Private Cassidy

1945, U.S. Army base in post-World War II England

Emmett was a good man. He was also a good soldier, but a better man than soldier. If there was to be an admonishment laid unto him it might be that he sometimes lacked military diligence, as evidenced here.

He had two days off duty, no time to waste, he rightly concluded. He immediately went to the barracks to write a letter home, as he did weekly to his parents. He’d been in England for eight months. He’d missed out on the fighting leading up to the culmination of World War II in Europe, not that he minded missing out. But was now obligated to contend with the mess that remained, the destruction and clean up.

It was late afternoon when he finished the letter and hustled out to the on-base postal unit. About the only thing he liked about the Army was the free postage.

He passed the letter forward unsealed, as required for censoring purposes. The army had to make sure no military secrets were being revealed, not only by Cassidy but all military personnel. Four weeks later it would arrive at his parent’s home in Los Angeles. Exiting from the postal unit he bumped into a pal.

“Emmett, how you been,” he was asked.

“I’ve been well, except for all these military chores that have seemingly no end. Where’re you going in such a hurry,” he replied.

“Mess hall, they’re serving corned beef and cabbage tonight,” he exclaimed.

“Really,” asked Emmett incredulously.

“No, shit on a shingle like always, but the sooner I eat, that’s one less chore. Join me,” he requested smiling.

“With a positive attitude like that I can’t resist,” and they were off to supper where they dined inelegantly, though abundantly, on toast laden with some kind of meat-based compote. Concluding the meal they advanced to the hooch-related portion of the evening seeking to pleasantly pass the evening with a few drinks.

“Hey, if you want, a friend mailed me a bottle of Southern Comfort. You want a nip,” asked his pal. Cassidy had never ventured into this hard stuff before. These two were but wee lads having barely attained 20 years and were delightfully innocent in such things. An hour passed, as did the entire bottle. With their equilibrium waning they mustered the fortitude to walk to the local pub.

There was one other thing Private Cassidy enjoyed about serving his country in England. It’s proximity to Ireland. He had an everlasting devotion to the country of his heritage, a few generations removed. This proximity also allowed for enhanced Guinness availability at the local pubs, the fabled Irish brew, where it was served up exactly as intended. Not chilled, simply a shade below room temperature.

A number of war veterans were departing from Europe and returning to the United States, their tours of duty gallantly completed. Incoming batches of new soldiers were rotating in. The fighting had ended, but security patrols were needed to maintain the peace, at least, what peace that can be attained after having destroyed so much of the western world. The occupied territories had succumbed to overwhelming might and it would be made sure to stay that way with a good number of soldiers patrolling the streets.

“If you’ll please allow me the honor of reciprocating your generosity, it would be my pleasure to buy this round,” said Emmett. So graciously was this offered that the other soldier knew it would have been futile, and unseemly, were he to not accept. The two soldiers finished pint number one, now sloshing around in dangerous bellies full of the potent Southern Comfort, then progressed deeper into the mission.

The thing about early dining is that there was sure to be a virtually endless stream of troops working their way to the pub after their meal. Before two hours passed they’d both lost count of their pints, not that they’d planned to count. They were beyond tipsy because the flow of pints had been strong, plus, of course, the volatile mixture with the previously imbibed liquor. To say they were drunk would be to undersell their true state of being.

Emmett was a popular fellow amongst his peers. He had many visitors see his ripening condition then contribute with another pint. After three hours in the pub they were three sheets to the wind and new troops were still arriving. When they finally did leave it was not without a few parting shots of whiskey. They were not needed, nor were they declined.

The motor skills of these two proved elusive by now. Emmett tried to explain that he was merely tired and wanted to rest. The two drinking buddies, in a symbiotic gesture, both lapsed from consciousness. With that a few colleagues assisted them out the door under the guise of returning them to their bunks. 

The thing about being popular and in an ever buoyant mood, as was Cassidy, is that one is not insulated from pranking. Commingle that with his jovial demeanor, he had become a magnet for fun and pleasant conversation. If you needed a mood boost, you’d found your elixir with this one. Only tonight, he would not remember any of it.

On account of the vacated motor skills a pair of soldiers grabbed each man under the armpits and assisted their forward progress rerouting them to the airfield. With all the troop activity of late there were transport planes coming and going every hour.

