Are you excited yet?

Are you excited now?

Good. This month almost didn’t happen. Not the magazine. The magazine always happens (unless it doesn’t). I’m talking about July. I’d go into a complete rundown of the crazy events of late June, but I’m sure you read about it in the papers, and the media didn’t shut-up about it for days. Luckily July is here, and has been for the last twenty days. We can only hope its good fortune will continue for the rest of its existence.

This month features poetry by Paul Hellweg, Lauren Becker, and Mr. Smith; prose by Thomas Sullivan, Chris Ridenour, Rod Parker, and Rachel Levy; and some artwork by Trebor Nehoc. Enjoy!

—Andrew Kaye, editor-in-chief

Lonely

and wishing for a miracle,

it finally came

in the form

of an e-mail

from a 24-year-old woman

with 8.5 million dollars

who offered to

move in with me

if I would help her

transfer the funds

to this country,

and

all I had to do

to get the money

and the babe

was to be

a little more

gullible

than

I already am.

You’ve Got Mail

are words full of life

and hope and

approbation,

alas,

No New Messages

keeps showing up

on my e-mail server,

and I doubt that

anyone will be beating

a path to my door

for the movie rights.

———–

Paul Hellweg has felt his whole life as if he didn’t fit in. Then a few months ago he discovered a new world of kindred spirits in the poetry universe, both online and at readings throughout the Los Angeles area. He’s thrilled to have finally found a place where he fits in just fine, sober or otherwise.

The night of the day I used the first label, I dreamed of starving
orphaned children with distended stomachs. They told me I should have
sent the nickel back, along with a generous check and a stamp to save
the charity the cost of postage. I ignored the children and returned
to my dream about eating ice cream with Angela Lansbury. Her favorite
flavor is strawberry, a rare choice.

The labels were decorated with puppies in various settings. Grocery
shopping. Driving a car. Checking e-mail. Playing racquetball. The
charity used the dogs to manipulate me, which pissed me off. I
considered throwing them out, but I didn’t ask the charity to make me
adorable personalized address labels and I didn’t want to be wasteful.
When someone puts my name on a birthday cake, I eat it. This has
never happened, but, if it did, I would be gracious and have a slice,
even if I wasn’t hungry.

I mailed a check to my dentist, using the athletic cocker spaniel. I
dreamed that my teeth fell out. I tried to eat some birthday cake,
but it made me drool and got all over on my face. I put the cake in
the blender with some milk and drank it with one of the red straws I
took from Wendy’s.

I sent my rent check yesterday, using the label with a Labrador
writing an e-mail. I dreamed it was addressed to me. I opened it and
read it. It said screw that charity. Let’s go play some racquetball,
then get the poodle to drive us to the store for some cake. You still
got that nickel?

————

Lauren Becker lives in Oakland, California. Her work has been published in Pindeldyboz, Storyglossia, Wigleaf, Pank, and elsewhere.  She likes e-mail, bubble gum and carbonated beverages.

I ended it on the fourth of July

But still she cried and threw things at me.

That’s the trouble with American girls:

They don’t ‘do’ Irony.

Thunder

If I’m lying, she said, may the ground open up and swallow me.

And as the words left her lips a sound like thunder filled the air.
 
It was only a passing motorcycle

But Christ, did it make her jump.

On Buying a Curry from an Unknown Restaurant While on Holiday

Toothy crunch on crispy shell

Tongue seeking clues among meat and vegetation

An answer to the unvoiced question:

Cockroach or cardamom?

Indian Haiku

Teeth crunching on shell

Nervous tongue seeking answers

Cardamom/Cockroach?

————

Mr Smith lives in Tunbridge Wells, England, but is not particularly disgusted. This is ‘English humour’. If you don’t get it, you are probably not English. Or maybe you are English but too young. Or English but lacking a sense of humour.

Most of the verse Mr Smith writes is written for children, but occasionally he writes for childish adults too. Mr Smith briefly lived on the moon and once punched a koala in the face.

“Y’know, I’ve been coming here for years, and I’ve never seen you before. What’s yer name?”

“Easy there, Armadillo Pie,” she replied. There was a jaundice in her manner, or maybe an advanced case of cirrhosis was just giving her features a yellow cast. Lifting her hepatic belly down off the table, she laid it to rest on a black denim skirt festooned with a gross of bright yellow Walmart buttons. “I’ve been coming here for years, and never seen you before. How do I know that’s not a line?”

“No. In my underwear.” He lifted up his eye patch to better take in her fine central European features. “I mean I’ve been coming in my underwear for years.”

“Well, in that case, my name’s Esmeralda.” She crossed her legs nonchalantly, almost dislodging a kneepad. “But you can call me Kiki.”

