And The Meaning Of The Word Was Lost On The Fire

We need a God. All the great works of art. War – the conquest of one group over another. The sacrifices.  The accumulation of wealth. Valor. Honour. The pledges of love. The waste. Time lost. For everything. If our civilization disappears. As it will. Like so many before it. And everything returns to dust.  We need to feel that someone noticed we were here.

Beginning a new series

I started a new series on my other blog sight called The Lives of Dead Jazz Singers. It is a series about female jazz singers. The sight is called the power of h.

The Lonesome Thoughts of Bob Dylan…

When I was in college at the University of Windsor a friend of mine invited me to a party in Detroit. I declined. I’d had problems crossing the border. They thought I was a slug. My hair was too long. Or I was the wrong sex. He went. There was a bunch of people in the room. Smoking dope. Listening to loud music. Eating blocks of ice cream. One of the guests was Bob Dylan. He sat in the corner. Talking to no one. His head bowed. Lost in some thought. My friend said Dylan was like that all evening. And I couldn’t lose the impression of Dylan in a world by himself. His mind, drifting.

A Shy Woman On A Sunny Afternoon

The most abhorent images are those of violence to children and women. One understands children. It is their innocence. But why women? Is violence to a man any the less horrible? Right now I’m listening to a song sung by Ella Fitzgerald. It is called Stone Cold Dead In the Market (He Had It Coming) It is refreshingly non-sexist. And yet horrible. Stone Cold In the Market.

Darkness (A Tale of Two Cities)

Chapter Seven

Part One

Darkness

1. Marlo

“What exactly do you do for a living, Harry?” Bud leaned over the bar, polishing the dark mahogany surface.

“What?” I was well aware of what Bud had asked, but was hoping that my feigned interest in the ball game on the television might discourage conversation. Bud repeated his question. I looked at Bud and winked. I had to say something to quench his boredom.

“I’m a character in a novel. I don’t need a job.”

“Seriously,” Bud responded. “How can you afford to come in here night after night getting drunk without some visible means of support? Some old lady bankrolling you?’

“I am one of those rich brats who lives in a renovated garage, drive my Benz through streets too deep to fathom, pop the folks into an old age home and live off their pension.”

Bud was still thinking about my response when I asked if he’d seen Mary Richards in the bar again.

“You don’t have to get smart ass with me, Harry. If you don’t want to answer a simple question than just say so.”

“Well,” I muttered, “it’s personal.”

“Ya, okay.” Bud accepted my explanation than spoke in a low voice so that no one could easily overhear us. “They want to interview people in the bar about their life styles?”

“Oh, ya,” I responded.

Bud shook his head and laughed.

“Who are you talking about?” I asked.

“The television people. That bitch you’ve got the hots for.”

“Mary Richards?”

“Ya. Why do you suppose they’d want to do something like that?”

“Why didn’t you ask them?”

Bud shrugged his shoulders. “Didn’t think of it. I told Miss Richards that she should talk to Frank. He’s so double jointed he can suck his own joint. Cut’s out the middle man and all those expensive bar bills. She didn’t laugh.”

“Is that why he’s still a bachelor?”

“It was a joke, Harry.”

There was a roar from the crowd in the television. I looked up. Olerud had hit a grand slam. As the tall lanky southpaw rounded the bases I could feel the presence of the fat man. What could the fat man be up to? Trying to manipulate events? Was I losing control? Had I allowed things to become too quiet? I opened up the windows to get in some fresh air in my head. Should I paint the sun to look like a looney? I remembered a collection of stamps in my parent’s attic. They must be worth a small fortune by now. The room began to spin slowly around, in a warped ellipse like a merry-go-round beginning to spin out of control. I felt like the Count of Monte Cristo. Who should I wreak my revenge upon? Maybe I should put a personal ad in the paper — WANTED: VICTIM. The fat man was having his way with this sit-com nonsense. Laugh tracks were playing havoc in my head. Some evenings I woke up angry, biting my lip, grinding my teeth.

“How about those Blue Jays?” Bud cried as he watched the lanky first baseman reached home. “I used to be a Twin’s fan but with the way the Jays are playing…  Are you alright?”

“What?”

“You look awful. Like you’re going to pass out.”

“I’m alright. Got to get something in my stomach.”

Before Bud had a chance to respond, Sheila’s roommate, Marlo, sat down on the stool beside me. She smiled. Teeth serrated like a steak knife. Lips the color of dried blood. I turned back to the television. I was hoping that if I ignored Marlo, she might disappear and I could get back to Bud about this interviewing business. Marlo ordered a drink for herself and a beer for me. There were still people talking in the bar. The lights remained dim. Bud kept skimming coins off everyone’s bill. The baseball fans were quiet. The Jays’ manager kept chewing his gum. I was surprised. Marlo had bought me a beer. I couldn’t remember her doing that before.

