It is another gray morning.

From time to time, the wind charges up from the river, sending shivers through this house and turning the driveway into a mad ballet of tiny tornadoes of dancing dry leaves.

The household sign rests outside on the cold ground, ripped from its anchoring by a recent vandalic gust.

The sign reads: Waystead.

It is the name I created for this house, a Strunkian phrase which proclaims the dreams and despairs of my generation: we were the flower children, borne out of the rich, guzzling epidemic of consumption and gratification which broke out after World War Two.

Coddled from birth, shielded through adolescence by loving parents, bathed in the numbing bathos of television, soothed by high fidelity music, we were ready to step into our old man’s shoes, a smooth transition into the second generation of the nuclear family.

But life is at variance with the principles of logic. And the nature of Man is unpredictable. Thus it was, as Dickens wrote, the best and the worst of times. For there must be painful compensation paid to survive, and usually it is the children who are called upon to make the sacrifice.

Our severe test was Viet Nam, a singular act of violence which, unfortunately, lacked the convincing ‘bite’ that characterized your Depression and your War.

But with the proper amount of governmental warmongering and lackluster policy-making, there was created a critical need for American boys to shed their blood on the other side of the Earth.

It was through Viet Nam that we learned the meaning of your Truth. It was in Viet Nam we learned the flowers die. Only the cactus and the spiny plants and bushes endure.

The only verdant smiles here, warming the dull winter woods, are the Virginia laurel bushes, ever-green, yet on the verge of extinction, clinging to precious life in the acid soil of their natural habitat.

Like a bankrupt, lumbering bureaucracy, Springtime is too busy laundering its debts to service the essential needs of its people.

The sun has yet to shine.

Lenin penned, “Treaties are like roses and beautiful women: they last while they last.”

His tenet offers up a cynical, selfish Truth and Attitude which is the watchword of life today: any means justify the end. In 80s America, commercialism is the sugar and lofty idealism and practical restraint are the sour wines.

We were the flower children. But the soil has been abused and overworked. The flowers are dying. The earth is sharp and rough. We need shoes we didn’t need before.

We live on sugar now.

We are the Sugar Babies.

We’ve stepped into our old man’s shoes, into his Truth and his Attitudes. Soon the shoes will wear thin and we will replace them, but his Truth and his Attitudes will be our Truth and our Attitudes. . . Until the next generation.

Let them all die of their sweet overdose. I’ll take the bitter grape. I am, after all, a modern wino: harmless, alone and unshod, waiting for the sun, undernourished from lack of elemental human feeling and saturated with poly-ultra-video-induced negative feedback.

In a nation of 220 millions, where does a derelict like me fit? In a world where Truth is an illusion, where will the flowers bloom? And how will a man like me survive until they do?

WAYSTEAD

The noun: a comfortable dwelling occupied by person(s) whose principle concern is to ensure that all who enter their abode be well fed and bedded and entertained during their stay.

The adjective: Dissolute.

Long flight from Heathrow to Dulles.

Snockered they were, and toasted beyond the troposphere.

First on, last off, is how they played it, figuring by time they hit the barrier, the agent would be tired, bored, and texting Kismet, to hook up with her for Happy Hour at Francy’s in Reston, clutching his first Heineken, chatting up Francy’s daughter, (yes, the same Kismet), who ran the front of the house.

Problem, though.

Though Tommyrot and Gin were properly docced and it wasn’t their paper that would prompt a delay, it was the smell of them.

And it was about what the pilot and senior attendant would by now have commed to the FTA controllers, who’d’ve passed along the alert to the customs agents at the barrier.

“We should’ve chartered the G5 like I suggested,” Gin side-spoke out the right side of his mouth to Tommy. “They’re gonna nail us, and we’re off the damned plane, fer chrissakes.”

“Shut up,” Tommy hissed. “Play it like it is.”

