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Bravery

03.13.2011 by bloggard // 2 Comments

Near Phnom Penh, Viet Nam, 1969: My friend Gregg L. was a writing buddy at Midwestern University. He was a short, loud, burly guy who wrote short-stories meant to be both gritty and insightful, but he once confided that he actually made some money writing … throbbing-bosom Romance novels under a flowery Nom de Plumeria.

An ex-soldier, he’d modified a small and mild-mannered orange Honda motorcycle into a arched-handlebars hog, or perhaps a piglet. He had a very fancy medal for bravery in the Viet Nam war. It happened like this …

After high-school, Gregg needed Uncle Sam’s pocketbook to attend college, and signed up for some program involving the ROTC. I was in it, too, at Midwestern University, because it was a required course. I got a khaki uniform and learned how to shine a belt buckle with Brasso. We had to march, and stand there, and hold a rifle in a certain way. For me, it was little more than that, sort of a mild PE class.

For Gregg, due to timing, it became much more, when Viet Nam erupted and he found himself a lieutenant, in a trench, in a jungle, between two Vietnamese machine guns.

“All around me,” he said. “guys were getting wasted. My men were shot up; we were scattered, crawling and scrambling to get out of the fire.

“The din was incredible. Huge bombs were blowing up nearby, and the air was thick with smoke. The machine guns blared away, the wounded were screaming. You couldn’t see a thing, and we couldn’t tell where the fire was coming from.

“And I freaked out.

“All of a sudden, I thought What the hell am I doing here? and I threw down my rifle and made a run for it. I left my men, wherever the hell they were, and ran like hell to get away.

“Bullets were flying around me. I heard them buzz past and heard them ping into the leaves and branches. I zigged and zagged, and got quite turned around, and suddenly rounded a tree and found myself running into the machine-gun nest from the side.

“They saw me, and there was no time to stop. One guy was reaching for his sidearm, and the other began to rotate the machine gun, so I just ran right between them as fast as I could.

“I had no rifle, but I pulled a grenade from my vest and dropped it as I ran past.

“They recovered from surprise, and began to swing the machine gun toward me, and I saw the bullets stiching in from the side, but I guess they didn’t notice the grenade because it went off and killed them.

“I kept running until I fell down, and just lay there, gasping for breath, scared as a ghost in hell. I was kind of thinking about how deserters are shot by firing squads, when the sargent found me, and he’d brought the company Commander.”

Here’s what happened:

“Soldier,” said the Commander, “That’s the bravest thing I ever saw in my life.”

Ruru the Guru sez “Personals? Sure!”

03.13.2011 by bloggard // Leave a Comment

San Francisco Yellow Pages, 1986: In the Yellow Pages that year you’d find listed “Third Ear Telepathic Answering Service” at 221-3333. If you called it you might hear this —

“Hello and thank you for calling Third Ear Telepathic Answering Service, your personal telepathic message center, it’ll tweak your head!

“I am your Host and Operator Ruru the Guru, speaking to you direct from the Himalaya Hideaway.

“You know the other day I was delivering a telepathic message to a Muni bus driver on the 22 Fillmore. It was from his girlfriend, and she said …

“Bill, honey, can we still be friends?

“I tell you, that bus about flattened a corvair, a monza, and two old ladies walking dogs. Big tears begin to run down the driver’s nose into the control panel and the destination sign began to spin around. You couldn’t tell where that bus was going to go!

“The driver heaved a big sigh and said,

“Ruru, do you do personals?

“Well sure we do, Bill! So here goes:

“Handsome transportation worker, 5’10”, 225#, seeks fare, lady. Ask for Bill, 22 Fillmore.

“There, now! Ain’t love grand?”

The Ashford Agency

03.13.2011 by bloggard // Leave a Comment

San Francisco, 1989: Perhaps it was reading all those mysteries, late night and eyes gritty, and the sounds of the night outside. Maybe the accident of meeting Fay, in that seedy part of town just off the waterfront. Maybe I just worried about getting fat, and thought if I was a Private Eye, I’d be the Thin Man.

Whatever it was, I became a Private Investigator.

For a while.

The business card of The Ashford Agency referred to me as “Dr. Detecto”. Adrienne kept calling me Defecto, but that was just her tough-girl style. The card had a picture of a dragon circling a castle spire beneath the moon, and a story …

“During the middle ages, a monastic order known as the Cistercians became prominant, spreading throughout Europe and the English islands. The Cistercians had an organization which allowed local control of each monastery, but an annual convocation of all abbots that they might remain united in theology and purpose.

