The Massage

The Massage

by

Brian Hughes

Arlen waited with a smile until the homely, Chinese masseuse ducked behind the curtain, giving him privacy to disrobe. Arlen was smiling because he didn’t care whether the woman stayed or not, he was quite comfortable will his all-together swaying in the pristine spa air. Climbing onto the massage table, he slid his naked, tightly built body underneath a white sheet and stretched his legs out as far as he could – feeling the strain of his muscles.

The masseuse ducked her head back in and smiled:
“Okay … yes?”
“Yes, come in. I’m ready,” Arlen said, then exhaled, watching the masseuse’s feet moving to and fro from the face cutout in the bench. She placed a full-length towel over the backside of his body and began loosening his muscles by rubbing him from his feet to his calves to his ribs, on up to his shoulders and neck. After mustering up the proper chi, the masseuse unfurled the towel to just above his ass. Arlen closed his eyes as tranquil new age music emanated softly from two speakers sitting high above the room on shelves. The masseuse squeezed out massage oil into her hands then hovered her palms just below Arlen’s face in the cutout so that he might catch some aromatherapy. He liked it – a musky, tropical banana smell. Arlen liked bananas. He also liked the heat that existed between her hands and his body as she rubbed the back of his neck and shoulders. And with every tissue pressed and knot untied, he liked to imagine all the metaphoric cancers and muscle diseases and tumors being squeezed out of him. That with every session a force field of peace and goodness was taking reign over his body, a realm where no diseases could ever penetrate. It was the power of positive reinforcement and healing. Arlen couldn’t prove that it worked, but to his way of thinking, the mind was capable of so many powers as yet unknown to humans, that this was as good a technique as any in fighting the failures and frailties of the body. In his mind’s eye, he could see cancer cells wafting to the ceiling and popping like a child’s bubbles.

He groaned as the masseuse kneed a shoulder joint with her elbow. She giggled just then. Arlen thought that was cute. He wasn’t familiar with this particular gal. Her name was Mary. Yeah, right … if her name is Mary, then mine is Ming, he thought. “Ugggghhhh,” went Arlen as she giggled again. “Why are you giggling?” Mary just laughed again and said something under her breath in broken English that he couldn’t quite understand. She was a small woman, but the deep tissue massage she was dishing out, the strength and glorious force, made Arlen think that perhaps she was a goddess – the goddess “Masseuse” or something. Leaving him was the kidney failure, the arthritis, the Lou Gherig’s disease, the pancreatic cancer.

“You have nice, strong body,” Mary said.
“Thank you. I work out.”
“Yes, I can tell.” Mary laughed again as she began rubbing Arlen’s legs, moving up the thigh and skimming his ball sack. Arlen’s cock woke up. He didn’t like to get a hardon during a massage, though he was perfectly fine with it; but he liked to avoid it, so he began thinking about the company wide layoffs due in the spring, about his life insurance, about who would catch for the Yankees now that Posada was on the DL. Arlen kept the little guy at bay until she began working the other leg, continuing to giggle as she was moving up and down it. Why was she giggling so much? Can she see that I’m getting a woody? Maybe I didn’t wipe my ass well enough, he thought in a panic. No, that wasn’t it he thought – he had showered before he arrived.

“You’re so good! I’m really enjoying this.”
“Ummm, yeah … I can tell,” Mary said with a laugh.
Okay, she definitely knows I’m hard, Arlen thought. No doubt. All her giggling reminded him of one of those blooper shows where they show outtakes of an actress who keeps cracking up during a scene. It’s not very professional, he thought, but it’s making me more and more hard. She began working Arlen’s fingers.
“You married?”
“Yes I am.”
“Hum.”
“Are you married?”
“Oh no! I would love to be married, but you taken.”
“Now, now … I know you must have lots of boyfriends with those magical hands of yours.”
“No … no… I wish, but no…” Mary continued to giggle.
As she lifted his leg up and stretched it, his penis began to swish against the table, causing it to stiffen slightly. Arlen tried to continue to stay focused on the massage, not that he was getting excited - concentrating further on his body, on his immune system, on his survival.
“You have nice build. Yes.”
“You have an attractive body as well. Why haven’t you found a nice man yet?”
She let out a guffaw, slapping her hands down on Arlen’s ass in exasperation.
“I not been lucky to find white collar man like yourself.”
“You don’t want a white collar man like myself. Oh, no … I’m no good.”
“Oh, yes … like you… yes…” she giggled again as she switched legs – his hardening cock pressing against his abdomen. Arlen would moan now and again – especially as she worked his thighs and calves, the last set of squats at the gym having really tore them up pretty good.
“You’re so good my Chinese flower … so good.”
“Ummm … yes, I can tell…” said Mary with a grin.

After she walked on his back, pressing her toes deep into his spine, after she had elbowed everything into pure bliss, it was time for Mary to work the front of his torso. Arlen happily turned over – hardly shy to expose his large erection. Mary snuck a look and placed the towel over his center region. She started scrubbing his head, digging her fingernails into his scalp – it was his least liked part of the session, but there was a glutton for punishment deep inside Arleb that prevented him from telling her to stop: He just squeezed his teeth together and imagined brain cancer being rubbed out like a Brillo pad working out the grease on a stove. After a thorough massage of his feet, arms and legs, she ran her hands across his hairless, muscular chest, and moved down his torso just far enough to knick the head of his penis. Arlen was tenser now that the session was near completion than when he had entered the room.
“You know Mary, it’s tough … and, you know, I’m sorry that I’m, you know,” Arlen said gesturing to his erect shaft. She giggled once more, throwing her hands in front of her eyes in a playful motion. “And you know,” Arlen continued, “it’s a muscle and all, and it is left to just … to just be there, ya know.” He shook his head and sighed. The massage was over and Mary handed Arlen his robe. Arlen slowly put it on, making sure to give Mary one last look before she exited the room. She did look again, and smiled.

Arlen and his wife, Doris, sat on large comfy chairs in the rest area, eating fruit and enjoying the ambiance of lit candles and small, manmade waterfalls. Arlen needed terribly to go home and fuck Doris – he was frustrated, chewing up pineapple – brooding on his massage.
“I’m more tense now that the massage is over than when I went in.”
“Why?”
Doris was a former Houston, Texas beauty pageant runner up. Her body was still firm, but her face was collapsing under a canopy of large blonde hair.
“Because she was touching me near my penis and she was giggling.”
“I bet you enjoyed it. There is such a double standard in this world.”
“Actually … I didn’t enjoy it.”
“If a guy had done something like that to me, you would have gotten angry at the guy and probably at me!”
“I didn’t like it, I said.”
“You should say something, that’s very unprofessional AND I think illegal.”
“Yeah, well …”
Mary the massager brought a tray of juices over to Arlen and Doris, smiling.” They gave her a dirty look. “I’m not thirsty,” Arlen said.
“Say something,” Doris said. Arlen remained mum. Mary walked away – confused.
“I knew you wouldn’t say something – just like you. You probably loved it, that’s why you won’t say anything.”
“I tell you, that is not true. It made me very uncomfortable.”
“So uncomfortable that you won’t say anything.”

After Arlen and Doris had dressed, they walked up to the front to pay for their massages. Doris began putting her shoes on. Arlen looked frustrated as he handed his credit card to the squeaky clean Asian boy manning the front desk.
“Will you be paying for both, sir?”
“Yes – and … let me tell you, I find this establishment to be very unprofessional and highly distasteful. My massager, ‘Mary’ I believe her name was, kept massaging near my private area, making me very uncomfortable. I don’t know what she was expecting, but I asked her repeatedly to stop and she wouldn’t hear it. I don’t know if she could understand English or something, but I was very put off.”
“That is terrible Sir. I can assure you, we are not one of those establishments.”
“Well, I think you had better have a talk with ‘Mary’ – or can her ass, because she can get arrested for stuff like that? If she thinks I’m a ‘John’ – she has another thing coming.”
“Please fell free to write our Manager, she is not working today, and I’m sure she will take care of the situation. I am very sorry sir; we will not charge you for your session. I am very, very sorry.”
Arlen continued on like that for another minute or two as he put on his three hundred dollar pair of shoes.
“I’m very proud of you,” Doris said, hugging Arlen around as they left.

Klinger

The day Walter Klinger met You Tube, his life changed forever.
Geoffrey Salamander, System’s Analyst and co-worker of Walter’s for L.P. Richardi Communication’s Company, brought up the topic of classic television one fine afternoon as they waited on line for sushi in the company food court.
“I’m telling you, ya can’t buy Same Time Next Year on DVD yet – it’s unavailable. Yet some genius in Finland posted his video taped version of it on this site. And what’s great is that he posted the original pilot – not the one that officially aired. I’m telling ya, I was psyched!”
“So this site runs the gamut, huh?”
“Yeah – they have video of just about anything on there: the latest news headlines, music videos, old Ed Sullivan programs – the works.”
Walter and Geoffrey walked the sushi over to their regular table – by the water fountain, where all the pretty girls sat and showed off their legs. Walter liked Geoffrey fine enough, but he always wore short sleeve plaid shirts with tan khakis and spat when he talked.
“So what you’re saying is they would have The Love Boat on there and Magnum, P.I. and Soap and everything?” Walter asked.
“Yeah, sure – but I think Magnum, P.I. and Soap are on DVD already,” Geoffrey said, spitting out chunks of sushi as he yapped away.
“I don’t buy DVDs – I buy memorabilia – memories.”
“The Love Boat isn’t out on DVD; at least I don’t think so.”
“You know what one of my favorite TV shows was?”
“What?”
“I’m almost ashamed to say it…”
“Go ahead…”
“The Facts of Life.”
“That’s so gay!” Geoffrey implored with a cackle.
“Come on … don’t judge. Are you telling me that Blair
in her uniform didn’t do anything for you?”
“No, I watched Charlie’s Angels, or Victoria Principal on Dallas, or Suzanne Sommers on Three’s Company to get off.”
“Whatever – this sushi sucks!”
“Check out the site, let me know what you think, I know how much you’re stuck in the past all the time – you should love it.”
Walter didn’t need anything else in his life to distract him, with the bowling team, having taken care of mom, the auto show coming to town the following week, and he still had to catalog the rest of his sports memorabilia; the last thing he needed was something else – another passion to overtake him and render the rest of his free time useless. Oh, well, he’d have to see for himself what this site was all about. He tried to put it out of his mind for the rest of the day, but the thought that they just might have episodes of Fridays on the site, with cast member Melanie Chartoff, was enough to make his heart jump eight stories. Boy! What a crush I had on her – and how damn funny she was, Walter thought, as he laughed to himself, remembering how he told all his friends that he would marry her someday. What a mope.

