Witnessing For The Prosecution

Years ago, I was much younger, and didn't live here. I lived in a part of a certain town, far from here, that seemed infested with Jehovah's Witnesses.

At the time, I didn't have a thing against any religious group, creed, belief system, or much of anyone else.

I still don't.

Except Jehovah's Witnesses.

You see, these Jehovah's Witnesses used to Witness the hell out of this one neighborhood. Once or twice a month, I could count on one or two of them knocking on my door, wanting to come in and discuss "The Watchtower" with me.

This wouldn't have been so bad, except that they INVARIABLY showed up around eight a.m. or so... on a Saturday or Sunday morning.

I was in college at the time, unemployed, and independently wealthy from the royalties on my patents on various evil rubber sex toys, and the idea of being awake and ambulatory at eight a.m. on ANY day for ANY reason was durn near against MY religion.

...so like a sucker, I'd shrug into a bathrobe, stagger blindly into the living room, and open the door, expecting to find my old man there, telling me to get dressed, your grandfather's had a stroke...

...and instead be confronted by two clean-cut young men in white shirts and ties who want to give me literature and can they come in and discuss The Watchtower with me?

Now, I'm not fond of a lot of churchy folks to begin with, and I'm especially suspicious of the ones that come HUNTING ME DOWN. Nearly all religions preach humility, and for a quality so highly valued, you sure don't see a lot of it in many of these folks, and I don't much like being treated high-handedly or looked down the nose at, on the off chance that I don't happen to subscribe to a particular godfest, okay? And what kind of insane mindset holds the idea that if you PESTER someone long enough, they’ll join your church?

...and in time, I came to resent these people. I quit being polite. I got rather curt with them. "No thank you, I already have a religion," followed by closing the door in their faces because if you DON'T close the door in their faces, they'll KEEP TALKING, they won't LET you get away gracefully and politely...

In fact, some of them seem to THRIVE on being verbally abused, cursed at, sprayed down with garden hoses, and generally badly treated. Years later, I was told that this is PART of Witnessing -- being kicked in the butt by the Infidels. This is part of how Witnesses earn their way into Heaven! The more dirt you throw at them, the more exalted they'll be when they get there... the sweeter it is when they manage to CONVERT someone... the jollier it is, altogether. In short, being spat upon is PART OF THEIR RELIGION.

And it didn't stop them. They kept coming back.

...and this culminated in an ugly incident one Saturday morning.

You see, the previous Friday night, we'd been into Coca-Cola... and Civilization.

Civilization, the old Avalon Hill board game. Seven players. Each player takes the part of a Stone Age tribe, and you have to build a Classical Civilization, based on trade, warfare, and individual achievements like music, architecture, metalworking, agriculture, and so on. Ever played it? It's a kick, and educational, too...

...but a seven-player game rarely takes less than eight hours.

We'd just finished up. We'd been rolling dice and moving mice for about fifteen hours... and that sonofabitch Bobo had done his usual trick of cornering the goddamn salt market, ALL over the Mediterreanean, and the other players LET HIM DO IT, every damn game, and I'd had HELL keeping the Minoans out of Thrace, and Troll had been spreading plagues, iconoclasm, and heresy left and right -- he'd managed to delay the Greeks' entry into the Late Iron Age for two whole turns... and the Creature kept wanting to expand up out of Egypt (he stomped on the Egyptian player early -- he'd started out in Africa and, as Zimbabwe, had squeezed the Egyptian player out of the game singlehanded, but was still dumb enough to trade Bobo salt for ochre)...

...we were WEIRD. It was seven-thirty in the morning, and we were stonkered on caffeine, nicotine, ancient history, and fatigue poisons -- an ugly mix. One by one, we began getting up, putting away the board and tokens, and clearing away the mess.

Since it was my house, I decided to go to bed. I stripped down to my skivvies, and dived into the Legendary Waterbed, about which there's another story around here somewhere.

I'd been there maybe fifteen minutes... just enough time to get REALLY comfortable... when there was a knock on the door. Troll and Bobo were still there, but at that time, we weren't living together, and they weren't comfortable answering my door... so I got up, still dressed in nothing but Fruit-Of-The-Looms, and answered the door, fully expecting that it was the Creature or someone, having forgotten his keys or some durn thing...

...and, in the pale morning light, I found myself face to face with a fat lady in a flowered dress and her two small children. They all seemed quite surprised to be confronted with a sudden hairy near-naked man who stank of old cigarettes and the dust of ancient history. Precisely what they DID expect to find at my house at eight a.m. on a Saturday morning, I couldn't tell you.

We all stood there and stared at each other for a moment.

And then my eyes focused. I saw what it was she was clutching to her breast.

PAMPHLETS. And copies of THE WATCHTOWER.

I screamed. Well, perhaps howled is a better term. I wasn't afraid, of course... I wasn't even really angry... but I'd been comfortable, dammit, and about to drift off to sleep, and I'd taken THIRD place in the dratted game, thanks to Troll's carefully timed plague and Bobo's goddamn salt-based economy, and I'd been on the VERY EDGE of drifting off to dreamland, and it was EIGHT goddamn A.M. on a SATURDAY morning, and HERE THE BASTARDS WERE, ALL OVER AGAIN!

So I screamed. Loud. Guttural. Absolutely fucking berserk.

Troll and Bobo looked up.

The woman screamed, too.

Her children turned tail and ran.

She stood there, mouth hanging open, brain locked up on her from sheer shock.

It occurred to me that it would be nice if she would run away, too. It would certainly be convenient. How could I make this happen? Perhaps if I did something that seemed threatening...

I glanced at the umbrella holder next to the door.

In it were two umbrellas, a cane, a large rubber double-ended dildo, and a sword. A real sword, genuine Toledo steel, left over from RenFaire. I grabbed it, waved it around, and screamed again.

She screamed again, too, spun around, and took off running across my front yard.

.......

...now I don't really know why I did what I did next. I was still kind of asleep, you'll remember, or at the very least not really awake, and I'd been up all night, and I sure as anything wasn't really thinking straight.

I do know, though, that I decided that she might stop running. I didn't want her to stop running. I wanted her to keep running clear to Oklahoma, if at all possible. The only way I could think of to make her keep running was the thing I had done to make her start running in the first place.

So I took off running, too. I screamed some more, and began waving the sword, like a loony about to make Viking salad out of some luckless soul.

The children had stopped running at the sidewalk. When the mostly naked hairy man erupted from the bushes in pursuit of Mama, waving a sword and shrieking like a banshee with kidney stones, they took OFF, with Mama right behind, and the crazy hairy man in hot pursuit.

I screamed again.

Mama screamed again.

The kids, not to be left out, screamed REAL loud.

Well, I didn't want the cycle to stop anytime soon. I screamed again. Mama screamed again, and the kids screamed again, and we all ran across the street at the end of the block.

Well, as you'll imagine, this was kind of noisy.

Some people poked their heads out of windows. A few front doors opened. People were looking to see what was happening.

...and it occurred to me that this particular course of action might have consequences that I had not foreseen.

I stopped running.

By now, the kids had reached a car, and were tugging at the handle and crying and screaming for Mama, Mama, the car is locked!

Mama hadn't looked over her shoulder, and was still booking, all three hundred pounds of her. They all leaped into the car, all in a twinkling.

I roared at them and waved my sword, as they peeled out and drove away.

I stood there in the middle of someone's front yard in my underwear, holding a broadsword.

People looked at me.

Fortunately, at the time, I was well equipped to save face -- I had hair down past my shoulders, and a beard out to here. I scowled around me. A couple of people closed their front doors.

Feeling dangerous and foolish, I walked back to my house. Troll and Bobo solemnly applauded as I stuck the sword back in the umbrella stand and went to bed.

I understand the cops drove up and down the street a few minutes later, but nothing ever came of it.

...and for the rest of the time I lived at that address... the Jehovah's Witnesses NEVER bothered us again.

FRIDGE MAGNETS

So, Farrah Bonnot's story about the rubber snake reminded me about the story about the fridge magnets.

It actually happened around the same time as the hitchhiker story; I was around fifteen and living with my parents. And there were these fluffy little critter fridge magnets.

Mom loved those magnets, but they drove her a little crazy, because my father and I had a habit of accidentally brushing them off the fridge in passing, accidentally; we were and are rather broad shouldered, and apparently, these magnets weren't real strong.

So Mom, as is the eternal lot of moms everywhere, habitually picked up these magnets and stuck them back on the fridge when she found them. Got to the point where she didn't even think about it.

And one night, she was making the rounds. Coffee set up. All faucets turned off. All light switches in the OFF position. Front door locked, side door locked, back door locked. All right, off to bed.

And she headed to the master bedroom, by way of the kitchen.

The lights were off, but she could see that a fluffy little fridge magnet had gotten knocked off, so she bent over, picked it up, and stuck it back on the fridge.

It fell off again.

She bent over, picked it up, and stuck it back, and it fell off again. She glanced at the fridge. Had the magnet fallen off? She picked it up again, and actually LOOKED at it, to see if the magnet was still on it...

At this point, your author enters the story, awakened from a sound sleep by a sound not unlike an opera singer being fed feet first into a wood chipper.

I leaped to my feet and ran into the hall, where I encountered my sister, who had heard it as well. We ran into the master bedroom, where my father was standing in the middle of their bed, with my mother wrapped tightly around his upper torso gibbering incoherently in Lovecraftian terror... while he patted her and tried to say "There, there," in a sort of strangled croak while also trying to loosen her grip on his throat.

We asked what had happened. My father mouthed "Hellif Eyeknow," while trying to soothe my mother, and we all stood there mystified. It occurred to me that she'd encountered someone while checking the door locks, and I ran around and checked them, and found them secure.

And then I detoured through the kitchen, and saw the fridge magnet sitting on the floor in front of the fridge.

My night vision is considerably better than my mother's. It wasn't a fridge magnet. It was a dead mouse.

