The Ballad Of Frankie And Johnny
In the wake of the umpteenth crackpot shooting massacre of the year, I thought I might write a nice story. It would be about star-crossed lovers Frankie and Johnny who, sickened by the endless stream of such killings, take it upon themselves to do something about it. Young, idealistic and naïve, they never considered the impossibility of their task. They did worry about the morality of it, of course. Lives would be lost, probably including theirs, but whenever Doubt crept in, they would assure one another: “It’s the only way.”
If I had actually gone forth with this story, I might have told you that Frankie and Johnny were young but they were also very intelligent. They knew how to get things done. They knew how to find helpful allies, were capable of long days of detailed research. There were weaknesses in every system and Frankie and Johnny would find the openings necessary to slither through and perform their tasks. After all: “It’s the only way.”
Certainly no experts on weaponry, Frankie and Johnny had much to learn. They spent weeks studying manuals crammed with automatic weapons, their accuracy at specific distances, their ability to be broken down and transported clandestinely. Likewise, long days were spent learning facial recognition of those who would finally be brought to task for their sins. Or they would have been if I had ever actually written such a story.
When you write stories like this, you often have to ask your readers to hold Reality in abeyance for awhile. I mean, after all, the Halls of Government are well-guarded, teeming with security people, virtually impenetrable, they’ll have you believe. But, of course, recent events have made folly of their claims. Lunatics with a fourth-grade education have managed to burst into these buildings with great facility, armed to the teeth, slaying innumerable innocents. Single-minded fanatics, driven by whatever phantasms guide them, are capable of acts thought impossible. Frankie and Johnny, if they had existed, might tell you this can work both ways.
In years past, if someone were to tell you that it was possible to sneak an automatic weapon into the United States Senate or House of Representatives, you might have pish-toshed them to tears. Now, there are not many people who think anything is impossible. We see government employees given privy to the nation’s greatest secrets flying off to the Orient, displaying these jewels for all the world to see. There are weak spots everywhere, a clever hunter has but to find them. And the mythical Frankie and Johnny were clever hunters indeed, having found, after two years of searching, a pair of accomplices, government workers with access to each of the houses of Congress, to aid in their task. Oh, they were reluctant at first. It took many nights, many conversations, before they saw the light, before they agreed with Frankie and Johnny: “It’s the only way.”
So now the time had come, or would have come if this story was ever written. Frankie and Johnny would calmly attach their guest badges to their shirts, hers for the Senate, his for the House of Representatives. They would ride silently together in a taxi over to Capitol Hill. It was undoubtedly a sunny September morning, bright with promise. They would look into one another’s eyes and gently kiss one last time. Inside, they would head immediately to the areas reserved for cleaning supplies where the weapons had been hidden. They would quietly assemble them, smaller and less conspicuous weapons than one might imagine, and head for their preplanned sniper’s nests. They knew by heart what all the major supporters of gun rights looked like. When their synchronized watches reached the assigned hour, they raised their weapons and took aim, not untroubled, but comforted in their final thought: “It’s the only way.”
Addenda:
When I discussed the possibilities of writing such a story with Siobhan, she said “You can’t do that! You’d have the Secret Service over here…ATF, who knows what!” She might be right, but I doubt it. It’s not a direct threat, it’s not advocacy. And how many of those guys read The Flying Pie, anyway. Maybe we’ll find out.
The Men Who Hear Voices
Washington Navy Yard gunman Aaron Alexis, latest in a long line of Mass Killers Of The Month (and therefore eligible for the final playoff round), told several people he “heard voices.” I have some advice for you. If anybody ever tells you he “hears voices,” run to your car, jump in and drive 100 miles-per-hour in the opposite direction. Do not pass Go, Do not collect $200. Get the hell out of there and don’t come back. People who “hear voices” are not to be trifled with. Never bring one home to dinner. In an earlier installment of The Flying Pie, I was discussing some discoveries I have made along the way under the banner What I’ve Learned. Predominant among the many pieces of advice offered was Stay Away From Crazy People. I have made it to the ripe old age of 72 by paying close heed to this advice. I know, I know, some poor people, through no fault of their own, have incurred mental deficits and I am not unsympathetic to their plight. But when it comes time to volunteer my services, I will be doing it at the Sane People’s Hospital, all due respect to the nonqualifiers. “Gosh, Bill—why are you so rigid on this matter,” you might ask. I’ll tell you why. Robert Kovachech.
