primitive paranoia in the Sandhills

[franksolich]

primitive paranoia in the Sandhills is a continuation of:

“franksolich & friends seek to deter stalking primitives” (part one)
http://conservativecave.com/index.php?topic=100516.0
“come spring, come the primitives” (part two)
http://conservativecave.com/index.php?topic=100644.0
“a chronicle of primitive paranoia” (part three}
http://conservativecave.com/index.php?topic=101049.0

and is dedicated to the memory of our colleague marv, who illuminated conservativecave for four years with his sharp, tart wit, before alas leaving us far too soon.

- - - - - - - - - -

primitive paranoia in the Sandhills.  I went down to Omaha with the neighbor’s wife this evening, escorting her to a most dolorous event, a rosary at a funeral home for a recently-deceased relative of hers.

The relative hadn’t been relevant enough to have affected other members of the neighbor’s family, but she thought it decent and proper that she attend, and I agreed.

That obligation fulfilled, as the crowd was slowly leaving, I saw the mortician, and had an idea.  “Hey, I have to go talk to him,” I told her; “a matter of professional interest.”

The neighbor’s wife had no idea what I was talking about, but she's used to franksolich, and so puts up with it.

“You know, I’m almost in the market for something,” I told him, “as I’m dealing with an unhappy event that might, or might not, happen soon.

“I don’t know when it’s going to happen, but as you’re aware, every night all of us park our tents one day’s march nearer the mausoleum, and so it’s inevitable.

“’When’ is the question, but trust me, it’ll happen, just as it comes to all men.”

- - - - - - - - - -

Being more specific, I told him I wanted to see his selection of caskets.

As the crowd was gone by then, he shut out the lights and took us into his display room, something about the size of a basketball court crowded with coffins.

“I’m sorry they’re shown so awkwardly,” he said; “we’re a little full here, as the market for these things hasn’t been as large as we’d expected it to be.”

I walked up and down the aisles, bothering to pay attention to only the largest containers.

Finally, I asked, “Don’t you have any supersized ones?  Even the biggest one here’s hardly adequate for the purposes that’d be demanded of it.”

- - - - - - - - - -

Yes, he had two more display rooms of caskets, one of them devoted to coffins for the young and tiny, and then this other one, which had only one casket at the moment.

“Perfect,” I said, “and I assume delivery charges 10-15 miles outside of Omaha would be reasonable.”

to be continued

[franksolich]

“What do you think’s going to happen to them?” the property caretaker asked this morning; “Rhinestone Santa and his Buddhists?

“I got the impression the other five weren’t all that excited about being with him.”

Yeah, me too, I said; “they seemed to be with him only because they had to be, if they wanted fed.  There’s some people in this world so helpless they don’t even know how to go get a job and support themselves.

“I think they’ll make it to Indiana, halfway to northernmost Vermont, where they’ll see the buzzy one, the Buzz Clik primitive. 

“The buzzy one’ll of course say no to their proposition that he be the ‘Guatama Buddha’ of the commune; of course, he’ll say ‘no,’ because the buzzy one’s afraid of taking risks, gambles.

“He’s afraid to even change the color of his socks; too out-of-routine for him.

“I dunno what he does for a living, but he sounds like a desk-sitting bureaucrat, much like hypertensive Bob had been, content with merely occupying a space and collecting a guaranteed paycheck.

“But at any rate, he’ll probably at least take all six of them to McDonald’s for Big Mac meals.

“And because franksolich sent them to him, if they need money—of course; they always need money—he’ll lend them two, three, hundred bucks just to get them going on their way.”

- - - - - - - - - - -

I thought of something.

“But that’s not going to be enough to get them all the way to Boston, to see my good pal Manny.

“I should’ve suggested they stop in Philadelphia, to see Doc, the PCIntern primitive.

“Not to ‘recruit’ Doc to be the ‘Buddha’—oh God no—but he might, or might not, be good for a loan of, say, about five hundred bucks, being part of the Philadelphia high society, the Main Line.

“I could never figure that out about Doc; he wants to be assimilated, accepted, but mule-headedly fails to see he’s already been assimilated.  He’s definitely more assimilated into American society than franksolich.  And I’ve had some WASP ancestors here since 1637.

“So Doc has the dough; I’m sure he’ll be generous with sharing it.

“At the very least, he’d probably give them free dental care; all six of them had the sorriest-looking teeth I’ve seen in a long time.”

- - - - - - - - - - -

“If I’d suggested that, that would’ve sustained them clear to Boston, to see my good pal Manny.

“But I didn’t, and so there’s going to be problems for them getting from Indiana all the way to Boston.

“Now, if they get to Boston, I have no idea what Manny’ll think.

“But being a nice guy, always anxious to be of service to other people, I’m pretty sure Manny’ll treat them magnanimously, however he treats them.  He might even pass around the hat at his office, like it was suggested he do the time a co-worker couldn’t afford repairs on her car, but instead paid for them himself.

“Which got him into a whole lot of trouble—the co-worker wrongly thought he expected some, uh, favors from her because of the money, and for his act of disinterested charity, Manny got accused of sexual harassment.

“Manny hasn’t yet learned; no good deed goes unpunished.

“He’ll probably say ‘no’—if Rhinestone Santa & Co. make it to Boston—but he’s probably good on paying to have their hippievan serviced and repaired, and some dough for eats and gasoline.

“Manny’s a nice guy, trust me.”

to be continued

[franksolich]

“I think I’ve finally ‘got’ what a deaf person needs, to be safe,” the property caretaker said when he was here earlier in the evening.

“Eyesight’s no substitute for hearing, because one has to be looking at something to know it’s there.  And of course one doesn’t have eyes on the back of one’s head and on both sides of one’s head.

“That’s why blinking lights keep one safe only if one’s looking at them, such as at the telephone answering machine or the door-bell or the smoke alarm.

“If one’s back’s turned to them, blinking lights can blink all they want, and as you’d say, ‘whoop-whoop-de-do.’

“Am I right so far?”

So far he’s right, I assured him.

“Whereas sound can come from any direction—one doesn’t have to have an ear pointed that way—and it’s going to be heard…..by a person who can hear.

“One can be turned away from the source of the sound, or in another room, or sleeping, and if the sound’s hearable, one knows something’s up.

“Am I right so far?”

So far he’s right, I assured him.

“Okay then, with these motion sensors that trigger the ceiling lights in every room of the house, if the lights start blinking, you’re not going to miss it, no matter what you’re doing, even if in deep slumber.

“Am I right so far?”

So far he’s right, I assured him.

“Well then, how come you’re not so enthusiastic about using them?” he asked.

“There’s another problem you haven’t thought about,” I told him, “but it’s not important enough to worry about at the moment.

“You know I’m no good in explaining things ‘in theory,’ and so best for the other person to actually see what happens, than my trying to articulate it.

“And trust me, I know you mean well—damn, there isn’t anybody who means so well for franksolich as you do—and we’ll be trying this motion sensors thing at a good time for you to see how well it works, or doesn’t work.

“At 3:30 p.m. central time, April 30, forty-three days hence, the 10th anniversary of the scam that rocked the internet, that’s likely to bring out a lot of hostile primitives stalking franksolich, I’ll have you turn it on, and we’ll both sit back, wait and watch.”

to be continued

[franksolich]

About mid-morning, I was standing out in the front yard with the property caretaker and his two assistants Joe Gomez and Jose Lopez, watching as they hoisted out the engine from Jose’s truck and took it into the garage.

I dunno what they were doing.

As the hood was still up, I looked inside, where the engine had been, so as to get an idea of what it looks like in there when the engine’s removed.

<<<always curious about phenomenons most dismiss as uninteresting.

The caretaker came out from the garage, and over to talk with me.

Just as with women and their “time of the month,” franksolich goes through a few days every month when I shed my usual mellow, laid-back, carefree, cheerful manners and indulge in being grouchy.

It’s probably due to some sort of subconscious stress, and if women, lacking fortitude and stoicism, can get away with being crabby at such times, well, it’s only fair that men can be the same way.

“Well, maybe when [the business partner] and you go up to South Dakota late next week to see the fact-checker for your book, it’ll put you in a better mood,” he offered.

- - - - - - - - - -

Just then, a car pulled up into the front yard.

