than when he had first met her, the process, and the progress of getting to know the other person, your mate, have more dimensions than one expects sometimes. He felt fortunate she actually got on the train, she was not a simple woman, she got onto the train, never looking back at him, yet prior to getting on, she hesitated, as if she wanted him to talk her out of it, and he wanted to, but he couldn’t, and I think she knew that. Not a glance was missed by either one, because they didn’t want any glances given to remember the other by, so they gave none.

That afternoon he found himself improved with a normal heartbeat, and his breathing was back to normal, and he didn’t have to worry about walking on egg shells anymore she was gone, so his nervous system was being repaired, he felt. He wrote in the park that afternoon for a long while, now and it seemed to him, it would never stop, his inspiration was back intact.



Afterthoughts
(Schizophrenia)


He, Sherwood, had learned, by attending classes, and talking to the doctors, and observing her schizophrenia first hand, there are many possible combinations of symptoms: genetics, early environment, neurobiology, psychological and social processes are important contributory factors as multiple personality disorder or split personality, in popular culture the two are often confused, with schizophrenia, and did not belong to that category of abnormal behavior. On the other side of the coin, it was cognitive in nature, but it also usually contributed to chronic problems with behavior and emotion. Furthermore, the average life expectancy he learned for such folks with the disorder was 10 to 12 years less than those without, due to increased physical health problems and a higher suicide rate. All in all, he learned about her schizophrenia, and it was likely to have additional (co morbid) conditions, including major depression, which he already witnessed, and anxiety disorders, which he also witnessed, coupled with manic episodes. And that the safer side of the coin was not to get into substance abuse, it only worsened the situation.
Furthermore, he had asked the doctors about his experiences that she often became fearful and withdrawn, that it was causing difficulties having a wholesome relationship, and the doctors, specifically reminded him, it was the severe brain disorder he was dealing with.

He had learned her Bipolar disorder, also known as a manic-depressive illness, was a brain disorder that causes unusual shifts in a person’s mood, energy, and ability to function. It is what sparked the episode in the shop in Dieburg that provoked her shifts and mood changes. It was in essence, damaging their relationships, poor job and school performance, and even brought on suicide tendenicies. She had tried to work several jobs, and go to school during a few occasions, but her mood swings were too aggressive, too sharp for the employers, and even for her, and her teachers, and now had gotten to Sherwood himself.



Written February, 20 &21, 2009 (4045 words)
Afterthoughts and ‘The Shop in Dieburg,’ added 2-22-2009

Sensible, or Not? (a short story)

Sensible, or Not?

At 689 Dolores Street, he broke off his concentration, left his dreaming behind, and began to climb the winding stairs a tireless anxious long walk from the Castro area of San Francisco, that took him forty-five minutes to walk to his apartment, in an old mansion on a hill, to his one room in the high dreary old house in the middle of the city, on a side street that was really nowhere.
If you listened early in the mornings you could hear the sounds of the streetcars squeaky wheels, coming to a halt, it woke him up, around 6:15 a.m., he’d toss about in his bed somewhat, and then get up, and get ready for work. If he was late, he’d catch the streetcar, if not he’d walk the two miles down to Mission Street, and over to Lilly Ann’s where he worked.
In the morning, this particular morning he waited at the corner for the street car, it would come at 7:15 a.m., and drop him off at work by 7:30 a.m., when he started, not a minute too late. As usual he was in a hurry; it was the fall of 1968.

He had been married at the age of 18-years old, his wife left him for another man, and both knew the awful proposal of marrying young and into a life of poverty. He was now twenty-one years old, the marriage had only lasted fifteen-months and produced a child, and she had gotten pregnant a second time, which was in question of whose child it was, one of several men it could have been.
Poverty put a strain as well as a struggle upon their love for one another, and then she started seeing another man.
In her new marriage, Barbara Eagleheart, found more security, a larger house by a lake outside of the City of St. Paul, Minnesota, purchased in the following twenty-years forty antique clocks, a new car, separate bedrooms, and an ugly coward of a man to keep her company, which she never loved, but he was easy going.
Yet all this became maddening, too much kindness you might say. She shook her had afar twenty-years, realized her first husband had traveled around the world, now thirty-eight years old, a year older than she, and had been in a war, and had really lived the life, went to collage, got his degrees. All the things she would have liked him to have when they first met, but of course, that was not impossible.
She hesitated for a while in her wild moment, in her domicile, listened to her clocks ticking, away, away, and then the phone rang.