Jimbo, the doorman, always asked Walter how his day was when he promptly entered his building at five after six, and was usually told the same thing day after day:
“Fine. Nothing special.”
“Have a good evening, Sir.”
“You as well, Jimbo.”
And so … the evening would begin as most nights: Walter would throw into the oven his customary Thursday evening meal – a Stouffer’s Mac and Cheese, making sure to cook it until it was nice and crispy. Sometimes Walter would leave it in their smoldering for an hour or more. Walter thought it was a sin to cook a Stouffer’s Mac and Cheese in a microwave. It had to be cooked to crispiness, or else what was the point in having it? He got himself all comfortable in his Notre Dame sweats, and instead of beginning his evening with the usual amateur porn wack-off session, he’d place himself in front of the computer to see what all this You Tube stuff was about.
Into the search engine he typed “Fridays TV show.” And sure enough the little video images popped up and Walter became intrigued. Wow! This is amazing! He thought. Fridays was an SNL-like sketch comedy rip off that aired on ABC for two seasons. The first sketch he watched was Michael Richards, of Seinfeld fame, portraying his “Dick” character. “Dick” was a character who thought he was a supreme ladies man, with shirt open and chest hair exposed; yet time and again he’d fumble and embarrass himself at every turn. The character was actually an early incarnation of “Kramer”. It was a character that made Walter, his older brother and their Mom, roll all over their shag rug blue carpet in stitches.
Next ol’ Walt clicked on “The Family Fight Sketch” and the “George Bargate” sketch, and finally the “marijuana/ dinner” sketch where Andy Kaufman and Michael Richards got into a fight. Well, it wasn’t a real fight, but at the time everyone thought it was. Classic television! And the night was just beginning.
The Mac and Cheese was done to an ultimate crisp as Walter lovingly scraped the hardened cheese from the sides of the black, plastic container, all the while typing in those television keywords into the You Tube search engine.
Next up: The Love Boat. What he found were several “show intro’s” displaying all the co-stars on that particular broadcast. What a trip down memory lane! As soon as The Love Boat theme kicked in, tears began welling in Walter’s eyes. It was as if a gust of happy wind blew into his face. Once familiar faces he hadn’t seen in years and had totally forgotten about: Skip Stephenson from Real People, Jenilee Harrison, Gordon Jump, Katherine Helmond, Morgan Brittany (who he had a crush on back in the day), Dick Shawn, and how bout their final season theme song, awfully reprised by Dionne Warwick! Walter had never thought of it, but perhaps by pairing up John Ritter, Sherman Hemsley and Jacklyn Smith on The Love Boat, it was the network’s way of seeing how their big television stars acted together.
After watching episodes of Hart to Hart, Hotel and BJ and the Bear, Walter took a beer break. Damn! I forgot – I have to pay my bills tonight, he thought. Walt’s home was a sociological study in memorabilia and pack ratting. One whole wall had a Daily News version of the Leaning Tower of Pisa – with newspapers stacked to the ceiling. Dozens of framed and signed pictures of athletes encased in bubble wrap were stacked on the floor or against the walls, waiting to be shipped out to buyers. His most prized collection were the classic Wheaties cereal boxes that he had bought for a total of six thousand dollars. Above the couch, fastened to the wall, was a framed picture someone had made of Walter running with a football on his own Wheaties box. He just loved that thing. Everything was pretty much sports themed, with New York Giants ashtrays, a Giants gumball machine, Yankees bathroom towels – even his clothes hangers were red and blue – the colors of the Giants. Two stacks of videotapes, on either side of his flat screen television, acted as makeshift coffee tables. Photos of his deceased Mom, Dorothy, were placed sporadically around the house – even in his bathroom.
Having dropped the bills off in the mail shoot in his lobby, he plopped himself in front of the computer screen and masturbated to an amateur video before delving into The Facts of Life portion of the night’s proceedings. A genius from Cleveland had cut together all nine season intros of the show together, so he could watch the girls grow up in about seven minutes and forty-six seconds. Walter had forgotten how the producers ditched the characters of “Nancy”, “Sue-Ann”, “Cindy” and “Molly” – “Molly” of course being the soon to be superstar Molly Ringwald; and how the backdrop of the series changed from the “Eastland School” to “Edna’s Edibles” to the “Over Our Head” store with Cloris Leachman. Such memories of watching the shows with his Nana and Mom were coursing through his veins – producing tears again. If Walter hadn’t been the king of nostalgia yet, with his mementoes, memorabilia and his saving every important headline of The Daily News for the past 23 years, then You Tube was sure to push him way over the brink.
Walter would in fact “jumpped the shark.”
After a marathon run of Magnum, P.I. – Walter found himself asleep at the computer when a police siren awoke him at 3:30 in the morning. Holy Shit, he shouted, as he tore off his clothes and stammered into bed.

“Well, what do you think of You Tube?” asked Geoffrey, as he and Walter prepped their espresso heavy coffee.
“It’s a revelation! I’m compiling a list of things I want to look at tonight. Everything from old New Year’s Eve programs, to David Suskind and Joe Franklin shows to a bunch of rare concert stuff from MTV’s heyday.”
“I knew you’d love it.”
“I fell asleep at the damn computer last night.”
Walter and Geoffrey had a good hearty laugh at that one.
“Are you going to Jason’s Soprano’s party on Sunday?”
“Nah,”
“It’s the last season – it’s getting exciting.”
“Yeah … I know … it’s historic and stuff, but I haven’t watched it at all.”
“Come up to the times Walt!”
“I think you created a monster.”
“Hah!”
“I was thinking about throwing a Magnum, P.I. party myself.”
Geoffrey almost choked on his coffee.
“Dude that would be hysterical. It could even be a theme party! You could have a luau, and buy leis and coconuts and everything!”
“That’s a good idea … I mean, I really like the show Magnum, P.I. I think it was a well crafted and smartly written show.”
“Yeah, whatever … be a fun night.”

Walter went to town and rented all the seasons of Magnum, P.I. available on DVD from the local library. Having watched most of them in their original airing, the plot lines and nuances started to come back to him. He remembered why he loved the show. Thomas Magnum was a former Naval Intelligence officer who served three tours of duty in Vietnam. It was the first television show of its kind to deal with characters who were veterans of the Vietnam War.
In fact, many of the best episodes, Walt was finding out, had to deal with incidents that triggered Magnum’s memories of the war. There was also that cool rapport he had with T.C., the owner of a helicopter charter company, and Rick, nightclub owner and Magnum’s link to the criminal underworld. Thomas Magnum was just plain cool to Walt – that’s all, and he took the next several weeks to watch every episode, either on DVD or on the Sleuth channel.
But what episode or episodes would Walter choose for his party? Magnum, P.I. had plenty of two-parters, and several cliffhangers. It was a big choice, and one he didn’t want to take lightly. So, he decided to cast a vote and e-mailed all the Magnum, P.I. aficionados to see what their opinion of the best episode was.
Out of twenty one responses, fourteen fans choose episode number 157 – “Unfinished Business” - in which Magnum seeks revenge on his nemesis Quang Ki – a man who nearly killed Magnum and his family.
Walter was excited that he hadn’t chosen the episode, for there were so many fine ones to choose from. He just knew that if he had chosen it, he would feel guilty if it didn’t go over well with the guests. This way, if it bombed, he could blame the nutty fans.

“Whatcha doing?” asked Geoffrey, as he sprung on Walter’s cubicle, making him jump. Walter hated when Geoffrey did that.
“I’m sending out invitations to the Magnum, P.I. party.”
“You’re literally sending out invitations?”
“Yeah – isn’t that what you are supposed to do when you have a party – send an invitation.”
“Well, yeah … but you could just create an E-Invite page and you’d be able to send an e-mail out to everybody all at once.”
“I knew that … I knew that …”
“Oh, okay…”
“I wanted to stick to the retro theme of the event: see the invitations? They have a coconut tree on them.”
“Nice. Did you remind them to dress up Hawaiian and all that?”
“Yes I did.”
“I hope you don’t mind, but I told Lucy about the party. I think she’s a hot little number, not really my type, but yours, and I found out that she’s a classic TV nut.”
“Okay.”
“Who knows … maybe you and Lucy can get together and create some coconut milk.”
“Very funny.”

Walt’s You Tube obsession continued through his Magnum phase, staying up most nights till 2:30 am. His trip down television memory lane provoked Walter to buy a CD called The All-Time Top 100 Television Themes. He snatched it off of Amazon.com and played it continuously on his CD Walkman to and from work on the Metro North train. The Fantasy Island and Dynasty themes made him cry, as did Jack Jones’ The Love Boat theme. He couldn’t help but think of his Nana, who had always had a school girl crush on John Forsythe.
Walter was careful not to be seen weeping over all this sappy television music he was listening to as he sat on the train. What made him so sad? He tried to figure it out. Why was all of this nostalgia a source of sadness to him, instead of joy? Why did he like to be sad? Why was it necessary for him to live in the past all the time? He loved his Mom and Nana, that was true, but he knew it was not normal for a man in his late thirties to be obsessing over Magnum, P.I., You Tube, and television themes. Even if he were trying to get closer to his deceased family, why did he have that need to? It was all so terribly confusing, and a heck of a horrible way to start a work day.

“Walter, you’ve outdone yourself man …” said Geoffrey, as he entered Walt’s pad with a hot Mexican girl around his arm.
Walt had his entire apartment cleaned and decorated, having dumped all his memorabilia and filth in his bedroom. On the front door, as guests entered, Walter had placed a poster length picture of Tom Selleck as Magnum, and a velvet “Aloha” door sign. Inflatable palm trees decorated each side of the front door as you entered and beer was at the ready as soon as you stepped into the foyer – sitting delightfully cold in a tiki tub cooler. Tissue decorations of tropical fish, parrots, sunbursts and seashells were dotted in between color photocopied pictures of the cast of Magnum, P.I. Coconut cups, luau plastic plates, colorful leis and snacks sat on a tiki fringed table skirt. He was even cool enough to have some Poi, Lomilomi Salmon and both pork and beef laulaus catered to everyone’s delight.
But there was one thing Walter didn’t count on as he greeted his co-workers and guests with leis: that they had no real intention of watching the brilliance that was Magnum, P.I. They were there for the food, beer and to make fun of the show. Two guests did, however, dress up as Thomas Magnum, with moustache, Detroit Tigers cap and Hawaiian shirt, and John Hillerman, not so much as his character “Jonathan Quayle Higgins III”, but as the white suited Hillerman from the macadamia nuts adds.
It all seemed to go in Walt’s favor, as he turned off the Don Ho music and politely asked for silence as he delved into a minor speech about the episode and the implications involved. There were giggles throughout, and mostly everyone couldn’t wait for Walter to sit back down so that they could continue to talk and flirt with one another.
Walter killed the lights and began playing the episode on his DVD player. When the charismatic Mike Post theme kicked in, the guests hooted and hollered and clapped. Walter liked that. He knew that as soon as they saw the intro, they would be hooked. But it was not to be.
About twenty minutes in, Walter shot a snide look at one of his coworkers - Josh Weiner - who was acting up and making fart sounds. Further into the episode, at a key pivotal moment, when Thomas Magnum receives a video tape containing the awful fate of his ex-wife and daughter, John made a loud and obvious yawn. Walter stood up and pointed to Josh – damning him to hell:
“You! Stop acting like such an ass! Can’t you see there are some people here who are watching this episode and enjoying it?”
“Shut you mouth Walt, or I will shut it for you.”
Walter grabbed a glass hula doll and smashed it against his living room wall. “Do you think I’m kidding Josh? Huh! I have a lot of pent up anger! Don’t fuck with me or my Magnum, or so help me God, I will slice you from ear to ear with a broken beer bottle.”
Everyone is the crowd grew silent, as Lucy paused the episode.
“Who needs this shit? I’m getting out of here.” Josh said as he gave the party guests the finger and sauntered out of the apartment.
A few people congratulated Walter for taking a stand as Lucy resumed play. But Walter was now very uncomfortable. He had never made such an outburst in public and it scared him a bit. What was the point of getting so angry at a silly television show? Lucy rubbed him on the back and whispered in his ear: “I think you are brave. Maybe we can go to Carlo’s Soprano’s party this Sunday. It’s the season finale.”
Walter looked at Lucy and smiled, then turned to the television screen to Thomas Magnum, who was looking right at Walter:
“Why don’t you go to The Soprano’s party? I hear it’s a good show. I’d love to watch it, but I’m trapped in 80’s Hawaii. I think Lucy likes you,” Thomas Magnum said with a wink.
Walter nodded toward the screen.
“You’re a good man. Don’t be trapped by the past – let it go. It will always be here. The present, however, is passing you by. Magnum, P.I. and all of this Nostalgia makes for good memories now and then, but you can’t cling to it Walt. You have to move on – trust me.”
“Yeah, I see what you mean.”
“Go to the party – follow a show in your own era, and come up to date – you’ll feel better.”
“Okay Magnum.”
Walter smiled just then and turned to blonde haired Lucy. “You’re going to have to fill me in on the last five seasons of The Sopranos.”
“That’s no problem, why don’t you come over to my apartment one night and we’ll catch up.”
“That sounds nice. I’d like that.”
And on that night, Walter Klinger began the slow and arduous journey back toward the present.

