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True Fiction

Throwing Stuff at Cars When we were kids, we'd go through phases, doing stuff. In the summer, we lived at the pool during the day and ran amok at night. In the winter, we'd play with our road race cars, designing new tracks, tuning up our cars, and then racing them around the table every night for the next several weeks before we got bored. Then we’d move on to playing Monopoly or Risk or chess. Always moving on to something else. In the fall, it was throwing stuff at cars. We'd crouch down in the cover of the darkness, behind the fence that separated the Huggens and the Browns. The Browns lived on the corner, and from their backyard we could see the unsuspecting cars coming from every direction. We never had to wait very long. Apples were the perfect fruit, but only if they weren't too mushy. And there were a lot of apple trees. Pears worked, too, but ever since lightning hit the pear tree they were permanently out of season. We had peach trees, but they were on the far end of the lot, and since we never sprayed or pruned them, what little peaches we did get were only good for attracting bees. Tomatoes were unreliable. First of all, there was rarely any left on the vines that late in the season, much less any that were a good throwing size. And if there were, they generally weren't solid enough to throw. They'd just go mush in your hand. Then you'd smell like rotten tomatoes for the rest of the night. Kinda makes it hard to deny you were up to anything wrong. We didn't always throw fruit. We experimented with car siding and bottle rockets. We always bought bottle rockets by the gross for the Fourth, every year thinking we'd shoot them all off in one glorious night. But that's a lot of bottle rockets. So no matter what time of the year it was, every kid in the neighborhood had bottle rockets, well beyond their expiration date, squirreled away somewhere. It was hit and miss if they'd do anything at all. Sometimes they'd fizzle out after an abbreviated flight. Other times they'd just blow up without going anywhere. You never knew. Still, it didn't stop us from trying. We'd lay the bottle rocket in the groove of the wood and play with the angle until we got it just right, where it would fly right over the street, perfectly in front of an approaching car, exploding inches from the windshield. Only it was never perfect. It was rarely even close. On top of that, the streak of fire announced exactly where you were. Rotten apples left no streak. It was hard enough to hit a car with a rotten apple. We didn't need to involve rocket science. Some kids threw rocks, but we never did. There just weren't that many rocks lying around, and beside, it was kind of a dick thing to do. We just wanted to have fun, not mess up somebody's car. You hit a car with a rock and you're going to really piss somebody off. That's the kind of thing that makes people want to run you down and beat the shit out of you. Of course, it doesn't take much for some people to want to do that. Some kids threw eggs. But we didn't do that, either. Eggs were expensive, unless you stole them from your mother, and that only worked if your mother didn't count the eggs. My mother knew how many eggs she had better than my dad knew how much beer was left. And he knew. I spent the night once with this guy named Eddie. We snuck out, which was the whole point of spending the night. Eddie shot an egg with a wrist rocket slingshot. If you've never seen one, it uses surgical tubing to fire things like ball bearings. People hunt with them. They're definitely not your Dennis the Menace slingshot. I'm not sure who in their right mind would give a kid a weapon like that. Probably the same mentality that had us all armed with BB guns. So Eddie shoots an egg out of this slingshot at his neighbor's house from like a half block away, and it goes through the window – the storm window – both pains of glass and who knows what else. We quickly snuck back in while his neighbors were out in the backyard with flashlights. The point is… well, I don't guess there is a point. And that brings us to the early October night when me and Andy and Joel, dressed in our darkest clothes, were out in the backyard, apples in our hands, waiting. It's not that we were bad shots, but like most things in life, we were average, at best. We could reliably throw a baseball to first base. But apples weren't as consistent as baseballs. And the guy on first base wasn't going 30 miles an hour. And it was dark. And… well… we were usually lucky if one of us even came close. If we did hit a car, it would usually slow down, maybe look around, and then slowly drive away. Every once in a while it might circle back, but if they didn't chase us the first time, we'd throw at them again. Mind you, we didn't throw at every car. Some teenager's hotrod… nope. They'd slam on their brakes for sure and quite possibly get out and chase you. Some old lady in a station wagon, she's gonna keep on going. Pick up trucks… you never knew. Cars with lights on top… the temptation was there, but we weren't that stupid. And that brings us back to the night in question. It was a station wagon, so we let rip. And against all odds, all three of us hit it. All of us had never hit the same car ever. Not once. I'm not sure if two of us ever got the same car. Be we all got this one. Solid. Not a glancing blow one. Resounding. Bam! Bam! Bam! The car slammed on its brakes, all four doors immediately flew open, and four older guys were running, and I mean running, coming up the hill, coming for us. And they were pissed. They just left their car in the middle of the road with its doors open. They didn't care. We were already moving when the brakes locked up. Still, there was a limited amount of directions we could go. Andy cut back up through the backyard toward the street, hoping to make it to the side of my house, where there were a few good hiding places by the shrubs and between the cars in the driveways. Me and Joel headed toward the far fence in my backyard. If we could make it there, we could slide through the hidden hole in the fence and disappear into the corn stalks. And that's when Joel ran into a horseshoe stake. A metal pole sticking out of the ground that clipped him square in the shin and dropped him. So I grabbed him and we rolled under the bush in the Stevenson's backyard. It was one of those bushes that grows from a central tangle of stems and all the branches form a big umbrella around it. And there we were hiding. Joel was in some serious pain. He was a tough kid. But, damn. You run into a horseshoe stake and see if you don't cry. So there we were. I was holding my hand over Joel's mouth so we wouldn't be heard, and at least two of those guys went running by, saying stuff like, "Where are those motherfuckers?!" You could tell they were really mad. I mean, that's back when you didn't say "motherfucker" unless you really meant it. We just stayed there. We had no idea where Andy was. Not that it would've mattered. Joel calmed down pretty quickly. Like I said, he was a tough guy, but he was still in a lot of pain, which is understandable. And even if we wanted to – and we didn't – he couldn't run. So we stayed hidden. After a few minutes, we heard footsteps approaching the bush. Joel barely whispered that it could be Andy. I barely whispered that I didn't care. If it was Andy we could catch up with him later. Come to find out, it wasn't Andy. It was those guys coming back. Andy was hiding under the three or four stairs that went from my house's back door down to the patio. They were open on each end, and there were no risers, so you could see between each step. He was lying flat on the concrete, trying to blend in, when two of those guys, probably the other two, sat on the stairs above him. They sat there smoking cigarettes, talking about how badly they wanted to hurt us. When the other two guys came back, the four of them hung there for a few minutes more, smoking and cursing, before heading back to their car. I didn't see any of that. Me and Joel stayed hidden until we heard Andy calling for us. Even then, when we came out, we saw their station wagon cruising around, still hoping to catch a glimpse. Still hoping to be able to hurt somebody. It was awhile after that before we felt safe sneaking back to our homes, Joel with a limp. We never threw anything at cars after that night. It's not like we all swore an oath or even talked about it. Just the same, when we were all trying to come up with something to do on any given night, throwing rotten apples at cars was not ever again suggested.

