Ah,
to be in Ocala when the morons are in bloom!
I’m
used to passing the crew at the women’s health center every morning. You know, the pack of anti-abortion
imbeciles, none under 92, with nothing better to do than block up the sidewalks
with their homemade misspelled signs, occasionally kneeling in prayer, asking
us to honk if we love Jesus. I’m
thinking of getting one of those colossal air horns the semi drivers have and
letting loose on the whole batch of them some day. Honk THIS,
mofos!
Anyway,
leaving the gym the other day, I was diverted downtown by some construction and
wound up on the city square and what to my wondering eyes should appear but even
MORE sign-wielding picketers. What could
these dipwads want? Well, a little bit of everything, it turns
out. The pair on my immediate left
carried signs with pictures of President Obama and Attorney General Holder
photoshopped behind bars. Now, I want
you to know that I try, I really do, to ignore this rabble as best I can. But sometimes circumstances play into the
picture. Circumstances like the stoplight
being red. And these two bozos being
only a few feet away. I rolled the
window down.
“You
guys are idiots,” I told them.
“Well,
you’re the one who opened his mouth,” the more brilliant partner exclaimed.
I
looked back at him. “That’s a totally
inappropriate rejoinder,” I said.
Oops. He was okay with “idiots”
but he wasn’t entirely comfortable with “rejoinder.” He looked down at his feet, spun his sign
around a couple of times and adjusted his baseball cap. Just couldn’t think of anything to say. Eventually,
he signaled his pal and they drifted off to the next corner where a mob of
brethren were busily defending the management of Chick Fil A. I could just hear him muttering to his
apprentice. Something like, “Dang it,
George, we’re just going to have to get one of them dictionary things out
here….”
The Night Of The
Smiling Coon
Got
home from the first UF volleyball game of the season a few nights ago, checked
the phone messages and started getting ready for bed. It was about eleven o’clock. Not far in the distance, a howling dog
erupted. This was unusual. The sound moved closer. “What’s that?” Siobhan wanted to know.
“Is that a dog in the mare field?”
Turns
out it was. He was upset because he had
become separated from his fellow coon dog by a fence and couldn’t figure out
how to rejoin his pal. After a period of
distrust and reticence on his part, we finally coaxed him through a gate and he
headed off toward his buddy. We started
back for the house, our little flashlights bobbing away, when I noticed at the
end of our driveway a car moving back and forth. Then someone got out. He also had a flashlight and some sort of red
light. We asked him if he was looking
for a couple of dogs and he said he was.
We marched down to our front gate to talk to him. He was a big black guy, dressed like an
action figure and carrying a large “tracker” (the thing with the red light) to
keep tabs on his dogs. We told him they
were about two houses down by now and he could head them off at the corner.
“What
are you doing?” I asked him.
“Coon
huntin’,” he said.
Let
me think about this for a minute. Let’s
see—black guy…walking through white people’s yards…redneck territory…all NRA
adherents…middle of the night. Does this
seem like a good idea to you? I can hear the coons now:
“Hey,
Rocky, check out this goober. I’ll lay
you three-to-five he’s full of buckshot within 30 minutes.”
“Not
takin’ that one, Ricky. But you do have
to admire his sense of style….”
Zombie Jamboree
Back to back, ghoul,
belly to belly,
Well, I don’t give a
damn ‘cause I’m stone dead already,
Back to back, oh oh
oh, belly to belly,
It’s a zombie
jamboree!
Siobhan’s
brother, Stuart, and his wife, Mary, are in town. This means we will be going to odd and
unusual places because Mary has different predilections than some of us. For one thing, she likes to hang out at flea
markets. It just so happens we have our
very own flea market scant miles away so we decided to join her to see what
happens in these esoteric environs. Not
much, it turns out. Flea markets seem to
consist largely of gigantic barns filled with heaping piles of unnameable
detritus, pored over by roving bands of nonecks. The whole sordid mess is presided over by the
“vendors,” a veritable rogues gallery of dubious characters with one foot out
of state prison. Not to say you can’t
find the occasional gem. One guy was
selling a perfectly good traffic light for a mere $50, a bargain if ever there
was one. Siobhan exercised her veto
power on this meritorious transaction and I will remind her of this the next
time we have an uncontrollable raft of vehicles in our yard. These opportunities don’t come often.
Anyway,
I was muddling around surveying the merchandise when Siobhan came scurrying up
in untypical excitement. Wide-eyed in
amazement over her new discovery, she blurted out, “Bill—I just figured it
out. This is where the zombies come in
the daytime!”
I
looked around as if to dismiss her foolish notion but found it hard to do. Everywhere you looked, slumping bodies
shuffled forward in semi-wakefulness, paying little or no attention to their
surroundings, plodding silently forward.
One of them even had a zombie dog which acted in consort with its
master.
“Gee,
Siobhan, You might have something here,” I admitted. Just then a big slumper came by with a
telling t-shirt. “Zombie Outbreak” is
what it read. Now, I’ve got to tell you
Siobhan is very nervous about
zombies. You know how some people are
deathly afraid of clowns? That’s Siobhan
with zombies. She will not have anything
to do with them. Zombie movies—forget
it. The last time I went to a zombie
movie (Woody Harrelson in the classic “Zombieland”), she and our neighbor,
Allen, went to something else. She won’t
even discuss it.
“Let’s
get out of here,” she said. She rustled
up Stuart and Mary and made them take us home.
Mary grew up in Indiana and is not one bit afraid of zombies so they
dropped us off and went right back. A
few minor bargains were obtained and nothing dastardly happened to Siobhan’s
sister-in-law. In a fight between Mary
and any single zombie, I’m picking Mary.
