BRIGHTER DAY

I dreamed that you will come to me
In the land of no surprise
And you will kiss my lips
And look into my eyes
And I will say to you
Behold the holy sign
“All was lost, all was lost”
Well everything that was mine
But your presence now
Renews my belief
That true love
Springs from grief
And all the tears we shed
Along the way
Got us through the night
To this brighter day

(c)  Frank Howson 2018

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THE OLD MAN WHO WENT TO DISNEYLAND

His mother always called him “Buddy.” So did those who loved him of which there were many. But he had in fact been born with the rather formal name of Charles Percival Imes. Perhaps his parents hoped he’d achieve great things. Maybe even become a politician.

Buddy Imes had entered the world in the small town of Stockholm, Wisconsin, and until the last few days of his life it would be all he ever saw of the outside world. Not that he wanted it that way. As a boy he collected lots of travel magazines of exotic places and religiously viewed the Disney TV show, loving it when Walt talked about Adventureland and screened footage of beautiful places Buddy dreamed that he’d venture to one day. But that one day never came because Life got in the way.

Buddy’s parents had witnessed the dust bowl depression as children and it’d ingrained in them both a fear of experiencing such poverty ever again. They also did what most parents did, and that was to pass their fears onto their children. Expertly influencing Buddy not to take risks with his life but to play it safe. As a result, Buddy showed no scholarly prowess and was content enough to just scrape through with grades that gave him a pass in the lower middle realms of his classes.

“Don’t stick your neck out, Buddy, it doesn’t pay” was the chant of his boyhood and teenage years.

Buddy sometimes bridled at these reins and thought about how even the name of his small town, Stockholm, wasn’t original. “Someone certainly didn’t stick his neck out coming up with that name!” he’d joke. But his parents didn’t see the humour in that.

“Play it safe, Buddy, play it safe.”

And so he did.

He left school early and got a job at Mr. Williams’ local grocery store, the most popular in town and, some years later when Mr. and Mrs. Williams decided to retire, Buddy was offered the chance to buy the business at a “friendly” price.

After getting together all his savings as well as a contribution from his parents, Buddy went to the bank in his Sunday suit to see the manager, Bill Giles, who happily loaned the responsible and well liked young man the balance.

A few years later, at the appropriate time in his manhood, Buddy got married to a local girl everyone approved of. Heidi Sims was quite a beauty and came from a respected Stockholm family. Many told Buddy he was punching above his weight and how lucky he was being joined to such a prize.

Buddy and Heidi didn’t have much in common other than pleasing their respective parents, as well as everyone else in town who thought they were an ideal couple. And that is how they set forth on their journey together as husband and wife.

Buddy’s friendly demeanour and a smile for everyone made the store even more popular with the locals, and his soft heart always gave credit to people he knew were struggling. Even if it meant that he and his wife were denied the gravy of the store’s profits most months.

“You’re a store owner, Buddy, not a saint! Saints are martyrs who die with nothing, get it?!” cried Heidi, time and time again in her frustration.

Buddy always floundered when it came to the tedious chores like doing the weekly bookwork and accounts. This is where Heidi proved a most appreciated asset as she was excellent with figures and had topped her class year after year in every subject at high school. They were probably never closer than during this period where they both relied on each other’s talents. After awhile Buddy, always a slow learner, finally got the knack of the bookwork and was able to run the store solo, while Heidi worked on decorating their house and turning it into a home. When Buddy and Heidi sat down to a late dinner each night they’d fill each other in on their respective days. But after a year or two the conversations became almost identical until they stopped altogether.

Over the next few years they added two children to their flock and the evenings were no longer as lonely.

Years went by, some fast, mostly slow, and Buddy worked himself till he looked older than his age trying to pay off the mortgage on their small but impressive family home.

During slow times at the store Buddy would daydream about taking his family to California to visit Disneyland. He’d remembered being a wide-eyed boy and watching the live TV transmission of Disneyland’s grand opening and Walt Disney looking directly into the camera and inviting everyone to come along and experience the “happiest kingdom of them all.”

Buddy promised his wife and children that when they had a bumper year at the store, and those he’d extended credit to had caught up with their payments, they’d all set off to California and spend at least a few days enjoying the happiness that Mr. Disney had promised.

But one year ran into another and then ran away with Buddy’s prime. His children grew old enough to no longer believe in the magic of fairytales, or their father’s promises, and left the confines of Stockholm, Wisconsin, in search of bigger lives. His son, Jacob, laughed in Buddy’s face as though he were a pathetic old fool when his father desperately tried to entice him to stay by offering him his beloved store to run.