Robert, a Vietnam war vet, used to come by the Subterranean Circus all the time. I liked Robert even if he was a little needy. Perhaps with good reason, Robert was one of those people who needed some sort of chemical crutch to make it through the day. For some people, it’s marijuana, others speed. A batch of people get by with the nonchemical preference, God, but a crutch is no less a crutch. Interestingly, a lot of people graduate—or are demoted—from their previous crutch TO God, an interesting phenomenon. But we were talking about Robert Kovachech here.
Robert came back from the war a cokehead. That was a little expensive but Robert had disability money to spend. Eventually, he dumped the coke and became an alcoholic. He bought beer a case at a time down on the corner at Dan’s Beverages. He ran a tab and at the end of the month, when his government check came, he brought it directly to Dan. Robert was always a little paranoid, not an unusual phenomenon in those days, and came by the store one day telling me people were trying to break into his house. I brushed it off. Next day, he was back, claiming he had seen footprints outside his bathroom window and scratches on the paint. Would I just please come out there and have a look? Just to insure he wasn’t going nuts. Okay, Robert, I’ll go. And I did. When I went to the bathroom window, there was nothing resembling what Robert had described. Meanwhile, Robert had gone inside the house. I walked in the front door and found him standing there pointing a shotgun right at me. He told me there were people in this world who were out to get him and he thought I might be the leader of the band. For whatever reason, I was more annoyed than scared.
“Robert, of all the friends you’ve got, I was the only one willing to come out here and try to help you. I’m really pissed off you’d pull this kind of stunt.” Then, I walked over, took the shotgun and put it in the trunk of my car.
“I’m sorry,” Robert whined.
“Me too, Robert.”
And with that, I was off. Robert never came back looking for his gun and I never sought him out to return it. With a little time for reflection, I contemplated alternative reactions to the threat but who’s to say anything else would have worked any better? In retrospect, Robert Kovachech probably did me a favor. From that day forward, I have carefully avoided people of this ilk and, believe me, I have met a few. It’s nice to be sympathetic, it’s a work of Christian Charity to be generous, but sorry, I’ve done my time. Next time somebody tells you he “hears voices,” just remember Robert Kovachech. And get that automobile revved up.
The Maintenance Man
Ever thought about what percentage of your valuable time is given over to maintenance? I have, and it’s a helluva lot. Think about it. You wake up in the morning, go to the bathroom, take a shower, have breakfast. All maintenance. The breakfast, assuming it is tasty and not mere fuel, might be considered partial maintenance (and part fun), but maintenance nonetheless. Then you go back to the bathroom to clean up, brush your teeth, comb your hair—always assuming that’s an issue)—and, if you’re unfortunate enough to be a woman, perform the other 76 acts of grooming necessary to start the day. Then, of course, unless you live in Camp Natura, you get dressed. So far, total maintenance. Most days, of course, you will then go to work. Unless you live in San Francisco or Colorado or someplace with a nice ride in (qualifying, again, as fun), the drive is more maintenance. Work itself, depending on the satisfaction derived, can either be maintenance or fun or both. Then, there’s the ride home.
Oh yes, home. LOTS of maintenance required there. Clean the home, prettify the yard, repair the repairables. Maybe a yard man will help. And that car you drive every day? Definitely maintenance required there, not to mention those expensive gas stops. Got children? Don’t even get me started. It’s 24-hour wall-to-wall Maintain-A-Rama. Planning on going to sleep tonight? Maintenance. Planning a nice vacation? You’re really in trouble now. Plan that trip, pack those bags, make home arrangements while you’re gone…maintenance, maintenance, MAINTENANCE! What the hell are we going to DO? there must be a better way, right?
We’re going to have to start with baby steps, but as we all know, a journey of a thousand miles begins with but a single step. Somebody needs to get to work on a Personal Grooming Cubicle. First, you would decide what your morning schedule was going to be—shaving, washing your ears, etc. Pretty much the same stuff every day. Then you put the requirements on a disk and insert the disk into your personal grooming cubicle, which will have all sorts of geegaws and doodads which will fix you up in seconds. It’s a no-brainer. For those days you wish to deviate (women like to change their hair every so often), just go back to the old non-cubicle routine. Hey, it’s a start.
Pretty soon, of course, they’ll have those cars which drive themselves while you sit there, munch donuts and play with your I-Pad. They’ve already got cars that park themselves, believe it or not (we’re looking for one for Siobhan). And in this era of Magic Computers, it’s only a matter of time until further maintenance improvements are made. Always noting, of course, that it’s wise to be consistently vigilant. Eventually, there is the possibility of danger in the establishment of a Maintenance Police, a group which will require all to adhere to the rigid new standards of maintenance brevity. And nobody, make that NOBODY, is going to be happy with that hot jelly-donut injection.
That’s all, folks….