The Paper Wad Mr. Oelschlager taught 8th grade English at Nowlin Junior High School. He was a good teacher, not just because he knew stuff like subjects and verbs, and the difference between good and well. It was because he knew how to put up with the little stuff, like students coming in late, but not too late. He knew that kids forgot stuff. And he knew we really had to go to the bathroom, even when we really didn’t. But the biggest reason he was such a good teacher was that he knew how to ignore things. If we weren’t being overly obvious, he could ignore passing notes and talking across the aisle. He could even ignore cheating, mostly because he knew what we hadn’t figured out yet: It’s harder to cheat well than it is to study. The one thing Mr. Oelschlager couldn’t put up with, though, the one thing he couldn’t ignore, the one thing he had no patience for at all was paper wads. It wasn’t just throwing paper wads at each other across the class. That was never going to be ignored. What Mr. Oelschlager especially disliked was throwing paper wads at the trash can. The trash can that set there in the open. Just waiting. I don’t know why. He never explained, and I don’t remember anybody asking. That’s why he had a standing rule: If you threw a paper wad at the can, whether it was from six inches away or from the very back of the room, it was an automatic five eighth hours, which were – each – a full hour after school sitting in Mr. Oelschlager’s room, doing homework or reading or whatever he might have in mind. You had to do it. You couldn’t exchange Mr. Oelschlager’s eighth hours for five swats apiece, like other teachers let you do. You had to serve them. All five. Unless... unless you actually made that shot. If the paper wad went into the can and stayed in the can, there was no penalty. You were golden. After Stephanie Long missed one from, like, two feet away on, like, the second day of school, and she had to serve all five of those detentions, even though it meant she had to miss cheerleading practice, we all knew Mr. Oelschlager wasn’t kidding. And then there was Eddie Wallace. He was a kid I only remember because of that one day in April. April, when the end of the school year finally begins to seem real. Eddie sat on the very back row, in the far corner of the room. As far as humanly possible from the trash can. He’d been there all year long, just putting in his time, like the rest of us. Just blending into the backdrop of all those people you really didn’t know. Until that one day. It was toward the end of the hour, maybe five minutes left, tops, when Eddie raised his hand and patiently waited until Mr. Oelschlager gave him the nod. Then Eddie stood up, and from the furthest corner of the room he launched a paper wad. He had the form of a pro basketball player, the hand left hanging in the air while the wad arched across the room as we all watched. Nobody breathed. Mouths open in awe. It was a perfect shot. The paper wad hit that can dead center. No messing with the rim. No if’s. No maybe’s. Just the resounding “thunk” as it crashed into the bottom of the can. We all went wild as Eddie just stood there smiling, arms held out as those nearest him slapped his hands. Best of all, from the front Mr. Oelschlager gave Eddie a sharp salute just as the bell rang and class was dismissed. Here’s the thing. Eddie had to have thought about that shot all year long. We all did. Every day, that trash can sitting there, mocking us. Thinking about it, after all these years, I bet Eddie practiced that shot. There’s no other way. No kid would just launch a wad from the back of the room with so much to lose. Eddie had to have measured it off. He had to have spent every night practicing in his garage until he felt confident enough to try it. Until he was making 85, 90% of every shot. But even then, even if he had put in all those hours of practice, it’s a lot different when it’s for real. When everybody is watching. When you know the consequences of failure. And there couldn’t be anything much worse than having to stay after school an extra hour for five whole days – an entire week – when it felt so good to be outside in the Spring. Perhaps the only thing worse than missing that shot would have been if Eddie had never tried it at all.

Our Lady of the Americas Christen taught science and math and a few other things. No one was really certain what went on in her room, except maybe Christen. I’m certain, though, that she taught religion. Before the school year had started all the teachers met for a combination prayer breakfast and teachers’ meeting. The prayer part of the breakfast was Christen reading from the Bible while the rest of us silently counted the breakfast part of the meeting; there were thirteen of us and only twelve donuts. Aside from losing her place twice and mispronouncing “Ephesians,” she did alright. “I tried teaching in public schools,” Christen explained, “but once you’ve taught religion you can never go back.” We all helped ourselves to the donuts while Christen talked. Christen was pregnant, marginally less so than the amount of time she was married. She could quote the Pope’s stand against contraception and she even knew which Pope had said it; it made her very proud to be able to do so. Christen was truly remarkable. The heat didn’t help her morning sickness one bit, but Christen never let it slow her down. She kept a bucket by her desk that she would empty promptly after each class period. “We must all suffer like Christ. The heat is only a minor discomfort we need to endure. Heaven is our reward.” Christen was an idiot. “But she is a devout idiot, and that,” Marge had confided in me, “makes all the difference in the world.” I liked Marge. She had been teaching forever, maybe even a little bit longer. She was going bald and really needed to shave; she had given up trying to lose that extra fifty pounds sometime in the late ‘forties. I had misjudged Marge. I really though she would be no fun at all. Marge had been raised a Methodist, which, she explained, was alright, except you had to say “Excuse me” every time you wanted a beer, and “Pardon me” every time you drank one. Marge was hot, too. She was on the floor above me, which meant that she was really hot. The sweat would roll out from underneath her wig, straightening out little wisps of hair that would have preferred to have remained hidden, and every once in a while a glistening drop would slip from the end of her nose and land with a “plop” on some worksheet she happened to be grading. I personally don’t think the fan helped a bit. I only had one, and it just chopped the heat, moving one gust of steamy air somewhere that another gust would have rather remained. The whole problem with the fan was that it didn’t move, unless, of course, I got up and moved it. If I aimed it at one half of the room, the other half complained, and visa versa. Even if we took turns it wouldn’t work. Seventh and eighth graders never seem to be happy about anything, except about not having to button their shirts all the way up – the boys, that is. The girls could do nothing, which, I know, wasn’t fair. So I got rid of the fan. I sent it upstairs to Marilyn. Marilyn was so damned cute that she could have asked me for my desk and I would have given it to her. I offered it to her, but she didn’t want it. I can’t remember Marilyn ever sweating. All her kids were cute, too. They weren’t really her kids; they all went back to their mothers at night. A few of them went home to both their mothers and their fathers. Marilyn taught the first grade. She had gotten married the day after