Hot Wheels Ernesto

by Brian Hughes

Ernesto, hunched a bit, favoring his right side, was pleading to someone at a pay telephone on the corner. This was the first image I had of Ernesto Giacobelli – desperate and small. And his name was Ernesto, not Ernie. If you called him Ernie you'd hear about it, or else get a sideways glance and an expletive. Ernesto loved to curse. He was the type of guy who, when he cursed you, made you feel - cursed. I mean you became leery of stepping on cracks, crossing streets, or walking under ladders.
We were both trapped at The St. James House for broken souls (the "broken souls" is my additive bit.) I was eighteen and thought my problems were mine only and nobody else's. I was a bit of a prick. I knocked up a helluva girl and bolted, leaving my parents to have to deal with the whole mess. I was hungry, and the dough I saved for my dream Camero was dwindling fast. I was scared shitless and I wasn't about to let anyone know it. Father Volkoff, a burly man with Popeye forearms, said I could stay for three months when I told him I was good with my hands and could help with the general upkeep of the joint. I had nowhere to go. I needed a place to think and I was grateful.
I remember bitchin' about all the work they had us do there: garbage, cooking, cleaning, you name it. But, I bitched a lot then. It wasn't a lot to ask, considering they were giving you a roof and three square meals a day. Father Volkoff was toughest when it came to your room. I was never in the military, but I imagine Father Volkoff's room checks weren't a whole lot different from a drill instructor's. Clothing had to be neatly stowed, beds made perfectly, and windows spotless. Father would grade you and he had a three-strike system. Three strikes, and, of course, you were out on your ass. This brings us back once again to Ernesto.
Ernesto tried to stay a snappy dresser. The few clothes he had, and one suit, were time capsule pieces from the 1970s. He could hardly see and wore thick black glasses that only accentuated his gaunt face. And as much as he looked at himself in the mirror, combing the thin strands of his hair across his round head, and as much as he cared about his appearance and clothes, nothing compared to the love and attention Ernesto gave to his Hot Wheels collection. You know what I'm talking about - the little, tiny toy cars. Yeah, those are the ones. Well, Ernesto was crazy about them.
He and I were on the same floor - that's how I got to know about them, cause we were forbidden to visit other people on other floors. He kept them underneath his bed in their original cases. They were inside a box that looked as if it were taped and re-taped over a dozen times. Ten Hot Wheels cars were in that box, and to my untrained eye, they looked like they were in mint condition.
"This little beauty is a classic 1931 Ford Woody," Ernesto would say proudly underneath a dim hanging light. "It has a metallic, hot pink exterior, dark brown interior, smooth roof, and redline tires, of course. When last I checked, this little fella fetches anywhere from two-hundred and fifty to three-hundred clams."
"Really?"
"You betcha. And this here is another prized possession of mine," Ernesto said as he pulled another out. "The Cheetah, number 6216, metallic dark brown, gray interior, clear, and large windows – about one-hundred and ten smack-a-roonies."
"When did they start making these cars?"
"Around 1965 or 1966 – in there. I was always a car nut. I started to collect them when I was nineteen."
"So, you never played with Hot Wheels like I did?"
"Oh, no! I never removed these from their packaging." It was then that Ernesto looked down at his box with a somewhat forlorn expression. "Yeah, it use to be that I had a lot of these jiggers, but, ya know, rough times, can't hold on to everything. I use to have the collector's case, the half-curve accessory pack, the super charger – all sold to stay alive."
"Wow!"
"Yeah, but if I had to pick my favorite car, it'd have to be this little jigger; number 6276." Ernesto held it up as if it were the Holy Grail. "Rolls Royce Silver Shadow – metallic, emerald green interior. They were imported from Honk Kong. You can't get these in the US of A. It's a real class car. It's not worth a whole lot, about a hundred and ten dollars or so, but it's the car I always imagined myself being driven around in: you know, like Arthur in the movies."
"Like who?"
"Arthur – as in the movie Arthur."
"I've never seen it."
"Well, it's like that motion picture. I always thought I'd hit it rich and that would be it; off to a Rolls Royce dealership to order my own custom made number 6276."

Russell hated Ernesto, worse he'd call Ernesto, “Ernie.” He'd sneer at Ernesto when he passed him in the lounge. And when we'd all have a smoke in the garden, Russell would sit off to the side murmuring to himself, always keeping one eye on Ernesto.
"I swear to Christ, I don't know why the man hates me," Ernesto would say, shaking his head slowly back and forth while flicking his ash.
"Give him a fat lip and a swollen eye, he won't bother you none after that," Willie said. Willie was a farmer. He had a huge birthmark on his face and a sack of bad luck.
"Maybe he likes you," said gay Marvin, raising his eyebrows and smiling.
"Violence isn't the answer. I have to confront him and ask, what the fuck gives?"

But what of Ernesto's three strikes?
Ernesto was a gambling man tried and true; looked to gamble any way he could. This, of course, was one of the main reasons why Ernesto was at The St. James. So, one night Ernesto was listening to a Lakers game on his little, white radio. It was getting late, way past our television curfew. But Ernesto just had to see the last two minutes of the game. The radio just wouldn't do, so Ernesto snuck out to the rec room. He knew that Father Volkoff took his evening shit at about half past eleven. Father was usually good for about twenty minutes in the head, doing God knows what? Just for the record, we never caught Father doing anything unbecoming a priest. He had an insatiable appetite for Catholic Digest and Scientific American. This is what we imagined he was doing in there – reading.
So there Ernesto was – crouched on a lounge chair in his pj's, hands clenched together, praying for a late rally miracle when Father Volkoff walked out and reprimanded Ernesto.
Strike one.
The second strike would be a bit more involved.
The ghost face of Ernesto's estranged daughter was embossed on the body of one Kika Rawlings. Kika was a single mother who lived with the nuns at the slightly more luxurious Sister Marie's Family Shelter. Only single mothers were allowed at The Sister Marie. Ernesto struck up a conversation with the young mother one cloudy day as she rolled her son Sebastian up and down the block in a stroller. Kika had been left for dead by an angry boyfriend when he found out about her pregnancy. Kika wore purple jeans and flowery blouses, and a pair of dirty, rundown sandals. Kika still thought the sandals were comfortable. Ernesto, however, insisted that they were no type of sandals a young mother should be wearing, so, at a second hand store, with the money he was going to use to buy some badly needed toiletry products, he bought Kika a new pair with imitation daffodils on them. Kika was thankful, but still wore the old ones rather than the new ones.
"How could some letch bastard beat on his lady like that – pregnant no less with his child!" Ernest would wonder out loud as we dried dishes in the pantry and watched Kika across the way in the playground at The Sister Marie.
"Are you in love, Ernesto?" I'd ask.
"Oh, no, no, no. I'm not attracted to her in that way. I feel sorry for her, that's all. That, and she looks like my daughter, who I haven't seen in over ten years." Ernesto would go on with his duties. He was meticulous with every chore he did; inspected every cup and saucer in the sunlight before putting them away in the cabinets. "It's tough being a young mother with no boyfriend or husband – all alone in the world – tough." And then, after we were done with our chores, he'd pull me aside and confide in me with those eight ball eyes behind coke bottle lenses:
"To tell you the truth, I've gone through some tough times over the past twenty years, and, well, I don't know, sex doesn't mean a whole lot in the grand scope of things anymore. I've been just trying to keep my head above water, so that type of thing don't mean a hill of beans anymore, ya know. I'm not even sure the equipment works anymore."
Of course, back then, I couldn't think of anything else but blowjobs. But now, looking back on that time, I realize that Ernesto was one of the loneliest men I've ever met
Every now and then I'd spy the two of them talking on the corner or across the street. Ernesto would always bring her a coffee or a tea from the local deli, or perhaps a flower, or a new rattle for the baby from the local dollar store. One thing that was becoming obvious was that Kika began to cut their conversations short, leaving Ernesto standing there, watching her walk back into the Sister Marie. Ernesto would look sullen as he walked back in with sunken shoulders. I didn't ask, I just stayed out of it. After a time, they stopped seeing each other altogether. I don't know what happened between them, if he said something, or she did, but it stopped.

Ernesto and I had a regular routine. We'd take our food stamps and what little money we had and go to Carlo's Newsstand to buy some daily papers, grab whatever free weeklies we could and look for employment, or possibly some cheap places to live. We'd actually talk about renting a room together over a sandwich at Jerome's Restaurant. I think I was having a lentil soup when I stopped, looked at Ernesto, who was rubbing a scratch off game with a dime, and thought: what am I doing, hanging around this old timer? A man old enough to be my father, and a gambler no less. I should have been talking with Doreen, making plans with her. I loved Doreen, even though I wouldn't admit it then. I just felt awful, cold and lonely that day at Jerome's. I couldn't commit to anything, I stank and Ernesto told me as much. So it was on that day that I started to make plans in the right direction and those plans did not include Ernesto.
Scratch off games – actually, any type of gambling were against house rules.
"If Father Volkoff catches you with that stuff, you know your ass is singed."
"I know, I know, kid."
Well, Father Volkoff found some of the spent scratch up games in Ernesto's closet. He was steamed.
Strike two.

On the same day the girls and nuns decided to throw a birthday party for Kika at The Sister Marie, Ernesto had an appointment with the doctor. His stomach pains were rendering him useless. I'd knock on his door and the lights would be out, shades drawn, and he'd be balled up on the bed sweating. I'd ask him if everything was all right, but he'd never show his hand.
"Sure, kid. I just didn't get much sleep, that's all. I'm trying to catch up."
As I said, Ernesto was a gambler and he liked to see what he could get away with without getting caught. On the way back from his visit with the doctor, Ernesto stopped by a pawnshop where a vase in the window caught his cue ball eyes. I don't know what it looked like, but apparently it depicted some type of Mediterranean scene: a woman was drawing some water from a well with a jug. The woman looked as if she had some problems, just like Kika.
"How much for the vase?"
"Twenty-nine, ninety-nine," the proprietor said, wearing thick gold looped earrings. He must have been in his late sixties. Ernesto thought it kinda strange for a man of that age wearing looped earrings like that. Ernesto mulled over the price for a moment, inspecting the vase. If he spent thirty bucks on the vase, he could probably sell one of the Hot Wheel cars and live on that for another week until the next welfare check came. He really didn't want to let another car go, but he wanted to make amends with Kika, and it being her birthday and all. How many times had Ernesto sold his stuff away for something so less important than Kika?
"I'll take it. Do you have a box, or something to put it in?"
Ernesto was pretty excited. He had to get to the Sister Marie quickly cause the curfew at The Saint James was eight o'clock in the pm and it was just turning seven-fifty. He moved with short, curt steps, pain nagging him in the side, coughing a bit, but finally made it there just under eight. A homely woman was behind the front desk.
"Is Kika in? My name is Ernesto."
"Hold on, let me go check. Please sign in."
"Could you make it quick, my curfew is at eight o'clock."
"Well, you shouldn't plan things so late. Shame on you!"
"I don't need the lecture, honey."
The woman went down the corridor in a huff. Ernesto looked down at his watch then across the street at the Saint James.
"It's alright," Ernesto said to himself, "they usually give you a grace period." Each minute seemed to last an interminable amount of time.
At about the same time over at The Saint James, Russell was doing curfew check. He wrapped real hard on Ernesto's door. It was so loud that I heard it while in my room on the shitter. I got so damned angry at the racket that I walked out into the hall.
"Ernie. Ernie! Are you in there?" Russell was shouting with a big ol' grin.
"Why don't you just quit it? He's probably in the bathroom."
"There ain't no one in the bathroom. Mind your fucking business." Russell was dressed in black and stunk of gin.
Father Volkoff was soon up on our floor.
"What's with all the racket? You had better have an explanation Russell."
"Ernesto is not back from curfew."
Back at The Sister Marie, the desk woman returned.
"She doesn't want to see you."
"What? Why?"
"She didn't say."
"Did you actually see her?"
"Are you calling me a liar, Sir?"
"Kika!"
"Shush, now!"
"Happy birthday, Kika!"
"I'm calling Father Volkoff!"
"Wait … don't, I'm leaving."
The woman held the phone in her hand. Ernesto left the vase on a table in the lobby.
"I'm leaving, I'm just gonna leave that there."
"No you will not. I will throw it away."
Ernesto rushed across the street. You could not get away with being late, for the front gate was locked after eight; you had to be buzzed in. Father was waiting for him at the front desk. Strike three. Actually, Father Volkoff wasn't that bad a guy, he realized that Ernesto was only seven or so minutes over, and considering Russell was drunk, he let Ernesto off easily.
I joined Ernesto back in his room. He sat crunched up on his bed again. He told me the whole story. He just kept asking why Kika hated him so much? He asked about the hatred in the desk woman's eyes. Just then, a spider crawled up the wall and both our eyes followed it.
"That spider has more to do than I. Jesus Christ! How? How does someone end up like this? Ugh … Gloria, wherever you are, I miss ya." It was almost as if Ernesto was rambling.
"Who's Gloria?"
"My dearly departed wife. She always was better than me at scrabble. We played every Sunday after church." Ernesto had a sad smile on his face as he stared up at the ceiling. "You just never think you'll hit absolute rock bottom, kid, never. Three strikes and I would have been in the street. Unbelievable. How? How did it come to this? I pity myself again. Have to not worry about tomorrow. There are possibilities enough there. Yes. Do you realize, that at my age, I'm too old to catch up, and too young for Social Security."
I was a young man, I didn't know what else to do but be sympathetic and be a good listener.
"Who knows, maybe I'll meet a rich lady and I'll live happily ever after with her,” Ernesto said with a smile. I laughed and soon Ernesto dozed off. I remember him telling me that sleeping was the next best thing to liquor when it came to shutting your worries out, to fighting them demons off with pitchforks. It was in your dreams that you lived in exciting lands and revisited, if you were lucky, relatives long since gone.
Ernesto woke up early the next morning and thought about his cars. He had to decide on one to pawn. He reached down underneath his bed and found nothing but empty space. Ernesto started to panic. He knew they were stolen. They were always there and couldn't be anywhere else. Ernesto knocked on my door.
"Did you see anyone in my room lately?"
"No, Ernesto, no."
"It had to be Russell, that prick!" Ernesto had a seething look in his eyes that I hadn't seen before.
"Don't do anything stupid, Ernesto."
"I'm just gonna have a talk with the man."
"Let me get my pants on."
"Nah, stay here."
Ernesto knocked on Russell's door.
"What the hell do you want?" I swear to Christ, Russell actually had fangs for teeth. He was an ugly son-of-a-bitch.
"I don't want any trouble. All I want is my cars."
"I don't know nothing about no cars."
"Now listen, Russell, strikes are at a premium. I don't want to make a scene. Just give em' back to me and Father Volkoff don't need to know anything."
"I don't play with toy cars! What part don't you understand?"
"Can I come into your room?"
"No, I don't want any greaser in my room."
"What have you got against me, huh? What? What did I ever do to you?"
Russell just grinned.
"You don't remember do ya? Well, I guess you didn't do nothing to me. Absolutely nothing."
"I want to know why you've been giving me dirty looks, bumping into me in the corridor, staring at me, and stealing my cars!!" Ernesto said as he got close to Russell.
"Why don't you just grow up, ya little greaser fuck and stop playing with toys!"
Ernesto, as swift as a matador's cape, swatted Russell with slaps to the face, back and forth, front hand and backhand. Russell reeled and stumbled, trying to protect his face as Ernesto charged and hit Russell with a right cross and then an uppercut to the stomach. Russell dropped to his knees and spit up some phlegm and blood onto the wood floor.
"You're finished, Ernie, finished."
"I know, I know," Ernesto said as he grabbed a wooden chair and broke it over Russell's head, sending his to dreamland.