It was nearly noon when Cassidy awakened. With the sun in his face he stretched himself awake on a bench adjacent to the airfield. Getting to his feet was no small task, but he was a battler and did succeed. Feeling rugged and ruffled, he tucked in his shirt, brushed his hair back with his hands and got underway, one foot in front of the other concentrating to make it so. His head raged with headache, but he was a robust 20 years and knew himself to be unstoppable, as did most young men that age. But just for good measure he promised to give up Southern Comfort, a promise for which he felt passionately absolute. Anything to avoid a recurrence of the pain currently dominating his head, he rightly reasoned. He also promised to give up beer. This, though, he had no intent to actually carry through, but thought it best to at least make the offer to whoever may be listening in. He would have also pretended to swear off whiskey, but that was long forgotten and thus not regretted.

He made his way to the mess hall expecting pancakes with plenty of syrup chased by plenty of coffee. This, however, would offer the first inclination something was awry.

“Where the hell are the pancakes,” he said in exaggerated outrage to the cook he didn’t recognize.

“Pancakes, where the hell were you four hours ago, private? It’s lunch time,” replied the cook to the new soldier. So shit on a shingle it was, again, with the same meat-based compote.

He retired to his regular mess tent quadrant expecting to find his chum from the night before. He wanted to commiserate and piece together the missing gaps, as they were admittedly enormous. But that’s not who joined him.

“Howdy private, you new here,” asked a stranger putting down his tin dining tray of grub along with a few other soldiers just now sitting down for lunch.

“New, no, I’m almost a year on base. Who’re you,” was Cassidy’s retort.

“All due respect soldier, I’ve also been here a year and I’ve never seen you.”

Cassidy looked around the table and was met with a cadre of strange faces. He recognized none of them, yet he knew most of the people on base. During any meal he could walk through the mess tent and see two or three people at every table he knew by name. Here, though, he knew nobody, names or faces.

“Who are you guys,” he asked finally starting to grasp the idea that something had gone wrong in the night.

“Maybe the question is, who are you,” countered the soldier with a broad smile taking a big bite of his shingle. He, too, was realizing something was amiss, but it wasn’t his problem. Faces from the neighboring tables were now looking in sensing something to be afoul. The depth of the circumstances had started to take root.

“By any chance, is this England,” he hoped.

“England!? You’re in France, soldier,” setting off a wave of laughter.

The beauty of the situation unfolded in devastating fashion. He’d been pranked, masterfully so. Beaten but not defeated. He wasn’t bitter, that just wasn’t his nature. Good humor was his baseline, but it would take a moment to overcome the surprise before its flow resumed.

He put down his knife and fork, eyes open wide, the realization of his circumstances, then acceptance, and very slowly an inchoate smile made its appearance. Emmett was soon laughing loudly, head turned up to allow the belly laughs free reign. He’d embraced his situation. His fellow diners were staring at him, then each other.

“Private, you OK,” asked his tablemate.

“You guys want to hear something good? I fell asleep at my base in England last night, and today, I woke up in France. How did that happen,” he queried before laughing again.

The whole table was laughing with him now, a good and jovial uproar. The soldiers from the neighboring tables had come over and Cassidy was confidently holding court recounting what pieces of the prior night he could recall, then guessing to fill in the gaps. This gregarious fellow arrived knowing nobody and within 30 minutes was one of the most popular soldiers on base. Such was his nature. Besides, what’s a little sightseeing between duty shifts.

He’d manage to talk someone into allowing him to deadhead an airplane back to England. But really, no hurry, he wasn’t due back until tomorrow evening.

[Inspired by my pal’s dad, Mr. Cassidy. I’d heard the story years ago and the details, as I partially remembered, got garbled over the passing years. I’d recently sought clarification after completing my draft above, then discovered that my brain had gotten too deep in embellishment.

Truth: On VE-Day or VJ-Day, it’s not remembered which, Mr. Cassidy was based in San Francisco with the Navy. A local liquor store was celebrating the end of the war and told the two seamen, Mr. Cassidy and his friend, they could have whatever they wanted at no charge. He accepted a bottle of Southern Comfort. The next day he woke up in San Diego and had no recollection of how he got there. Peace to you, Mr. Cassidy (1925-2006). Anyone fortunate enough to have met you could consider their life having been improved because of it. -klem]

Coin Box

1950s in a small Midwestern town

It was with the expected degree of sadness he received the news of his mother’s passing. The expected degree, not more, not less. His father had passed years previously, much to the same effect. He loved his people, respected them and did his best to abide by them. He never wanted for anything and was well provided for. A deep emotional connection, though, had been absent as far back as he could remember.

The funeral proceedings had been well conducted. The well wishings and expressions of sorrow endured and reciprocated. As an only child it was now time for the overpowering chore of preparing his parents’ home for sale, the home in which he grew up.

