CheapLit: Free ebook sample of "Short Stories, Satires, 'N Such" by Mark Collins (powered by Smashwords)

A rain-soaked Cyril handed Stan his money and ATM card, moved away from the other T-shirt shoppers in the outdoor Coral Gables mall, and whispered, “Hey, famous number 17, Your 1717 PIN is a little too obvious. Someday-”

Stan countered, “Yes mom, no mom.”

Cyril smiled and retorted playfully, “Look who’s talking about being overprotective, the big brother who slammed the door in the face of every serious suitor of his sweet little sister Shelley.”

Stan replied, “Except your face. Smartest thing I ever did. Four long years ago.”

Cyril chuckled and replied sheepishly, “You know we left tackles can’t make snap decisions like you quarterbacks.”

The All-Americans, Stan and Cyril, walked toward the restaurant where they were going to meet Stan’s girlfriend, Roxy. They began talking about football, remembering their undefeated season, national championship and Stan’s Heisman trophy. They eagerly and nervously anticipated next week’s All-Star game, the combine, and the draft. The odd couple, Stan in blue jeans and a new “wifebeater” T-shirt, and Cyril in his Sunday best, wished a good team would draft them together.

As the rain intensified, Roxy sashayed toward them in a miniskirt and halter top, her necklace, a two inch crucifix, swaying with her body. Cyril smiled brightly and whistled before Stan let her have it. “What are you thinking of? Go home, change, and take off that makeup. There are photographers everywhere. You look like trailer park trash.” She quickly turned away and walked off with Cyril.

“Don’t pay him any mind,” Cyril whispered. “You look great. Our coach is always on us about our weight. I’m carrying fifty extra pounds while Stan’s at his ideal weight, yet we’re both obsessive dieters. He’s perfect and so are you. C’mon, let’s show him who’s the boss.”

As Cyril bought Roxy three chocolate covered cherries in See’s Candies, Stan looked on in disgust and snapped, “Hope you can get into your super-size six wedding gown next Sunday. If you get fat like your mother, your big sister and your slow-witted brother, don’t think I won’t divorce you in a minute.”

Roxy side-armed her liquor-laden candy at him and cameras started shooting.

Stan continued, “And marry Stella. Sometimes, I wonder why I left her for you.”

With both hands, Roxy rounded up all of See’s cream-filled samples and hurled them too. As photographers took pictures for tomorrow’s headline in sports, “Creaming The Heisman Hero,” Roxy walked off with Cyril, who signaled Stan that he would patch things up. Again. As the rain became drizzle, reporters immediately surrounded Stan for the story.

“I thought he liked my mom,” Roxy said with downcast eyes.

“He thinks the world of her and your sweet sister,” answered Cyril.

Quickening their pace, they walked far away from Stan toward Roxy’s trailer park. Glancing back at Stan, Roxy noted, “For the last two weeks, Stan’s been standoffish. Now, he’s throwing my trailer park origins, my poor retarded brother, and that skinny Stella in my face.”

Cyril sympathized, “Unforgivable that he keeps bringing up the trailer park. No one would ever suspect it, Miss Doolittle.”

“How could he be so cruel?”

“In this psych major’s opinion, as D-day draws nigh, unresolved conflicts are intensifying in a nice guy under tremendous pressure.”

“In English?” Roxy asked.

Cyril replied, “There’s a train wreck dead ahead. Sorry to say, I saw the crash coming and never told you. He’s still stuck on Stella and he’s always been uneasy about your family origins and the quality of your genes.”

“I had no idea, Cyril. Why doesn’t he tell me?”

“Because he can’t, Roxy. How do you tell your betrothed of your irrational fears of having retarded, fat kids? But now this stress is surfacing under the added pressure of the vow till death do us part.”

“What can we do?”

“Wish I knew, Roxy.”

“Can he beat these demons?”

“Perhaps.”

They stopped walking about a mile from their destination and sat down on an apricot-colored park bench. Roxy’s mood picked up as she added, “My God, now that we’re being so open, I’ve been dying to tell you that I have a secret admirer who sends me the most beautiful love poems.”

Cyril bent down to pet a stray dog and feed him some beef jerky.

Roxy beamed, “Every stray dog in this neighborhood loves your jerky treats. I’ll bet you carry it just for them.”

Cyril turned red at the thought that she’s noticed how often he has done this. He continued, “Why tell me?”

With pride, Roxy replied, “Because you are by far the most intelligent, sensitive, sweet, understanding, trustworthy and poetic guy I know.”

“Wow, what a list of superlatives,” Cyril observed tongue-in-cheek.

“All true.”

“Inconceivable...OK, who’s your secret admirer?”

Roxy smiled brightly and she took a deep breath as she observed, “A dream. A perfect gentleman. A poet named Cyrano.”

“If he’s perfect, why does he remain anonymous?”

“Why Cyril, no doubt he chose the name ‘Cyrano’ because the poor fellow has a serious physical defect.”

“Then Roxy, why don’t you teach the physically perfect Stan to behave more like Cyrano?”

“Teach Stanley the brute to behave like Cyrano the poet? God Almighty couldn’t. Besides, it’s too late, the big Church wedding-”

“Postpone the wedding. Don’t settle. Change Stan back to his old self or else-”

Roxy retorted, “Else what? Don’t marry the handsomest man on campus? Am I crazy? Don’t marry your hero, everyone’s hero? Let some other gal snatch my ticket out of the trailer park? ‘Out of my cold, dead’ fingers! I’ve worked too hard to back away now. God, I still cannot believe I beat the head cheerleader. Stella won’t look at me even when I’m being nice to her. Besides, beggars can’t be choosers.”

“Sweetie, even the old Stan was not good enough for you.”

“I wish it were so. ‘If wishes were horses-’”

“Then beautiful ‘beggars’ like you ‘would ride.’”

“Cyril, you finish all my thoughts. You complement me so perfectly. If only-”

“What?”

“Nothing. I should be going. Stan will be worried we’re up to something.”

“Are we?” Cyril wished he had not been so forward. He quickly added, “Please don’t leave. I have something to ask you.”

“Can’t it wait?”

“No. My dearest, I know this is an awful imposition.” He could not believe he said “my dearest.” He continued, “But can you help me? I’m serious about a sweet, sensitive girl and I would like to know what to say.”

“Impossible, Cyril. The most articulate person I know has been dating Shelley for four years and hasn’t figured out what to say.”

