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.

The Flea Market Manifesto

Esmarelda had been fired may times, but she’d never before been chased through the hallway by a machete-wielding magician. It really hadn’t been her fault, though, she thought, and she ducked as a rubber knife whizzed by her head, bounced on the ground, and sprouted feathers. Mephi the Magnificent needed to enunciate better. Sixty flower hats had sounded almost exactly like sixty floured rats.

And besides, it really had been pretty funny when all the guests jumped into the pool, and all that flour had covered the delphinium beds like gentle snow, and a few minutes later, thanks to the splashing coming from the pool, the flour had magically turned into interesting pasty drippings – like modern art, adding a touch of culture to the delphinium bed. And besides, Mrs. Mahoney had agreed to drop all the charges, so what was the big deal?

By now Esmarelda was outside on the sidewalk. “Unfair,” she sniffed and ducked as a three-foot crate hurtled past her right ear. “So very unfair.” The door slammed behind her and she sat on the crate and sobbed for a whole seven and a half minutes. Suddenly a clucking noise from the crate interrupted Ezzie’s glorious indignation and celebration of self pity. Briefly, she considered returning the crate to Mephi, but remembered his temper and thought better of it. Severance pay, she decided. Mephi owed her something for all her time and hard work. She would jolly well keep the crate.

Maybe some guy will come along and he’ll offer to carry the box, she thought, and I’ll be all “Omigosh, you’re so strong”, and we’ll fall in love. And Mephi the Magician will call me and ask me to come back and work for him, and I’ll be all “I’m married now, so go find your own rats and hats.”

It was a good thought, but no rescuer magically appeared. Esmarelda was a tiny thing – five – one and ninety-eight pounds in her stocking feet, with huge blue eyes, and shiny black hair. Small but mighty, she thought. She made her way home hugging the unwieldy box in her arms.

The box squawked as she lugged it up the two flights of stairs to her apartment. “I wish they’d fix the elevator,” she said to herself.

Inside her kitchen, she pried the crate open. Maybe there’s something inside that I could sell at the flea market she thought. The first item out of the crate was a box - a smaller box within the big box, and inside of it was a hen – with shiny brown and orange feathers, and a funny, fat face like Winston Churchill. She clucked twice and flew up to the kitchen counter apparently reveling in her sudden freedom.

About this time, Esmarelda’s mothering instincts kicked in, and she produced water and uncooked rice for the chicken to eat. And she covered as much of the counter as she could with newspaper to protect it from the various hazards of a flying chicken. She named the chicken Winnie.

After Winnie had settled down somewhat, Esmarelda’s attention turned back to crate. Inside she found seven scarves all intricately embroidered with gold thread and decorated with exotic-looking coins. The embroidery appeared to be writing, but in a language that used a foreign alphabet. Nestled inside of the scarves, she found one last box, this one wrapped carefully in bubble wrap. Probably something valuable, she thought, and pulled back the bubble-wrap and then opened box to reveal – a magic eight ball. Big whoop there, she thought in disgust. And she shook the ball. “Magic Eight Ball, should I sell you at the flea market?” she asked.

“Ask again later.”

Since she’d just lost her job, she needed a little money - just to tide her over until something came along, and she’d sold at the flea market before. She figured she’d pretend to be shopping, and maybe set up her scarves on a wire somewhere so that she didn’t have to fork over the $25 for a table. The chicken had to go too. Ezzie was developing a soft spot in her heart for Winnie, but a chicken wasn’t a good pet for an apartment dweller. Still…”Magic eight ball, how much can I get for the chicken?”

“Don’t sell the chicken.”

It took Ezzie a couple of seconds to register this. Magic eight balls usually have a more limited vocabulary. She shook it again. “Why not?”

“Ask again later.”

Bright and early on Saturday, Ezzie woke to the sounds of workers in the hallway. She stumbled out in her bathrobe ready to complain about the noise, but decided against it since the elevator was finally getting fixed. So instead she got ready to sell her new finds at the flea market. She hid the seven scarves and a strand of thick wire inside a tote bag that could pass as a very large purse. She considered popping Winnie into the bag as well, but decided against it. She'd become ridiculously fond of the chicken, especially since Winnie only pooped on weight loss ads.

At the entrance to the flea market an orange vested attendant with the name “Murray” embroidered on his shirt pocket stopped Ezzie. "What's that chicken doing with you?"

