Happy Birthday! Carl
71! (Wow!)---and...counting! (I hope)
Plus:
Dedication
Dedicated to:
The imagination
of creative man in constant
Pursuit of
Truth, Justice, and the
American Way
And, to:
Redemption
through timeless trilogy
Affirmations of:
Intrepid!
Independent! Individual!
Father! Son!
And, Holy Ghost!
Honest! Humble!
Humor!
Faith! Family!
Freedom!
Belief! Hope!
Charity!
Praise! Honor!
Glory!
Good! Better!
Best!
Live! Love!
Laugh!
Amen!
And, finally:
In loving memory
of my late uncle:
Mr. Charles
Elvis Farrell, Jr.
(February 19,
1919---December 20, 2015)
Works
by Carl Schuler
(visit: Amazon
books search: Carl Schuler)
Brothers (contemporary-baseball
& life)
Creed of the Mountain Man (adventure/romance)
…And Justice for All (adventure/mystery)
Spanky and Jamie McGhee (a contemporary novel)
Syncopated
Cadence (Poetry
in Motion)
Rondo Slade---Silver Mountain
Country (a
western)
Ambiance---a Maeystown fireside
reader (a
compilation)
Christmas Treasures (Across Three Traditional
Celebrations):
Book I-Christmas Magic
Book II-Christmas Perfect
Book III-Christmas Perpetual
Christmas Always
(Holiday
delights in Prose ’n Rhyme)
Handsome Z. Tyler (the distinguished gentleman
from McKendree University)
Station Master (an offering of short stories)
Daily Devotional (13 volume set)
Christmas Reader (a month of Christmas)
Book of Poetry (songs, poems and limericks)
Revelation (novel---supernatural spiritual
development)
Van Gangenberg, NE (novella-American western)
Trois les Adieux (novella- Three Farewells)
Author’s
Note
Pray humble I
for:
Courage to
change any evil injustices I discern;
Tolerance to
accept the things I cannot improve;
Wisdom to
understand the difference between them;
Strength! To
plant yet another ten-thousand-plus trees;
Faith! To see me
through the trials and challenges;
Inspiration! To
claim Redemption and Salvation;
Hope! To
comprehend the myriad possibilities;
Comfort! And,
Generosity! For all in need;
Peace! For all
who dare believe in Love!
Strength! To
challenge any demon-evil;
Infinite Love!
To change our world!
Amen!
A
Miracle: That one such as I might be so blessed with life in a pleasant garden
filled with fragrant flowers, towering trees, emerald-green manicured lawn
traces, a fresh vegetable site for Mother’s pure bounty nourishment, a space
filled with shrubs and plants, gentle rains, warming- comfort sunshine,
dappled-shade to be enjoyed in a gentle whisper-wind of soothing coolness,
surrounded by Family and Friends who accept my love and offer their own toward
me in return; Freedom through Liberty to partake as I dare see the value
defined, designed, refined to sacred virtue, And, good sense to be
ever-Thankful for such time and space amid the nature of this era. Would, that
such a sin-stained soul might appreciate a lively spirit endeavoring challenge
soar in approaching the line to be nearly worthy or humbly deserving of such
celestial blessings!
For
all these gifts I am profoundly thankful-proud as iniquitous I enjoy such
treasure-finds.
I
am: Happy! Satisfied! Satiated! In life. In Love! My spirit soars beyond the
cerulean abyss.
“Think
outside the box” psychologically misdirects both purpose and intent with a faux
conclusion of obfuscated “nobility” based on a false “Freedom”-perspective,
namely, “live creative, without imaginative limitations” which is necessarily
vacant at inception proved by the flawed premise that such a “containment”, the
“box”, exists in reality. It does not.
The simple secret? There “ain’t” no box! Only self-defeating, self-imposed
parameters which limit fantasy easily capable of being realized---with proper
effort. Dare challenge the seeming impossible!
Perhaps
the very obvious “Secret” is akin to the boundless universe: There simply is no
beginning and no end, just boundless “Love” to give away the more we desire to
bestow it.
Pray
I: That such is the sincere reality of Life! Of Love! Of Laughter!
And,
for those who choose to live in Light, the prize is already well in hand.
Enjoy!
God bless you!
Beaucoup! Mon Amie! Always and forever!
The Author
A Special Note of Information:
Some of the
short stories contained in this compilation are preceded by a rhyme
which serves as
a general outline offering insight to the narrative presented.
-The Author
Also;
After the final
short story by Carl Schuler, a special
offering is
presented by a guest author who penned the
work at the
tender age of thirteen:
My “Almost”
Uncle”
by---Mr. Z.T.