The task of sifting through possessions and deciding their fate had taken nearly a month. The kitchen counter was the final quadrant. And there it was, the coin box. All these decades it sat there arm’s distance of the kitchen sink. Before a shopping venture you’d grab a few coins to have on hand to make clean change instead of breaking a dollar bill, if possible. After shopping you’d empty your pockets back into it. But, finally, the coin box had served its purpose and was being extinguished. He emptied the coins into his now bulging pocket and, for the first time in his life, saw the bottom of the box. Well, almost the bottom. Instead, he found a folded yellowed newspaper clipping. He unfolded it and found inside, a birth certificate. This part, then, caught his full attention. It reflected his first name, middle name, the wrong surname of Sipe, but his birth date. Something did not add up. What are the odds of a birth certificate, not yours, matching those three out of four? He started to think, he’d never actually seen his birth certificate. Was this his? Was he not who he thought he was? Were these somehow not really his parents? Questions rushed into his head, totally bereft of answers, filled only with doubt.

These were good people, his parents, or, his assumed parents at this point. He’d always thought he’d wanted more affection, more hugs, from them, more of a, how can he explain, a more spiritual connection with them. But no, it had never been.

The newspaper clipping, he’d forgotten it in this discombobulating moment. He read it now. The unexpected death of a young couple, their last name matching that on the birth certificate. The article was dated 1927, a year after the child’s birth. According to the article the child survived his parents. The confusion mounted.

It was Thursday evening, grocery night. He liked to do his shopping before the weekend to ‘gear up’ he liked to say, without ever clarifying what exactly it was he was gearing up for. He was perusing the produce bin when he spied Doctor Brown from across the bin. Dr. Brown was an old man, he’d been the town doctor for longer than the young man could remember. In fact, Dr. Brown had been an old man for as long as he could remember.

“Good evening, Dr. Brown. How goes it,” asked the young man.

“It goes well enough, thank you. I know you’ve had a trying few weeks. How are you doing,” asked the doctor kindly referring to his mother’ passing.

“It hasn’t been an easy time, but it’s almost complete, except for a few details,” then pausing while handling a pair of cucumbers.

“Doctor,” he asked, still across the produce bin, ”may I ask you a personal question? Personal, it’s about me.”

“You may ask away,” said the old man smiling at the exchange.

“I found a newspaper clipping while clearing out my parents’ home, and a birth certificate . . . ,” before stopping, seemingly unable to continue.

The old man, sensing what was coming, came from around the bin and put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. Well, man now, he was 28 years old. He looked in his eyes and there was nearly an uncomfortable silence before the old man spoke. But when he did, it was powerful.

“Mr. and Mrs. Stiglitz, they did good with you. They cared for you,” said the old man.

“They weren’t my parents, were they,” he said.

“They were your parents in every way but birth.” There was a long pause, his hand stayed on the young man’s shoulder. He looked down as if gathering his words, and then resumed.

“They were sometimes awkward with you, they spoke to me freely when you were a baby. They never expected to be parents . . . medical reasons. They wanted desperately to be parents, but I’d told them, as their doctor, five years before you were born that it wasn’t possible. But then the Sipes moved in next door. They were a young couple, became very good friends with your parents, sincerely so. The four would regularly visit with each other and dine, or so I had heard. You already know this by now, but they were your parents, the Sipes. They had several pregnancies before you were born, you were their first one to live, and their last. They’d wanted babies since before they moved to town. Then you were born. You should have seen them, so happy. This is a small town, I’d been the only doctor here for decades. I’d facilitated births many times, but it seemed different, more special to your parents. They loved you, they really loved you. Then they were gone too soon. Both of them dead before you were even a year old. Mr. and Mrs. Stiglitz, they were good friends with the Sipes. Very good friends. Then your parents died.”

“The 1920s, it was a different time than it is now. In many ways it was different. The Sipes had no people, their parents were gone, both sides, nor were there siblings on either side. I’m sure the local agencies could have dug around deep enough and found a family member once or twice removed, but it wasn’t like that back then. The Stiglitz’ did what they thought was the best thing. A home and people who would love you.” 

“I was your doctor when you were a baby. They didn’t have time to plan to be parents, they just got the news one day and decided in the moment to take you in. The mayor was agreeable and it was done. Quite frankly I don’t even know if there was a legal adoption, but that wasn’t my role. They brought you into my office annually for a check up, and if you were sick here they’d come with you. They weren’t the most natural parents, not the most affectionate, but don’t let that deter you from the truth, they loved you more than I’ve seen many parents love their children.”

“I know it’s been a shock these last few weeks with the passing of your mom, but don’t let this discovery undo those decades. They never told you about the Sipes, did they? Maybe they should have, they probably should have, they did the best they could.”

Silence. The young man certainly wasn’t going to break it, he wanted the doctor to say more. Finally, the doctor’s hand released his shoulder and he cleared his throat.

