Aftermath: Night #316 (Republic of Vietnam)

January 27, 2026February 19, 2026 / Wayne Michael DeHart / 1 Comment

Wayne Michael DeHart (May, 2025)

(Darkness. His back to the wall.
No windows, no way to see outside.
A set of wooden steps leading up to . . .
their only way in . . . and his only way out.)

As darkness settled, and the last vestige of light had gone,
the trained medic settled into place, never to be the same.
The blue-eyed soldier was to stand guard there until dawn,
and he hoped for neither fire nor fury before sunrise came.
Those first three hours passed quietly, no weapons drawn.
He flexed his arms, stretched his legs, and played the game.

His field phone came to life, squawking loudly, just after nine.
He bolted forward, muted the volume, and silenced the call.
Had the sound carried past the bulwark? He waited for a sign.
His chest tightened upon hearing sounds just behind the wall
that separated him from hostiles who dared to cross the line.
He assured himself it was nature’s noise, of no concern at all.

Like the poet Frost, he faced forever before welcoming sleep.
Flashing on warm kisses from a faraway girl, he relaxed again.
Seven weeks remained and his ruminations ran hot and deep
as he relived the misery of the dark, stark places he had been.
He was rudely snapped back to the present by a honking Jeep
grunting hello from the graveled road. Army Man, checking in.

Near midnight, his radio coughed and choked again, then died.
Not a good omen on this edgy night of a one-horse, open vote.
Rumors of risk and revenge had warned of a rough night’s ride.
Suddenly, a ringing shot in the distance echoed a warning note.
Blind to any outdoor movement from the position he occupied,
the short-timer snuffed the light as spasms thrashed his throat.

Twenty-four feet by eight feet of reinforced aluminum and steel
surrounded him, with similar attached space both left and right.
On one end was a crudely cut entryway lacking an effective seal
around a flimsy, ill-fitting wooden door that wouldn’t shut tight.
The hook lock reminded him of a bedroom door that wasn’t real,
found only in childhood dreams that once haunted him at night.

When he heard the sudden surge of gunfire, he reassessed his lair.
A jacked-up metal desk hugged the back wall, secured to the floor.
He backed his way onto a rickety crate that functioned as it’s chair,
stretching out, bracing his weapon, his eyes never leaving the door.
Intruders surging up those stairs would stop and pause right there,
reckless prey for racing rifle rounds raging raw, cold fire at full bore.

The day had reeked of angst and anger. Shit-deep in heated politics,
the air stunk as he silently damned war and hot, hellish days gone by.
He saved a few curses for the busted phone and things he couldn’t fix,
then leaned firmly into the wall and heard the muffled voices multiply.
Thus lay his burden and his curse; uncertainty, his mind playing tricks.
Best to fire at faceless footsteps? Or lurk too long, delay and . . . die?

His guys knew his name and the tap code, but other friendlies would not.
Relentless raiders on this election night surely knew someone was inside.
If shadows push through the door in the blackness, does he take the shot?
His head pounded, his heart fluttered. Take them down? Or wait to decide?
For hours, the grueling game chewed his mind as he awaited an onslaught.
Decades later, he still watches doors in the night. Eyes wide. Sleep denied.

________________________________________________________________

Writer’s Closing Note:

This poem was awarded 2nd place nationally in the 2025 National Veterans Creative Arts Festival
competition. The annual Festival begins with local competitions at the 123 VA facilities that
participate. There are 117 categories in all, including twelve creative writing categories. The top three
entries in each category at the local level advance to the national judging each year. “Aftermath …”
was entered in the “Rhyming Poetry – Military Experience” Category.

“

The Captivating Courtship of Bouncy Ms. Red and Old Gentleman Ted (Caution: It’s Bawdy ! So Gaudy ! )

January 26, 2026February 27, 2026 / Wayne Michael DeHart / 2 Comments

Wayne Michael DeHart (Finally, 4 years. dozens of start-overs, and 177 edits later!)

A 6,288-word labor of love.

Writer’s Introductory notes:

– Be forewarned, this is a no-holds-barred, frivolous story of a man, a woman, and one whimsical week in wacky world. The writer dared himself to bring back his “19 and naughty” state of mind, with the goal of just having fun at the keyboard again, as time ticks away. The result is a fun-lovin’ roll in the hay, and a left-handed roll of the dice. It’s a smorgasbord of unrefined, unpolished humor, featuring flirty folks, playful pokes, fart jokes, and breast strokes. Yes, it’s suggestive and seductive in places, but steers clear of the Salacious city limits. No human or animal gets sued, arrested, beaten, or killed. And just when you think you can’t take any more of the relentless wordplay, it’s over. The last words. Exhale. Have a cigarette, or a ham sandwich.

— Included are approximately 40 parenthetical interjections from the writer’s alter ego, “Thinker153”, a pushy SOB who thinks he’s better-lookin’ and funnier than the author. And he probably is.

— Some parts of this tale may seem a bit bawdy to those with actual standards, but hey, it’s 2025, and “Seinfeld,” “Friends,” and “Cheers” set the bar on similar content on network TV back in the ‘90’s. (If it meets Jennifer Aniston’s standards, well, by golly, it meets the author’s.) Those instances are presented comically and lightheartedly, to be sure. Nothing in the story is “dark” or nefarious in any way. The “f-word” didn’t have the price of admission, and was referred to The Comedy Channel for employment opportunities. Malice and malevolence took the last train for the coast. Politics, in all of its forms, went with them. (No room at the inn.) Fair warning though, this tale is NOT suitable fare for minors. Or miners. Non-minors, proceed with caution, put your feet up, and see where it takes you. You just might come out the other side undamaged and untarnished, still of sound mind, and with your morals intact!

— The writer, admittedly and shamelessly, parties in the deep end of a pool of wordplay, double entendres, alliteration, random rhymes, pop culture references, literary leeway, and, yes, titillating tomfoolery. But there’s actually a “guy n’ girl” story included as a bonus gift! He’s old, alone, and bored. (The author, not the “guy.”) Writing stuff like this puts a gleam in his eye and a dent in his printer’s ink supply, but not one cent in his checking account. Which means no taxes on profits. And that’s his take on Cents and Sensibility!

– I’ve cleared the decks, so if you have 30 minutes to set aside and tune the world out (perhaps a tad more if you choose to slowly savor the rich flavor of the delicious, calorie-free wordplay), then c’mon, my Uber’s here. I’ll drop you off at the very beginning, but tread lightly, because the only way out is . . . “THE END!!“

*******

Sunrise, Sunday, August 9, 2015 – San Jose, California

A lifelong bachelor living a solitary life, Ted D awoke just days away from quietly celebrating his 70th birthday. He planned to observe the occasion by spending a leisurely Saturday at home, alone. He would devour an entire chocolate cheesecake for breakfast, watch some Giants baseball on TV, then stream his boyhood favorite, Roy Rogers, in “The Yellow Rose of Texas.” Might get a generous dose of the playful, 30-ish version of Dale Evans as well. Sweet deal. Six days away.

He rolled out of bed, went through his morning routine, donned his favorite San Jose Sharks cap, and headed out on foot to the friendly, familiar confines of Joe’s Rose Garden Café.

Then, stuff happened. Lots of stuff.

II.

Ted D, his mother, and his kid sister, Elise, had moved from the Louisiana bayou to faraway Phoenix when he was twelve, soon after his philandering father staggered into New Orleans one weekend and never returned. Mama D had long since quietly exited the earth’s surface, and Sis was somewhere back East, drifting from town to town, frequenting dimly-lit bars and sharing squalid living quarters with ill-mannered men of dubious distinction. Over the years, Elise had brushed aside Ted’s many offers to help get her life in order, even suggesting she relocate west for a fresh start in new surroundings. “Nah, I’m good.” Good, she wasn’t. She was warped, wanton, and wound way too tight. In contrast, Ted’s path had been comparatively bland and unassumingly benign. The guy took pride in having lived a life of civility, compromise and compassion. Little Sis was cold, hard, tutti-frutti with cracked walnuts; Big Bro was soft-serve French vanilla, with a scattering of chocolate sprinkles, and a light caramel drizzle.

Ted revealed a lighter side after retiring from his mundane government desk job in Arizona. He moved to San Jose, where he frequently engaged his favorite waitress at the Rose Garden Café in mutual spurts of flirtatious repartee, while also trading tangy tidbits with some of the moldsters (moldy oldsters) that frequented the establishment on weekend mornings. He had sized the server up as “funny and fifty-ish” from the first cup of coffee she ever poured for him, when she said, “Drink this, hon, you look like someone stole your bacon this mornin’.” She then proceeded to look around, before slipping him three slices of bacon on a bagel. “On the house, darlin’, but don’t rat me out to the Big Boss.” No creature of the feminine persuasion had addressed him as “hon” or “darlin’” since his Valentine’s Day venture to Vegas back in ‘04. But here was this good-natured soul doing her thing and making his day – “just spreadin’ some sugar, hon.”

III.

She soon developed a soft spot for the undersized, long-haired senior who stopped in for the Sausage & Strudel Special every Sunday morning. He was articulate and bright-eyed. Her orange name tag read “Red” in blue lettering, though she sported a stale brown, plaited bun, oddly paired with red-streaked, feathered bangs. “Some hairball asked me if I would plait my bun just for him some day,” she once told Ted. “So I tossed a sticky bun on a saucer, handed it to him with a sigh and a roll of the eye, and told him I hoped it was as good for him as it had been for me.” Then she moseyed off into the kitchen, cackling like a blind rooster at midnight.

Both server and served gained an implicit familiarity and mutual sense of kinship across scores of Sunday mornings. Upon his arrival at one of her tables, she would sashay toward him with a coffee pot in one hand and a smile in the other. He’d nod and say “Red.” She’d nod back and say “Ted.” Then they’d both grin like teenagers gleefully watching Buffy void vampires with head butts and throat cuts.

In reality, Red fed Ted.

But in her fanciful reveries, Ted wed Red. (Cheap wine and California dreamin’ will do that, girl.)

IV.

The Sunday before his landmark birthday, while still 69 and somewhat spry, Ted made his move. While reaching into his Billabong bi-fold for his usual $5 tip for the $7 breakfast, he asked if she could sit with him for a few minutes sometime, maybe on her break. He said there were three “maybe kinda personal” questions he had been wanting to ask her. Intrigued, she plucked out the chair on the opposite side of the table, then plunked her well-rounded derrière down with a soft, whooshing sound. She coyly leaned in toward a flabbergasted Ted, her ample assets resting comfortably on the table in front of him. He was caught off guard by her proximity, the magnitude of her mojo, and the suddenness of the tête-à-tête.

“Okay handsome, fire away.” Ted’s tongue was tied, but he managed to get his first question out. “Well, what’s your actual name, for starters. Her back arched. “Elsie, like the cow. It’s short for Gertrude. Middle name’s Sadie, like in Hawkins. Ain’t got no last name. Lookin’ for one though.” Ted gulped. then blurted out, “Oh, wow, Elsie. My sister’s Elise. What are the odds?” Red smirked a little, then she rolled the dice, carped the diem, and gave him both barrels.

“Looking for answers, eh?” She flashed him a seductive wink. “Sure thing, hon, here’s a pair for ya. They’re both real … and they’re spectacular. Next question?” Ted blushed, his face flushing five shades of, fittingly, red. “Well, nuts”, she thought. Not quite the reaction she was looking for. Red instantly surmised that her tantalizing twist on the notorious Seinfeld gem, which usually delighted her more playful male customers, had whistled past Mr. Nice Guy’s head at breakneck speed. She knew she needed to move to higher ground.

“Would you prefer I call you Teddy, Ted? I’ve heard that real slim, shady guy call you Teddy a few times, and you didn’t raise an eyebrow.”

Ted raised his right eyebrow . “Oh, you mean retired U.S. Marshal Bruce Mathers, the big man with the classic salt n’ pepper beard? Don’t let him hear you call him shady, ya know. He’ll slap the cuffs on you and haul you away to a cabin in the woods.” Red ooh-ed. (She more than ooh-ed. She tingled with excitement and anticipation upon hearing that, but back to Ted.) “He’s not saying Teddy. It’s Ted (pause) D. As in Ted DePharteau. The name is Wallonian, (It’s what, Ted?) and it has a big fat, funky ‘Phart’ smack dab in the middle of it. Civilized women here in the West don’t line up to become a future Mrs. DePharteau, as my late mother did back in Louisiana, where phartin’ is considered phunny. So here I am, up a creek, with no wife. No kids. Few hugs. Fewer kisses. Alright, no kisses. Long, lonely nights.” She nodded, relishing his openness, and still thinking about the Marshal’s cuffs. She quipped, “Who knows? Maybe I’ll be Red (pause) D one day.” “Ready?” he asked, not picking up on her pause. Ted was well-educated, but remained kinda slow on the uptake sometimes, as they say in the Cincinnati suburbs. “Ready for what?” (Ready for you, Teddy!)

*** Note: If you just started reading here to save time, welcome to Joe’s Rose Garden Café. Have a seat. The coffee’s hot, the water’s cold, the buns are warm, and the waitress with the big personality is cool.

Red rose readily, having noticed newly-arrived customers. “Gotta go, the Boss might be watching, and I don’t mean Springsteen. Owns this joint. Big Joe’s a real hard-azz, ya know. Listen, there’s a green wooden bench in front of Flo’s Fancy Floral Boutique, just down the street. I’m outta here at two, meet me there at 2:15. Can do?” Grateful for the extra few hours to gather himself, Ted nodded, tipping his totally teal San Jose Sharks cap to her. “Red.” As she turned away, she unfurled her fingers toward him, releasing neither a lightning bolt nor pixie dust, but rather a smile and a breath of fresh air. “Ted.” She was off to take an order; he was off to take a breath.

Ted glanced at his watch on the five-block walk home to his loft apartment. 10:10 AM. His stomach churned slightly, his right eye twitched. He hadn’t expected to be seeing Red outside the familiar, friendly setting of the eatery this soon. The guy hadn’t had so much as a two-armed hug in almost twenty years (not even in Vegas? Dang, man, loosen up.), so this impromptu rendezvous offered a wealth of potential for meaningful interaction, i.e., the soft scent of a woman. His insecurity raced to the surface as he wondered how many men she had lured to that bench over the years. Had one, or five, or all of them, fidgeted while waiting, stepped inside the flower store, then welcomed her warmly with roses or rhododendrons? Maybe daisies or daffodils? (Bet they did.)

He wondered what one wears for casual, outdoor, adult wooing, California style. He decided to stay with the garb he had on, except maybe switch out his Sharks cap for another color. “Shark talk” reigned at the Café all year round, and Ted had become a hardcore hockey-holic since moving to Teal Town.

Back home, stretched out aboard his deluxe denim recliner, he was having second thoughts about the entire affair. Sure, he was curious about, and demurely attracted to, the unassuming server, but to her he was probably just another long in the tooth customer who tipped well and laughed and smiled at her good-natured joshin’. She was right about her playful shenanigans, of course – they were certainly real and, yes, they were indeed spectacular at times – but why bring them up out of the clear blue like she did earlier? And what did she mean by “both?” Maybe she was double-talking to avoid his questions. He wondered if he should have minded his own business, and not put her on the spot like that. She had, after all, seemed a tad ruffled by his opening inquiry. Those arriving customers, in hindsight, had handed him a temporary reprieve. The last thing he wanted was to get her in trouble with Boss Hard-azz, the phantom owner who apparently kept an extremely low profile on Sundays. He had Boss Joe pegged as a burly, bearded, bald guy who probably named the place with his Junior Prom date in mind, or maybe that Titanic girl who went overboard for Jack. (“Rose.” Overboard for Jack, lol. Keep ’em coming, Einstein. She can’t hear you.)

VI.

Ted eventually picked up a pen and notebook to write out three more questions, not wanting to risk stumbling his way awkwardly through them come showtime. Minutes later, his belly was barking, despite his full breakfast. He sauntered off to the kitchen, returning with a bag of chocolate chip cookies and a cold can of cola. His anticipation of “alone time” with Red was growing by the minute, and he grew anxious with uncertainty. Should he say this? Should he ask that? Tell a joke? Rub his chin? Rub HER chin? He was soon chomping his cookies with reckless abandon, and swilling the soda like it was the last can in California. Gnashed and gnawed. Slurped and swallowed. Chewed and chugged. Gobbled and guzzled. When he hit bottom, he paused, and took a breath. Then another. Deeper, and longer. “Ted, you got this.” His confidence suddenly skyrocketed, and so did his blood glucose. (“Sugar in the mornin’ … ”) Minutes later, however, he was frettin’ and sweatin’ all over again.

An accomplished worrywart, Ted considered the possibility of finding white bird droppings splotched across the green bench upon arrival, and thus decided that beige slacks would be more pragmatic than the black pair he was wearing. Among his Sharks caps was a pristine white one, which he had never worn away from home, lest it become soiled, smudged, stinky, or stained. He quickly concluded it would be the strategic choice for him to offset any post-arrival bird bombs. As for Red, well, he would offer her his handkerchief should a bullseye or two belt her in the bangs as she looked up.

Returning to the kitchen, he passed the hallway floor-length mirror, stopped, flexed what remained of his once formidable biceps, and asked the guy looking back at him, “Not that bad, right?” The guy lowered his eyes in silence. Well, shoot.

Upon looking closer, a glutton for punishment, he became even more unsettled, and his confidence dwindled downward. Dagnabbit, when did he himself become a moldster? He panicked, resolving to blow off the bench date, and never go to Joe’s Rose Garden Café, or see Red, ever again.

VII.

Despite some tizzy and turmoil, and a ton of trepidation, Ted eventually bounced back into the saddle as the clock struck noon. He took a quick shower, dodged the mirror, donned a hooded robe (Nooo, not THAT kind!), and imagined himself a spunky and spirited boxer entering the ring. He bobbed and weaved and jabbed at the air, raising his arms in victory before sitting back down to work on his questions. After making some headway, he yawned a big one, then closed his eyes for just a moment to envision the two of them hitting it off in the afternoon sun. Tick tock. Moments became minutes – many, many, minutes.

Alas, the clock was silently screaming 1:56 PM when he suddenly bolted upright in the recliner, like he had been goosed by a gander. The notebook was in his lap, the pen was on the floor, and his lapse into LaLa-land was over. The details mostly escaped him, though he remembered, in order, singing “Do You Know the Way to San Jose” with Dionne Warwick on the Golden Gate Bridge, hanging out with Rita Hayworth in Shanghai after arriving there on a slow boat to China, then having a sudden and urgent need to replenish the Yellow River in person just before he woke up. (We all know that dream, Ted. Sometimes several times a night.) Anyway, enough codswallop! Focus, man. Red from Rose’s will be sauntering up to that bench in just 19 minutes, and he was a brisk ten-minute walk away. (He hated driving in the city.) Looking down at the notebook, a pair of bland, blah, and benign questions stared back at him. Just two. Ugh, and uh-oh.