Ernesto and I made an agreement, that while I was staying at The Saint James, we would meet every Wednesday and try to make a game plan for the future. I walked him to the corner. All he had in the world were two briefcases. He got on the payphone and started talking to someone named Joyce. He asked her a lot of questions. I don't remember what they were, but when he started to yell and plead with her, I remember that it made me feel uncomfortable. I walked back to The Saint James. It was cooking night for me. I had to prep dinner for the fellas.
Ernesto came the following Wednesday, he was staying briefly with this woman called Joyce. He seemed weary but hopeful.
I never saw him again after that.

Mort and Sal

by Brian Hughes

Mort had ferret eyes that glistened in the early Saturday morning sun. Ah, Mort loved Saturdays. You could say that he hung on to his eighty plus years just to get to Saturday.
“Come on, ya dingy bastard, put a little fire under it!” Mort yelled out to Sal, who lumbered slowly behind him, as they made their exit from the front doors of The St. Evangeline Home for the Aged.
A van was parked at the curb. Printed along both sides of the van was the statement: “This van is dedicated in loving memory to Josephine Estrella.”
Sal was use to the verbal abuse, so he took his time. Sal had rushed his whole life. He was not in a rush anymore.
“How’s ya beard splitter, Jorge,” howled Mort as he boarded the van. Jorge was a young driver who didn’t speak much English, but smiled often. Mort walked with a cane, yet despite his age, didn’t have much use for it, other than as one of his props.
Sal was a tall, rawboned figure who had to slouch as he entered the van. Sal didn’t much care for fashion anymore. One of his grandsons bought him an Adidas outfit that he wore every Saturday for their weekly sojourn. Sal had worn suits his whole life. His life was about comfort now.
“And a fine morning to all my St. Evangeline brothers and sisters!” Mort shouted to the group of senior citizens, about fifteen of them, who were seated and waiting. There wasn’t so much as a murmur emanating from the group, who each had a separate destination all their own that fine Saturday morning.
Unlike Sal, Mort was a bit of the dandy. He wore a crisp, raisin colored dress shirt, a strawberry tinged ascot, oyster colored slacks firmly pressed, and the usual black Dr. Scholls shoes.
Mort’s hard-bitten, joweled face looked out from the van windows. Memories crept up into Mort’s head every once in a while. He almost thought his mind was playing tricks on him – that they weren’t memories of his at all. A moment in his life would get triggered by something, and then, miracle of miracles – a scene from his past would play itself out – a scene he thought had long since been forgotten.
For instance: the address just next to the St. Angeline – 145 West 106th Street – he remembered as the address of a friend of his from the old days. It was the same old walk up. Mort’s mom hated his friend Larry. Larry was the hairiest of his buddies. His three distinguishing characteristics were: his hair – sprouting forth from underneath his armpits, his wife-beater t-shirts, and his penchant for playing hooky and getting into trouble. Mort was forbidden to go to the East Side through Central Park – but he would anyhow, and would holler from the street: “Yo Larry! Lazy Ol’ Larry!”
“Lazy Ol’ Larry … Lazy Ol’ Larry!” Mort shouted to himself as he stared through the dirty bus window toward the stoop.
“You’re talking to yourself again, Mort,” Sal said in that silky soft voice of his, as he sat down next to his buddy.
“I was doing nothing of the kind,” Mort said.
“You were to.”
“Go boil your head.”
“Go piss up a rope!”
“Don’t give me that … You’re the one who’s wheel is turning but the hamster died, not me.”
Jorge’s job was to drop the passengers off at their various destinations, then pick them up a little later on in the afternoon. Very seldom did the routines change. Mort and Sal’s - never.
The drop off spot for Mort and Sal was Bernard’s Bakery, which wasn’t a bakery at all, but a Jewish delicatessen. All the Jews from Delancey Street would roll their carts over to Bernard’s and do their shopping there. Great deals and fresh food were in abundance.
“Here they are – the Rebel Rousers!” shouted a big, hulk of a guy from behind the counter, wearing a white apron too short for his lumbering frame.
“Yeah … the only day I won’t be here is the day four of my best friends carry me by the handles,” Mort barked with his stentorian voice.
“That’s the spirit!” the butcher said..
“The only Jew I know named Jessie!” Mort said with a cackle, pointing to the butcher. His name was Jessie Greenbaum. The butcher smiled, Sal scoffed. Mort said the same thing every Saturday.
Sal and Mort liked to eat as little as possible during the week: a salad here, a Special K breakfast there, with maybe a nice Italian dish thrown into the mix. But Saturday was set aside for “pig out day” – a day they went to town. It was reserved for eating, watching the girls go by, complaining, and assessing the world situation.
Mort preferred pastrami lean, lots of hot mustard, a dill pickle, a knish, and some potato salad for good measure. Sal loved corn beef and onions on seedless rye with sliced pickles and two knishes – one for now, and one for later.
“I sneezed last night and shit my pants,” Mort said as they waited for their sandwiches.
“I know it,” Sal said.
“What? You was there?”
“Nah … nah … of course not … it’s just …”
“What?”
“I’ve been there. I’ve had lots of problems holding my bowels lately. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and I’m laying in it. It’s like … it has a mind all its own.”
“What? Ya ass?”
“No … my microwave … what the hell do ya think I’m talking about!”
Mort just shrugged his shoulders. “It’s a bitch … it’s a bitch, I tell ya.”
As the sandwiches were being wrapped, Mort watched Sal and grimaced. “Stop that! Ya making me sick!”
“What?”
“Ya drooling all over the place.”
Sal put his hand to his mouth and felt the dampness collecting there. “What the …?” Sal wiped the drool off on his Adidas outfit. “I’m hungry!”
“You’re hungry! Ha! You’ve been doing that a lot lately, ya know that?”
“What?”
“Drooling.”
“You’re a little squirt. I can take you at any time!” Sal said.
“Yeah … yeah …”
“I’m going to tell Mrs. Walker that you’ve been acting up again.”
“You wouldn’t!”
“I would.”
“Mort, Sal, your sandwiches are ready,” Jesse the butcher called out.
Both Sal and Mort grabbed their sandwiches and a couple quarts of milk.
“You wouldn’t do that because you know your Saturday is nothing without me,” Mort said as he patted Sal on the shoulder.
“Get your mittens off me – lets pay for this shit and scram,” Sal said.
Mort and Sal paid for their food and Mort led the way, stabbing the floor with his cane as they left.

Mort and Sal would take a stroll North to Washington Square Park, stopping along the way to Benevuto’s for some coffee. Now … the southwest corner of the park holds court to chess tables where the hardcore players arrive early. Mort and Sal would usually grab one and eat while they played. Mort played chess his whole life and taught Sal everything he knew about the game. Sal learned the game 9 winters ago, the year he and Mort started their weekly sojourn downtown.
After the game, they’d mosey around the park – looking and sometimes sneering, sometimes applauding, all the young kids – it just made them feel just a wee bit younger. The kids were into beer, and pot, good times, skate boarding and playing music – Mort and Sal liked that. Sal use to play the Ukulele.
“Man oh man … look at the tush on that one! Holy Christ! Did you see that, Sal?”
“It was blurry, but I caught some of it.”
“Good for you.”
Sal and Mort would point out some oddities of our modern youth culture and have a cackle at their expense.
“Did you get a good look at that one, Mort?”
“I’m trying to forget it, Sal.”
Life was speeding by on roller blades and Starbucks Coffee. Students were playing their guitars under the shade and bark of old trees that once looked down upon Sal as he carried groceries home to his family some sixty years earlier. Sal looked proudly up at the statue of Garibaldi pulling out his sword in defense – an Italian hero – still there – still loving it.
They use to argue the merits and meanness of figures like Harding, La Guardia, and Tammany. Now, the faces were different, but the blood of revolution still boiled thick.
Soon they would get into the politics:
“You know where this son-of-a-bitch is gonna get the money he needs? You know where? From us! From Social Security! The bastard!” hollered Mort
“I know it … I know it!”
Then the subject would turn to modern baseball.
“How bout’ that bastard getting ten million a year – he didn’t even run down to first base – he slowed up. What happened to hustling?” Sal asked.
“Joltin’ Joe use to run everything out!” Mort croaked.
“Enhow!”
A hot broad walked past the two of them.
“WOW! Look at the balcony on that one!” Mort shouted. The girl turned and smiled
“Even I can see that,” Sal said as they followed her with their eyes.
“Enhow!”
Sometimes they would go a good many minutes without talking at all. Sal would look over at Mort and stare at his jug ears, thinking that they seemed to get bigger with the years; and Mort’s face seemed to always be black and blue, and his eyes would at times be as vibrant as a Pollack painting, then just as quickly be gone and vacant. And it was during this silent time of contemplation that a homeless man walked by and farted. Mort turned to Sal and spoke softly:
“Little Davey came with his mom last week.”
“Yeah? I thought I saw them as I sat in the garden.”
“Yeah, they said to say hello.”
“Helen looked beautiful. Give them my regards.”
“Yeah, that’s my girl … as beautiful as ever. So, anyways … she’s on the cellular telephone talking to Jimmy … and Little Davey grabs me by the hand and says, ‘mommy said for me to be good today, because grandpa doesn’t need to be upset because he is going to die soon.’”
“What? That’s crazy!”
“That’s what Little Davey said.”
“He heard that off the television. Helen wouldn’t tell the child that.”
“That’s what I kept telling myself.”
“All right – so, it’s no big deal.”
“I know, I know.”
“What are you worried about?” asked Sal.
“What?”
“You’re gonna see Honey, and all your brothers, and Sinatra and Perry Como, and the whole rest of the gang when you get there.”
“That’s right, I am. I believe in an afterlife where you see all your loved ones again, and they welcome you with open arms.”
“You’re crazy,” Sal tossed off.
“It’s what I choose to believe in.”
“Well … I’m afraid to tell ya ol’ buddy, when you die, you go to sleep and that is it – no afterlife.”
“And how do you know that this is true?”
“It just is.”
“You’re full of shit!”
“Total blackness.”
“A horrible thought.”
“That’s why you believe that, you can’t deal with the fact that you’re gonna die,” said Sal.
“That’s not it.”
“You’re afraid of death, and I’m not.”
“You’re a grumpy basket case and I’m hitting the road,” Mort said as he lifted himself off the bench and slowly started off.
“I may be a grumpy basket case,” Sal said, as he watched Mort scuttle away, “but I tell the truth.” And as Sal started after Mort, he said to himself, “Christ! Who the hell wants to see their ex-wives and mother-in-laws in the afterlife – sure as hell not me.”

