On Writing, Friendship, and Canadian Tree Fairies

On Writing, Friendship, and Canadian Tree Fairies

Charlotte is my best friend and she’s dying. She has Lou Gherrig’s disease which means she’s gradually losing the use of all of her muscles. Back when she was still able to drive, we took a writing class together at Diablo Valley College, and during one of the writing exercises, Charlotte wondered:
If you discover a fairy in your back yard, will the EPA classify it as an endangered species?
Will you have to file an Environmental Impact Report to dig up your petunias?
What effect will the fairy have on the native wildlife?
Maybe you should just call the exterminator.

Anyway, Charlotte never finished the story, and a couple of month ago, she asked me to do it - but to write my story, not hers. Being slightly dense, it took me two months to figure out that she’s giving away everything she has, and that included her stories.

I couldn’t remember all of the agencies Charlotte had mentioned vis a vis the environmental impact of fairies in northern California, so I had to add a few of my own - a dog catcher, an insane… no that’s giving away the story! Anyway, I got as far as Iverson’s incarceration in the pound, and then I hit writer’s block and put Iverson and his Vision Quest on the back shelf of my work area. And, it turned out later that California wouldn’t work and I had to move the Hartmans to New York.

Of the two of us, Charlotte was always the talker and I was the listener. She’d get to talking a blue streak like the little cartoon mouse Snuffles. Remember him? “My name is Snuffles. Do you know why they call me Snuffles. I don’t…..” That was Charlotte.
I’m shy and frequently can’t think of anything to say. So it was quite unfair that her voice was the first thing to go, and she had to be quiet, and I had to come up with conversation for both of us.
One great thing - Charlotte can smile and laugh, even now when almost nothing else works. Sherry her caregiver says it’s because the smile is involuntary, and that really makes me feel good. That means when she smiles it’s for real – she’s physically incapable of just being polite.


On Writing about Canadian Tree Fairies and Other Technical Difficulties

Once, when I visited Charlotte, her caregiver Sherry was on vacation and Dan was home with her. I had gotten as far as incarcerating Iverson in the pound, and Dan was really helpful in that he appreciated the technical aspects of the story. Dan asked, “What do fairies do?”
“Woah! I had not read up on my fairy lore." I said. "They’re magical. They can fly. Does that mean they can do magic?” Charlotte squeezed my hand, “yes.” Then how come Iverson can’t get out of the pound? I had to think about that. Later, from the internet I found out about the cold steel. What kind of tricks do they do? The only fairy tricks I could remember were in Midsummer Night’s Dream, when Puck changes Bottom’s head into the head of an ass.

Then Dan asked me, "can Iverson talk?" Again Woah! If Iverson can talk, they’re not going to treat him like an animal. So I gave him a high, chirpy voice and had him adopted by a French-speaking family.
I had the idea of a disgruntled ex-contestant from “The Apprentice” and of Iverson infiltrating Trump Tower and causing a military skirmish. Dan wanted to include Trump’s comb over, hence the crazy glue episode.

I’d been typing like a trooper, and I got the story finished up to the invasion, and I couldn’t wait till the following Monday. I could read her the story and I didn’t have to come up with anything to talk about.

I called in the morning before I barged on over and got the answering machine. I never got a call back, and later, I drove by the house. The big van that holds Charlotte’s wheelchair was gone, and Dan’s car was still in the driveway, so I drove away hoping that everything was okay. But the thought crossed my mind - what if I never see Charlotte again? I knew that she had a “do not resuscitate - no heroic measures” directive so I couldn’t imagine them going to the hospital. I did hope I’d be able to read the story to her. I hoped they were at clinic.

I knew that the day would come when I couldn’t have my Monday visits. Of course I knew it would happen some day. And, I knew that being alive and not being able to communicate at all would be horrible.
With a weak squeeze of her hand, Charlotte can acknowledge “yes”. It may not seem like much, but it’s a very useful “yes” - as in
Do you have to use the bathroom? - squeeze “yes”
Do you need your chair adjusted - squeeze “yes”
Tilt up? Squeeze “yes”
Are you in pain?
Is the sun in your eyes?
And so on.

The following weekend, I called from my Writer’s Retreat to tell Dan that I wouldn’t be able to visit on Monday, and he said they’d been to clinic and he hoped I hadn’t worried.
“No, I figured that’s where you were.” (Like heck, I hadn't worried.)

So here it is - “Iverson’s Vision Quest”. I hope you enjoy it. I know you would have enjoyed Charlotte.

Epilogue

"If you receive this letter, I have died. I hope you will miss me some, but don't be too sad for me. I have had a wonderful life, filled with love and lots of interesting things to do and learn about. I have been lucky in my birth family and the family Dan and I formed. My folks gave me unconditional love and didn't load me up with a lot of emotional baggage. Dan and my children made my life a joyful and interesting one. Dan has been a wonderful husband and I am very proud of how my children have turned out. They are both beautiful, interesting, caring individuals.

You all, my friends, have given me love and encouragement and unlimited entertainment. I loved listening to all your stories, and you have all taught me something about life. I cherish every one of you.

Even in my last illness, I was lucky to have so much support from hospice, medical professionals, volunteers, caregivers and friends and my wonderful family.

Now a word of parting advice: In everything you do you are creating part of reality itself. Every choice you make is a small piece in the patchwork of the universe. If you believe in God as the creative force that makes everything, you must be a piece of God because you make the universe every day, by how you treat other people, by the way you decorate your homes, by the work you choose to do, by the things you create whether they are works of art, or gardens or meals or groups you organize. Everything counts. So create well. And if you think of me, plant something green to contribute your share of oxygen to the planet. After all, I am a biologist.

I had fun. Hope you did too. Goodbye. I love you all.

Charlotte"

Quested Vision

Iverson had a weakness for anything chocolate, and that craving proved to be his downfall. He’d spent two nights in the Canadian Rockies on a Vision Quest, a rite of passage for a boy entering manhood, and he was bored, hungry, and tired, and completely without visions. In fact, on the night of his disappearance, he was trying to make up a good vision story to tell his adopted parents, when he noticed a family of campers. They couldn’t see him because he was seventeen feet up a Canadian maple tree and hidden from view by an orange-red leaf the size of a Denny’s Grand Slam pancake.
And that’s when he espied it - an open rucksack containing Reese’s chocolate peanut butter cups. He fluttered his wings in anticipation, as he counted the chocolates - one, two, three – who cares – a whole lot of chocolate! And he decided to take the risk and swoop down into the rucksack for a tiny smackrel of chocolate. In the failing light, a fairy didn’t look much different from an oversized cicada - well, maybe more like an oversized dragon fly or a small bat.
Anyway, he was overlooked. With one hand holding onto his pointy green hat, Iverson dive-bombed the bag and, blissfully unaware that the humans were stirring, he sampled its contents.
But while Iverson was feasting, the Hartmans, were packing up their belongings and getting ready to leave for home the next morning. They’d had a splendid two-week adventure in the Canadian Rockies. Dan hated to leave, but it was time for them to head back to New York. “Hustle, everyone,” he said to his kids. “All that food has to get packed up good and tight into the coolers. We don’t want to attract any bears tonight.”
High on chocolate, Iverson didn’t notice the activity until, suddenly, he heard a zipping sound and everything went dark. He was locked inside. A weaker fairy might have panicked, but not Iverson. With nothing better to do, he applied his attention to a peanut butter cup as big as his face.
The next morning, everything got loaded into the car. Alpo was the only one who noticed the rucksack’s faint twitching and he snarled and lunged at it with all the ferocity of a trained attack Chihuahua, but, as usual, the humans didn’t understand. “For heaven’s sake, keep that dog away from the snacks,” said Charlotte, using her gesturing finger for emphasis, and sixteen-year-old Meg lunged for Alpo’s collar and hauled him back into her lap. Oh, the ignominy! She treated Alpo as if he were a common - shudder - dog. Alpo sneezed, licked his nose, and scratched his rump in protest. It’s hard to demand respect when you’re a Chihuahua.
They crossed the border from Canada into the United States, and said good bye to their camping adventure, and five-year-old Stuart waved to the mountains in the distance and told them he’d see them next year.
At the border, Dan waited in line with the other cars crossing into the United States. “Have you anything to declare?” asked the border guard, looking stern.
“No, nothing, said Mr. Hartman. Alpo yelped and yipped, and snarled at the border guard. He had a thing about uniforms. “Quiet, Alpo,” scolded Dan. “Meg, keep that dog still.” The border guard paused for a moment eyeing Alpo, then motioned the Hartmans to drive on through.
Meanwhile, inside the rucksack, Iverson began to get thirsty after eating all that chocolate. That was when he realized that the comfy bed he was lying on was really a juice pouch. And, several sharp bites later, he managed to poke an eyetooth through the plastic and get a deep satisfying drink. Red and sticky - this is good stuff, thought Iverson. So between the chocolate, and the Hawaiian punch, Iverson had a reasonably comfortable ride into The United States.
Back at home, Charlotte was the first person to notice the rucksack’s movements. Figuring it to be some sort of large insect, she took the bag into the back yard, unzipped it and quickly walked inside - just in case whatever was inside could sting. And so Iverson got his first glimpse of Middletown, New York and of the Hartman’s back yard.
Charlotte’s fertilizing, watering, and her war of the weeds had paid off. The bright purples, pinks, and blues of the hollyhocks next to the Kugglemans’ fence caught Iverson’s eye, and he bounced around from petal to petal, glad to be able to stretch his wings and his kneecaps.
Well, all this activity did not go unnoticed. With a terrible yap, Alpo charged at the hollyhocks biting and snapping, but Iverson was able to dance just out of the Chihuahua’s reach. However, Alpo’s persistent, annoying bark woke Mr. Kuggleman from a blissful couch nap.
Now Mr. Kuggleman and Alpo had had run-ins before, and this one was the last straw. He’d gotten used to quiet while the Hartman children and dog were on vacation. First Mr. Kuggleman tried to ignore the yapping. Then he yelled “shuddup, dog” through the window and threw his sneaker at the fence, and finally, after Alpo had been snarling, growling, barking and whining non-stop for another fifteen minutes, he filed a complaint with the County’s Animal Control Office.
Dorothea Blakley went to the Hartman house to investigate. Alpo was at the side fence barking at the hollyhocks and his tail bounced up and down with each bark.
“I don’t know what’s wrong,” said Charlotte. “He’s been doing that ever since we got back from Canada. She and Dorothea went closer to investigate, and that was the first glimpse any human had ever had of a Canadian tree fairy. (Iverson was still pretty drunk on the chocolates and not at all careful about keeping hidden from view.)
From her truck, Dorothea extracted a butterfly net, and, the next thing Iverson knew, he was trapped in a small cage in the pound. He tried to bite a hole through the mesh, but it was made of cold steel, which provides protection against fairies, as anyone knows, and anyway, the steel was much stronger than Iverson’s teeth. Dorothea consulted her supervisor because she’d never caught a fairy before, and wasn’t sure what to do with Iverson. Protocol required holding a stray animal for seven days and then either euthanizing it or making it available for adoption; so that’s what they did. They fed him crushed cat food. Iverson tried to change it into fillet mignon, but the cold steel dampened his powers, and the cat food remained cat food. Still, Iverson managed to choke some of it down to keep up his strength.
Well, the future looked grim for Iverson, and, indeed, that might have been his end had not Dorothea’s boyfriend Tom Bustly, who worked for the Department of Fish and Wildlife, made a special point of visiting the pound to see Iverson.
“That’s…that’s…I can’t believe it.” He sputtered and stared, then whipped out his digital camera and took pictures of Iverson from every angle. I’ve never seen anything like that before. “You can’t euthanize it!” he gasped. What you have here is a new species. Probably an endangered species. This is an abso-fantasmagorically amazing find.” He poured through all of his taxonomical books, but couldn’t come up with any animal matching Iverson’s description.