Not long after, Buddy’s wife left too to join her children in Chicago, causing a scandal in the small town, but the kindly store owner never gave it wings by talking about it.

Twenty years later he still found it too painful to even think about. Was he such a failure as a human being that everyone he’d loved the most had to desert him? This thought gnawed at him until the light went out of his eyes to be replaced by tears.

He found the nights very lonely. He’d finally paid off the house and now had no one to share it with. Only the voices from the past.

And some of those voices were hurtful…

“You’re a store owner, Buddy, not a saint! Saints are martyrs who die with nothing, get it?!” screamed Heidi.

“Why would I want to become like you? You’re just a loser who runs a small town store! You’re an embarrassment to me, and that’s the truth!” screamed his son, breaking the peace of the night with his tone, as well as his father’s heart.

“Daddy, you’re not the most loved man in town. You’re a joke. People just use you and you’re too stupid to see it!” hissed his daughter, empowered by the knowledge that her mother agreed with her.

These voices usually yelled at him when he tried to lose himself  in sleep.

Sometimes during dinner he talked to his wife as if she was still in the kitchen or on the porch. He’d beg her forgiveness on wasting her beauty, youth and intelligence on him. She could’ve had any man in town but had chosen him. Buddy felt guilty that he’d let down his family and, in doing so, had lost them.

Other times he got angry at their lack of loyalty to him. After all, hadn’t he wearied himself old before his time in his loyalty to them?

It was enough to rock your faith in things. Buddy couldn’t help but wonder why God tested us again and again. Some he tempted with riches, and others with disappointments. But Buddy Imes, always a slow learner, steadfastly held onto his faith. In many ways, it was all he had left.

His parents, Joe and Kathleen, were dead now. He was all alone in the world and sometimes the thought not having anyone to turn to, or talk to, really talk to, filled him with anxiety. His father had died suddenly from a heart attack, but his mother, a few years later, had lingered in a shabby and cold hospital ward for months. This triggered Buddy’s profound dislike and fear of the antiseptic smell of hospitals. The scent of dying.

He sometimes sat in his darkened living room at night thinking about the last time he’d seen his mother. Looking back, he thought that she may have been the only person who ever truly believed in him. He remembered the last time he saw her. He’d walked into her hospital ward and her eyes had lit up with pride as she announced to the nurses and other patients, “Here comes my son, the most loved man in town.”

Buddy had been so loved by the townsfolk that he’d been asked to run for Mayor, but secretly declined, thinking that he wasn’t academically qualified to take on such a responsibility. And knowing politics, he knew that no matter what you did, you’d wind up disappointing half the people, regardless of how well your intentions were. And he was not quite sure his capacity for guilt could stand letting any more people down.

When Buddy hit 70, things started going wrong health-wise. He’d noticed his eyesight dimming, at first subtly, then dramatically. So much so that it was necessary to hire a young man, Jerry, to do all the main things around the store. Buddy would still spend his day sitting behind the counter chatting to his customers and smiling. That golden smile that brightened the life of the locals but hid a sad, lonely and somewhat broken old man.

Buddy got word that his son had been married in Chicago to an heiress and it’d made all the society pages. The old man was numb with disappointment that not only hadn’t he been invited, but wasn’t even pre-notified. But thinking about it, he understood. No doubt his son was afraid that his small town unworldly father would embarrass him in front of his sophisticated big city friends.

It was shortly after that Buddy lost all sight. His condition baffled several doctors as there seemed no likely cause for it. One young doctor floated the theory that perhaps it was psychological. That Buddy simply had seen too much and didn’t want to see any more. This psycho-babble mumbo jumbo was scoffed at by the elder doctors.  Why would Buddy Imes do such a thing? Perhaps if one was dealing with a deeply depressed and despairing old man it could be considered, but everyone knew Buddy was the happiest man in town. He was always smiling.

Buddy came to rely on young Jerry very much. His loyal and hard working assistant would pick him up in the morning in his car, and drop him off at his house every night after stopping to get some take-out food for the old man’s dinner. Jerry didn’t mind. He felt honoured to be looking after the town’s most treasured citizen. He also listened and learned from his boss and hung on every word of wisdom in the morality stories he loved to tell.

Jerry had never known a father. He was born out of wedlock, the result of a one night stand between his mother and a traveling musician. His real father most likely didn’t even know of his existence. And his mother never ever told the young boy his daddy’s name.

One day Mr. Imes, sensing that the young man seemed forlorn, told him, “Some people have family, others find them along the way,” and gave Jerry a tearful smile.

