Inside Education in China

Inside the halls of academe, reside students who are dissatisfied with their lot: either their ideas and desires for college life are not met or they become well-aware that they’re not really learning anything. Of course, these are the better sort, for there is a preponderance of not caring one way or another: all that’s important is the piece of paper. And. . .once into a college or university, a student is guaranteed to graduate, no questions asked, no work required. Just pass a test. College course life is similar to high school and middle school minus the immense time commitment. In middle and high school, the school week is around 80 hrs, sometimes with one day off, sometimes with none (Sunday evening taken up by coursework). In middle and high school, students learn that what’s important is passing the next test, with greatest pressure on college admission, for the more who manage this, the higher the school’s prestige–and many of these schools take in private, out of town students, so the tuition can also increase with prestige. . .though the teaching quality will not. Why bother–they are successful as it is! You cannot improve on success.

So, a routine is learned: cram for this test, forget it, cram for the next, don’t worry about performing in class or even paying attention, for all that matters is cramming for the next test and passing it. The course material is simple beyond measure: if you memorize the facts and standpoints given you, you will pass the test; the course content is geared to the test, knowledge or the testing of knowledge is of no account. Indeed, it appears that armed with facts and information, students are incapable of relating any to any other: everything is isolated. With Bush’s No Child Left Behind, this is where US education is headed: no one will know anything more than a bunch of isolated facts, no one will be able to use that information. . .except on a test, a special test assessing one piece of information: science is not related to life or the humanities or psychology or history–and none of these is related to any other. In fact, I had an entire class of graduate students in economics tell me that economics has nothing to do with humanity. . .or people. So it is here, in China, the paranoia- generating behemoth from the East Americans are supposed to fear unto death.

Herein, too, lies the observation that Chinese are such good studiers. True, they must study all the time but it’s not because they know how to study effectively; it’s because when you cram, you forget soon after the test and when you cram for the next test you must reinvent the wheel, that is, study everything you’ve forgotten from before plus everything new. It’s a never-ending process. They know no other way and are resistant to change, though mouthing the need for something different. Even the colleges say they want something different but don’t want to do anything about it: there’s only one way to satisfy government directives. . .even though the government wants alternative methods. For teachers, like students, there is only one way.

Unlike the States, corporal punishment is rampant in Chinese middle and high schools. Children are beaten with broom handles or other implements of destruction, they are kept standing in hallways for hours, they are yelled at and debased in a kind of Stalinist manner. In general, they are treated fairly badly, as if they’re not worth very much–a few crumbs of goodwill alleviating the grind. I worked with one teacher who beat a student about the head so badly that he had to be taken to the hospital. When the father showed up to get things settled–700 RMB (about $100)–all this teacher did for the rest of the day was complain about having to hand over all of his savings: what a bastard this father was. He saw no wrong. When the school was alerted, nothing was done, not even a reprimand. Another teacher at this same school enjoyed beating his students on the legs with broom handles, making sure he hurt them and made them cry; he enjoyed telling me this, smiling and laughing at the pain inflicted. He’s considered one of the better teachers. The result is to turn out well-trained, mindless clones, all life and creativity crushed. In general, this is a success.

In colleges, head teachers, teachers in charge of sections of students (like US high school homeroom teachers) are verbally abusive and intensely strict, often requiring their charges to show up for study in their classroom. Roll is taken and if they happen to not be there–even if they find the library more conducive to working–they are punished. I’ve not heard of any corporal punishment on this level. Students are forced to take elective classes, though in some schools there is a nice selection; in some schools, however, the entire class must take the same course, the one most students want. They are given a grade for these extra-curricular classes, as they are called. I was stuck with 100 students in one of these extra-curricular courses: drama. What am I going to do with 100 students who only see drama as acting? I found out most were not interested but had to take something and this course sounded the least offensive. I solved my problem: everyone not interested in acting or directing did not have to come as long as I had a class list. If they showed up for the production, I’d give them a good grade. My cast and crew amounts to 11, four of them from my freshman writing classes (this drama class was only for sophomores). I told the dean when interference from another teacher caused concerns; he found nothing at all wrong with this solution to the problem of too many students.

Although I’ve dealt with students in the sciences and economics/business and though what I’ve got to say can be generalized to these subject areas, I am speaking from the humanities end of the spectrum, specifically foreign language learning. As this is more especially English, I will dispense with the other language choices in short order: they are considered “second” language choices (there is only an English or a Chinese language major) and, so, are only indulged in to the point that the student can pass a minor proficiency test. No other ability is needed. Discovering someone who speaks and handles Japanese, French, German, Russian is discovering someone who has done it on their own, out of their own self-interest. So. . .to work. . .

The structure of the English curriculum, ending with a BA in language and literature, is multiple year long courses in writing and speaking and what’s called culture–all repetitious. There is a year of literature: one semester of British, one semester of American. There is a semester of linguistics: I’ve yet to meet a student who thought this course was anything other than boring. It is, after all, geared to the mandatory linguistics exam required of all English majors. There are no standard course offerings for the inner workings of Western culture: Greek and Roman mythology or Christian stories/influence, unless a special offering, by an exceptional foreigner, i.e. someone with the requisite knowledge. That is, occasionally you find someone doing a special course but students are totally unable to see the relationship between these things and literature and culture and the department smiles benignly at a nice course offering that really has nothing to do with anything–but it looks good. Although I taught a semester in one college, I did not do a good job; I met an exciting foreigner who was a classics major. Not even top 10 universities have such an in-depth offering.

Within these various English courses, the job is to memorize alot of facts, as given by the professors, who come into the classrooms, lecture didactically and leave: no interaction. They are told, “This is what this story or novel means.” As in, War and Peace means “war is hell.” That’s why Tolstoy wrote it. Let’s move on. EM Forster’s The Road to Colonus is just a little story of an old man on vacation in Greece who has an odd experience and then returns home to banging pipes and irritation. Jane Eyre is a love story, a feminist love story. So is Pride and Prejudice, though there is a social comment involved. . .centred on love, of course. Doris Lessing’s stories are about class issues–class conflict. Metaphor counts for naught. Symbolism is an unknown, unmentionable. . .thing. And there is no theory of literature. Ah!–I feel Edgar Allan Poe writhing in his Baltimore grave.

What it all amounts to is simply “this is the way it is, this is what’s going on, this is what it means” so this is memorized for the semester’s end test. Et voilà!–passing grade. In fact, the teacher says nothing different from what’s written in the textbook, virtually reading the commentary and not bothering with whether students have read the selection. Because it’s not important. Teachers say it is boring. Students say it is boring. But there’s no other way to do it. The test! The test!

Writing isn’t much different. They’ve been instructed to write a specific way and any other way is not right, dammit! Even if the knowledge comes from a professional writer. This “way” is simple: three paragraphs. . .introduction, discussion, conclusion. The end. Everything is a generalization or a cliché–the Chinese are overly fond of clichés!–or the summary of what someone else has said (as found in the book). Or just plagiarism–the best students do it. I know of one student whose senior graduation thesis was 100% plagiarized: I was the reader. The English School Dean passed her with the lowest grade (60)–to save face. Can you imagine the message that would be sent round about cheating and competence? No. What’s important– face–is 100% graduation, on time. This was at a top 10 university. My mentored student did an analysis of Billy Budd based on Suzanne Langer’s theory of literature, graduated #1 in the school, didn’t have to test into gradate school and went on to a Fulbright Fellowship Lecture on American literature at the University of Hong Kong–a year before eligible. She was the grossest of exceptions. She is the highlight of my teaching career, though all who have been mentored by me garner “best thesis” awards, sometimes to the chagrin of some department officials. (Ahh–the tales I could tell!)

What it all amounts to is: this is the only information we want you to have. It is purposefully limiting knowledge–to use the word lightly–because any more would be threatening. It is politically and socially necessary for people to know not very much of anything, particularly of the outside world. My students of business and international trade majoring in English too have no idea what’s going on in the rest of the world, believe whatever the press says and tell me I’m lying when I give them US statistics and start talking of the bad loans, mortgages and bundling that all countries have bought into. They write off the poverty and beggars on their streets because–gosh!–the economy is growing at 9-10%! Their teachers tell them all they need to know. End of discussion.

I, however, teach differently; and my students come out better performers all around, showing the school off to good measure. . .and then I’m dumped. Alternative methods are verboten. There is no instant gratification. What about the test? Well. . .

I taught, my first semester in China, graduate non-English majors. Engineering Master’s students. The name of the course was Oral English. I was filling in. It was supposed to prepare them for their upcoming English competency test, a test they must pass in order to graduate. There’s no oral component to this test. So, I restructured the course, giving them more listening and writing. They complained but, in the end, I had an 88% pass rate. The average passing score usually is in the low 60’s; my students’ average passing score was over 70. I was relieved of this job and it was handed to someone more conventional, teaching the same old way–and the scores fell back to “normal.” The Vice-Dean of Graduate Education would not talk to me, would not even acknowledge my presence. I’m still in touch with many of those students.

Pretty much the same thing happened in my English major writing and literature classes: test scores were higher and more managed to get into grad school. However, I was told by one vice-dean that a literature final that was a paper was not about literature but about writing: what was I doing?!

But, though I’ve sent several abroad for further study, they have a difficult time getting into the better schools because the depth of literature knowledge I can give them is so very limited: two semesters. They don’t read well, either, not going beyond the surface, the words on the page; two semesters doesn’t cut it. There is little to no knowledge of how metaphors work or, for that matter, that literature is metaphor– unless they take my class. Not one Chinese teacher I’ve spoken to has any idea of a theory of literature or critiquing (outside of The New School–and that’s only via a glossing mention). As noted above, it means “this.” Some have even questioned me, “What are you teaching?” Well, I teach thinking and skills. No, no. What’s important is the test, the next nationally standardized test. “The students can’t see past this. What are you doing?”

So. . .I gave a multiple choice exam for literature one semester. It required thinking and having paid attention to what I said in class. The staff were flustered and demanded, as if I was fucking stupid and didn’t know what I was doing, that I support my reasons for giving a test they could not answer the questions of. I gave them the answers. My students averaged 78 with one failure (a surprise). All passed the course.

Example question:

11. Although the terms regionalism and local color are sometimes used interchangeably, regionalism generally has broader connotations. Whereas local color is often applied to a specific literary mode that flourished in the late 19th century, regionalism implies a recognition from the colonial period to the present of differences among specific areas of the country. Additionally, regionalism refers to an intellectual movement encompassing regional consciousness beginning in the 1930s. In The Awakening Chopin frequently focused on the Creole culture of Louisiana. Unique regional features included a heritage that drew from French and Spanish ancestry, a complex caste system, the settings of urban New Orleans and rural vacation retreats like Grand Isle (located on the Gulf Coast). How does Chopin cast cultural differences into sharp relief?

a) By the outsider, Edna Pontellier, who is from Kentucky, not the Louisiana south

b) By switching the story from one place to another

c) By the changes in Robert

d) By the almost eternal absence of Edna’s husband

 

This questioning of method even applies to my writing class. How dare me teach them what writing is or how to write! There is a way to write and teach writing and it’s out of this textbook, so I should lecture them on this material; there is no need for them to write so much–or even write a final exam. A multiple choice question test is appropriate. Never mind my history of success. The students need to pass the next test. What use are skills?

There are knowledgeable professors. I’ve met them. I wonder how they escaped educational blight. But, by the same token, how did I escape high school with a love of reading and language? But they are caught in the net and if the students complain they are forced, under threat of firing–which mean the end of their careers–to do it the old way. . .even when they are sent abroad for alternative method training. Teaching in China is a popularity contest: the more our students like you, the greater your salary and climb up the ladder to full professor–even without a Ph.D. Popularity. Who cares if performance and ability is enhanced. This is one reason foreigners give high grades. As one foreigner told me: teaching in China is a dream as long as you’re not interested in teaching them anything. I’m a slow learner. No. Obdurate. I worked by butt off, being told I was too stupid to get a four-year degree and find slackers disgusting insults.

In China, it is not a little knowledge that is a dangerous thing but any knowledge. The political leaders come out of Beijing University (Peking University) or Renmin University, as America’s “best and brightest” (who have brought down the world) matriculated from Harvard. And this is where US education is headed. It will be a long time before the newer generation of America produces an intellectual giant.