Softly, “It’s not Shelley. I’m a brother to Stan and I love his only sister as my own and want the best for her, but I cannot love her in that way. I’ve been playing the most subtle game of matchmaker with her for four years, yet she still prefers me.”

“I can see why.”

“No, really. I even trapped her in an elevator for an hour with a poet who’s much better for her. To no avail. I’m afraid I’ll have to break her heart to open her eyes to better suitors. That’s where I need Cyrano’s help. The girl I adore is a star-gazer who can’t see me, a lowly dung beetle working slavishly upon the smelly heaps of Earth. Perhaps I could borrow a few lines of celestial poetry to perfume the heaps-”

“And draw her heavenly gaze downwards.”

“Roxy, now you’re finishing my thoughts.”

“See. We’re perfect together.”

“Well?”

Roxy answered, “I couldn’t.”

“OK.”

“I’m sorry,” she added.

“OK, I understand.”

Her purse surrendered the heart-shaped letters reluctantly. She inhaled their ambrosia, caressed them, and then gently handed them to him.

Cyril read the first few lines of the two letters. “They’re both dated yesterday, exactly fifty three minutes apart. This Cyrano’s far gone...Oh, this is good, just what I was looking for. God, where did he learn to write like that? Better than Molière. What wooman wouldn’t swoon?”

“‘Words, words, words. Is that all you blighters can do’? Will someone please rescue me from Stan the brute?”

“Perhaps Cyrano can’t because he’s a scrawny geek. Worse, he may be fat or ugly.”

Without hesitation, Roxy replied, “No matter scrawny, fat, geeky, or ugly. He’s a dreamboat on Moon River at a splendid sunset. A poet whose panache has run away with my heart.”

“Roxy, what if he’s a poor poet, with no connections, no prospects and no panache?”

“Cyrano without panache? Impossible! Do you mean a penniless poet or a poor poet like you? Sorry, Cyril, your amateurish verse isn’t half bad, but it can’t compare with Cyrano’s. His effortlessly saws the air with both hands and soars to the very vault of Heaven!”

As the rain intensified, she inhaled deeply and continued, “Look! The clouds weep for legions of his vanquished ‘rivals.’ He inspires the Muses!”

“Incredible, from a poor poet.”

“Yes, Cyrano’s an incredible poet and no doubt penniless. Poor sounds pretty good right now. Suddenly, wealth doesn’t matter when a fabulously wealthy young man like Stan is calling me ‘trailer trash’ and a ‘super-sized six.’”

“Seriously, dear, you cannot be in love with a poor poet like Cyrano.”

“You bankside poets know perfectly well that ‘love knows nothing of rank or riverbank.’”^¹

Cyril, aside, “Too true.”

“Sweet Roxanne, can I be practical?”

“Yes you may.”

“What if Cyrano’s parents can’t stand you?”

“You mean like your haughty -though poor- parents? How can you stand them? Always telling you to be more like Stan, to trim down and become a star tight end instead of a fat tackle nobody. How mean can they be? You’re not nobody. You’re a star! Please. Thank God you’re not like Stan!”

Cyril waited patiently for her. She paused to think and added, “Yet having in-laws from hell would be unbearable.”

“Are mine that awful?” Cyril’s eyes could not hide his despair.

“Why do you ask? You know they are,” Roxanne replied forcefully.

Sighing, “Oh, no particular reason…But what if Cyrano is also…an atheist?”

Roxy fondled her crucifix. “I swear by my Savior Lord Jesus that would kill all my dreams. My family would never speak to me again. But Cyrano couldn’t possibly be godless. Someone so noble, kind and good must love God and be God-like. Besides, I don’t know any atheists except you. You-?”

“No, no, Roxy. A secret admirer doesn’t have to be someone you know.”

“But you, Cyril, are so much like Cyrano”

“A coincidence perhaps, but I’m, I’m a terrible poet. Too often tongue-tied and on the rare occasion when I untie my tongue, then ‘many a time and oft’ I’m redundant and repetitive.”

“Ha, ha, Cyril. It takes talent to do a double-double redundancy.”

“Yeah, and such assonance takes more talent.” He smiled as he added, “Roxy, you’re words are a treasure trove of tropes to this poor poet.” He leaned closer to her, as if to belie these words, “No, seriously, I’m Stan’s best friend, his best man. His brother. No, I would never, ever-”

“Now you sound like me. Kindest sir, methinks you ‘doth protest too much.’” She leaned still closer to him, “Cyril, are you my beloved Cyrano?”

Hesitating, but not breaking their mutual gaze, “No, Roxy, I am not. No, not at all. Don’t go there.”

“Wish you were. Cyril, you I could adore if you weren’t-”

“Godless?”

“Yes. Do you think ill of me?”

“Never. I adore you, ma Chérie. If only you weren’t Stan’s angel...”

“Sounds more like I was Stan’s angel. Now Stan’s not himself, but his evil twin. Right this moment, I’m not anyone’s angel. No, definitely not his until next Sunday.”

‘“Methinks the lady doth protest too much.’”

“Touché…Would you please help me with something?”

“My pleasure. Anything, dearest.”

Their plan was put into action Monday morning. Under intense pressure from six different agents and with millions more riding on not being the second draft pick, Stan admitted he had no cause to take it out on Roxy. Instead, he joked that he should pick on his “big mama,” Stan, who is used to taking abuse without complaint. He bought Roxy a dozen red roses, but could not bring himself to add sweets. That would have spoken volumes. So would orchids, her favorite flowers, which she has indicated a dozen times.

As she was listening to Stan, Roxy was dreaming of Cyrano. She has never spoken to Cyrano, yet every Thursday he sends her the most beautiful and fragrant purple and gold orchid, which he renamed ‘The Roxanne Royale.’ The ultimate fantasy, she thought. A girl from the trailer park treated like a queen! Every month on the 19^th, Cyrano celebrates the moment of Roxy’s birth at 7:57 PM by special delivery of her favorite chocolate-covered cherries, Mon Chéri.

Roxy’s smiles made Stan smile. She inhaled the ambrosia of her roses and hugged them ever so tightly. As they hugged, Stan’s sincere apologies broke through her defenses. She forgave him, though nothing could make her forget that abuse.