Every biologist dreams of discovering a new species, and Tom was no exception. “Ornithoptera, bustlii - the name swam in his head. Or maybe Magicicada, bustlii. Tom wasn’t sure of the taxonomic family much less the genus. This was huge. He invoked the Endangered Species Act and forbad the pound from euthanized Iverson. However, Tom had overlooked one detail. Iverson was not officially on the list of endangered species, and therefore was not privileged to protection under the act.
In desperation, Tom told his boss, Carney, about the creature, but Carney’s reaction was unexpected. “How did this creature get past the agricultural check point,” he asked, and, muttering something about heads rolling, made a call to his supervisor.
Kneeling next to the keyhole, Tom could hear snatches of the conversation. “Introduced species”, “threat to native wildlife”. And then there was muttering about “eradicate the threat,” and finally, “You know, chief, I’d like to dissect it.”
Tom had heard enough, and, with screeching tires, he whipped around in his Edsel and high-tailed it down to the pound at twenty-two miles per hour. He counted out his shekels and sprung Iverson out of jail - I mean the pound, and triumphantly brought Iverson’s cage back to his apartment only to be met at the door by Saidy the landlady.
“I think not,” said Saidy.
“But look how cute he is.” Tom gave her his little-boy-lost look, and held up Iverson’s cage to prove his point.
Iverson’s voice was high and squeaky, much like a cricket rubbing his hind legs together. “ Un gateau, peut etre,” said Iverson. (As a young nymph, he’d been adopted by a patriotic Quebec family of fairies).
“Agh, kill it, eradicate it, quick before it multiplies,” said Saidy. “I just spent $762 on poisons and sprays and bombs and baits, not to mention traps, glues, gloves, goggles and a gas mask. I even bought a DDT-pellet blunderbuss from a “Guy” whose address is 2.74 miles east of the village baobab tree.”
Saidy paused and gulped for air. Her face alternated between Chinese New Years’ red and ghostly bride white. “We had cockroaches the size of coconuts. They organized an army in the sub-basement and practiced military maneuvers every night under cover of darkness. And I poisoned and squished, and drowned, and bazookaed every last gushy, crunchy one of them and now you think you’re bringing another - another… thing… in here???? Not on my blunderbuss, you’re not!!!” She screwed her face into a grimace resembling a baboon’s behind.
So Tom quickly removed Iverson from the apartment and hid the cage under his Edsel’s front fender.
“Are you hungry, little guy?” asked Tom and he filled up a parakeet feeder with bird seed.
“Un morceau de fromage s’il vous plait,” chirped Iverson as Tom walked away. Glumly, Iverson picked out the sunflower seeds and managed to choke them down. Anyway, the gasoline fumes had dulled his appetite.
Tom was nothing if not resourceful and stubborn. He found numbers for the National Enquirer, the Star and the Globe and pestered the reporters. He out-paparazzied the paparazzi. This was breaking news.

That first day he got three tabloid interviews - the Globe, the Star, and a cover shot on the National Enquirer. Not satisfied with his success, he then hounded the mainline news reporters - radio, TV, and newspaper - and, finally, the Oprah show. With Oprah, he hit a soft spot, and Iverson’s plight finally got some coverage.
Meanwhile in New York, Melvin Miroguchi was feeling like dirt on a hot dog that had fallen into the cat litter box. He’d drowned himself in malt liquor, and was systematically throwing the contents of his tool box - screw drivers, electric drill bits and wrenches at the TV set when his crescent wrench hit the TV’s “on” button. Just as he was fixing to launch the electric drill at the TV sending it to its final reward, Iverson’s cherub face on Oprah caught Melvin’s attention.
Melvin’s ego was still raw from his disastrous appearance on “The Apprentice” and the infamous Porky Pig challenge, where contestants had had to sell live pigs in downtown L.A. His team mates had been dodging hog tusks and prodding the back sides of the angry swine - seven-hundred-pound slabs of thundering bacon still on the hoof - as Melvin later put it. And all the while what was Melvin doing? He had been caught on camera snoring behind some landscaping with his head propped up on a pregnant sow’s belly, the sow having been rendered unconscious by a generous serving of Stolichnaya.
Melvin was still smarting from Donald Trump’s verbal deluge to him in the board room: “Useless, blubbering chicken-twit,” and “maggot man” and “bleeping, bleep, bleep, bleeping, bleep of bleep,” and the Donald’s ultimate pronouncement: “You’re fired.”
In spite of Melvin’s misery, Iverson’s cherub face piqued his interest. Surely there was a way to cash in on this creature.
So he told Tom he wanted to help. Melvin’s gold tooth gleamed in the sunlight as he spoke. “I’ll take exceptional care of the little fellow. What a remarkable creature! What does he eat?”
“Coca Cola, et chocolate.” squeaked Iverson.
“He doesn’t seem to need much food. I’ve been feeding him bird seed, but you could try hamster pellets or maybe live crickets or mealy worms,” said Tom.
He handed the cage to Melvin who stuffed it into the back seat of his Lincoln Townhouse.
“Fois gras, Puille Fuisse, crepes Suzettes,” chirped Iverson, fondly remembering better times.
“Oh, said Melvin, “You speak French. Francais?”
“Merci a sacre nom de Dieu,” squeaked Iverson.
Melvin purchased a French-English dictionary and pushed it into Iverson’s cage, and the fairy began working with it immediately, eager for the power of being able to communicate. “Cheeseburger, French fries and a milkshake,” were Iverson’s first words in English.
While Iverson taught himself to speak English (he was a fast learner), Melvin worked on his plan for glory, wealth, and revenge on the Donald. During those days, Iverson dined on French fries, artichokes with Hollandaise, beef Wellington, and chocolate ice cream. And he discovered a new and wondrous American delicacy - lox and bagels. Melvin cheerfully shopped the gourmet food stores looking for treats for Iverson. Given Iverson’s size, it didn’t take much to fill up the fairy, and Melvin consumed the remainder.
And all the while Melvin was hatching his plot against the Donald. While a contestant on “The Apprentice”, Melvin had always felt caught off guard. If only he’d had advanced notice of the nature of the challenges and some knowledge of where the cameras would be placed! Melvin decided to use Iverson, first to learn about Trump’s plans for the next run of “The Apprentice”, and then to discover material for blackmail or bribery to guarantee Melvin a second chance to appear on to the reality show.
Iverson’s mission was to infiltrate D.T’s inner sanctum and to glue a microdot listening device to Donald Trump’s scalp underneath the Donald’s thick, lush hair. “Do this for me, and I’ll drive you all the way to Canada, Melvin promised holding crossed fingers behind his back.
“Oh, c’est marvaileuse!! Merci, merci, mon ami,” said Iverson. In a moment of ecstasy, he had reverted to his native French.
So Melvin suited Iverson up in a mini camouflage suite fitted with a back pack of mini burglar tools and a micro-dot listening device, along with a mini tube of super glue for sticking the dot to D.T.’s pate.
Shortly before five o’clock, Melvin drove Iverson to a spot three blocks north of Trump Tower and pointed the way to the tower’s front door. Iverson entered the lobby of the building unnoticed, and settled himself behind a lush, potted ficus to wait until most of the employees had left the building before making his way to the air duct. Iverson had memorized his path through the ventilation system. Right turn, left turn, proceed past the dining hall to the vertical chute, and then straight up to the Donald’s penthouse suite. Inside the penthouse he found Mr. Trump alone in his study pouring over his notes for the next “Apprentice” series. Iverson eased his way through the vent’s grill and landed unnoticed on the Donald’s head.
Now fairies, even good fairies, are known for their love of mischief, and it had been a long time since Iverson had had a good chuckle. “Atten-hut” he commanded the hair and all the strands stood straight up at attention. He squeaked another command, and the hair styled itself into a Mohawk, then into spikes, then into a comb-over.
Trump suddenly became aware of a strange tingling sensation occurring on his head. Trump’s room was decorated with floor to ceiling mirrors, and checking his reflection in them, he was surprised to see his hair waltzing, bee-bopping and hula-ing across his head, and finally settling into the comb-over.
Meanwhile, crouched behind the comb-over, Iverson took the top off of the crazy glue tube, plopped a big glob of glue onto the Donald’s pate, and quickly dropped the microdot on top of it. But the glue was runny and dribbled out of the tube and all over Trump’s head. Iverson had to jump onto Trump’s ear to avoid getting stuck. And that’s when the Donald spotted him. He swatted at Iverson first with his left hand, and then his right, and of course both hands got stuck to his hair. He grunted, swore, and, with a mighty lunge, pulled both hands free, removing two huge hunks of that lush hair he’d been so proud of. Horrified Trump looked into the mirror to see pink skin and red welts where abundant waves and curls, so carefully styled, had once lain.
 