“Thanks.” My eyes were riveted to the set though my mind was all over the place. There were new diseases rising in Africa. Thousands were dieing. Red cross camps set up everywhere. Relief had become a cottage industry.

“Can I speak to you?” Marlo asked.

Tears began to run down my cheeks, crying for all those orphans in Romania. Why the hell was I getting upset by Romanians? I didn’t give a shit about their children. Marlo had a strange expression on her face. “Just a minute,” I pleaded. “The inning’s almost over.” I hoped the inning would go on forever. I was not up to conversation. Unfortunately the next batter struck out. “They ought to get a catcher who can hit,” I grumbled.

“It’s about Michael,” Marlo began.

“Michael! That mother. Where’s he been keeping himself?”

I had not known Marlo long. So common were Marlo’s looks next to Sheila that one hardly noticed her. But alone, she had a certain appeal. Black as night, Marlo had a small delicate frame, one of those women who look like they might break in a strong wind, but who prove able to draw on a deep well of strength in difficult situations. Marlo was from Buffalo. She had come across the border in the great AIDS scare. Overnight, unexpectedly, people who weren’t even aware that they were ill began to die. Prostitutes became the target for the vigilante mood of the day that blamed them for the spread of the deadly disease. An angry crowd had fallen upon a couple of girls in the Bay Street business section and torn them to pieces. Many of the girls quit the profession while others, especially the more beautiful, lined themselves up with a rich clientele, had themselves medically tested on a regular basis, and stayed off the streets. Marlo had moved in with Sheila.

Marlo was not dressed for business, no tight fitting skirt, or loose fitting blouse, no heavy mascara and eye makeup. Today she was dressed in jeans and a University of Windsor sweatshirt.

“Michael has been ill.”

“Ill?”

“The flu.”

Was it the strain that had come out of Hong Kong? Or was it the strain bred in the Bank of Canada on Bay Street in board meetings where doves were gutted and their entrails read?

I laughed. “Michael has a strong constitution. He’ll be back on his feet in no time. Nothing wrong with his immune system.”

“He’s been staying at our apartment. Sheila’s been nursing him.”

“Lucky guy.”

I took a swallow of beer. There was no taste. Strange images drifted in and out of my thoughts. I wanted to see the naked body of a cigarette floating in urine. I wanted to hear Straus in a concert hall in Vienna. Or tear a rose from a bride flush with tears. My head was being ransacked by images.

“Did you know that Michael has a gun?”

“Wouldn’t surprise me.” I muttered indifferently, hoping that Marlo would get to the point. It was taking all my energy to focus on her words. Sweat began to roll down my temples. An assortment of soft porno images flew through my head: Leonard Cohen with two blondes in his 57’ Cadillac convertible, an assortment of dead birds in a basket, children skipping in a Chinese grocery store, blood and spit hanging from a diseased cheese burger. I looked at Marlo. She did nothing for me. I wondered where all these images were coming from. “If we could read each other’s minds, we’d all be up on charges.”

“What?” Marlo smiled.

I just wanted a few moments of silent dignity. Time to figure out why the Mona Lisa was smiling. Is it because she realizes men want to sell her? Did I have time to figure out how racism started? And why are so many of our poets working for the police? It was the fat man running these thoughts through my head. I had to shake the fat man off my tail. I smiled at Marlo. Each time she spoke I had vision of anal sex.

“One night,” Marlo continued, “Michael and Sheila started drinking. I warned him that it wasn’t wise to mix liquor and the medication he was on. Michael never listens to anyone. He’s like a kid. Does the opposite, out of spite. They were playing the stereo and dancing. I felt like the outsider, so I excused myself and went to my room to sleep. I was just slipping into a warm dream when I heard Sheila scream. I ran out to the living room. Sheila was on the floor, blood running out of her nose, tears out of her eyes. Michael was standing on the couch, in his shorts, with a gun in his hand. Sweat was pouring off his forehead; his eyes were glazed with a crazed wild look. He was swinging the gun back and forth at some invisible enemy and screaming. Come on, come on up and get me! I’ll take you, you bastards! In his other hand he held a bottle of gin from which he kept drinking. I huddled on the floor with Sheila. Sheila kept whimpering. He’s going to kill me! Her voice was shaken hut resigned. At any moment she was expecting a bullet in the head. I tried to pull her away, but couldn’t budge her. The people upstairs started to bang on their floor screaming at us to quiet down. Michael looked up at the ceiling, like he was the devil looking up into the face of God. Bastard! Always fucking with me! He fired the gun and then collapsed on the couch.

