 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
|
 Now that no one is watching, I'll try hard to tell the truth, which of course is a stupid thing to say, because no one knows that truth exists.Nonetheless ... I am glad that I did not participate in all the Christmas whirl, for several reasons, all of them specific to me and none of them aimed at anyone else. I'm not the least bit religious. I do not believe in the godliness of any man, and I don't particularly care about the man recorded as Jesus Christ. When I was a child, I was forced to listen to so many pulpit sermons delivered by red-faced alcoholic priests dressed up in silk gowns and sexy sashes, that I wonder now why then I did not scream. Loud. Right there in the middle of St. Eunuch's Church, one dark guinzo kid screeching out his boredom and rebellion, loud enough to bring the Irish prison guards racing to the leftward middle pew, there and then to haul the brat home to meet his real makers. Fear of reprisal -- from my crazy parents, not from a god in whom I never believed -- strangled my disdain until it became a breathless, mental whisper. Still ... I wish I'd screamed. My cowardice, then and always, kept me from earning notoriety. I might well have used some notoriety in my life. Notoriety is not so exciting as fame, but it's more satisfying than frustrated anonymity, especially for intelligent skeptics who suffer torture at the hands of sexually frustrated priests and overweight nuns. Please don't get me wrong -- or go ahead and get me wrong if that slant should tickle your fancy -- I think the Christian philosophy, as represented in their bible, owns a great deal of charm and a greater amount of frightful power to persuade incautious human beings to take better care of themselves, especially those who live in deserts and sometimes eat tainted food (and then there's to mention all the fine wine the modern padres swallow in order to gain the courage necessary to stand and deliver tragic tales and ferocious admonitions from inside a pulpit). That same philosophy, however, reflects a supercilious attitude toward all who say that they do not believe. The average man who today claims to be a Christian tolerates Jews with a weak smile and thinks all Muslims are terrorists. Then again, the average man isn't all that smart. Just look at the sickly color of the beer he drinks. As I was saying, I own several reasons ... Buying solicited gifts is a disgusting habit that makes a person tired and angry. 
***Xmas At The Mall I buyed for you Whoo ooo ooo ooo. Now it's your turn To buy over me. *** You have to be old enough to know the proper melody, and yes, you have to sing the poem. *** Money. And then there's money ... I don't own enough of it to afford the time I'd need to become a writer. In spite of the fact that I work ten or eleven-hour days, sometimes six days a week. In spite of the fact that I must take work home with me. In spite of the fact that my colleagues define dedication to one's career as an intense willingness to sacrifice one's own emotional health for the sake of clients who could not give less of a hoot for all their effort. And in spite of the fact that I fake that altruistic attitude as best I'm able, I am far from rich. I want to earn enough money to afford me the rare combination of time and creative energy so necessary to becoming a writer. Either that, or I want to travel back in time and make myself a secretary (a.k.a. "office manager"), so that I might leave all those unfinished tasks lying on my desk. Perhaps again, tonight I'll close my eyes tight, then open them once more, this time to find myself reborn as a soccer mom, one of those noble ladies who winds on and on about how hard she works, what with making the beds and driving the kids to daycare centers and schools; and later in the afternoon dragging the tikes to sports events and dance lessons. I'd be sure, I promise you, to take a break from all that driving -- and from typing my precious art -- so as to watch Oprah each and every afternoon. Oprah, I think, is a damned good source for inspiration, although you'd best hang on to that working spouse if you want to pay the cable television bill each month. Damned leeches, those cable television companies. That, my friends, would be the topic for my first published article (in Redbook or in Reader's Digest). *** Male-dominated Cable Companies Suck Soccer Moms Dry! All you male chauvinist pigs beware the cost of your callous attitudes toward us soccer-mom artists. If you think for one moment that you're going to deprive us of Oprah by cutting off our cable service -- without paying a stiffer price than the company charged you, that is -- then just you wait till the next time you visit your underwear drawer. There you'll discover all your rank briefs, wrinkled, wet and stained, just as they were when you tossed them into the hamper. Harumph. Our art before your underwear! Writing soccer moms unite! 