Ezzie looked around. Sure enough, Winnie had stowed away in the bag. "I don't know how she got in there." Ezzie shot him a "you're such an understanding and studly-looking man" blink. "I can't go all the way back home. Isn't there something you could do?"

"Okay, I didn't see her. And here's a string to keep her from wandering too far." Grinning like an Olympic winner, Ezzie entered the flea market with Winnie perched on her shoulder.

She stroked Winnie's soft feathers. Now for the hard part. "I wish there was an empty table somewhere here," she said. Two hours later, she was still wandering around disheartened with Winnie perched on her shoulder. That's when a voice stopped her cold.

"Twenty bucks for the chicken.”

“What did you say?" Esmarelda whirled around almost colliding with a bearded, long-haired firefighter. Finally, a piece of luck, she thought. But before he could answer, she looked at Winnie and knew she couldn't do it. "You see," she said shaking her head sadly, "Winnie's my best friend." Really, my only friend, she thought. "However, I have some great scarves you might like."

But by the time she'd pulled out her scarves, he was gone. At least it was a start, she thought. Strange, though, firefighters didn't usually grow beards. Something about getting a good seal for the masks on their air packs.

Next she tried hitting up the venders. "These scarves have been going like hot cakes." Ezzie did the you're-so-kind-studly thing. "But my aunt is really sick, and I have to go, and I'll sell you the last seven for forty dollars."

"Throw in the chicken and you've got yourself a deal."

It was always the same: "Hey, Lady, a hundred dollars for the chicken." "Two hundred for the chicken, and forget the scarves."

"What's the big deal" she asked. "You're just a chicken." And Winnie squawked, flapped her wings, and dug in her claws as if she understood. The squawking began attracting attention - the wrong kind, and Ezmarelda tucked Winnie under her arm and slunk away to the farthest corner of the flea market.

One lone vender sat behind a table there with his wares spread out in front of him - an eclectic mix of tools, kitchen appliances, gadgets as seen on TV, and a rooster in a cage with the door open. With a happy chirp, Winnie pecked through the string, and trotted into the cage, sneaking sideways glances at the rooster. He, in turn, strutted in circles around Winnie, sticking out his chest, fluffing his feathers, and in general, acting stupid, as only a rooster or a teen-age boy in love can do.




"You look tired," said the vendor. And he opened out a folding chair for Ezzie. "I'm Ernie. This is Franklin Delano Roostervelt, the world’s most chicken rooster. Sit for a bit. Maybe you'll bring me some luck. He noticed the scarves hanging over the side of her bag. Here, you can hang your scarves up on the corner of my table."

He wasn't particularly good looking, thought Ezzie taking inventory - bushy eyebrows, bright red cheeks, and a Willie Nelson nose and pony tail.

"Thanks. I'm Ezmarelda, Ezzie. My chicken’s, Winnie."

And she sank gratefully into the chair. After all the walking around, she suddenly felt very tired. “Do you smell something sweet?” she asked, and a second later, her head fell back and she was fast asleep.

The next thing she knew a hand was shaking her shoulder. “How much for the scarves? Our high school drama class is doing A Thousand and One Nights.”

“Forty dollars.” In a fog she completed the transaction, and looked around, all the while shaking her head to clear it. Something was odd, very odd indeed. For one thing, Ernie was snoring, his head propped on an electric chainsaw. And the chickens were gone. Winnie and Franklin had been poultry-napped. She shook Ernie awake.

Quickly they packed up Ernie’s wares and headed to the front gate to report the theft. “There’s something I have to tell you,” said Ernie. A fireman with a weird beard offered me forty dollars to let you use the chair. I didn’t see anything wrong with it at the time.

“Someone took Winnie and Franklin. Do something!!” by the time they got to the entrance, Ezzie was near panic.

“Call 911” said Murray.

Ernie whipped out his cell phone. I’d like to report a robbery,” he said. “A hen and a rooster.”

“Chickens!” Murray’s face turned red. “All that fuss for poultry!! Read the sign –‘Not Responsible for Lost or Stolen Items’. Go find a lobster to complain to.”

Ezzie turned to Ernie. “What did the cops say?”

“They took a report.”

And Ezzie began the slow walk back home. “At least let me drive you,” said Ernie.

"Okay." What the heck. She was still feeling groggy. They were halfway to her apartment before Ezzie realized that she didn’t know anything about Ernie, and he may have been in on the chicken-napping.

Once inside the house, Ezmarelda yelled, “I need to pee,” and she grabbed the magic eight ball and shut herself in the bathroom.