Cyril could not bear to see Roxy and Stan make the mistake of their lives. Long ago, Cyril learned from the monumental mistake of his namesake, Cyrano de Bergerac. Seeing that Stan and Roxy were wrong for each other, Cyril simply could not help Stan win Roxy, but cheerfully smoothed things over without being asked. Meanwhile, he tried to steer Stella, his fellow psych major, back toward Stan, Roxy toward himself, and Shelley toward more suitable suitors. For an interminable year, Cyril was about as successful a matchmaker as Emma Woodhouse. As Cyrano, Cyril wrote to Roxy to see if he could make her fall in love with a phantom poet. If Roxy did not, no harm done to her, Stan, or Shelley. If Roxy did, then everything might end well.

“I can’t keep stringing Shelley along,” Cyril mused aloud. “She’s expecting a proposal this year. Nor can I write any more letters to Roxy. I must let her decide without any more pressure from her adoring Cyrano. She knows it’s me. If she still chooses Stan, I must let her make an error that will destroy the two people I love most. Stan has been too good to me. He has made me what I am, an All American with a good chance to start in the NFL. Who would have noticed this big brutish blocker were I not so effectively protecting the blind side of the best quarterback? Life without his friendship would be worthless. Yet life without Roxy is no life. She is my life! Mi vida, five more days! Just five more. Please, my angel, close your eyes, follow your heart and choose your Cyrano. Choose me.

“Stan and Shelley, forgive me. Were the tables reversed, would you not have done likewise? Stan, do you love Roxy enough to betray your best friend and his sweet sister for their own good? I haven’t found anyone for Shelley. Not yet, but I know I will when she’s free of me. Were I not an atheist, I’d ask an angel for better guidance. Dudley would do just fine. As it is, I have to leave the outcome of my careful planning to fickle fate. If the wheel of fortune comes full circle, the friend and the lover will be friendless and loveless. For endless winter!”

Stan was confused and depressed, believing that this time there can be no reconciliation with Roxy. “My just deserts,” he whispered to himself. He turned to Stella for consolation. Although Stan deserted Stella for “foxy Roxy,” Stella forgave him, having accepted Cyril’s excuses and his assurances that Stan still loved her. Stella was the resilient girl Stan needed most. Buoyed by Cyril throughout the year, Stella would take Stan back in an instant, though stealing him back would be even sweeter. There was no one like Stan. No one.

Stan text-messaged Stella, “Hey Doll, don’t loll. Let’s lunch at Lela’s. Luv, Lugh.” Stella loved her he-man most when he was artsy, a laughable image, like a cave dweller in a business suit off the peg. Stella dressed a little more provocatively than Roxy had on Sunday, but Stan did not think so. He smiled and whistled as Cyril did. She was anything but trailer trash. Her parents looked down on Stan for three infernal years until his prospects became white hot under his new quarterback coach, whereupon he deserted Stella for greener-looking pastures.

Stella ordered “double chocolate decadence” and double espresso before four more courses of comfort foods, but Stan made no comments, as he ordered a Caesar salad without dressing. She always did that and she’s still a size four.

Stan told Stella of his troubles as his way of saying “Sorry, I know I’m still a bit of a jerk.” His surreptitious apologies for his past mistreatment of Stella encouraged the psych major. Stella noted that Stan did not say anything about Roxy that was not completely true and she blamed Roxy for being overly sensitive. Stella was glad she did not immediately overplay her hand and say, “Stella’s weak,” because Stan would have charged to her defense.

With tongue-in-cheek, Stella added, “I would never dress like that unless that’s what you want. I’d never dream of making such a scene in Sees, all the more unforgivable by the crowd of photographers, reporters and agents wooing you at every turn. To be the number one draft pick, you must be seen as you are, rock-solid emotionally, and for that, you need a helpmate made of sterner stuff. Besides, weak women cannot raise strong sons.” She braced for a spirited defense of her rival.

“Exactly,” exclaimed Stan. “My dear, how incredibly observant! My God, life with weak sons would be worse than slow death.”

Stella had Stan eating comfort food out of the palms of her hands and soon they were remembering the best of times while drowning their regrets with their favorite wine. Stan remembered being crushed that Roxy didn’t like this Celtic wine. Still more painful was his memory of Roxy’s loud laughter upon learning that the big lug likes to be called “Lugh.” She was rejecting his heritage and he could never take that from her.

After such an enjoyable lunch date, Stan surprised himself by going to see Roxy. Longing for her overdue letter from Cyrano and sensing the marriage was off, Roxy was colder to Stan than before. “It’s over,” he said to himself, but he made a final lunch date with Roxy at his second and her fourth favorite restaurant.

Stan was finally realizing the truth that his ‘shrink’ Cyril cajoled at least once a month this past year. Stan was unkind to Roxy because they were not right for each other. He could never accept her. Marrying her meant marrying into her family. His parents will never accept her or her family and it will only get worse as Stan storms society’s summit. Roxy was prettier, kinder and more lovable than Stella, but to his family this God-fearing girl would always be a gypsy gold-digger, gypped of all good genes. Except genes for good looks! My God! Stan closed his eyes tightly for an eternity until Roxy’s beautiful image began to fade.

Everyone but Stan could see that Stan was blinded by beauty. After blaming himself for introducing them and playing Cupid, Cyril called attention to Stan’s problem indirectly. Never did Cyril suspect that the wheel would come full circle and Cupid would shoot himself with a more potent arrow.

Roxy dressed conservatively and ate like a bird to please him. It did the opposite, calling attention to his brutishness. He began to realize what life with her would be like. The whole time he was with Roxy, Stan thought of the great time he had with Stella at Lela’s. Stan enjoyed being with Stella more than Roxy. His cheerleader was naturally more supportive and he never had to make excuses for her. What was wrong with him? Why did he ever leave Stella? Finally, Stan and Roxy agreed to call the wedding off.

After gently chastising him for practically leaving Roxy at the altar, Cyril sympathized with Stan, who tried to explain that it was much more than family connections. They firmly agreed that between Stella and Stan there was more chemistry. They belonged together. He thanked Cyril profusely for repaving the royal road to her heart with more poetry worthy of the bard.

Stan confessed that he loves Roxy so much that he wishes he could find her someone more worthy, someone like Cyril, as sweets to the sweet. Too bad Cyril’s involved and worse, completely commitment-challenged. How unfortunate that Roxy prefers cavemen to cavaliers. Too bad she laughs at fat jokes and is an inveterate star-gazer whose eyes are glued to the quarterback in every football game.