she graduated from college. With her teaching certificate in hand, she spent most of the summer honeymooning in various parts of the Caribbean Sea. I’m almost positive she didn’t keep the certificate in her hand the whole time, and if she did, she managed to shift it regularly so as not to diminish her tan any. Marilyn didn’t get to take anything off, either, much to Scott’s and my disappointment. We were the first male teachers ever to grace the halls of Our Lady of the Americas Catholic School. We all just called it OLA for short. You didn’t need to take two breaths in order to say OLA. It was quite an event – our being hired. Half the kids came down to look at us two weeks before school even opened. A steady line of them passed by us as we stood on ladders while wet paint dripped off the walls and onto our tennis shoes. The rumour was confirmed. I believe quite a bit of money changed hands in the process. “What’s the matter with these damned kids?” I asked. “Beats hell outa me,” Scott answered. Mrs. Ragusa smiled at me reassuringly. I had just explained to her that I had a degree in Literature and a minor in Communications – getting up in front of the class would be no problem. What the heck, as long as I had the teachers’ editions of the textbooks there would be no problem with teaching. “I’m going to offer you a contract to teach seventh and eighth grade Literature,” Miss Ragusa beamed. “Usually I start new teachers out at $9,500 a year, but I’m going to offer you $10,000 for your first year here at OLA.” Miss Ragusa was being generous because I was a man and because I had a family. Heck, with that kind of money my wife and I could even have more kids. “But I don’t want to plan your family for you,” Miss Ragusa half-apologized. I had no concept of money in those days. “I really believe the Holy Spirit has guided you to OLA,” she explained. That should have been my first warning. I had just spent two-and-a-half hours driving lost through neighborhoods where they don’t even wait for your car to stop before stealing your hubcaps. I quit asking for directions when I realized that nobody spoke English in that part of town. “Usted está en Estados Unidos, señor, pero es posible que usted no está aquí, pero entonces, ¿dónde?” Scott had just painted over a window completely. “There’s something in my room I’d like you to paint.” “What?” asked Scott. “I’ll show you later,” I said, then I continued, “Hey, did I tell you what she has me teaching now?” “No,” said Scott. He was trying to decide whether he should take the paint off the window or put another coat on and let it go. “I’ve still got my lit classes, but now I’ve got Religion.” “Religion?” questioned Scott. “I thought you said you weren’t Catholic.” Scott had begun putting another coat of paint on the window. “I am Catholic,” I explained. “I’m just out of practice.” “Oh, really? How long out of practice?” “About fourteen years.” I carefully dabbed a spot on the window that Scott had missed. “Does Ragusa know that?” Scott artistically smoothed over the spot I had just dabbed. “No,” I said, “she never asked. I figured the Holy Spirit had told her.” “Oh,” said Scott, hopping off of his ladder so he could get a better perspective of his window. The paint on the window had dried quickly in the heat. “Do you suppose anyone will notice?” asked Scott. “Naw, I’ll just make them pray every morning. That should do it.” I was confident. Unfortunately, the heat outlasted my confidence. Jesus had sworn that he had seen our patron saint sweat. The life-size mural of the Blessed Virgin Mary (which we all conveniently shortened to BVM), who was depicted as standing on the earth while groveling peasants cluttered the corners, completely covered the back wall of my room. “That is what I’ll miss most about this room,” Miss Ragusa had confided in me. “I got so much comfort out of just looking on the hands of Mary.” Mary’s hands were spread out, as if she were trying to touch the groveling peasants. Scott had quit painting long before we ever got to my room. He had just finished painting over his second window when he quit. “You really do need to come down to my room and do some painting,” I pleaded, “only the back wall – that’s all.” But it was too late. “Are we getting paid for this?” Scott asked. “I think so.” “How much?” Scott asked again. “I’m not sure,” I answered. “It’s not enough.” Scott didn’t even wash out his brush. If only Scott could have been called out of retirement it would have solved the entire problem with Jesus. Scott had made the mistake of actually calling the poor kid Gee-Zuss, which Scott thought was down-right funny. Hey-Zeus had no sense of humour whatsoever. In fact, none of the kids did. I didn’t even get a smile out of my favourite Catholic joke: Do you know why Jesus was crucified instead of being stoned? (Wait time...) So Catholics could go like this (Cross yourself) instead of this (Act like your fists are stones that are repeatedly hitting you in the face). I loved that joke. So, at any rate, here’s Jesus swearing that the Virgin is sweating. I prudently passed up a very good one-liner. “It’s only a minor discomfort that she needs to endure. We all must learn to suffer like Christ.” Oh my god! I was beginning to sound like Christen. “Now shut up and get back to your damned seat.” That was much better, more like me. Tony lit up like a Christmas tree. “Mr. Soetaert, you said Damn! We’re not supposed to say Damn. Damn’s a curse word. You said Damn. Did you know you said Damn? Damn, he said Damn. Damn. Damn. Damn.” “Tony, shut up.” “But you said Damn.” “So?” “Does that mean we can say Damn, too? You said Damn so we can say Damn, too. Damn, we can say Damn.” Miss Ragusa wanted to know just two things. One: Why was my necktie around Saint Joseph’s neck; and Two: Why were all my students saying Damn? She also wanted to know who painted over the windows in Marge’s room, but she had long ago given up trying to find out. I could have had either Saint Joseph or Jesus (with a “G”). Since I had to have a statue in my room, and since Joseph is my middle name, I figured that I’d keep it in the family. Besides, Joseph was holding baby Jesus. This way I could kill two birds with one stone, so to speak. That’s why I had a Joseph in my room. And since it was so unmercifully hot I got to take my tie off. Saint Joseph just seemed to compel me. “I need a tie,” he had whispered to me. “Mr. Soetaert, why is it so Damned hot?” Little Christina always looked so innocent. There was a running bet that she would be pregnant by the time she was fifteen. “I really don’t know, Christina. Please don’t say Damn anymore.” “Miss Christen says it’s so Damned hot because we all must suffer.” “That may very well be true,” I said. “Please don’t say Damn anymore.” Christen snarled at Scott and me as she passed us in the hall, swinging her bucket menacingly. Christen had begun to snarl a lot more it seemed. I always thought it was because all my students wanted to say Damn in her room, too. Scott said it was because she hated him. It think Scott was right. “You missed a Hail Mary,” Scott reminded Christen. Christen had been silently wearing out her Rosary Beads in the teachers’ lounge while the coffee pot sizzled the last forgotten drops of coffee into a black crust that no one would ever bother to wash out. “What?” Christen always looked somewhat wild-eyed. It was a hard look to place – somewhere between a desperate vampire and a double-crossed pimp. “What do you mean I missed a Hail Mary?” “You said ten Our Fathers and only nine Hail Marys...” “Do you know what ‘hallowed’ means...” I tried to interject, but Christen ignored me. “What do you mean I missed one?!” Christen was beginning to look a lot less like a desperate vampire and a whole lot more like a double-crossed pimp. “You said only nine Hail Marys,” Scott calmly explained. “You missed one.” “How dare you tell me how to pray!” Christen was almost yelling, “At least I’m praying! I never see you praying!” “So?” asked Scott, becoming increasingly calmer. “It means sanctified or sacrosanct – super holy, so to speak.” I wasn’t about to give up. “What the hell are you talking about?” screamed Christen. “Hallowed,” I explained, “that’s what hallowed means. You know, ‘Our father, who art in heaven, hallowed by thy name...’