VIII.

Ted composed himself, carefully avoiding the mirror from hell. He popped a mint and donned the great white Sharks cap on his way out the door. He walked briskly (for a geezer), arriving at 2:12. Whew. Grateful she wasn’t early, he hot-footed into Flo’s place and paid an arm and a leg for a single yellow rose. ($$$ Ted, that’s why the sign reads “boutique” instead of “shop.” $$$)

Outside, he saw red (no, not THAT Red) upon observing a leashed beagle gnawing on what looked like a glazed doughnut, smack dab in the middle of the bench. The bench that he had wiped clean of crusted pigeon sap with his monogrammed hanky, just before entering the fancy flower emporium. A short distance away, a witchy woman clad in purple polka pants was snapping pics of the dog now hungrily humping the doughnut hole. The two-legged Red’s arrival was imminent, and the scene was woefully unwelcoming. A flustered Ted was fixing to finger-wag the feisty hag, when she abruptly approached the bench, picked up what turned out to be a rubber doughnut toy, and unfastened her companion’s leash from the bench. In a blink of Ted’s twitchy right eye, the two mischievous mammals were gone. Vanished. They just beat it, a la Michael Jackson.

Ted’s watch proclaimed 2:16 PM. Red was officially tardy, giving him time to use his already-soiled handkerchief to wipe the fresh dog spittle off the bench seat, and swipe away whatever parched pigeon poop he had missed earlier. He sat down on one end, moved to the other end, then back again, wanting her to be looking at his best side, though he wasn’t sure he had one. He settled for the middle, tactician that he was, so that she could choose and present her own best side. Clearing his throat and checking his biceps, he looked at the flower he was clutching like it was a winning lottery ticket, and began to hum “Yellow Rose of Texas.” Looking down at his trendy sneaks, Ted surprisingly saw four feet. He raised his eyes slowly upward, pausing to take in the grandeur of the twin peaks now shading him, and saw the lady fair beaming broadly back at him. “Ted.” He stopped humming, and smiled like he was nineteen again. “Red.”

IX.

He rose up to greet the lady, a courtesy learned in his bayou boyhood. Should he shake her hand? Should he touch her arm or shoulder ever so lightly to provide guidance and support as she lowered herself onto the de-spittled, turd-free bench? He was visibly antsy, unsure what to say, how to act. Red sensed it immediately, as she had hours earlier when she suddenly sat down at his table and leaned right into him, like a dentist about to say “Open wide, let’s take a look.”

He stood up right where he sat, smack dab in the middle of the bench, prompting her to ask, “Which side of this mug do you wanna look at in this bright, summer sunshine?” He was jazzed that she had actually brought up that very same logistical consideration that he himself had been wrestling with moments earlier. Then she doubled down on loosening him up by pulling a Sharks coffee mug from her bag, pointing at it playfully, and asking, “This side?” – she spun the mug around – “Or this one?” Smooth move with the wordplay, Red. Ted was flat out digging her crackerjack wit. She had broken the ice with a hole big enough to fish through, and the rendezvous had just begun.

Ted chose his words carefully. He said he had seen her own mug from all angles on those Sunday mornings, and that it was his judgment that every side was equally pleasing, thus she should just sit herself down at whichever end fits her fancy. (“And fits her fanny,” giggled the devil into his ear.) Red grabbed onto his belt, lifting his libido, and playfully pulled him away from the bench. Startled, Ted babbled incoherently, something like “tish awging hean crof!” Red paid his garbled message no mind, as she just wanted to move him out of the way so she could park herself in that center spot, which she did, thus ping-ponging the “which side” decision back to him. Doing so ensured physical closeness either way, because it was pretty much a three-person bench, and she was removing the opposite-ends option. A thinking man, Ted remembered that the dog had drooled in delight on what was now her right side, so he plopped himself down on her left side. Both beamed. By any definition, the meet-up was going splendidly so far.

Minutes later, she politely asked, “Is that rose for me, or for your secret crush?” He realized he had forgotten to give her the pricey yellow flower. He said the two were “One and the same, Red.” (Aww. Kudos, Ted.) That was the right answer, and Red’s eyes twinkled like shimmering sequins. Yet he continued to hold onto the bloom. Had she inadvertently created a thorny issue with the rose? Her instincts told her it might be so. (Spill the beans. And the tea. Tell us why.)

Red gave notice that she had used the interim hours to come up with three “kinda personal” questions for him as well, intending to get a few bites of his own apple. (Was the worm about to turn?)

Silence set in, but only briefly. Ted raised the rose to his nose, mainly to clear his senses, but also to look cool for this cheeky chick as well, but Red suddenly turned away. Then he heard it. Snickering. Snorting. Downright tittering, followed by an outright larger-than-life fit of laughter. Red turned to him and she was chortling so hard, tears were sloshing down her face, soaking her upper cheeks. Ted’s mind was racing a thousand miles a minute. Crazy as this seemed, it got more so. She reached out and pulled him close and squeezed him in a titillating, chest-to-chest, two-armed hug, ending his twenty-year drought. She patted his shoulder and told him she was fine and to ignore her outburst, suggesting they move on to his three questions. (She said three, Ted. You’re up a creek now.)

Ted, befuddled by what had just happened, had trouble letting sleeping dogs lie. He had to know. “Red, did I miss something? I could use a laugh myself.”

She started to speak, but began chuckling again, so hard that her eyes got big and she howled like a hyena in heat, right there on the green wooden bench in front of Flo’s Fancy Flower Boutique in San Jose, California. “Tell me,” he implored her, joking that a passer-by might call 911 thinking she was being “moldstered” in broad daylight, and insisting that he would not fare well in prison with shrunken biceps. It was then that she finally fessed up.

She’d had two hard-boiled eggs and leftover coleslaw for breakfast, then gobbled up a big ol’ bean burrito and guzzled down a liter bottle of Nasty Nate’s Extra-Bubbly sparkling water on her noon lunch break. A little bit ago, sensing sudden and imminent disaster downstairs, she had breathed a last-gasp, impromptu prayer to the Gods of Flatulence to quickly intervene, but apparently they too were out to lunch. The jig was up; the eggs and beans were at war, and the cabbage had caught fire. Helpless, she caved, reluctantly firing off a super-frothy extra-bubbly, ginormous, gut-gas grenade that ripped through her nether regions in search of an exit. Spotting an opening, it rocketed roughshod through her alimentary canal, landing softly and silently in her floral frillies, where it rapidly disintegrated. She had hastily dropped down onto the bench in an attempt to quash the somewhat tangy, and nearly noxious, fumes, butt (<<) … it was too late. Fire burn and cauldron bubble! Her non-subtle scents, born of uncommon sense and bred in innocence, had produced effervescence, and that spelled trouble, my friends, right there in River City, er, I mean San Jose. (Well, crap, with a capital C!)

She then naturally assumed that he had noticed the sudden arrival of a lively, lingering zing in the air, because Lordy, she sure had! “I thought that’s why you were practically inhaling that rose a few minutes ago, and wouldn’t give it up.” It seems Ted was a smart feller, but not a phart smeller. He had not noticed any pungency or putrescence (or any other P.U. words) penetrating his nostrils. He “hmm-ed,” wondering if she was symbolically, and rather brazenly, auditioning to be Mrs. DePHARTeau, by concocting a half-baked yarn to beef up her credentials for the title. Had the ritzy rose he was clutching been red (the color), he might have handed it to Red (the phartress), to keep her in the game, in pursuit of his name, like on “The Bachelor” (which he was.) Pheromone-filled and flattered, he stifled a smirk, but only briefly. Because the shinola was literally about to hit his biggest fan.

Red asked if he had something she could use to wipe away the tears of laughter, but as he pulled the handkerchief from his pocket, he remembered it was full of Beagle spittle and bird slop that she would be wiping onto her face. She snatched it out of his hand as Ted cringed at what was sure to follow. Now it was his turn to look away. He started laughing, detesting himself all the while for doing so. He heard her say, “Ooh, yes, that feels much better. Think I got it all. How’s it look?” Hearing that, he bit his tongue way too hard, and now there were tears rolling down HIS kisser too. With her freshly-wiped facial features now sporting blotchy bumps and speckled streaks that blended nicely with her newly-acquired, ear-to-ear, pasty hue, Red sweetly offered the stanky hanky back to him. But seeing the tears running down his cheeks now, she swiftly reached out and daubed all around his eyes with the filthy thing. “Let Sugar dry your tears.” (“Yuck, and another word that rhymes with it,” silently mused the bachelor.) Ted, his eyes burning, but ever the gentleman, told her to keep it because he had several more just like it at home. (Well, Ted, maybe not “just like it” any more!) But his biggest fan insisted, and he politely pocketed the raunchy rag.

XI.

Red suggested they meet back at the Rose Garden “at seven or so”, to pose their questions in a quiet, familiar environment. “The place closes at five and the staff are always under orders to lock up by six. I have my own key. Knock three times and don’t worry about The Boss.” “Seven or so is a bit more ambiguous than I’m used to, Red. Should I arrive right at seven?” “About seven will do.” “About?” She smiled. “Too broad for you?” “Well, guess I’m just overly precise sometimes.” (Ya think, Ted?) She winked, just like she did that morning, and did her trademark Café sashay as she moved away. “Wasn’t asking about no arrival time, hon.”

She stopped, came back to him, and fondled the yellow rose that he had never stopped clenching. She tried again. “May I?” He smacked his forehead and offered it to her with a knightly bow. “Milady, this lonely fellow chose a rose of yellow, because your name has likely led to a lifetime of roses red, from names unsaid, unlike this one, from your friend Ted.” Touched by his corny, but somewhat commendable, creativity, she held it tight and reached out and touched him in return. (Nothing unseemly, mind you. Just a playful big-girl poke to the ribs.) She reached into her bag and placed the aforementioned Sharks mug into his still outstretched palm, replacing the fragrant flower. She got serious, looked into his eyes, and told him that she had bought it for him when the team’s season ended in April, and had been carrying it around ever since, hoping for an occasion like this. The moment was tender. And so were Ted’s ribs. Then, in two blinks of a teary eye, she was gone. Red had beat it, fast, just like Michael J. and Ms. PurplePolkaPants before her.

A hug, a mug, a lifted libido, her DNA on his hanky, and maybe a fractured rib – quite the haul for a friendly fossil, who now had a date at seven or so with the funny, fifty-ish, good ol’ girl from the one and only Joe’s Rose Garden Café.

She was a true “Shark Girl”, a character, a hoot, and two toots (!oo!) – and Ted D was hooked like an Alaskan salmon, reeled in through that hole in the ice – the one that had lightened the mood, and led to the meat of their meet-up.

XII.

A spruced-up Red was lying in wait when Ted, remembering her instructions, thumped three times on the door. It was 7:00 PM sharp. He was taken aback by how stylish and chic she looked as she greeted him. She was wearing loose clothing that highlighted her ravishing, Rubenesque form and full features. Her hair was shiny and straight and rested softly across her shoulders, a far cry from the familiar top-knot and grace-saving bangs she usually rolled with in this very building.

“Hello, stranger. I’m Lady Juliette. I was expecting my lover, but you can sit for a spell.” She pointed to a corner booth in the dining area. “There.” It was like meeting someone for the first time, and they played it out. “So what’s your name, handsome?” “Slim Shady, doll.” “Are you the … real Slim Shady?” “Aye, I am.” “Then … please stand up.” He had placed the nail and she hammered it home. They high-fived and bumped knuckles, and she brought out lattes and cream pastries.

(It should be noted that Eminems were not among the sugary offerings that evening, though some discarded Skittles were seen spread haphazardly across the owner’s desk. No offense, Marshall, and stay tuned.)

“Okay there, Slim, I have three questions for you. Have you ever been arrested? Do you smoke, gamble, or use drugs? Does my “extra padding” turn you off? Will you take me to the Sharks first home game against the Ducks on October 10th? I have two tickets. How’s your creampuff?”

“Lady Jiggly, er, Juliette, that was five questions, including a three-parter. But here goes … a big no – no-no-no – heck, no – and I’d be delighted.” Red’s face lit up. She suggestively sipped Ted’s caramel latte, milking the moment, then moaned insatiably with each bite of her jumbo red velvet cupcake. With eyes meeting hers, he belatedly added that his creampuff had been soft and sweet, a pleasing treat, just like her. (Ted D for the win!) Heart fluttering, Rose offered Ted the very first bite of her succulent cannoli, an elusive privilege heretofore granted only to members of a certain “metal” rock group back in 1996 when they gave an impromptu free concert on a flatbed truck in the Tower Records parking lot in San Jose. ( Note: James and the boys say they don’t remember Red, but she sure remembers them, and yes, she says, The Sandman DID enter. But don’t tell Ted!!)

Once again, Red fed Ted.

He had forgotten his own questions by now, but somehow knew he had all the answers he’d ever need.

Hours later, they disappeared – just beat it – into one of Van Gogh’s seductive, starry nights.

Seems Red was “out sick” for the next several days, due to unspecified sore muscles, and Ted failed to show for his Tuesday canasta club and his Thursday chair yoga lesson.

Had the Bay Area’s famous fog plucked them up and dropped them hard? (Good question. Better keep readin’, I’d say.)

XIII.

The following Friday evening, August 14^th, Ted DePharteau and Joanna Jean “Red” Rose, aka Joe Rose and Boss Hard-azz, the imagined burly, bearded, bald owner of Joe’s Rose Garden Café, exchanged rings and vows. (Aha – so Red was the Rose? The Rose? That Rose? Yesss.) They were married at sunset in the parlor of the main lodge at the Brigadoon B&B in nearby rustic Verona. Many obliging guests of the inn attended, along with Red Rose’s three-times-widowed mother, Mona “The Belle” Bellabona, still feisty and fine at seventy-nine. Mona’s fondest wish had been for her devil-may-care daughter to not grow old alone. “He’s not bad, dear, but … why a moldster? And a scrawny one at that.” Red then laughingly whispered into her ear. “Ohhh, I see. Well then, ride ‘em, cowgirl. Yee-haw !”

Music was provided by The Tooter Trio, who played an extra-bubblicious version of “Classical Gas,” and the Skittles Sisters, who sang “Yellow Rose of Texas.” Sausage and strudel, as well as bacon on a bagel, were served to the guests. Cupcakes, creampuffs, and cannolis followed, pumping up the mood. Oh, and warm, sticky buns from the bride’s Café were served on a saucer to the hairball who flirted with Ted’s main squeeze at check-in. The mood was light, and cheap wine flowed freely.

Ted had resolved to withhold from his ravishing Red Rose the slimy details of the besmirched handkerchief for at least five years, or until the expiration of the statute of limitations for heinous acts, whichever came first. Seemed he had finally learned to let a sleeping dog lie. Conversely, she vowed never, ever, to mix phart-phorming phood with bubbly beverages again. Wedded bliss seemed certain for Team DePharteau.

They retired to Cabin 4 shortly before 10:30 PM. For the bride, California dreamin’ had become a reality, now that … Ted wed Red.

XIV.

Shortly after 6:00 AM, most of the guests were awakened by a pair of piercing screeches and a couple of high-pitched, incoherent squeals from the newlyweds’ hut. Everyone came a-runnin’ outside in their sleepin’ garb, like in one of them late-night, murder mystery movies on cable. Ted had awoken – hung over, rumpled, and suddenly a septuagenarian. He was about to mindlessly mess with that dang sleeping dog. (The proverbial one. Be nice. Jeez.) Then he roused Red by playfully tapping on her shoulders to the bouncy beat of La Cucaracha, while gently kneading her shadberries in perfect rhythm. Still fuzzy-brained, Ted impulsively straddled her chassis and blurted out every detail of the funky handkerchief story to his unsuspecting, bleary-eyed bride. Then came an unscripted moment of silence. Ted’s eyes grew wide. Red’s eyes grew wider. Taken aback (while on her back) and just a tad ticked off, his beloved Red Rose tore his tappers from her shoulders and removed his knuckles from her knockers. She felt a naughty need to knee him in his knapsack, which she promptly did (Screech #1), with a triumphant cry of “Aieeeeyahh!” (Squeal #1) She then impolitely kneed the target area a second time (Screech #2), doubling down on her response for good luck (hers, not his). “Who’s got a pasty face now, Mr. Slim Shady?” (Squeal #2) Shoving him aside in agony (his, not hers), she bolted upright. Laughing like a ghoulie girl, she stretched out her loving arms in front of him as he gasped for air. (Been there, done that, Ted. Takes a minute.)

Red had used the Slim Shady reference pursuant to the banter from that incredible nighttime Café hook-up that led to her becoming Red D, but in the moment had unwittingly called to mind the “real slim, shady” guy from her morning shifts – retired U.S. Marshal Bruce Mathers of salt n’ pepper beard notoriety. She was in a momentary disconnect and blurted out, “Cuff me, Marshal, ‘cuz we’re already at the cabin.” Ted was hurtin’ like hell and envisioning Dale Evans riding in on Buttermilk to rescue him. Red was deliciously delirious, despite being on the brink of living her best life via her previous California dream. She chose the high road, meaning her runner-up U.S. Marshal dreamin’ would not become a reality until Ted passed gently away, or until her next lifetime, whichever came first.

Their mutual moments of chaos ended abruptly, however, and the duo came to their senses. Both breathed deeply. (Likely much more difficult for Ted at that moment, because . . . you know.) Husband and wife quickly repented, each entering “guilty pleas(e)” to their crimes against each other’s humanity:

“Ted, admit you’re guilty, please.”
“I am. You too, Red.”
“Yeah, me too.”
“Red.”
“Ted.”

They called things even and opened the door to the mob, greeting them with sheepish grins. “Just newlyweds bein’ frisky, folks. Old, but not cold. We ain’t dead yet.” Red flashed her big, broad … smile, topped off with a pair of … wicked winks. “But we’re so sorry for the kerfuffle, really. My Teddy’s quite the tiger, ya know.” The first responders weren’t buying that baloney, but everyone played along with head nods, upraised thumbs, and a mixed chorus of “Attaboy, Ted.” They had all read the book and seen the movie. Red’s mom slept through it, thankfully, along with her assigned roommate for the weekend, George the Gardener. As for the other wannabe rescuers, who were somewhat relieved that no one was dead, Red cheerfully flashed them a . . . peace sign and sent them on their way with leftover pastries from the night before. Not surprising. That girl just never stopped spreadin’ the sugar.

