APRIL 22 - APRIL 28, 2000
APRIL 28, 2K
Looking ahead with Tom Clark
Yes. He's at it again. It is 32.4 degrees at 6:02 A.M. and before he gets
started I want to go on record. It makes no difference to me that The Error is up for
sale. I do not want to buy or run it. I would rather make porn movies. When it finally
goes into bankruptcy, maybe then.
Second. Hooray for John McCain! I don't blame him one bit for not forgiving his
Vietnamese captors and the people who are criticizing him for not doing it can all go to
hell. What I don't understand is why he bothered to go over there in the first place.
Now on to Tommy Clark.
The Great Clarkoni Strikes Again
I was flipping through the future recently and came across the following article in a Time
magazine, dated October 17, 2010. The proposed Marilyn Horne Expressway, between South
Avenue and Main Street, has me so rankled that my visions are affected by this stupid
street naming debate. Anyway, here's the article;
"Rejected And Dejected - How a small town tries to woo a famous former resident"
Nary a car drives down the barren thoroughfare that once was the axis of a bustling retail
district. Vacant storefronts sporting shards of broken glass paint a haunting picture of a
dying town. Yet, at the far end of this once-flourishing Main Street lives an optimism
that someday, somehow, it will return to its glory by virtue of a long-anticipated
event... the day that Marilyn comes home.
The sleepy borough of Bradford, Pennsylvania, claims Marilyn Horne, a world famous
opera star, as a native daughter and wants to cash in on her fame. In the fall of 2000,
this former industrial city named a small street around the town square after Horne.
However, she was a no-show at the Marilyn Horne Boulevard dedication ceremonies, which,
strangely, touched off a town-wide obsession with attracting Horne to Bradford.
"Ever since she stiffed us back in 2K, we've been naming everything that doesn't
move after her, but with no luck", quips Bradford Mayor Chuck Goble. "She won't
even return our calls. In fact, she put a restraining order on all phone callers from the
814 area code". Calls to Horne's office from this magazine were not returned.
The dedicated street has since been renamed the Marilyn Horne Tollway, and a 25-cent
exact change booth has been installed.
"The tolls help with the upkeep of the Marilyn Horne Square and Interactive Statue
Park", said Charles Work, referring to the public square adjacent to the toll road.
"Pigeons like to poop on the statues and we have to clean them off daily. That costs
money", added Work, who is Maintenance Director for 'Round The Square With Marilyn, a
non-profit citizens group keeping the appearance dream alive.
"The toll road, opened in July, 2008, averages around $100 per day in receipts.
"We've had cars backed up eight deep on her birthday", Work exclaims with an
enthusiasm that is shared by a dedicated group of Bradford residents. The toll road and
statue park are just two examples of how this town, which was once home to a lighter plant
and an oil refinery, gave its heart and soul to a woman who has turned her back on them.
"I told these dumb @#$%s back in 2000 that they were morons for latching on to
this woman", cracked Tom Riel, Chief Executive Officer for Riel Adult Entertainment,
Bradford's largest employer. "Ever since Zippo moved to Lewis Run and the new
Wal-Mart in Degolia ran out all of the downtown merchants, these people have been
desperate for a shining star to come and save them. Christ, you can't get through a day
around here without some schmuck in your face asking, 'Is she coming?'. Yeah right, she's
on the same train with Jesus."
And desperate these townsfolk are. Bradford City Council has recently passed an
ordinance renaming their town Bradford-Horne, although the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania
refuses to acknowledge the name change. "I believe that, 'What are you, a bunch of
freakin' morons?' , and, "Who the Hell is Marilyn Horne?", were his exact
words", added Riel, in reference to the official response from Pennsylvania Governor
Bill Belitkus.
"We, in Bradford-Horne, believe that a town should honor their own who went on to
greatness", chimed in Paula Johnson, a City Councilwoman who founded Bradford's First
Night, Eighth Midafternoon and Tenth Monday After The Third Full Moon celebrations.
"You wouldn't believe the positive response we've received from the hyphen alone.
Since everyone here has been and always will be losers, we've put all of our hopes and
dreams into honoring our heroine".
Across the toll road from the square stands a hot air balloon ride attraction in a
vacant lot. For $10 per person, the balloon will hover its passengers 200 feet above the
city for 15 minutes. The balloon is shaped like, you guessed it, Marilyn Horne's head.
