Lodovico

1926, Cassino, Italy

A 17-year old Lodovico answered the front door to a well-dressed man addressing himself as an uncle. ‘Uncle,’ thought Lodovico, ‘none of my people would be dressed like this. My people, the few I know, are all here, local.’ He called to his mom and dashed out the back door. He didn’t know what was brewing with this stranger, but this bewildering scene sparked his instincts for self-preservation, so he ran from it.

He and his mother lived in a house on three acres of olive trees. They made and sold olive oil. It helped to pay the bills, what little income it brought in.

Thirty minutes, maybe more, his mom and this man came to him in the yard. He was in his favorite tree when they came looking for him. His mother was crying. He figured soon, he would be, too. People dressed like that did not come to their home by accident, nor, generally, with good news.

The man had taken off his coat and was doing all the talking. There was a likable quality to him and he was straightforward. He told an unbelievable story. Unbelievable, yet Lodovico must believe it, because the story being told was his own.

The man, he explained, was truly an uncle, Lodovico’s godfather. He was talking directly to the boy now. His parents live in America, they had saved money and sent him, the boy’s godfather, back to Italy to come get him and bring him back.

“I’m your uncle, your godfather. I’m here to take you back with me to the United States and you’ll live with your family,” he was saying.

“The United States,” the boy questioned. He looked to his mom and asked, “Who is this man? Are we going somewhere?”

His mom was crying. She was inconsolable and couldn’t talk.

“Is he calling you ‘mom’? Did you never tell him? What about all the letters his mother sent to him? Have you also not told him he has brothers and sisters,” said the man glaring at the old lady.

“I didn’t want to be alone,” she finally managed between sobs. All these years, Lodovico had always wondered why his mom was so much older than his friends’ moms. She was really his grandmother!

It was fifteen years earlier when Lodovico was a two-year old infant, his parents boarded a ship from Cassino, Italy to the United States. His parents had a baby boy, Lodovico’s little brother, and bundled up all their worldly possessions. They were moving to the United States to make a better living for themselves and their family. They were so bogged down with things to carry that the grandmother was tasked with bringing Lodovico to the ship so he, too, could travel with them. The grandmother, not wanting to be left alone with nothing and nobody decided she would keep the two-year old Lodovico. She did not deliver him to the dock. The retching horror his parents must have experienced as the ship pulled away! And just like that, he’d lost his family. Lodovico became his grandmother’s son, and she, his mom. The boy knew nothing of any family other than his grandmother. Until today, and in a few days he’d leave Cassino and his grandmother for good.

He was a rambunctious young man. A handful, one might say, being raised by a single parent, but rather shy one-on-one. His uncle explained that he had two younger brothers and three younger sisters! They knew about him, but he knew nothing of them.

Lodovico sat quietly sobbing listening to the story unravel. He wasn’t angry with his grandma, she was all he had ever known. Besides, he knew that her greatest fear was now to be realized. He was going to America. She would be all alone living in the old country.

His grandmother was old and needed help. He told the neighbors across the street that if they looked out for her that they could have the acreage with olive trees and the home when she passed away. 

“What about all the letters his mom wrote to him,” asked the uncle of the grandmother, starting to cool off.

“I have them, I saved them,” she responded without moving.

His grandmother would give him the large bundle of letters before he left. His luggage was packed, what there was of it. These letters, many of them yellowed with age, would help him to pass the days on the ship. The trip to America was long, two weeks before arriving at Ellis Island. He was relegated below deck to third class.

He arrived to a degrading inspection by a bunch of disinterested inspectors standing before him and his fellow emigrants. The new arrivals stood sheepishly in a line donning only their underpants.

“Name,” asked the inspector in English.

Silence.

“Name,” he asked more agitated this time.

Silence from Lodovico as he started looking around as if asking with his eyes, ‘What’s he want?’

“Name, come on,” said the inspector getting angry.

The person standing in line behind him told him to say his name.

“Lodovico.”

“What?”

“Lodovico.”

“David. Next,” said the inspector misunderstanding what was said. He impatiently assigned an incorrect, new name by writing it down on the form, then moved on to the next man in line. And so it was. His name became David Tedesco in one swift, degrading episode.

He emerged from Ellis Island with his godfather leading the way. It was explained how his family missed him so much, how happy they were that he was coming home. A party was awaiting him. A party of strangers, he thought to himself. He felt alone, scared, but he would make the most of this opportunity. A positive attitude he would carry with him forever forward.