“Can I trust Ernie,” she asked.

“Ask again later.”

“Why would anyone steal Winnie?”

“Reply hazy. Try again.”

“Where is she now?”

“1214 Palos Verdi Drive. Try the roof.”

“Will I get her back?”

“How should I know? I’m only a kid’s toy.”

She flushed and ran out. “We have to go,” she said. “1214 Palos Verdi Drive. They’re up on the roof.”

“How do you know?” Ernie asked as they ran for the car.

“Ask again later,” said Ezzie.

Meanwhile, at 1214, Palos Verdi Drive, Mephi the Magnificent (Yes, he’s the one who stole the chickens.) stood in his living room examining his catch. He reached inside the cage, grabbed Winnie’s neck and said “I wish to be the most famous magician since Houdini. No, make that even greater than Houdini – the greatest magician ever.” Winnie fainted dead away. Franklin cowered in the far corner squawking and shivering. Mephi stood back waiting to feel something different. He touched his arms, his chest, his face. That seemed to trigger a sneezing fit. Then a coughing fit. He rubbed his eyes and realized that he’d made a huge mistake. He tore into the bathroom looking through his medicine chest for Claritin. Mephi was allergic to chickens. Who knew?

Unable to find Claritin, Mephi washed his hands and face and changed his clothes. But he was a messy magician. The only clean cloak he could find was battery powered with a hundred and forty multi-colored light bulbs that wrote Mephi the Magnificent across the back. Oh well, it had always been his favorite. He flipped the switch, and his cape turned on.


With the poultry cage in his hand, Mephi climbed the outside stairwell that lead up to the roof. He reached inside the cage hoping to wish for the sneezing to go away, but as he grabbed Winnie, she fainted in his hand, and Franklin, forgetting everything else, took a huge peck out of Mephi’s hand. Mephi flew into a rage, and grabbing Franklin by his scrawny legs, pulled him out of the cage, and whirled him around like a yoyo. And that’s what Ernie and Ezzie found - Winnie, in a faint inside the cage, Franklin, being dragged squwaking by his legs, and Mephi, cussing and sneezing and hopping up and down on one leg.

Ezzie was able to reach inside the cage and stroke Winnie’s feathers. “I wish Franklin were strong and brave,” she said. And with that, Franklin flew upward into the night sky. Mephi immediately, dropped the rooster. You’d think that was it, but Franklin got a strange gleam in his eye, like a bear who suddenly realized that the hunter has just used up his last bullet. He swooped down and grabbed Mephi’s cloak.

“No-o-o-o.” said Mephi, but Franklin wasn’t listening. With Mephi below him, Franklin swooped twenty feet above the roof top, only to plunge into a dive towards the street below. Ernie brought out his cell phone and took pictures.

“No-o-o-o-o”

Franklin broke out of his dive a mere two feet above the concrete, and Mephi’s toes banged against the curb as Franklin started his second ascent. Thirty feet above the ground, Franklin tossed Mephi over his head and caught him by his beard.

“No-o-o-o-o”

Holding him by his beard, Franklin swung him around in a circle. Then with a mighty crow, he looped the loop, executed three rolls, flew dead center towards 1214 and pulled out of his deadly trajectory with the smallest of margins to spare. Spinning Mephi like a top, he threw him around catching him by his shoes, his beard, and finally by his cape. With the last catch, Franklin’s claw shorted out the cables in Mephi’s cloak, and he crackled in a glorious blaze of red, white, and blue sparks, creating a grand finale, to rival the finest fourth of July fire display since
1776. And finally Franklin set Mephi gently on the rooftop and dropped to a perfect two point landing.

Ezzie had Winnie in her lap and was gently petting her feathers and smiling from the sheer beauty of the aerial display.

At that Mephi came towards her menacingly. “It’s my chicken.” He said and he glared at Ezzie. And she knew he was right. No matter how much she loved Winnie, the hen belonged to Mephi the Magnificent.

“Oh, Winnie, I wish you were just a regular chicken,” she said.

"No-o-o-o-o.”

And, sneezing the whole way, he threw Ernie, Ezzie and the flock of chickens together with their cage out on the street.

The aerial acrobatics had not gone unnoticed. Several viewers who had witnessed the strange display, reported it to the police and to various tabloids. “UFO sighted over Palos Verdes Drive.” Strange occurrence witnessed in the night sky. Inquiring minds need to know.

