The World According to Mike

BEING WITH JUNIPER

Dear Juniper:

I am writing to thank you for the great date we had together last Tuesday (and part of Wednesday). After you started drinking from those tiny bottles you had in your pocket and began talking a lot (and sort of loudly), I learned a lot about you. I obviously had no idea that your life had been so rich with interesting experiences. I especially enjoyed the stories about your years in Trenton (working at the shoe factory and catching fish down at the river). I’m sorry I couldn’t drink with you at the bowling alley. Like I said, alcohol doesn’t mix well with the medications my counselor prescribed to “calm my nerves.” By the way, I agreed with you when you said the community service you had to do after your DUI was probably a waste of time. It doesn’t seemed to have stopped you from drinking as much as you want to.

I must say…I really liked the blouse that you changed into after you were done dancing. Like I told you, I didn’t mind that you wanted to dance alone. After you told me that you sweat a lot, I understood why you thought solo dancing was a better idea.

I had no idea that we’d be able to bowl at midnight. Boy, I was pretty tipsy after you convinced me to finally have a beer. Again, I am sorry that I flattened the stuff in your bag when I dropped my bowling ball on it. I pretty much ruined your cigarettes and bags of peanuts. I thought, though, that you had already had more than enough cigarettes. Of course, that’s up to you.

That man who met us at the alley–do you know him very well? I agree that it was funny when he playfully pinched you and stuck the scoring pencil in your butt; yet, well….I would have bowled better if you hadn’t been burping and giggling as I approached the release line. I sort of wish the owner had made us leave, especially since you and Bill weren’t bowling.

Don’t get me wrong, I liked Bill, he just rubbed me the wrong way (differently, I guess, than the way he rubs you).

Do you agree with him about deodorant making regular washing unnecessary? I can still smell his after-shave on my pants. Why does he carry the bottle around with him? How did he know we were going to be at the bowling alley?

Anyway, I still wish I could have driven you home. I had not gotten a flat tire before. The garage mechanic couldn’t understand how two tires got ripped so badly, but I explained to him about the glass in the parking lot that you told me about.

I do understand about toothaches Juniper, but I wanted to tell you that it would have been easier for me if you and Bill had stayed to help me change the tires. I was still there when the employees came out, and I was concerned that they were going to notice the bowling shoes still on my feet. They press on my ankle bone. And you? Do they press on your bone, Juniper? Bones don’t like to be pressed on. They like to be left alone.

Oh well, I should go. I’m going out to buy a surprise for you. Oh no!! I don’t know your address, phone number, or last name. Those personal ads provide so little practical information. I’m glad, however, that your ad said that stuff about your eyes. I might not have called you if you hadn’t said something about them sparkling when you’re under a street light.

I will have to figure out how to get this letter to you . See you soon.

Your Bowling Buddy,

Fred T. Humper

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ALIVE, DEAD, OR MISPLACED?

Live fast, die young, and leave a good-looking corpse. Elvis Presley did two of these things.

Or did he? Some among, of course, don’t believe that Elvis has died and gone to rock n’ roll heaven. Even if he had died on television, there would probably still be people claiming that he’s simply playing “hide, but don’t seek.”

It was made easier to deny his death because there weren’t any cameras in the King’s bedroom when he permanently collapsed. Would anything, though, have convinced hard-core disbelievers that he is really gone forever.

If Elvis P. had been 89 when he died, of course, few would have doubted the story. It seems that it is hard for some to accept it when stars die young (especially when public figures die in private places).

The continuing skepticism and curiosity (or obsessiveness?) about people’s deaths, however, goes beyond tabloid stories about Elvis being spotted in shopping malls.

For instance, a 19th century president was recently dug up in order to test new murder theories; social scientists are putting Egyptian mummies through x-ray machines; researchers continue looking for Amelia Earhart’s plane; and snap shots of missing Vietnam soldiers keep appearing.

It’s odd that among the talk about Elvis, and others, that little is said about where the alleged fakers might be. You would think that these “living dead” might share a home together somewhere in order to give each other support. Imagine Elvis doing the dishes, Morrison cooking, and Hitler overseeing things, as the three room together in a remote corner of the world.

