Alice the Goon

Beware fast night, b'neath cold pale moon,

When all manner of men shall cower.

A mare, she shall rise with a dense, crooked eye,

The one they call Alice the Goon.

            .

            Long ago it was called All Hallows Eve or All Saints Eve, a solemn, mystical night when, it was believed, the souls and spirits of the dead could come back to pay a visit on the living. For better or for worse. Today we call it Halloween - a popular holiday of parties and cheap costumes, maybe a good joke or two thrown in for good measure. Somewhere between all that, between yesterday's superstition and today's celebration, lies the following tale.

            It happened during the season of the dying leaves, the sometimes sparkling, sometimes dreary time of year when the days grow shorter and the nights turn colder; the end to another hard year of planting, hoping and harvesting. In villages near and far there was little to do now but wait for the long winter soon to come. And pray for enough bounty in those harvests to make it through till Spring.

            Late at night a bonfire crackled and sparked in one such village square. A group of men sat around the fire, quietly drinking their wine and feeling the warmth across their faces, turning their backs, as it were, to the darkness all around them. The women and children had already retreated to the safety of hearth and home.

            The hollow call of an owl broke the silence.

            "Harvest moon," Schoolmaster Benjamin Thomas said, looking up at a starry sky. "Mighty fine night for witches, I'd say."

            Startled looks all around.

            "Shhhh," whispered Joshua Jamison, a devout churchgoer and farmer. "You heard what the parson said – there's to be no more of that talk 'round here."

            "The parson," Thomas said, choosing his words carefully, "is not with us now."

            "Bloody hell does that matter? We've all had our fill of witchcraft and then some. You know that. Does no good to stir things up again."

            "Does no good to be afraid of the dark, either."

            Jamison scoffed. "You be careful there, Master Thomas, such talk only invites more troubles."

            "That would be your view, my friend, not mine."

            There was a tense pause before the short, half-witted one they called Eric the Half a Man spoke next. "I heared once an old man tell that if you want to see a witch fly through the sky all you need do is wear your clothes inside out and stand on a big rock at midnight. On harvest moon no less."

            "Don't be daft, ya silly old goat," chided Nels Van Echten, the burly village blacksmith. "Witches can't fly. Besides, everyone knows what you ought do is ring a bell five times at midnight and they won't come anywheres near."

            "Ach, you're both tipsy," said old man Wilson, widower and onetime barrel maker, now more or less retired. He cleared his throat with vigor and spat on the ground. "What you need do when you fear a witch is about is walk backward 'round your house three times a'fore the sun sets."

            Eric the Half a Man, for one, was confused. "Walk backward the whole time?"
            "Do it and they don't dares bother you. I should know. I done it."

            "And it worked?"         

            "Not one single person come knocking on my door since I did the funny walk."

            The men looked over at Wilson as the firelight danced on his craggy face. Hard to argue the logic.

            The night drew longer, the moon rose higher, and a slight breeze drifted through the moonlit compound. One by one the men drained the last of their mugs and retired for the evening, each man bidding good night to the others and heading home with his own groggy thoughts. Only Schoolmaster Thomas remained, but as the hour grew late his eyes, too, became heavy and he knew it was time to turn in. He just couldn't lift himself out of the chair. The breeze had shifted and now it began to blow stronger through the trees from the north. With one strong blow the rustling leaves and scraping tree branches made a peculiar sound that could almost pass for laughter; a woman's laughter. It floated in the air for a moment, then was gone. Thomas leaned forward. Could there be someone out there at this time of night? Laughing? Or was it all just a trick of the wind and his weary mind? His own logic quickly settled on it being the wind and he slid back in his chair, pulling his coat tight against the chill. But then came the unsettling feeling that from out there in the darkness someone was watching him. The eyes of someone, or something was, at that very moment, upon him. He could feel the goose bumps.

            "Wilson, is that you, you old rummy?"

            All was quiet.

            "Van Echten? None of your foolishness now. I warn you."

            No answer. Nothing at all.

            He stared hard into the darkness for a full minute until finally the presence went away. A pickled grin came to his lean face as he poured out the last of his wine on the ground. Enough of that. On weakened legs he stood up and braced against the chilled air. One last look around. Probably nothing more than a deer.

            "Witches indeed," he muttered before heading for home as quickly as he could manage.

            The village awoke next morning to bright sunshine; the air crisp and scented with woodsmoke. There were chores to do, mouths to feed, and with the early bustle no one noticed that the chair occupied by Wilson the night before was broken and shattered. No one yet noticed the five-pointed star – a pentagram – crudely scratched into the ground on the same spot.

            Thomas was on his way to the schoolhouse when one of his students came running up to him, nearly breathless.

            "Master Thomas, Master Thomas, have you heard?"

            "Slow down, young man. What's the excitement?"

            "Old Mister Wilson was attacked last night asleep in his own bed."

            "Attacked?"

            "Bludgeoned something awful, so they say."

            "Is he safe? Is he alright?"

            The boy shrugged his slender shoulders. "He swears it was a witch that done it. Keeps saying a name over and over - Alice something or other."

