Story by Bob Church


            
Crossing The Bridge


            
undertoad
            noun. A form
            of anxiety, the chief feature of which is an overarching fear
            of the unknown in general and one's personal mortality in particular. "Garp...realized
            that all these years Walt had been dreading a giant toad, lurking
            offshore, waiting to suck him under and drag him out to sea.
            The terrible Under Toad." John Irving, The World
            According to Garp

            
 

            
"Yea… you could say he's 'rangy',
            I guess," Merrill Keck paused and extended his tongue between
            his lips slightly, just far enough to pick a small piece of tobacco
            off the tip. Then, depositing the speck in the aluminum ashtray
            sitting on the bar, he continued. "However, if you ask me,
            the word doesn't begin to really describe him."

            
Paddy listened, cautious before proceeding.
            Merrill delighted in correcting and confounding most everyone
            who engaged him in conversation, no matter what the subject or
            how little his interest therein. "Well then, Mr. Wizard,
            tell us how you would describe a skinny first baseman over six
            feet tall who scoops up every ground ball ever hit his way, a
            Gold Glove infielder who's already got his ticket punched for
            Cooperstown."

            
"Oh, don't get your tits in an uproar,
            Paderewski, I said 'rangy' worked, didn't I? Jesus Christ…
            you are so damned touchy. If 'rangy' is your ideal for a man
            whose lifetime batting average is over .300, whose spot on the
            All-Star Team is reserved as long as he wants to fly to whatever
            city hosts the Mid-Season Classic, who was voted Most Valuable
            Player in the American League three times, and whose jersey is
            worn by damned near every kid who's ever seen him play, then
            I guess I'll have to just shut up and accept it because, after
            all, Leonard Paderewski is the smartest sumbitch in the whole
            fucking world and we all just need to keep our mouths shut, kneel
            down in front of him then lick his damn boots as he passes by.
            Rangy, rangy, rangy, rangy, rangy… yes, sir, that works
            for me!"

            
"Bite me, Merrill, you sawed-off little
            piss ant drunk. If you had half the vocabulary you pretend to
            have, maybe you'd have a job and stay the hell out of here a
            couple of hours a day." Paddy picked at his fingernails,
            refusing to look up. Then, placing both hands on the bar, as
            if proving his resolve, he continued. "Oh, wait…"
            he snarled, "that would require hauling your drunk ass out
            of bed before eleven in the morning, wouldn't it? I apologize…
            that's more than any dedicated boozehound should have to put
            up with. Forget I ever brought it up. I don't want to get in
            trouble with your mommy."

            
Merrill Keck took a long drag off his cigarette
            and held it in as he climbed off his barstool. Sensing a 'center
            stage' moment, he stretched his neck by rolling his head in small
            circles. "So…" he drawled slowly, extending the
            ending vowel for a few seconds in dramatic fashion, "it
            would seem that, in principal, we've had a disagreement of sorts.
            Therefore, since we're just two guys sitting across from each
            other in a bar, I guess we can continue to yammer-yammer back
            and forth, making everyone within earshot uneasy about our relationship's
            immediate future or we can cut to the chase, send all the extras,
            stand-ins and stunt-doubles home, and I can beat the shit out
            of you right here in front of God and everybody. Then, for the
            rest of time, you'll be the candyass who got beat up by a drunk
            half his size. The only thing you'll be bringing up is your nuts."

            
Paddy began to titter, glancing at the
            older man sitting next to him. "Hear that, Hootie? Apparently,
            I'm a 'candyass' living on borrowed time. Jeez… I hope I
            don't shit myself from fear before he waddles his fat ass over
            here."

            
One quick move and Merrill was underway.
            Arms flailed as he moved around and through people stationed
            at or near the bar, but his movement stopped as abruptly as it
            started as Julie Kevlar stepped directly in his path. "Where
            you goin', Merrill?"

            
"Move, goddammit, this is none of
            your business." Merrill Keck roared, trying to push her
            aside.

            
Before he could step past her, the woman
            slapped him across the face as hard as her arm could swing, then
            backhanded him with the back of her fist as she reversed the
            motion of her arm. The popping sound echoed throughout the room
            as all conversation stopped and patrons on both sides of the
            horseshoe bar craned their necks to get a better look. Merrill
            Keck took a small step backward and fell to the floor.

            
Before anyone could lean down to help him
            up, Julie vaulted the bar and rang the bell used to signal that
            someone bought a round. "Listen up! Everybody! The next
            asshole that threatens anyone in my bar gets a free trip to the
            hospital. Do you understand me?" she yelled, pointing her
            finger first at Paddy. "You got that, slick?"

            
Paddy nodded his head in the affirmative,
            but continued to look at the bar.

            
"I can't hear your marbles rattling,
            Shit-for-brains, I just asked you a question!" Taking the
            sawed-off baseball bat from behind the bar, she lifted Paddy's
            chin up with it. "Well?"

            
Paddy extended his hands in front of him,
            palms facing Julie and both eyes now looking directly at her.
            "Yea, I hear you… yea."

            
"Marvelous!" she bellowed again.
            "Now, go get your buddy and both of you get the hell out
            of here. Don't come back until you learn how to behave! I don't
            want to see you back in here for a week."

            
"Oh, come on, Jewels, you know that
            I come in here every d-"

            
Julie took the bat in both hands and cocked
            it behind her. "Do you have a problem with English?"
            she said.

            
Paddy took a step backwards and once again
            put his hands out. "Okay… 'nuff said." By now,
            Merrill had gotten to his knees. Paddy helped him up and handed
            him his ball cap extolling the virtues of Budweiser. "Come
            on, Merrill, let's blow this pop stand."

            
Putting his cap on as Paddy pulled him
            outside, the little man glanced back at Julie and commented in
            a voice loud enough for everyone to hear, "Well, ain't this
            a crock a' shit. She sucker-punches me and we're the ones who
            get thrown out. Come on, Paddy, let's go find a place where they
            don't allow dikes behind the bar."