Up to this point I had been listening to Marlo with one ear while keeping my eyes riveted on the television. Milwaukee had a guy on third with one out. The Blue Jays’ manager had just been ejected. All over Sarajero they were hanging children and old men from billboards advertising Camel cigarettes. It reminded me of famous Flemish paintings from the middle ages. With the mention of gunfire, I turned all my attention to Marlo.

“There was a dead silence upstairs.” Marlo took a deep breath. “Not a sound. God, I thought, he’s gone and killed someone. For several minutes, the two of us remained on the floor, paralyzed with fright. We’ve got to get him out of here! I finally spoke. They’ll call the cops! Sheila was shaking, I slapped her. Sheila, I can’t do this alone! Sheila nodded. We dragged and pulled Michael across the floor, out into the hallway, and out the back entrance of the apartment into the alley. We hid him in an empty refrigerator box by the garbage. We returned to the apartment and waited for the police. We had no idea what we were going to tell them. The police never showed up.”

I leaned back in my chair and finished my beer. In the back of the bar where the lights were dim I saw shadows of men tying a girl to the top of a pool table. She was laughing. I shook my head. Fantasies kept creeping into my thoughts. The fat man!

“So what’s the problem?”

“Michael is crazy. He’s going to kill someone. Don’t you care?”

I leaned toward Marlo. “You ain’t worried about Michael.” I winked. “I’ve heard about you and Sheila.” Marlo slapped my face. I slapped her back. My fingers stung. Who could believe that the Rio Grande was so wide?

Tears rushed into Marlo’s eyes. “You’re a jerk, Harry!” She ran out of the bar.

“Haven’t lost your touch with women,” Bud smirked, bringing me another beer. There was a muffled cry from the back of the bar. Someone was pulling the girl’s panties off. I should investigate. “She hit me, Bud!”

“I overheard you, Harry.” Bud shook his head. “You shouldn’t have said that about her and Sheila. She’s sensitive about being called a lesbian.”

I shrugged my shoulders. “Damn sensitive for a whore.” I gestured to the back of the bar. “What’s going on back there?”

“What do you mean?” Bud asked.

“The pool table.”

“There ain’t no pool table.”

“The back room!” I cried.

“There ain’t no back room.” Bud leaned over and looked at me. “You ain’t taking that drug that’s out on the street, are you Harry?”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

Bud turned away and moved down the bar to another customer. I turned back to the television but was unable to get back into the game. Raising my beer, I found I couldn’t drink. My thoughts were doing laps in my head. Was Bud really going to swim across the lake? Why were all my bills arriving late? Maybe the fat man was reading my mail. Why were all my chain letters being returned? My heart felt like a sparrow in a prison yard. Wanted to be a kid dancing on American Bandstand in Philadelphia. Had to keep my thoughts bobbing and weaving. I wanted to be gathered in. Harvested. Canned. Put on a shelf with a bright yellow label. Marlo must be exaggerating. Michael wouldn’t hurt Sheila. It didn’t make any sense. Michael was always in control. And even if it was true, what could I do? Does Marlo want me to suggest to Michael that he seek out professional help? Tell him to confess his sins, sins that couldn’t be spoken. Convince him that he might be forgiven. Don’t sentence yourself to silence, Michael. Innocence is guaranteed to those who speak loudly and often. He’d laugh at me. I’m just not good at this personal stuff. Besides, if Michael took an inkling to shoot Sheila, does Marlo expect me to get in the line of fire? I put my life on the line for no one. Jesus, this is the fat man’s work! He’s trying to get me away from Mary. Christ, he’s jealous. He wants her. A jealous motherfucker. The fat man was Lou Grant. Of this, I had become certain. I wanted to call him up and set up a meeting. Got to take control. Can’t let things get out of hand. I should tell Michael about Lou Grant. He would know what to do. Put a contract out on him. My head was spinning. Had to get some fresh air. I got up and staggered toward the door. The girl I’d seen in the back room ran passed me clutching her blouse, the buttons falling off and rolling across the floor.

HOMICIDE: July 4, 1988

HOMICIDE

Unusual formations in the Cydonia region of Mars – including a massive rock shaped like a human face – may have been carved by a lost civilization, four American scientists said yesterday. A former astronaut said a photograph taken of the Martian surface in 1976 by the National Aeronautics and Space Administration’s Viking spacecraft looks like a Negro, twenty to twenty five years old, wearing a black leather jacket and considered armed and dangerous.

Richard Hoagland, founder of an organization of scientists called The Mars Project, said he has studied the photo for years and has discovered that in addition to the face there is a complex of unusual objects that he calls a city and believes could have been built by intelligent design.

“We’ve known about the face for a decade now. But it was dismissed when someone pointed out how much the face resembled Malcolm X.”

Brian O’Leary, a former astronaut and an expert on Mars, said that a year earlier he had been in touch with Soviet space scientists, who were preparing to launch the first of two probes to Mars, to examine the area where the face appears. He said the Soviets reported back to him that indeed the rock was a face and that in its forehead there was a bullet hole.