I gave the poor little fellow a decent funeral, and retired to the master bedroom, where they'd successfully coaxed Mom down off Dad's shoulders, and she was standing on the bed, still jabbering incoherently, but somewhat more calmly.

"Was it the fridge magnet?" I asked. My mother shot me a look and stopped talking immediately. Everyone looked at me.

"I took care of it. Kinda freaked me out too," I said.

And Mom took a deep breath, and began to reassume her Momly demeanor. Dad gave me a look and said, "Give, kid," and I explained the discovery, and Mom was able... with long pauses... to explain the details of the story as listed above, the parts I was asleep for.

My sister went back to bed.

I asked if there was anything else I could do.

Dad smiled and said, "No, you go back to bed."

I didn't even make it into the hall before he started laughing hysterically. I had to give him credit; he waited, and hung on, teeth and toenails, until Mom was calm and okay and the disaster had been dealt with before he cracked up and collapsed on the bed, laughing like a loon.

And I heard Mom smack him a couple of times before I was back through the kitchen and into the other end of the house.

And this memory lives in my mind because it may have been one of the few occasions I ever saw my mother completely lose her shit...

...and it wasn't my fault.

THE BACK WALL OF THE CLOSET

I was thinkin' about my old closet this morning.

When I was in high school, I lived with my parents and had a closet in my bedroom. 'Cause, you know, I know you were all wondering about that.

I do not recall where I got the poster, but it portrayed an attractive and healthy young woman without clothing. Her back was to the camera, and she had struck a hitchhiker pose. It was cute and sexy, and being all of, I think, sixteen, I liked it. I knew I would not be permitted to display this poster in my bedroom, however, so I put it on the back wall of my closet, behind all my hanging clothes, where it was certainly inobvious; I hung my own laundry, so it's not like my parents were ever in there.

Right?

The poster hung there for quite some time, as I recall. I would look at it from time to time; the young lady was quite cute. Her behind was most pert. Sometimes I even wondered what her face looked like.

I remember the day, though. I was cleaning one of the fish tanks I kept in the bedroom, when my mother came in with a woman I did not know. She was showing off the house. I don't know why she was showing off the house; it wasn't for sale or anything, and of all the times I have ever visited my friends, seeing their children's bedrooms was never really on my priority list.

But Mom was showing this lady my bedroom, and to my surprise, she flung open the closet door, jammed her hands into my hanging clothes, and with a grand gesture, spread them wide, to reveal the back wall of my closet and my pretty hitchhiker.

I was a little surprised. Had she known about the hitchhiker? She had literally entered the room, gestured to the walls like Vanna White, spun to the closet, flung open the door, and gone STRAIGHT to the hitchhiker. Like Mom wanted to show her off to this stranger. What was THIS all about?

Mom's reaction indicated that she did not know about the hitchhiker, and could not have been more surprised if there had been an actual nude lady in there who had been hiding while I calmly cleaned the fish tank.

Apparently, this sort of derailed whatever Mom was doing with the stranger lady, and they sort of did a fast fade, and I shrugged and finished cleaning the fish tank and putting the fish back in.

A while later, Mom showed up and gave me holy hell about having a naked lady on the back of my closet, and asked me what the hell I was doing, having that in there.

To which I responded by asking what the hell she was doing bringing a complete stranger into my bedroom, walking straight to the closet, and yanking all my clothes out of the way like she thought the Ark of the Covenant was hidden back there.

She found this answer unsatisfactory, and brought my father into the debate. And I figured I was kind of screwed; they were usually pretty much a united front, parentwise.

And upon hearing the issue, Dad asked "Did he TELL you to look at the back of the closet?"

"No."

And Dad got kind of a pained look on his face and said, "Well... honey... he's a teenage boy. What the hell did you THINK you were going to find back there? Narnia?"

The issue sort of fell apart after that. The poster remained where it was, and my privacy was respected after that, albeit sorta grudgingly.

But to this day, I have no idea why my mother brought a complete stranger into my bedroom and went all Vanna White and almost immediately felt the urge to show her the back wall of my closet.

Any of YOU have any clue?

A CHRISTMAS STORY

(Doc wanders onstage, glances briefly at the audience, walks over to the stool and table. Sits on the stool, takes the pitcher of water and pours himself a glass, and takes a sip, smiles, nods, and addresses the audience.) Ah'moan tell the Christmas story, now. Those of you who've heard it, you are excused; feel free to hit the restroom or the refreshment stand, or step outside for a smoke. We begin by saying that my old man... was the cheapest guy on the planet.

He's retired now, and while he insists he is as poor as a church mouse, I'm sure he has a few yachts stashed away in the garage, a few pounds of gold bullion buried in the begonias, perhaps an offshore bank account or three, because my old man was the cheapest guy on the planet.

At Target? He bought Archer Farms. At Costco? He'd buy Kirkland. At the grocery? Store brand all the way. I learned early that if I wanted Santa to bring me a thing, I'd better pick a thing that didn't have cheap knockoffs of it that were "just as good."

This was the guy who started turning off the water heater, because he could lower the gas bill by eight bucks a month if we didn't leave the pilot light on, which meant that someone who wasn't him had to get up in the morning and light the pilot light every weekday so everyone could shower before we all went to school and work.

AND THEN HE'D get up, yawn, stretch, and go take a shower. Because there was plenty of hot water THEN.

It was the only time I have ever witnessed a family mutiny. Mom led it, but overruled me when I wanted to string him up by the yardarm. But that's another story. The only thing you really need to know is that my old man hated to part with money. He was the cheapest guy on the planet. Still remember him trying to argue over the phone with the lady at the electric company, but I digress.

Anyway, there is a tradition in deep south Texas, and that is tamales. White folks talk about turkey and ham, but the Mexicans will tell you where it is at, and that is tamales. Christmas tradition. You got to have the tamales.

I grew up eating tamales at Christmas. And that's okay. Tamales are awesome. I always thought so. I like tamales just fine, and I like to have tamales at Christmas. And this brings us to the Tamale Lady. There was this little old lady, the abuelita (grandmother) who lived down the street. Every December, about a week into the month, she would go out and buy the masa and el puerco and whatever else, and she would drag several tons of it into the kitchen and make about twelve thousand tamales, each wrapped in its own individual corn shuck.

To this day, fortysomeodd years later, those tamales remain the best tamales I have ever eaten, and I have eaten a tamale or three in my time.

I know this, because Abuelita would sell the tamales to buy Christmas presents for her grandbabies. She'd drag out this ancient Radio Flyer little red wagon, and she would construct a charcoal stove in it, out of bricks, see? And she would wrap up those tamales in foil, a dozen to a pack, and she would cuddle them all up in the brick oven in that little red wagon, and she would throw on a serape and a head wrap and she would tramp all over the neighborhood, pulling that little red wagon, selling the tamales door to door.

I first saw the Tamale Abuelita when I was, I think, twelve, perhaps thirteen. There was a knock on the door, and I answered, and there was this little, bent over gramma lady, all of perhaps four feet tall, smiling at me with, I think, perhaps five teeth, asking, “Buenos dias, senor, por favor, compras me tamales?”

Now, I knew this would not end well. My old man (did I mention he was the cheapest guy on the planet?) did not OBJECT to door to door sales people, but he did not BUY from them. He’d sit there and lecture them on their approach, their product, their deportment, their pitch, and then shake their hand and leave them standing on the porch.

But I didn’t want to be the one to tell this sweet little old lady to take a hike, so I said, “Un momento, por favor,” and went and got Dad, so HE could be the one to give her a ten minute lecture and then not buy her tamales. Plus, his Spanish was better than mine.

So he went to get the door, and I returned to whatever teenage pursuits I was doing elsewhere in the house.

Next thing I know, Dad’s at my bedroom door. “I’m gonna buy her tamales. You have any cash?”

Now, I don’t know which bumfuzzled me worse: the idea that he was going to buy something from someone at the front door, or the idea that he wanted my money. I had learned the hard way that you did not give my father money. He might pay you back later. He might pay you back MUCH later. Or he might simply invoke the fact that he had raised you from a sprog and baby food ain’t free, and consider it a partial repayment of the expense of your upbringing; it really depended on his mood and how close to the end of the month it was.

I was so surprised, I gave him a fiver. He grinned, and thanked me, and then went to go hit up Mom, because he wanted to buy every tamale the woman HAD, several dozen of the things.

I don’t remember how much they cost. I do remember they were very reasonably priced, even for the late seventies. I DO remember they were considerably more than a quarter for three dozen, though, because that’s the only price that would have much moved my father to buy her entire stock. Or so I thought. But he scrounged up enough cash to buy her entire stock, and we ate tamales for a couple of days. Hey, no complaints; he even gave me my fiver back a day later.

So, the following year, it did not surprise me much that the little abuelita came back, and asked if we would like to buy any tamales. My old man had cash on him, and bought her out again. And this time, I saw her dimple and thank him profusely, and amble off with her little red wagon, trailing smoke from the charcoal oven made of bricks.

The third year, she hit our house FIRST. My old man, true to form, bought her out. By then, I had a car, and I spotted her later in the day, trailing smoke from her little red wagon. She’d gone home and loaded up more tamales. I like to think those grandbabies were getting the GOOD stuff by then.

She continued to show up, usually the second weekend in December, and I saw her even after I left home; I’d come home from college, and she’d turn up and smile at me, and I’d go fetch my old man, and then swear up and down I didn’t have a cent on me, and he’d go hit up Mom, who’d give me a dirty looke because she knew damn good and well I had cash, but she also understood why I didn’t necessarily want Dad to know that.

So we always had tamales around Christmas. I can still get them, living in Colorado, but it takes a bit more planning. I miss the Tamale Abuelita; I expect she’s long gone, being as she appeared to be about a thousand years old back in 1980, but she lives still in my heart and my memory… not only as a maker of some really fine fresh tamales… but as one of the few things, even in the Christmas season, that could get my old man to part with a sawbuck…

The Power Of Misplaced Faith

I had an epiphany when Obama got elected.