Beside the balloon ride is Hornee's, a popular watering hole for those who refuse to
work. The bar used to be an Italian-American club, but jumped on the Horne bandwagon. Next
door is the Seneca-Horne building, home to the Bradford-Horne Chamber of Commerce. On the
corner, vendor Helen Cramer hawks the latest Marilyn Horne merchandise, from tie-dyed
concert t-shirts to bumper stickers that read, "Honk If You're Horn-e".
"I think it's healthy for the town to dream of her showing up", said Harold
T. Beck, Dean of the Sensitivity and Human Decency department at the University of
Pittsburgh-Gifford. "Since the college moved out, the townspeople haven't had much
hope. Look at all of these yahoos that think Elvis is coming back. At least, Marilyn is
real, last we knew, and there is always a chance she could appear. I really can't say much
more, since I have a secret land deal going with the Borough of Bradford and I don't want
to blow it".
Beck, who also owns the local daily newspaper, The Mountain Laurel Review-Democrat
and Era, said that Bradford was very close to landing an appearance by Horne two
years ago. "We heard from our informants that Marilyn would be driving on I-86 West
on her way to an Native American Opera Festival in Salamanca. We sent two of our drunkest
rednecks out to run her off the road, kidnap her and bring her back to town. She caught on
to our plan and high-tailed it. Man, that old broad can drive!"
"What if she never comes back to Bradford? What happens to the hopes and dreams of
this tattered town? "We still have a shot at getting her buried here", Johnson
surmised. "Her parents are buried in Mt. Alton. We'll be talking to her agents when
the time comes". That is, if they answer the phone, which is highly unlikely.
Riel has other intentions for the fate of Bradford. "Busty Barrett is the future
of Bradford", stated Riel, referring to the world's highest paid porn star. "I
discovered her when she served me food out of the McDonald's drive-thru window. I thought
there were triplets waiting on me".
Riel took Barrett, then known as Elinore McDougalthorpe, under his wing and molded her
into a critically-acclaimed X-rated film queen. Barrett recently won the esteemed Golden
Rocket Award for her portrayal of nurse Wanda Doume in "Genital Hospital".
"Who gives a rat's rear end about some opera star?", Riel shouted. "To
me, the three 'tenners' are Chesty Morgan, Amber Lynn and Busty Barrett".
Riel's grassroots campaign to honor the porn star has divided Bradford's citizens who,
not long ago, were in consensus for honoring Marilyn Horne. Now, peaceful, yet vocal,
demonstrations by both factions have become part of the everyday downtown scenery.
"It makes sense to honor Busty, even though she turned her back on our
group", said Peter Gozinia, Executive Director of Why Work?, a Public Assistance
advocacy group. "She was one of us, then blew us off by getting the job at
McDonald's. Now she's a big star. But, she's still a Bradfordian and our little
girl".
Beck has also hinted at switching his alliance. "If the newspaper that used to
exist in Bradford had not fluffed up Marilyn Horne in their crappy little "Round The
Square column, no one would have heard of her. Busty Barrett is a bona fide, recognizable
star. I think that Viagra commercial she made really put her over the top".
For now, the center of town is still served by the Marilyn Horne Tollway. An informal
poll shows that a third of the town's residents prefer to keep it that way, another third
would like to see it renamed the Busty Barrett Bi-Way and the other third is too busy
packing for their moves to Lewis Run to care about the town's plight.
Despite the hopes of the stalwart citizens who consider Marilyn Horne to be the Goddess
of Bradford, a reality looms over the borough that Busty Barrett's name will someday rule
the landscape. And Tom Riel will be ready.
"I've already had drawings made up for the new twin balloon rides".
As always, you may send your comments to the Publisher or me directly at tcclark@2-cool.com. . 'Til next week...
Are you sure it was Lewis Run? Look closer! Isn't it Mexico? Bozo goes to
Mexico has a ring to it. Comments are welcome at editor@mlrmag.com
APRIL 27, 2K
Cornplanter and George Washington
Good morning. It is 36.9 degrees at 6:03 A.M. and it is supposed to be sunny
and cold today.
Earlier this week I published a letter from a lady who was interested in a
letter written by Chief Cornplanter to George Washington in 1790. It was a brief letter
and she was interested in the background the led up to its writing and she also wondered
if Washington ever answered. I have held up replying to her until I could find out the
answer to her inquiry. Last night I got what she was looking for. Cornplanter was in town
at the Bradford Hotel and gave me a call.