This Red Rose, by any other name, may not have smelled as sweet that day on the bench, but she sure had good scents, and sense, when it really counted.

Told ya stuff happened.

XV.

Two comfy San Jose Sharks fans, one funny and fifty-ish, the other repping soft-serve French vanilla with a scattering of chocolate sprinkles, crowned with a squirt and a squizzle of caramel drizzle, celebrated their first wedding anniversary on their favorite wooden loveseat in the whole wide world. Good vibes flowed in front of Flo’s. Their newly-adopted, non-drooling beagle slept contentedly at their feet. They shared a latte from that gifted Sharks mug. They hugged, chest to chest, in the coveted center spot, and not a soul passed by without offering a pleasant greeting or extending a playful gesture. This man and that woman became them and they, we and us, one and the same. Separately, the long, lonely, trek of each of them through adulthood, along deserted paths, through abandoned streets, past warm inns with locked doors, had ended in the warm sunshine of a welcoming green bench in San Jose, and the rustic and peaceful green fields of Verona. Finely, and finally.

The man dabbed a few tears of happiness from his lady’s eyes with a freshly-washed, monogrammed handkerchief. She kissed his nose. Softly. Gently.

Both wore white baseball caps – just in case.

And yo, at about seven or so – they just beat it, once more, for old time’s sake.

L’amour c’est l’amour, mes amis.

Love is love, my friends.

On that joyful French note, this tale, as well as the parenthetical chirpy comments and the plethora of phart phrases, phunnies, and phoolishness that came with it, draws to a close. For the DePharteaus, however, it’s just the beginning. Look closely next time you pass a carefree, cuddly couple smoochin’ it up on a green wooden bench. Reach out to them. “Ted? Red?” You may be surprised to find that … they’re both real, and they’re spectacular!

Oh yeah, almost forgot . . .

“THE END!!”

###

“When the night has been too lonely And the road has been too long And you think that love is only For the lucky and the strong.
Just remember in the winterFar beneath the bitter snowsLies the seed that with the sun’s loveIn the spring becomes The Rose.”

– Amanda McBroom

Retired U.S. Marshal (one l) Bruce Mathers <> Marshall (two l’s) Bruce “Eminem” Mathers III

Though four-legged Buttermilk had not yet joined Ms. Dale Evans in the Old West, it’s likely 69 yr-old Ted still enjoyed watching this one, just six days before waking up as a 70 yr-old, right next to well-stacked, newly-christened Joanna Jean “Red” Rose DePharteau, in all her morning splendor.

Moldsters in Mannville

January 25, 2026February 14, 2026 / Wayne Michael DeHart / 3 Comments

Wayne Michael DeHart (April, 2025)

(CAUTION: WORDPLAY AHEAD. STAY ALERT! )

At Big Brad’s Doughnut Diner, in Mannville, Vermont, three old men – Oliver, Stan, and Bruce – settled into their usual corner booth on a rainy Saturday morning. I can tell you that these guys from Birchburg, two counties over, were yappin about geezer stuff right in front of a handsome stranger whose first name rhymes with Maine, Spain, and Jane. Oliver, a self-described hardy man, was loudly counseling Stan not to ever rest on his laurels, because, in the immortal words of that smart-alecky Fergus Byooler kid, “Life moves half-fast when you’re hangin’ out with old people.”

And the third man? “Yeah, tell us about Bruce, Wayne.” “Okay, well, right off the bat, man, he apparently was quite the birdwatcher, because he talked about “robin this” and “robin that” while he was devouring a dozen doughnut holes. “But, Wayne, maybe he was referring to, you know, robbin’ banks.” I couldn’t believe he said that. “I can’t believe you said that! Yes! That makes sense now. Robin Banks, Miss Mannville, 1984. Of course.”

Bruce would smirk if he could hear us now, thinking back to the day he first met Redheaded Round Robin at the town’s weekly Saturday night pot luck supper. While their folks were sloshing down beer, and feedin’ on beans and brownies in the Big Hall, the teens hung out in the rec room, a/k/a the “wreck room,” watching Three Stooges shorts on a black-and-white TV (the kind where you actually had to change the channel by turning a knob with your fingers, if you can imagine doing that). Fifteen and frisky, sly dog Bruce was instantly smitten and love-bitten . So It was only fittin’ he’d be hittin’ on the kitten while they were sittin’ and bullchittin’, but she kept knittin’ a mitten for her cat, which she named “Bruce” the very next morning.

For the record, Stan called me a few days before I sat down to write this sophisticated literary offering and coughed up oodles of tasty verbal vittles, like that one you just read, about his two best buds. Thanks, Stan. You da man. And don’t worry, I won’t tell Bruce. (Oops, Dang, I think I just did.)

So anyway, why did these Birchburg fellas frequent a small-town doughnut dive here in Mannville?? Well, I’ll tell ya, but first I’m gonna gobble down this chocolate cheesecake. A man’s gotta eat. Where’s my fork?

(Brief pause while author consumes 530 unnecessary calories.)

Okay, so why were they huddling up here on Saturday mornings? I mean, the doughnuts had more grease than John Travolta’s hair in that 1978 movie. And the waitresses were married and always modestly attired. So what was the draw, the word? (Okay, we know Grease was the word, but what about Greece? Maybe I mythed something there. Keep reading.)

Oliver was the brains behind these Moldsters (moldy oldsters) – three men who claimed to be smarter than they looked. (Aren’t we all, Oliver.) Stan was the brawn at 5’11’, 167 pounds, with faint remnants of actual biceps, while Bruce was (God almighty!) the spiritual savant. Their apparent disdain for napkins and table manners blended in nicely with the yokels, er, locals.

You: “C’mon, what were they up to? Spill the tea. Butter the bread. Cut the cheese. Wait, scratch the cheese, just the tea and bread, please.”

Me: “Hey, I’m makin’ this crap up as fast as I can. I’m old too, ya know.”

Oliver, Stan, and Bruce had been ripped off for 40 bucks each by Big Brad’s daddy some 60 years earlier, when the four teens were harvesting blueberries one summer for Mr. Harrington down around Wikkey Lake (no relation to Ricki Lake, according to that Google guy.) After bending and raking all morning, the future Bad Dad had led them to a row of blueberry bushes known (to him) to be infested with maggots. The blue beauties were large and juicy, and the threes buds gulped them down like M&M’s, while Bad Dad only pretended to partake. All three got instantly sick, barfed up a bucketful, and hauled azzzz back to town, abandoning their good berries. The schmuck scooped them up, claimed the credit, and walked away with their collective $120 cash money. His family then moved to Mannville before the barf boys could exact revenge.

The scalawag had passed away years before the Moldsters reunited at an AARP fish fry in the resort town of Eegabeva. Oliver (a widower), Stan (divorced), and Bruce (never wed) became fast friends again, and rented a “party pad” together. Though they failed to lure any ladies there, they did experience moments of euphoria from swilling down bourbon and bonbons, watching Friends reruns in their favorite Jennifer Aniston jerseys, and playing Scrabble for Seniors in matching purple bathrobes they “borrowed” from a Montreal hotel during Geezer Week in Canada, 2013. By the time they checked out, their revenge plot had been spawned and hatched.

These freaky fossils vowed to get their 120 dollars back from Bad Dad Junior’s joint – one buck at a time. That day’s visit was their eighty-seventh, and they blabbed the whole story to me, a fellow blabbermouth, after inviting me to join them because they needed a good-lookin’ feller at their table to attract the long-haired tourist ladies over at booth 7.

Doughnuts and coffee devoured, they calculated the standard tip. “Looks like $4.75 today , gentlemen.”, Oliver announced smugly. Each man gleefully laid $1.25 on the table – a $3.75 tip. Saved a dollar. “That’s 87 bucks now, guys, we’re getting there.” They giggled like goofballs, and high-fived as best they could.

You: “So Bad Dad’s offspring, Big Brad, DID in fact get paid for everything the schemers purchased? He didn’t lose a dime to them?”
Me: “Yes, he certainly did, and no, he sure didn’t.”

Hmm, seems they had been unwittingly plucking the hens instead of ripping off the rooster.

That night, six disgusted and determined members of the Modestly Attired Waitresses Movement (“MAWM”) laughingly removed 87 bucks from wallets they found on the ground right after tossing three m-old-y men – each gagged, handcuffed, and tied up tight – into the dumpster behind Scroomey S’mores Sweet Spot. Burly owner Woody Scroomey (dunno, maybe, I believe he is single) found the Birchburg Three the next morning and beat their bony butts 50 shades of grey for trespassing and stinking up his sweet-scented trash bin. No charges were filed, and the moldsters fled Mannville, never to be seen in town again.

You: “Oh my, but how did the waitresses know to count out exactly 87 dollars? They didn’t know the whole blueberry pickin’ story, nor would they know as a group how many doughnut days those old farts had played their goofy tip game.”

Me: “Well, um . . . I guess I kinda told the tourist ladies from Booth 7 about it after the guys left and well, apparently they were waitresses from Boston on one of them “girls getaway weekends” they make movies about . . .and it seems there’s a MAWM code of some kind that dictates sharing the blather of blabbermouth customers . . . and besides, someone had to proofread this gibberish before I let normal folks like you read it!”

Sorry, fellas, my bad. But eww, take a shower, have a sing-along together with BOTH of the “Mamma Mia!” movies, and find somewhere else to go on Saturday mornings!

Gotta run, got a movie date with a single MAWM. Hmm, now where did I put my trendy Friends hoodie? The one I bought back when Rachel and Ross were, you know, on a . . .

The Lady herself, seen leaving Woody Scroomey’s eatery in downtown Mannville

And finally, the one where she’s sadly waving goodbye to ~~me,~~ er, some guy after ~~our,~~ er, their delightful afternoon together in bustling NYC.
↓↓↓

An Unforgiving Foe

January 25, 2026February 4, 2026 / Wayne Michael DeHart / 2 Comments

Wayne Michael DeHart (July, 2024/January, 2026)

(Writer’s Opening Note: An earlier version of this personal memoir served as my entry into the 2024 VA writing competition in the category “Personal Essay – Inspirational.” The 1,000 word limit in that situation obviously does not apply here on my website, thus I have added some pertinent background material, and also made some “descriptive” revisions that do not alter any of the facts presented herein. – WMD)

I am now in my 42nd year of a relentless, punishing onslaught from the Terror, an invisible, sinister scourge that leaves silent scars. It rips my gut and punches my brain senseless with lefts and rights and teeth-rattling uppercuts that I know are coming, yet am unable to repel. I continue to embrace the extended daylight of the summer solstice, and rail against the sustained blackness of late December nights, because most of the attacks, the total number of which has now accumulated into the thousands, have occurred during the hours of darkness. That first one, however, was a daytime ambush.

When the Terror first tore through me on a November afternoon in 1984, I was making a regulatory compliance presentation in a major bank’s meeting room in Florida. It attacked without warning, mid-sentence, rendering me frozen in place as my heart raced and I gasped for each breath. I was rushed to a hospital ER.

After several medical tests and numerous invasive questions, I was told that I had likely experienced a severe anxiety attack (i.e., a panic attack), which sure sounded better than a coronary event. Along with that sweeping assessment, I received a rather blunt, eyebrow-raising suggestion that I schedule a visit with a psychiatrist.

A shrink? Me? Yeah, right, I really want that nugget on my resume. Obviously, this was just a one-off, bizarre malfunction. My bad. Scary, but it’s over. See, I’m already past it. End of story. Where’s the Coke machine?

To my dismay, self-diagnosis proved to be a fool’s errand. The incident was a foreshadowing of a very long, very rough, road ahead.

For the next nine years, I was in and out of emergency rooms, after increasingly frequent bouts with unsettling, frenzied panic attacks, mostly after midnight – an exhausting trend that drained my energy and subverted my psyche. The Terror was taking its toll, and I was handling it poorly.

In the Spring of 1993, while working as a senior Fraud Investigator for the Federal government, the attacks became truly overwhelming. The position required frequent, extended travel commitments and my thoughts were racing 24/7. I had run out of excuses to myself, and I finally sought help. I proceeded to make my first visit to a mental health clinic in Lakeland, Florida. No miracle “cure” followed, but at least I had swallowed my pride about the whole “shrink” thing, and accepted that I could no longer make believe everything was fine after my workday was over. I almost always held things together in the daylight hours and still performed my job at a high level. But back at home, hours after the sun had set each day, the dangers in the darkness devoured me.

Though the ruthless and debilitating panic attacks did decrease somewhat in both frequency and intensity through the ensuing seventeen years of treatment, I wasn’t even close to being “healed.” Medication had lessened the distress factor somewhat, and I began to focus more easily, but I was deluding myself that I was finally, and fully, functional.

In 2010, a dozen years after moving back to my native NH, the Terror inexplicably ramped up its savagery, leaving me a housebound agoraphobic, resigned to living out my days in virtual isolation. Pervasive, gripping tension and a constant sense of disabling dread often made the most routine tasks seem insurmountable. I had also developed severe obsessive-compulsive behaviors by then as well. I discovered the hard way that unchecked hopelessness is truly an unforgiving foe.

In December of 2015, while waiting for a flu shot, I sat down at an upscale blood pressure machine at the local Rite-Aid store to kill time. I pretty much froze up when it displayed stunningly scary and unforeseen results while red lights flashed repeatedly across the top of the machine. Fortunately, the store was right next to a small shopping center which housed a VA medical clinic – a “CBOC” – right there in the small town of Tilton, NH. Though I’m a veteran, I had never thought to check into their services, or the qualifications required to make use of them. From the outside, the clinic was a nondescript storefront operation that was easy to look past. But that afternoon, upon learning of my alarming BP numbers, I dropped by without an appointment to say, in effect, “Help!” I answered a lot of questions and filled out many forms, which led to my first VA physical examination two weeks later. That thorough exam resulted in immediate resolution of the blood pressure problem via medication, and an unforgettable, life-changing referral.

My assigned PCP at the Tilton VA arranged for me to meet with a licensed social worker, Courtney, who was on staff there, and I began to see her on a weekly basis soon after. For nearly two and one-half years, I was counseled by that youthful, energetic, and inspiring paragon of tact, trust, and thoughtfulness. Add in a consummate blend of wit and wisdom. The result is a true personification of the word inspirational. She provided a calming, supportive presence that encouraged and enabled me to voluntarily disclose and discuss, in vivid detail, a series of traumas I had experienced while serving in the Army, primarily during my twelve month tour in Vietnam.

From that initial session on, she neither flinched nor frowned at my scattershot verbal digressions, or my nervous quirks and mannerisms. She frequently nodded approval or understanding, sometimes smiled knowingly, and maintained consistent eye contact – traits essential to quietly reassuring and encouraging me, as I struggled through the most intense of emotional narratives.

Those 29 months stabilized, then mitigated, the Terror attacks. As a therapist, Courtney had restored my dignity through constructive guidance. As a person, she had repaired my broken spirit with her compassionate manner. Yes, she would challenge me aggressively at times, usually when I balked just as I was on the brink of a breakthrough. I welcomed that strategy, recognizing that a dose of measured tenacity was exactly what I needed to push forward. She would readily sense when a break was warranted, then signal timeout by reaching for, and sharing, her stash of wickedly-enticing chocolate treasures. We’d sit back and decompress until my mood evened out and my memories became manageable. Then, back in our designated roles, I resumed detailing my recurring recollections of distressing events and incidents, and she responded by digging deeper with each tick of the clock.

Her instinctive nature, her unwavering resolve, and her ability to combine her learned professional skills with her innate people skills, carved out a safe space for me. As I strive nightly to recapture that space, I continue to miss her grit and authenticity. Hope was her greatest gift to me, and yes, it does indeed spring eternal. She always won the day, and I, and many others, reaped the rewards of that victory.

Now, almost eight years after she left the clinic for other assignments within the VA, the Terror still beats me down again, almost every night.

But now there is a difference. The stubborn presence of the surviving remnants of hope she had instilled in me live on. After the Terror empties its weapons, and departs before dawn’s first light, I shake off the fresh bruises and get right back up, beaten but not beat. Every damn time. (Well, almost every damn time.)

If she knew that, I believe she would nod her approval from afar, and flash that knowing smile one more time.

Being exposed to the standards and practices of “Courtney care” was one of the greatest blessings of my life. No matter how difficult the nights that still lie ahead, I am, and will remain, deeply grateful for those 29 months, and her generous gifts of guidance and grace.

Courtney, if someday, somehow, you run across these words, I want you to know that you are the reason I’m still here, and for that, I am, and will remain, immensely and appropriately thankful.

(Writer’s Closing Note: In addition her long-term impact as detailed above, Courtney also was the person who encouraged me to create this website in 2017, when it seemed like an insurmountable task to me, as someone who wasn’t – and still isn’t – the brightest bulb when it comes to being computer-savvy. She shook off my self-doubts, then provided the nudge I needed to follow through – thus one more positive outcome she helped create in the “above and beyond ” category.)

********************

This paver lies in front of the Army Monument at the New Hampshire State Veterans Cemetery in Boscawen, NH. Placed as a reminder that she was there for many of us in life, and her memory and her spirit will remain with us once we are laid to rest here.

The paver, freshly cleaned, sits just under the cap.

As the Emerald Tiger Died

January 24, 2026January 31, 2026 / Wayne Michael DeHart / 2 Comments

Continue reading →

Lines from Lake Laeryn

December 27, 2025February 20, 2026 / Wayne Michael DeHart / 2 Comments

Wayne Michael DeHart (June, 2024)

Writer’s Introductory Note:
In March of 2024, I was one of several veterans in a recreational writing group who were provided a list of 56 random words from which to choose the “ingredients to develop a recipe for writing” a story or poem. Prompts, if you will. A few months later, I decided to try my hand at working all 56 of them seamlessly into an original short piece of fiction (not to exceed 1,000 words) to enter into a competition. I was able to do so, and enjoyed the heck out of the process. I have since made a few whimsical additions to the piece, pushing it up to 1,063 words, but all of the 56 “ingredients” remain in their original format and placement in the story, and each remains in its original form as it appeared in the attached handout. The first reading is the finished product, and the second reading has been added to show how each of the 56 words was used. Hope a few readers judge this word recipe to be, well, chef’s kiss !

********************

12:12 AM, Saturday, March 20, 1999 – the opening minutes of Spring in the bayou.

“Oui, you need beaucoup sleep, more than a nap, to rest and recharge that captivating je ne sais quoi of yours. Bonne nuit, mon chéri.” (Cajun girl loves her some flirtatious français, for sure.)