Ever the helpful fairy, Iverson provided Donald Trump with a possum-hair toupee, but that just seemed to infuriate the Donald all the more. His face turned bright red, then purple, and Iverson wished he’d had his French-English dictionary available for all the new words he heard that night. “Impudent cockroach!” screamed Donald. Iverson understood that. In retaliation, he elongated Donald’s nose and ears. (Well, Iverson did need to practice!) He examined his work; he grinned; he chuckled; and finally he collapsed in hysterics on the Donald’s laptop, and Trump quickly overturned an ornamental cold-iron chalice on top of the computer, trapping Iverson inside it.
Then, in a fit of rage, Donald Trump pawed his furry hands around the telephone receiver and speed-dialed a direct line to Homeland Security.
Captain Chuck Walton, Homeland’s duty officer that night, was surprised to hear Donald Trump’s strained voice on the other end of the hot line. “Major threat to national security…..Direct attack to my person. …Eluded the most sophisticated security system next to the Pentagon.”
On the other end of the phone, Walton snapped to attention. He’d been preparing for this moment all his life, it seemed. “Aye, aye, sir. Right away, sir! You can count on me, sir.” Straightaway, he dispatched an NYPD SWAT team to Trump Tower. Then, to be on the safe side, he activated two squadrons from the National Guard, the Blue Angels, three stealth bombers and seven helicopters for initial reconnaissance. And so began the ill-fated invasion of Trump Tower.
Helicopter pilot Lester Barkley was first to report in. “No sign of Trump,” he said, “I see only one terrorist - a strange man - Caucasian - average height and build - with pronounced ears and nose, and a truly terrible toupee. Other terrorists are probably somewhere inside hiding. I’m now commencing hostage negotiations.”
And with that Barkley brought the bull horn to his face. “Ahoy, terrorist,” he said. “You are completely surrounded. Resistance is futile.” (He’d always wanted to say that.) “Place your weapons on the table slowly and walk over to the window. Keep your hands in plain sight at all times.”
It took Donald Trump several minutes to realize that the man was talking to him. “I’m no terrorist, you Dunderhead,” said Trump.
“What have you done with Trump?” asked Barkley.
“I am Trump,” said the Donald, and he started to explain that the terrorist in question had been sitting on his left ear, and was now buzzing around inside of a chalice on top of his computer but realized he’d better not go that route.
“How many of you are there?”
“All a mistake,” said Trump alarmed by the helicopters buzzing around Trump Tower. “No threat to national security.” Maybe he had over-reacted.!
“That’s what they all say,” said Barkley. “Why should I believe you, you sicko terrorist bastard?”
“But I’m the one who called you.”
“Donald Trump called in the threat, and you, my twisted, misguided friend, are no Donald Trump. Do you think I don’t know what Trump looks like? I’ll give you ten minutes - five minutes to release Trump and five minutes for you and your friends to give yourselves up - or else me and my pals here, well, we’ll just teach you what it means to mess with the good old U. S. of A.”
The ten minutes passed in a twinkling.
“Commence firing,” ordered Barkley. Leading the attack, he lobbed a couple of smoke bombs through a window into the room. Trump scrambled under his desk. A round of sub-machine gun fire followed. Trump’s cherished sculptures crashed to the floor in bits. Paintings fell. One of the bullets hit the rim of the chalice knocking it over and freeing Iverson. His wings were crumpled, his back was scrunched, and his pointy hat was now pointy in several new angles but he was fundamentally okay. Then he took a breath and his lungs protested, with squeaky spasms of gasping and coughing, against the cloud of toxic gas, and his eyes burned as if scratched by hawk talons. The magic spell he needed was new and strange to him, but Iverson was able to manufacture a mini gas mask to protect his eyes and lungs from the stinging, choking smoke.
“Sacre nom de Dieu,” said Iverson to himself, surveying the disaster scene. Trump’s bed, desk, dresser, and TV had been hit. Sparks from the dying television threatened to send the living room up in smoke. Trump was hugging the floor of his penthouse trying to breathe. It had started as a joke - just a harmless, prank. How had everything gotten so out of hand? Iverson felt a sudden unexpected pang of guilt for his part in causing the invasion, and he tried to make a larger gas mask for the Donald to wear until the peppery gas cleared away.
Then he remembered the rain dance his adopted grandfather and had taught him -
“Hey, wey, ey, ey, hey, wey, ey, ey,” he chanted, while flapping his arms in the air high over his head and hopping on one foot - three hops on his left foot and six hops on the right. A light mist began to collect over Iverson’s head which grew into a drizzling rain that filled the penthouse and began to knock the tear gas out of the air.
And while the helicopters continued to shell the Donald’s suite from the air, foot soldiers from the National Guard began swarming into Trump Tower from the street. Concerned that the elevators could be booby trapped, the troops climbed the emergency staircase up to Trump’s apartment. Periodically, they noticed what could be suspicious activity, and shot off a round of fire just in case.
The first object to enter Trump’s apartment was the butt of a rifle belonging to private first class Thomas Glimme, followed, shortly thereafter, by Thomas Glimme himself, all one hundred and eighteen pounds of him. Iverson had enough presence to conjure up a Photo-Hut-sized boulder which completely blocked the doorway behind private Glimme, keeping the rest of the guard out of the penthouse, at least temporarily. Thomas squinted. Dust and smoke still hung in the air. Shrapnel, crushed pottery, and pieces of furniture covered the floor. ‘Like the morning after a really good party,’ thought Thomas surveying the scene. He looked under the remains of the desk and caught sight of the possum-my Donald Trump wearing what appeared to be a muzzle, alternately bellowing and shivering next to an enormous butterfly-like creature in camouflage tentatively removing a gas mask from its face.
Thomas’s orders were to shoot to kill anyone not fitting the description of Donald Trump. And he figured that Iverson was some weird new biological weapon of mass destruction, but Thomas was also a biologist, and couldn’t bring himself to destroy these specimens. Meanwhile rifle butts and combat boots were crashing through the front wall of the penthouse. “Sacre nom de Dieu!” breathed Iverson.

“Oh, you speak Italian,” said Thomas.
Iverson was able to produce cement to dam up some of the holes in the wall, but he was still immature as fairies go, and he was fast losing ground against the National Guardsmen trying to break down the front wall. ‘We need a diversion,’ thought Iverson and succeeded in pouring a pool of blackberry Jell-o just outside of the penthouse.
The room stilled. Dust settled. As Trump cautiously removed his muzzle - I mean his gas mask - Thomas looked at Iverson in wonder and smiled.
“Enchante,” said Iverson, bowing. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”
Thomas also bowed. “Would you like some salami and foot cheese,” he asked and pulled a snack out of his pocket. A bond instantly formed between fairy and National Guardsman.
“Peut etre,” said Iverson, stuffing a largish hunk of the salami into his mouth, “we could get away from here and discuss le pax - the peace.” And as a gesture of good will, Iverson removed the pointed nose and ears from Trump replacing them with Trump’s pre-incident features.
Trump surveyed the ruins of what used to be his luxurious apartment. “Agreed,” he said, knowing a good deal when he heard it.
“Sure,” said Thomas. “These combat boots are killing my toes.”
Iverson tried to return Trump’s hair to what it had been, but his magic wasn’t powerful enough, and Trump ended up - to this day as far as I know - with a bad toupee glued to his head.
Moments later, the front wall collapsed and dozens of Guardsmen poured into the room.
“This is the hero who saved my life,” said Trump, throwing his arms around Thomas like a long-lost brother, while Iverson hid from view in Thomas’ pocket.
“But the terrorists…. Where is everyone?” The rest of the National Guardsmen were dumbfounded.
“Gone,” said the Donald gesturing into the air and shaking his head. “When this brave man broke into the room, they knew they had lost, and they blew themselves up. Their remains lie buried somewhere in all this debris.”
Shortly thereafter, Thomas walked out of the penthouse with Iverson still in his pocket.
“Shall we grab a brewsky or two?” suggested Thomas.
“Certainment,” said Iverson.
Several brewskies later, Iverson became quite talkative. “Before a boy can truly call himself a man, he must go alone into the woods, there to wait for a vision - a sign that points out his way in the world and the meaning to his existence. But I have failed as a seeker of wisdom. I have seen no vision, and I long in vain for home - for my home - for my Canadian trees. They stand so tall you can climb until your head touches the heavens. And the Rockies never lose their snowy hats, even on the hottest summer day, and when the sun sets it’s as if the sky has exploded with wine and berries. And the birds - the geese and hawks and eagles and songbirds - they’re all my friends, and I know them and I honk and whistle and chirp to them, and when we ride the breezes together, it’s as if the earth is playing catch with us and we are her beanbags.
“And mon pere, et ma mere.” Here Iverson blew his nose loudly on his shirt sleeve. “My family, my home!”
Weeping softly, Iverson broke into song.
“Oh, Canada,
My home and native land.”
Deeply touched by the story, Thomas pulled out a hankie and wiped his own eyes and nose.
“Will I ever see them again?” Iverson sighed.
“Well,” said Thomas after a deep swig of Heinekens, “I think we should see C the Great.”
“C the Great,” Iverson repeated in wonder.
“Yes. C the Great. She is all-knowing. If anyone can help you, she can.
They found C the Great in the middle of a field of irises making greeting cards out bits of leaf and petals and strips of rattan. She wore a green muumuu and gold lame´ slippers.
Iverson bowed low in respect and told her his problem.
“Are you an American citizen?” asked C the Great. Iverson shook his head. “Do you have a green card? A visa? A passport?” Again Iverson shook his head.
“Are you a political refugee seeking asylum in America?”
“Mais, non!” said Iverson vehemently shaking his head yet one more time.
“That’s the answer then - the Border Patrol,” said C.
“Qu’est que c’est que ca?”
“Imigration and Naturalization. You’re an illegal alien.”
“I never rode a space ship in my life!” said Iverson.
“An illegal alien to this country. The authorities will deport you back to Canada”
“Home, my family!” said Iverson beginning to hope. “I’ll be home. But, sadly, my vision quest has failed.
“Have you not journeyed?” Charlotte demanded.
“Well yes, from Canada to New York, to the pound, to the front fender, and the ventilation shaft and the exploding penthouse in the sky.”
“And you have learned?” Charlotte prompted.
“Never take chocolate, especially a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup, that doesn’t belong to you, and don’t turn anyone into a possum.”
“Your purpose is peace; your path is with mortals; and your animal totem is the lofty possum. And don’t discount your vision simply because it really happened. Now wait here while I call Immigration and have you deported. C the Great flounced out of the room with Iverson calling out to her, “thank you and good bye!”

Days later in Quebec, Iverson recounted his experiences in America to his family - his incarceration at the pound, the battle of Trump Tower, his new friend Thomas, and the wonderful fishy experience of lox and cream cheese.
“Incroyable,” said his father. “Quell visions fantastique! Vraiment tu es un homme, en plein, maintenent!” And he hugged his son, now a man, and kissed him on both his cheeks.

The Way of the Pack

I finally had my human trained. We were sleeping in the woods - a church campout, they called it, and oh, it was a glorious time! We ran through grass and mud with human puppies, and I almost caught a gopher! No fooling! I sniffed behind a rock and there was its scent. Well, dirt was flying faster than I could sneeze it out of my nose, and pretty soon I had a hole big enough to stick my whole head through.

And all the time the humans were patting my head and rubbing my tummy and making a big deal over me. “You’re such a good girl, Molly.” “Good dog, Molly!”You’re so beautiful!” And so on. I was positively giddy with delight.
The best part of camping was the night. I’d sleep on my human’s sleeping bag curled around her feet. My heart was at peace, and I fell asleep each night next to her. Our smells, our warmth, the rhythm of our breathing came together I n a supreme oneness. Before this camping trim, my human had never let me sleep with her. But this the way of the dog pack and the way is good.

I have to say Molly was really well-behaved on the campout.
I don’t know what possessed me to stop by the pound last week. I guess I was getting pretty lonely rattling around my house all by myself. But once I saw her huddled in the corner of her cage, I knew I had to have her. She looked so miserable shivering and cowering, her hind end all wet. Sadder than any other dog in the pound, sadder than any dog I’d ever seen in my entire life. I’d signed the papers before I knew what hit me.

But this campout may have been my last. I don’t sleep well in a bed with an expensive mattress, and these last three nights were like some kind of torture. I’d forgotten to bring an air mattress and pillow, so I had to lie on hard ground with a sweater under my head. Molly took up a huge chunk of the sleeping bag, so I couldn’t do much stretching or tossing. She did keep my toes warm, though, and she went right to sleep the minute I did. I couldn’t wait to get home to a really good bed and a really good night’s sleep.

