Chapter Twenty Six
Friday morning we piled into Russell's SUV. Front seat was Russell, Mary Beth, and Me. Mary Beth was the college student that saved my life. Second row was Cynthia, Louis, and Lisa. Louis removed his arm so they would have extra "elbow" room.... His words, not mine. Third row, my son Louis, Bob, Deborah, and Oprah. Deborah was the woman I saved from the river. Candace followed in her silver Mercedes with my ex-wife, Carol and Dr. Granger.
On our way out of town we drove by the drug store where Raymond worked. It was surrounded by news vans with their giant satellite dishes on top. Cameras were everywhere and all good citizens were being interviewed. There were so few local residents on the street that morning that news crews had started interviewing each other. It was what news professionals refer to as a "cluster ." We had stopped for a red light a half of a block from the drugstore when there was a knock at my window. I rolled it down and made eye contact with a raven haired woman, dressed to the nines, wearing a pearl necklace.
"Are you Clark Martin?" I had to think about it for a while. No one had called me Clark in a long time.
"Yes, just call me Marty."
"Whatever. Raymond left this for you, told me to make sure you get it." She was carrying a large Manila envelope. Her look became puzzled. "What happened to your head?"
She had noticed the scar left on my shaved skull. It's funny that with the bandage on, no one ever asked what had happened to me. When all my friends gathered at my home to leave, the shape of the injury became a topic of discussion. Russell said it looked like Jesus with his arms outstretched on the cross. Louis commented that it was the spitting image of Colonel Sanders of Kentucky Fried Chicken fame. I can see both, but you have to fill in parts of the Colonel's face with your imagination. Think of Jesus' arms being the fancy moustache and his feet joining at a point at the bottom being the tip of a goatee. Whatever it looks like, it garners attention everywhere I go.
"Rabbit bite." I answered as I reached for the package in her arms.
Her face drew up like she had taken a bite from roadkill. "Nasty." She said as she released the envelope into my hands. She turned and tried to outrun the swarming press in her high heels, her ankles breaking from left to right as she moved. A beautiful young reporter from the TV show "Access Hollywood" named Maria was the first to run her down, breaking her run just long enough for 10 more reporters to catch her. She disappeared into the mass of video equipment and news-manity like a hammer sinking into quicksand. I don't know what happened to her, but from the looks of things, I would guess that they ate her.
We sped out onto the hiway and began our Odyssey to the Ohio Valley. In an attempt to keep Bob occupied during the trip, Louis had given him an MP3 player filled with 8 hours of music. On the outside that seemed like a good idea, but now the car was filled with the sounds of Bob crooning to the oldies.
"Hurt so dood, Tmon Baby mate it hurt so dood, sumtine lub don't feel like it should, mate it....hurt so dood." The Johnny Cougar Mellencamp song "Hurt so good" was filling Bob's ears and coming out of his mouth like cheese from a grater at top volume.
Oddly, Oprah seemed to be soothed by his singing and immediately fell sound asleep.
We reached Louisville in an hour and a half and stopped at Cynthia's apartment so she could collect some fresh, tacky clothing. Bob stopped singing as we crossed the Ohio River to Indiana. His face was pressed against the glass and when he removed it he left a wet impression of the bottom half of his face. Deborah pulled a hankie from her purse and wiped it clean.
I was deep in thought as we entered the Hoosier National Forest. I was trying to understand why I was collecting people the way I was. It gave me the feeling of being a human sized snowball rolling down a sparsely snow covered hill, picking up more snow and debris as it rolled faster and faster to the bottom. I was a colorless figure, changing and developing a new image of myself from the crap that was sticking to me as my journey evolved. I was given no choice as to what stayed attached and what remained. The concept frightened me.
I also thought about who would play God in my movie. Everyone I could think of was already dead. I'll let Central Casting find someone.
Mary Beth put her hand on my knee."You feeling ok?" She asked. I nodded my head yes.
"What's in the envelope?"
I was avoiding opening it. I didn't want to be any part of the Raymond story. Reluctantly I bent the clasp and pried the seal apart. It was a book with a green "post-it" stuck on the cover.
The book was "How to pick up Chicks." Raymond had written on the note "Thanks buddy, I don't need this anymore."
I had no memory of the book, or even of knowing Raymond well enough for him to call me "Buddy." I opened the cover to find a message inscribed on the inside leaf.