            
* * *

            
The Waffle House offered three breakfast
            specials priced less than three dollars. The tri-fold laminated
            menu featured two and a half pages of breakfast entrees, three
            varieties of hamburgers and a chef salad. Come in looking for
            anything so exotic as fish, chicken or shrimp and you'd be treated
            to a large plate of disappointment with a side of diminished
            expectations. But, most folks understood this, and since customers
            had to sit at the counter and the server was also the cook, tipping,
            as a rule, was not required, unless you asked for something to
            be cooked specially or with ingredients not generally included
            as a menu item. If, of course, over time, a patron achieved special
            status because of his generosity towards the tip jar, the server/cook
            might be inclined to be more liberal with portion size and side
            dishes not normally offered without incurring extra cost.

            
As unwelcome as their presence had recently
            become at Hammerhead's, Paddy and Merrill enjoyed super-star
            status at the Port Huron Waffle House. Late night customers at
            the seedy diner had been known to move from the seats they occupied
            in deference to the pair's arrival. Tonight, 'their' seats remained
            unoccupied, facilitating a quick-and-easy coronation ceremony
            when the two arrived and placed their coats on the hall tree
            next to the door.

            
Joe Acosta, the third shift cook, tossed
            two white coffee mugs on the counter and filled them with the
            best coffee in Port Huron. While no formal competition substantiated
            the claim, it had to be true, wasn't it written on the menu?
            Even if closer observation revealed a slight greasy sheen present
            on top of the dark liquid, few complained and no one more than
            once.

            
"Evenin', fellas…" Joe intoned,
            looking up at the cheap wall clock on the sidewall. "It's
            a little early for you, isn't it? I don't remember you arriving
            before two a.m. before."

            
Paddy stood behind Merrill moving his index
            finger across his throat and scowling at the cook, indicating
            that he should drop the subject. Seeing Joe Acosta's eyes fixed
            above his head, Merrill turned his head to look at Paddy, who
            quickly dropped his hands and smiled at Merrill. Fuck you, Merrill's
            lips spat at Paddy. Although no actual sound emerged, the walls
            reverberated with echoing venom, and no one in the room escaped
            the logic of the implied train wreck threatening to occur if
            further provocation ensued. Joe's eyes then flitted back to Merrill,
            the scowling mini-brute with a large red welt on his right cheek.

            
Wiping his hands on his apron, Joe asked,
            "The usual or do you want to see a menu? The strawberry
            blintzes are good tonight…" then, after the exact number
            of seconds elapsed to allow full theatrical development, he continued,
            "Oh, wait… I see you've already had one, there's still
            a little on your cheek. Here, let me see if I can remove it."

            
Try as he might, Paddy couldn't keep himself
            from erupting in a horselaugh, his body shaking as he covered
            his face with both hands. After a few seconds, tears still rolling
            down his cheeks, he put a hand on Merrill's shoulder and turned
            to his friend. "I'm sorry, dude… I just couldn't help
            it. You got to admit, that's funny as hell." Again, he started
            to laugh and grab for a napkin.

            
Merrill reached in his pocket for his smokes.
            "That's right, yuck it up, Sheckie, I can understand how
            superior you must feel, you being the pollock Alfred Einstein,
            and all. But, you, Joe, I'd expect better from. Ain't I always
            taken care of you?"

            
The accusation, intended to show the depth
            of hurt Merrill felt, to Joe sounded more like something he'd
            hear from his mother when he refused to eat his sopas- whiney
            and impertinent. But, he knew better than to say anything. In
            fact, he regretted the remarks he'd already made, but short of
            an exorcism, he knew no way to apply a salve to the little guy's
            wounds. Leave it alone, he heard the inner voice say.

            
"Lighten up, Merrill, he was just
            shittin' you. Why is it that every time anyone says anything
            to you at all that you don't like, you feel the need to instantly
            become Joe Pesci? Nicky Santoro, you ain't, my friend, even if
            I do resemble DeNiro's depiction of Moe Green, with my vaguely-Latin
            good looks and rugged demeanor." Now Paddy grinned and punched
            Merrill on the arm lightly. "Come on… let's eat. Joe,
            bring my friend whatever he wants- my treat."

            
"First he needs to apologize."
            Merrill pointed an accusatory finger at Joe Acosta.

            
Merrill glared back, then shook his head.
            "Okay, what the fuck… I'm sorry."

            
Joe stood behind the counter with his arms
            folded, not sure whether to grin or remain deadpan. Silently,
            he reached under the counter and grabbed a clean towel. After
            running it under warm water, he squeezed it until most of the
            water was gone and handed it to Merrill. "Here, bro…
            put this on your jaw, it'll make it hurt less."

            
Moving away to grab the coffee pot, Joe
            began filling cups for other customers seated at the counter.

            
"And you're sorry you said that to
            a valuable customer, aren't you, AMIGO?" Merrill was now
            standing at the counter, his hands cupped around his mouth, shouting
            at Joe.

            
With the speed of a blitzing linebacker,
            Joe opened the gate separating the counter from the customers
            and began walking towards Merrill, his eyes no longer friendly.

            
Paddy stood up and intercepted Joe, trying
            to calm the enraged cook. "Wait, wait, wait… Joe, it's
            okay… he didn't mean nothin', I promise… it's okay.
            He's sorry, man… really, he's just had a rough night."

            
"Paddy, if you don't get that little
            puta out of here, he's going to find out the definition of a
            rough night. He ain't ever had a night like I'm about to give
            him." The veins in Joe Acosta's neck suddenly stood out
            in the same way they did when Joe did bench presses at the gym.

            
"Okay, Joe, we'll leave. I'm sorry.
            He didn't mean any harm."

            
Shoving Merrill's coat at him, Paddy lifted
            the man off his seat by the shoulder. "Come on, fucker,
            if you're going to act like a child, I have to put you in Time
            Out." Half-pushing, half-coaxing Merrill towards the door,
            Paddy shook his head in disbelief. "You need to get some
            help, pal… we're running out of places to hang."

            
Behind them, a still-enraged Joe Acosta
            pointed his finger at Merrill and yelled, "And it's Albert
            Einstein, you moron… not Alfred. Christ, any school kid
            knows that!"