She glances at the living room mirror to see if she’s still glowing. She is. In the soft candlelight, she sees a maiden fair, looking sweet but strong, innocent yet seductive. She nods, winking playfully at her reflection. “Yeah, baby.” The love train is beginning to leave the station, and they’re on board. Voilà – Victory!

Both have consumed a lot of wine. She’s beaming. He, on the other hand, looks like he ran into a beam. Hours earlier, they had unexpectedly busted out of the friend zone with their first romantic kiss, a limb-tingling humdinger, much like Astaire and Rogers in their reverie dance in 1938’s “Carefree.”

She plugs in two night lights, snuffs each candle, and pulls a comforter up around her shoulders, wedging herself onto the sofa cushion nearest his head. Then she closes her eyes, and goes looking for Fred and Ginger in dreams of her own.

********************

Lisette Rousseau and Ryan Garner had met the previous summer on the western shore of Lake Laeryn (“Wayne, be sure to tell ‘em it rhymes with Karen!”), in southeastern Louisiana, where both had gone to water ski on the 4th of July, at the persistent invitation of the marina manager. They bonded quickly, wasting no time in sharing likes and laughter. As the weeks and months rushed past, they kept things lively, but remained partners without passion. The opportunistic manager had invited them separately to the dock, hoping they would connect and become lifetime lovers. In appreciation for such Machiavellian matchmaking, Ryan would extend him deep discounts on all future purchase orders from his employer. But, thus far, the expected quid pro quo had been a big no go.

Lisette, 25, a lifelong Laerynette, managed La Pâtisserie, an upscale, all-natural bakery for health-conscious folks in nearby Lake Charles. Confident and outgoing, she was never at a loss for words. Her smile was electric and energizing, lighting up many a room and opening many a door. She avoided relationships, tolerating neither fool nor folly. Quietly compelling, with enchanting green eyes, she could inspire a poet’s lyric, and craft wedding cakes with an artisan’s texture and touch. Her mother had boasted years earlier that Lisette “puts the light in enlightenment, and that girl’s just 17.”

Shunning showy glitz and glitter, she scorned the pretentious excess of tinseled tarts and tawdry teasers. Growing up a hardcore tomboy, she could kick butt, climb a tree, slay a dragon, finger poke the notorious middle school mini-monster, Billy “Bully” Bailey, into submission, and stare down Sammy the Slime, the teenaged tyrant from Stinker Street. In the spirit of FDR, she was afraid of nothing but fear itself, and, well, maybe being flabby at 40 and floppy by 50. Lisette was sometimes a lady, never a tramp, and always unflappable. She looked and moved in one direction – forward.

Ryan, 23, grew up near the LSU campus in Baton Rouge, where his mother worked security. Strict by nature, she sheltered him from the pervasive pitfalls of a major college town. His runaway dad, however, was a bootlicking backslapper who migrated north to Shreveport and cunningly cultivated friendships with men in high places. No one’s hero, and ever the traveler, George Garner dragged Ryan down to Mobile for splashy yacht fishing, up to Memphis for some Beale Street blues, then to the finest New Orleans eateries, using borrowed credit cards. When Ryan flunked out of LSU in his sophomore year, his mother was livid, and strongly advised him to smarten up.

He did.

Lady Luck soon gifted him a job as a marine supply salesman, working out of Port Arthur, Texas. Seems “smartening up” had gotten him a company car and an expense account. “You doin’ good, boy” his boss said two years in, and sent him sixty miles east to Lake Laeryn to sweeten and close a sale, then relax on the company tab through the Independence Day weekend of ‘98. There he smooth-talked the equally-cunning marina manager, who in turn smooth-talked the unattached dragon slayer down to the docks. Feeling instant kinship with Lisette, Ryan returned to the lake almost every weekend to hang out with her, unpressured, in a platonic partnership, the kind where neither answers if jealousy calls. Hugs – hello and goodbye – bookended each visit, though those embraces gradually lingered longer, and got decidedly tighter, on both ends, and from both sides.

********************

8:44 PM, March 19, 1999, the waning hours of Winter

As a cold, hard rain pummeled Lisette’s waterfront cabin, the couple relaxed in her warm and cozy kitchen space. They finished off a late Friday dinner of jambalaya, corn bread, and banana cream pie, made tastier by two bottles of Merlot.

From the CD player in the next room, wafted the opening notes of Dusty Springfield’s inviting classic, “The Look of Love.” Emboldened by the wine, Ryan stood and asked her to dance. Within moments, they locked eyes. He kissed her with passion and purpose, like Astaire, and she responded in kind, like Rogers. But the poise the wine giveth, the wine also taketh away. Suddenly tipsy and tired, they tumbled onto the living room sofa. They flirted innocently for hours, until their happiness quickly escalated – hers skyrocketing, his exploding, precisely at midnight, with no one near. Well, except for you, the reader, who arrived at the window minutes later, unnoticed – just as Cajun girl was whispering those opening . . .

lines from Lake Laeryn. (Yes, the same ones that welcomed you, way up there ↑↑↑)

********************

Postscript:

Later that weekend, Ryan called me (yeah, I’m the marina manager a/k/a the scheming matchmaker) to express his gratitude for my perseverance in hooking them up and nudging them down the love track.

My pleasure, Ryan.

Deep down, young man, I’m a sucker for acts of friendship, for good deeds, for all things peace and love. That stuff melts my old, grizzled heart. Truly.

Anyway, about that discount on dock winches . . . can we bump that up to 30% next time around? That too would be kind of an act of love . . . actually.²

No? Okay.

Enough.

Enough now.

____________________________

With the 56 words highlighted:

12:12 AM, Saturday, March 20, 1999 – the opening minutes of Spring in the bayou.

********************

He did.

********************

8:44 PM, March 19, 1999, the waning hours of Winter

From the CD player in the next room, wafted the opening notes of Dusty Springfield’s inviting classic, “The Look of Love.” Emboldened by the wine, Ryan stood and asked her to dance. Within moments, they locked eyes. He kissed her with passion and purpose, like Astaire, and she responded in kind, like Rogers. But the poise the wine giveth, the wine also taketh away. Suddenly tipsy and tired, they tumbled onto the living room sofa. They flirted innocently for hours, until their happiness quickly escalated – hers skyrocketing, his exploding, precisely at midnight, with no one near. Except you, the reader, who arrived minutes later, unnoticed – just as Cajun girl was whispering those opening . . .

lines from Lake Laeryn. (Yes, the ones that welcomed you, way up there ↑↑↑)

********************

Postscript:

Later that weekend, Ryan called me to express his gratitude for my perseverance in hooking them up and nudging them down the love track.

My pleasure, Ryan.

Deep down, young man, I’m a sucker for acts of friendship, for good deeds, for all things peace and love. That stuff melts my old, grizzled heart. Truly.

Anyway, about that discount on dock winches . . . can we bump that up to 30% next time around? That too would be kind of an act of love . . . actually.

No? Okay.

Enough.

Enough now.

THE 56 INGREDIENTS (courtesy of Laura and Val at the Manchester, NH, VA Medical Center):

Group Writing Exercise: (One word prompts)

Choose your ingredients to develop a recipe for writing. Free write first, then edit for a new creative work!

Space Friend Monster Look Past Green

Rain Fear Spring Happiness Smile Climb

Health Direction Tree Mirror Rest Loss

Victory Inspire Warm Texture Luck Beginning

Gratitude Excess Door Enlightenment Next Ski

Glitter Lake Candle Me Dragon Train Love

Dreams Goodbye Time March Dance Perseverance

Afraid Light Answers Laughter Recharge Hero

Jealousy Lyric Water Yacht Traveler Nap Banana

Discussion: Share your creative work.

My Misplaced Life

January 1, 2025February 6, 2025 / Wayne Michael DeHart / 2 Comments

Wayne Michael DeHart (July, 2024)

Writer’s Note:
This poem was written in response to the single word “Memories” – the prompt for a 2024 international poetry competition that limited entries to no more than 30 lines.
_____________________________________________

Like thunder clapping across dark summer skies,
my muddled recollections of a seventy-year span
roll by angrily and ominously, behind closed doors.
On this blackest of nights, in this desolate cottage,
my emotions flare, my pulse races, and the sharp
blade of regret cuts deeply, ripping me to my core.

Once a cheap-suited underling, weary and fragile,
unwittingly and passively robotic, I’d wait for the
office clock to shriek, “Go home – now.” Yes, home,
to bare walls and sterile bed, where I sat and stared
and tried to revisit, to remember, my misplaced life.

My remembrances are devoid of shape and sound
and scent. Faces blur, and voices echo unevenly,
collapsing tone and tenor. Muted, murky visions
distort once-clear images, as chaos conquers all.

Flashbacks of fire still mock my scarred spirit,
so I revisit stale, maudlin songs of love and loss
to blunt their brutality and muffle their cruelty.
Does that coy, green-eyed Jersey girl reminisce
tonight, recalling Spring flowers in old Vermont,
or stolen kisses in the shadows of Boston bars?

Alas, I capture the frames, but not so their pictures.
These letters have yellowed, their words have faded.
Curse the folly of such idle musings. Will any remnants
remain when this night ends? I think not. Those who
rode life’s rails with me are gone, and won’t be back.

Enough, old man! Cease this bitter blather, this anguish.
Welcome morning’s light with deep breaths and quiet heart,
your dreams alive, your flame hot, your mind’s eye focused.
Despair is bearable. Defeat is not. So clap, thunder. Clap on!

Bar Belles & Dumbbells

October 14, 2024April 13, 2025 / Wayne Michael DeHart / 2 Comments

Wayne Michael DeHart (May 26, 2024)

Writer’s Note:
This was my entry in the Mensa Bulletin’s 2024 annual fiction competition. It was published in the September, 2024, edition of the magazine, the third time one of my stories has appeared in that publication. (Yay for me and tired old men everywhere!)

_______________

October 5, 2018

Three they were, their futures bright,
noses in law books, deep in the night.
Fun forgone, they trained for the fight,
turned off the dark, turned on the light.
Tested two days, and wrote what’s right.
Awaiting their scores, with muscles tight.
Ten weeks of torment, no verdict in sight.

“I wrote a poem. Just now. Look.”
“That a girl. Nothing like a septet to calm the mind.”
“A what? They said ten weeks, right?”
“No, they said about ten. Maybe twelve. Possibly more.”
‘I’m gonna bust outta my skin here, Kerry. Can we go to Boston’s Brewin’ for just one drink, then come right back? We can just forget to mention it to Karly. No big thing.”
“You know our deal, Gwen – booze, you lose. It’s been a long haul, we’re almost there. Just go down to the exercise room to blow off steam. Do some crunches. Pick up a couple of dumbbells.”
“You mean like Lenny and Louie? Yuck. No, thanks. How many crunches?”
“About ten. Maybe twelve. Possibly more.”
“Kerry?”
“Yeah, hon?”
“Bite me.”
_______________________

Back Bay, Boston. An up-market, two BR, two BA, condo owned by Karly’s moneyed uncle, who sold a start-up for big bucks at the age of 31, then left Boston to hang with the Silicon Valley crowd. He had purchased several rental units at Trinity Crossing before heading west, and had offered his only niece and her friends a stunningly generous, below-market rate on his best unit when they moved in during the early spring of 2015. He knew they planned to begin law school that fall and, well, it was the least he could do for his late wife’s family. He kind of dropped a hint that, if they made it through and passed the bar, perhaps free legal advice for life might be a thoughtful return gesture on their part. They laughed that one off and always sent the check on time, and he never raised the rent.

Karly Drake, Kerry Loring, and Gwendolyn Lynn were each in their late 20’s as they awaited the results of their July bar exams. The liberal arts grads met in mid- December of 2013, when they began work as rookie hostesses at Red’s SawxHouse. The setting was a bizarre blend of an urban, urbane, baseball-themed cocktail lounge at street level, and a roadhouse-type bar venue, with a vipers’ den vibe, occupying the basement. Nestled in the resurgent fringes of Boston’s once-notorious Combat Zone, the establishment routinely turned generous profits, despite a lingering, below-the-surface culture clash between the white collars sipping bourbon, Bailey’s and Bordeaux up top, and the blue collars guzzling overpriced longnecks and gobbling free peanuts at the bottom of the stairs.

Karly, Kerry and Gwen (“KK&G”) were characters with character – intelligent, vibrant young women who had quickly tired of their mundane, entry-level jobs after graduation. They became fast friends, sharing long-term aspirations to be something more than degreed go-fers for smug guys in rumpled suits. Though highly astute and self-aware, they shared a sassy, silly side that was a hoot back at the condo, but in public, could be a wee bit embarassing among, you know, adults. Still, for the most part, they managed to conduct themselves in an appropriate manner because this was Boston, where sillies were sent to the end of the line, or to Maine.

During their ten-month tenure in the blue Brahmin haze of Red’s upstairs lounge, their quick smiles and polite playfulness were rewarded with a shipload of tips, and an equally generous level of respectful endearment from the patrons. Nevertheless, Karly wondered aloud what it would be like to dive headfirst into the murky mire below them, where rude, crude snakes slithered and slid, singing a siren’s song. Kerry rolled her eyes. “Sounds fabulous.” Karly persisted. “Six months. We walk the walk for six months, and then we’re outta there, the Lord willing and the creek don’t rise.” Kerry and Gwen exchanged puzzled glances upon hearing about the creek, but both were gung-ho and game. Red said he’d allow it, and wished them well “down in the pit.” He told them they could come back upstairs at any time if they missed the tips. Or the clientele. “They want you back, and you haven’t even left yet!”

The below-deck newbies were well-served by an instinctive, heightened vigilance in unfamiliar surroundings and circumstances. They were fun, but not as in floozy fun. They wore their strong intellect and confident poise comfortably, mastering the fine art of being flirtatious without being salacious. They knew how to maximize tips while minimizing close contact. They didn’t play the customers, nor did they play with the customers. It seemed there was no shortage of obnoxious dirtbags and grabby sleazeballs among the regulars, but the ladies artfully ducked and dodged the bad ones, while drawing out the best in the rest.

There was also a benign grouping that KK&G dealt with gently and compassionately, sensing an ever-present awkwardness and social clumsiness. These guys hung together, numbering fewer than ten on any given night, and Kerry was surprised they kept coming back. “They just seem so out of place and unhappy here.” They were mostly quiet and shy – unassuming, passive creatures who personified low self-esteem. The other hostesses were standoffish toward them. (“I don’t trust a man who doesn’t hit on me.”) To the rapscallions rejecting them, these subdued, gentle men were fair game – to be openly belittled, degraded, and labelled as dimwits, dolts, dorks, dullards, and the most piercing cut of all . . . dumbbells. It rubbed the ladies three the wrong way. As their six-month tenure there wound down, they did their best to prop up the outsiders, to learn about them as individuals, and to stand up for them openly and assertively.
_______________________________

April 18, 2015

On their last night on the job, a Saturday, they were delighted that more than twenty of the perceived misfits had turned out to see them off. Their shift was both sad and satisfying, a textbook mixed bag of emotions. Shortly before 11:00 PM, each of the three hugged every one of these special guys before departing, then broke house rules by having a quick parting glass with them. As they headed for the stairs and a final walk-through with the upstairs crowd, they heard, “Ladies, wait!” Those same guys gathered around them as each was handed a very small, rectangular box.

Looking unsure, the three of them hesitated. Many of the rambunctious regulars had taken notice. They watched in curious silence.

“Geez, OPEN them already,” someone blurted out in a deep baritone. Laughter. They did so, slowly and together, like kids on Christmas morning. Inside each was an engraved, sterling silver dog tag, resting on a bed of black velvet. Karly, Kerry, and Gwen each saw their name, next to a heart, shining back at them, above the simple words, “Thanks for giving a damn. Your friends, the Dumbbells.”

Well, shoot.

Another round of hugs ensued before the now-free three scampered up the stairs for their final goodbyes. Red was waiting for them. Karly showed him her dog tag. He bit his lip and nodded his head, approvingly. “Well deserved.” He suggested they mingle for about half an hour and then meet back with him at the main bar in the center of the lounge.

So mingle they did. They had spread out to touch as many bases (hey, it’s a baseball bar!) as they could before making their exit. Seemed like there were familiar faces at every turn. It was close to 11:45 when they heard Red on the mic, acknowledging their presence, and imminent departure.

They quickly worked their way through the crowd, into the spotlight. Red had the BBB (big burly bouncer) lift each of them up onto the smooth mahogany surface of the bar. They were clearly animated, bobbing their heads to the cheers. Red then lifted what appeared to be Boston baseball jerseys up to them, folded back side up. They held them up high to the crowd, each revealing a large number “1” and their own names across the top. None of the three had even noticed the front side that was staring down at them. Red, back on the mic, suggested they “turn ‘em around, ladies.” (Kerry playfully turned herself around before Red added “The jerseys, ladies, the jerseys!”)

As native Bay Staters, they had expected the familiar “Red Sox” lettering, bold and red, across the front. Smartphone cameras captured the moment that the expected became the unexpected. The letters were in fact decidedly bold and red, but boldly read: “BAR BELLES.” They quickly donned the jerseys as a couple of other upstairs hostesses suddenly appeared on the bar, one from each direction, both wearing those same tops. “Ladies and Gentlemen, please say hello, and goodbye, to your 2015 Boston Bar Belles.” The guys did what guys in bars do when looking at ladies in uniform – they got boisterous and went bonkers. Following Karly’s lead, her four wingwomen began to vigorously flap their jerseys up and down, making the letters jump and jiggle on the way up, then bump and wiggle going down. The bellowing Beantowners were feeling festive; high-spirited and high on spirits.

Red’s voice boomed across the room. “Listen up! Three runs down, bottom of the ninth, bases loaded. Who ya gonna call?” In response, a stoked Gwendolyn Lynn let loose her sassy girl, yelling “Bar Belles!” while putting her hand to her ear. A chorus of male voices took the cue, retorting with fist pumps and a glass-shattering “Bar Belles!” of their own. Gwen again, whipping her long, auburn hair from side to side – “Bar Belles!” And the guys gave it right back again. Meanwhile, Gwen’s festive friends kept shaking their shirts, fueling the fire in the frenetic faces below them. A few more rounds of the exchange ricocheted off the walls, before a fast-paced, full-throated, flurry of five more for the road closed out the revelry, carrying the farewell celebration to a rocking, rolling, rollicking climax.

Their fans had just witnessed a real world grand slam, and fittingly for KK&G, a breathless walk-off win.

A fitting finale, indeed.

The three friends waved one last goodbye before being helped down to solid ground. Once there, they headed straight to the door, and out into the cool night air of early Spring. They didn’t look back.

