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David, Wallis and the Mercenary Chapter Sixty-Three

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Previously: Mercenary Leon fails on a mission because of David, better known as Edward the Prince of Wales. Socialite Wallis Spencer, also a spy, has an affair with German Joachim Von Ribbentrop and marries Ernest. David becomes king. Wallis divorces, David abdicates and they marry. They fail to kill Hitler. Leon has become an expert assassin.
The Windsors spent the winter holidays in Paris cultivating a group of friends who held positions where they would be privy to sensitive government information. No one was better at pulling bits of gossip out of people than Wallis. David always leaned back in a comfy leather tufted chair puffing on a cigarette while smiling like he would rather be someplace else.
Winter slowly melted into spring which made house hunting much more entertaining. Wallis found spring in Paris enchanting, summer sweltering, autumn just shy of enchanting and winter pure hell. David usually accompanied her when inspecting houses to rent. He wanted every house to look like Fort Belvedere, which Wallis knew would be impossible to find in France. Mostly he wanted a garden to till. Gardening always relaxed him. And Wallis found herself enjoying watching him flex his muscles as he pulled weeds, hoed the soil and sawed away dead limbs.
The realty agency contacted the Windsors in late May with a place in Versailles that sounded promising. Chateau de la Maye belonged to the widow of French politician Paul Dupuy. They had met Dupuy and his wife at a New Year’s Eve celebration. Their long conversation about the coming war with Germany on the balcony of the Hotel Meurice must have exposed him to the pneumonia that killed him. David and Wallis were invited to the funeral but declined because during their conversations they discovered he was a Nazi sympathizer. They didn’t want to waste fake tears for him.
The house on the other hand, was intriguing. It featured a large garden, swimming pool, tennis courts and a nine-hole golf course, all of David’s favorite things. On the afternoon they were to tour the house, David received a phone call from the British Embassy requesting his immediate presence.
“Odd,” he told Wallis as he put on his overcoat, “I could swear the person on the phone had a slight German accent.”
“Darling, most well-bred Englishmen do.” And then she did something she rarely did—she kissed him on the lips.
She didn’t dwell on it during her limousine ride to Chateau de la Maye where the agent awaited her. Wallis knocked on the door. When it opened she stepped back. It was Joachim von Ribbentrop.
“What the hell are you doing here? Won’t Herr Hitler miss you?”
Ribbentrop flashed a smile which deepened the dimple in his chin. “He sent me personally to apologize to you for his lapse of judgment in the choo choo room when you and the duke visited.”
“Unnecessary.” Wallis brushed passed Ribbentrop.
“Herr Fuhrer hasn’t even been in the choo choo room since you left.”
“I’m here to see the house. How many bedrooms does it have?”
“Who cares?” Ribbentrop replied in breathless anticipation. “I can’t remember the last time I gave you a carnation.”
“Neither can I. By the way, when you called David saying he was needed at the embassy, you let your German accent slip in. He noticed.”
“I was excited about our rendezvous.”
“There is no rendezvous. I’m looking to rent the house.”
“I think of no one but you.”
She happened to be wearing one of her suits with a fur collar. Wallis turned her head so her eyes fluttered through the fur.
“Do you love me and adore me?”
“More than life itself.”
She smiled. “I may hold you to that someday.” Wallis looked around the room. “Lovely foyer. When will the authentic realty representative be here?”
“One hour from now.”
“In that case, we might as well go upstairs to inspect the bedrooms. What do you think?”
Ribbentrop left forty-five minutes later, which gave Wallis time to put herself back together before the real estate agent arrived.
The chateau came as furnished, which irritated Wallis. She didn’t like Madame Dupuy’s taste and was peeved she could not decorate it to her own style. Another negative was that it was in Versailles, some distance from the heart of Paris, where all the best gossip existed. She signed only a six-month lease.
Two weeks later, Wallis and David took the Blue Train to an estate near Antibes on the Mediterranean coast. It was a twelve-acre estate with a large landscaped park. Driving through the gate, visitors could not see the house, gardens and sea view until after turning a corner. The name of the villa was La Croe, and they loved the estate. It was a three-story building just waiting for Wallis to redecorate it into their own royal palace. They signed a ten-year lease, and to celebrate their good fortune, they dined at on the terrace of an Antibes cliffside restaurant. The maître‘d lead them to a table where they could enjoy the full view. On the table was a vase holding a single carnation.
They had not quite taken their first sip of champagne when Ribbentrop arrived, wearing his vanilla ice cream colored suit.
“You don’t mind if I join you?” He slid into a chair at their table before they could voice any objections. “What a pleasant surprise.”
David stared at the white carnation. “Well, at least a surprise.”
“Herr Fuhrer read you were looking for a home on the Riviera, and personally sent me on a mission to find you and apologize for the awkwardness of his farewells upon your departure.”
“Tell him to think nothing of it.” David leaned back and puffed on his cigarette.
Ribbentrop wrinkled his brow. “He also wanted to convey his apologies if you were in any way offended by the way he had—shall we say—decorated the choo choo room.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t quite remember the details of what you quaintly call the choo choo room.” David puffed on his cigarette and blew smoke through his nose.
“Herr Hitler has a whimsical sense of humor and he placed figures of you and the duchess on the balcony of Buckingham Palace dressed in the regalia of king and queen. He hoped you did not take away any untoward implications.”
David took the white carnation from the vase and sniffed it. “No scent.” He nonchalantly handed it to Wallis. “What is it you always say about white carnations, my dear?”
“Tacky. Any man worthy of romantic consideration would send a white rose.” She tossed the carnation over the balcony.

