Good Eye/Bad Eye

He met her in church on a Sunday morning. Since he was in town for only one day he invited her to breakfast afterwards. They got along so well that he gave her a couple of passes for the evening’s match in Boofterville. To his surprise she showed up with her brother. They returned with him to the dressing room for a few minutes and her brother got his autograph, saying that he was a huge fan. She wished him luck and then they went back to their seats.

He was slated for a later match, against Sgt. Big Bo Scrumble, 400 pounds of fighting Marine. Finally he heard the announcer, slapped the patch over his left eye, did a couple deep knee bends, and made his way to the ring. “And now, at 367 pounds, all the way from Vinegarroon County, Indiana, the most schizophrenic man in professional wrestling—Good Eye/Bad Eye!”

People strained to see which eye was uncovered. “It’s Good Eye,” the disappointing word spread. He stepped into the ring to cheers and shouts. He had just made her out in the crowd when Big Bo attacked him from behind, before the bell had even rung! Before he knew it he was on the canvas and Big Bo was applying a sloppy arm-bar-drag. Good Eye screamed in pain as Big Bo nearly pulled his arm from its socket. He struggled to his feet.

Big Bo kept the pressure on as he shouted epithets: “Ten hut! Stand at attention when I’m talking to you, maggot!” Then he kicked Good Eye in the ribs knocking him back onto the canvas. As Good Eye struggled, gasping for air, Big Bo showed his contempt by performing a few calisthenics while Good Eye pulled himself painfully to his feet.

Things didn’t get any better after that. Big Bo dropped him on his head a couple of times, even tried a DDT, which Good Eye managed to slip out of before he was knocked unconscious. Then Big Bo slapped him through the ropes and he lay on the ring apron, lights whirling around his head. The roar of the crowd seemed very far away.

He could barely make out the referee counting him out as Big Bo capered in the ring to the boos of the fans.

Suddenly someone was standing over him. “He’s killing you!” she anguished. “Ah, ’tain’t nothing,” he smiled unconvincingly through bloodied teeth. Someone tried to shepherd her away but Good Eye stopped him. “Wait.”

“You’ll never beat him, this way. I’m sorry,” she said as she grabbed his eye patch and pulled it over his one good eye. The crowd gasped. Big Bo stopped his prancing and a look of fear crossed his face. “It’s Bad Eye!” Someone screamed.

Without looking back Bad Eye climbed into the ring and viciously raked his fingernails over Big Bo’s face, blood flowing like the Red Sea. After a couple of good forearm shots Bad Eye had him down, stomping him unmercifully with his big black boots. After a couple of elbow drops he climbed to the top rope where he waited like some monstrous malevolent crow while the shaken Big Bo struggled to his feet. As Bo turned around Bad Eye pounced, leaping over his stunned opponent, capturing Bo’s head between his boots and performing a Flying Head Scissors that sent his opponent whirling into ear-ringing oblivion. “1–2–3,” the referee counted, it was over but Bad Eye wasn’t done yet. He chased the referee out of the ring, grabbed a chair, clobbered the announcer and would have finished off Big Bo except Captain Ace Hardy and his tag team partner, XNOID, led a group of wrestlers out of the back and subdued Bad Eye after twenty minutes of frantic pummeling that left the ring area shattered, several tables broken, three wrestlers and two managers unconscious, and the refreshment booth a wreck. Hotdogs, ice, popcorn, and soda were strewn from one end of the arena to the other. The crowd shouted for more.

Finally, six wrestlers held Bad Eye down as he growled and snapped at them. “We can’t hold him long, get that gal up here!” yelled Cap Ace and soon Bad Eye was glaring up at a young woman, tears in her eyes as she gently grasped his sweaty, bloody eye patch. He tried to pull away but she slid the patch across his battered nose until it covered his one bad eye.

Good Eye looked up and smiled.

He was in love.

Manipulating the Monkey

Winter was the quiet time in Jocobo. Most of the shops closed up and those who could afford it went to Florida or some other warm far-off place.

But, believe it or not, some people actually lived in Jocobo year round. When the cold north wind whipped off the slopes of Mt. Elb and the legendary Vinegarroon snowstorms left 45 feet on the ground these hardy folks brought a few more cans of food up from the basement and checked their e-mail for messages. If they had to go out they’d fire up the old 4-By and churn across the frozen wastes for a candy bar, to return a DVD, or maybe even go to work if they were fortunate enough to have a job.

Winter could be just as trying for a cat.

Squeeks, asleep the moment before, sat up suddenly, listening carefully. Yes, the Monkey was home and he was in the kitchen. Squeeks jumped off the bed and made his way quickly downstairs.

There he was, rooting around behind the door where he kept the good stuff—the meat, the gravy, the yogurt, and the milk. C’mon, big fella, give it up.

“Squeeks, how many times do I have to tell you to stay off the table?”

Hearing his tone of voice the cat immediately lay down amongst the books, papers, pliers, styrofoam coffee cups, couch innards, paper clips, pizza rinds, etc., etc.

“You are so bad,” the Monkey said, picking the cat up and placing him on a chair. Squeeks stayed for a moment, watching the big ape move about the room, then hopped back onto his table.

“Look,” said the Monkey while sticking a spoonful of applesauce in front of the cat’s nose. “This is what I’m eating. Do you really think you’d like some?”

Squeeks turned away with disgust, dropping off the table with a loud flatfooted thud.

“Good cat, look, I saved a little cooked chicken for you.”

Later, Squeeks stood by the door waiting for the Monkey to let him out but when the door opened the landscape was white, cold, and uninviting. Squeeks stood there, tail twitching back and forth as a frigid wind blew in.