The taxi ride itself was amazing. So much was passing before his eyes out the window of the car. He’d heard in the old country that the streets of America were paved with gold. He had believed it, until seeing for himself this was not so.

What he did see, though, was opportunity. Work, jobs and bustling activity were all around him. He knew he’d be fine. Making and selling olive oil with his grandmother had been difficult scraping by on meager proceeds. He knew hard work and hardship. 

The taxi pulled up to the address on Cardoni Street in Detroit, Michigan. Faces in the window looking at him, people filing out the door yelling to him, everyone speaking in a foreign tongue. All his brothers and sisters and he could communicate with none of them. Except his mom and dad, everyone spoke only English.

He took a deep breath, put on a nervous smile and stepped out of the car.

[This is the story of my Grandpa Tedesco (1909-2000). I miss him and grandma very much.]

[Photo circa 1926.]

Fallen

He was falling at 120 miles per hour and the situation was beyond desperate. He was falling out of the sky without a parachute from 30,000 feet, the temperature was 38F and he had no jacket. His countenance, though, reflected no panic, just irritation and a strong look of discomfort.

A kind of black market arrangement had gone bad. Horribly bad, one might argue, but degree of awfulness was of little consequence at this point. There had been a dollar value agreed upon to pay for certain services, those services had been rendered. The other party later consented to accepting an equivalent dollar value in Bit Coin. Electronic payment was made. There was then a subsequent and considerable exchange rate drop for Bit Coin compared to dollars. The drop had been favorable to fallen man, not his former business partners. The resultant effect was that the other party ended up with significantly less than what had been originally contracted. They requested the Bit Coin payment be rescinded and revert back to dollars. Their suggestion had been rather aggressive. It had also been staunchly rebuffed.

“Nope, tough shoes. A deal’s a deal,” responded fallen man, not one to be easily swayed in the face of aggression. The thing about crooks, a deal isn’t always a deal and the customer is not always right.

The unsatisfied party retrieved him late one morning as he exited his favorite bakery with chocolate chip brownie, hot chocolate and a banana in hand. [“Yes, a banana, please. A guy’s got to eat healthy,” he teased the clerk.] A scuffle ensued out front of the bakery. It took four opposing crooks to overpower him and stuff our guy into a waiting vehicle. He somehow managed to retain possession of his breakfast despite delivering a well-connected head butt to one opposing forehead, a powerful and optimally placed kick to the crotch to a second, and a knee to the larynx of a third. The immobilized disputants were helped up off the sidewalk and into the vehicle. He sat in the back seat and, as the vehicle sped away to a destination unknown, savored his meal and hot cocoa. And he didn’t offer to share. The meal’s debris including banana peel were unceremoniously dropped to the floor of the vehicle and rigorously mashed in with the heel of his shoe. After the ordeal outside the bakery, this went uncontested.

The ride to the airfield was brief. There were weapons involved in his transition from vehicle to aircraft. He knew his fate, wondered only how much he could affect the score sheet. There were three more of them, not including the pilot, as the first four thugs had become somewhat worn out after the bakery capture. The three new ones were big fellas, bigger fellas than their spent predecessors. Also dopes, as he visually and correctly assessed. Our guy was large and equipped with well-honed street smarts, except for being picked up walking out of a bakery. But still, these odds were crummy, he figured, as he embarked the aircraft.

At 30,000 feet the side door opened. Bad planning, that kind of strong wind is tremendously difficult to maneuver. He opted to be the aggressor and took advantage of the confusion created by the high velocity wind soaring into the fuselage. He ran down the aisle toward the open door and, though unsteady, managed a flying kick launching one addled foe off the doorframe and out the door. Two more to go. He then dropped down hunching low on his feet as if preparing for a weight-training deadlift. With the soles of his shoes flat on the floor the two assailants approached and, with his chin tucked down into his chest, projected himself upward like a missile and was rewarded with a solid sounding crack. A broken nose, he guessed, based on the quantity of blood that began flowing to the floor as if someone had left a sink spigot running. He didn’t usually fight by nefarious means, but in a fight to the death different rules applied.

The fun had to stop eventually. Today it would end when the third combatant charged him and pushed him out the door. With that he was done. All done with one final act to carry out. Bubba was wearing a belt with a large buckle, an inviting handhold opportunity. He reached for it on the way out, desperately and successfully, landed the grab and pulled his adversary out the door with him. Mental note, he thought, jumpsuit instead of trousers with belt to minimize grab holds should these roles be reversed.