The Ides of March

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Author’s note: Beware, the language used is a little rougher than usual.
Beware, the ides of March are upon you.
Jeff awoke from a deep sleep and looked around his dark bedroom. He squinted, prying into every corner and the folds of each curtain.
All the live long day.
Shaking his head, Jeff realized the voice was actually singing in deep, sonorous tones. He turned to his wife to find her breathing peacefully, hardly making any sound at all.
You cannot get away.
Now Jeff shook to his inner core. What could this voice be? Its implication was ominous.
Oh don’t you hearing the whistle blowing?
Whistle, what whistle? Jeff didn’t hear any whistle. Leaning closer to his wife he put his ear next to her mouth. Nothing but soft breathing. The faint aroma of roasted peanuts. She hadn’t brushed her teeth again before coming to bed, that that still didn’t account for the foreboding tune.
Dinah, blow your horn.
He didn’t know a Dinah. His wife’s name was Susie, and she didn’t know how to blow a horn.
Someone’s in the kitchen with Dinah.
There better not be anyone in the kitchen with Susie or else somebody was going to get shot. Jeff had serious jealousy and anger management. That was why nobody ever came over for dinner anymore. No one wanted to be found dead in the kitchen with Susie.
Someone’s in the kitchen I know I know.
I wish Dinah would get out of my kitchen, Jeff muttered, and take her friend with her.
Someone’s in the kitchen with Dinah, strumming on the old banjo.
Okay, dammit, Jeff fumed, I want these people to get the hell out of my house right now! He jumped from the bed and stormed into the kitchen. No one was there. The soft light of morning filtered through the slightly grungy windows. Susie hadn’t cleaned the windows in two months now. Maybe he would be better off with Dinah. There’s a good chance she’d keep a cleaner house than Susie did, but Jeff decided he couldn’t put up with that horn blowing through the night. Jeff jumped when he heard footsteps behind him.
“What are you doing up so early?” Susie asked while trying to stifle a yawn.
Jeff pointed to the kitchen windows. “I thought you were going to clean those damn windows.”
“Not in the damn middle of the night. Do you want some coffee?”
“Not if the pot is as dirty as the windows.”
“Have it your own way. I’m going back to bed.” Susie turned back to the bedroom. “And clean the damn windows yourself. Hell, you’re worse than an old woman.”
Beware, the ides of March are upon you.
Shit, there goes that voice again.
All the live long day.
The noise pushed Jeff to the brink. “Stop that damn singing!”
“Nobody’s singing, Jeff! Nobody’s making a sound except for you, and you’re a certified lunatic!” Susie screamed from the bedroom.
You cannot get away.
“Like hell, I can’t get away!” Jeff stomped to the hall closet, took out his shotgun, loaded it, and marched to the bedroom. Taking careful aim he unloaded both chambers into Susie’s back. The next thing Jeff noticed was someone on a bullhorn just outside the kitchen door.
“Put your weapon down, place your hands on your head and slowly come out!”
Jeff frowned. It was a woman’s voice.
“Neighbors called about a gunshot blast. Come out with your hands on your head. This is Officer Dinah Smith. Come out now.”
Jeff carefully put the rifle on the floor and walked back to the kitchen. He stopped at the kitchen door. “I can’t come out. I’m naked.”
“Put your hands on the kitchen table,” Officer Smith instructed him.
The door creaked open, and Jeff heard the footsteps of a woman wearing boots. There was another noise, like a paw scratching on the wooden floor. Someone’s in the kitchen with Dinah, Jeff thought. He wondered who it was.
“Okay, Banjo. Go see what you can find,” Dinah said.
Jeff lifted his head to see a large German Shepherd loping toward the bedroom. He could tell when the dog stopped, sniffed and scratch at the rifle on the floor. Banjo whined.
“What’s going on here, sir?” Dinah asked.
“I shot my wife for singing,” Jeff muttered, “but she wasn’t really singing. It was all in my head.” He felt Dinah’s rough hands grab his wrists and pull them behind him.
You cannot get away.
“You have the right to remain silent,” Dinah began reading him his rights in a monotone voice.
Jeff heard the kitchen door open and another pair of footsteps.
“Damn, Dinah. Why don’t you let the man have a little dignity and let him put some trousers on?”
“He just killed his wife,” Dinah snapped. “I don’t care if he freeze his skinny ass off.”
“You don’t mind if get him some clothes, do you?” the other officer asked.
“I’m busy with this report. You can do anything you want. The bedroom’s through that door.”
The other officer took a few steps, then Dinah called out, “By the way, what is today’s date?”
The officer replied, “March fifteenth.”
I told you, beware the ides of March.