He talked about this at length and Cyril sympathized without being too agreeable and could not keep a straight face while admitting to “a touch of commitment phobia.” They chuckled at the image of catching commitment phobia. A prime example of “men behaving badly” and worse, making insipid excuses. As Cyril vividly recalled the passage in Persuasion, they laughed at the fickleness of men, the greater constancy of women, and the folly of writers (almost all men) who’ve always had it backwards. Cyril smiled as he pictured world literature’s proud paean of universal folly. Every book is an unwitting chapter in The Praise of Folly.

Cyril was surprised that Roxy would even smile at fat jokes, but was comforted that she never repeated them. With his weight problems and lack of connections, Cyril scoffed at the idea that Roxy would have him. He jested that his lower class parents would no more accept her and her family under any circumstances than would Stan’s rich folks. Stan joked about how well they turned out despite such snooty stocks. Finally, Stan quipped that Roxy deserved a Cyrano. Was the physical education major making a rare reference to classic literature? Or did he know? Cyril coolly agreed that she deserves the best of everything.

Two months later, Stan married Stella. The following week, Cyril and Shelley parted amicably. Twelve months later, Cyril married Roxy and Shelley found a more committed poet, an exceptionally kind gentleman who once calmed her fears with laughter when they were trapped for an hour in an elevator. The friend and the lover dodged the wheel, successfully played matchmaker thrice, managed to increase the ardor of his best friendship, and to find a love like no other, his Roxanne.

###

Alone in her Manhattan studio apartment, Claridad Clemente took off her alligator shoes with a deep sigh. She hungered for dinner, thirsted for sangria, but duty called. Ten urgent messages.

“Hello, mija,^³ hate to bother you, but your father and I are wondering…if we can come to New York to stay with you for a few weeks. Just until we get our feet back on the ground. You’re not going to believe this. Your father says he can’t take another day here. The people. The so-called services. The heat, the humidity. The bugs. Everything is preying on him. He prays to God for any job, but there’s only slave labor. Unbelievable poverty. The Cuban exiles and the Puerto Ricans look down on us natives here. Actually, just us. Worse, now he is talking nostalgically about New York to everyone. He misses even the cold winds and the freezing rain. And besides, he needs to straighten out your cousin Vinny.”

Clari paused the message to fire back. “Praise the Lord! Papi’s finally seen the light! In New York for thirty years, he ceaselessly complained. He condemned everything, and everyone from Anglos to Latinos for talking down to him. He called the Dominican Republic ‘God’s chosen country.’ If only he could return and show off how well he’s done in America to those who had spat on his wretched boyhood poverty. How his light-skinned Americana bride will impress them in the Rolls! As if my mother were my age! As if the car were not ten years older than me! Perhaps the poor man’s possessed and is still trying in vain to run in terror from his messed up self? And he wants to straighten out my cousin Vinny?”

She imagined her mother’s gentle voice correcting her. “No, no, Clarita. No, mi buena Clarita. Buenita, no seas malita.”^⁴

To which she replied, “Si mami, no mami.” She opened her window for air, but still felt suffocated.

As she resumed listening, her mother began speaking twice as rapidly in Spanish. Claridad dreaded that because it meant her father’s ears were the target and worse, it made her feel like a second-class spy on their private conversation about her. Her mother was giving her father a long-winded reassurance that without question, their wonderful daughter Clari would love to have them stay with her. As long as necessary. Her father was so worried they would have to stay with either of her elder brothers in Queens.

She was slowly losing her Spanish, forcing her to stop after each sentence to translate with a dictionary of idioms. Last week, for example, she thought cinamon was Spanish for ‘cinnamon.’ “When did they start calling cinamon canela?” she asked her friend Papo, who swears her deteriorating Spanish is due to a chronic “protein deficiency,” but his sesos do not help.^⁵

As Claridad savored the aroma of carne asada from her neighbors’ grill directly underneath her balcony, her longing for comfort food almost overwhelmed her, but she nervously pushed the large bright red button again.

“I need to borrow a thousand dollars for a return trip to Africa. This time we’re really going to make a difference-”

Clari interrupted, “Yeah, like last time. Where was ‘Hello, Clari, my sweet, generous, and lovable sister, to whom I owe megabucks’? The Africans thanked you for your goodwill and politely asked if you had any food, money, medicine or jobs. Sweetie, get a clue. They need Mr. Bill Gates and Mr. Warren Buffett, not your opening the floodgates of religion to drown their sorrows and buffet their more material hopes. Jesus fed the multitude before lecturing them.

“If I could spare a thousand dollars, would I make all of my own clothes? Would I watch TV and sleep 3¼ inches off the cold floor on a fleabag mattress in a condemnable building, in a studio apartment I can’t afford, with one window and no bathroom? My job requires me to spend everything I can spare on couture. My job!

“Why would anyone with sense give you a grand toward a return trip to Africa? Dear brother, Christian charity begins at home. Give your own family oxygen first. You have a Masters Degree in Marketing, yet refuse good employment in a major corporation. Too worldly, you say, but proudly marketing yourself as the savior of Africa to your adoring flock isn’t. ‘What would they think?’ you ask. As if they think!

“You sub as an elementary school teacher, sponge off your friends and in-laws, and still barely manage to survive in the ghetto. You’ve had your car repossessed and your utilities turned off repeatedly. You teach your innocent babes how to lie and steal, but lambaste me in front of them for eating unclean meats like Oregon Tilth-certified organic pork. Let’s get our priorities straight! Forget the pork. Stop teaching your kids how to ‘borrow’ your neighbors’ utilities, get credit under fictitious names, and save megabucks by claiming that your scrawny son of fifteen is still twelve.

“Your little boy is running around in pain in shoes a size and a half too small. Your Raggedy Ann girls beg me to take them and I will if you don’t get some sense. In the last two years, you’ve spent over ten thousand dollars - two-thirds of it my meager savings - traversing the world to ‘help’ others. Your grand gestures are just a silly, self-indulgent way to impress your friends. Sorry the truth is so damned unkind, but you religious fanatics are way too self-centered.”

The refrigerator seemed to be getting smaller, as nothing she had could compete with the ever more inviting aromas. The red button seemed to flash brighter and get larger, but she was confident it could not get any worse.

“Hello, Clari.”

“It’s already better! Who needs comfort food?” she asked.

