Big Mike: Black Comedy Excerpt No. 12 — “Y’know, Those Tests Are Wrong Sometimes”
The wedding has been set for Saturday, April 6th, 1968. “Perfect,” Al had said when most of the parties involved had finally agreed on that date. “There’s never anything goin’ on the first week of April, anyway. Everybody’ll be able to come.”
Only Tree among the concerned parties had been absent from the planning sessions. Tree was disgusted when she learned that Anna’d become pregnant again, so soon after her first brush with scandal. Only this wouldn’t become a scandal, not if Anna and Al have anything to do with it.
First, Anna determined that this time she would tell Chet she was pregnant. Some weeks after her Denver trip, she’d confessed to Chet the reason she’d gone out west. He was so thrilled he’d dodged that bullet that he actually told Anna he loved her, although he might well have used the same terminology had she told him she’d flown to Colorado to purchase him a surplus Air Force parka. When it comes to the word love, we tend to hear in it what we wish.
“Oh Man! This Is Great! I Love You!”
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Finally convinced that Chet loved her as deeply and eternally as she loved him, Anna thought he’d leap at the chance to marry her. Indeed he eventually leaped at the chance — although Anna’s ego might suffer a bit of a blow if she knew precisely what chance he was leaping at.
It is unusually warm for Christmas Eve. Anna has told Chet she wants to walk on the lakeshore. He says sure.
She leads him by the hand to Question Mark Point near North Avenue Beach. The ice-crusts topping the pier pylons are melting. The lake had already begun to freeze over a couple of weeks earlier. Now its icy skim coat is breaking up. The false spring thaw and evaporation contribute to an enveloping fog that isolates the couple as they make their way to the end of the point. Now they can’t even see the beach behind them. It’s as though they’re the only two people on Earth.
A False Spring
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“Chet?” Anna begins.
“Yeah?”
“We need to talk.”
“Sure, let’s rap.”
“This isn’t easy…,” Anna says. She hesitates for a long moment.
“Man, this doesn’t sound cool,” Chet says. “You gonna split?”
“No, no! Oh no. I don’t think I ever want to split from you, Chet.”
“Ever’s a long time.”
“That it is.”
“Well, hip me to what’s on your mind.”
“Uh, we-e-ell…, I went to the doctor yesterday.”
“Uh huh.”
“Yeah, uh, he…, um, he did the test you know?”
“Test?”
“Yes, test. Um…, I had to pee in a cup.”
The Test
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“Oh shit, man! Oh my baby…,” Chet says as he slips his arm around her shoulders and rains kisses on her her cheek and forehead. This time she doesn’t object to him calling her baby. This time the word makes her legs feel rubbery.
“I was worried how you’d take it,” she says after a five minute silence.
“No way, man, don’t you think about me at a time like this.”
Now Anna’s feeling orgasmically warm inside.
“I’m gonna be here for you, baby. We’ll get through this together,” Chet says. Anna’s eyes flood. She mashes her face into his fatigue jacket, the very same one he was wearing the day they met nearly four months earlier, the one he was wearing when she bumped into him as he was coming out of Bizarre Bazaar, the one she mashed her ice cream cone into. The coincidence might be even more poetic had he owned another jacket, which he doesn’t.
Chet continues: “Whatever we need to do, we’ll do.” He holds her by both shoulders. She sniffs. He kisses her, softly, lovingly. She grins at him as he pulls his lips from hers.
“I can’t believe how lucky I am,” she gushes.
“You’re amazing,” Chet says. “Listen to you! Talking about being lucky! Freakin’ amazing! Y’know, I know a few people who have diabetes.”
Anna thinks, That’s nice, although it’s sort of off on a tangent.
“I know how tough it’s gonna be. Look, I’ll help you keep to your diet. I’ll eat with you, man! We’ll go through it together.”
Anna says, “Diet?”
“Naturally,” Chet says. “Didn’t the doctor give you your diet yet? And, hey, what about the insulin?”
“Insulin?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh. Eek. Um, Chet?”
“Yeah?”