“I know this is a lot, I hope I didn’t say too much or speak out of place. But if you’ll please pardon me, I’m going to pay for my groceries and go home. It’s late and I have a cat at home waiting for dinner,” then he ambled to the check out counter. “Good evening, Doctor Brown,” he overheard the counter clerk address the old man.

The young man went home, put his groceries in the refrigerator and dropped his change into his mother’s coin box.

[Inspired by a recent family outing perusing used books, I came across a book entitled The Coin Box. ‘What could possibly be interesting enough about a coin box to write a whole novel about it,’ I thought. I don’t know what the book was about, but the above narrative is what came to mind for me. -klem]

Popeye the Sailor, An Outsider’s Perspective

Pensacola, Florida 

I gotta tell someone about what I saw. Really, it was the damdedest thing. So I sometimes have lunch at that pub near the office on Fridays, down by the marina, a burger and pint before slipping peacefully into the weekend.

It was a month ago. I usually get there early enough to secure my preferred table at the back. You know, the outlaw’s position with my back to the wall and all the action kept in front of me. No surprises, right? It’s sparsely occupied at that time, plus it’s not a big place, maybe six tables and a pool table. I want to get a seat, eat lunch and get out.

Anyway, there was a lady sitting at the bar, beanpole skinny, jet black hair worn tight in a bun at the back, trying to keep to herself. There was a regular hassling her, a real barfly, “I’d gladly pay you Tuesday for a hamburger today.” Real weak stuff he was giving off.

“Leave her alone, Wimpy,” said the bartender, and like that he returned to his seat staring into his empty glass. Wimpy, it’s the dude’s name, the bartender wasn’t throwing shade on him. Meanwhile, I’m eating my burger, a delicious jalapeno burger with pepper jack cheese on a ciabatta bun, plus a hefeweisen, a tall boy from a local microbrew. This was my best meal of the week, very tasty. But back to this thing I saw. 

A big guy walks in. I’d seen him before but never had cause to interact, thankfully. The guy was big as a bear, a real lummox. He sees the lady at the bar and is immediately hitting on her, or trying to. They seemed to be acquaintances, but not particularly friendly. It was apparent she wanted him to leave her alone. I involuntarily overheard some of the exchange.

“Brutus, please leave me alone,” she said.

“Aw, but Olive Oil, you look like you could benefit from some attention from me,” said lummox. Not exactly A+ material, but that’s what he delivered.

“I advise you to scram, my boyfriend will be here any minute,” she said, then turned away from him in her barstool. Scram, she said, like she’s locked into 1950’s era slang.

As if on cue, sure enough, a little guy walks in with a massive jutting chin and a sailor’s cap. He was rocking an anchor tattoo on his forearm and was smoking a corncob pipe. I shit you not, corncob! He stood just inside the door for a few seconds waiting for his eyeballs to adjust to the darker environ.

“Well blow me down, there’s my best goil. And Brutusk,” he said tossing a ‘k’ on the end of the big guy’s name. Then it got good. Or, weird, really.

I’d just finished off my mojo potatoes. Hey, you know, you’ve got to have lunch with me there sometime. Their mojos are fantastic, and they serve ‘em with a generous tub of gourmet spicy ketchup. But I digress.

As I placed the last bite of burger into my cake hole the two guys are rolling around on the ground bumping aggressively into tables, knocking chairs over. I missed the inception of the scuffle, I don’t know what the flashpoint was.

“Brutus, get off of him! Leave him alone! Popeye, are you OK? Hit him back,” yells the lady at the bar, Olive. The big guy is pummeling the little guy. Little guy’s like half his size, tiny biceps, and then these vastly disproportionate forearms. On odd body configuration. The big guy pauses his assault to start dialoguing with the lady.

“Why are you with a wimp like him when you can be with a real man like me,” he lamely asked.

“Because you’re an awful mouth-breathing, knuckle-dragging waste of flesh,” she deftly countered. The two continued bantering back and forth.

The little guy, Popeye, amidst the reprieve from taking punches off his massive chin, and this is where it gets really weird, he pulls a plastic bag out from his shirt collar. I found out later it was spinach. So, what gives, the guy walks around with a small produce bag of spinach in his shirt? A produce bag, the kind you’d see at Whole Foods. He pulls the contents of the bag out by a fistful, puts it in his mouth and chews. The effect was more fantastic than stories you’d hear about people on PCP. He gets to his feet, while the big guy is still on his back, riding him like a monkey as if he were no more burden than a throw pillow. The sailor man grabs Brutus’ ankle and starts whipping him around over his head like a ceiling fan. The guy’s gotta weigh near 300 pounds but there he is being waved around in the air like a rag doll. Then he launches him with enough force to toss the big fella completely through the window blinds and the window. He's lying dazed out there on the sidewalk.

