A new legend
4 years ago
Saturday, September 6, 2008
Thursday, September 4, 2008
oops
Apparently the default for commenting is to require registration. I did not know that. I attribute the lack of comments on this blog to that. Instead of *sniff* my being unpopular. Anyway... I quickly expect to have many comments. Soon I will be forced to use AdSense and gain millions of dollars in profit! Then, puny earthlings, you will bow before the might of Krypton!
Monday, August 25, 2008
Idle Hands
Let me begin by stating that I am completely pro-gun. Gun rights are not only essential for protecting all other rights, but also that they are rights alone should simply suffice as justification for their continued existence. But where reason fails…
Anyway, while I am pro-gun, I recognize the great evil that guns helped bring about in Western society. (As did the industrial revolution, but that is a story for another time.) Guns do not kill people, people kill people. Of course the same could be said of Communism. No, I am not saying guns are Communist and, like Communism, have no legitimate use. What I am saying is that guns helped lead to Communism. I know, it may seem strange, but ‘bear’ with me…
It all begins in Medieval Europe, or perhaps in China, but regardless: the meteoric rise of guns and gunpowder led to a restructuring of armies and, therefore, a reformation of European society. Feudalism, in many ways a precursor to Federalism, depended upon a fragile status quo maintained by several key factors. A lack of transportation was one of those factors. Another was the power of the nobility.
The nobility derived their powers from arms. Nobles spent much of their lives training for war. They had the money, and therefore the equipment, to go to war. Swords were expensive to make, and learning to use one even more so. Nobles had an interest in the status quo. Not just at the micro-level, mind you, but at the macro as well. Whenever one of their brethren became too powerful they tended to band together to defeat him. And they generally succeeded. The status quo was maintained. Then…
The gun. It changed everything. And not entirely for the better. You see, guns were relatively easy to make, and training was even easier. The accuracy of guns at the time made aiming a relatively unnecessary part of Basic. Load, point, shoot. Rinse. Repeat. Guns were less effective than bows and arrows. Bows like swords, however, required quite a bit of training, and as the population grew self-trained woodsmen became increasingly hard to find.
So what was the problem? Other than as Huxley once pointed out, rather than improving the world we have simply developed more efficient means of killing each other? Well for one, this destroyed the role of the nobles. Some have credited gunpowder with the development of democracy in Europe. I credit it with the development of anarchy; instability, disruption, chaos. Of course that really is what democracy is. Democracy—small ‘d,’ unless at the beginning of a sentence, as in this sentence—is very unlike the constitutional republic stability-loving Northern Europeans had grown fond of. Yes, even under monarchy realms such as England were constitutional republics.
The problem wasn’t just that the peasants had more power, but that the nobles retained every aspect of their power outside of war. They were in effect a bunch of rich people with political power and no real jobs. Sound familiar?
There was a solution to this problem. Louis XIV decided he could keep the nobility busy by building a cult of personality around himself and throwing lavish parties for them so they would compete for his favor. Meanwhile Louis would bankrupt France paying for those parties, building palaces, and fighting expansionist foreign wars in an attempt to further his own ambitions. Oh, wait. That wasn’t a solution at all. It was a disaster that (hopefully) culminated in the bloodbath of the French Revolution. Well, I’m sure the Sun King’s policies worked better in Prussia…
So next time you fire a gun, remember that while it is merely a tool, for good or ill, it can also have a transformative effect far beyond what one might imagine. And then, instead of throwing it away in disgust, keep training. Keep training and don’t let His Majesty buy you off with trinkets—surrendering your traditional right, and duty, to fight.
Anyway, while I am pro-gun, I recognize the great evil that guns helped bring about in Western society. (As did the industrial revolution, but that is a story for another time.) Guns do not kill people, people kill people. Of course the same could be said of Communism. No, I am not saying guns are Communist and, like Communism, have no legitimate use. What I am saying is that guns helped lead to Communism. I know, it may seem strange, but ‘bear’ with me…
It all begins in Medieval Europe, or perhaps in China, but regardless: the meteoric rise of guns and gunpowder led to a restructuring of armies and, therefore, a reformation of European society. Feudalism, in many ways a precursor to Federalism, depended upon a fragile status quo maintained by several key factors. A lack of transportation was one of those factors. Another was the power of the nobility.