“Will you go out, already?” The Monkey complained until Squeeks turned around and came back inside. Five minutes later Squeeks was back at the door again. The Monkey was usually good for three or four of these little rejections before he wised up. Then Squeeks would go stand in front of a closet until it was opened. The Monkey usually responded because he was afraid of having mice in his closet.

Then it was time for a snooze.

They went through the whole routine again in the afternoon except maybe Squeeks would sit by the window looking sad, expecting the Monkey to open it. The stupid primate could never seem to remember how to operate a window in the winter and would stand there gibbering even when it was plain what Squeeks wanted him to do.

If the Monkey happened to be sitting asleep in front of the television, as he often did on Sundays in the winter, there was some amusement to be had in lying three or four feet in front of him, crying repeatedly until the dumb animal opened its eyes.

The idiot would then fall back to sleep until Squeeks meowed again. Over and over, it could go on the entire afternoon until the Monkey would finally get up and let Squeeks lead him into the kitchen where he would stare dumbly at a cat bowl full of that dry stuff and ask once again what Squeeks wanted. “Like it’s not obvious, you big dummy! I want what you’re eating. Monkey food! Why do you get all the good stuff?”

Monkeys, what can you do with them? As servants they’re second rate, as companions they’re only fair . . . but they sure are warm on a cold winter’s night!

The Pirate of Peppercorn Creek

It was the time of year that many in the Liars Bunch lived for. When the streets of the village of Jocobo were packed with strangers looking for a good time. They were searching for an answer and the Liars Bunch—a’settin’—on their bench, were there to give it to them.

Some of the boys even dressed up for the part although it was hard to figure out what part exactly they were playing. Joe “Peets” Moss might have looked the artistic type if it hadn’t been for the cheap all-sport shoes he was wearing. Zack Hardy affected the hog farmer style, with the bibs and the softball sized chaw tucked demurely in his cheek. The expensive watch on his wrist kinda gives his game away, though. Erv Roadapple looked like a bum, but it’s only because he’s not married and hates ironing his clothes. Harry Whelp, the one-eyed dentist, rarely bothers changing from his work “whites” with their splotches of dried blood arcing across his shirt and pants. Old Bart, however, is the very picture of a small town sage in his black slacks, white shirt, and thin black tie with a silver clasp. A cowboy hat wards off the hot sun and his silver belt buckle is cast in the shape of a lone American eagle, pouncing, with its wings flung high and talons extended.

A stuffed eagle sat in one corner of Calamine Pete’s cabin. It was a trophy he’d taken from an English “naturalist” right before he’d made him walk the plank. He hadn’t even bothered to pause and watch the lubber drown. “Let Nature take her course,” he chuckled.

Oh, yo ho ho
You dirty old dog,
Gonna cut you up
Like an ol’ fat hog!
Yo ho ho
And a bottle of beer . . .

“Jimmie!” He heard his mother calling him. “Jimmie!”

“All right,” he thought, “make that a bottle of root beer.” He got up from his favorite spot along the bank of Peppercorn Creek with a sigh, watching as the little reed boats he’d made that afternoon floated forever downstream. He wished he could go along, he thought, while starting home for supper. He could still hear the pirates singing their song.

Yo ho ho,
And a cask of scum
Effin’ you see us comin’
You better run . . .

Vinegarroon County was not the kind of place you’d expect to find a band of scurvy pirates but there they were, inside the head of the dreamy little boy sitting in the back row of the classroom. They were starting classes earlier every year it seemed. Why, summer wasn’t even close to over and here they were already learning geometry! He’d show them some geometry, by golly—the geometry of chasing Spanish treasure off Haiti and Jamaica! The geometry of a well-placed shot into ships’ rigging! The geometry of walking the plank! Ho ho ho!

“Um, could you repeat that question again, Mrs. Greech?”

Abby Greech shook her head with disdain. “Jimmie Bartholomew, you may want to stay after today’s class and clean the blackboards.”

“Aw.” Pa would have a fit if he wasn’t home in time to start his chores.

Later, with the room empty, as he stood beside her desk, Mrs. Greech said. “Jimmie, I told a little fib. I don’t want you to clean the blackboards.”

Jimmie looked up at her questioningly. Mrs. Greech was an old woman, at least 30, but she came from the city and had university training and so she was a little bit scary.

“I want you to write on the blackboard exactly what it is you’re daydreaming about during my class. You can go home as soon as you’ve finished.” She handed him a piece of chalk and walked out of the room.

“Gee whiz,” he thought, scratching his head. He stared at the board for quite some time before shrugging. “Why the heck not?”

He wrote down what was in his head until he’d filled up one blackboard and continued on to another. When he’d filled that one up he continued writing on the one in Mr. Grassgold’s room, then the room across the hall. Oh, Pa was mad that night and he’d gone to bed without supper and grounded for a month, but the growls his belly made were like the sweet groans of the mast as the sails shifted with the evening breeze.

Mrs. Greech had made him a writer. And he had had a wonderful career as the gadgets columnist in Popular Morbeau Magazine. Over six million readers worldwide and they even paid him, too, somewhat.

The warm breeze felt good to Old Bart as he snoozed on the Liars Bunch’s bench.

The fury of a storm just passing had left Calamine Pete and his scurvy crew helpless as a British frigate approached. The King Canute had no mercy for pirates. The battle was short and brutal as the Canute battered them from afar. Explosions ripped the deck and killed his men as Calamine Pete labored in vain to strike back. Finally the British ship of war approached deliberately, menacingly, grappling hooks pulling at what rigging was left. Calamine Pete and a few crewmen made it over the side and into a dinghy only moments before the bomb they’d set in the magazine took both ships in a towering gout of flame.

Old Jimmie Bartholomew sighed as he opened his eyes and gazed benignly out on the peaceful scene in downtown Jocobo on a warm summer’s evening.