‘What the hell is going on,’ I’m thinking to myself. I’m a big self-preservationist, so I quietly pulled the last of my hefeweisen, put the glass down and slipped out the back door. Last thing I heard as the door closed behind me was, “I’m strong to the finish ‘cause I eats me spinach, I’m Popeye the sailor man. Uck-uck-uck-uck,” finishing off with a strange cadence to his laugh. I could hear the police sirens approaching as I waked away, but never looked back.

Anyway, I haven’t been back since. Hey, you available for lunch this Friday?

Klem’s Goals for 2020

I understand success is statistically more frequently attained when written down. So, this is what I’ll be up to in 2020.

1)  Improved exercise regimen. The goal is to keep my stomach and back healthy and strong for infrastructure comfort in the coming decades.

2)  Dermatology visit for my face and scalp. I have sun-related skin issues and must treat them seriously. The benefits of the occasional cryotherapy administered by my general practitioner have plateaued. I will seek expert professional attention. 

3)  Have more fun. This is intended to include a combination of day trips, local ventures or any combination of fun-related bits. Maybe even a play, but hopefully not too many.

4)  Colonoscopy! [Does not count in the ‘Have more fun’ category.] My parents have done well aging gracefully and I will proactively do my part to prolong that legacy. I understand a colonoscopy is an important step in that direction.

5)  Make French toast. I’ve never done it but will in 2020, at least one time, with an option to repeat pending the experience of episode one.

6)  Shed a few possessions. This is not intended to be a disavowing of possessions akin to Christ’s Disciples, but a simple paring down. A simplification of life. This may even be the year I part with my collegiate skateboard, unused for nearly 30 years now. 

7)  Engage political conversation with a different intent. I will not try to convince anyone of anything, such plans only excel at getting people agitated. Instead, approach the conversation with questions to confirm an understanding of the other position and follow their line of reasoning. I may disagree with the position, but I want to understand the reasoning.

8)  Learn to play cribbage. There is no qualifier as to attaining a skill level.

9)  Promote a positive attitude in my interactions with others. The kids are growing up and will be independents before long. It’s important to foster the kind of atmosphere that may be rewarded with their future voluntary visitations. A time will come when they no longer need to visit, but hoping they’ll choose to visit.

10)                 Learn some Italian. The Duolingo App on my iPad will be conveniently deployed for this task. Just a smidgeon of learning. You know, for fun.

-klem

Rabid Red-Nosed Rudolph

Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer was no longer the cheery underdog fawn of fairy tale lore. The one-time youngest of Santa’s nine-reindeer team was all grown up and his demeanor had considerably soured. He’d become, rather, a ruffian.

His nose, still red in his adult years, but was not currently illuminated, as made famous those fabled years ago. On that dark Christmas Eve in harsh winter weather he led Santa’s sleigh and the reindeer team on the annual gift route. But today Rudolph had an upsetting afternoon and had taken vengeance for some perceived wrong.

His nose was dripping with a thick red liquid, likely not the sweet juice of the local lingonberry. With the mangled carcasses of two elves at his feet, elf blood was presumed. Their tiny lifeless bodies face down in the snow, one had been gored through the small of the back. A third elf slowly crawled away into a copse of trees for cover, a wide, red trail coloring the snow behind him. The gift-manufacturing production numbers may be slightly off goal this season for Santa’s factory, pending how many others from the captive elven labor force have fallen in this latest rampage.

Rudolph’s headgear was magnificent compared to that of his more modestly endowed and estranged teammates. He had filled out well, a veritable alpha buck amongst fawns.

The reindeer games were in full action amidst a gently building snowfall. Like usual, all the other reindeer playing and someone had forgotten to ask Rudolph to join them. This recurring trend of jealousies would end today, one way or another, but certainly not amicably.

He emerged from the perimeter of the forest and slowly approached his stunned, and tame, colleagues. Blood could be seen dripping from his antlers onto the snow. A horrific scene with red droplets littering the snow around his every step. He was foaming at the mouth clumping up thickly like robustly agitated dish soap. The reindeer games were stunned to a halt. Nobody moved. The other reindeer couldn’t have been more afraid were it a wolf standing before them. There were too many for Rudolph to touch them all, so to speak, but his rabies-induced rage would not be tempered by reason. The carnage on this pre-Christmas afternoon had only begun.

In the distance voices could be heard in alarm.