?” “Please don’t say Hell,” Scott added. Christen had a way of turning very red when she got extremely angry. She also had a way of slamming the lounge door so hard that the crucifix on the wall above it would swing back and forth. Scott and I watched it swinging, swinging, swinging, moving our heads like we were at a tennis match until it all but stopped. “Double or nothing tomorrow,” I said, certain it was going to fall. The door violently flew back open. Christen grabbed her bucket off the floor and slammed the door behind her once again. “I believe that makes a whole case,” Scott said as the crucifix finally stopped swinging. Christen still carried her bucket, although she no longer needed it. The sight of it alone scared any seventh grader into submission. “What’s the matter with Christen?” asked Marge, coming into the lounge. “She forgot her bucket,” I explained. “Hey, I have an idea,” I said to anybody who cared to listen. “What if I filled a bucket with shit. That would probably end my discipline problems.” “Naw, someone’d just steal it.” Scott was trying to make a card house on the table, but the cards kept falling over. “Please don’t say Shit,” said Marge as she unloaded her lunch from her crumpled paper bag and then carefully folded it back up again – her bag, not her lunch. “Christen hates me,” said Scott, carefully lowering a card destined to be the roof. And the cards tumbled in. “And she hates me, too,” I said, coveting Marge’s apple. “She hates me because Scott and I are friends.” “But she hates you devoutly,” explained Marge, “and that makes all the difference.” Just then the coffee pot sizzled and popped as the last drop of moisture gave up its earthly existence. “Would anyone like any coffee?” asked Marge cheerfully. “Only if you’re making a pot anyway,” I obediently replied, thankful that it would never finish brewing before I had to be back in class. I had never noticed before that the teachers’ lounge didn’t have a statue of anyone in it. “Juan Valdez, patron saint of Coffee Pots, Coffee Drinkers, and those little packets of sugar previously not covered under Saint C and H, patron saint of sugar.” I chuckled out loud. “What?” Scott looked up from his pile of cards. “Never mind,” I said, still chuckling. “By the way,” said Marge after her jagged teeth marks ruined any hopes I had that included her apple, “do either of you know how to get paint off of windows?” If we had a statue of Saint Juan I would have taken it over Joseph, but that’s the way it goes. Miss Ragusa got the state of Saint Mary. She had called dibs sometime last year. Genuflect... Genuflect... Genuflect... “It is necessary to genuflect before the Chalice that sits to the right of the Altar....” But the Baltimore Catechism said nothing about Mary. I felt that I should genuflect before the Mary in Miss Ragusa’s office. Miss Ragusa had a small office to begin with, and half of it was Mary. She stood atop and ancient doilied table that had been hand-carved by someone’s great-grandfather who was still in Mexico – buried, and the doily had been hand-crocheted by elderly nuns and was actually blessed by the Pope; or maybe it was just a Cardinal. I had never given it much thought, but I suppose that a Cardinal could bless just as well as the Pope – at least things like doilies. Blessing people might be different, but, then, I’m really not sure. Miss Ragusa’s Mary had the same out-stretched hands as the one that I had painted around in my room. She also had the same complacent smile. There was a place somewhere in Kansas City that sold the statues. They had them all, even Saint Juan, I’m sure. Supposedly, the statues came over from Italy where the Pope blessed them by the truck-load before they were loaded on a boat. Only Popes can bless statues of saints. He blessed the boat, too, for good measure, although a Cardinal probably could have done the boat. But one can never be too careful. Behind the statue of Mary, hung from the ceiling by twisted bailing wires, was a portrait of Mary. The portrait looked almost identical to the statue, which looked almost identical to the Mary I had painted around in my room. The glaring difference was Mary’s halo – the Mary in the picture, that is. It was huge, almost twice the size of Mary’s head. It seemed to illume the room. “Is that black light?” I asked. “What?” asked Miss Ragusa. “Never mind.” I continued to stare at the portrait. At least it kept my eyes off of Miss Ragusa. I’m certain that if she tried Miss Ragusa could stretch her bottom lip completely over her nose with absolutely no assistance. And she constantly smoked those little brown cigarettes. I suppose she was trying to hold her lip back from the slow creeping – so slow she would never notice it until it started to blur her vision. But the truly amazing thing about Miss Ragusa was her fingernails. The lady had six-inch fingernails. It was beyond the point of arguing whether they were real or not; indeed, that was beside the point. She had to dial a phone with a pencil. I have no idea whatsoever how she ever managed to go to bathroom, not that going would be the hard part. “I’ll take a piece of that action,” Marge said, overhearing Scott and me making bets in the teachers’ lounge. I said she just didn’t. Scott said that she did. “But if she does,” I reminded Scott. “You got to prove how.” “Verification’s going to be the bitch,” Scott said. Christen violently threw open the door. Her face was brilliant red. Her eyes screamed hate as they tore us apart from the doorway. And then just as quickly as she had come, she slammed the door to the lounge as hard as she could. The crucifix above the door rocked twice and then crashed to the floor, causing Jesus to pop off the cross. “Shit!” Scott cursed. “There goes a whole Damned keg!” “Please don’t say Shit,” Marge said. “Please don’t say Damn,” I said. So I sat in Miss Ragusa’s office trying not to stare at her fingernails, becoming more and more convinced that she just didn’t. “I find it comforts me, too,” said Miss Ragusa, noticing my distraction. “Yes,” I agreed, “she does take one away from their present distractions.” “From his present distractions, or her,” Miss Ragusa interjected. “Excuse me?” I was forced to face her fingernails. “’One’ is singular, and ‘their’ is plural,” she corrected me. “Oh,” I said. Miss Ragusa’s lip started to move. Quickly she took out a brown cigarette and even more quickly I returned my attention to Mary. A crucifix was draped carefully over Mary’s hand. Had my necktie been so blessed by the Pope I might have had an argument. “I know I shouldn’t genuflect, but shouldn’t I at least cross myself?” I couldn’t stand the suspense any longer; I just had to know. “Excuse me?” Miss Ragusa looked puzzled. “Never mind.” Perhaps there was somebody else I could ask. Perhaps my life would be complete if I never knew. “You told me you were Catholic, right?” My worst fears came true. This was going to be a