Match Made in Heaven

Author's note: for some reason, yet unexplained, this one continues to cycle from published to draft and I never remember why. If you are considering reading it, please take a moment to note where the exits are located in case you need to abandon the idea on short notice.

~%~

I woke this morning nearly pain free and, if not in mid-season form, then near enough for time trials. I don't suppose I've ever come closer to saying, "Tra-la-la." When Ms Wonder came into the boudoir with a steaming cup of Bohea I said, "Poopsie, I feel good this morning."

"I wouldn't worry about it," she said, "it's a normal feeling for most people."

"What's the day like?" I asked. "Is the sky is blue, the sun smiling, does the water run hot and cold? The usual amenities?"

"Domestic offices," she said and it seemed to suggest that I'd made another one of those near misses. I wanted to ask just what she meant but I gave it a miss after remembering the 24-hour rule.

"Then I think I'll take myself out for an airing," I said.

"Don't forget we're meeting Jenny and Bill for breakfast at 9:30."

I had forgotten all about this tryst with the two love birds and being remindedas it came suddenly on the heels of my having to cancel a dinner engagement with these two love birds. I quickly climbed into the outer crust of the Durmite weekender: qigong pants, Steve Miller Band tee--the 1999 Last Call tour--official Muskogee Creek hat, and the Aldo boaters, sans socks, which add just a hint of diablerie, and I need all the diablerie I can get.

When I returned from morning salutations, I found two waiting for me on the porch upholstered in feminine fabrics. I mean the porch wasn't upholstered, the two waiting for me where. Ms Wonder bunged herself into the sports model and Mom, still standing on the porch, waved us off like an Archbishop blessing the pilgrims.

I'm not much for chatting in traffic and remained strong and silent, the lips tight, the eye ever vigilant, until we were out of Chadsford subdivision and sailing along Highway 54. Then I got down to the subject that has troubled me for some time.

"Poopsie," I said, "there is something about the pairing of these two that has troubled me for some time."

"Jenny and Bill," she said, "they're a perfect couple. A match made in Heav'n."

"Oh, I agree," I said. "Nice work if you want my opinion. I  think they're both on to something good and should push it along with the utmost energy. Why wait until December, get married tomorrow is my suggestion. No, it's not that I object to either of them. Both are the soundest of eggs. None sounder. It's just that they both fell in love at first sight."

She said something about people who don't believe in love at first sight but it was, in my opinion, a side issue and should not divert us from the subject at hand.

I explained that I would expect nothing less of Bill. After all, strong men before him had been smitten with Jenny to an alarming degree. Ms Wonder interrupted me to say that it probably had something to do with her profile. I agreed that it might possibly be the profile as seen from the right.

"From the left too," she said.

"Well, I suppose in a measure from the left too but you can't expect men in this hectic age to take time to dodge around a girl trying to see her from all sides."

 But, of course, I had already conceded that I readily understood why Bill fell for Jenny for she is liberally supplied with oomph. He, on the other hand, a good egg, none better, but he's one of us, or that is to say, he has the face that you grow into.

"But he's no Brad Pitt," I said.

"Well," she said, "you're no Brad Pitt," as if that had anything to do with it.

Sometimes I wonder about this Poopsie, descendent of Count Alexei Orlov who helped Catherine the Great take the throne from her husband. Give that one some thought and I think you will agree that there is reason for concern.

"Would I look a little like B Pitt if I had hair?"

"No."

"If I had a chin?"

"Nope."

"I suppose I must look like Beaker, the Muppet."

"Beaker had hair," she said.

"A bald Beaker," I said.

"A very cute bald Beaker," she said giving my head a nubbing.

This give and take left me feeling better about things and I would have carried on but we were nearing our destination and I was required to twiddle the wheel to avoid a passing tree and then we arrived at William's Gourmet Kitchen. We decanted ourselves and went inside to break the fast with the two good eggs that waited within.

The Emperor of Woodcroft!

It was early morning, and I hope you remember that early is a relative thing. I was enjoying a steaming cup of holiday blend when a figure appeared in the doorway of Dulce Cafe wearing a hat that only someone from the South End would consider sporting. 

It was the Emperor of Woodcroft, as beneficent a tyrant as you can find nowadays. I joined him in line feeling that if one cup was good then another would be even better.