Remember Chapter Two

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Previously: retired college teacher Lucinda suddenly starts having memories of her favorite student Vernon.
“Why, it’s time for your composition class, Miz Cambridge.”

“I haven’t taught since last December,” she replied in a bare whisper.

“Heck no. It was jest two days ago.” Vernon giggled in a non-malicious way.

“Are you real?” Her hand went to her boney chest where it made vague circles.

“Of course I’m real.” He took a step toward her, looking seriously at her face. “Miz Cambridge, you all right? You don’t look good.”

“I’ve had problems with my heart lately.” She valiantly tried to dismiss her unease and the feeling—not that an elephant was sitting on her chest—but that an elephant was in her chest trying to get out.

“Hope you’re goin’ to the doctor.” His eyes crinkled in concern.

“Yes, I have.”

“Well, that’s good.” Vernon tried to sit at one of the school desks but dropped all his books in the process. He slid out of the seat, went to the floor and started pulling the books toward him.

Lucinda always considered herself an intelligent person but could not figure out what was going on. Was she having a hallucination? She also considered herself too sophisticated to take spiritualism seriously, but now she doubted her previously held beliefs. “Are you a ghost?”

Vernon, with books securely tucked into his gangly arms, sat back in the desk chair and looked at Lucinda quizzically. “I don’t think so. I think I’m what they call a memory.”

“I’m sorry, Vernon.” She shook her head and closed her eyes. “I’ve tried very hard to forget you for the last ten years — quite successfully until today. So please, be a nice young gentleman and leave.”

“Why, that’s silly, Miz Cambridge. I’m your memory. I wouldn’t be here unless you wanted me here. I always did what you wanted me to.”

“Then if it’s up to me, you must leave now.” She pointed to the door which her logical self knew wasn’t really there. “The way you came.”

Looking slightly hurt, Vernon stood and rather clumsily gathered his books. “Anything you say, Miz Cambridge.” He walked to the door but he stopped, as though something were confining him.

“Vernon, I said go. Now!”

“Somethin’s holdin’ me back.” He stopped trying to go through the door and turned. “I think it’s you.”

“What on earth are you talking about?”

“I think there’s a part of you that doesn’t want to think about me but another — more powerful — part that does. So I guess I’m stuck here for a while. He paused. “Can I sit down now?”

Lucinda forced herself to see the room as it actually was—a boarding house bedroom and not a classroom—and stood to go to the real door.

“Cassie! Cassie!”

“What are you doin’?” Vernon’s voice sounded hollow, as though an echo through a long tunnel.

“If I talk to someone, I won’t have to think about you,” she muttered. Then she yelled as loud as a woman of her age and health could. “Cassie! Cassie!”

“Cassie? You mean ol’ Cassie Lawrence?”

“Yeah, Miz Cambridge?” a voice emanated from down the real hall.

“Yep, that’s ol’ Cassie.” Vernon was sounding fainter and fainter, though a light-hearted condescension was still evident.

“Be kind, Vernon,” Lucinda lectured.

“Whattaya want?” the voice from down the hall grew stronger.

“Please come to my room.”

“You mean you live in her mama’s boardin’ house?

“Yes, Vernon.” Lucinda became impatient. “Hurry, Cassie!”

“Hey! Nancy lives here!” His voice lightened. “I wonder which room?”

Cassie, a plain woman in her late thirties and with a club foot, finally appeared in the hall. “Whattaya want, Miz Cambridge?”

Lucinda put her arm around Cassie, guided her into the bedroom and walked right past Vernon. “Yes, Cassie. Thank you for coming.”

“I hope it don’t take long. Mama’s jest about got lunch ready.” Her dull blue eyes lit. “I think we’re havin’ chicken with stars soup!”

“I told you Cassie was a little funny,” Vernon said.

Lucinda looked distracted because Vernon’s voice was becoming strong again.

“Miz Cambridge?” Cassie asked.

“Um, yes.” Lucinda did her best to focus on Cassie. “What did you want?”

“You wanted me.” She shook her head in confusion.

“Am I makin’ you act funny?” Vernon frowned in concern.

Lucinda looked back and forth between Vernon and Cassie, who, of course, could not see Vernon.

“Miz Cambridge, You’re actin’ discombobulated.” Cassie’s tone went up an octave.

“Um, I suppose I am a bit distracted this morning.” She smiled nervously.

“No, you’re actin’ discombobulated.” Now her eyes were so wide they seemed ready to pop out of their sockets.