Ezzie and Ernie superimposed the pictures from Ernie’s camera above the New York skyline. It now appeared that Mephi was sailing hundreds of feet in the air. Ezzie wrote the accompanying article:

“Enquiring minds can rest easy tonight. Mephi the Magnificent and his amazing magical powers have made the world safe for mankind. In the flight of death, he soared into the night sky and defeated an alliance of alien space ships using weapons highly classified by the CIA.

Mephi the Magician is appearing nightly at the Orange Pickle, 1244 Stratford Street in downtown New Brunshire. Two drink minimum.”

Ezzie reread the copy while strooking Winnie. I owe it to Mephi, she thought.

They sent the photos and story to "Power to the Paper", the seediest tabloid in the business, and got paid seven hundred dollars. They also got a one year subscription to "Power to the Paper". Ernie like to read it with his breakfast.

A few months later, as Ezzie was frying eggs, he was reading "Power to..." and noticed it. “Guess what? You’ve been nominated for the Pulitzer Prize.” He said.

I’ve been looking for my sense of humor. I lost it shortly after 9/11. And I’m trying desperately to find it. Desperately. That’s the key word. You don’t find humor by searching desperately. Its like love. It sneaks up and grabs you when you least expect it, when you’re just wandering around doing hardly anything except being you. I’m writing fairy tales because I believe in magic. Not kid magic, but the corny kind - like love and faith and friendship - that transform desperation into Eden. And right now I’m in need of transformation.The story I’m about to embark on is a search for myself – the truest, finest, grandest and funniest myself that there is.

I wish for all of you that you find your truest, finest, grandest, funniest selves… and maybe you already have.





February's story

Back in Yankton

Max and Savannah were married in a gully just outside of Yankton, South Dakota, and they spent their honeymoon visiting the corn palace in Mitchel. Max and Savannah had seventeen hours for each other. After that, they had to be at work – he driving a bus, and she, waiting tables at the VFW. At his wedding, he wore denim trousers, suspenders, and a thick leather jacket; she wore gold hoops dangling in her ears, and a sarong around her waist standing in for a skirt.

“I love you,” Savannah told him, “and I promise I’ll always be beside you - no matter what. I offer you this present as a token of my love.” The present was an afghan which she had designed and crocheted – a lap robe for the cold Dakota winter. A flock of cranes flew before an orange sunset, all against an intricately woven pattern of crosshatches and crochet work.

“And every time I sing, know that it’s my way of showing how much I love you.” She was always singing – anything and everything. “Amazing Grace, “Louie, Louie,” La Boheme.”

Max’s present to her was a miniature city constructed of copper coils, tin sheets, and tiny slivers of wood, and scraps of plastic, glass, and steel – all housed inside of a hubcap. It was decorated with nails, gaskets, and anything else that caught his artist’s eye.

He gave it to her, and kissed her, cupping a warm hand against her cheek.Her skin was black, and his reddish brown. A black woman and a Sioux, two likely targets for turning heads in Yankton, South Dakota. They drove a twenty-four-year-old, rust-colored mustang, held together by duct tape. Her bumper sticker was a Jesus fish sticker; his read, “Militant agnostic. I don’t know and you don’t either.”Savannah sang, and went to the Methodist Church. He watched football on their twelve-inch screen and drank beer when they could afford it. “Poverty keeps me sober,” he used to say.

She decorated the inside of their apartment with origami cranes flying from fishing line tacked to corners of all the rooms, and she hung a canopy over the bed – made from bedspreads she’d picked up at garage sales. He made sculptures out of steering wheels, cylinder heads, and other spare parts from old cars. Sometimes he sold them, but most of them ended up decorating their living room. He’d have collected the old cars if he could, but there was no money and no place to park them anyway.

"Brought you a present,” said Max one day. “Some kid left it in the back of the bus. And you know how you’re always singing and, well, anyway, here.” It was a small tin flute. A dime store horn. Savannah washed it off in the kitchen sink, and dried it carefully. She fitted her fingers over the holes, and blew, trying to find the secret fingering code that would bring the flute to life.

“That’s wrong,” said Max after a sour note.Savannah kept practicing with the flute, experimenting till she got the scale figured out. Then she tried ‘Mary Had a Little Lamb’. “Wish I could figure out the black notes,” she said. "Then I could try Bach or Handel.

“Do you suppose that there are angels walking around like ordinary people?” Savannah asked.

“More likely there’s ordinary people walking around like angels.”