I looked.  Those bothersome friends of BainsBane again.

“You deal with them,” I said, walking away.

The caretaker knows the whole back-story; that BainsBane, having caught a glimpse franksolich in the buff, had been so impressed—I dunno what else it would’ve been, other than “impressed”—that she’d told two friends of hers about it.

The two friends were photographers on contract to Playgirl magazine, whose circulation is at least half the primitives on Skins’s island, and they’d come down here from Minnesota all agog and excited about new meat for the magazine.

However, being primitive-like in jumping to conclusions, the two times they spied the business partner and me together, without bothering to inquire, they’d automatically assumed the business partner was franksolich.

After which they came out here a couple of times, and although I was around, the business partner wasn’t—he lives in a place more modern than this, further inside the Sandhills—and so they just drove off, leaving me standing in the dust.

- - - - - - - - - -

The caretaker went over to talk with them, leaning inside the front passenger window, his elbows on the edge.

After a few minutes, he stood up again, and they took off.

“How’d it go?” I asked.

“They wanted to know for sure if this was where franksolich lived, as he wasn’t ever around, and I told them, yeah, franksolich lives here.

“Then they wanted to know why they’d never seen franksolich here.

“I reminded them, ‘he’s a very busy man, always working, working, working, working, from sun-up to sun-down.’

“Then they asked when was the best time to catch franksolich here.

“I told them weekends were best, when franksolich let up some, but only early in the morning as the sun’s coming up, like before 6:00 a.m.”

to be continued

[franksolich]

“I see you wrote a draft of another chapter for the book,” the neighbor’s wife said to me as we had supper out on the back porch.

The neighbor had taken their five children to the big city for supper, it being some sort of special event, but as she was tired, she hadn’t gone along.

The neighbor’s wife is 36 years old, average height for a woman, maybe a 22” waistline, and appropriately proportioned in all else.  She was born and raised in suburban Kansas City, Missouri, and then became a dental hygienist.  After marrying the neighbor, she retired from that, so as to stay home and be productive for the future of humanity.

The Four Horsewomen of the Femapocalypse wouldn’t like her, because she has a great deal more confidence and self-esteem than they do.  She stays in shape by breeding and riding horses.  In fact, this evening, that was the way she’d gotten here, from their home six miles north.

She’s my best female friend, and the neighbor utterly trusts her with me, because she’s got reddish-brown hair, and redheads don’t trigger these male impulses any more than a dead fish does.

- - - - - - - - - -

“I thought you were waiting on writing more, until after you see the fact-checker,” she said.

Yeah, that had been the plan, I told her, “But I thought maybe writing something today would pull me out of the dumps.

“It’s that time of the month again,” I reminded her; “men have it too.”

“But it’s such an odd subject.  Interesting, but odd.”

“I wrote the first thing that popped into my mind,” I said; “my observations of how the workers and peasants dealt with a missing limb—a foot, a leg, an arm, a hand, and somesuch.

“They don’t use anything like these high-tech artificial limbs we have here, excepting a favored few, but I never had much contact with any of the favored few.”

- - - - - - - - - -

“There were lots and lots of amputees over there; some born without, some lost through disease, but most taken off in accidents.

“The socialist paradises never had OSHA, as ‘worker safety’ was another one of those decadent capitalist western bourgeoise things needed here, but not in the socialist paradises, where the workers and peasants were never imperiled.

“It was kind of a Skippyesque sort of world.

“And if Skippy, the NYC_SKP primitive, had been in charge over there, if someone dared complain, his next job was in the gulag.

“I was told there were certain prosthetics available under their ‘free medical care for all,’ but one had to pay a lot of money under the table to get one, and the workers and peasants rarely had that kind of money.

“But it was no big deal, because the socialist-made prosthetics were defective and shoddy, and didn’t last long.”

- - - - - - - - - -

“Usually what happened was that a member of a family would craft, by hand, some sort of artificial limb, and that was used.

“They were very primitive, usually just a stick or a hook, but they were made by someone familiar with the manners and needs of the individual, and thus wholly effective.

“Here, with artificial limbs, the attitude is, ‘okay, this thing’s going to work like the real thing’—although it really doesn’t, being much less than the real thing.  Over there, the attitude was, ‘nothing can replace the original as made by God, so we won’t even try.  We’ll just make something that’s usable.’

“You’d be surprised, the adaptability of the human mind, when forced to be creative.  One of the most awesome sights I’ve ever seen in my life that was that of a middle-aged peasant woman, quickly and adeptly peeling potatoes.

“To hold the peeling-knife, all she had were two short wooden posts for ‘hands.’”

to be continued

[franksolich]

“What was the worst cripple you saw over there?” the neighbor asked, when he was wrenching something together; “were there lots of them, or so many that you didn’t pay any attention?”

“There were lots of them, and the most hideous was an adult male planted on a platform, or a stage of some sort, as one walked inside the railway station in Kiev.

“This was the old railway station, not the new one they have now.

“Anyway, it was a guy with a normal-sized head, but with the body of an infant.

“I never got close enough, as I was in too much of a hurry, but it seemed to me his body was too weak to support his head, and so he was laid out the way he was.

“And yes, he was obviously alive.

“Probably because where he was begging—such a prominent location, with a lot of traffic—his family had to pass on chunks of the proceeds to officials.

“If they didn’t, he would’ve been kicked to the curb.”

- - - - - - - - - - -

“But anyway, yeah, while the workers and peasants for the most part looked pretty much normal, excepting smaller than we are, it seemed there was a higher proportion of cripples over there, than what we see here.

“And as the disability gravy-train had run off the tracks, only the most pitiful cases begged; the rest of them worked, and worked hard.

“In a society living on the edge, everybody counts; everybody has some value, and even the worst of cripples are treated as full members of that society.

“They were right there, swimming in the mainstream.

“It’s not like it is here, where it’s assumed only the physically-fit, the physically-whole, are able to contribute to the general welfare, and anybody who’s not is excluded, paid off—welfare and somesuch--to go away where they won’t be seen or heard.

“Because survival was so precarious, even the blind, the lame, the deaf, the mute, the retarded, the lunatics, the giants, the dwarves, the ‘aspies,’ the hunchbacks, the grotesquely malformed, were allowed to contribute what they could, all they could, and because their own needs were so modest, most of them gave more than what they got.

“It was nothing like it is here, ‘bwaa, bwaa, bwaa, I’m “handicapped;” feel sorry for me, give me special accommodations, support my lazy ass.’”

to be continued

[franksolich]

“Hey, have you seen your friend Romeo lately?” the property caretaker asked as he, Joe, and Jose carried inside five more of those 5’x5’ sheets of glass mirrors, like the one on the wall here in the alcove, facing me.

This one, it’s so that I’ll be aware if someone’s coming through the front door, behind my back.  I had no idea what the plans are, for these other five.

“No,” I haven’t,” I said; “I’ve seen him working over on the other side of the William Rivers Pitt, and when driving down the driveway, I’ve honked and waved at him, but I haven’t talked to him, and he hasn’t been here to the house.

“What’s up?”

“I’m not sure,” the caretaker said, “but plenty have noticed he’s been acting differently lately.  Everybody thinks you’d know, because you’re the only friend he has, in six counties around.”

Oh now, I said.

“Well, it’s the truth.  He may look like a Romeo, but he’s no Romeo, according to all the women he’s used one time, and then dropped.”

It’s their fault just as much as his, I pointed out; “if women weren’t so silly, judging men by their looks and how good they talk, they wouldn’t be let down so much every time reality hits them in the face.”

to be continued

 

[franksolich]

“It was either the second, or the fourth, agent I talked to, that telephoned and spoke with me yesterday,” the business partner said.  They’re both in Boston, but I forget who’s who, because people there all have that same sloppy accent, as if it’s not important that they speak coherently.

“They talk like Big Mo writes.”

“What’d he call about?” I asked; “surely you’d told him I’m taking a break on any more writing until after we’ve been up in South Dakota to see my fact-checker, as I want to be sure this book isn’t plagued with mistakes like Bill Pitt’s vanity-published book was twelve years ago.”

“Yeah, he knows that,” the business partner said, “but he’d read only a few drafts of chapters the last time we talked, and since then’s read all you’d sent him.