The ten months upstairs, and the six months downstairs, at Red’s SawxHouse had left its mark – on them, and on a slew of grounded regulars. Surely, in the near and distant future, many would tell a friend, a co-worker, or the person sitting next to them at Fenway Park, about the top-shelf, infinitely-cool, beloved Boston Bar Belles of days gone by.

Their midnight cab ride back to the condo, on the 240^th anniversary of some other Bostonian’s quite different midnight ride, marked the end of an amusing adventure, and the beginning of getting down to business. For these rejuvenated women of the Back Bay, “Bar Belles” was about to take on a whole new meaning.

______________________

October 12, 2018

Just one week after penning her ode to impatience, Gwen let out a shriek in the early afternoon that could be heard in the Berkshires. It was a rainy Friday, and her roommates were down in the exercise room again, pumping those dumbbells. Bypassing the elevator, she scooted down the stairwell, missed a step, and nearly face-planted on the next landing. Recovering nicely, she avoided the hospital ER and arrived at the target “ER” undamaged.

She stood in the doorway, chirping. Karly saw her first, and immediately knew this was not a standard “I just had a brownie and it was sooo good!” kind of elation. Gwen had printed out the e-mail before descending the stairs, and waved it around like a $20 tip at Red’s place – “Who’s bad? I’m bad. Passed that sucka first time outta the gate.” Upon hearing that, Kerry quickly joined them, attacking her phone. Seeing Karly step away to towel down, Gwen simply assumed that the future managing partner of their firm simply had no sense of urgency, as she had been one of the top grads in their law class. She turned her eyes back toward Kerry, who, moments later, hooted “YEE-HAW, baby!!!” The two of them fist-bumped and chest-thumped, strutting and swaggering like bosses. “Two down.”

And then there was one.

Minutes later, there was still one, as an ashen-faced Karly turned away from her phone, sat down on the nearest bench, and buried her face in her towel.

Stunned at what was clearly happening, Kerry and Gwen shut down their antics and just waited. Karly removed the towel, but kept her head down as she gestured to them to sit down beside her. They did, lowering their own heads in a show of unity. Karly slowly put an arm around each one, and pulled them close. “Ladies, let me just say . . . Welcome to THE BAR, bitches! We did it!”

Back upstairs, they changed clothes, posed for a selfie, printed a copy, then framed it.

That night, for the first time since their grand goodbye, they went to Red’s SawxHouse. They knew that familiar faces would now likely be few and far between, but they felt compelled to mark the occasion by returning to the place where the seed had been sown. Kerry, hoping that they had not been forgotten, had called ahead to be sure that Red would be there. They wore their “Bar Belles” jerseys under their coats, and pulled Red, who was elated to see them, into a quiet corner. Kerry was clutching a laptop bag.

In unison, they pulled off their coats and flaunted the jerseys in front of him, in remembrance of that night. He was beaming. Then Kerry pulled the framed photo, signed by the three of them, from the bag and placed it in his hand. The selfie showed them in matching business suits, briefcases in hand, standing stoically behind a bronze statue of Lady Justice. It was a keeper.

They had a drink with him, told him he was a good boss and a better man, then everyone took turns toasting each other. Just before leaving, Karly pulled a small, rectangular box from her coat pocket, and handed it to Red. He lifted the cover, and saw something he had seen before – an engraved, sterling silver dog tag. It was inscribed with his name and a heart over the words, “Thanks for giving a damn. Your friends, the Bar Belles.” Just as he had done that night, he bit his lip and nodded his head. But this time it was Karly’s turn to say, “Well deserved.”

She removed it from the box, and stretched to hang it around his burly neck. They lifted their own prized tags out of their jerseys and coats, cuddled up to him, and while all four pointed at their own tags, a hostess used Kerry’s phone to record the moment. Karla promised Red a signed and framed copy of this photo as well. He then took a circuitous route while walking them to the door, taking pride in pointing out each of seven wall posters that captured the Bar Belles dancing his customers into a frenzy in an electric farewell. Indeed, they had not been forgotten.

In the months that followed, the trio put their dream of opening their own firm on hold, and all took jobs as public defenders for the Commonwealth. They felt a need to test their mettle early on by experiencing the hardscrabble side of advocacy, They wanted to defend people who they may not like at all, and to revisit their own mistakes in pre-judging others. Each of those presumed rogues and rascals in the basement bar had a story, just as their favored “dumbbells” did, but they never asked, and never listened. The astute self-awareness they had been so proud of, well, maybe it was time to work on that too.

“All rise.” On that note, for each of them, completing the challenging transition from bar belle to belle of the bar, really was something to stand for, and stand up for.

Three they were, their futures bright . . .

turned off the dark, turned on the light.

Let Us Fill HourGlasses With Love

February 14, 2024June 28, 2024 / Wayne Michael DeHart / 1 Comment

Wayne Michael DeHart (June, 2023)

Writer’s Note: The late Leonard Cohen added many, many unheralded verses to his cherished “Hallelujah” on his way to completing the classic piece, though only a few are usually heard. “Many, many” is likely wishful thinking in this case, but it is my intention to add verses to this open-ended poem over time, because . . . why not?
So we raise our glasses high, where love is in the air, and we fill them, the way we always dreamed we would, as a chorus of high-spirited voices endorse the moment – ” Hear! Hear!”

♦

Lassie Lynn and Aladdin Finn
met years ago in the park
at the end of the road,
near the old sawmill
where their dads
hacked logs
on third
shift.
♥
Each
of them
fast taken
with the other.
As sunset drew nigh,
he held her hand in his;
she gently tousled his hair.
Lassie Lynn and Aladdin Finn.

∞

The widow Stone and Patrick Strong
danced a waltz at an Elks lodge
in Fort Wayne, Indiana,
on a Saturday night
last November,
nose to nose,
eyes shut,
awed.
♥
Love
grew fast
in their hearts;
breathing as one,
proclaiming their bond,
perceiving their closeness,
with lifted souls and high hopes.
The widow Stone and Patrick Strong.

∞

Nicole Gentry and Maggie Malone,
longtime lovers, lifetime friends,
condo-cohabitated in Wells,
“Maine’s Friendliest Town.”
They hiked and biked,
laughed and cried,
fished, swam,
talked.
♥
Kissed
at dawn,
and at dusk,
and in between;
cool, calm, spirited,
both secure, feeling free,
living the dream, their destiny.
Nicole Gentry and Maggie Malone.

∞

Till the Flames Burn No More

January 14, 2024May 3, 2025 / Wayne Michael DeHart / 2 Comments

Wayne Michael DeHart (July, 2023)

When the Wrath raged at night,
with hot fire straight from Hell,
I disengaged from the fight,
too weary to break its spell.
My endless, painful, plight
wore on without farewell.
That spiteful source of fright
drummed dirges as I fell.

Vicious, vile, it stabbed my soul
with a searing, piercing spear.
It cut me down to half my whole,
it broke my will, it fed my fear.
I struggled to disrupt its goal,
to interfere, to persevere.
But I failed to seize control,
to make the terror disappear.

“Focus, Wayne, the Wrath’s surreal.
Your distress keeps it alive.
You’re the one who spins the wheel.
It needs you to survive.
You won’t get well, you can’t heal,
peace will never arrive,
if you don’t end this long ordeal.
Resist. Reflect. Revive.”

Whose voice was that? Can it be?
The words rang strong and true.
“Breathe. Be calm. You hold the key.
I did my best to strengthen you.”
She read my soul, she set me free,
cleared my mind, framed my view.
Her spirit opens this path for me,
lights my way, guides me through.

Though fury fans the blaze,
and trauma strains my core,
though chaos cuts both ways
through its unrelenting roar,
I’ll conquer this murky maze,
and begin to settle the score.
Then I’ll stare down the days,
till the flames burn no more.

When the Wrath rages tonight
with hot fire straight from Hell,
I’ll be ready for the fight,
and quickly crush its spell.
My dire, perpetual plight
will wane in fast farewell.
That intrusive parasite
will toll its own death knell.

Introspection:

Each night, every night, all night . . . long, mean, cruel . . . it surrounds him . . . then daybreak comes, the shadows fade, some faster than others, but all, and soon, at last . . . daylight hours bring sleep, relief, time to plan, prepare, persevere, before the next round descends as the sun dutifully drops, and the treacherous trek begins anew, as the weary, wary wayfarer resists throwing his hand, mindful that another dawn will come, just in time, to save him, as the circle cycles unbroken, but for now, as darkness knocks, the violent, visual loop plays fast and hard and the gut-wrenching sound echoes off bare, bedroom walls, and he sets his jaw, closes his eyes, and defiantly turns up the volume in his headphones, and hums along to “Let It Be.”

–

The Aftermath – “Morning Mind, Mourning Mind” – (Clean it up, or let it be.)

The Bitter Taste of Suite Deceit

December 28, 2023August 2, 2024 / Wayne Michael DeHart / 1 Comment

Wayne Michael DeHart (May, 2023)

It was almost 9:00 PM by the time Hannah Gray and Gary Glidden checked into the Commerce Hotel, in downtown San Antonio, on Thanksgiving Eve. Holiday traffic from Austin had been heavy, and their late arrival had already delayed the secretive session of privately-owned Harrison Foods’ nine-member Board of Directors.

The five men and two women had been sworn to secrecy regarding the time and location of the gathering and, for that matter, the fact that there was an ad hoc meeting at all. The remaining directors, brothers George and Jason Crane, had not been notified, and for a very good reason. Word was that their conduct had been deemed by The One to be detrimental to the company’s reputation. Their futures would be decided that night as they unwittingly gathered with their families back in Austin.

It would be fitting to say, in light of the fact that Harrison was rooted in the commercial baking sector, that the sugar was about to hit the fan, and no sweet deals would be forthcoming. The One was reportedly irate and unforgiving, and had issued a very harsh motion for the seven directors to approve. All seven were based in Greater Austin, the corporate home of Harrison Foods; thus, the San Antonio locale, some 80 miles to the northeast, had piqued curiosity.

Gray and Glidden dropped by their room to don their mandatory Director Suits, then joined their associates in Executive Suite 507, where Chairman John Horne’s escape bag rested conspicuously by the door. Horne cohabitated in a downtown Austin penthouse loft with The One — a powerful, enigmatic, magnate who always commanded the last word in company business.

In addition to Horne, Gray and Glidden, directors present were Elizabeth Murphy Durrow, Walt Schroeder, Barlow Giles, and Craig Traylor. All were properly attired in the traditional Harrison Director’s Suit, which was actually a yellow, cotton blend sweat-suit, adorned front and back with a baker’s dozen images, in various sizes, of the company logo – the brand’s iconic dark chocolate chip cookie. Scattered haphazardly across the yellow material, they looked like weathered sunflowers tumbling askew. The offbeat garments were informal, gender-neutral, and comfortable, and reflected the casual quirkiness of Harrison’s guru, who embraced eccentricity.

The One’s personal attorney was also present in the room, to everyone’s dismay. Even though he did not represent the firm, he had become an opinionated and unwelcome presence at company events for years, and was known to be a pain in the collective assent of the corporate attorneys.

The other directors had been firmly instructed by Horne not to communicate with the Crane brothers about the meeting. Their absence confirmed the weight, though not the substance, of the innuendo and rumors. This was something big, and they relished the power they were surely about to employ.

John Horne called the meeting to order at 9:32 PM. The attorney immediately handed him a sealed and taped 9×12 Kraft envelope. Horne dramatically held it up, displaying it to the others as if it was a message from On High. After momentary frustration as he fussed with the tape, he tore it open with an air of grandiosity, and quickly skimmed through the single sheet of paper it contained. He breathed deeply, his nostrils flaring. Then he spun himself around, grinning maniacally. His eyes caught fire. He rolled them left and right, taking in the faces of his colleagues, then howled with a sick blend of contempt and elation.

He gleefully told them they were all fired, canned, sacked, given the heave-ho, effective immediately, and that the new Board would operate with just three members, with George and Jason Crane having been absolved of their sins and retained in good standing. Gasps, then silence. He autonomously declared a 7-0 approval vote, then abruptly adjourned the meeting. He callously wished them each a pleasant holiday, and herded them out the door, like cats astray. His only regret was that he didn’t have a six-pack of symbolic, rubber axes to hand out as mementos of this special occasion. Parting gifts are always appropriately delicious. The boss taught him that.

The One’s attorney appeared to be stunned at Horne’s unexpected arrogance and incivility. He picked up the sheet of paper, perused it, put it back into the envelope, and tossed it at Horne in disbelief. The Chairman had always resented this smug turd who acted like he owned the business and was always dismissive of Horne’s interactions with The One. He proceeded to usher the shit-bag out the door, with a parting shot – the third cousin of the aforementioned parting gift. “Should have fired you too, asshole!”

The unfazed attorney looked back and offered a knowing laugh, before returning to his own deluxe suite, where a bottle of champagne was chilling and a female guest was likely warming up the sheets. He wasn’t about to let a buzzard in a cookie-covered sweat-suit ruin his Thanksgiving getaway. Still, he was puzzled over the Chairman’s bizarre response to The One’s directive.

Meanwhile, the severed six shed their silly suits and gathered in the hotel bar, where they drank themselves into a group stupor. Gray and Glidden slept it off in their room. The remaining fired four, suddenly in the role of irrelevant pawns, faded into the silent shadows of the Texas night.

John Horne was not, by nature, a people person. Buttressed by the events in Suite 507, however, he had further morphed into a cold-blooded cutthroat. He theatrically placed the envelope into his new leather attaché case, locking it for safekeeping, After donning jeans and a company hoodie, he swaggered out of the hotel. In the parking lot, he gently laid the briefcase on the rear seat of his prized ’65 Thunderbird, then headed back home to Austin, to inform The One that the deed was done. Surely, he would receive “Attaboy” accolades and the usual “special favors.” Images of pink SnoBalls and Kentucky Bourbon filled his head, and he pressed down harder on the gas.

When he got to the penthouse, the door was locked. He tried his key, but it didn’t turn. A recluse extraordinaire, The One rarely left the nest, so something was off. He knocked. Nothing, He shouted. Nothing. He called in on his phone. It went straight to voicemail. He texted. Nada. It was well past midnight. Worried, he placed calls to the resilient Cranes to fill them in and feel them out, suspecting corporate foul play. Both answered, despite the hour. Both hung up on him. Not a good omen. As a three-member Board, they could overrule him on a whim, out of pure spite, despite his steering capacity as Chairman.

Reluctant to make waves that might anger The One, the despicable douchebag checked into a budget motel to get some much-needed sleep. He was certain that Thanksgiving morning would bring simple answers and a reunion with his housemate. It didn’t. He left more voice messages, to no avail. Distraught, he had one too many at the only open downtown bar he could find, then foolishly tried to drive back to the residence. Suddenly, WHAM! His T-bird was T-boned by an unforgiving 4×4 as he ran a red light. Just before impact, the briefcase still rested in peace where he had placed it the previous evening. After impact, well, it didn’t matter, because, in the blink of an eye, he had become just another irrelevant pawn, a jaundiced John, a silenced Horne.

Days later, The One eulogized him at a near-empty chapel. Unsurprisingly, none of the six directors he had ridiculed and sent packing back in San Antonio were present at the brief service. Gerald Murphy sat alone in the back row, expressionless. Later, The One brought him home. Home to the penthouse loft, the one she previously shared with her late husband.

Seventeen years earlier, John Horne had gotten down on a knee in Paris, popped the question with a stunning, three carat diamond ring, and told her he knew that she would always be “the one.”

Karma. Kismet. A Kodak moment in a selfie world.

A blind date with a 4×4 had deprived John Horne of a second reading of the letter, from which he would have learned that, in addition to the Crane Brothers (who had been active participants in the upheaval), the revamped Board would include a new Chairman – the aforementioned Gerald Murphy, The One’s personal attorney.

At 9:34 PM, after he had wasted more than a minute berating the buxom Ms. Durrow for making her sunflower cookies “prance around in a provocative manner,” on Thanksgiving Eve, in Suite 507 at the Commerce Hotel in San Antonio, Chairman Horne had scanned the page too quickly, jumping the gun with his assumption that he was to be the third member and retain his role as Chairman of the downsized Board. In his exuberance over the sacking of his fellow directors, he had started waving the page around and doing a happy dance without reading the last couple of lines. ALL directors present were to be declared terminated, without cause, immediately upon the directive being read aloud to the attendees in the presence of The One’s personal attorney. On her authority, as sole owner of Harrison Foods, ALL, including the one who was about to receive divorce papers, had been kneecapped.

Gerald Murphy had indeed been baffled at Horne’s apparent celebration of his own dismissal. Even more so than the woman waiting for him with the champagne and warm sheets. Before their night of drinking and playing and giving thanks began, he initially feigned a serious tone, somberly and dutifully reporting the results of the meeting to her, including Horne’s obviously incomplete reading of the page, as well as his unhinged celebration. Then he grinned. “Olivia, get this. After they all left, the numb-nuts said, ‘I sure as hell Horne-swoggled them sunflower stooges to hell and back. Did you see their faces? Did you see ’em squirmin? Oh, man, revenge is sweet sayeth the Chairman. Now, time for you to hit the road, Skippy.’ He called me Skippy! What a friggin’ hoot.”

From a dim corner of the room, clad only in a blue-velour Commerce Hotel bathrobe, The One slithered sensuously toward him, making a cackling sound, a blend of witch and hen, while letting out a howl of her own. “Show me, hon. I wanna see.” Then an impatient, “No, not that, that’s for later. The video.” The beaming Mr. Murphy, at her request, had stealthily, clandestinely, videotaped the meeting and the aftermath, just the way he had most of those company events (and affairs!) that he had routinely dropped in on. Poor John Horne. She had seen and heard everything, all of it, over the years, and kept the tapes as evidence in the upcoming divorce proceedings.

“See there, I specifically told him that when you handed him the envelope, he was supposed to actually read the order to them, not read it to himself and ad-lib an announcement. He never listens. Did he keep it as a souvenir?” “Probably, not sure.” “So he could be re-reading it as we speak? And realizing he’s out the door too?” “Yep.” They both imagined him looking at it again to recapture, and savor, the thrill of victory, only to be hit between the eyes with the real story. It was a moment of shared ecstasy, and they hadn’t even begun to make love yet. She turned off her phone and salivated over the panic the old boy would feel when he got home and she wasn’t there. This would be her best Thanksgiving ever. “Serves him right for perving on Beth’s big tits just before the bomb was dropped.”

“Olivia, do you want to see that other thing now? It’s Murphy’s law, ya know.”

“What a braindead meathead I married! What a sap. Took his money right out from under him and he never had a clue. “

(Guess not, Mr. Murphy.)

