AH, WILMA, HOW YOU’VE CHANGED

   By Leon Berger 

      I was physically attracted to Wilma when she wore knee high boots and a quasi-military uniform complete with stun gun hanging low on her waist as she coursed through the galaxy, accompanied by her stalwart companion Buck.

  Suddenly, a scant 60 odd years later, Wilma is a bundle of energy, zigzagging out of Africa destined for the southern tip of Florida where she  satisfied  her insatiable appetite for phone and electric  grids, pool enclosures, beautiful but shallow ficus trees  and of course,  ceramic tiles.  I won’t mention trailer parks;

that’s a given.  Then she was gone, leaving to the hapless burghers the arduous

task of healing the wounds inflicted by this tempestuous vixen. 

     “Harry, what are you doing about having the pool enclosure rescreened.?”

     “We’re on the list.  I figure they will get around to us sometime in January.”

     “What about the roof tile?”

     “You must be kidding?”

     Phone rings.  Lois picks up the phone on the second ring.  “Hello. Hold on,

I’ll get him.”

     “Harry, it’s for you.”

     “Who is it?”

     “He didn’t say, but apparently he knows you.  He asked for ‘Harry.’ “

     “Hello.”

     “Harry, we would like to send a crew over to rescreen your patio. There will  

be no charge for this service.”

     “You’ve  got the wrong guy, buster.  I don’t know who you are but I can

recognize a scam a mile off.  Why don’t you hang up and get an honest job.”

      “Harry, I represent’Physio’.  We have done business before.” 

     “I don’t think so.  I never heard of you.”

     ‘Harry, check page 25 of your journal*”

  

     “My journal?    Are you sure you have the right party?”

     “Quite sure.”

     “Okay.  Tell me, why am I the lucky recipient of such benefaction?  You did

 say it would be free.”

     “This is going to be difficult, but I’ll try.  Your property came with a  variance that created a geometric anomaly so that the vertices of the polygon…. ..no, this isn’t going to work out.  Think back, Harry. .  You answered our ad at  the turn of the century and constructed a ‘thinking area’ that changed your life .” 

      Harry  struggles to remember. . “Look, give me a minute. I just want to

check this out.”       “Don’t take too long. You have been allotted 30 seconds to make a decision.   30 seconds, no more, no less.” 

     “Lois, quick, get my journal.  You look in the den; I’ll check the playroom.

  There’s something familiar about what this guy is saying.”

        Lois scampers off, but returns obviously flustered.  “What journal, Harry?”

     “My book.  My book.  There’s a story on page 25.  I want to refresh my

memory”

       Lois returns.  “Harry, I can’t find your book.  Where do you keep it?”

     “That’s alright; I found my copy.”  Checks page 25 and reads the title out  loud: ‘The Message’.    Scans the story, a confused expression on his face. 

     “ Damn, he’s right.  ‘Physio’ was the name of the company that placed that

 weird ad in Fortune magazine.  Their company provided information on how to

convert the shower into a ‘thinking area’ and it really worked.” Picks up the  

phone.  “Hello,  hello”.  The line is dead. “ I guess when he said ‘30seconds’ he

meant it.” 

       “I’m surprised you didn’t hang up on him.  You’re the one who always tells

me that ‘there is no such thing as a free lunch’ and that ‘you always get what you

 pay for.’ “

     “Yeah, it slipped my mind.  Lois, I’m going to take a shower.”

      “Harry, it’s 4:30 in the afternoon.  You took a shower this morning.”

      “I know, but this time I’ve got some thinking to do.”

      One-half hour later, Harry, a towel wrapped around his waist, his hair moist, 

and hanging over his forehead, confronts Lois.  “I think we can be proud of the

 way we handled Wilma.  We were resolute and mature in the way we faced the

problems she caused.  We did what had to be done and we are going to resolve the

 problems of the aftermath in the same fashion.  How does that sound?”

     “It sounds good to me, Harry, but tell me did you really require one-half-hour

 in the shower to come up with that strategy?”