The titillating twist of the deceptions would be a comeback. Imagine the promotion possibilities. A promoter could arrange a concert without mentioning who the performers would be; and, of course, without mentioning the rising from the dead angle. They would simply promote a blow out concert, biggest of all time. The teasing about the nature of the concert would have the public enthralled. The concert would be staged outdoors, and it would be shown all over the world. At the event itself the audience might be skeptical, but they would also be tense with anticipation. People do love surprises.

Then, without introduction, the show would begin. Hitler strolls out as the opening act. The crowd sits mesmerized, hanging on every shocking word. The teetering old man convinces them that they are the best crowd he has ever seen.

Next, Presley and Morrison come out to perform a duet. They begin with two new songs: “Come on Baby, Don’t Light my Hound Dog on Fire,” and “Don’t be Cruel Baby, Give me Back my Teddy Bear.”

Later, Houdini appears, Earhart does a fly over, tipping her wings, then leaning her beaming face out of her cockpit window she bellows: “Where’s the airport?”

The appearances would confirm for avid conspiracy buffs what they had always believed–the biggest stars don’t die young, they just get lost.

It would give super market tabloids some legitimacy that they have never sought. Imagine the news stories. Who killed Kennedy? Forget it…he’s still alive. Jimmy Hoffa? The original Lassie? All alive.

They’re living out their lives, headed toward a quiet burial, or maybe a comeback.

(I wrote this c. 1989, when it was less absurd to think, chronologically, that Earhart and Hitler could still be alive.)

____________________________

FRED T. HUMPER

As Fred left the bowling alley, he knew a mistake had been made. He grimaced at the thought of it because he so prided himself on making correct choices. The mistake was that he had taken a pair of bowling shoes that were too small. For some reason, he hadn’t noticed the small size while he was still inside; but outside in the parking lot he could feel the shoes pressing on his ankle bone. Fred had made an arrangement with the owner of the alley, Sweet Lou, to borrow shoes for outside use if Fred found a pair of shoes he really liked for some reason.

Fred had realized long ago that bones don’t like to be pressed on. Consequently, none of the other bowling shoes in Fred’s growing collection pressed on his bone the way these new shoes pressed. Damn, he liked the color of these shoes too. They were green, red, and blue stripes–the kind of shoes that would get Fred positive attention when he went dancing at the Starlite Ballroom.

Fred had bowled a 277 Friday night–one of his best games. When the game finished he signed his name with a flourish across the score sheet–FRED T. HUMPER—and it was right then that he decided to keep the lucky shoes.

Fred was sure that the other reason he bowled better was because his wife, Bertha, hadn’t accompanied him to the alley this time. She also tended to press on him. He liked her a lot, but she couldn’t or wouldn’t understand his love for bowling.

What was to understand? The bowling alley is perfect. There’s the sound of pins being smashed by a ball; the distant clicking of pool balls; the just perfect cheeseburgers at the food counter; the technological wizardry of the scoreboard flashing up above; the vastness of the alley–everything so picture perfect.

Fred could barely see the far alley where his friend Bert was bowling with his new team–The Bay City Blazers. Fred didn’t understand the Blazer part of their name, and Bert couldn’t explain to him what the Blazer part of the name meant. It was so typical of Bert to not care about something like that. Bert always missed the details that Fred noticed–like the delicate imbalance of the shoes (and the bone pressing). Bert wouldn’t even notice the pressing. Fred believed that Bert would never bowl a 277 game because he doesn’t pay attention to the details.

Fred had noticed immediately that the alleys had a different sheen to them Friday night, so he adjusted accordingly. He started his ball out further to the right on the alley, and he put a little extra spin on it. If he could just get an inside scoop on how Sweet Lou and his crew were going to oil the alleys, then he could obtain a real big advantage.

Fred’s dream was to some day own the bowling alley. It would be called the Fred T. Humper Coliseum and Bar & Grill. It’s a long title, but Fred thought that it was important for people to know that there would be food at the bowling center. People really like food–Fred had observed that fact many times.