I’m Mary Richards and that’s the way it was July 4, 1988.

about Murder

As I read the installments for A Tale of Two Cities I’m thinking of rewriting the whole book… actually not rewriting as re-editing and sticking to the parts that are centred on the The Mary Tyler Moore Show and eliminating the rest OR perhaps reshaping the rest into two other books, one about the guys fascination with MTM and the other a series of prose poems about Murder. I like the original story line but I can see that it moves slowly and perhaps ponderously along. Terrible to say about your own children, but it could lose some weight or perhaps it is bi-polar. At any rate once as I continue to place this on the blog I think I’m going to work on the two other ideas (or was it three>).

Mary’s Confession (A Tale of Two Cities)

Chapter Six

Part Two

3. Mary’s Confession

Lou Grant tiptoed quietly up behind Mary Richards who was sitting at her desk proofing copy for the evening news. Lou tapped lightly on her shoulder. Mary leaped to her feet, clasping her breast with her hand, a high-pitched mouse like squeak scurrying from her mouth. “Mr. Grant!”

Lou Grant’s eyes beamed with a prankster’s satisfaction though the scowl of his workaday face remained.

Can’t get inside Grant’s mind. Does that make him the fat man? Or a member of the Reform Party? I don’t understand politics. What makes someone want to expose himself in public? Money? Power, Michael would say. Or a need to spout high-sounding clichés. To sell everyone on the idea that we are not alone on this lonely planet in a sea of vacant star systems. I don’t think Grant’s the fat man. He doesn’t smell right for the job. Too much Old Sailor after-shave. The fat man uses Taboo cologne.

“Could I see you for a moment?” Lou Grant muttered.

“Of course, Mr. Grant,” Mary responded, catching her breath.

Mary Richards followed Lou Grant through the newsroom into his office. After she entered, he nodded toward the door. Mary closed it. Lou took his seat behind his desk and gestured to the chair across from him. Mary sat down.

“I know what you’re going . . .” Mary began but was interrupted by her boss.

“No, you don’t.”

“I don’t?” Mary replied. She did not like surprises, especially from Mr. Grant. Taking a deep breath, she waited.

Lou looked across the desk at Mary and then down at his hands, which were tapping out a rhythm on the oak top. Annoyed that his fingers had sought out independent action, Lou pressed his hands together as if he were trying to smother some small life form in his palms.

“This isn’t easy for me to say.” Lou’s eyes darted around the room, trying to avoid any contact with Mary. “I…” he began but hesitated. He opened his mouth to speak but could only smile. “We live in a global village,” Lou began but once again found his voice stranded over a chasm of silence. Mary waited on each of Lou Grant’s gestures with eager anticipation. Lou’s eyes once again returned to his hands as he began to mutter. “This isn’t easy…”

“Excuse me, Mr. Grant?” Mary interjected, her voice begging Lou to continue.

Lou looked up from his hands, suddenly realizing that his face had been hijacked by an idiotic grin. Mary fell silent. Lou began to speak once again and once again hesitated.

Mary leaned forward. “What is it you’re not good at, Mr. Grant?”

“This…” Lou gestured to the room.

“This?” Mary repeated with the same gesture.

“Personal stuff.” Lou smiled, almost giggling, his head waving back and forth on his shoulders as if it was making an effort at lifting off his shoulders and taking flight.

“Me and Ted?” Mary asked. “Are you asking about me and Ted?”

Lou stared at Mary for a minute, repeating in his mind, the question that Mary had just asked him. That sounds about right. “What’s going on between you two?” Lou Grant words burst out of his mouth like a lobster on a dinner plate that finally spits out the sea.

“Mr. Grant!”

LAUGH TRACK

“Did you hear that?” Lou looked around the room. “You didn’t hear that?”

“Heard what?” Mary asked. Mary looked around the room.

“I…” Lou began but was interrupted by Mary who had put her hand up in a stop gesture. “That, Mr. Grant, is none of your business!”

Mary bolted to her feet and headed toward the door. She opened the door and hesitated.  She did not exit. For several seconds she stood motionless, looking out into the newsroom. Lou watched, halfway out of his chair, frozen in anticipation of Mary’s next move. Mary took a deep breath, released a mouse like sigh, shut the door, and slowly turned around. Without saying a word she returned to her chair, eyes on the floor. Lou Grant slowly sank back into his seat. Mary’s eyes rose, wet and glossy. Lou swallowed deeply. “No, not that!” he whined.

Mary’s bottom lip began to quiver. Lou Grant dove toward Mary with a box of tissues just as her eyes burst, and tears began to stream down her cheek. “Oh, Mr. Grant!”