serious conference. Yes, I had been a Catholic. Once a Catholic, always a Catholic. That’s what the nuns always told me in CCD classes. To this day I have yet to learn what CCD stands for. “When was the last time you went to Mass?” I’m not certain, but I don’t believe anyone blesses ashtrays. At any rate, I had been intently watching the ash at the end of Miss Ragusa’s little brown cigarette become increasingly longer. The longer it became, the more I wished that Marge were there. By the time Miss Ragusa finally moved her little brown cigarette toward the ashtray I would have given Marge 17 to one odds that she wouldn’t make it. “How did you do that?” I sat in amazement. Miss Ragusa had not flipped her ash; she had simply looked at it and then nodded her had, and it fell off on its own, landing perfectly in the middle of the ashtray. “Do what?” Miss Ragusa asked. “Never mind.” Still, Miss Ragusa wanted to know when was the last time I went to Mass. I knew I couldn’t count last Saturday. All the teachers got to... no, had to, parade in front of the entire congregation. We were given nifty stainless steel crosses to wear daily. I suppose they were purchased at the same place where the statues came from. I had stopped wearing mine when I had to take my tie off of Saint Joseph. Since I was wearing my tie no one could tell that I wasn’t wearing my cross. Besides that, it had cooled off. It’s not that my tie felt good around my neck when it was cool; it’s just that it no longer felt like I was slowly strangling. Of course, the kids were complaining because it was too cold. “Complain to God,” I told my class. “It’s not my fault, and I know it’s not fair. Now take out your literature books... the blue one with the dog on the cover.” Scott let it be known that he was willing to go half-ers with anyone in on a gun. “If Christen says that we need to suffer one more time, I’m going to shoot her.” That was the first thing Scott said after we finished the first six pack. I wouldn’t let him say anything until we had three apiece. Scott had a conference with Miss Ragusa, too. “And after Christen, I’m going to shoot Miss Ragusa, too.” “That’s not fair,” I complained. “I get to shoot at least one of them.” “So, what was your conference about?” Scott asked. “I’m not teaching religion anymore.” “Oh,” he replied. I had done such an outstanding job, too. I personally think I taught religion better than literature. I’ll never forget the day I gave the now famous “Our Father” lecture. I found it incomprehensible that the kids all said their numerous Our Fathers daily and didn’t have the slightest idea what “hallowed” meant. I hit on it all – everything from eschatological theory to historic Judaic theology. I was confident; they would never say their Our Fathers the same again. We even did a nifty play about the Ten Commandments. I believe that is what caused me to lose my religion class. Either that, or it was the follow-up lecture when Miss Ragusa, who happened to be observing my class that day, decided to take over the lecture after I got the seventh and eighth commandments confused. Had I not left out number nine altogether I might have been able to fake it. But still, it could have been the play. It was an entire class project, with several small groups acting out the important segments of Moses getting those infamous slabs. It looked so good in my lesson plans that Miss Ragusa invited herself to the final production. And she, in turn, took the liberty of inviting Father Garcia. Father Garcia always wore a poncho that looked more like an old rug than a poncho and sandals that had been made from bus tires. In the evenings, after the last of the kids had finally finished their detentions, you could hear Father Garcia from the rectory banging on his guitar and singing hymns in Spanish. Father Garcia was not Hispanic, although I suppose that it didn’t matter. I could imagine whole rows of monks walking hours on end into the night, outside in the freezing drizzle, while they went through their Gregorian chants, and there, in the middle, would be Father Garcia, oblivious to it all, chanting away like a trouper while his thoughts were somewhere slightly above Purgatory. He never got upset over anything. You could have told the good Father that Satan, himself, had risen from Hell and had stolen the sacrificial wine, and he would not have gotten upset; the Father, that is. He simply would have reached beneath his poncho and come up with a few loose dollars before sending you down to the corner to do the best you could before Mass. When you got back Satan would be gone, the hole boarded up, and never a mention of it would be made again. In fact, there was only one time that anybody could recall Father Garcia ever changing his expression. He and Miss Ragusa sat in the back of the room and quietly watched our production of the Ten Commandments. Neither of them got upset when Moses dropped Commandments eleven through fifteen; they didn’t seem bothered that God wore dark glasses or that Aaron started break dancing. It was when Moses stood up to the Pharaoh and said, “Let my Damned people go....” No one at that school had a sense of humour. Perhaps Miss Ragusa did, after all, have a point about my not teaching religion. I couldn’t really understand why Scott was so upset, though. It had something to do with curriculum. “It’s either my way or the highway with Ragusa,” Scott snorted. “Hell, I’ve been teaching three years and none of my principals ever watched me as much as that Damned Ragusa.” “Please don’t say Damn.” I had to take Scott’s word for it since this was my first school. I had thought it odd, though, that Miss Ragusa had observed my class on the very first day. The first day was supposed to be a half day – since it was so hot – and I suppose it really was (a half day, that is), although to this day I still get confused. Someone had worked out an amazingly elaborate schedule so no one class lost more time than the others, but every class lost different amounts of time every day until in the end it all worked out right. If that just didn’t make sense to you then you’ll probably understand why it never made sense to me. It so happened that my literature class was scheduled to lose more time the next day than the day I thought it was, which was the day Miss Ragusa dropped in, which was still the first day of school. “Weren’t you supposed to have been here yesterday?” I asked. “Excuse me?” questioned Miss Ragusa. “Never mind.” If anyone ever tells you that students are willing to learn, he is lying. He is lying through his teeth. And students are even less willing to learn on the first day of class. Miss Ragusa sat in the back of the room, tapping her pen ever so softly on her brown note pad. There are times in your life when you wish you’d learned how to do a soft-shoe shuffle. “OK, class, pick up your books and read something.” “What do you want us to read?” Joe asked. “The first story in the book, Joe.” “What book?” “Your literature book, Joe.” “Which one is that?” “It’s the blue book with the picture of the dog on the cover.” “Oh, this book?” “Yes, Joe. It’s the very same book that everyone else has out on their desks.” I waited for Miss Ragusa to correct my English from the back of the room, and she did. I didn’t like Joe. Perhaps it was a quick decision, but those are the kind we all tend to make. “OK, Joe, why don’t you read first?” “Out loud?” Joe looked shocked. “Why would I have you all take turns reading to yourselves?” “Oh, I just thought maybe...” “Just read, Joe, we’ll work on thinking later.” “Hubo un hombre que se comió mierda....” That