______________*SURVIVAL IN BOCA RATON published by Trafford  Publishing 

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    

                                                                                           

    I  buried my head in my mother’s skirt. I was frightened. This man, this crazy man was waving a stick as he walked down off the plane. His eyes fixed in our direction. His face looked like a skull and his clothes didn’t fit properly… they were too big. He was shouting at us and leaning heavily on a stick as he limped in our direction.  I started to cry.“Hush, child.  Don’t cry.  That’s your father.”     I was one year old when he left to serve his country. Now he is returning, four years later, shouting, crying and waving a stick. He hugged my mother and then tried to pick me up. I wouldn’t let him. I went limp and crumpled to the floor. My eyes were glued to the shiny silver handle on the end of the stick. He started to cry and my mother comforted him.      This was my father, a troubled, tormented man who spent four years in Santo Tomas, a death camp in the Philippines

      For fifteen years I heard the story… time and time again, how they beat and starved him. His voice became shrill when he described how one sadistic guard broke his leg because he moved too slowly and would have continued to beat him except for the Commandant who interceded and saved his life.                                                                                                                                                                                                          “The camp had no doctor, butt Commandant Akiko Yoshikawa, a Princeton graduate, excused me from working and allowed me stay in my bunk until my leg healed.         ” ‘The guards will beat you as usual, but not as hard. You will continue to receive the same food as your fellow prisoners, for to treat you as a favorite, would cause great resentment against you.   However I will see to it that you will survive.                  “I  didn’t know why I was receiving his special attention, but I was grateful.  I used to hobble around using an improvised plank as a cane until one day Commandant Yoshikawa informed me that the guard who distributes the food had a cane he would exchange for my Red Cross cigarettes. I remember what he said:  ‘the cane you will receive belongs to me; it has sentimental, historical meaning to my family. I am not giving it to you. I am loaning it to you, to use until you arrive at your home in the United States. Someday, when the war is over, I will visit you and you will return the cane to me.’ I swore to him that I would never forget his kindness and this cane has never left my side.”           

     Commandant Yoshikawa never came for his cane; he was executed as a war criminal. My father passed away fifteen years later, broken in mind and body. I stayed at home with my mother and when she died ten years later I inherited everything, including the cane which I kept in an umbrella stand by the front door. For fifty two years, whenever I polished the handle of the cane, I thought of my father and how circumstances beyond our control shape our destiny. I remained a bachelor, acquiring my share of physical problems as I grew older. When spinal stenosis affected my balance, I relied on my father’s cane. It served me well, but always evoking sentimental memories.             In the year 2003, I booked a flight to visit a niece on the West Coast.  Possibly because of an Orange alert, airport security seemed unusually diligent and thorough. I was given a chair, asked to remove my shoes which, together with my cane, was fluoroscoped..  I became concerned for whatever showed up on the screen excited much activity and glances in my direction. A young security guard approached, carrying my shoes.       “Please put on your shoes and follow me.”         “I can’t walk without my cane and what about my flight? I don’t want to miss it.”          “We’ll get you a wheel chair, but I am afraid you are going to miss your flight.”     I was wheeled into a small room adjacent to the Fluoroscopic unit. They placed my cane on the table before me.     “What’s in the cane?”          “I don’t understand what you’re saying?”          “The cane is hollow and there is something in the cane. Show us how to remove the handle or we will have to cut the cane in half.”          “Hold on. You can’t do that, that’s my cane. It means a great deal to me. I don’t know anything about it being hollow or what it contains.”   

      The questions that were rapid and confusing: “Where did you get it?  How long have you had it?  Have you ever served time in prison?”      

      After I explained the circumstances, I could see they were sympathetic, but they had a job to do and they let me watch as they cut the cane. To my amazement hundreds of diamonds, wrapped in cotton batting, came pouring out! An aluminum cane was provided to me and I returned home.  I was no longer interested in going to the West Coast. . I now have a lawyer who assures me that we have a good case; the diamonds should be mine. The Government’s position is that the diamonds were taken from the prisoners and that ownership will have to be adjudicated.

     I’m glad my father never realized what a cruel, calculating bastard Akiko Yoshikawa was. It is obvious to me that his execution prevented him from reaping the benefits of a plan that required crippling my father and pretending to be his savior.

                                                                                                                                                            

  

                     GADZOOKS, NOT SAMSA AGAIN

                                                       By Leon Berger

     It was bitterly cold for March, the year was 1915 and depression hung like a shroud over nations involved in the Great War as they tallied the mounting casualties.  Diversion, though temporary, was provided by an electrifying item that appeared in newspapers throughout the world:  a resident of

Prague, George Samsa, had gone to bed early in the evening, slept peacefully and woke to find himself transformed overnight into a grotesque dung beetle.

     This nightmarish event was challenged by many skeptics.  Others, more literate, presented various explanations tied into the philosophy of Sigmund Freud.   Dr. Freud made no comment about this extraordinary event but the

chronicle was recorded by Franz Kafka and the authenticity of the above facts can be verified in a publication entitled THE METAMORPHOSIS.

     Mr. Samsa’s transfiguration occupied the public press briefly, replaced by the tragic events occurring on the Western front, ultimately eradicating the name George Samsa from public consciousness..