The melee took only 20 seconds but was conclusive. It ended three out of four of them. Our guy was not victorious, but he’d made his choice years before. He’d decided to operate on the wrong side of the law. The dark economy had its benefits. There was often ample cash, provided your offered services were dirty enough and cleanly conducted. But of course, his engagements were with those who lived by a similarly dirty or questionable code of ethics. Those ethics, in many cases were simple. ‘Do not be wronged.’ That was it. Not ‘Do no wrong,’ rather the perceivedwrong was the deed that necessitated a counter blow. That’s what we had here, one party perceived they had been wronged. And so three of them fell from the sky.

As he fell from the aircraft, he accelerated for the first twelve seconds, at which point he attained terminal velocity. Henceforth he fell unimpeded at 120 miles per hour with no slowing down until something broke his fall. From a starting point of 30,000 feet that’d be almost three minutes.

The first few seconds were a tremendous shock to his system, as one would imagine. Aside from the high-velocity tumbling toward earth, it was so cold that he had difficulty breathing. Also, he was unprepared for a chilly freefall and was caught while donning only blue jeans plus a t-shirt under a long sleeve jersey, and, of course, footwear, quarter-top Chuck Taylor sneakers. His garb was no match for the harsh elements and he struggled. There was no relaxed, full capacity inhale followed by a complete exhale. His breathing was reduced to a sequence of erratic and rushed partial inhales followed by unfulfilling, partial exhales. Then, of course, there was the fact of oxygen scarcity at this altitude.

Fallen man was no mountain climber, but he’d seen enough Mount Everest documentaries to know there was an oxygen deficiency at altitude. Mount Everest, at its peak of 29,028 feet, boasted of only 33% amount of oxygen as found at sea level. The cold temperatures to which he was being subjected was more of an inconvenience compared to the lack of oxygen. Or maybe not, pending the outlook. If he lapsed from consciousness from lack of oxygen he’d avoid the agony of the fall, matched by a corresponding never regaining consciousness. The inverse had him battling first to stay conscious despite the lack of oxygen, only then to also contend with the uninviting temperature, finally, only then to figure out what to do in the remaining 150 seconds before he stopped. There it is. Oxygen, temperature and velocity. Meanwhile, the earth approached. The only thing below him was miles of ocean in every direction. He’d leave no trace.

He was falling at a rate of speed where he couldn’t easily breathe, even without the near freezing temperature and wind chill. He would have likened it to hanging your head out the window of a vehicle traveling at 120 mph, although in the moment he did know that precise speed. Regardless, not a comfortable task to undertake. He instinctively cupped his hands and put them over his nose and mouth. Doing so allowed him to breathe the air that slowed down just enough as the air molecules collided with his hands and decelerated a tiny bit. Eased minimally, but not much improved. But still, the cold and wind chill factor were the worst part of this experience.

His eyeballs were also experiencing difficulty. They were miserable, in fact, due to velocity causing ocular discomfort. He did what he could. The horizon was vast from up there. The sky was beautifully cloudless. If it wasn’t so cold he might even enjoy the view for a while. But for only a short while, two more minutes anyway. He thought, briefly, how thankful he was not to be inclined to bouts of acrophobia, because that’d really be bad. This, of course, made him chuckle, even under the dire circumstances.

The ground approached, as did his demise. The earth looked less beautiful as it got larger, like looking at the pores on his face up close in a mirror. Better from a distance than close up, not that he considered himself to be a striking beauty.

He was not surprised at such an ending for himself. He was, after all, a self-acknowledged and unapologetic crook. There was no retirement from this profession. There was, typically, only a final day of work. It was not the nature of this conclusion that surprised him, only that it would be today . . . and from an airplane. He had peace as he fell, though. He was not peaceful, but had peace. Knowing a dramatic finish was entirely to be expected and that he’d planned well. 

He had a girlfriend of near ten years. She did ask questions about his line of work. He was dutifully vague in his answers and she was thankfully soft on pressing for clarification. She was good-natured, positive in demeanor, and yes, naïve. Maybe even purposefully so. The advance planning, though, was well conducted.

He’d been mentored, so to speak, years earlier by another crook, a respected elder of sorts. Until the elder’s mysterious disappearance as fallen man would do today. But the elder’s lessons were adeptly digested and played forward. Cars, houses, financial accounts were all in her name. He also did what he could to shape her thinking by sparking her thought process for his eventual, involuntary disappearance. 

“You know, if you were to ever be done with me you’d be OK. Everything’s in your name. You’d have no need to worry about money,” he’d try to playfully suggest.

“Why do you always say things like that? I’m not interested in getting rid of you,” she’d counter.

“I’m just saying. You know, if I got wrecked in a car accident . . .”

“I know, contact Cassidy, he’ll know what to do,” she’d blurt out knowing this to be the desired response.

Cassidy was a friend, one who could be trusted, but must also be kept at arm’s distance. The distance was necessitated out of respect for his pal and his profession. He was a financial consultant whose work was commendably regarded by colleagues. He didn’t need the cloud summoned by an association with a dark figure like fallen man. They were friends from before grade school whose lives took wildly divergent paths. A mutual respect prevented them from working together. One didn’t want to ask and officially learn of the other’s crooked source of income. The other didn’t want to impel the one to compromise his impeccable integrity and risk ruining his means of profession. Fallen man had never engaged his friend’s honest talent at finances. But if he were to pass away, his girlfriend would be well and honestly kept up with a financial adviser like this. That much had been made clear. 

As the ocean made its rapid approach he’d hope simply that the messages took root. A brief mourning, then she’d keep living life. With that, he touched down.

-klem

Piano Teacher

He’d learned piano as a little boy in South America. Lessons were conducted thrice weekly by private tutor and he reveled in the instruction. This had gone on for years, all the grade school years including the summer months. It continued into high school before ending abruptly, and involuntarily, when he was 16 years.

His father had earned a good wage as a government attorney. The job paid handsomely, enough for the family mansion, cars, servants and assorted luxuries. Then his father passed away in a car accident of questionable circumstance. Murder was mentioned in hushed tones in select company, something about payback for a successful conviction of a renowned drug dealer. Nothing could be proven and evidence was curiously absent, and the little evidence that was collected had been misfiled or lost. The results of his father’s passing, however, were ever present.

It started when the servants departed saying they hadn’t been paid dating back to the prior month’s work. Yelling expletives as they walked out the double doors carrying as much of the family silver and crystal as they could. Mother and son, too shocked at the vulgar transformation of their trusted former servants and sometimes confidantes, did not try to stop the wealth-confiscating outflow.

The expensive automobiles, meanwhile, sat immobile in the driveway and garage. His mother had never needed to drive so she had never learned. The boy was also not licensed and had never learned. Where would they need to go that servants couldn’t simply drive them?

The police eventually came to the home and allowed the bank’s representative to reclaim it because the mortgage was overdue. Overdue, of course, for there was no paycheck coming in and there were no finances saved. At least, the bank officials claimed there were no savings and no investments. The bank just commandeered those accounts, accurately accused the mother with no proof to dispel the guilty chuckles of denial. And with that, they were broke. Taking only what they wore and what could be hastily grabbed on the way out, they were evicted.

They moved in with impoverished family, arriving in exorbitantly rich garb for that part of town, and they were reluctantly taken in. Reluctant because they had not shared the wealth when times were good.

It was here the boy started dabbling in drugs. Not using, selling. He had no need for their use, his focus had become crystal clear and drug use might blunt that drive, he reasoned. A rage had been lit inside him. He wanted to get back to that lifestyle and the drugs, he saw, could help to pave the way back. There were risks, but the potentially escalated timeframe was deemed an acceptable trade-off. The irony was not wasted on him. The industry that tore his family apart was now his engine.

Turns out he was good at this new trade, possessing a knack, said some. Selling was easy for him, it came naturally and luck seemed to lead his way. He rose in ranks of the powerful cartel until he was expatriated to the United States to further conduct his illicit work. From there he would lead the drug mule program.

He had impressed management with his ingenuity and ‘can-do’ attitude. Year by year in the cartel he had gradually, and competently, made a name for himself. ‘This one gets things done,’ it was said of him. Truth is, his motivation was an enraging fire of anger. He and his family had been wronged and he wanted to get back to his privileged existence. The draw was not the power associated with wealth, but simply the luxury of not having to care about anything. It was not sophisticated, but apparently, nor was he.