“Fair enough. Carol it is. My name is Chance.” He took the umbrella out of his drink and chewed it slowly, almost casually. It was tough to swallow, but would pass through his alimentary canal with the same ease as the bark dust he’d eaten on the way over, some of which still hung at the corners of his mouth.

“I told you, Chip, it’s Davida.” Looking annoyed, she went back to scribbling on a piece of paper, half soaked, that lay in front of her. The grenadine in her beer had given it a pink cast, the color of flushed genitals.

“What’ve you got there?” he asked, and leaned in.

“Never mind.” Curling one hand around the nonsense on the page, she grew secretive, as if cribbing on an exam. “It’s a note for my roommate. She’s in third grade.”

“Wow! Third grade! What’s that like?” he wanted to know.

“Really hard for a nineteen-year-old,” she replied, and shook her mane of tangled yellow hair.

Each one of the liberty spikes in his Mohawk had a green olive impaled on it, and he plucked one away, tossing it into his mouth and tonguing at the pimento. “Mmfggnghth,” he offered.

“Yeah, me, too.” Reaching up, she pinched one of her breasts, then flapped both arms and recited one of the numerous Nantucket limericks.

“Fuck it!” he hollered along with her at the end, then grinned. “Wow, I never met anyone else before that knew Sylvia Plath by heart.”

“Actually, it’s William Stafford. You’re in Oregon now, Fartface.” There was a softer look in her eyes as she pulled her hair around and stuck the frayed ends into her mouth.

“I thought this was a tavern on the edge of the University of Iowa campus.” He looked perplexed. “What do you think of Marvin Bell?”

“Ding dong,” she answered, and put both thumbs in her nostrils.

“Mostly dong. A great big dong,” he added, and reached back to pull a pack of Parliaments from the ass side of his diaper.

“Holy Towels, Aquaman, that’s sexy.” She’d just watched him light the wrong end of a cigarette and shuddered with delight, then kicked off a shoe. One foot snaked across under the table, and now all seven toes were massaging his groin.

“Damn it, I think you should go home with me.”

She gave his balls a nudge with her heel. “Why don’t we just go back to your place?”

“Sunflowers!” he exclaimed. “Check please!” The barmaid came over and told him his drink was three dollars; he stroked his half a moustache thoughtfully, then took off one mitten and poured out better than five bucks worth of change next to the sputtering candle.

They walked back to his apartment, a small studio lined with Warhol-esque velvet paintings of key rings and Nabisco products. There was no furniture, save for a wooden pallet covered with rags and a hookah stopped up with a buttplug at its aperture. She dropped down onto the hardwood floor and made as if to do snow angels.

“I should warn you,” he offered grimly, “I have a necrophilia streak in me. We’ll probably have to ice down your vagina, and you’re going to have to remain very still.”

“That’s fine. Just don’t come inside me. Unless you’re going to leave some fruit there.” She nodded at him. “Or Cheetos. To appease the gnomes.”

“Of course. Don’t be a retarded pretzel.” He moved toward a door, kicking off his slippers as he went.

“Where are you going?” she asked as she pulled off her shirt, exposing nipples run through with chicken bones.

“To put in my neuticles.” Seeing her perplexed expression, he pressed on. “Fake testicles. My parents castrated me in a Bob Eubanks-officiated ceremony when I was eight.”

“And you can still do this?” she wondered, slicing at her skirt with a straight razor.

“Oh, I take hormone treatments. I’ll give you the spin cycle of your life, ya dirty sock.” He laughed like mad and spanked his own ass.

She grinned back. “All right, Molasses, hurry back.”

The door closed as she dropped her wool panties to the floor. On the far side of the room, she spotted a five-gallon drum with the Astroglide logo on the side and went to grab a handful to slap on the back of each knee, just in case. When she popped off the lid, though, there was nothing inside but several pounds of candy corn and a small booklet, tucked into the sugary mess.

“What’s this?” she queried, drawing it out as he emerged from the bathroom.

He flapped his hands, a bit flustered. “Oh, ah…nothing. Just my stamp collection.”

“You fucking weirdo!” she charged, and leaving her clothing in a heap on the oak flooring, stormed out of the flat, stark naked.

————

Chris Ridenour is a writer and artist whose work of either stripe has appeared in places ranging from Washington State to Quebec City. He lives in Portland with his wife and editor who are, happily, the same person.