was before the class learned that they could say Damn. Miss Ragusa quietly sat in the back and wrote a lot. She probably would have written a lot more if the students had learned how to say Damn. I was trying to drive and hit a road construction sign with an empty beer can. “It’s an exercise in coordination,” I explained. I carefully gauged the distance of the sign, the weight of the can, and the speed of the car. Then I flipped the can over the roof of the car with the precision of a professional basketball player and missed by a mile. I watched the can bounce stupidly alongside the road until the gush of a truck’s tires chased it into the curbside weeds. Still Scott was mad. So I had another beer. “What’s to get so upset about? You just go in and teach and then they pay you for it, right?” I thought about what I had just said for a moment and then added, “Well, you get a check. Whether or not you call it pay is up to you.” It didn’t matter that we were both getting shellacked. We were perpetually stuck in traffic all the way back to the shopping mall where we met each day to trade rides. We couldn’t possibly get up enough speed to kill anyone, except maybe ourselves, and that no longer seemed a great concern. “So she wants to change the curriculum? Who cares?” I didn’t. “Besides, what the Hell is a curriculum, anyway?” “Please don’t say Hell,” Scott reminded me. I really can’t explain exactly why I quit. To do that I would have to explain exactly why I took the job to begin with, and I don’t know the answer to that, either. I remember telling Marge first, but by that time Marge was getting used to teachers’ quitting. I suppose that Miss Ragusa was getting used to it, too. The PE teacher was the first to go. Janis only lasted two weeks, which was not nearly long enough to get to know her well enough to ask her why she had a tattoo, but I had asked her anyway. She had gotten “Daisy,” she explained, to cover up another tattoo that didn’t look nearly so cute. Daisy’s cute little eyes always seemed to be trying to peak out of Janis’ blouse. Daisy was a little skunk that looked like one of those air fresheners you can get for your rearview mirror. Janis had one hanging over her rearview mirror. I suppose there was a connection between the two skunks, but I never found out before Janis quit. “There’s nothing wrong with a tattoo,” Marge explained, “as long as you get one devoutly.” I wonder if just a priest could bless a tattoo. I suppose he could, unless it were on a person, but then would he have to bless the whole person? And how could he bless a tattoo if it weren’t on a person? It was Janis’ first year of teaching, too. I’m really not certain why she quit, but it had something to do with her moving to Jefferson City to be near her fiancé until he could get out of prison. It took both Scott and me to hold Janis back as Christen walked out of the teachers’ lounge saying something about suffering and Jesus (with a G). Scott quit next, or rather, as Scott put it, “It was a mutual separation. My way’s the highway.” Actually it worked out quite well, as it were, since Scott quit right after it was decided that I would no longer teach religion classes. It was decided that I would now teach Scott’s Social Studies classes, which meant I was no longer teaching literature at all. “Shouldn’t somebody tell Miss Ragusa that I never studied Social Studies in college?” I asked Scott. “I mean, somebody besides the Holy Spirit?” The Holy Spirit didn’t seem to be holding up too well lately. Scott was busy taking his few worldly possessions out of his desk drawer and packing them into an old paint can box. There was a whole closet full of all the old painting stuff that nobody ever bothered to clean out. “Would it matter if she knew?” Scott was trying to find any playing cards that might have gotten loose from the rest of the deck. “I don’t know,” I said, finding the Queen of Clubs. “What’s left for me to teach?” “Relative to where?” Scott snapped the rubber band around the deck. “If you find any cards, you can keep them,” Scott added. “Here.” I handed Scott his only plant. “Don’t forget this.” The only crusted brown leaf hung limply to the blackened stem that was anchored firmly into the moldy-white, cement hard dirt. “I think it needs water.” “I think it needs a beer.” Scott pulled a cold beer out of one of his desk drawers. We both watched the pool of yellow suds sit on top of the soil with no intention of going anywhere. “I believe it’s too far gone,” I said, wishing I had a hat to take off. “Shouldn’t we do something?” Scott gently took the only remaining leaf into his hand, lightly touched one of his free fingers in the pool of beer, and then crossed the leaf. “I baptize you in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.” The leaf came off in Scott’s hand. “Oh well, at least it’s with the angels now.” I did feel better. “The hell with this, then,” Scott said, throwing the leaf, pot, and plant into the trashcan. It bonked solidly on the bottom. “Did I ever ask you why you have a Snoopy trashcan in your room? I asked Scott. “I think so,” Scott answered. “Did you ever tell me?” “No, I don’t believe I did.” I never asked Scott if he thought he’d ever return to teaching. Marge was standing on a chair in the faculty toilet when I told her I was going to quit. She was trying to tie a string to the flash button of a Polaroid camera. “When she flushes the toilet the camera will take her picture.” Marge smiled with the gleefulness of a child. “Wouldn’t it be after the fact, though? I mean, when she flushes the toilet we’ll just get a picture of her flushing the toilet.” Marge stepped off the chair and sat down on the toilet, not even noticing that the lid was still up. She was obviously disappointed. “Keep working at it, Marge.” I tried to cheer her up. “You’ll come up with it yet.” I sat down in a chair across from Marge so I could help her think, too. “How about drilling a little hole in the door?” “Naw,” said Marge after a few moment’s thought, “I’d probably just have to pay for the door if Miss Ragusa found out.” “I kicked a hole in my desk.” Marge looked up at me and smiled. “Will you have to pay for it?” Marge asked. “No.” That had been Ragusa’s first idea. But there was no money missing from my final paycheck. I did have to sit in her office, though, while she lectured me about my not being able to teach before she finally gave me my money. “I wish you would have thought about more than just money when you took this job.” Miss Ragusa was doing a very fine job of acting angry. “Can I go now?” I quietly asked. I had brought my year-and-a-half old daughter with me on my final trip to that hot brick building that sat underneath the freeway viaduct with its steeple almost touching the deck of the bridge. All the time Miss Ragusa had been lecturing me I stared in amazement. Her bottom lip really was moving up over her nose. I was so amazed I hadn’t notice that my daughter had pulled the Sacred Mary Amulet off the Mary Shrine. Blessed by the box load by anyone above a Bishop, they’re handed out on some special Holy Day to be worn around the neck, protecting the wearer from certain hell fire in case his or her brakes were to fail, or something like that. Rachel chewed on it twice and decided to put it back, safely beneath the out-stretched hand of Mary. As I pulled away from the curb for the last time, I could have sworn I saw Marge waving from the small hole she had managed to chip through the paint on her window. Either she was waving good-bye, or she was trying to motion to me that somebody had stolen the beauty rings off my car.