            Thomas stiffened. Despite considering himself a man of logic and reason, mere mention of that name was enough to cause a chill to brush up against him; an ill wind blowing. Without saying another word he sent the boy on his way. The memory of it all still hung fresh in his mind.

            Her name was Alice Thornton, a spirited young mistress who once lived in a downtrodden house at the edge of the village. Heavier and taller than most her age, with thick black hair billowing out, it would by nature have been her lot in life to stand out in a crowd wherever she went. But what sealed her fate was a terrible accident involving her first attempt at shoeing a horse. One slip with a nail, a crushing kick to the face, and a curse was born.  

            For what has a young woman when beauty and hope is taken from her? To whom can she turn when all have turned against her? Throughout the village the children taunted her, throwing stones and running from her with shrieking fright. Having once been seen wrestling with a neighbor's pot-bellied pig, colorful stories of her brute, manly strength sprang from every child's mouth. Adults were no less cruel, and from them came

more accusations: she spoke in strange tongues, they said. She had the power to levitate herself off the ground. Her face bore the mark of the devil himself. She was different and different was not welcome.

            Time passed, but not so the cauldron of rage now simmering inside her growing body. Living in the shadows she came out only at night. Strong drink and foul words became as much a part of her as the black frock coat she took to wearing year-round. No one dared speak to her. No one dared cross her path. Thus was the fateful transformation made complete. Young Alice Thornton became Alice the Goon.    

            Then in the middle of harshest winter a strange illness befell several children, their faces stricken with tiny scabs that no herb or poultice could cleanse. Panic settled in amongst the villagers, prompting the elders to meet in secret. When old man Wilson stood and declared this the work of a witch all, save one, quickly cast a guilty hand against Alice the Goon. The only prudent thing to do, they reasoned, was banish Alice from the village.

            Later that same night, before said banishment could be carried out, someone took matters into their own hands and set fire to her house. Terrible screams were heard as the flames grew higher. Not one person tried to save her. Some swore they saw Alice running through the snow and into the woods, shouting curses while her dark coat and hair trailed smoke.  She was never seen again. Within weeks Alice, and whatever ailed the children, were long gone and forgotten.

            At the news of the attack on Wilson the schoolmaster hurried to see for himself the damage done. Men and women still huddled outside the old man's home, whispering

and wondering what had happened during the night. Thomas worked his way through the crowd. Inside he found Wilson lying in his feather bed, his head and arms covered with nasty bruises and welts. It was all Thomas could do to gasp the man's name.

            "'Twas her," Wilson said right away, his voice trembling and racked with pain. "Alice the Goon come back from the dead."

            "Calm down, my friend."          

            "Don't tell me to calm down. Look at me. Look what she done."

            "An awful thing, no doubt. But a thief perhaps. Some roving bandit that came down from the hills."

            "With long black hair and the devil's eyes? I know what I seen and it was her, I tell you. Standing where you are now, arm raised with a pitchfork in her hand." He closed his eyes and groaned, like he was watching it all over again.

            Looking down at the floorboards Thomas could see all sorts of scuff marks and scrapes of dirt, but no telltale clues. Nothing else in the room seemed out of place.

            "Did this thug say anything? Take anything?"

            Wilson shook his head and wouldn't stop. "She's come back from the grave to take vengeance on us all. On All Hallow's Eve she come back."

            Knowing no words would bring comfort to the old man Thomas left quietly, stepping out into the muddy yard and welcoming for a brief moment the warm calmness of the sun. That is until he saw the stumpy figure and struggling gait of Eric the Half a Man coming around the house. Walking backward.

            "What the devil are you doing?"

            "More bad news, I'm afeared," Eric said, stopping to take off his dirty bowler hat and scratch his head.

            "Well?"

            "Tell you one thing, squire, ain't as easy as you'd think walking like this. But you remember what Mister Wilson said about…you know, witches and all."

            "Damn it, man, what's the bad news?"

            "Seth Hopkins. He come to town this morning saying he found all his livestock killed over night. Says the necks was cut clean through."

            "Their necks?"

            "Sliced like melons, each and every one. What a bloody mess that must've been, eh? Poor bastards."

            "How does one sneak up on an animal and cut…?"

            "Killed 'em real fast, I bet."

            "But why?"

            Eric shook his head. "That's just what Seth said."

            "Where is he now?"

            "Who?"

            "Seth Hopkins!"

            "All right, all right, no call to get snippy. I reckon he's back at his stable, cleaning up all that rot."

            Thomas stood dumbfounded, not knowing what to make of this. "I must get back to the schoolhouse. The children will be waiting for me."

            Eric flashed his dirty yellow teeth. "Right. You do that, squire. You go to school like a good little boy. I'll finish up my duties here."

            Thomas watched as Eric continued walking backwards, then he himself turned and started to make his way down the road when from behind he heard a grunt and the heavy thump of flesh falling to the ground. He shook his head and kept on walking.

            As if vicious assaults on man and beast weren't enough, reports started coming in from every corner of the village telling of broken windows and petty thefts – a chicken here, a sack of grain there. Horses were skittish. The well water didn't taste right. Something strange was happening. Then to top it off there was the discovery of the pentagram – the mark of the witch - scratched into the ground in the village square. By nightfall everyone was on edge.       