The old man’s hurt became Jerry’s hurt. Such was the loyalty of this young man to his kindly boss. In fact, when a new style whiz bang supermarket opened across the road from the small grocery store, Mr. Imes lost quite a few of his regular customers to the conglomerate. Including many who still owed the old man money.   Jerry knew this betrayal hurt Buddy deeply although he never said a word or acknowledged it in any way.

One day, unbeknownst to Mr. Imes, Jerry stood outside the supermarket during his lunch break and berated the Judas customers who had deserted his boss for the saving of a few bucks.

“At least Judas got 30 pieces of silver! You people are scumbags! Shame on you!”

One morning, Buddy asked Jerry to take him to the bank. The young man dutifully did so and his boss withdrew a considerable amount of money.

Afterwards, on the way back to open the store, Buddy also requested that Jerry phone Ed, a loyal customer and the town’s best lawyer, and ask him to call into Buddy’s home after he’d finished his office duties for the day.

That night, Buddy instructed Ed to draw up a will and bequeath the grocery store to young Jerry.

“But don’t you have family, Buddy?”

“Nope. They left me to worship a false god called Money. That’s all they’re interested in, so leave ’em what’s left in my bank account and what’s in my pockets when I drop down dead. They won’t be interested in a nickel and dime store. It’d be too much like hard work. But if they do fight Jerry for it, give this to some of the wayward boys in town to burn it to the ground one night. And give Jerry wants left of this.” And with that, put a large stack of hundred dollar bills on the table and pushed it towards Ed.

Ed did as Buddy requested, returning the next night to get the old man’s signature on the appropriate documents.

The next morning, when Jerry came to pick up Mr. Imes, his boss appeared all freshly scrubbed and cologned in his Sunday best suit and instructed Jerry that the store would again be opening late today.

“Why is that, Mr. Imes?”

“Because I need you to drive me to the bus depot in Milwaukee, Jerry.”

“Where you going, Mr. Imes?”

“California. I made a promise to the boy inside me many years ago to treat him to a trip to Disneyland.  And something tells me it’s time.”

A few nights before, Buddy had experienced what he thought was a mild heart attack, and it had left him with a partially numb arm and the occasional dizzy spell if he stood up too suddenly. There was also sweating and sharp chest pains. He knew what was coming and that it wouldn’t be long. He thanked God for giving him some warning, something his father had not received, for it seemed the higher power had granted Buddy enough time to complete what he needed to do in this life.

“But Mr. Imes, how are you going to cope on your own trying to get off a bus and navigate your way to the right train to California?”

“God will guide me, son.”

Jerry fought back the tears at being referred to as “son.”

“No Mr. Imes, not on my watch. We’re closing the store for a few days and I’m driving you there and back.”

Buddy smiled. “I always wanted to take my…well…someone special, to Disneyland. Let’s do it, Jerry. While we’re still brave enough, and before our logical minds come up with a hundred reasons not to.”

And so, they set off, two for the road. Jerry driving while Buddy recalled incidents from his life peppered with pearls of wisdom intended to help the young man beside him save years of his life and not squander them as Buddy felt he had done.

Intermittently the old man would drift off to sleep. Sometimes he’d awaken with a groan and start rubbing his arm or chest, and then drift off again. One time, this pain became so intense that Jerry suggested they stop at a hospital and have it checked out. But Buddy reacted badly to this.

“I said I wanted to go to Disneyland not to a hospital!”

Jerry reluctantly continued the pilgrimage, distressed to see his kindly mentor in such a bad way.

Day turned to night then to day again, but all Buddy saw was darkness lit by a faint, far off dream.  Jerry noticed him occasionally smile to himself as if visualising his destination. Perhaps in his mind he was already there, in the happiest kingdom of them all.

Having reached California, Jerry, exhausted, pulled to the side of the road and took a much needed nap.  Four hours later he woke with a start. Night had fallen. He immediately looked to Buddy to see how he was. The old man’s breathing was swallow and quick, his complexion grey and tiny bubbles of perspiration all over his face. Jerry’s first instinct was to defy his boss’ order and drive him to the nearest hospital. But he rememberered Mr. Imes’ adamant words, “…I want to go to Disneyland not to a hospital!”

Now a new panic set in. Jerry checked his watch and wasn’t sure they could reach their destination before closing time. He started up the engine and took off, pushing his foot down on the accelerator. He remembered thinking if God was truly on their side they’d make it.

Buddy opened his eyes, from one darkness to another, and asked, “Are we there yet?”

Jerry smiled at his dear employer, and now friend, whose voice was as excited as a child.

“Not long now, Mr. Imes. I’ll wake you when we’re there.”