Death came upon Sal suddenly in the early hours several weeks later.
Sal, who needed as much quiet as possible to sleep, had taken to listening to WNEW AM – a station that played all his favorite standards. This was strange behavior to Mort. Sal hadn’t been getting much sleep as of late. Every once in a while he’d call the nurse in and tell her the history of a particular song. Sal longed to see his son, but his son was away on business in Portland … he wouldn’t be back East until the following Monday. All Sal could do was either bother the nurses, or bother his friend Mort. Sal would shuffle off to Mort’s room, knock on the door, wake him from sound sleep, and summon him to his room. Sal liked to piss Mort off. Mort took it in stride – he couldn’t help but to think that things were getting strange for Sal, so he let Sal wake him up. And usually, by the time Mort made it over to Sal’s room, he’d be sound asleep already. But, more often than not, Mort would keep his pal company by either watching the evening news with him, or playing solitaire. Mort was a big fan of solitaire: whether it be Monte Carlo, Pyramid, Busy Aces, Canfield … whatever. Sal would play it along side of Mort, or else they’d play gin rummy together. Sal just couldn’t get any type of shut-eye, and Mort usually hung in there with him.
Sal was playing a game of Pyramid in the wee small hours of early morning as Blossom Seeley sang Yes, Sir, That’s My Baby on the radio. A clenching tightness seized his arm and pressed upon his heart. He was gone in a flash, and all he saw, as he predicted, was darkness.
Mort slipped into a coma five and a half months later and died on the way to St. Lukes Hospital. Honey, Mort’s wife of 46 years, who died of Ovarian Cancer back in 1989, met him in the Emergency Room wearing a rose-colored gown, painted red lipstick and auburn hair. She was a picture of loveliness, circa 1941.
All Mort could muster to say was her name as she planted a kiss and left her red mark on the side of his lip.
“Come,” Honey said, “we have to get you suited for The Big event. We don’t have much time.”
And Mort looked much healthier and younger in a tux picked out by his beloved, as she escorted him down a spiral staircase into a room that looked cut from the White House. Sinatra and Como were sitting on bar stools trading songs back and forth. A long table to the left of the legendary singers sat all of Mort’s relatives dating back to the first generation of Gennaro’s that passed in front of The Statue of Liberty at the turn of the century: There was Little Nicole, a baby cousin of Mort’s who died of a brain hemorrhage, and Uncle Joey with the missing fingers was there, as were his mother and father, who smiled and embraced Mort, and led him to a spot at the table that had his name embossed on a small golden placard. Mort could not contain himself – he embraced and kissed every relative at the table. It was nearly an hour later when he finished greeting everyone.
Perry Como stood before the throng, turned to Mort, gave a wink and a smile and raised his glass. The relatives smiled and followed suit. Perry had some words for good, ol’ Mort:
“We’d like to just pause our program for just a moment, so that we might raise a toast to a dear friend to many, a generous father to Mary and Tony, a wise grandfather and great grandfather, a generous co-worker to thousands, and one of my biggest fans … Mortimer Anthony John Gennaro!”
Everyone applauded as Mort wept with joy. And the band played his favorite song, Memories of You, as he clutched his raised hands over his head proudly.
Everyone was there, just as he predicted.

Lost Things

Clyde Baxter, security guard at the Woodland Hills Estates, was leaning on a sturdy wood banister, overlooking the plush lit pools and Grecian fountains, when a thought came to him:
What am I doing? Why am I here at the Estates? To protect these tenants? I lose faith in people a little bit each day and most of all – I lose faith in myself. And I walk my shifts like I give a rats’ ass. And no one ever listens to me: They splash other people at the pools, they play their radios too damn loud, they stay after hours and I have to chase them away, and they drag those ugly shopping carts into the development and leave them around as if this were a shopping cart cemetery.
Then there are the teenagers: I have to break them up from fighting behind building 15. What about Ramirez? I caught him pissing again in Parking Lot 6. It’s madness. I get down on humanity, curse them in my head. I run my mouth between my ears like some old timer sending an op-ed piece to The Times. Why do they do these things, to annoy me? They act this way because of their goddamn upbringing and I have to suffer for it. How would they like it if they were in my shoes? Having to remind them time and time again of the rules of the Estates. I keep hoping it’s going to get better, but it does not. So, I have come to the conclusion that human beings are, for the most part, loud, obnoxious creatures always looking out for number one. But I am no prize. All I do is bitch and moan. Complain about my shitty increase to Mr. O’Rourke, tell him that we need more help. And what does he say? Our company doesn’t have the hours or money to hire more help. And what does Mr. O’Rourke do? He runs me on these petty errands that take me away from the work I’m suppose to do. It’s madness, I tell ya. Madness. And what do I do? I complain to the tenants – my fellow guards. I stay here and get shit upon, than I go to the bar and drink myself silly and shit on them with all my talk. What is madness is that I’m no different than Ramirez – just pissing my life away.
A short man, clean-shaven, wearing a brown pork-pie hat with black rim, walked up along side Clyde, and leaned against the banister. They both stared out at the beautiful fountains.
“Times are tough Clyde, I can read it in your eyes.”
Clyde looked the strange little fellow up and down.
“I don’t think we’ve met, and how do you know my name?”
“No, we haven’t met. You are wearing your name on your badge.”
“My badge is on my left breast pocket. You’re standing on my right. You could not have seen my badge from where you’re standing.”
“I saw it … as we passed in the foyer.”
“I didn’t see you in the foyer.”
“What if I told you that I could supply your life with a whole lot of extra happiness: a happiness worth all the money in the world.”
“What building do you live in?”
“I live in building number thirteen.”
“We don’t have a building thirteen.” The small man smirked then. “May I see some identification, or an Estates ID?”
The little man reached for his wallet and pulled out a laminated card. He handed it to Clyde with a smile. The man in the pork pie hat had a deep cleft and his skin looked transparent. Clyde looked it over and was surprised to find it legit. The strange man’s name: Mr. Andre Turnball: the card had an issue date of November 6th, two years prior.
“Show up at 10119 Lost Things Way at 1am sharp tonight.” Andre Turnball said.
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“Say … who do you think I am? You think I’m stupid? Huh?” Clyde was right in Andre Turnball’s face. “You’re setting me up to get mugged or something.”
“Do I look like a stick-up man? You could break me in two. Besides, I deal in happiness. If I were to mug you, you’d be unhappy and so would I.”
Clyde looked confused, but intrigued.
“Tell me something more about making me happy.”
“I’d rather not say. Let me show you. Come tonight.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Now really, let’s face it. What have you got to lose? You’re only going to go to The Boomerang Bar and get drunk.”
How does he know I go to The Boomerang? Clyde looked hard at him. Maybe Andre Turnball was a regular at the bar. He couldn’t tell.
“Take my card, the directions are on the back.” Clyde took the card and looked at it. “Good, so we’re all set. I’ll see you at 1am. Let me tell you something Mr. Baxter. You’re about to be given a wonderful opportunity: don’t blow it.”
Andre Turnball walked away and disappeared behind the nearest hedges.
The front of the business card read:
Mr. Andre Turnball
Dealer of Lost Things
10119 Lost Things Way
No town was given. No zip code. No phone number.
Clyde chuckled.
“This place use to be a class joint. Now it’s filled with nothing but gang members and weirdoes. I’ve got to get the hell outta here.”
Clyde tucked the business card into his left breast pocket.

Midnight. Clyde was sitting behind the security guard desk, waiting for his replacement, feet up, dozing off. Dexter was always late, usually scoring an opportunity to make one of the hot tenants. Clyde just wanted to get to The Boomerang. He had already checked off on his duties for the night. He was done, just had to wait on this asshole.
Dexter finally showed up at 12:20.
The Boomerang was hardly a bar to speak of. It was dark and dank with no real fire in it. It existed as a haven for men escaping their wives and their bills. A fellow he disliked was warming Clyde’s favorite seat. Clyde chose a seat further down, right underneath the big screen television. And he only paid half attention on the daily sports scores, the little guy taking up the other half of his mind. What the hell kind of name is ‘Andre Turball’ anyway? He longed to just go home and rest his head on his cold pillow, but that activity also depressed him. His curiosity was itching him like an old scab. What’s he up to? What’s his game? How is he gonna make me happy? That little bastard is right: what the hell do I have to lose?
So our hero threw back the last of his watery beer. He wasn’t drunk. Just light, and that was just fine.
Clyde turned on the overhead light in his Toyota Tercel, and scanned over the directions. He had a feeling he knew the address. He was certain a big bowling alley stood there. What the hell, I’ll drive by. I don’t have to do it … I’ll get a peak.
And just as Clyde thought, he knew the area, but the strange thing was that there was no bowling alley to be found. He had to drive around the block a few times to make sure he wasn’t losing his mind. The liquor store where he and his buddies bought beers was still there, but no bowling alley, just a very large airplane hanger.
Clyde pulled over and killed the ignition. He looked down at the business card and the address. The address was correct. Wait … where is Oakwood Road? I know there was a street sign for Oakwood Road above the street – now it says ‘Lost Way.’ This is madness - madness, I tell ya. Clyde rubbed his eyes and yawned. The neighborhood was quiet. Okay, I’ll play along … maybe I did have too much to drink.
Clyde locked his car and headed across the street to the drab hanger. A single bare bulb hung over a massive iron door. A fastened metal sign read “LTANNEX42435C” in block letters. Clyde tried the door and to his surprise, it opened quite easily. Just inside, in a small no frills room, sitting behind a small wooden desk, sat Andre Turnball. He put down his newspaper and smiled.
“Wonderful … wonderful … you’re gonna love this,” Andre said as he sprang to his feet. Clyde was thrown by his excitement. Andre opened a door just behind the wood desk that lead to a much larger room. “Come on in.”
Clyde’s eyes opened wide as he tried to take in the enormity of what he was looking at. As far as the eye could see were metal shelves with stuff on them. He squinted his eyes to try to see the end of the warehouse, but he could not make it out – it was too damn far. The shelving reached up 15 stories high. There were men and women everywhere riding up escalators and elevators to get to the shelving. Objects and boxes full of stuff would come down on freight elevators, and workers were carting them off.
Clyde walked over to the nearest shelf, there must have been thousands of wallets lying on it. Clyde picked one up, looked inside. It was full of credit cards and cash.
“What is this? Some type of wholesale outlet?”
“This is not wholesale, Mr. Baxter. These are lost things.”
“What do you mean by ‘lost things’?”
Clyde shoots his eyes back to the wallets.
“Hold on … do you mean to tell me that these wallets were lost?”
“Are lost, Yes, they are intact from the moment they disappeared.”
“How could this be? And where is the bowling alley? I know there was a very popular bowling alley on this spot.”
“More on that later.”
‘No! I want to know how it could be that all this stuff landed at this warehouse. I want to know why you chose me to look at all this stuff.”
“I can only answer the second part of your question.”
“Okay. Why me then?”
“Have a seat, please.”
“I’d rather stand.”
“Very well.” Andre stood for a moment as if thinking on something rather important. “Do you remember what happened on the afternoon of June 14th 3 years ago?”
“June 14th?”
“Yes.”
“Okay … let’s see.” Clyde was flipping through the card catalogue of his brain, trying to think about that day. “Let’s see …” Clyde was messaging his chin. Andre was grinning. “I know Hurricane Paolo did a lot of damage three years back.”
“No.”
“It was an election year …”
“That’s correct, but that’s not it.”
“I know the television show ‘All The World’s A Stage’ went off the air after 15 years.”
“Let me help you. Do you remember a nice walk along Beverly Glen Terrace: the tapestry of tall trees, marsh and moist grass. Don’t you remember happening upon a man lying on the ground, gasping for breath. Hum?”
Clyde pressed his fingers to his temple and took in a big swallow of dry saliva.
“Yes.” Clyde was staring off into the distance – unblinking. The whole picture of that day was unfolding as if on a movie screen.
Andre began circling around Clyde, hands clenched behind his back. “A man in his fifties, shaking, convulsing, grasping at his heart with his hands.”
“Yes.”
“And when you came upon him, what did you say?”
“That I would go get help – that everything would be all right.”
“And you ran to the nearest way station like a jack rabbit.”
“Yes.”
“And you picked up a telephone and did what?”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“THAT’S RIGHT! YOU DIDN’T DO A DAMN THING, DID YOU?”
“No.”
“You picked up the phone and did something you have been quite accustomed to in your staid, non-existent life – you let someone else handle it, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Everything will be just fine. Someone else will do the work. Well … guess what Mr. Baxter, the man groveling on the ground died, and no one came to help him.”
Clyde felt for a chair around him.
“He died?”
“Yes. He was fifty-one.”
Clyde kept replaying the event in his head – hating himself with each passing second. He was a sunken mess, hands clutching at his face.
“I’m sorry if I’m a bit harsh, Mr. Baxter. I know you are not a murderer. I know you wouldn’t wish anyone to die. This is why I have come to you. Whereas, most murderers, rapists, and child molesters, don’t have a chance – we feel you do. You will be given a chance to bring happiness into people’s lives.”
“How can such a horrible person bring happiness to other people’s lives?”
“By given them back these things.”
Clyde lifted his head, and rested it on his clenched fists – eyeing all the objects before him.
“Do you have any idea what kind of cherished memories are held in some of these lost things? The potentiality of happiness, of closure, is enormous. The lost things could range anywhere from a wedding band, to an old television, to a briefcase, to a roll of sixteen millimeter film carrying moving images of relatives not seen in over thirty years.”
It was then that Andre Turnball snapped his fingers and the lights in the cavernous hanger went dim, and on a concrete wall opposite where they were standing, moving images started to roll, showing a small boy blowing out eight candles on a birthday cake.
Clyde Baxter stood up from the chair and began moving slowly along the film light toward the wall. It was with these images, that Clyde started sobbing. “That’s me. That’s me!”
“Yes, Mr. Baxter. This is you at home in Baja, California, a boy just turning eight.”
So many things Clyde had forgotten appeared in his mind as if they never left: his mom’s favorite sky blue shawl, his childhood friend, Louis Gentile, giving him a birthday present of a Superman marvel comic, his Uncle George with the one eye, and his Dad’s friend Joe, who taught him how to play poker. Yes, they were all there as if they had never left.
Clyde walked back over to Andre after the last image, and shook his hand. “Thank you, thank you.”
“That canister of film is yours to have. The film was misplaced by your father when your parents moved 35 years ago.”
“Thank you. Thank you, Andre. They are all gone. My parents are dead, bless their soul, and most of my relatives, so, this film is very special to me. Thank you, Sir. ”
“You’re welcome. Now … what do you say to helping me out? Are you interested in giving people some lost happiness?”
“Yes. Most assuredly YES. But, will I be able to work around my security guard schedule?”
“Of course, of course, you’ll just be asked to contribute three or four hours, five times a week, to this special vocation. We’ll work it around what best suits you.”
“What about stuff like this?” Clyde asked, pointing to a stack of old pornographic magazines. “Will I have to return things like this?”
“We already have someone on that case.”
“So there are a lot of other people involved in this vocation?”
“Of course, but you won’t know who they are. What you do is very secretive – should not be told to anyone. Is that understood?”
“Yes, can I start right away?”
“Yes, come back tomorrow night and …”
“No … no … right now, I mean …”
“Okay … well, I like your enthusiasm. Let’s walk over here and I’ll show you how we get started. You will be returning items within a five mile radius of your home.”
“Great …”
“I’ve gone through the trouble of rounding up the items from your area of Woodland Hills. They are on these shelves over here.”
“Terrific.” Clyde was no longer tired. His eyes were alive with adventure, as he wiped the tears and tiredness away.
“Each item is tagged with the address and name of the owner, the date they were lost, and the date they were found.”
“Yes, I see that. Wonderful. But, I can’t help but wondering how you know all of this?”
“You are not allowed to ask questions like that, okay? Let’s just make a deal that you don’t ask questions of that nature.”
“Okay … okay … so, I just grab a bunch of items, throw them in my trunk, and start delivering them?”
“It’s that simple. Of course, common sense should tell you that you should not deliver items at 4am, unless you are somehow allowed to do so. It’s also entirely up to you to contact the person you are delivering to before hand, but I do not encourage this, because no one will ever believe you, unless you confront them with the lost thing in person.”
“Got it, makes sense.”
“This item, for instance, is a perfect item to deliver at 4am,” Andre said, holding up a shiny, diamond necklace. “I have been told that this guy is a real party animal. Owner of a nightclub in Hollywood called The Squalor.”
Clyde took the necklace in his hand, shoved it into his coat pocket. “I’m going to deliver this to him right now. I’m up for the challenge, Andre.”