“Mr. Claus, where are you going with that rifle,” yelled a bewildered Mrs. Claus seeing her husband dashing out of his workshop toward the meadow with a 30-caliber lever action Winchester rifle in hand. He kept it well oiled and loaded, ready to fulfill any request, especially since Rudolph’s behavior had been lately becoming more erratic. There were lower caliber arms in his arsenal, which he used to ‘motivate’ the workforce, he liked to joke, but today’s uprising was no joke.

“Mrs. Claus, get back in the house and stay there. It’s Rudolph again, he’s snapped and gone deadly this time,” he yelled back, running toward the snowy ascent where his reindeer liked to frolic. The distance was a half-mile, the going would be slow with snow up to his shins. Too slow to intervene, he figured, but he must try.

He could hear in the distance ahead toward the meadow, some kind of skirmish had commenced.

“Dear God, deliver me swiftly and give me one clean shot,” said the not so jolly old Saint Nick under his breath hustling as quickly as an old man could, his bright red great coat with the ostentatious white trim fanning out behind him.

[Inspired by Jakub Rozalski's illustration, Rudolph Uprising. (https://twitter.com/mr_werewolf_art/status/941343537886629888?s=20)]

-Klem 

The Dud

1943 Bonn, Germany

The Pesch family, with father away at war, left Dusseldorf in 1942. The catalyst for the move was their home being destroyed in a nighttime air raid by the Allies. They resurfaced in Bonn, moving south putting distance between them and the front. Willy Pesch was nine years old.

Forever forward the family was understandably nervous whenever the air raid sirens rang out throughout the night. You could never be certain if your town was the target or if the 300 bomb-laden aircraft were merely flying through to unload at another destination. The rumbling drone of the bombers overhead. The endless defensive offering of the anti-aircraft flak into the night sky in a futile effort to slake the effect of yet another air assault. They combined for an awful discordant aural experience of growing up in World War II Germany. 

The family ran to the neighborhood bomb shelter. The air raids had been ongoing for months, a sure sign the war was not progressing as well as recent news reports claimed. Hours passed. The drone of aircraft and ack-ack of the anti-aircraft guns ceased. 

Returning from the bomb shelter, their home, thankfully, was undamaged. This had become an all too real concern after Dusseldorf. It was past midnight, the little ones were sleepy and went directly to bed. First light in the morning, however, brought much excitement.

Willy was always an early riser. Even more so after an air raid, which had become uncomfortably frequent, sometimes twice monthly. He and a neighbor friend were the first to find it. The thing was big, scary and beautiful, an unexploded bomb immediately outside the yard’s perimeter wall! A dud. The bomb was five feet tall and weighed 500 pounds.

As is usual after air raids the demolition crew would be en route. They were deployed to the affected areas to search through rubble for survivors and deactivate unexploded ordnance. A surprisingly high percentage of bombs were duds, more than five percent did not detonate. One such dud was within 100 feet from the Pesch house. The two boys were, naturally, very impressed with the device. They were standing arms length from it, admiring it as if it were a new bicycle. That’s when Willy’s mom came out looking for her oldest child, and found him admiring the bomb.

Willy was very smart and mechanically inclined, even at nine. His desk and storage chest under the bed looked like contents one might accumulate after a sweep of unattended bits and parts from a laboratory, an electronic research laboratory to be more precise. He would read books and magazines on electronics, when he could find them, to learn how to use the pieces he’d managed to compile. When the world around you is being regularly bombed and destroyed it was not difficult to obtain loose wires, motors in varying stages of disrepair from different kinds of machines that had been partially blown up or crushed due to a structure’s collapse. Even sometimes he and his pals could successfully get their hands on a small amount of gunpowder to blow up an already blown up shed or burned out automobile. With that thought coursing through his head admiring the bomb he heard his mother calling to him. She was calling to him with no more alarm in her voice than if she saw him standing before a mud puddle and wanting him to step away. Concern for such things had been blunted by years of war.

“Willy, please come inside until the soldiers have removed the bomb.” Backing away, after a few moments of hesitation, without taking his eyes off it, he reluctantly complied.

He spent the next two hours, until the demolition crew came to dismantle it and haul it away, telling his mom about the electronic projects he had in mind and how the parts from the bomb would be especially useful. Of course, she said, “No,” it’d be nuts to otherwise imagine a nine year old boy with parts from a real bomb, even a dud. Explosive components remained, it was only the detonation portion that had malfunctioned.

She said no, but she listened with feigned disinterest, but she did listen, as if he was discussing the culinary arts and the wonderful dishes he could create if he only had the proper array of tools or proper ingredients.

The demolition crew arrived and Willy went to watch from the window. It was a chilly morning but he opened the window to catch what he could of the crew’s work. He saw, then, his mother approach the demolition crew.