“Call me, Buddy.” The old man closed his eyes and drifted off again, back into that dream world where things work out and wishes come true. Jerry thought to himself that perhaps that was the true essence of Disneyland’s magic – it reduces those who believe, back to being child. Back to a time when things were simple and people did the right thing by others. Back to a place where your heroes rose to the occasion and saved the world every night before bedtime.

For these two men travelling through the darkness, their way lit only by the throw of their headlights, that place was their much needed destination.

Some hours later, after a few wrong exits, Jerry finally found the right turn-off in Anaheim and the road that leads to Disneyland.

In Jerry’s mind,  in that world where things always go according to plan, his idea was to reach Disneyland in time, take Mr. Imes inside and perhaps catch the closing parade, and then, whether the old man liked it or not, get him to a hospital as quickly as possible. And in that hospital they would treat Mr. Imes, get him well, and they’d return to their small town of Stockholm, Wisconsin, and their grocery store where they knew the names of all of their customers, and life would go on. But unbeknownst to Jerry, he had already entered the land of dreams.

But back in the harsh world of reality, Jerry pulled into the Disneyland parking lot at 12.13am. And although he could see the lights of the magic kingdom, the gates were closed, and the business of show was over for the day.

Jerry was despairing in his grief, as he looked at the dozing Mr. Imes. How could he wake him with such disappointing news? He felt responsible for letting the old man down. In desperation he started the car and drove around the empty streets of Anaheim in search of an idea. A miracle. Something.

To himself he whispered, “Please God, do something.” A few minutes later he turned towards the light of a main road.

Inside the Ambrosia Cafe, Beryl was getting ready to end her shift that night. This greasy spoon diner had two lone diners sitting in separate booths lingering over their meals. Two mature lonely men with nowhere to go. Their faces were etched with lines that told you their journey in life hadn’t been a walk in the park. Beryl then looked at the kitchen guys who were cleaning and locking things away at a pace that gave you the impression that they had somewhere to go. Readying their escape from one prison cell to another.

Like the shabby walls of the Ambrosia, they’d all seen better days. Beryl wondered if all the Disney cut-out characters that clumsily  adorned the walls had merely been put there to cover the cracks, damp spots and flaking paint job.

The dark wood booths also told stories of a lost world. Once, excited teenagers had sat there drinking their sodas and telling beautiful lies to each other while the jukebox boomed three chord masterpieces about girls and cars. But three shots in Dallas ended all that. They didn’t just kill a president that day, but also the sweet naive era of hope. Now the booths were occupied by solitary old men who kept to themselves as they slowly sipped coffee and stared into infinity, not really seeing anything, nor wanting to. Strangers didn’t really talk to other strangers any more. It could be dangerous. It was dark outside. And sometimes that darkness penetrated within.

At 12.38am this twilight zone of a bygone era was disturbed when Jerry entered and became the focal point for the inhabitants of this dusty museum. The young man, without uttering a word, charged the air with all the internal desperation and anxiety he contained.

Beryl, going through the robotic motions of a long-time waitress, reached for a menu, and asked, with a standard smile, “Counter or booth?”

Jerry didn’t even hear her.

“Look, I have a very ill blind man in my car. We have travelled many miles to visit Disneyland and we arrived too late. It’s been his lifelong dream to be here and I don’t have the heart to tell him. Please? I’ll give ten bucks to anyone who plays along with what I say.” Then, as abruptly as he’d entered, Jerry left.

Beryl had experienced all sorts in this eating house, but this promised something new. She turned to exchange a bewildered look with the solitary booth dwellers and the dissppointed kitchen guys who thought they were done for the day.

A few minutes later, Jerry reappeared holding the arm of a smiling Buddy Imes, carefully guiding him as though he was the most precious commodity in the world.

Then speaking at a volume all could hear, he exclaimed, “Well here we are, Mr. Imes. Disneyland! Well, the Disneyland Diner. I hear that sometimes some of the Disney characters hang out here.” With that, Jerry shot Beryl a look of desperate urgency.

“Welcome Mr. Imes to Disneyland. We’ve waited a long time to see you here. What kept you?” said Beryl doing her best to capture all the sweetness and light of a Disney creation.

“Oh, you know. Things just got in the way. Please call me Buddy. And to whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”

Jerry and Beryl exchanged a look that said many things. Then Beryl looked back at the excited old man whose childlike happiness was enough to make you weep. Perhaps, Beryl thought, hope had returned to the Ambrosia Cafe.

“I’m Cinderella, Buddy. But you can call me…Cindy.”

“Did you hear that, Jerry?! You sure brought me to the right place! Cindy, I am so honoured to meet you.”