"Ho!" he said in the manner of an English copper. I didn't like it. The tone was all wrong. "Swilling cocktails, eh?" he said.

I could make nothing of this. "I fail to understand you," I said. "Correct me if I'm wrong but isn't this the hour one might expect to hear, 'Good morning?"

"Out on the tiles to all hours?" he said.

I bridled at the accusation, at least I think I bridled. I'm not sure of the word's meaning but it sounds good and I've heard it used under similar circumstances.

"You will have to provide more detail," I said while correcting my posture and smoothing the gig line of my shirt to show that I was above all his jibber-jabber. "And I look forward to hearing the explanation. I'm sure it will hold me spellbound."

"I mean you were probably out carousing, getting home just before dawn and waking the entire neighborhood. That's what I mean, Mr. Hoitie-Toitie."

This remark got me hotted up to near incandescent. The nerve! The impertinence! Again, not sure of the definition but I'm pretty sure it's in the neighborhood of my meaning.

"It could scarcely have been later than two when I got home and I was seeing an old friend off to spend the holiday in the Catskills." And I'm sure I said it with topspin to qualify for hauteur.

"Did you have a cold shower this morning?" he asked giving me the full effect of one eye.

"I have hot water," I said.

"Did you do Swedish exercises before breakfast?"

"I'm Danish," I said, "and we don't indulge in such excess. At least my grandfather was Danish and I believe that entitles me to make the same claim."

"Then why do you look like something from the chorus of a touring revue?" he said.

"Ah," I said, "that's easy enough to answer. I just need a second cup of Jah's mercy. That's why I'm in line."

He seemed to consider this but after a few seconds, his inward gaze looked out again and settled in the vicinity of the lower portions of my map. His expression was one generally found on someone who has just found caterpillars in the salad.

"Ho!" he said, "what's that?"

"What?" I said, passing a hand across my face.

"You don't wear a beard," he said in the tone of an accusation."

"I don't wear a beard and I'm happy about it. Too many beards taking up space now. I haven't seen so many beavers since the days of Edward the Confessor."

"Ho!" he said. "Real men wear beards and your face would benefit from a mustache as well."

"I wore a mustache for years when younger," I said, and it looked horrible, much like a soup stain."

"What does Ms. Wonder think of it?" he said.

"Of what? My shaving?"

"I'm sure a bit of facial hair would provide much-needed relief to someone who spends more than a few minutes in your presence."

"What does it matter what others think?" I said and I was now aware that others were listening and I felt the conversation was becoming a bit sticky. I was ready to change the subject.

"That's good. She doesn't like it. You'll have to grow some hair. Take a few days off and get away is my advice. You'll probably look like Rasputin until the stuff grows in."

I will not stop shaving," and I'm finished with this conversation.  J'y suis, j'y reste about sums it up for me. The barista is waiting for your order.

He shrugged his shoulders. "Up to you, of course, if you want to be an eyesore."

"An eyesore!"

"Eyesore is what I said."

I suddenly felt the need to practice the three deep breaths. First breath, power, and balance to be ready for whatever life brings my way. Second breath to remind me that I am enough for the present circumstances. Third breath to recognize that there is more good than bad at this moment.

"Ho!" he said, "what's that on your chin?"

But this is where you came in I believe.

Original and Catchy

I arrived at the Den of the Secret Nine before any of the other members of the Organization. I wasn't surprised because traffic can be formidable in the Renaissance during the season of commercial orgy. I sat at the regular table and before I'd disconnected myself from iPhone life support, the Duck Man entered and sat next to me.

"I'll tell you my story," he said. "I'll tell you my story and you will sympathize because I can tell by looking at your face that you're sympathetic. You have a sympathetic face. My story is the story of a man's tragedy. It is the story of a blighted life. It is the story of a woman who could not forgive. It is the story..."

"I have to leave at 8:30," I said, "and if it's the story about the monkey and the coconuts, I've heard it and it's vulgar."

"Sympathy," he said. "A man who has suffered the tragedy that I have asks only for a little sympathy."

"Let your days be full of joy," I said and I was pretty bucked about it too because I'd heard this gag only the night before. The timing was perfect. And it feels good to bewilder someone who is attempting to flummox you. Don't you agree? I continued with the little saying all the way to the punchline.