“He’s in a hurry for you to finish it up.”

Uh, it’s long from finished, I reminded the business partner.  “Remember, I don’t plan on having all the first drafts written until sometime in December, as there’s a lot of material.”

Uh-huh, the business partner said; “I told him that, and then he asked, ‘well, what’s he doing there—planning on writing 600 chapters or something?’

“I explained that was exactly your plan, after which you’d go through and cherry-pick, taking maybe the very best of fifty, sixty, chapters.”

- - - - - - - - - -

“That was only about three minutes of an hour-long conversation,” the business partner admitted.

“What else would there’ve been to talk about?” I asked.

“Well, he wanted to talk about you, learn more about you.”

“Why?” I asked; “I’m just the guy writing the book, no more than that.  The book’s the important thing here.”

“Well, he said that from what he’s read so far, it’s, uh, very hard to believe you’re deaf.  ‘It doesn’t seem possible a deaf person could be that communicative.  Is he pulling the readers’ leg?’

“I assured him that you are, very much so.  Can’t hear a word.  No ears.  Deaf since before birth.  Deaf as a door-nail.

“Apparently you’re going to have to try harder in the book, to explain how it’s possible for you to ‘hear.’ 

“Of course, it’s not really hearing hearing, but how you pick up on what people are saying.

“I tried telling him you ‘hear’ based upon speculation, wild guesses, and shots in the dark—“

“Well, that’s what it is,” I said, “guesswork.  And lots and lots of times, as you know, I guess wrong.  In fact, I’ll bet I guess wrong 95% of the time—but the bigger deal is, the 5% of the time where I guess right, fortunately that happens to be the most important parts.”

“I sort of explained that to him,” the business partner said, “along with all of your other devices and tricks, and it all started seeming credible to him, although I think he’ll have to meet you in person before he’s fully convinced.

“At the end of our talk, he said, ‘well, if this is the case, the bigger story’s him, not the socialist paradises.  franksolich is a Phenomenon—‘ at which I interrupted him, assuring him that describes franksolich to a ‘t.’”

to be continued

[franksolich]

“Well, it’s good to be back home,” I said to the neighbor as I walked in the door.  He was sitting at the table in the dining room, having a quick lunch collected from leftovers in the refrigerator.

“Anything exciting happen here while I was gone?  The cats okay?”

I’d already noticed evidence of a couple of parties; people here are really good at cleaning up after themselves, but generally they don’t get everything, just 99% of the mess.

Not really, he said; “How was South Dakota?  How’d it go with the old Russian lady, your fact-checker for the book?”

“South Dakota was great,” I said; “it was glorious, and a trip well taken.

“It was awesome, especially the old babushka.

“In fact, it was more of a spiritual experience than anything else, connecting with the long-ago past.”

“But I don’t see what you could’ve possibly gotten out of a senile head-scarfed 93-year-old woman, sitting in a dark room surrounded by icons and candles and incense, her muttering away in incoherent Russian as you sat next to her, holding her.”

The neighbor had obviously already spoken with the business partner—via those damned cellular telephones, of course—while we were on our way back.

“Never mind what [the business partner] thinks,” I said, irritated; “of course he had no idea what was going on, as he can’t relate to ancient people, absorb them.  It probably all looked really silly to him, but he’s not franksolich, and has no idea what was really going on.

“And even he admitted that despite her senescence, she recognized who, and what, I was.

“It was awesome, and it’s going to be the last chapter of the book.

“And I’m not going to tell you about it right now, because if I did, telling all, nobody’d bother reading the book.”

- - - - - - - - - -

“By the way,” the neighbor said, changing the subject, “while you were gone, that one guy showed up here, the one you call ‘Italianate Jesus.’”

Italianate Jesus had been Rhinestone Santa’s right-hand man when they were involved in that Hindu commune out in Oregon a few years ago, but then later ran away.  He ultimately became a carnie, but he might be in some other line of work now; I dunno.

I call him “Italianate Jesus” because he looks eerily similar to the sparkling old dude, circa 1965-1967, but with long stringy hair, instead of a sailor’s uniform.

“He said he wants to talk to you, and that he’ll be back in a few days.  Right now, since you were gone, he took off for northeastern Oklahoma to join up with the hippywife primitive Mrs. Alfred Packer’s hippyhubby Wild Bill’s younger brother, the one born with both eyes on the same side of his nose.”

to be continued

[franksolich]

I went to the bar in town for supper, and found the neighbor’s older brother’s wife there, waiting for friends of hers to show up so they could all go shopping in the big city.

She already knew all about the trip to South Dakota.

“But I don’t see why you insisted a senile old woman would be a fact-checker for the book,” she said; “from what I heard, you got no information at all out of her.”

Well, really, I never considered her a “fact-checker,” I pointed out; “but I had to refer to her as something, anything, because I wasn’t quite sure what to call her.

“I was up there seeing her for other reasons.

“Originally, I wasn’t sure what I’d get out of it, but my intuition told me I’d get something out of it, and as the opportunity came up, I went to get it.

“And as it turned out, I actually got lots out of it, even though it wasn’t obvious to [the business partner].  All he saw was me putting her hand on my throat so she could hear me—she’s deaf and blind now, after all—and my putting my hand on her throat so I could understand her.

“It worked for Helen Keller, and it’s worked for me the six or half a dozen times I’ve tried it in my life, but understandably, I can’t just go around grabbing people by the throat to ‘hear’ them.

“And surely it must’ve seemed gibberish to [the business partner], who didn’t know we were talking to each other in Russian.

“Actually, I was surprised; I’d never learned anything but the crudest, coarsest, simplest Russian, mostly ‘bad’ words.  And with the passage of time, naturally I’d already forgotten most of it.

“But it all suddenly came flowing out of me, even Russian words I’d never used before.  And none of the ‘bad’ words either.

“We were there four hours, and her son, who’s about 65 years old and knows his own mother very well, assured us that our visit had been good for her.  She’s 93 years old, deaf, blind, nearly mute, senile, and crippled, and probably isn’t long for this time and place—but he was sure she’d recognized who, and what, I was.

“But anyway, it’ll be the last chapter of the book.”

to be continued

[franksolich]

“I don’t like that idea that Italianate Jesus is coming back,” the business partner said; “he’s bad news for you.”

“Why?” I asked; “he’s been around plenty of times, and never caused any problems.”

“It’s just the general idea,” the business partner replied; “of you always having strange people hanging around, and you not paying attention what they’re up to.”

“I know you’re a nice guy, and have this insatiable urge to play host, innkeeper, hotelier, whatever, as a substitute for pastimes that amuse and illuminate hearing people—but sometimes you seem to go out of your way so that some sort of mischief happens, to make it all the more entertaining.

"I can understand your resentment, for example, that you can't enjoy television like hearing people do, but dude, that grievance has provoked you into making the world and people around you into a big, large-as-life, three-dimensional television show of your own.

“I think you enjoy creating preposterous settings, putting people, including yourself, into awkward situations, just to see what happens.

“And it’s a dangerous game to play, right when the primitives are getting ready for open stalking season on franksolich.”

- - - - - - - - - - -

Uh, no, I said; “I think the primitives are pretty much neutralized now.

“Skippy, for example, goes in to have part of his skull replaced next week, and so he’ll be out for a while.

“And too, with his advancing age and decadence clogging his cerebral capacity, with every passing day he becomes less and less of a threat to our rights and liberties, our freedoms, our very survival.

“It’s true that he only months ago managed to build a nuclear device capable of vaporizing all of northeastern Nebraska and the eastern half of the Sandhills, but his decline’s been so precipitous that pretty soon he’ll be lucky if he can put together a ladyfinger firecracker.

“I think Skippy’s days as a useful idiot for the decapitating jihadists are just about done.”

- - - - - - - - - -

But there’s other primitives stalking franksolich, the business partner pointed out.

“Like that mean, spiteful old lady in New England, who’s considerably discombobulated—and embarrassed—that you pointed out what’s really wrong with her.  You hit the nail squarely on the head on that one, and she’s as angry as a wet hen.”

Oh, the bitter old Vermontese cali primitive, I said; “but with Rhinestone Santa setting up that new ‘Buddhist’ commune in her part of the woods, she’s probably all preoccupied with getting involved in that.”