            
* * *

            The dual spans of the Blue Water Bridge, gray skeletal girders
            poised upon the horizon, separated two nations, two cultures.
            On one side, people smiled a little more, seemingly happier to
            sweep the incessant snow from their driveways and from their
            psyches, as they prepared for the drone of the incoming bridge
            traffic. Hope carried by vehicles with American registration
            impatiently waited to clear Customs on the Canadian side of the
            boundary, gleefully aware of enhanced value to be gained from
            the imbalance created by multi-colored currency. By merely crossing
            the bridge, Americans received a thirty percent increase in spending
            power and Canadians accepted the Yankee currency willingly, grateful
            for the opportunity it carried. On the other side of the bridge
            in Port Huron, Michigan, hope only waited to cross. Perpetually
            short-sided Canadians, by now used to being offered no such advantages
            by making the trip to the Land of the Free and the Home of the
            Brave, merely shoveled their sidewalks and waited for spring,
            their simple smiles and pleasant demeanors contrasting the perma-gray
            of winter.

            
The Venetian blinds, though partially closed,
            allowed in just enough light to make an impression inside his
            eyelids, a goddamned pre-conscious omen of forthcoming pain.
            Merrill Keck sat up and stretched, painfully aware of morning's
            incursion upon his stupor. Sleeping on Paddy's couch if sleeping
            is really what I'm doing certainly offered little by way of comfort,
            at least not the comfort experienced in his own bed, in his own
            house, with his own wife. Waking up every morning looking at
            that fucking bridge reminded him only of loss, regret and sorrow.
            This morning, he could add the soreness created by the simplest
            of movements, his body's rebellion against attacks incurred the
            previous evening from sources both external and internal. Stifling
            a yawn, Merrill touched his face and felt the swelling of his
            cheek, causing the memory of Julie Kevlar's punch to cut in line
            for recognition in the hierarchy of pain.

            
"There's coffee, if you think you're
            able to keep it down."

            
Merrill craned his neck, taking note of
            the pain created by the unnatural position required to make visual
            recognition of the voice. "Don't you ever sleep?" he
            commented, his voice surprisingly non-combative in the face of
            Paddy's yet-to-be-established assumption.

            
Paddy sat at the kitchen table, the newspaper's
            sports section folded beside him. "Yea, I sleep-it's just
            that there's sleep and then there's… well, there's what
            you do. Is it sleep, Merrill? Is it really ever just laying down,
            just for the hell of it, and allowing your mind to find a place
            of rest?"

            
"Am I on the clock, Doctor Fraud?"

            
"That's Freud, asshole. Get it right."

            
"Oh, pardon me, your holiness. Far
            be it from me to fail in my acknowledgement of your sanctimony.
            Please accept my most heart-felt apologies to the last twenty
            generations of your ancestral lineage, wherever their remains
            might lie in the Potter's Fields of the world." The combativeness
            resumed its customary place in Merrill's voice.

            
A nervous laugh escaped despite Paddy's
            resolution not to allow it. "Ah, me… ever the wit.
            At least I've learned that the booze hasn't left you in a total
            fog… yet. So what's your plan for today, Merrill, drink
            breakfast and then off to Julie's to suck up?"

            
"Well, Paddy, whatever it is, you
            can bet your ass that it won't involve standing in front of a
            machine in some car factory, waiting for hunks of aluminum to
            come flying out of the ass end. A 'machinist', huh? Ha! You stand
            with a box next to a conveyor belt and wait for pieces of metal
            to be stacked inside. Then, when it's full, you press another
            button and wait for the whole process to start over. Whoopee!
            Machinist… what a laugh!"

            
Paddy stood up. "Okay… consider
            me McDonald's- have it your way." Picking up the paper,
            he walked over to his couch. "But when I get home, I'd suggest
            that you be somewhere else- anywhere else." Thwacking the
            sports section up against Merrill's chest, he leaned down, his
            head even with Merrill's eyes. "Read the morning line. The
            Pistons are giving 6 in Miami. Call Stanley and lay the points.
            Maybe you'll make enough to get a room at the flophouse on Fillmore.
            I'm done. Dude, sometimes you have to hear the voice, even if
            you can't make out the words."

            
Merrill Keck, erstwhile provocateur and
            current androgynous twerp with a mind sodden with the residue
            of diapers he hadn't bothered to remove, stared at the bridge
            and closed his eyes, forcing himself to listen to the front door
            latch snap shut. Maybe I need to return to the short side of
            that bridge. 



            * * *



            "Did you know that a human head weighs eight pounds?"

            
The woman in the pale yellow dress lowered
            her copy of McCall's and stared at the man sitting across the
            waiting room from her. "What?" she asked, as much in
            astonishment as truly questioning.

            
 

            
"I asked if you knew that a human
            head weighs eight pounds", the man repeated.

            
"That's what I thought you said,"
            yellow dress replied and raised the magazine to its original
            position. Moving slightly sideways in her chair, she demurely
            re-crossed her legs, staring daggers, making sure that he didn't
            misunderstand her adjustment to be a come-on.

            
"That's about three-and-a-half kilograms
            on the other side of the bridge," the man continued.

            
Again, the magazine lowered. "Well,
            isn't that fascinating? A man who can do arithmetic conversions
            in his head and then spout them indiscriminately as though anyone
            in the whole wide world might give a damn. I think I'm going
            to swoon…"

            
Before the man could respond, the attendant
            opened the sliding glass door and spoke. "Mr. Keck, the
            doctor will see you now."



            "Well, I'd love to stay and chat, but duty calls. Just know
            that I'll always cherish our little unconsummated seduction…"
            Getting up, he leaned forward, took her hand in his and tried
            to kiss it, causing her to yank it away in disgust. Merrill walked
            to the door and turned the handle. Glancing back and seeing that
            the woman still stared daggers in his direction, he blew her
            a kiss and half-whispered, half-spoke, "I'll still respect
            you in the morning…" and disappeared into the inner
            sanctum.

            
Eat shit and die, creep, Teresa Terwilliger
            thought to herself as she raised the third finger on her right
            hand towards the door, just eat a whole bag of fucking shit and
            die of a fucking shit-hemorrhage. Teresa's anger management session
            promised to be challenging.

            
The therapist's room more closely resembled
            a law library. Not a single sink blemished the décor,
            and had there not been a posh leather sofa next to the desk with
            the prominently displayed plaque announcing Doctor James Wyrick,
            MD, one might not have been able to distinguish the psychiatrist's
            office from the member's lounge at any first-rate country club.

            
James Wyrick, a large gaunt man wearing
            a brown herringbone tweed jacket and silk bow tie, bounded to
            the door, right hand extended, to meet Merrill Keck. "Hello,
            Merrill", he said, pumping Merrill's hand like the handle
            on a poorly-responding pump handle on a cold winter's day. "It's
            good to see you again. Please make yourself comfortable."