"Love the child that holds your hand," I said. "Let your wife delight in your embrace. For these alone are the concerns of man." 

I may have paraphrased the little thing but I was confident that I'd non-plussed him anyway. But it wasn't so. Perhaps a quote from Wicked might have had more impact.

"I have no children," he said, "and I've lost the woman who means all the world to me."

I knew he'd led me to the top of the slippery slope and immediate steps were required to avoid disaster. 

"Listen," I said.

"Sure," he said taking a sip of his coffee.

"I walk the face of the earth like an ant walks on the surface of water," I began.

"Do ants walk on water," he asked?

I raised a hand as this was no time for side issues.

"As if the slightest misstep might send me straight through the surface and into the depths below. Not the depths of the ocean but the innermost depths of my mind."

At this point, I paused to look him hard in the eye and tap my finger on the side of my head. 

"It's dark and scary in there," I said.

"What's so scary about it?"

"I'll tell you," I said. "Just yesterday, I was thinking about the rising tide of heinous skulduggery and political weasel-osity in the nearby kingdom of the United States. I was thinking about how the people living there need more compassion and goodwill."

He nodded and his face wore the expression of someone considering my comments to the fullest extent of consideration.

"And as I mused on those thoughts," I said, "a cargo van of grief and anger came careening around a corner in my mind and plowed through a row of garbage cans. The driver came out swinging and shouting..."

"Hmm," he said, you don't see that every day--almost as rare as Taylor showing up at a Chief's game during an Eras tour. But so what?"

"That driver was me," I said.

"Ah," he said. And then placing a hand on my arm, and looking at his phone, he said, "Sorry, gotta go. I have a 9:00 appointment and it's almost 8:30 now."

He walked away and left me wishing that I had closing remarks for situations like this. I used to wish people a nice Mayan apocalypse on such occasions, but that ship sailed and is long forgotten. I need to come up with something original and catchy.

Point of No Return

My story is a simple one and one that’s all too common. The whole thing can be condensed into two words—"I drank." 

What It Was Like

  When I was only a boy, my father and uncle used to give me a small taste of beer, but it tasted wicked. I didn't like it. I did like the feeling it gave me--feeling as though I was breaking a taboo but with permission.

 

My story isn’t one of a teenager gone bad. I stayed sober through high school. My downfall began when I joined the hometown boys in college.

I was one of those young men you read about in the Hollywood tabloids. I had no self-confidence. I felt that everyone around me knew something about life that I’d somehow missed in the instruction booklet.

And then I was introduced to the awful power of all-out, uncontrolled ridicule. Young college men are a hard-living lot, wild and reckless. They engaged in keg parties, drunken dances, and X-rated movies, and they laughed at me when I chose to stay in my apartment listening to The Supremes and Simon and Garfunkle.

Eventually, I gave in to their raucous urging. The next time I was offered a drink I accepted. Immediately, they treated me as a member of their club. They initiated me with a complimentary nickname. 

The Jack Daniels and Coca-Cola we drank made me drunk, but the sudden popularity and their wholesale acceptance of me completely intoxicated me.

How vividly I can recall the next morning! Those merry faces that had partied with me the night before, and the slaps on the back convinced me that I was the life and soul of the party. It was too much for me to ignore.

I was addicted to the attention that I found only while drinking.

At first, considerations of health didn’t trouble me. I was young and strong, and my constitution seemed immune to negative effects. Gradually, I began to feel threatened. I was losing my grip. I had trouble concentrating on my work. I became anxious. In what seems like a very short time, I lost everything. My car, my home, my job, my family. 

Life had become a wicked taskmaster.

What Happened

Eventually, I met a man. I’m not sure how it happened, but it doesn’t matter. All that does matter is that I met him and he knew something about my problem.

"If I am to help you," he said, "you must tell me everything. Hold no secrets.” Our long conversations gave me hope, and he provided a list of instructions for living life on life's terms. I did everything on that list, and life began to improve.

I soon found other people who suffered from problems similar to those that plagued me. These few had also met someone who gave them a long list of instructions, and we joined together to help each other stay on the straight and narrow.

Then, I met Ms. Wonder, the girl who transformed me. She was the opposite of me in temperament and outlook. We did share an early life full of difficulty but under different circumstances. 