After a car ride where I got to stick my head out of the window, we came to our house. Right away, I recognized the pine tree in front, which the neighbor’s beagle had marked. Inside I was overjoyed by the comforting familiarity of the smells of carpet and couch leather, with my master’s smell blended into everything in the room. I licked her nose, then jumped about from couch to couch while my master played fetch with some suitcases.

I was so tired and groggy from not sleeping, it was all I could do to get the camping gear into the front hallway. I threw a load of laundry into the washing machine, using the last of the laundry detergent, then started dressing and showering for bed.

My master’s bedroom door was open. I jumped onto the bed finding a good spot in the middle and I dug at the cover making a nice nest for myself. My master’s smell was everywhere lulling me with security.

“Molly, No! Get off the bed. Bad dog!”

I cringed. Had she learned nothing from our nights at the campout? I rolled over onto my back. Why was she so angry? What happened to “adorable” and “great dog?” I wagged my tail and cocked my head in a submissive manner.“Molly, No. Get down.”
Now she was grabbing my collar and pulling me off the bed. And so I humbled myself still more. Lying on my back on the bedspread, I leaked the yellow water, letting it dribble down my hind legs and onto the bedding. This the way of the pack. The way the weakest shows submission.

“No, you stupid dog!” No!” I've never called a dog stupid in my life, but I was so tired. I pulled Molly off the bed and yanked off the bedspread and the blankets wet with dog pee. In a fog of sleep deprivation, I drove down to Safeway for a gallon of Tide. By the time everything was washed, I was too tired to think in a straight line. Gratefully, I collapsed into my bed.
Was the front door locked? Probably not. I was so tired, it was easy to forget locking the front door. I pulled back the covers and fumbled around for my slippers.

The bedroom door was open. If my master could feel the oneness of sleeping with me, our smells blending together, she’d let me jump on the bed. She’d pet me and call me ‘good Molly’ and everything would be harmony. Besides, her bed was so much softer than the pillow she’d left for me to sleep on.

“Molly, No! Get down. Go sleep in your own bed.”

She didn’t sound pleased. Not at all. I leaked more yellow water as a sign of submission, but she got even madder and put me into the garage without speaking to me.

I shivered from the loneliness and misery even though the garage wasn’t particularly cold, and fell asleep listening to the sloshing and thumping sounds of the washing machine which reminded me of the slathering grunts of a pit bull.
I scratched at a throw rug she’d left for me and huddled and shivered myself to sleep and dream myself back in dog jail. Cement cell walls confining me. Humans staring at me through wire and talking with loud voices, and laughing because of my wet tail. But the worst was the canine sounds. There were the yelping sounds of a dog in pain, and maybe the next yelping dog would be me. And always the throaty threats and rumblings of the dog gangs – the Dobermans, the German shepherds, and the junkyard mutts. These were the dogs whose characters had been toughened by survival in the dumps and back alleys, and whose sweet doggie tempers had been beaten until the dogs were hardened into killing machines. I understood the language of their growling.
And then there was the room in the back. We dogs didn’t understand, but we could sense the terrible air of fear and sadness mingled with the smell of antiseptic. Sometimes a dog with a rope around its neck would be pulled into the room, its eyes, wide, bulging with fear. And the dog never came back out…
The cold hard floor of the garage was like the floor of my cell in dog jail. In my dream, I could hear the taunts of the gang dogs. “You’re next you collie bitch. First I’ll hump you, then I’ll tear you apart for pleasure.” A rope was tight around my neck, and I was being dragged past the pit bulls and Rottweillers toward the back of the jail. I strained against the human guard and dug my pads into the cement floor. I tugged against the rope tightening around my throat, but it was in vain. They were too strong. Slowly, relentlessly, they pulled me toward the Room. I saw the door open. Rough hands pushed me through.I was wakened by the sound of my own howling. Was this a dream or a premonition? I needed my human to console me, to rub my back, and pet my tummy and talk quietly to me, but there was just the garage. Even the washing machine was still now.

I woke up feeling a little better. I called in sick at the office, fed Molly, and went back to sleep. It had been a mistake to get a dog. I didn’t need this aggravation. I should just take Molly back to the pound. She was so pretty, surely someone else would adopt her right away. Remembering the night before and the wet bedding, I gave her a final dirty look and went back to sleep.
I slept till about ten o’clock, drank some coffee to put my brain back in gear, then straightened the house, finished the laundry, and stowed the camping supplies, thinking about Molly and the dog pound all the while.
“Come on, Molly, let’s go for a ride.” She came willingly, panting with a doggie grin. She’s adorable, I thought but I just can’t handle a dog right now. “Get into back seat.” She jumped in knowing that a car was meant for fun. I tied her back with the tears starting. I petted the fur under her oh so soft chin, and looked into her oh so trusting brown eyes. “Good bye, dog. I’ll miss you.” We drove toward the pound.
Just one last run at the park, I thought. I have the day free anyway.
Molly was a perfect lady on the leash, walking by my side with only an occasional tug at a passing squirrel. Here eyes looked up at me adoringly. I remembered the campout, and how well she’d behaved. I remembered her cuddling next to my feet at night on the sleeping bag. No wonder she wanted to sleep on my bed.
I took her home and gave her a great big Milk Bone, and petted her stomach and told her what a truly remarkable dog she was. She needs me. Whatever else happens, she’s my dog now.

I gaze longingly at the human’s bed and yearn to feel the softness of the mattress and the warmth of her feet under my chin. To be one with her in slumber. But the ways of her pack are foreign and strange, and I have much to learn.
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The End

Meg's Tale

The phone rang, and it was Mom’s caregiver, Stephanie. “You need to come now, Jenny. She’s asking for you and she’s looking fragile. I don’t think she’ll last the night.” Of course I’d been expecting this phone call for some time, and I thought I was ready for it, but apparently, you’re never ready for it.

Mom had been fragile for some time now. And I was used to it. I was used to her rambling conversations, and her hands shaking, and the times she couldn’t make it to the bathroom, and all the other losses one after another - the indignities that came as her body shut down, one function after the other.

When I got to her room, her hands were drumming on the coverlet, marching to a beat that only she could hear. And she shook her head hard against the pillows until she’d mashed her hair into a rat’s nest. And all the while, her eyes darted back and forth, glassy with panic. She was agitated, really agitated. I hadn’t seen her that bad in a long time.

“It’s okay, Meg,” Stephanie said, her voice steady and soothing. “I’ll get something to help you relax.” She prepared a syringe with morphine while I held Mom’s hand. “No morphine,” she said. “Not yet. I have to. See… they’ve been here and I must.. .oh, whatever it is. Where did I put it?”

I had gotten used to those words. She had to catch a bus or meet Pa – now dead for seven years, or return a library book or buy ice cream, or a hundred other things. I usually couldn’t tell what it was that she had to do. So I’d just nod and smile and say okay until it passed and there was something else she had to do.
“Bottom drawer. On the left. Important, see it’s the bottom. I left it there.”
“Okay Mom, I’ll get to it.”
“Right now. Get it.”
“Okay, just let me sit a minute.”
“No! Now!” She would have screamed, if she’d had the strength. Instead, she whispered a raspy, gurgling sound, and her eyes bulged like a Boston terrier’s.
“Okay, Mom. Please take it easy.”
I got up, hoping to find something in the drawer to stop her restlessness. Meanwhile Stephanie tried to ease the needle’s point under Mom’s skin. Mom screamed and threw her arms rigidly into the air, and I had to hold her as gently as I could, willing her struggling to subside, while Stephanie gave her the morphine.
“Get it now. And check for ants,” Mom said. After a few moments, she softened in my arms like a rag doll.
“I love you Mom.”

“You were only three years old.” Those were the last words she ever said. About an hour later, she died. And I cried. Like a baby, like someone who lost everything important. Because she was my life, my best friend, and my comforter.
And my brain wrapped itself in fog as I called the coroner, and then waited, and answered questions, and signed papers, and saw my mother’s body taken away. And finally, numb and trembling, I drove back to my house. I showered and climbed into bed, and stared at nothing, wishing Mom were back, and wishing I were asleep.

The next day, still in shock and very shaky, I did those things you have to do when your mother dies – call a priest, arrange for a funeral, write an obituary. I began the phone calls to friends and family. Mom had had lots of friends but she was ninety-two when she died, and most of her friends had gone before her, so the phone call list was pretty short. And then there was nothing to do. The air was thick, the walls seemed to close in, and there was just nothing to do.

For distraction, I turned on the TV, and got flooded with advertisements. My Mom had died, and all the TV could talk about was eyeliner, hamburgers, and designer fashions for cheap. And then, Meg Whitman ads hit the screen - three of them in the space of ten minutes. I bristled. She had my mother’s name, but nothing else about her was like my mother. She’d paid herself a hundred million dollars. Mom and Pa had struggled their whole lives.

She had my mother’s name. Meg. That was the name my grandmother used to call Mom when I was a little girl. And I loved it. Because the name spoke of home and of hearts as warm as the arms that hugged me tight.

Another ad. Can you buy a state with enough money? Meg Whitman blamed the unions and the little old guys drawing pensions, and the undocumented aliens for California’s woes. She stood for big business - rich, clever and good.

Mom would have flipped her finger at the TV. I could imagine her clear, low voice: “Tax cuts for the rich, the housing market crash, Enron, rolling blackouts, banking scams and million-dollar bonuses doled out to the very ones responsible for the mess. And now they hope we’ll elect them to run our state!” The words disappeared in a twinkling, replaced by ideas tumbling around inside my head.

Mom would have taken a stand. And I wanted to speak up, as a sort of tribute to her memory, but I couldn’t see it or express it or draw it or sing it or shout it, or even pray about it. The words hid themselves behind a shapeless wad that was feelings, all stuffed inside of me. Lukewarm, mush that’s been standing, that’s me, I thought. Absentmindedly, I rubbed my hand along my leg, feeling the bumps of a very old scar.

That night I dreamed about a wild little boy swinging a baseball bat. The principal said that the child was violent, and there wasn’t anything she could do.

He kept on swinging; only now he was swinging paddles instead of a bat. I came up behind him and got his arms pinned to his sides. So much I wanted to say. “You have power now with those paddles, but it’s only temporary. And you’re giving up so much for that power. Who’s going to trust you? You can’t play with the other kids, or have fun or get to go places or do things. You can’t be trusted. Who knows what you’ll do? And there are so many good things you could do. You could be a friend. You could make things better. As it stands, you’re good for nothing.” He struggled, but I held his arms pinned to his sides. And he was inside me.
I woke up with my hand clapped tightly over my mouth.

A couple of days later, Mom's landlady called with her condolences, and said that she’d give me some extra time to clear out the apartment, but she really needed it empty by the fifteenth of August.

So one particularly lousy Saturday, I let myself inside and went through her things. There were pitifully few of them. Most of her cherished knickknacks had been sold at the garage sale right before she’d given up her oh-so  loved home and moved into the apartment. Independent living they called it.