Just then, another voice cut through the air and surprised everyone, “Hey Buddy, do you recognise my voice?”

Buddy turned his head to the direction of the voice, and with a mixture of awe and hesitancy asked, “Mickey?…Is that you?”

Beryl looked at the lonely old man in Booth 3. But he no longer looked lonely or old. He too had returned to childhood and his impersonation of a mouse that he’d once regaled his young pals with a lifetime ago.

“Yep, Buddy, you got me in one!”

Tears of joy appeared in Buddy’s eyes. Those eyes that had given up on the magic in this world.

“Mickey, I…I can’t tell you what this means and I…”

But another familiar voice cut through the moment…”Oh don’t talk to him, Buddy. He’s no fun. I’m the one who likes to have fun!”

Buddy then looked in the opposite direction, and in his mind he didn’t see Pancho, the kitchen hand, but instead, another of his childhood heroes, “Oh, is that that rascally duck that always gets in trouble? Donald, is that you?”

“Yes, Buddy. It’s me.”

The Ambrosia Cafe closed early that night. But inside a big table had been put together and for anyone looking through the window that night they would’ve thought it was a private gathering of the dearest friends, all laughing, amusing each other with stories and songs. But, from the outside, one wouldn’t have realised the exalted company seated each side of Mr. Buddy Imes and Jerry Fulton of Stockholm, Wisconsin. For at that table, that night, in that magic hour, were Cinderella, Mickey Mouse, Donald Duck, Goofy and Davy Crockett. At one point, Crockett took a photo to commemorate the happy occasion in the happiest kingdom of them all.

The excitement that renewed Buddy also took him. At 2.56am Buddy Imes smiled one last time and his spirit left this earthly place.

An ambulance arrived and his new found friends gathered together as the ambulance guys put the stretcher containing Buddy’s body into their vehicle, and his loyal friend Jerry climbed in to take the final journey with his beloved mentor who’d taught him much about this world. To the ambulance guys it was just one more job closer to the end of their night. Buddy’s new friends hugged each other and stood watching the ambulance drive away and then turn off into the darkness leading to the freeway. They remained there holding each other for sometime. For even though there was a chill in the air, they felt strangely warm inside. It was that warmth that comes from finding humanity amongst the ruins. From knocking down those walls we build between each other that only lead us to solitary booths in late night diners. Buddy Imes had never build a wall around himself. He was a giver, and he gave until he had nothing more to give.

There is a framed photograph that now adorns the feature wall at the Ambrosia Cafe in Anaheim. It shows a group of smiling faces gathered around an old man who has the biggest smile of all. Sometimes Beryl has customers ask about the significance of the photograph, to which she replies, “Oh, that’s Buddy Imes, on the happiest night of his life.”

 

(c) Frank Howson

THE OLD MEN AND THEIR GIRLS

The old men with their girls
Seated at the best table
The young girls treat the waitress
With a haughty disrespect
Why?
Because they are seated beside
Old men with more money than God
They so easily forget where they came from
Who they are
Because tonight they are queens
Reinvented
Making a huge effort to speak in an accent that doesn’t give away their back street upbringing
And it seems the first thing that dies is empathy
For someone who struggles
And serves in an honest job trying desperately to please
For that much needed tip at the end of the night
So she can walk home happy to be greeted by her young children
Who love it when mommy is in a good mood
Back at the best table
The young girls laugh at everything
The old well heeled men say
Even the serious stuff
One wonders whether they will be laughing long?
Until next month?
Next week?
Perhaps until check out time tomorrow?
Sex is so easily given
When it means nothing
But care about certain women
Really care
And it is much harder to get them to part with their favours
Perhaps a kiss is way more intimate
Than sex anyway
And more revealing
Than nudity
Perhaps I don’t know anything
Anymore
Everything I thought I knew
Was a sham
A pantomime
A play acting
And I was too young
To hear the hollowness
At the heart of her laughter
She got what she wanted
At the end of the day
And I got what I deserved
A table for one
For believing in Hollywood endings
My thoughts are broken
By the sound of laughter at the best table in the best restaurant in town
These young girls are trying very hard
To appear to be sincere to the Moneybags on their way to Life Support
I order a coffee
No sugar
No milk
Just as it comes
I don’t want to disguise the taste of anything
Anymore
It is as it is
The old men and the young girls laugh hysterically
And I feel sad for them somehow
Their eyes contradicting their open mouths and perfect teeth
Like those scary clowns with those insane smiles and eyes of terror
I know how their stories end
I’m a writer
With all the wisdom of a fool
And a life misspent
And no one to impress anymore
It’s a great relief in some ways
I need no sugar or milk
And as such have become an acquired taste
Not pleasing everyone
Not wanting to
But pleasing those who matter
The other acquired tastes
Of humankind
I pay my bill and leave
Giving the middle-aged waitress a tip that I hope helps contribute to her happy walk home to be greeted by those who genuinely love her
I will take the long way home down alleys that go round in circles
No need to rush
I am keeping no one waiting

