WE TRADE SO MUCH FOR PEACE OF MIND

It was nearly nine o’clock when Gershner got back with the Lonely Climber in the back seat of his car. They had already dragged barrels from where Mon-Jay found them upside-down, coils of rope inside, about a quarter-mile from the house, in what seemed like the dead center of a scrubby meadow none of them knew very well, or was at least enough of a center that no edge was visible from where they stood. Anything more precise did not bear upon the situation. The Lonely Climber was tied to the rack. The barrels were loaded up into the bed of Mon-Jay's truck, which took the lead in the caravan, a second truck behind it, and then nine cars, identical, black. Gershner and his wife  were in the eighth, and they drove miles upon miles, talking happily of the kids, of the news, of parkland, of their favorite new songs (his was "Rice," barely a month old, hers "Tricked-Out Rivals," from a year or so ago, but there were no rules in love), finally permitting one another nostalgia via reminiscence about their wedding. "Whose idea was the brass band?" said Gershner's wife. "Someone in New Orleans, I'm guessing," said Gershner. She laughed. What a laugh. She stopped laughing, clutched her throat. A bolt of ice broke into Gershner's brain. He was about to scream. How could he lose this wonderful woman, this connoisseur of parks and newish music? But it was no malady. Gershner’s wife has spotted the Lonely Climber flapping loose. The present is upon us like a guard dog. She points with the crabbed hand. Gershner puts his foot fully into the brake pedal, hopes there is a shoulder (there is), and shudders to a stop. He runs back for the Lonely Climber, who is humiliated on the roadway, and restores him to his rightful place atop the car. Then he signals to his wife, who signals to Mon-Jay, and off they go, through the nearly purpling evening.

©2020 Ben Greenman/Stupid Ideas

IMPRACTICAL SHOES

It was not long after dinner. I had just taken a beer from the refrigerator and was rummaging through my mind to think of where I kept the opener—since Penny left I had been buying cans for convenience, pop-top or pull tab; the six-pack of bottles was a mistake, or an aspiration—when I heard Allan’s feet on the mat outside the front door, the telltale way he shuffled and pressed his toes right up against the weatherstrip, producing a click when it contacted the loose right edge of the door. I should have gone right to the door to open it. But there was the matter of the beer, and the long day that had come before it, and my mind had almost arrived at to an answer regarding the location of the opener. I figured he’d stay there and wait while I followed my hunch. I was right. The opener lay like a sardine between sets of chopsticks. I leveraged the cap off the beer bottle, left it on the counter, and walked across the house. That was my version of hurrying. I didn’t see his shape through the frosted window. I turned the lock and then the knob. He was no longer darkening my door. He was off to the side, on the ground, knees buckled, arms loose, hands open as if imploring. His eyes were wide open but he was not in them any longer. He was dead. I should have known that it would happen. Or rather: I knew that it would happen eventually. I should have known when. But it was Allan. Who cares about Allan? I went back inside, swept the bottlecap into my palm, deposited it in the garbage, and fired up the stereo: Gardening Crew, second record. "Impractical Shoes" was first. After "She Moved Her Hair So I Could See Her Face," I called the police.

©2020 Ben Greenman/Stupid Ideas

FRAGMENTS FROM SARS! THE MUSICAL (SLIGHT RETURN)

By Ben Greenman

Originally Composed August 2003

[A respiratory health problem crops up in Toronto.]

MAN:

The Hong Kong flight was long

And I knew something was wrong

The minute that I woke up from my nap

I've had colds, and stopped-up ears,

A sinus thing that stayed for years.

Once in the lavatory I think I caught the clap.

But this is something else, I'm sure

There's a feeling in my lungs that resists any cure.

WOMAN:

At my mom's condo in downtown Toronto

I felt a strange twinge in my chest

By Davenport and Dovercourt,

I leaned on a pole for some rest

Now it's headache, stiffness, loss of appetite

To put the matter plainly, I don't feel right

Fever, a dry cough, and shortness of breath

Plus the worst symptom yet: I'm scared half to death!