Lucinda needed a logical sounding excuse fast. “I need some more boxes for my books.”

“You gonna give them away?” Cassie asked. “Mama really hopes you give those books away.”

“They make bookcases.” She smiled with phony confidence

“Okay.” Cassie sounded disappointed.

“Thank you.”

“Okay,” Cassie repeated in the same disappointed tone.

“Good bye.” Lucinda decided to capitulate to her demanding memory of Vernon.

“Okay.” Cassie walked to the door, looked back, shook her head and disappeared down the hall.

It Was The World Back Then

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Recently I was going through some old files and found this nostalgia piece I wrote in the early 1970s, about 50 years:

It was the world back then. A garden to be tilled, a home for rabbits and chickens and dogs. Oh yes, cats too.
That backyard was long and wider than I had the breath to run past. But, of course, I was always a puny kid.
Half of it for many years was a garden—corn in the back, then okra, many rows of potatoes and tomatoes, then radishes, cabbage and onions. Sometimes a few petunias if my mother was in the mood. They made adequate trumpets, I recall.
To keep the garden alive during those scorching, drought-tinged Texas summers of the mid-fifties, my father and mother put the garden house at the end of a row and let it run.
Much to their chagrin, I often decided to dam up the works and create a lake, with branches seeping from one row to another. This also provided plenty of mud for various products like mud pies. It also substituted for blood for my re-enactment of the Saturday war movie.
Then the hose was turned on me before I was allowed in the house.
But the garden isn’t there anymore. Not since my mother died.
The other half of the yard was for play—with my dogs. I always had a couple; then when one was run over and killed—which seemed altogether too common an occurrence—I still had one.
They would chase me, nipping at my heels, until I would fall down and cover my head. They would lick at my neck and I would squeal with delight.
I learned the facts of life from the cats. Kittens were as common as the rain wasn’t in those days. I can think of no better education than the excitement of gingerly crawling under the house, softly calling out the mother cat’s name and have her return with a pleasant meow. As I crawled closer, she would proudly roll over to show me her babies, their eyes still closed. If I dared pick them up too much they would not be there the next day. The mother would move them.
My father built a hutch in the back and tried raising rabbits once. But that was a futile venture because he wanted to eat them, and I wanted them as pets. Bantam chickens were safer, we both agreed only to eat the eggs. One day, however, I came home to find dead chickens over all the yard. One of the dogs acted sheepishly. I cried and then decided to grant amnesty. The law of the backyard was based on mercy.
And the playhouse. I could never forget that. It began as one small room with tin Royal Crown Cola signs for sides and roof. That didn’t seem large enough so I added another room and a wooden roof and a second floor.
To celebrate the expansion I invited a friend over to spend the night in the house with my brother and me. We watched “Abbott and Costello Meet Frankenstein” and drank a concoction of mine made of Nehi orange, grape and strawberry and Upper Teen.
Then we ventured out for the night. The sky was clear and the moon full. It was joyous. We danced and frolicked in our underwear at midnight. My friend’s shorts had monkeys on them. I teased him, but secretly I was envious.
Somehow two rooms and a second floor didn’t seem enough. I doubled the bottom, had more lumber for roofing and even had a perch on top of the second floor.
A few years later my interest waned, and my father wanted me to tear it down, but I didn’t have the heart. He relented and tore it down himself. At one point he pushed apart two main posts and bore a strange resemblance to Sampson, I thought.
Now I come home occasionally and the yard has changed. As I said, there is no garden. It is now an expanse of grass. I only vaguely spot where the rabbit hutch and the wonderful playhouse sat.
The only things that are the same are the honeysuckle vines and mimosa trees I planted for my mother many years ago. The trees are quite stout now.
It makes me feel old.
The smell of the honeysuckle is still sweet and brings back the memories, though. I have honeysuckle growing outside the door of the home I share with my wife and son. It makes me feel good.
I want a large yard for my son to have adventures in, to learn responsibility in, a nice place to grow up.
But this yard, for all the world events that transpired within its reaches, seems so small now.

Fifty years later, I have to admit the yard was not always that wonderful. In fact, some memories are best kept where they belong—in the past. And as for the yard seeming so small, to this old man the world has grown much too large.

Remember Chapter One

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Author’s note: My novella Remember is a reflection on how we treat our young people going to war and especially the ones who will never come back. They are human beings like the rest of us with hopes, loves and fears. It deals with a retired college English teacher remembering her favorite student, how she loved him and eventually let him down. I particularly like the student Vernon Singleberry whose dreams come true only in the memories of others.

It was a spring morning in 1980. Lucinda Cambridge, a terribly thin and brittle woman in her early seventies, sat in a rocking chair in her sparsely appointed bedroom in a boarding house in a small Texas community, reading from two books at a small table. One was Homer’s Odyssey, and the other was Ernest Hemingway’s Old Man and the Sea. She did not know that by nightfall she would be dead.