I didn’t think Mom had made out a will, but it didn’t matter. She didn’t have much money, and, anyway, I was the only one left. Still, there might be some charity or some friend that she wanted to remember. And maybe that’s what she wanted me to know with her last words. I looked in that bottom left drawer, and in the very bottom I found a worn, yellowed manila envelope. From inside of it, I pulled out a spiral notebook, and I cried because the pages were filled out in Mom’s handwriting. The writing was faded and it was hard to make out some of the words. On the first page of the notebook, she’d added a Post-it, and the shakiness of the handwriting indicated that she’d added it recently. “This happened in 1939,” said the Post-it. “And I was too frightened to speak.  But we can’t forget it, because if we do, it’ll happen again.”

I half expected Mom to sit down next to me and drape an arm across my shoulders. In fact, I imagined that she did exactly that, as I sat down on her chintz-covered couch and began to read the notebook.

The day James landed the job in the petroleum refinery, we celebrated with Gallo wine and Spam sandwiches. The money was nothing at first, barely enough to scrape by on, but everyone knew that, if you worked hard, you’d climb up the ladder and then they’d treat you good and you and your family, you’d be sitting easy. Only trouble was we never did know anyone who was sitting easy – least not any of us.
Well, the work was hard, but James, he never grumbled. But I worried. He came home every night smelling of sulfur and diesel, and the smell was on the clothes, and if they got mixed up with Jenny’s clothes, then her clothes smelled of diesel and sulfur too. And I noticed that James was coughing a lot and getting short of breath. Pay wasn’t much, but we didn’t want to get branded as trouble makers, so we weren’t complaining about it.
Maxfield Grossman used to show up outside of Gate 14 at 5:30 a.m. on the first Tuesday of every month. Every month he had a new flyer that he was trying to pass out. And he’d try to get the men to come to a union meeting. “How about it, James?” he’d say. And James would say, “I need this job, and I’m not about to risk losing it for a couple of extra dollars.”
But then there was the turnaround – when they had to shut down one of the plants for maintenance – and, during this particular turnaround, Harvey and Earl had to muck out the still bottoms. Near as I can figure, this is what happened. They had to crawl into the reaction tanks and clean out the tar which was stuck to everything.
There’s supposed to be someone on watch whenever anyone’s inside the tanks, and that was supposed to be Milton. Only Milton had been called down to the pier to help unload, so no one was watching Harvey and Earl. And Earl had asked KO, the foreman, if they could wait till Milton got back so that they could have someone on watch, but KO just said to be careful. And KO was all grumbling and mean because, while the plant was shut down, there was no product heading for market.
Turnarounds always took longer than they were supposed to, and everyone was grumpy on account of the long hours and the heavy work. And KO was grumpy because his boss kept on his back about when they’d get the plant up and running again. But mostly KO was grumpy because he was just plain mean. So he told Harvey and Earl to get their asses inside the tank and start mucking.
Well, Harvey and Earl, they hung a sign on a post or something saying that they were inside. All the equipment was already turned off on account of the turnaround, and then they dressed down to their skivvies and put on a rubber suite attached to a thick hose that supplied clean air for breathing, and climbed down a ladder into the tank and started the cleaning. Only trouble was there were still a few puddles of a soupy liquid in the bottom of the tank, and someone – they never did figure out who – turned on the pump while Harvey and Earl were still inside.
First the ladder got knocked over. The puddled liquid was strong acid and it started splashing, and it ate through the rubber suits in next to no time, and Harvey and Earl, they started hollering, only no one could hear their voices from inside the suits and over the roar of the pumps. Earl, he climbed out, but Harvey’s hose line got hung up on something.

Well, James, he was the first one to hear the ruckus and he slapped at the controls to stop the machinery. Earl had run over to the safety shower, but no water was coming out of it, and Earl must have been panicking, because he just kept yelling and pulling on the handle, and still no water came out.
So James grabbed at Earl’s arm and managed to steer him across the walkway to another safety shower, and he yanked at the handle and managed to get water out of it. He tore away at the pieces of suit that were still stuck to Earl’s body. They both stood under the shower just catching their breath, and James could feel the acid stinging him through his shirt. Meanwhile, some of the other guys got Harvey out of the tank, and everyone could tell then and there that he wasn’t going to make it. They got him on a stretcher, and by that time, he wasn’t screaming or crying or anything. Only his arms and his legs were twitching and shaking, and his eyes kept rolling back into his head.
KO said it was all Earl and Harvey’s fault for going into the tank without a watch, but James had heard the whole thing.
And they’d promised the men time and a half for working the turnaround, but it turned out that the work was badly behind schedule, so instead they docked the men for the extra down time. And the next time, Max showed up at Gate 14 with flyers announcing a union meeting, James said, ”count me in.”
And I said, “James, I’m going too. This union stuff scares me to Kingdom Come, and if you’re going to do something dumb, I want to know what it is.”
Mrs. McConnell next door was going to watch Jenny, but she couldn’t at the last minute, so we bundled her up in a nightgown and took her with us.
Well, seventeen of the men showed up that night, and they talked about money and safety. Jenny was almost asleep, and, truth be told, so was I, and that’s when some union busters crashed through the door and all hell broke loose.
James and Jenny and I were sitting near a back window, and James pushed us out through it. And for a while I thought we were safe, that we wouldn’t be discovered.
There were about thirty of them, each covered up in a sheet, and they started swinging at our guys with clubs.
The ghost men! I remembered it suddenly - like water spilling over the side of a dam, the memories all but drowned me. Ghost men! In my head, that’s what I called the bad men because of the sheets. I remembered it – remembered the night - crouching in some bushes behind a big old half-dead tree. Ma had told me to be quiet, but I screamed, and she put her hand over my mouth. They must have beat up Pa. I remembered the sounds – swishy, slapping sounds like when you work on a punching bag. And sharp, stinging sounds. I could recognize Pa’s voice trying not to scream but still some grunts and groans and swearing got out of him like bursts from a shotgun.

And I could hear the sounds as if they’d just happened, and they sent a shiver through me, a prickly frozen feeling, dull and prison gray - like walls of fear, keeping the screaming inside, not daring to let it loose.

With every inch of me, I wanted to throw the notebook away, never to touch the sensations associated with it. But I knew I had to finish reading it. I owed at least that much to my mother. And I had to do it right now, because this was a place in my mind that I didn’t want to have to visit again, ever. I turned the page.

Instead of Mom’s loopy writing, the next page had pictures attached by yellow, crinkled tape. The first one was of Pa with a swollen lip and dried blood around his nose and mouth. Next, there was a photo of his leg, all bruised purple and swollen. And a photo of his back criss-crossed with thick, bloody cuts and welts. And finally, there was a picture of a small child’s leg, my leg, with a bright red burn on it.

The picture of Pa’s back was the worst. It made me ache to look at it. Instinctively, I slapped my hand over my mouth to stifle the scream. My hand was clammy, and suddenly I was oh, so cold. And my chest was heavy, as if crushed by rocks.

I turned the page to find more of Mom’s journaling.

There we were crouched down in some sorry shrubbery. I tried to keep Jenny still, but she was only three and she was scared, and her screaming attracted the men’s attention. One of them grabbed me and another snatched Jenny. Just pulled her right out of my arms. They taped her mouth to still her screaming. And one guy lit a cigarette, and he brought it up to her face. I watched the dull orange ember and I saw the tail of ashes grow. Closer and closer, he brought it up to her face. I remember screaming “No!” and just crying and crying. And he dropped it into Jenny’s lap.
“Hey, let her be,” said the other one. “She’s just a kid.”
“Hell, she’s nothin’ but a red diaper baby.”I remember his words, the way he spit them at us, like we were dead sewer rats, stinking, disgusting. He played some more with us and with the cigarette, and then he put it out – on Jenny’s leg. She screamed, but the sound couldn’t get out on account of the tape. He put it out as if Jenny’s leg was an ashtray.
Then they raped me. They hurt me bad. I never did tell James. I don’t think he ever found out.
I can’t write any more about that.
Then they threw us all into the backs of a couple of pick-ups and they drove us out to the fields and left us there still tied and taped. Like buckets of hog slop. Some of the men finally managed to work their ropes loose and we began the long walk towards home.
I think James had a sprain or break or something and he limped like crazy, but he didn’t let on that it hurt ‘cause Jenny was so young and so spooked. I knew she was hungry and hurting but somehow, she knew not to cry – just stumble along. Pa and I carried her some, and some of the others did too, but we were all pretty messed up, and she ended up walking a far stretch of the way by herself.
My hand still covered my mouth, pressing hard to hold back the scream, because, if I could just hold it back, then that terrible night wouldn’t have happened. Pa’s back and Mom’s crying, they were all my fault. All my fault because of me screaming. But I’d never do that again. No matter what, I’d keep still. For the rest of my life, I would keep still.

Then everything would be all right.

But it had happened, and I remembered it, the explosion of pain, and the smell of my burned flesh. I could still smell that tobacco mingled with my burning flesh. That smell was to stay with me for the rest of my life, a crushing, stifling feeling. I never did try smoking. I was just about the only kid in my high school class who had never smoked.

I was sitting cross-legged on the floor, and I was cold through to the bone and shaking like I’d never stop. Fearful memories rushed through me like a typhoon, pressing hard against my chest. It felt like I was having a heart attack. I was about to die, and I’d die with Ma’s words hidden behind my hand. So I forced my hand from my mouth, and threw back my head, and screamed.

At first it was just a mewing sound barely strong enough to make it out of my mind, then a sick croak, and finally, a long wail and a full, scream – primitive, torn from my soul.
For a long time I rocked back and forth and cried like I’d never stop, and the rhythm and the tears were soothing like balm on a bad wound. And I just sat there rocking and crying my body’s rhythms back to normal. The crushing, icy dread subsided. I felt lighter, stronger, as if I’d just wakened from a nightmare, as if I’d killed Sauron. I looked back at the journal. There were only a few more paragraphs left.

It was the KKK that did it. Most people think that they only bothered blacks, but they also went after Jews and communists, and union organizers. And they surely went after us.
Looking back, it’s amazing that unions ever got on. It seems like they had everything stacked against them. The owners had money, respectability. They had the ear of the newspapers, and the use of the sheriff to keep us in line.
And yet the unions had to win. There were too many of us. And we didn’t have much to lose. When our kids went hungry or got sick and we couldn’t afford a doctor – well, then you’d do just about anything, and that includes organizing. But in the end we had to win. There were too many of us and we were too poor.
I looked down at my hands, now resting in my lap, and I knew I would speak and write, and shout and sing and pray my mother’s story - as if I’d ripped the tape off of my mouth. And as for Meg Whitman’s ads, well, they were a step backwards, a step towards the days when profit counted for more that human lives.

So I copied my mother’s journal, and published it in a blog on the internet. And at the bottom of the page, I added:

“FIX CALIFORNIA. TAX THE RICH.”

“DID YOU GET A MILLION $ BONUS? GIVE IT BACK.”

“WHOEVER DIES WITH THE MOST TOYS LOSES.”

And I made up business cards and passed them around everywhere I could think of. They had the web address on them and the words “I love you, Mom.” I hoped that people would read the blog and know my mother, but at least I felt comforted knowing that I had done my best to tell her story to the world.

About a week after I’d given away the last business card, I saw a car with a bumper sticker on it FIX CALIFORNIA. TAX THE RICH. And the address for my blog was there in tiny letters. I felt like hiding. It wasn’t my style to be noticed. But this was about Mom. At least that’s what I told myself. So I made up a bumper sticker for myself as well. And I made up some posters and hammered them into the ground where motorists could see them.
The bumper stickers and signs multiplied into the thousands, until they were a common sight throughout California.

Then, a six-year-old kid walked into a clinic with a Tupperware container filled with pennies and nickels that he wanted to donate. His story made the news. After that, others donated to the clinics and the after-school programs. Welfare moms volunteered their time. People volunteered and donated in droves. Everyone wanted to help fix California.

And then the miracle happened. A billionaire gave away his bonus. Not to fund his political agenda – he just gave the money to three public schools, with no strings attached. Some of the others followed, giving their bonuses to hospitals and Head Start programs, and to Oakland’s police department, and to the cities and counties that had cut their budgets. Because it was the locals who, ultimately, had paid for the bonuses. WE were the ones who had paid for the bonuses.

It happened all over the country. “It’s only fair - the right thing to do,” someone said. I saw it on the news – the best news cast I’d ever seen.

I went to work on another poster with a song of thanks on my lips.

The Last Paparazzo

The Last Paparazzo


Leaving rehab was like parasailing. Walking out the doors of the Betty Ford Clinic, Nina felt so light, it was almost as if she could spread out her arms and take off on the air currents. She felt wild and free, and she was. She sped up, all but running down the walkway, planning adventures, dreaming about Rudy, and romance, and Rudy. Because Rudy Tomlinson, was the essence of romance. Black curly hair, eyes so dark and piercing that they could see into your very soul. And his body - sculpted god-like muscles, and that musky, I’m-in-the-mood-for-sex scent – just the thought of it sent goose bumps down her arms.
Nina loved taking chances. She loved taking dares. Life was to be lived soaring above the world. Behind her dark glasses, her eyes were smiling. She’d soon get her chance to soar again. Not literally, of course, but in a few hours, she’d break out of the cocoon of one existence, the meek Ninochka, docile graduate of the Betty, and she’d become Venice de Milo, beloved actress, singer, and all-around bad girl - a transformation from Russian peasant to Italian goddess - all within minutes. She rummaged in her purse for a mirror, but not to correct her makeup. Unlike most women, Venice knew she was gorgeous. She just liked to watch the way her hair shone almost white in the sunlight, the way it swooped in thick, bouncy tresses over her shoulders. It made her think of a platinum blond Jessica Rabbit. She admired her nose, small and straight with a mischievous upturn at the tip. $95,000 and worth every cent of it. And her eyes! No one in the world had violet eyes as deep and dark as hers. Everything about that face was perfect.
Just as she reached the end of the walkway, her limo pulled up and the driver tipped his cap at her. Carl’s timing was flawless as usual.
But right behind Carl, like yellow jackets at a picnic, a mob of vehicles appeared, operated by the smarmiest bottom-feeding sub-human lowlife of the Western world. And before Carl could open the door for her, they swarmed the limousine. Venice ducked her head behind her arms. All around her was confusion, like in a scene from “The Birds”. Somehow the paparazzi had found her.
“So how did it feel to be back in rehab again?” The words caught Venice unaware. Her face betrayed the shock, and she actually jumped and wrapped her arms protectively across her chest. Leonard Gherkin, with his oily smile, his bad breath and his damned microphone, were inches away from her nose.
Venice gagged. She forced herself to smile. “Well…” She breathed deeply to calm herself, avoiding Leonard’s mouth as best she could. She assumed a celebrity persona as if she were donning a mink coat. “It was an opportunity to grow, to confront my…” But the camera was already turned off. All they wanted was that first shot of her when they had caught her off guard.
A pack of twenty or so bodies closed in on her. “And what are the odds that you’ll stay sober this time?” John Savage, the pushiest of the bunch, took over the questions. “Remember last March’s fiasco – just twenty-seven days after you got out of rehab? I believe it happened at the No-Name-No-Shame saloon.”
“It’s a little fuzzy, but…”
“I remember it clear as Lake Tahoe. You were riding Rudy Tomlinson yelling ‘git along doggy!’ with your blouse unbuttoned and your skirt torn up to your thigh.”
“I think…”
“And after Rudy bucked you off, you were screaming ‘F_ you!’ like a wounded banshee, and throwing whiskey bottles and bar stools, and anything else you could grab, and when all was said and done, three cameras were destroyed, you’d broken my arm and sent Willie Hall to the hospital with a concussion.”
Their voices attacked Venice like a swarm of African bees. She’d left the clinic feeling clean, strong, and wholesome. Now she felt cheap, degraded, shameful. It got worse when Eleanor Bostiglione sidled up to Venice. With a sweet, sweet, sweet, and innocent smile – really a smirk – she purred into the microphone, “Oh, Venice! Rudy and Jenifer Myers. You must be devastated. Please tell our audience how you really feel. You poor, poor girl! Do you think the news will send you back to drink and drugs?”
‘Venice tried to stay calm. She wanted to ask Eleanor “Did you bleach your hair with Clorox?” She forced a laugh, but she could feel the flush spreading through her face and her neck. Once again the paparazzi had gotten to her. Rudy? Cheating? No! He couldn’t be cheating on her! Not again!
Eleanor giggled, and her breasts jiggled as she laughed. Dolly Parton breasts perched above a wasp-like waist - that was Eleanor. “Did you see the pics of the two of them in The Orbit? Jennifer was dressed for way more than a handshake - if you know what I mean.” Eleanor waited for her words to hit their target. “Or should I say undressed?”
Somehow, Venice had parasailed into a hurricane of enquiring minds. Voices in her head finished off the job. There was Rudy’s whining, cruel and manipulating - ‘You’re just a two-bit tramp, not good enough to keep a man like me’; and her dad’s drill-sergeant orders – ‘Suck it up. Be a man if you can. ’; and her mother’s sarcastic observations - ‘What, no lover by your side? You’re slipping, girl.’ Her own thoughts ripped through her psyche inflicting more damage than the actual paparazzi attack with their mikes and their questions. As cameras clicked and snapped, she gave up the last vestiges of Ninochka the good girl, and yanked Eleanor’s hair with one hand, while trying to gouge out her eyes with her other, and screaming “dead meat, dead meat” the whole time. The reporters loved it.
Finally Carl got the limo door open, and he managed to push Venice inside, and then get back behind the wheel and drive off. From habit, she reached under the seat where she knew a hip flask of Vodka awaited. She gave a full three seconds of thought to the rehab work she’d just completed - and took a deep swallow. At last. Real freedom!
That night, morbidly fascinated, she watched herself coming unglued on the TV screen. It was maybe a ten-second clip; it seemed like hours.
At last they went on to their next story. According to the news anchor, that the infamous rag, “Power to the Paper” was two Chick E. Cheese tokens away from bankruptcy. Venice cheered. Finally some good news! She raised her vodka-tonic glass in celebration, remembering all the garbage they’d dug up on her through the years.
And then, when she thought the reporters had finished persecuting her, the last straw fell onto her back. There on the screen was Rudy Tomlinson – her Rudy – his arm around Jennifer Meyers. “We’re so in love. I never knew it could be like this before I met Jennifer.”
“And Venice?”
Rudy sighed – the ‘I tried to be patient, but she’s a loser’ kind of sigh. “There’s too much drama there – the pills, the booze, the men. Who needs it? Venice, honey, get help! Lots of help!” ‘Method acting,’ thought Venice. ‘That’s all it is. Damn but he was good!’
An old copy of “Power to the Paper” perched on her coffee table, and she threw it to the floor, then sent the tonic glass sailing at the TV set opting for something stronger. “A double valium vodka martini, that’s what I need.” She said the words out loud.
But she choked, trying to wash both pills down at the same time, and sprayed vodka and vermouth all over the floor - and all over the “Power to the Paper” with its photos and story of Mephi the Magnificent – magician/superhero, appearing nightly at the Orange Pickle, 1244 Stratford Street in downtown New Brunshire. Two drink minimum.”
That’s when it hit her – there exists a drug more powerful, more pleasurable than valium. She cleared her mind, speed-dialed her lawyer, and set in motion her plan for the days ahead.

Meanwhile, on the other end of town in a sad little turquoise and orange apartment building, Ezmarelda Frobisher scooped fried eggs onto a plate for herself and for her more-than-friend-but-not-quite-boyfriend Ernie. (Her ordinary chicken, Winnie, was proving to be an extraordinary egg layer.) Ezmarelda was dejected. Her fairy tale was over. Her bubble had burst. She was yesterday’s root beer float – no fizz left.
Two weeks ago, she had been all expectation and joy. She’d met a possible love of her life, Ernie Logan, and together, they’d submitted a story about Mephi the Magnificent magician/superhero, appearing nightly, etc. etc. to “Power to the Paper”. And they’d received $700 for the story and a Pulitzer nomination. Life was perfect. Ezzie had suddenly felt beautiful. Her hair was darker and shinier than ever, her eyes were bluer, and she was almost in love with Ernie. Even their poultry were happy. Winnie seemed smitten with Ernie’s rooster, Franklin Delano Roostervelt.
But the Pulitzer had gone to someone else and the $700 had turned into rent, food, and a box of laundry soap. And Ernie burped more than he talked, and his pony tail somehow went from charming and artistic to sort of stupid. And he didn’t have a job either.
So here they sat eating eggs, Ezzie and Ernie, broke, jobless, and without any prospects. You’d think a Pulitzer nomination would carry some respect with it, but apparently any shmutz could get one – no big deal.
Ezzie flipped through the mail. Bills, ads, “You may have already won…” “If you don’t give me your refi business, I’ll eat my shorts.” And finally she found an envelope containing real mail. “You are invited to Venice de Milo’s mansion on Tuesday, May 18, 2010 at 11:00 a.m. Bring the photographer.”
“Hey, Ernie, what do you suppose this means?” She showed him the Venice de Milo invitation.
Ernie shrugged. “Dunno.”
Ezzie had acquired a very special Magic Eight ball. “What’s this all about?” she asked it. It sometimes came out with unexpected answers.
“Ask again later.”
“Do you think Ernie likes me?”
“Ask again later.”
So on Tuesday, May 18, 2010, Ernie and Ezmarelda found themselves part a flock of humans in the foyer of Venice de Milo’s mansion waiting for the superstar to show up. Most of the flock appeared down on their luck. Ezzie recognized a few from the unemployment office. In one corner, stood seven dejected beatnik types wearing black leather jackets with “Power to the Paper” stenciled on their backs. Two of them carried professional cameras. Others were texting on their iPods and Blackberries.
A sharp clap of gunpowder and a flash of fireworks signaled that something was about to happen. Ezzie screamed, Ernie jumped, and, in front of a spiral staircase, Venice de Milo suddenly appeared dressed in a tiger-striped skin-tight dress. The cleavage dipped to her navel and the skirt stopped a half inch below thigh. “You’re probably wondering why I brought you all here,” she said.
Venice laughed with her eyes. “I’ve just purchased 51% of “Power to the Paper”, which I’ve renamed…” Here she paused for dramatic effect. ‘Revenge’. Catchy, don’t you think!” She showed off a blood-red mast head for the new tabloid.
“I’m hiring all of you to free lance for me. I’ll pay $1000 for any photo or any story which I consider suitable to print in my new paper. And here’s what I’m after.
“For years, the blood-sucking ticks…” She gestured over towards the Power to the Paper contingent then continued. “The paparazzi - have made my life a living hell. No offense, boys. Now it’s my turn. I want you to do to them, what they’ve done to me. Any of the tabloid reporters is a fair target. And I’ll pay double for any dirt you find on these bastards – Leonard Gherkin, John Savage, Eleanor Bostiglione. And, I’ll pay quadruple for anything on Rudy Tomlinson, my supposed fiancé, my true love, and Jenifer Myers, his trollop.” And here her voice became just a touch shrill. “For they are the scum against which all other scum must measure down to.” Venice smiled. She checked her fingernails. “That’s all,” she whispered. And she was gone.
Back in Ezzie’s apartment, she and Ernie were digesting what they had heard. “We can totally do this,” said Ezzie. If we hang outside by Venice’s house long enough, they’ll show up, and we can just follow them and find out where they live. Then all we have to do is attach a nanny-cam to Franklin, and fly him up to the bedroom windows. You get the pictures, I’ll do the stories. With the right innuendoes, we can make going to the bathroom sound like debauchery.
“The first peeping rooster – how low tech!”
Ernie stroked Franklin’s feathers and drifted off into a world of day dreams. Investigative journalism. It was all very James Bond, very brave and daring, a chance for Ernie to be someone special, someone Ezzie could fall in love with, maybe even a hero, and not just the loser from the flea market. ‘Agent Logan, it’s all up to you. Too dangerous for any other agent. You probably won’t make it out alive.’ ‘Ha! Danger is my middle name.’
Ezmarelda was patting his face. “Ernie, are you okay? Your eyes sort of glazed over.”