Outside, some rowdies were giving and receiving punches along with a little blood and a few “mother fuckin’ bastards”s. Max kicked the door open in time to see two thugs rolling a wino. “My wife just called the cops,” Max yelled. “Get your asses out and away while you can. I’ll tell ‘em she’s crazy. That it was just a couple of dogs she heard, knocking down cans and things.”

The wino turned out to be a sorry wisp of a man. “I go by the name of Gabriel,” he said, as Max and Savannah rummaged for towels to stop the bleeding.“Say, you don’t happen to have something to drink?” he asked hopefully, but was disappointed when Savannah handed him a mug with milk.

“We’re kinda down on our luck,” said Max. “But you’re welcome to white bread and beans.”

“You a car man?” asked the wino, picking up the miniature city inside the hubcap.“

”Had a fifty-three Ford once," said Max. "Sweetest little car.”

“Mine was a Ferrari. Yellow. Cruised like the wind,” said Gabriel.

“What happened?” asked Max.

The wino shrugged. “Corporate takeover,’ he said. He sniffed the air above the simmering pot of beans, replaced the cover and walked out.

“I wonder if that was an angel,” said Savannah. “Sometimes angels show up at your door, and if you take them in and feed them, God bestows his blessing on you. Wish he’d had something to eat. We could use a dishwasher about now.”

“Or a yellow Ferrari,” said Max.The next day, Savannah had to work a double shift. Maggie, another girl at the VFW, called in sick and Savannah had to pitch in. That night, her feet ached up to her eyebrows.Max had been drinking beer since noon, waiting for Savannah to come home.

“Well, I just got fired,” he said. He speared a ketchup-stained electric bill with a kitchen knife and threw it against the wall. “My bus broke down today, and it turned out that there was no oil in the crankcase. So they blamed me for it. They said I should have checked. The maintenance guys at the bus barn had missed it. None of the other drivers had checked the oil. But it didn’t matter. I was driving #24 when it broke down, so they said it was my own damn fault that the bus had no oil. So they fired me.”

“You cook,” said Savannah. “At least I made good tips today. Over forty dollars. That’ll go towards something. But man I’m beat.”

“We got corn, and a can of beans, and white bread, and mayonnaise in the fridge. And thirty-three dollars of that tip money’s got to go towards the electric Bill. How’s about I toast the bread and pour the corn and beans on top. We’ll save the mayonnaise for a special occasion.”

Max religiously combed through the want ads. Savannah burned incense and chanted African prayers and songs. “Angels of God protect us, and if it isn’t too much trouble could you get Max a job?”

“That was some angel of yours,” said Max. “First he’s too good to eat our beans, and then he gets me fired. And what the hell is that in your hand?”

”Just a crystal.” Savannah had meant to keep it hidden.

“What’s that good for?”

“It channels and focuses energy.”

“How much did you pay for it?”

“Fifteen dollars. Why?”

”Cause you fuckin’ shouldn’t have bought it until I get a job.”

Back at the VFW Savannah smiled, carried hash, and got her butt pinched. Max looked for work and watched his twelve-inch TV screen. He saw the twin towers come down in a panicky newscast of crashing rock and falling bodies. Shifty-eyed Arabs filled the list of America’s most wanted. American flags fluttered from cars like swastikas.

“Do you suppose someone might mistake me for an Arab?” Max asked.

“Try boarding a plane and find out.”

The twelve-inch TV broke, so Max took to prowling through the Yankton Herald for news. And while he searched through the want ads, Savannah came into the living room skipping. “Life I love you all is groovy, la, la, la, la, la, la, feeling groovy.”

“What’s lighting your fire, Baby? You haven’t sung in a long time.”

”Oh, please don’t be angry, Max. I know we can’t really afford it, but…”

“Christ Savannah, don’t tell me you bought another crystal or some other dumb gadget. Whatever it is, take it back. We just don’t have the money right now.”

“It’s not a crystal, and it’s not another dumb gadget, and no, I can’t take it back.”She bit her lip and ran into the kitchen. “it’s…well, …I’m pregnant.”

“Oh , my God, Savannah.”

She came back into the living room. “Are you happy? Please, please be happy. I know we’re a dime away from living under the freeway.”

”Just get an abortion.”

“But, Max.”

“No buts. Get an abortion. We can’t fuckin’ afford a kid right now.”

“Stop talking like that. I really hate I it when you do that.”

“I’ll fuckin’ talk any way I please, and you can’t fuckin’ tell me how to talk.”