My older sister and I were allowed to have two cookies each after dinner and we could pack two cookies for the lunches we made for ourselves-my mother said we could buy hot lunch or make our own. The hot lunches at Hyde Elementary were certainly edible, but by the time I was six, I realized they were pretty gross. Once I started bringing my own lunch, I was painfully aware of my friends’ carefully packed, nicely-balanced, and plentiful lunches. Mine usually consisted of some all-natural, health food store peanut butter (the kind that tears the bread) with jelly spread hastily on a two slices of whole wheat bread (we never had white bread in the house), wrapped in saran wrap (we did not use the sleeker and more expensive zip locks), a piece of fruit, and the afore-mentioned Scotch Buy cookies. They were always chocolate cookies with vanilla cream. I came to loathe these cookies. They were the only kind we had on a regular basis, the only kind that that my Dad ever bought (Pepperidge Farm cookies were purchased for dinner guests or for a special treat). What’s more, they were imitations of national brand cookie, Oreos. So, not only did we have the exact same boring cookie every day, but it wasn’t even the real thing. Even so, my sister, Dina, and I raided these cookies from their out-of-reach place in the cabinet anyway, stealthily climbing up onto the counter and, sneaking more than our allotted two to four per day. I hated these cookies even as I knew they were the best thing we had. I plotted to get them even as I knew deep down that the thrill of sneaking them would not improve their taste.

Dina and I did manage to find one way to jazz up our Scotch Buy sandwich cookie experience. We used to pine away for piñatas, which of course, we never got. The idea of having a colorful animal full of candy, which we could hit as hard as we wanted and for which we would then be rewarded with a brief but intense rainstorm of candy, was thrilling to us. We could scarcely believe that such things actually existed. So, we made do. We made homemade piñatas out of brown paper bags, and yes, Scotch Buy sandwich cookies. We would place the cookies in a brown paper bag, crunch the top of the bag together, and tie some twine around the top tightly. Next, we’d tie the other end of the string to a hook attached to the ceiling of our front porch, and go searching in our front patch of yard for sticks.

Finally, it was fiesta time. Donning a blindfold and having been turned around the requisite three times, we would proceed to beat the bag mercilessly until either it came down or we gave up. When struck, the bag didn’t shake or show any sign of weakness. It just swung apathetically, prompting us to hit it even harder after which it would swing in a full arc and rest on the front porch roof. Then, we would have to get one of my parents or a stranger who happened to be walking by to get it down, or we would climb up on the precarious wooden porch railing, pluck it down ourselves, and continue on with our fantasy. Most of the time, it did not come down at all and after beating it for a while, we would simply give up and take it down, trying to act surprised at the contents. Look! Chocolate Scotch Buy chocolate sandwich cookies with vanilla filling! Only by then they would not be whole (the coveted form of a child’s cookie), but would have been reduced to small chunks and crumbs. I remember feeling disappointed when I looked and it turned out there was no candy, just the same old Scotch Buy cookies in shattered form.

My sister and I somehow imagined that the cookies would be magically transformed and that they would taste better if we dressed them up in our pitiful brown paper bag piñata. We seldom finished the cookies. The string would remain hanging there for months, a reminder of our pathetic endeavor. I often wonder now what people must have thought as they walked down our street and by our house, seeing these little girls beating the crap out of a paper bag hanging from the ceiling of their front porch.

————

Rachel is taking a break from teaching to write and to attempt to rule her three unruly children. Born and raised in Washington, D.C., she currently lives in Ashland, Virginia. She posts to her blog http://rantsravesandrecollections.blogspot.com a few times a month. This is her second publication in Defenestration.

By the morning light word is out, racing across the internet, jamming email inboxes, and filling the air with annoying pop-song ringtones. TV crews in white vans race from store to store, repeating the same story over and over. The president appears on television to reassure the public that he’s got things under control, a claim that no one believes or bothers to pay much attention to. Within hours the same frantic scene is repeating itself throughout the world. The ships are everywhere, perched on rows of caterpillar-like legs and towering over the tent cities that have sprung up in the parking lots. They’re tall and perfectly rectangular, big boxes really, with rows of porthole windows running down their bright green, metallic sides. Big styrofoam buoys hang from their sides, Skippers style, suggesting a cosmic sense of humor. In front of each ship, just below a flat windshield and a dashboard graced with hula dolls, hangs a huge cloth banner, unfurled to deliver a message. The message reads: ACTIONS SPEAK LOUDER THAN WORDS. WELCOME TO THE APOCALYPSE.

While their subjects wait for an explanation, militaries dispatch fighters to destroy the unknown invaders. Jets roar off runways and scream through the air toward their bright green targets. But they turn around without explanation just before entering firing range and races back to base. The story reported from each military facility is exactly the same: The pilots feeling a wave of sudden, uncontrollable compassion and just turning around. Navies with tactical surface-to-air missiles report the same thing. Guard members don’t even bother to show up for duty.

Within hours all trains, busses, and planes are grounded, due to a lack of passenger interest. Their usual occupants are flocking to television screens and laptop monitors. For the first time ever the world sits perfectly still, waiting nervously.