Evans
(Note: Like all
stages of life-era, those “tender” years
are, indeed,
extra-special. “Twelve”, for this writer,
Marks the flight
of a free spirit-inception to---Love!)
Contents
Station Master
Cadenced Future
Mountain Freedom
True Lies
Epilogue (from Christmas Magic)
Piker/Piper
What Royalty
Elite?
Chinook
Summer Showers
Michael James
Bradley
Borrowed from a
Sunday Sermon
Saintly Blessing
Sacred Serendipity
What can I do?
Perhaps: Begin
Spanky &
Jamie McGhee (a mini-synopsis)
Lake Storm
Raindrop
Salute!
Light!
Random Contemplations
Crawfishing
Sweet Taste of Liberty
A Liberty Happy Birthday! Mom!
Albino (an excerpt)
Rockin’ Chair
Nostalgia Stirs a Hope
Comfort
Royal-Elites to
Angel-Saints…Demons, too!
Christmas Garden
Fantasy Reality
Clancy’s Pub
My “Almost” Uncle - by
Z. T. Evans
Author’s final thought
About the author
Station Master
Sunny Philadelphia basking under a yellow-diamond sun-glow on a warm
late spring morning under a cerulean crystal sky afloat with myriad
flower-fragrances wafting on pleasantly warm air like a scented perfume bouquet;
home of the infamous “Liberty Bell”, historic buildings, famous figures,
brotherly love. Life is good! Mon Amie! C’est la vie! N’est pas?
All
that claim to an important past, yet, full of present-day glory with modern
urban hysteria to boot. The metropolis, sporting rapid transit amidst pastoral
parks, art and music festivals, impressive architecture, professional sports
teams, running headlong into the modern era.
Yes!
Sir! The city had it all. Even those bright yellow and white newfangled “green”
buses running on…What? Oh! Yeah! Pure, free air? No! Not yet. But---Promised?
Soon! Somewhere in the marketing choreographed-hype about a “pollution-free”
nirvana environment! To be fair, the
pure air was to be the output, not the intake. Yeah! Right! And, where, pray
tell, do they recharge those pollution-free cure-all batteries of heaven-sent
life-saving modern horse-hockey?
Of
course, quite obvious to anyone interested in truth, with electricity from
dirty polluting coal-powered facilities or “three-eyed fish” producing nuclear
energy generating-station plants.
Oh! What a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive.
Really? Yes! Indeed!
Rumors
had it that some big wig in Congress had a brother-in-law who neither could nor
would work at an honest living, so Mr. “I’m Very Important American Royalty”, a
blatant lie on the bald face of it, U.S. Representative, self-appointed,
self-deluded, self-proclaimed, self-deceived, found that errant “relative”, his
sister never could pick a winner, not even after seven consecutive abject
failures in less than ten years, some funds to start a bus manufacturing
company, from scratch, so the good politicos of a major megalopolis could
purchase the vehicles, at full retail price, plus some “picked from the air”
premium added, just how much does a South Pacific island cost these days,
anyway, and become a leader to be emulated in their selfless “going green”
enterprise as an “I wanna be”-celebrity hungry for an idiotic following
nationwide. Oh! But, too cynical? Perhaps? Yes. But not a thieving, lying
politico. Thank you, one and all, once more---and…forever more! Amen!
Of
course, none of that had any import on the dapper young man exiting a cab at
the downtown building housing the luxury offices of his next victim, er, ah,
client, on his list of buyers of prosperity, freedom and the good life; his
successes, with purposed-intent; certainly not their own. After all, only the Royal-elites knew true value!
He
paused for dramatic effect, as though anyone was watching, pulled his left
sleeve high enough to display the richly gleaming gold Cartier as he seemed to
check the time while actually hiding a surreptitious purview of his
surroundings to see who might notice. George loved the expensive watch, a ten
thousand dollar beauty, it was; of course, he had paid less than seventy-five
hundred for the trinket, but, George lived in, of, by and for the material
world of practiced- perception. And, any self-proclaimed “great” salesman loved
a good deal; each one, always a savvy horse trader, an eloquent bull spreader;
a gift of gab belying a silver-tongued evil-demon.
As
he approached his prey’s lair, taking a clandestine slug from his silver flask
adorned with a bounding buck deer delicately sculpted in fine gold filigree and
adhered to the convex front of the decanter, a homeless man crouched near the
front door grabbed his leg, begging for a taste.
He
wore a dirty, faded and ragged maroon plaid sport coat, the sleeve edges
threadbare, dark, grease-stained black pants, three inches too short for his
long, skinny, bruised legs, and, worst of all to the sad, comical incongruity,
the most laughable insult, a forest green derby hat, in merchandise
presentation condition, atop a head of matted, filthy, bright red hair. A
leprechaun!