            Master Thomas still could not bring himself to speak aloud of such things as curses and witches. But he was no fool either; obviously someone had been intent on doing damage here. Like his neighbors he too would bolt his door and keep vigil for the safety of home and family. Sleep would not come easy this night.

            Indeed, into the wee hours Thomas sat in the amber glow of an oil lamp, a loaded rifle leaning against the wall within easy reach. Ready to move at the first unwelcome noise. But all he heard was the occasional gust of wind outside and the steady ticking of a wall clock inside. The hours drew out slowly. Time ticking away softly until finally his eyes closed.  

            Somewhere in deep slumber it came to him – a vision of a black horse thundering across an open field at dusk, ridden by a hooded figure, face unseen. Coming straight on.

The animal's breath bellowing and its hoofbeats tearing into the ground. Getting closer. Getting louder. Until almost on top of him. Until…Thomas awoke with a start. An echo still rang in the room, followed by a pause, then three more pounding bursts. Not on his door itself but the wall beside it. He sat upright and saw right away it was still dark out. This was no longer a dream.  

            "Come out and show yourself," came a husky, womanly voice.

            He leaped to the door, pressing his shoulder against it. "Who are you and what do you want?"

            "Don't you want to come out and see an old friend, Master Thomas?"

            The voice seemed to be coming from further away now, no longer right outside the door. He took a quick look at the gun sitting on the other side of the room, but now fear held him powerless. The wall clock kept ticking.

            "Well now," came the voice from the other side, "that ain't very neighborly. And you such the perfect gentleman and all."

            "Who are you?"

            The reply came with throaty venom. "You know who I am!"

            Indeed he did. His long silence said as much. He wanted to say her name. He wanted to purge himself of all this ugliness once and for all, and knew that would start by the simple act of acknowledging her name, but he couldn't do it.

            She came back softer this time. "Didn't think I'd forget about you, did you, Master Thomas?"

            He rested a trembling hand on the door handle. "Are you…are you what they say you are?"

            "I'm a friend to the darkness is what I am. And darkness is a friend of mine. You people here saw to that a long time ago."   

            "Go away. You have no enemies in this house."

            "Got no friends neither."

           

            He didn't hear the padded footsteps of his wife coming down the stair.

            What's going on here?" she said.

           

            His own voice was whispered but strained. "Go back upstairs."

            "Benjamin—"

            "Do as I say!"

            "Who are you talking to?"

            "I said get upstairs. Now!"

            Reluctantly she did as she was told. For Benjamin Thomas his duty was now made clear. As husband and father he had to keep danger from crossing this threshold.

            "I'm coming out," he announced.

            The cold air hit hard, as did the blanket of darkness all around, for the moon this night was hidden by clouds. Heart pounding, he closed the door behind him and stepped out.

            "Over here."

            Startled, he looked to his right but still saw nothing.

            "Come closer."

            Amidst gusts of wind he heard the crunching of twigs and leaves, then the

spark and light of a small torch. There she stood in immense form. Gone was the black frock coat, replaced by a tattered full length cloak made of some coarse material. The face that came to partial view was big and round as the moon, streaked with dirt, and framed by a tangled mass of hair. But still it was not the gruesome sight he had expected. Until she moved the torch just enough that the flickering light caught the battered bones and her wayward eye, a cloudy, lifeless organ. It was Alice the Goon all right.

            "Frightened?" she asked in a playful tone.

           

            Thomas didn't answer. At least not in words.

            "Well you ought be. You and every damned man jack in this village who cursed me, laughed at me, then ran me out. Tried to burn me out."

            "If you're a witch then do with me what you will, but leave my family be. They've done you no wrong."

            "Ah, the family. How is the family these days?"

            His throat was so dry he thought he might choke.

            "Your wife still pretty as a picture?" 

            "Please, for the love of God—"

            Even her laugh was rough as rocks. "My dear Master Thomas. Don’t you see? Ain't really me you should be fearing. What you need fear is the ugly side of your own pitiful souls, the part folks like you don't choose to see when they stare into the looking glass."  

            Thomas locked eyes on her in the dancing light, struggling to sort through his own tangle of fear, guilt and confusion.

            "But what you did to poor Wilson—"

            "Poor Wilson?" Her breath plumed in the air. "That idiot scoundrel? He got what was coming to him, nothing more."

            "And the livestock?"

            A sly smile came to her. "Got to allow me a little sport."

            "Sport? Be damned, that was a man's livelihood you destroyed."

            "Then ask Seth Hopkins who was it lit my house afire that night."

            "Is that was this is all about – your revenge?"

            Something close to a growl came from her. She waited, then asked a direct question that caught him off balance yet again: "Do you believe in ghosts?"

            "I am a Christian man."

            "Answer the question, school teacher."

            "No, I do not."

            "And witches?"

            A long moment passed before he gave his answer. "No."

            "Well, well. Not so the others 'round here. They very much do believe."

            "Then what would you have me tell them?"