The Milking Business I

Clyde Moyen Bucket and Old MacGregor were sitting around drinking shots of Tequila at The Baron’s Roadside Inn when Edward Garcon sauntered in. He was licking his lips, though not because he liked dust, and twirling his Thoreau pencil.
“Well, how do, Mr. Bucket! And you, too, MacGregor,” he said, fanning himself with his sweat-stained slouch hat.
No one else in town had a slouch hat, nor did they want one, such dysutilitarian fashion not being a high priority out on the Brazos River Basin where Eastern newspapers were still two days old despite the Brownwood Stage making a daily pass-through. Out-running Indians was considerably easier if the stage was lighter of load. It wasn’t considered good form to toss out a passenger or two, though it was amazing that anyone managed to hang on given the speed of the stagecoach and the deteriorated condition of the roadway from Waco since it had become the Yabu Carriageway, cowboys having more pressing things to attend to than road repair.
“What d’ya thinka this heat, eh? Hot enough to fry an armadilla.” Garcon was always ready with a colorful phrase, whether he made it up or not.
Clyde and MacGregor looked up.
“‘Lo, Garcon,” said MacGregor, throwing back another shot.
“Ain’t no news here, boy,” snorted Clyde.
“I didn’t come for news. I came to git outa the heat. Worst wave we’ve had since. . .well, gosh! I just can’t recall.” Garcon sat and called out, “Baron! A tall glass o’ lemonade–and go easy on the sugar.”
The Baron emerged from the dark recesses of the shop. He clunked his way to Garcon’s table and glared down at the little man.
“Just where th’hell’m I gonna git the water, Garcon? You notice how dry it is lately?”
“Sure do. My lips are chipped and cracked like the Yabu Causeway. I been thinkin’ ’bout writin’ a editorial ’bout it. All the cracks done dried up and spread out like canyons and the rivers are trickles, small threads o’ runnin’ mud.”
“It’s been like this fer a month, Garcon, and the Causeway been a crack in the cosmic egg fer longer. So what? When you think yo’re thinkin’ gonna be finished?” asked Old MacGregor.
“I dunno. Sometimes the ideas just don’t wanna come. So,” and he turned to The Baron, “What do you suggest I imbibe?”
“We got whiskey, whiskey and whiskey. They got the Tequila and vodka ain’t been imported yet.”
“Oh. Well. I think I’ll have a whiskey.”
“Good choice,” said The Baron and trudged back into the darkness.
“I swear,” said Garcon, “with no drinkin’ water, what th’hell kids’r gonna drink? It ain’t legal to give ‘em alcohol.”
“Let ‘em drink milk,” spat Clyde. “I ain’t got no use for kids. Fuckin’ pain in the ass. I’d love to leave ‘em all behind.”
“Mama’s milk don’t last past a year or so, Mr. Bucket.”
“Let ‘em suck on a witch’s tit for all I care.”
“Or a cow’s tit,” softly scorned Old MacGregor.
Clyde grabbed Old MacGregor’s wrist. “What’d you say?”
“I said, let ‘em suck on a cow’s tit.”
“Now. . .that’s some idea. How many cows you got?”
“What th’hell’s it matter? Big boys don’t drink milk.”
“What do they drink?”
“Not much of anything in this drought.”
“Yeah. And you got how many cows?”
“Not many. Maybe a hunderd head. Why?”
“That ain’t enough.”
“Well, hell. It’s yore pokes drive ‘em up to Wichita for slaughter.”
“Well, now,” ruminated Clyde, “the times they are a changin’.”
“Oh, yeah. How deep that thought is!”
“Mac. . .Yabu’n I got enough beef cattle during season. . .”
“Yeah?”
“Why not turn your herd into a milkin’ farm?”
“Yo’re shittin’ me! Who the hell’s gonna drink that crap?”
“Thirsty people. Specially kids.”
“Huh?”
“An’ it’s more healthy than water, ain’t it?”
“Hell if I know.”
“Baby cows drink it and they grow up big and strong.”
“So?”
“And mom can give it over and git out an’ help in this death-defying drought.”
“Nobody ain’t done it before and ain’t nobody wanna go drinkin’ cow milk.”
“But we could make ‘em.”
“At gunpoint.”
“Nope. We gotta create a need.”
“Create a need?”
“Half the need’s here, yeah?” Old MacGregor nodded. “And Garcon’s lookin’ fer a story, ain’t he?”
“A hunderd head ain’t enough. ‘Sides, almost everyone out here’s got a cow.”
“Cows ain’t such good workers as bull.”
“Yew got that right!”
“How much bull you got?”
“Too damn many.”
“If you was to trade, how many cows could you get for a bull?”
“You want me to trade my bull for cows?”
“What if you owned all the cows in Chokepointe Piste?”
“I’d be poor as shit.”
“Sometimes, Mac, you are so dense I think yo’re name’s Rube Sordes. Garcon!”
“Yes, sir.”
“I got a story for ya.”
“Hot damn!”
“You know anything about milk?”
“No. But I got a encyclerpejia in the office and a hist’ry o’ the world from Noah to the beginning of the 19th century.”
“I want you to git to readin’ and start producing articles and stories and adverts for milk. How nutritious it is and how cheap and how it’ll relieve the severity of the drought. Think you can do that?”
“No problem. But it costs for adverts. Who’s gonna pay?”
“MacGregor’s Golden Udders.”
“Never heard of ‘em. They new in town?”
“Yep,” said Clyde, taking a hit of Tequila. “They just rode in. I know the owner. I’ll git you some info on ‘em.”
“I shore appreciate it, Mr. Bucket.”
“Here’s $25. That enough to git you started?”
“Shore thing!” Garcon pocketed the windfall.
“There’s more where that came from. Now. Off you git and do your research and writin’. We’ll see somethin’ tomorrow, right?”
“That’s awful tight, Mr. Bucket. . .”
“Just you remember who’s payin’ you, boy. Now. . .I’ll have The Baron bring you whiskey and ribs and if you git me a nice article about milk by tomorrow, I’ll have Yellamama send over a girl.”
“Just once?”
“No, no. You’ll be doin’ lots o’writin’.”
“Two or three times a week?”
“Hell, Garcon! Maybe one o’ them girls might marry you.”
“Whoa! I’m outa here!”
Clyde and Old MacGregor watched Garcon scamper on down the street.
“Sometimes it’s so easy it isn’t worth it,” Clyde growled.
“I ain’t so easy, Clyde. . .”
“Once you got all the cows, you won’t have a thing to worry about.”
“‘Ceptin’ fer breedin’. I won’t have no bull.”
“Keep about four.”
“Well. . .I don’t know. . .”
“Come on. We gotta register the company.”
And that was the start of the milking business and MacGregor’s Golden Udders. Making the best of a bad situation. By the time the mindless masses realized they’d been fleeced, it would be too late to do anything about it. The kids would be hooked, Garcon would be hooked and the admen would be producing propaganda about as fast as a cow could be milked. Yes, sir! The drought was not sucking the life out of Bucket and MacGregor any more. They were making the hard times work for themselves.
The bull worked hard, too, though the parched earth did not cooperate by producing much in the way of food crops. Before things got so bad that the owners turned to eating their bull, milk had taken off. The Golden Udders’ good fortune was helped along by a mysterious bovine flu that killed off all the cows in the Brazos River Basin but those at Old MacGregor’s farm. That’s because, as Garcon, editor of The Yabu Yeoman, discovered, Old MacGregor had begun grain feeding his cattle. They grew big and strong and produced more than enough milk, which is how the Golden Udders brand became the byword for health and fitness throughout East Texas. The problem was the natural grass: it turned out to be bad for bovine.
But, as the drought passed, milk stopped being the cheap all-in-one food it was originally advertised as. The people had to go without. That was not only unhealthy, it was a cultural set-back: milk had become a status symbol–if your kids weren’t drinking milk, you were a bad mother. Wasn’t important either that some kids came down with tuberculosis and spent the rest of their short lives coughing and gagging and spitting up blood and spreading the disease so that adults came down with it.
After moaning and groaning amongst themselves, a select group of townsmen set their complaint before Hellecchino, who said, as he always did, “I’ll see what I can do.” And just in time, too, with the decrease in population. Nobody had heard of Louie Pasture, so the Bible Thumpers began preaching The End Times and nobody wanted to die.
So it was that Hellecchino just happened to saunter by one of the out-pastures at Old MacGregor’s farm. And there just so happened to be a cow in that pasture, probably a spent milker since all of the other cows had had their natural nutrition co-opted by the less nutritious, less tasty, less fortified but far more expensive though hyped as less expensive grain. Any real farmer would have known that grass, that grows without any stimulant and at no cost, is cheaper, but old MacGregor was a monopoly and with monopolies anything goes. Besides, more cost to produce means higher prices on the market which means great profit and so all’s well with the world, as Shakespeare maintained a mere 300 years ago.
Also in the field was a persimmon tree and a cowherd. Not a cowboy, a cowherd. Everyone needs employment, even the incompetent. And there was no one more interested in employment of this kind than Yabu, Bucket and old MacGregor. Ee-eye, ee-eye O.
“Hey! Cowherd!” shouted Hellecchino, leaning on the fence rail.
“Hey,” answered the cowherd.
“That’s sure a fine persimmon tree you got there.”
“Is it?”
“Sure is. I’m a connoisseur of persimmons.”
The cowherd was not from these parts.
“Y’are?”
“Shore thang. I travel the country lookin’ for persimmons and this is a prime tree.”
“Ya don’t say!”
“Yep. What say you get me down some so I can taste the delicacy of the moment.”
“I ain’t much fer climbin’. . .”
“Me neither. I got a gimp leg.” Hellecchino shook a loose leg at the cowherd.
“We got ourselves a problem.”
“Do appear we do. But. . .you could get that there cow to butt the tree and bring some fruit down.”
“Way-all. . .I guess so. She ain’t good for much else but watchin’.”
So the cowherd lined the cow up with the tree and swatted her hind-quarters a good one. The cow banged into the tree. Cows’ll do just about anything.
No effect.
So the cowherd did it again.
No effect.
“Third time lucky,” said Hellecchino, knowing just about everybody believed in superstition.
So the cowherd did it again. And, lo and behold, persimmons rained down. Hellecchino smiled.
But the cow was stuck, horns embedded in the tree trunk.
“Way-all. . .I’ll be gall-darned,” said the cowherd, scratching his head. “There’s your persimmons. I’ll be off to unstick the cow.”
And off he ran.
And off Hellecchino ran–to fetch his friends and their pails.
It wasn’t long before that cow was milked dry and Hellecchino was smiling. It didn’t matter that he had to spend time picking up the green persimmons and tossing them aside. He’d all but done his job. Next was extricating the cow and putting her to good use.
So Hellecchino banged on the tree and banged on the tree until the protesting cow was free. And the cow was grateful, as Aesop showed us millennia ago would be the case, wolves not withstanding.
The next day, the cowherd and several of the boys returned to solve the problem only to find they had a greater problem. Being the loyal followers they were, they lit out down the road in search of their missing bovine. Hellecchino left a good trail to follow, though, in fact the cow had gone the other direction. Hellecchino was a crafty hero, as heroes go.
It wasn’t long before the boys came upon a street walker. That is, a prostitute out for a more lucrative business. Hellecchino was sitting down by the side of the road on a little folding stool. A little ways off, behind a mulberry bush, a colorful Mexican horse blanket was spread on the ground. He wasn’t a very good looking prostitute, either, but that’s of no consequence to cowboys. As the sound of approaching hooves grew louder, he began knitting, whispering stitches to himself, “Drop one, pearl two.” When they drew nigh, they stopped in a cloud of dust. Hellecchino coughed prettily and waved his row of knitting at the dirt and grime.
“You seem a pretty wench. Whatcha doin’ out here all by yo’self?” said the lead Carambolero.
“Looking for a poke. How’s about yourself, handsome?”
“We’re chasin’ a varmint.”
“That sure wouldn’t be me, would it?” Hellecchino looked up at the cowboys with big eyes and blinked.
“No, ma’am. It shore wouldn’t.”
“Well. . .that’s nice.” Hellecchino put his knitting down and spread his legs beneath his gingham dress, propping his elbows on his knees.
They all sat around awhile, the cowboys fidgeting in their saddles, Hellecchino looking casually from one to the other. Hellecchino could be very charming when he wanted.
“Say,” one of the cowpokes finally said. “You seen a cow lately?”
“Oh, my. I sure have. But what do you want with a cow when I’m here? My cunt’s a whole lot tighter and virus free. . .and I’ll suck your udder as a bonus.” And Hellecchino giggled, hiding his face behind his hand.
“We’re–” cough, “looking for that cow.”
“You boys spend alot of time in the saddle, I dare say,” remarked Hellecchino archly, steering them away from the matter at hand.
“You got that right, honey.”
“Can you take the time from your task at hand for a fuck?”
“Hell, woman! We’re always ready to get fucked.”
“Well. . .I don’t like doing it in a crowd,” and Hellecchiono looked down demurely between his open skirted legs. “So let me hop up on your horse and you can ride me to my shack. When you’ve been fucked, we’ll come again for another horny cowpoke. Sound like a good idea? It’ll be the best fucking of your life. I’ve a terrible itch a-going.”
“Alright, boys. You wait right here. Hop up here, honey.”
As Hellecchino mounted, he let out a fart.
“You got any more gas in ya, I’ll pound it out, make no mistake about it.”
“That wasn’t a fart. That was the saddle creaking.”
And when Hellecchino was up, “Come on, you upright cowpoke. Let me hold you close.” He threw his arms around the man, clamping one hand over each breast and pushing his stuffed bosom against his back. “Bound me for a warm-up, cowboy!”
The unlikely pair cantered on down the road and around the bend to where there was a mud hole and a bunch of townies, out of work carpenters and builders. That sort.
“Here we are, sweetheart.”
Hellecchino jumped down and pulled the Carambolero after him, divesting him of his pistol. Hellecchino pulled off his wig. The townies pushed in about the pair.
“You’re finished riding this horse, boy. It’s mine now. And now for the screw job I promised you. Strip!”
With a group of brawny men around, the Carambolero didn’t hesitate. When he stood nude, Hellecchino started laughing. The Chokepointe Piste roughnecks guffawed.
“You expected to fuck me with that little worm? Go on and climb into that mud pit. You smell. The bath’ll do you good.” The man did as he was bid. “Deeper, sweet thing, and if it ain’t deep enough duck down. Tha-aaat’s right. Now. . .we’re gonna leave your clothes and pistolee right here if. . .if you promise to tell Clyde Moyen Bucket”–Hellecchino pronounced his name incorrectly–”just how you been treated. Every detail. Courtesy of Hellecchino, hero.”
Hellecchino and the townies walked off, leaving their chastened chaser wallowing in his shame.
The cow was never recovered.