“Hello again, Clari, my sweet, generous, and lovable sister. My little generous ‘gift of God’^⁶ would like to ask you something.”

She cringed whenever her eldest brother put her nephews on. Their soft voices and unctuous appeals never failed to grip Clari’s heart. Even when reading a script.

“Titi^⁷ Clari, Guess who? Ma-tit-ya-hu - that’s who!”

She zoned out. She gleaned that if she did not come up with Angel’s - Matityahu’s - tuition for Hebrew school, he would be forced to go to the public school and would end up on the streets like his elder brother who was killed by crossfire. Oh, Jesus, worse than any Catholic guilt trip.

Am I heartless to ask, “Would that tragedy have anything to do with ‘living’ in a ghetto? And why in the name of Jesus would a good Catholic girl pay for Hebrew school?

“My dear brothers, you converted to ultra-orthodox Judaism to justify domineering mistreatment of your wives as the will of Yahweh. You’re weak, terribly insecure males who have badly misinterpreted the Scriptures to your selfish advantage. And why, pray tell, doesn’t the best student in Queens qualify for a scholarship? Angel has to have one but doesn’t know it. Perhaps my brother intends to spend this tuition money on two trips to Africa. The backup plan. ‘How clever. How wicked.’”^⁸

Expecting a message from her landlord, she evil-eyed the growing button, but swore it was dimming, and spied hope in the kitchen, even as the Miss Marple fan attempted to solve “The Mysterious Case of the Disappearing Refrigerator.”

“My dear Ms. Clemente, please have mercy on me. I have a sick child and a mean boss. We’re not running a charity. We’re in a tough business in a tough business climate, but I’m in customer service because I have a heart. Somewhere. Don’t worry we won't throw you out, as long as you’re still employed. No, not us. One more week and unfortunately we will have to start charging you a marginal interest at the going rate of 28.28% on the balance of your rent. Have a good evening. Your landlord’s agent and your personal representative, Justin.”

“Just in time! My boss, the world’s toughest, won’t pay me back for my gofering for two weeks and she forgets the small things like her -my- 25% tips. If I mooch off my friend Cyril again…What about Mark? Oh, no, no, the cad takes too much advantage!”

Still stunned, she checked the next message.

“Hello, sweetheart. I just heard the good news. Your parents are coming back.”

“Speak of the devil! Good news for whom? My God, did they tell Mark first?” Clari asked. Her boyfriend Mark and her parents loved to triple-team Clari to pressure her to the altar.

Flustered by such memories, she continued, “Oh Mark, wait till she’s your mother! Alabate pollo, que mañana te guisan!^⁹ Big time payback! Get a clue! No one in my extended family is happily married. Payback number two, you insufferable, grinning Gator!^¹⁰ When provoked, we Clemente women can be merciless wives!” Happily clapping her shoes together like the jaws of a giant crocodile, she adds, “We gobble gators for lunch and gleefully accessorize the remains.” Too late, Mark, you’ll rephrase my question, “Why did we ruin our great business partnership with marriage?”

As she continued to listen to Mark’s message, he began to use her native language against her. He would not master Spanish, said he could not, but knew just enough to weaponize it. In broken Spanish he was proudly telling her that he’s booked a reception hall big enough for all of their friends, for all of New York.

“Hello, haven’t said ‘yes’ yet and we can’t afford it. Oh God, to think mami will soon defend that brute’s unbearable bravado to my face.”

Her stomach was gurgling and growling as the phone rang. Her brutally honest mood made it impossible to answer. She ran to the window, screamed, “El infierno es los otros!” and passed out.

Fifteen days later, staring blankly at the TV, anxiously waiting for the Best Actress Oscar, Claridad began to remember the events of the past two weeks, which seemed like two months. Cyril, her best friend and the firm’s chief designer, had risked everything to outfox their boss, “The Bear,” as they affectionately called Natasha, the supercilious Russian grande dame. He switched the magazine cover to a stunning image of Keira Knightley at the Academy Awards in a computer mock-up gown of Clari’s with the simple caption, “Imagine!” Cyril delayed faxing Natasha a copy in Paris for final approval. With the marketing input of Claridad’s brother, the magazine featured a full-length article brilliantly arguing the case for the actress’ Oscar. The photos and the article caught her attention, graciously agreeing to give Ms. Clemente a chance.

Everyone who knew Claridad worked around the clock on this project. Her eldest brother, a huge KK fan, gladly put his critical acumen and unmatched eye for feminine pulchritude to work on rival designs. Her parents proudly postponed “The Visit” for a few weeks. Her girlfriends, all envious of Claridad and unfashionably overweight, always concealing the stress of starvation dieting behind their shark’s smiles, took two weeks’ vacation to cater to the design teams and run interference. Cyril borrowed from his stingy brothers to hire and train a gofer to sub for Clari. As always after a “vacation,” Natasha was extremely antsy, yet sensing everyone else’s respect, particularly Ms. Knightley’s, even she began to treat Ms. Clemente as her most talented and stylish gofer.

As an interminable commercial break took over the Oscars, Claridad remembered how she started in this tough business four years ago. Watching the Academy Awards, she discovered that she could greatly improve upon the most praised gowns. Her top-secret fashion concepts were heavily dependent on computer-aided design and so her boyfriend, a CAD expert, became an indispensable teammate in the creation of her dazzling garments.

Despite Natasha’s reputation as a relentless stickler for perfection, Claridad jumped at the chance to join her leading firm a year ago. On particularly difficult days, Clari smiled as she recalled her naiveté as an applicant. To the woman who became her immediate supervisor she blurted out, “I’ve never heard of a company whose medical benefits include psychiatric wellness exams. With my family and friends, this perk is positively primo.”

Shortly after starting work, Ms. Clemente’s impeccable taste began to catch her boss’ eye. At first, it was subtle, a glance her way held too long. Now and then, Natasha would slip and treat her like a skilled colleague. But this past month, every time Natasha came by Clari’s desk, a crowd would gather into a circle and the upstart would stand up and begin walking an imaginary runway before her boss’s scrutiny. Watching Natasha, everyone was dumbstruck. Somehow Ms. Clemente had stunned the boss silent for at least fifteen seconds, mouth open more than is fashionable, left finger pointing up slightly toward her head, right finger waving every so elegantly at the gliding Clari. She could not place the garments or deduce the design concepts. Before walking off in a huff, Natasha muttered that her gofer looked better than she did.