His remuneration increased and his bonuses had become engorged. He had his own apartment and lived well, but remained apprehensive, tentative, after what happened to his parents and the home in which he grew up. Life still had an ephemeral sense of delicateness, like it lacked foundation and could easily be upended. He would someday buy another home, he told himself, but that day had not yet arrived. First, he must bring the cartel’s mule program to fulfill its potential. This was the 1980s and South American cocaine and heroin ruled the streets. 

The mule program entailed one, sometimes two, South Americans, often adolescents or young adults, induced to visit the United States for a vacation. Only, it wasn’t a vacation but a drug delivery. The cartel would assist the traveler to ingest as much as two pounds of drugs. The drugs would be cut and loaded into tiny balloons, the mule would swallow the balloons, often up to two dozen, three dozen for experienced travelers. They would be paid $5,000 cash or more for their trip, depending on the number of balloons swallowed. Of course, they’d be dead should there be rupture or an intestinal obstruction. They must also, of course, remember the balloon count, as they would pass normally, so say the bowels.

Poverty raged throughout his homeland. His lower-ranking colleagues would find young adults, people in their 20s, willing to take a risk for a big payday. These would be his mules. Finding the people was not difficult, especially if the details of danger were to be skirted, which they were. Their bellies were consensually loaded with drugs, ingested with cooperative difficulty despite being dipped in honey, they were then sent to him in the United States. He would gather the ‘tourists,’ procure their retrieval, pay the bonuses, then get the merchandise circulating for purchase. It was easy and hugely profitable. Until the mistake, as there would inevitably be one, dealing with humans and their affinity for mishaps.

The program went without hitch for almost a year with weekly deliveries. Then came trouble. A package opened on a flight, the traveler died while still in the air and police came looking for the source.

Without hesitation he left the airport calmly and undetected. He went straight to his apartment, packed his necessities, including a duffel bag of cash. He walked away, leaving his car behind to increase the degree of difficulty in finding him, and took a bus. He rode through the night before stopping at a diner in a university town three states away. An advertisement caught his eye on the message board in the diner’s foyer. ‘Piano Teachers Needed.’

His mind wandered reflecting back to those peaceful days of his youth. His life, his very existence, had been comfortable and well provided for. He longed for those days, his mom and dad together every evening home for supper, himself happily babbling on about his daily school excitement. Standing there before the diner’s message board, his fingers subconsciously began playing scales, the piano warm-up exercise. He pulled the tear-off and would call the phone number.

The interview went well. Meaning, the questions revolved simply around piano playing. He was asked to “Play something. Anything, one of your favorites.”

He was nervous as he took a seat on the piano bench. ‘How long had it been,’ he thought, even though he knew exactly how long, fifteen years, since the day his father was murdered. 

Play, he did, The Entertainer, his favorite when he was a carefree child, playing sometimes in an endless loop. The nervousness dissipated as soon as his fingertips hit the ivory. It was as if he was in a room by himself, just him and the piano. His fingers had not forgotten. His eyes closed, fingers dexterously swimming across the keyboard, his mind a million miles away from reality. His confidence reaffirmed, sweat on his brow, he paused, speaking no words, took a deep breathe then delved directly and deeply back to the piano into the culmination of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons’ Summer. Passionate and flawless, his heart racing. He was brought back by a double tap on the shoulder.

“You play marvelously. When can you start?”

Walking away from the cartel is, of course, against protocol.  There is only one way out of this industry, death, like his last mule. He had no aversion to death, provided it was well-earned and deserved. His mule, though, was not one of those. Everyone in the organization, however, was deserving, as was he. 

He earned only a pittance teaching piano. The hourly wage was minute and hours worked were intermittent and few. He didn’t care. He had not been teaching for the money, he did so for access to a piano and because it makes his soul sing. He wanted to help others feel how he felt as a youngster. He hadn’t experienced this since his youth prior to the eviction. Piano playing was his cause. Only, he found out too late in life to put it to a constructive purpose.

His money would easily last a year or more, but he wasn’t worried about that. He’d been living frugally and peacefully, but he had faith in the efficiency of the cartel. He would not outlive his duffel bag of cash.

His death order had certainly been issued. It just hadn’t yet caught up to him. It would some day, maybe tomorrow, next week or two months from now. Idling in his car at a stoplight with a walk up headshot. Maybe he’d return some evening to his apartment and his assassin would be seated in the dark in his leather beanbag chair facing the front door. Or a muffled shot at a nightclub some evening. It didn’t matter. 

He’d made peace with this part of his life. He’d made choices and would accept their ugly recriminations. Until then, he’d teach piano. And he’d do so beautifully.