Sometimes it seemed to Fred that all people do is eat. Bertha is entering the $5,000.00 Pillsbury baking contest, and she stands a damn good chance of winning. She makes a real fine chocolate and cream dessert. Fred, in fact, was anxious to get home and slide out of his shoes, and dive into some of that leftover dessert. Darn, he thought, I really love that woman, even if she doesn’t understand bowling. She certainly understands cake, and that’s important.

Fred looked down at his new shoes and grinned. They weren’t pressing on his ankle as much now–he guessed that he was getting used to them. His grin turned into a huge smile as he comprehended the whole picture of his life. He had a 277 game, new shoes, great dessert, and a future filled with Bertha and bowling. What more could there be? Well, there was something else… he would like to turn that 277 game into a 300 game. If he could just get the inside scoop on the alley maintenance, he could probably do it.

Oh well, he didn’t want to contemplate too much about sports,’ life, and marriage.  He remembered what Bertha would always tell him. She says, “Good God almighty Fred…you do think too much.”

______________________

CALENDAR GIRLS

After walking through the front door of the office, Bert grabs a piece of beef jerky out of his pocket, stares at it blankly for several seconds, and then starts gnawing on it. After each bite, he squeezes a tiny packet of mustard (that he found in his pants pocket) into his mouth. Some of the mustard drips down and ends up as a yellow streak across Bert’s chin. The mustard that does make it into his mouth mixes nicely with the sticks of beef. He washes it all down with a few gulps of Mountain Dew. It is 6:30 in the morning. Bert opens the store at 6:30 every morning, even though customers never show up that early. The office is Earl’s Exxon Station. Earl is Bert’s uncle.

After turning on some lights and throwing out the soda can, Bert saunters out toward the gas pumps. The station is on Route 77 in the central land of Wisconsin. The nearest town, where Bert lives, is Beaver Falls, population 1,785. Berts only roommate is a fat eighteen year old cat, named Bo-Bo.

It is August 20th. Bert always knows the correct date because he loves the calendar that hangs prominently in the office. The calendar has pictures of women above each month. The blonde haired, blue-eyed woman representing August is what Bert calls a “bombshell.”

Today Bert is wearing the same dark blue uniform he wears every day. He has his name—BERT—in bold red letters on the shirt, and he has a blue cap with the name of the gas station emblazoned on it. Bert has a thinly framed body, short hair, and large ears. He is twenty-four years old.

Bert’s last date was three years ago. At that time, he won the right to go out with the Miss Pitt County farm queen, Mildred Poindexter. When she pulls back her hair, Miss Poindexter is a pretty young woman. Bert won the date with Mildred because he bowled the highest score in a local bowling tournament. After the tourney, Bert was told that he was supposed to escort the farm queen to the summer barn dance in July. Bert was thrilled about winning a date with The Queen; but, despite his excitement, he didn’t want to go on the date. Bert worried endlessly about the dance because he was afraid he would sweat profusely while he was dancing. He knew that he would have to go to the rest room regularly to dry his armpits and to add more sweet-smelling deodorant.

As it turned out, though, everything seemed okay the night of the dance. It was okay until Bert tried to make conversation. After a few minutes of slow dancing, Bert suddenly stopped moving, stared at the young queen, and then asked her, “Miss Poindexter, why are your boobs so big?” As soon as he said it, Bert knew that he had made a horrible blunder. He meant to say breasts, but “boobs” just slipped out. (Later, when he wasn’t nervous, he realized that he shouldn’t have said anything at all about her chest, even if he had used the word breasts.)

Before the incident, as they were dancing, Bert had tried to think of something to say. He wasn’t good at talking with girls. Because the queen was a farm girl, Bert had started daydreaming about livestock and about milking the herd. It was then, after having those thoughts, that Bert looked at Mildred’s chest. Right after that, Bert asked the offensive question about her boobs. He had really screwed up. After Bert mentioned her chest, Mildred ran out of the barn crying, leaving Bert standing alone in the middle of the dance floor.

Bert hadn’t had time to give Mildred the gifts he brought along for her. He was going to give her a box of assorted chocolates and also a giant size Polaroid picture of Bert holding up the score sheet from his latest bowling outing. It was the score sheet used for the perfect 300 game he bowled at the local Bowl-O-Rama.