When I got there he was at a table in the corner with Red Jacket and two young women. I
nearly didn't recognize him. He had on a three piece suit, tie and all. Red Jacket was
dressed the same.
"Hello," I said to the two of them. I hadn't seen them since the election in
November. As you recall, Red Jacket was campaigning for Cavallero with an "e"
and was crushed when the cat hater beat him.
"Where have the two of you been?" I asked.
"We just got back from Florida," Cornplanter said rising to shake my hand.
"We've been there all winter."
"Were you visiting your Seminole brothers?" I asked.
"No," Red Jacket said with a disgusted tone. "We've been on the beach.
Why do you of all people have to stereotype us? I thought you'd be over that by now after
all we've been through and all we've told you."
I quickly apologized. I was guilty as charged. But when you consider the age of these
two old chiefs, you would hardly expect them to be hanging out on the beach. Then they
introduced me to the two girls.
"This is Betty. And this is Marie," Cornplanter told me.
As I acknowledged the two ladies Cornplanter told me they were dancers they met in a
Florida club and brought them back to Bradford to perform in the Club Tom Riel was
opening. I told them the bad news and I could see the obvious disappointment on their
faces. But, there was a bright spot. The girls told the old chiefs that they would stay
and be their private dancers. The two old chiefs were beaming from ear to ear. Then I got
down to business.
"Remember the letter you wrote to George Washington?" I asked him.
"You mean the one in 1790 where I stuck him with the name "great white
father?"
"That's the one," I said.
"Sure," he said. "It wasn't a letter. It was a speech that I gave when I
went to Philadelphia."
"A speech?" I asked.
"Yes," he said. "It was a speech. I wasn't into letter writing back
then. I'm still not keen on it today. I prefer e-mail these days but back then I only
wrote in French and Washington wasn't that educated or that bright for that matter, so I
went to see him to say what was on my mind. You remember the trip. The one where the
drunken driver wrecked out stage coach and nearly killed one of my wives."
"Yes," I said bowing to his incredibly infallible memory. Then I remembered
that it was a speech. It was one he gave before the assembly of the new government. And,
he was quite eloquent.
"What about it?" he asked.
"One of my readers asked me about it. She is taking national tests for teacher
certification and came across my writings about you and wanted to know if I had any
additional information. Can you help out?"
Cornplanter sat back in his chair. He was in the corner of the room with the two young
ladies on either side of him. Red Jacket had gone to the bar for cocktails for the five of
us. A smile came over his face. I could see him remembering the time.
Then Cornplanter rose and began to speak as if he was before President Washington and
the Congress of the United States.
Father: the voice of the Seneca nation speaks to you, the great counsellor, in
whose heart the wise men of all the thirteen fires have placed their wisdom. It may be
very small in your ears, and we therefore entreat you to hearken with attention; for we
are able to speak of things which to us are very great.
When you army entered the country of the Six Nations, we called you the Town
Destroyer; to this day, when the name is heard, our women look behind and turn pale, and
our children cling close to the necks of their mothers.
When our chiefs returned from Fort Stanwix and laid before our council what had
been done there, our nation was surprised to hear how great a country you had compelled
them to give up to you, without paying to us anything for it; every one said that your
hearts were yet swelled with resentment against us for what had happened during the war,
but that one day you would consider it with more kindness. We asked each other, What have
we done to deserve such severe chastisement?
Father: when you kindled your thirteen fires separately, the wise men assembled at
them told us you were all brothers; the children of one great father, who regarded
the red people as his children. They called us brothers and invited us to his protection.
They told us that he resided beyond the great water, where the sun first rises; and that
he was a king whose power no people could resist, and that his goodness was as bright as
the sun. What they said went to our hearts; we accepted the invitation and promised to
obey him. What the Seneca nation promise they faithfully perform. When you refused
obedience to that king, he commanded us to assist his beloved men in making you sober. In
obeying him we did no more than yourselves had led us to promise.
We were deceived; but your people teaching us to confide in that king, had helped
to deceive us; and we now appeal to your heart. Is the blame ours?
Father: when we saw that we had been deceived, and heard the invitation which you
gave us to draw near to the fire you had kindled, and talk with you concerning peace, we
made haste toward it: you told us you could crush us to nothing; and you demanded from us
a great country, as the price of that peace which you had offered to us, as if our want of
strength had destroyed our rights. Our chiefs had felt your power and were unable to
contend against you, and they therefore gave up that country. What they agreed has bound
our nation, but your anger against us must by this time be cooled, and although our
strength has not increased, nor your power has become less, we ask you to consider calmly:
Were the terms dictated to us by your commissioners reasonable and just?