            Again she paused, as if she had long been contemplating the answer to that very question. "Tell 'em I'll be back. Tell 'em I do love this time of year."

            A sudden rush of wind, as if heaven-sent, began to rattle the trees. She turned her hulking frame to walk away, then came back around. "Oh, when you see Seth Hopkins tomorrow you can tell him why it was his house burned down."

            "His house? It didn't burn down."

            She grinned. "Hopefully he'll get out in time."

            The wind blew out the torch and pitch darkness returned as he listened to the footsteps falling away, watching her shadow disappear. And almost ghost-like she was gone.

           

A toast, all hail, and raise ye a glass

On All Hallows Eve; full moon.

To a two-fisted hellcat named Alice,

The one they call Alice the Goon.

-end-

City of Darkness

parody - a literary or musical work in which the style of an author or work is closely imitated for comic effect.

I took a favorite story of classical literature (Joseph Conrad's Heart of Darkness), along with a little help from a favorite film (Francis Ford Coppola's Apocalypse Now), and added a childhood memory of the school class field trip, and came up with this:

            Safeway 458, a sturdy diesel-powered cruiser, sat there poised and peaceful in the school parking lot like a shiny yellow ship waiting for the tide to take her out. The day had begun so bright and serene, filled with great promise, and the shouts and squeals of pure joy were everywhere as we boarded her single-file and our bus driver pulled us out onto the first side street. We waved our good-byes to whoever might be watching and then were on our way. The first leg of our long-awaited field trip to the great City Museum was underway.

            The bus was filled front to back with no less than twenty-eight spacious green seats anchored to the floor, though our class was not nearly so big as to fill every available seat; and as we left our fair little town we were all bouncing around, practically jumping out of our skins with excitement, overcome by the unbridled thrill of a new adventure.

            However at some point in the long journey the enthusiasm began to ebb from us all, and over time it became quiet and subdued within the cabin, save for the rolling of the

tires and the steady hum of the engine as we held on our steady course. (For this no doubt our driver was ever so grateful.) A strange sort of fatigue eventually overtook me as well, and for what seemed the longest time I took to gazing out my window at the ground below, the smooth edges of asphalt tracing our progress with every slow turn. Something about the ground whirring by, mile after mile passing beneath me, captured my concentration and filled me with a sense of effortless flight. As if in a trance I began envisioning us as a great bird riding the currents of wind on a primordial migration to some unknown, yet fated destination.

            Then I looked up and was startled to see that the warm, familiar hills and plowed fields of home had disappeared. The faithful countryside I had lived in and known all my life had somehow slipped away. Out there now was a grayer, more barren landscape. I slowly held up my hand and touched the glass as if I might reach out and touch the strange new land to see if it was real. With the engine thundering ever louder in my head I started thinking of all we had left behind. And with that an apprehensive chill seeped down into my very being as I felt the bus pushing us deeper and deeper into uncharted territory. In my mind's eye I could see the wheels turning faster, realizing for the first time there was nothing I could do to stop them. Nothing at all.

            All of us now seemed similarly transfixed. The further south we went the more we saw an emerging proliferation of garish signs and metal poles that seemed to be closing in on us, choking the road we were on. Finally the first signpost was spotted telling us the Capital City was near. It was then that our science teacher, a thin and bespectacled man of pleasant nature, stood up to give us his no doubt well-prepared speech concerning our expedition to the City Museum. He balanced himself as best he could in the pitching cabin and cleared his throat before speaking. There was, he said, much to see and learn in the Museum but for us only a limited time in which to do it in. Himself a man prone to the use of fanciful analogies I was not at all surprised to hear him say that the Museum was a vast oasis of thought and learning, from which we could hope to take back only what our meager canteens could carry. At this point he pointed to his own head and paused for effect, while all of us stared back at him in blank silence.

            Aside from the brief distraction of his pointed analogy I was struck by a strange notion. Did he somehow sense my growing anxiety concerning our destination? Because he was looking right at me when he went on to say that a renowned professor – the Director of the Museum – was at one time a friend and neighbor to us all. My mind sprang to life. Mere mention of this man unleashed something deep within me, a surge of raw energy I had never felt before. The leader of the Museum – a man most certainly possessed with extraordinary wisdom and power – was born in our own town, amidst our very homes! Could such a thing be possible?

            But just when I wanted to hear more the teacher took one look outside and with a look of great concern sat down without saying another word.

            The drab and dreary grayness of the city now expanded all around us, as though the sun had ceased to exist, or simply lay buried behind layers of smoke and gloom. Stretching out as far as the eye could see was an unearthly jungle of mottled bricks and scarred concrete. One could look out either side at the tall buildings and lifeless windows stacked on top of one another and watch them blend together into one indistinguishable mass. All this with not a living tree or bush in sight. This is what we had waited so long to see?

            Yes, there was life out there, dim, hurried forms of ourselves we could see yet not fully comprehend. It was just not life as we knew it. Thankfully our driver held steady at the helm while all around us swarmed angry cars and honking trucks of every shape and size, each one spitting out filthy plumes of smoke as they clamored forward. We all were packed so tightly together that none could move ahead at any speed without crashing into another. What would happen if someone were to fall out of their vehicle here? I wondered. A chill ran down my spine and I shut my eyes to it all. The once free and open road had become a dense, convoluted coil of seething pressure, a concrete river of unalterable currents that held us firmly in tow.