In any case, she received a phone call; it was her ex husband, Keith O’Dell. He had never forgotten what her new husband had done, and she had done to him, forcing him to go off on his own, and ended up in San Francisco, and Vietnam. Oh it didn’t bother him to any high degree, but he had always felt someday, he’d like to confront the issue face to face with his ex wife. Oh he had once before done so, when her boyfriend was bragging how he was going to beat him up, not sure what for, he was dating a married woman, and Keith had told him that, that if anyone should be mad it should be him, but once confronted, he ran like a worm behind several of his friends to be protected. It wasn’t worth anymore of his time, at that particular time, so he felt.
At any rate, here he was on the other line of the phone, twenty-years had passed.
“I’ll be in town Barb,” he told her, “for a while, haven’t been back for twelve-years, how’s my daughter?”
“I told her you got killed in Vietnam, she thinks your dead.”
“Oh well, perhaps we can straighten that out somewhere along the line, but I’m really calling you to see if you want to get together?”
“I’m married, you do realize that, don’t you?” she commented, with a low voice, as if it was a mistake.
“Yes,” Keith said, “I know, but can we or can’t we, get together?”
The timing was right, and she agreed.

When they finished the phone call, she ran to the bathroom, looked at herself, fixed her hair, and brushed it smooth, she was nervous; they would meet in two hours at an Inn, in Hudson, Wisconsin. She wondered how he looked, he was always handsome she thought, with his dark blue eyes, and reddish hair, and muscular body. She was Italian stock, and short, with dark brown hair and dark eyes, but she had aged not well.
Her husband Dan Horton was gone up north, with his group of guys, drinking and smoking, and fishing in some resort, they did that often, and he’d not be back until Sunday evening, it was Friday night.

•

“Well,” said Keith to Barb, when they met at the bar, in the Inn, in Hudson, “its real nice seeing you again.”
Her eyes, eyes like old spring water, glared at his, she had aged quicker than he. Ruthlessly so.
“I want to get to know you better,” Keith told her as they sat at the horseshoe like bar, ordering their drinks.
“Why, you really look well and good after twenty-years, you’ve kept yourself up.” Said Barbara.
She moved her stool closer to his, right next to his, so close she could lie on his shoulder, and it seemed that was her idea in the very near future.
“Well,” she said, “this time were much older, not sixteen and seventeen anymore, are we?”
Then she started talking to the bartender as if she knew him forever, but she didn’t know him at all.
“I see you haven’t changed,” said Keith, “at least you’re consistent anyhow.”
“That’s not true, I have changed, desperately so, but I’m just being friendly now, is there something wrong with that?”
“All right,” said Keith, “but you can do as you please, we’re not married you know! I’m just informing you.”
To Keith’s astonishment, she asked, bluntly, “Are we going to have sex tonight, we can get a hotel room here you know?”
It dawned on him, she had personally picked this place out specifically for that, how shrewd, he kind of figured it, and it made things easier for him.
“Are you going to get the hotel room?” she asked.
“Fine,” he said, “I can, but I don’t have the money on me, I guess I didn’t expect…”
“Here,” she dug in her purse, pulled out a $20-dollar bill, “this should cover it.”
“I want to thank you for coming out,” he said.
“I think I’d have gone crazy wondering what you looked like, had I not, and you’re still very handsome,” she acknowledged.
He waved his hand at the bartender, magnanimously, sounded aloud, “Another round here please.”
The barkeep rushed them another round, and he paid for it.

To Barbara, Keith looked fresh, and to Keith, Barbara looked nice, but pale. She raised her arms, put them around him, her mouth centered on his, half open, for his kiss, but with a touch of embarrassment, he took a drink of his beer instead.
“This is some of your old ways,” she announced carefully.
She was disturbed by the unsuspecting pulling away from her kiss.
Then Keith said as the moment seemed to be at his advantage, “Let’s go rent the room out.”
She compelled him with a quick movement, off the chair and into the lobby of the motel area.
•

“Is this room the way you like it?” Keith asked as they walked into it.
“The clerk said it was a new one, I guess they meant, they’re building a new section onto the club.”
After a few minutes they were deposited onto the bed, meeting each other with little to no cloths on. He saw in her eyes, something he had looked forward to, something he had been brooding on for twenty-years, and then his ill humor increased as Barbara drew him near to her, with an old familiar embrace under a dim light in the room.

Her emotion reassured him, she was a fish caught on a hook. And they kissed somewhat, and looked at each other with very few words.
After a moment of excitation, and a dim one at that, and short lived, he sat up on the edge of the bed, she was overcome by it all, his presence, beyond all endearment. She liked him, she had been sorry to have had to let him go, but he did not sympathized with her in that area, nor recognized to any serious degree, her new engagement with him.
“Is everything all right?” She asked.
“Everything’s going fine,” he told her with enthusiasm.
“Then why couldn’t you complete the act?” She asked, she was at that moment really miserable, but holding it back, “you must like me?” she asked.
“No,” he commented “I was just curious if I could do to you what you and your husband did to me. I really don’t want you back, sorry I’ve wasted your time, and I’m not even sure if all this was sensible or not.”
“What do you mean,” she blunted out in a panic.
“I mean I would never be enough for you, and you are not enough for me.”
“Don’t jump at conclusion, Keith.” She whimpered.
“I’m not jumping at anything, but that’s how it is.”