There was this lady what got famous for about fifteen minutes, one Orly Taitz, who was the godmother of the whole Birther movement. She was convined that Obama was not a citizen, could not be president, and that settled it.

A commentator said, "What evidence would it take to convince you that he's a citizen?"

She replied, "There IS no evidence that will convince me."

In short, "My belief cancels your reality."

At that point, I realized that birtherism wasn't just a conspiracy theory. It was in the same ballpark as a RELIGION, supported by faith alone, in defiance of any evidence that might threaten its holy truths.

The analogy is not perfect. Religion DEMANDS faith, because God insists on not being provable. The strength of your faith is the strength of your religion.

Conspiracy theory SAYS it doesn't demand faith, and insists that proof is all AROUND you, on various web sites and fringe publications, and often calls you a fool for not seeing it, or being unwilling to trust in questionable sources.

But ultimately, it's faith based, powered entirely by empty belief. There are still people who believe that Hillary was running a den of child prostitution under a pizza joint in Washington, and that loon with the gun would have blown it wide open if the Democrats hadn't got wind of it, gotten there first, sneaked the kids out disguised as boxes of pepperoni, and then filled in the basement real fast....

John Wayne Grandpa

I’ve written about my grandfather before. He looked a bit like John Wayne. Not so much that you’d mistake him on the street or anything, but if you met him and I pointed this out, you’d likely say, “Yeah... around the nose and eyes, maybe a little.”

I was thinkin’ about him today. My grandfather, not John Wayne. He was a WWII vet, a working man, and a big believer in patriotism and a fierce opposer of communism, much like a great many other men of his generation. And he was a BIG fan of John Wayne, of course... and of Richard M. Nixon.

Nixon was President at the time, and my grandpa was just as happy as anything about this; he did not care for Hubert Humphrey, and Nixon had chased all the commies out of Hollywood back in the fifties, and this was as good a credential as you could ask for, far as Grandpa was concerned. He WAS a little disconcerted when Nixon went to China, but “Well, he must have had a good reason,” said Grandpa, and that was that.

Richard M. Nixon could do no wrong in my grandfather’s eyes. And me? Well, I was a child at the time, and paid little attention to the news, and the President was something like a third lieutenant God as far as I knew, and I was happy to take Grandpa’s word for it.

And then Watergate broke the news.

And my grandfather did not care for this. And I learned this when they came to visit, and my grandma brought me a new GI Joe, and my grandpa gave me five dollars, and then explained how this whole Watergate thing was a big crock of crap. At length.

I wasn’t sure what to make of this -- Grandpa had never made political speeches before, that I had noticed -- but, well, he must have had a good reason, right? And I listened, and when he was done, I ran off to play with GI Joe.

Thing about Watergate? It ran ON for a few years. And a year is a very long time to a child. And I began to hear more about this thing called Watergate. And I began to pay attention. I watched the news sometimes before the evening TV shows came on. Learned a lot about what was happening in Vietnam, back when you used to see some pretty gruesome things on the news. And while I still didn’t understand what this Watergate thing was, it seemed that maybe the President... or maybe some guys who worked for him... had done something... bad. Maybe broke the law. And there was a lot of talk about “secret tapes.”

But I was a child, and all this was happening way off between Oz and Narnia and New York City, and other faraway places. It did not concern me.

But the thing was? It really started to dominate the news, particularly after Nixon had fired this one “attorney general” guy from his job, a goofy looking man in a bow tie. It was something different almost every DAY.

And a year is a very long time to a child.

And we saw my grandparents at Christmas, and Grandpa was PISSED. And I remember hearing him rant to my immediate ancestors about the goodness of Nixon and how this was all just a big screwjob, and quite a bit else, at some volume. Plainly, he felt strongly about this issue, as Grandma had to keep reminding him about Indoor Voice.

A year went by. I paid attention. Still didn’t quite understand what had happened, but apparently a LOT of Nixon’s friends had broken the law, and there was some question as to whether he knew about it, or wasn’t involved, or had TOLD them to break the law...

... and I saw my grandfather three times that year, and he was angrier every time. Thanksgiving was a struggle to keep to topics away from politics, and that Christmas was what we today would call a hot mess. My grandfather’s anger at the media and the hippies and the commies and the Democrats would NOT be denied, and YOU PEOPLE JUST DON’T UNDERSTAND! HE CHASED THE DAMN COMMIES OUT OF HOLLYWOOD!

I was a child. A bright child, I like to think, but I didn’t understand why hippies were bad, because they were all about love and peace and really cool music, and I really had no idea what the media was, and apparently commies and Democrats were two different flavors of “villain,” as far as I could figure. And I didn’t dare ask. In that age, in that family, when a man raised his voice, overvocal children tended to catch a clip around the ear, so I stayed the hell out and kept my mouth shut.

But my grandfather wasn’t normally given to fits of temper. At least, not before Watergate. But these days, ANYTHING about politics would set him off.

And this continued on a rising note until Nixon finally resigned.

I watched it on TV, and he gave his speech, climbed on a helicopter, and flew off to Narnia or San Clemente or somewhere, not to be seen again anytime soon.

And the next time I saw my grandfather after that, he was still angry. And he cornered me at one point and howled at me about how GODDAMMIT, THEY NEVER PROVED ANYTHING! AND EVEN IF HE DID ANYTHING WRONG, HE DIDN’T DO ANYTHING THEY ALL DIDN’T DO! THEY’RE ALL GUILTY! NIXON JUST GOT CAUGHT IS ALL, GODDAMMIT!!! THE DEMOCRATS ARE NO BETTER! NONE OF THEM IS A GODDAMN BIT BETTER!!!

I was, I believe, ten at the time. And I stood there with weak knees and heart soaked in terror and eyes as big as eggs and nodded wordlessly, head bobbing up and down. Yes sir, no doubt about it, you are righter than right, sir! Yes sir! Please don’t hit me, sir!

And Grandma screamed at him for screaming at me, and then he got mad at himself, and apologized, and walked off. Later he gave me a ten dollar bill.

And I began reading the hell up on Watergate, because plainly this shit was important in ways I had not known, to get my grandfather all lathered up like THAT.

And it was years before I finally understood what it had all been about, and why it was called Watergate in the first place, and who G. Gordon Liddy and John Dean and H.R. Haldeman were, and about the Secret Tapes and the missing 18 minutes, and the Smoking Gun, and why Sam Donaldson talked about Nixon and “The Divine Right Of Presidents.” (“If the president does it... that means it is not illegal.”)

But it took me longer to understand why my grandfather went off like that, and STAYED like that for several years. Why had he been angry at ME? Why wasn’t he mad at Nixon, who’d betrayed the country? Or at the evil media, who’d done the screwjob, with the help of the hippies and the commies and the Democrats?

I was grown before I figured it out. He wasn’t mad at me. He’d put his faith in Nixon, and Nixon had let us down, all of us, sure. But worse than that? My grandfather had been wrong. He’d backed the wrong horse. He’d trusted and defended a crook. And he’d been WRONG. And that meant that everyone he hated, all the hippies and the commies and the Democrats... had been RIGHT. While he had been WRONG.

And he didn’t handle that very well. Plainly, if Nixon was guilty, then so had every other president in history. Nixon just got caught, that’s all. They’re all equally evil. They HAVE to be. Both sides are JUST AS WRONG!

I remember my grandfather. He looked a bit like John Wayne, who was a cowboy actor, and a staunch conservative, and whose name, when spoken by a European, is a warning you’re about to get a faceful of European attitude.

John Wayne voted for Nixon in 1960. So did my grandfather.

I wish I had more happy memories of my grandfather.

And I wish that half my country had learned the lesson he taught me, clear back in 1974, somewhere between Narnia and New York City.

The Sunset Under The Couch (Or: The Couch, The Puddle, And The Flong)

On Saturday, like every other day, the sun rises in the east. Castle Bedlam faces east, but on Saturday, we leave the front door open so there's a Sun Puddle pouring in the doorway.

The cats love it. They will spread out on the Flong and absorb the morning rays and look ecstatic.

For the uninitiated, a Flong is a throw rug, circular, printed in a blue and white target pattern, and it sells for about five bucks at Ikea. Berni bought it because the word Flong struck her funny. Now it's a cat outpost on weekend mornings when the door can be left open.

The problem with this is that Pocky and Sheldon both want the Sun Puddle, but they hate each other. Therefore, one will stake out the Flong, and the other will seek alternatives; the front window allows shafts of light between the curtains, and there are often sun puddles in front of the dining table and splattered across the front of the couch.

When I staggered downstairs this morning, Pocky had already taken the Flong, and Sheldon basked in another puddle near the table and Berni's feet, while she sipped coffee and waited for full consciousness to infuse. I poured a cup of coffee, made a couple of Eggo waffles, and shuffled into the living room to do likewise.

By this time, positions had changed. Now Sheldon had the Flong, and Pocky lay on the floor in front of the couch, spread out on his back, absorbing the solar rays on his tummy.

Berni and I sat and sipped coffee and ate Eggos and murmured at each other. Pocky rolled around in the sun puddle. Time passed.

Until Berni remarked, "Look at Pocky. Does he think he's chasing the sunlight?"

I looked at the cats. Sheldon was still spread on the Flong, watching squirrels in the front yard.... but Pocky was looking intently under the dust ruffle on the couch. Occasionally, he would poke his paws under it.

I still wasn't awake yet. "Dust bunnies?" I grumbled.

"No," said Berni. "The sun's rising. The window is starting to cut off the sunshine. The sun puddle is crawling DOWN the front of the couch, and I think Pocky thinks the sunlight is crawling UNDER THE COUCH, and he wants it to STOP."

I looked at Pocky. Durned if it didn't look like it.

"So... you're telling me that Pocky thinks the sun sets at nine in the morning, and it sets under the living room couch?"

Y'know, religions have started over weirder things.

Ghouls Amidst The Flames

All these people in California are having to evacuate because of wildfires. That's bad. I feel sorry for these folks.