            All progress was slowed to a torturous crawl and I could almost see the shadow of foreboding fall across the other young faces in our group. Feeling helpless I sank down in my seat and silently prayed that our faithful bus would continue to protect us. Yes, I reasoned, she was strong and sturdy. As long as we were in here we were safe. But then came another stream of thought, emerging slowly from the misty depths of my consciousness like a serpent. The deeper we penetrated the sepulchral city the more I could not stop thinking about the leader of the Museum and what unholy demons must have driven him to leave our fair town behind for this. Thoughts of home and safety were now being challenged by an even more compelling desire to learn more of this man – the man they called Kurtz.

*          *          *

            The Museum was a monstrous creation of concrete and stone that reached out at indeterminable lengths in every direction. Located in the heart of the city, much the same way a sturdy vault is hidden from open view, it was a fortress of high gray walls and spired towers designed, I'm sure, to humble the strongest of men before its great expanse. As our class finally disembarked from the bus I took the chance to run over and touch it with my own hand. A dark, sooty residue caked the stones with a tomb-like seal – the cold and clammy wetness of unending years. In an instant the power emanating from these walls ran through my fingers and told me that the secrets locked inside were as treasure was to a lordly king from days long gone.

            Huddled tightly together we walked with our teacher through the heavy front gate and once inside were met with an enormity of space that easily matched the starry heavens of a summer's night back home. The air inside was heavy and stale, instantly bringing to mind thoughts of slow decay. From windows high above shafts of dusty light angled down upon us. The extraordinary height echoed every sound to the degree that if we spoke at all we were compelled to whisper like altar boys in a church. Indeed as I took it all in I saw before me not a simple building of brick and mortar but rather a purposeful cathedral of someone's making. With equal parts fear and wanting I gazed up above. There could be no other explanation for how I felt that moment other than to say that somehow I knew this place had been waiting for me.

            There was a scattering of other adults with us in the great room – pale and haggard-looking clerks mostly, along with two pair of stiff men wearing dark suits. The suits bore an insignia on the left breast, giving them a most official, if not menacing bearing. One look at them and I knew right away they had to be Kurtz's men. It wasn't a cruel or vicious expression I saw in their faces so much as it was an even more frightening look of emptiness, a complete and total lack of human warmth. I was busy studying them when a thin little man with oily black hair and eager eyes stepped forward and introduced himself as our tour guide, officially welcoming us on behalf of Professor Kurtz. After asking us where we were from (he showed no recognition of our answer) he finished his opening remarks and then beckoned us to follow him to the first exhibit hall. I breathed deep the rank air. Fully aware that I had no other choice I stepped in line with the others and proceeded onward.

            At a brisk pace our guide led us down a long, narrow corridor that eventually opened up again into another cavernous room, brightly lit yet still holding that same acrid smell of dust and decay. There inside the room was a most peculiar sight. Row upon row of heavy glass cases. The guide waited patiently as we filed in, then cleared his throat with great effort in order to speak. This, he said grandly, was the Origin of Man exhibit. But as his voice droned on about the collected information my attention was quickly drawn elsewhere. While my classmates were busy pressing their noses against the glass to see the fossils and ghostly artifacts I was looking at something else. What caught my eye was a small white sign that read simply KURTZ. That was all. No explanation. No further inscription. Just KURTZ.

            My eyes hung on those black letters like fresh meat on a butcher's hook. I looked over into the next case and saw the same exact sign. And again in the one next to that. Every case on display had his name on it. I quickly surmised that there had to be more to this brazen act than the mere weakness of human vanity. But what then? As I stared at it I began to see that the black and white simplicity of the sign was pure power, his way of saying that this was his exhibit, these were his facts, indeed that this was his Museum. In short time it became clear to me that the man was trying to bastardize all knowledge and history, taking it over and making it all his own – surely an act of absolute madness. Or, perhaps, sheer genius.

            I needed to know more.

            After a time the rest of the class moved on ahead while I deliberately hung back at the end of the line, finally darting out and ducking behind one of the glass cases when I had the chance. Nervously I watched my classmates slowly disappear down a corridor heading for the Origin of the City exhibit. Alone now I could listen to the awesome silence and focus on what strangely but undeniably was becoming my personal quest to learn more about Professor Kurtz. Like a steady drumbeat his name kept echoing in my head and I could not help but feel that something was drawing me to him. Looking around for the next clue I wandered the length of the great room until I came upon a strange sight – three display cases shrouded in black. No lights were shining on them and the cases themselves were covered with heavy canvas. Something here was not being shown, like a page ripped out of Kurt's own book of Genesis. With pounding heart I slipped beneath the red rope that cordoned off the cases. Slowly my hand approached the canvas.

            "Get away from there!"

            Everything stopped. I spun around and saw a thin little man coming toward me carrying a mop and pail. His face was as pale as speckled marble and it twitched often with some sort of nervous affliction. At first I was too frightened to say anything.