“Well, what about the big guy down in Bellevue?” he asked; “and he’s pretty close to here too.”

“Good God, man,” I said; “the poor guy’s dying, wracked with pain and agony—he’s got more important things to worry about, than franksolich.”

“And those two women sent here by BainsBane—“

“I think they’ve given up and gone away,” I said.  “I haven’t seen them around for a bit now.

“But I’m hardly being complacent here,” I continued.  “There’s been recent rumblings from down in northeastern Oklahoma, suggesting that the hippywife primitive Mrs. Alfred Packer’s hippyhubby Wild Bill is sharpening up his cadaver-carvers.”

to be continued

[franksolich]

“I swear, you’re becoming quite the Skippy,” I complained to the femme.

She was passing through, on her way to Chicago, for some sort of conference…..courtesy the hard-pressed taxpayers of South Dakota.  We’d gone to the bar in town, for a mid-afternoon lunch, where she had caldo verde, cozido à portuguesa, bife com um ovo a cavalo, queijo de azeitão, and for dessert, pastéis de nata, while I had the usual, a hamburger well done, pressed down hard on the grill so as to squeeze out every drop of grease.

The cook in the kitchen was new to me; he looked Chinese, and apparently his specialty is Portuguese cuisine.  It’s not that the bar has a high turnover in cooks; it’s got four long-time regular ones. 

But when one of those has to be gone, the owner of the bar, Swede’s wife, is compelled to hire culinary talent from the big city, for the day, or couple of days, or however long the regular cook’s gone.

She never has a problem finding one willing to come in on his day off from his regular job, as the substitute’s allowed to dictate the daily menu, showing off his own particular specialty, whatever it is.

People around here tend to acquire global tastes in chow.

- - - - - - - - - - -

“You know, with the advent of the telephone, teleconferencing, and the internet, it doesn’t seem necessary to have a bunch of governmental employees get together in some high-priced ‘fun’ city—the conferences are always in Chicago or Las Vegas or San Francisco or Montreal or Sun Valley or Virginia Beach or Honolulu, never in places such as Fargo or Little Rock or Pocatello or Saginaw, where they’d probably get more done, with fewer distractions.

“Desk-sitting governmental employees are underworked and overpaid as it is, with salaries and benefits far beyond what’s offered in the private sector, and it’s a further insult to the public, when they get their first-class travel, first-class hotels, first-class restaurants at the expense of the taxpayers.

“And they really don’t do anything; they briefly get together in a hotel ballroom, put on those silly rectangular name-badges, dine upon some coffee and rolls, and then take off to have fun, or in the case of Skippy, visiting fellow primitives from that particular area.

“And not a damned dime from their own pocket; only from ours.  We’re the ones stuck back at the office, doing all the drudge work—and paying their bills—and they don’t even think to send us a postcard, gloating about what a great time they’re having.

“I dunno why they can’t do business and conferences via telephone and the internet; it’d be a lot cheaper, and because it’s ‘work,’ they might actually get some done.”

“My, you’re in a good mood,” the femme said.

I know, I said; "but for some reason, I'm suddenly feeling very paranoid."

to be continued

 

[franksolich]

“Dude, you look bothered by something,” the property caretaker said when he came inside the house after dropping off the tools he’d used during the day, on another property.

I am, I said.

“And it’s showing,” he added.  “What’s up?”

“Oh, just a general disconsolation about how ethics have nose-dived in this country, and it doesn’t auger well for the future.

“After I had lunch with [the femme], she said that because she was traveling on governmental business, she could use her government credit card to charge her own meal.

“I pointed out that since she has to eat three meals a day anyway, whether at home or on the job, whether at home or away, she shouldn’t expect the taxpayers to pay for it.

“She said it was ‘allowed,’ which I already knew, but still—

“In the end, I paid for her meal myself, so the taxpayers wouldn’t have to, and she thought I was silly for doing it.

“It’s not in her to go full primitive, or even half primitive, but there’s been a little bit of erosion into primitivity, this utter disregard for morality, in a small part of her, ever since she got a good government job.

“She’s starting to think that ‘other people’ should have to pay for things she should pay herself; after all, it’s ‘only’ the government’s money, and she’d be a sucker not to take it.”

- - - - - - - - - - -

“This reminds me of when I was younger, in my early twenties, and got a job with state government in Lincoln.  One of my older brothers by that time was high up in the state bureaucracy—although I didn’t get the job because of him; I got it because I scored higher than anybody else on a merit examination—and he was ecstatic.

“He was about ten years older than me, and had watched me like a hawk all my life, all worried and concerned about whether or not I had what it takes, to be self-supporting because, well, I’m deaf.

“’You’ve got it made,’ he said; ‘you’re set for life now.  A constant, secure paycheck, great benefits, annual raises, and in the end, a generous retirement pension.  You’re set better for life than even many hearing people [i.e., those in non-governmental jobs].

“’All you have to do is sit down, shut up, and behave, and you’re set for life.’

“How great his astonishment when, three and a half years later, I gave my notice and left, without even having another job lined up anywhere else.”

- - - - - - - - - -

“I sensed I wasn’t going to last there, early on.  I was the accountant for the various medical and health-related examining and licensing boards, and the claims for expenses of board members of course came to my desk.

“Maybe about my third week on the job, the three examiners in the practice of cosmetology gave me their expense reports, and I immediately smelled a rat; they were trying to pull something.

“The cosmetology examiners were all older middle-aged women, two of them rather stout and one reedy-thin.  Outside of their examining work, they were hair-dressers in three small towns spread out in the furthest-most edges of the state.

“They all wore their hair high and made-up, like women in Oklahoma do, and dyed it purple and silver and other unnatural colors.  They boasted heavily-mascara’d eyebrows and bright red lips, and wore kitschy jewelry.  And they showed up for meetings and examinations wearing clothes that hadn’t been laundered for two or three wearings.

“At the time—this was the mid-1980s—members of the various boards were paid a per diem, mileage, lodging, and meals.  For meals, at the time it was $7.50 for breakfast, $10 for lunch, and $15 for supper—which was more money then, than it is now.

“I noticed they’d claimed expenses for meals, and oddly, with no supporting receipts.

“I went to my boss and pointed out that I thought the claims for the per diems, mileage—especially given the enormous numbers traveled, the state’s so big—and the lodgings made sense, although I dunno why they were getting away with staying in the highest-priced, most luxurious, hotel in Lincoln, when there were plenty of less expensive places available.

“But I didn’t like how they’d blatantly put down $7.50 for breakfast, $10 for lunch, and $15 for supper, as if they were entitled to it, and didn’t even bother with documentation or receipts.

“I pointed out I’d been present, watching their meetings and examinations, and they’d brown-bagged it for lunch, chomping down on wax-paper-wrapped peanut butter and egg salad sandwiches.  And a couple of times, they’d bragged about what a great supper they’d had the night before, at the home of a relative or friend in Lincoln.

“And besides, one has to eat three times a day whether one’s at home or at work, whether one’s at home or on the road, and so it’s hardly an extraordinary expense, a travel expense, a business expense. 

“My boss was a very patient man—and continued to be so all the time I was there—and explained the beauticians were ‘entitled’ to charge the taxpayers for their chow, without actually having incurred those expenses dining in a restaurant, and without receipts.

“He explained why, but it went right over my head.  It just seemed so unethical, so immoral, dining on the taxpayers’ dime.

“It was very disheartening, watching governmental employees fudge on things, ripping off the hard-pressed taxpayers—‘other people’s’ money’—and it churned my stomach so much that I, as I said, left after three and a half years.  I wanted to have nothing to do with it.”

- - - - - - - - - -

“Well, this might hearten you,” the caretaker said.

“I finally found out what happened to your good friend Romeo, who we all haven’t seen for a while now.

“He’s been teaching Bible classes Wednesday evenings and Sunday mornings at the Evangelical Church in [the big city].”

My jaw dropped to the floor.  “Romeo—the voracious tomcat Romeo, who’s spent years poking women all over six counties?  And because he looks good and talks good, gets away with it, using a woman one time and then dumping her?

“However,” I added; “it’s their fault too, for judging a man by how he looks, rather than by what he is.  Women know better than that, but choose instead to be silly; there’s no helping them.