George
kicked at the bum and cursed him for dirtying his precious suit; the drifter
seemed to be softly singing an off-key ditty which George could not place but
which sounded vaguely familiar. In his embarrassment and excited effort to get
away from the vagrant, he dismissed the seeming glow around the miscreant’s
head as inconsequential, perhaps just the sun reflecting off the green top hat
adornment.
“Get
away from me, you tramp,” he spoke in a brash and berating manner, not at all
like the suave and debonair formal conservational tone lavished upon his
clients. The man clung tighter; George was nearly dragging him in his effort to
escape. People were now beginning to stare.
To
avoid additional humiliation, he tossed a sawbuck to the side of the man in a
direction away from the gleaming glass and bronze doors; his attacker relented
in his grip and went after the green bill; George quickly moved toward the
safety of the waiting lobby.
“Go
buy yourself a bottle, old man.” George spat the words, derisively, over his
shoulder.
He
perpetually tried desperately to keep that awful temper in check; this time, he
had failed.
“The
city should do something about vagrants like that,” he thought to himself as he
entered the building to ply his trade on yet another unsuspecting victim. By
the time he reached the bank of elevators, he had put the incident safely out
of his mind.
George
was a born salesman. His winning attitude: That stupid idiot has my paycheck;
all I have to do is figure out how to get it from him. And, he had the
necessary skills and confidence to do just that; George was very successful in
worldly appraisal. His position afforded him a huge income, worldwide travel at
no expense to himself, an unlimited expense account, seven residences
strategically placed around the world, and, best of all, friends, lots of very
close friends, the closest, in fact; most of the female persuasion. The
un-spoken, un-admitted and, best of all, un-taxed bonus: Absolutely no
commitments!
Foot-loose
and fancy-free! That’s the way George liked it and exactly the way he lived it.
His
favorite quip, “I’ve been poor and I’ve been sick and ‘Rich’ is better.”
Instead
of being appalled at such outlandish sentiment, his “friends” loved it. C’est
la vie!
Two
hours later, philanderer George came out of the gleaming ivory-white marble
tower glowing in that awesome sunshine of a perfect spring day in one of the
most modern, up-to-date metropolises in the entire country. He was walking on
cloud-nine, with a signed order safely cached in his alligator leather brief
case and the CEO’s personal secretary’s home number added to his delightful
little black book, modernly stored, in his handy latest generation tech-phone.
The
electronic device held the same information as its antiquated predecessor but
was cold plastic, not the warm leather of the original keeper; the modern
accessory costing hundreds of dollars and lacking the “romance” associated with
the book. Truly a sign of modern man: cold, calculating, expensive;
all-perception. Love was dead, worse, the hope and possibility of affectionate
relationships, also, killed by apathy, distrust, instant gratification, lies.
Immediate satisfaction, self-aggrandizement, self-appointment to importance,
power, prestige, these demons masqueraded as the be-all, end-all for “modern”
man. The accepted lie: Perception is everything!
George
personified the “modern” man; all the gadgets, the newest toys, the right
clothes. Brand name! Had to be, lest---Dear God! Oh! No! Not that! What might others think? Hell! He
even sported the best addresses at each of his seven homes, all purchased at a
worthy premium.
Yes!
Sir! George was living large, and enjoying every minute of the endless ride. He
had celebrated in the elevator on the way down with another taste from his
silver whiskey flask. The warm amber liquid soothed his throat like soft wind
caressing sheer silk; the handsome commission would comfort his burgeoning bank
account. What would he buy next? George would come up with something
extravagant; he always did; if they were manufacturing it today, he was buying
it tomorrow—and…paying cold, hard “Cash” for the exquisite privilege!
He became annoyed when the street person to whom he had given the ten
spot started toward him. Trying to escape another shakedown, George turned
abruptly to the curb.
He
was not about to let this hobo accost him, again. George was above all that and
better than this loser who had singled him out for this ration of his “Daily
bread”.
“I’d rather be caught dead than deal with this
off-key crooner again,” he thought, agitated.
Careful
what you wish for, suave, Ole Georgie-boy! Good advice! For everyone.
Still…
Hailing
a cab from the far side of the six-lane, one-way thoroughfare, dapper George,
in his tailored fifteen hundred dollar silk three piece suit crafted in Paris,
bright silk shirt and fancy tie, expensive shoes and flaunting his cavalier
“devil-may-care” attitude of the deserved rich and famous, in hasty retreat
from his antagonist, carelessly stepped into the street.