The Christmas Parade The cold wind snapped across the littered parking lot, pushing sleet that lightly covered the windshield on the high school principal's truck. After a few moments the wipers slid across the glass and revealed three men walking slowly across the gravel toward the truck. One of the men was Santa Claus; he would've looked better with a beard. Within seconds the windshield was misted over again. When the wipers once more sequenced, the men were waiting at the truck for Mr. Anderson to remove the key and step out into the December morning. "When do you want to start?" Santa Claus asked. "I'm not in charge of the parade," Mr. Anderson answered. "We know," said one of the other men who had his ball cap firmly screwed on his head to keep it from blowing away, "but do you want the four-wheelers to go before or after the horses?" "All I'm here to do is to make sure the queen candidate is here," said Mr. Anderson. "You're going to announce her at the end of the parade, aren't you?" another man said from the comfort of his hooded hunting jacket. "Only if necessary," replied Mr. Anderson. "That's good," said the man in the ball cap. "But what about the four-wheelers?" Three four-wheelers were sitting in the near corner of the parking lot. Two of the riders were taking turns popping their clutches and spinning gravel on the third rider, who was trying to get hers started, between cursing at the other two. In deference to the occasion, they had wreaths attached with duct tape to their handlebars. "I think the four-wheelers ought to go behind the horses," Santa Clause volunteered. "Horse," the man in the hunting jacket corrected. "We only got one horse, unless Larry shows up." "Victor's got a horse," said the man in the hunting cap. "He gots to go up front," Santa Claus reminded him. "He's carrying the American flag. The American flag always goes up front." Out in the street near the intersection, Victor, who was dressed in his full VFW regalia, was trying to keep the American flag pointing upward with one had while hold the reigns to his jittery horse with the other. Every time he seemed to have the horse calmed down, whoever was sitting in the firetruck would rev the engine and send him prancing around in circles. "There's another horse," said the hunting cap. "We can't count that horse," said Santa. "It's pulling the Baptists." Coming up the street was one slowly plodding horse, laboriously pulling a flatbed wagon. Above the wagon a banner had been erected simply stating, "Jesus Saves." Whoever had planned the banner hadn't planned well enough, for the letters became increasingly smaller and scrunched up the closer they got to the right side. Several hay bales had been thrown on the wagon, upon which were seated members of the congregation. It was hard to tell just how many might be there since they were all huddled tightly under a collection of quilts. Muffled attempts at singing escaped from underneath the covers. "So no one is really in charge of this parade?" asked Mr. Anderson. Hunting Jacket replied, "Well, Larry usually runs these things, but I ain't seen him yet. I figure if he ain't here by now he probably ain't gonna come." "Larry's got the other horse," Ball Cap added. From the back of a pickup truck parked in the middle of the street, several students whose banner announced that they were Cub Scouts had started throwing their candy to the half-a-dozen students who had gathered to watch. Only they weren't gently throwing, and the students weren't collecting the candy to keep; they were throwing it back. "OK," said Mr. Anderson, "we'll put Chester out front..." "Who's Chester?" Santa wanted to know. "The guy with the flag." "No, that's Victor. Victor's got the flag," said Ball Cap. "Whoever. The guy with the flag leads. We'll put Santa in the rear, right behind the queen candidate, and everybody else can just fall in." "Sounds good," said Santa. "Then let's get going before we all freeze." "We cain't go yet," said Hunting Jacket. "The marching band ain't here yet." "What marching band?" Mr. Anderson wondered. "Why, the school marching band," said Ball Cap. "I didn't know we had a school marching band," Mr. Anderson said more to himself than anyone else. Santa replied just the same. "Oh, we do, and it's a dandy!" As if on cue, the marching band emerged from the walkway that ran between the high school and the New Gym. The music teacher was holding a banner that was really designed to be held by two people, which the wind kept trying to wrest from her hands. On the banner, amidst various cleft signs and musical notes, were the words "NHS Marching Band." It was actually a nice banner, or at least had been for the first thirty years of its life. With luck, duct tape would see it through another thirty years. The three members of the marching band followed behind. There was a drum, a clarinet, and cymbals. All the students had on the pants and jackets that made up the uniforms, complete with the fancy embroidery work that ran down the vest. One of them was even wearing a hat. "I'm sorry we were late," panted Mrs. Murgel, the music teacher. "We were waiting for Ricky, but he never showed up." "That's alright," Mr. Anderson replied. "Just as long as you're here we're OK. We'll put you behind Chester..." "Victor," corrected Santa. "Victor. We'll put you behind Victor." "You cain't put 'em behind Victor," said Hunting Jacket. "The cymbals'll spook his horse." "Hell, wind'd spook that old horse," Santa said to the appreciation of the other men. "Alright, then, the firetruck follows Victor..." Santa nodded his approval of Mr. Anderson finally getting the name right. "And we'll put the marching band behind the firetruck." "We can't march behind the firetruck," Mrs. Murgel protested. "No one would hear us over the noise from the diesel." Mr. Anderson was tempted to say that that was the general idea, but decided it wouldn't've been professional. "OK, then, we'll put you after the Baptists." "That's not a good idea," said Hunting Jacket. "Why not?" "Well, for one thing, they'll both be playing music, which is probably not a good idea." "I'd agree," Mr. Anderson quickly added, although he wasn't considering the possibility that their songs would clash. "And another thing," Ball Cap continued, "Les has been having trouble with his stomach lately. I don't think you'll want to walk behind him." "Who's Les?" Mr. Anderson wondered. "He's the Baptists' horse," Ball Cap explained. "Then we'll put the Baptists behind the flag, the firetruck will follow the Baptists, the four wheelers can follow the firetruck, and the Cub Scouts can follow them. We'll put the marching band behind the Cub Scouts, the queen can follow the marching band, and Santa Claus can bring up the rear." "What about the other horse?" asked Santa. "We can put him behind the Baptists." The three men thought about it for a few moments. "By golly, I think that'll work," Santa finally concluded. As the parade slowly started down Walnut, the townsfolk came out of the warmth of their homes to huddle near the street as it went by. The parade made it to the second house down from the school when the firetruck died. After a few attempts at turning it over, the fireman inside stuck his head out and announced, "It's froze up!" The excuse was readily accepted. Hunting Jacket walked up to Mr. Anderson, who was still standing in the parking lot. "I reckon we'll just call it quits here. The firetruck ain't goin' nowhere, and the band's already played all the songs it knows. We can use the Baptists' wagon to announce the Christmas queen on." The wagon was a good idea. Les, the horse, had laid down in the middle of the street, and since he was going nowhere, neither was the wagon. "Oh, I don't think we'll need the wagon," Mr. Anderson volunteered. "The girl who was elected queen didn't show up. We'll just give the tiara to her on Monday, if she shows up then." "I reckon that'll work," said Hunting Jacket. Down the street, the homeowners had already gone back inside. The Baptists had all abandoned their wagon, leaving Les on his own. Victor and his flag were no where in sight. Once the parade had begun, Victor had never looked back to see if the rest were following. The four-wheelers were all chasing each other around in the field that the students used for parking, and the Cub Scouts were now throwing gravel at each other, having run out of candy. The Marching Band had headed back to the building, only to be stopped by Ricky, who had finally shown up and now wanted to play his trumpet. Since Mr. Anderson could see no reason to hang around any longer on a Saturday morning, he headed to his truck, only to be stopped halfway there by the trio of Santa Claus, Hunting Jacket, and Ball Cap. "That was a right fine parade," Hunting Cap volunteered. "Yes, it was," Ball Cap agreed. "A dandy! Best one we ever had." "We sure appreciate all your effort," said Santa Claus, patting Mr. Anderson on the back. "We couldn't've done it without you."