“Of course it’s a good thing that Romeo found God, and I’d always figured he would, but not quite like this.”

to be continued

[franksolich]

About 5:15 in the morning, I was standing out on the back porch, admiring the vast panorama of the Sandhills that lay beyond the river, smoking a cigarette while waiting for the coffee in the kitchen to get done brewing.

Then suddenly a presence walked out the back door, onto the back porch.  I turned around, and she seeing me, stopped in her tracks.

It was one of the two women BainsBane had sent here, to find and photograph franksolich for that “life-style” magazine so popular with half the primitives on Skins’s island.  I’d guessed they were gone by now.

Oh, excresence, I thought; now I’m in for it.  I was really tired of being stalked by primitives, and this one had just caught me in a most awkward situation.

But what’s been seen can’t be unseen, and perhaps I could actually turn this to my advantage, contemptuously offending her so much that she’d go away, never to bother me again. 

“It’s cold out here,” she said; “why don’t we go inside and talk?”

Yeah, I said, “but I was out here only for a few minutes for a quick smoke--”

“How do you do that?” she interrupted; “when it’s cold like this, men usually don’t hang out like that—“

“It’s my northern European ancestry,” I said; “we don’t shrivel in the cold.”

It wasn’t anything that was going to happen, but I hinted anyway, “Maybe I should be posing in a winter scene, you know, with snow and ice and all that, climbing the Alpines or mounted on a dog-sled dashing across the Arctic.”

She betrayed no recognition of getting the hint, and so changing the subject, I asked, still facing her, “Where’s your partner?  I know who you are, but there’s always been two of you—“

“Oh, it’s way too early for her,” she said; “she’s still in the motel in [the big city] sleeping, but we’re running out of time, and it’s important that we see someone here; we’re looking for franksolich, and were told he lives here.”

She was of course referring to the business partner, who actually lives somewhere else.  She and the woman with her had once seen the business partner and I together, and jumping to primitive conclusions, had assumed he was franksolich, simply because to them I didn’t look smart enough to be franksolich.

I’ve never been sure how to take that; why primitives who see me, think I don’t look bright enough to be franksolich.

“I don’t think franksolich wants to see you,” I said, with some authority.

“Oh, but let’s go inside and talk anyway,” she insisted.

to be continued

[franksolich]

Done with my cigarette, I flipped it out into the yard, and motioned for her to go back into the kitchen, myself following her. 

As the cold had stimulated the bladder, I stepped inside the bathroom, leaving the door wide open so she could see my back, and perhaps be offended…..and go away.

She wasn’t; when I came out of the bathroom back into the kitchen, she was sitting at the table, her body language suggesting it’d be nice if I offered her some coffee. 

Standing in front of the kitchen sink, I made a big show of washing and drying my hands, as they’d touched it when I was emptying the bladder.

While pouring coffee, I idly commented, “You know, this is my place, my terrain, and usually nobody’s around this early to see me.  But if you want, I’ll go get decent.”

Oh no, she said; “Your place, your rules.  You’re fine as you are.”

Oops, not quite the response I’d expected.  And her being a pal of BainsBane, she was one of those women’s-libbers who’s supposed to get all upset and bent out of shape when confronting a man who’s eminently comfortable being a man.

This was no delicate flower, but surely there was something I could do to get her panties in a wad, to clutch her pearls, so she’d get offended and go away.

to be continued

[franksolich]

While she sat at the table, I stood across the room from her, leaning against the counter, facing her so I could see where her eyes roamed.

But in case I might be overdoing it—after all, I simply wanted her to get up and leave, not intimidate her--I said, “I don’t mean to come across as being threatening, because I’m not.  It’s just that the timing of your visit caught me off guard—“

“Oh, but I’m not afraid of you at all,” she interrupted; “compared with most men, I’m thinking you’re a very passive person.  I get the impression you prefer to be the seduced, rather than the seducer, certainly a rare reversal of roles.

“I’m sure that anyone you trust can have their way with you.”

Oops, this wasn’t going the way I’d hoped it would.

- - - - - - - - - - -

Trying to detour around this sensitive subject, I commented, “I suppose for many women, you and your friend have the ideal job, always being able to hop around in the sack with your pick of guys desperate to appear in the magazine.

“Just like the late Louis B. Mayer of Hollywood fame, those young innocent starlets and the casting-couch.”

Not really, she said; “We’re professionals, and don’t tamper with the talent, as men are so much alike, after six or half a dozen of them, they get boring.  All they ever want is a two-minute poke, after which they turn over and go to sleep.

“And besides, my partner and I aren’t that type; we’re attracted to other women, not men, for carnal joys. 

“And,” she said, looking directly at me, “it’s a great feeling, turning the tables on men, who’ve always looked at women as simply objects for sexual gratification.  It’s our turn now.”

I suddenly felt uncomfortable; perhaps I should’ve gotten decent after all.

to be continued

[franksolich]

“You know, I like your confidence, even though it's fake” she said.  “In my profession, I’ve had to deal with lots of men who’re shy, or somewhat embarrassed, at first view, but you, you’re different.

“What’s more compelling is the aura you exude, ‘catch me if you can.’  Your insolent insouciant nonchalance becomes you.”

Now, I’m not the slowest person in the world to catch onto things, but at the same time, I’m not especially fast either.  For whatever reasons, it seemed as if she was screen-testing me, auditioning me, for something, which made me uneasy.

Well, I don’t know, I said; “I’m not exactly all hairy in a manly way.

“And surely you find that unappealing,” I added, hopefully.

“True, you could use a little more hair,” she said.  “Your chest, your back, and your upper legs barely have enough hair to be considered anything more than just down.

“But you’ve got a nice head of it, and there’s bushes underneath your arms, and there’s those nice ringlets surrounding it down there.  You haven’t shaven for the day yet, which helps give you a somewhat ‘rugged’ look.

“Too much can be made of hair on a man,” she continued; “I’m reminded of the time we were in eastern Connecticut looking for talent, and this guy walked in.  He was a cartoonist, and had recently gotten fired from his job with an advertising agency, and was desperate for money.

“He was a little too old and flabby for what we were looking for, but had a head of fine blond hair, so we thought we’d take a look. 

“Once he took off his shirt and pants, well, he was as hairy as an ape from the neck down to his toes.

“Some might’ve liked it, but I’m not sure all women would.”

to be continued

[franksolich]

“Well, as you can see, I’m hardly the muscular type,” I said.

“And women usually prefer the muscular types,” I helpfully reminded her.

“Oh, but it’s a ‘plus’ that you’re flat,” she said; “flat chest, flat abdomen.

“But you don’t look like you work out, to keep in shape,” she added.

Uh huh, I replied; “I don’t.  I work for a living, not all the time but sometimes heavy arduous manual labor, that keeps the pounds off.

“The strenuous life.”

“And no man-boobs at all,” she further pointed out. 

“I know who you’re talking about,” I interrupted; “the hairy ape in eastern Connecticut.

“He’s almost as well-endowed as BainsBane.

“When gagging at that, I wondered about the phenomenon—man boobs—and looked it up, as it’s not supposed to happen.

“His problem is that he likes Asian cuisine.  I read somewhere that consumption of soy products, such as found in Asian food, encourages the development of man-boobs.”

- - - - - - - - - - -

“And your scars add a nice discreet touch, showing you’re no wimp,” she said.

This was not going at all as I wanted it to.

“They’re not large, they’re not unsightly, but they’re there enough that it adds to your manliness.”

Sensing I was losing, I commented, “Well, I’ve never been chutzpah-impaired, telling it like it is, so I’ve gotten beaten up a few times.”

to be continued

[franksolich]

After I’d turned around after having turned around to pour more coffee, she commented, “You know, you have a nice ass.”

Yeah, I’ve been told that before, and by some of the oddest people, I said.

She, being a professional, wanted to talk shop, and I was obliging her.

“It’s because I’m not on it all day long, like some overpaid and underworked desk-sitting governmental bureaucrats I know.”

“We get pictures all the time, from applicants, and one time this older woman out in California sent us one of her boyfriend climbing out of a pool—“

“I know,” I interrupted, “the mike_c primitive, who’s got the ugliest ass one could ever hope to see--gross, sagging, wrinkly.