"This really works!" was scrawled in black permanent ink. Below that was a hastily written signature.
"Marty." it said.
On our way out of town we drove by the drug store where Raymond worked. It was surrounded by news vans with their giant satellite dishes on top. Cameras were everywhere and all good citizens were being interviewed. There were so few local residents on the street that morning that news crews had started interviewing each other. It was what news professionals refer to as a "cluster ." We had stopped for a red light a half of a block from the drugstore when there was a knock at my window. I rolled it down and made eye contact with a raven haired woman, dressed to the nines, wearing a pearl necklace.
"Are you Clark Martin?" I had to think about it for a while. No one had called me Clark in a long time.
"Yes, just call me Marty."
"Whatever. Raymond left this for you, told me to make sure you get it." She was carrying a large Manila envelope. Her look became puzzled. "What happened to your head?"
She had noticed the scar left on my shaved skull. It's funny that with the bandage on, no one ever asked what had happened to me. When all my friends gathered at my home to leave, the shape of the injury became a topic of discussion. Russell said it looked like Jesus with his arms outstretched on the cross. Louis commented that it was the spitting image of Colonel Sanders of Kentucky Fried Chicken fame. I can see both, but you have to fill in parts of the Colonel's face with your imagination. Think of Jesus' arms being the fancy moustache and his feet joining at a point at the bottom being the tip of a goatee. Whatever it looks like, it garners attention everywhere I go.
"Rabbit bite." I answered as I reached for the package in her arms.
Her face drew up like she had taken a bite from roadkill. "Nasty." She said as she released the envelope into my hands. She turned and tried to outrun the swarming press in her high heels, her ankles breaking from left to right as she moved. A beautiful young reporter from the TV show "Access Hollywood" named Maria was the first to run her down, breaking her run just long enough for 10 more reporters to catch her. She disappeared into the mass of video equipment and news-manity like a hammer sinking into quicksand. I don't know what happened to her, but from the looks of things, I would guess that they ate her.
We sped out onto the hiway and began our Odyssey to the Ohio Valley. In an attempt to keep Bob occupied during the trip, Louis had given him an MP3 player filled with 8 hours of music. On the outside that seemed like a good idea, but now the car was filled with the sounds of Bob crooning to the oldies.
"Hurt so dood, Tmon Baby mate it hurt so dood, sumtine lub don't feel like it should, mate it....hurt so dood." The Johnny Cougar Mellencamp song "Hurt so good" was filling Bob's ears and coming out of his mouth like cheese from a grater at top volume.
Oddly, Oprah seemed to be soothed by his singing and immediately fell sound asleep.
We reached Louisville in an hour and a half and stopped at Cynthia's apartment so she could collect some fresh, tacky clothing. Bob stopped singing as we crossed the Ohio River to Indiana. His face was pressed against the glass and when he removed it he left a wet impression of the bottom half of his face. Deborah pulled a hankie from her purse and wiped it clean.
I was deep in thought as we entered the Hoosier National Forest. I was trying to understand why I was collecting people the way I was. It gave me the feeling of being a human sized snowball rolling down a sparsely snow covered hill, picking up more snow and debris as it rolled faster and faster to the bottom. I was a colorless figure, changing and developing a new image of myself from the crap that was sticking to me as my journey evolved. I was given no choice as to what stayed attached and what remained. The concept frightened me.
I also thought about who would play God in my movie. Everyone I could think of was already dead. I'll let Central Casting find someone.
Mary Beth put her hand on my knee."You feeling ok?" She asked. I nodded my head yes.
"What's in the envelope?"
I was avoiding opening it. I didn't want to be any part of the Raymond story. Reluctantly I bent the clasp and pried the seal apart. It was a book with a green "post-it" stuck on the cover.
The book was "How to pick up Chicks." Raymond had written on the note "Thanks buddy, I don't need this anymore."
I had no memory of the book, or even of knowing Raymond well enough for him to call me "Buddy." I opened the cover to find a message inscribed on the inside leaf.
"This really works!" was scrawled in black permanent ink. Below that was a hastily written signature.
"Marty." it said.
2 Comments:
At least Bob has good taste in music. JCM
By Anonymous, at 4:29 PM
I liked him better when he was just Cougar. Before that Mellencamp guy came around.
Bob sings a little like Buckwheat.
By Skokie Shakes, at 10:36 PM
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