The Joke Many years ago, at the first school I ever taught at, I carpooled with two other teachers, a man and a woman – call them Gary and and Miss Corbell, both my age – young, novice teachers. And we – mostly Gary and I – would tell jokes on occasion. So one day I told what I still consider to be one of the funniest jokes ever – the "Sonofabitch Fish" joke. Two elderly priests were fishing, enjoying a peaceful day by an isolated lake. After a bit, one of the priests – call him Father John – pulled in a fish and exclaimed, "What a magnificent sonofabitch!" The other priest – call him Father Tom – was taken aback by Father John's language, but he said nothing. Pretty soon, Father John pulled in another fish, this one even bigger than the first, and he exclaimed, "Aye! Another big sonofabitch!" And so Father Tom said to Father John (imagine a strong Irish accent), "Aye, Father John, though we may be far removed from the ears of man, we are never removed from the ears of God, and God finds such language offensive." To which Father John replied, "Aye, Father Tom, think not that I would ever use such language unfounded, for I would never choose to offend the Lord. But that is what the fish is called. That is its given name. It is a Sonofabitch Fish." Father Tom was somewhat doubtful, but he kept his tongue. When they got back to the church, Father Tom looked it up, and sure enough, the fish was really called a Sonofabitch Fish. To say the least, he was relieved that Father John had not been cursing, and disappointed in himself for ever having doubted the good Father. That night they had those fish for supper. At that meal, fresh out of seminary, was a brand new priest. It was the first time he had ever broken bread with either Father Tom or Father John. Understandably, he was a bit nervous. After the Blessing, Father Tom took a bite of his fish and exclaimed, "That is one delicious Sonofabitch!" And then Father John, after taking a bite, replied, "Aye! That is the best Sonofabitch I've ever eaten." To which the new priest said, "You know, I think I'm going to like working with you motherfuckers." Gary, who was driving, laughed so hard I feared we might not stay on the road. Miss Corbell was offended. Not just a little offended, but whole-heartedly offended. And she told me so in no short order, and, further, that I was never to tell such inappropriate jokes in her presence ever again. Because it was just not funny! I apologized, but mostly, I wrote her off as being a humourless prude. I only worked at that school for a year, and after the Sonofabitch Fish joke, I rarely carpooled with Miss Corbell again. And I sure as heck didn't tell her anymore jokes. But that joke followed me for the rest of my career. At almost every school I ever worked at, there was invariably somebody who would realize that I was the one who had told "that joke." Educators I met at seminars, people I didn't even work with and had never met before, knew about "the joke." In more than one interview I had to talk my way out of telling that joke – I had to sooth the interviewing principal or superintendent's fears that I would behave appropriately as a teacher. That joke could very well be why I didn't get hired at any number of districts. Had I not told that joke, my career could've – and probably would've – taken a very different path. One joke. Looking back on it all, if I had the chance to go back and not tell that joke, I'm fairly certain that I wouldn’t change a goddamned thing. A Priest and a Rabbi had been fishing together for years. One day, they invited the town's Baptist minister along. They were sitting in a boat in the middle of a lake, all patiently waiting with their lines in the water, bobbers gently rocking, when the Rabbi says, "I think I'm going to go back to the car and get some more coffee." So he gets out of the boat, walks across the water, gets the coffee, and returns, once again walking on water. The Priest doesn't say a thing. He doesn't even look up. It was as if nothing unusual had happened. The minister, understandably, was freaked. But he kept his composure. Pretty soon, the Priest says, "I don't know about you boys, but I'm ready for a sandwich." And then he got out of the boat, walked across the water, and returned with the sandwiches, once again walking on water. The minister is really freaking out now. A Catholic and Jew has just walked on water. The fate of the entire Protestant faith may very well be in his hands. There was nothing to it. He had to walk on the water, too. So he says, "I just realized I forgot my favourite lure." After which he stepped out of the boat, and "Whoosh!" – he goes under. As the minister was splashing about in the lake, the Rabbi turned to the Priest and said, "Do you think we ought to tell the fool where the stumps are?"

True Story Back in 1996 I wrote a novel that I wanted to get published, but come to find out, I couldn’t get it published without an agent, even back then. So I found an agent in one of those magazines, and we agreed to meet in a hotel bar. We each decided to wear a carnation so we would know who we were. Well, dumb luck, that. It so happened that the hotel was hosting an International Conference for Carnation Growers, so everybody was wearing carnations. Come to find out, two of the conventioneers – well, maybe more than that, but at least two – were spies. Secret agents. But, of course, I didn’t know that. You know how you always see spies in the movies, and when they meet each other for the first time they have these lines they’re supposed to say, so they know they’re talking to the right guy? It seems the recognition signal was my saying, “Are you the agent?” And then he says, “Yeah.” “Good,” I say. “Wanna grab a table?” he says. And then I say, “Sure.” And the next thing I know I’m wacked on the head and thrown on a plane headed to Unostan. In retrospect, it was a pretty stupid code. Of course, they didn’t believe me when I told them I was just a writer and it was all a really big mistake. They thought my manuscript was some sort of code, like they did in that one movie where everybody got shot but this one guy who gets chased around for the rest of the movie. Luckily, it didn’t take very long for them to figure out that they had made this monumental screw up, but they really didn’t want to let me go. I think they just didn’t want to look silly. Bit late for that. I think the only thing that saved me was that I could read English. You see, the local potentate had all of these kids. They were just everywhere. I tried to count them all a couple of times, but I always lost track. I have no idea how many mothers were involved. Thing is, all of these kids wanted a birthday cake. Each. So that’s a lot of birthday cakes. It’s a full time job. They had all these mixes, see, but they were all in English. So I became the Royal Baker. I baked birthday cakes for 14 years, until I was finally able to escape by baking myself into one of those cakes where somebody hides inside – usually a woman who isn’t wearing appropriate undergarments. It was a gift for the ruler in the neighbouring Kingdom of Woofledorf. The king was a bit disappointed, to say the least, when I jumped out of his cake. The only thing that saved me that time was the American Consulate’s brother just happened to be at the party. Come to find out, he and the king had once attended an Assertiveness Training seminar and become friends. Well, to make an already long story not the least bit shorter, the brother – the actual Consulate – was able to arrange a prisoner swap for me. I was traded for a prisoner to be named later and cash considerations. And that’s how I got back to the United States. Well, eventually, but that’s another story altogether. Unfortunately, I never saw my novel manuscript again. But years later I recognized it as the plot of a popular movie. My manuscript was about a crazy geneticist who made a pig that could actually fly, just so people would stop using the cliché, “When pigs fly.” The movie was about flying sharks. Very close, but what could I prove? On a side note, that night in the hotel bar, the real literary agent ended up offering the other spy a seven book deal. Some guys have all the luck. So, as you can see, I’m a bit reluctant about trying to get another agent. Maybe we could meet sometime. I know this hotel that has a really nice bar. I’ll be the guy wearing a carnation.

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