He
should have paid better attention to his surroundings and considered less his
self-declared celebrity and his itinerant nemesis. “Dapper” George should have
done a lot of things differently in his life, but he had not made wise choices.
And, why should he lament, he was young, rich and very much alive, with big
plans and no end in sight. Perhaps? Tomorrow---or…someday?
A
fleeting thought came to his mind: Careful what you wish for.
But,
alas. Too late! Fate held life’s reins and called the tune without respect for
the: Who!
A
shrill scream escaped the lips of a matronly elderly woman passer-by and the bellicose
“Hey! Mister! Watch out!” thunderous yell of a man’s warning greeted his
stunned ears when an instantaneous yellow-white blur was manifested in his
peripheral vision. The old lady pointed a crooked finger and screamed a
cacophonous call of terror as the “green” bus flattened the jay walker. The
poor victim disappeared beneath the black front rubber bumper of the huge
conveyance which bounced a final insult to an otherwise delightful day as the
right front wheel traveled over the body of hapless George, “the dapper
dresser”.
The
piranhas might well rule the river, but fate is the hunter---evil death… the
final arbiter.
From
under the bus slid a silver flask, sporting the likeness of a bounding lustrous
golden deer, glinting in the sun, the expensive yellow contents leaking onto
the dirty concrete street from a crack in the container’s neck, split open
somewhere within the violent, deadly, impact.
Quick
as a wink, a grimy hand sticking out from a too-short raggedy maroon colored
sport coat while desperately clutching a crumpled ten dollar bill, grasped the
shiny silver decanter from the pavement. The street person made good his escape
by expertly traversing the zipping traffic on the boulevard so adroitly as to
cause only one horn to blare at his intrusion. He smiled.
He
needed to be not so content with his escape nor so proud of his athleticism;
the one honking car swerved into the lane nearest the errant bus, cutting off a
concrete truck carrying a full load, the driver already late for his appointed
delivery. He braked and turned sharply to avoid the careening vehicle now
occupying his lane of travel. Once more, too late.
The
driver avoided the car, but his sharp turn caused the top heavy load in the
rotating mixer to shift, the momentum throwing the mobile concrete factory onto
its side. The weight of the drum landed on the left side rear corner of the
yellow and white “green”-redemptor, crushing to death, instantaneously, a young
mother and her four children. They were sitting in the last seat of the
conveyance on the driver’s side since her recalcitrant boys had insisted; she
could not control them and made no attempt to do so. Such failing cost her, and
them, most dearly.
They
had been on their way to meet “Uncle” Jimmy at his gleaming glass office
building where she would deposit the kids at the corporate day care facility
while she and “Uncle” went around the corner to the fifth floor room which Jim
kept reserved at the Liberty Bell Hotel for his numerous afternoon escapades of
relaxation and pleasure. The woman had made the rendezvous once a week for
nearly a decade; her husband apparently unconcerned with his wife’s dalliances.
Her
three boys were tow headed, like her husband; the youngest, a little girl,
sported tight black curls and a cute turned up nose, in resemblance to “Uncle”
Jimmy’s features.
The
woman, and her children, would miss that appointment---and…the rest of their
lives.
Also,
Sammy-the-Singer would little enjoy the fruits of his labor this fine spring
afternoon. Within the hour, he would lay facing the cerulean sky, vacant eyes
staring into the eternal abyss, in a pool of his own blood, sporting a knife in
his chest. Oh! Danny-boy! Oh! Danny-boy!
The coveted silver crucible had been stolen and quickly hocked for
twenty dollars, doubling Sammy’s panhandling gain for the day. He had bought a
bottle and refilled the silver container several times that afternoon and was
enjoying an off-key serenade of “Danny Boy” when his assailant had struck,
swiftly and silently. Sammy-the-singer never knew what hit him.
A
uniformed cop, walking his beat in the downtown commercial district, heard the
squealing tires amidst the screaming terror of several observers of the little
one act performance. When he turned the corner at the building which George had
just exited and reached the scene of the horrible tragedy, the elderly woman
and two other concerned citizens stood on the curb near one of the city’s new
“Savior-of-the-environment” green buses, pointing at a pair of black leather
dress shoes, one still on the victim, the other thrown askance, protruding from
the underside of the huge vehicle, the shoeless foot turned at such an
impossible obtuse angle as to be seemingly attached to some poor cripple with
an affliction beyond that which any human being could endure, certainly any living human being. The unadorned
attachment displayed a big toe unceremoniously sticking nakedly through a hole
in the black fabric meant to contain it.