The entire bar was silent. Cornplanter sat down in his chair and took a drink of his
bourbon and coke. Red Jacket and the two girls began to applaud and before long, everyone,
Sheffer, Billy Peckham the greatest police chief of all time and a fine Irish Tenor,
Welfare Wes, Toothless Tim, and even Mattress Margie were applauding too. I stood and
shook the old man's hand.
"I gave that speech in French," he told me. "Washington didn't speak a
word of it and the interpreters took Father for Great White Father and
that's where the term came from and Ben Franklin reported it that way in print."
Cornplanter took another drink and then sat back like a business man in some big time
corporate deal.
"The old chiefs sold us out at Fort Stanwix. I wasn't there. I was still at war.
We were not beaten. The other nations including the Seneca to the north were. They burnt
my town on the Allegheny but we lost no one. We were up the Sughar in the hills and the
forest and the white soldiers didn't dare come in for fear they would never leave. I never
fought like the British and the French. Washington knew that. When my name was not on the
treaty, he sent his people to come to me at great risk to their lives to set up a meeting.
Remember. I had Washington under my knife three different times and he knew what I could
and would do. Without my name on that treaty, he was sure that it meant nothing. And in a
way he was right.
"The Mohawk were no more. Brant fled to Canada and most of his braves followed.
The Americans wanted all of New York. The sickly old chiefs were not war chiefs. They gave
the white men everything they wanted. They gave up our lands, too. But Washington knew
that it all meant nothing unless I agreed. He brought me to Philadelphia to make a
separate peace with me."
Cornplanter began to laugh.
"The governor of Pennsylvania was furious. He believed that he should be
negotiating with me, not Washington. The states were very jealous of their rights versus
the rights of the Federal Government. If a treaty regarding land in Pennsylvania was going
to be made, the governor felt he and the state legislature should make it like what was
done in New York at Fort Stanwix. Washington knew I would never agree to that. I would
accept only his word because of what had passed between us. He knew that his very
existence depended on my good will for him so many years before. And because of that, I
would trust only him."
He took another sip of his drink.
"And so, I signed on behalf of the southern Seneca a treaty with the United States
of America, the first they ever signed with any Indian Nation, that guaranteed our lands
along the Allegheny River. The governor of Pennsylvania was furious but there was nothing
he could do. We would be the only Indian nation with land reserved in the state. That
treaty lived and was honored until 1960 or so when they took our lands from us to build
the Kinzua Dam and the Allegheny Reservoir."
The thought of that made him angry and he refused to talk about it anymore. He changed
the subject to the Nude Club and asked if Tom and I needed any investors for another one
someplace else. Both he and Red Jacket assured me that they could provide us with talent.
With that I left. I was glad to see the two of them again.
Comments are welcome at editor@mlrmag.com.
APRIL 26, 2K
et Tu, Tommy!
Good morning. It is a crispy 29.5 degree morning at 6:30 A.M. And in the midst
of the uprising against naming a street after me, one more is rowed aboard and that is
none other than Tom Clark.
Harold, Harold, Harold...I would hesitate to name the semi-circular path
in front of a dog house after you, but you are far more deserving for such a bestowment
than Marilyn Horne is. If it were Marilyn Monroe or Lena Horne, I'd say, "What the
hey, let's go for it".
The point of my column was that there were many prominent citizens who had their
place in local history that merit the honor of having a street named after them. The drive
for Marilyn Horne to be honored is fueled by a tiny fragment of our citizenry who think
this absentee native is some sort of gift from Bradford to the world. She couldn't pick
out Bradford on a map if it was stuck to her forehead. What do they hope to gain by
stretching the truth and claiming this lady is one of our own?
Tourism? Yeah, right. I would hate to see what type of people would go out of their
way to traverse a driveway-sized street named after an obscure opera star.
At least, if we named it after you, Bud, your adversaries could have the pleasure
of driving over your name. I'm sure there are a few ambulance chasers in B-town that would
circle the square for hours on end. Let me throw a few names out, some people who really
made a difference and merit such an honor as a street named after them.