LAUGH TRACK

Lou turned away. “Mary. Stop that!” Mary continued to weep. “I can’t talk if you’re going to start that stuff.” Lou muttered angrily then reached back, grabbed a handful of tissues and blew his nose, the racket resonating throughout the room, rattling a spoon that sat in an empty jar of Bromo Seltzer on the half empty water cooler.

When Mary had regained control of herself, reducing her sobbing to sniffles, she explained the events of the evening before, leaving out the details, which she understood by the grimace on Lou Grant’s face, were not appreciated.

Lou leaned on his desk, head in his hands. “You threw yourself at Ted!”

Mary nodded.

“Was that a yes or a no, Mary?” Lou could not bear to raise his head and look Mary in the eyes.

“That was a yes, Mr. Grant.”

“He could have done…” Lou stammered. “He could have had…”

“What?”

“A…” Lou struggled for a moment for the right word. “A disease!”

“Ted could have put on…”

Lou cried out. “Don’t say that word.”

“Condom?”

“Ahh!” Lou stamped his feet on the floor. “This whole thing is so…”

“Tawdry?”

“Unnecessary!”

Mary took a deep breath. “He didn’t want me, Mr. Grant. I threw myself at Ted and he turned away.” Mary grabbed a handful of tissues and blew her nose, rattling a spoon that sat in an empty jar of Bromo Seltzer until it fell out of the jar and onto the floor. Lou looked up as the spoon made its downward trajectory. “It’s humiliating! Oh, Mr. Grant, I feel so ashamed!”

“But,” Lou Grant pleaded, “why Ted?”

Mary wiped her eyes. “Ted and I have always gotten along so well together. I laugh at his jokes.”

Lou gasped. “Ted tells Jokes? All the years I’ve known Ted and I’ve never heard him finish a joke. He always screws up the punch line.”

“Not big Jokes. Little Jokes.”

“Little Jokes?” Lou sneered. “What the hell are little Jokes?”

“Asides,” Mary explained.

“Oh,” Lou nodded knowingly. “Asides. Yes, Ted is good at asides. Sarcastic bastard!”

“And,” Mary continued, “We’ve had some very interesting conversations. Serious conversations. It’s surprising how well read Ted is…”

“I’d be surprised.”

“And Ted is very sensitive about feelings, a woman’s feelings. He’s not afraid to show his feminine side.”

“His feminine side! Ted’s a cross—dresser?”

“No! Mr. Grant,” Mary protested than hesitated for a moment. “What’s a cross-dresser?”

LAUGH TRACK

“Beautiful,” Mary added.” Ted is a beautiful man. A nice guy. Rhoda says that Ted is the most beautiful man she’s ever seen.”

Lou shook his head. “And we all know about Rhoda’s standards.”

“You should hear what the other girls in the office say about Ted.”

“What do they say about me?” Lou muttered under his breath.

“Excuse me, Mr. Grant?”

Lou shook his head.

“I thought,” Mary continued, “Ted and I had the potential… I thought we had something to… Oh Mr. Grant, I Just threw myself at him! It’s so unlike me. I’ve never done anything like that before. You believe me, don’t you, Mr. Grant?”

Lou stared at Mary for several moments without responding. “Oh, yes. Of course.”

“I would never,” Mary continued, her words and tears mingling “have made such a fool of myself if I thought that he wasn’t interested in me. I’d had a few drinks. And Ted looked so  handsome. It was like this little voice inside my head was telling me what to do. I had no choice, Mr. Grant.”

“No choice? A voice inside your head?” Lou stared across the desk at Mary, shaking his head. He pulled open a drawer of his desk and pulled out a bottle of brandy and two glasses.

Mary looked up. “Thank you, Mr. Grant. I could use a drink.”

“Forget it, Mary. You’ve still got work to do.”

Lou threw the first drink back, then sipped on the second.

“I can’t believe I’m telling you all this.” Mary wheezed. “It’s this voice in my head. Do you believe in determinism, Mr. Grant?”

“Determinism? Are we going to blame all of this on Hobbes?” Lou leaned back in his chair and thought for a minute. “Okay. Two things are apparent to me. One is that you really don’t want Ted.”

Mary looked up at her boss, grabbed another wad of tissues, and waited.

Lou Grant shook his head. “I can’t believe I’m actually talking like this. I’m going to have nightmares about this for weeks. It’ll take a real bender to wipe this out of my memory.” He turned to Mary. “You don’t want Ted. What you want is the image that Ted represents – the tall, dark, distinguished, successful, full head of hair, middle-aged gentleman. It’s what all women want, or think they want.” Lou jumped to his feet and stomped around the room, hands in his pocket. He stopped once to pick up a pair of old running shoes off a spread-eagled spider plant. He dumped the shoes into the garbage can. “Ted is a bore. He’s too dull for you, Mary. You’d be bored stiff of him within a month.”