The
woman delicately laid a fine lace lady’s handkerchief over the naked
protuberance as though such an improper display was inappropriate and offensive
to some delicate sensibilities, although she did not turn even slightly away
from the gruesome bloody scene.
Putting
in a call for an ambulance to remove the body and the fire department to come
hose down the despicable mess on the street, the cop absently pondered why the
bus seemed to be suspended slightly higher at the right front quarter than what
seemed normal.
He
questioned the rotund woman for her statement. The gentleman who had shouted a
vacant warning to the now deceased George was nowhere to be found; he and the
other good citizen passers-by had fled the scene after satisfying their macabre
appetite viewing the ghastly aftermath of an unfortunate altercation between a
pallid playboy and a “green” gargantuan.
The
beat cop had approached the accident scene at such an angle as to preclude
notice of the aftermath of the concrete truck at the rear of the livery. His
interview of the lady witness was abruptly interrupted by the bus driver whose
face was covered with streaming blood from a cut above his left eye as he
stumbled from the bus. He pointed to the open door and mumbled something about
“people hurt” inside.
The
policeman climbed the stairs and gasped at the interior carnage. He called for
immediate back-up and at least three additional ambulances. Still not seeing
the huge concrete truck in the tangle of crumpled steel, he was confused as to
what happened inside the yellow and white “green” Savior-of-the-environment;
grayish ooze clad an adult and several children like cast concrete statues in
the city park.
The yellow blur caught George by surprise,
and, what was that man and woman yelling about in the background. Didn’t they
realize he had just closed a big deal? Such untoward commotion!
Funny
thing! The way the blur took him on a foggy journey; George could remember
neither the impact nor where he was. Not even, whom, he was. There was no
discernable up or down, left or right, in or out, day or night. Everything had
lost its value of perspective and nothing seemed to exist, save, himself, and
the cold, clammy cloud which permeated his senses, such that they were.
Suddenly, he felt dizzy, as though whirring around inside a run-away vacuum
cleaner.
Whirlwind! A life become so hectic that the dapper young man, the former
by hip design, the latter by lie refined, could no longer discern reality from
fantasy---maybe, just a little nip!
He
glimpsed---what? Something familiar, in his topsy-turvy world. For an instant,
he thought it might be a woman and several small children. Why? Then, just fog.
Was he losing his mind?
He
was totally confused. Bewildered. He shook his head to clear it; where was he?
George
had to be---where? Somewhere!? Everybody had
to be---Somewhere!
“God! George!” He lamented. Oh! How he despised that name; only his
pernicious mother could impose such an historic classical moniker as that on
“Mr. Cool!” But, some comfort, at least, females of his social class understood
the sound of a soft “G” as endearing. Hmmm!
He
found himself on a platform of sorts, in front of a double door, the kind with
wood in a cross buck design on the bottom half and divided glass panes
reinforced with a grid of fine diamond shaped black wires running through it on
the top. He had seen this style entry before, but his fogged mind could not
decipher the enigma just then.
Suddenly,
a hint from the dark recesses, perhaps, a train station? But, why that?
The
headaches had persisted, but, not reason enough to be so confusing that his
whereabouts became a mystery. That quack witch doctor in Manila had prescribed
some mountain magic potent powder of a Mindanao indigenous tribe that gave
initial relief and, at least, allowing a week of restful sleep, more than he
had experienced in three hellish months of nightmares. But, then, as suddenly
as the pain had subsided, the medieval Philippine concoction had lost its
effectiveness; the nightmares resurfaced with a focused vengeance.
By
the time the demon dreams had returned, George found himself on the coast of
the Aegean. Such was the twisted life of an international financier. Of course,
that grandeur was self-titled; George was a glorified salesman; at best, just
another slick silver-tongued manipulator. So, insulting to brand suave George a
“snake-oil salesman---but…if the proverbial shoe fits…
Those
Greeks were not so bad, he decided; certainly, Adrianna made him feel
exhilarated; such was the emancipated life of an international playboy, too!
Ah! Sweet sacrifice! Sweet Life!
He
entered the building and the cloudlike fog subsided; his sight was fully
restored, but his understanding of his situation remained obfuscated.
Looking
around, George spotted the ticket agent booth across the large room; an
avuncular character sat on a stool inside the wire-front cage. The old man
sported a train-style conductor’s cap with a flat top, straight sides, black
patent bill, gleaming like a businessman’s wingtips after a popping-brisk
polishing shine by a Chattanooga porter. A gold plate, encrusted with the
likeness of a flying eagle on the front of the headgear, grasped in its deadly
talons the grandpa’s important title: Station Master!