“Eh, I think we have a failure to communicate here.”
“Huh? Whaddya mean?”
“I’m not diabetic.”
“But you had to pee in a cup….”
“Yes. That’s true. But there are other reasons the doctor wants a girl to pee in cup.”
Chet stares at her, his jaw hanging in the vicinity of his breastbone. He gulps. “Oh. You mean you’re….”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
“You know,” he says, brightening, “those tests are wrong sometimes.”
Anna shakes her head.
Chet’s face becomes clouded. He stares out in the swirling fog. “But…, but…,” he begins.
Anna shakes her head again, this time more forcefully.
“Well then,” he says, “that’s that. You’re pregnant.”
“Yep,” Anna says.
“Bummer,” Chet says.
Chet’s Nightmare
***
Next, Al does his part to persuade Chet to do the right thing, in our next installment of Black Comedy, Saturday.
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Benny Jay: Private Eye II
My name is Benny Jay and I’m a private eye.
The story you’re about to read is true. The names have been changed to protect a certain idiotic friend….
I get a call. It’s Toby. Says he’s got a problem. Needs my help. It’s a case for Benny Jay….
Another case for Benny Jay — Private Eye
We meet at his favorite bar. It’s mid-afternoon. The joint’s empty, except for the bartender. They got the World Cup playing on the tube.
“You following the World Cup?” I ask Toby.
“Fuck, no — soccer can suck my dick….”
Hmm – interesting concept. I take a moment to think about it – wonder how it works….
“Here’s what happened,” he tells me. “The wife and I went to this funeral. We were driving from the church to the cemetery when we went through a red light….”
“Yeah,” I say.
“I didn’t think nothing about it cause we were in a funeral procession. Five weeks later we get this….”
He tosses an envelope on the bar. Inside I find a ticket that shows Toby’s car going through a red light.
“It’s from one of those camera’s the city’s got on traffic lights,” he says.
“I know the kind….”
“One-hundred fucking bucks they want from me….”
“I can see that….”
“The law lets you go through a red light if you’re part of a funeral procession – right?”
I shrug. “Where did the infraction take place?” I ask.
“We were driving west on Devon – turning left to go south on Milwaukee….”
I write down the information. “What did you do after you got the ticket?”
“Appealed it. The wife sends the city a note, sent them the obituary and everything….”
“And?”
“Letter comes back from the city – appealed denied….”
“In other words….”
“Shut up and pay the one-hundred….”
“What do you want me to do?”
He smiles. “Write about it – embarrass the fuckers. We were in a funeral procession, for Christ sakes….”
I light a cigarette. Actually, I don’t. I don’t smoke and, technically, it would be illegal if I did since the law prohibits smoking in public places. Even bars. It’s more like I light an imaginary cigarette.
I blow out the imaginary smoke from my imaginary cigarette and say: “I’ll see what I can do….”
I go home. Take a shot of whiskey. Make love to Bubbles, my beautiful secretary. (Actually, I don’t do either of these things either; I don’t even have a secretary.)
Me and Milo and the secretary I don’t really have….
I go to my computer and look up the municipal code. It’s there in clear print – you can go through red lights if you’re in a funeral procession. Open and shut case. My boy, Toby got screwed….
I put out my imaginary cigarette. I walk the dog. It’s hot. I’m sweating like a horse. When I get home, I take a nap. It’s not easy being a private eye.
I wake up thinking — what if….
I go to Mapquest and type in the address of the cemetery and the address of the church.
Here’s what I find: the church is north of the cemetery, which is north of Devon. If Toby got a ticket at Devon and Milwaukee on his way to the cemetery – like he said he did — the procession had gone four blocks out of its way to get to that cemetery. Hmm….
I call Toby. “Devon and Milwaukee is a few blocks south of the cemetery,” I tell him.
“Yeah?”
“So why would the funeral procession go south of the cemetery and then come back north?”
“I don’t know….”
“Is it possible that you weren’t in the funeral procession when you ran the red light?”
“Huh?”