Written 2-19-2009 •••

The Frozen Tongue (a very short story)

The Frozen Tongue
((A Chick Evens, Episode, 1957, St. Paul, Minnesota)(a very short Story))



The sidewalk around the garage was scattered with broken, long and heavy ice cycles, once frozen onto the rim of the garage roof. I was but ten-years old back then, back in the winter of 1957, and I had heard how cold metal or iron, would freeze a person’s tongue onto its surface, as quick as the clap of an eye. I was born with a curious nature indeed, and this was quite fascinating, yet to me unproven. So of all things, I put my tongue onto the door knob of the garage door, it must had been five below zero out. And it froze onto it, quicker than I could spit.
I started to pull, or try to pull away, but my tongue would not release from the metal knob, and so there I stood, like The Hunchback of Notre Dame, crouched down nearly on bended knees, praying my brother Mike would come along soon and save the day (I needed no more proof, it worked).
As I remained in this position for eons it seemed, this raised the question, that surely my brother Mike would ask, “Why… would someone do something as silly as this.”
I mean it was harsh weather, a Minnesota winter is nothing to laugh about, for it is an enduring experience, each and every year.
I hadn’t the answer other than, ‘To see if it worked.’
When my brother did show up, he said, “Don’t you have better things to do,” a rhetorical question of course.
And I just prayed he’d hurry up, and go fetch some warm water, which he did, and pour it over my tongue, but instead it went allover my face and mouth and then onto the knob, “Oh!” I cried “It’s free!” and that was worth the additional wetness I had to bear.
My brother, who is two year older than I, looked at me with his intense eyes, carefully, “How long you been like that?” he questioned.
¨There came a mysterious pause from me, then a succession of “I don’t know (s).”
We both exchanged a humorous look, I think my face apologized mutely for taking up his time, and as he walked up the stairs, his back to me, on the path to our house, he laughed shaking his head, to the right and left (and likewise, so did I).

Written on the roof, Lima, Peru 1-19-2009, Dedicated to Mike S.
•••

The People Change (short story)

The People Change


“All right,” said Diane Horn, “what’s it all about?”
“Oh,” said Fred Wilcox, “it’s hard to tell!”
“You mean you won’t?”
“I can’t,” said her friend, “that’s all I really mean.”
“Tell me what you can tell me then.”
“You’ve known me for a long, long time,” said Fred.
It was early afternoon and Fred had left his wife, not willingly but because she asked him to. It was the beginning of spring 1996, and his wife had gotten a second job at a “Target,” store working making sandwiches in the deli, not that she needed the money, or need to even work, she was a twenty-year employee of the state, a teacher, who worked on the east side of town of St. Paul, Minnesota, and had told him, she had fallen in love with the manager.
Diane sat in her Oakdale, home, her green cotton sweater on, long sleeve, attentive to Fred’s needs, his hurtful heart, both sitting on the coach, a few feet from each other. Her reddish hair combed back, out of her face, away from her forehead. Fred looked at her with near tears in his eyes, seemingly quite, broken up.
“Please don’t think like that,” said Diane. She put out her hands to hold his; they were slim, and white and still youthful even at forty-eight years old, Fred a year younger than she.
“I’d like to, I sure would like to.”
“It won’t make you happy.”
“I don’t know,” he said, in a confusing manner; Linda, my silly wife, says she’s in love with the man.”
She held his hands tight, now, gave him a look of empathy. He pulled his hands away after a minute or two.
“It doesn’t do any good to try and put the marriage back together when she’s in love with someone else, I should have known better.”
“Yes,” said Diane, “you kind of knew this about her before didn’t you? I mean you always said she was flirtatious.”
“I loved her very much,” he quickly said, and then hesitantly started thinking in his mind how true, really true was that statesman? A question that never occurred to him before.
“Yes, you’ve proved you were devoted to her, and her kids.”
“I don’t understand, it troubles me what did I do wrong?”
“Wrong,” she said. “That makes it worse, when you take the blame for her cause of action.”
“I guess so,” he said, “sure, I’m content I don’t have to worry about it any longer.”
“Worry about what?” asked Diane.
“I’m sorry,” Fred said, “Linda went out with her old boyfriend when we were engaged, had sex with him in his car, or van, whatever, she told me so, asked for my forgiveness, and I gave it, never brought it up to her as I promised I’d not do.
“She said she was very sorry, but it was just a word, no more I see, I should have realized she was not trustworthy, and that makes me gullible.”
“I didn’t know that,” replied Diane, a little surprised.
“That’s funny, you two talk a lot, and you and I talk a lot and neither one of us mentioned it to you.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” she said, “that’s all we both seem to say, but when we don’t—both of us—understand why people do such things no use to say we do, all we can be is sorry. And that will have to suffice.”
“Yes,” he said, “I guess o, I should have seen it coming thought”
“Would you go back to her if she wanted you to,” asked Diane.
“No. I don’t ant to,” he answered.
Then here was a long pause, a silence, Fred had some tears on his cheeks.
“You don’t believe she really loved you?” Stated Diane, as if she knew something.
“No, not in the beginning, but I think she grew to love me in time, that’s what she said anyhow, until I got ill, and she fell out of love with me, somehow.”
“Maybe we should change the subject,” the woman said.
“Don’t you really think I loved her?” asked Fred, inquisitively.
“She came to you in the hospital, when you had your heart attack, and stroke, and I think that impressed you somewhat, but you two were fighting even then, that didn’t seem right.”
“She’s a funny girl.” Said Fred, somewhat, feverously.
“You were pretty up front with her,” said Diane, supportively.
“You have to let go,” said Diane with a salty grin.
“Yes,” he said, “I have to and I will:”
She was quite and so was he, she had held his hand for the second time, she noticed he was more calm now, more at ease, with her and with himself, more settled with talking about Linda, his anger, his hurt, but not yet his future—talking more freely about things he didn’t want to talk about at first, and somehow he was being healed and he felt it (while in this talk like therapy process, which really wasn’t meant to be therapeutic in nature, but was), a little more wholesome, less arbitrary.
His face was no longer pale no longer withdrawn. He looked his old self to Diane, handsome and witty. He sounded even better, his thinking was quicker, and something was taking place, and fast.
“What are you going to do now?” she asked Fred in a concerned and friendly manner.