Mary opened her mouth to protest, thought better of it, and closed her mouth then reverted back again to her first impulse. “I just can’t agree with you, Mr. Grant. Ted is not dull. Besides, how do you know what I want?”

“I know that opposites attract, Mary.” Lou growled falling back into his chair. “Ted is dull and so are you, Mary.”

“Mr. Grant!”

LAUGH TRACK

“Quiet!” Lou screamed at the ceiling. Mary remained silent. Lou took a deep breath and turned back to Mary. “Don’t take that the wrong way, Mary,” Lou raised his hands in defense. “It’s alright to be a woman and to be dull. You can still have a very successful career.”

“Mr. Grant!”

Lou bolted to his feet and stalked around the office once again. “I told you I’m no good at this.” Lou hesitated for a moment at the door, opened it slightly to look out into the office then closed it. He turned, walked back to his chair and sat down once again. “Mary, you’re a very attractive young woman. You’re bright. You like to laugh. The camera loves you and you get along well with everyone. No one has anything bad to say about you. You see, Mary, you are cursed with that worst of afflictions – niceness. It’s a wonderful attribute in a person but it is not exciting. Nice people are attracted to… not nice people. People who are dangerous, who are on the verge of catastrophic self-destruction. People who are unpredictable. The lamb lies down with the beast, and that sort of stuff.”

“Someone like you, Mr. Grant?” Mary grinned mischievously.

Lou glared at Mary.

“Oh, Mr. Grant!” Mary laughed. “I was joking!”

Lou blushed.

Mary realized that Lou was not amused by her joke.  “You really think I should give up on Ted?”

Lou nodded. “Now maybe, we should get back…” Lou began rising to his feet.

“There’s something else,” Mary interrupted.

“Something else?” Lou queried, sinking back into his chair.

“After Ted left, I stewed for a while. Deciding it was time to go to bed, I stepped up to the window to close my curtains. I have a lovely view of the city. The ravine behind my apartment building has a lush green almost black look to it. And there was this lovely fragrance rising from the valley after the rainfall. As I was looking out I had the strangest feeling that someone was out there, looking at me. Watching me. It made me feel nervous and strangely excited. I drew the curtains closed but I couldn’t shake the feeling. I took a warm bath and a stiff drink. Still I had trouble falling asleep. When I finally I dozed off, I had a nightmare. A horrible nightmare. The next morning I remembered none of the details except one. Eyes watching me! A pair of eyes watching me!”

Homicide: January 18, 1950

HOMICIDE

At 1 A.M. today, swarms of Boston police officers streamed out of police headquarters.

“The street had so much blue on it, I thought the sky had sprouted holes.”

Hours earlier two cars, both shiny black, had carried seven masked men, each of them weighing about 180 pounds away from Brinks Inc. where they had stolen $1,000,000.

“We was having lunch when they walked in. Harry refused to open the safe. They put a hole in his stomach. His ham and cheese sandwich came spilling out.”

Detectives and uniformed police swarmed into the railroad stations, bus terminals, and hotels to watch for anyone acting suspiciously or appearing as if they were on anything but legitimate business.

“We picked up a kid in a movie theatre who cried that he hadn’t shot anyone. He was fourteen years old. His name was Oswald.”

The robbery was so neatly executed, Captain John D. Ahern of the special service squad said, that it must have been engineered by the cream of the criminal world. “They was only in the office for twenty minutes and then raced up Prince Street where they disappeared off the face of the earth. Strange sightings were spotted in the sky that night.”

For weeks there was silence. And then bodies began to show up all over Boston. One in the harbor. One in a dumpster. Two on hooks in a meat packing plant. Two others in bed with each other. Six in all.

“There were two conclusions we could have reached. The seventh man had killed the other six and kept the money. Or, we had miscounted.”

I’m Mary Richards and that’s the way it was January 18, 1950.

The Nightmare Begins Chapter 6 (A Tale of Two Cities)

Chapter Six – Part 1

The Nightmare Begins

1. Lost In A Mirror

Harry O’Toole has begun to care for Mary Richards. This is not what I wanted. I just wanted the fantasy. The fat man has made me care. My thoughts have exploded over the bathroom tiles. Blood is caulking up the cracks. The mirror on the wall is swallowing an echo. Somebody else’s face belongs in there. I am giddy with dread. Too much of this drug called God. One moment I am in Mary’s life, the next in mine. Worlds collide. The sun is blinded by her eyes.  Sacrifices must be made. This can only lead to trouble. I must forget her but in my forgetfulness, the world invades my mind.  Trees branches are flaying the sky. There is blood all over the lawn. A kid’s throat is bleating. A lawnmower has burst into flames. Is this the work of the fat man? This swirling ceiling spinning blender called reality? I need another drink. Her eyes like gasoline spilt at the self-service burning my balls. Atlanta is blooming. Flowers are being eaten alive by sunlight. The White House is bursting with shame. Dylan Thomas is trying to quench his thirst at the bottom of a poem. The streets of Paris are nervous with revolution. Tanks are rolling through Tinnamen Square. Metal teeth chewing cobblestones. Spielberg is making an action thriller about the invention of time. Bob Dylan is dying of exhaustion. The world is in chaos like a jealous lover and all because of her eyes. I’d like to get my hands on the bastard who sold us on the idea of peace of mind. Princess Diana has a hard-on. And William Wallace is being torn apart by his love for Scotland and the affection of English arms. Quit screaming at me. I don’t want to think about her.