            "He does not want these shown today," the man continued, speaking in an accent that was quite foreign to me. "And whatever the man wants, the man gets."

            "Kurtz?" I said with trembling voice.

            "Professor Kurtz to you. Of course. He makes all decisions around here. Now what are you doing here by yourself?"

            "I…I got lost from my group and I've been trying to find them."

            "You don't look lost."

            I paused to take a deep breath. "Well, actually I came here to learn more about Professor Kurtz."

            "Learn? About him?"

            "Yes. What can you tell me about him?"

            "Aren't you the daring little sprout."

            "Please, sir."

            "Why should I tell you anything?"

            "Because Professor Kurtz would want you to."

            He thought about that for a moment. Then he quickly looked around the room, up and down, side to side, assuring himself that it was safe to speak. "He is everything to us: poet, painter, visionary. He is what we call the universal genius. He makes us see all things in new ways."

            "Where is he? Can I see him?"

            "No. He will see you. But only if he wants to."

            "You don't understand. I must speak with Professor Kurtz."

            "I'm telling you you shouldn't be in here. Not alone. This can be very scary place. Others like you have gotten lost in here. Get in big trouble, if you know what I mean. Now go!"

            And with that he turned with his mop and pail in hand and quickly walked away, escaping the room by means of a hidden service door. As I watched him scurry away like some two-legged beetle it occurred to me what a fine line it is that separates power and madness, simple obedience and outright submission. With what I admit was a growing fascination I was convinced that in coming to this distant outpost years ago Kurtz had found those very same lines and, for some as yet unknown reason, crossed over them to the other side. And with that came another unsettling thought: if it could happen to a learned man like him, then what about me, indeed what about all of us?

*          *          *

                        Completely set apart and adrift now I carefully rambled through the labyrinth of airy

corridors and strange exhibit halls, in the process getting myself truly lost. As if in the midst of the deepest

jungle the path behind me looked no different than the path in front. Several times I ducked into bathrooms

or around quick corners to narrowly avoid the notice of others, including twice those stern men in the dark

suits. At one point, I admit, I wanted to cry out for my classmates, my teacher, anyone who could rescue

me. But even if they could find me I knew they would never understand what this quest of mine was all

about. So having no other choice I pressed on deeper into the bowels of the great building.

            Descending one floor, then another, I finally came upon a set of large, heavy doors. With all due trepidation, and great physical effort, I opened them just enough to squeeze myself through. Beyond lay a corridor illuminated only by soft red lights. As the doors clanked shut behind me I felt a rush of energy course through me. He was close. Real close.

            At the end of the red corridor I entered yet another room and there I found myself standing on a raised platform with a metal railing and narrow stairs leading into darkness down below. Reaching out in front of me, as best I could tell in the gloomy half-light, was a sunken room in the shape of a large circle. Looking up on the wall above me I could read the bold letters: THE FUTURE OF MAN – KURTZ. At first glance I saw it as just another sign. I looked at it again and this time said the words out loud, and something about them chilled me to the bone.

            "Anybody in here?"

            Hearing nothing in response I walked cautiously to the top of the stairs that led down into the pit. As my eyes adjusted to the dim light I could make out the shapes of more glass cases, though not their contents. I stepped down to the ground floor and looked all around. It was then that I caught a glimpse – or thought I did – of something moving in the shadows to my right.

            "Who's there," I asked in a weakhearted voice.

            There was an audible click and instantly I was covered with bright lights from high above.

            "Professor Kurtz, is that you?"

            The room remained cold and deathly quiet, save for the low electrical humming of the lights.

            "I know I'm not supposed to be here but I kinda got lost from the rest of my class and—"
            "You are now alone in the wilderness, Mister Marlow."

            It was a strong, almost regal voice that instantly raised the hair on the back of my neck. I didn't even think at the time how it was that this as yet unattached and omniscient presence knew my name.

            "I have been awaiting your arrival," the voice boomed.

            I so wanted to say something profound, but only one word passed my lips in a whisper. "Damn."

            "I knew someone like you would come sooner or later. It was only a matter of time."

            There was a long pause and now I could hear footsteps.

            "I sense that you are a very perceptive young man."

            "And you, sir, are—?"

            "I am Professor Kurtz."

            As if on cue he stepped out into the ring of harsh white light in front of me. Far from what I had expected, his frame was thin and delicate, his immediate appearance was

that of a tired old man, a back-room clerk. His head was shaved and the white coat he wore clung to his stooped shoulders like a sheet on a wire hanger. He avoided my gaze at first, then looked directly at me, almost through me, with an intensity for which mere words could not do justice. If indeed the eyes are the window to the soul then what I saw in his eyes were black chasms of pain and suffering, even misery so deep that I could not fathom their true depth. How cruel it was to see the immense stature of this man held captive in such a withered, worn-out shell.

            "Tell me, what was it that brought you here?" he asked.

            "A bus."

            A flash of anger came to his face and his right hand clenched tight. "Don't play games with me. You know what I'm talking about."

            "Sorry. I came here on a field trip with the rest of my science class, but from the moment I heard that you came from our town…I don't know, I just had this weird feeling that I had to meet you."