In the last month, Natasha started to feel slightly guilty about asking Clari to fetch her latte at Starbucks. What if those gorgeous gowns were soiled with the drink? A half-caf, half-double-caf, one-third extra creamy Soy Dream, one-third-Bavarian cream, one-third Guernsey milk, with eight Dagoba^¹¹ Dominican chocolate drops containing 73% conacado cacao and one smidgen each of Madagascar cinnamon and Starbucks special cinnamon, Grade A¹⁺, cooled to precisely 154.5^o by adding the hot ingredients to Tasha’s triple-insulated thermos, equilibrated to 72^o.

Have Clari gofer Tasha’s lunch? Her “linguine alfredo altasha” on these gowns? Could impeccable fashion sense find a heart where everything else had failed miserably? Alone in her office, the bear growled at her snarling conscience and her conscience cowed, then cooed. “Serves her right, the upstart. Has rare ability, but needs me to discipline her. I started as a gofer too. I mustn’t let my soft spot for young talent make me weak, especially now. My gowns have not been photographed with a major Oscar in three years. I’m due.”

Clari passed out on the mattress just before the “Best Actress” Award. The second she awoke, she jumped up, climbed back on the mattress, and checked the recording. Ms. Knightley did win “Best Actress.” There she was, looking gorgeous in Claridad’s creation. A thousand flashing cameras. Two billion eyes. Clari won.

She savored the moment, replaying the short acceptance speech five times. Then she stifled the sound and snatched a toy Oscar. “‘You like me! You really like me!’ I know I’ll forget someone. So sorry in advance. I’d like to thank Ms. Knightley just for being a ‘goddess divine.’ Oh, Jesus! Did a good Catholic girl just say that? Well, I feel like Mrs. Darcy, ‘completely and perfectly and incandescently happy.’^¹² I’d like to thank my lovable husband-to-be, Mark, and his friends, for their brilliant engineering. My boss, Natasha Mammet, the envy of everyone, a living doll and everyone’s idol, whose brilliant redesigns of my gowns are legendary. My friends who kept the sleepless design team going strong this past week and my parents and my brothers for-well, not being themselves this past week. Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. Above all, I’d like to thank my best friend, Cyril, for everything. Thanks, everyone!” Just before she passed out again, she mused, “Hell is other people. But so is Heaven!”

###

Saturday at twilight, Halloween, 1970, a town in the Bible Belt

The BMW swerved to miss an onrushing silver car and smashed head first into an oak tree. Trying to avoid the Beemer, a young boy named “Warrie” fell off his bike, breaking his right arm and bruising the ribs on his right side. Unaware that he was bleeding, the pale, frail boy propped himself up on his left arm, retrieved his cracked, heavy lenses, put them on, and without hesitation moved as fast as he could toward the wreck.

The blood and smells made him retch. All four unbelted boys were knocked unconscious. In great pain, using only the left side of his slight, but strong body for leverage, he slowly dragged the driver about ten feet away. As he limped back toward the car, the engine caught fire. He quickened his pace and paid for it with intensified pain. He pulled the next boy out and placed him near the driver. Warrie hurried to the passenger side and dragged the smaller of the boys just five feet out to the other side. As he ran back for the last boy, he had a premonition that it was too late. He partially shielded his eyes with his left arm and moved blindly toward the burning vehicle, as the first of two explosions rocked the car. Warrie struggled mightily with the heaviest boy and hauled him just out of range as the second, larger explosion engulfed the passenger compartment in flames. Seconds later, Warrie passed out with a faint look of satisfaction.

Hours later, Warrie awoke in the hospital in tremendous pain and his first questions were about the boys in the wreck. He sighed in relief after learning that all were expected to live. As soon as the nurse left to get him some pain medication, an imposing man slammed the door shut and quickly approached Warrie’s bedside. The boy’s pale face lost all color and his pulse quickened more dangerously than during the wreck, as his mind raced to think up a plausible story. He called for the nurse to show the sheriff out, but no one heard his weak voice. Proud as a peacock, the massive sheriff hovered over the boy, awkwardly profiling his better side, his right side. Without so much as an introduction, a kind word or a question about his well-being, the sheriff matter-of-factly turned on the bright light directly over the boy’s bed and began interrogating him.

Warrie toned down his story so it would neither make himself sound impossibly heroic nor incriminate the drivers. A black swan, Warrie knew the whole chain of events was as highly improbable as his own personality. He began nervously, “Ah! I decided to take the long way home from dance class so I could enjoy the scenery along the winding country roads on my mom’s-my-m-mother’s-bike. M-m-mine was broken.”

The sheriff pounced on his statement, “But what were you doing on that country road off the beaten path?” Surprised, the weak boy nervously repeated his explanation. In pain, Warrie half-smiled inappropriately as he pictured how redundant this whole conversation might be with Officer “Polonius.” The sheriff paid no attention because he was busily translating the boy’s claim to his notepad. “The sequined, spangled, rhinestone fairy, the prom queen, was riding a girl’s bike briskly home to cry to mamma about being bullied and beat up by the big, bad bullies in the fine BMW automobile,” and then edited it to something slightly less obnoxious, without obscuring the original words.

Warrie was sweating, swearing silently to calm down, and struggling to find the right words. He increased the sheriff’s suspicion by slowing his speech, “As the car approached my bike, the boys, whom I knew, made some comments that I just shrugged off as I always did.” He wished he had not said “always.” He muttered, “Considering the drunken source and excusing the ignorance.” The sheriff demanded to know what he said. Warrie frustrated him by continuing more briskly though it pained him more, “Suddenly, the car made a U turn and came quickly at me-”

The sheriff shot back, “But how did you provoke them?”

The boy ignored the provocative question and continued quickly, “Ah! Ow! Just after crossing the median, a silver car whipped around the corner and the boys’ car was forced off the road, down the hill into a giant oak tree. Oblivious, the other driver sped off down the hill and around the ‘S’ curve. Ow!” He wished he could stop showing his pain, as it merely encouraged the sheriff.

To protect the boys, Warrie was not telling the whole truth. The sheriff suspected that the nervous, overly hesitant Warrie was lying to protect himself, so he kept on testing his veracity, pummeling him from every conceivable angle, more like a prosecutor than a sheriff. Only after repeated tough questions did Warrie admit that the boys had frequently bullied him.