2. Personal Stuff

Ted Baxter stepped into Lou Grant’s office, a small room filled with shelves of books, videotapes, magazines, socks, shoes, awards, empty liquor bottles, Styrofoam cups (some growing strange and sentient life forms).

“Busy, Lou?” Ted asked, trying to stand taller, trying not to dance, trying to look like a stand-up comic, but bombing.

“Always busy to you, Ted.” Lou looked up from his desk where he was leafing through some papers.

LAUGH TRACK

Ted laughed uncomfortably, braying like a donkey. “Seriously, Lou.” Ted slapped his hands together.

Lou sighed. “Sit down, Ted.”

Ted smiled, a gesture of gratitude that always rubbed Lou the wrong way. He stepped into the office and closed the door behind him. Nodding and straightening out his tie while cocking his head to one side, Ted moved over to the chair opposite Lou. Lou picked up his coffee to finish it, and finding it cold, turned and poured the remainder of the coffee into the lush green arms of a spider plant. He threw the empty cup toward the garbage can, missing it, but landing in one of the other empty cups on the floor. Ted sat down then immediately stood up, picking up a pair of running shoes that were on the chair.

LAUGH TRACK

“My son’s,” Lou explained. “Got to get him another pair. An identical pair.”

Ted placed the pair of shoes on the floor and took a seat.

“He hates shoe stores,” Lou continued. “Seventeen years old and I still have to buy his shoes. Ashamed of his feet. Says they smell. Of course they smell. He wears those damn running shoes all the time.”

Ted grinned anxiously. Straightened out his tie once again. Once again cocked his head. Lou held up the papers from his desk.

“You read these?”

Ted nodded.

“They call it the ultimate drug.” Lou glanced at the papers. “Its street name is God. Where do they come up with these names? Madison Avenue? Sounds like a bloody perfume for men. Say all the kids are doing it. Selling it on every street corner. Going to make a great story. They say it raises the average male IQ almost ten points. I’m trying to find a down side to this stuff.”

LAUGH TRACK

Lou leaned back in his chair and thought for a moment before speaking. “Maybe we can link this up with Mary’s idea about interviewing the toddler gangsters. Why is it that almost all gangsters are men? Why is that, Ted? Is there a bias in the hiring practices? Crime is the last bastion of male dominance. They say this drug God deludes the user into thinking that he can shape reality. Isn’t that what all drugs do? What do you think, Ted?”

Ted shrugged his shoulders.

“Come on, Ted!” Lou continued, “You must have smoked a little weed?

Ted laughed uncomfortable, squirming in his seat, cocking his head to one side.

“You keep twisting your head like that, Ted, and you’re going to need a neck brace. Now, how can I help you, Ted?’

Ted continued to squirm in his chair, looking down into his lap. Straightened his tie. He muttered under his breath. “I wanted to talk to you about something personal.”

“What?” Lou cried leaning over the desk. “Speak up!”

Ted repeated what he had said.

“I told you, Ted. The station cannot afford to give you another raise.”

LAUGH TRACK

“Personal stuff, Lou.” Ted cleared his throat, adjusted his tie, cocked his head once again, smiling sheepishly.

“Did you sprain something, Ted?”

Ted shook his head.

“Personal stuff! You know, Lou!”

“Personal stuff!’ Lou cried, his face squirming with distaste.

Ted nodded.

Lou picked up the papers again and hid behind them. “I’m not good at personal, Ted! Why don’t you talk to Murray? Murray’s good at personal stuff. Or Mary. Try Mary. Women love that personal stuff. They think it makes you a better person. I don’t want to be a better person, Ted. I just want to get my work done.”

“It’s about Mary,” Ted muttered, tears in his eyes. Once again he straightened his tie, cocked his neck.

Lou dropped his papers on the desk. His eyes flared with rage. “You straighten your tie one more time, Ted, and I’m going to use it to strangle you!”

“Oh, Lou!” Ted began to bawl, tears bursting out of his eyes.

Lou released a deep animal like growl.

‘Sorry, Lou.” Ted wiped his eyes then blew his nose with a handkerchief from his jacket pocket.