Holly Hills Primer

One day while Hellecchino was sunning himself down at Sycamore Hole after taking a dip, Buck came lumbering up on his brown burro, kicking up alot of dust and the poor creature’s flanks. Buck was cursing the poor animal for taking his time, a vital characteristic of burros, and when he finally alighted, he stamped his foot and slapped the poor beast on the side. To no effect. Then he called out:
“Hellecchino?”
“Down here, Buck.”
“We got us a amergency.”
“Always, Buck. Why don’tcha come on down an’ take a dip. Water’s fine but the sun’s better when you’re out.”
“We ain’t got time.”
“Hell, good buddy, there’s always time.”
“Dammit, Hellecchino! Come on up outa there. You know I can’t git down there. I’ll never git back up again.”
“Buck. . .I’m a hero. I can get you out of any hole you can get yourself into. It’s a fact of life.”
“I ain’t comin’ down.”
“Damn!” and Hellecchino signed deeply. “No rest for the weary.” He put on his clothes and clambered up to Buck. “What’s up, Buck?”
“There’s a trial goin’ on up on Holly Hills an–”
“That’s a prickly affair. What’s it all about?”
“Witchcraft.”
“You’re shittin’ me!”
“Nope. I ain’t.”
“Since when did witches come to be in this part of the country?”
“Since Gyorgy and Clyde decided it.”
“Well, if that ain’t the pot callin’ the kettle black.”
“There’s a gatherin’ of ’bout 300 people gone to watch.”
“Who is it?”
“Glenda and Marvel Proctor.”
“Well, I suppose we oughta go an’ see what’s what, eh? What’re the charges?”
“Don’t know. They’re gonna be read when they are brought up to the top of the hill.”
“Alright. Hop back on ol’ burro there and I’ll walk along beside you. You can tell me the particulars on the way.”
“You think we got time?”
“Buck. . .flyin’ ain’t been invented yet. You got another plan?”
Buck limped over to the still animal and mounted. “You’re not makin’ me ride cause-a my leg, are ya?”
“I got longer legs, so I can make ol’ burro go faster.”
And off they went.
Sure enough, when they arrived in Chokepointe Piste, there was a string of people wending their desultory way to Holly Hills where Hellecchino found Buck had counted appropriately: there were 300 people gathered at the foot of the hill, held back from going up to the top by a string of barbed wire. Several of the Ship of Fools were stationed around the perimeter to make sure no one passed, as if anyone would risk flaying themselves by passing through barbed wire. Not too many people were stupid as bovine. Hellecchino spotted several kerchiefed Officers of General Protection and Upkeep (OGPU) pretending to be undercover facilitators of protest in order to provoke randy activism so the Ship of Fools, the Wheels of Justice and the Caramboleros could go into action. They were itching for it, Hellecchino could tell–their truncheons were out and they were slapping them rhythmically into their brown leather gloved other hand, their mouths set in tight-lipped determination, their eyes dark and intense, like wild pigs’ eyes, hats pulled down low on their furrowed brows.
Yes. Things did not look good. It looked like it might just be a repeat performance of the Blast at Seattle.
Hellecchino edged as close to the barbed wire as he could, close to the path the indicted would be led up to their seat of judgment. There were no gallows or other such public displays of punishment atop the little mound–Holly Hill was not much of a hill, just a kind of rise along the river’s edge where it took a mighty turn to the south–though there was a raised platform, bare of any accoutrements. And Hellecchino waited.
It wasn’t long before Glenda and Marvel Proctor were herded up the barbed wire chute, their hands tied in half-hitches, the long end of the rope held in the hands of Medusi Minkowski IV, who pulled them mercilessly forward, a grimacing grin on his face. The man and woman were tied together. Their ankles were tied together, making progress that much more difficult. Behind them came a bevy of Wheels of Justice warders, rifles and shotguns at the ready, for escape was always a worry. It did not matter that both Glenda and Marvel wore black hoods sans eyeholes or nose holes and held in place around their necks by another length of rope, again joined one to the other, which made it terribly difficult for Glenda to walk as she was head and shoulders taller than Marvel who was in the lead, being a man. Whenever they stumbled, the Baron applied his bullwhip to their rumps or flanks or backs–whatever exhibited itself. Needless to say, Glenda and Marvel, perhaps the handsomest people in Chokepointe Piste, were not in the best of shape upon reaching the crest of the hill. They were led up onto the stage and positioned, very carefully, directly in the centre of the wooden platform. Clint Flintlock stepped up beside them and slightly in front and read the charges in as loud a voice as possible, given he was a counter-tenor.
“Ladies and gentlemen. Hear ye, hear ye!” Clint paused as if expecting a celestial chorus to join in in contrapuntality. “We are gathered here to witness the branding and trial of Glenda and Marvel Proctor, accused of and being found to be practicing witchcraft and sorcery.” The crowd murmured, bringing the ring of Caramboleros and Wheels of Justices to a higher state of altertness. Hellecchino could see their trigger fingers itching. “These be the charges! Making their neighbors sheep dance in an uncommon manner and causing hogs to speak and sing Psalms and Odes and Chants to the great terror and amazement of the Chokepointe Piste goodly, peaceful and comfortable and the distress of the subjects of said great city.” Clint paused again, looking out over the crowd. “You are the salt of the earth but if the salt loses its taste, what kind of spice will you be? You will be good for nothing and be cast out over the left shoulder and be trodden under foot, as Glenda and Marvel Proctor, as they stand before you. They are not the light of the world. Their light does not fall upon those of us in the house of Chokepointe Piste. For their light is a dark light” Clint turned to face the accused, the damned. “It is the law!” he screeched. “Whosoever breaks the least little letter of that law is the least before the law and you shall in no case be blessed among us. You have heard it said of old, ‘Thou shalt not kill; and whosoever shall kill shall be in danger of the judgment.’ But I say that whosoever even thinks about doing harm shall be in danger of the final judgment and shall be in danger of hell-fire lest at any time your intended deliver you to the judge and the judge deliver you to the officer and the officer cast you into prison from which place you shall by no means come out of. Amen! And if your right eye offends, it will be plucked out and tossed out onto the dung heap. And if your right hand offends, one or more of your digits shall be severed and fed to the hogs. So, take heed that you do not raise your arms before men, otherwise you’ll have no reward but damnation. And do not lay up treasures for yourselves, else thieves will break in and steal you blind–as the Devil has done with the treasured souls of Glenda and Marvel Proctor.” Clint lowered his voice and spoke out over the heads of the spectators, “No man can serve two masters, for either he will hate the one and love the other, or else he will hold to the one and despise the other. You cannot serve the law of the land and That of Mammon. . .as these two sinners have done.” He raised his hand on high and a glint of terror flashed out of his eyes, “Seek to first satisfy the City of Chokepointe Piste and its righteousness and all good things shall come to you. Judge not or you’ll be judged and the judgment you judge by will be the judgment that condemns you, as it is and always has been.” Clint smiled as best he could. “Ask and it shall be given, seek and you’ll find, knock, and the door will be opened. But,” and he shook his forefinger, “beware of false prophets that come to you in sheep’s clothing but are really ravening wolves. Glenda and Marvel Proctor were deceived by such and are now wicked and lost.” Clint hesitated. “Yes. That’s it. Great is their fall and great shall be their foreclosure.” Clint Flintlock looked out over the crowd but he did not receive the approval he sought–and he’d worked so hard on that speech. Neither was there any murmuring.
Medusi Minkowski IV stepped forward. “These two. . .people. . .will be tested to see whether they’s witches or not because the law says it must be so, though their souls are already damned to hell and back the fucking shit cocksucking bastards!” Medusi wiped spittle from his chin. “There will be two tests. First. . .they shall be weighed on a scale against The Bible. If they are heavier, they will be considered not to be witches. Second. . .they shall be tied to a strip of wood and if they float, they will be considered to be witches.”
“Let it be, let it be!” shouted Glenda Proctor.
“Let it be!” shouted Marvel Proctor.
“But–” prevaricated Hellecchino in a disguised voice.
“But whut?” spat Medusi.
“Two of their accusers must undergo the same ordeal as they do.”
This brought the crowd to life.
“Who said that?” shouted Medusi, stepping forward and drawing his pistol.
Hellecchino egged those near him on and soon the entire gathering of townsmen was shouting for the test of four, not two.
Medusi, Clint, Clyde and Col., Ret’d, Thor Custard put their heads together. As their conference took longer and longer, the crowd’s demands grew shriller and shriller. A few tomatoes came arcing out over the stage, splattering themselves against the wood, the accused and Medusi. Clint and Clyde received cabbages to the back. Col., Ret’d., Thor Custard ducked the guided apple sent in his direction. Quickly, the law decided it was best to acquiesce to the people on the spot. Later they could make them pay for their audacity. Who did they think they were anyway?
So it was that Guiser Bunco and Jezebel Hawkshaw were fingered and brought forward to be tested. Guiser was tied up with Marvel, Jezebel with Glenda. It didn’t matter what the outcome would be, Gusier’s and Jezebel’s careers were over now that everyone knew who they were. It’s never pleasant to out your own spies and stoolies but they are, after all, disposable assets.
First, the Bible. All four were placed on one side of a dual-rigged up cattle scales and a specially prepared heavy Bible on the other. If only Glenda and Marvel Proctor alone had been weighed, perhaps they’d have been found wanted; however, there was not enough time to re-prepare the Bible, so they passed. No witches here.
Second, the sink hole torture. All four were stripped bare and tied individually to pine slabs, trimmings from the Brazos River Basin Logging and Builders Association. The women were duly amazed at the size of the men, some of them covering up their mouths in surprise: Guise was so long and thin, Marvel rather larger around and with great hanging balls. The men drooled over the two women, especially Glenda who, despite her 40 years, still had upstanding breasts; Jezebel’s being a little fuller. After a bit of gawking and latrine humor by the lawmen, the four were tossed into the flooded gravel pit. This was a better choice than the river, for, in the river, one or all might be carried downstream and butt up against a rock or root or even the riverbank and saved. Of course, one or all might sink and the undertow carry them downstream never to be recovered. This would be a terrible loss: it was the habit of the Chokepointe Pisters to publicly display the corpses of the ill-fated lawbreakers. At a penny an ogling, this was extra income for the undertakers and good copy for the newspaper. It was also figured to be a good deterrent to crime, for no one, no matter how well-endowed, wished to be exposed publicly.
Well, Guise, thin and wiry, sank almost immediately; the other three floated.
Jezebel became rather panicky about her predicament. Everyone now knew her for what she was and she’d rather die here and now than at the tongues and hands of the townsmen. She started screeching and screaming and straining at her bondage. As frightful as it was while she was floating in the gravel pit, her demeanor and vocal abilities were twisted and pitched to even greater heights.
“I demand to be dunked! I demand to be dunked! It is the traditional witch-proving technique. Dunk me, you fucking bastards!”
And, so, they did. They dunked her. But she bobbed right back up. Well, despite her breasts, she was a thin middle aged woman. She was crying and spitting water and shouting her distress.
So Hellecchino disguised his voice and cried above the shocked exclamations of the surging crowd, “She is bewitched! The Devil her Master has made her so light as to float. Dunk her again. Dunk her 100 times.”
As expected, the women in the crowd started hooting, “Dunk her! Dunk her!” The men refrained for fear the womenfolk would discover how they loved wet shirt contests and that would be the end of the once a month contests out on Old MacGregor’s Farm.
Jezebel howled, “Yes! Yes! Yes!”
The SOFA could not help the situation or themselves so they dunked her again and again but to no avail. So, after 10 or 12 times, they stopped, untied her and watched her take off like a badger with a burning tail. Jezebel was never seen in town again and nobody knows what happened to her. Guiser Bunco was drug up from the bottom of the pit and displayed at the undertakers. He was a great success, bringing untold amounts of money into the business. Indeed, the Waco Enquirer and the Nacogdoches News and the Port Arthur Rag all sent reporters for pictures and stories: it was not often that a witch was caught in East Coahuila. There was even a sidebar in some of the nationals. Chokepointe Piste got its 15 minutes of fame.
Hellecchino and Buck retired to the roof of the tollbooth to celebrate the embarrassment while the SOFA got pissed. Gyorgy, Clyde and Medusi met out at the ranch for a much needed conference to clear up an untidy situation.