Next up and they lock-stepped across the yellow line painted on the gray carpet and wobbled to the counter behind which the Agent sat on a stool and said, “Welcome to Washington.”

T&G handed over their red passports and the Agent frowned.

“Diplomats,” he huffed. “We got a report you two were makin’ a ruckus on the plane.

“If these were blue passports, you’d be facing a knockdown horse shedding.”

Gin grinned. His right knee gave away and he dropped to the floor, his chin catching the counter edge.

Blood.

Tommy drug up his colleague. Gin stabilized at the counter. Tommy drew a blue bandana from his hip pocket and handed it to Gin. Gin jammed the hankie up against his chin.

Stem the flow.

“Agent Richards,” Gin said, “we did no such thing.

“Call up any of the passengers and ask if we disrupted their flight.”

Tommy patted Gin’s shoulder. “Careful,” he said.

Agent Richards smiled.

“Tell you the truth, I’m glad we won’t have to go through the rigmarole on this one.”

He palmed his entry stamp on a clean page in each their passports and said, “Be careful.”

They rode the shuttle bus from Dulles to Reagan National, and sat watching CNN on the flat screen at Gate 34B, waiting to hop an Airbus to Nashville.

On the plane, heading south, they did the same damned thing again.

There were four flight attendants, and four untaken seats in First Class.

Tommyrot and Gin ‘encouraged’ them to take their seats.

There were 134 passengers aboard that flight, and, counting the attendants and the cockpit crew of three, a total of 141 souls whose lives became dependent upon Tommyrot’s and Gin’s behaviors.

Tommy and Gin walked up the aisle.

Gin tapped the chief attendant on her shoulder and said, “Let us know if we make a muck of our service.”

Tommy got on the PA and announced, “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. This jet has been commandeered by yours truly and we are pleased to announce that all meal items, soft drinks, and wine, beer, and liquor are on the house this flight. Or, um, rather, on the wings.”

Passengers caromed from fear to glee and a chorus of cheers and an explosion of clapping hands and feet stomping was inside that aluminum tube, soaring through the troposphere at 480 knots, bound for Music City.

Tommyrot and Gin were in fine fettle and shape.

They doffed all but their Jermyn Street boxer shorts, folding their clothes and storing them in the Personals locker in the attendant’s area opposite the lavatory door behind the locked flight deck.

They found two blue aprons in the same locker and donned them.

And set about setting up the narrow wheeled carts with drinks and chips.

They emerged from the pantry passing through the First Class cabin, explaining to the attendants and passengers, “We’re going to start at the back of the bus and work our way back to you all.”

One guy, seat 3C, clad in black and sporting  a three day scruff, huffed and said, “But we’re first!”

Gin, following Tommy, patted the man’s shoulder and advised him to curb his enthusiasm. “We’ll be back soon enough. Just mind that big iPad on your lap,” and smiled cheerily.

The man harrumphed, squirmed in his leather seat, settled down, and swiped his iPad’s screen with a flourish.

As Tommy swept aside the curtain separating the übers from the proles, he was met with a raucous symphony of cheers and applause. Many of the aisle seat passengers stood up, banging their heads on the overhead baggage pods, caught up in obvious gusto for what would most likely unfold. 

Gin led from the rear and declared in a voice sure to reach the stern of the bus, “We’re starting at the back. Only seems fair, yes?”

Many nodding heads agreed, though a few passengers seemed less than enthused.

As they marched down the aisle, a pretty blond, top-heavy and tanned, pinched Gin’s bottom and giggled.

Gin turned to her and said, “Off limits, my dear.”

They arrived at the back of the Bus, about-faced their carts, and set about doling out drinks and chips.

The gnarled gent in 34D stared at the boozy bounty on his fold-down tray and said, “So you’re not Islamists?”

“No,” replied Tommy. “We’re just messing  with the airline.”

Thirty-four D smiled.