After Mildred’s sudden departure, Bert simply went home and spent the rest of the night doing what every good bowler has to do periodically. He sat on his living room couch and rubbed his balls with a soft cloth rag.

Ever since that night, staring at the calendar was the closest Bert had gotten to a woman. Now, back in the present, as he stands near the gas pumps, Bert is imagining the calendar girls with his mind’s eye.

Bert stands like a statue, feet locked in place, hands tucked inside his pockets, staring straight ahead. Something, however, begins to intrude on his fantasizing. Through the mist of his dreaming, he notices a car on the horizon. As it gets closer, Bert remains only vaguely aware of it.

The car shoots past him, just missing him, and then stops quickly. Dust kicked up by the car surrounds him. The smell of burning oil fills the air. Bert rubs his eyes. The dust clears and Bert stares at the driver. He is dressed all in red, with a white beard, and wavy white hair. He has a fat face; in fact, he is fat all over. Dust and dirt cover the windshield of the ’76 green Impala; dust and dirt cover the man. A six-pack of Buds sit on the sit next to him.

“Filler up,” the man demands.

Bert doesn’t respond. He ignores the request partly because of confusion, and partly because the car is about twenty feet from the pumps, way too far away for the hose to reach.

Bert just continues to stare wide-eyed. Finally, he stammers, “You look a lot like Santa Claus, mister.”

“I know I do….I am Santa Claus.”

Bert wonders how many Buds the man has sucked down. The man notices Bert’s expression and says he understands the confusion. He says he usually doesn’t come down from the North Pole, or drive a car, but that because he had a weird summer he just couldn’t stay up in the frozen tundra until December. He further explains that he just had to get away from certain things—away from the elves, and the deer, and the toys.

Bert looks at the man closely. His nose is sun burned and his eyes are sunk back into his face. Beer has solidified on his beard and splotches of food are displayed randomly on his jacket. The zipper of his pants is halfway open. “Santa” has probably urinated somewhere along the roadside. This time of day people can easily pee uninterrupted beside the road. They can pee out their sadness or their concerns.

It is true, as Bert had suspected, that the man had been gulping beer at some point because Bert can see empty bottles on the back seat.

“Do you want to come in and sit for a while?” Bert asks abruptly. Bert wants some company because he know there won’t be any customers for a couple of hours.

“Sure, I’ll come in,” the man mumbles.

The fat man pushes one leg out the door and then sits and waits for the other leg to awaken. While he waits, he burps and takes the time to run his fingers through his tangled hair. After he removes himself from the car, he and Bert shuffle into the office. Bert notices that the man immediately starts to look at the calendar on the wall. Then the man gazes at the trophies lined up in the window. Uncle Earl has allowed Bert to display the bowling trophies that he has won over the years. There are fifteen of them in the window. The two of them sit silently for a few minutes as the stranger looks around the room. Bert just stares.

“Do you want some soda or some beef jerky?” The man doesn’t answer; instead… he just starts talking.

“The woman on your calendar looks like my girlfriend, Trixie.”

“No way, she couldn’t look like that,” Bert responds.

“Yeah, she does. She looks a whole lot like her. Do you have a girlfriend Bert?” Bert doesn’t answer right away. He is surprised that the guy has asked a personal question—and he doesn’t really like it.

Bert mumbles, “No…I don’t.”

“Do you believe in Santa Claus, Bert?”

“No, of course not.”

“Do you believe you could go out with someone like one of those calendar girls?”

“No!”

“What do you believe in?”

“I believe I’m an excellent bowler. I know I’m an excellent bowler!”

“Bert…do you want to go out with a beautiful Woman?”

“Yes, I’d like to go out with a pretty girl.”

“Then just do it. It’s all about attitude.” Bert is getting mad because the guy is saying that going out with beautiful girls is easy. The guy is making Bert seem like an idiot.

“Hey mister…who are you really? Who is Trixie? What’s this ridiculous stuff about you being Santa Claus?”

