The Continuing Chronicles of Marilyn

So I like to cook Midwestern-style meals for the old ladies in my building. The kind you find at basement suppers in the Lutheran church around Fargo North Dakota. Last Sunday I made a ham & sweet potato casserole, which I served with cornbread and instant chocolate pudding. Along with dill pickles and cottage cheese. It was a big hit with the denture set, and Marilyn came down from her penthouse to rub elbows with the hoi polloi and mooch some of the food. I put out a Donation jar when I do these big feasts, and Marilyn asked if she could take the money out to count it, “Just to see how much you’re making off of us” she said. She hadn’t put anything in.

“If you handle that money you’ve got to wash your hands again” I told her, and that discouraged her. She wears stark white four inch nails right now, and doesn’t like exposing them to water -- I guess they might melt or something.

I gave her a helping of the casserole and she sat down next to a busybody who I refer to, privately, as ‘Mush Mouth,’ since she doesn’t wear her dentures anymore. Mush Mouth eats most of the cottage cheese and then sucks on a piece of ham like it was a jawbreaker. 

“How are you today, honey?” Marilyn asks her.

“Mumphly yesterday but blath math pluw today.”

“That’s nice” says Marilyn absently. Then she decides to become more friendly and deceitful.

“My name’s Natalia, what’s yours?” she asks.

“Ruff.”

“Ruff?”

“No, Ruff!”

Marilyn glances over at me, silently mouthing the phrase “What the F . . . ?” The full phrase, mind you.

“Her name is Ruth” I say loudly, over the chatter of several residents who have begun a wrangle about Ostomy bags. But Marilyn has suddenly lost interest in Ruff -- I mean Ruth -- and comes over to show me her latest bauble from the Skipper. It’s a platinum bracelet filigreed with white gold.

“Must be expensive,” I tell her.

“Naw, he got it at a pawn shop for less than a hundred” she replies.

“What happened to that guy from Venezuela you were hanging out with?” I ask her impishly.

“Oh, him” she waves her hand airily, as if dark and handsome caballeros are a dime a dozen. “He went back down south to visit his mother. She’s rich, you know. He may fly me down to Caracas for Carnival in a few weeks. We’ll see . . . Hey, gimme some more of those sweet potatoes . . . “

Most of the rest of the meal is spent in brooding silence by Marilyn. I notice her cheeks are sunken, making her look like Boris Karloff. She’s stopped streaking her hair with red, letting it turn full black again. She’s got on knee-length tan leather boots, which show off her legs to very good effect. When she turns towards the window the afternoon sun highlights her scrawny turkey neck and incipient wattles. Her balcony, though, is still amazing . . . 

“Hey, my face is up here” she suddenly says, giving me a roguish and alluring smile.

And suddenly I feel nineteen years old again, my Adam’s apple bobbing up and down with unmitigated longing. I toy with the idea of spending the afternoon with her -- the Skipper always visits with his wife and kids on Sundays. He never comes over. 

“Get a grip, you old fool!” I tell myself sternly, and decide to be as rude as possible to Natalia, or Marilyn, or whoever the hell she is. She really does irritate me. Worse than Mush Mouth or any of the other old biddies cluttering up the Community Room while wolfing down the carbs.

“Hey, when am I going to get my fan back?” I ask her suddenly, out of the blue. She had borrowed a small black fan from me last summer, and never returned it.

“Huh? What fan?”

“Oh c’mon -- you borrowed it last summer and I’d like to have it back now.”

The room has gone silent; the old ladies sense a storm brewing, and they don’t want to miss a single crackle of lightning or roll of thunder.

“I gave it back to you, twit. Last month. Are you losing your mind, old man?” she replies viciously. I knew I could get her dander up. Now she is no longer attractive, but just another old fish wife to be disdainfully tossed aside.

“Whatever . . . ” I shake my head at her. “Don’t forget to wash your dishes before you leave.” Marilyn never brings her own stuff to these dinners -- she rummages in the community kitchen and then leaves her dirty dishes in the sink for someone else to do. Usually me.

“I’m outta here!” she declares to no one in particular. She gets up, ignoring her dirty plate and utensils, and stalks out. 

And once again my real age happily starts creeping up on me --I want nothing more than a good burp and a long Sabbath afternoon nap before turning to Netflix for the evening. I feel akin to Neville Chamberlain, having achieved peace in my time . . .

Quarantine

Mount Foozle. Bindlestiff Range. Tepidstan.

And when the authorities do issue guidance or directives, they can seem contradictory or illogical.

“We’ve been told everything from it was OK to go out, to we had to sign a release that we’re housebound now,” said one of the women who received an isolation order and who spoke on the condition that her name not be published. “We’ve been told we don’t need to be tested, to we have to be tested. We’ve been told that someone’s coming to our house to test us, to ‘You’ve got to find someplace.’

NYT

So I'm at home, minding my own business,
when this jamoke bangs on my door
and slips a piece a paper under it.
"Sign this!" he shouts at me.
"What the hell is it?" I shout back at him, 
not bothering to open the door.
"Quarantine order. You gotta stay
isolated for the next six weeks.
Don't go anywhere.
Don't see anyone.
Wash your hands once an hour."
I sign and shove it back under the door.
I'm a good citizen and a decent guy.
Nobody's gonna get sick cuz of me.
"Thanks!" the guy shouts at me;
then I hear his footsteps running down 
the hallway.
He is in one hell of a hurry to get away.

My front door is crap,
so there was plenty of room
for the pizza guy to slide one
under the door without me having
to open it.
So I didn't starve.
I called my boss, told him the news;
he puts me on administrative leave,
with pay.
Netflix has a bunch of new shows.
So quarantined life is good.

Then, five days later, there's another loud knock.
"What?" I yell from the couch,
where  I'm watching a new zombie series
showing them as intelligent 
and caring decaying corpses
that want to end global warming.
"Quarantine's lifted!" said the voice
on the other side of the door.
"Go outside and get some fresh air!"
"Thanks!" I yelled back. "I will!"
I stayed inside for another six days --
I figured I needed the rest 
and my boss wouldn't miss me
that much.

When I finally stepped outside
the sun seemed way too bright
and the traffic noise was offensive.
A cop came up to me and asked
"Lemme see your papers."
"What papers?" I replied.
"Can't be on the street without 
a clean bill of health. Let's have it."
"I don't know what you're
talkin' about" I told him frankly.
"I been inside for the past two weeks."
"Oh" he said darkly, "one of THEM."
Then he clobbers me with his 
night stick and I run back inside.

I call the Department of Health,
tell them what happened;
they say it was all a mistake
and I should wait for my 
clean bill of health to come
in the mail.

That was three years ago.
I'm still inside.
Still having pizza delivered.
Still on paid leave.
My boss is an angel.

Remember the Lord

And it came to pass that the people saw that they were about to perish . . . and they began to remember the Lord their God . . .
Helaman 11:7

Help me, O Lord, this very day,

to send my stubborn sins away!

Without thy loving kindness I

am sure in sorrow soon to die.

Grant me the boon of memory

of all that thou hast done for me

while I have lived amidst this dust --

so in thee only I will trust.

Then I may sleep and I may rest,

knowing well all's for the best.

The Quiet Candidate

It's the quiet candidate that wins the race.

So said my father, when he became fifty-first President of the United States.

He ran his campaign on total, absolute, uncompromising silence.

He never said a word.

When he showed up at rallies, he would walk to the rostrum, waving, and then give the adoring crowds a big smile, wave some more, and then walk back to his waiting limo to be whisked away to the next rally.

That way he could do ten to a dozen rallies each day.

And the lurking news media couldn't touch him.

After all, how do you misquote a smile, or a wave of the hand?

(No saluting, or eccentric gestures, though; they can be construed as anything from a neo-Nazi salute to a White Supremacy signal.)

And he was very good at bumping elbows.

Since no one shook hands anymore.

My father didn't insist I move into the White House when he got elected. After all, I was a thirty-five year old single man with a career and a gun collection. I had my own life to live. But I figured the old man could use some backup, since mom was gone and my other siblings were busy in the Republic of Upper Volta running our very profitable pencil factories.

So I took a room in the West Wing, and worked as his press secretary. 

He let me keep all the spare change I could find in the couches.

Once elected. my father hung a large portrait of Calvin Coolidge in the Oval Office and became more than quiet, more than reticent. 

He became the first ever elected mime.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work.

He wrote elegant notes to Congress about policy and economics, equal rights and domestic security.

He refused to tweet. Ever. 

He played charades with the press corps.

And the American people doted on him. 

All they wanted, it turns out, was a quiet President 

who never made any fuss. Never complained.

And kept his hair combed neatly and a white 

handkerchief folded in his breast pocket.

And so there was very little for me to do as press secretary. 

I spent most of my time polishing my gun collection and reading 

old copies of Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine.

Then came Mutegate.

Dad folded his tent and stole silently away, back to that little drug store in Fergus Falls, where it all began. He got a presidential pardon, so he kept the pension.

But he was forced to sell his interest in the pencil factories in the Republic of Upper Volta.

Nowadays he is still very quiet.

In fact, he hasn't said a word to me since last Christmas, when he said "Season's Greetings, son" to me. 

Say what you want about him, to me my old man is still a brick. And a door knob. Possibly a ball peen hammer as well. 

When they broke the mold, he was already made.

The Piano Graveyard

At Beethoven’s five-story warehouse in the Bronx, pianos await restoration and repainting. Instruments too damaged to fix are doomed to the “piano graveyard.”
NYT.

Phil and I were boyhood friends. When we grew up we decided to start an agency together that looked for lost items.

We called ourselves "Lost Then Found."

We tracked down a set of priceless Tiffany blintz warmers that mysteriously disappeared from an elegant Long Island mansion one foggy night in 2010. Turns out the warmers had been mistaken for finger bowls by a new maid, who put them in a burlap bag and stored them in the basement. That little caper netted us a paragraph in the New York Post.

We also rediscovered the fabled Parking Meters of Dixon County. Covered by flood waters back in 1965, the Meters were thought to have been destroyed, and their precious cache of dimes lost forever. But Phil and I, working off a tip from an old farmer, managed to find them sunk in a duck pond outside of Paragould, Arkansas. We were runners-up for a Peabody Award for that adventure.

One day, about a year ago, Phil strolls into the office and asks me:
"You ever hear of the 'Piano Graveyard?'
"Some" I replied carelessly. "Bit of a fairy tale, ain't it?"
For answer, Phil threw a newspaper on my desk, with a circled article that spoke vaguely of a 'Piano Graveyard' somewhere in the Bronx.
"Looks like a bit of a woolly mammoth to me" I told him. Phil had that green sparkle in his eyes that foretold an obsessive search was in the cards for the two of us.
"Who's gonna pay for us to find this place?" I asked him querulously. "It'll take a heap of mazuma to outfit an expedition to the Bronx . . . "
"I've borrowed on our life insurance policies" he said blithely.
"You fool!" I exploded. "You know that money was to get our ears pierced!" But my anger quickly evaporated; his boyish grin of excitement was too infectious. The next day we mounted the 'A' train to confront a howling wilderness that the natives called the Bronx.

Of the hardships and dangers from dysentery, bedbugs, squeegees, and treacherous docents, I write nothing. Suffice it to say that by the time we staggered into the "Piano Graveyard" we were mere  scarecrows, hardly able to stand up.
"We made it, pal" Phil croaked to me.
"Looks like it" I replied in a chipper whisper, as my left arm fell off from a lingering case of gangrene. 
Before us stretched a weird panorama of derelict Yamaha concert grands, abused Steinways, and disemboweld Bechsteins. Rusty piano wire festooned the ground like jungle vines. 

And there before our bloodshot eyes was the payoff, the glorious reward for our pain and suffering -- acre upon acre of ivory keys, sticking stiffly out of the shattered remains.


When we finally got back to civilization with our sacks of piano keys, which we nearly lost to dacoits while going over the Khyber Pass, our exploits went viral on social media. But the two of us had already agreed that we cared nothing for the limelight, so we grew long beards and wore putty noses to put the paparazzi off the scent. Prudently investing our hard-earned wealth in quail egg futures, Phil and I bought a small island off the coast of Albania, where we wiped out a nest of pirates and are now settled down as colliers, makers of a boutique charcoal used exclusively to roast Nubian goat meat. 

It's a simple life, but highly satisfying. Still, old work habits die hard. If you've lost something important, like your car keys or the first century BC recipe for garum, give us a call and we might find time to look into the matter for you . . .

I send an Angel before thee.

Behold, I send an Angel before thee, to keep thee in the way, and to bring thee into the place which I have prepared.
Exodus. 23:20

Prepare me, Lord, on thy right hand,

that I may see the Promised Land.

Let angels guide me through the murk

that in these awful times doth lurk.

Almighty God, have mercy on

my blinded eyes, to see the dawn;

and on thy pillars rest secure --

where hope and strength ageless endure!

Caught Napping

Young people don't realize how much hard work and preparation go into a good solid nap.

First you have to empty your bladder.

Then wash your hands for ten minutes.

Then put your phone on Silent.

Shut your laptop and put it in another room.

Check your pillow for death threat notes (or is that just me?)

Look under the bed for zombies.

Drink a small glass of cold milk with a cookie.

Wash your hands again.

Shake head back and forth vigorously to remove any dried ear wax.

Make sure there are no children within a fifty yard radius -- if there are, either bribe them with candy to leave the country, or shoot them.

Empty your bladder again.

Use up some more of that precious precious hand sanitizer that the stores are now out of.

But don't let that worry you as you sink blissfully onto your bed --

and start counting sheep . . . 

or reasons why the world now owes you a living.

Amid coronavirus panic, Australian newspaper prints extra pages because of toilet paper shortage (Fox News)

The front page said: "Run out of loo paper? The NT News cares. That's why we've printed an eight-page special liftout inside, complete with handy cut lines, for you to use in an emergency. Get your limited edition one-ply toilet newspaper sheets."

Fox News

When toilet paper goes extinct

the likelihood is quite distinct

that other products must be found

to keep the world from being browned.

Catalogs may do the trick,

but frankly they are way too slick.

That glossy feel reminds me of

a doctor's prying latex glove.

And leaves from any plant or tree

will crumple inconveniently.

The French, of course, have found a way,

by spritzing with a cold bidet.

But such a geyser often leaks

and leaves you with red soggy cheeks.

I think that newsprint is ideal;

it's soft enough so you don't squeal.

Yet has some grit to thus insure

our derrieres are clean and pure.

Perhaps subscription rates will soar

as newspapers print more and more.

The power of the press, you see,

lies in its blot-ability.

The Sunday New York Times could keep

a fam'ly clean for months quite cheap!