The sheriff assumed that Warrie hated them and wanted revenge. As the experienced lawman saw it, this too-clever drama student staged this entire “accident” at a dangerous “S” curve on a country road where no one would witness it, where a giant oak tree just happened to be very close to the road. However, the boys’ survival foiled the whole plan and he and his equally wimpy accomplice did not have the guts to kill the injured boys. Instead, they rescued them. The accomplice sped off with the two “walkie-talkies” they used to time the “accident” and called the police.

The sheriff could not believe Warrie did not mean the boys harm. In vain, Warrie quoted, “Hate no one, despise no one, mock no one. Love your enemies. Do good to those who hurt you.”

The officer rebutted, “But this is utter nonsense. Who hates no one?” Glowering at Warrie, he added, apparently for the boy's benefit, “Everybody down here hates, despises and mocks nancies.” Disputing that charge with an emphatic head shake, Warrie increased his pain, but the officer paid no attention, as he emphasized, “You cannot love your enemies without hating yourself!” The sheriff smirked with pride and nodded like a bobblehead at his rebuttal.

As the sheriff fiddled with the cross around his neck, he scoffed at the very idea that anyone could ever do that. In anger, he blurted out, “It would be as absurdly impossible as Jesus’ forgiving those criminals who crucified him.” The sheriff knew that was false, but dared not retract it. The sheriff’s hateful and angry gaze pierced right through the thin boy. Warrie swallowed a laugh at that comment and his implied guilt in the crucifixion. He half expected the Bible thumper to whip out the good book and try to show him chapter and verse. He savored the opportunity to show him up, but then killed that malicious thought with, “Mock no one.” The officer made a threatening face as ugly as the thought he highlighted in his notebook, “Especially a Jew boy, a hypocritical one at that, disrespecting the Sabbath by frivolous dancing.”

No Christian chum ever made an issue of the officer’s respect for the Christian Sabbath on their hunting trips. With indescribable joy, they shot defenseless deer with high powered rifles equipped with scopes, which eliminated even the last challenge, that of evading the animal’s sense of smell. He wished catching criminals in lies were half as easy. Would he could cudgel culprits’ confessions! A deputy claims the sheriff, while savoring a bite of donut, once joked with him, “Torture’s the truest test of innocence. It’s remarkably quick too.” In character, though truly too terse to be a quote.

The sheriff challenged his suspect, “But do you think I’m stupid? Do I look like I just fell off the back of a turnip truck to you, boy?” By now Warrie was thoroughly annoyed with this man’s obnoxious “Buts.” Each seemed to be an interminable sentence. He spit at the boy as he overemphasized his disagreement with that ugly word of rebuttal. The sheriff explained insultingly that no one in his right mind could possibly believe Warrie's story that he had rescued the boys from the burning BMW. His pride in this car was unmistakable. Surely symbolic. He seemed strangely sad about its demise.

With extreme condescension the sheriff added, “First, prancing punks don’t rescue state champions in football, our unbeatable Warriors. Second, it was physically impossible because you’re a ‘girlie boy’ weakling and were injured, and there couldn’t have been enough time between such a devastating crash and the final engulfment of the BMW in flames. Third, if the boys had abused me as mercilessly as you claim they had bullied you, even though you deserved it, you -, I would have let the boys meet their maker.” After all, he asked, “Who would know? No one. You ride off with your accomplice. Bullying problem solved. You’re completely in the clear.” The officer stood taller, smirked and nodded again with even more pride at his understanding of the complex problem and his creative solution. “What a genius!” his whole body seemed to broadcast resoundingly.

The youngster was shocked that a lawman could say such lawless things. Warrie was also surprised that the sheriff knew the details of the many bullying incidents Warrie suffered in silence. The officer laughed sinisterly as he recited the delicious details of the time the fun-loving pranksters put dog dirt in both pockets of his silk shirt before his last ballroom dance competition, costing the hardworking youngster a state championship. The sheriff’s mean-spiritedness made Warrie even more nervous and hesitant. As the frail youngster’s protestations of having no vengeful thoughts grew meeker, the sheriff became more bellicose.

This sheriff and justice of the peace interrupted his furious writing, glanced sideways at Warrie until he caught what he thought was his eye through his cracked eyeglasses, and composed himself by fondling his magnum for fifteen full seconds. Warrie wondered if he intended to pull it out and point it at him. Strangely, adding that to his repertoire could not make him any more intimidating.

Warrie always had the most trouble with Spinoza’s ideal, “Mock no one,” and felt bad that he could not consistently live up to it. Has anyone? Probably not, perhaps only in fiction’s most idealized characters. He thought Plato’s Socrates did, but noted that even Jesus’ fictional biographers^¹³ occasionally failed to show him above mockery. Yet considering his severe stress, he gave himself insufficient credit. When he got his courage up to challenge the sheriff, he bit his saucy tongue several times.

After hurting himself forcefully dismissing the accomplice theory yet again, the boy could hardly help laughing at the absurdity of the officer’s idea that no one would ever know. He could not believe the hypocrisy that this Christian would dare think that God would not know. Betraying his atheism, Warrie angrily replied, “Who cares what others think? I would know-Ah!-I acted dishonorably.” In vain, Warrie grabbed his right side with his left hand and pressed it in with the cast on his right arm.

As those words stunned the sheriff, he looked up to heaven for help. Finally, it occurred to the regular churchgoer that the Supreme Being would know the wicked deed. He challenged Warrie in the name of the Almighty, “But what about God? God is omniscient. God would know. So you think your opinion is more important than God’s opinion? We’ll see about that. But what are you? Some kind of freaky, Jewish, heathen, godless atheist?” Warrie never saw a Shakespearean actor in a fit spit so much as this sheriff.

As if inspired by the Holy Spirit, the Baptist aggressively took notes about the Jewish youth’s hypocrisy, atheism, arrogance, disrespect, blasphemy and belligerence. The officer thought that the prancing pouf was putting himself on a pedestal. The sheriff made another note, “But just like his I’m-so-much-smarter-than-you Yankee father, who was sent down here all the way from Brooklyn, New York, New York^¹⁴ to turn around the Crudson Chemicals plant and make it profitable. Damn Yankee know-it-all, upstart wiseacre. An apple sure don’t fall far from the apple fruit tree.” Acutely conscious of the sting of being called “ignorant” one too many times, the sheriff carefully blotted out “don’t” and replaced it with “does not.” This action seemed to please him so much that he beamed and calmed down for just a second. Apparently, no one ever challenged the intractable redundancy of Sheriff “Polonius” as another form of ignorance.