The mother in 29 F, seated between her two charges, said,”I’d like a double whisky and soda, and orange juice for my kids. And can we have extra chips?”

“Done,” said Gin, as he dropped a heap of little cello bags on her tray.

“Thank you!” she gushed.

By the time they were halfway up the aisle, the back of the bus was atwitter with prate and wonder. 

TenC asked Tommy, “Is this legal? Are we on video? Will we get in trouble when we land?”

“Not a problem,” replied Tommy. “We’ll take the blame.”

“This has never happened to me,” 10C declared.

“Nor to most other flyers,” Tommy assured her.

“Can I have another glass of champagne?” she said, thus.

“You can and you may,” Tommy corrected her, pouring Champers to her flute’s rim.

As they approached the Class Barrier, Tommy turned to Gin and said, “What a happy crowd: they’ll never forget this trip.”

“Aye,” said Gin, gin-grinning.

In First Class, the passengers and attendants, long awaiting their high jackers, volleyed questions and declarations to Tommyrot and Gin.

The least attractive attendant of the four said, “What’ll happen when we land?”

Gin replied, “Tommy and I will most likely be hoosegowed, but you’ll all be safe and besotted.”

“Well I never—“, she thrusted.

“All in a day’s work,” said Gin.

Tommyrot and Gin dispensed liquors and chips to the übers and retreated to the pantry and refilled the carts for their second pass.

Tommy said to Gin, “That guy in black in 3C needs a shave and a clothing consultant.”

“I think he needs a horse-shedding,” said  Tommyrot.

Much silence had descended into the bus tube.

A few drinkies will do that sort of thing, thus T&G well knew to temper their next pass with a tad of restraint.

Gin got on the horn and announced, “Ladies and Gentlemen, though we are kind and beneficent hijackers, we urge you all to restrain your wants for free booze.

“We don’t want any of you to fall off this bus onto the exit ramp and cause concern for the airline greeters.

“Besides, they only have so many wheelchairs to accommodate the disabled.”

Tommyrot set aside his organizing the cart for the next go-round and walked back to the man in 3C.

“Come with me, sir,” he said, grabbing the black-clad man by his nape and steering him to the pantry.

Three C’s eyes were wide and prancing near full tilt terror:

“I’m your prisoner!” he cried. “You’re going to kill me!?”

“Nay, lad,” assured Gin, “we want to know what you do to live.”

“What do you mean?”

“How do you make your bucks?” asked Tommyrot.

“I own a startup company. We’re launching next week, if I live!”

“Oh,” said Tommy, “you’re going to live, but we think you should reconsider your garb.” 

“What?”

“Everyone is sporting black these days. We think you should consider something more sartorial, before you beg for more capital.”

“Yeah,” said Gin, adding, “black is the new old theme. Try dressing as a preppy, or the head man that you are. Maybe a chicken bone pierced through your nose.”

Gin’s voice bespoke of derision.

Three C’s face defaulted to ash gray.

As Tommyrot and Gin took their second pass down the bus, most of the passengers declined another drink.

“This is sufficient,” said the silver-haired gentleman in 12D. “I’ve had my fill, thank you, but are you sure you’re not terrorists?”

“Ain’t there anything but chips?” asked 14D.

“Yes,” said Tommy. “Up and coming.”

The back of the bus got sloshed on the second pass, and gratefully noshed on the hot dinner offerings from the pantry.

All the while, the flight crew in the cockpit were assured by the chief attendant that ‘all is well.’

After putting all away as it should be, T&G joined the Attendants at the front of First Class and jibber-jabbered as the jet descended to Nashville.

They’d done it once again.

Tommyrot and Gin laid waste to an entire plane of flyers, and all descended complete.

“It is sometimes the way of the world which disrupts madness.

“Certain malarkey can overcome crazy and be so nutso that the likes of Tommyrot and Gin get crystal clear away with their mayhems.”