Some of these people come back to find that their homes and everything in them has burnt to ash. I feel even worse for these folks.

Some of these people, while they are coming to terms with the loss of all they had, are approached by some assholes with a microphone and a camera and asked, "How do you FEEL about this at this moment?"

If this ever happens to me, I have a response prepared. I'm gonna start with, VERY calmly, "Well, the first thing I want to do is rape your mother."

I'll stop a moment, and get the anchor's reaction, and then repeat, "I want to rape your mother."

"I want to rape her again and again and again, slap her around, yank her hair out, maybe knock a few teeth in. Rape her good. And then, when I have utterly crushed her spirit and stained her soul forever, I want to take an axe and split her goddamn face open just to see the look on her face as she sees that axe descending, and HOW DOES THAT MAKE YOU FEEL, YOU GODDAMN GHOUL?!?"

If nothing else, I'm pretty sure they won't put me on the evening news. Then again, I'm sure it would surface if I ever decided to run for office...

The Fatal Glass Of Incendiary

It was about the fourth drink, as I recall.

People kept BUYING them for me, and egging me on to DRINK them. Tricky, certainly, but not impossible. I did kind of wonder why complete strangers were buying me flaming rum drinks, but far be it from me to turn down a freebie.

Well, around the fourth one, I kind of overdid it, and wound up accidentally spilling a little. Interestingly enough, it soaked my beard, which did not burn, but the flames crisped my mustache and nose hairs. A wonder I didn't inhale the flames and hurt myself.

Fortunately, by then I was drunk enough not to panic, and I simply reached over and picked up my Coca-Cola chaser and dumped it on my face, putting out the flames.

Got quite a round of applause.

It was only after that that someone told me you were supposed to blow out the flames before you drank the damn drink. Nobody had told ME that. Apparently, they didn't know I didn't know that, either, and people kept buying me the fraggin' things to watch the daredevil up at the bar slam down a drink while it was still actually on fire...

The Garment To Wear Among Strangers

Read this story, once. In it, visiting aliens show up, and they wear these odd cloaklike garments, with hoods and bunchy sleeves; you can’t actually see any of the ALIEN, just a sort of Grim Reaperesque cloak and hood.

Our hero later discovers that the aliens refer to this outfit as The Garment To Wear Among Strangers. It’s not only clothing, it’s a space suit, it’s armor, and has a variety of other functions... notably to conceal, and to keep the natives from learning too much about the aliens. It’s a thing to keep the locals at some distance, as well as protection.

And I found myself thinking about that today.

My coworkers don’t really know who I am. I work in public education, a field that’s quite vulnerable to criticism and assumption, you know? There’s any number of folks who, knowing that one fact, would START by accusing me of working too little, putting in too few hours, and making too much money, and END by flat calling me a child molester. I’ll never forget that one parent who gave me a hard time for having toy dragons in my classroom (because they didn’t approve of dragons, and why do you have these things? Do you teach about dragons? Dragons aren’t REAL! Don’t you take your job SERIOUSLY? What’s WRONG with you?)

So at work, I have to be at my best, putting my best foot forward... and not showing off any personal quirks that might lead to awkward questions. At work, I am not Tom O. Bedlam, nor am I really the guy who wears my right name; I wear a carefully crafted public persona, a Garment To Wear Among Strangers, a set of mannerisms and speech patterns and behaviors that serve as armor, as protection, as a concealing cloak to defuse potential questions and issues that I don’t want to deal with and aren't really anyone's business but mine.

And it seems strange that I teach lessons about math and science and life, essential truths that my students will need in their futures... while basically lying to them about who and what I am on the off chance their parents might not approve.

And that’s just ME. A teacher of my acquaintance who plays for the other team, so to speak, has much more to hide; in their case, the Garment To Wear Among Strangers is far more necessary and much more comprehensive. After all, I’m just a weirdo; being gay is considerably less acceptable to some folks.

Made me think about another person of my acquaintance, a trans individual. When she came out, I wasn’t sure what to think until I actually spent some time with ‘er. My first thought was that she’d be the same person after transition as before, just with a different wardrobe and hairdo. Right? Same person, just with a wig and a dress, right? Whatever it takes to make'm happy...

I was struck by how wrong I was. Wasn’t the same person. More like a similar person of different gender who had the memories of that other guy I’d known back when.

It was a jolt, and a lesson: this was not really the person I thought she was. More going on here than a wig and a dress. WAY more. It was my first real clue about this whole Trans thing.

It took me a while to realize what the deal was. She talked about how THIS was who she really was... or at least, had WANTED to be... had FELT like she was... and now she was free to BE the person she WAS. Which didn’t make a lot of sense to me at the time, but she sure seemed happier NOW than BEFORE.

Until I considered that the BEFORE person was wearing The Garment To Wear Among Strangers. I’d never seen ‘er without it. I didn’t really KNOW who she was until she took the damn thing OFF.... and transitioned. Over time, I came to consider: geez, did SHE really know who she was? Aside from this nagging feeling of living a lie?

Thing about that Garment? It’s not without weight. Part and parcel of the thing is the fact that by WEARING it, you are not being who you really are... you’re wearing a costume... a disguise...

...and by their nature, some costumes are considerably heavier and less comfortable than others. I can take my Garment off when I get home; the wife knows full well how weird I am.

But what’s it like when you don’t dare take it off?

Ever?

Beneath Her Mighty Wings

This is a story about the kids. And me, of course; I was there. But it’s also about Farrah Bonnot, who is among the few people I’ve ever written about where I used her real name. Then again, she didn’t do anything terribly embarrassing in this story, except maybe start her own Cargo Cult without realizing it.

That would be MY fault. Although it’s at least partly Perfect Tommy’s, because he’s the reason I was in Miss Smallberries’ classroom in the first place.

Y’see, the Reading Assistance teacher was out that day... and she had a sub. And Perfect Tommy doesn’t handle subs very well. Perfect Tommy is one of MY kids, and I’m a Behavior Guy, and Perfect Tommy has certain behavior ISSUES, y’see. And one of them is that unfamiliar people, sprung on him suddenly, can set him off. Last time Miss Smallberries was out of the room, and Mrs. Priddy was there instead, he stood bolt upright suddenly, with a look on his face like his nuts were in a vise, stormed over to the puppet theatre, and began seizing the puppets and biting their eyes off while weeping hysterically.

So that morning, Miss Smallberries intercepts me and asks if I can sub for Reading Assistance, because she doesn’t want anything like that to happen again. And I certainly don’t want it to, either; I was the one who had to get him out of the room, LAST time, still weeping hysterically, away from a rather shocking scene of puppet carnage amidst a roomful of horrified third graders. And we never did find all the eyes afterwards.

“Uh, yeah, I can do that,” I said. “Ten thirty, right?” And it was a date.

And at that time, I began working with a group of ten kids on one of Miss Smallberries’ reading lessons. I love lessons like this. No prep, no lesson plans, just dive in there and start teachin’. And we read about pirates, and we held a group discussion and we answered questions about the book, and we talked about the unfamiliar words, and we did a little worksheet...

...and that’s how I discovered that the lesson in question was about fifteen minutes too short. I was left with a mob of third graders... and no more material to cover. What to do? I glanced up at Smallberries, who was doing a center based thing across the room; there was no way I could turn this mob loose without being disruptive. Crap. What did I have that I could use to entertain ten third graders for fifteen minutes?

I pulled out my phone.

I make a habit out of carrying a LOT of weird things in my pockets for moments like this. A magic trick or a strange shiny thing or a cute kitty picture has WAY too often taken an escalated child straight from “HULK SMAAAAASH!” to “.... do that again?” and it’s just too durn useful a technique. Only flaw is that the same trick seldom works twice. So I carry plenty of tools with me, and my first line of defense is my phone.

Y’see, my phone arranges pictures into albums, and I have a LOT of albums, and many of them are nothing but weird inexplicable stuff... that I can use as the basis for a tall tale. Hell, sometimes I use them for writing prompts. “How did this get into Doc Bedlam’s basement?”

And as long as I keep locked the album with the pictures of the bales of heroin in my garage that I sell to make ends meet on my tiny education paycheck, hey, it’s all good, right?

So I clicked PHOTOS, and opened one of several albums that I knew contained harmless innocuous photos that would hold a child’s interest, and promptly took it from there...

...and somewhere in the discussion, Emilio reached out, touched my phone’s screen, and it switched albums. He touched it again, and one photo in particular expanded and filled the screen. And everyone goggled at this new and unexpected development.

“Who’s THAT?” asked Pinky.

“Emilio, it’s quite rude to play with someone else’s phone without asking permission,” I said in my best Cross Mary Poppins. There’s nothing on my phone that I’d have to worry about the class seeing, but I didn’t care for his grabby fingers. He looked appropriately crestfallen, and apologized properly. But the damage was done. He’d swiped sideways a few times, and several pictures of the Winged Lady had been seen.


And there all my troubles began.

“Who IS that?” repeated Pinky.

“Is she REAL?” asked Sandra.

Everyone leaned over to look at the wonderment.

“Ah,” I said, thinking fast. “No. She’s not real. She’s completely imaginary. Now, let’s--”

“She is TOO real,” said Pinky.

“Why does she have wings?” asked John.

“Do you KNOW this lady?” asked Reno.

“If she’s imaginary, why do you have a picture of her?” asked Scooter.

Sigh. “She’s a lady I knew when I lived in Texas,” I said. “And she has wings because she WANTED to have wings. That’s how she rolls.”

Pinky looked up at me, and in her eyes was an expression I couldn’t QUITE pin down. And I’m lying. I knew damn good and well what she was thinking. And she said, “Seriously. Is this REAL?” And what she MEANT was “DOC, TELL ME THIS IS REAL! TELL ME YOU CAN GET WINGS BY WANTING TO HAVE WINGS!”

...and durned if I didn’t get caught flatfooted by a little girl with big blue eyes, dammit.