How the Security Officers Freedom Fighters Association Got Its Name

It wasn’t too long before Gyorgy Yabu, Medusi Minkowski IV and Clyde Moyen Bucket decided that more needed to be done. Hellecchino, the thorn in their sides, was creating an unruly, an inappropriately responsive crowd. There were more of them than them. That was frightening. It was only one step further to formulate the fact that there were fear mongers. And that meant, since the masses are mindless, that there were secret facilitators–other that the pesky Hellecchino. Like all community activists, these agents provocateurs were insidious manipulators–and they must be stopped. After all, they threatened the peace and it was the job of the lawmakers and law keepers to protect that peace. But the present police force, even with Ronoso Raton and the Blackwater Brothers, was not large enough and far, far too visible. To fight an invisible enemy, an invisible police force was needed. So, the Security Officers Freedom Fighters Association (SOFA) was created. Aside from the local constabulary, Yabu, Minkowski and Bucket sought out other like-minded coldcockers.
The Wheels of Justice, a private police force operating in the Far West under the capable hands of Colonel, Ret., Thor Custard, was contracted. Under this officer’s experienced thumb, a secret force within SOFA was created to go undercover: the Officers of General Protection and Upkeep (OGPU). It was their job to ferret out and finger the fear facilitators, at which point the Caramboleros went into action. The leaders of the Caramboleros were the Shrievalty Brothers and the major percentage of their force of chasers came from the West Country Pummelers, a mixed bag of viragoes, many of whom were former bounty hunters who opted out for a stable salary. Besides which, they were getting a bad name and changing their cover was the easiest route to respectability.
Now, because this was a highly sensitive, highly volatile undertaking, a special PR campaign was launched under the aegis of Mel Gabler of the Educational Research Analysts and his new side-kick, Bernay Aisles. At the same time, a special court was established to deal with these vicious, terrible underminers of the populace, the Pyx Jury–which quickly became popularly known as The Pyxilators. The Irish immigrants in the area calling them The Little People.
And, of course, Janus Beauregard and the Disappearing Machine came into play–as might be expected. It is unfortunate that Jim Hatfield had not yet figured out how to undisappear the long-disappeared. Ethics and personal dilemma being what they were, you can imagine Yabu’s consternation when he discovered Janus Beauregard had disappeared. Jim Hatfield took with him all of Chicane Milchrot’s notes.
A two-pronged attack was undertaken: PR via The Yabu Yeoman along with broadsides floated around The Lone Star Inn & Bordello–and an occasional sermon at The Saints Janus and Ananias Methodist Church by visiting pastors; and a search and destroy mission centred on Hellecchino. For some unknown reason, this latter task took precedence, dominating the SOFA agenda and the interest of the folk. If Hellecchino weren’t already a hero, the shenanigans of the SOFA Caramboleros assured his history and status. Not being literary men, albeit literalists, SOFA et al. had never heard of Robby Burns who wrote, amongst other dialectics: “The best-laid schemes of mice an’ men gang aft a-gley.”
It is true, too, that the road of life is a long and twisty way, full of pot holes, troll-ridden bridges, dark woods and itinerant salesman. Curses all, they stand in the way of progress and the right of way.
It so happened that one day the Caramboleros were out scouring the countryside when they were approached by a spy, one of the OGPU boys. They were known by their long thin noses, close-set, beady eyes and manner of freely swinging their arms when they walked.
“I am Man of the Streets,” he said.
“Ah. Vortegern,” said Boulogna Shrievalty, who was leading the chasers this particular day. “I recognize you. What have you to say for yourself, you sly devil?”
“Hellecchino is in the forest there.”
“But I see no forest.”
“That is because it is up around the bend and down in a valley.”
“Ah-ha! How very cunning of him! Lead the way, Vortegern.”
The Caramboleros followed Vortegern to the edge of the greenwood in the vale. There was a stream running through it and an old dried up irrigation ditch. The Caramboleros set up an ambush in the ditch. They let Vortegern lead their horses back down the road and around the bend. This was to be one surprise attack that that pesky Hellecchino would not escape to live another day to tell about it. There was no surviving capture.
At the sound of hoof beats coming across the semi-arid landscape, the Caramboleros hunkered own as far as their holsters and jeans would allow. The hoof clop-clops splashed through the stream and up onto the road and Buck sauntered by on his long-eared burro, empty wine sacks slapping at its flanks. Buck was not blind but the Caramboleros hoped he wouldn’t look. To further help them remain undiscovered, they held their breaths. This did not work. Buck had great peripheral vision. The Caramboleros were not locals. They did not know who Buck was. Bad luck. Because Buck came across Hellecchino in the woods and told him of the ambush.
We call such fortuitousness bad luck if we are the Caramboleros and good luck if we are Hellecchino. Probability and serendipity play into this, too. But this type of rare occurrence did not end here. Shortly after Buck passed on his way to Lu Da’s to refill his wineskins, a coal man came lumbering down the road on his way to Chokepointe Piste, or perhaps Hacienda loco plátano. The man was a sight to behold, to be sure. Covered from head to foot in black dust with only his white teeth shining and the whites of his eyes, he pushed an equally blackened wheelbarrow piled high with great hunks of coal and trailing a black trail of coal dust behind him. He was singing an old folk song, “There Ain’t No Hammer.” He had a lusty voice despite the black dust inhalants that, later at night, would make him gasp and cough into the wee hours of the morning.
Hellecchino jumped out from the trees.
“Hey, my man! You look tired. How ’bout lettin’ me deliver that fer ya.”
“Yew gotta be kiddin’!”
“I never joke.”
“You’re shittin’ me.”
“Do I look like the shittin’ kind? Look. . .here’s $25 and you get my clothes.”
“What about mine?”
“Even trade.”
“Now I know yore full up, Mr. I been wearin’ these duds for a month. Ain’t no use in washin’ ‘em as they jest git black agin’n fall apart in no time.”
“All the better.”
Hellecchino took off his clothes and laid them in a neat pile beside the road. The miner took of his clothes and stood them beside the road, so full of coal dust and sweat were they. Hellecchino jumped into them and began smearing coal dust over his face.
“How do I look?”
“Like a minstrelsy end-man.”
“Ho-kay! You better wash up a bit before you get in my duds. There’s a little pond over thataway.”
“Alright. Thanks, Mr.” And off the coal miner went with his $25 and new clothes. He was pretty pleased with himself. It wasn’t often that such luck fell into his lap.
Hellecchino waved him off and then picked up the wheelbarrow handles with a huff and a puff and began lumbering down the road, picking up the old coal miner’s song right where he was interrupted. And so Hellecchino rambled right past the Caramboleros’ ambush, singing at the top of his lungs–and in a very racist manner in order to further disguise himself and endear himself to his pursuers. Not being locals and Hellecchino being in black-face, the Caramboleros did not recognize their quarry. So Hellecchino shouted at them.
“Hey! Whatchu all doin’ down there in th’ditch? Huntin’ up snails?”
“What’s it to you, you scurvy fellow?”
“Ah’ll be goad-damned! Ah’m gonna complain ’bout th’way yew’s addressin’ me. Ah’m hew-main an’ if’n it warn’t fer me, ya’ll’d not git no heat in th’winter and no hot food.” Hellecchino spat. “Fer all th’trubble I been through drivin’ ma wheelbarra instead’n ma draft horse an’ you treat me lahk shit.”
“Why’d you not brang yore draft horse?” inquired Boulogna.
“I heerd thet Hellecchino char’cter was in these parts. I didn’t want ma horse stolen. She’s kinda my meat’n p’taters. An’ it’s a good thing I did whut I did, fer I seen him in the woods back there. Takin’ off his clothes and bathin’ in th’pond.”
Like lightning, Boulogna jumped out of the ditch, shouting at his companions.
“Come on, boys! We got the bastard now!”
The herd of Caramboleros dashed off into the woods, holsters slapping their thighs, spurs jangling at their heels and their boots clomping along on the dried-up roadbed. There was no way they could have surprised anybody but there was no thought to that as Hellecchino was presumed naked. However, when they got to the pond, Hellecchino was not there–rather, the coal seller was not there. They followed his drippings and came upon him at the farther edge of the woods. Without a word, they jumped the man and began pummeling him with fists and feet and guns.
The coal miner fell like a ton of bricks beneath their barrage, screaming and yelling, for he was mightily wronged. All his pleading did no good until they’d bloodied him up good and ripped his clothing to shreds. The Caramboleros stood him up and prodded him back down the forest path, laughing and sniggering and teasing him. Finally, the man found his breath.
“Ah hain’t Hellecchino.”
“Yeah. Right. What do you think we are, dumb fuckers?”
“Ah’m th’coal man. He stole ma coal an’ paid me fer ma clothes.”
“You got any identification?”
“Hell no!”
“Well, then. Fuck you. Git along!”
“There’s some places no ‘mounta washin’ gits ridda th’coal dust. . .”
“You tryin’ to put one over on us? We’re lawmen, you know.”
“Yore them damn Cay-rambolay-ros is who yew is.”
“You bein’ disrespectful to the law?”
One of the Caramboleros flattened the coal miner.
“I tell ya. . .I’m a coal miner,” whined the man from the feet of the chasers.
“Prove it!”
“Look up my nose.”
The lawmen looked at each other. They looked at the man on the ground. They looked at each other.
“You do it.”
“No. You do it.”
“Nuh-uh. You do it.”
“Ain’t no shittin’ way. You do it.”
“I’m the boss. You fuckin’ do it.”
So the Carambolero bent over and roughly took hold of the coal miner’s nostrils and spread them wide. He gazed up into them. He looked back to his comrades.
“I can’t see a damn thing. Like a match fer me.”
Well, one of the chasers did and the flame leapt from the match head to the coal miner’s nostrils and burned him but good. He screamed and yelled and cursed and held his nose. When he took his hand away, he looked like Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer. But Boulogna Shrievalty and the Caramboleros didn’t care. They shouted in unanimity and took off back down the road after the real Hellecchino, disguised as a coal miner. The bastard.
But Hellecchino, as soon as the Caramboleros took off into the woods, took off down the road, leaving his coal wheelbarrow right where it was. He rushed around the bend and stopped in front of Vortegern, hands on knees, panting.
“You. . .better. . .git on. . .down the road! Boulogna sent me. They’re fightin’ Hellecchino. I’m to watch the horses.”
“Hot damn!” And off ran Vortegern, happy as a clam that he could actually lay his hands on an enemy.
Hellecchino waved him good-bye behind his back and then stampeded the horses. He ran to the stream and jumped in, washing himself as best he could. When he’d finished cleaning himself off, he realized he had no clothes and a long way to go. As he was sitting’ on the bank drying himself, a potter came along leading an old nag loaded down with earthenware.
“Hey!” Hellecchino shouted without getting up.
“Hey,” answered the potter.
“You look kinda dirty. Why not take a swim with me. I’m Hellecchino.”
“Well, I’ll be damned! I’ve always wanted to meet you.”
“We can talk in the water. It’s damn cool and refreshing.”
“I ain’t in no hurry. Sure thing!”
So the potter got undressed and jumped in the stream. Hellecchino just sat there watching him.
“Ain’t you comin’ in?”
“Nope. I’m escaping. Thanks for your clothes. Stop by the toll booth and Buck’ll pay you for ‘em.”
Hellecchino quickly dressed in the potter’s clothes, dried his hair, which kind of left it sticking up all over the place, and took up the old horse’s halter. He walked off back toward the woods, whistling a merry tune.
It wasn’t long before he came upon the Caramboleros who stopped long enough to enquire after their quarry.
“A coal miner? Sure thing. He’s up there round the bend taking a bath in the stream.”
Off ran the Caramboleros as Hellecchino sauntered into the deep dark woods very pleased with himself.
About half way to the bend in the road, the chasers met Vortegern.
“What th’hell you doin’ here? You’re supposed t’be watchin’ the horses.”
“A coal miner told me you needed help. He’s watching the horses.”
“You jackass! Don’t you know Hellecchino when you see him?!”
“Gawwwd-damn!”
They all ran on down the road and around the bend and, sure enough, there was a man in the stream, his coal dust-soaked clothes standing by the side of the road. The Caramboleros whooped and jumped into the water and dragged the poor guy out. They threw him in the dust and began abusing him as they’d done the coal man. He rolled around trying to escape the impromptu beating and yelling at them to stop. But it did no good. Not until he lay motionless and face down, bleeding from the nose into the dust.
“Git on yer feet!”
“I can’t.”
He was pulled up, roughly and disrespectfully.
“Look at the size of his dick,” shouted one of the chasers.
The rough and tumble cowboys guffawed and pointed.
“Yew a man’er a mouse!” And other such slurs fell from their lips.
“Who th’hell you think I am?”
“You can’t fool us, Hellecchino. We got you dead to rights.”
“I ain’t Hellecchino. He run off with my stuff. Them’s his duds right there.”
The Caramboleros turned and, for the first time, saw only coal miner’s clothes standing beside the road. Boulogna grabbed the little potter by the neck and lifted him up off the ground.
“Which way did he go? Which way did he go?”
The potter croaked and pointed back toward the woods.
Boulogna dropped the little man and turned to his compatriots.
“To horse! To horse!”
But there were no horses. Lots of hoof prints gave evidence to their being run off, though.
And so, the Caramboleros, already sore of foot in their narrow-toed boots, took off back down the road after Hellecchino. Right through the woods they ran, for there was no sign of the trouble-maker. Unbeknownst to them, he had climbed up into a tree.
When the chasers had emerged on the other side of the woods and there was still no sign of their quarry, they were mightily frustrated–and damnably tired. There was nothing to do but return to town defeated. What a loss of face. In order to take out their embarrassment and not show up empty handed, along the road they arrested four Jesuits, three merchants, two chicken farmers and an out of work lumberjack. These unfortunate innocents were thrown into jail. Nothing could head off the caramboling of the law. It’s just in the nature of things.
As much as they tried to hide their failings, the Caramboleros could not keep the story silent. So it wasn’t long before the SOFA had a new and, as far as the folk were concerned, more apt name: Ship of Fools.