 

(C) Frank Howson 2018

I DON’T DANCE ANYMORE

I was fooled by the mystery of women
Until I realised there is no mystery at all
Only myth
Invented by men so they could
Fall in love with the Virgin Mary
And partner with her to give life
To their boy child Jesus
But like Joseph us men don’t last the distance
We leave to give our saviour a chance
Not even returning to witness
His crucifixion
One overcast day
On a mount somewhere east
In our guilt
Sacrificing his life
To try and live up
To our destructive hopes
I once was a child dancer myself
Early in my journey
Spending hours
Polishing the steps made famous
By others before me
Too shy to speak to girls
In case they saw right through me
And realised any charm I possessed
Only hid my fear
That the problems of my life
Could not be cured by a slick dance routine
And a few witty lines
I was married three times
To three absolutely charming women
Who took everything I had
Except the will to go on
Still, the romantic fool
Remained hopeful
And God was exasperated
By my lack of ability to learn
Anything
So I endured many hardships
And trauma
Smashing my spirit
And voice
I then judged my true friends
By those still willing to listen to me
Patient enough to judge the message
And not the flawed messenger
Thus I found Saints
Where others found fault
I found angels
Where others found beggars
I found God
In the humility of affliction
No one is born with empathy
You are gifted it
After walking many miles
In the shoes of the suffering
Having lived it
How could you turn your back on another?
Young women are very well mannered
When they remind you that you are too old
It’s in their eyes
Their smile
Their giggle
Their changing of the subject
It is appreciated
For otherwise us foolish romantics
May think we are still 18 years old
And that life is still before us
But it is I that also pity them
For I know what their road beholds
And such outer beauty
Is a hard thing to live without
On their journey to inner beauty and humility
And empathy
Aloneness
And the higher purpose
Of a life
For sex leads to the entrapment of both parties
And longing is replaced by the desire to not belong
So just say that I don’t dance anymore
For my heart and my legs ache
And perhaps like Doc Pomus
Someone special
Will save the last dance for me
And although now
Wiser
I will decline it
But will be touched
And moved
By the invitation
As I think back
And remember
The days when I danced

(C) Frank Howson 2018

 

 

SORRY FOR NOT SEEING YOU

Sorry for not seeing you but your beauty blinded me to who you really are. With each feature vying for attention it is easy to lose focus as to where perfection ends and heaven begins. Perhaps your beauty just confirms that there is such a thing as heaven, as well as the painful realisation that it will be denied to us on this earth. God allows us to make fools of ourselves in your presence by uttering the wrong word killing every perfect moment, and our chance to have had you. For the way to Him must truly be paved by our humility.

I have walked with wise men and none told how to handle you. Perhaps they were wise enough to know that such a thing cannot be handled as that would reduce it to the grubby conversations of hungry men. Like knowing dissipates the magic from a Houdini trick. But perhaps the truth to why they never prepared me for you was because you had broken them too on their journey to wisdom, stopping only briefly in bitterness – the platform on which we must all kill time, frantically searching the night for any sign of approaching light, waiting for a train that never comes.

I check my ticket stub and notice that I will be seated in carriage D with all the sad men. Old before their time, wearied to exhaustion from striving too hard and too long to have it all.

Why didn’t my mother warn me that I would always end up alone and that my mission in life was not to have love, but to write about it?

 

(C) Frank Howson 2018

 

 

THE SEX LIVES OF MONKEYS

I wish you could’ve caught me in my prime. I cared. If you’d known me then you may have stayed. But I ripped my heart out and gave it to others. And they never returned it. Proving they didn’t have one of their own.

Like many young male idiots I was driven by sex to destinations unknown. Then one day I grew up to realise that a lot of energy is expended on so little in return. Kings have abdicated their kingdoms, presidents have lost their power, and mere mortals have squandered their wealth, their homes, their families, their reputations, their sanity – for what? Sexual relief in the arms of someone you will lose along with everything else you held so dear. It’s a funny little game isn’t it? But if it grants you a brief solace in a mad world I won’t be throwing the first stone. Or the last.

There are those who gain power by being desired. For a time, until gravity ends their reign. I no longer play the game so I can objectively appreciate their performance for what it is.