“And you can’t make me get an abortion.”

That night the toilet plugged up and Savannah poked at it for some time with the tin flute before she gave up and used the plunger. And she mopped up the toilet water with the lap rug she’d made for him.

Max got hired at the Alcoa extrusion plant in Yankton. It was his job to help muck out the still bottoms in the chemical tanks. He wore a sweaty chemical suit with a scratched-up face plate, and the suite was attached to an air hose that supplied breathing air, the kind of air you’d breath out at the mud flats. Much of the time he worked hunched over scraping hardened bilge off of blades which were, hopefully, locked immobile. Most of the spaces were too cramped to allow Max room to stand up.

One day, the hose line snapped. Hank was supposed to be on watch, but he got called away earlier to man the packaging plant because there were seven rush orders to be filled by the end of the day. The chemical smelled sweet, and it made Max feel dreamy. His arms and legs were heavy; they didn’t want to move and neither did Max. His mind told him to back out of the tank, and he did it reluctantly. A scratchy tingling, and alter a burning sensation in his throat and chest were the only clues that something was very wrong.

Max spent a week in the hospital, then another month at home recuperating. “Your lungs are badly scarred, and you’ll be getting less oxygen with each breath,” the doctor had told him. “So you’ll have to push yourself harder when you get back to work.”

According the the Chamber of Commerce, Yankton is a small town of about 10,000 warm, friendly folds. It has the lowest rate in the nation of unionized labor, and the lowest rate of workers compensation claims. Yankton imposes no business tax and no inheritance tax. It’s a great place to live and work.

“I’m not going back to the plant,” said Max. “No one’s watching my back over there.”

“You can’t just not go back. We can’t live on my pitiful little salary, and if you quit, word’ll get out that you’re a coward and an unreliable worker, and you’ll never get another job in Yankton.”

Max couldn’t hear her for the sound of the slamming door as he walked out into the street.Outside, a fourteen-year-old thug-in-training was rolling a wino. Max booted him on his rump to start him running down the street and came over to the wino to check him out. The wino turned out be Gabriel.

“Can’t you find any place besides the front of my apartment to get beat up in?”

“Any place else, and I’d still be getting beat up,” said Gabriel.

“My wife thinks you’re an angel. That you can grant three wishes or something like that.”

”That’s the genie department, my friend. Say, you don’t have any hooch on you by chance?” Gabriel looked hopeful.

“Sorry. Is that what you’d wish for if you met an angel?”

“Either that or world peace. No I’m joshin’ you. I’d wish for hooch. How about you?”

“I guess I’d just wish for my wife back.”

“I can grant that one. Just turn your stupid ass around and walk back through the door, you nimbus.”

Well, he did. But Max and Savannah didn't speak for the rest of the evening, and they left for work the next morning without a sound or a touch. As it turned out Savannah didn't need to get an abortion. Instead she miscarried after serving lunch at the VFW. It was a bloody afternoon spent in the ladies room doubled over with cramps. She was hot, then cold, then hot again, and she couldn't find a way to get comfortable. But it wasn't just the fire in her belly; it was the knowledge that something more than just a part of her was lost forever.Maggie gave her some Kotex to see her through the afternoon. Savannah thought of going to the hospital, but decided against it.

The car wasn't running, so Savannah had to walk home. It took her almost two hours. She expected Max to beat her home, but the apartment was empty when she finally limped up to the front door and shoved it open. And she plopped on the couch, all her energy spent, and that was how Max found her when he came home that night. He pulled the door open wide, and pulled a box through it, something heavy and awkward, and topped with a large red bow."It's not much, but I found it and, well, sort of fixed it up," Max said, and then he stopped talking when he saw how pale her face was.

For a long time, Savannah couldn't say the words. Max held her in his arms, and stroked her hair, and her skin was damp against his cheek. And finally she told him. "Max I lost the baby." Max held her for a long time, before setting her back against the couch cushions to fix some soup.

While he was puttering in the kitchen, Savannah asked him, "What's in the box?"

"It's nothing. Just a dumb idea I had," he said. "Don't open it now. You don't want to know." But Savannah had already pulled down a flap of cardboard. Inside was a baby's crib, about fifty years old but scraped clean. On the two ends, Max had painted the Dakota black hills at sunrise, and the words, "We love you, tiny one."

She flew into the kitchen, and hugged him, crying and kissing his mouth all at the same time. "You dear, wonderful, wonderful, wonderful man," was all that she could say.