“Well,” I said, “Let’s make this a Critical Thinking Exercise. Let’s look at the picture, and consider it, and discuss it, and make some decisions.” Because I’m too chickenshit to shatter a little girl’s desire to believe, and I feel about three inches tall... dammit, I shouldn’t even BE here today...

We wound up doing a writing prompt. “Is the winged lady real or not, and why do you think so?” and when Miss Smallberries came over to take over, she was pleasantly surprised to see that we’d finished the whole Pirates thing, and were industriously working on a writing prompt! “How do you get them to do this with no griping?” she asked me as I headed for the door.

“Haven’t the slightest,” I said. “Guess they’re just motivated today.”

And I forgot all about it. Until lunch. When I was ushering the sixth graders out of the cafeteria and off to Specials, and the third graders were on their way in ... and Pinky ambushed me.

“Dr. Bedlam,” she asked me, with a slightly worried look on her face, “Can she fly?”

Dammit.

I glanced around. No one else was looking. The cafeteria was its usual pandemonium. And I was tired, and I wanted MY lunch, and I really didn’t feel like stepping on anyone’s dreams.

“No,” I replied.

Pinky’s face fell. Agonizingly.

And at that point, I made a snap decision.

“Her wings are too small, and the muscles aren’t strong enough to lift her body mass,” I continued. “However, her trim figure and hollow bones mean she can ride air currents like crazy, especially when it’s windy. And you ought to see her jump!”

Pinky’s mouth fell open, and her eyes got HUGE.

“Gotta go,” I winked, and made my escape to the teacher’s lounge...

INTERMISSION*************************************************************

Now at this point, I’m gonna interrupt myself. The lady in the picture is Farrah Bonnot, who is a real person. I met her years ago at a convention. We still see each other periodically when I venture back into Texas from time to time. She lives there with her husband and family. She’s a Maker, and crafts many splendid and clever things, and is a delightful person. Beyond that? Go look her up on my Friends list and ask her yourself.

In the photos, she’s cosplaying as Sophie the Succubus, the Reaper Miniatures company mascot; Sophie can be seen in the banner at the top of the picture.

...and on my phone, she happened to inhabit the folder REAPERCON GREATEST HITS, a selection of bizarre photos chosen for the purposes described above. I simply hadn’t expected it to surface yet, and hadn’t cooked up a narrative to go with it yet.

Little did I know that I didn’t NEED to build a narrative. One was happening already, largely outside my control... ******************************************************************************

And because I don’t regularly work with third grade, I didn’t see the third graders for several days after that. It wasn’t until the following week that the next thing caught my attention: Mrs. Grandafundo, the art teacher, had put up a flurry of student artwork, drawings of angels,on the outer windows of her class.

I happened to walk past it three different times before I noticed that all the angels had bat wings.

I stopped and looked closer. The angels all seemed remarkably pleased about something, showing big happy smiles. Most of them seemed to be in flight, with clouds in the background. Their wardrobe seemed fairly consistent -- T shirt, shorts, and a strap across the collarbones...

... aww, crap.

I asked Mrs. Grandafundo about it, and yup, it was Smallberries’ third grade class. Apparently, what with Halloween coming up, everyone wanted to draw vampire ladies, but they weren’t SCARY vampire ladies... they were all smiling and happy... wasn’t it cute? One of them said that the lady was part dragon!

I agreed that it was indeed cute, and inwardly, I began to think. Y’know, the whole Slender Man thing started out as a gag on the Something Awful forums, until a couple of little girls tried to bump off one of their classmates because of it. This was going to take some thought.

On Thursday, I had to monitor Perfect Tommy for an hour again, and the third graders took full advantage of it. Sure enough, Smallberries gave ‘em a five minute break and I spent that five minutes being interrogated by a swarm of avid children.

Is she really real? Well, actually, I’d meant to talk about--

Where does she live? She lives in Texas, with her family.

What’s her favorite color? Um... I have no idea, actually...

What does she DO? Well, she’s a grad student in psychology, and she’s a mom...

She’s a MOM? She has KIDS? Well, women DO that, sometimes...

Are there OTHER things in Texas? Like UNICORNS? Ummm.... depends on who you ask...

Is she your wife? Ah, no. Not even close. Just friends.

Do her kids have wings, too? No, but I understand her son hunts zombies sometimes...

And when class was done, and I had to move on, I hadn’t really addressed the situation. Pinky in particular was utterly in love with the idea of the pretty lady who sailed, smiling, among the clouds on her mighty wings, looking down upon the vast herds of unicorns and fluffy teddy bears that inhabited the plains and jungles of the magical land of Texas...

And so, in my best proactive fashion, I sat tight and waited for their little attention spans to run out, and for their attention and enthusiasm to pass on to something else... like Fortnite, My Little Pony, or whatever cereal and toy based cartoon show is hot on Cartoon Network these days.

And for most of them, this is exactly what happened, and the next flock of artwork to go up on the glass walls of the Art Room were based on Fall imagery; pumpkins, red and gold leaves, full moons...

...and one soaring dragon lady, with one wing picked out against the moon. I didn’t even have to look at it to know it was Pinky.

Another week went by. I noticed that the core of believers seemed down to three: Pinky, Sandy, and Penny, with a few stinky boys along for the ride. More than once, I saw Pinky soaring around the playground with her hands spread wide into bat wings. But it seemed harmless enough...

...until Miss Smallberries called me in to hear a dispute.

Sure enough, there had been a fight. Not a serious fight, not more than a few swats back and forth, but a fight nevertheless, and apparently, the reasoning behind this fight was a bit more than Miss Smallberries felt qualified to tackle.

“I’ve seen them have fights about Santa Claus,” she said. “We get scuffles about THAT nearly every year. Someone believes in Santa, and someone ELSE makes it their life’s work to snuff out their candle. But THIS is something new. Perhaps you know something about the Lady with Wings?”

Awwww, crap.

“I believe I know what the trouble is,” I said. “Bring me the combatants in the book room. We’ll get this sorted out.”

And at the table in the book room, I held the Speaking Wand, and handed it to Penny and asked her to explain to me precisely what the malfunction was.

And both Reno and Pinky began shouting--

“Uht! Uht! Uht! Kroykah!” I raised my voice slightly. The room went silent. “Penny has the Speaking Wand; only SHE has the right to speak. You’ll get your chance. Penny, you were saying?”

And Penny explained how half the people in the room were loyal believers in and disciples of the Lady with Wings Who Lives In Texas, and how the other half were vile heretics, who would not cease in their efforts to eradicate joy and rainbows forever.

And when Reno got the Speaking Wand, he explained how half the people in the room were simply trying to correct the idiot beliefs of those stupid girls who believed in rainbows and unicorns, and what’s wrong with that?

Sigh. Politics gets ‘em young these days, don’t it? I knew what I was gonna have to DO, of course; I just needed to figure out a way to do it without kicking Pinky’s gentle illusions to pieces, and without quite telling Reno what an asshole he was being. He was quite firmly in the right, in his own lights.

Why don’t they have education classes in THIS stuff, instead of all that redundant math and history?

“Reno,” I asked, “Why does it matter to you what anyone else believes?”

“Well,” he answered, “They’re WRONG.”

“And how do you know this?”

“Because people don’t have wings! The whole thing is stupid!”

And the believers across the table seethed.

I took out my phone, pulled up the pictures. “And yet, this lady has wings.”

“Well, they’re FAKE wings! It’s STUPID!”

“ARE YOU CALLING MY FRIEND STUPID?” I didn’t quite snarl.

Reno jerked, taken aback. “Uh...” he said, aware he was dancing on quicksand.

“Is this a girl? A teenager? A grown lady? Look at the pictures, and think before you speak,” I said evenly.

“Um... she looks like a grown lady.”

“So. We have established that Ms. Farrah is a grown lady. Now, either she has real wings... or fake wings. Why would a grown woman put on a pair of fake wings? Examine the picture, and support your answers.”

Reno looked at me, quite uncertainly. He hadn’t thought about that. Why the hell WOULD a grown adult lady romp around in a pair of wings? He examined the pictures, swiped back and forth, looked at several. “Um,” he said, “Well... is it a costume party?”

“Is anyone else wearing costumes in the pictures?” I said. He had to admit they were not. Meanwhile across the table, the girls grinned smugly. Teach THAT rotten boy to question the One True Wing Lady...

And I took the Speaking Wand, and passed it to Pinky. “Your turn,” I said. “Examine the picture, and support your answers with evidence. Real wings, or fake wings?”

“REAL wings!” snapped Pinky, without even looking at the pictures.

“Reno was smart enough and civil enough to look at the pictures and think,” I said. “Are you refusing to do the same?”

Pinky gave Reno a look that could have crumbled wallboard, and looked at my phone.

“Think carefully,” I said. “Think critically.”

“They COULD be fake,” she admitted, “But that’s none of Reno’s business. He didn’t have to be mean like that.”

“Excellent point,” I said, passing the wand back. “Reno, are you trying to think critically, or are you just being mean? You didn’t have to give the girls a hard time like that.”

“But people don’t have wings,” insisted Reno.

“True, to some extent,” I agreed. “But I knew a girl down Laredo way who had a tail. And no, I don’t have a picture. Do we agree that until you’ve seen everything, you don’t KNOW for sure? And more importantly, how does it hurt YOU if they want to go flapping around the playground like duckie dragons or whatever?”

Giggles all around. “All right, I’m sorry.”

Pinky looked smug.

“Not so fast, kid,” I said, and handed her the stick. “Reno was kind enough to apologize. Now I have a hard question for YOU. True, Reno was being a bit of a pa’Takh out there, trying to FORCE you to admit something. He’s stopped. But now I want to know what YOU think about whether or not Farrah’s wings are real or not.”

She thought about it, and looked at the Speaking Wand. “Well,” she said, “MOST people don’t have wings. And YOU said she GOT her wings, she wasn’t BORN with them...”

Scooter’s head jerked up. “Where do you get WINGS?”