“Is it possible you ran that red when you and your wife were driving home from the cemetery?”
“No — I swear….”
“Just askin’,” I say.
“Maybe this wasn’t at Devon and Milwaukee,” he says. “Maybe it was at Touhy and Milwaukee. And the city made a mistake and called it Devon….”
“Yeah, maybe….”
“I’m going to check it out,” he says.
“You do that….:
We hang up.
Here’s what I think: He got caught going through a red light on the way home from the funeral and thought – I’ll tell them that I was part of a funeral procession. Then I’ll get my good pal, Benny Jay, to back me up. That idiot’s so dumb – he’ll fall for it.
Guess I’m not so dumb after all.
What’s that they always say? Oh, yeah: If you’re mother says she loves you, check it out.
I take another imaginary shot of my imaginary whiskey and light another imaginary cigarette.
Just another day in the life of Benny Jay, private eye….
Editor’s note: For another case of Benny Jay, private eye, click here….
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Letter From Milo: The Ballad of Mickey and Bonnie
Mickey came home from Vietnam in February of 1970, just a few days short of his 21st birthday. He had been an infantryman, a rifle-toting grunt who had slogged through mountains and swamps, bombed out rice paddies and impenetrable jungles. He had seen and done things that no person should ever see or do. Some of the memories would never leave him.
Back home, Mickey was at loose ends. He didn’t know what to do. He was lost and confused. His old friends, high school buddies, seemed like childish strangers to him. He wasn’t sleeping well and was eating poorly. Even his mother’s cooking, which he had always relished, was tasteless to him.
Mickey spent most of his time in his car, driving aimlessly, listening to the radio and smoking lots of marijuana. Sometimes he’d pick up a six-pack or a pint of whiskey and drive out to the beach, where he’d find an isolated spot near the shore of Lake Michigan, park his car, and watch the waves roll in and out for hours at a time. The sound of waves lapping at the shoreline soothed him and often he would fall asleep, lulled by the rhythmic play of the waters.
Mickey knew there was something wrong with him but he couldn’t quite put his finger on the problem. The term Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder hadn’t been coined yet. If he had known about PTSD he might have tried to get some help, although Mickey was by nature a self-contained type and probably wouldn’t have asked for help even if he knew he needed it.
After being home for a few months, the time had come for Mickey to make a decision. He could either get a job in one of the local factories or do something else. He opted for something else. He decided to take advantage of the GI Bill and go to college for a year or so, just to clear his head. Maybe he would get a new perspective on things. Maybe his demons wouldn’t follow him to southern Indiana. Maybe he could outrun his past. Maybe.
His first months at college were not much different from the life he had been living in his hometown. Mickey wandered around in a daze, keeping his head down, unable to reach out to people, unwilling to expose himself more than absolutely necessary. He attended classes sporadically, spent time drinking alone in the local taverns and smoked pot to take his mind off of, well, who knows what. He may as well have been a ghost, his presence unnoticed except for those whose senses were attuned to the high and lonesome end of the misery spectrum.
And then Mickey met Bonnie.
She was a beautiful, long-legged art student, a farm girl from southern Indiana. She saw something in Mickey that he thought had been lost and gone forever. She saw a spark of intelligence, a glimmer of humanity that he thought no longer existed. For some reason she decided that he was someone worthwhile, someone she wanted to know better.
Bonnie took Mickey under her lovely wing. They became friends, and then they became more than friends. She had a kind and generous nature and, more than that, she seemed to have an intuitive sense of how to deal with Mickey’s damaged psyche. When he went into one of his funks, she knew how to lift his spirits. When he woke up in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat and gasping for breath, she soothed him with hugs and kisses and gentle words until he was able to fall asleep again. She was comfortable with his silences and listened patiently when he felt like talking. Although Mickey didn’t realize it at the time, Bonnie was exactly what he needed at that point in his life.
When Bonnie brought Mickey into her life she also introduced him to her world. As an art student, Bonnie’s social circle included other artists – actors, writers, dancers and musicians. Mickey, who was used to the rough world of soldiers and working men, found himself enjoying the company of his witty and creative new friends. They made him laugh and think and look at the world differently. He was changing.
Slowly, Mickey began to come out of his shell. He felt healthy again. He was sleeping better, too, his dreams less vivid and frightening. He took pleasure in good conversation, good music and even began enjoying some of his classes, although it must be said that Mickey had a low opinion of organized education. He no longer had a sense of dread when he woke up in the morning. He had the odd but welcome sensation that he was becoming a human being again, reconnecting to the person he once was and seeing intimations of the person he might become.
Mickey understood that none of this would have been possible without Bonnie. She had literally saved his sanity and, possibly, his life. She had lifted the darkness from his soul and replaced it with dawning hope. Mickey knew that he could never explain to Bonnie what she had done for him. He could not find words that adequately expressed what she meant to him. In fact, he doubted that the proper words of thanks existed in the English language. The only thing he knew for certain was that without her he might have remained a ghost, a blue-collar Flying Dutchman, doomed to spend eternity wandering. He would never forget what she had done for him.
All stories have a beginning and, sadly, an end. When she finished school, Bonnie decided to move to New York City to pursue her artistic dreams. Mickey’s future lay elsewhere. They went their separate ways, but Mickey always kept Bonnie in his heart, safely tucked away in a place where a person’s most precious treasures are kept. He thought of her often, wondering where she was and what she was doing. Always, when he thought of her, he wished her peace, love and happiness. There was nobody more deserving.
And there was absolutely no doubt in Mickey’s mind that when Bonnie thought of him, she wished him the same.
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Big Mike: Black Comedy Excerpt No. 11 — Sambo And The Jungle Man
Let’s see, where did we leave off? Oh yeah, Anna’s pregnant again and this time she can’t count on Tree to take her for an out-of-state abortion. Anna’s boyfriend Chet has been expelled from Northwestern University for throwing a can of red paint at the Secretary of Defense. Joey’s been hiding in a tree, hoping to shoot a black man who has humiliated his family. Al is keeping the Mob roots of his successful business secret from his wife. It’s all a mess, I’m telling you. But isn’t that life? Here’s the latest installment of my novel-in-progress, Black Comedy. Enjoy! — Big Mike
For as long as Joey can remember, The Jungle Man has treated him like a dog. The Jungle Man is James Finnin, Jr., first-born son of James (Mickey) Finnin, Sr., 36th Ward Democratic Party Committeeman. Mickey Finnin is the most powerful man in the ward — as long as you don’t count Giacomo (Jackey The Lackey) Pontone, the Outfit’s day to day capo with Tony Accardo and Murray Humphreys in semi-retirement and Paul (The Waiter) Ricca fighting various federal income tax raps.
The Chicago Outfit Leadership At Jackey Pontone’s Retirement Luncheon, 1972 (Catered By Big Al’s Meats)
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Mickey and Jackey are close pals of Al Dudek. So close, in fact, that they’re referred to as the Three Stooges by those in the know — affectionately, of course, and always with the broadest of grins lest anyone suspect the intent of the utterer.
The three are the pillars of the Northwest Side, representing City Hall, the Mob, and legitimate business. Well, fairly legitimate business; Frankie and Louie Ranalli, Al’s brothers-in-law, whose artistry in handling sticks of dynamite and accelerants played such a key role in Al’s swift rise to the top in Chicago’s meat racket, are soldiers under Jackey The Lackey. Mickey Finnin runs the 36th Ward as if it’s his own personal board game, dispensing favors and jobs by the thousands and calling in at least that many debts. Alderman Rocco Bianco, the caifone*, is the public face of 36th Ward politics but everyone knows he’s truly a stooge — this said neither affectionately nor with a protective grin. Mickey’s realm extends far beyond the 36th Ward, taking in the territories of Montclare, the Brickyard, Hanson Park, Dunning and more. So mighty is Mickey’s reach that when Mayor Richard J. Daley was trying to move the Italians out of Little Italy to make room for the proposed University of Illinois Circle Campus, he directed the 36th Ward boss to ask his Italian colleagues for help. Mickey whispered in Sam Giancana’s ear and the next thing anybody knew, that pain in the ass Florence Scala, the leader of the save our nieghborhood campaign, suddenly fell silent.
It was the fondest dream of the Three Stooges to have their respective eldest sons inherit the Northwest Side kingdom they ruled. There was an early snag, though. Little Jimmie, Jackey Junior, and Joey all entered kindergarten at St Giles in Oak Park the same year. Sister Marie Imelda determined within the first week that Joey was likely shy a card or two from his deck — she told Tree and Al that Joey had a “learning disability,” a shiny new term in those days. Previous to the Sister’s stint as St. Giles’ respected and innovative kindergarten teacher, kids like Joey would have been stamped “slow” and, if their parents regularly stuffed their Sunday envelopes as generously as the Dudeks, they’d have been given free passes to successive grades without having to bother with such details as “learning.” Thanks to Sister Marie Imelda the term slow was never used in any official report on Joey. He was given free passes to successive grades wihtout being burdened by any studies, though.
![9780805407587[1]](http://www.thethirdcity.org/blog/wp-content/uploads/2010/06/978080540758711.jpg "9780805407587[1]")
Faith In Dollars And Cents
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Sadly, as the years went by, Jimmie’d fallen in with the rest of the kids in torturing Joey not only for his inability to read but for his heft, his meekness, and his kinky Sicilian hair, inherited from Tree. In the fifth grade, Jimmie bestowed upon Joey a new nickname to the titters of the rest of the class. A few weeks later, Joey bragged to Al that the kids had a nickname for him.
Al looked up from the TV. “Oh yeah,” he said, “what is it?”
“Sambo,”Joey said, proudly.
“Sambo! Who the hell calls you Sambo?”
“They all do,” Joey said, doubt creeping into his voice.
“Who pacifically?”
“Well, I dunno…, Jimmie Finnin,” Joey said, brightening again, as if the mere mention of his Pa’s best friend’s son’s name would make everything alright.
“Aw, shit,” Al muttered and that was the end of the conversation.
Space
Al that evening dialed Mickey’s number and asked his pal to speak to Jimmie about calling his son a name for the moolenjohns*. Jimmie stopped calling Joey Sambo for a while, until Jimmie’d earned his own nickname. Jimmie in the spring of fifth grade exhibited remarkable ability on the parallel bars in gym class. He even brought to school his own can of hand chalk to powder his palms before mounting the apparatus. He soon became known as The Jungle Man. When Joey first took up the term, Jimmie turn to him and said, “Alright for you Sambo.” From that day on those were the names they’d call each other although their conversations were as few as those between any of Jackey Pontone’s soldiers and the G*.
Most of the exchanges between the Jungle Man and Sambo would go something like this:
“Ay, stoopid.”
“Shut da fuck up, Finnin.”
“C’nya spell yer own name yet?”
“I dunno, c’nya spell asshole yet?”
In seventh grade, the two had a monumental fistfight that drew nearly thirty spectators representing most of the classes from the St. Giles primary, intermediate, and senior elementary schools. The bout was held in the alley behind the rectory on Columbian Avenue. It had begun when Jimmie had let slip in a nearby conversation that Anna Dudek was most likely one of those Dago bootahns*. Joey happened to overhear the opinion, ran over to the Jungle Man’s little circle, and lit into him with a windmill flurry of rights and lefts. Jimmie took a good half dozen solid blows to the eyes and jaw before he responded with a counterflurry. By the time some apple-polishing sixth-grader had rung the rectory doorbell to summon Fr. Jerome, both Jimmie and Joey were bleeding from the mouth and nose. Poor old Fr. Jerome took three glancing blows to the side of his head before he could separate the two. For the next two weeks, Joey and Jimmie sported double black eyes, giving them the appearance of twin raccoons.
Each satisfied that the other could inflict real physical damage, the two settled into a cold war that lasted until the afternoon of April 5th, 1968.
* A Helpful Glossary:
Caifone — pronounced KAI-phone by mainland Italians, GAH-vone by Sicilians, it means slob.
Moolenjohn — the Sicilian pronunciation of melanzana, eggplant, a slur for blacks.
The G — any agents for the FBI or the US Attorney’s office; it stands for government.
Bootahn — the Sicilian pronunciation for putain — whore.
Join us for the next installment of Black Comedy Wednesday. While you’re waiting breathlessly, you can pass the time with a Letter From Milo tomorrow and Benny Jay’s newest post Tuesday.
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Benny Jay: The Highway to Elk Grove Village
Monique‘s college graduation party is in a hotel banquet room on the other side of nowhere — way the hell out in Elk Grove Village, wherever that is.
Don’t get me wrong. I wouldn’t miss Monique’s graduation for the world. She’s one of my older daughter‘s best friends. Love her like she’s my own daughter. Considering all the time’s she’s spent at my house she might as well be my daughter. It’s just that…
I hate driving. Especially in rush-hour traffic on the expressways to the suburbs beyond O’Hare.
Some people actually like driving. They talk about it all the time. Compare directions. Brag about how they beat the traffic. Drive their kids all over the universe just to play an AAU basketball game. Burning up gas. No wonder the oceans are on fire. People are out of their minds. I know it’s driving me crazy. Feel like Crazy Guggenheim.
I’m going crazy — like Frank Fontaine….
Anyway, my wife gets directions printed out off the Internet. Take 90 to Devon. Something like that.
“Awww,” I scream. “I can’t stand this traffic!!!!”"
“Drama queen,” says my wife.
“Oh, I’m a drama queen? I’m the one doing the driving. But I’m the drama queen. Funny, I don’t see you offering to drive.”
That shuts them up. They have nothing to say. Cause what can they say?
The party’s great by the way. Open bar. I’m not much of a drinker but after that drive — gimme the whole bottle! I’m knocking back whiskey. Okay, I have two drinks. But that’s a lot for me.
Monique’s proud papa, Mark, thanks us for coming. Turns out it’s a two-fer. His older daughter, Tatiana, graduated from college as well. “They are the first in our family to graduate,” Mark says. “Couldn’t have done it without all the family and friends in this room.”
Boogie down, Mark — you deserve it!
Not a dry eye in the house. Then Mark and his daughters — Tatiana, Monqiue and Sasha — gather on the dance floor to dance to My Girl.
More tears….
It would be a perfect way to end this story, except. I still have to drive home!
It’s after midnight. Dark as hell. The road’s bumpy. My wife turns on the light to read the directions. Only now every thing’s in reverse. She’s talking to herself — “okay, we went right, so that means we gotta go left” — to make sense of the directions.
It starts to rain. I’m leaning forward, squinting to see where I’m going.
“Are we still on Devon?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” says my wife. “There’s no sign at the intersection.”
“How can there be no signs?”
“Wait — that might be a sign. Hold it — yes, it’s Devon!”
“God, I hate Elk Grove Village!”
We find the highway. We pay a toll. We actually pay to drive on these highways? God, are we stupid! The rain stops. It starts. It stops.
I get home. At last. Put the car in the garage. Walk the dog. Think about Monique’s party. Remember the first time I saw Mark. It was on my front porch. He was picking up Monique. Freshman year of high school. Our daughters were going through this particularly goofy phase of life. “We can get through this is if we work together,” he told me.
And we got through it.
The rain returns. I have no umbrella. I start to run. Make it through one obstacle only to face another. At least I’m off the highway….
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Big Mike: Black Comedy Excerpt No. 10 — Lightning Strikes Twice
So now Anna’s womb is swept clean. The only people who know that her uterus had hosted, albeit briefly, an embryo were herself, Tree, and the doctor who wielded the broom.
Joey, of course, can’t be bothered with the comings and goings of his mother and sister, occupied as he is by TV, Ripple, the pursuit of Snickers bars, and chronic masturbation. It isn’t until Monday evening when he becomes conscious of the fact that his mother is absent. He is walking around the kitchen like a lost dog, wondering why dinner isn’t on the table. When Al comes home from work, he informs his son that if he’s hungry, there’s leftover lasagna from Sunday in the Frigidaire.
Joey’s Second Favorite Pastime
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Joey pulls the big glass casserole out of the Fridge, sets it on the kitchen table, pulls back the tinfoil cover, and proceeds to eat the lasagna cold.
“Jeezchrist!” Al says. “Getcher self a dish and warm it up, fer chrissakes!”
Joey mumbles his reply through a mouthful of meatball and braciole. “I ain’t got time; I’m hungry.”
“Gavone,” Al says, as if the Sicilian dialect is his first language.
Al pours his first Dewar’s and soda of the evening. Joey says, “When’s Ma comin’ home,” or words to that effect, his articulation profoundly affected by another monumental forkful of lasagna.
“Tomorrow night.”
Silence follows, broken only when Joey asks, “Where’d d’ey go?” to which Al replies not at all. Fortunately for both of them Joey doesn’t press his query.
Al wouldn’t have become the successful businessman he is had he allowed himself to be distracted by issues such as what his wife and daughter are doing in Denver for a day and a half. (Add to that selective awareness the fact that Al’s brothers-in-law were more than pleased to commit arson to help expand his client base, and there you have two of the pillars of Al’s success.)
Frankie and Louie Ranalli’s Calling Card
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Joey forgets that he wondered why his mother is absent before he even swallows the lasagna he had in his mouth when he asked the question. Al forgets his wife is not around after his second scotch and soda has sent him snoring in his recliner with the ten o’clock news still on.
***
It is Tuesday morning, three weeks after Tree and Anna’s trip to Denver. Anna fixes herself some raisin bread toast as Tree sips her black coffee and flips through the Sun-Times. The radio is on, as usual, with Paul Harvey tut-tutting something or another. Tree and Anna have not exchanged a single word since the Denver trip. In fact, the last word spoken by one to the other was when Tree said to her daughter (who was in the hotel shower at the time) “C’mon, we’re gonna be late” fifteen minutes before they left for the abortion clinic.
Anna spreads Nutella on her toast. She thinks, I despise Paul Harvey. Her feelings are reinforced within seconds. “Are we going to hell in a handbasket?” Harvey asks. Of course, anyone who’s ever listened to him speak for three and a half seconds knows the answer already. “The so-called sexual revolution has turned American women into pill poppers — the birth control pill, that is. According to the latest statistics issued by the Department of Health, Education, and Welfare in Washington….”
Anna rolls her eyes. She sneaks a glance at Tree who seems to be engrossed in Kup’s Column. Relieved, Anna sighs — too soon, though.
Tree’s Got A Better Idea
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Tree flips the page grandly and loudly. “These damned dames wanna stop having babies, I got a good idea for them. They oughta stop lifting their skirts for every bum that comes along,” she pronounces.
The tips of Anna’s ears become red hot. “Ma!” she ejaculates.
“What?” Tree asks. “Got a guilty conscience? Who said anything about you? Can’t I say anything around here anymore?”
“Stop it, Ma.”
“Stop what?”
Anna slams the uneaten half of her raisin toast on the kitchen table. It flips end over end a foot and a half in the air and tumbles onto the floor, face down. Tree peeks around her newspaper and looks at the piece of bread on the floor below, calmly — too calmly for Anna’s tastes. She wants Tree to say a word, just one word. But Tree won’t take the bait; she’s already made her point.
Anna picks up her books and notebook, slings her purse over her shoulder and announces, “I’m not picking it up.” It’s a minor victory but it’s all she’ll get today. With that, she slams the back door behind her.
“Me neither,” Tree whispers to herself.
When Anna comes home late that afternoon, the piece of toast is laying precisely where she left it in the morning. Tree is grating Romano cheese over the sink. Anna stares at her mother in awe. The woman had gone about her business for an entire day, all the while sidestepping that friggin’ piece of toast.
Anna slams her book, notebook, and purse on the kitchen table. She rips a couple of sheets of paper towel off the roll and hunkers down to wipe the Nutella up off the floor. After ten hours the chocolate streaks have dried hard. Anna must wet some paper towels and work the streaks. As she does this, Tree serenely continues to grate her Romano, saying nothing. She doesn’t need to, her big victory trumping Anna’s little one.
Tree Wins
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***
Chet remains blissfully unaware that Anna’d been pregnant for a few weeks. She thought briefly about telling him but decided against it. Such a complication might jeorpardize their new relationship, Anna reasoned.
In fact, the entire pregnancy scare and resultant brooding, confession to her mother, and jaunt to Denver all happened so quickly that Anna could will herself to forget the entire episode at certain times. For instance, on the afternoon of December 17th, as she and Chet engaged in another fireworks moment in his bedroom, this time with the Rolling Stones’ “Under My Thumb” playing on his AM/FM.
And, really, isn’t it too much to expect that Anna should have been overly concerned that another of Chet’s hardy little flagella-ed packets of DNA might find its way to the right fallopian tube wherein it would find another nice fat ovum? Honestly, what were the chances of that happening so soon again? The answer on the afternoon of December 17th, 1967 in Chet’s Albany Park bedroom is 100 percent.
The next month, after the New Year, on a Wednesday, Anna takes another morose stroll away from Circle Campus. She finds herself — surprise! — staring into the same hole in the construction canopy surrounding the John Hancock Center muttering, mantra-like, “It can’t be. It can’t be.”
But it could. And this time, Anna couldn’t tell Tree.
“It can’t be. It can’t be.”
Space
Now what? Join us Sunday for the next installment of Black Comedy.
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El Dragon: Cockblockers
I was out on the prowl in search of a woman at a charity event a couple of months ago when I ran into two acquaintances.
These two dudes were harmless enough, but annoying as hell. They wanted to have a drink with me so I humored them and then moved on to business.
About an hour later, I spotted this fine chick all by her lonesome. She was clearly out of my league, but a few drinks and some encouraging words from my friends convinced me to take a chance.
“Fuck it,” I said to myself. “Let’s go for it….”
El Dragon makes his move….
I went over and turned on the charm. The conversation was going well and we were getting into a nice rhythm when one of the two acquaintances I met earlier came over.
This guy, who knows that I am an attorney, apologized for interrupting my conversation and asked for a quick word in private to discuss a legal matter.
“Now?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he said. “It will only take a minute.”
So like a dumbass, I left this gorgeous woman to talk to this guy that I barely knew. After a few minutes, it became apparent that this guy was just wasting my time. So I abruptly ended the conversation and headed back to my spot.
As I turned around, however, I saw this guy’s buddy walking away with my girl to the dance floor.
“Motherfucker!” I said. “I’ve been cockblocked!”
Now, every man at some point in his dating life encounters a cockblocker who blocks his cock. I, however, have never heard of cockblockers working in tandem.
Flash forward to this past weekend. I was out with the guys at a bar looking to get lucky when from afar I spotted those two cockblockers. As I watched them, I noticed that they were pulling the same shit on this poor sap who had been talking to this hot woman. Just as one guy pulled the sap away from the babe, I walked over to douche bag number two, who I happened to know is engaged.
“Hey, bro!” I said, loud enough for everyone to hear me. “How are you? Is this your fiancée?”
“Fiancée?” she said. “You’re engaged? Jerk!”
“Oh, shit!” I said. “My bad. Did I fuck you up, bro? Sorry.”
As I walked away, I could hear the guy mumble: “Motherfucker!”
I grinned and thought to myself: “That’s right. Payback is a motherfucker.”
By El Dragon
Editor’s note: El Dragon is one bad boy who will be writing about the search for romance and other great topics of his life and times.
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Guest Blogger:
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Candyman. Written by Benny Jay. Read by Joel Reitsma, Lorenzo Toia, Ray Jay 3000, Andy Orscheln and No Blaise. Produced by Jus Buckingham of King Conundrum Productions.
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