The Squalor was swank. Clyde drove around the balmy night for a good forty-five minutes till he found a parking lot with an available space. “This whole business is weird and supernatural, but somehow I can’t find me a place to park,” Clyde said aloud to himself. He had also begun to doubt whether the guy would even be there. I mean … what was this thing about after all? No one would ever believe me if I were to tell them. They would think it was some type of Mid-Life crisis.
Clyde had always been a born skeptic. His belief was that supernatural occurrences happened to people because they believed in them without question, and that because of their faith, their minds played tricks on them. Faith based minds created ghosts, or UFO’s. So, this event was a hallmark in Clyde’s skepticism. If this necklace actually belonged a Mr. Juan Castaneda, then he’d have to re-evaluate all that he believed in.
There was a customary rope outside the joint with a dinosaur size bouncer holding everyone back. This did not intimidate our hero, he just walked passed everyone in line and confronted the big buffoon.
“I have a special delivery for Mr. Juan Castaneda. I have been told he is here tonight.”
“That’s an old one. Get in back of the line.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that. You see this necklace?” Clyde unfurled it to the bouncer. “This hunk of rocks belongs to Mr. Castaneda. They are diamonds. I would think he would like to have them. I can give a rat’s ass about your club. I don’t go to juke-joints like this one. I have class. Now, go get Mr. Castaneda. I’ll be waiting right here – thank you.”
The dinosaur called out another dinosaur, and they discussed Clyde’s situation. They were whispering to each other. The second dinosaur then went inside behind a black curtain where darkness and pounding beats resided.
“Just wait here,” the first dinosaur said to Clyde.
“Gladly.”

“Who are you?” Mr. Castaneda said with a Hispanic accent, as he stuck his head out of the door.
“Does this look familiar” Clyde asked with a twinkle in his eye.
“Holy shit – YES! Where did you find it?”
“I can’t say.” Both men were yelling over the throng of people waiting to get inside the club. Clyde handed the necklace to Mr. Castaneda. Mr. Castaneda rubbed it on his chest hair, which was exposed behind a purple satin shirt “I can’t believe you found this. I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU FOUND THIS! WHOA!!!!!” The man smiled with his big pearly whites and dimples.
“I’m very happy for you, I have to leave now.”
“No, no, no, you have to come in and let me thank you. Please, it’s the least I could do for you Mister. What’s you name by the way?”
“Clyde Baxter.”
“You HAVE TO come in. I will accept nothing less. Please, come on it. Everything will be on the house.”
Clyde looked down at his watch, consented with grace and entered the dark and throbbing doorway. It was hardly Clyde’s type of place: thrashing techno music, lights flickering, bodies moving in a fragmented sort of way. It was all that Clyde could do to prevent himself from stepping on someone as he slowly made his way over to the bar.
“Hey!” yelled Mr. Castaneda to a group of fine looking ladies standing around the half mooned shaped bar. “Buy this man whatever he wants. Treat him nice, he found my necklace. Remember my grandma’s diamond necklace, that I lost a few months back, the one I thought was stolen, well, this fella found it and brought it back. Don’t tell me how he found it, but I want you girls to take good care of my man.”
One of the fine looking women helped Juan on with his newly found necklace. The others set Clyde up with a smooth drink. The three girls were soon all over Clyde. They undid his tie, ruffled his hair, and rubbed his thigh. Clyde was smiling and downing one Dewars after another.
His abdomen was content.

The next day would be different. Clyde was hung-over and walking around as if stunned and seeing stars. Some of his co-workers noticed his strange behavior immediately. He was popping Advils in his mouth as if they were gumballs, and most of his work chores never got completed by the end of the day.
One lost thing he was able to take care of the next morning concerned a woman living right in the Estates. She lived in Building Three, Apartment 122. It seems as if she had lost a bag of knick-knacks: hair pins, little figurines, brushes, and some photographs.
Clyde knocked on Stella Crenshaw’s door. A woman in her fifties opened up, wearing curlers and a flowery housedress.
“Yes.”
“Mrs. Crenshaw?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Clyde Baxter. Maybe you’ve seen me. I’m on the security staff here at The Woodland Hills Estates.”
“Yes, I recognize you,” said Mrs. Crenshaw with a smile of missing teeth.
“I found a bag of items that I believe is yours.” Clyde handed her the bag.
“Really? I don’t believe I lost anything recently.” She began looking through it. Clyde looked over her shoulder and noticed her furniture was wrapped in plastic covers, The Price Is Right was on the tube. Clyde loved that show.
“How could this be? This can’t be.”
“I know …” Clyde said.
“What?”
“Nothing …”
“I could swear I left these things back in my old apartment. The place I shared with Lorraine. Where did you find this?”
“One of my cohorts found it. I’m not too sure.”
“It’s just very strange. I remember this stuff, now … but it’s been so long since I lost it. I had already long forgotten about these things.”
“Well it’s yours again now.”
“Huh. Thank your cohort for me.”
“I will do that.”
“Can I get you a coke or something?”
“No Ma’am, just doing my duty.”
Clyde liked that he could say that statement and mean it.

Clyde sat behind his wooden security desk, at the end of another meaningless day at The Woodland Hills Estates – but was it? On his mind all day long was his new vocation: his Batman-like deeds under the dark of night.
He’d have to see about doing day runs. Going at night consistently, after work, would be suicide. He could feel his body ache after just the first night. He’d have to have a sit down with Andre over that.
But why? He just couldn’t figure it out. If things like this happened, then what other supernatural activities were going on? But no – some of the greatest things in the world could never be explained with words. So, why bother. I’ve been given this job, and I will do it to the best of my abilities. If doing this work will mean a great seat at The Polo Grounds in the sky, then, it is worth it.
It was just after 1am when Clyde parked his car at Lost Lane. He was dead tired. He carried the tiredness in his sunken head and by the way he dragged his big feet to the tall metal doors.
Once inside, he looked around. Andre was nowhere to be found. There were a few people scattered about, but no one within close proximity. Clyde walked down an aisle or two, looking for interesting things to return. There was a whole shelving unit devoted to keys. Keys were boring and didn’t much interest him. There were toys – lots of toys. Toys might be fun to return. There were walkmans, discmans, audio and video tapes. Music might be nice.
One whole side was allotted to large items like televisions and chairs and lamps and microwaves. Clyde couldn’t get his head around this section. How can anyone lose these things? There so fucking big? He just kept reminding himself not to ask.
There were lots of gloves – gloves of all shapes and sizes. Watches from the plastic kind you find in supermarket gumball machines, to watches of the finest Swiss make.
But nothing was reaching out to him. He wanted to return something of sentimental value: something that could elicit goodness not only for the person who lost it, but for Clyde himself. It was hard, for the items didn’t come with stories – they came with dates, and Clyde had decided to take the old ones first.
There was a lot of money in that warehouse, Clyde thought to himself as he perused the antique clocks, diamond rings, classic toys and host of other invaluables.
Well, it was nearing 3am, and Clyde had rounded up a bunch of items and dumped them in his trunk. One was a sleek, silken red, Marco Tavoli dress which Clyde was eager to see the owner of. It was low cut, but real classy. The address was in Ralston Hills – a very wealthy end of town.
I’ll take care of these tomorrow. I’ll get a good sound rest, and begin tomorrow morning. Hopefully it will be fun.