[Inspired by a family outing perusing used books at a thrift shop. A book entitled The Piano Teacher. ‘Sounds like a boring book,’ I thought to myself. Then, the above occurred to me as a possibility for adding some spice to the tame title. klem]

Cows Be Gone

It started in the 1990s, almost as a joke, a hamburger made out of plants. “Really, a vegetable burger? Who would eat such a thing,” asked most people. The years rolled by, efforts were made to better the vegetarian option and those improvements came in great strides.

The watershed moment came in 2024. It became widely regarded that the non-beef burgers were, surprisingly, not only delicious, but just too dang good to ignore. They were tastier and more nutritious than the old-fashioned burgers made from cows. The new variety of burgers were also kinder to the environment. These one-time curiosities had been elevated from a mere alternative to a preferred choice.

The paradigm shift didn’t happen straight away, to be sure. Some folks, those who had grown up on bovine burgers their entire lives, were not interested in such silliness as a vegetarian hamburger. A generation went by and the youths, not grown up on that solitary mindset, stopped buying beef patties. As if they were just biding their time until they controlled the majority of economic activity, then almost entirely across the board, this beef-free generation stopped buying actual beef. This would seem to be a relief to the unsuspecting cow, but wait, there’s more.

The price of beef plummeted to where it was no longer even possible to break even raising these animals on a ranch. Ranchers changed out to farmers setting their efforts instead to soybean, corn and assorted row crops. Even milk was no longer a profitable product. With so many non-dairy milk alternatives the market share for actual ‘cow juice’ gave away and never leveled off.

Then there was the leather industry. So many years of taking flack for employing animal parts for a capitalistic end had been guilt-tripped into making changes. The market for leather could no longer hold it’s own. With that ‘coup de gras’ the fate of the cow was sealed. 

Their numbers did more than dwindle. After only a single generation they had became the first domesticated animal to end up on the Endangered Species list. They became a rare sighting even driving through the vast open lands through Interstate 5 in California. A conservancy group eventually purchased the remaining 100 cows known to exist. They shipped the gentle lumbering beasts to Santa Catalina Island, one of the Channel Islands off the coast of Southern California. Heck, it worked for the bison, the board of the non-profit reasoned, preserving the cows should be an easy victory.

Cows and bison are different kinds of animals once introduced into the wild, even the ‘controlled wild,’ so it was found out. The bison, for example, was capable of living sustainably once people simply stopped shooting them and hacking them apart for various means. They could live well enough alone if they would just be left alone. Bison were imported to the island in the 1920s. The herd grew and their numbers became stable. Fact is, they flourished. So well did the herd that their numbers were occasionally pared down and repatriated to the mainland. The cow, however, had spent too long in captivity. Living even in the relative congenial wilds of the island, it turned out the cows experienced high anxiety. They couldn’t mate, or wouldn’t. It didn’t matter the reason, their dwindling continued. Yes, bulls were included in their numbers, but there weren’t any couplings. They wouldn’t and flat out stopped. Even the bulls were done. Or they were just too taken with the constant beautiful ocean view to consider the alluring curves of their fairer partners.

Predictably, there was never any overwhelming alarm when it became clear they would soon be extinct. After so many years and generations demonizing the poor unaware beast, what with its troubling off-gassing of methane and its unwitting contributions to global climate change, its required occupation of so many millions of square miles of earth just to be raised, killed and eaten, or turned into fashionable handbags. The newest generation had no more emotional connection to saving such a creature than if it were a cockroach skittering out from underneath a refrigerator. A nuisance. No more concern that if they were watching fossil-fuel vehicles lose market share to electric vehicles. ‘Hey, you can’t fight technology’ was the pertinent slogan of the time. So they didn’t, nobody did.

It was decided by consensus that the final ten beasts were finally to be slaughtered and barbecued in one final fatal fantastic outing. Entertainment included outdoor movies and live music, an all-day menu of barbecue entrees from breakfast through late into the night, a very fun day for the participants. The overriding sentiment from the evening was that they weren’t as good as fake beef, but they were good enough to eat. Until now, that is, when there were finally none left to eat.

[Loosely inspired by Jakub Rozalsi’s painting, ‘The Last Mermaid of the Northern Seas’. (https://twitter.com/mr_werewolf_art/status/1128983387535040512?s=20.) It got me thinking through a few ‘what if’ extinction-related scenarios. -klem]

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?