Beltram Gilland, London, Sept 30 2022

“Darlene, darlin’!” he yelled. His shout caromed about the spare apartment.

“What, darlin’?”

Darlene, bless her scantily-clad self, stumbled back from the kitchen into the bedroom. “What, darlin’?”

“Darlene, darlin’,” said David, “these kids! They write in the first person! Jee-Zus Aitch!

“I! I! I! I get so sick of it, ya know?”

Darlene leaned against the doorjamb, drying her hundred-dollar tumbler with a terrycloth bath towel. She held the glass up to the sunlight and the crystal sparkled pink and blue brilliance.

“Don’ fight it, Davey. Don’ get mad at ‘em, baby. At least they’re producin’.” She thtpped a shot of spittle at the rim of the heavy glass and polished it with the towel.

“It may seem shit to you, Davey, but somebody thinks it’s good enough to publish it.”

“Yecch!” David flung the magazine at the floor. “Come ‘ere, babes darlin’.” He sprawled his thickset self down into the black leather chair and spread his legs. He stretched out his arms like Jesus Christ inviting all the children to come unto Him, and smiled at his darlin’ Darlene.

“Come ‘ere, darlin’. Davey wantsa kissersumpin’.”

“Yer drunk, is what I think, Davey.” Darlene set her tumbler on the table beside their bed and slid the smooth sleek stopper off the five-hundred-dollar decanter and poured herself a fresha Jimma Beam. Neat. As she liked it.

She took up the glass and swirled the liquor around and up the sides of the tumbler. To her lips the tobacco-colored spirit streamed. She gargled it, swished it around her mouth, and swallowed it hard and loud.

“Mmm,” she hummed, “hits ‘a spot, ya know?”

“Darlene, darlin’, how kin you make that work?” David beckoned to his luv, pointing a finger in her general direction.

“Make what work, honey?” asked Darlene. She ambled over and dropped her glass on his desk and knelt on the floor between his legs.

“How kin you keep that itsy-bitsy, teeny-weeny swatha bikini set just so upon yer labia majora so I still see mystery insteada pornography?”

“What? This?” said Darlene, leaning back to caress the smooth and nubby flesh where her legs ended and a shiny swatch of cobalt blue rayon hid her sex. “It’sa genius ‘a the fashion-makers, Davey. I dunno. Do you like it?”

“I love it, darlin’. It’sa turn-on ‘a the first water. I love to stare at you and yer body.”

She smiled and ran her hands up the insides of his bare legs, over the rough and tumble of his hairy limbs, and slid her fingers under the hems of his shorts.

She rested her head on his knee and hummed an old love song.

Her melody ascended.

David leaned his head back upon the chair and closed his eyes. He reached into Darlene’s bra and softly stroked her breasts, rubbing her nipples with his thumbs and forefingers. Her nipples stiffened, and he imagined them as old trees lopped off near the ground—rough, stubborn stumps resisting the push and grab of his coarse and callused touch.

David and Darlene, they floated just so—her mind and music in his lap; her mammaries in his clutch. She was kneeling into him, her head drawn nearer to his loins. She was humming an old love song, and her haunches swayed in the breeze of the ceiling fan, keeping time and rhythm with the near silent song falling off her lips.

The thumping fwutta-fwutta-fwutta of the President’s helicopter parade blasted through the open alley window. The rotorblade chop broke their reverie. David splayed his hands and Darlene pulled herself up off the floor in a slow, liquid measure. She yawned.

“Oh, Davey, how ‘bout some fucky-fucky?” She stood above him and flipped her blonde hair back over her shoulders.

David drew his knees together and raised himself from the chair. He pulled Darlene to him, embraced her, and caressed her back with hands spread wide and true.

He planted his right hand upon the base of her spine and they swayed together in a love-dance bodylock, catching the round rhythm of the helicopters’ popping and whipping rotor racket.

David carried Darlene to their bed and laid her on the pale blue summer quilt.