The
man had snow white hair sticking out the edges of the cap and a neatly trimmed
mustache of the same pallid shade; he wore wire rimmed glasses over piercing
blue eyes, a white shirt, black string tie, black leather vest and arm band
garters on his sleeves. George thought he looked like he had been cast by some movie
studio to play the part; he decided that it was good casting.
Before
heading to the counter, George turned away from the densely populated terminal
inhabitants for a needed stiffener. Ah! The saving elixir of life!
A
quick, clandestine swallow, then, surreptitiously, another, before secreting
the silver flask; that little lifesaver had set him back two hundred and fifty
U.S. dollars in a rag-tag tent shuddering under an assault by a stirring
Sirocco under an oppressive heat at a Turkish bazaar somewhere in a desert
oasis. Somehow, magically, his ludicrous, seemingly inexhaustible expense
account had covered that little extravagance, secreted in its undetectable
enclosure, expertly tailored, in the inside pocket of his proudly-worn fifteen
hundred dollar silk, three piece suit. The design professionally crafted in
expert execution to conceal the spreading girth of forty-odd years, okay,
fifty-seven, of excess food and drink! Well! A successful man-of-the-world had
to have his little pleasures---and…secret denials. It’s only fair!
“Damn!”
he silently chastised himself for the ump-teenth time, “I have got to cut back
on the rich foods, not to mention the enormous quantities and frequencies.” He
paused, purposely, in his deliberations, reluctant to confess his bigger
problem. Then, “Yes! Hell, yes! The drinking, too!”
Monique,
in Paris, he loved the sexy sound of the French pronunciation of the capital
city, losing the “s” slur the Continentals found so---American, confessed that
she simply could not tolerate an elderly lover, nor would she be understanding.
The naïve Parisian believed “George” to be in his mid-forties, notwithstanding
his ample paunch, which the sophisticate just loved to poke, making it shake
“like a bowl full of gelatin”. Her perfect beauty rivaled her perverse sense of
humor as she so annoyingly teased about his plumpness. Indeed: Mr. Jell-O!
She,
too, like the others around the world to whom this gigolo was so monogamous,
didn’t that mean: one at a time? And, he
often broke that rule, also, in the commitment of the act, itself, had her own
delicate little idiosyncrasies. Not the least of which related to her actual
lack of any French Royal blood or monetary circumstance; her beauty made her a
favorite along the Seine!
“Ah!
Mon Monique!” He inhaled, imagining her expensive French perfume. Intoxicating!
How
long since he had held her close? Alas! Too long! Much, too, too long! Indeed!
Securing
the decadent flask in his suit coat, he turned toward the ticket agent,
and---Wham!
Three
raucous urchins rushed around his legs, laughing, cursing, slapping at each
other.
“Here!
Here! You impudent little rodents,” he scolded in his very best European
accent; it must have been Continental, had he not just been contemplating the
lovely, Monique de Paris?
Brushing
his expensive suit as though he had just been accosted by a rancid garbage can,
he watched the trio assault the nearest vending machine; if it was capable of
any sense, it would just give up its candy treats and encourage the soda
dispenser to do the same. The outlaw Jesse James gang rides, again! Silently,
George wished for Bob Ford and a couple of hanging trees replete with ropes
fashioned into expectant nooses.
“Oh!
I beg your pardon, kind Sir,” came the apology in a throaty whisper. “I
confess, they are quite a handful for a mother all alone. Pardon! Please!”
Outraged
by such uncivilized behavior and indignant at the feeble attempted apology, an
insult questioning the miscreant’s legitimacy and calling into challenge their
mother’s virtue tantalized the very tip of his tongue; then, his dark eyes fell
on her vision of loveliness.
The
oval face shone like an October alabaster pale full moon bejeweled with green
Asian tiger-eye opalescent sparkling gems under dark brows plucked thin enough
to be suggestively translucent, a nose proportioned by a master sculptor with
an aptitude for perfection, desirable, generous ruby lips, a delicate chin
punctuated with the cutest dimple, jet black straight hair and a tantalizing
beauty mark, an attractive mole, the angel’s kiss, on her soft left cheek.
All
in all, the delicate, perfect petite package pretended a scandalously salacious
suggestion.
“No!
No! Madame. Not at all,” George epitomized the consummate diplomat, quick on
his feet, fleet of mind, able to adapt, to flatter, finesse, finagle---George
was a natural-born liar. She averted her big eyes, instinctively fearful to
look directly at the suave, debonair male specimen.
Quick
to appreciate another pretty face, George abandoned any memory of the French
Monique; as always, directly to the “business” at hand, and this held potential
promise to be quite a hand---full! Luck of the draw! He surmised in a
surreptitious conclusion.