[Ordinary citizens, first in one Toronto apartment building but then in widening circles, start reporting symptoms. The government responds, some say too slowly, and subsequent redefinitions of the syndrome only increase the numbers. Amid increasing criticism from the PEOPLE OF TORONTO, Prime Minister JEAN CHRETIEN assures Toronto's residents that the crisis is being managed properly.]

PEOPLE OF TORONTO:

Our wonderful city

Has been brought to its knees

By a strange inexplicable--

Did that guy just sneeze?

CHRETIEN:

There's nothing to worry about

Nothing to fear

Canada's safe

It's wonderful here.

I'll go to Toronto

To end all this whining

Here is my photo op

Fine Chinese dining

PEOPLE OF TORONTO:

Panic at Pearson,

Strict quarantine.

We've even got masks

But it's not Halloween

CHRETIEN:

Hu Jintao and I

Will sit down at a table

And work out this problem

As best as we're able

They say "epidemic"

But that's just baloney

It's under control

Here's a fastball, Mulroney!

PEOPLE OF TORONTO:

While you explore options

Outside the hot zone

Our grandmas at St. Mike's

Spend evenings alone

[While some citizens clamor for more funding and safety measures, others complain that the government is devoting too much attention to SARS at the exclusion of the nation's other problems: softwood lumber, the declining fishing industry, border security, and the discovery of mad cow disease in an Alberta herd.]

COW:

What's my beef? Let me tell you.

Moo! Moo! Moo! Moo! Moo! Moo! Moo!

[Scientists identify SARS as a coronavirus and investigate the cause.]

SCIENTIST:

The habitat

Of the civet cat

Is not of course Canadian

These cats obey

The edges of the day.

In short, they're quite circadian.

Over there in China, and Hong Kong, and parts east

The civet cat is sometimes used as the entree in a feast.

I'm not one to judge--my tastes run more to chips and beer--

But the epidemiology of this virus is clear.

[Toronto's mayor, MEL LASTMAN, expresses his frustration with the slow pace of science.]

MEL LASTMAN:

Waitresses are unemployed

My citizens are paranoid

It's time for action now, not time for study!

We ain't too proud to beg

J. Lo, don't film in Winnipeg.

Who's better than Bad Boy? Nobody!

[Canadian music stars organize a concert to demonstrate that the city is safe.]

CONCERT ORGANIZER:

First there was Avril, still uncomplicated.

Our Lady Peace then joined in, elated.

Now the lineup includes everyone and their mother

Remy Shand on one hand, Sum 41 on the other

Neil Young, maybe, and maybe Jim Carrey

Ninety million for Almighty Bruce? Now that's scary.

SARS! SARS!

It's the night of a thousand stars!

SARS! SARS!

Canada fights back with its guitars!

Sing along and you'll stay strong

We'll do it right, you'll see

SARS and gripes forever

That's not the way we'll be!

Oh...that's...not...the...way...we'll...be!

Big finish!

GET THE GHOSTS OUT

Warren Warmer carries in a newspaper, balancing it flat on his forearm, and in the the opposite hand holding a mug filled with what he says is “Turbo Coffee.” His face is a flat mask. His eyes are alert. Within them everyone can see his father but especially his mother, who back in the day founded the club that they all sit in now, who convinced the previous owners of the land that change was not only preferable but inevitable. “Get the ghosts out,” she used to say, by way of explaining that time waited for no one but that if you played your cards right time could wait on you. Warren Warmer welcomes everyone. Warren Warmer wants everyone in the room to know that even when the clubhouse is demolished, even when he erects in its place a multi-function community center that will include office space, a self-sufficient graphic design business, a gymnasium, and a podcasting studio, that the spirit of the place will persist. Everyone feels something round when he speaks. His tone gives off a spherical quality in the process of shaping the air around it. There is, if not a straightforward honesty, an absence of stable facets that can serve as sites of attack. Howard Warmer was a trustworthy man but not a man who inspired trust. What Warren Warmer is doing now is all his mother, all the time.