Her daughter came through the door, said ‘Hello’ to Fred, and moved onto her bedroom, to freshen up.
“You don’t think you two will get back together, haw?” said Diane again.
“Distorted,” he said, “she’s twisted.”
“Fred,” said Jackie, from a distance, Diane’s fifteen years old, brushing her hair, “you’re looking very well, haven’t seen you in a long while.”
“Fred’s not feeling well, Jackie.”
“Oh, sorry to hear that, I’m going mom to the park, bye Fred!” Commented Jackie.
“Bye, Jackie,” murmured Fred.
The two, Diane and Fred, looked at one another, and then looked around the room, looking for more to talk about, words to say.
“You asked what am I now going to do,” said Fred, a little more energetic, and positive than when he came.
“No,” she replied, “you don’t have to answer that, you’ve been though enough.”
“All right, I’ll tell you.”
“You mean you got a plan already?”
“No, not completely, but somewhat, but I’m not going back to her. You’ll see.”
“Really…!” she murmured, leaning closer to him to hear what else he had to say.
He was looking at her real focused like, “You were too good for her,” she said.
“Yes,” he agreed, in a serious tone of voice, and more positive, his eyes became more alive, more at peace. “I’m a different person, I’ve changed, believe it or not, before I came here, and right now, even more so, I called my mother up, told her I was moving in with her if she didn’t mind, and she said she had a spare bedroom, and I called Brad up, a friend in Real-estate, I’m looking at a house to buy shortly, and my mother will move in it with me. I got some strategy I want to work out.”
“Yes,” she said, “I see you do, and you are different, a changed man, I don’t even see any revenge in your face, but I suppose success is the best revenge of all, kind of.”
“Yaw, I kind of feel lukewarm over all this now, and I suppose that is a good way to feel, not hot or cold, just blank, no feelings at all on the matter, let the manager have her, if indeed he can deal with it.”
Fred looked toward the door, said, “When I left her, or when she asked me to leave, and I was ready to leave, she was standing in the garage, I was about to get into my car, the garage door open, I really at that moment, really felt different, free, unburdened.”
“You’re right Fred; you do look different, said Diane, “more comfortable.”
“I said I was a different man, and I meant it, now I feel it, its true. Sometimes you can’t put your finger on it exactly, until you empty out the mind and your heart, you know those old seeds of metaphysical abstractness.”
Somehow his eyes went back to the door, as if he had things to do, better things to do than hash over new wounds that appeared to be aging quickly, “Look,” said Fred, “I really got to go, see about that house I’m going to walk through tomorrow.”
“Oh yes, yes,” said Diane, “it sounds like you’re going to be a busy man for a long while,” and they both smiled at one another.

2-18-2009 Dedicated to Diane (eh)