For several long moments Lou glared across the desk at Ted. “Okay!” Lou blurted out like a dam busting. “What’s this about, Ted?”

“Mary…” Ted began but could not continue.

“Has she refused to wash your coffee cup again?” Lou suggested sardonically.

LAUGH TRACK

Ted shook his bowed head.

“Well…? Ted…?”

The words blurted out of Ted’s mouth. “She tried to seduce me the other night.”

There was a moment of silence. Lou looked at Ted then at the spider plant next to his desk and then at Ted. “Run that passed me again, Ted.”

“Mary wanted us to…” Ted’s voice trailed off into a high pitch wine.

LAUGH TRACK

Lou pointed at Ted. “You and Mary?”

Ted nodded.

Lou shook with laughter. Tears ran down his cheeks as he continued to howl with laughter. Ted looked behind him, hoping that no one from the office would knock curious to discover what was so funny. After a few moments Lou regained his composure and stared at Ted intently as if he were trying to probe his mind.

“Good joke, Ted. Now you can go.”

LAUGH TRACK

“I’m serious, Lou,” Ted responded defensively. “It’s not something a guy would make up. Not with Mary. I wouldn’t make it up about Mary.”

Lou stared at Ted for a moment.

“You haven’t…?” Lou stuttered. “You and Mary… haven’t done anything…?”

Ted shook his head.

Lou smiled. “You must have misinterpreted the situation, Ted.”

Ted hesitated. Words seeped through his clenched mouth. “She was wearing a negligee.” Lou’s mouth fell open.

Ted continued. “I could see everything! I didn’t want to look. I couldn’t help myself, Lou.”

Lou’s mouth dropped further. For a few moments he said nothing. “Our Mary? Mary Richards? The young woman sitting out at the desk in the other room writing copy?”

Ted nodded, took out his handkerchief again and wiped his brow. Then he remembered with a look of disgust that the handkerchief had been used for other functions.

“But you didn’t…?” Lou asked.

Ted shook his head.

Lou sighed with relief then stepped out from behind his desk and over to the glass door of his office. He opened the door and peeked outside. Satisfied that no one was listening, he returned to his desk, pulled open a drawer of his desk, removed two glasses and a bottle of scotch, poured two stiff drinks, swallowed one.

“Too early for me,” Ted responded, but not before Lou had downed the second drink as well.

“Now, calm yourself, Ted, and tell me what happened. And Ted, keep it clean.”

Ted recited in detail the events of the preceding evening. When Ted had finished his story, he looked up at Lou.

“She really pulled your zipper down.” Lou smiled lustily then realizing he was talking about Mary Richards wiped the smile from his face. “But, you didn’t…”

Ted shook his head.

“Can I ask you a personal question, Ted?”

“Of course, Lou.”

‘What held you back?” Lou blurted out. “No. Don’t answer that.” Lou blushed, than poured himself another drink. “This is crazy. Why should I care what you and Mary do in your private lives? She’s not my daughter. You two aren’t teenagers. Have you met my kids, Ted? You can tell my eldest, he’s the one with the tattoo on top of his head. It wouldn’t be so bad if he could grow a full head of hair but he’s inherited the Grant premature baldness.”

LAUGH TRACK

“And Marty, the one who owns the running shoes, thinks he’s going to make it to the N.B.A. He’s five foot eight and shrinking.” Lou cleared his throat, hesitated, than swallowed the scotch. I remember the first time Mary stepped in that door, Ted. Just graduated from college and asking for a job. When I told her to get lost, she sat in that very chair, Ted, and cried. Cried! I can’t stand it when women cry, Ted. I can’t handle that kind of… personal stuff.”

LAUGH TRACK

“I gave her a job. It was the only way I could get her to stop crying. And you know what she did, Ted? She started to cry again. Told me how happy her parents would be, how proud they would feel. Told me how hard she had worked in school, about her problems with her periods, about her eating disorder. Why can’t people keep what’s private, private?”

Ted smiled sheepishly.

Lou continued. “That’s the problem with the world. No one has any sense of discretion. Last weekend my grandmother, who’s almost ninety-four, wanted to talk to me about female orgasm. In front of the whole family. Over a roast beef dinner!”

LAUGH TRACK

“She’d been watching Oprah and realized that she had never had one. Have you ever listened to the description of an orgasm while your pouring gravy over mashed potatoes and lean slices of bloodied roast beef? Ted, I love roast beef and mashed potatoes and gravy and I love my grandmother in my fashion but I had a knife in my hand, and she was getting personal, and I was tempted to…” Lou took a breath before continuing. “I don’t know what is going on between you and Mary and I don’t want to know. Don’t raise the topic again. Am I understood, Ted?”

Ted swallowed deeply. “Yes, dad.”

Lou glared. “What!”