©2020 Ben Greenman/Stupid Ideas

“HALL CALL”

By Ben Greenman

from forthcoming collection, as yet untitled

The boy ran down the hall, talking to himself, then talking to no one, then not talking at all but screaming, his voice growing louder and louder, the noise at first bouncing off on the tile, then buckling the walls with the vehemence of the sound, until the doors along the corridor either closed to block the clamor or opened to discover its source. A man emerged from one of them. He squared up, planting his feet, and held up a hand, palm out, to arrest the boy’s progress. It did not achieve its aim, and the boy, still yelling, plowed directly through him, knocking the man’s bowler hat onto the tile, where it fell still and then began to vibrate from the reverberations of the boy’s voice, still echoing.

REAL-ESTATE MINUTE

By Ben Greenman

from forthcoming collection, as yet untitled

I question whether any home can show so intimate a relation between its outward appearance and the principles expounded from its hearth and heart, as that which exists between Moorblood Manse and Baron von Moorblood. No haunted house is the work of one man alone, especially not one whose name is so comically terrifying. But it is equally true that no haunted house has been more potent than Moorblood Manse during the hundred years that it has been the domicile of its sole inhabitant. The move toward establishing the home as a place of murder was almost instant, as Baron von Moorblood took a woman’s life during his first week in residence in 1919 — to say he lived there would be a misnomer, as Moorblood is undead and has been since he was turned vampire by the famed Count Ivankov in 1877 — and has taken thousands of lives since, including a record 41 in 1973, when young locals seemed to flock to the house with an idea that a night there would furnish some sort of perverse thrill. It is worth noting that Baron von Moorblood is not the birth name of the master of Moorblood Manse. He was born Eugene Anderson in Columbus, Ohio, in 1846, and spent the first thirty years of his life as a stage actor and part-time firearms designer. It was not until he was left in a state of sanguinary deficit by the aforementioned Count Ivankov that he adopted his new moniker, despite dithyrambic objection from Laura, his wife at the time, who called the choice (among other things)  “loony,” “foolish,” “thick-witted,” “featherheaded,” “cuckoo,” “loco,” and “numb as a hake.”

RELATIVE BENEFITS

Life was a platform, and he had everything he needed there: a phone, food, companionship. He was happy. Then he looked to his right and saw a platform that was slightly higher, maybe three feet or so. He thought to himself that he might be happier on the other platform. The second platform also had a telephone, food, a companion. But he felt certain that the telephone was of a superior design and color, that the food was prepared better, that the companion would entertain and enrich him in ways that his companion could not. After all, the other platform was higher. He was consumed by the thought of jumping to it. He wasn’t sure if he could make the jump. He needed to make the jump. He agonized over it. He lost sleep, and when he did sleep, he dreamed about the slightly higher platform. Then one day he woke with the courage to jump. He knew that it was the day. He placed a final call on the telephone on the platform. He ate a final meal. He told his companion that he would be only one platform away, and that since it was higher, he would be able to jump back whenever he wanted. Then he took a running start and jumped, pushing off as powerfully as he could, certain that he would need all his effort to reach the higher platform. In the air he worried about falling into the void between platforms. What would that be? Death? Solitude? Neither was a thought that comforted him. Somehow, miraculously, his foot found the edge of the other platform. He landed there in a heap. He looked around. The phone looked about the same. The food looked about the same. The companion looked about the same. But at least he was higher. Then, as he was commending himself for having the courage to jump, the platform started to sink down, imperceptibly at first but then enough that he could see it move. It came to him in a flash: he had forgotten to figure in the effect of his own weight. He looked across at his former platform and it was rising. He closed his eyes. He opened them. He was standing on a platform. He had everything he needed there: a phone, food, companionship. Then he looked to his right and he saw a platform that was slightly higher, maybe three feet or so.

©1981 Ben Greenman/Stupid Ideas