“For two nights and two days he was lost in the heavy seas. Time and again he saw his end at hand,” she whispered in the same monotone voice she used as she recited selections of literature to her bored junior college students.

A 10-year-old blonde with large eyes crawled through the window by Lucinda’s bed. The retired teacher jumped slightly at the noise and turned to see the little girl plop her feet on the old wooden floor.

“Shirley Meyers!” Lucinda did not know whether to startled or terribly pleased by the impromptu visit.

“Shh! The old women will hear you!” She wandered over to the bed and hopped up on it, dangling her legs in carefree abandon.

“Oh no! You haven’t skipped school again!” Lucinda decided upon the imperious, judgmental tone to defend the honorable institution of education to which she had dedicated her life.

“Today’s Good Friday. They let us out early. Before lunch. So they didn’t have to feed us.” Shirley’s eyes wandered around the room.

“Does your mother know you’re here?”

“No.” Shirley jumped from the bed and walked to the far wall which had stacks and stacks of books against it. “You sure do have a lot of books. If somebody read all of them they’d be the smartest person in the world.”

“Why didn’t you tell your mother?” Lucinda would not be diverted from her well-intentioned meddling.

Shirley went back to the window and leaned out, inhaling deeply. “You’re so lucky to have honeysuckle growing right outside your window. Doesn’t it smell sweet?”

“Shirley?” Lucinda risked sounding school-marmish, which, indeed, she was.

“Because I’d have to sit at the beauty parlor and listen to mama talk about Warren Beatty and hear the women giggle about how silly it all sounds,” she replied, her eyes moving from the honeysuckle to the sky. “The clouds look so fluffy.”

“So the boarding house has become your sanctuary?” Her tone melted into sympathy. Lucinda could not help herself.

“No. Only your room.” Shirley pulled in her head, turned and smiled.

“Why, thank you, Shirley.”

“Those old biddies at the beauty parlor– they look at me funny and murmur, “Love child, love child.”

“That’s why you visit me so often.” She felt like her heart was about to burst with happiness.

“You don’t make me feel different.”

Lucinda extended her arms, and Shirley came over to give her a hug.

“Ah, but you are different.” She closed her eyes to keep from crying. “You’re so fresh and open and sweet.”

“And that name, love child.” Shirley asked, “What does it mean?”

“Well, it means . . . .”

“I know what it means. My mama and daddy weren’t married.” She pulled away and sat on the bed again. “But what does it really means? If my daddy loved me why isn’t he here? Wouldn’t it make more sense to call me a sex child instead of a love child? I don’t feel loved.”

“I love you.”

“I know.” Shirley smiled. “That’s why I like talking to you.” She walked back over to the stacks of books. “And I like your books.”

Lucinda joined Shirley and picked up a college yearbook. “There’s one I want you to see.”

“What is it?”

“The Lion. The junior college yearbook from 1970. I want to show you someone in it.”

The bedroom door opened with an angry bang. Nancy, Shirley’s mother, stalked into the room. She was pretty, but in her short thirty years on earth had given her a hard-edge. Shirley nervously hid the yearbook behind her back.

“I thought I’d find you in here.” Nancy put her hands on her hips.

“Shirley’s not bothering anything, Mrs. Meyers.” Lucinda tried to use her best tutorial voice.

“You know very well it’s Miss Meyers.” She glared at her daughter. “What’s that?”

“A yearbook.” Shirley slowly brought it from behind her back.

Nancy grabbed it from her, looked at the yearbook and threw it on the floor next to the stacks of other books. “You don’t need to look at trash. Git out of here.”

“Yes, mama. Bye, Mrs. Cambridge.” Shirley went through the door, closed it but put her ear to it.

“I know what you’re up to, old woman.” Nancy pointed at Lucinda.

“Shirley deserves to know about Vernon Singleberry.”

“It’s none of your business.” She clinched her jaw tightly as though to end the conversation.

“But—“

“I don’t want to hear it,” Nancy cut her off.

“Please—“

Nancy opened the door, and Shirley jumped back as her mother stormed into the hall and gripped her daughter’s arm. “What are you doing?”

Lucinda cocked her head to hear the rest of the conversation, but Nancy dragged Shirley down the stairs, muttering the entire time. The old woman stared at the door a moment, sighed deeply and returned to her reading. “But in the morning of the third day, which Dawn opened in all her beauty, the wind dropped, a breathless calm set in and Odysseus keeping a sharp lookout ahead as he was lifted by a mighty wave, could see the land close by.” She tapped the book with conviction, then opened her volume of Hemingway. “Now where is that passage? Ah, here it is. She read moving her lips. Similarities, similarities. Man against the sea. Man as one with the sea. Did Hemingway know what he was doing? Was he inspired by Homer? Oh, we shall never know! Why oh why did such a gifted writer have to blow his brains out?”