            "Do you believe in destiny?"

            "Destiny?"

            "A preordained purpose. A higher calling."

            "I don't know. Maybe."

            "Long ago, when I was still a young man, I found my calling, or thought I did, right here in the heart of the city, within the walls of this museum."

            "That's the part I don't understand. I mean, why? Everything about this place is so dark and depressing."

            He slipped his bony hands into the pockets of his jacket. "The simple answer would be that I was given a job to do. I was sent here to deliver these people from the ravages of their own ignorance. I was to restore this museum and use any and all resources at my disposal to give them knowledge, understanding and wisdom. All such noble pursuits. What I didn't realize until later was the true purpose behind my mission. You see, what was good for the museum was good for this city, and what was good for the city was good for business. That's all that really mattered to my superiors – good business.

            "Me, a man who had dedicated his life and soul to the preservation and pursuit of knowledge in its highest form, was little more than a barker at a carnival. 'Step right up and see the New World. Buy your tickets here.'

            "But as the years went by an even stranger phenomenon began to take place. With few exceptions the people in this place did everything I told them to do, believed everything I told them to believe, without question. In their feeble minds I could do no wrong. Think about it, young Marlow. Think of the power! Those who did dare challenge me on any matter were…dismissed. Those who should have spoken out against me stayed silent. I had it in my power to make the people of this city rethink everything – about their past, their present, ultimately their own future. True or not the facts didn't matter. And the more power I had, the more I wanted. That was all I could think about."

            He lowered his head, a broken man confessing his sins while bathed in a beam of white light. "The sanctity and virtue of knowledge meant nothing any more."            

            It pained me to see a man so broken up and hollowed out by his own dark desires. "Then change it all back," I blurted out. "Just make it right."

            "Come now," he said. "Do you really think it's that simple?"

            The answer, of course, was no. By his own complicity he had laid bare the human condition of lust and greed, not for money but for power, and from that there could be no simple correction. He knew that. And so did I.

            "Then come back home with me."

            He stepped over to an oblong case and ran one hand along the glass. "I belong here now," Kurtz said gravely. "And it won't be long before someone will take my place as Director of the Museum. Maybe even you some day."

            "Me?"

            "The force of destiny brought you to me, made you seek me out. And now only you know the real truth of this place. You would be perfect."

            "But…I can't stay here. I can't."

            "In due time, young man, in due time. You will come to see things differently."

            By now visions of home were flooding my mind and the thought of staying here in this room, this building, this city one minute longer than was necessary filled me with a dread I could not have imagined possible.

            "I want to go home."

            "Very well, young Marlow."

            He stepped back and pressed a button on the wall. Shortly thereafter two of the men in dark suits entered the room and descended the stairs behind me.

            "See to it that he is reunited with his group."

            The next thing I knew they were leading up the stairs and out towards the heavy doors. Before leaving I took one more look down into that pit and saw the back of Kurtz's

white coat vanish into the shadows. And his last words echoed throughout the room: "The horror. The horror."

            My classmates were waiting for me in the entrance hall, gathered around our science teacher, all with the strangest looks on their faces. Seeing me approach with my silent escorts surely had much to do with that. They were afraid to even speak to me, like somehow I wasn't one of them anymore. With little delay our teacher herded us outside and into our shiny yellow bus, itself a welcome sight to us all. And so we began the long journey home. Eventually the open spaces and orange skies of a brilliant sunset came into view, as did the happy dispositions of my classmates. All but me, as I sat looking into their fresh and eager faces with a sad awareness that life would never be the same again.

-end- 

Take His Wife...Please.

Sometimes they make you giggle. Sometimes they make you groan, or maybe just roll your eyes and smile. But the good ones always do something. Of all forms of humor my favorite would have to be the one-liner.  And the self-declared king of the one-liners was comedian Henny Youngman.
A small sampling of his work:

"Last night my wife said the weather was fit for neither man nor beast. So we both stayed home."

"Does my wife talk? Last year I had laryngitis for three weeks and I didn't even know it."

"My wife has a very sad parrot.  He's never had a chance."

"I miss my wife's cooking - every chance I get."

"She has the only kitchen in the world where we put out dental floss so the roaches can hang themselves."

"In the mornings we make breakfast together.  She makes the toast and I scrape it."

"After our honeymoon I felt like a new man. My wife said she did too."

There, see what I mean?

Gone With The - What?

"Reality is merely an illusion, albeit a very persistent one."

                                                                        -Albert Einstein

"Everything you can imagine is real."

                                                                        -Pablo Picasso

            Real or imagined some stories just stay with you. Take this one, for example. It's a distant image I've hung on to for some reason, a faded snapshot in a box full of memories; in fact, the more time goes by the more it seems like it never really happened at all. But it did.

            I vaguely remember the time my father took mother and me to see Gone With The Wind. No, I'm not that old. I'm talking about a limited re-release of the 1939 film classic that occurred in 1966. Dad was something of an amateur historian and a bona fide Civil War buff, and from him I picked up a playful interest in the battles of that era; playing with toy Civil War soldiers, that type of thing. I was six years old at the time so I gladly tagged along when they told me it was a movie about the Civil War.