Low tech plus Photo Shop turned out to be highly effective. Ezzie and Ernie had a natural instinct for tabloid reporting. In a short time, their dining had progressed from Winnie’s eggs, to dinners at Mc Donald’s, to restaurants that served food on ceramic plates. Ezzie kept a scrapbook of all their articles.

Bizarre Sex Cult

Shocking photos of Leonard Gherkin’s bizarre sex cult. Somewhere in Needles, California - exact location very hush hush. “Revenge” has learned that Leonard Gherkin, all-around good guy (ha ha) has a bevy of beauties. (Beauties? – Oh well! To each his own!) He’s stashed them in an out-of-the-way cabin. Leonard claims they were on a church retreat. Some retreat! Wink, wink. How do I join??? No, on second thought, this all sounds too kinky for me.



Eleanor Bastiglione Queen of Lipo

She’s been snipped and clipped more often than a book of coupons. Eleanor’s dish of the week had been John Savage. They’d been seen at the local McDonald’s under the table sucking toes, and swapping spit and sperm. Look out, John, Eleanor’s been ridden more often than Sea biscuit - ridden hard and put away wet. But subsequent rumor has it, that she dumped John at that tres chic restaurant Casa de Amore. She literally dumped him into a vat of marinara sauce. And she’s now hot on the prowl in pursuit of a hot dog vendor named Marty. Our advice – run, Marty, run! Run like Tammy Faye’s eyeliner in the middle of July.



Ezmarelda had a total of twenty-seven articles, in her scrapbook, pasted on acid free photo friendly pages. The scrapbook was her proof - proof that she wasn’t a loser, that she could be successful given half a chance. But this was only the beginning. And it seemed to be working. Revenge was suddenly turning a profit.
“We need to do more,” Ezmarelda said to Ernie. Our next article has to be something so over the top, so out of control, that they’ll be talking about it clear into the next decade. I want us to be heroes, celebrities. I want kids to know our names and look up to us. Slowly, she hatched her plan. It was supposed to come to fruition at the Oscars, only for some reason, she and Ernie were not invited. In fact, they were specifically told to stay away. No trust in their fellow humans – that was what was wrong with the world today. No compassion. She had to resort to plan B – as soon as she could concoct plan B.
And concoct she did. She frequented all the paparazzi’s favorite hangouts, leaking information in a stage whisper loud enough to carry thirty feet or so. “I heard that Rudy Tomlinson plans to propose to Jenifer Myers on Sunday June 14th at exactly 3:36 pm. Don’t let it get out. We can scoop this story.” Then, with Franklin’s help, she set up a fireworks display that her victims would remember forever.
By 3:30 pm on Sunday June 14th, Rudy’s entryway swarmed with news-hungry paparazzi. “What’s this about you and Jennifer tying the knot?” asked John Savage.
Rudy was visibly annoyed. “There’s no knot. I don’t know who started this irresponsible rumor, but…”
Rudy was interrupted by a string of explosions. All of a sudden, chaos ruled. Shots seemed to be coming from the perimeter of the property, louder and louder, herding the reporters into the middle of Rudy’s entry way like cattle rounded up for slaughter. More shots rang out. A rubber knife with feathers hurtled past John Savage’s ear and stuck in the crack of Rudy’s front door. Someone yelled out “They’re just cherry bombs and firecrackers. No need to panic.” But no one listened. People were running everywhere. Innocent cameras bore the brunt of the carnage.
Somehow a trip wire strung from a palm tree to a wrought iron fence suddenly sprang taut. Eleanor Bostiglione ran into it full tilt, and ended up in Leonard Gherkin’s arms. A fist shot up out of the crowd, hitting John Savage in the face. Heads butted. Within minutes an old-fashioned brawl broke out in front of Rudy Tomlinson’s mansion. Rudy took a step forward, lost his footing and fell headfirst into his rose garden, which had mysteriously acquired three feet of mud. Ernie snapped the pictures. Ezzie, taped the sounds - Wham bam and socko. And more cuss words than you’d hear at a teen age slumber party. Finally, Ezzie called 911 and she and Ernie hightailed it out of the fracas leaving Franklin and the nanny-cam to capture the final footage. From all of that, Ezzie and Ernie pieced together their piece de resistance:

War of the Paparazzi

John Savage, our savage reporter seeks revenge on Leonard Gherkin. “He stole the love of my life”, Savage said referring to none other than Eleanor wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am Bostiglione, seen here carried away in the arms of Leonard Gherkin.
“I always knew it was John, I mean Leonard,” Bostiglione was heard to say. Fists flew, not to mention knives and unidentified explosive devices. Rumors that the knives were rubber stage props have not been confirmed at this time.”



Exploding Flop

Speaking of rumors, reports of Rudy Tomlinson’s engagement to Jenifer Myers unfortunately were unfounded. It has been speculated that Rudy spread the rumors in an effort to build up his sagging ratings. Cheap shot, Rudy! And speaking of shots, our reporters were unable to ask their questions because they had to run for their lives. Someone was shooting at them. Later on, it turned out that the shots were just fireworks – firecrackers and cherry bombs. Rudy denied any responsibility for the shots. Said he didn’t know anything about it. Rudy was visibly annoyed at the questions. Could he have something to hide?



Venice was thrilled. Most of her arch enemies had spent the night in jail. Everyone thought Rudy was responsible for the firecrackers and resulting mayhem. The paparazzi had been slowed down due to technical calamities – broken cameras, tire trouble, black eyes, bruised ribs, and bruised egos. And Venice didn’t even have to pay any hospital bills or claims for broken cameras. Oh, they’d be back, but they’d have to think twice before messing with Venice de Milo and Revenge!
Ezzie pasted the last news article into her scrap book. Suddenly she felt old. And sad. And useless. She’d been happier after she’d been fired. She tried to pet Winnie’s feathers, but Winnie shrank from her grasp.
“What’s wrong?” she asked her Magic Eight Ball.
“Don’t bother asking again later. I’m not speaking to you.”
She tried several questions, but the answers in the Magic Eight Ball stuck and only the black background showed in the window.
“I don’t get it. We won. We’re the last paparazzi standing. What’s wrong?” she asked Ernie.
He just looked at her. “No, you’re the last paparazzo. I don’t want to do this anymore. It’s like, well… When I worked the flea markets, I never lied about my stuff – I never cheated anyone. I never made a ton of money, but at the end of the day, I felt way happier than I do now.
Ezzie looked at him. We have to fix this. But how?”
Ernie took a long time answering. “What if… What if we do another extravaganza - like the war of the paparazzi – only telling everyone what really happened? An investigative reporting thing. Enquiring minds want to know.”
Ezzie shook her head. “We can’t. We’d probably have to give Venice back her money. And we’d spend a couple of nights in jail. Let’s see what the Magic Eight Ball says.”
“Seek the higher ground.”
She shook it again.
“Shoot straight.”
“What does it say?” asked Ernie.
“It’s gone wacko.”
“Well,” said Ernie. “I’m going to write my mind anyway.” He found some useful photos of trip wires and cherry bomb remains. He stayed up till midnight working on his article.

That night, Ezmarelda sneaked Winnie up behind Ernie’s apartment. She just had to see what he’d written. And to keep it from being printed. The window was open. She petted Winnie. ”Beautiful chicken, clever chicken. What a special hen you are! You need to fly into Ernie’s window and get that article.” Winnie looked at Ezzie with the Winston Churchill look in her eyes. “Go on,” said Ezzie. Winnie hopped six inches into the air, dropped to the ground and lay on her back as if dead. No nudging no persuading, no “What a clever chicken” - not even a bribe of worms and grasshoppers could induce Winnie to fly into the window. As a last resort, Ezzie took Winnie bodily and threw her up into the air. Winnie circled around, pooped on Ezzie’s head, clucked a chicken chuckle, and circled back down to the ground in front of Ezzie with a self-satisfied chicken grin. At home, Ezzie asked the Magic Eight Ball, “How can I get Winnie to steal the photos.
“Ask again later.”

For three weeks, Revenge was the only tabloid on the market. Finally, The Orbit put out an issue. Ernie’s article was prominent on the front page.


When Good Reporters Go Bad

I’m not clever. But I know this. You should get paid for doing something good. Or at least something that doesn’t hurt anyone. You know that story – War of the Paparazzi? Well, I didn’t just help write it. I made it happen. I feel like toad vomit. And if you want to get mad at me or sue me or something, go ahead. I’m not going to write this stuff anymore.
Ernie Logan



But that was nothing. Because The Orbit’s lead story tore Ezzie’s guts out - as if she’d passed her heart through a paper shredder.