Glued to their screens and monitors, humanity stares at the ships, waiting for a sign. Some people clutch bibles or Korans, awaiting their first glimpse of the True One. Others grip guns, preparing to leave their house and kick some alien ass. Most people stare in disbelief, unsure of what’s happening and not really eager to find out. Even the TV anchors and talk-radio gurus stop talking, another first. The world sits silent.

In a flash of light, screens and monitors fizzle and shake, sending wavy, neon lines across their surfaces. Humans release a collective gasp and check their connections, swearing in unison. When the live images resettle, the ships are resting on the pavement, their legs mysteriously recoiled and hidden, like a cat’s. Somehow the campers and tents underneath have been moved and organized neatly at the far edge of the parking lots. Standing perfectly still in front of each ship is a trio of lifeforms. Short and stick-like, the figures possess football-shaped heads covered with stiff bristles of bright yellow hair. For music fans, the resemblance to Billy Idol is unmistakable. The creatures’ eyes, if there are any, are covered by large blade shades that reflect the light from hundreds of TV cameras. Each of the visitors is dressed the same, wearing a shiny, purple one-piece suit covered with swirly patterns. Humans with an understanding of fashion history instantly recognize the outfits, which are smoking jackets from the 1970′s.

“Greetings earthlings!” the trio tone in unison, revealing pairs of huge buck-teeth, “We mean you no harm…you’re good enough at that already.” The lifeforms whip a leg forward, perfectly synchronized, executing a group high-kick that reveals infant-sized blue suede sneakers. Monitors across the earth fill with tiny, high-pitched giggles. Standing still again, the visitors continue, “We have arrived to help you complete your evolution.”

A gasp surges out of evangelical churches as members recoil from the foul word. Mystics and gnostics grin and nod, sensing what’s coming next.

“This is a new era,” the lifeforms continue, “You physical development is complete, but your minds are just beginning to flourish. Welcome to the age of conscious mental enlightenment.” The buck-teeth flash again, sparkling and perfectly white. “Some of you have already exhibited insight, and will come aboard our ship to Vandu. Others will stay behind for now and, as you put it, get up to speed”. The visitors jab an arm into the air and flash a peace sign, forming a “V” with long, bony fingers. Cheering crowd noise fills computers and television screens across the world. “Vanadu is the mirror dimension of planet earth, a galactic reflection of your home, where war, pollution, bigotry, and greed do not exist. The place is saahweet!”

The lifeforms do a back flip in unison and land with one leg backward and an arm stretched out, Chorus Line style. They look radiant standing below the ships as James Brown music starts to play. I feeeel good! In a pitch-perfect Bob Barker impersonation they smile and say, “So read the following and then … come on down!”

Monitors go blank and silent for a moment. Quiet wind-chime music begins to fill the devices as an image slowly fades in from a point on the horizon. People lean into their screens trying to decipher the approaching image. The picture suddenly rushes forward, sending viewers backwards in surprise. High pitched laughter arrives and then dissipates, replaced by a pastoral image on the screen. Tiny deer are frolicking in a profusion of waist deep, multicolored flowers, while small hummingbirds hover overhead. A brilliant yellow sun shines down. In the distant background a small human village goes about its business, quietly gathering roots.

A set of words dance in from the edge of the screens, forming a message. Big paisley letters exclaim: EXCESSIVE GREED AND VORACIOUS MATERIAL CONSUMPTION REVEAL AN UNDER-DEVELOPED MIND. IF THIS HAS BEEN YOUR PATH, YOU STILL HAVE WORK TO DO. IF YOUR HOUSE IS VISIBLE FROM OUTER-SPACE, DON’T BOTHER, JUST STAY HOME. THESE ARE QUALITIES OF THE PAST, USELESS FOR THE FUTURE.

Most of Wall Street and the entire cities of Houston and Riyadh go into panic mode.

The words on the screen dissolve. A new set appears: ONLY ACTION MATTERS. THOSE PEOPLE ENGAGED IN OR SUPPORTING EFFORTS FOR PEACE, JUSTICE, TOLERANCE, EQUALITY, AND THE ENVIRONMENT WILL BE THE FIRST TO BOARD. THESE ARE THE ESSENTIAL QUALITITES FOR A FUNCTIONING, SUSTAINABLE SOCIETY. DUH!!

Social workers and non-profit lawyers roar with approval. Payday lenders scamper for their checkbooks, furiously writing donations to green groups. But it’s too late, at least this time around.

A final message dances onto the screen: PHYSICAL STRENGTH AND BRUTE FORCE HAVE NO PLACE IN THE SOCITIES OF THE FUTURE. AGENTS OF ANGER, HATRED, AND AGGRESSION SHALL REMAIN A RELIC OF THE DESPOILED EARTH UNTIL THEY CHANGE THEIR WAYS.

Beefcakes and mercenaries stumble over their feet as they race into garages, desperate to dispose of guns and weight machines. Wild-eyed programmers race into their bedrooms and start deleting video game projects. The Pentagon goes silent. Blackwater employees just sit and stare, realizing that they’re fucked.

* * * *

The scene outside Wal-Mart is pure pandemonium. Crowds are surging toward the world’s largest retailer from all directions, packing highways and cluttering secondary roads. Gridlock quickly spurns alternative means of transport — people start arriving on skateboards, shopping carts, anything that rolls, while herds of edgy people plow through backyards, knocking down fences and seeking shortcuts. CEOs long accustomed to limousines are seen pedaling bikes furiously, trying to beat the crowds. It’s worse than the day after Thanksgiving.

Approaching the parking lots, newcomers witness an endless sea of bodies pressed up against the spaceships. They push forward and steel their resolve, preparing for chaos. But the scene near the ships is utterly tranquil. People mull about, chatting with strangers and patiently waiting their turn. The visiting lifeforms seem to have cast a calming spell over the assembled masses.

The lifeforms appear to be shape-shifting. They’re everywhere at once, talking to people and checking background information on furry, handheld devices. People are processed by the thousands, disappearing and suddenly rematerializing, Star Trek style, at the foot of the ships. The chosen are guided by an invisible hand to an orange circle under the center of the ship and then sucked up gently through a hole in the floor.

Television crews race around the world covering celebrity processing. Despite the new reality, where wealth and status no longer matter, the crews still can’t resist the lure of fame and affluence. Screens around the world zoom onto the scene in Johannesburg, where Nelson Mandela is being led toward a spaceship by a throng of admirers. A trio of aliens block his progress and say, “Sorry, not good enough.” They break into splits, do a windmill air guitar, and bounce back up, laughing. They bow slightly and say, “Just kidding … you’re riding up front with us.”

Televisions break away from this spectacle to report an “Urgent breaking story found only on [your local station name here]“. Cameras zoom to a Wal-Mart in Georgia, where Jimmy Carter is standing toward the back of a teeming crowd, clutching a hammer. The lifeforms materialize and invite him onto their ship. The ex-president graciously accepts the offer, but insists on being the last to board. He’s got a house to finish first.

Televisions then flash to a store outside Brooklyn, where a man in a shiny suit has pressed his way to the front of the crowd. He stares down at the lifeforms impatiently while they ask a series of questions. Grasping for good actions, he reveals his role as a Troop Leader for the Boy Scouts, oblivious to their discriminatory policies. It doesn’t work. The lifeforms ask about his legal work defending Union Carbide. In a spate of desperation he says, “Hey, even peace workers use chemicals.” The interviewers laugh and say “Next.”

* * * *

The visitors complete their work in one earth day, interviewing seven billion people. Suspicions are aroused that these visitors are operating on an accelerated, alternative time-plane. These folks definitely aren’t running on Tulsa time. A similar shift seems to be occurring in the physical world as well. The one million ships docked at a million Wal-Marts have, by early estimates, absorbed almost five billion guests. It’s extraordinary.

The only people not interviewed are members of the few surviving tribes sequestered deep in the remaining jungles, far from the industrialized world. The visitors intentionally bypass these forest dwellers, who live in harmony with one another and the land. As the visitors well know, the remaining humans on earth will require the assistance of master teachers.

The last people to board are the Wal-Mart workers. Ten million people in blue vests emerge from oversized buildings and eagerly load onto the ships. From their wide smiles it’s evident that they’re looking forward to a future where they don’t need permission to take a leak. Shortly before liftoff the lifeforms release a statement explaining this action, stating, “Anyone resilient enough to survive that place has the patience needed for the future.”

The ships lift into the air silently while the remaining humans stare open-mouthed at their screens. No one knows what’s next. The visitors seem genuinely compassionate, but it could still be a ruse. Humanity has seen these tricks before – a politician pledges to be compassionate, only to turn around and unleash death and destruction.

Screens go blank for a moment and are then filled with psychedelic swirls of brightly colored ribbons. A message pops into view. It says: “FRET NOT THYSELVES. DO NOT BLAME OR FEEL DESPAIR. THIS IS A MOMENT OF HOPE, FOR THE PRESSURE ON YOUR HOME IS NOW OFF. KEEP LEARNING AND FIX YOUR NEST. A HINT: YOU DON’T NEED MORE THAN YOU NEED.”

Nothing blows up. No one is incinerated. No one group is chosen to vacate the earth. Nothing perishes, except the conviction that self-interest is always good. People just sit and think, quietly pondering the needs of the future.

————

Thomas Sullivan’s writing has appeared in Word Riot, 3AM Magazine, and Lit-Up Magazine, among others. He is the author of Life In The Slow Lane, a comic memoir about a hair-raising summer spent teaching drivers education (available at http://www.lulu.com/content/paperback-book/life-in-the-slow-lane/1085674).