            
Sitting down in the large captain's chair
            behind his desk, Dr. Wyrick put his bifocals on and turned a
            page on his yellow legal pad. Glancing at his watch and writing
            the time in the upper left-hand corner, he asked, "How can
            I help you today, Merrill?"

            
"Jesus, Doc, you sound like the clerk
            at Home Depot. 'Uh, let's see… I'll take a sack of eight-penny
            nails and one of those nifty five-pound sledges'." Merrill
            stopped and held his hand up. "Wait, you don't need to write
            that down, do you?"

            
Doctor Wyrick fished a tamper out of his
            pants pocket and began cleaning the bowl of his pipe. "Merrill,
            your attempts at wit aren't impressing me. How much time do you
            figure we've spent dancing around the issues? Let me re-phrase
            my question, hopefully in a form that will impress you enough
            to allow you to get on with it. Is there a particular condition
            or occurrence that you don't understand and would like to discuss?"
            He didn't light the pipe, but puffed on it as if he had, his
            attention once again focused on Merrill, invisible rings of nether-smoke
            mingling with the thoughts, the perfect antiphony to conversation
            yet to come… hopefully.

            
"Make it go away." Merrill Keck
            responded.

            
"Pardon me? Make what go away?"

            
"The undertoad. Make the fucking undertoad
            leave me alone and go bother someone else."

            
"I see… the undertoad…"
            James Wyrick coughed, stalling for recognition to come.

            
Silence rushed into the room, collecting
            everything into its mouth and holding it inside, huge eyes of
            wonder staring at the world.

            
"You don't know what I mean, do you?"
            said Merrill Keck.

            
"Haven't the foggiest notion",
            Dr. James Wyrick admitted.

            
A snort emerged from Merrill's mouth as
            he nodded his head, "Yea, that's what I thought. I must
            admit, though, it's nice to hear a medical professional admit
            that he doesn't know everything."

            
"You're an intelligent, intuitive
            man, Merrill, I've long known and acknowledged that much. Why
            don't you try to explain it to me."

            
"Well, James, have you ever read The
            World According to Garp?"

            
The doctor took off his spectacles and
            reached for the handkerchief in the lapel pocket of his jacket.
            "No, I'm afraid that I haven't… and please, don't refer
            to me as 'James'; you're my patient, and I prefer to keep our
            relationship professional."

            
"Okay, then you call me 'Mr. Keck',
            then. I prefer to think of you as a pompous dickbreath who doesn't
            give a flying fuck about anything except the $400-per-50-minute
            hour fee that he steals from people who mistakenly and laughingly
            expect to get something for their money. Only my friends call
            me 'Merrill'."

            
"How long has it been since anyone
            referred to you by your first name?"

            
Grinning, Merrill Keck shook his index
            finger at the doctor. "Oh, I'd almost forgotten-you're good.
            I'm going to have to watch out for you. Anyway, the undertoad,
            according to John Irving, is a concept of perceived anxiety,
            I think, towards some unseen force that threatens to take over
            someone's life. In the book, a five-year-old boy living near
            the ocean was warned by his parents to be careful of the water's
            undertow, which would pull him under the water and out to sea,
            and he would never again see his family. Being five, he conceived
            of a giant, green, amphibian beast living underwater with huge
            frog's eyes and mouth capable of swallowing a small boy in a
            single gulp. Thus, the undertoad was born."

            
"Very interesting… please tell
            me more."

            
"I need you to kill the motherfucker-or
            at least make him get off my back and go play with someone else."
            Merrill Keck's arms were now on his knees as he sat forward on
            the sofa, wringing his hands as he spoke.

            
"Why do you feel the need to curse?"

            
"Why? Does it offend your virgin ears?
            Why don't you curse? How can you listen to problems all day long
            and not curse? Honestly, doc, I think you ought to be seeing
            somebody about that." After pausing, he looked directly
            at the man sitting across the desk from him and replied, "Shit."

            
"Mr. Keck, whatever my psychological
            problems may be, they have little to do with helping you. Could
            we stay focused on you, please? As you so eloquently pointed
            out, you're paying for my assistance."

            
"Touché… my bad."

            
Leaning back on the sofa, Merrill extended
            his right leg and reached into his pants pocket, pulling out
            a pack of Marlboros. Tapping the bottom of the unopened pack
            several times with his finger, he adroitly spun it around and
            removed the cellophane wrapper and tore off a small section of
            the foil. Again turning the pack upside down, he tapped it, allowing
            one cigarette to protrude from the end. Taking it into his mouth,
            suddenly he noticed no ashtrays visible. Worse, the doctor merely
            stared at him disapprovingly, reinforcing Merrill's hatred for
            society's prohibition of smoking. Putting the cigarette back
            into the pack, Merrill sat back on the sofa and folded his hands
            in his lap.

            
"Thank you, Merrill, I very much appreciate
            your help in my never-ending crusade to avoid any reoccurrences,
            on my part, of a habit that I now find repugnant."

            
"Sure thing, doc, anything to help
            a guy out."

            
"Let's talk about the smoking a bit,
            shall we? How much and how often do you smoke?"

            
"Well, given the fact that damned
            near everyplace forbids it, not nearly as much as I'd like, that's
            for sure."

            
"Do you hold out any hope of quitting?"

            
"Well, about the same hope as I have
            of playing pick-up-sticks with my butt cheeks or watching a one-legged
            ballerina at the Bolshoi dancing to Swan Lake."

            
"Do you see any possibility that smoking
            may be your undertoad?" The doctor didn't look up from his
            pad as he wrote.

            
"Actually, I think the undertoad makes
            me smoke, so he can kill me faster."

            
"I see… tell me more of this
            undertoad. You seem as fascinated by his presence as you seem
            afraid. Could it be that you're substituting nicotine as a curative
            for some undefined pessimism or angst?"

            
"Is it really pessimism if it comes
            to live with you and refuses to move out, if it takes over every
            reality in your life and leaves your refrigerator empty, never
            once paying for any groceries? If, in a jealous rage it strangles
            any joy that might happen to knock on your door, dragging it
            into the basement and throwing it into a dungeon where it butt-fucks
            the joy every day while it cries out in pain and agony, is it
            still undefined?" No emotion accompanied the words, causing
            Doctor James Wyrick to stop writing and stare at his patient.

            
"Why do you think I have the power
            to kill him? Don't you think that's your job?"

            
Merrill Keck sighed. "I guess it's
            a little like hiring a hit man. I'd love to kill it myself, if
            I could, but it's too tough for me. That's why I've hired you."

            
"Talk to me about joy, Mr. Keck. Give
            me your definition of the concept."

            
"Joy… for me, joy is the feeling
            you get upon hearing that somebody you hate just died… preferably
            prematurely and after a prolonged period of unendurable pain
            and suffering."

            
"Okay, now define 'contentment', please."

            
"Oh, that's easy, doc… that's
            when you find out through the grapevine that the good-looking
            girl who won't go out with you has never had an orgasm and can't
            afford a good shrink, so she decides to become a nun."

            
"Would you say you're a relatively
            happy guy?"

            
"Who, me? Of course I am! I'm only
            here because I have way more money than I'll ever need and while
            walking by this morning, I noticed that your Mercedes needs new
            tires." Merrill Keck no longer looked at the doctor. Cleaning
            his fingernails with James Wyrick's letter opener, he busied
            himself with the task at hand, outwardly contemptuous of all
            he surveyed.

            
"Mr. Keck, I can't help you until
            you at least acknowledge you have a problem. It is not enough
            for you to walk in here, time and time again, and berate or belittle
            me and everyone else you contact. You express the desire to lose
            your anxieties but you don't seem to understand the causal relationship
            between your attitude and your appearance to the world. Or, if
            you do, you choose to ignore it. Frankly, I consider you far
            too intelligent to continue your self-destructive habits without
            full knowledge of what you're doing."

            
The pad and pen, apparently useless and
            returned to their place on the desktop, functioned as a pretend
            ashtray as James Wyrick, MD, dumped a shadowy pile of ashes from
            his pipe. "You're at war with the world, Mr. Keck, and since
            you insist upon being a one-man army who doesn't listen to the
            generals you've commissioned, it is my opinion that you're headed
            for defeat. Your enemy is both vast and powerful, and is using
            weapons you've provided. No one could ever dislike you nearly
            as much as you dislike yourself. Once I treated a woman who felt
            she was undesirable and unattractive, so she took very small
            doses of rat poison on a daily basis, in hopes that she'd eventually
            just fail to wake up. Meanwhile, she receded further and further
            into her own little world and eventually ended up in a long-term
            care facility, suffering from irreversible coma.

            
You seem intent upon committing suicide
            one day at a time, but instead of taking the poison yourself,
            you're trying to feed it to a rat-resistant public. Once they
            get a taste of it, they reject the provider. Could they point
            it out to you? Yes, they could and probably do, but after awhile,
            they just assume that you don't intend to stop, so they just
            shut the door and ignore your presence. You see, Mr. Keck, most
            people will meet you half way on many issues, but you can't punish
            them for it."

            
"So you're telling me that I invented
            the undertoad and I'm feeding him and providing a place to sleep?"

            
"No, I'm not saying that you invented
            him, but does it matter? He's real and he's got you convinced
            that joy and contentment can only be accomplished as the result
            of other people's misery. You're feeding his insatiable need
            for power, and until you either kill him or find a cell to confine
            him, he'll continue to ruin your life and the lives of those
            closest to you. I can't help you, Merrill, but I can show you
            how to help yourself."

            
"Oh, yea? You can kick him out?"

            
"No, you have to do that… but
            I can show you how to drain the swamp."

            
 

            
* * *

            
"Hi, Paddy… how's it hanging?"

            
"Hey, Luther, it's hangin' low, man…
            too damned low. In fact, it ain't been up in so long, it's considering
            filing for unemployment and welfare."

            
Both men laughed and high-fived each other,
            then did their ritualistic 'soul' handshake as well as white
            folks can realistically be expected to accomplish such tasks,
            their four or five intricate moves finally resulting in giggling
            and calling off the entire endeavor. Paddy draped his jacket
            across the top of the round bar stool and waited for Julie to
            complete the equally ritualistic routine of sliding a draught
            of tap beer down the bar, causing it to glide to Paddy's position
            and stop. Instead, she grabbed a cocktail napkin and coldly placed
            it in front of him. "Paddy, if I hear one cross word from
            you tonight, I'm not going to sweet-talk you, I'm not going to
            warn you, I'm just going to throw your ass out. Got it?"

            
Paddy gave her a quick nod. "Yes,
            ma'am."

            
Then Julie took him by the hand and patted
            it gently. "Honey, you know how much I like and enjoy your
            company, but, honestly, your buddy Merrill is starting to creep
            me out."

            
"I understand, Jewels, honestly I
            do. I haven't seen him in a week. I threw him out of my house
            and haven't seen him since the morning after that night. I'd
            be lying if I said I'm not worried about him, though. We've been
            friends for a long time. He's not all bad, you know… but
            I think he's in over his head now. I don't know how to help him
            anymore."

            
"Well, don't make his problems yours,
            Sweetie. You're smarter than that. I understand loyalty when
            it's returned, but there comes a point when you have to walk
            away."

            
"Yea, I know what you're saying. But,
            I promise, I won't bring trouble to your place, I like coming
            in here."

            
Paddy sipped his brew and looked around.
            His week's forced sabbatical had yielded little by way of insight
            except the realization that Hammerhead's was really his home.
            Yes, he slept at the house on Whitaker Lane, but time spent there
            represented a symptom more than a cure. Now, with Merrill gone,
            there was little reason to go there at all except to shower and
            sleep. The philosophers are right, Paddy silently mused- home
            is where you hang your hat. Gregarious and overtly friendly,
            Paddy could have become a target were it not for his size. The
            former high school football player stayed in decent shape, and
            was physically imposing enough to deter most aggressors. As he'd
            often described himself to ladies who seemed impressed by his
            overall appearance, 'I ain't bad, but bad people don't fuck with
            me'.

            
Lainey Daniels sidled up behind Paddy and
            pinched the roll around his belly affectionately. "Say something
            sweet or die, Newt."

            
Paddy grinned into space and sipped his
            beer. Then, turning his head to the side, not quite far enough
            around to look at her, he said, "Wanna take a shower?"




            The girl feigned irritation and punched him on the arm before
            flashing her patented Prom Queen smile and hugging Paddy affectionately.
            "I missed you."

            
Taking her by both arms, Paddy held her
            at arm's length and frowned, making sure to allow enough time
            for full theatrical presence. "You've contracted amnesia
            and forgotten my address? Remind me to speak to your therapist.
            And don't call me Newt."

            
Lainey squealed and Paddy once again hugged
            her affectionately before planting a friendly kiss on her lips.
            "It's good to see you, Lainey. I missed you, too. Have time
            for a drink and a chat?"

            
Lainey screwed her face into a grimace
            and shook her head. "Better not… the old ball and chain
            is playing pool and if I disappear for too long, I'll catch hell
            when we get home."

            
Nothing more needed to be said. Paddy nodded
            and smiled, suddenly feeling a pang of longing for bygone days.
            They'd once been a hot item and he still missed her softness,
            her sweetness… her legs that seemed to go on forever. Unfortunately,
            the sex had been better than the everyday living. Still, memories
            of her were squirreled away in the secret place where no one
            else could find them, and someday he hoped to relive them in
            reality.

            
"Oh! I almost forgot-" her fingernails
            dug into his arm. "I was approached by a guy looking for
            Merrill, it was two or three days ago. He came in here about
            eight o'clock or so. I didn't ask why he wanted him, but I didn't
            get the impression that it was a social call."

            
"What did you tell him?"

            
"Not much… just that I hadn't
            seen him for a few days and that he wasn't allowed to come in
            here for awhile."

            
"What did he look like? I mean did
            he look like a hit man or mob enforcer?" Paddy grinned,
            his voice full of unneeded theatrical verve.

            
The girl thought for a few seconds. "Well…
            no, not really. He was polite, fortyish, sorta cute, actually.
            I can't describe why, exactly, but if I had to guess, I think
            he might have been Canadian."

            
Paddy swirled his beer without looking
            at her. "Interesting… anything else?"

            
"No, I can't think of anything, except
            that I saw him talking to quite a few people. But, you know how
            unpopular Merrill was in here. I don't think anyone gave him
            too much information. Do you think Merrill's in trouble?"
            The question's tone held little interest of a non-rhetorical
            nature, possessing the same emotion as a 'have a nice day' greeting
            to a total stranger.

            
"Hard to say, with Merrill."
            Paddy raised his eyebrows and sipped his beer. "I wouldn't
            lose any sleep over it, Zany, he's a big boy." Lips puckered,
            he closed his eyes and squinted, expecting a kiss.

            
"Welcome back…" Lainey purred,
            moving very close to him, her eyes looking around the room to
            see if the coast was clear, "and I thought I asked you never
            to call me 'Zany'!" Suddenly both her arms surrounded his
            neck and a low, throaty growl emanated from her throat as she
            nipped his lips with her teeth, then kissed him full on the lips;
            he felt her tongue brush his lips briefly as she broke it off.

            
Quickly, she put her hand to her lips before
            pressing her fingers to his cheek. "See ya later?"
            she asked as she walked away.

            
Over her shoulder, she heard him whisper,
            "Count on it."

            
Julie appeared so suddenly that it startled
            Paddy, in her hand a fresh, golden soldier willing to die for
            the cause. She sat the glass down on the bar and removed the
            empty. "You know, kiddo… sometimes what you see is
            what you get."

            
"Well, well…" Paddy flirted,
            "All I see is you, Doll." Now, Paddy's eyes, wide as
            dollars, stared unblinkingly at her, waiting for the reaction
            he knew would come.

            
"Oh, just drink your beer, stupid.
            That is wrong on so many levels, it doesn't dignify further comment…"
            Julie suddenly found it necessary to wipe down the bar, glancing
            back at him and shaking her head. "Somebody should have
            drown you while you were still a pup."

            
"Does that mean I should cancel our
            reservations tonight at the No-Tell Motel?"

            
Julie Kevlar flipped him the bird as she
            walked away. If Paddy could have walked into the back room, he'd
            have witnessed Julie leaning against the wall, laughing her ass
            off. Putz.

            
 

            
***

            
 

            
Ding-dong-dong-ding… Dong-ding-ding-dong.

            
Somewhere in the fuzz of semi-consciousness,
            Paddy Paderewski heard a noise in the distance, a recognizable
            herald, even when awakening from a dead sleep- the phone or perhaps
            the doorbell. Blinking to clear his head, he glanced at the clock.
            8:30. He once again closed his eyes. If he heard it again, he'd
            get up; if not, weekends were, after all, days of rest.

            
Ding-dong-dong-ding… Dong-ding-ding-dong.

            
"Fuck," Paddy swore under his
            breath and reached for his bathrobe hanging on the antique oak
            coat tree he'd purchased at a yard sale years ago.

            
Ding-dong-dong-ding… "God damn
            it, hold your horses, I'm coming!" Dong-ding-ding-dong.

            
The wood floors in Paddy's house strained
            under his stride as he stormed down the hall toward the front
            door. "Merrill, if that's you, you better pray to Christ
            that you can outrun me, because I fully intend to rip your head
            off and shit in the hole!" Pulling the front door open,
            Paddy's scowl quickly evaporated as he realized he didn't recognize
            the man standing in front of him. He was thin, neatly-dressed
            and held the newspaper in his hand, outstretched towards Paddy.
            The expression on his face hovered between bewilderment and all-out
            terror.

            
"Oh, sorry…" Paddy said
            in a voice barely above a whisper, "are you delivering the
            paper now?"

            
Offering it to Paddy, the man grinned nervously
            and shook his head. "No, I'm looking for someone. Down at
            Hammerhead's they told me that you might be able to tell me where
            I could find Merrill Keck."

            
Paddy's expression revealed nothing. "And
            you are-whom, exactly?"

            
A quick grab into his back pocket produced
            a wallet. Fishing for a second, he produced a driver's license
            and handed it to Paddy. "I'm Kendall Keck… Merrill's
            brother."

            
Paddy examined the license and handed it
            back to the man. Offering his hand, he said, "Come on in.
            Are you a coffee drinker?"

            
For the next two hours, the two men sat
            at Paddy's kitchen table and talked about many things, two men
            with only one thing in common- Merrill Keck. But, for the moment,
            that was enough.