     Now, in the fifth year of the 21^st century, startling information of similar significance was brought to my attention.  The facts were revealed to me only when I agreed to protect the anonymity of the persons involved.

     A remarkable event, a striking alteration of an 18 year old American male occurred overnight, observed but not immediately recognized by his parents, who, for their own survival, practiced ‘selective sight.’  This allowed them to ‘not see’ the floor of his bedroom, strewn with clean and dirty clothing, smelling like a wet cat extricated from a clogged sewer pipe.  They, particularly his father, created a protective shield which softened the guttural grunts and unintelligible sounds emanating from their son whenever he wanted food or transportation.  They refrained from asking him to bring out the garbage or to bring in the newspaper, thus avoiding the dismal sight of his sullen, reluctant compliance.  In truth his parents hoped that they had the fortitude to retain their sanity until their pride and joy was accepted by an out of state University.                                

 The metamorphose was recognized on the 9th of June and was   recounted to me by the boy’s mother:

“We were watching television when we heard a deep bass voice calling from the upstairs bedroom:  

     “‘Mother, there is a phone call for you.’”   

     “We were both startled and I whispered to my husband:  ‘Ben, that wasn’t Chet’s voice. Who’s up there with him?  Ben, his face ashen, pointing to the phone, ignored my question.

     “My heart was racing as I picked up the phone, relieved to recognize a familiar voice.  It was my friend Judy who asked:   ‘Phyllis, what’s going on?  I actually had a conversation with your son.  Is everything okay?’

     “I told her that I couldn’t talk to her at that moment but would phone her later and replaced the phone in its cradle.    Then Ben and I, hand in hand, mounted the stairs not knowing what we would discover in our son’s room.  The door was closed; I knocked once and opened the door without waiting for a reply.

     “Chet was at his desk, papers neatly stacked, apparently doing his homework.  The carpet was free from all clutter exposing for the first time in four years two throw rugs on a rich walnut floor.  The closet door, open to view, revealed order and neatness.

     “We stood there, Ben and I, transfixed, flabbergasted and speechless, the silence broken when Chet turned to face us and in a remarkably clear voice asked if he could borrow the car on Saturday.  ‘ I’m taking Lois Roger to the prom and, incidentally, I will need some cash.  Do you think we could work out something if I cut the grass and bring in the firewood?”

     “I heard myself asking if Lois was the young lady who was voted the Queen of the Prom?  ‘Yes, that’s the same Lois, and mother, are you aware of how dirty the windows are.  If you show me how to wash the windows, I can do them this week end.’

     “Later, within the privacy of our bedroom, Ben and I pondered the transformation of our son.  When and how had it occurred?  Would the transformation last?  We agreed the answers were not important; the reality was all that mattered.  We laughed and then cried, energized by the surprising turn of events.”

     After hearing her story, I did some research in the Journal of Neurophysiology and I learned that teen age romantic love can cause a catalytic action permitting out-of-character behavior.

     The everyday sights and familial relationships that George Samsa could no longer enjoy contributed to his bizarre death when a barrage of ripe apples put an end to his life.

      The game for young Chet has not played out yet, but he has all the cards for a winning hand.  If he plays them skillfully it is most likely he will avoid the tedious climb up a dung heap. 

      All names have been changed and any similarity to sons or grandsons is not intended and is purely coincidental.

    

      By Leon Berger

          One could not ignore the proboscis protruding proud and conspicuous from the otherwise mundane assortment of facial features that served to identify Roget Loude.   This nose, this snout, uniquely long and straight, which Roger viewed at every opportunity, was Roget’s paramount source of pleasure.  Frequently, indeed daily, some stranger would comment that Roget had a striking resemblance to Basil Rathbone.  When Roget wore his deer-stalker and smoked his meerschaum, there was no doubt that he was a living and breathing image of Sherlock Holmes.

      Roget, surprisingly, was content with his life.  It mattered not that he was a 45 year old bachelor living in a rotting  bungalow located on Dixie Highway, where the rumble of the passing  trains rattled the dishes and caused ghost images on his l2” black and white television set.  He enjoyed his work as a conductor on the Tri-Rail, particularly when a passenger’s eyes would open wide in puzzlement, wondering why the face looked familiar.  When this occurred, Roget would whip  out his meerschaum, position himself to reveal the familiar profile, and then he and the passenger, no longer confused, would both laugh heartily. This made Roget happy; life was good.

     Life was good until one fateful sizzling morning in August when Roget, awakened by the persistence of his alarm clock, shuffled into his small, cluttered bathroom and commenced with the performance of his morning chores.