Return from the Crypt

I’m back. China blocked proxies and I couldn’t get here for the longest time. I’m now in Liverpool, involved in theatre and poverty. Three more Hellecchino adventures were written following The Mayor’s Business and I’m stumped on #14. I might be posting some essays I wrote on Chinese education, none of them complementary. But I did find myself in a major poetry anthology, first foreigner I think: 26 poems in Chinese. My translator and a publisher are working on a bilingual text of modern American poets–any interested, write me for info. A commissioned play was translated and sent to the woman; but more importantly to a local Han opera director for possible adaptation–a real coup if it works. Another commission, for a TV drama, will probably never see the light of day there; it’s in play form, so I can peddle it around in more civilized countries. So, despite the worst they could dish out, I was active. Sorry to have to leave my daughters: the only reason I put up with the abuse for so long. They are older now, near to being married. I guess I’ll get to visit now and again to steal the grandkids. Don’t need a CRB there to play with children! Next up will probably be another Hellecchino.

the wall take 2

First, not everyone could follow Hellecchino’s logic. After all, the workers were losing their work and their workplaces. Eventually. That was all the future they could see or figured was important. Who did he think he was telling them it was no problem? Surely, he was a middle class or upper class man who had no inclining of what it was to work. He didn’t have a proper job. Even more, he was surely not aware of how much they, the workers, were responsible for his privileged way of life. Who’s side was he on anyway?
“Goldarnit! I do bizniss over thar, on that side o’ th’wall.”
“I know it. Me too.”
“I got fri’nds over there. How th’hell I gonna git to see ‘em?”
“Yabu likes ‘em an’ they’re friends o’ yorn?”
“I cain’t help that!”
“The damn wall’s interferin’ with bizniss an’–an’–an’ life. Ever’thang’s over there.”
“Y’don’ hafta tell me!”
“We ain’t got nowhere else to turn.”
“Where’d this Hellecchino fella come from anyway?”
“Well. . .yknow. . .I been thinkin’–”
“Aw shut up!”
The voices of the workers were many and anonymous. Of course. This wall was getting in the way. It was getting into their lives. It was right in their faces taking up their cognition so that they could look nowhere else. After all, it was right in their backyards, in a manner of speaking. They became kind of obsessed with this wall–actually, the idea of a wall as it had not been erected yet–and could see nothing but the wall. This, of course, leads to tragedy, not being able to see but one thing and letting that one thing ride roughshod over you. But, then, they didn’t know about Oedipus and Greek tragedy. Intellectual stuff was not practical.
There was a problem over at The Hotel. But nobody talked about it at The Hotel. They rode out to Hacienda loco plátano.
Yabu was out back practicing with his new fly rod. He was planning on a fishing expedition up Potter’s Creek, Missouri while the wall was being built. Clyde Moyen Bucket would be taking care of things. As per usual. You see. . .when you own everything and everybody–or think you do–there’s no need for you to do any work and you become bored so you must find something to do with yourself, your time. Gyorgy Yabu went fishing. At least, that’s what he told his wife, Linda Lu Byrd, who played dumb, for she knew he went out with his buddies fishing for more than scaly little finny things swimming about in the water. And he’d be drinking. She kept tabs on Yabu, whom she called Geo, expecting to be able to or forced to use this information to keep him in line– for her own personal gratification, you understand. There would come a time, she knew.
The wall architects rode into the front yard and dismounted in a cloud of dust. They dropped their reins and stumped around back in their tight-toed high-heeled cowboy boots, their spurs jingling and jangling. A few old crows sitting on the fence styles cawed and flapped up into the shimmering summer air, keening off into the southwest where there would for sure be some dead thing lying about good for mid-afternoon snack.
When the boys got out back, they stood and watched Yabu casting about. He seemed quite pleased with himself despite his method. His arm motion was not fluid and he couldn’t manage more than one cast, occasionally two, at a time. Forever missed the cactus he was aiming at, too. However, when you’re casting into water and don’t know where the fishies are, being on target isn’t too much of a requirement.
“Mr. Yabu, sir,” said the lead architect.
Yabu cast his fly, reeled it in jerkily and turned, holding his quavering pole up. “What is it, boys?”
“We got a problem at The Hotel.”
“What d’you expect me to do about it?”
“We thought you could help us solve the problem, sir.”
“I’m gittin’ ready to go fishin’ in a couple days.”
“Yes, sir. So we see. But this is pressing.”
“Well. . .what is it?”
“That Hellecchino character.”
“Don’t bring him up out here. This is my ranch. It’s a peaceful place. I don’t like my peace disturbed.”
“Yes, well, but sir–”
“Can’t you jest take care o’ th’ problem yoreselves?”
“But, Mr. Yabu, sir. . .Hellecchino lives in The Hotel.”
“So?”
“And you want The Hotel on the good side of the wall.”
“Yeah? And. . .”
“Hellecchino’s on the second floor front.”
“Well, cut ‘im out.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Build the wall around him.”
“Mr. Yabu, sir. . .he may not have a means of gittin’ out of his room.”
“So what?”
“Oh. Yes. I see.”
“Good.” And Yabu turned back to his casting about.
“Do we build the wall all around him, then?”
“What th’hell’s wrong with you guys! Can’t you think?”
“Well, sir. . .which side of the wall is the good side? In this case, it becomes very important.”
“What th’hell’re you jabberin’ about? The north side of the street.”
“Well, sir, if we do that we kind of make a section of the Yabu & Brownwood Causeway move over into the south side.”
“How the hell can a road move?”
“Let me show you, sir?”
Yabu put his hands on his hips, thus dragging his fly rod in the dirt. “Alright.”
The senior architect walked over to Yabu, searched around for a stick, found one and began drawing lines in the dust.
“Y’see, sir. If the wall comes down the street like this. . .and it circles round Hellecchino like this. . .and then continues on like this. . .we got part of the north side of main street on the south side of the wall.”
Yabu stared down at his curled up cowboy boot toes. He shifted his feet about kind of like a duck.
“What do you think we oughta do about that?”
“That’s what we came out here for, sir. Mr. Yabu.”
“I gotta do all yore thinkin’ for ya?!”
“Well. . .we could build a connector wall and then encircle Hellecchino in his room. Like this. . .”
“Yeah. . .but that’s alotta extra wall-making stuff an’ that means more money.”
“Yes, sir.”
The two men stood staring down at the mixture of lines in the dust. They shifted their feet. So did the accompanying crew.
“So. . .what else kin we do?” asked Yabu in all innocence.
“Evict him.”
“Evict him?”
“Evict him,” echoed the others.
“Damn! Why didn’t I think of that!? Do it!”
“Under what pretext?”
“Oh, hell. I don’t care! Just git him out! He’s fuckin’ up my wall, my enlightenment. Who th’hell does he think he is!”
“Yes, sir.”
The head architect turned and strode back to his cohorts. He nodded. They turned and all walked around the house to the front yard, mounted their waiting horses and rode back into Chokepointe Piste, pleased with their solution. Now, they weren’t responsible for their actions. This was good for their consciences. There was nothing like guilt to cause constipation, shingles and all sorts of other disgusting somatic neurotic eruptions.
It wasn’t but a couple days later that a man knocked on Hellecchino’s hotel room door. Hellecchino answered the door.
“Mr. Hellecchino?” asked the man, who just happened to be Sheriff Medusi Minkowski IV.
“Yes. That’s me. How ya doin’, Sheriff?”
“Oh, I’m fine thank you. But, y’know, ya gotta be gittin’ outa this hotel room.”
“I do?”
“You do.”
“Why?”
“Well. . .if ya ain’t’ workin’ for the city of Chokepointe Piste, ya cain’t go on livin’ here.”
“Gotta law ’bout that?”
“Yup. Just passed in the City Council yesterday.”
“OK.”
Hellecchino packed up his things and walked out, leaving Medusi Minkowski IV standing in the hall outside the empty room wondering just what it was was going on. He scratched his Stetson, shook his head, turned on his heel and walked down the stairs and out into the street. He looked this way and that. There was no Hellecchino in sight. So, Medusi Minkowski IV shrugged his shoulders, mumbled something about that being easier than he thought and ambled back to his office. There was a desk that was missing his boots. Along the way, he stopped in the architect’s office, poked his head inside the door, and said, “No problem.”
Hellecchino had walked out of town, leaving no sign of his passing. There was good reason to keep his whereabouts secret right about now. If DIY knew not where he was, they’d figure he was gone. Out of sight, out of mind. Hellecchino walked on out to Buck’s blockhouse toll booth, climbed up the ladder and began laying out his stuff beneath the rainbow-colored umbrella.
Buck stumped out of the house and stood out in the middle of the road. It was safe. Very little traffic. His philosophy, though, was sound and simple: if there were no cars, trucks, buckboards or stagecoaches coming, it was safe to cross the street.
“What th’hell you doin’, Hellecchino?”
“Settin’ up house.”
“What happened to The Hotel?”
“Oh, nothin’. It’s still there.”
“Why ain’tchu?”
“I was evicted.”
“What for?”
“Hell if I know.” Hellecchino chuckled. “Perhaps Sheriff Medusi Minkowski IV is delusional.”
“That ain’t nothin’ new!”
“I hope you’re a good cook.”
“I’m okay.”
“What’s for dinner?”
“Beef stew.”
“Let me know when it’s ready.”
“Good to have company,” shouted Buck, re-crossing the road in his up-and-down sort of way.
“You’re welcome.” Hellecchino was ever polite.
Later that night, a group of workers surrounded the blockhouse and demanded to talk to Hellecchino. They were not happy campers.
Hellecchino came down from his rooftop aerie and lit a fire in the middle of the rod. The town rolled up the boardwalks around dusk, so there was never any traffic in the dark. He spread blankets on the ground and gestured for the workers to sit. They weren’t in the mood for a genteel night time chat, so they didn’t. Hellecchino sat. He signaled to Buck who rolled out a keg of beer, rattling tin cups slung over his shoulder sounding for all the world like tin bells on a lame donkey. The visiting workers sat.
Hellecchino waited til everyone had a cup of brew. He saluted them all with raised cup and took a sip.
“Ya don’t need to tell me why you’re all here. Y’all think I’m crazy. Here’s this little man come down off of Big Rock Candy Mountain with some cockamamie idea that buildin’ a wall to keep the bad out is an enlightened idea.”
“You got that right.”
“And you figure he’s disruptin’ your lives, makin’ it so you can’t do business and you can’t see your friends.” Murmurs of assent. “Well, let me ask you some questions. . .you done what I told ya?”
Nobody said nothin’ for a bit. Then some brave soul, after looking from side to side, ventured, “What’s that?”
“Move up over the top of your stores or move your stores to your homes.”
“Nah. We ain’t done that.”
When the hell ya gonna do it? After the wall’s built?”
“He build that wall, we won’t be able t’git to our stores.”
Hellecchino sipped his beer. “And if you’re living over the top of your stores, where’re your stores gonna be?”
“On this side o’th’wall.”
“Wand where you gonna be?”
“On this side o’th’wall.”
Hellecchino sipped his beer and said nothing.
“Look, smart ass,” quipped one pot-bellied worker, “we do business over there. If’n he walls us out, we ain’t got no more business.”
“More like he ain’t got nowhere to buy what he heeds,” said Buck.
The workers mumbled and drained their cups. Buck began the refilling procedure.
“How many settlements and ranchers to the south and east of you and the wall?” The gathered looked from one to the other. “You do business that way. Ain’t no wall stoppin’ ya.”
“Well. . .yeah. But what about the wall?”
“What bout it?”
“It’ll still be there, god damn it!”
“So?”
“It’s important!”
“Is it? Look,” Hellecchino sipped his cup dry, “who believes in the wall?”
“Yabu.”
“And who thinks it’s important?”
“Yabu.”
“And us!”
“That’s what he’s countin’ on,” snapped Hellecchino.
The night was silent. The moon winked out behind a cloud.
“If he’s countin’ on thaty wall being important and you decide it’s not, how important is that wall? What kind of enlightened world will it stand for?” Hellecchino held his cup up for a refill. Buck obliged him. “Ya see, ya ain’t gotta buy into his game. You make that wall into a big thing, it will be. Takes two sides to build a wall.”
“But you tole us to help build it.”
“Who else is gonna build it? If you enthusiastically go about helpin’ to build the wall, he’ll think you’re happy about it and he’ll stop it. He ain’t Ito makin’ you happy, right?”
“Well, shit!”
“Drink up, boys.”
Nobody knows how it happened, but the next morning found Hellecchino perched atop the hitching post before the house of Hacienda loco plátano. In the dawn’s early light, Hellecchino was proudly beheld in all his pint-and-magenta-and-purple majesty by an incredulous Gyorgy Yabu.
“What the hell,” Yabu muttered from behind his big plate glass window and stepped out on the porch. He took a sip of his hot coffee from his extra big clown cup as if he owned the world and Hellecchino was a speck of dust. “What the hell you doin’ on my ranch?”
“Well,” drawled Hellecchino, “I come to talk to a man who done got some enlightenment. Ain’t never met one before.”
“Well, here I am.”
“You don’t look no diff’rent.”
“Diff’rent from what?”
“From anybody else.”
“Looks is deceivin’.”
“I must say. . .tell me about your journey.”
“Up Merengue Montaña?”
“You go anywhere else?”
“Nope. Nowhere else to go for enlightenment these days.” Hellecchino waited. Yabu shifted his teddy bear slippers on the porch. “It was a jolly good time. But Merengue Montaña was larger and higher than I expected.”
“It should be. It’s the most famous mountain in the world. Was there anything interesting at the top?”
“What a silly question.” Yabu sipped his coffee. “Nothing special, ya know. After we entered the state of Roswell we stayed over night at the foot of the mountain. There was a crowd of pilgrims, of course, and in the course of conversation, we younger men thought it would be fun to put a paper bag over Merengue Montaña. The older folks thought it was impossible and laughed t us. We said he could. So. . .” Yabu shifted his teddy beat slippers about, “we brought out bamboo spoons and, each holding one in his mouth, two in his hands and two more in his toes, we began to make paste. In no time, we made it as high as the mountain. Next, we collected all the paper from the provinces of White Sands and Truth or Consequences. I figured we were going to make a hug bag but my fellow journeymen began to paste paper on the mountain sides and, in no time, we were at the top of Merengue Montaña. It was all clothed in a paper bag. Ain’t that a unheard-of thang?”
“Nah! That ain’t so unusual. Last year when I went over to Wasatch-Cache province, the young’uns brewed tea in the Great Salt Lake and then drank it all up. The entire lake.”
“You cain’t trick me! How could anybody drink up an entire lake?”
“Listen. They said, let’s make tea in the lake and they gathered up all the tea leaves, irrespective of quality, from the five neighboring provinces. In no time there was a pile of tea leaves as high as Dante’s View. Well, they put it all into the lake using their mulberry brooms with handles one hundred feet long and began to sir it up. When they was done, they blew off the froth and drank it up just like that. In fact, they drank the whole lake dry but the froth they blew off still remains and it’s known as Plain o’ Froth.”
“What a yarn! The Plain o’ Froth appears in the tale of Paul Bunyan.”
“But you don’t know the new Plain o’ Froth right beside it, which appeared last year.”
“Lie!”
“If you think it’s a lie, you just go and look for yourself.”
“Wa-all. . .I ain’t about t’ argue with ya, but. . .” Yabu sipped his coffee and shuffled his slippers, “just you listen to this! A few years ago when I went over into the western part of the country, I saw a bull lay down in the Mojave Desert and feed on the Sandwich Islands. Imagine that!–feeding himself across mountains, rivers and the sea. Some big fucking beast, eh?’
‘That’s not so wonderful. Why, when I went over to the Black Hills, I saw a drum nine miles in circumference.”
“Circum–what?”
“Circumference. Around.”
Yabu nodded his head. Smiled out the side of his mouth. “That’s ridiculous, of course. You may be able to make a ring out’n wood slats but you’re not gonna find a hide nine miles large, that’s fer shur.”
“What th’hell do you know? I’m telling the truth. I can verify it was the hide of that bull you saw laying down in the Mojave.”
“Great Scott! You don’t say.” Hellecchino nodded his head. “Well, I’ll be. How come you know all these stories? You’re so clever.”
“Oh, tall tales come easy, though I never tell outsiders my secret.”
“What secret?”
“The secret to successfully makin’ a fool outa people.”
“Shore which I knew it!”
“Well, you got your enlightenment, I got mine.”
“Aw, c’mon. We’re brothers in arms.”
“Oh, alright. But ya gotta promise not to tell anyone.”
“Cross my heart and hope to die.” Yabu did it, spilling the remaining coffee out of his cup.
“There’s a special seed for stories anybody’d believe no matter how outrageous and unfounded. It’s called. . .” here Hellecchino leaned in conspiratorially, “Geoffrey Crayon’s Wives of old Burghers Seed.” Yabu nodded his head and waited. Then he leaned in. “Would you like to have one?” asked Hellecchino.
“Hail yes!”
“Just you wait here a few minutes, I’ll go off and get one.”
Hellecchino jumped down off the hitching post and sauntered down the trail out of the ranch. When he was out of sight, he picked up a round pebble, unlike any other round pebble beside the road, and spoke to it in all earnestness. “Pebble. . .can you believe this shit? He wants a seed of lies and I’m going to give him you. What do you think of this?” The pebble said nothing. “There certainly are some fools in this world, eh what?” Then he threw the pebble back down, slapped his hands clean and loped back to the Hacienda loco plátano hitching post and held up the pebble. “Here it is. A Geoffrey Crayon’s Wives of old Burghers Seed.”
“Where?”
“I buried it just outside your entrance gate. You hafta dig it up or it ain’t worth nothin’.”
“Hot damn! You jest wait a sec, I’ll git my shovel an’ we’ll go on down t’th’gate and start diggin’.”
“We, white man? If’n you want the secret to tall story tellin’, you gotta dig it up yourself. I can’t help you.”
“What the hell! Fer a prize like that, I’d walk acrosst Kansas.” And with that, Yabu ran round back of the house, hunted around in the tool shed and came back with a flat edge spade. “Let’s go!”
Hellecchino shook his head sadly–this man obviously hadn’t ever been on the business end of a shovel. The ground out here was hard and a pointy-ended shovel was what was needed. But, who the hell was Hellecchino to tell an enlightened man what to do?
When they got to the gate, Yabu turned to Hellecchino. “Where is it?”
“Right there, as I recall,” said Hellecchino, pointing to the right post foot.
“Here?”
“There.”
Yabu began digging. Or, rather, he jammed the shovel down onto the hard, hard earth and watched it jump right back up at him. He scowled and slammed the spade down on the ground again.
“Maybe you might try puttin’ the corner of the shovel into the ground. Gettin’ yourself a little hole.”
“Right.”
Yabu did this and, lo and behold, he began to dig himself a hole. But after an hour or so, he stopped digging. He wiped the sweat from his high brow. He leaned on the handle of the shovel.
“You shore it’s here?”
“Dig a little deeper.”
“Hell! I cain’t dig no deeper!”
“You don’t see it down there?”
Yabu bent over and looked in his hole. “No. I cain’t find nothin’.”
“Ah. Well. Perhaps it was over to this post. Yes. That’s it. I was standin’ the other way round. It’s here. I remember now.”
“Okay.”
Yabu dug into the dry, dry earth, Hellecchino reminding him to put the corner of his square spade into the ground first. After awhile, though, Yabu stopped digging and looked down into his little hole.
“I don’t see nothin’.”
“You ain’t dug deep enough yet.”
“The hell you say!”
“Well, if you want the Geoffrey Crayon’s Wives of old Burghers Seed, you’ll keep digging, even if you dig all the way to China.”
“You think the Chinese got it?”
“Could be.”
“Well, I’ll be damned!”
“You come get me when you found the Geoffrey Crayon’s Wives of old Burghers Seed. I got business in town.”
“Alright. I’ll do that.”
And Hellecchino went jauntily on down the road to Chokepointe Piste just a-whistlin’ Dixie to a shovel counterpoint.