“That’s the thing about the primitives,” I explained; “they put something up on the internet, thinking only people they want to see it, will see it. 

“Wrong.

“I can’t tell you how many times, by random chance or accident, I’ve come across a self-posted photograph of a primitive’s ass. 

“Gaaaa.  It’s never been a pretty sight.

“And it’s especially a crime against humanity, the mike_c primitive’s bare ass.”

- - - - - - - - - -

“Well, it’s almost six now, and we’re here looking for franksolich,” she reminded me.

Hmmm.  She didn’t seem to be reaching for any papers for me to sign; a contract, a release, and a check.

“But he’s more inhibited than I am,” I pointed out; “in fact, he’s quite a prude.

“Trust me, he’s pretty uptight, so I don’t think you’re going to get ‘franksolich’ to pose for you.”

to be continued

[franksolich]

Romeo was over, after having been gone for some weeks, and as the evening was pleasant, we sat out on the back porch, idly throwing eggs out into the three gardens within tossing distance.

I’d gotten more eggs earlier in the day, big fresh ones, most of them brown, and was compelled to clear out the older inventory in the refrigerator.  I’d learned a long time ago that fresh eggs can keep for about two years in the refrigerator, but these were eggs from circa a year to six months old, the oldest in there.

It might, sadly and deplorably, seem a waste, but this after all is the breadbasket of America, where too much of everything and anything grows, and I’m only one person, with a limited capability to absorb eggs.  Even when there’s hordes of people over here, just about every single evening when the weather’s good, there’s always been far more eggs than they’re willing to eat.

And so what can one do?   One can’t ship them off to the chronically-poor Paper Roses primitive, or to the crusty old tightwad the Curmudgeoness primitive, as it’d be too expensive and they wouldn’t be grateful anyway.  In fact, they’d probably whine that franksolich didn’t send them more.

And the food pantries for the poor and the hungry around here are already glutted with the lush produce of the land.

However, eggs are biodegradable, and they fertilize the soil, in this case the gardens surrounding the house, of which there’s seven.  During the course of the growing season, from March through October, the gardens also get fertilized by surplus tomatoes, cucumbers, eggplants, watermelons, cantaloupes, pumpkins, squash, &c., &c., &c., and even the used cat litter (clay only, no chemicals).

- - - - - - - - - - -

I asked Romeo what was up; if he wanted to talk about anything in particular.

Looking off to the Sandhills on the faraway horizon, he said no, not right now, and so I decided to let it be as we continued chucking eggs.

He’d been out of public sight for a while, until someone a week ago had spied him sneaking in the back door of the Evangelical Church in the big city, to give Bible lessons.

For years and years and years—Romeo’s now 38—he’d demonstrated the conduct of a promiscuous tomcat, bedding just about any loose woman from Sioux City to Valentine, from Pierre down to Grand Island, a territory almost as large as the whole of New England.

Unfortunately, he has the gifts for it—the looks, the gab—and has never been very popular, because he’s always used a woman only one time, and then gone onto another.  But it’s their own fault too, judging men by appearance rather than by substance.

Women need to learn to be more like men, who assess women by character rather than by looks.

to be continued

[franksolich]

“What’s wrong with your foot?” Joe asked me when he came into the dining room for a mid-afternoon coffee break.  I was sitting at this computer, which is in an alcove that separates the dining room from the living room, and he’d seen my left foot planted in a small plastic tub.

Joe Gomez was here with his partner Jose Lopez, working on some machine out in the garage.  They’d been hired by the property caretaker a couple of months ago, and like him, hang around here quite a bit because even though they take care of properties scattered all over the county, usually the tools and equipment they need are here.

This is way out in the middle of nowhere; I like the company, whenever it comes.

“It’s an embarrassing problem,” I said; “I suppose it reflects poorly on my personal hygiene—“

“But you’re always clean,” Joe said; “you’re one of the cleanest people I know.”

- - - - - - - - - -

“About three weeks ago,” I continued, “I noticed there was something peculiar about the big toe on the left foot, and got all upset and worried about it.

“I didn’t know what it was, but it looked bad.  I got so paranoid about it that I made even the primitives on Skins’s island look trusting, but for whatever reasons, I neglected to go in to the see the physician until late last week.

“You see, because I’m unhappily afflicted with thromboangitis obliterans, there’s a morbid fear about gangrene and amputation, and usually the big toe on the left foot’s the first to go.”

“What’s that?” Joe asked.

“Never mind,” I said; “it’s progressive and incurable, and if I went into details about it, lurking primitives who read franksolich might adopt it as their own, and start a wishadoo account for it, or even worse, try to get a ticket aboard the disability gravy train because of it.

“I’m surprised Big Mo hasn’t had it yet, as she seems to have been afflicted with every ailment known to mankind, including those not yet discovered—“

“But you’re pretty healthy,” Joe insisted; “in fact, you’re one of the healthiest people I know.

"Except that you smoke too much," he unhelpfully added; "You're always smoking.  I've never seen anybody smoke so much."

- - - - - - - - - -

“So I went and pulled off my sock and shoe for the physician,” I continued, “so he could look at it.  I was nervous as Hell about it.

“He didn’t even blink.

“’Oh, toenail fungus,’ he said.

“My face turned red, because only slovenly lazy people get such a thing, but he assured me that isn’t always the case.

“Anyway, I asked him what I could do about it, to make it go away.

“He suggested a pharmaceutical, but then stopped, as he knows I’m no primitive who has to have drugs for everything and anything—especially if other people are paying for it.

“Then he suggested I soak the foot in a basin with water and bleach.

“He apparently also told me how much bleach to use, and how long to do it, but I wasn’t paying attention, and missed that information.”

- - - - - - - - - -

“I didn’t want to go see him again to get those details, and so a couple of days later, I went to see [the retired banker’s wife], who knows these things.

“She said bleach’d work, and also vinegar or baking soda or pure lemon juice; all of them common household items.

“So I decided to do vinegar first, alternating between soaking the foot in white vinegar and apple cider vinegar.

“She told me how often, but I didn’t ‘catch’ that information, and being too embarrassed to ask her to repeat it, decided I’d soak it four times a day, an hour at a time.

“It’s just vinegar; it can’t hurt anything, even if overdosed.

“She also told me that it takes a long time, and that people who do it, usually stop too soon, before the fungus is wholly gone.

“She told me how long she thought it’d take, but I was ‘fading out’ in the ‘listening’ department, and didn’t get that part.

“I’m assuming I’ll be soaking it until autumn or something, because I want it gone, out of my life.”

to be continued

[franksolich]

“Well, we’re invited to go up there for Easter,” I told the business partner.

“Not our Easter, but their Easter, April 12.”

Good, he said; “anything to get your book going again.”

I’d quit writing the book some weeks ago, as it was turning out very long, and I was nervous about possible mistakes in my interpretations of all that I’d observed while in the socialist paradises of the workers and peasants twenty years ago.

I didn’t want it to be like that puny paperback thing put out by drunken Bill and his sidekick the predator of young girls, vanity-published in 2003 and full more of gross errors, than facts.

“So…..how’d that happen?” the business partner asked.

- - - - - - - - - -

He’d found a cluster of very small towns in a remote isolated area of South Dakota settled and inhabited by immigrants from Russia more than a hundred years ago, all of them places with its own Russian Orthodox Church.

I’d been concerned about getting the facts checked for the book, and the predominant religion of the workers and peasants in the socialist paradises had been a mystery to me; why it compels one so.

I’d written drafts for six chapters on the subject, but had wondered if I’d interpreted things correctly when there; I had no intention of even unwittingly mis-stating facts (as I understood them) out of ignorance.

“You know,” I reminded the business partner; “I was over there all alone, isolated and far removed from anything and anybody familiar to me.  I was over there with just pocket-change, not nearly enough for one to—usually—get by.

“And so I was dependent upon the goodwill of the workers and peasants, to survive.

“And I survived very well, thank you, because being a nice guy, I found more goodwill and support than I could use for a trip twice as long.

“One of the things that engendered this goodwill among the workers and peasants was that I instinctively, intuitively, and deliberately respected their religion; it’s very important to them.”