She unconsciously rubbed her right arm, then momentarily she felt dizzy. Shaking her head Lucinda looked up to see that she was mysteriously in her old classroom at the junior college, and saw Vernon Singleberry—a tall, blond young man, about nineteen, with large, soulful eyes— lope in just as the bell rang. He was dressed in blue jeans and a crisp plaid short-sleeved shirt and carrying too many books.

“He couldn’t write no more — I mean, anymore. Isn’t that what you told us, Miz Cambridge?”

Lucinda’s mouth flew open in shock. It was as though the last ten years were as a moment in time. She took a moment to recover. “Vernon Singleberry! What — what are you doing here!?”

My First Flight

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Companies don’t do this anymore, but a Tennessee newspaper flew me up from Texas for a job interview in 1970. The job only paid $135 a week. At the time I was making $125 a week at the Paris News. This was the first time I ever flew on an airliner.
A buddy in college had taken me up in a Piper Cub one time. We flew around the campus and to the next town. At one point he handed the steering column over to me. It was kinda neat and not too scary. As long as I could see the cows in the fields below me I knew I wasn’t really that high up.
I had to work until midnight Saturday, had Sunday off and then worked Monday morning then had the afternoon off. I asked to switch it to Monday afternoon without explanation, and my boss was nice enough not to ask any questions.
Sunday morning I drove out to tiny Paris airfield, climbed the steps to a commuter plane that didn’t look much bigger than the Piper Cub and took off, following the highways, to Dallas Love Field. I got a slightly larger plane and connected to Nashville then to Tri-Cities Airport located between Kingsport, Bristol and Johnson City, Tennessee.
The managing editor picked me up and drove me to the newspaper office. It was a second story rat hole, but he said a new, ultramodern building was under construction.
Then he mentioned my letter to him in which I revealed I had never flown commercially so I didn’t know if the plane ticket was in the right price range. Instead of being impressed with my concern to save the newspaper money, he lectured me on being too honest about my naiveté.
“Never let anyone know how inexperienced I was in the ways of the world,” he said. “If anyone asks you if you’ve traveled much, lie,” he continued, “and say you’ve been around the globe.”
It should have been a warning sign that the man who was about to hire me to report the facts was urging me to lie. But what did I know? I was just a country kid from Texas.
He awed me with a dinner at the Holiday Inn and then sent me back to my motel. It was clean and had a television in it. Like I said I was just a country kid from Texas and easily impressed.
I flew out Monday morning. At one of the airports a flight attendant stopped me at the plane’s door, informing me I had not gotten the proper boarding pass. The engines were revving up and I didn’t have time to return to the terminal. I wasn’t going to make it back to the Paris News by one o’clock so I’d lose my job. The Kingsport paper would decide not to hire me because I was too naïve, and then I would be unemployed.
Another flight attendant walked up and said, “What difference does it make? Let him on.”
So I took my seat on the plane and arrived back at the Texas newspaper on time. In a couple of weeks the Kingsport editor called announcing I had the job. He then asked how soon could I be there.
First time to do things is fun. You get an adrenaline rush. You get challenged over the way you think about the world. You get scared to death. You sigh with relief and tell yourself, “Well, I lived through that.”
I still look forward to doing things for the first time. I need the excitement to keep my heart pumping.

The Trouble with Computers

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I am the first to admit I am computer illiterate. I can point and click. I can use it like a typewriter and save simple documents, but that’s just about it.
I got my first computer more than 20 years ago. I could only see half of the page at a time which made it very inconvenient when composing a story, letter or a play. My short term memory has always been a bit chancy so at the beginning I back spaced a lot to see how I had started the sentence. Then there was the printer. It worked on some heat process which I never understood. I had to punch three keys—I don’t remember which ones—to send command to print. I could never get my fingers to hit them in the right cadence, like playing the piano, which I could never do either.
My next computer was easier to use and the printer was cooperative. I had to buy several different programs which were very expensive to make it worthwhile, and each one had its own peculiar way of working.
Then came the internet. I was first aware of the internet through these commercials of a little girl in a woolen coat and a beret of a matching color. She was standing on a rock in the middle of a stream and then instantly was on another rock and then another. She was talking about being here, there and everywhere all at the same time. It didn’t make much sense. But that is what the internet is, after all, being here, there and everywhere all at the same time.
The first time I connected to the internet I thought I had done something dreadfully wrong and the computer was about to explode—that awful screeching noise of dial up. I could imagine someone instantly popping the power button off before the contraption burst. There were certain evenings, Mondays and Tuesdays, when I couldn’t get a connection. Everyone, it seemed, didn’t have anything better to do on those nights than go online. Downloading sites took forever.
Now I’m spoiled. Instant connection and downloading and it’s fast. Where I used to have to go to libraries, order books from catalogues and go on field trips to learn background for my stories I now have access to every university library, every museum and every national historic site in the world. Of course, I had to learn some sites weren’t what they were cracked up to be. For instance, Flash Mountain is not the same as Splash Mountain at DisneyWorld.
My only fear now about computers and the internet is that all our knowledge is on line. On the one hand it’s very convenient, at least for those who have computers. We must realize we do live in a world where some people still can’t afford computers. That’s a perception gap that must be closed.
The real problem, however, is that all our knowledge is on computers, computers that are run by electricity. If, for whatever cataclysmic reason, the world loses its electrical power, there goes our knowledge. It’s in a computer that’s now an inert box. We are in a new Dark Ages.
One day, when we are gone and our cities are covered in vines, someone will find these little boxes and maybe figure out how to start them again. They will find the discs with a set amount of gigabytes of information on them. Perhaps they will decide that we were predicting the end of the world because the boxes held only a certain number of gigabytes.