the boy who would be hero

“Dick-boy!” called George the Dragon Killer.
And like magic, as if he’d known beforehand, Dick-boy was there, in the room, just inside the door. His hulking frame, his head cocked to one side, blocked much of the light. George had not yet opened or had opened for him his shuttered windows, whence two streaks of light tore across the floor and up the opposite walls.
“Saddle m horse. I’m going out and I’m going farther than before.”
“Whatever for, Sir George?”
“A hero’s job is never done, Dick-boy.”
“Yes, sir. And what of breakfast?”
“I’m a hero, Dick-boy.”
“As you say, sir. But even heroes must eat.”
“Oh, alright. Have me a tankard of ale and a loaf of black bread sent in. That’ll do me.”
“As you say, sir.” And Dick-boy suddenly disappeared.
For the umpteenth time, George wondered how Dick-boy did these appearing and disappearing things but it was no use trying to figure it out–the workings of these lower-downs was really quite beyond him.
Candy-girl brought George his breakfast and stood demurely against the wall til he had finished. Then, she took the plate and tankard away. George belched and rose from his table. His stomach rumbled a little and he was reminded of how long it had been since he’d had a decent meal. He liked black bread and ale but the sameness of the routine bothered him. It was, in truth, wearing on is nerves. As was the idleness–or, rather, the lack of encountering heroic situations.
Sir George strode out into the bare courtyard, where even the grass refused to grow. He had his mighty bow and quiver full of arrows. Karl-boy stood by his horse’s head with his trusty golden lance, never broken during battle. But it did not gleam in the pale sunlight. George looked up into the washed out blue sky with its straggly, used up clouds and wondered again at what had happened to the world.
Karl-boy watched from bland eyes as his master mounted his golden gelding. He handed Sir George his lance and stepped back. The horse groaned a bit under George’s weight but stood its ground. It took George several kicks in the side to get the beat moving before off they went at a leisurely walk. Although George grimaced slightly, perhaps this pace was better until he’d passed through his demesne.
Once again, as he had for uncountable mornings, Sir George The Dragon Killer rode tall through fields of emptiness. Stubble there was and an occasional sorry stalk of some grain or other, but otherwise nothing. Not even vermin or insects roamed the dry earth. The trees scattered around, dotting the hazy horizon here and there, showed dull, dusted green leaves on branches that sagged earthward.
How long had the world around him been barren? George could not recall. A long time, that was for sure. Why it was this way was a conundrum the hero could not get his mind around. He consoled himself by telling himself that it was his job to do, not to think. That is what a hero did. A hero acted. He killed problems and since he had to eat, he killed his food as well. When there had been game, he’d been good at it. Unsurpassed. For his aim was unerring. After all, he was a hero. Sometimes he used his hunting as an excuse to keep his skills sharp. Sir George The Dragon Killer was proud of himself. His abilities never atrophied.
Yes. All in all, despite the lack of game, George had a good life, he thought.
It wasn’t til after passing through the once fecund now fallen fallow cropland that his horse began to canter. George felt better at this pace and so was not bothered so much by the lack of a view. But he did pull his steed up short upon spying a forest up ahead. This was a sure sign he’d gone farther than he’d ever gone before. It was a lush green forest with tall-standing trees and dancing foliage, for there was a breeze. That brought his head around: a breeze. He could feel the breeze. He could smell the air. He felt invigorated. Surely there was life here and he’d eat well tonight. Sir George’s mouth watered. He kicked his trusty charger into a gallop. Unlike earlier in the morning, this did not take much effort.
The forest was much farther away than it appeared and by the time they entered its cool shade, the horse was sweating and snorting and foaming t the mouth. Horse and rider slowed to a walk, savoring the smell and the feel. George’s exceptional hearing picked up the sounds of stirrings amongst the trees and in the underbrush. He knew, though, that it was small stuff so he didn’t bother to look. He was after bigger game.
It would be nice, too, if there were a stream or a well.
The time passed almost unnoticed and then George spotted a clearing ahead. And in that clearing, his keen eyesight espied a fowl. A partridge. A very fat partridge. He moved a little closer, steadied his mount and took aim. His arrow flew silently and swiftly through the fresh air and sank itself into its target. The bird keeled over without a sound. But as George was cantering in to gather up his kill, a keening cleft the air.
When George broke into the clearing, a skinny old lady dressed in rags stood over the fallen fowl howling her grief, hands raised in the air, a look of horror on her gnarled and crinkled face. The door to her lean-to stood open and her spinning wheel lay spilled on the ground, thread sprawled everywhere. She looked up at George’s approach.
“You bastard!” she cursed. “Look what you’ve done.”
George looked. “Yes! I’ve just shot my dinner. Excellent marksmanship, don’t you think?”
“It was my only laying hen you shot!”
George dismounted. He looked closely at the dead bird.
“Yes. You’re right. It is a hen,” he said.
“Damn right I’m right. What are you going to do about it?”
“Do? I’m going to take it home and eat it.” And George reached for the dead thing.
The old woman sprang between him and his goal. “Over my dead body!”
“Surely you jest. I’m a hero. I always get what I want.”
“Not this time, buster.”
“Who the hell are you to challenge me?”
“I’m the old lady of the woods and this is my bird.”
“Life’s tough, honey. Tell me about it.”
“You want to take my hen and leave me to starve to death. Is that it?”
“That’s it.”
“Well, that isn’t it. . .unless you pay me first.”
“Pay you? With what?”
“You haven’t got anything on you?”
“What good’s money when you’re out hunting?”
“You haven’t got anything on you?”
“What good’s money out here in the woods?”
“Well, then. You have to kill me to get the bird.” She pulled her scrawny self up to her full height, perhaps her head came up to Sir George’s nose, so she was not too terribly intimidating.
“Okay,” shrugged George The Dragon Killer and he drew his sword and cut off her head in one fell swoop. “Evil old lady,” he muttered as her head plopped onto the ground and rolled around. “Dinner and one less witch in the world,” Sir George The Dragon Killer said to himself. He was quite satisfied. It had been a good day.
Sir George carried the arrowed trophy-hen proudly over his shoulder.
“Zippity-doo-dah, zippity-ay,” he sang.
He turned to look back at the forest before the long journey home. The color was not so green and the leaves did not rustle. Somehow, the woods had sunk in on itself, it wasn’t so big any more. Like all the life had been taken out of it.
Sir George the hero wondered why it is this happened wherever he went. He shook his head. And then he turned round and headed home.
“My, oh my, what a wonderful day,” he sang.