            


            ****

            
 

            
 

            
Gossamer. Not thin or translucent…
            gossamer. Such was her touch, when they danced. It was as though
            she had no mass, no physical substance, yet her essence glimmered
            like her dress, moving effortlessly against him, every breath
            on his cheek nearly moving him to tears. Then, just as he moved
            to kiss her lips, she simply vanished, and his now-empty arms
            grieved for her. "Rita, don't go!" Merrill Keck sat
            up in bed, suddenly fully awake.

            
"Don't go…" he repeated.
            The dream had been identical to all the others, right down to
            the background Perry Como music. Merrill resolved to talk to
            Dr. Wyrick about that, to see if the good doctor had any therapy
            capable of creating some Johnny Mathis or Barry White… hell,
            damn near anything would beat Perry Como.

            
No, Rita was gone, and there was nothing
            in the world that Merrill could do to change it. If only he'd…
            if only he'd what? The accident that claimed her could have happened
            to anyone… the truck driver who ran into her would never
            walk again and Merrill's 4-year-old daughter, Dosie, lay in a
            special ward at Mount Sinai Hospital in Toronto, where she'd
            probably live out the remainder of her short life without ever
            again opening her eyes. How long had it been since he'd gone
            to see her? Then the terrible reality hit him. He hadn't been
            across the bridge in nearly six years.

            
The light penetrating the window would
            be the sun, or rather the winter version of the sun, a somewhat
            muted fraud turning everything a barely-palatable gray. Swinging
            his legs off the side of the bed, he yawned and tried to recall
            the route to the bathroom. The rooming house on Fillmore Street,
            just as Paddy had projected, was all too happy to rent him a
            room on a weekly basis. However, he hated the idea of sharing
            the communal bathroom located in the hall. Most of the time,
            it smelled as if an entire herd of swine had recently exited,
            leaving behind an eau de cologne familiar to every farm kid who
            ever mucked a stall. A red light bulb blinked in the hall, signifying
            that the room was occupied. Wonderful.

            
Closing his front door, he walked over
            to the single-compartment sink and surveyed the landscape. It's
            too high. Quickly, he pulled a kitchen chair up against the front.
            Stepping onto the chair, he faced the sink, pulled the waistband
            of his pajamas below his balls and grabbed his penis. In seconds,
            urine ran freely into the sink, splashing a little against the
            sides as the stream intensified. There he stood, in all his glory,
            pissing in his kitchen sink without a care in the world. Should
            he sing or perhaps whistle? Aware of no guidelines to assist
            him, he merely filled his cheeks with air a few times and allowed
            it to 'pffff' out, rounding his lips and imposing a resistance
            against the air flow. At some point, upon feeling his bladder
            empty and the flow diminish, he strained mightily, pulling his
            unit a couple of times and shaking the head. Satisfied that he
            was, indeed, finished, Merrill flipped the head of his penis
            upward so he could check the eye one last time for moisture,
            then returned his waistband to its customary location. Climbing
            down from the chair, he turned the faucet handles on, 'flushed'
            the sink and grabbed the soap, testing the water temperature
            and bringing a fertile lather to bear upon his skin. Rinsing
            carefully, he inventoried his fingernails and turned the faucets
            off with his elbows. After shaking the water residue off his
            hands, he held them in the air like he'd seen in all the TV shows,
            a surgeon waiting for his gloves.

            
And why not piss in the sink, he reasoned.
            It all goes the same place, after all, and there's no one around
            to register a complaint, in any event. The city doesn't have
            sink sewers and shit sewers, does it? Really, it was more economic,
            since one toilet flush must take at least two to three times
            the amount of water he'd used, and he'd washed his hands, as
            well. Merrill Keck also resolved to think about this on a deeper
            level, too… maybe invent a combination sink/urinal that
            could be used by men and women. Stand back, America, the Urinal
            King is in the building!

            
The staccato raps on the door startled
            him. No peephole existed, but the creaky floor would have prevented
            his attempt to look, in any case. If he was to remain invisible,
            he mustn't move. Maybe whoever it was would simply go away. After
            a minute or two, a manila envelope appeared under the door, but
            not quite completely through. It could be a trap, Merrill reasoned.
            If he grabbed it too soon, whoever was out there would know he
            was in the room. Relax, God damn it! Just let it lie.

            
Obviously, someone knew he was here, but
            whom? Merrill had told no one that he could remember. Paddy…
            Or maybe it was someone looking for the last guy who rented the
            room, he couldn't be certain. But he was certain of one thing-he
            had to contact Paddy. It would be just like the undertoad to
            disguise itself as a friend.

            
 

            
*** 

            

            
 

            
Denny's Restaurant, while never mistaken
            for a five-star bistro, nonetheless offered Merrill Keck a spot
            to wile away the mornings. Same table every day, and if it was
            occupied, no problem, he'd wait. These days, his natural suspicion
            of the undertoad brought forth even greater diligence in his
            dealings with all people, strangers especially.

            
Today, he sat, deep in thought. A manila
            envelope lay on the table unopened, the same manila envelope
            slid under his door earlier this morning. Merrill eyed the other
            clientele suspiciously, eager to catch anyone watching him or
            diverting his eyes when Merrill looked his way. So far, nothing
            attracted his attention; perhaps it would be safe to insert his
            knife under the flap and open it. But what if there's anthrax
            inside, or neurolysin, for God's sake?

            
Merrill's mannerisms, carefully choreographed
            during his four decades of battle with his environment, annoyed
            practically everyone he'd ever met. Over the years, the servers
            at Denny's were no different, often drawing straws to see who
            would be forced to wait on him.

            
The morning rush complete, Tiffany Springs
            took the time to scan her service area. To her disdain, she watched
            powerlessly as the curtain went up on the Merrill Keck Theatre
            for the Bizarre. He'd turned his empty coffee cup upside down
            on the table, his standard oh-so-subtle reminder that she'd taken
            more than thirty seconds to recognize him by filling his cup.
            Tiffany silently poured his coffee, promised to be 'right back'
            and walked back into the kitchen, where she peeked around the
            corner to watch him conduct his ritual.

            
First, making sure the handle of the cup
            faced to his left, he grabbed a packet of artificial creamer.
            Next, holding the creamer in his right hand, he flicked it several
            times to ensure that the contents didn't spill out as he tore
            open the right one-third of the packet. Then, satisfied he'd
            successfully completed this critical step, he'd tap (never pour
            or shake) the creamer into the brew, stirring constantly with
            his left hand. At precisely the right time, he'd stop tapping,
            hold the remaining contents of the packet to the light, take
            out a pen and mark the level on the side of the packet before
            setting it back down on the table, being careful to prop it up
            between the salt and pepper shakers.