The trouble is, sometimes they gang up on you.
Sequellae
If
you read the last couple of exciting episodes of The Flying Pie, you are aware of our wonderful collection of motel
stories, most of them contributed by our loyal readers. If you are not one of these, shame on you for
your idlesome ways. And yes, we know
“idlesome” is not a Noah Webster word but you get the point. Anyway, you will better understand the
following stories if you are a regular reader.
If you are not, you can refer
back to the cited references.
The Deviant Biker’s Motel Story (See ‘Florida
Couple,’ August 9)
I
am a bouncer at a biker bar just outside Chicago and my friend, Louis, is a
hairdresser from Peoria. We look like
tough guys but we are actually both as queer as three-dollar bills. We are not comfortable with our families and
friends knowing this, however, so we lead a fairly heterosexual lifestyle,
getting together only for the occasional brief tryst. For one week a year, however, we travel out
west, away from everyone who knows us, for a glorious vacation where we can be
ourselves. Usually, we rent motorcycles
and either camp out or stay at cheap motels.
Recently, at Glacier National Park, we checked in at a dump called the
Thronson Motel. It wasn’t much but it
was located close to the fabulous Many Glacier area of the park.
As
we were standing outside admiring the dregs of the evening, a nice couple
passed us on their ways to their upstairs quarters. We engaged them in conversation for several
minutes and they eventually went to their room.
Not an hour later, just before dark, they emerged with all their
belongings, slapped them in the car and were off with hardly a parting
word. “A little late for hiking,” I
laughed, but my words were lost on them as they rocketed down the road. I don’t mind telling you, this whole affair
put Louis and I into a tizzy.
“I
don’t like the looks of this, Lawrence,” worried Louis. “Do you suppose those people might have
found insects in their room? Or heard rumors of roughnecks in the area?”
We
weren’t taking any chances. We stripped
the bed and replaced the linens with our own camping sheets. Then, as any sensible people would, we moved
the bed in front of the door. We didn’t
sleep much that night but nothing unusual happened. We’ll always wonder what happened to those
nice folks from Florida.
The Butler’s
Story (See Irana’s Hotel Story, August 23)
I
have been a butler at the Savoy Hotel in London for 30 years now. This is a quiet job, in line with my sedate
disposition and inclinations to be of service.
Odd things happen occasionally, but most of them I take in stride. One evening, however, I had occasion to take
a tea cart to the room of a new guest, an American, I believe. We English are very fussy about our tea times
and we can get cranky if we are left hanging.
I should mention here that English patrons will leave their doors
unchained and locked only by the automatic doorlock—which is openable by all
staff via a master key. If they wish not
to be disturbed, they will chain the door.
On
this occasion, I opened the door with the master key and, noting the bathroom
door open and the guest inside bathing, assumed she wanted her tea delivered on
the spot. I wheeled the cart in and put
everything in order. I must say that I
tried very hard to shield my glance from the woman in the tub but she was quite
voluptuous and exotic, as opposed to the rather pasty and thin local
women. Part of me hoped that this might
be some sort of sensual invitation but the butler in me dismissed such a notion
and I quickly left. I’m not sure whether
I was appalled or disappointed.
The Porn Star’s Hotel
Story (See Katherine’s Hotel Story, August 23)
My
crew and I make a lot of pornographic movies in and around the Victor Hotel in
Miami. The hotel makes a lot of money from
this and most of the guests are filled in on what goes on in case they wish to
register elsewhere. The kind of
shenanigans we perform lend themselves to quite a bit of noise and clamor but
most of the time nobody even notices.
One
day a few years ago, we had a young female guest in a room on the floor above
us. She seemed REALLY interested in what
we were doing and paid a lot of attention to us. I noticed her staring a couple of times in
the lobby and the hotel bar and I almost invited her onto the set. I think she might have been interested in the
business but was a little too shy to approach us. I just want to tell everybody out there—don’t
be embarrassed. We often take walk-ins
just off the street because the work is, well, hard and a good body double can
really take a load off.
The Trucker’s Motel
Story (See Sharon’s Motel Story, August 23)
About
ten years ago, I checked into a little motel down south in Ocala. I was dead on my feet. I went to check in and I left my truck
running because I wasn’t sure there were any rooms left. When I got to the desk, I noticed the motel
manager was very red-faced and struggling to breathe. I got him to sit down and grabbed the phone
to call 911. It seemed like it took an
eternity for the EMTs to arrive and well before they did, the man stopped
breathing. With the help of a couple of
guests, I moved him to a comfortable spot on the floor and administered CPR,
something I had learned earlier in the Peace Corps. Fortunately, I had experience in these
matters as I have for years volunteered at numerous nursing homes in my home
town. Anyway, a life was saved and I am
sure that I will be rewarded for my actions down the road—at least according to
my brother, a knowledgeable member of the ministry.
As
luck would have it, in all the hysteria I somehow lost my truck keys. I could have sworn I left it running but when
I returned the ignition was off and the keys were gone. Obviously, I must have removed they keys
myself—otherwise the truck would have been gone or the load tampered with. I had to call my boss and admit my transgression,
something which led to my eventual dismissal and an ensuing life on the street. It is tempting to look for someone to blame
it all on but I know it’s all my own fault.
Anyway, the next time you see one of those sign-holding guys at the
interstate ramp, give a little consideration.
We’re not all wine-guzzling losers leading irresponsible lives. Some of us just got a bad roll of the
dice. So throw a little something our
way. Especially
you, John and Sharon….
That’s
all, folks.