“Okay Bert, get comfortable and I’ll tell you the whole story. I’ll tell you about Trixie, and my wife, and about the elves.”  Bert sits back and waits for the man to explain all this nonsense.  As he got ready to listen, Bert acknowledged to himself that it was unusual to allow some stranger to launch into a story about five minutes after meeting him, but this was definitely a lonely time of day—so Bert was going to indulge the round man.  Besides, Bert was an unusually good listener.

After getting comfortable and rubbing his belly to relieve some discomfort, the big man was ready to tell a story…

“Bert, the first thing I want to tell you is that I wasn’t happy for the past couple of years. I got depressed after Mrs Kringle left me in the Fall of 1998. Can you believe that woman would leave me after all those years? She ran away with one of the taller elves. I found out later that the two of them had been having a secret fling for a long time. Apparently that elf pleased my wife sexually in ways that I couldn’t satisfy her. He had another advantage over me too…he probably promised to move south with her, maybe to the Caribbean, or some place like that. Mrs Kringle was always complaining to me about living at the northern most point on Earth. She’d yell, “Do you see anyone else living up here!”

“Here’s the thing, though, Bert…I kept doing what I needed to do. I kept up my good will with the other elves, and after a short while I stopped trying to contact my wife and her elfish lover. I kept doing all the things Santa is supposed to do. I did everything I could to make sure Christmas was still cool, even if I was pissed off about my old lady leaving me.”

At this point the man pauses to wipe his brow.  Bert certainly doesn’t believe a word the guy is saying.  After thrusting the bright red hanky back into his pocket, the man continues talking.

“For a long time after she left me, things remained basically the same. I was frustrated about her leaving because I really missed her fine cooking and her companionship. I also missed her being in bed with me. I missed the way the fatty layers around her waist rubbed up against me on a frigid night, keeping me warm. But, despite missing her, I was still enjoying the intense yearly sleigh rides and I enjoyed leaving all the stuff for the kids.

Then, a few months ago, Trixie showed up. She somehow found my secluded hideaway. She told me that she always wanted to know the man behind the legend. I was happy to know someone cared about me as a person. I had, of course, been feeling lonely, the way I imagined Elvis felt before he died on his toilet—so I was glad to hear her say nice things about me.

She babbled, kept talking about how much she wanted us to have a hot relationship. As time went by, she never said anything about how gross I look when I’m naked, never said anything about how incredibly fat I am, and nothing was said about my blubber. She actually told me I was handsome and sexy. And I’ll tell ya Bert…she always smelled good, a kind of strawberry fruity smell. She also had a great body. She awakened desires in me that I had forgotten existed.

Sometimes when it was cold at night, we’d sip hot chocolate near the fireplace and talk about the future. We’d giggle like two school kids . When she told me stories about her wild childhood in Brooklyn, I would laugh so hard that my belly would shake like a Los Angeles freeway during an earthquake. Other times, one of us would get a twinkle in their eye and we’d be grabbing at each other again. The sex was awesome. It was the Super Bowl of sex. We had sex in the reindeer’s barn, in my office, in the sleigh, under the stars, in the toy production room, everywhere. I’d sometimes end up with Trixie’s thin red thong wrapped around my flabby lily-white neck. When we weren’t fooling around we’d go hiking through the snow, or watch movies like Miracle on 34th Street.

All this happened in a matter of months. I don’t think I ever said it, but the truth is I probably loved her. The bottom line was that I was going to deliver toys this year in a way I had never done before. I was going to skip the potato chips and brownie sundaes, lose weight, lift some weights, stop drinking liquor, trim my beard, and really get my shit together. Ya know what I mean, Bert?”

Bert reluctantly nods his head.

“But then, as swiftly as I can suck down a martini, she told me she was leaving me. I was stunned. I stared at her, and then words came tumbling out…what about the talk, the loving, the romance? She told me she had been swept away by charm and lust. She said she thought it would be cool to hang out with the most famous guy in the world. She had, though, begun to realize there was no realism in being in an affair with Santa Claus. She said that excitement alone wasn’t enough to keep a relationship going.”

Bert was still sitting across from the man, now listening intently. The man continues his fast talking.