            
Tiffany grinned and rolled her eyes at
            Marla and Toni, who stifled giggles as they watched. "Pathetic…"
            she whispered to Toni. "I got a week's paycheck says he
            irons his shorts."

            
"Shhhhh..." Tiffany held her
            finger up and shook her head at the other two, "let him
            finish... Where in the hell do you suppose he's from? I've never
            seen anything like this!"

            
Act Two began as Merrill positioned packets
            of honey strategically to his right, in rows of two, just to
            the left of the ketchup bottle. With short but delicate fingers,
            he picked up the packet nearest to the center of the table, read
            the contents on the back, then, satisfied that he could trust
            the manufacturer to indeed put honey inside the packet, clipped
            the tip off the corner with a small fingernail clipper extracted
            from his jacket pocket.

            
"Damn…" Jerome Hackstraw
            whispered to the trio of servers, shaking his head in pity. Jerome,
            the night manager, after completing his ten-hour shift of baby-sitting
            drunks, didn't look forward to his inevitable confrontation with
            Merrill. Jerome tried to overlook him if humanly possible, not
            wishing to risk the bad karma received from provoking a basket
            case.

            
"Can't you ladies find something to
            do, other than ridicule that poor bastard?"

            
Jerome watched as the three scrambled hither
            and yon, feigning activity at the closest venue they could find.
            Watching them scurry, Jerome's white teeth showed brightly as
            he took their place at the corner. It was his turn to watch.
            He'd witnessed this performance many times, but it never failed
            to make him smile.

            
By now, Merrill was lost in his work, oblivious
            to the world. If for the only time in his day, for the next few
            seconds, Merrill became master of his domain. Nothing could happen
            without his knowledge. Holding his right index finger straight
            out in front of him, he squeezed a neat row of honey onto it.
            Picking up the coffee cup with his left hand, he filled his mouth
            about three-quarters full with coffee and tilted his head back
            a little. Then, sticking his finger in his mouth, he sucked off
            the coffee-softened honey. Eyes closed in recognition of Fool's
            Nirvana, he savored the mixture and swallowed, smacking his lips
            in pleasure. Once sated, he opened his eyes and looked around
            the room. Why did everyone suddenly avert his or her eyes from
            him? Get a good look, morons… you've never seen a guy drink
            a cup of coffee, for Christ's sake? He continued the ritual,
            finally draining the cup and setting it on the table right side
            up.

            
There was still the matter of the manila
            envelope. Satisfied that the CIA could not possibly be interested
            in him and that Julie Kevlar or Joe Acosta hadn't paid anyone
            to have him whacked, Merrill slid his butter knife blade under
            the flap and tugged. Opening the flap, Merrill took out the single
            sheet of unlined paper. Scrawled in blue ink were the words

            
Merrill, 

            Please come home. Dosie is

            asking for her daddy.

            
Mom

            
 

            
As he began to reach inside, Tiffany Springs
            surprised him. "Can I warm your coffee, sir?"

            
Clearing his throat, Merrill replied, "Uh-
            no, I believe I've had enough for now… but thanks for asking."
            Picking up the check, Merrill folded the manila envelope under
            his arm and walked to the cash register. Reaching in his wallet,
            he looked up at Jerome's tall, sleek form looming over him from
            behind the counter.

            
"How much, my good man?" Merrill
            inquired, handing the check to the large, black man standing
            in front of him.

            
Jerome looked at Merrill, punched a couple
            of keys, and said, "Seventy-nine cents, Merrill. Just like
            every other day. That is, unless you'd care to pay for all the
            honey you've consumed during your morning rituals for the past
            six years. In that case, your bill comes to around three thousand
            dollars."

            
"I don't think I care for your tone,
            Jerome, especially in light of the fact that your waitresses
            are getting more and more inefficient in the execution of their
            duties to your customers", Merrill snapped back.

            
"Well, sir, could that, in any way,
            be due to the fact that you have never once left any form of
            gratuity which didn't involve your hand-written witticisms and/or
            telephone number scrawled semi-coherently on a napkin?"
            The Denny's night manager folded his arms and glared at Merrill.

            
"Listen, Jerome, I've never caused
            problems here. I've always paid in cash and for the most part,
            I've kept my thoughts to myself. I am under no obligation to
            supplement their salary out of my own pocket. If you choose not
            to pay them a livable wage and if they are willing to work for
            it, that forms a contract between you and them. I am not bound
            by it."

            
"Oh, shit… now look what you've
            done-you've gone and made me cry, I feel so bad." Jerome
            wiped crocodile tears from his eyes with his fists before continuing.
            "Ebenezer Scrooge is my great-grandfather on my mother's
            side, so I can't help myself. I'll tell you what, Mr. Gates,
            I'm taking out my wallet. Situated inside is a collection of
            currency that will likely exceed what you spend in here in six
            months. If you will promise to take it and walk out of here,
            promising never to return, I will gladly put this money in your
            well-licked right hand!" As Jerome stuck the bills in Merrill's
            chest, the two men glared at each other with a silence born of
            frustration.

            
Expressionless, Merrill stepped backwards,
            made a self-righteous gesture and uttered, "While we're
            on the subject, I'd appreciate it if I could get clean utensils
            tomorrow." Pivoting, he walked toward the front door, his
            armor of indignation gleaming.

            
Jerome chased him around the counter, shouting,
            "Why's that, you two-bit chiseler? You don't know how to
            use them anyway!"

            
The comments fell upon deaf ears as Merrill
            crossed the parking lot, a wry smirk pasted on his lips, the
            note secure in his breast pocket. For the first time in six years,
            he had something to smile about, a reason to cross the bridge.
            Dosie wants to see her daddy.

            
Bob Church © 7/2004

            
Bob Church resides in mid-Missouri
            with his wife of three decades, Louise, their poodle, Carla,
            and their cat, Callie. After thirty years spent raising five
            children, he has reached the point in his life that allows time
            to pursue his real love, writing. You can find more of his stories/observations
            at notquiteright/

            
For more from Bob visit his other
            stories: December,
            then & before;
            his columns: now, December,
            then, before;
            and his poetry: then
            and before.