- - - - - - - - - - -

Once the business partner had itemized a list of these tiny hamlets, I’d gotten a hold of their local telephone directories.

One of the conveniences of living in a small place is that one isn’t burdened with twenty-pound telephone directories, sometimes more than one of them.

Around here, local telephone directories are about six or eight 8.5”x11” sheets of paper, folded in half.  They’re professionally printed of course, and look nice.  But the best thing about them is their tiny size, and no Yellow Pages.

“So I went through all three of them, and randomly selected eight Russian-sounding last names, and wrote to their addresses as shown in the telephone directory—“

- - - - - - - - - -

“I knew it, I knew it, I knew it,” the business partner said; “you wrote and mailed some letters to random strangers—“

Uh-huh, I said; “I described who I was, what I was doing—writing this book—and explained the problems I was having—accurately describing the various eastern Orthodox denominations, their histories, their creeds, and their practices—“

“And you got replies,” the business partner interrupted; “of course you did, because your letters are so seductive that if you were in Russia right now, even Vladimir Putin would invite you to the Kremlin for tea—“

“I included a self-addressed stamped envelope,” I continued, “asking them to write me back if they were interested in seeing copies of the drafts for those chapters, which I’d then mail them.

“The idea being that they’d read them, and then some time later—now it looks to be April 12—we’d go up there to meet them, during which time they could point out any errors they found.

“I sent eight letters, and got six replies, after which I mailed away copies of the drafts of the relevant chapters.

“And so that’s how this happened, those invitations to go up there for their Easter.”

- - - - - - - - - -

“You know,” I said to the business partner, “I’m very happy I was born and raised where I was, rather than in a blue city or blue state, where everybody’s paranoid of other people, afraid to approach strangers.”

“It always bothered me, the way people are so scared of strangers; one time when I was 20 years old and visiting my grandmother in northeastern Pennsylvania, I was walking on a sidewalk with a 12-year-old cousin, and stopped to talk to a gentleman.

“After we went on our way, she asked me, ‘Did you know him?’  ‘No,’ I said; I’d never seen him before in my life.  ‘Why did you talk to him then?’ she asked, ‘and you two talked for ten minutes, as if you knew each other.’

“’He looked like somebody interesting,’ I said; ‘and as you could see, he was.’

“It just totally freaked her, that one would just go up to a stranger and talk.

“A couple of years after that, when I was living in northern New Jersey, I used to get flak from well-meaning people who thought it was ‘dangerous,’ my habit of approaching total strangers and chitchatting with them.

“Now, New Jersey has a reputation for having rude people, nasty people, bad people, but in truth, I never once approached a New Jerseyan who didn’t stop and talk to me, sometimes for very long times.

“They seemed to be pleasantly surprised, that a stranger’d talk to them.  Of course, because of my personal manner and style, they immediately ascertained I was harmless, and wasn’t going to ask them to give me something.

“I especially made it a habit to approach and talk with those New Jerseyans who looked to be of Italianate derivation; not being familiar with people of that race, I wanted to learn what makes them tick.”

to be continued

[franksolich]

“Here, let me look at your foot,” the retired banker’s wife said when she was here this afternoon, bringing along with her Danish cherry pastries as a treat, as she knows franksolich goes ape over Danish cuisine—that is, the parts without fish in it.

I’m not of Danish derivation, but I was born in an area of the southern reaches of the Sandhills of Nebraska, an area that was prominently of Danish derivation.  And by fortuitous chance, I’d spent my childhood alongside the Platte River before coming of age in the Sandhills; another area that might as well have been in Denmark.

Danish cuisine, which is heavy into dairy and eggs, was responsible for my younger brother and me growing up to be taller, healthier, and more robust than our older brothers and sisters, all of them born and partly raised in New York City, with its execrable food.

She also brought with her some ornamental eggs, which she’d gotten via mail order from Copenhagen.

I thanked her, but was aghast she wanted to look at my foot.

- - - - - - - - - -

I’d been slumbering on the couch in the living room when she came in, as my days and nights have been, uh, highly irregular lately, given certain stresses and tensions that vex me to no end.

And now she wanted to look at my foot.

This is an 84-year-old woman, thin as a reed, who wears clothing from Nieman-Marcus, and whose earrings, necklace, and bracelets boast real rocks, not fake ones.  And she’s a long-ago graduate of Bryn Mawr.

It’s true that she’s at the same time durable and tough; earthy, egalitarian; treats even the most lowly and humble as if they were princes.  She’s a prize-winning gardener, whose many gardens in town have been displayed in nationally-prominent gardening magazines.  For decades.

She comes out here, usually, to get some baskets of soil from the William Rivers Pitt, the Jungfrau-looking mound of antique swine excrement from circa 1875 until 1950, when the barn burned down and the owners went into raising another sort of livestock.

- - - - - - - - - -

But she’s a graduate of Bryn Mawr, who shouldn’t be dealing with someone’s intimate parts.

To make it worse, she’d brought her husband, Grumpy, along with her.  I’ve never impressed Grumpy, who wears his polyester plaid pants hiked clear up to his midriff, and who, whenever he sees franksolich, mutters, “Hrumph, hrumph, hrumph.”

To make it more embarrassing, she’d also brought along her 12-year-old grandson, “Pudgy Four-Eyes,” about the last person around I was willing to let inspect an intimate part of me.

Her grandson, since he was about six or seven years old, learned that franksolich had been born without ears, and since then has always been trying to catch me with the sides of my head exposed, so he could see what a person without ears looks like.

Curiosity can sometimes go too far.

- - - - - - - - - -

“My foot’s okay,” I said; “no one needs to look at it.”

She shoved me back down onto the couch—despite appearances, it doesn’t take much—and sitting down on the ottoman nearby, hoisted my left leg onto her lap, and pulled off the sock and shoe.

Just then, Joe, of Joe & Jose came in.

Joe, despite his Texan derivation, knows the retired banker’s wife, as he’s talked with her, and at great length, before; they’re both avid gardeners.

“It looks better than it did the other day,” Joe said, encouragingly.

Joe and the retired banker’s wife are both into simple medicine; they of course don’t disdain sophisticated modern medicine, but if there’s some remedy that’s simple and basic and cheap, they’ll use it rather than going to get some pharmaceuticals, which might have some undesirable side-effects.

In this case, it was toenail fungus, and I’d been soaking the left foot, as the retired banker’s wife and Joe had suggested, in water and vinegar.

- - - - - - - - - -

My hair turned white, and my spine chilled, as she grabbed a certain surgical instrument—there’s such things around here, all high-quality stainless steel, souvenirs of my childhood and adolescence, when the parents operated small-town hospitals.

Then this graduate of Bryn Mawr began scraping out what was behind the toenail, after which she poured pure lemon juice, gotten out of the refrigerator, down it.

My God, I miserably thought; the humiliation, the degradation of it all, this genteel older woman operating on one of franksolich’s personal parts.

And in front of an audience, too.

to be continued

[franksolich]

“How’s Skippy doing?” the neighbor asked when he was here this morning, picking up something.

“I don’t know, as I haven’t looked.  As I’m a nice guy, I’m giving him a rest until his brain recovers from that operation; it’s not sportsmanlike to pick on people when they’re weak and vulnerable.

“I’d sincerely hoped that he’d come through the operation okay, but once he’s all recovered, it wouldn’t bother me at all if, one day while standing out on the balcony of his luxury seaside digs, he fell into the water below and got eaten by a shark.

“It’d be an end he truly deserves.”

- - - - - - - - - -

The neighbor isn’t into political discussion sites on the internet, but occasionally inquires about one primitive or another, as if casually asking someone addicted to televised soap operas about this character or that one.

“You were really giving him Hell,” the neighbor said; “like you used to give Atman.  And by the way, how come you finally laid off Atman?”

“Atman was too easy, and I was getting bored.  It was like playing poker with [the village idiot], not sporting.

“Then I discovered Skippy, who’d found some minor inconsequential error I’d made in something I wrote a very long time ago and griped about it as if franksolich makes big important mistakes all the time, who’s more my size.

“Actually, given his cerebral resources, Skippy’s much bigger than franksolich, but there’s nothing wrong with taking on someone bigger than oneself.”