Clyde woke up around ten and headed first to his favorite weekend diner. He wanted to make sure he filled his stomach before he set out on his day’s events. He spread a map of Marlon County out on the Formica table top, as Suz the waitress poured him a cup of coffee – black, no sugar.
He soon found all the locations he needed to make deliveries to, and circled them with a green fluorescent marker. Clyde liked to cut up his eggs and bacon and make little sandwiches with his buttered toast. Suz had long since stopped encouraging him to just get a bacon and egg sandwich. There was a difference, he claimed.
The dilemma was how to maximize his time. What route would be more advantageous economically? With the cost of gasoline, Clyde had to choose the most cost-effective way to make his deliveries. And he did just that as he joined lines from one colored circle to the other. He looked down at the map, drained the last of the coffee, and was ready to set out.
The first destination was a condo on Sandstone Street; the owner – a Mr. Jack Speedlow. No one answered the bell. A small Mexican woman, who looked like a cleaning lady, told Clyde that Mr. Speedlow was at work.
“May I ask where he works?”
“He is a manager at Pavilions on Barrow Street.”
Clyde got back into his car and found the supermarket just a mile and a half down the street. Clyde was told by a man in dreadlocks that Jack was on his cigarette break, and he usually sat just outside where they sold the firewood.
The lost thing: a 78’ record.
“Do you know what the significance of this record is Mr … Mr … I don’t remember your name …” Jack Speedlow said.
“Clyde, you can just call me Clyde.”
Clyde and Jack Speedlow were each enjoying a fruit salad in the warm sun just outside Pavilions.
“This is a record that my father and his friends cut while with the Snappy Johnson Orchestra back in the day of the big bands. See … that’s him playing the cornet right in the front row,” Jack Speedlow pointed out with his shaky finger. Jack was an ol timer. He wore wrap around sunglasses because of his cataract condition. The sound of his voice was gargled in razor blades. “You see… this here record has an original Snappy Johnson song called ‘The Six-O’clock Saganaw Jump.’ Saganaw, Michigan was where Snappy Johnson came from, and this here song was a big hit for about a five-month span. The fellas were boarding buses and playing this song at all the top dance halls in the country. The second song on this here record is Snappy’s rendition of ‘Sweet Georgia Brown.’”
“I would love to hear it.”
“Me too. I don’t have a victrola player anymore.”
“I think I know where I can find one. Maybe we’ll exchange numbers and listen to it together.”
“That would be terrific.”
“Did your dad continue with the cornet?”
“Things didn’t work out so well. He knocked up my mother, had me, and couldn’t get many music gigs after that. He was briefly in an outfit called Clam Chowder Chet and The Ladles, but it never panned out. How in the world did you find this? How did you find me?” Jack asked as he lit another Pall Mall.
“Well … it has to do with the FBI and the Police, and a lot of stuff that has been found and catalogued … yeah … it’s very hush, hush – not spoken about too often. Each state has a huge underground warehouse that houses all this confiscated stuff.”
“I didn’t know that. Jeeze.”
“Oh, sure …”
They chatted a little longer, Jack offered Clyde some money for finding the precious 78’. Clyde politely refused.
“Gee, I can’t tell you what this means to me. To have my dad’s young face on an old 78’ record with Snappy Johnson and the gang. Thank you very much.”
Jack got a little misty eyed as he shook Clyde’s hand. Clyde was feeling awfully good about his first return of the day, and that goodness carried his car along quite nicely as if it were a hovercraft, soaring over the freeway to his next destination.
4352 Clayton Street.
Clyde was feeling lucky at how easy the first return went off, now he was pulling up to his next loc, and it looked as if the person he needed to talk with was right out in front of her house.
The lost thing: a broach.
The broach had a picture of a couple inside it – circa 1950’s. The man was dressed in a military outfit. He looked older than the young, pretty girl wrapped in his arms.
There was an elderly lady watering her garden. Clyde parked his car and walked across the street toward her gate: she looked like she might be the woman from the broach.
“Excuse me,” Clyde said, as he opened the gate.
“Yes.”
“Are you Miss Selma Woodbine?”
“Yes, I am.”
“I think I have something special. Something you’ve been looking for. This broach.” Clyde handed Miss Woodbine the broach. Miss Woodbine inspected it intensely, turning it over and out. When she opened it, she stared hard at the picture inside.
“You shouldn’t have this.”
“Yes, yes, I know … but it belongs to you. That is why I am here, to give it to you.”
“No, no, I buried this broach inside Sam’s coffin. It was buried. It was in his hands. There is none other like it. It can’t be. It can’t be.”
Clyde was confused, as Miss Woodbine grew hysterical, her face becoming flush as she clasped her opened mouth with her hand. Her eyes were wide, as she threw the broach back at Clyde – pointing at him, and sending him to hell.
“You’re … you’re death … you’ve come to take me. You’re not really here – you’ve brought the broach as a message that my time has come.”
“No, that is not it.”
“I’m not ready! I’m not ready!” Clyde was growing more embarrassed, as he thought about beating a retreat. Meanwhile, Miss Woodbine ripped the cross from around her neck and thrust it in Clyde’s direction. Clyde couldn’t help but laugh. “Stay back! Stay back!”
“You’ve got it all wrong, Miss Woodbine!”
“Get out of here! Get off my property!”
Then Miss Woodbine began spraying Clyde with water from her garden hose – thumbing that hole and dousing Clyde pretty good.
“Hey! Hey! Stop that!!”
“Get out of here! Go back to hell, where you came from. I don’t need your kind here!”
Clyde hightailed it back to his car before the cops arrived.

Clyde stopped off at Carl’s Jr for lunch, still reeling from that last episode, still damp. He was wondering what he should do: call it a day? Continue? What is waiting for me at home on a day such as today? Nothing. Might as well go to Raylston Hills and make the next return.
The hamburger Clyde had eaten wasn’t sitting too well, as he washed it down with soda and belched. He studied his map once more. He hadn’t driven through Raylston Hills in some time. I just love to look at money.

Clyde made it to 43215 Beachwood Lane. I just will never understand why people will pay millions of dollars on a home, only to live right next to someone. Buy a couple of acres for Christ’s’ sake … what’s the use of paying all that money to still have someone next door complain about what you smoke, or how loud you play your music. It’s madness, I tell ya, madness!
Clyde hit a buzzer on a gate covered in shrubbery. A muffled voice came back from the intercom:
“Yes?”
“I have a dress I need to drop off to a Ms. Ashley Ashcroft.”
“Yes, you’re expected.”
I’m expected? Wow, I’m in luck. How did she know I was coming?
Ms. Ashcroft’s house was a bit more setback from the street than the other million dollar homes in the neighborhood. Clyde walked up the driveway, passing a gazebo on the right. Her home was in the neo-classical tradition, with white, ornate roman columns running across the front deck. A beautiful garden sat just off to the right of the house; several Mexican workers were attending to it underneath a hot and unforgiving sun.
Clyde stood in front of two large, shiny wooden doors. A dignified man with a protruding chin opened them and greeted Clyde. He was a classy looking gentleman – well groomed, and clean-shaven. He had the air of “butler” about him, but he wasn’t wearing the traditional butler outfit like you see in the motion pictures: he was wearing plain slacks and a pinstriped collared shirt, but on closer inspection, you noticed the clothing was of the highest quality and fabric. His accent sounded like an American badly imitating a British citizen.
“That is NOT the dress,” the man said to Clyde. No “Hello” or “How are you today, Sir?”
“This is a special dress. One that is being delivered to Ms. Ashcroft, personally,” said Clyde.
“One moment.”
The door slammed shut as the man hurried back inside. Clyde stood there for several moments, holding the dress with both hands, like a limp child. The door re-opened.
“Ms. Ashcroft would like to see you, Sir.”
What awaited Clyde as he entered the door was a heavy- set woman who must have scaled two hundred and thirty pounds. She was conversing with her laborer, demanding that he get something important done in the garden; but with one quick glance at Clyde, her whole expression changed. All she could do was stare startled at what Clyde held in his hands. She dismissed the laborer with a swift flick of her arm.
“What is that?” she asked Clyde.
“I believe this is your dress.”
The dress was obviously much too small for her portly frame. Ms. Ashcroft slowly walked over to Clyde and the dress as if sleepwalking. She reached out and petted the dress as if it were one of her cats. With a look of embarrassment and tears welling up in her eyes, she threw up her hands, sobbed, shrieked and ran from the foyer.
“Look what you’ve done!” implored her assistant.
“What did I do?”
The assistant ran off to console Ms. Ashcroft. Clyde stood there and waited, grabbed some mints from a bowl and emptied them in his coat pocket. He just felt like dropping the dress right there and then – right onto the shiny wood floor and just tare ass out of there. In fact, that’s just what Clyde intended to do when he heard Ms. Ashcroft:
“Wait!”
Clyde stopped at the door and turned. The assistant walked back in. Ms. Ashcroft looked at him. “Tony, would you mind if you left me alone with this gentleman.”
“But, Ms., you don’t even know this man.”
“That’s quite all right. See if Hector is tending to the bushes.”
“I see. Why, yes, I would be glad to.”
Tony left Clyde alone with Ms. Ashcroft. He felt uncomfortable as Ms. Ashcroft asked him to join her in the waiting room. Clyde removed a mint from his pocket and chewed on it as Ms. Ashcroft sat by the window – staring out of it.
“I use to fit that dress, you know?”
“So … what’s the matter with the way you look? You’re a beautiful and voluptuous woman.” Clyde was meaning what he was saying. He thought she had nice features and that she was probably one hell of a looker at some point. Her eyebrows were especially prominent, as was her up turned nose.
“Do you really think so?”
“Of course – yes.”
“I wore that dress the night I won a Tony for Subtle Poison. Maybe you remember it?”
“No, I’m sorry, I don’t.”
“Ah, it’s just as well.” Ms. Ashcroft’s eyes trailed off just then, as she grabbed a picture of her old self in hand.
“It’s a beautiful dress,” Clyde said as he gently laid the dress on the arm of the chair. “But it’s not nearly as beautiful as its owner.” All Clyde could look at was her massive cleavage. He was very much into the portly ladies: a hardon grew in his pants. “Girls who are frail and on the cover of Vogue have nothing on a healthy body such as yours.”
Ms. Ashcroft turned coyly and smiled: “You interest me.”
“You don’t say?”
Ms. Ashcroft slowly approached Clyde and got up real close to him.
“Why don’t we go upstairs?”
“No,” Ms. Ashcroft said as she grabbed Clyde and threw him on the couch and started to tongue him with ferociousness. Clyde was taken a-back, but he dove full in. He was feeling rusty, but confident. Ms. Ashcroft removed her panties and pulled Clyde’s pecker out.
“You’re hard – you’re hard and masculine: a real man with no pretensions. Do you have any rubbers?”
“No.”
Ms. Ashcroft went to her window, opened it, and there was her assistant – looking in from just behind the bushes.
“Tony, we need some rubbers – QUICK!”
“Yes Ms. Ashcroft.”
“Hey! Does he always look in like that?”
“Yes – he enjoys it.”
Clyde thought about that for a moment. Clyde did not like being looked at by another man, but if it meant choosing between Tony and her white, bountiful breast, then he’d have to learn to get use to Tony.
“I shouldn’t judge anyone,” Clyde said.
“Good, I agree.” Ms. Ashcroft felt his pecker again. She pulled Clyde close. “We have to keep you hard in the meantime.”
“I don’t think that will be a problem.”


With the rendezvous complete, a flustered and flush Ms. Ashcroft walked Clyde to the front door – holding him around the arms – smiling. They went out to the front porch.
“You must come back. Are you sure you don’t want to stay for dinner?”
“No, that’s quite all right.”
Tony appeared at the porch, wiping sweat from his face and doing up his fly.
“Wonderful,” Tony said to the two of them as he slapped Clyde on the back as he passed.
“Glad you enjoyed it.” Clyde said.

Clyde chose his last stop wisely: The Beachtree Garden Apartments. Clyde’s own development. Clyde liked to wrap up his day with a nice circular bow which would lead him right back to his own home. And his last adventure was easy enough:
Lost thing? A toy: a rocket ship that ascended to the sky by remote control.
Apparently a little boy named Alex lost the rocket at the beach and has been heartsick ever since. Clyde found Alex playing in a hot tub at Pool Area 3. Clyde wanted to hand this off quickly, for he was tired and wanted to catch the Dodgers game.
A metal fence enclosed the hot tub and pool area. A group of women, one of them Alex’s mom, were laying out on beach chairs, soaking up the sun, and reading celebrity trash magazines – paying very little attention to Alex.
“Psst … Alex … hey … over here …”
Alex turned.
“I have a little something for you – come here: I’ll hand it to you over the fence.”
The boy’s face lit up with the site of his favorite rocket. “Oh, boy!” He jumped from the hot tub and raced to the fence.
Clyde handed the rocket to Alex and patted him on the head. “Enjoy, kid,” said Clyde as he began to walk away.
“Mom! Mom! Look at what the man found for me!”
“What? Who? What man?”
“He’s over there – he found my rocket for me.”
The mother saw Clyde walking away. “Hey, you! Hey! Come over here. How did …. Hey!” The mother turned to Alex: “What did I say about talking to strangers – about taking anything from strangers.”
Clyde gave a three-quarter turn to see if the mother was following him, but once he rounded the corner – he bolted.
“Hey!” The mother shouted. “Wait! Security! Stop that man! Where is security?”