“Uht!” I said. “Pinky, you were saying...”

“Well, maybe they aren’t real. But I WANT them to be real. Unicorns aren’t REALLY real, but they’re FUN! And I LIKE unicorns! And I LIKE the Lady With Wings! And if a grown lady can run around with wings, why can’t I?”

I could have kissed the little moppet. She ran right into the Big Point.

“And there you go,” I said. “I’m not gonna WORRY about whether they’re real or not. Instead, I’m just gonna let you look at the pictures, and think about it, and go wherever you want to with it. You want stories? I can tell stories all day long. And maybe a story is true. Maybe it isn’t. But is it worth fighting about? Reno, do you HAVE to squash the joy out of it? Life is short enough on fun without being the guy who stomps on someone else’s butterflies.”

Reno looked downcast. “IS she real?”

“She’s as real as that picture.”

“And her wings?”

“You tell me.”

“Why would a grown woman put on fake wings?”

“You tell me.”

He looked at my phone. “She looks like she’s having fun.”

“She was havin’ a ball. I was there; I should know. I was havin’ a pretty good time myself.”

Pinky took on a rather somber look. “So... do I have to decide if she’s fake or not?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Do you?”

“I don’t know either,” she said. “When do I have to decide?”

I grinned. That was an easy one. “When do you have to grow up?” I asked.

She looked a little worried.

“See Ms. Farrah, in the picture?” I said. “If she was all completely grown up, do you think she’d be running around with wings on?”

Pinky considered this.

“And I’m the oldest thing in the building, I think,” I said, “And if I was all completely grown up, would I have all those pictures of dragons on my phone?”

“So we don’t EVER have to grow up?” asked Scooter, confused. “You can just believe whatever you want, FOREVER?”

“Well, they’re going to want you to pay taxes, at some point,” I said. “No escaping that. But I’ve known plenty of grownups who believed some pretty bizarre stuff. No, the key is learning when someone’s lying to you, for one thing... and believing in what makes you happy. And doesn’t hurt anyone. Including you, for believing it.”

Sandy spoke up for the first time. “So it’s okay to believe in unicorns TODAY, if I want to, and think about it later when I grow up?”

“I think that’s how MOST of us do it, Sandy,” I said.

“I wanna believe in the Dragon Lady today!” said Penny.

Pinky looked accusingly at Reno. “And you can’t tell us not to!” And Reno held up his hands; he certainly didn’t want any more hassle.

“Are we done here?” I asked. Everyone’s little head nodded. “Then we’re done. Now go chase all the dratted dragons off the playground!”

And they scampered off, into today, and tomorrow, and eventual adulthood... but not too soon, we all hoped.

UPDATE: 09/17/18

You ever meet anyone who wants to show you their vacation pictures?

I do not much care for other people’s vacation pictures. Partly because of my youth. My father was of the firm opinion that pictures needed to be TAKEN, but that they were utterly pointless without PEOPLE in them. If I was to show you my family’s vacation pictures from when I was a kid? You’d see lovely pictures of various national monuments and natural wonders... obscured by my mother, my sister, and me, standing in front of them. Squinting, because my old man never figured out how to use a camera, and assumed it’d be underlit unless the sun was behind him as he shot, so we all had to stare into the sun.

If we’re all crying in the picture, that means he forgot to advance the film, or left a flashcube attached, or had to monkey with the dratted Instamatic in such a way as to make it work, but didn’t want us to stop staring into the dratted sun, it’d only take a moment to fix...

All my family vacation pictures from before I left home? We all looked miserable.

And when I left home, I swore I’d never take a picture of a miserable person again. Specially if I was the one what made ‘em miserable.

I’ve got pictures of various national monuments and natural wonders... without any people in the picture. And I’ve got pictures of people I care about, without worrying about what’s behind them. And I’ve got a LOT of pictures I’ve taken at Reapercon over the years. And generally, at Reapercon, folks are having fun. And yes, I have used these folks as teaching tools and useful distractions, a thing that perhaps I should apologize for. Or at least inform them that I’m doin’ it.

If you’ve read this essay, and the thread following it, you’ll note that there’s a lot of folks what seemed to be having fun at Reapercon. Including Lauren Cowles. Who is also a lady with wings. I didn’t get to SEE her wings, as this is only the second Reapercon I’ve skipped since I heard it existed, and thus I didn’t get to shoot any new pictures. Sigh.

Well, ever since I wrote this thing to begin with, I’ve been hearing about OTHER pictures that could delight, amuse, titillate, stun, confuse, and terrify the little nippers. And Lauren reminded me that she TOO had wings, and what would the little boogers think of THAT?

She was right. I nosed over to the Reaper boards and lifted some pictures. And Stacy Hawkins kindly provided me with some mermaid pictures to go along with them.

This was all fine by ME. More grist for the mill, and a new album (see ALBUMS, back in part one) would be a useful addition. So I loaded everything up to my phone, arranged a new album, and promptly forgot about the whole thing. Until third period.

When Miss Smallberries asked me if I could swing by. Seems Perfect Tommy had a kink in his routine, and he’s one of them who does not adjust well to kinks in the routine. As in “He might not notice, he might notice and become upset, but get over himself, or he might go sailing off the trolley with a big swan dive and the laughing serenity of one who has ceased to give a shit what anyone else on the planet thinks, much less about ChooChoo Points for a draw out of the Big Treasure Box at the end of the day.”

And so I swung by and observed. And Perfect Tommy did indeed become pensive and upset, but got over it by attacking his handwriting project with vigor; today was making cursive W’s and L’s, uppercase and lower. His handwriting was lovely, by the way.

Which led to Pinky and Penny ambushing me when I wasn’t looking. That’s what paying attention to penmanship gets you. And they very coyly and sweetly asked if they could see the lady with wings again. And I obliged. Thing is? The very nearest part of my carousel was loaded with the pictures I pulled off Facebook over the weekend.

Penny and Pinky looked... and were confused. These weren’t the same pictures they’d seen before. One appeared to be a figurine of some sort, and another, a beach towel.

...and when they got to the first Lauren picture, they did NOT react well. Whuh oh. Did I err?

Pinky said, “Is that the same lady?”

Almost simultaneously, Penny said, “That is NOT the same lady.”

And both of them jerked their heads to point at ME, like machine gun sponsons on a very angry little tank.

“Well, no,” I said. “The first lady was Ms. Farrah, I told you about her. This is Ms. Lauren.”

The looks on their faces went from alarmed and frustrated to utter outrage. Their mouths dropped open. They looked back and forth from me to the picture, repeatedly. And after a moment’s gasping, Pinky found her voice.

“YOU MEAN THERE’S MORE THAN ONE OF THEM?!?” screamed Pinky, and heads bobbed up all over the room. Miss Smallberries jerked up from what she was doing. Wuh oh.

It was like a psychic communication shot across the room at a height of four feet. Every child in the room, INSTANTLY and REFLEXIVELY realized what Pinky meant, and they all leaped to their feet and prepared to stampede me. Meanwhile, Miss Smallberries’ mouth dropped open. What the HELL was happening?

“Yugh Vl’SOP!!!” I snapped sharply. Everyone froze in their tracks. A couple of them guiltily dropped back into their seats. See, this is why a working knowledge of Klingon vocabulary comes in handy; the very politest endearments sound like I’m threatening to eviscerate your mother. Particularly if you’re careful about the accent and pronunciation.

“I was speaking with Pinky and Penny,” I said, “And Pinky, we do not scream in class.” I put the phone back into my pocket. “If you’re going to do this, perhaps I need to stop with the pictures. I expect better than this in class. Now Miss Smallberries isn’t going to want me to come back.”

Pinky and Penny were in agony. They did NOT want to lose access to the phone, much less the stories. But they knew what to do. “Sorry,” said Pinky, who looked like she was about to cry.

“I’m sorry,” said Penny, who had not actually screamed, but apparently felt sort of responsible.

I looked up. Miss Smallberries was policing everyone back into their seats and redirecting to the assignment. “I’m sorry, too, Miss Smallberries,” I said. “I seem to have gotten some of us a tad overexcited. I’m going to head back to where I belong, now.”

Pinky and Penny looked at me like I was the last chocolate that would ever exist on earth.

“But I’ll be on the playground during recess,” I commented. “And if anyone has any questions, perhaps that would be the time to ask them, in a place where screaming is permitted.”

And there was much reaction among the horde that recess.

Scooter, upon seeing the above picture, began a recitation of how P.T. Barnum created the Feejee Mermaid by sewing the upper half of a dead monkey to the lower half of a dead fish, thus convincing many that mermaids were indeed real.

I believe it was Sandy who replied that upon examination of the picture, she was fairly sure that the specimen in question did not much resemble a monkey, dead or alive.

The questions flew hard and fast. I’m not sure why one of the standard questions is “what’s her favorite color?” but I heard it a lot. Pinky, on the other hand, was still wrapping her head around the idea that there was more than one lady with wings. “How many of them ARE there?”

“Women? Well, the planetary population is approaching seven billion, so dividing by two and rounding up slightly, I’m guessing somewhere around three and a half billion, give or ta--”

“No, NO! Where WAS this? How many women with WINGS?”

“Where? I told you already; Texas. As to the exact number of women with WINGS, well, I can’t say I ever stopped to COUNT; I only took pictures of the ones I’m friends with. But there was certainly more than one, yet fewer than the vast herds of unicorns over which they soar...”

And the bell rang, far too soon, and there was much groaning and disappointment amongst the third graders, even the ones who remained firm in their belief that these were simply women in costumes, for class must begin again, and there would be no more pictures for a while.

But I saw in Pinky a strange expression, and metaphorically, I could see the smoke cooking out of her ears as the wheels spun furiously. A fire had been set, a conflagration of imagination, and it was burning out of control.

“Do you know if you can get wings in the Halloween section at Target?” she asked. “Or do I have to find a witch on Facebook?”

A Pocketful Of Noses

Clown noses, to be precise.

They aren’t really clown noses. They are in fact 1.5” spherical foam rubber balls, made of a very light airy red sponge rubber, available inexpensively at any magician’s supply store. However, calling them “sponge balls” for a roomful of third graders does not have the galvanic effect of calling them “clown noses.”

And if you ask any of my kids what Doc has in his pocket at any given time, clown noses will be among the first items you hear, along with pirate gold and Dwarven treasure coins. Y’see, I have found that when a child is melting down, going psychobilly, or simply having a tough time focusing, there is no better way to redirect, misdirect, confuse, baffle, and refocus his or her little attention span than a magic trick. It works.

Ice cream works, too, but coins and clown noses are cheaper, more portable, and don’t trigger food allergies. NOT card tricks. Show a kid a card trick, and he will IMMEDIATELY want to show you one of his own, drag it out over five minutes, and then screw it up, and your impetus, energy, and refocusing effort fizzles. No, coins out of the ears or sponge balls out of thin air are the way to go, although they are not my only tools. Teaching’s a performing art, and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.

The trouble began today, when one of the little moppets asked me where I got the clown noses. Well, naturally, I didn’t want to give a straight answer; the phrase “At the Wizard’s Chest, down off Cherry Creek Shopping Center,” seemed a bit dull. So I simply replied, “You don’t REALLY wanna know,” and went on with the math lesson.

“Did you get it from a clown?” he persisted. I dodged the question by redirecting him to his work; you really don’t last long in this biz if you let a stray question get you off topic. I only work with this bunch in short segments of the day, and time is limited, which is a good thing; I honestly don’t know how anyone actually teaches third grade. I have found that my time limit is about two hours before I start feeling like strangling anyone; let us all take a moment to honor Mrs. Limekiller, their regular ed teacher, who works with them ALL day, EVERY day, and every year sacrifices chunks of her sanity so that your anklebiters may proceed to a later, less frenetic, state of childhood and education.

But I digress.

I cocked an eye to the clock; five minutes before moving on to the sixth grade wing, and most everyone was done with their assignment, and Mrs. Limekiller was working with the last couple who couldn’t quite wrap their heads around this “multiplication” thing; the rest of the class was getting restless. Time to run interference. So I brought out the clown noses, two in each hand, and began to twirl them, stopping only to make one disappear and then juggle the other three in slow motion; sponge balls don’t fall very fast, being feather light.

The effect, as usual, was galvanic; all speech was silenced, all fiddling and fidgeting ceased. It is well known among the third graders that “Pay attention when Mr. Doc is there; he might do a trick.” As long as it keeps things quiet, rewards the worthy, and prevents things from getting too out of hand. It helps that the class knows damn good and well that if every single person isn’t behaving, the clown noses and magical treasure coins will disappear, quite possibly for the rest of the day, while the problem is dealt with.

Up front, little Patty marveled. Patty is a dear little thing, who I think is representative of a form of evolution in action; she’s so stinkin’ cute that any predator who attacked her would immediately keel over with diabetes. And she ooooohhed at the fountain of clown noses that went perpetually whirling through the air.

Duncan, on the other hand, is an ancient, overcommon, and well known breed: the li’l turd. You get one in every class. “I know how you do that trick,” he said. “The clown noses are hollow. You make one disappear by sticking it into another one.” Did I mention that Duncan was the pesky little fellow who wanted to know if I mugged a clown to obtain my tools?

With some irritation, I flicked one of the sponge balls at him. “Do tell,” I said. “Is there a hole in it where I could stuff another one?” He caught it in midair, and examined it... and noted with some dismay that it was neither hollow, nor had a hole. Regrettably, this also reactivated his previous line of thought.

“So did you kill a clown and then saw his nose off with a knife or something?” he asked. Such a delightful child. Little Patty, on the other hand, looked horrified.

“DOCTOR BEDLAM DID NOT KILL A CLOWN WITH A KNIFE!” she screamed, loud enough that little heads popped up all OVER the room. It occurred to me that little Duncan’s speculations could wind up bein’ deleterious to my career. Sure, MOST parents would just laugh if their kid came home tellin’ stories about how their teacher hacked up circus performers by night, but it’d be just my luck that ONE of these kids would have a mom who’d call up my boss and demand an investigation...

I reached out and snared the errant sponge ball. “No one is killing anyone,” I growled at Duncan, with perhaps a bit more venom than I intended. “Now, what should we be doing right now...?”

Duncan took the hint and began looking for some way to look busy. The other children decided the incident was over, and went back to what they were doing. And little Patty hugged my leg. SHE, at least, seemed to feel I wasn’t a serial killer.

I’d forgotten about the incident when I came back in for checkout and rounds, the last half hour of the day. Mrs. Limekiller was herding the kids around encouraging them to clean up and pick up their school supplies and not forget their backpacks and homework and suchlike. And little Patty bounced up and hugged my leg again. “I drawed you a picture!” she chirped. “I made sure I spelled the words right and everything!”

And when I looked at it, I decided that I wanted to take it home and put it up on the fridge. To hide the evidence, if nothing else...

10/10/2015

The Night The Bad Guys Won

Yes, I know the girl's name starts out as one thing, and ends as another. It ain't her real name anyway, and I decided to leave this one unedited... I wrote it during my student teaching experience, upon hearing a rather disturbing conversation between two teenage girls. One of them was quite certain that it was perfectly safe to go to a certain party. After all, those boys wouldn't DARE try anything funny! She knew their NAMES!

Me? I know better.

______________________________________________

First of all, this ain't a funny story.

No, seriously. Not funny. Kind of sick, actually. Certainly offensive. Especially to women, most likely.

But it's not funny, nor is it intended to be. To anyone. If it is anything, it is an object lesson, and not a real pleasant one.

Still curious? Wanna keep reading? So be it. You Have Been Warned.

*****************************************

The seventies were burning out rapidly, not much left of them, and I was, I believe, fifteen at the time.

It was Saturday night. I hadn't had any particular plans for that evening, except perhaps for checking out the new Saturday Night Live, but the show had been kind of lame since Ackroyd and Belushi left, that last season, and Sam had shown up unexpectedly at the house, and asked, "Wanna go to a party?"

An hour later, as it grew dark, I stood on the porch of someone else's house, holding a beer, and wondered where the party was, and if it was coming anytime soon. True, the beer was cold, and free, but beer does not a party make. I knew the other guys at the party -- my high school was small enough that everyone knew everyone -- but none of them were guys I hung with, and aside from Sam, I had nothing in common with 'em. Jocks, mostly. Someone's folks were out for the weekend, and the house was at Sonny's disposal. And where were all the chicks? You can't have a party without chicks!

This seemed to be the consensus with the other guys at the party, too. Most of them were older than I was, juniors and seniors, and they ignored me, for the most part, beyond a brief "hey, how's it goin."

Not my idea of a wild time, really. Sam knew people, though, and circulated relentlessly. Me, I stood on the porch and wondered how long Sam was going to want to hang around.

...so I was the first to see when El Blotto pulled up out front ... with Shellie in the car with him.

I perked up. Shellie? Hm. Perhaps this party might manage to amount to something after all.

Most guys would not regard a party with twenty guys and one girl as being a real interesting affair. I would normally agree... unless the girl was Shellie, or someone like her.

Shellie was something special, you see. Freshman, a year younger than me. Couldn't have been more than fourteen... but you wouldn't know it to look at her. Long honey-colored hair, the face of an impudent goddess... and a remarkable set of hooters, much observed by young men and envied by young women.

No, seriously. Ask any ten guys from my old high school at random, mention the name "Shellie," and they'll say, "Oh, yeah, Torpedoes Away?" She had the knack some girls seem to have of defying gravity with 'em, and filling out a T-shirt or sweater very nicely.

She knew this, of course. She'd figured out how to hypnotize guys with her hooters around age twelve, and had been refining her technique ever since.

Shellie was the subject of no little debate and speculation among my peer group. Was she or wasn't she? Did she or didn't she? No one knew. There were, of course, those tyros who swore they'd been in her pants since day one, but no one of any credibility had ever claimed to have made it as far as first base. Two guys I knew had gone out with her, and not gotten anywhere, and not much cared for her attitude. Apparently, she measured affection in terms of dollars spent and gifts given, before she made up her mind about whether or not she liked you.

El Blotto draped his arm around her, and laughingly hustled her into the house. I raised an eyebrow, and followed. Perhaps this party might turn out to be interesting, after all. How long would it take her to drink enough beer to seriously entertain the idea of taking her top off and dancing on the table? Another girl had done this at a party the previous month, and my friends and I had very much regretted we hadn't been there for that one. Perhaps I'd be privy to an even better show, with some patience...

Within the hour, sure enough, she had been convinced to dance on the dinner table. It hadn't taken too long to get her good and schnockered; apparently, she didn't have much taste for beer, but she did rather like homemade wine coolers. I found out later that there hadn't been any wine in the house; what she was drinking was a mix of Kool-Ade, lemon soda, and some kind of clear booze -- vodka, perhaps.

It did have the desired effect, though. She'd gone fairly quickly from wondering why she was the only chick at the party to giggling madly and agreeing to repeated demands to dance on the table. She wasn't bad at it, either, even without a brass pole to cling to... but her top remained firmly in place. Lots of hip wiggling and jiggle action, but she seemed comfortable enough dressed.

"Take it off! Take it off!" chanted her drunken chorus.

"I don't wanna," giggled Sherrie. "It's cold in here!"

"Take it OFF! Take it OFF!"

"YOU take it off!" she laughed.

...and at that, one of the football players roared a mighty football cry, and snatched Sherrie from the tabletop, and ran away into another part of the house, while she giggled hysterically from over his shoulder.

I was irritated. The floor show had been prematurely terminated. Man, if they'd left her alone, who KNOWS what she might have been ready to do? Glumly, I went and got myself another beer, and went out on the porch to drink it. The music was too loud, and I was never all that wild about Thin Lizzy, anyway.

The song was "Jailbreak," by the way. Over and over and over again. Someone really liked "Jailbreak," by Thin Lizzy.

So I stood on the porch and drank my beer and wondered where Sam was, and how long I was going to have to hang around before he finally felt like going home, and whether or not I was going to have to drive.

"Hey, dude," said the Turtle. "You're missin' the show."

I glanced around. Turtle was leaning out the front door. He didn't have his shirt on.

"Nothin' personal, guy," I said, "but I didn't come all the way out here to see YOU with no shirt on."

"I'd worry about you if you did," he grinned. "Seriously. You in, or not?"

"In on what?"

"Come check it out," he leered. "She's gonna do us. All of us."

"Sure thing. And then she's gonna sprout wings and fly home."

"Hey, man, you were invited. If you don't wanna, well, that's your trip."

"Seriously?" I said. "You're seriously sayin' she's gonna pull a train of what, twenty guys?"

"That's what she came here for."

"Seriously?" I said. Somehow, this didn't seem quite right. I mean, nobody had EVER gotten to first base with this chick, verifiably, and now allofasudden after five wine coolers, she's ready to take on the whole football team, plus coaches, manager, and waterboy?

"Come see for yourself," the Turtle said, and he vanished back into the dark, loud cavern of the living room.

This I had to see.

One of the back bedrooms had two doors leading into it. It was empty, aside from a mattress someone had yanked off the bed in the master bedroom, and flopped on the floor, but enough light leaked in from the hall that if you looked in either door, you could plainly see what was going on.

Sherrie was lying on the mattress. She appeared to be nude, but it was kind of hard to tell, what with El Blotto on top of her. El Blotto was dressed, but had his pants around his ankles.

At first, I thought Sherrie was unconscious, but at one point, she moved, although it seemed kind of feeble. It didn't really look like two people having sex. It looked kind of like El Blotto was trying to restrain her, actually, although she didn't look like she was putting up much of a fight. Somehow, she didn't look anywhere near as lively as she had ten minutes earlier on the kitchen table.

I leaned closer. El Blotto was talking to her, but I couldn't hear what he was saying. She replied in a kind of whimper, but I couldn't hear what she was saying, either.

And then, three guys walked past me, into the room, and began to undo their pants. They lined up neatly, and waited for El Blotto to get out of the way.

A minute or so later, Sherrie happened to look up... and notice these guys... and I heard very clearly what she said, then. She shrieked like a banshee who'd just stepped on a land mine.

At that point, El Blotto DID restrain her. His actions and body language changed, rather sharply.

So did hers. Rather than the relaxed, limp kind of posture she'd had a moment earlier, her eyes were now quite big and bugged, and she was furiously trying to bring her legs together and get some traction with her feet, a move which was made rather difficult by El Blotto's presence between her legs.

El Blotto leaned down and began speaking in her ear. I couldn't hear what was said, but her reactions told me, pretty plainly, what was happening here. She had assumed someone wanted to play grabass in the back room, and was drunk and dumb enough to allow this... but now the rest of the gang wanted to play, too.

...and they were GOING to play. Whether Sherrie liked it or not. The only choice she had was the Hard or Soft Option.

Cooperate, or suffer.

Her eyes got even bigger, as El Blotto spoke in his low voice. They darted back and forth, panicked, resting temporarily on every face she saw.

Mine included.

"Uh," I said.

A couple of guys in the hall looked at me.

"Uh," I said again. "Uh... hey, is this a good idea?" I said. I immediately wished I had said something different.

"You got a problem with it?" said a guy whose name I didn't know.

"Uh... well... partyin' in someone's mom's house is one thing, man, but this... man, this is going too far, don't you think?"

The statement made perfect sense to me, and I was mildly surprised to see that the looks on the faces of the other guys in the hall did not seem to agree. In fact, a couple of them looked downright hostile.

"Bitch wants it," someone said.

"Are you nuts?" I said. "Man, look at her. She's scared shitless, in there. I bet nobody told HER what the deal was--"

In the room, Sherrie yelped. I don't know if she heard me talking, or if someone did something in there, or what. I glanced in at her. She looked at me.

She looked at me.

"Man, this is no good," I said. "Take a look at her--"

Suddenly, someone grabbed my by the collar, and swung me into the wall, away from the door. "You are NOT going to mess this UP, man!" It was dark in the hallway, and I couldn't see who had spoken. Suddenly, I seemed to have five guys surrounding me... and the looks on their faces were not sympathetic.

I couldn't believe this. "Are you guys SERIOUS?" I said. "Man, this is a friggin' crime, guys! This is--"

"She's not YOUR girlfriend!" someone snarled, accusingly. "What do YOU care?"

"Bitch wants it. Look at her. Bitch wants it."

"You do NOT want to mess this up, man."

I looked at the faces of the guys around me. Boys, really. The eldest of them might have been eighteen. I knew them all. I went to high school with all of them. And I was coming to a realization that I did not like, that in fact was beginning to frighten me.

These guys were going to friggin' rape a drunk fourteen-year-old girl.

For being drunk, and stupid, and having big boobs.

And, worse, they were prepared to stop me from interfering. Violently.

Guys I went to high school with. Guys who played football. Guys I had in some of my classes.

Who WERE these people?

"Guys," I said, sounding weak, wussy, even to myself, "think about this, man. She does NOT want this. Man, you could--"

"I think you need to go now," someone said, pushing into the crowd. He took my arm and dragged me into the living room.

I glanced around. Where the hell was Sam? I couldn't see into the back bedroom any more, too many guys in the way. What was happening back there? Was SAM in there? What the hell--

The guy who had grabbed me shoved me roughly onto the front porch. In the porch light, I could see who it was. He played football. Won a couple of scholastic awards, too. Had his picture in the paper. A senior.

"Look, man," he said, "this is going to happen, one way or another. Now if you want in, say so. If you don't want in, you need to leave."

I stood there and stared at him. I still couldn't believe what I was seeing. Were these guys CRAZY? "Man, they put you in jail for this shit," I said.

"Nobody's going to jail," he said. "She showed up, she got drunk, she took us all on. There's sixteen guys who will say so, too. Our word against hers."

I stood and stared at him.

He anticipated what I was thinking. "Man, you could have got your ass handed to you in there. I saved it once. I ain't gonna save it again. You open your mouth, and it's STILL sixteen against you and her. It's gonna happen, one way or another. And the only difference you'll make is whether sixteen guys kick your ass or not."

We stood there and stared at each other for a minute.

What I wanted to say then, was, "Do you realize you're inflicting an act of physical and psychological torture on a fourteen year old girl, dude? You realize, you're scarring her for life? And that's assuming you and the rest of the Jackass Squad don't knock her up in the process, because if that happens, at least one of your drunk asses is going downtown, man."

But I was young, and stupid then, and my knack for words was not then what it would become. What I managed to say was, "Man, what about her?"

And "This ain't right, man. You know this ain't right."

He looked at me there, on the porch, as the june bugs battered themselves stupid on the bare porch lightbulb, and for a moment, I dared to hope he might actually have an attack of conscience... that maybe I'd made a difference.

"You're drunk," he said. "Go home, dude."

And he closed the door. And locked it.

I stood there. After a few minutes, the porch light went off, and the music volume went WAY up.

I stood there. Nothing happened. Finally, I walked away. It occurred to me to find a rock or something and start bashing windshields. I actually went so far as to find a good sized rock before I realized that I was three miles out of town, and that if these guys realized what I'd done, they'd catch me halfway back there and beat me stupid. Hell, they were drunk, too. They might kill me, even without meaning to.

And it still wouldn't do Sherrie a bit of good.

So I dropped the rock and walked home.

********************************************

Sherrie didn't come to school for a few days after that. When she did start showing up, the word had circulated pretty well about her wild and wanton behavior at the party the previous weekend. Lots of knowing looks and looking-down-the-nose at her. More than a few lewd propositions and jokes. LOTS of very public party invitations.

I noticed she never wore her pink "Foxy Lady" tank top to school any more. In fact, she seemed to have radically changed her style of dress. For the rest of the time I knew Sherrie, you would never be able to tell she HAD boobs, from the way she dressed. Long trousers or slacks, never skirts. Heavy, baggy sweaters or sweatshirts. She took to wearing a jacket a lot of the time, even in the hot South Texas climate, out of season.

No charges were ever brought against anyone. No complaints were ever made. I wondered what I would do if I were brought to testify, but no one ever asked me to. Once, a guy bumped me in the hall hard enough that it felt like a body check, and muttered, "keep your damn mouth shut," but that was all anyone ever said to me about it.

Sherrie had smiled a lot, back in the day. After the party, I never saw her smile again. Every tyro at the school had dates with her, though, in which she performed like a wildcat, again and again, into the night... but none were verifiable. The guys whose word was good said that she always turned down dates. In fact, she didn't much seem to want to go out with anyone. Ever. She was never seen at parties or social gatherings any more, or in extracurricular events. It's like she simply went to school... and then went home... and stayed there until forced to go to school again.

She was a junior when I graduated. I have no clue what happened to her after I left town. Her reputation still flourished, though, nurtured and embellished, and passed on to each new freshman class.

*************************************

I'll be thirty-nine this year. This happened a long time ago, but in some ways, it haunts me still. I can't say I got it as bad as Sherrie did, but I certainly got the same choice she did: cooperate or suffer.

She and I learned the same lesson that night: that just because you think you know someone doesn't mean you know someone. And even if you do know someone, you can't necessarily count on them being the same guy you know when he's drunk and in the middle of a mob.

And sometimes the bad guys win.

I still feel a little ashamed of myself for not doing something, for not speaking out, for not charging in, singlehandedly, and saving the day, with my strength the strength of ten because my heart was pure.

And a little voice in the back of my head says, quite rationally, "And you would have been beat bloody and perhaps killed, by sixteen drunk and dangerous guys. And you wouldn't have saved the lady fair."

And then the other little voice pipes up, "Yeah, but you could have at least tried."