“I give the chump a few bucks here and there, let him cop a feel now and then, and the schmuck toes the line. Easy-peasy. Johnny Boy keeps thanking me for letting him use that clanky, old Ford the Governor signed over to me for giving him my, um, full-throated endorsement three years ago. ‘Gee, the Governor is such an honorable and generous man!’ he says. ‘Maybe you can do it again next time around.’ he says. ‘Yes, yes, I’m sure I will, dear. Now fetch me my red heels, I’m going out for the evening.’ I swear, the clueless dipshit walks around in such a daze that I wouldn’t be surprised if someday he steps off a curb in front of a bus.”

(Well, Mrs. Horne, Johnny Boy wasn’t walking, and it wasn’t a bus, but sixteen hours later . . .)

_____________________________________________

Weeks passed. On New Year’s Eve, at midnight, Hannah Gray and Gary Glidden, proud new owners of a party supply store at an Austin mall, tooted horns, lit sparklers, and danced spitefully on John Horne’s grave.

They wore their chocolate chip cookie sweat-suits, and they left dead sunflowers on his newly-placed headstone.

That done, they felt whole again. They no longer had an axe to grind, not even a rubber one.

Because the sugar had hit the fan . . .

and it was one suite deal after all.

My own sweet deal:

No Caterwauling Aloud !

December 11, 2023April 20, 2024 / Wayne Michael DeHart / 1 Comment

Wayne Michael DeHart (July, 2023)

Writer’s Note: This poem was written as an entry in an international publication’s 2023 annual poetry competition. All entries had to respond to a unique, one-word, all caps, exclamatory prompt : “LOUD!”

(Hmm, where should I go with this?)

⇓

Fiona Fay, our flaky, finicky, family feline,
goes gaga in the presence of a cute canine,
preening herself till she’s groomed real fine.

Her snivels and whines, common, well-known,
are low in volume, and nonthreatening in tone.
They arrive with a grunt, and leave with a groan.

But now and then, she’ll just holler and hiss,
squalling and bawling, like something’s amiss.|
We nuzzle her neck, and her blues turn to bliss.

That tri-colored, calico, mouser of ours,
paws for hours, sleeps when it showers,
plays on the lawn, pees on the flowers.

The amber-eyed creature is near and dear
to the five human beings who are living here.
Queen Cat makes the rules, and we adhere.

She listens to birds from the window sills,
then merrily mimics their chirps and trills,
their vibrant chants, and their piercing shrills.

As she chimed high notes in a morning salute,
she was hounded in our yard by a surly ol’ brute,
who nipped at her tail while in dogged pursuit.

Believe me when I say, in the here and now,
that the wail we heard, someway, somehow,
rang out like a squeal from a mating sow.

Riled by the mongrel’s growl and grumble,
our caterwauling gal was raring to rumble,
and make that critter stumble and tumble.

Fiona Fay circled like a lioness proud,
thundering strong like an angry cloud,
at the mutt that bit her butt, then bowed,
all ‘cuz the Queen had meowed too LOUD!

Hey, I’m Talkin’ Baloney and “Monk”-y Business Here

August 25, 2023May 19, 2024 / Wayne Michael DeHart / 2 Comments

Wayne Michael DeHart (August, 2023)

Writer’s Opening Note:
The following wordstorm is the combined result of the joy of overdosing on “Monk” episodes, inadvertently being exposed to 20 minutes of the Cable Guy on a SiriusXM comedy channel while going for groceries, and trying to carry on a freewheeling conversation with myself using an accent – all in a 36-hour period. Mix in a lack of sleep and a sugar high, and this is the codswallop you get. The story, the wide swath of phonetic spelling, and the photos/tags are meant to be all in good fun.

A Note of Caution: There are snippets of “spicy,” “crude,” and “irreverent” material in the mix, but very little of a nature that wasn’t heard on Seinfeld or Friends on network television in the ’90’s, or Two and a Half Men in more recent years. At no point does it cross into the “yikes!” territory of the South Park experience. Be mindful that it was written as a parody of standup comedy club fare; that is, crafted to be heard, rather than read. The written word being absent the ability to employ facial expressions, hand gestures, body movements, volume fluctuations, etc., the exaggerated phonetic spellings used arbitrarily here are critical to project a “Larry Live” effect. Trust me, it’s so much easier to just “talk good” and spell words correctly! Deliberate misspellings create a “Where do I draw the line” dilemma. I wrote it like I imagined he, and those of a similar brand, would say it and, because it’s a one-off for me, I winged it. This should not be interpreted as an endorsement of the man’s style or content. It is not. Hatefulness is not my thing. Nor is it meant to mock the countless good folks who do struggle mightily with the written word, while standing tall in other endeavors. Stereotyping for laughs, behind the shield of “anything goes, it’s just jokes,” seems to go hand-in-hand with many comedy club performers of all social and political leanings, and is, in one form or another, just part of their schtick. No classes or groups seem to be immune or out of bounds these days, whether on the giving or receiving end, and depending on which XM comedy station one tunes into. (One features performer after performer doing routines that relentlessly use the F-word to a point of numbing the brain, from beginning to end.) Larry’s number, and style, came to mind simply because of the aforementioned, timely radio exposure, and the “earworm” it left in my head. I managed to avoid using “Git ‘er done” while getting this done!

It should be noted that no animals, except maybe a chicken, were harmed during this process. Because supposedly every possible joke has “been done” a dozen times already in the internet age, I swear on Nancy Sinatra’s walkin’ boots that I’ve neither borrowed nor stolen any of the following material from anyone, including Larry (or Moe, or Curly.) I actually baked this pie from scratch, and will let the chips, be they Ruffles or Ridgies, fall where they may.

7:16 PM
Stummick’s growlin’. Guess I gotta eat. Don’t need to. I just ate last night, what’s the deal? I’m old, and food has lost its appeal. Except for this banana. It has a peel.

I gave up fast food, cuz I swallow too slow.

Gave up cookin’ when I burnt that chicken two wintas ago. Little clucka sure did make a rackit. No wonda that guy in the green pick-up sold him (coulda been a her, I didn’t check real close cuz it didn’t seem kosha) so cheap-like. Bless his/her heart. The chicken, I mean, not the dick in the truck. (I knew he was a Dick because his license plate said “RICHERD”. But the joke’s on him, cuz he done spelt Ritchurd rong.)

Where’s my slippas at?

7:31 PM
My ~~refrigaraider’s~~ coolin’ box has ice cream in the top part, and proteen shakes, root beer, and Docta Peppa down below. And a jug of that fancy-pantsy allmin milk they show on the TV. (Are the people who milk them allmins trained right? Do they wear gloves? Is Peter Paul their boss man?) I keep it just in case the tall lady across the hall drops by. She’s very “a-vaunt-guard” as they say in Paris, Loozy-anna, and Whales. Wears Goo-chee, probably eats soo-shee. She’s lived there eva since that skinny, nekkid woman stopped cummin’ over here to borrow some sugar. When I ran out, she ran out, and kept on runnin’ like that Forest Gumper guy. Then this here tall lady moved inta the skinny woman’s spot, but she ain’t never knocked on my door for my sugar, or anythin’ else, so I figger she’s wayyy overdue. Maybe next week. Oh, and there’s some butta in there. Well, marge-a-reen, to be honist. The guy at the food store said he can’t believe its snot butta. After tastin’ it, you betcharass I can!

7:40 PM
There’s chew-up food in there too. Whippee pies with extra cream, cheesy fingers, about a pound of Mr. Mayer’s baloney slices, and a jar of sour dills that I opened the day I first watched that Buffy girl put a beet down on them neck-bitin’ dead people with the long teeth. I assed a guy at the VFW what happens if my pickles get too old and he chukkled on it a bit (funny old fella) and said, “Well, buddy, based on them face-rinkles ya got showin’, they’re probly gittin’ more sour by the hour.” How great is that? If I hadn’t assed him, I might have messed up and tossed my pickles at the same time I was tossin’ my cookies. The more ya know . . .

My former co-workers was SO snooty. They used that hi-brow talk when makin’ fun of my sandwitches. “Marvin, your bo-low-nyuh is turnin’ green.” “No, its snot. This here’s real ‘Murican baa-lo-nee, it don’t never rot nor turn colors, and my first name is Melvin. My baa-lo-nee has a first name too, just like your Charlie tuna there, only betta.” Stanley, meenwile, nibbled on “toe food,” yuck, whatever that is. Brad, the foreman, wolfed down Waldorf’s salad one day while Waldorf was smokin’ in the can. Don’t smoke, kids, you could lose your lunch.

Where’s the dang remote at?

7:48 PM
Only 12 minnits till the next Season 5 “Monk” eppy-sode is on this newfangled TV plan I’m payin’ a leg and an arm for. “Screamin’ programmin’,” they calls it. I don’t mind that it’s screamin’ cuz I can use my remote, if I can find it, to skweeze the loudniss button to where the TV box ain’t really screamin’ at all. Still, I tried to get the non-screamin’ verzhin, figurin’ it would be cheapa. When I called, an ottomaticated voice said, “You are color numba 14,” so I put the phone peece down and assed that Siri gal what was up with that. (Gus says her real name is Siri S. Lee. Oh, please, Gus, seriously? Now, he might be fibbin’ at me, or tryna butta my beans just fer chits n jiggles, but it makes all kinds a sense in my head.) Ennyways, she said color numba 14 was “grewsome gray.” Wow, she’s good. I was lookin’ at my mug in the bathroom mirror just last night, after my monthly bodywashin’, and sure enough, I had grew some gray hairs that was stickin’ strait out my earholes. It looked all gee-narly ‘n nasty. My mug, I mean, not them hairs. I mean, at my age, a man likes him some brissles on his brush, some pie on his plate, and some gas in his tank (instead of his gut.)

Time was whizzin’ by, so I hung up the phone peece and went to eat some homemade Bikkardi & buttabean ice cream I made in my blenda. Yeah, I made sure the beans got buttid (thanks, Gus) before I shook ’em up, I ain’t stoopid stewpid dumm. Good stuff. Yummy in the tummy and rummy in the dummy.

Where was I? Oh, yeah. TV. My VA doc says I got the OCD thing bad, but I’m guessin’ he ain’t never watchd Adrian Monk for 44 minnits at a time. I like the guy cuz he makes me feel all normal and reglar. Monk, I mean, not the doc. Okay, yeah, alright, I’ll fess up – and cuz I got a geezer crush on his helpa lady, Natalie. Monk’s helpa, not the docta’s. Keep up. But, I digress. (That means I’m ramblin’ sideways with a hat on.)

7:56 PM
Got even more grub in the pantree over there. It’s supposed to be a linnin closet, but I been usin’ it for food cuz I don’t wear linnins no more, not since they re-tired me early for missin’ work too much. (I says” I only missed 4 days” and they says “In one week” and I says “That stuff happins” and they said “17 weeks in a row?” and I says “Oh, ya got me there. Can I keep the shirts?”) Hope the landlord man don’t find out, like he did bout the nekkid sugar woman, because of the smell and all. (Hmm. maybe I might best re-frase that.) The cans and boxed stuff sit there fine, but those taters and tamaters git grewsome gray (ha, ha) in the summertime! Stink City, man. Pee-yew! Skunks and manoor would be gangrene with envy. Speakin’ of which, the stentch cleans out my nose conjestchun better than those aim-n-squeeze drops from the dolla store. And that there’s my Docta Doogy Howza health tip of the day. (Best doc I ever had, even though he was younga then a goalfish. His nurse reminded me of Wunda Woman, so I payed dubble without him even askin’.)

8:00 PM
Monk’s on. Yay!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

8:01 PM
First Cumershill’s on. Boo!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

8:06 PM
Adrian and Natalie look tired already. I’m kinda draggin’ butt, myself. Could be a long show for all three of us.

What am I gonna eat?

Looky here. Five cans a chili, four packs a crackas, three cans a pee soup, two jars a peanit butta, and a partri . . . never mind. I’d go with the chili, but I took an ex-lax bout an hour ago by mistake. Not chittin’ ya. Thawt it tastid funny for a Her-she’s square. My bad. My gut’s startin’ to rumble like that Mount Vez Soovy Iss over yonder in Italy town. Hear that? I ain’t heard sounds like that from my belly hole since I guzzled a whole glass of proon jooce my first mornin’ in basic trainin’, thinkin’ it was grape jooce. Yeah, I ten to screw up like that, bein’ humane and all. But no one’s perfict, well, cept maybe that Gennyfur Anustan woman who’s always braggin’ about havin’ so many friends in New Yawk City. And yes, Miss Genny, Raychell and that Ross feller WERE on a brake!

We had hand-to-hand fightin’ trainin’ a couple hours after that proon jooce made me loose, and my own private (I kin spell private cuz I was an army one at the time, ya see) Vez Soovy Iss started eruptin’ just as I was fallin’ on some guy’s head. They took him to the infirmry place to try to wash the stank off. We didn’t see him for three days. The other guys all liked me after that cuz the guy was not only another Ritchurd the Dick, but he was the badassy drill Sgt. teachin’ the class! He was givin’ me a bunch of baa-lo-nee as he was slappin’ me around like a marshamellow, so I used my kneebones and kept wackin’ him hard just below his willypickle (seemed like it might be one of those nobby, minny-jerkins I seen at the Walmart) till he moned and groned and turned as green as month-old, importid bo-low-nyuh. Then he flopped over backwids like a French pengwin in heat while he was still pinchin’ on my neckskin with his fat fingas, and that’s how I landed face down on top of the ~~dood’s~~ man’s nose canal. I just laid on top there watchin, like a Sleepin’ Tom, till he started chokin’ on my fewms of doom. In a flash, I’m tellin’ ya, he was out cold as a witch’s boobies. (They won’t let me say tiddies when I talk in writin’ like this. It’s OK. Goggle makes the rules and I follow rules so I won’t write tiddies again, accept when I have to explain why I wrote boobies instead of tiddies.) In the end, the Sarge was agassed at my gas, ya see.

I bet you thawt the title line at the top of this crock of shiitakis was about food and my dinna tonight! You never stooped to think there might be willypickles and baloney slaps at Fort Dicks, didya? Well, sir, you know what they say about assumin’. It makes rear ends outta both of us, just ass anyone that’s got good skoolin’. O yeah, and its just one of them co-winsidences about Fort Dicks name and all. Nuthin’ to do with the Ritchurd stuff I been talkin’ on. This here’s real Dicks at the Jerzey army camp, just look at that Webkwest map they show for free right cheer on the webby. Oops, looks like they spelt it rong, just like that guy in the truck. The map people wrote “Dix,” probly cuz Goggle got a rule agin it , like with the two witches things I just went on about. They sayin’ some rich fella killed some blue bird and now he gits a dolla every time Goggle shows an “x” cuz he just bought the letter for hisself from the alfabet gooroos. Nuff a that. But I was there at the fort place in live person and I can sware it on a bible (or on that Sinatra gal’s walkin’ boots. Didja see what I just did there? I stole that line from the very top, up there ↑⇑, from that guy whooze lookin’ ova my shoulder blades while I’m busy free-writin’ here, like a honist man in his undaware. Me, not him.)

The drill sarges kept yellin “I want all you swingin’ dicks to git lined up right cheer.” That’s why a long time ago it was named “Fort Swingin’ Dicks” cuz a that, but some of the traynees couldn’t spell swingin’ when writin’ lettas home to their girly frends to watch out for Jody the Molesta, so the army dropped that swingin’ part in what’s called an act of mercee. And that’s the true, facshewil story on how the place got its name. I don’t fib (ha-ha.)

Well, enough of that gossipin’ down mammary lane for now, but if this belly don’t stop gurglin’ soon I may have to consult Docta Peppa over there in the ~~refrigaraider’s~~ coolin’ box ’bout drinkin’ some fizzy and gettin’ busy, if ya catch my wind. It’ll probly be blowin’ in soon, comin’ north, from south of my Waste line, so might wanna grab a nosepin, which is like a closepin, but for the nawstrils. Breathin’ bad air ain’t good for your Atoms apple, unless you’re a lady person, and then it don’t matter none cuz Eve gave hers to a snake, or somethin’ like that. Neva mind.

8:23 PM

Gotta deside soon about suppa, so my food can settle before I hit the hay. (I wunda, when a farma tells his wife he’s gonna hit the hay, does she give him the key to the barn?) I know – yack, yack, yack. Some of us old foegeese who live alone can flap our gums till the cows come home (and maybe bring us some of that udder kind of milk.) Sometimes, we hum to ourselves in strange voices and diffrint acksents, just to have some cumpanee. I studied Rose Etta Stone (that’s Harry Stone’s wife, but he don’t care. The price was only $19.99 for a whole week, and Harry paid me all of it before he dropt her off.) She’s all old and rubbery-skinned and wears a pirate patch like that Lizzi woman ova east in them New Hampcheer woods. I read about it on some dweeb’s story-writin’ place on my desk-sittin’ computa. He’s not two good at it. He should let me write some of this stuff and pay me $19.99, like Harry did, and then pretend its his writin’. I won’t tell.

Movin’ on, Now I can chew the fat in all 7 romantical langwidges: jabberwocky, jibber-jabber, hogwash, hooey, malarkey, poppycock, and the one I took to the best, bullchit. Pretty impressive, ness pa? (That’s Porchageez for “ain’t it, sucka?”)

Still, even after gittin’ smart, I don’t ~~smell~~ spell good. Life is hard. Talk is cheap. Rent is high. Sun is down. Time is up. Up is down. See what’n I just did there? 23 straight words with only one sillabill. Thelma Stoopins said she read on FacesBook that the reckerd is 22 and that if I could make 23, she’d make me a duzzen choklit cupcakes tomorra in exchainge for me fixing her pipes. So I guess the frostin’s gonna be flyin up in 36B. I don’t know how to fix pipes, but I’ll look at hers while I’m eatin’ on those treats cuz I’m a good ol’ guy deep down undaneeth my funnymakin’ outsides. Thelma lost her husbind about two years ago now. Wasn’t sad. He didn’t go belly up or nothin’ badlike. She just lost him in a poker game at that same VFW where I got the sour pickle tip. That’s better’n one of those devorces them cowboy musick singas are always belchin’ about. They’ll hook up agin someday at the ol’ buryin’ ground, or so she says. When they do, she should bring cupcakes as kind of a sorry-Clem-bout-going-all-in-with-just -a-pair- of-4’s kinda apologee. I’ll coach ‘er up on pokerin’ smarts if’n I need more cupcakes after her pipes are workin’ gooder than new.

8:31 PM
Monk’s back, but where’s my Natalie? She best not be messin’ round with that musselbound Albright fella or I’ll have to write another letta to the show’s editor to ass ~~him~~ ~~her~~ the persin to fire that guy, toot sweet.