“She told me the whole Santa thing made me into a dreamer and a thinker. She said I should get a job with salary and benefits. She said I would never have money for travel, or nice clothes, kids, or a big house. She also feared the elves would always be in the way. She then wished me good luck, said there were many good things about me, but she had to take off. She packed her few things and roared away on her snowmobile.

Ya know what Bert? She was right about me being impractical. I would, of course, still be Santa, but I decided my delivery days were over. Damn, most of the kids have too many toys anyway. I was also done traveling in that broken down sleigh. I was lucky I didn’t get killed landing that busted up mess of a vehicle on the roof of someone’s house. I just couldn’t go on after she left. That’s why I started drink way more than usual, and why I decided to find a car and drive down here. ”

As the man keeps talking, Bert’s eyes shift to the calendar above his head and he begins to smile. As he stares at the beautiful face of Miss August suspended over the f at man’s head, Bert begins to realize that he is capable of dating a pretty girl without making her run away.

Bert doesn’t, however, like the fat man sitting in front of him. He doesn’t like all the sex talk. Bert doesn’t like the way the guy has so easily dismissed the wonderous joy of the Christmas tradition. And, he doesn’t like the way he talked about Elvis dying as if it was no big deal. He also doesn’t like the way he casually uses foul language. He has,though, made Bert believe in the idea of being confident. In a flash, Bert is thinking about moving out of his trailer, leaving the crappy gas station job, and working to quickly become a professional bowler.

As the two of them sit silently, letting the conversation sink in, two police cars screech into the parking lot. The big man looks around and sees the cars and then pulls a large billy club out from under his coat. He stands up and screams at the cops. The cops, in turn, yell for him to surrender. Bert is motionless. Santa lurches toward the door of the office, holding the club above his head, apparently ready to attack the police.

Rapidly, Bert grabs hold of the biggest of his trophies. It is the three-foot high trophie he won at the recent bowling tourney sponsored by the big cheese producing company in Madison. Bert steps toward Santa and bangs him on the back of the head with the solid gold block of cheese fastened to the top of the trophy. The blow is delivered just hard enough to stun Santa, without intending to hurt him. The big man crumples to the floor. The cops put the cuffs on him and pick him up off the floor. Santa is okay physically, but he chooses not to resist, as if he was expecting the arrest to happen.

“Why are you after him?” Bert asks breathlessly.

“He stole the Impala,” says one of the cops.

“Crap,” Bert replies. “I know it’s crazy and stupid…but he actually told me he was Santa Claus.”

The cop smiles. “Yeah, this guy used to play Santa Claus in the mall. And then, when his wife left him he got pretty kooky. First he believed he was Eddie Murphy. Then later, after people reminded him he was white and that he looked like Santa Claus, he started telling people he actually was Santa.”

“Whats his real name?”

“Bubba Tyler. His ex-wife is Trixie Miller. After their divorce, she moved to the east coast. She isn’t real attractive, but she’s a real nice lady.”

“Crap, he is a crazy bastard,” Bert exclaims. Bert doesn’t usually curse or refer to anyone as a bastard, but the current situation is bringing out parts of his personality which had previously been asleep.

The cops turn and leave. They’re bored with talking to Bert. They put Bubba Tyler in the squad car and take off.

Bert goes back into the office and stands quietly in the middle of the room, staring at the calendar, thinking about what just happened, and also thinking about where he was at in his own life. Bert had not literally believed Bubba’ Tyler’s wild story, but he had been bowled over by his exuberance. Bert wanted to believe in something like Santa Claus, something big and inspiring.

Bert sits down in the worn out wooden chair at the office desk and continues thinking.  He stares at the calendar again. Crap. He doesn’t want to fantasize about calendar girls anymore. He wants to believe in something real. He wants to have a sweet relationship with a woman.

In the next moment, Bert swiftly tears down the calendar and throws it in the trash. He makes a decision. He is going to call Mildred Poindexter and ask her to go bowling with him. After all, the last time they went out, before she sobbed and left the dance, Mildred seemed to be having a good time. Maybe this time they’ll have a great date. This time he won’t worry about excess perspiration. This time he won’t take forever to figure out interesting conversation or try to think of an exciting story to tell. This time Bert will just be real.

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