“It done been beaten outta me, masta, and you can have your heavyweight crown back while I lay on this canvas and block the sun from my eyes.”

It seems the path to God is through defeat and humility. So having all our childish dreams killed one by one is ultimately good for us. Is that how it works?

There are those of us who evolve, painfully, past this. But all wisdom comes at a cost. Those who resist it are forevermore locked in a futile dance finding comfort in the all too familiar steps but haunted by the sad drum beat realisation that it all means nothing and nobody really cares anymore.

In fact you may as well be speaking about the sex lives of monkeys for all anybody cares.

I was reluctantly and violently thrust into this world. Welcomed into this cold unfriendly place with huffs and puffs and blood and screaming. I didn’t ask for all this fuss and, if the truth be known, have spent most of this life looking for an exit door. At parties or events I never say goodbye. I like to just slip away. Like my mother before me. No prolonged goodbyes or grand farewells. No fuss.

When my time comes and the lights dim on whatever this was, I may look around with the excited expectancy of a child on Christmas morn, to see if you’re there. Of course, you won’t be. But it’s okay as you have hardened my heart to disappointment. I guess that was the lesson you brought me. All is forgiven. All is forgiven. For it was hard to be wise and in love at the same time, wasn’t it? Let’s just say we played our parts well in this fucked scenario written and conceived by a higher power when they were drunk. The plot had its holes and we fell through most of them and landed, arguably, as better people. Broken, but better. Maybe we will meet again on another stage and realise that everything that went before was just a rehearsal and that this time we’ll get it right, performing without masks or baggage or ego or all those things that got in the way of who we really were.

“What if you could have any woman in the world but you only wanted one and without her Life wasn’t much good anymore?”

Well buddy, to put it bluntly, you’re fucked. Humbled, but fucked. But come on in the water’s fine and you’ll find most of us here. Trapped in the stilted delusional conversations about something and someone that wasn’t real. You’ll find that your mind has worked overtime adapting what really happened to something you can vaguely live with. Repairing the stab wounds to your heart, and back, and ensuring that you only remember the good parts from a movie that at the time proved to be unsatisfactory and a time waster, but has grown in stature through repeated viewing. If you allow your mind to rewrite too much you will eventually cross over into insanity from whence there is no return. So forget your troubles come on get happy and join all the sad old men at the far end of the alley. We have no families anymore other than the family of man. No one seeks anything in our eyes and in return we search for nothing in theirs. Accept the truth and you are free of the chains that bind us to this groundhog existence. Being alone will not kill you. Being lonely will. And all that uncashed joy you held in reserve for that mirror partner that never came, try and spend it finding small joys in the simplest of things. A cup of coffee, a conversation with an old loyal friend, the smile from a child, an act of kindness, a sunny day, and a pretty young woman that you want nothing from other than her faith that are one of the good guys.

Yes, all is forgiven. But take the time to forgive yourself too. You owe it to your mind and your spirit to do that.

And as for that delusional movie that you keep replaying in your mind? In reality it wasn’t that good. Tape over it.

(C) Frank Howson 2018

painting by Frank Howson

THE GOSPEL ACCORDING TO FRANK

The following is my recollection of my past life through deep sleep therapy, hypnosis and past life regression techniques. The disclaimer is that some people believe this is unreliable and that there is a difference between real life and dreams. But I, and several alcoholic scientists, are not convinced. Most of what follows is true.

I was brought up in a region called Galilee which included such towns as Capernaum, Magdala, and Chorazin. I remember it having a lot of Greek influence thanks to Alexander The Poof who had conquered Judea 361 years previously. In exchange for killing our army and a large dose of innocent people the Greeks gave us their language, as well as radically different ideas (which only served to confuse us all) about religion, architecture, government, philosophy and mortality. Oh, but they gave us the souvlaki so all else is forgiven.

The Romans took over Judea in 63 BC and during my youth the Romans humoured us by granting us Jews a local puppet leader, King Herod The Lunatic, who was allowed to rule on some things such as do five aces top a straight in poker, close finishes in a camel race, and the Miss Galilee beauty contest. The strain of all that eventually proved too much and Herod The Horrendous later gave up some of the region to his half brother, Phillip Herod, due to his full schedule of getting pissed and rooting anything with 2 legs. Some rumours later circulated that this opened up to 4 legs but I have no first hand proof of that and refuse to engage in idle gossip. Although some of our livestock did go missing.