I said in my column Henry Satterwhite and William R. Case. Here's a few more; Harri
Emery, Hugh Grant (no, not the actor), Lester Edwards,
Dresser (first name?), Piper (first name?). Or, the man who I would vote for as the finest
person to ever grace the Tuna Valley, John Colosimo. If our powers that be are so
Hell-bent on honoring someone with a street naming, why pick someone who wouldn't even
make the Top 20 list of prominent Bradfordians?
Actually, I would rather see the street named after Hollywood Helen than anyone
else.
And why do we have to dig into the past to come up with names? What about
former mayor Arvid Nelson? Then when we are naming streets, don't forget buildings. There
is that white elephant known as old City Hall that the city owns along with the former
Club Bradford. They could be named the Peggy Comilla Building and the Mutzabaugh
Monstrosity respectively.
And your point is well taken when you refer to what's her name as an obscure opera
star. Our readers from outside the immediate are have questioned who and why?
But Bradford will always be Bradford. After paying us $50,000 for our building City
Council reappoints Mark Hollenbeck for another four year term as City Solicitor at a
salary for around $34,000 a year. That's kind of throwing good money after bad because had
Hollenbeck done his job and acted when he should have, there never would have been any
lawsuit because they would have beat us on the pending ordinance business.
But Mark will always be Mark, too. And then to compound the injury, in the same meeting
City Council pays Mutzabaugh, Saunders, Hollenbeck & Clarke several thousand more for
additional expenses. If they are paying that in a public meeting, just imagine how much
more will be shipped over some other way. From the beginning they wanted to keep a lid on
how much the whole thing was really costing. From what I can see up here on the hill, no
one outside of Dickie's office or City Hall will ever know for sure.
When it is all said and done, if plans are realized and dreams come true, 9 Main Street
will still be a drafty old barn with a leaky roof and the taxpayers will have $250,000 in
it. They already have close to $100,000 already and no one except for a few of us know
that.
Just to put this to rest, don't name any street after me. I don't care. I am happy
where I am and what I am doing. So there!
Comments are welcome at editor@mlrmag.com.
APRIL 25, 2K
Bud Beck Boulevard
Good morning. It is 34.5 degrees at 6:08 A.M.
Tom Clark is at it again. His column Friday drew some hefty criticism from the
people down off the hill who believe that naming a street after Marilyn Horne was indeed
proper. Actually, I was kind of flattered by the way he referred to me. (Especially after
Doctor Safesex called and was not all that complimentary when he heard about the column
yesterday. More about that later.) Anyway, Tom wrote last Friday:
I was driving down the proposed Marilyn Horne Boulevard today and wondered why we
are honoring this person with a street naming. Actually, it's about 100 feet of blacktop
that goes around the square, but even that is more than she deserves.
She moved out of here at the age of 11 and went on to become, so they say, an opera
star. That part is all fine and dandy, even though less than .000452% of American citizens
could tell you who she is. Hell, Bud Beck is more known than this old broad. (There
he goes again! Geez!) (I wrote that)
Even though her parents are buried in Mt. Alton, she hasn't been back in twenty
years. That should eliminate the family value angle. Lately, she was at St. Bonaventure, a
scant seventeen miles away, yet her busy schedule couldn't allow her to pop across the
state line and say howdy to the folks that want to name a street after her. Can you say
pompous?
It appears that very few people agree with Tom about naming anything after me. Ray
McMahon got a building named after him. I always felt that was like naming a national
forest after Spiro T. Agnew, if you get my drift. In fact, the Bradfordians were outraged
at the mere mention of it, as was Doctor Safesex who is figuring out how to move everyone
to Chicago. But one lady who came across me by accident had a different take on the whole
issue.
I discovered your website while searching for background information about
Cornplanter, and I wanted to tell you that I enjoyed reading the information you had
available and also the online magazine. Thank you for making it
available.
I am preparing to take a test for national teacher certification. The preparation packet I
received from NBPTS (National Board of Professional Teaching Standards) includes the text
(possibly a partial text) of a letter that
Cornplanter wrote to George Washington in 1790.
Do the materials you have available for purchase address that portion of Cornplanter's
life and history? Specifically, I'd like to know what the situation was for Cornplanter
and his tribe at that time. Did any particular event or events prompt the letter? Did
Washington personally respond to the letter, or was any response provided? Did the letter
produce any results? The letter as it appears in my materials is only 3 short paragraphs.
I am left wondering if it is complete, or if it is an edited version. I'm looking for
another source to see if the letter is complete. Thanks
Susan (name withheld) Florida
P.S. Certainly the street could more appropriately be named after YOU, the illustrious
historian, researcher, author, publisher, online sage. . . who obviously has a real
interest in the community. [VBG] IMHO, it is sad but
commonly proved that the only way to be a hero in you home town is to leave it, do
something mildly interesting, and never look back. All three steps seem, unfortunately, to
be fulfilled by the singer.
See! Someone out there thinks I am worth more than what those people down off
the hill in Bradford do. "Illustrious historian." "Researcher, author,
publisher and online sage!"
Susan, sweetie, I like you lots. I will answer you later this morning. I just
happen to have what you are looking for.
Needless to say, Doctor Safesex (Why do I want to call him Doctor Strangesex?) does
not share Susan's sentiments. He is outraged that I would smear his personal life over the
pages of this column. He still insists that if he was a lawyer that I would not have
treated him as I have and now that I think about it, he's right.
New Line of Thinking: Lawyers believe themselves to be omnipotent
because they are professional liars. And in being professional liars, they have told the
ultimate lie to themselves and now believe it. Doctors on the other hand are omnipotent
because they literally hold life and death in their hands. As much as I dislike Doctor
Safesex for the botched job he did on me way back when, not to mention the old people he
carved up, I always held him with a bit of respect where for lawyers I have none. They are
just overeducated clowns, except for Greg Henry, who is not a clown but does suffer from
other delusions, all of which I can accept easily.
For Doctor Safesex to do what he did is inexcusable. The little hospital for which he
works does not need this sort of embarrassment. I blame him completely even though it took
two to knock up the nurse. I really don't blame her because if he had been the
professional (at least in his bearing because it was impossible for him to do it with
skill) the little teat to teat would never have taken place. He should have held himself
up there as the godlike figure we all wanted to believe he was. Instead he came down from
Mount Olympus and rolled in the dirt with the masses.
Nurses are wonderful people, men and women alike. But they are no shinning stars when
it comes to brains when they have affairs with married doctors. They especially
distinguish themselves when they become pregnant. One can only wonder what goes on in
their heads as they work and treat the sick. Are they 100% into their work or is the
obvious preoccupying them?
And that goes for Doctor Safesex even more than the nurse. How many patients received
less than what they deserved at their hands because he was preoccupied with his affair?
God this sounds like a segment from General Hospital! Anyway, I am shocked and
disillusioned that a doctor would sink to the level of a lawyer, especially the two he
pointed out to me at the Bradford Hotel.
Comments are welcome at editor@mlrmag.com.
APRIL 24, 2K
Dr. Safesex at the Bradford Hotel
Good morning. It is 35.4 degrees at 6:02 A.M.
I want to thank all of you for the e-mails telling me how you were gong to
spend the weekend/holiday/holyday. I pictured all of you for a moment yesterday, from Mary
sitting on the patio enjoying the sunset, to Jacki in the kitchen, to Janet in the
mountains, to Terri and Tom on the sailboat, and Kate with her grandchildren as I drove
back from spending the weekend at my brother's in Ohio. As much as I fight these things, I
truly enjoy them and am glad I have a wife who browbeats me into going through with them.
Last Thursday night when I was fighting with myself about going away for the Easter
Holiday I tried to escape to the anonymity of the Bradford Hotel. I got it for less than a
half an hour. Then the usual crowd began to come in. Welfare Wes and Toothless Time were
the first. Then came Sheffer and Billy Peckham, the finest Chief of Police of all
time, not to ignore the fact that he is also a noted and fine Irish Tenor. (Why not
name a street after him? He never left us. Maybe if he would, out of appreciation, they
would consider the possibility. Oh well. Another story for another day.)
As usual Wes was loud and had his chest puffed out.
"Doesn't that hurt your bad back, doing that to yourself?" I asked Wes.
"What are you talking about?" he asked indignantly.
"That," I answered back, pointing at the way he was strutting with his chest
expanded with air. "That has to hurt. You've had a bad back since I've known you. How
many different companies have you collected on for that, anyway?" I asked.
Wes wasn't in the mood. He did not appreciate my jabbing at his fictitious condition
nor did he appreciate me noting in public that he was puffing up to make himself appear
larger than he was. I laughed as he scowled and walked to his usual table in the corner.
Billy Peckham took note of me poking fun at ole Wes and spoke to me.