***I own one last, glorious reason for avoiding the Christmas rush ... Because I was home and settled into my art, while you were out shopping and visiting relatives who bored you silly with their video sagas, their over-sweet wine and their undercooked turkeys, I was able to write the beginning of a story. I call it Sam's War, and I bury it here, way down under paragraph 33, where most people -- most soccer moms at least -- won't venture. I bury it because the story contains language that's sure to offend some -- some Christians at least. And as I said at the head of this overarching tale, my decisions regarding Christmas, Christians, cable companies and cheap beer are my own, and are not aimed at anyone. The story is true and the story is fiction. It's true because I say so, and it's fiction because the language belonged to Sam, not to me. I'm waffling in the leftward pew once again, afraid to scream my boredom and rebellion. But what the hell; I'm no longer a young guinzo kid, and neither fame nor notoriety shall ever come my way. I'll likely never finish the tale of Sam's War, because I'm too busy working long hours to earn my keep, and because I don't really know how Sam's saga ends. Sam Lippincott was a racist weakling. I, of course, was the boy standing beside him in the theatre lobby. My boy felt afraid of Sam's anger. As a guinzo kid he stood just one step away from the people Sam hated. Still, my boy learned a lot from Sam Lippincott. He learned about the power of word and image. He learned about the lies told behind the curtain of pressed uniforms and brass buttons, and about the loneliness of old age. *** SAM'S WAR Sam Lippincott stood tall, straight and skinny at age seventy-five. He wore his uniform, that of a doorman and ticket taker for The Rialto Theatre in Bronwell Corners, as if he were a general. Commandant of Main Street, Ambassador of War to all invaders, sly diplomat to the enemy. Double-breasted jacket cleaned, tucked and tailored. Brass buttons brilliant under neon light. Black-silk bow tie, knotted, fluffed and shifted high enough to hide the sagging, wrinkled flesh of an old man's neck. Left hand cupped against the back of his cap, the blue-veined fingertips of his right hand pinched tight along the edge of the black-plastic brim, Sam pushed, pulled and tilted the sign of his authority, as if to reassure himself that the rakish look of his younger days was still intact. Beside him in the theatre lobby, the young-boy usher stood at-ease, his own uniform pressed in imitation of his master's, lacking only the gold-fringed epaulets and the chevron shoulder stripes that marked his superior officer. The boy rocked back and forth, from heel to toe, as he stared through the glass-paned doors at the crowd that gathered and formed itself into a line. That line stretched a long block, to the corner of Main and Cedarcrest, where Charlie Price kept The Sugar Bowl open later than usual to accommodate those folks who were smart enough, or poor enough, to buy their chocolate-covered peanuts, licorice sticks and soda pop before they entered the theatre. The Christmas Eve early show always brought a heavy crowd to the Rialto; and Charlie Price always took advantage of dizzy holiday spending patterns to earn an extra buck.  "Damned niggers are taking over the town," said Sam. The boy snapped to attention when he heard Sam's voice. "Just look at the way they rush and push to be the first monkey to swing on the weakest branch," said Sam. The boy said nothing, because he knew of no way to say anything. "Bunch of jungle bunnies. None of them can talk right. And they sure as hell can't read the marquee," said Sam. The boy rocked back and forth, heel to toe. He watched the growing line. He choked back rebellion, until his scream became a breathless, mental whisper. "But you have to realize that what movie's playing doesn't matter to them," said Sam. "It's the flash of fantasy that keeps them running for front-row seats. Flash of fantasy. Did you hear what I said, boy? Remember that idea when the day comes for you to assume this post, because I ain't going to live forever. Feed them flashes of fantasy, but just enough to keep them hungry for more. Guide them inside with a friendly smile, and then lead them to the candy stand. Always suggest that they stop by the candy stand. The candy stand is where we make the real money. Popcorn and peanuts. These filthy niggers love popcorn and peanuts." Sam pulled the cigar stub from his mouth and then clicked his tongue against the back of his dentures. A wet, sharp sound, one that let the boy know that he should snap to attention and memorize the sermon. *** Thanks for stopping by to visit us here at SpilledBeans.com. If you'd like to be notified whenever something new is posted to SpilledBeans.com, then please join the Spilled Beans notification list. -- Con affetto, Anthony V. Toscano, Editor SpilledBeans.com  |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|