Cat Woman Breaks up Dynamic Duo

Guess who’s been slippin’ and a slidin’, wigglin’ and a jigglin’ all steamy dreamy, whipping creamy? Ernie Logan and Eleanor (the cat) Bastiglione, that’s who! Who’d a thunk it? Hey, watch out for the quiet ones. “He’s a sex addict,” Eleanor was quoted as saying. “Always ready to play the nasty, anytime and anywhere. The locker room at 24-Hour Fitness, the veggie aisle at Safeway (They have it on the security camera.) even at the flea market parking lot – he’s always ready to get my motor pur-r-r-ring.”


Ezzie really didn’t believe it until she got to the part about the flea market. It would be just like Ernie to shag at the flea market. Could it be true? Had Ernie really fallen for Eleanor’s eye-batting and butt-wiggling?

It was a breakfast scene at Ezzie’s apartment, but something was very different. Ernie Logan was reading the newspaper – not comic books, not the tabloids – he was reading the newspaper, and not just headlines or the sports page, he was trying to make sense out of all the articles.
“Shallow, shallow,” he said. “That’s what I’ve been all my life. I’ve never cared about anything except having fun. That and Franklin and you. But now I want to do something real, something that matters.” He went back to the paper muttering, “shallow, shallow, shallow.”
Ezzie stiffened. Wait a minute! Had Ernie actually said he cared about her? She couldn’t get up the courage to ask him.
Ernie was the one who broke the silence, but it wasn’t what Ezmarelda was waiting to hear. “Here’s deep,” he said. “Deepwater Horizon. Look at the pictures. That’s what I want. To report the truth, and report about something that really matters, not who’s sleeping with who and how kinky they are. Starting tomorrow, I’m hitching a ride to the gulf, and I’m only taking pictures of things that matter.”
And he did just that.

Ezzie found it hard to write without Ernie and Franklin. She only wrote one more article for Revenge.

Kidnapped by Aliens - A Victim’s True Journal

Day 1: The Abduction. All the Paparazzi’s have been abducted by aliens. I am the last one. It started out innocently enough with an anonymous invitation to an ice cream social. I arrived not suspecting a thing. “Chocolate fudge ripple, please,” I said. That’s the last thing I remember before waking up on the mother ship with electrodes attached to my ears and a 100-inch screen broadcasting ‘America’s Next Top Model.’
Day 2: I Take Stock of My Adversaries. Aliens don’t look like what you’d expect. They’re pink and furry, and about seven feet tall. They reminded me of department store Easter bunnies.
Day 3: Frustration. I believe they use a binary code similar to a computer for their language. I tried gesturing, but couldn’t make myself understood.
Day 10: Communication. An alien, who later introduced himself as Harvey, connected an electrode from my left ear to the ship’s computer, thereby enabling the computer to translate for us.
Day 12: They Explain their Mission. It seems that this ship was piloted by seven renegade aliens. Against all orders, they’d flown to our planet to explore our culture. They were particularly interested in rap music, raves, Venice de Milo, and Viagra. They figured the paparazzi were the ones who’d know the most on these subjects, which explains why we were the ones abducted.
Day 26: Freedom. I am released in exchange for photos of Venice de Milo, and a detailed map of Rudy Tomlinson’s mansion. Watch out, Rudy, they’re on their way to get you!
Epilogue: The police wouldn’t believe my story, but fortunately, there’s a group in Clear Lake that follows alien sightings. An ad hoc posse was formed to protect the neighborhood and safeguard the populace.





It was one of Ezzie’s finest articles, but she got no pleasure from the writing. Could Ernie have been right? Was she shallow? She asked her Magic Eight Ball, “What does ‘deep’ feel like?”
“Follow your heart.”
‘What’s in my heart,’ she wondered. ‘What’s important to me?’ Ernie! She cared about Ernie.

She picked up her phone and began to text:

Earnestly Seeking Ernie
No hype, just the truth. Ernie Logan, you are the sprinkles on my ice cream, the honey in my tea. I love you. I didn’t realize it till you left me. We can be shallow or deep. I don’t care. If you don’t want to do tabloids, I don’t either. I just want to be with you. So call me. Okay???
XOXOXO
Ezzie
P.S. Winnie misses Franklin.

Ezzie’s hands were shaking and her eyes saw double as she finished the text. She couldn’t believe she was actually sending a love letter text. And she almost chickened out of sending it. What if he didn’t text back? She’d crawl into bed and be depressed until she died.
But she accidently sent the text to Venice de Milo instead of to Ernie. ‘Another adoring fan,’ thought Venice and didn’t give it any further thought.

Ernie arrived in New Orleans with a thousand dollars in his pocket, and a rooster, and a suitcase containing his sleeping bag, a change of clothes, and a toothbrush. He figured he’d fly Franklin out over the oil rig, get some great pictures, and offer them to a local newspaper, but it turned out that the Gulf of Mexico was bigger than he had thought. He pointed towards the ocean, and threw Franklin up into the air, but Franklin circled back onto Ernie’s shoulder and squawked and cockadoodled. Loosely translated, Franklin was telling Ernie,”You’ve got to be kidding.” So Ernie had to try another tack.
Ernie found the office of the New Orleans Daily Gazette, and he told the receptionist he was ready to offer them his services. She really tried not to laugh. It was just that Ernie had Franklin the rooster perched on his shoulder, and, while Ernie was pleading his case in English, Franklin was crowing, strutting and demonstrating what champions the two of them were. The receptionist stifled one giggle, squirmed, and finally gave up, threw back her head, and laughed till tears came to her eyes. Finally she was finished and was able to talk. “We’re not hiring vaudeville acts right now,” she said. “But I’ll tell our editor that you came by.”
Ernie left the New Orleans Daily Gazette devastated. He tried a couple of other newspapers, but no one seemed to want a photographer whose only experience had been in tabloid journalism and flea markets. He wandered aimlessly wondering what he was going to do. He couldn’t go back to Ezzie - that was for sure - not as a failure.

For some time now, oil had been washing up on Louisiana’s beaches, and swamps. Ernie knew his photo had to be fantastic and different from any other in order to get him the kind of attention he wanted. So he drove out to the first beach he could find. He pointed Franklin towards the water and let him go, and Franklin turned around and headed back up the beach and landed on Ernie’s shoulder. “Franklin, you’re one chicken rooster,” said Ernie. But he gave up on Franklin coming up with any spectacular shots.
Next Ernie found an all-night surf and SCUBA shop, and bought some necessary supplies. Plastic baggies to keep his camera dry, a second hand surf board (quite used), water wings and flippers for greater swimming range, (Ernie was no Michael Phelps) and a half-priced Speedo. Then, leaving Franklin on the beach under an umbrella (which he’d also purchased), Ernie marched into the water. It was bracing but not all that cold once you got used to it. Channeling Jacques Cousteau, Ernie gamely plunged forward till his feet no longer touched the sandy bottom. Then he jumped on the surf board and kicked with the fins. His idea was to go out several hundred feet, turn past an outcropping of rocks, and photograph the shoreline from out in the Gulf.
After rounding the outcropping, he looked back and found himself facing a small channel of murky water flowing through oily-covered grasses. The water was a soupy orange, partly because of naturally decomposing vegetation, and partly from the suspended droplets of oil. This marshy area would make a perfect backdrop. Ernie looked around for a focal point for his shot.
Meanwhile, from his vantage on top of the beach umbrella, thanks to his eagle chicken eyes Franklin could see Ernie, and what he saw terrified him. He leapt to his wings fluttering and cackling like a rooster possessed.
Back in the water, Ernie concentrated on lining up his shot. A sleek grey animal appeared above the swells, and Ernie tried to use it as a point of interest, deliberately blurring the murky water behind it for dramatic effect.
Franklin’s frantic fluttering drew a crowd. He squawked and hopped and cackled, flying back and forth from the shore to the area behind the rocks where Ernie was concentration on his shot.
The grey object was clearly an animal, but Ernie couldn’t quite identify it. All he could make out was an arched gray form rising about a foot above the swells, moving gracefully against the channel’s current. But luck was with Ernie. The animal turned and began to swim towards him, and Ernie couldn’t wait to find out what kind of animal it was.
Franklin’s squawking turned to deafening screeching. Finally, giving up on all humans as completely useless, Franklin flew off towards the rocks. “I have the strength of ten because my heart is pure,” he kept clucking to himself. He wished for the talons of an eagle, but had to make do with the claws of a chicken to clutch the largest rock he could carry.
Peering through the camera’s view finder, Ernie finally recognized the animal he was trying to photograph. Triangular teeth, sleek dorsal fin, bullet-shaped body, it seemed that Ernie was looking into the mouth of a bull shark. Ernie froze with terror, but his hands trembled so hard that he captured the shot by accident. The animal’s mouth took up half of the photograph. And above this mouth a rock made contact with the shark’s nose, while a rooster with steely eyes hovered above.
In a flutter of feathers and squawking, Franklin snagged Ernie’s water wings in his claws, and flew as fast as he could around the rocks and towards the beach with Ernie kicking and paddling as hard as he could.
Twenty feet from the beach, the shark caught Ernie’s foot in its mouth, and began hauling Ernie out to sea. But by this time, the crowd on the beach realized that Ernie was in trouble. A bald life guard managed to grab Ernie’s arm, and was able to wrestle Ernie away from the shark.
Ernie was hauled onto the shore, then rushed to a hospital. Ernie’s injuries were serious, but luckily the shark had missed all the major veins and arteries.
They included Ernie’s photo of the shark in the story that ran on the evening news. Hero chicken saves swimmer from shark attack. “That bird, made the biggest ruckus you’ve ever seen in your dad burn life,” a bystander was quoted as saying. “At first we figured the bird was loco, but then we seen him hauling this idiot towards the beach, and him paddling like a house afire, and, I declare, you’ve never seen such a thing in all your born days.”
Ezzi couldn’t believe it when she saw Ernie on the six o’clock news. She packed her bag that night and flew to New Orleans. She stayed at the hospital until Ernie was pronounced healthy enough to leave, and she drove him to a motel room that she’d rented.
“It’s always been you. Ever since the flea market when we got gassed, and the birds got chicken-napped, I knew you were the one for me,” said Ezzie.
Ernie, ever a man of few words, drew her towards him and showed her what a fine kisser he was. Love’s first kiss - they shared it, with all the wonder and magic that lovers have known throughout time. They call it chemistry; they call it electricity. It sends tingles and chills through your body. The room spins, and you feel like you’re the only two people on earth. You’re king and queen. You just climbed Everest. You’re the champion. You can do anything. It was that kind of kiss – real magic.
And in the next room, Franklin sidled up to Winnie.
“Bawk,” said Franklin.
“Bawk,” said Winnie.
And Franklin drew a protective wing around Winnie for privacy, and delicately showed Winnie what a fine rooster he was.

Epilogue: All was quiet around the de Milo mansion. Venice got exactly what she had asked for. No cameras, no microphones, no tabloid articles. No attention. No publicity. Venice could feel her popularity slipping day by day. She was last seen at the No-Name-No-Shame saloon riding John Savage like a rodeo bull. Hats off to the both of you! May you never be put away wet.