On the side of a mailbox was a leaflet from the local neighborhood watch organization. It read: BE ON LOOKOUT FOR MYSTERIOUS STRANGER GIVING TOYS TO OUR CHILDREN. There was an artist rendering of someone who didn’t really look at all like Clyde – to Clyde’s relief. The only thing they got right was his height. This didn’t stop Clyde from donning sunglasses, a baseball cap, and a phony moustache – looking around suspiciously before setting out for work.

4 MONTHS ON …

“That’s a nice watch you got there, Clyde,” fellow security guard Jim Taylor said. Taylor noticed such things – he was an amateur writer who bit his nails a lot and was paranoid about everything. He cooked his lunch and dinner on a portable grill that stunk up the entire security guard lounge.
“It’s a classic.”
“En how. How did you get it?”
“My Uncle was in WWII and he left it to me. I just got it repaired.”
“Jess says he hasn’t seen you for a while at The Boomerang.”
“Yeah … I’m tired of drinking away my life on a bar stool. That’s no way to live.”
“I guess you’re right … well, what else have you been up to?”
“What are you writing a book?”
“Nah … I’m just …”
“Just what?”
“Just asking.”
“Don’t ask.”
“Jesus Christ … I’m just making conversation.”
“It’s none of your business. Got it?”
“Why are you making trouble? All I did was ask you what you have been up to, since no one has seen you at the bar.”
“And I said it was none of your business or anyone else’s.” Clyde picked up his lunch bag and stormed out of the room. Taylor picked up the telephone.
“Craig? It’s JT. Could you watch over things for a little while?”

The Flip Flop Bowling Alley was packed to the gills as the bowling alley was both a family gathering and parking lot hang out for the local teens.
Jim Taylor parked about a half a block away and watched Clyde get out of his car and head toward the bowling alley.
“Bowling?” Jim asked himself as he watched Clyde walk, not toward the main entrance, but right smack dab toward the concrete wall. Jim followed him with his eyes – stared at him as Clyde walked up to the concrete wall, acted as if their was a door there, opened it, and walked right through the wall – disappearing.
“Fuck a monkey’s ass! Where the fuck did he go?” Jim said aloud to himself as he jumped out of his car and jogged over to the bowling alley wall. He felt the wall all over with his hands – all he could feel was the course concrete. “I know he did not go through this wall!”
Inside the hanger, Clyde loaded up a hand truck with a computer, and on top of that a stack of pornographic magazines. He rolled it out to his car, opened the trunk and began loading them in. Inside the trunk was an assortment of knick-knacks with tags on them. Clyde pointed to them: “Thursday’s drops offs.” Then Clyde smiled and pointed to the computer and porno mags: “Drop offs for me.”

It was Clyde’s day off, but was it? Returning lost things to people was becoming arduous for Clyde, making people uproariously happy, or at the least – bewildered, had grown tiresome. In fact, very few good things had happened to Clyde in the four months since he met the mysterious Andre Turnball: he had lost an opportunity to transfer to an easy security account, one up in wealthy country, he had suffered through the worst toothache of his life: his back went out from a hard sneeze and kept him in bed for a week: he had two amateur rappers move into the apartment upstairs, which kept him up all night: his rent went up and his stocks went down, there was a leak in his apartment which had caused water damage in his closet, and with all the traveling he’d been doing, he had to take his vehicle to the shop twice, all the while paying more for gas then he has ever had to pay in his life. Where the hell was Andre Turnball? Maybe he should be compensated for all the traveling expenses.
Clyde’s last drop off for the evening was uneventful, and it was delivered as such: a simple mug carrying sentimental value for Gretchen Measley, who while talking with her neighbor, was approached by a deadpan Clyde – who just handed her the mug, got back in his car and sped off – leaving a shrieking Gretchen in a vapor of gravel.
Clyde had become as enthused about lost things as he had in getting a hangnail. Four months of delivering lost things to smiling, befuddled humans, five days a week, was stretching Clyde thin. He was pulling double work duty and was tired. He spent a week in a rut, eating pints of Ben and Jerry’s ice cream and watching as many baseball games on his baseball package as he could stand. I mean … when is this shit gonna end, Clyde thought to himself.

Clyde was leaning against a 24 foot U-Haul truck sipping a slurpee. A Mazda pulled up along side. Two gruffy men with beards and denim jackets approached Clyde. They all greeted one another and shook hands. Clyde opened up the back of the truck – inside was a bevy of victrola players.
“Beautiful,” said one of the bearded, gruffy guys.
“Amazing that we can find a dope that will pay money for these dinosaurs – huh,” said the other to Clyde. “Here – five grand. It’s all there.” Clyde took the money and began counting. “Yep – all there. Nice doing business with you guys.”
One of the bearded guys got in the U-Haul and pulled away. “Where can I drop you off?” said the other to Clyde.
“You sure you don’t need anything else? Lamps? TVs? Clothes?” They both got inside the Mazda.
“I didn’t say we wouldn’t want anything else. Just not at this moment, but we’ll be in touch.”
“Great! My quantities are endless and always arriving.”

Clyde was ready for a week’s vacation. He had earned it these past four months. And watching baseball, staying unkempt, unshaven, blasting farts into his couch, eating lots of potato chips and hotdogs, and doing what the hell he pleased, was exactly what Clyde had in mind when he took his vacation. No steaming turd gifts to ungrateful people: just Clyde and baseball for a week. Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh. That would be nice.
Clyde woke up on that first day of vacation, poured himself a coffee, and headed for the bathroom to christen his time off with a nice, clean dump. The dump was perfect – little to no wiping – maybe this would be a sign of things to come.
At 1pm he settled down by his computer, turned the television on to Dodgers VS Giants, and began surfing the net for porn. He stumbled upon a site that interested him: Asian women who massaged men, then fucked them right on the bench; the site was made to look as if there was a hidden camera, but Clyde knew better. They couldn’t fool old Clyde.
On his first click with his mouse, the screen froze.
“What the …” was all Clyde could muster as he rebooted and rebooted. Clyde was even more enraged than usual because he was horny and did not release. “Motherfucker! Why? Why doesn’t this fucking computer work? I have rebooted the cocksucker three times!!! Damn it to hell!!!”
After a frustrating twenty minutes, Clyde gave up – grabbed a porn mag from his closet and went to the toilet. Grabbing at his penis, he tried to wake the old boy up as he removed his clothes. As he began peeing, a stream of blood poured forth. Clyde grunted and stared at the red liquid in utter horror. His complexion white - he started to panic and stopped peeing. “Oh my God, I’m peeing blood! What the fuck is wrong with me?”
In a flash the shower curtain opened and standing in the tub was a maniacal looking Andre Turnball – bow tie, seer sucker suit and all. Clyde gasped and literally fell down from fright, spraying blood on the wall and linoleum as he went.
“What the fuck?” yelled Clyde.
“What the fuck indeed,” said Andre as he stepped out of the tub “How could you? How could you steal the lost things?”
“Nothing good was happening and I …I …”
Andre slapped Clyde with a front and back hand right in the kisser. “Bastard! I give you a chance. Some poor son of a bitch dies because of your indifference and this is how you repay me?” Clyde falls to his knees.
“No …no more… I don’t want to make deliveries no more. Why am I bleeding? Stop the bleeding!”
Loud knocks were heard coming from his front door. “Open up,” said a demonstrative voice on the other side of the door.
“Get up, you sorry sack of shit and answer the door,” Andre said as Clyde slowly got to his feet and stumbled toward the door. Two cops were standing in the door frame, hands hovering over their gun:
“Are you Clyde Baxter?”
“Yes.”
“You are under arrest for eliciting under age girls on the internet.”
“What? I did nothing of the kind – honest! This is madness!”
“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say or do can and will be held against you in the court of law. You have the right to speak to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you. Do you understand these rights as they have been read to you?”
“I don’t believe this!” yelled Clyde as he was being handcuffed.
“Andre was grinning from ear to ear. “I can make life very, very difficult for you Mr. Baxter.”
“Please Andre – I promise you, I am no different than your average guy …I just wanted a little something for myself.”
“Come on,” said one of the cops. “Let’s go.” Clyde prayed no one in the courtyard would see him.
“Mr. Turnball, please! Please …I made a mistake and I won’t do it again. Please! My life will be ruined.”
Andre snapped his fingers and the cops were gone – evaporated, cuffs, holsters, the works.
Andre walked over to Clyde, who was feeling around his wrists – slumped on his knees. “You have something all your own. You have a chance to make many, many people happy.”
“I know. You’re right, you’re right. I never know what I have. I have never been good at appreciating what I have. I always want more.” Clyde was weeping; Andre crouched down next to him:
“If you keep giving Clyde, your reward will be great.”
“Yes, yes, I want to give. I want to keep giving.”
“The security job, the giving back of lost things – they are not the problem. The problem is you in the job, you performing the job – not the job itself. An enlightened man can shovel horseshit and be happy. You have a lot to be grateful for.” Andre slapped Clyde on the back with happy enthusiasm. “A grin my old chap! Be happy! Very few people are given your extraordinary opportunity. Feel blessed!”
“Yes, I promise.”
“Because of your indiscretion, I am going to ask you to do one thing for me.”
“Anything…anything…just don’t have me bleeding from my cock no more - please…”

Clyde found himself cold, sprawled out on the wet leaves and dirt. When he looked about himself, he realized he was at Beverly Glenn Terrace, surrounded by the tapestry of robust trees, marshes and tall grass.
“I see, I see,” said Clyde as he dusted himself off and began walking onward. He wondered how it could be that he was back in the past. He thought stuff like this only happened in the motion pictures, but lo! – There he was, moving along a familiar path with the creatures of the Glenn making music in his ears.
It took a good twenty minutes before he happened upon the helpless man he failed to save years ago. Here the man was again – writhing in pain, foaming at the sides of his mouth. Clyde had no idea how to administer CPR. He was getting nervous: he could not screw this up again. All he knew was that he would have to act fast this time around. Hoisting the stricken man over his shoulders like a purple- heart hero, Clyde carried the man to the same picnic post where he planned to make the first phone call. Feeling as if he would have a heart attack himself, Clyde placed the man on top of a picnic table and opened up his shirt.
“You’ll be okay, you’ll be okay for sure this time. I promise. I have a stricken man here! Can anybody help?” Park staff gathered around the table as Clyde ran into the park office and dialed 911. Within five minutes the paramedics had arrived and sped the man away. Clyde smiled – a tear formed in his eye. He was proud of himself.

“Hey, hey, mister – are you okay?” asked a middle aged woman standing over a prostrate Clyde – her two teenage and bewildered sons standing next to her. Clyde woke up slowly from the floor right in front of his apartment, shaking out the cobwebs.
“What? Huh?”
Clyde looked around: no Beverly Glenn Terrace, no picnic tables and no Andre Turnball to be found anywhere.

Clyde pulled up to the warehouse. He had rented another U-Haul. This time is was full of all the lost things Clyde had stolen. He was feeling different these days - less angry. He felt the need to join a church or some type of religious organization, to help feed him some moral nourishment. He hadn’t made a decision yet, but was looking into it. He had begun exploring various sorts of religious disciplines rather than heading off to The Boomerang to get plastered and argue sports with people who were never really his friends to begin with. Change happens slowly, but he is starting to feel he is on the right track.
As he entered through the front doors he saw Andre sitting behind his small desk and Jim Taylor – his fellow security guard at The Estates – sitting on a fold up chair just in front – enraptured by what Andre was telling him.
Jim turned and noticed Clyde and grimaced.
“What are you doing here?” asked Clyde.
“Somehow Clyde, Jim saw you enter our warehouse. That doesn’t happen too often. There must be a weak link in the system; now Jim has no other choice but to join our unique little club.”
“Lucky me,” said Jim.
“Jim needs a lot of help,” said Andre.
“No kidding – so do we all.”
“Maybe you can show him around?”
“Sure.”
Back at his apartment, Clyde was playing another reel of his family’s 8mm film footage. The room was darkened and silent, just the sound of the projector clicking. Clyde sipped a beer, not really tasting it – just sitting transfixed – watching all the dead relatives in their prime: there little Clyde sat – alone – always the loner – by the radiator, away from the relatives, playing with a toy train. How he wished Andre could snap his fingers and send him back – back to when there was no fear, lots of family around and no desire for lost things.