8:37 PM
I already solved who killed the sailsman, so I got time to yammer at you guys a bit more. I think the woman in the pink hat with the orindge feathas . . . oh, crap, the ex-lax is kickin’ in hard, gonna have to eat and run. Eat and run. No? Neva mind, agin.

Time out. Smoke ‘em if ya got ‘em. (That’s army talk from the olden days.)

8:50 PM
Monk’s about to do his “Here’s what happined . . . “ thingy, so I gotta haul my ass-(Oops, just farted. I hope.)-ets out of the fridge and pick my poysin, pronto. There was a mustid cumershill earlier that showed three mo-rons slatherin’ it on hot dogs and they smiled a lot. I wanna smile a lot, but I’m stuck without a weener. Or mustid. Or soshill skillz.

Anyway, hoss-puckery aside, I’m just hunkerin’ down now for the home stretchy with Adrian and Natalie. (She’s baaaaack, and I’m smilin’ like the mustid mo-rons.)

Guess I’ll unlawk the barn and hit the hay now and dream about the tall lady droppin’ by my place and doin’ the hoo-chee coo-chee in a red rubba ranecoat. That fantasee usually puts me in snewzville real quick-like, if you catch my driff. (I winked, iffen ya can’t see me.)

Nytol.

P.S. Looks like my new spellchecka was worth the five bucks, even though the instruckshuns are confusin’. Sumtimes, ya gotta stop bein’ cheep and role out the cash, dontcha know.

Writer’s Middle Note:
Had I been binge-watching earlier seasons of “Monk” at the time I wrote this, and had I been exposed to 20 minutes of the likes of Bob Newhart, Trevor Noah, Chelsea Handler, Tina Fey or either of the Amys (Poehler, Schumer), before tackling this task – well, the content and tone of the delivery would have been light years different, and my geezer-crush would have smoothly transferred over to Sharona, Monk’s first “sidekick.”

Natalie and Sharona were opposites in just about every way imaginable – background, physical appearance, demeanor, temperament, hand gestures, etc. Over time, both developed a deep understanding of, and an amazing tolerance for, Monk’s many unconventional quirks, his phobias, and his OCD-related idiosyncracies; each of which, all of which, would have tested the patience of Job. Tony Shalhoub’s title character, a sympathetic figure who was oftentimes endearing, also struggled with a distinct lack of empathy and compassion that could sometimes be trying, even for the most circumspect viewer. Nonetheless, each episode was a satisfying slice of chocolate silk pie in a television wasteland with too many moldy muffins.

Thus, the purpose of this note is to provide some introductory context, insight, and background, for readers not familiar with the show, as they transition into the metaphorical allegory (or is it an allegorical metaphor?) that is the Writer’s Closing Note below. But first, take in the photos, clear your mind, and have some ice cream.

“Okay, here’s what happened . . . You see, . . . Wait, you there, yeah, you in the back, can you hold it down? We’re solving a crime here.” (Natalie’s flashing that “Melvin, I only have eyes for you” look.)

Scene: A 25-ish wiseacre and potential witness offers to disclose evidence if Monk and Sharona can chug two pitchers of beer faster than he and his buddy. Sharona accepts.
Monk: “But Sharona, I don’t drink.” Sharona: ” Don’t worry about it – I do!”
She outdrinks both guys, one turns over a key, and Monk stares at Sharona in disbelief. She looks at him and says, “Four years of Catholic high school.”

This YouTube link fully captures the range of emotions when Sharona and Natalie meet for the first, and only, time. It takes place in the show’s final season, five years after Sharona went back home to New Jersey. Worth a watch (4 minutes) leading into the Writer’s Closing Note.

Tall lady probably wears Goo-chee . . .

This is toe food, if you ain’t never seen it before. Looks like fried Spam squares, spiced up with green wormlets on top. Stanley’s was squares too, but his was white and looked kinda half-pastyish and half-squishy. I’ve always known about finga food and it’s called that because you eat it with your fingas. So you see the problem, right? Notice there’s 10 pieces here ? Lots of us got 10 toes. Co-wincidence? I think not. Ennyway, takes all kinds, I guess.

And this is the result of Mr. Toe Food and Ms. Soo-shee gittin’ all boozed up ‘n throwin’ good cents out the winda. Twins. Both came in at 2 pounds, 2 ownces.

OK, I didn’t menshin I had about five of these with the pickle and baa-lo-nee,
but I figgered you’d just a-soom that I did, based on gawsip ‘n stuff like that.

Peter Paul, Boss Man of the allmin milkers, bringing clusters of joy to the health nuts in New Yawk..

Well, ~~shit~~ crap.

*******************************************************************************************

The crude caveman scrawling the offensive and suggestive language above has finally left the room. He has a big day on tap for tomorrow in 36B. I, on the other hand, have no plans, as usual.
With that in mind, l’m going to get my feet wet in the social commentary pool. It’s a wading pool, so I won’t be diving in headfirst. Just want to see what it feels like. If it bombs, it bombs. Life goes on.

*********************************************************************************************

Writer’s Closing Note:
Monk ran strong for 8 seasons and 125 episodes from 2002 through 2009. During that time, he had two “caretaker/assistants.” The first was Sharona Fleming, played by Bitty Schram, and the second was Natalie Teeger, played by Traylor Howard. Sharona, a single mother, was a brash Jersey transplant with a young son. A registered nurse, she went to work for Adrian Monk after he struggled for a long time following his wife Trudy’s untimely death in a car bombing. Street-smart and outspoken, she also assisted him as he worked his way through his crime solving. When Bitty Schram left the show suddenly in Season 3, after 36 episodes, she was replaced by Natalie, a widow with a very cool, adolescent daughter who was able to connect with Monk in a way that Sharona’s young son had not. Natalie left her bartending job under duress and, though not a nurse, she accepted Monk’s offer to be his caretaker/assistant , soon becoming a very doting and caring force in his life, while assisting him with his investigations, just as Sharona had done.

Sharona called him “Adrian,” while Natalie always addressed him as “Mr. Monk,” even 5 years and 87 episodes into her tenure. Natalie tended to be more touchy-feely with him than Sharona was, not in a sexual way, of course, but in a comforting way. He was, by nature, a guy who very much did not like being touched, not only because he was a germaphobe, but because he needed his space in a world without his wife. Natalie was also far more of a gentle spirit than spitfire Sharona. In times past, one might have joked that Natalie was the girl you took home to your parents, and Sharona was simply the girl you took home. Both women were a blessing to Adrian Monk, who said of Sharona, “When she found me, I was drowning. She saved my life.” In Season 5, he told an interim therapist that Natalie was “very much like Trudy,” a compliment of the highest order. In that same season’s finale, Natalie literally saves his life by pinching off an IV tube a few seconds before a drug, which he is severely allergic, to would have entered his body and killed him. Angels both, each in their own way, they were valued genuinely and immensely by the man who relied so heavily on them to get through each day in the “jungle out there.”

It was a television show, and a very good one at that.

However, over time, it became the source of a destabilizing distraction to the masses, jeopardizing friendships, splitting families, inevitably leading to a bitter divide that unnerved the nation. It became all about blind loyalties and taking sides. All or nothing. No middle ground. A three-lane highway with no one in the middle lane. The same middle lane that used to be so crowded. Eventually, the powers that be simply closed it down. So what happened then? Now overcrowded, the people in the remaining outside lanes began to lean on their horns and cuss out and flip off their fellow travelers, at first over minor things, but then with increased intensity and rancor. The more reasonable ones had enough of the infighting and longed for the return of the middle lane. But by then, it’s surface had become cracked and overgrown with weeds, and besides, it was closed off. Without that option, most double-downed on their initial choice of sides , not because it was the logical thing to do, but because the only option remaining was to move over to the other outside lane and look weak and compromised. A proposal was made to not only refurbish and open the middle lane, but to widen it significantly, in effect, resulting in two interior lanes. The two exterior lanes would be moved further apart as a result, but they too would be given an upgrade. Four lanes. The folks in the middle two could choose which exterior lane they felt most comfortable being closest to, having access to, if a situation called for temporarily moving over for one reason or another. A vote on the proposal is coming soon. But how did things get to this point? Who was in those two outside lanes? What was the driving force?

Again, it was a television show, and a very good one at that.

Wherever human beings have gathered in the years since Monk ended, The Great Debate , i.e., “Sharona or Natalie?”, has eventually surfaced and intensified, with the two sides engaging in verbal and emotional warfare. Long friendships have ended over such disagreements. People have adopted colors for their favorite – jade green for Sharona and emerald green for Natalie. In sunlight, it’s easy to tell the two groups apart, even from a distance. But under the streetlights, they blend into one. Who goes there? Friend or foe? Why didn’t one go for yellow and the other brown? Why are the chosen colors different, yet so similar? Perhaps it is because, deep down, most (not all, admittedly) have the same aspirations and share one commonality; they are, first and foremost, fans of the show. Before Sharona left and Natalie arrived, they were all on the same team, because there was only one team. By the time the final episode ended, the fissure had reached an unnerving width and depth. Arguments got downright nasty and personal as good sense got tossed out the window. I recall one guy defending Bitty Schram, saying if he were younger, that would be his lady of choice. The guy arguing with him asked what would happen when she is no longer young. “I’ll tell you what will happen (not even waiting for an answer), she will be just another OLD BITTY !” “That’s BIDDY, bub, with two d’s, not two t’s.” And that’s when the fight started.

During the show’s final season, the Sharona character returned to San Francisco, and the show, for one episode. Sharona and Natalie met for the first time, each having heard a lot about the other via a variety of sources. After a momentary stumble out of the gate, upon first being introduced, they were cordial, even friendly, toward each other, but soon the two found themselves competing to show which one knew Adrian Monk best and was the most attentive to him in the role of his assistant. Eventually, they sat down together and talked it out, each praising and acknowledging respect for the other for their work with him. Their joint knowledge about the guy led to them finding the missing Monk at his wife’s gravesite. By the time Sharona is saying goodbye and leaving to return to New Jersey, we see that the two women recognize and appreciate the unique bond they share, and we see them part ways with a warm hug. There was the lesson for the masses, that respect and understanding leads to empathy, sympathy, and the willingness and ability to work together when the storm hits. We’ve traveled that road before, and not really that many years ago. It felt good. There were no colors, no teams. The ability to argue without animosity, to debate without discord, to stand on principle without judging others who do the same, all tend to make us stronger, individually and collectively. Not always. Not nearly always. But often enough to sustain a working peace – a working peace that provides a framework for better communication and eventually . . . the re-opening of those middle lanes, while still maintaining access for all to the exterior lanes on opposite sides of the highway.

With Monk episodes running up to three hours a day on some cable networks, there are no signs that peace on our part of the planet will emerge anytime soon. Sharona backers and Natalie supporters are constantly at each other’s throats and the vitriol is real. Up until now, like many Americans, I have remained above the fray because who needs added confrontation in their lives. But after 4 or 5 whoopie pies, a man gets to thinking. The healing cannot commence until heartfelt communication begins again across the divide. So, with this addition to the website, I have obviously and openly acknowledged my preference for Natalie – not to bait the Sharona side, but rather to open up a dialogue with them, and that begins with honesty, and not name-calling. Unlike many, I could have, just as contentedly, gone the other way. Because both groups, back before Monk came onto the scene, understood the concept of agreeing to disagree about this or that and moving on, without animosity. There. Natalie, with a side of Sharona? Great. Sharona, with a side of Natalie? Works for me. If I have a Celine Dion or “The Notebook” kind of Sunday, Natalie has the edge, the “it” factor. If I’m listening to the Stones and streaming “Breaking Bad” reruns on a Saturday night, Sharona completes me. I choose to see the good in both characters, which is plentiful, and don’t search for, or focus on, their faults. Why? (1) Because that’s where I failed in my personal relationships, and (2) because both women equally bring comfort and a sense of safety to Adrian Monk, and that’s what sustains him, that’s what gives him strength to face the world each day without Trudy.

(When I write “to face the world,” I mean it literally. The Natalie-Sharona conflict has extended to many other countries. Italy, Brazil and Hungary come to mind, places where Monk viewership is high, and the arguments are heated.)

I can’t stress enough that the Sharona group and the Natalie group don’t have to compromise their principles, their beliefs, their morals, or their integrity, to be able to exchange warm greetings, to offer an appropriate version of a “Monk wipe” to someone in need, someone under duress, or to simply be civil with one another. One may be no more likely to switch from Natalie to Sharona than the next person is to switch from Sharona to Natalie, no matter how effectively either states their case, because the chasm may now be too wide, and everything is presented in absolutes. X can care about you, and you about X, even if either, or both, of you are knee-deep in your chosen side’s’ stream, because, in time, this crap will end and most will take a breath and understand, and agree, that it is in all of our best interests to lower the temperature, while recognizing the truism that we look at things from each our own vantage point and life experiences, and sometimes, oftentimes, see different things, but that we can feel the same sense of basic decency, humanity, and camaraderie that we did not all that long ago. Someone has to be the first to put the saber down. The yelling is ineffective, it is just off-putting and fans the flames even more. The Natalie faction and the Sharona faction can co-exist if both sides will ignore the extremist fringes that distort their own side, the voices that stir the pot for sinister and self-serving reasons, the ones that thrive on conflict and chaos. The Natalie-Sharona clash will, hopefully, taper down to simple, agree-to-disagree, honest differences here and there, so that cooler heads can prevail and the shades of green merge into one. And then, just maybe, with a nod to Ms. Natalie and Ms. Sharona, the two sides will be able to close the deal with a handshake or a hug.

Let’s hope that the damage left behind will not be irreparable, that the wounds will heal, and that the scars will serve as reminders not to go down this road again.

Ever.

Late Add-on Note:
If you, the reader, reacted to the lengthy “Closing Note,” by thinking to yourself, “What a Bunch of Baloney,” trust me, I get it. Not my usual fare. But now that I’ve already served it up, all I can do is put some “mustid” on this here bah-lo-nee, smile, hit the hay, and wait for the tall lady in the red raincoat to join me in my dreams.

“Butta bing, butta boom, don’t mess with Buffy, save the whales, look both ways, eat slow, and don’t drink the prune juice.” – Siri S. Lee

Goodnight to the Fine Nine Jennifers, and goodbye to that 5 dollars currently en route to the Spellchecka people so I can finally learn to do the 2-step and keep up with Laura Bell Bundy and her buds :

And on that note, on those notes . . .
goodnight, Natalie, wherever you are.

♦♥♦

Their Youngest Kid

August 18, 2023December 12, 2024 / Wayne Michael DeHart / 1 Comment

Wayne Michael DeHart (August, 2023)

Their youngest kid, fifteen and fickle, wanted a drum for Christmas in 1963, a drum that they knew would make them edgy, drive them crazy. He said any kind would do and promised he would learn how to play. The old man heard that Ted Herbert’s Music Mart, down Manchester way, was the go-to place for any and all music-related items. He decided, with only two weeks left to get it done, that he, his wife, and the boy would make the trip down from Laconia after work that Friday.

Their youngest kid didn’t NEED a drum. He’d never played, he just wanted one to score points with Cyndy, literally the girl next door. The two of them couldn’t get enough of Sandy Nelson’s drum records like “Teen Beat” and “Let There Be Drums,” as well as the foot-stompin’ rhythm of other beat-heavy, instrumentals groups like Duane Eddy & the Rebels, The Ventures, and Johnny & the Hurricanes. Cyndy tapped on anything and everything, and wished the two of them had a drum and four sticks so they could “tear it up” together. The old man and his wife knew this was likely just a crush-based, passing fancy, yet were willing to set aside their better judgment and stretch their funds tight just this one time, in the spirit of the holiday season, as parents often do.

Their youngest kid made sandwiches after school on Friday, while they were still at work, so they could leave without delay, but he scored no points with his old man, who preferred a hot meal and not feeling rushed. As they left the driveway in the black Mercury Monterey that he would wreck eighteen months later, hitting the gas instead of the brake, just a week after he got his license, the old man looked back and gave him a quick nod and a reminder; “Long drive, drummer boy. Let’s hope we don’t come home empty-handed.”

Their youngest kid had ample time, as the miles passed in the darkness, to stretch out across the back seat and reflect on the moment. The two people in the front were simple, blue collar, right-minded folks, beyond weary after yet another taxing week of manual labor. Still, they mutually agreed to bust the budget because they didn’t know how else to show love to the teenager behind them, and they badly wanted to find a way to make up for that.

Their youngest kid hit the ground running at the store, erratically banging away on toms and snares and bass, because he couldn’t play. The frazzled salesman flinched, and rolled his eyes at the raucous racket, while his old man winced, and rolled HIS eyes at the price tags. The two men deliberated, discussing affordable alternatives, leading to a negotiated proposal that was laid on the table, and the weight of the world landed fast and heavy on the boy. He had to make a decision.

Their youngest kid assessed his unexpected options – a so-so set of boring bongos, or a humdrum, “headed” tambourine (kinda like a hands-on mini-drum with jingles, was how the kid saw it.) Each cost considerably less than any of the drums. The salesman pointed out that he could carry either one around with him, just about anywhere. Acutely aware that several waiting customers were growing restless, he summarily asked, “So, which will it be?” Though the boy understood his parents’ plight, he could muster only an indifferent shrug in response. His mother took note of his disappointment, and waved the salesman off.

Their youngest kid, sensing he had stepped in it, told his mother it was alright, he didn’t NEED a drum. He asked her to make the choice for him, but she was having none of it. She shook her head and glared at his old man, who took the cue and proclaimed to the salesman, “No deal tonight,” adding, “Maybe we’ll come back another time.” The long ride home dragged on forever in empty-handed silence, as the befuddled boy tried to understand what had just happened. He wondered what he should have said, what he could have done, to please them.

Their youngest kid maturely moved on in the days that followed, shaking it off, and putting it behind him. He woke on Christmas morning to the usual socks and underwear, a sweater, a few records (including the new hit 45, soon to become an iconic, though controversial, rock era heavyweight, “Louie Louie” by The Kingsmen – in retrospect, how sweet was THAT?), a couple of games, and some brownies. Overall, not a bad haul. When the old man sent him down to the cellar to get boxes for the discarded wrapping papers, he didn’t hesitate, He opened the door, and before he could take the first step down, he froze. Well, damn. On a stool at the bottom of the stairs rested a dazzling-blue snare drum, the one that he had liked most at the store. On top of the drum lay four wooden sticks.

Their youngest kid’s lips started to quiver with emotion as he bounded down the stairs, but he quickly suppressed that momentary breach of manhood by gritting his teeth and clenching his jaw along the way. At the bottom of the stairs, he looked back. His sneaky old man and his mother and his older brother – and Cyndy from next door – all smiled down at him from the top of the staircase, and clapped and cheered as he stood tall and proud by that stool and started to bang away, though he still couldn’t play. They had persevered and found a way, and that kid, six decades later, has never forgotten that day.