Curious: I have a regular who wets his bills at the soda station before handing them over to you. I don’t need to tell you that my first experience with him was mildly disconcerting. Once, I asked the purpose of his ritual; he turned away from me and refused to mumble as much as a word.

Disturbing: I have an occasional customer who resembles the devil. -It’s true_ He has been implanted with short horns; nubs really. He also had disks implanted below his lower lip and one on the back of each hand. His look is complete with tattoos, (of an obscure nature), randomly across his face, arms, and hands. He is a nice and polite young man; but sold out to the darker forces of the universe…

Amusing: And then there’s my Manager, Mel. He’s a good man. He’s constantly thinking of ways to improve morale amongst the staff and when an employee has a problem, he’ll do his best to help them solve it. However, he does have a hilarious side to him that keeps me in stitches.

For example, he likes to watch educational channels on cable t.v. such as the Learning Channel or the Discovery Channel. Every few weeks, he’ll start a project that’ll put what he learned to use. Always with disastrous results. And he will drop that project and move on to another.

I have watched him attempt to raise ants in his home; that is, until the holding tank shattered and his house was infested with thousands of ants. I have watched him grow exotic plants; until his son informed him that his “exotic plants” were, actually, marijuana. Once, he tried to build a fully-functional bi-plane in his basement. He got as far as assembling the fuselage until he realized that he couldn’t get the plane out of his basement. He learned about Feng-Shui and attempted to arrange the store’s dining room tables and chairs so that the energy “flowed” throughout the room. Unfortunately, this eliminated more than half of the seating. Thus, went the Feng-Shui project. The list goes on and on.

A recent project was to teach himself fluid Spanish. Given his track record, I pleaded with him to just take a course at the local community college. He wouldn’t hear of it. He purchased a Spanish dictionary and would go throughout the day, frequently referring to this book whenever an opportunity presented itself.

Just the other day a couple returned to the store to complain that we had forgotten to include a burger in their order. They spoke very little English, but enough for me to understand them. Seeing his opportunity Mel rushed over, practically pushing me to the side. He tore open his dictionary and proceeded to put together a sentence. After several moments, (and a clearly puzzled look on the couple’s face), he completed the sentence, closed the book and puffed out his chest, waiting for a response from the couple.

The husband looked over at me, confused; I shrugged my shoulders. He looked at Mel and repeated back to him what had been said. Mel responded with a proud “Ci_” Without warning, the husband leaned over the counter and popped Mel on the jaw. Mel went reeling back into the wall behind him. I rushed over to help him to his feet as the couple stormed out of the store in a huff.

“What just happened_ Why did he hit me?,” Mel asked as he rubbed the offended jaw.

“What did you say to him?,” I asked.

“I told him that we would be happy to replace the missing hamburger.”

Puzzled, I asked, “then why would that make him angry?”

Maria, one of our employees who is fluid in Spanish, rushed over to help me get Mel back to his feet. She asked what happened and I repeated the incident to her while Mel nursed his jaw, (which was now red and beginning to swell). Maria said “repeat to me exactly what you said to the couple.” Again, Mel whipped out his dictionary and, after much effort, he repeated what he had said to the couple.

Maria blinked, obviously confused. Suddenly she burst out laughing and walked to the back of the restaurant and started recounting the incident to the employees that understood Spanish. The entire back of the restaurant broke out in roaring laughter. I didn’t fully understand what was going on, but I started laughing because I knew that, once again, Mel had done something Mel-ish.

Maria came back over to where Mel and I were standing. I asked for specifics between fits of laughter. She said that the man had hit Mel because he had called the man’s wife a whore. I fell to my hands and knees, doubled over with laughter. Mel walked off in a huff, tossing the dictionary in a trash can as he passed by. –That was the end of his Spanish lessons.

His latest project is increasing his vocabulary by using one of those calendars that gives you a new word to use for each day. This project should keep him out of trouble. For a little while, at least.

As far as the crew is concerned, I’m working with a good team. Most of the crew have been working here for years and, for the most part, we all get along great. I’ve watched their kids grow and develop and I purposely take out the time to talk with each and every one of them whenever I can. I’ve come to think of most of them as family and know them well. That is except for one employee:

His name is Ralph. He’s a grill man that has worked, primarily, the graveyard shift for over eighteen years. During my years at the restaurant, I have worked with Ralph several times; too many times to count, in fact. However, I have never, actually–I know this is going to sound strange–but, I have never actually seen his face. I mean, I could not describe him to anyone_ It’s true_ Really_

You see, every time I go into his work area, either his back is to me; or he’s in another part of the restaurant; or my view of his face is obstructed by some piece of equipment. I have seen his arms and hands from the opposite side of the pass-through; but only his face and hands. (The pass-through is the rectangular opening where sandwiches are passed to the server after they are assembled. I thought it ridiculous that I hadn’t seen his face and decided I was going to get a good look at this man’s face.

Several times I have attempted to go into the grill area and get a good look at him. But something would always seem to get in the way. For example, once when I came into his area, his back was to me while he was facing the grill and cooking meat patties. I circled around to his left, but as if on que, he pivoted to his right to place the meat patties on the sandwich buns. Several times that night I attempted to get a good look at him but, with the same result.

This went on for several days until, finally out of frustration, I decided to walk straight up to him and look him directly in the face. It’s tight in the grill area with the equipment and all. I was forced to navigate around the equipment, working my way towards him. In my haste I pushed aside an employee who was assisting him in assembling the sandwiches. With perfect timing he turned away from me and walked to the back of the restaurant as I approached him from the right. I tried to follow him but now had an employee who was blocking my path, angrily chattering at me in Spanish because I had pushed her. (It took weeks to re-build a rapport with her).

Another instance, Mel wanted to improve the comradery in the store. He purchased a disposable camera and went around the restaurant taking pictures of employees when they were off guard. (We wound up with some funny and compromising photos of the employees). Mel actually took the pictures but placed me in charge of getting them developed and posted on our community bulletin board in the employees’ lounge.

Finally_ I saw this as my opportunity to get a good, square look at Ralph; that is until I saw his picture. Mel had caught Ralph by surprise, but not before he could place his hand in front of the camera. Basically we had a picture of Ralph’s right palm and part of his uniform. –The photo was useless_

I was so mad, I could spit. In fact I did. Unfortunately, an employee was walking by and well… you know what happened; and can you guess which employee it was? Now, Mel wouldn’t schedule me on the same shift as her and threatened to send me through the company’s anger management program. He said that my behavior was “utterly reprehensible.” (Remember, he’d been using one of those calendars to improve his vocabulary).

Okay, maybe I was getting desperate and maybe I was becoming a bit too obsessive. But I just had to see Ralph’s face. Finally, I came up with an idea that was fail-proof: I hired a police-sketch artist that was a friend of a friend. (He charge me five hundred dollars for his services; but at that point, I didn’t care). One by one I called the employees, that have worked with Ralph, into the employees’ lounge so that they could give a description of Ralph to the sketch artist and he could render a sketch of Ralph’s face. –Only problem was, I was always playing practical jokes on the crew and they thought that this was another one of them. When I would ask them for the description, they would just leave the lounge laughing, saying, “Rod, you’re crazy or, “Rod, you’re muy loco_” Five employees came and went out of that lounge before I finally had had enough. I grabbed and yanked on the wrist of the last employee that was trying to leave the lounge without giving a description. The employee was…you guessed it.

She filed a complaint with our HR department. Now I’m being transferred to another store as soon as they find my replacement. Further, I will not be allowed within five hundred feet of the store once I transfer. Oh, I forgot to mention that her complaint was substantiated by a sketch of the incident in the lounge in which I allegedly “assaulted” her. (Worse five hundred bucks I ever spent; although the artist did create a remarkable likeness of me; he is quite talented).

A lot of men spend their lives searching for the “Face of God.” I however, have spent the past few months of my life searching for the “face of Ralph.” Finally I had to admit to myself that I had become obsessed with getting a look at this man’s face. And the results of which was that my life was in shambles. My professional life was suffering and my personal life too: My wife almost left me because she was convinced that I was having an affair when she came across a five hundred and thirty-six dollar receipt from a lingerie store. Do you remember the sketch artist? In order to get the five hundred dollars to pay him, I ran out and got a cash advance off of my credit card. I used a small lingerie shop across the street from the restaurant; but couldn’t without first purchasing something from the store. I grabbed the item nearest me which was a nightie that cost thirty-six dollars.

After explaining the whole story to my wife, she believed me. She said, “no once could make up such a ridiculous story.” However, she did give me the ultimatum: “End your obsession, of our marriage is over.” I decided to cut my losses and gave up my obsession.

Now that I had given up my quest, things were starting to settle down in my life. I was no longer obsessed with seeing Ralph’s face and, in a few days, I was being transferred to another store where I could start to re-build my reputation with the company. My marriage was starting to improve again because, once again, I was focusing all of my attention and efforts on my family. Then two days before my replacement was to arrive, I received a call from one of our local banks…

A couple of weeks prior, Ralph had applied for a home loan. As part of the bank’s procedure, they contact the applicant’s place of employment and interview the employer. Usually, they interview Mel. But when he is not available, they interview me. I have been interviewed over a dozen times and am always happy to help our employees to share in a piece of the “American dream.”

Each bank has their own loan procedures, but their questions are usually just a slight variation of the same set of questions; and in the same order. Usually, I just pull up the information on the computer and answer any and all of their questions. The following are some sample questions:

“Please state the employee’s full name.”

“How long has the employee been working there?”

“What is the employee’s present wage?”

“When do you anticipate the employee’s next raise, if any?”

“When do you anticipate the amount of the raise to be, if any?”

“How would you rate the employee’s job performance?”

And so on, and so on…

As I said, answering the questions is simple and the interview usually takes five minutes or less. In the case of Ralph, the interview went like this:

“Please state the employee’s full name.”

“Ralph Waldo Pearson.”

“How long has the employee been working there?”

“Eighteen years and three months.”

“What is the employee’s present wage?”

“Eleven dollars and seventy-five cents.”

(I have completed so many of these interviews that I have learned to anticipate the questions and answer them before the interviewer barely has enough time to ask the questions. In the case of this interview, it was no different. In fact, after the second question, the interviewer thanked me for helping to move the interview along so quickly).

I anticipated the next question. “It’s going to be about his next raise,” I thought to myself.

The interviewer asked, “please provide a full description of Mr. Pearson, including height, weight, and general characteristics of his face. –For identification purposes.

Without really listening, I responded, “he will receive his next job review about three months from now.”

“What?,” the interviewer asked.

“What?,” I responded in confusion.

The interviewer became slightly annoyed and re-asked the question. (That’s right, I said re-asked). “Please provide a full description of Mr. Pearson, including height, weight, and general characteristics of his face.”

I hesitated; not sure what to do. The interviewer, now really annoyed, took on an impatient tone in her voice. “Mr. Parker,” (that’s me), and she repeated the question verbatim.

I responded, (stammering), “I-I’m not s-s-sure of his d-description. I-I-mean I-I know he is about six feet four and is a white male…”

“Go on,” the interviewer encouraged me to continue.

“B-but, I c-c-cannot give you a d-d-description of his f-f-f-face.”

Reassuringly, the interviewer said, “there is no need to be concerned, Mr. Parker.” We keep this information in the strictest of confidence. In fact, I am Mr. Pearson’s loan officer. I actually met him at the bank when he first came in to apply for the loan. But it is our procedure to verify his actual identity through his employer”.

I replied, “No, y-you don’t understand. I cannot give you a description of his face because I have never actually seen his face.”

Confused, the interviewer asked, “Mr. Parker, are you the assistant manager at the restaurant, or not?”

“Yes, I am.”

“And, you have been employed at the restaurant for the past four years?”

“Yes, actually going on five years.”

“Am I to be led to believe that during those four years…”

“Almost five years,” I interrupted.

“Five years_” (The interviewer was now screaming at me). “Now, as I was saying. Am I to be led to believe that during those five years, you have never seen Mr. Pearson’s face?”

“I know. It seems hard to believe myself. Trust me, I have spent a considerable amount of time and money trying to get a look at this guy’s face. By the way, what does he look like? –Please tell me_” (I was now screaming on the phone as the interviewer disconnected).

The loan was disapproved. The interviewer alleged that Ralph and I were partners in some sort of scheme to defraud the bank. Ralph, in turn, complained to HR and I was fired. They’d received too many complaints from too many employees and felt that I was unfit to manage.

Further, Ralph and I were arrested on “conspiracy to commit fraud” charges. They put us each in separate rooms and grilled us for hours. Ralph was soon released because they could not find evidence of any conspiracy. I, on the other hand, was transferred to a state psychiatric hospital where I am currently being treated for “Illusional Obsessive Disorder.” Apparently they say that I am illusional because I refuse to admit that I have actually seen Ralph’s face. I have been termed obsessive because of the time and money that I spent in trying to get a look at his face.

My wife left me and I am now unemployed, although I won’t have to worry about room and board for a while. On the bright side, this place has a reputation for having one of the finest arts and crafts program in the state. In fact, I joined their art class which is being taught by a very talented sketch artist that volunteers from the police department.

My doctor tells me that I will be able to get out of this place as soon as I admit that I have, actually, seen Ralph’s face and provide him with a detailed description. –Well, see you around.

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Rod Parker isn’t a man, but a golem constructed by a rabbi in Prague. The above story was taken from the scroll rolling around in his kiln-fired head.

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Bob Cohen (aka Trebor Nehoc) is a writer living in NYC. His latest book is Scurvy Dogs, Green Water & Gunsmoke: Fifty Years in US Navy Destroyers (Oak Tree, 2008).

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White knuckling a pencil since the womb, Wakman111 has pushed out comics faster than his eraser’s lifespan. He has created over 20 comics since first grade: from his first comic character, “ERASERMAN,” a time traveling war veteran, to his most recent comics: “Butcher Shop” and the MS series. Self-sheltered from pop-culture and MTV alike… he knows nothing but to eat, breathe, and draw. Check it out by the shovel-load at http://wakman111.deviantart.com/