what’s my story?

Crashing flash! Throbbing pain. Burning. Bulbous noise. She held her breath. And then tried again. This time, little by little. She opened her eyes. Oh, lord, did that hurt! Screeching whiteness. No–she couldn’t maintain it. Closed her eyes again.
In the pulsing darkness, she felt her body. She was lying on her back. Whatever she was lying on was hard. Very hard. There was a lot of noise around. Jarring her bones. Making her ears bounce and hurt a little inside. Great rumbling noises made her body vibrate.
She rolled over onto her side and pushed herself up. She listened a little longer. The vibrations were not so drumming. Then she opened her eyes again.
Still bright. But there wasn’t so much pain. She put her hand over her eyes, shielding them from the brightness above. Where was this?
These. . .things moving, moving. Going this way and that. Big ones and little ones. All making noise. The big ones bigger noise. And blaring D-flats.
How did she know about D-flat?
She was getting a headache again.
She was the silent one, the still one in this mass of movement and noise. Around her, paying her no mind, were people. People moving helter skelter. Great masses of heaving color that hummed along. Clicked along. Lights flashing.
Over there. Trees and grass. A bench. A place to sit.
She got up and walked–stumbled would be more accurate–to the bench and sat down on its warm wood, feeling the spaces between the slats. Not a very comfortable place to sit but better than lying on the–street? pavement?
Where the hell was she?!
Wherever she was, it looked like something she recognized. Something that was similar to something she remembered. Something. . . .
But where did she remember it from?
She creased her brows.
Who was she?
Ahh. . .now there she was on firm ground: she couldn’t remember who she was. She didn’t know who she was.
Was this an alternate universe?
Was she one monkey waiting for 99 more?
She had to get away from this noise! It was making her hair shake.
So she walked. The more she walked, the longer she walked the easier it became until she was moving along rather fluidly. But where was she going? No direction. Anywhere.
No. This was not good.
She looked up at the sky, searching for the brightest glare.
How did she know to go to her left? Without thinking, she did it. And then asked herself this question: How did I know to go to the left? This place wasn’t anywhere she knew, despite the vast similarities, so how could she be sure left was the right way? This place, this world could be exactly the opposite of her world. The world she came from to be here.
How did she get here?
She didn’t remember falling. She did remember a thud, though. And then she was here. In this place. As if she’d been dropped into this world.
Why?
What was she doing here?
Who was she?
Lord!–she had to get to a quieter place so she could think.
The glaring sky told her nothing. The world around her blurred. Her body kept on pounding along. Numbed. Apprehending nothing. Just moving. And then suddenly the noise stopped. She kept on going. She kept going until she felt the difference in color around her. She stopped. She looked around. She turned back the way she had come. All the noise was over there, in that hazy bulging upward, vertical mass of. . .spires?
And she sat down. On the green. Grass? She didn’t know. She didn’t know if that’s what it was in this place but somewhere inside her it was grass. So she called it grass in her mind. She felt it. It felt the same as usual. Usual? How did she know it was usual, this touch? This kind of softness with hard edges. Pointy. Kind of cool. Was she feeling it make noise? She put her ear down to it. Leaned down. Ran her fingers over its roughness. Comforting noise.
How did she know it was comforting?
“Hey! What are you doing?”
She looked up. A man stood at the bottom of the hill.
She looked at him. She squinched her eyebrows together.
“I said, what are you doing?”
“I don’t know. Sitting on the grass.”
“I can see that. Who gave you permission?”
“I need permission?”
“You’re not from around here, are you?”
“No. I don’t think so.”
“You don’t think so?”
“No. I’m not. Where am I?”
“Here. In Havenwood.”
“Oh. Where’s that?”
Pause.
“Are you alright?”
“I’m not hurt, if that’s what you mean.”
“How did you get here? I mean, the way you’re dressed, you’re not usual, you know?”
“I’m not?”
“No.”
“I feel like I was dropped in.”
“Maybe you better come with me.”
“Can you help me?”
“I can take you somewhere.”
“Okay.”
She got up and walked down the hill. When she stood next to him, she found he was very much shorter than she was. Perhaps head and shoulders shorter. She’d never felt so tall before.
“You’re tall. We don’t make many tall women here. We don’t make many tall men, either.”
“You make people here?”
“You know. Not make as in machines but, you know, grow.”
“Like plants?”
“No. We get born.”
“Oh.”
They continued walking along in silence. He led her into a squat reddish building with greyish lines running up and down, isolating little squares of color. Flat glass doors like a mouth. Flat glass windows like eyes. The doors swallowed them up. The eyes did not change their expression.
“Where’s this?”
“The headman lives here. He’ll know what to do.”
“Yes.”
“You know the headman?”
“No. I don’t know anybody.”
Silently they walked through some halls.
“I’m tired. I’d like to rest. I’ve been through alot today. I think I came from over there.”
“Okay. He’ll find a place for you to stay.”
“Good. I’d like to lie down.”
And then they were in a small room.
“Hey. I’ve brought you someone.”
“Hey. Where did you find her?”
“Sitting in the park.”
“The park?!”
“Yeah. Imagine that. No one gave her permission.”
“Hey. Who are you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where do you come from?”
“I don’t know. I just woke up and found myself here.”
“She said she felt as if she was dropped in.”
“Dropped in, eh?”
“Yes. And she’s tired.”
“Hungry, too?”
“Yes. Hungry, too.”
“We should let you rest and eat first.”
“Thank you.”
“Hey. Take her to Na’s place. She’ll take care of her.”
“Okay.”
“Then come back here. I’ll call the elders for a council.”
“Okay.”
* * *
Shoulder to shoulder around the oblong table the men sat. The headman and the elders. And the finder man.
“What are we to make of this, then?”
“It is very strange. Very strange indeed.”
“There have been no strangers in a long time.”
“No. She’s very tall.”
“She dresses. . .differently.”
“She talks a little off.”
“And her skin color. . .”
“Yes.”
The heavy ticking of the clock pounded the walls. They looked around the table. A few coughed. A few looked elsewhere. The headman looked at the finder man.
“I think she’s the one,” said the latter.
“How can she be? She’s a woman.”
“Yes. There has never been a woman before.”
“She is a very tall woman.”
“Larger than life.”
“Where is she from?”
“That’s a mystery. She’s not saying.”
“She just. . .appeared.”
“Right when we need her.”
Silence.
“Yes. That seems to fit.”
“Fate is a funny thing, you know.”
“You can never be too sure.”
“Are we to continue as we are?”
“We cannot remain passive,” said the headman. “I am for taking action on this.”
“To do the same thing over and over again is not only boredom, it is being controlled”
Pause. The elders looked around at each other.
“Will she go along with us?”
“Why should she not? She is here. Nothing happens without a reason.”
“She may put up a fight.”
“Deny herself.”
“That’s part of the pattern.”
“She’s already denying who she is.”
A collective, “Eh?”
The headman and the finder nodded.
“Well, then.”
“We must proceed, it seems.”
“Tomorrow morning at Na’s. She has a nice courtyard in the back.”
* * *
She sat facing the group of men. She frowned and held her breath. This gathering was definitely unbalanced. She didn’t know who she was. She didn’t know where she was. And now she was confronted by this. . .tribunal. How was she supposed to act? She shifted in her seat. Crossed her legs. Crossed her arms. These men were obviously here to tell her something. Could it be they knew something about herself? She could only wait.
She looked at the group of men. They looked back at her and then away to each other. Focus came to the headman. She looked at the headman. He looked at her.
“I trust you had a good night.”
“Yes. Thank you.”
“You are rested from your journey?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Good.”
She uncrossed her legs and crossed them the other way.
The finder coughed.
“We know who you are.”
“You do?”
“Yes. Yes. We do.”
“Who am I?”
“You are our hero.”
She uncrossed her legs. She uncrossed her arms. She beat on her thighs with her hands. She laughed.
“Surely you jest! I am no hero.”
“How do you know?”
She looked sharply at the finder. “Yes. You are right.”
“Yes.”
“Yes.” She leaned forward and looked at these men who seemed to know more about her than she did. This was perhaps reassuring. “Could this be illusion?”
“No, no, no. Nothing of the sort. What in the universe is not true?”
“We have dreamed of your coming?”
“So I am a dream?”
“Come true. A dream come true.”
“Dreams are part of life. Of the universe.”
“I could be a bad dream–”
“Not at all! You are just what we asked for.”
“You cannot dream me into a character.”
“Yes.”
“So, who am I?”
“Hero.”
“Our Hero.”
“What an odd name. Hero.”
“Odder still as that is what you are.” The headman giggled a little.
She smiled into the silence. A breeze disturbed the leaves. Gave them voice. Gave itself a voice, for otherwise it was just air. The passing of air was ever accompanied by a voicing. Without something standing in the way, the wind has no voice. Nor do the trees. Rain, too, is nothing until it demolishes itself upon trees and people, houses and streets. The sound nevertheless surrounds you like an orchestra and carries you away, protects you. There is no character in isolation. All the world is one. Then. When there is a voice, an acquaintance. It was not one for Hero.
“I am who I am and I am what I am?”
“Why, yes, that’s the way it is.”
“My name says it all.”
“Yes. Exactly.”
“The name you gave me.” Pause. “The role you give me.”
“A man’s character is his fate.”
“Do you have a better one?”
“No. But–”
“Yes??”
“I don’t feel like a hero. I’ve never done anything to be considered a hero. What is a hero?”
“A hero’s life is in the making.”
“In the future.”
“I can’t do anything.”
“I told you! Didn’t I?”
“Shush! This is to be expected.”
“What is to be expected?”
“Well,” the finder began hesitantly, “you meet the criteria.”
“I’m getting a headache.”
“Na,” said the headman.
Medicine was brought. Everyone sat silent and still for a time.
“Do you feel better now?”
“I’m sure it will go away.”
“Yes. Havenwood is known for its drugs. We can even make a sick dog feel better.”
Nervous laughter.
“What is it you are seeking?”
“The memory of me.”
“We are giving you this.”
“Tell me how I fit the bill when I don’t even know who I am?”
“We know who you are.”
“But I don’t feel like Hero. I don’t even know where I am or where I came from.”
“That is the way it is.”
“Heroes come out of nowhere.”
“When they are needed.”
“And they are more than we are.”
“You mean my height?”
“Yes. Of course.”
“But I am no one. I am not up to this.”
“You are no one without others.”
“I have no character.”
“We are giving the propriety.”
“What if I don’t want it?”
“Heroes usually do not. . .it is said.”
“You see. . .there are historical precedents.”
“I see.”
“Yes.”
“What is it I’m supposed to do?”
All of the men sat back heaving sighs.
“You are here to save us from ourselves.”
She laughed.
“Yes. It is laughable, isn’t it? But it’s true.”
“We have become inundated with a particular kind of pandemic. Passive Ignorance Insensitivity Syndrome. PIIS.”
“Piss?”
“No, no. In our tongue when there are two i’s in a row, the first is long, the second short. We say, then, Peye-us.”
Oh. I see. You are Peye-us. And who has visited this upon you?”
“An alien.”
“An outsider.”
“Not one of us.”
“His name is Gnome Nervt.”
“How do you know?”
“He has done this before and. . .”
“He leaves traces.”
“I see.” Pause. “I must rid the world of this. . .evil Gnome Nervt.”
“Yes.”
“Well. I suppose I have nothing better to do,” she said. She thought, though, that perhaps she might also discover her true self, her true identity now she had something to do. “You must give me some context.”
“Here is everything you need to know.” The headman held out a large flat envelope he had been holding on his lap. She took it in both hands. Why both hands? He gave it to her with one. “Tomorrow we will come again.”
“And if I am not your hero?”
“You will fail and we will build another martyr’s monument in Memorial Park Cemetery.”
“But you will not fail. The life and well-being of thousands upon thousands of Havenwoodniks are riding on your shoulders.”
And then she was alone with herself. Whoever she was. To these men she was someone. She had a frame into which to fit. There was a quest for her. A quest to occupy her time. It was at least a direction. And action was what she needed. There was just one nagging question: What did a hero do? That is, how did a hero act?
Was fiction becoming reality?
An unanswerable question since she didn’t know what was real. Rather, she only had this reality to go on. Could she then live up to her given character?
She shook her head. Identity was a funny thing. How do you know when you’ve got it? And when you’ve got it, how do you know it’s yours?
There are some places where people are born with no identity. Later, they can buy one from the identity brokers. But, then, you may still ask, who is this character? All you have is a label. Made up by another. A handle upon which to hang a history. A history with no character to identify it is no history at all. So where does it come from?
This is a question I cannot answer. I am only a writer. I am a writer because I write. . .and because you read me. Therefore I have character because writers have a particular character, right? And you read me and say, she must be like so-and-such. Right?
I find myself much in the same situation as the girl in this story.

how priveleged are you?