“The order was known to be hard-working and honest, stressing simplicity and truth, and they preserved many manuscripts which were already ancient. One such obscure manuscript appears to be an account of a Dragon which lived nearby and spoke with men, although the time of this Dragon was already long past by the time of the Cistercian manuscript, which is circa 1272 A.D. —

“In Ashford Tower upon the plain,
In Time of Auld did Dragon dwell.
In knowledge were He Deep and Fair,
In Visage Dark and Fell.

“The Ashford Agency has chosen this ancient image as a symbol of the eternal search for truth and man’s endless struggle to pierce the veil of illusion, to perceive life as it is, and the ultimate victory of love and hope over the forces of evil.

“The Ashford Agency is licensed by the State of California Department of Consumer Affairs, Bureau of Collections and Investigations.”

Isn’t that just swell?

Alas, my agency and my P.I. career fell quite short of these lofty goals, though I did manage to investigate a traffic accident, serve papers on a couple of guys, wear a disguise, and attempt to tail somebody to their hideout in order to find where they’d hidden the assets. I also got a job to recover funds from some scam boys, but scam boys were way better than me, and remained unfound.

The job did give me a reason to grow a moustache, and to buy a grey surveillance vehicle and a Minolta camera with fancy lenses. The camera turned out to be great for high-speed shots of skateboarders, and for close-ups of the roses in Golden Gate Park in the Spring.

Fay, who helped me set up The Ashford Agency, on the other hand, eventually uncovered an extensive murder ring among a family of gypsies. Honest to gosh, she actually did.

But that’s another story.

Ruru the Guru is the only Telepathic Operator?

03.13.2011 by bloggard // Leave a Comment

San Francisco Yellow Pages, 1986: In the Yellow Pages that year you’d find listed “Third Ear Telepathic Answering Service” at 221-3333. If you called it you might hear this —

“Hello and thank you for calling Third Ear Telepathic Answering Service, the round-the-clock telepathic answering service!

“I am your Host and Operator Ruru the Guru, speaking to you direct from the Himalaya Hideaway.

“Hold it! Hold the phone! I’m getting a telepathic message at this very minute!

“Uh … Uh … it was for me.

“The question was- Ruru, are you the only one that works at Third Ear?

“Well, yes. Yes, I am.

“But you got to realize, the Himalaya Hideaway here exists primarily in the Astral Plane, where as you all know, time flows funny.

“The result is that we can serve you round the clock with telepathic answering service, using no additional staff!

“And you know what? No time, no overtime!

“No overtime, no benefits!

“So who benefits?

“You do!”

Ruru the Guru — Can We Sell Cars?

03.13.2011 by bloggard // Leave a Comment

San Francisco Yellow Pages, 1986: In the Yellow Pages that year you’d find listed “Third Ear Telepathic Answering Service” at 221-3333. If you called it you might hear this —

“Hello and thank you for calling Third Ear Telepathic Answering Service, the modern telepathic answering service that can help you move your merchandise!

“I am your Host and Operator Ruru the Guru, speaking to you direct from the Himalaya Hideaway.

“Several people telepathed in last week wanting to know can we sell cars …

“Well, we can’t exactly sell them, but we sure can tell your friends and neighbors about em! So here goes —

“1973 Edsel, lo mileage, one owner, sky blue, $525 or best offer.

“We also got a Corvair, rebuilt engine, velcro upholstery, wire wheels. Make an offer.

“Last, here’s a modified ’57 Fairlane, Mack diesel engine, complete with bronzed baby shoes and foxtail. $1500 firm. Man, that does sound sharp!

“You want em? Just let me know.”

Tutti-Fruity

03.13.2011 by bloggard // 4 Comments

When my mother told me this story it touched my heart, because in a way, it was part of who she was for the rest of her life …

Henrietta, Texas, Summer 1922: My mother, Margaret Hurn, known as Maggie, was six years old, and very excited that Saturday. For the first time, riding down the dirt road in the wagon with her mother and father, Maggie was going to town.

She had a nickel in her hand. She held it tight.

Eight miles seems so little now, for any car can cruise the paved road in just a few minutes. But on that day, on the dirt road in the wagon behind the horse, it took several hours, with the sun high above and dust rising to float in the air behind them, and she was holding that nickel all the way.

She had a plan.

Tutti-Fruity ice cream. That was the plan. A nickel would buy a big double-dip ice-cream cone at the Henrietta drugstore. The soda fountain there had a marble top, and fancy stools that spun around with shiny red seats. Behind the counter, lined up before the huge mirror, was a shelf of colored bottles. Every kind of delight, in town, right there at the soda fountain.

Maggie wanted Tutti-Fruity.

She was shy about going in, but her father said, “Go on,” and gave her a nudge, so she edged slowly through the door. Instantly dismayed because everything was so fancy, she waited, holding her nickel, and before long, the big man behind the counter noticed her and leaned over.