"Brother Beck. What's up with you? You don't normally go on the attack with the
likes of Wes. Someone stick a burr in you saddle?"
"No," I answered. "Not necessarily. I just feel in the mood, I
guess." Then we changed the subject and talked about whatever came to mind. We kept
talking like that until I noticed that the bar was full. And when I looked to my right,
there on the barstool next to me was none other than Doctor Safesex.
I couldn't help myself. The little devil was on my shoulder for sure. He was there and
he was taunting me.
"Go ahead," the little devil said. "Go ahead. Start something with him.
You've always hated him. Do it."
I looked away and acted like I didn't see him. I looked back to Billy Peckham in hopes
to get a semi-intelligent conversation going; but my hopes were dashed. He was over
talking to Wes and Mattress Margie. It was Doctor Safesex or nothing. I ordered another
drink in hopes that it would be nothing. Then it happened.
With the little devil still on my shoulder speaking directly into my ear calling me all
sorts of names and taunting me for avoiding the good time I was sure to have at the
Doctor's expense, the Doctor himself decided to speak to me. Perhaps he had his own devil
on his shoulder and he thought he could take me down with a carefully and well worded
shot. A pity. That would prove to be his mistake.
"So this is where you hide out crying in your drinks now that the voters have
thrown you out of office."
I couldn't believe my ears. Not even Ray McMahon would have the testicular courage to
say something like that to me let alone someone like him, someone I truly disliked and for
good reason.
I looked at myself in the mirror. Had I gone completely to flab in four years? Had my
once imposing masculine psysique suddenly diminished and was I a decrepit excuse for the
the man I once was? It was hard to understand that now, for no reason and without
provocation, the likes of a bald headed creep like this was taking shots at me? I looked
at myself and I did not see much of a change. I looked closer.
True. There was the belly that was spoken about last week in this very column, but the
rest of me looked pretty solid. Looking at him in the same mirror I knew that in spite of
the extra fifteen pounds I had put on, I still was in better shape and did have twenty
pounds on him.
"Don't you have anything to say, Bud?" he asked.
I couldn't believe my ears. I slowly turned my head to look him in the eyes.
"You talking to me?" I asked.
"Anyone else in here been thrown out of office lately?" he asked back.
That was more than I needed to hear.
"Sounds to me like you might have a problem," I said to him. "I didn't
talk to you. Maybe you would be better off leaving me alone."
As he spoke I immediately recognized that he was very intoxicated. Fortunately, for
him, and for me, I was only nursing my third drink in an exceptionally long period of
time. I was very sober and very much in control.
"Maybe I would and maybe I wouldn't," he said slurring his words.
"Damn!" I thought to myself. I would have loved to have taken his head off,
but I had a rule not to hurt drunks if I could avoid it. Doing that to him would have been
way too easy. So, I decided to give him what he wanted.
"Just a wee bit drunk tonight. Eh Doc?" I asked.
"Maybe," he said, slurring even that.
"Where is your entourage?" I asked.
"Entourage?" he asked back.
"Every time I see you out, except for the obvious political functions, you are
with two or three nurses, instead of your wife. What gives? Everyone abandon you are you
trolling for guys tonight?"
I didn't give him a chance to answer. I went right in with the next one. "And if
that is in your mind, forget it. I'm straight and unlike you, I don't cheat on my
wife."
He swallowed hard on that one. He leaned back on his barstool and eyed me closely. I
could read his mind.
"Don't even think about it," I said to him. "You would not like what
would happen next."
Fortunately for him and for me he is an educated man. Educated men generally know their
limitations. And judging by what he said next, he knew his and I was glad.
"You're bigger than I remember."
"At least you aren't blind drunk," I said.
"And you don't seem any worse for wear after losing the election, either."
I laughed at that one. "What was I supposed to do?" I asked. "Shrivel up
and die?"
"A lot of us wished you would," he said.
"I'm sure you did, but no such luck. It has turned out to be the best thing that
ever happened to me. I've lost weight and my blood pressure is the lowest it has been in
twenty years. I feel like a young man again."
"Well good for you!" he said sarcastically. I could tell he had hoped to find
me feeling exactly opposite, but that was not to be the case. No. It certainly was not.
I took a sip of my drink. He took a large gulp of the beer in front of him and
swallowed hard.
"My life is crap," he said.
I did not respond to that. I just laughed and looked straight ahead.