What Privilege Do You Have?
I saw a blog game on a couple of Quaker blogs (this one and this one), so I thought I’d offer a similar game with a spin on class based. It’s based on an exercise developed by Will Barratt, Meagan Cahill, Angie Carlen, Minnette Huck, Drew Lurker, Stacy Ploskonka at Illinois State University that I found on this Yahoo group around class on college campuses. The exercise developers hold the copyright but have given me permission to post it here and ask that if you participate in this blog game, you acknowledge their copyright.

If you post this in your blog, please leave a comment on this post.

Father went to college (3 yrs correspondence school while I was in HS)
Father finished (4 yrs) college
Mother went to college (nursing school graduate, RN)
Mother finished(4 yrs) college
Have any relative who is an attorney, physician, or professor.
Were the same or higher class than your high school teachers
Had more than 50 books in your childhood home (Reader’s Digests & my own little
horde–I read all the time)
Had more than 500 books in your childhood home
Were read children’s books by a parent
Had lessons of any kind before you turned 18
Had more than two kinds of lessons before you turned 18
The people in the media who dress and talk like me are portrayed positively (in the
50’s & 60’s, yes)
Had a credit card with your name on it before you turned 18
Your parents (or a trust) paid for the majority of your college costs (loans for 3 yrs)
Your parents (or a trust) paid for all of your college costs
Went to a private high school
Went to summer camp
Had a private tutor before you turned 18
Family vacations involved staying at hotels
Your clothing was all bought new before you turned 18
Your parents bought you a car that was not a hand-me-down from them (at age 21)
There was original art in your house when you were a child
Had a phone in your room before you turned 18
You and your family lived in a single family house (military family)
Your parent(s) owned their own house or apartment before you left home (see above)
You had your own room as a child (sometimes yes, sometimes no; after age 13, yes)
Participated in an SAT/ACT prep course
Had your own TV in your room in High School
Owned a mutual fund or IRA in High School or College
Flew anywhere on a commercial airline before you turned 16 (father in military, flew
before I was one yr old and again at age 12)
Went on a cruise with your family
Went on more than one cruise with your family
Your parents took you to museums and art galleries as you grew up
You were unaware of how much heating bills were for your family (only because this
was kept from us kids; at several points, though, we were on the skids)

In the group exercise, which was originally designed for college students, staff and faculty, everyone stands in a line and steps forward if any of these things are true for them.

falling from the window

Falling From the Window
by
James L. Secor
Hennipin Perching was a busy man. So busy, in fact, that sometimes it was difficult to find him. When he was needed, it took many phone calls and inquiries to ferret out his whereabouts, at which time the searcher, marching madly about his room, was in the habit of hearing, in a controlled voice, “I’m busy right now with something. I’ll be available tomorrow morning. Come see me then.” And tomorrow he’d squeeze the caller inbetween other appointments and tell you you should see so-and-so and so you would and whatever problem you had was solved in five minutes. Easy as pie.
Mr. Perching was a firm believer in busyness equals importance. Therefore, there wasn’t anything he wouldn’t do to improve–or, rather, prove his importance. Not that there weren’t moments of a cessation of importance. There were. But only those who managed a monthly drink with him–usually other important people–knew of this momentary lapse of reason. Though, it must be said, Mr. Perching’s busyness occurred in waves, albeit the troughs still exhibited a sense of compact activity. It was in this wise that Hennipin Perching, Ph.D., maintained his position at the top of the academic political ladder.
Mr. Perching was also quite voluble. He talked a lot. He spoke loudly. He was full of advice and plans, plans that seemed almost grandiose, though this is perhaps not to be wondered at. Nothing ever came of them because he never thought past the idea. Deep thinking takes time and Mr. Perching had no time. It was as if Hennipin Perching were avoiding reality, much as a couch potato does while potatoing–sans beer. Mr. Perching had given up drinking. Except on occasion. He used to be a heavy drinker, he’d say, but he gave it up. Then he would ask you out to drink.
Once, though, one of his ideas happened. Right in his face. Big as life. You see, he’d always wanted to have a play staged on his watch, win some extra kudos. Or so he said. Hyperbole being just a natural part of language to emphasize, usually, an emotion of some sort or other, so it was difficult to tell whether he was truthful or not. As it turns out, he was suddenly faced with the opportunity and he took it in his usual stride, that is, not thinking of the consequences of the next step. Like a blind man stepping off of a cliff, there was no turning back and nowhere else to go.
I once saw a commercial advocating the placement of bumpy tiles in the sidewalk in order to help the blind navigate. They were of a different color, too, from the surrounding concrete. I guess that, too, was to help them navigate. Some workmen, however, didn’t lay them very well, perhaps because they didn’t understand the needs of the blind. After all, they could see when they got to the corner. It was a really nice commercial. It showed a blind man tap-tap-tapping to the end of the bright yellow tiles and then the angle changed to looking straight up the side of a steep rock face, the tapping cane tapping the air above the floor of a deep canyon and all the blind man could do was fall into the abyss.
There was a lesson here but it was unfortunately not for the blind and so Hennipen Perching tapped himself right out into mid-air chasing a dream, an idea. But life is not a Wily Coyote cartoon. From this point on, life for Mr. Perching was more akin to the scrabbling anxiety of a rock climber seeking after the merest handhold. His beating little heart began to sweat.
Very nearly nearing the end, the unexpected culmination of the idea, Hennipen Perching found he was at loggerheads with himself; that is, all of his infinite regressing and obscurantist support and just general end running around had consistently been met and surmounted by the obdurate, pig-headed professional he’d hired. This itinerant artist had actually made him, Hennipen Perching, an accomplished academic and Dean, feel guilty. How dare he! Who did he think he was? At the same time, Mr. Perching’s digestion was intensely aware of the possibility of failure, a frightening possibility, for it would surely affect his credibility. As there was still one last hurdle to be surmounted, Hennipen Perching considered it appropriate to enjoin a meeting with another hurdler in order to appropriately deal with his fear and trembling–which might, Mr. Perching was sure, affect his career as well.

“Let’s get together now and agree to a few things,” said Mr. Perching. “I’m tired of kicking this thing around. It’s time we put this in proper perspective.”
“Okay. Let’s do that,” said Barnard Fowle. “I’m tired of nosing around old bones.”
“Well, then, that’s settled.”
“Now where do we go?” asked Mr. Fowle.
“Perhaps we should think of a place to start,” suggested Mr. Perching.
“Well, now, that’s an earful.”
“It certainly is something we can dig our claws into.”
“How about a regular pronouncement?”
“Oh, no, no. I don’t think so. We don’t want to slight each other.”
“Yes. Perhaps you’re right.”
“We could make it a circular. . .thing. . .and then–”
“No beginning and no end.”
“Yes. That’s it.”
“But where do the conundra fit in?”
“Ah, yes. Fine point.”
They sat and thought a little longer, tilting back and forth in their stuffed mule skin upholstered chairs. Back and forth. Then twisting from side to side. And then back and forth again. On and on.
“Ah-ha! I’ve got it.”
“You’ve got it?”
“Yes. I’ve got it!” repeated Mr. Fowle.
“Pray tell,” said Mr. Perching, leaning forward.
“Well, we can have a semi-circular award, each with a weak link and we could get our dubiety to be signatory.”
“Our dubiety?”
“Yes. Yes. Yes.”
Oh. Well. You know him. So. . .”
“It will put the attestor on the spot.”
“But shouldn’t we be more subtle than that?” Mr. Perching demurred.
“Subtlety schmudtlety.”
“It might also cause a muddle in our deciding.”
“How so?”
“Interrogatory improvisation.”
“Yes.”
“Hmm.”
“Why not have a horse-shoe-shaped endeavor, you and me at the ends as presiding adjudicators?”
“Now wait a minute–”
“Horse-shoes are lucky.”
“So they are,” agreed Mr. Fowle, bobbing his head in enthusiasm. “But we may need the luck of the Irish in this case.”
“No-o problem,” said Mr. Perching, waving his hands. “We’ll have three options set up like guess-which-thimble.”
“Who sits as the prosecutionist?”
“No one. There will only be mitigants.”
“I get it! He can’t tell which is which so he’ll never know the difference.”
“Not only that, we’ll keep him wondering what’s going on.”
“Brilliant!”
“Ingenious, yes?”
“Even if I do say so myself.”
Together they were silent for awhile. Then the fidgety Mr. Fowle spoke up. “Whom shall we invite?”
“That depends on what we want to prove,” replied Mr. Perching.
“And we’re trying to prove. . .”
Mr. Perching took a judicious breath, “Just and unjust.”
“Just and unjust what?” and Mr. Fowle leaned forward.
Mr. Perching had to think about this a moment. His brain had to think of a word. And then his tongue uttered it. “Ablagates.”
“I knew that,” responded Mr. Fowler, sitting back puff-chested.
“Of course you did. You were only trying to trick me. You have such a good memory.”
“You’re not such a dunderhead yourself.”
“Thank you very much.”
“You’re quite welcome.”
“To the ablagates!”
“To the ablagates!”
They unanimously raised their hands in the air.
When they had regained their composure, Mr. Fowle chittered, “So. . .what is worthy and what is not?”
“The mentally ill should not be allowed.”
“The mentally ill?!”
“Fail safe. Some artists, you know. . .”
“True. True. They’re only malingerers with no will of their own.”
“And you never know what they’re going to say. But we can’t call them mentally ill. That’s socially irresponsible.”
“Ah. How about non compos mentis?” Mr. Fowle knew how to get his teeth around a good word.
“Too learned.”
“Daft.”
“Barmy.”
“Moonstruck.”
“Corybantic.”
“Distracted.”
“Morally bewildered.”
“Sinfully loose i’the hilts.”
“Bats in the belfry.”
“Not playing with a full deck.”
“March-hares.”
“Dotty.”
“Touched.”
“Cracked.”
“Aliené.”
” Aliené.”
They held out their hands to each other.
“And now. . .those who need to be disestablished,” said Mr. Perching, raising a knowing eyebrow.
“Disestablishmentarians are difficult to deal with.”
“They’re so alienating.”
“So, they can be aliené, also.”
“Masterful conceit.”
“It only follows.”
“Nothing wrong with logic.”
“Not as far as I can see.”
“How can we trust the help?” asked Mr. Perching, clucking his tongue.
“By what they say.”
“What? Words lie, my friend!”
“So. What will be the correct articulation?”
“Something like. . .” and Mr. Perching paused.
“I want to better myself?”
“That’s a good one! He’ll never say it.”
“Arrogant in his self-regression.”-
“How about, we don’t like a burden?”
They paused again. Their chelatinous chassises worked their way front and back. They had well-oiled bearings.
“Sometimes, I feel this isn’t fair,” they intoned together, snorting at their own little joke.
“Call in the help! They can be intimidated.”
“Set the bar high.”
“Drink of this and remember me.”
“Ahhh. . .if the wanting fail. . .”
“They can only know that after the fact.”
“And we hold the cards.”

In the end, it was decided to reward the professional appropriately as it could not be determined he had embarrassed either Perching or Fowle. But Hennipen Perching made a promise to himself that he would never allow himself to do something like this again. There was too much at stake to make succeeding worth the effort. Better to do nothing than end up with egg on your face. . .or the anxiety of waiting for it.