The nobility derived their powers from arms. Nobles spent much of their lives training for war. They had the money, and therefore the equipment, to go to war. Swords were expensive to make, and learning to use one even more so. Nobles had an interest in the status quo. Not just at the micro-level, mind you, but at the macro as well. Whenever one of their brethren became too powerful they tended to band together to defeat him. And they generally succeeded. The status quo was maintained. Then…
The gun. It changed everything. And not entirely for the better. You see, guns were relatively easy to make, and training was even easier. The accuracy of guns at the time made aiming a relatively unnecessary part of Basic. Load, point, shoot. Rinse. Repeat. Guns were less effective than bows and arrows. Bows like swords, however, required quite a bit of training, and as the population grew self-trained woodsmen became increasingly hard to find.
So what was the problem? Other than as Huxley once pointed out, rather than improving the world we have simply developed more efficient means of killing each other? Well for one, this destroyed the role of the nobles. Some have credited gunpowder with the development of democracy in Europe. I credit it with the development of anarchy; instability, disruption, chaos. Of course that really is what democracy is. Democracy—small ‘d,’ unless at the beginning of a sentence, as in this sentence—is very unlike the constitutional republic stability-loving Northern Europeans had grown fond of. Yes, even under monarchy realms such as England were constitutional republics.
The problem wasn’t just that the peasants had more power, but that the nobles retained every aspect of their power outside of war. They were in effect a bunch of rich people with political power and no real jobs. Sound familiar?
There was a solution to this problem. Louis XIV decided he could keep the nobility busy by building a cult of personality around himself and throwing lavish parties for them so they would compete for his favor. Meanwhile Louis would bankrupt France paying for those parties, building palaces, and fighting expansionist foreign wars in an attempt to further his own ambitions. Oh, wait. That wasn’t a solution at all. It was a disaster that (hopefully) culminated in the bloodbath of the French Revolution. Well, I’m sure the Sun King’s policies worked better in Prussia…
So next time you fire a gun, remember that while it is merely a tool, for good or ill, it can also have a transformative effect far beyond what one might imagine. And then, instead of throwing it away in disgust, keep training. Keep training and don’t let His Majesty buy you off with trinkets—surrendering your traditional right, and duty, to fight.
Tales From The Krypt: An explanation
These are stories from the past. Dredged up from the dark depths of Kryptonian history, they are a part of Krypton's greatest epics. Once thought to have met their apropos end in the dying throes of our tragically engorged red sun, I, Ben-El of Krypton, have re-discovered and translated them. Or they may be the scribblings of a Kryptonian child who was possibly also a deranged dullard from eating too many lead paint chips--good thing he wasn't a Daxamite! Whatever the case, these are the "Tales From The Krypt." Clever, I know.
Tales From The Krypt II: Which is Better, Version II
Guy was not a short man by any means; he was just under six feet tall. However, whenever he stood next to someone who was three or more inches taller than him he felt diminutive. Like most men he was a man of two minds. One side of him thought he was supremely excellent, a proud man worthy of the glory he sought. The other thought himself a pathetic wretch of a fool with no right to fame, power or glory.
Perhaps this is why a British kid who grew up in the suburbs and had no history of outer conflict would suddenly in his mid-twenties don a black leather jacket, black jeans, black shoes and a Union Jack plastered T-shirt, forgoing all other clothing. In addition he bleached his hair blond and tried to take up smoking. He quickly abandoned the smoking after the first few cigarettes made him cough terribly, besides, he thought, cancer wouldn’t be too glorious, would it? Now, as long as he kept his little smoking mishap to himself, everyone who met him would remember him respectfully… if not fondly.
Guy’s belief that he was oh-so-worthy contrasted interestingly with his hitherto failure to achieve anything of great significance. Guy was of a mind to change this, and his first stop in doing so had been in a posh Victorian home just outside of London: the home of one Thaddeus Crutchley. Mr. Crutchley, a tall gray-haired former professor of history at Oxford University with bony cheeks, was the antithesis of Guy in every conceivable way. As often as Guy wore his jacket, jeans, shoes and Union Jack tee, Professor Emeritus Crutchley wore tweed. He also wore impeccably polished brown leather shoes and small rectangular spectacles which were wont to slide down his thin crooked nose. Guy would have called him a “sodding nancy” upon first meeting him if he himself had not been one. The truth was that despite their appearances Guy was the coward and Thaddeus was only what could be described as mercenary; a ruthless cutthroat. The two had nevertheless become close, almost like father and son, although neither would admit it to save the world. This was, ironically, what they were trying to do.