Darlene opened her legs and tugged aside the cobalt cloth. She slid a finger over her glistening lips. She buried the finger in the wet folds and said, “Ferget the youngsters, Davey. Come along with me.”

“Lesh have another drink,” said David. He retrieved his tumbler from the carpet and grabbed his luv’s glass off his desk and sauntered to the night table and filled the pair of shimmering vessels with equal beltsa Jimma Beam.

Darlene lay on the bed, probing and teasing herself and David, undulating her hips, her emerald eyes following him across the room.

“Come along with me, Davey,” she whispered.

He left the drinks on the night table and reverently bowed his head near to her womb and breathed deep her damp, violent perfume.

—30—

“No shit, Skelton. How’d you get us here? We’re supposed to be there!”

“Goddamn pisspot GPS.”

“Oh, man, where’d you get that device? Amazon?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“How many times I gotta tell you don’t buy electronics in the same solar system you’re gonna do a takeout? How many fuckin’ times you don’t get it? And you sca-rew up the mission?”

“Sorry.”

“Sorry don’t cut it no more, Skelty. You’re poof.”

The Martian who really looked like a Martian—all shiny whatever metal body he be—slipped a KillThrill from nowhere and slew Skelton in a nanosecond.

“Up to me, now,” the Martian crooned.

 Ruthee, the barmaid, came up to him. Asked, “Another, shugah?”

“That’s not a Brooklyn twang but, yeah, one for the telemetry.”

She poured. She didn’t ask. The guy’d slapped down a heavy Platinum Amex and she’d eyed the name. That was all that mattered really.

Asked, “So Mister Reynolds, are you real?” “Yeah, but only in a parallel place. Not here.”

Ruthee wouldn’t admit she was confused. Better to shut up and get the tip, if tip it came.

Mister Reynolds drained his Bourbon through one of his tendrils.

Ruthee, on hard-worked purpose, didn’t freak out.

She never seen anyone or anything yom a cocktail aside from orally.

She thought maybe she should quit nightwork and take her roomie’s advice and go teach English as a Second Language.

“Before you leave, sir, I gotta ask. I know you say you’re only real someplace else? I kinda get that, but if you’re not real here, what are you here?”

Mister Reynolds arose from his stool.

He signed the chit with his laser tendril and added a tip.

Flobberwoggled, and totally out of school, Ruthee picked up the chit and glanced at it as Mister Reynolds parked his Amex on his chestpak.

“Uh, sir,” barely spoke Ruthee, “this won’t fly.”

“What won’t?”

“A uh uh billion dollars tip on a twenty dollar tab?”

“It’s customary where I come from,” he said. “I’ve got an expense account with no ceiling.”

“Oh,” smiled Ruthee. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Now, can you direct me to Nome?”

My daughter Elfin invited her boyfriend, Alan Dzenschki, to dinner last week. His first time here. Meet the parents thing.

Elfin was serene.

Well, aside from her howling at me. “You’ve got to learn to spell his name!”

“It’s that important to you,” I said. “Honey I can’t even pronounce his name, much less spell it.”

“I keep telling you! It’s simple: Jen Ski! What’s so hard about that?”

“Then why, my darling, doesn’t he spell it that way?”

“I’ve told you, Mom, his grandparents came from Poland after the war.

“He’s proud to be Polish,” she added.

“We’ll see.”

That little stink erupted earlier in the afternoon.

Just off the bus—she called it the Cattle Car—home early from school to help Mom set the table and ‘get ready.’

For what, I wondered. 

Elfin had headed me up that Alan is vegetarian.

Not a vegetarian, but Vegetarian.

What, is this a race? A disease?

“Alan is Caucasian, Vegetarian, and a recovering ADHD.”

We’d had a tiff about that.

I said he’ll eat what’s put in front of him.

“And I don’t care if he’s Martian Green and peddles his old bottles of Ritalin. You come in this house and have some common courtesies.”