I first bumped into Jesus (literally) at a wedding reception in Capernaun, located on the shore of Galilee. Like most of the invited guests I was already shit faced on the bloody awful cheap wine they were serving. That’s when I discovered Jesus was a part time magician. He winked at me and said, “Lay off the cheap piss, I’m going to do one of my tricks and turn it into a wine of the highest quality.” Well when you’re tanked you’ll listen to anyone, so, I goodheartedly went along with what I thought was a fellow drunk’s delusion. But sure enough, an hour later he was the hit of the party with everyone proclaiming him to be the Messiah! When I could grab his ear I asked how he did it but he just gave me a look with those loveable puppy dog eyes and that enigmatic smile of his that I grew to hate. God, he could frustrate you.

After that night Jesus and I hung out quite a bit together. Well, you never knew when he was going to turn on the good piss again. He went on and on and on about his childhood and his lost years. Trouble is, the latter part I can’t remember as I was usually legless by then, but suspected his “lost” period may have been due to a battle with alcohol. Like mine.

He said he’d had a knockabout youth. His step father had been a carpenter and made a modest living due to his tables always being a bit lopsided. I asked about his real dad and, giving me that bloody irritating smile again, he replied, “Oh, he’s in heaven.” So, I deduced that the poor bastard died young. Jesus years later would get into a shitload of trouble not elaborating on things.

According to Jesus his mother was a madonna. The greatest mom ever. He then told me, confidentially, that she’d remained a virgin after his birth so, again, I deduced that she’d had one of those new fangled Cesarean procedures. You see, when you asked him for details on anything all you got was that bloody knowing smile like he was talking to a child or a retard. You had to deduce a lot when you called this guy your friend. But all in all he was a good bloke and meant well. And was worth it. To this day I won’t have a word said against him. Although initially I was only hanging with him for the free booze he did grow on me and didn’t deserve the horrible things people said and did to him. No one does. Okay, so he could be delusional at times. Who isn’t?!

At his trial I spoke as a character witness. I was put in a tricky situation when asked if he was the Son of God. Now I don’t mind telling a white lie for a friend to get him out of trouble with a suspicious wife or a bookie, but…I just stared them down and said, “Listen, and mark my words. You kill this poor simple bloke and you will be hated for all time. I’ll have you know, he is one of the greatest wine makers in the world and that’s no lie!”

But what good did it do? The trial was fixed. The poor bastard was given no legal representation. The jury was an angry mob who’d been sponsored by George Soros. The high priests were feeling threatened because they couldn’t make wine. All Jesus’ witnesses were well meaning drunks and free loaders, me included. And King Herod The Turd was spitting fire and brimstone because Jesus had refused his advances.

As for the Judge, Pancho Polite, his heart and attention weren’t in the proceedings as he had a skin problem (having shaken Herod’s hand) and had to keep excusing himself every 15 minutes to wash his hands.

I was shocked when my dear friend got the death penalty. But, hey, it could’ve been worse. One night with Herod The Herpie springs to mind.

But at least it was over quickly. Three hours. Most took three days. But that was so typical of my friend. He was always in a hurry on his express train to immortality.

I decided to visit his tomb three days later to pay my respects but was surprised to find the stone had been rolled away and one of the angels was there in his biker gear. I said to him, “What gives, brother?” And he smiled one of those smiles like everyone’s in on the plan except you, and replied, “Haven’t you heard the good news?” To which I, now irritated by the condescending smile and the question answered by a question, responded, “No, fuckhead, I’ve been on the piss for three days due to the loss of my friend, comprehendo? Or do I have to draw a sketch for you?” With that he broke my nose and gave me the lowdown – Jesus had risen, gotten the fuck out of Dodge, and taken off to India!

Still sporting a massive hangover, I pondered this for some time. After awhile I smiled. Another one of his bloody tricks I thought. Then I was laughing. I missed him already.

I finally said, “So he’s not with his father in heaven?”

To which he replied, “Not unless that’s a suburb in India, Retard!”

I told him his tone was not appreciated. To which he kneed me in the balls. I was not able to continue the conversation after that and crawled back down the hill in a fairly undignified manner. When I reached town I was given quite a bit of money from people who thought I was a crippled beggar. On reflection. I could’ve lived comfortably for some time but blew it all on a camel in race six.

Over time I received a few postcards from Jesus informing me he’d taken my advice and married Mary, and was working on a new wine for the Indian market. I was pleased and told him I had an instinct his name would live on forever.

He is buried in India but I didn’t visit his grave as I was a little nervous about who’d be guarding it given my run-in with the angels. I am comforted knowing that he is at last in heaven with his father. I know, first hand, how much he missed him

 

(c) Frank Howson 2018

 

(c) Sketch Frank Howson 2018