What It’s Like Now

We began to see a lot of each other, and our differences began to morph into something like a musical comedy.

I remember being so overjoyed at the prospect of spending time with her that I often sang, “Oh Joy! Oh Pep!" Maybe not that song. I sang a lot of happy songs that all carried the message of "Oh, Happy Day!" As we spent more time together, our acquaintance ripened, and one night I asked her out to see “Moonstruck.”

I look at that moment as the happiest of my life. We had time to spare before the movie started, and we drove round and round Clear Lake talking of this and that. Eventually, we parked, and when I couldn’t unbuckle my safety belt, she declared, “And I thought you were a live one!"

Our time together that night began my transformation. I experienced joy for the first time without alcohol.

It was hard at first. Something inside me tried to pull me back to my cravings, but I resisted the impulse. Always with her divinely sympathetic encouragement and her mysterious ability to work wonders, I gradually acquired a taste for life on life’s terms. 

We’ve been together for a lifetime, and the joy increases daily. Someday, I hope to show her how grateful I am for all she's done.

I've Been Chosen

Mornings I walk through Brunswick Forest where I enjoy the magic of a summer day. The limitations of yesterday are forgotten and my surroundings are an earthly paradise. The lagoons shine like pools of silver, rabbits dart in and out of the rhodendrons, and as far as the eye can see contented dogs lead their administrative assistants along the trails.

I walk with purpose and assurance because I'm fully engaged in my new role of Extra. Remember the recent discussion with Ms. Wonder about my purpose in life? If you missed it, I'd look it up if I were you. But if you're short of time, the gist is that I'm not the star of the show. I'm not even the humorous best friend. I'm simply an extra who is asked to do nothing more than show up on time and perform the prescribed activities.

Many of you, my followers that is, are asking why I no longer collect soul vessels. I understand your concern, what with the prophecy in the Big Book of Death about the Underworld Darkness getting all uppity and rising to take over the Above. 

Yes, it's an alarming prophecy, I'm not denying it, but things got so out of hand with so many soul vessels going uncollected, that I finally had to face the truth; the job is far too big for the few of us that are left.

Once I accepted that we were all doomed and nothing to be done about it, I became depressed like the dickens and my anxiety levels equaled that of the cat in the adage. I'm sure you feel it too.

I spoke to my therapist about it and now she's depressed. And Princess Amy makes it even worse. Every time I check in with her, I find her with eyes the size of dinner plates, wringing her hands and shouting, Run for your life!

Fortunately, I found an article in Vanity Fair, written by P.G. Wodehouse, my virtual mentor and spiritual guide. The article, entitled, The Physical Culture Peril, concerns the mistake of valuing physical reality over spiritual.

I suppose that's what the piece is about. I haven't actually read it; I skimmed it and read the pertinent parts. Mr. Wodehouse, or Plum as his friends call him, convinced me to order a small, illustrated booklet that would provide instructions for escaping the peril mentioned above.

After reading the booklet, an event of synchronicity led me to Christoper Moore's book, Dirty Job, where he described the activity of the main character. That description introduced me to the true role that I'm meant to perform.

And now I'm a different man. Little by little I have immersed myself into the new job. Now I smile at everyone I meet and offer a hearty Good morning. 

If I’m addressed by someone on my rounds, instead of trying to get away as quickly as possible, I listen attentively and make courteous replies, in short, I’m agreeable as all get out. And although I don’t make a habit of it, I've been known to slap backs and shake hands. I feel better for it and so do they.

There are exceptions. Aren't there always? Not everyone is appreciative of my new behavior. Some people ignore me or give me hard looks and, naturally, my new behavior has lost me a few friends.

And so there you have it. The full gist of the thing. My new calling and I like it.

Isn't it incredible how these metaphysical principles are manifested? I mean, the book, Dirty Job, was the source of my mistaken belief that I was a Soul Merchant. Now that same book has shown me that in fact, I'm Born to be Mild. And that's why I have dedicated myself to spreading goodness and light everywhere I go.

Will it save us from the prophecy in the Big Book of Death? No. But it makes me and the people I meet feel a little bit better about darkness taking over. We still may one day find ourselves wishing that we were dead but at least now we can hope for a good day for it.