            What they didn't tell me was that it was a nearly four-hour marathon bore with too much talking, kissing and crying. Where were all the battle scenes? The cavalry charging and the cannons blazing? Neat stuff like that. As for the troubles of Rhett Butler and Scarlett O'Hara, quite frankly I didn't give a…well, you know.

            However there was one scene that stuck in my mind that night. It takes place during the siege of Atlanta. A panoramic shot shows the streets literally covered with the dead and dying men of the Confederacy. Cut to a crowded hotel lobby serving as a makeshift hospital and operating room. Surrounded by the stretchers and the anguished cries of the injured, a lone white-haired doctor stands with sleeves rolled up and his shirt smeared with blood, helpless to stop the suffering. He says he hasn't been home to see his family in days. They're out of bandages, anesthetic, hope. When yet another young soldier is brought before him the doctor takes a weary look at the wound, sighs, and declares that the leg will have to come off.

            What? Sitting there in that dark theater my eyes grew wide.

            The soldier lets out a blood-curdling scream, followed by a plea for mercy. "No, not my leg. Don't take my leg." Two attendants hold him down while the doctor shakes his head, picks up a bone saw and pours some whiskey over the blade. He bends down and there's another long, horrible scream as the camera pulls up and the scene fades away.        

            Well…talk about horrified. To these young eyes that had never seen anything of the horrors of war, it was a new experience to say the least. Finally the ending credits rolled and the house lights came up. No doubt by then my butt was plenty stiff and sore from having sat through four hours of a love story.

            "Not enough action. Too boring."

            That would have been my terse review had anyone back in those days the foresight to let six-year-old kids review classic films.

            Okay, now fast forward to a warm and sunny spring day a few weeks later. I was goofing around with my next door neighbor in his front yard. For some reason or none at all we were climbing around the wrought iron hand railing near the front door and I happened to stick my skinny little leg between two of the bars. Putting my weight down my left leg sank in further. Then I decided to twist my foot back so that the toe would catch behind another bar. I wish I could say there was a logical reason for doing all this but whatever that might have been escaped me a long time ago.

            Anyway, I'm really wedged in there good when I decide it's time to untangle myself.

            Hey, wait a minute. Something's not – this doesn't feel right.

            The more I struggle the more the fear grows. I can't get any leverage to free my foot or my leg. I'm stuck!

            I start to whimper, then the eyes start to glisten with fear. My friend stares at me rather dumbfounded before he finally decides that he better go get his dad. So his dad comes outside, thinking who knows what? and sees me there, a skinny pig definitely stuck in a poke. He comes over and very gently tries to pry my limb loose but with no success. My breathing is raspy and the tears are rolling.      

            Not wanting to risk further damage the man decides this is a matter for my dad to deal with. He leaves to fetch him. An eerie minute or two passes. Meanwhile I'm wiggling my leg in a desperate attempt to free myself which is only making the situation worse because now my leg is starting to swell up. Finally the two fathers turn the corner. Dad sees me and shakes his head, no doubt thinking something along the lines of 'how the hell did the kid manage to do that?' He comes over to take a closer look, tries with more force to pry me out, but my tears dissuade him from going too far with that.

            Like surgeons the two men confer out of earshot. They quickly decide on a course of action. Dad tells me he'll be right back. He heads back over to our house and returns a minute later. Now there's something in his hand.

            Sweet Jesus he's got a saw!

            I'm wailing now. Wailing and blubbering at the same time so that none of my words are coming out as actual words. I'm trying to say, 'No, don't do it. Please don't do it.' But they don't hear anything but the crying and the blubbering. Dad comes over and tries to calm me down, but to no avail. He gently puts a hand on my thigh and brings up the blade. (And to think he's not even going to use any whiskey to sterilize the blade.)

            Finally it comes out, "No, not my leg!"

            And the two men start to laugh. I mean, bent-over, gut-busting laughter. I can't believe it. A young mind is pulsating with visions of torn flesh and naked bone, not to mention a lifetime spent hobbling around on a wooden leg, and they're laughing about it? This can't be happening. But yet at that very moment it was happening. Dad again put his hand on my leg and I closed my eyes in anticipation of the first searing jolt of pain.

            Of course the pain never came. (Come to think of it, wouldn't this be a bizarre story if I said that it did?) The next sound I heard was the scratching of metal on metal. I looked down and saw not a bloodbath but rather the hurried movement of a hacksaw cutting into the wrought iron railing. I suppose at that moment I should have been relieved, a little embarrassed maybe. But all I cared about was getting out of this steel trap and running away as fast as I could. And when the cutting was over that's exactly what I did. I ran like hell. Hopefully Dad at least offered to replace the railing – seems like the neighborly thing to do after having to saw off a part of someone else's house in order to retrieve your son.

            Dad's been gone for a long time now, so I don't really know what he was thinking throughout this whole episode. I would like to think that he took it for what it was: one of life's little absurdities, one of those comically unpredictable moments that, if and when remembered, only get better with time. And I guess that makes it real enough for me.

-end-