“What would you like, little girl?” he said. Perhaps a bit deaf, he spoke loudly, and it startled Maggie. She cast her eyes down.

“Tutti-Fruity,” she said softly.

“What’s that?” he said. “What would you like?” Maggie felt suddenly dismayed, embarrassed, as if scolded.

“Tutti-Fruity,” she said softly.

“I can’t hear you!” the man said loudly, “What do you want?” A well of tears blurred her vision.

“Tutti-Fruity,” she whispered.

“What?!!” he demanded. “Speak up!”

But now it was too late. Confused, ashamed, she ran crying from the store.

All the way home, on the long journey up the dirt road as the late shadows grew longer across the road, sitting in the wagon, she held the nickel in her hand.

Rabbi Moishe

03.13.2011 by bloggard // Leave a Comment

Rome, 1847: The Pope announced that all Jews, not being Christian, as is proper, would have to leave Italy. Of course, there was a great outcry, and so for appearance sake, the Pope announced that he would debate the matter with one of the Rabbis. If the Rabbi won, the Jews could stay in Italy.Rabbi Moishe was chosen for the debate.

Since Rabbi Moishe spoke no Italian, and since the Pope spoke no Hebrew, it was agreed that the debate would be silent.

At the historic meeting, the two spiritual leaders sat gazing at each other for a long while, charging their spiritual batteries as it were.

Finally the Pope held up three fingers. Rabbi Moishe held up one finger.

The Pope nodded, paused in thought, then circled his finger around his head. Rabbi Moishe pointed to the ground.

The Pope frowned, paused, then gestured to one of the Bishops, who brought the Sacred wine and wafers. But undaunted, Rabbi Moishe produced an apple from his robe, held it up to the light, then took a big bite.

The Pope threw up his hands. Rabbi Moishe had won. The Jews could stay in Italy.

In chambers, his Bishops crowded around. They were not certain; what had happened? The Pope spoke wearily.

“I indicated the Holy Trinity,” he said, “But the Rabbi pointed out that all are one.” The Bishops nodded. “I pointed all around us, to show that God is Everywhere … but the Rabbi pointed to the ground to indicate that God is right here!” The Bishops nodded again. “Finally,” said the Pope, “I showed him the Holy Sacrament of Redemption, the wine and the wafer, but he just produced an apple to show the Original Sin. There’s nothing else. He won.”

And on the road, the other Rabbis were questioning Rabbi Moishe, who explained, saying, “The Pope said we had to leave in three days, and I held up one finger to say ‘Up Yours!’ Then he circled all around to indicate that we had to leave, and I pointed to the ground to indicate that we’re staying right here!” The Rabbis nodded.

“Then what happened?” asked the Rabbis.

“I don’t know,” said Rabbi Moishe. “He brought in his lunch, so I had mine.”

Dream

03.13.2011 by bloggard // Leave a Comment

Henrietta Texas, 1959: When I was fifteen, my room was a garret built atop our house on Omega Street, and from my windows looking east, I saw her walking up the sidewalk.

Slowly, a stranger, a young girl perhaps fourteen, with dark hair and almond eyes, perhaps two blocks away. Well, I admit it. I had binoculars.

She looked about her as she walked, maybe seemed a little timid. A block before our house, she crossed Omega Street, and vanished from sight up the sidewalk behind the old Baptist Church. I knew every kid in town. I’d never seen her before.

But I was to see her again.

When school started, within a few days I’d learned her name — Linda — and she was absolutely beautiful.

But she was younger than me, a class younger, so I rarely saw her, and in my clumsiness never professed myself. Then, too, I fell in love with three or four other girls soon after.

But on a band trip to the Wichita Falls Swimming Pool, somebody brought a portable radio, and toward the end some of us danced in the gazebo. After a few words, Linda said yes.

Holding her in my arms, with her breasts soft against me, and the scent of her body so near … it was very, very difficult. Sweet and painful all at once.

The song on the radio was “Dream,” by Don and Phil Everly. Even now, hearing in memory the Everly Brother’s voices blending in harmony, I can feel again that longing and lust and sweetness and pain.

I never became involved with Linda. I had joined the school band, playing drums, having been completely inept at football and track. I was busy. I had things to do. There were girls in my own class. I couldn’t really flirt in the hall. She was just too young, just a kid.

And yet, so odd how a memory can persist. I recall the scent of her skin, the touch of her hair swaying gently against my throat, the soft and halting way she followed as we slow-danced together, turning round and round through the white-painted gazebo in the warm summer air, and the Everly Brothers harmony as they sang.

“I can make you mine, taste your lips of wine,
anytime, night or day …
Only trouble is, gee whiz,
I’m dreaming my life away …”

Dreams. They’re the stuff life is made of.

They’re the truth, the dreams.

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