“Missus, do not come any closer. It’s dangerous here. Go back in the house,” he called to her from 50 feet away.

This was no way to have a conversation from such distance. So she approached closer until one of the soldiers put out both hands impelling her to stop and much more loudly calling out, “Lady, stop. You see there’s a bomb here. It may explode, yet. Go inside until we’re done.”

Willy’s mom had it in mind to try to convince the demolition crew that they should let her boy have the detonation device. Not the bomb, of course, not the explosive, just the detonation portion. “My son likes playing with electrical wiring and such clever things,” she explained.

She stopped but was not done making her case. Could she convince the crew to allow her boy to have a piece of the bomb, he won’t hurt himself, she thought. Willy was a good boy, mommy’s favorite, although she could not say so aloud on account of hurting the feelings of the other three children. 

“Will you let my son have that? He’s very smart and knows how handle such things,” she said.

“Lady, this is a bomb,” he countered, scrunching up his face confused by the inanity of the question.

“I know, yes, he found it this morning with a friend. Can he have the detonation piece after you make it safe, please?”

“Look, no, we need to bring all unexploded ordnance back to base, intact. We need these for research and to put them back into the war effort,” replied the soldier.

“It’s just the one, you can’t spare that one part, without the explosive,” she asked feebly and sweetly.

“Missus, no, go back to your home and close the door until it’s safe.”

“Can I send my son out to watch you, then? You can give him some of the wire,” she said hopefully walking back to the house.

“No, we can’t do that. We’ll let the neighborhood know when it’s safe again,” hoping this bizarre query was now concluded.

Willy had been at the window listening to the entire exchange. He loved his momma. He beamed at her, smiling largely when she came back into the house. She didn’t know that he’d overheard. He loved and admired his mother. The war years had been exceedingly difficult on her, as one would imagine, worrying about the safety of four young ones, providing food and shelter in an increasingly more dangerous and depleted world.

[Inspired by one of Opa’s anecdotes growing up in World War II Germany. His mother, after an air raid, purportedly tried to convince the demolition crew to allow her son to have a portion of an unexploded bomb.]

-klem

Fireman’s Descent

Alhambra, CA

Fall 2012

His Christian name was Emmett. A good guy, this one. His momma lived in her home of six decades in Alhambra with full-time live-in help. He cared deeply about his momma and something needed amending at home, the task in need of mending pertained to bees. An inchoate beehive had burgeoned forth under the second floor eave overlooking the patio. What if mom were to get stung, he worried? So, with an important impetus as this he made a special trip to spend time with her, enjoy a light lunch of soup and engage in the obligatory conversation one must make with an aging parent before getting down to it. But get down to it he would, and did.

His friend from next door, Tim, saw Emmett’s car parked out front and dropped by for a hello. Having exchanged pleasantries the two boys went to the garage for the extended ladder and the recently purchased bee spray. With Tim holding the ladder at ground level from the patio Emmett began his ascent.

He was not afraid of the bees, he was also not overtly agile, so he was deliberate with each move. Having attained adequate altitude and proximity to the hive he drew up the chemical spray and was poised for his assault. One final deep breath, he held it and pull the trigger. That’s the last thing he remembered until awakening in a hospital bed.

“Good thing you’re not allergic to bees because you’d be dead. More than 30 stings,” his doctor said without so much as a courtesy chuckle to lighten the mood.

What exactly transpired during the black out, you’ll ask. To answer that we’ll start with Tim’s account.

Emmett was immediately enveloped in a cloud of angry bees. Then the amazing thing, he did a fireman’s descent from the second floor. As his blackout commenced, he dropped the bee spray, placed both hands on the outside rails of the ladder, did the same with his feet and performed an immaculate ladder descent that would have made any veteran firefighter proud.

His body, under the influence of stress-induced auto pilot, he ran inside, went upstairs to the shower, brushing bees out of his hair and shedding clothes along the way. Still getting stung but with decreased frequency. The bees’ counter-attack finally, and thankfully, petered out as the shower concluded. Without a change of clothes, still on autopilot, he shook out spent bee carcasses from his trousers, shirt and, yes, even his grungers, and put his clothes back on.

Tim’s dad, also next door, arrived at the front door as Emmett, still in a bee-sting induced stupor, came downstairs.

“Emmett, are you OK,” he asked with eyes wide open with concern.

“I’m fine,” responded Em calmly as he promptly passed out, collapsed into his neighbor’s arms who caught him, then issued a full dose of barf demolishing his neighbor’s trousers and shirt. The ambulance had by now pulled up in front of the house, paramedics hustled in to assist and drove Emmett to the hospital.

Emmett has, since the incident, developed an allergic reaction to bees. Bee-related emergencies have arisen twice since the fireman’s’ descent. On the bright side, the budding beehive was defeated.

[Based on a real life experience of my pal.]

Dicknose

He was outside on the patio on this cool, crisp night wearing his leisure house clothes. This was his usual summer routine when the day has progressed to his satisfaction, evening time to read and unwind after contending with the bothersome necessities of the day. The phone rang and cut through the ambient noise of the television from the other room. His wife answered and became flustered with the caller.

“There’s nobody here by that name,” she said. Pause.

“No. I’m hanging up now,” without hanging up. Pause.

“No.“ Pause.

“No,” sounding more irritated. Pause.

“Dicknose,” she said in a questioning tone into the telephone embarrassed at herself for having spoken the harsh word out loud.

Having overheard the phone call from the patio through the open rear sliding glass door, he turned around to see his wife as she continued her confused battle of wits with an unknown opponent. “Certainly not. There’s nobody here by such a name. I’m hanging up now,” again without hanging up.

They made eye contact, Dicknose and his wife. He raised his hand as if hailing a cab.

“What? Are you Dicknose,” speaking to her husband surprising herself at having again been flustered into speaking the vulgarity. She handed the phone past the sliding rear screen door. He received the phone and she immediately went back to what she’d been doing as if the annoying caller had already been forgotten. For him, her husband, the call had been a very long time coming. Years. Somehow it finally arrived on this otherwise unextraordinary night. In so arriving his evening read had been terminally ruined. There’d be no going back now. His entire existence was possibly to be upturned, but he would engage and try to beat back the unwanted, though entirely expected, intrusion.

“What,” he entered the fray gruffly.

“Hello and thanks for taking my call. I don’t think your wife was excited to hear from me. Haven’t you told her,” asked the caller.

“Why are you calling? It’s been a long time. It’s done. Over,” hoping to attain a forcible closure yet expecting it to be a fruitless effort.

“I want it,” was the response.

“You cannot,” he returned.

“I do. I will,” returning the volley.

“You won’t,” was the volley returned.

“I need it, I must,” continued the caller.

“Don’t be daft, it’s no more,” juked Dicknose.

“Dicknose,” sternly.

“What."

“You know how it’s always pleased me when you respond to that name.”

“Hang up the phone and disappear,” he wished.

“I’ll hang up the phone and be at your house in five minutes. Make sure it’s in your hand when I arrive. Let’s make this quick. You’ve never been good at holding my attention.” They both hung up and went into action.

“Who was that,” asked his wife with more curiosity than concern.

“Smokey,” walking through the kitchen to hang up the phone and not stopping to explain further. He didn’t want to be rude, but there was no explaining this without wearing a heavy dose of crudity forever forward.

14 years. That’s how long it’d been since they’d crossed paths. There had been five of them for that occasion, or skirmish, if you will. They got together in the woods, the general vicinity of the initial incident two summers prior that brought them together. They all knew each other. Or, more precisely, knew of each other. Nobody had another’s phone number, address or been to each other’s home, but they had enough acquaintances in common that they’d be able to track each other down if such a need arose. That’s what happened here, the calling to the woods.

He was contacted by a friend of a friend, “Hey, do you know [so and so]? I saw him running full court hoops last weekend at the high school basketball courts. You know, there’s pick up games Saturday afternoons. Anyway, he said to hand this to you. I think he knows we shoot pool Thursday nights.”

Dicknose thought it curious, but also thought it’d be a kind of celebratory get together. Some festivities after apparently getting over that highly dramatic first venture. Heck, he arrived in tennis shoes, a Hawaiian shirt, a hibachi barbecue, a six-pack of craft beers and sausages, for the hibachi. It wasn’t long before two guys got in a knife fight, another fired off a few rounds from a concealed pistol. In the confusion that ensued Dicknose made away with the envelope and an opened package of sausages. He assumed he’d eventually be tracked by someone. He didn’t know for what reason, but he knew it wasn’t over. Then came the phone call this evening. The hairs on the back of his neck knew. And they were correct.

Smokey did not lie. It was five minutes almost exactly. The envelope was, at this point, on the desk, retrieved only minutes before.

The doorbell rang. The porch lights were purposely not on. He opened the door.

“Dicknose,” said one.

“Smokey,” said the other.

No further greetings were exchanged. An awkward pause ensued, eye contact was not broken. A bulging envelope was handed out the door, door closed. And it was over. For now. Dicknose heard the car engine start and drove away with the radio blaring.

He had a hunch it would one day come to this, so he had kept the envelope always handy, though hidden. But what happens next?