- - - - - - - - - -

“But now I’m worried, what with three brain operations this year probably having diminished his cerebral capabilities.  The brain’s a delicate organ, and shouldn’t be tampered with, and if it is, some sort of damage is done.

“Skippy, having been unappreciative of those who brought him into this world and raised him with tender loving care and concern, had as a teenager used drugs, and by the time he was attending college in New York City, was sucking on aerosol cans.

“But little or no matter at the time; Skippy had been born with such awesome cerebrality that the burning away of a few billion brain-cells here, a few billion brain-cells there, hardly subtracted from the total.

“That however was a very long time ago; there were all those following decades of living the decadent, bacchanalian, hedonistic, too-easy, too-secure, too-comfortable life during which time the brain gets flabby and erodes.

“And of course Hate burns up brain-cells too.

“There was a time when Skippy could’ve built a Tsar Bomba-sized nuclear device all by himself, but those days, as with the salad days of youth, for Skippy are long gone, almost ancient history.

“Given his advancing old age, all this willful destruction of his greatest asset, and surgeons tampering with his brain, well, Skippy’s approaching the point to where he couldn’t design and put together a lady-finger firecracker.”

- - - - - - - - - -

“I know what really bothers you about Skippy,” the neighbor said; “he’s treacly in his sentiments about ‘handicapped’ people, condescendingly swarmy towards them, and anybody who knows you in real life knows that gets your goat.

Right, I said; “it diminishes us as human beings, looking at us that way.

“That’s why, if after Skippy recovers he walks out onto the highway and gets pancaked by a big semi-truck, I’d feel no increased secretions from the lachrymal glands over it.”

“But your good pal Manny’s the same way,” the neighbor said, “and yet you like him.”

“Manny’s a special exception,” I said; “Manny’s got something Skippy lacks, the gift of charm and charisma—remember, I long ago met him in real life, in Boston during the late 1980s, early 1990s.  He wouldn’t remember meeting me, but I remember him all too well, and fondly so.

“Manny could charm a snake out of a tree, while any self-respecting snake’d want to bite the pious unctuous Skippy.”

- - - - - - - - - -

“Are there any primitives you don’t find nauseatingly condescending towards the ‘handicapped’?” the neighbor asked.  “I’m sure there’s not many, but there’s probably a few, and being so few, you’d notice them—“

Yeah, there are a few, I said, “but I’d probably get flak for mentioning two of them, the buzzy one and Big Mo.  Despite all their primitive qualities, one’s pretty sure they see franksolich just as they see non-‘handicapped’ people; an equal to themselves.

“And based upon their comments on Skins’s island, the brooklynite primitive, the ZombieHorde primitive, Doc the PCIntern primitive, and even the pretentious cbayer primitive, strike one as willing to see the ‘handicapped’ as equals of themselves.

“Not as ‘equals’ in the sense of talents or skills or abilities—no one’s really equal in this unequal real world—but simply as equals as human beings, with feelings and thoughts and opinions that need respected.

“One thing one can say about the cbayer primitive; she’s no Ms. Vanderbilt-Astor, the NJCher primitive. 

“But for right now, I’m laying off the King of Condescension on Skins’s island, Skippy, leaving him alone, until he’s fully recovered, after which his condescending attitude’s fair game again.”

to be continued

[franksolich]

“Well, it’s Easter,” she said, as we sat out on the back porch eating lunch. She’d fixed up some leftovers from the refrigerator, while I had a twice-cooked hamburger—left over from sometime last autumn, and kept in the refrigerator until it was re-grilled today—and broccoli-and-cheese.

“What are you thinking about today?”

Ah, not much, I said; “just the sorts of things that drive Judy grasswire on Skins’s island nuts, when I write about them.  She’s one of franksolich’s most-avid readers, and I don’t like to turn her off, but damn it, I can’t help being maudlin when I feel maudlin.

“It’s Easter, and I’m thinking about my younger brother, who died when he was 17 years old, and I was 19.

“Despite that life had barely started for him before it all was suddenly over, even after all these years, all these decades, of knowing so many other people, he remains one of the most remarkable people I’ve ever known.”

“I think everybody in your family was remarkable,” she said; “even the ones you didn’t like, the ones who gave you so much trouble.”

She was referring to the six older brothers and sisters.

“Well, remember,” I replied; “it always seemed as if we had two different sets of parents, and that great difference in ages between the older six and the youngest two was significant too.

“They’d been raised by the book, the Book of Dr. Benjamin Spock, and after the first six, it was assumed there’d be no more, and the book was thrown away.  Then the family moved from New York City out to Nebraska, and surprise! I emerged, and two years later, my younger brother.

“The book was by then in some landfill in New Jersey, and so the parents had to raise the last two of us purely by parental instinct.”

- - - - - - - - - -

“My younger brother, even when just a small child, had a certain gift for getting along with difficult people, in this case retarded people of all ages, genders, and levels of functionability.

“I on the other hand was scared of retarded people; scared that I’d be associated with them, because of my own, uh, peculiar circumstances.  Whenever I saw one coming down the sidewalk, I rushed over to the other side of the street, as I didn’t want others to associate me with one of them.

“I think I know why I felt this way.  The town alongside the Platte River where we spent our childhood, before moving up into the Sandhills, was populated mostly by Goldwater, Scranton, and Rockefeller voters, but there were a few Kennedy, Johnson, and Humphrey voters too.

“Republicans and conservatives tended to be accepting of everybody coming their way, treating all as equals, but bleeding-heart Democrats and liberals were wholly different. 

“I suspect a Kennedy, Johnson, or Humphrey voter at one time or another expressed pity that I was ‘retarded’—based only upon a superficial first impression—and as it was expressed by an adult, I believed it.

“I got to become very skittish, very nervous, about being thought of as one of them, because I wasn’t.  So I avoided them like the plague.”

- - - - - - - - - -

“My younger brother, for whatever reason, took to them.

“I used to get vexed at this; if he was going to be friends with the disabled, why couldn’t he at least be friends with respectable disabilities, such as the blind or the palsied or whatever?

“And there was this disturbing thought; maybe I, his older brother, was responsible for his being the way he was.

“As he grew older, of course he did some ‘work’ with them in organized settings, but for the most part, they were just friends of his, people with whom he enjoyed playing, talking with, and sharing confidences.

“When he became a teenager, he of course couldn’t take them to high-school football practice with him, but if one wanted to go to the golf course with him, or hunting with him, yeah, sure, no problem.  And the individual went as ‘one of the gang,’ not simply as someone ‘different.’

“Of course, they had limited capabilities—some very much so—and he had to ‘adjust’ things to their level of competence and understanding, not allowing them to do certain things (such as shooting a firearm or tearing up a golf course green), but he was so patient, and did it with such sensitivity no one was offended.

- - - - - - - - - -

“He was of course very popular with regular people too, as everyone in family was, and it was remarked many times that he’d make an exceptionally-good teacher for the retarded, or social worker for them.

“Now, a life ended at seventeen’s too soon to speculate upon later behavior, if it had had a chance to happen, but I doubt he was going that direction.

“The two of us did have one similarity; we were both more effective when dealing with people informally, rather than in structured or organized settings. 

“He wanted the retarded people as friends; any thought of them as being part of a job, and a job for which one’s paid, would’ve turned him off.

“I suspect if God had given him more time, he would’ve gone into some other sort of career, in no way related to ‘serving’ the retarded, at the same time in his social life, his free time, maintaining friendships with people who suited him very much.”

- - - - - - - - - -

“Of course, not being a primitive, my attitude about the retarded changed, and for the better, with time and maturity, but it’s too bad I hadn’t changed enough by the time he died.

“I was under a lot of stress, and young.  It was near Christmas, and the whole state of Nebraska was being blasted by feet of snow, tons of snow.  I was the only one in the family—the others being further scattered, and with spouses and small children to accommodate—who could get into the heart of the snow-buried, wind-blasted Sandhills, to make the arrangements for the funeral.

“For his pallbearers, conceited ass as I was, I selected his hip, cool, trendy, with-it, favorite high-school classmates, all of whom of course wished to serve.

“Well, yeah, that was okay, but upon later reflection, I regretted that I hadn’t instead selected six of his retarded friends, who’d had pitifully few opportunities in life to be of good to someone else, and badly wished to be.”

to be continued