     Not yet fully awake and squinting through red-rimmed bleary eyes, smiling in anticipation as he greeted his reflection:  “Good morning Mr. Holmes.”  Something didn’t seem right.  Clearing the mirror with his towel, his eyes now wide open took in the reflection before him.  What the hell is that?  There, perched on the tip of his nose, a full 1/2 inch in length, was a greenish-gray hair.  Where did that come from?  It wasn’t there last night.  Reaching out, he grabbed it with his fore-finger and thumb and gently pulled. No luck; it would require a more determined effort. The texture of the hair permitted a firm grip and he pulled  and he yanked and he wrenched in every conceivable fashion, using a variety of shoemaker pinchers he had once acquired at a flea market and, in desperation, a clam shucker he found in the kitchen drawer.  Exhausted, his arm aching, confused at the stubbornness of the hair follicle, he called it quits, determined that the next day he would deal with this peculiar transgressor that seemingly defied removal.   

A sleepless night didn’t dampen his resolve, and he called in ‘sick’ as he drove to the Hillsboro HOME DEPOT.  Ignoring the stares of fellow shoppers who seemed fascinated by his nose (or so he thought), he chose a sturdy 8” nickel plated needle-nose pliers as his instrument of choice, and rushed home to extract his unwanted defacement.

     Finally, impatiently, back in his bungalow, he stripped to his waist, washed his nose with antiseptic soap and grabbed the follicle between the jaws of the pliers.

Applying firm and constant pressure the hair came free with a resounding pop but, to Roget’s horror, a greenish liquid came bubbling from his nose, flowing copiously for a full minute, finally erupting in a cohesive mass which hugged the contour of his nose as it traversed downward over his clenched lips, past his chin to drop silently into the enamel sink, absorbed by the detritus that had accumulated year after year.  

     The extraordinary discharge, inexplicable and confusing, left Roget exhausted and he lurched to his bed where he slept soundly for 24 hours, awakening as from a nightmare, frightened and wet with perspiration.   Observing the green stains on the bed-cover, he put his hands up to his nose, repulsed by the slime that had

solidified over-night.  Slowly he walked to the bathroom, ignoring the light switch.   First, he would cleanse himself.  He turned the hot water faucet on waiting the five minutes for the water heater to kick on, and then stepped into the shower, relishing the warmth and comfort before soaping his face repeatedly.   When the water started to turn cold, he forced himself to step out of the shower, toweled himself dry and switched on the light.  He ignored the stained sink and looked at his reflection in the mirror.  A crescendo of moans and groans startled Roget, emanating so he thought, from the unfamiliar reflection in the mirror.   His nose, his pride and joy, was replaced somehow by a diminutive button-nose which dramatically changed his facial features..  Roget sobbed uncontrollably.

He ran from the bathroom, the towel dropping from his body.  Naked, confused, he ran to the entrance door.  Changed his mind, ran back to the bedroom looking into the bedroom mirror.  Staring back at him was a stranger, yet he sensed it was his face.  The reflection was speaking incomprehensible gibberish.  This is madness; it has to stop.  He tried to calm down and forced himself to walk slowly into the kitchen, remembering he had a bottle of Vodka. All the glasses were in the sink, unwashed, nestling with a week’s accumulation of dirty dishes, but a coffee mug could be extracted and he poured himself a drink….and another…and another until, inebriated, he fell to the floor, gashing  his head on a mahogany footstool. .

     At the rail yard, three days later, Roget’s supervisor contacted the local police Department and requested that they check-out Roget’s home. Absent three days from the job without authorization was cause for concern.  This was unlike Roget.

Officer Andrew Buchanan who received the assignment wrote in his report:

  “… When I approached subject’s house  I detected a strong, foul odor in the area of the door.  I received no response to my repeated knocking, so I kicked in the door.  In the dim light, I could see a naked man seated at the table.  There was dried blood on his forehead.  He kept muttering something incomprehensible about ‘a nose, or the nose.’  .I contacted Sergeant Townes who called for an ambulance.  The ambulance arrived at 3:45 p.m. Paramedic Anthony Rizzo checked subject’s vitals and hooked-up an IV; subject was severely dehydrated.   At my request, Mr. Rizzo checked subject’s nose and reported “…no abnormality”….but remarked “…that there was an extraordinary resemblance to the actor Basil Rathbone.”  Subject was transported to the local Community Hospital and was signed in at 4:30 p.m.”                                                                       /s/ Officer A. Buchanan                                                                             Badge No. 2776                                                                                                                                        

Here’ to all those that I love

Here’s to all those that l0ve me.

And here’s to all those that love those that I love

And all those that love those that love me.

                                      Anonymous