"You think that's funny, don't you?" he asked.
"Yes," I answered. "I think it is hilarious. I think you are
finally getting what you deserve you pompous ass."
Calling him a pompous ass hit him harder than I imagined. Immediately, I could tell he
had been feeling sorry for himself. Immediately I could tell he felt what was happening to
him was none of his doing. I could tell he felt that he was the injured party rather than
his own selfishness as the injuring offender.
"How do you know so much about me?" he asked.
"Everyone knows about you. They know all about you and you're currently the
biggest joke going," I said back to him. "You're laughable."
"Why do you say that?" he asked me. He was genuine. Even though he was drunk
he was genuine. He did not realize what he had done to himself.
"Think about it!" I said to him. "Look at yourself." I pointed to
him in the mirror."Tell me what you see. Tell me what you really see."
He took another gulp of beer and stared at the image that was looking back at him in
the mirror. He said nothing.
"You are a middle aged balding man. You are on the down side of going over the
hill. Forget the doctor crap. That's just salad dressing and heavy gravy. Thick salad
dressing covers up wilted lettuce and rotten tomatoes. Heavy gravy can disguise the taste
of bad chicken. It all looks and tastes good at the time, but sooner or later the results
are the same. The receiving party always gets sick."
I was watching his face in the same mirror. I was watching for his reaction. There was
none. He kept looking at himself.
"You see yourself as something you imagine yourself to be, not what you really
are. That explains your dalliances with the pretty little nurses. You see that as proof
that you are the man that you imagine yourself to be, not the one you really are. You
can't face what you really are so you do things like chasing after the empty headed little
girls and silly women who think you are some god or something."
"And what's wrong with that?" he asked. "They are willing enough and you
have no idea what my wife is like."
I laughed. "The usual excuse. My wife is a bitch so I need to get some nurse who
is fifteen years younger than me pregnant. Didn't you ever hear of birth control or safe
sex? Aren't you of all people afraid of sexually transmitted diseases? And even beyond
that, what about your marriage for better or for worse?"
He shook his head. He was in denial. He would not accept what I was saying.
"You're down on me because of what went on between us. You have always carried a
grudge."
I admitted that he was right. I did and I always would. But, I pointed out to him that
one had nothing to do with the other. What was right had nothing to do with his lack of
talent as a doctor.
"Plenty of lousy and incompetent doctors are good men who are faithful to their
wives and loyal to their families," I said to him.
"If I was a lawyer this would not come into the discussion," he complained.
"Look at (name withheld) and (name withheld). They are partners in the same law firm.
The one has never been faithful to his wife. Hell. When he drinks he'll go after anyone.
Once he even went after my wife at the Club. And the other one has a very young family and
he got a college girl pregnant. He came to me to find out who could do the abortion. If I
was a lawyer you wouldn't care one hoot. And they are just as incompetent as lawyers as
you claim I am as a doctor."
"Listen," I said. "Generally when a lawyers screws up it only costs you
money. When you screw up it costs people body parts and even their lives. I know two old
people that you took piece by piece before they finally died. What about that old man that
was in the bed next to me when I was in? You got him, too. Lawyers are one thing. You are
entirely something else."
I shook my head. "You just don't get it. I doubt that you ever will. Being
incompetent and killing people in your profession has nothing to do with how you live your
life. Even if you were a good doctor and didn't leave a trail of mutilated bodies and full
caskets behind you, people could respect you if you were a good man. You aren't.
Everything is for you and your own personal gratification and being a doctor, you feel you
are entitled to it. You are as big a sleaze as any lawyer could ever dream of being."
Even though I had a whole lot more I could have said, I finished my drink and left.
And when I was finally home I understood what Sharyn meant when she was insisting we go
do the family thing for Easter. I understood it perfectly and as I cuddled up next to her
in the bed I silently thanked her. She had given me the lesson that Doctor Safesex would
never learn.
He may imagine himself larger than life with none of the rules applying to himself
right now. He may be getting fortified by all his rich friends who see him as some big
stud who walks the floors of the hospital. But as his wife takes his family and moves
away, and even as he starts another with a much younger and more than proabably a kinder
woman, what will he really have? Will he change? Will he stop getting young nurses
pregnant or will history repeat itself until he is too old to do what he does?
Oh well. Fortunately that is his problem, not mine. Your comments are welcome at editor@mlrmag.com.
APRIL 22 & 23, 2K
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