Eight months passed. He never learned to play. The drum had long since gone silent, relegated to a dark corner of the cellar, so he sold it, in pristine condition, to a guy from Belmont. He kept two of the drumsticks and gave one to Cyndy. Then he went to Greenlaw’s Music Store in downtown Laconia, where he scored a great deal on, what else – a killer set of bongos and a Ludwig tambourine. He even had a few dollars left over, so he brought milkshakes and cheeseburgers home for his mom and his dad, who laughingly, joyously, watched and listened as Cyndy Bongos and Mr. Tambourine Man teamed up to entertain them, at long last “tearing it up” together.

The father and mother knew he had learned lifelong lessons about recognizing the difference between wants and needs, about the importance of carefully weighing options and choices, and about the merits of making responsible decisions. Their efforts and their generosity had not gone for naught. They felt no betrayal in his sale of the drum – it’s pulsating thunder, though short-lived, had indeed driven them crazy, and they were pretty sure they could live with the less-resonant thumps and jangles of his new prizes. The exhilaration, inspiration, and positive energy in that room endured through the ensuing years. All in all, good on him, and good on them.

Their youngest kid knows, to this day, that THEY never forgot THAT day.

“They had persevered and found a way, and that kid, six decades later, has never forgotten that day.”
(Taken in Winter Haven, FL, 1989 – just a few months before the “old man” smiled his last smile, way too early. RIP, Dad, and thanks for always finding a way. And Ma, there was a reason we had “Wind Beneath My Wings” played at your funeral service – “while you were the one with all the strength.”
Maybe on some quiet night, while watching the stars from a pastoral field of green and gold, I’ll hear the two of you on high, one on the bongos, and one on the tambourine, just tearing it up together, at the Top of the Stairs.)

———————————————————————————–
Ladies and gentlemen, the great Sandy Nelson

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Uy_t4nQ9xMo

I think I’ve been on this road . . .

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OE5PcKFHw-M

TWO drummers !!! If only their youngest kid and Cyndy had YouTube back then!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XjiOtouyBOg

Man, did I luck out finding this 2017 video of Johnny & The Hurricanes’ original version of “Red River Rock” integrated into Mamie Van Doren’s 1957 film, “Untamed Youth.” Though she co-starred in the movie, and is in this entire scene, we first really notice her at the 00:38 mark. I suspect that a lot of Gen Z’ers can’t envision their grandparents making these moves back in the day. The elderly drummer who appears in the superimposed setting is Don Staczek, the second drummer of the group. If the reader has not read the previous entry on this site about Ms. Van Doren, those lips were just 10 inches, 10 inches away from mine and closing in at a steady pace while singing, “My Way,” but she probably heard from the distant fringe of the universe about me pouting at the music store years before, and decided, perhaps rightfully so, that I wasn’t worthy, and instead turned and rested them softly upon those of a stereotypical tall guy from California – dadgummit and goshdarnit, grrr! If so inclined, you can tap this link to read about it and understand why I smiled big-time upon stumbling across this unexpected union of the song and the lady.
https://thewordsyoucantouch.wordpress.com/2023/08/05/adorin-van-doren/

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xbt5uP9HkiM

Since I cheated a little just above, placing Mamie’s interest over the band, here’s another shot at one of their other big hits, Reveille Rock, performed in Belgium in 1997, with a mix of old and new members of the group. This one features more of the dauntless drumbeats that Cyndy and that damn kid liked. so much.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=abG6viPwI70

Got lucky (REAL lucky) on finding this one too, just before adding this story to the website. Most of the story took place between mid-December and Christmas Day of 1963, the latter being the day the kid got the record. This American Bandstand clip is from January 18, 1964, just 3+ weeks later. Though it made #1 on Dick Clark’s Top 10, it “only” reached #2 on Billboard’s Top 100. Which artist stood in their way? Well, considering the notoriety achieved by “Louie Louie,” for less than heavenly reasons, it seems only fitting that it was The Singing Nun (“Dominique”) who blocked its path. Anyway, once I stumbled into this clip, I knew it was time to “go to press.”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_pbWj152MQU

Writer’s Note/Afterthought:

My dad played acoustic guitar and sang during his Navy days and continued to do so for a number of years after coming home from WW2. Sometimes, on a whim, he would play and sing for the family, but there was one “Western” song he would direct toward my mother. I can still hear it. The song was “Red River Valley.” Yes, “same-same” (as the Vietnamese ladies would say) song as “Reveille Rock,” just above. When I had him listen to the Johnny & the Hurricanes version back in the day, hardly the cowboy love song from long ago that he knew so well, I expected him to shake his head and express disapproval. Nope. “Guess I’m gonna have to learn to sing a lot faster.” I suspect he’s still singing it to her today – Gene Autry style, like the good old days.

Lizzi, With an Eye

August 11, 2023January 21, 2026 / Wayne Michael DeHart / 2 Comments

Wayne Michael DeHart (May, 2023)

“FORE”

Three men walked into a Barlow’s hardware store, bought survival knives, a compass, and a first aid kit, then drove north toward the White Mountains of New Hampshire on a raw, misty October morning. Their plan for the day was to breathe a lot of clean, country air, explore nature amid colorful, leaf-shedding trees, and keep those aging legs moving. Perhaps an idyllic back road would lure them into the obscure beyond, where bears and wolves might pick up their scent and challenge their manhood. “Bring ‘em on!” Brave men, indeed!

Each had his own small apartment in a sprawling retirement complex southeast of Boston. They had become close friends over a period of three years, often referring to themselves as Tom, Dick and Harry – inseparable, spirited geriatrics who walked their talk. They took kidding and kudos in stride, savoring attention in all of its flavors.

Curtis “Sonny” Logan, 71, was a retired Realtor with a “Cher” tattoo, long hair and an intimidating beard. Quipster extraordinaire.

Doug Wilkes, 72, was Kojak bald and John Wick bold. He was a career Marine with gout and a gut.

Both men were widowers and grandfathers, tall, and profusely opinionated.

Toby Jensen, 67, was the runt of the litter at only 5’6″, but lean and fit. Boyish smile. Belonged to something called Mensa, which impressed no one except Mona Lott, who liked anything that included “Men.” Spent years as a fraud investigator, and bragged that he could “smell a scam in the blink of an eye.” Favored dark chocolate, light poetry, hard puzzles and soft ice cream. Never married, but had a thing for women with big, beautiful, breathtaking… blue eyes, even more so when the bearer flashed and flaunted them, freely and frequently. Tried to avoid standing between his towering allies because they got off on patting him on the head like a puppy, to the delight of the ladies in the rec room.

Turning off I-93 at Exit 38, their stomachs growling under a clearing sky, they stopped to gas up, chow down, and ask for directions to winding back roads, preferably unpaved, with easy, accessible walking trails. While surveying packaged sandwiches and an array of snacks at Big Buck’s Bodega, Toby flirted a little with the 40-ish lady behind the counter while Sonny and Doug sniffed pine-scented souvenirs and contentiously debated Cheetos vs Doritos, and Snickers vs Kit Kat.

Toby told her they were looking for a secluded spot where they could traipse around a bit in the woods, pretend they’re serious hikers, and bring home exaggerated tales of derring-do to impress the women of Weymouth. “I can still knock out five miles in my sleep, but these other guys are kinda old and out-of-shape, as you can see, and I don’t want ’em to keel over and check out under one of Frost’s beloved birches.” Sweet-giggling like a schoolgirl, she displayed a stunning sparkle in her left eye that he found instantly intriguing.

Her right eye was covered by a black leather patch. She didn’t seem self-conscious about it until she noticed him focusing on that sparkle and mistakenly assumed he was staring at “it.” She called up her husky voice: “Ya like me eye patch, there, matey? Put it on for Talk Like a Pirate Day last month, ‘cuz me wooden leg was in the repair shop and I needed a prop. Got lots of raves from the knaves and scoundrels, I did. Went over so well, I just keep wearin’ it, sometimes even forget I got it on.”

She smiled at him, suppressing a sudden impulse to reach across the counter and pat him on the head. Toby smiled back but he wasn’t buying it and felt like he had inadvertently backed the poor soul into a corner. “Probably lost that eye in a car accident, or fighting off an angry customer or some other deranged assailant,” he surmised. That short, but tall, tale was apparently her go-to cover story for visitors passing through, like him, to make them feel more at ease around her. Brave woman, indeed!

When only the three friends remained in the store, the lady made Toby an offer. “Tell ya what. I’m outta here at noon, got nothin’ planned, can take you guys to a pull-off next to a short loop trail, maybe half a mile beginning to end, and you finish where you started. How’s that sound?” Then that tantalizing twinkle flared anew, and she fluttered her lashes (well, half of them) at him as the two too-talls joined them – Sonny chomping on Cheetos, and Doug unwrapping a candy bar. Toby shook his head at Sonny in mock disgust. “Those things will turn your skin orange for two or three days, man, hope you realize that.” “No, they won’t.” “Yes, they will. Maybe longer. Mona will razz your azz.” “No, she won’t.” The lady rolled her eye and wondered who Mona was.

Toby announced to his cohorts that the sweet-smiling, sweet-smelling attendant was going to be their guide in about an hour. The two men exchanged raised eyebrows and both nodded approvingly. “You fellas got names?” Shunning their “Tom, Dick ‘n Harry” shtick, Toby introduced Sonny and Doug, then himself. “Toby, with a y. And you, ma’am?”

“Lizzi, with an i. Lynne, with an e. Lizzi Lynne.”

“With an i” was all Doug and Sonny heard as they pondered her patch (the leather one.) Doug stifled a snicker while almost choking on a Snickers. Sonny smirked sideways.

A composed Toby focused on that sparkle. “Is it Mrs. Lynne or Miss Lynne, if I may ask?”

“It’s Miss Flynn. Lizzi Lynne Flynn, Texas-born and bred.”

Sonny swiftly went back to sniffing pine sachets in a far corner of the store, out of sight. Doug swallowed hard and haltingly sought a clarification. “Lizzi actually has two i’s. right?” “Um, yes, one near the front and one at the back.”

Doug mumbled, “I see,” before quickly escaping to the rest room to exhale and relieve himself, executing the classic flee-and-pee maneuver flawlessly. She gave him the eye and shook her head as he retreated. “Funnin’ with me is fine. Funnin’ about me ain’t.”

Sonny and Doug returned to the front just as a teenager, wearing a ring in her nose and sporting blue streaks in her hair, slithered into the store. Lizzi whispered, “light-fingered,” to the men. Doug began to offer a heartfelt mea culpa for his insensitivity, but she quickly cut him off. “Hey, zip it, Ziggy.” He was taken aback and abruptly stopped talking, then looked confused as she stared at his private area. “Ohhh, ZIP it! Sorry ’bout that.” “No problem, Snickers, I tend to notice every little thing.” Ouch! “Gotta watch that kid now. Come back at noontime and you can follow me out there.”

The men drove to a nearby ice cream shop, where Sonny and Doug licked two-scoop cones like they were twelve again. Toby abstained because they didn’t sell soft-serve. Doug asked him about the black patch and Toby said it was likely a traumatic story and not to go there. “If she starts talking like a pirate, hold your tongue. No one-eyed bandit jokes.” (Sonny thought he said “parrot” and mumbled “WTF,” the familiar internet acronym for “Women Talk Funny.”)

Lizzi Lynne Flynn occupied each man’s mind as they watched the clock on the wall. Mighty trusting of her to head to the wild with three male strangers. Sonny speculated she might have some sleazeballs lying in wait to bushwhack them. Doug scoffed. “It would take a whole lot of goons to walk away with THIS Marine’s wallet. Bring ‘em on!” Toby chose to believe she was simply being neighborly and nice, maybe wanting someone to talk to after her shift, a sad, lonely spinster with no one to go home to. Doug stood up and checked his fly, still smarting from her “little thing” jab and wondering if everything really was bigger in Texas. Sonny crammed the last of his cone down his piehole and headed for the door. “It’s go time.”

“AFT”

When they arrived at Buck’s, she was nowhere to be seen. The store was eerily quiet. No customers. No one at the counter. At noontime, with all those sandwiches. Odd. Doug’s thunderous, “Anyone here? Oorah!”, shattered the silence and ricocheted off the walls. “I’m comin’, hold on fer chrissake.” Out from the back came a burly, barrel-chested bloke wearing a freakin’ black leather eye patch!

“Buck? Big Buck?”

“There ain’t no Big Buck or no Little Buck, mister. It’s just a name. You the fellas supposed to scoop up Lizzi?” Doug heard “two-scoop” and he smirked and snorted thinking about the ice cream, but no words came out. He simply nodded. The man growled, “Ain’t anyone gonna ask me about this patch?” It was clearly time for Toby to take the reins.

“Of course, please pardon the flippant attitude of the a-hole to my left. We are trustworthy gentlemen on a day trip and Miss Flynn is going to take us to a quiet place where we can walk a bit and take in the essence of these rural surroundings. No harm, no foul, I trust.” The guy studied Toby’s face. “You talk kinda uppity for a half-grown man. I knew he was just funnin’ around with me, don’t matter how or why. I ain’t no uncultured, slow-thinkin’, dimwitted bozo, ya know. Got a TV set and a VCR back there, like other people. So no harm, and the only thing foul around here is your prissy speechifyin’.”

With that, Toby stepped back, and Sonny took over. “Namaste. dude. I can tell you’re an okay guy. So, what’s with the patch?” No-name told them he owned the place, which was struggling financially. He paid minimum wage and Lizzi was the only one who would work for him “because people say I can be a chippy SOB sometimes. She’s hard-workin’ and loyal. When that awful eye thing happened to her, she hardly missed a day of work, if you can believe that. What a trooper she was. Still is. I started wearing the same kind of patch over the same eye to make it seem like the store had taken on a pirate theme, if ya know what I’m sayin’ here. She felt more normal right away.”

The owner went on. “Gonna be straight up with you guys. Lizzi’s mouth churns faster than her thinkin’ sometimes. When I got here, she was sobbin’ a tad ‘cuz she made a promise to you that she can’t keep. She’s already at one of her other jobs, cleanin’ rooms and scrubbin’ toilets over at the fancy motel. That eye thing cost her a ton of dough and she’s way behind in her bills. I used to help her out a little but now I’m behind the eight-ball myself. The whole situation is a cryin’ shame, as my sweet momma used to say.” A crying shame, indeed!

The visitors huddled up just as Ms. blue streaks/light fingers returned. Doug led off. “I’m embarrassed, man. I misjudged both Lizzi and this guy. Let’s ditch the fresh air and the bear stories, give them something, then head home.” Sonny was not feeling sunny either. “I’m with you. That poor woman. He even said ‘one of her other jobs,’ with an s. We gotta take action. Right here. Right now.” And then Toby. “First, I’m neither uppity nor prissy. That said, we can help both these folks. Check your cash.” Credit card reliant, they only came up with $94 and decided to spend it all at the store, to help the guy who had been helping Lizzi, then send her a $750 check. Sonny: “$250 apiece? We can do better. I’ll go $400 if you guys will.” Both agreed.

After nose ring girl left, empty-handed, the guys approached the counter with armfuls of crap they didn’t need. It totaled $88 and they tipped him the other $6. They told him their plan and he gave them the store’s mailing address, said “make the check out to Elizabeth Flynn, with a y,” and thanked them on her behalf, seemingly holding back tears. He shook their hands and wished them a safe trip back to … “hey, where you fellas from?”

“Weymouth. Down in Massachusetts.” Off they went, southbound and down. He locked the door behind them. “Massholes, figured as much.”

His voice boomed, “Ahoy, lassie, the landlubbers have abandoned ship and the loot’s secured.” Out from the back came a beaming Lizzi, dancing around and waving her patch (the leather one) high in the air, her two big, blue eyes blazing like supernovas. Twirling his own patch, he asked if she heard everything. “Bits and pieces, Bart baby, tell me.” “Well, I sold them rovers a bunch of crap for 94 greenbacks. And blimey, me hornswagglin’ wench, we have twelve hundred more comin’ by courier. Not a bad day on the quarterdeck of the good ship Con-Heir.” “Blimey, indeed! That’s some major booty, and I didn’t even have to shake mine, nor shiver me timbers, much less (she took a breathy, Scarlett O’Hara pause) blow the man down, like I did with grinnin’ Jack from Nantucket last month.” (!!!!!)

Oops. A faux pas?

Had she spilled the beans, tipped her hand, dropped the ball, pulled a boner? Or … was she just yanking his chain?

Bart suddenly looked gassed and aghast, as a tense and awkward hush set in. He glared at Lizzi. She glared back. His face got real red, real fast. She waited. His nostrils flared. She waited. His forehead popped a vein. Whoa, timeout, she hadn’t seen that before! “Just joshin’ with ya, amigo. Now give me a hug.” Greatly relieved, he smiled and gave her a big one. “Ya had my belly in a blender for a minute there, little lady.” Together, they reveled and roared like rogues on rum, then Texas two-stepped toward the back room where her blue-streaked, “light-fingered” daughter, Lynne (with an e), was making tacos. The trio high-fived and bumped fists. Life was good at Big Buck’s Bodega on Exit 38.

Toby, Sonny and Doug were almost home, proud of themselves for stepping up and doing the right thing. The generosity and graciousness of these judicious gents won the day and deserved a proper toast. Chivalry, indeed!

They pulled the SUV over in Boston, and tapped an ATM. The trio high-fived and bumped fists. Then, triumphantly, the…

three men walked into a bar.

“Funnin’ with me is fine. Funnin’ about me ain’t.”

***************************************************************************************

“Three men walked into a Bar ___________________________ low’s hardware store . . .”
Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh 🙂

WORDS YOU CAN TOUCH

WordsYouCanTouch.com / Wayne Michael DeHart

Author: Wayne Michael DeHart

Aftermath: Night #316 (Republic of Vietnam)

The Captivating Courtship of Bouncy Ms. Red and Old Gentleman Ted (Caution: It’s Bawdy ! So Gaudy ! )

Moldsters in Mannville

An Unforgiving Foe

As the Emerald Tiger Died

Lines from Lake Laeryn

My Misplaced Life

Bar Belles & Dumbbells

Let Us Fill HourGlasses With Love

Till the Flames Burn No More

The Bitter Taste of Suite Deceit

No Caterwauling Aloud !

Hey, I’m Talkin’ Baloney and “Monk”-y Business Here

Their Youngest Kid

Lizzi, With an Eye

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this: