The world famous essayist has no friends:
he sacrificed them all to the angel honesty.
His lips have been burnt by truth
and his mind has been crisped by wanton objectivity.
His life is a miserable wreck of what it once could have been.
His life sucks.
But at least he's famous.
A LITTLE SOMETHIN' CALLED ELEANOR RIGBY
Never ever jeapordize the funk.
Son, I'm sorry to say this, but you're dying... of hand.
Now, my boy -- Master... Smith, is it? You needn't look so shocked. It has to happen to everyone, sometime. Though perhaps not something so gruesome as (shudder) Hand!
No, of course you didn't know... Hand was a disease. Few people do. We in the AMA like to keep certain ailments hush-hush, you know, so as not to frighten the public.
Well, of course you're frightened, Mr. Smith, but you can keep it to yourself, can't you? You can keep a secret... there's a good boy.
Now, I want you to sign these papers, Mr. Smith...
What? No, sir, I do not know which hand you're dying of. Really, it's hardly matters, does it?
(Sigh) No, sir, I can't tell you how long you have. It really does vary: years, months, hours...
Now, if you'll just sign here. The AMA likes --
What?
What? Oh, fine. Very well.
Hrm.
The doctor will be in to see you shortly.
She's not in good mental health -- married to a guy who's never around; who's probably a bigamist, who has a really strange relationship with his family... Be patient. Be supportive. She'll come around.
When dating a nun, expect setbacks.
She'll be bitter, virginal, a general fashion risk, and, just a shot in the dark, she'll probably be judgmental.
Avoid enclosed spaces. Make her tea -- herbal!
When pimping a nun, cultivate regulars.
"Son," he said, "You're growing up now. It's time you learned a few things." He took me to the back shed where a pig was being stripped before my eyes. "This," my father said, "is the font of all goodness in the world. Behold this, the pig!"
"Dad," I said, "We're jewish."
He ignored me.
"From the ham comes wisdom. From the sausage, beauty. From the pork chop, justice, and from bacon, a hearty healthy constitution." I nodded sagely as I often had to when my father spake.
"Come now, son," he said, hand on my shoulder lovingly, "Let us get some eggs. And," he smiled, "bacon."
He died the next year, having become hasiddic and chocophilic.
It is rumored that the turkey lobby did it, but I can't believe it.
And through all the years, all the breakfasts, through the vegetarian bars and the poke palaces, I have never forgotten my father's words on... the healing power of bacon.
The principal's coming today.
You remember him. He's the one who came to your class once a week -- big guy -- looked over your shoulder, and sneered.
He didn't know your name, but he predicted that you'd never -- EVER -- amount to anything. Your knuckles may still be sore from the abuse he gave them.
You and your friends were objects of ridicule, just because you had better things to do than look at books.
Now the principal's back in town.
And won't he be pleased that you've grown up to be an
unemployed embarrassed bald stuttering drunken philandering 30-year-old virgin?
When you meet him down the street, remember to be polite, because after all, he always will be your principal.
The principal's come to town.
And he's looking for you.
TCB
I smashed a pigeon today.
I was running errands, speeding through the city, master of time and space.
I was bolting around on four wheels at the speed of thought.
Faster.
He was standing there, with some friends, on the road. I barreled ahead, knowing better than to slow down for a stupid bird.
It would move, if it knew what was good for it.
I sped ahead.
It was dead ahead.
Two birds floated ahead of the, inches over the hood.
One stayed beneath.
I heard a bump.
I saw a lump.
I'd smashed a pigeon.
It was minding its own business. I was just doing business.
I didn't slow down.
All in a day's work.
GOLDEN AGE
Clark takes the train.
It didn't used to be that way. In the good old days, Clark didn't have to concern himself with public transportation. If he needed to go anywhere across the country, he'd just fly. Clark used to hold the world in his fingertips. Clark was a very powerful man.
In the good old days... things have changed a lot since then.
Sometimes, when taking the train, people recognize him.
"Aren't you ...?"
"Yes," he'll say sheepishly, "I am."
"I loved your piece on the whales," they might say, or "How can I break into journalism?"
He smiles grimly and talks to them, answering their questions seriously, as if he cared as much as he used to. He recalls better days, when he had everything.
Clark used to be a very powerful man, before the fall.
He could crush his enemies like gnats, and he could do whatever he wanted. Laws of man and god were beneath him. A girl, a mountain, a diamond, whatever he wished, Clark could attain.
He had boundless potential. He was special.
He used to fly.
Now he takes the train.
The Unspoken
- Y'know, ____, we've been hanging out a lot, and i really like you, so there's something I gotta say before we go any further.
- Yes, B____?
- I have cooties.
- Dear God.
- For years...
- Oh, B____. I'm so sorry. You understand, though, that I can never see you again.
- Of course.
- So I exit.
(PAUSE)
- Works every time.
Yo,yo! This be wack! Get me outta here!
© 1997 jonberger1@aol.com
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