Man in the Red Underwear Chapter Twenty-Five

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Previously: Man in the Red Underwear is a pastiche of prose and poetry with hints of parody and a dash of social satire on gender roles and class mores. Cecelia throws a society ball, where former lovers Andy and Bedelia meet. Andy and friends try to stop villain Malcolm Tent. The good guys finally get the goods on Tent. Tent accuses Andy of wearing red underwear.No big deal. Everybody’s wearing red underwear.
“If he isn’t going,” Tent retorted while pointing at Andy, “I’m not going!”

“Oh, yes you are!” Cecelia said as though demanding a recalcitrant child to come to the dinner table.

“Who’s going to make me?” His smirk was most arrogant. You and who else?”

“Oh Billy!” Cecelia swept over to her potential new lover.

“Yes, Lady Chatalot?” Billy’s eyes glowed with mischief.

Tent cast a wary eye toward his henchman and the licentious lady who was whispering in his ear. He looked at Millicent. “Lady Chatalot? What does that mean?”

“I don’t know. Maybe some secret code.”

“I think it’s dirty,” Eddie offered softly.

Billy then grabbed Tent’s arm and twisted it behind his back. “Come along, sir.”

“But Billy!” He sputtered frantically. “I thought you were on my side!”

“She kisses better than you do, sir,” he informed his former boss.

“But, Billy.” Tent was getting really desperate by this point. “You don’t know how I kiss!”

The very thought caused Billy to grimace. “Sorry, sir. I don’t care to find out.”

“Oh dear, Billy, but you may have to go to jail too.” Cecelia went to him and tenderly stroked his filthy cheek. “However, your good deed in bringing Tent to justice may weigh with the judge.”

“That’s all right, Lady Chatalot. It won’t be the first time I’ve been in the slammer.”

Cecelia blew a kiss to Billy as he manhandled Tent out the door. “I’ll be waiting, with canapés.” She followed them to the front door and graciously opened it for them.

Millicent grabbed Eddie by the elbow. “Come on, Eddie. The party’s almost over. Let me walk you home.”

. “No wait. I almost got it.” Eddie was hunched over in a most unseemly manner, still trying to unbutton his pants.

Millicent slapped his hands to make him stop as they walked out the door. “It doesn’t make any difference now.”

“No, really, I almost got it. I swear I got on red underwear. Just like you told me.”

By the time they made their way through the ballroom, Eddie finally unbuttoned his pants and dropped them, only to reveal forest green tights. Very Robin Hood.

A voice in the crowd called out, “Is that guy wearing green underwear? I’ve never seen anything like that before! This is the weirdest party I’ve ever been at! I like it! Let’s be sure to come again next year!”

Back in the library, Bedelia snuggled close to Andy as he pulled up his pants. “Can you ever forgive me?”

“Never!” A rakish grin spread across his face. “You will have to spend the rest of your life begging me.” He paused to kiss her. “And begging.” Another kiss. “And begging.” Yet another kiss.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: This is the end of the tale of Andy, Bedelia and the rest. If you liked it, please drop a dollar or two in my tip basket above.