“I believe you are ready and have been for some time,” Thaddeus had told Guy several months ago in the drawing room of his Victorian home.
Guy set down his near-empty wine glass which he had been twirling carelessly whilst sitting with one leg swung casually over the right arm of the firm burgundy chair in which he sat. “Ready for what?” he asked.
“When I first swore you into the organization,” Thaddeus ignored his question, “what were the reasons you gave for joining?”
“For the children; gum drops, sugar plums an’ all that,” Guy said with mach enthusiasm.
Crutchley ignored him again. “If memory serves you had two ‘principles’ upon which you based your anti-authoritarian stance: first, that being controlled is anathema to you, and second, that you are a truth-seeker as much as a glory-seeker and thus are tremendously frustrated by conspiracies.”
Guy sat upright, “Well, yeah,” he protested.
“I want you to infiltrate the Illuminati,” Thaddeus said abruptly.
“You what?”
“You shall begin tomorrow.”
“Riiight,” said Guy, standing up. “I’ll just waltz over to Parliament and say ‘Mr. Prime Minister, sir, I’d like to join you and your conspiratorial backers in a game of poker, nineish?’ and then we’ll have a right merry time discussing politics over tea and crumpets.”
Thaddeus continued to ignore him, saying, “According to my informants, a high-ranking member of the Illuminati is currently stationed at the
Perhaps this is why a British kid who grew up in the suburbs and had no history of outer conflict would suddenly in his mid-twenties don a black leather jacket, black jeans, black shoes and a Union Jack plastered T-shirt, forgoing all other clothing. In addition he bleached his hair blond and tried to take up smoking. He quickly abandoned the smoking after the first few cigarettes made him cough terribly, besides, he thought, cancer wouldn’t be too glorious, would it? Now, as long as he kept his little smoking mishap to himself, everyone who met him would remember him respectfully… if not fondly.
Guy’s belief that he was oh-so-worthy contrasted interestingly with his hitherto failure to achieve anything of great significance. Guy was of a mind to change this, and his first stop in doing so had been in a posh Victorian home just outside of London: the home of one Thaddeus Crutchley. Mr. Crutchley, a tall gray-haired former professor of history at Oxford University with bony cheeks, was the antithesis of Guy in every conceivable way. As often as Guy wore his jacket, jeans, shoes and Union Jack tee, Professor Emeritus Crutchley wore tweed. He also wore impeccably polished brown leather shoes and small rectangular spectacles which were wont to slide down his thin crooked nose. Guy would have called him a “sodding nancy” upon first meeting him if he himself had not been one. The truth was that despite their appearances Guy was the coward and Thaddeus was only what could be described as mercenary; a ruthless cutthroat. The two had nevertheless become close, almost like father and son, although neither would admit it to save the world. This was, ironically, what they were trying to do.
“I believe you are ready and have been for some time,” Thaddeus had told Guy several months ago in the drawing room of his Victorian home.
Guy set down his near-empty wine glass which he had been twirling carelessly whilst sitting with one leg swung casually over the right arm of the firm burgundy chair in which he sat. “Ready for what?” he asked.
“When I first swore you into the organization,” Thaddeus ignored his question, “what were the reasons you gave for joining?”
“For the children; gum drops, sugar plums an’ all that,” Guy said with mach enthusiasm.
Crutchley ignored him again. “If memory serves you had two ‘principles’ upon which you based your anti-authoritarian stance: first, that being controlled is anathema to you, and second, that you are a truth-seeker as much as a glory-seeker and thus are tremendously frustrated by conspiracies.”
Guy sat upright, “Well, yeah,” he protested.
“I want you to infiltrate the Illuminati,” Thaddeus said abruptly.
“You what?”
“You shall begin tomorrow.”
“Riiight,” said Guy, standing up. “I’ll just waltz over to Parliament and say ‘Mr. Prime Minister, sir, I’d like to join you and your conspiratorial backers in a game of poker, nineish?’ and then we’ll have a right merry time discussing politics over tea and crumpets.”
Thaddeus continued to ignore him, saying, “According to my informants, a high-ranking member of the Illuminati is currently stationed at the
Tales From The Krypt II: Which is Better, Version I
“I believe you are ready and have been for some time, Guy,” said the tall tweed-clad man with bony cheeks. Along with the tweed, he wore, as he did every day, impeccably polished brown leather shoes and tiny rectangular spectacles which rested upon his thin, crooked nose. His name was Thaddeus Crutchley, professor emeritus of Oxford and widower of the widow of the heir apparent of the Duke of Northumberland. Try saying that three times fast. Professor Emeritus Crutchley was left with one million pounds and a nice Victorian home just outside of London. The discussion he was having took place in the drawing room of that very home.
“Ready for what?” Guy asked; setting down the near-empty wine glass he had been sloshing about carelessly whilst sitting with one leg swung casually over the right arm of the firm burgundy chair in which he sat. The ex-professor, or as Guy often called him, Tweedledum, didn’t take too kindly to his offhand manner.
The first time they met, also in this home, was an awkward experience to say the least. The recently retired Crutchley had, unsurprisingly, been dressed in tweed and Guy in his usual black leather jacket and jeans and T-shirt with a giant Union Jack plastered across its front. Crutchley had surveyed Guy’s bleach-blond hair with skepticism, and Guy had nearly burst out in laughter. This stuffy old man would be the leader of the revolution? Oh yeah, he was a real rebel that one. Although in Guy’s own words Crutchley looked to be a “sodding nancy” and in truth, he once had been, but something in his past which he refused to specify had changed him. Now, however, Crutchley was what Guy could only describe as mercenary. He was ruthless; a cutthroat. When Crutchley had first told him the rules of the movement—that anyone who betrayed it would be cruelly and mercilessly killed—Guy had been shocked at this revelation, but not put off. He had replied earnestly, “Bit Draconian, isn’t it?” Nevertheless, despite their differences the two had grown close, almost like father and son, although neither would admit it to save the world; which, as it so happened, was what they were trying to do.
Presently, Crutchley pushed his spectacles higher up his nose with one long thin finger; they had fallen, as they were wont to do. “When I first swore you into the organization,” Crutchley ignored his question, “what were the reasons you gave for joining?”
“For the children; gum drops, sugar plums an’ all that,” Guy said with mach enthusiasm.
Crutchley ignored him again. “If memory serves you had two ‘principles’ upon which you based your anti-authoritarian stance: first, that being controlled is anathema to you, and second, that not being in on a secret is painfully frustrating.”
“Well, yeah,” Guy protested, “but that’s a gross oversimplification--”
“The only reason I did not kill you on the spot as a being danger to the organization,” Crutchley interrupted, though not entirely unkindly, “is because revolutionaries are rarely better than those they overthrow.”
Guy looked almost hurt.
“You see,” Thaddeus smiled wanly, “few enter government with the intention of doing evil, but power corrupts… nevertheless, I feel we are necessarily bound to ousting the current wolves who would lead the flock back to their den.”
“Ready for what?” Guy asked; setting down the near-empty wine glass he had been sloshing about carelessly whilst sitting with one leg swung casually over the right arm of the firm burgundy chair in which he sat. The ex-professor, or as Guy often called him, Tweedledum, didn’t take too kindly to his offhand manner.
The first time they met, also in this home, was an awkward experience to say the least. The recently retired Crutchley had, unsurprisingly, been dressed in tweed and Guy in his usual black leather jacket and jeans and T-shirt with a giant Union Jack plastered across its front. Crutchley had surveyed Guy’s bleach-blond hair with skepticism, and Guy had nearly burst out in laughter. This stuffy old man would be the leader of the revolution? Oh yeah, he was a real rebel that one. Although in Guy’s own words Crutchley looked to be a “sodding nancy” and in truth, he once had been, but something in his past which he refused to specify had changed him. Now, however, Crutchley was what Guy could only describe as mercenary. He was ruthless; a cutthroat. When Crutchley had first told him the rules of the movement—that anyone who betrayed it would be cruelly and mercilessly killed—Guy had been shocked at this revelation, but not put off. He had replied earnestly, “Bit Draconian, isn’t it?” Nevertheless, despite their differences the two had grown close, almost like father and son, although neither would admit it to save the world; which, as it so happened, was what they were trying to do.
Presently, Crutchley pushed his spectacles higher up his nose with one long thin finger; they had fallen, as they were wont to do. “When I first swore you into the organization,” Crutchley ignored his question, “what were the reasons you gave for joining?”
“For the children; gum drops, sugar plums an’ all that,” Guy said with mach enthusiasm.
Crutchley ignored him again. “If memory serves you had two ‘principles’ upon which you based your anti-authoritarian stance: first, that being controlled is anathema to you, and second, that not being in on a secret is painfully frustrating.”
“Well, yeah,” Guy protested, “but that’s a gross oversimplification--”
“The only reason I did not kill you on the spot as a being danger to the organization,” Crutchley interrupted, though not entirely unkindly, “is because revolutionaries are rarely better than those they overthrow.”
Guy looked almost hurt.
“You see,” Thaddeus smiled wanly, “few enter government with the intention of doing evil, but power corrupts… nevertheless, I feel we are necessarily bound to ousting the current wolves who would lead the flock back to their den.”
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Tales From The Krypt
Antimetabole
The man was an echo. A verbal shadow of all the books he had ever read, whether on history, economics or love. Most would have called him a parrot, but I knew better. A parrot merely repeats words, while he was a reflection of them: a hollow man made entirely of long drawn out theses and “statistics” lazily pounded out on typewriters by crusty professors, neo “intellectuals,” and other pontificating self-styled “experts,” all of whom disagreed with each other. It was a wonder, then, that there could be found any consistency in his “opinion” at all. Not the least because none of the books he read were entirely consistent within themselves --much less one of his favorite “experts” be very consistent at all throughout his or her various books—but that, having no will of his own, he managed, as though instinctually compelled, to form a semi-coherent series of book quotations from hundreds of authors supporting his “beliefs.”
You are probably wondering who this lifeless shell of a man—propped up by hundreds of pounds of pulp, cardboard and ink—was. To put it simply, he was my master. I was a simple servant in the House of ?, one of the wealthiest families in the city.
“The first shall be last and the last shall be first in the
Saturday, July 5, 2008
Long I Stood There
“Hold muh beer a moment, would ya?” the thirty-five year-old driver said to his wife.
“No, I will not hold yer beer,” the petite younger woman replied, nervously knotting around her finger several strands of her long, wispy, light-brown hair. “Now you throw that out the window ‘fore trouble comes, or I’ll throw you out.”
“You don’t mean it. Why it’s the Fourth of Jew-lye; everbody’s drinkin’ and the pigs got bigger fish to fry.”
“No bigger fish ‘round here than yer fat ass.”
“Tough words, darlin’; I’ll be damned if you don’t bite. Maybe we get back an’ put those lips o’ yers to better use.”
She didn’t reply. He merely looked in the rearview mirror to see if anyone else was traveling down the straight, long gravelly road. Seeing no one, he downed the last of his beer and threw the bottle out the window. He watched as it smashed loudly against a roadside granite rock and the car swerved a little while he did so.
“There. Happy? I threw it out the damn window.”
It was the wrong thing to say.
“Get outta the car.”
“What?” he answered, flabbergasted. Then a moment later, “Hell no.”
“You didn’ listen to me, and nearly got us keeled. Now you get outta the car.”
“I did not nearly get us keeled, woman. If there were lanes I wouldn’ve even left ours!”
“I don’t care! Get out!”
“Damn right you don’t care. Yer just thinkin’ with yer feelin’s and wanna see me stranded on the roadside.”
“I don’t wanna see you anywhere!” she cried. “Now get out!”
“No woman of mine’s gonna kick me outta muh own vee-hickle.”
“It ain’t yer car. Daddy didn’ like you; bless his soul, he left it jus’ to me.”
“Fine!” he brought the car to an abrupt stop, his own forehead slamming against the steering wheel.
“Serves you right.” she said quietly, tears now glistening in her eyes.
Rubbing his forehead, he replied, “You know what? I’ll get muh own car. And good thing you got the car, cause where else you gonna sleep? The house is mine.” Leaving the car on, he got out, slammed the door, and walked to the other side of the road to stare off into the distance and cool down.
After a moment he heard, “Good luck gettin’ there,” followed by the scraping of tires on gravel.
“Sonuvvabitch!” he shouted as she drove off.
He sat on the rock a ways back where he had thrown his beer bottle, the shattered shards still scattered about. He scratched his coarse golden-brown beard as the early afternoon sun brought a filmy sweat to his skin. ‘Damn women,’ he thought. ‘Nuts. All of them.’ He wondered what he was going to do.
His house was a good ten miles from the spot, he figured, and he didn’t know the road well enough—they usually traveled in the other direction, toward the city—to remember exactly where the nearest house was, for all the good that would do him. Even if they were home, and not picnicking or visiting some friends or relatives miles away, what could he expect them to do for him? Drive him? Not likely. Call a taxi? The nearest taxi service was so far away he would get home as fast by walking, and frankly, he decided, he would rather pass kidney stones than pay that kind of cash. Call the Sheriff or a friend of his? Not gonna happen; he would rather pass the rock under his ass than try to explain what happened. He supposed he could make something up…
Over the next half hour he thought up several fake stories he thought might suit him, but it was really just an excuse to pass the time doing nothing. Besides, he was becoming convinced, or rather convincing himself, that his wife would be back in short order. She couldn’t possibly stay gone forever. She had no place to go; her parents were dead, she never had siblings, and she didn’t even have a job to pay rent with, although she did have the keys to their house…
‘That bitch,’ he thought. ‘If she gone back to the house after this I’ll…’ he didn’t really care if she did, however, or so he told himself. This was just a fight. They would be back together by the end of the day for sure. And he would teach her a lesson—take away her driving privileges and shopping money for a while—so this would never happen again. He thought about what he would tell her when she got back as he waited, still convinced she would return after an hour and a half of sitting on a rock alternating between biting his lips and gritting his teeth while scratching his sweaty skin and swatting bugs in the ever increasing heat.
She drove across the bridge leading to the small neighborhood where she had lived for two years now. She planned on packing her things and taking them to a friend’s house. She would leave the house, and him, planning on never seeing either again…
She wiped the moisture from her eyes. She pulled into the driveway and put the car in park. Resting her head on the steering wheel, she said aloud, “Moron. How long ‘till you go back?” ‘Never’ wasn’t a sincere answer. Maybe he would walk back on his own, she considered. ‘That’s stupid,’ she realized. ‘No way he’ll walk all that way. And the longer I’m gone the worse it will be.’ But whatever he would do she imagined would be too terrible to go back. Maybe he wouldn’t take her back. He probably took the whole thing more seriously than she did; thought she really meant what she said. Heck, she thought she did at the time. “I was foolin’ muhself,” she admitted aloud. “I didn’ mean it, and I know he didn’ mean it neither,” she tried to convince herself. ‘But maybe I’m foolin’ muhself now,’ was the unvoiced rebuttal from the doubt slithering under her skin.
He was beginning to fear she wouldn’t come back. According to his wristwatch it had been a full three hours since she left, or nearly four o’clock. About an hour prior the heat had caused him to walk another half mile to a lake they had passed on the way. There were no trees along the shoreline to provide shade, and it was muddy so he had to stand, but at least the cool breeze provided some comfort.
The water was relatively calm, and he tried to be as well. But he couldn’t help but think she was leaving him for good. At the moment he couldn’t tell whether he was more worried about that for its own sake, or because his ride home depended upon it. Regardless, the gnawing feeling was taking its toll, and every now and then he had to go through the rational, logical reasons she would come back. He couldn’t really think of any logical reasons she wouldn’t come back, not that he was trying, or that women were logical, but one profound argument against her coming back nevertheless remained: ‘While everythin’ says she’ll come back… what if she don’t?’
‘What if?’ It wasn’t a question of what he would do ‘if,’ but simply ‘what if she didn’t come back?’ ‘What if’ something; there had to be a reason it might not happen, even though he couldn’t think of one. It was almost like reverse faith. He had another side of himself dueling to convince him that he couldn’t be sure, that he had to worry. Like part of him didn’t want her to come back, so it tried to make him think she wouldn’t. He was unsure in this too. Worrying was for the womenfolk he always thought, but he couldn’t stop himself.
She was probably laughing her pretty little ass off; so sure of herself, whatever she was going to do she knew it the whole time. No hesitation. Just knew what she was going to do. And she would do it. Return or not return. Play him for a fool one way or the other…
She drove back down the gravel road. By now night had fallen. She was sure he would be angry; sunburn and bug bites do not a happy husband make. Still, she kept driving until she neared the spot where she had left him. She didn’t see him at first, but wasn’t worried because she didn’t know the exact spot and it was dark. After a while, however, she began to worry. She opened the door of her car and called for him. Nothing. There was only darkness and the buzz of bugs.
She began to fear anew as she continued her search. She drove past the granite rock, neither seeing nor even looking for it, and kept going until the light, reflecting off a lake at the roadside, revealed a movement in the shadows. She pulled to the side of the road and got out of her car again, but it appeared to only be a bat or other night-creature.
Just as she was about to return to her car he walked from seemingly out of nowhere and calmly got into the driver’s seat. He just sat there, door open, for a minute. Unsure of what to do, she eventually sat in the passenger seat and they both closed their respective doors.
She looked at him expectantly, a mix of fear and anticipation on her face. He did not speak. He did not even return her gaze, but merely stared calmly out the front windshield. He was so sure of himself. He must have known the whole time she was coming back, as she had suspected. He was always so sure of himself like this. Always in command. She didn’t understand it. She supposed she didn’t need to.
Far off in the sky, over another section of the lake, there came a flurry of loud bangs and colorful bursts. The fireworks display had begun. The couple remained at the lakeside in their car as the show continued for some time, eventually erupting in a passionate crescendo.
“No, I will not hold yer beer,” the petite younger woman replied, nervously knotting around her finger several strands of her long, wispy, light-brown hair. “Now you throw that out the window ‘fore trouble comes, or I’ll throw you out.”
“You don’t mean it. Why it’s the Fourth of Jew-lye; everbody’s drinkin’ and the pigs got bigger fish to fry.”
“No bigger fish ‘round here than yer fat ass.”
“Tough words, darlin’; I’ll be damned if you don’t bite. Maybe we get back an’ put those lips o’ yers to better use.”
She didn’t reply. He merely looked in the rearview mirror to see if anyone else was traveling down the straight, long gravelly road. Seeing no one, he downed the last of his beer and threw the bottle out the window. He watched as it smashed loudly against a roadside granite rock and the car swerved a little while he did so.
“There. Happy? I threw it out the damn window.”
It was the wrong thing to say.
“Get outta the car.”
“What?” he answered, flabbergasted. Then a moment later, “Hell no.”
“You didn’ listen to me, and nearly got us keeled. Now you get outta the car.”
“I did not nearly get us keeled, woman. If there were lanes I wouldn’ve even left ours!”
“I don’t care! Get out!”
“Damn right you don’t care. Yer just thinkin’ with yer feelin’s and wanna see me stranded on the roadside.”
“I don’t wanna see you anywhere!” she cried. “Now get out!”
“No woman of mine’s gonna kick me outta muh own vee-hickle.”
“It ain’t yer car. Daddy didn’ like you; bless his soul, he left it jus’ to me.”
“Fine!” he brought the car to an abrupt stop, his own forehead slamming against the steering wheel.
“Serves you right.” she said quietly, tears now glistening in her eyes.
Rubbing his forehead, he replied, “You know what? I’ll get muh own car. And good thing you got the car, cause where else you gonna sleep? The house is mine.” Leaving the car on, he got out, slammed the door, and walked to the other side of the road to stare off into the distance and cool down.
After a moment he heard, “Good luck gettin’ there,” followed by the scraping of tires on gravel.
“Sonuvvabitch!” he shouted as she drove off.
He sat on the rock a ways back where he had thrown his beer bottle, the shattered shards still scattered about. He scratched his coarse golden-brown beard as the early afternoon sun brought a filmy sweat to his skin. ‘Damn women,’ he thought. ‘Nuts. All of them.’ He wondered what he was going to do.
His house was a good ten miles from the spot, he figured, and he didn’t know the road well enough—they usually traveled in the other direction, toward the city—to remember exactly where the nearest house was, for all the good that would do him. Even if they were home, and not picnicking or visiting some friends or relatives miles away, what could he expect them to do for him? Drive him? Not likely. Call a taxi? The nearest taxi service was so far away he would get home as fast by walking, and frankly, he decided, he would rather pass kidney stones than pay that kind of cash. Call the Sheriff or a friend of his? Not gonna happen; he would rather pass the rock under his ass than try to explain what happened. He supposed he could make something up…
Over the next half hour he thought up several fake stories he thought might suit him, but it was really just an excuse to pass the time doing nothing. Besides, he was becoming convinced, or rather convincing himself, that his wife would be back in short order. She couldn’t possibly stay gone forever. She had no place to go; her parents were dead, she never had siblings, and she didn’t even have a job to pay rent with, although she did have the keys to their house…
‘That bitch,’ he thought. ‘If she gone back to the house after this I’ll…’ he didn’t really care if she did, however, or so he told himself. This was just a fight. They would be back together by the end of the day for sure. And he would teach her a lesson—take away her driving privileges and shopping money for a while—so this would never happen again. He thought about what he would tell her when she got back as he waited, still convinced she would return after an hour and a half of sitting on a rock alternating between biting his lips and gritting his teeth while scratching his sweaty skin and swatting bugs in the ever increasing heat.
She drove across the bridge leading to the small neighborhood where she had lived for two years now. She planned on packing her things and taking them to a friend’s house. She would leave the house, and him, planning on never seeing either again…
She wiped the moisture from her eyes. She pulled into the driveway and put the car in park. Resting her head on the steering wheel, she said aloud, “Moron. How long ‘till you go back?” ‘Never’ wasn’t a sincere answer. Maybe he would walk back on his own, she considered. ‘That’s stupid,’ she realized. ‘No way he’ll walk all that way. And the longer I’m gone the worse it will be.’ But whatever he would do she imagined would be too terrible to go back. Maybe he wouldn’t take her back. He probably took the whole thing more seriously than she did; thought she really meant what she said. Heck, she thought she did at the time. “I was foolin’ muhself,” she admitted aloud. “I didn’ mean it, and I know he didn’ mean it neither,” she tried to convince herself. ‘But maybe I’m foolin’ muhself now,’ was the unvoiced rebuttal from the doubt slithering under her skin.
He was beginning to fear she wouldn’t come back. According to his wristwatch it had been a full three hours since she left, or nearly four o’clock. About an hour prior the heat had caused him to walk another half mile to a lake they had passed on the way. There were no trees along the shoreline to provide shade, and it was muddy so he had to stand, but at least the cool breeze provided some comfort.
The water was relatively calm, and he tried to be as well. But he couldn’t help but think she was leaving him for good. At the moment he couldn’t tell whether he was more worried about that for its own sake, or because his ride home depended upon it. Regardless, the gnawing feeling was taking its toll, and every now and then he had to go through the rational, logical reasons she would come back. He couldn’t really think of any logical reasons she wouldn’t come back, not that he was trying, or that women were logical, but one profound argument against her coming back nevertheless remained: ‘While everythin’ says she’ll come back… what if she don’t?’
‘What if?’ It wasn’t a question of what he would do ‘if,’ but simply ‘what if she didn’t come back?’ ‘What if’ something; there had to be a reason it might not happen, even though he couldn’t think of one. It was almost like reverse faith. He had another side of himself dueling to convince him that he couldn’t be sure, that he had to worry. Like part of him didn’t want her to come back, so it tried to make him think she wouldn’t. He was unsure in this too. Worrying was for the womenfolk he always thought, but he couldn’t stop himself.
She was probably laughing her pretty little ass off; so sure of herself, whatever she was going to do she knew it the whole time. No hesitation. Just knew what she was going to do. And she would do it. Return or not return. Play him for a fool one way or the other…
She drove back down the gravel road. By now night had fallen. She was sure he would be angry; sunburn and bug bites do not a happy husband make. Still, she kept driving until she neared the spot where she had left him. She didn’t see him at first, but wasn’t worried because she didn’t know the exact spot and it was dark. After a while, however, she began to worry. She opened the door of her car and called for him. Nothing. There was only darkness and the buzz of bugs.
She began to fear anew as she continued her search. She drove past the granite rock, neither seeing nor even looking for it, and kept going until the light, reflecting off a lake at the roadside, revealed a movement in the shadows. She pulled to the side of the road and got out of her car again, but it appeared to only be a bat or other night-creature.
Just as she was about to return to her car he walked from seemingly out of nowhere and calmly got into the driver’s seat. He just sat there, door open, for a minute. Unsure of what to do, she eventually sat in the passenger seat and they both closed their respective doors.
She looked at him expectantly, a mix of fear and anticipation on her face. He did not speak. He did not even return her gaze, but merely stared calmly out the front windshield. He was so sure of himself. He must have known the whole time she was coming back, as she had suspected. He was always so sure of himself like this. Always in command. She didn’t understand it. She supposed she didn’t need to.
Far off in the sky, over another section of the lake, there came a flurry of loud bangs and colorful bursts. The fireworks display had begun. The couple remained at the lakeside in their car as the show continued for some time, eventually erupting in a passionate crescendo.
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