What
he heard himself say next came as a surprise even to himself; often, his mouth
ran faster than his mind. Whatever happened to pop out, George would turn it to
his distinct, and immediate, advantage.
“Please!
Madame. Pardon me.” His fake foreign accent silently slipped away as the New
Jersey northeast colloquial hollow dialect automatically took over. “I can’t
believe that someone as beautiful as you has only three children!” He smiled it
as a query, expecting a reply.
The
willing prey put on a demure composure hinting a coquettish proclivity; George
had played this game many times, the result was nearly a foregone conclusion.
“Four,
Sir,” she corrected, nodding toward the station window where a young girl, her
distorted face pressed tight against the dingy pane, apparently watched for an
arriving train.
“Yes,
I see,” he replied, thinking that perhaps he had been a bit brash, even for one
so impetuous as he where the female persuasion was involved; the Asian beauty
waited.
“Perhaps,
Madam, I shall endeavor to be more careful---around children…that is, in the
future, of course.” Nodding curtly, he added, “I beg your pardon. If you will
please excuse me?”
Diverting
her eyes, she acquiesced to his retreat. “Most certainly, Sir.” She bowed,
slightly.
George
cleared his throat and nervously attempted a reciprocal bow of his own; it came
off stiff and less than formal; he was not so practiced as the fine beauty. She
smiled, slightly, not meaning to add to his embarrassment, but having the same
effect as though she were purposely discourteous. He averted his eyes, grunted,
and turned toward the Station Master. He desperately needed another swallow of
the saving elixir from his silver flask with the golden deer motif.
For
the first time, George surveyed the inhabitants of the station. It was a varied
clientele, a throng of personages resembling a cross section of individuals he
had encountered in his lifetime. But, there were incongruities, also. A
grizzled man in a grey U.S. Civil War era Confederate uniform sat sleeping on a
bench. Other military clad men and a few uniformed women populated the room. He
spied a Roman Catholic priest, a handful of nuns in habit garb, a butcher
donning a bloody, once-white apron, people in suits and dresses, swimsuits,
bikinis, four mountaineers, a bicyclist, a magician, a cowboy, couples and men,
women and children of every description of national origin and ethnic heritage.
None seemed harried or impatient; the attitude was: Just wait your turn. Not at
all like the world George had become accustomed to. He shook his head, trying
to decipher the riddle; this confusion seemed to be becoming a nagging habit.
Then,
behind him, at the very doors through which he had entered came Irish lyrics
suddenly familiar, but the off-key tone became a lovely, clear tenor. George
turned as the vagrant from the street entered, raggedy clothes and all. An aura
around the green derby shone like a golden halo.
The
bum walked right past George, not seeming to notice him and straight to the
ticket cage.
The
Station Master appeared to know the crusty panhandler and ushered him politely
through the right side gate; he entered a door and George lost sight of
him.
Moving
away from the dark-eyed temptress, the rushing sound of an arriving train
caught his attention and he focused beyond the window where the little urchin,
the fourth of the woman’s children, distorted her pert nose, smashing it
against the dirty glass pane as she peered outside.
The
child was to the left of the double doors through which he had entered and on
the platform beyond the glass stood a gaggle of people dressed in drab, dingy,
some downright dirty, all raggedy and a few nearly black robes or smocks of
some kind. As the roar of the arriving coach grew, the people looked left and
right and tore at their garments and pulled at their filthy hair, their arms
flailing as though they sought escape from some unseen sinister monster come to
gather a horde of lost souls. Their upper torsos bent as though to run, but
they were frozen in place. The spirit seemed willing enough, but the flesh weak
and unresponsive. And, alas, they could not escape their judgment; for each,
all time had run out. Justice delighted as mercy wept.
Dark
gray tendrils of smoke snaked in corkscrews from the wooden floor amongst the
writhing passengers; the evil wraiths became four foot black midget demons,
hitting, poking and prodding the miserables like pathetic piñatas displayed for
the malevolents’ perverse pleasure. The tenacious tortures elicited horrid
wailing cries like the vacant howling of an injured, cornered wild beast
seeking refuge from the approaching carnage of impending death, but unable to
find relief from the eternal evil torment.
Before
George’s wide eyes, a blur neared at a level which had to approach the speed of
light, itself. He heard the horde’s collective cursing, screaming, pleading, in
a cacophonous escalation until the hollow lost laments joined with the
reverberation of the shrieking train. As
the wild wind passed the station, the gathered people on the platform were
seemingly sucked into the vacuum of the blur. The little girl at the window
flinched. Dapper George blinked his eyes in disbelief as the wraiths vanished.