We Need to Talk

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“Hey, brain, what do you think of that little cutie walking down the street?”
“I don’t think anything about her at all, heart. I’m happily married. And so are you. Or have you forgotten?”
“Of course, I forget all the time. I’m the heart. I can’t remember nothing. You’re the brain, Mr. Smartypants. You don’t forget nothing.”
“Don’t forget anything. Your grammar really makes my blood boil.”
“And it ain’t your blood, genius. It’s my blood, because I’m the one who pumps it.”
“Could you two keep it down up there? I’m trying to digest some food here, and that hamburger ain’t gonna metabolize itself, you know.”
“You ate another hamburger? Stomach, don’t you remember what our doctor said?”
“You’re the brain. You’re supposed to remember those things for all us.”
“Yeah, meathead. All this is your fault.”
“That’s right, heart.”
“That’s right, heart.”
“Thank you, stomach.”
“I’ve been meaning to have a talk with you guys. Liver, lungs, you better listen up too.”
“I know I’ve caused us to cough too much lately. So get off my back.”
“And I—I wanna know who’s responsible for all that cheap gin? You’re wearing out this old liver.”
“That’s just it, my fellow organs. We’re all wearing out. I don’t know if you realize it, but we’re 71 years old. Now, that’s not scary old, but it’s getting on up there. We need to take care of ourselves better. I’m beginning to forget things, and I’m just too tired to keep reminding everyone to do his job.”
“You’re going to replace me with a younger heart, aren’t you? That’s what this is all about. You’re going to rip me out of my home and give it to some stronger, sexier heart. After all these years of faithful service, and this is what I get.”
“There you go, pumping yourself into another fit. That’s why I got ulcers. You and your fits.”
“Nobody loves me anymore. That’s all that a heart lives for is love, and you all hate me.”
“Whattaya mean? You’re the center of our lives! Whoever thinks of a liver? Nobody. I’m supposed to shut up and keep on working. I don’t even know what I do, but I keep on doing it so we can all live.”
“Brain, could we move this conversation elsewhere? That guy next to us is smoking a cigar, and I’m about to break out in another coughing attack. I know that shakes everybody up.”
“Hey, this walking around feels kinda good.”
“Watch out. I just processed some excess gas, and it’s makin’ its way through the large intestine.”
“Thank you, stomach. That’s very considerate of you. You know what I think?”
“There he goes again. The brain is gonna tell us what to think.”
“Can it, heart. I’ve got a cough coming on, and it’ll make you feel even worse. We don’t need that.”
“All I wanted to say was, buddies, we’ve been working together for a long time, and I just want you to know it’s been an honor, a real honor.”
“Now that’s something the heart should say. Nobody ever lets me say the good stuff.”
“Shut up, heart. You’re makin’ my ulcers act up.”

Man in the Red Underwear Chapter Twenty-Four

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Previously: Man in the Red Underwear is a pastiche of prose and poetry with hints of parody and a dash of social satire on gender roles and class mores. Cecelia throws a society ball, where former lovers Andy and Bedelia meet. Andy and friends try to stop villain Malcolm Tent. The good guys finally get the goods on Tent. Tent accuses Andy of wearing red underwear.
If you’re not wearing something red you might as well be stone cold dead!
‘Cause red is taking center stage! It’s right for any age! Bright red is all the rage!

Cecelia got right into the chief inspector’s face to wag a finger.

You’re such a dud and not a stud because you always dress in black.
And you should know some other things, you clueless old sad sack.
Don’t pink! It stinks!

Millicent stepped forward to snap her fingers.

Don’t blue! It’s flu!

In the spirit of the emotional riot occurring in the library, Bedelia broke out of her prim and proper mold.

Yellow? Hell no!

Andy caught on to the general mood and made his own offering.

Don’t green! Obscene!

As usual Eddie tried his best but stumbled on the rhyme.

Don’t purple! It’s burple!

Cecelia added another for good effect.

Don’t orange! It’s—
Orange, orange, no rhyme for orange.

Eddie patted her on the shoulder.

Oh, that don’t matter. I rhymed purple!

She nodded, ignoring Eddie’s advice.

Actually, orange is a shade of red so I suppose orange is acceptable.
So if you don’t wear something red, you might as well be stone cold dead!
We hear the Queen might make the scene and wear the current fashion rage!
‘Cause red is taking center stage. It’s right for any age! Bright red is all the rage!
We said not beige, and, damn not white, it’s such a fright, it’s red that’s all the rage!

“What do you mean?” Tent narrowed his eyes in suspicion.

“I got on red underwear too!” Eddie tried to unbutton his trousers but without success. At the palace he had his personal valet to perform such intricate duties. He began to stumble around the library in an attempt unbutton them.

“And I have red underwear!” Millicent lifted her dress to reveal bright red lacy leggings.

“And I!” Lifting her gown, Cecelia revealed tights of more a dark crimson nature.

Bedelia put a finger to her cheek and smiled naughtily. “Come to think of it, I’m wearing red underwear too.”

In anticipation of making the lingerie preference almost unanimous, the heroes turned to look at Billy.

“Don’t look at me.” He shrugged and winked at Cecelia. “I don’t wear no underwear at all.”

“Be still my heart!” Lady Snob-Johnson swooned.

Eddie ran to swing open the ballroom door. He hollered at all the other guests who were in the middle of a proper waltz by Strauss.

“And you folks out there! How many of y’all have on red underwear?” He pointed at a lady closest to him. “You there, ma’am. I bet you got on red underwear!”

“Eddie!” One must wonder why anything Eddie did still shocked Millicent.

“Hitch up yo’r dress and let us see red!”

Millicent resorted to corporal punishment by slapping his face. “Eddie! Stop it!”

“Oh. Sorry.” That was the first time that Millicent was ever physically abusive. He kind of liked it. “You can keep yo’r dress down, ma’am.” He then decided to try again to unbutton his own pants and show his red underwear.

“As you said, inspector,” Millicent said smugly, “you have a date at headquarters.”