If possible, after his moment of peace, the peace officer became angrier. He noted with heavier pen pressure, “But just like the Jews, the chosen people, always thinking they are so superior. The criminals who crucified Christ claiming the moral high ground. What a joke.” Warrie shivered at the threatening body language of this big man. He imagined that the contorted faces aptly accompanied the sheriff’s thoughts.

During the long, pressure-filled silence, interrupted occasionally by the sheriff’s pained sighs and the sounds of his angry pen’s abusing the poor pad and paper, the boy’s intense imagination increased his anxiety. Warrie worried about the Warriors’ story. After all, these teammates despised him and could never let it appear that they are anything but the heroes of the round table. Naturally, these best of friends will tell a very different story. These state heroes would not be interrogated so roughly or so quickly after regaining consciousness. They would talk among themselves before being questioned respectfully. Their “individual” stories would cohere well enough that only rigorous cross-examination could break them down, something that might never happen, given the credulity celebrities enjoy.

The tired and frustrated officer suddenly crossed the room, pulled up a chair uncomfortably close to the bedside, and absorbed in thought, sat down facing Warrie with his much less photogenic left side. Putting more pressure on his bruised ribs, Warrie writhed as he slowly turned his body left to face the sheriff. As Warrie noted the warts on the left side of the man’s mug, a malicious mockery occurred to him, but he suppressed it and half-suppressed a spiteful smile.

Warrie panicked when he caught sight of the officer’s name badge, “Sheriff R. Butler, Sr.” No wonder the sheriff is so against him! No wonder he knows the details of the many bullying incidents. He’s the driver’s father! How inappropriate his interrogation! Warrie's heart pounded as he pondered the apparent paradox of a sheriff’s kid’s owning a luxury car. Warrie’s father recently fired the sheriff’s father at Crudson Chemicals for grand theft. An apple does not fall far from the tree. What if the cop’s crooked?

There are no BMW dealers anywhere around. Warrie imagined that this car must have been bought in Germany and brought to this country at enormous expense for the star quarterback. Is the sheriff in the import business?

His mind quickly leaped from thieving to lying. What if he also coaches them to lie? Warrie’s an easy victim, a helpless doe in a telescopic lens, as everyone wrongly thinks he’s a queer because he never fights back, has never had a girlfriend, and loves dancing more than football.

How incredible my story must seem to them! Warrie thought. If I tell the unvarnished truth, they’ll laugh louder. If I ask for a lawyer now, the sheriff will arrest me for attempted murder. This whole town is against my family and me and they do not even know my secrets. I had hoped my actions after the accident would make peace with the bullies, as they all follow the quarterback’s lead. Wrong, I don’t have a prayer or a god to pray to.

Warrie's worst worries came to pass, almost exactly as he had imagined them. The sheriff arrested him for attempted murder. Until this trial, this young, otherworldly philosopher never watched the news or read the paper. Now, he devoured the paper and it devoured him. The paper exuberantly exposed his atheism and proudly preached “atheist = godless = evildoer” to its credulous readers. It uncovered his civil rights “crusade” and his “underhanded” efforts to conceal it. In short, Warrie thought the paper’s Grand Inquisitor tried him and found him guilty. Mindful of his own ethical deficiencies, he playfully mocked their “atheistic crusader” and the “scrawny, sallow lad” who somehow manages to be a “scary evildoer.” The papers had a holiday with Warrie. Everyday with Warrie was Halloween.

The sheriff surprised him by sincerely and repeatedly reprimanding the press for condemning the suspect before the trial. Warrie admitted feeling ashamed that he expected the man to call him a “culprit” or “perpetrator.” At the trial, the sheriff shocked him again by apologizing for the more vicious of his notes rather than proudly and vehemently defending all of them in front of a jury Warrie wrongly considered supremely sympathetic. Warrie had stereotyped the sheriff and the town as much as the sheriff and the town had him. Worse, Warrie regretted that he thought the sheriff was a crook, when in fact he had inherited a fortune from a rich uncle. The boy also regretted that he had never once sympathized with a father whose son was gravely injured and whose wife was wasting away with cancer. He did not know about his wife. Yet shameful fear and anger had overwhelmed his normally generous compassion. Thinking of Spinoza, the young philosopher reminded himself, “A double-dyed determinist doesn’t damn anyone, not even a dog-killer. He seeks to understand.”

Someone killed the boy’s only pal, his playful pup Pogo. Smelling steak, Pogo yanked the leash out of Warrie’s hands, sprinted far ahead of the lamed boy, and devoured the morsels saturated with a salty-tasting toxin. Warrie was not truly angry until that moment. All the abuse he suffered was nothing compared to his best friend’s dying in the helpless boy’s arms, writhing in pain, vomiting the venom in vain.

Warrie won the case because of the efforts of a clever team of lawyers and a surprise witness. Most people think the prosecution had a slight edge until the defense introduced Dr. Sebastian Flyte,^¹⁵ whom Warrie affectionately called “St. Sebastian,” who survived a flurry of deadly arrows to testify that he was not Warrie's accomplice. He never suspected that the other car had crashed into a nearby tree. He came upon the car in the wrong lane and both drivers quickly took evasive measures. Very late for an appointment, he flew around the “S” curve, thinking nothing of it until the trial hogged the headlines and snared his Catholic conscience. After his testimony, the sheriff charged Dr. Flyte with speeding and reckless endangerment and fined him $500. With Warrie’s corroborating testimony, they could not convict him of the more serious charge of fleeing the scene of an accident.

True to form, the boy amazed everyone by not seeking revenge on those who slandered him. Warrie's lawyers promised him jail terms for his enemies and a net of a million dollars. The eighteen year old laughed. He forgave them and would forgive them another 489^¹⁶ times. He explained how true understanding kills base thoughts of revenge. He had malicious thoughts throughout this ordeal and sadly acted badly at times. They acted badly, but just as he would have, had he lived their lives. Warrie admitted he predicted nearly everything as if the people involved were mindless machines and thus blameless.

He understood their misplaced fear of him as a homosexual and their need to show off at his expense in front of others, especially girls. He understood their natural antipathy toward their inverted image.^¹⁷ The black swan swore he sometimes scares himself.

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