All was gone and done, vaporized, in an instant. His disbelieving mind said
that he had witnessed a mere suggestion; to that, George shook his head in
utter confusion; the enigma of his thought could not be processed in any
meaningful logic.
As
quick as the roar of the passing train had evaporated, as though it had never
been, he noticed the platform filling with another growing group of passengers
coming from a corner room within the station, this one situated behind and left
of the teller’s cage. There was a door on his side, but no windows; the
gathering would-be commuters seemed to be entering the waiting area of the
platform from outside of the room, out of sight to George’s view.
He
surveyed the station and noticed a similar-sized room on the right side of the
cavernous building, the same one through which his itinerant tenor had entered.
Through the sparkling glass of the windows on the right, a score of wraithlike
passengers, the singing leprechaun among them, each dressed in gleaming, pure
white robes, gathered in groups of two or three and conversed in happy social
discussion. They, too, awaited
transport, but seemed to exude a freedom not evidenced in the group just
departed. Curiosity and a sense of foreboding gripped him. Shaking his head to
rid it of the troubling challenge, he headed toward the Station Master.
A
line of people preceded him to the ticket window. Funny! He hadn’t noticed them
before.
Three
men stood single file followed by an elderly couple, a female Army infantry
soldier, then the attractive Asian temptress and her four offspring and,
finally, George. None carried luggage and that struck George as strange;
suddenly, it dawned on him that he had none, either.
As
he looked down at his feet and around the room in search, he silently cursed
himself for misplacing the expensive alligator briefcase; it contained his
precious order. Damn!
Unable
to hear the conversation between the travelers and the Station Master, George
contented himself with observing the deliberations; people-watching was a
wisely invested practiced trait of any good salesman and George was one of the
best.
Words
were obviously exchanged between the first man and the agent who seemed to be
shuffling papers, out of sight to George. Shortly, the customer raised his
right hand toward the Station Master who peered at the palm, nodded and opened
the right side gate. The gentleman entered and proceeded to the door to the
room which exited to the outside platform. Immediately, George saw that the man
came onto the waiting area of the platform in a pure white garment, reminiscent
of a gown. He joined a group of two women and a man in pleasant conversation.
The
second man approached the Station Master, went through the same routine as the
first, showed his palm and was similarly ushered through the right gate as,
shortly, was the third man and the elderly couple. The girl soldier followed
their lead. Sammy-the-Singer greeted each as they eventually appeared on the
outside rail-side platform where he waited in a splendid gown.
George’s
Asian beauty approached the agent with trepidation and exchanged words with the
avuncular man which could not be overheard. George saw the Station Master place
several white pages from a book and numerous black papers on a scale before the
woman; the children were not so judged. Finally, she and her progeny held their
palms toward the Station Master who nodded and surprising to George, swung open
both the right and left gates to the family.
The
four children rushed through the right side gate, into the room and onto the
platform in gleaming white robes while their overwrought mother reached in vain
for her beloved darlings and reluctantly entered the left side passage. Her
wails were interspersed with curses of the vilest nature. When the woman
hesitated in her advance, a black corkscrew wisp of smoke emenated from the
floor of the station; form it developed a “midget”-sized man dressed in a
tuxedo complete with top hat, a devil’s hellish demon who took hold of her arm
and forcefully escorted her through the awaiting left-side exit from the
station leading to the threatening platform.
As
she passed through the passageway of the left side room, she turned to the
Station Master in one final desperate pleading for mercy. But, as He did not
respond to her request, she passed through the door and onto the platform in a
nearly totally darkened robe; her screams reverberating dreaded hollow sounds
of dead-evil like a tortured, cornered, dying, helpless wild animal’s howling
spirit who senses its eternal lost instant.
A
strange, foreign, nearly perverted thought entered sophisticated George’s
racing mind which had already deduced what reality fickle fate held in store
for him.
Perfect
George, with all the right answers, no matter what the query, even when he did
not know the question, was quick to render judgment, to demand justice, to have
it all his way, on his terms, in his own time. Oh! Yes! Indeed! Alas!
But---Now!?
“Perhaps,
just, perhaps,” he second guessed, even at the final instant of possible
redemption, “he should not seek harsh justice-exacted; rather pray a final plea
for tender mercy protracted.”
Amen!
But,
alas! Too late! And, hapless, helpless George resigned himself to the reality
of it all.
He
dared not chance even a surreptitious glimpse at the palm of his right hand.
He---knew!
George
shuddered, involuntarily, and stepped to the counter to face his eternity and
his---
Station
Master !
No comments:
Post a Comment