Elfin won: “Mom, I really like this guy. Okay?”

I take a buss on my cheek for giving in. To my kid.

We’re having “The Absolute Best Vegetarian Lasagna” and a tossed salad. I found the recipe in last weekend’s Wall Street Journal. In the Eating and Drinking section.

You make a Bolognese Sauce with bread crumbs fried in olive oil, to substitute for meat.

Speaking of Drinking, Alan doesn’t drink alcohol. A good thing, since he’s three-plus years from legal.

He must be having an effect on Elfin: I haven’t smelled wine or gin on her breath in over a month.

“You’re way too young to be hitting the hard stuff, Elfin,” I told her. She turned eggplant. “I’m not drinking. I swear!”

Yeah, right.

“Table’s all set. I got some daffs ‘n greens from the garden. Centerpiece looks nice. Wanna take a look?”

I shoulder through the swing door into the dining room.

Wow.

This is serious.

The room hasn’t been this elegant since Marty’s wake.

“You really do like this guy, don’t you?” I said.

My daughter came to me, slipped her arms around my waist and gave me a hug tug.

“Yeah.” She paused and said to my shoulder, “I’m headed up to get ready. You’re not going to wear those jeans, are you?”

I broke away, gouged. Memories, money, manners.

“These are my outta work duds, honey,” I laughed,  rolled my kitchen towel into a rattail and snapped it at her.

“If you and Comrade Jet Ski don’t like my duds, you can shit the road, Charlotte, shove out yer thumbs, and hitchhike to the McDonald’s out on Highway Nine.

“Split a Mac Grande and a quart of water.”

“Are you this sarcastic and potty-mouth on the trading floor, Mom?”

“Honey, you have no idea.”

She clomps upstairs to her bedroom and slams the door.

Some serenity.

Some tell.

She’s hiding something.

Whatever it is, it’ll come out soon.

I’ve forever told Elfin I don’t like surprises, but her revealed secrets all bear signs of the All-American Adolescent Revolt Against Authority And Adults (A-AARAAAA).

Sounds like a battle cry. A call to arms.

I’ve rinsed the lettuce—with my bare hands, thank you—and am drying the leaves with the kitchen towel when Elfin punches through the swing door, preceded by a blast of my Opium.

“Jesus, you look like a high-end Paris hooker.”

She points her tongue at me and I wonder where it’s been on Alan. In Alan?

“Hey, Elf, I’m kidding, alright?

“You look fabulous. Maybe a tad too saucy for my taste, but it’s your flesh to cover or bare as you so choose.”

I smile; she smiles. We she/it smile. Broadly.

Broads in arms.

She falls into mine. A huggier tug this time.

She minces on her toes.

Here it comes now.

“Mom?”

“Yeah, hon.”

“Would you put on a dress? You look so good dressed up.”

“Sure, hon. I was just jerkin’ yer chain.”

I break away. Give her shoulders a squeeze. Throw my towel at her face.

“I’ll jump in the shower.”

She smiles. And tosses the towel in my face.

“Thanks,” she air busses me.

Alan arrives in an hour.

∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

I wanted it all. Marty wanted to fuck and scuttle home life and hie back to war.

He got his rocks rolled. Sired Elfin. Met his daughter on three Very Rapid R&Rs back stateside over five years.

Then got hisself blowed up on a soccer field in Fallujah, searching for mines.

They found him instead. 

We buried his cranium at Arlington. That, and a Silver Star.

All was left of Marty Murdoch.

∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

Snot hard. Raising a kid on yer own.

If you’re tripsosphrenic.

You know. Able to leap tall buildings; stronger than a locomotive.

I think of Elfin. Putting on my best face. Sitting at my mother’s makeup table. So 50s. So analog.

“Mom! He’ll be here in twenty-five minutes!”

“Coming, dear!”

I finish primping and throw on this old thing and head downstairs.

∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

“Putain tonight?”

“Nice to know they’re teaching you something at that finishing school,” I shoot back. “How many daughters you know call their mother a hooker?”

“Mama, you have no idea.”

She aims her tongue right between my eyes.

I’m still waiting for Elfin to true the tell.

Eleventeen minutes, counting.

Elfin pours the onion dip glop into the bowl and circles it on a plate with Triscuits™.

“I put this on the coffee table?”

“Yes, dear. Don’t forget the cocktail napkins.”

“What’s the origin of ‘cocktail?'”

“Nevermind.”

Four minutes.

When’re you going to gush, girl?

“Mom?

“Before Alan gets here, you need to know something.”

At last.

“What?”

“Alan’s a little flighty these days. He’s still coming off his Ritalin and he’s working so hard on his music and Home Ec.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Why?”

“Nevermind. I’m your mother. I’ll adapt.

“Don’t worry, honey. First time jitters. I got more of ’em than you.”

“Really? That’s so sweet.”

She nicks my cheek with a lip tip.

What am I thinking?

What is she thinking?

Dinner at 6:30, but who shows up on time anymore? Or twenty minutes proper late?

I pass through the slider on to the deck off the kitchen to burn a stick.

Elfin hates smoking, as is her right and rite, and she’s right.

Tough.

I live in a man’s world she’ll never know.

Poor thing. Or fortunate?

Ding Dong.

Bing Bong.

Elfin flies to the door. Whips it open.

Wow.

This is where it hurt.

Elfin serene. Dipping down to kiss his cheek and turn around.

“Mom, this is Alan. Alan, my Mom!”

He extended his hand. I took it and shook it and let go.

He had a grin from Bourbon Street.

And he hadn’t a clue I wanted him more than Adam wanted that apple.

Wanted him to fuck me, like Marty had never.

Ever.

Hey. A mother’s prerogative.

But this is all in my mind.

And quick-like, like mercury sliding across a table.

Elfin beamed if beaming were possible.

Face flushed crimson.

Those perfect teeth gleaming.

You lucky girl of mine, I think.

He’s fantapico.

The keeper.

And you’re only seventeen.

“Hi, Missus Patty-On,” he said, a golden grin chumming the air between us.

“It’s Pation, as in ‘passion,’” I corrected him. “I’m surprised Elfin—“

“Mom, I’m Elf to Alan.”

“Okay, I’m surprised Elf didn’t explain the name game,” I said, I say.

“No,” he smiles at my beaming daughter, “we’ve been busy—“

“Yeah, I know. With other things. TMI, Alan. Let’s keep it simple for now, okay? Like a drink?”

“Well, I—“

“There’s water, gin, Seven-Up, vodka,”

Alan swings a white bottle from somewhere his backside. “I brought my own,” he says.

“Need a glass?”

“No,” he says, shaking the opaque vessel at my eyes, “this’ll do.”

It seems there’s always a lull before a storm breaks apart a story.

It’s either a gentle storm, a wet blanket that soaks the land when soaking it needs.

And there’re storms that wreak such havoc that it takes human toil and certainty to right nature’s downside.

Lasagna and salad. Tap water. My vodka. Elf’s Diet Coke. Alan’s whatever.

Plenty of time to sit and chat out on the terrace with the little boy peeing old water into the fountain shell, setting up gurgling as white noise.

Dinner is on hold until we’re finished here.

“You know I hate you, Alan,” I spill upon our sitting down and grabbing solid food and slurping our drinks. “You can’t even pronounce my name.”

He smiles.

“Nor can you mine.”

“Touché.”

Silence.

Elfin is wincing in her chair.

“Mom? When’s dinner?”

“When you and I put it on the table, dear.”

“Missus Passion, I like your daughter very much and I don’t mind you need to vet me.

“I’m a senior at Braincliff High with your daughter.

“I’m studying Music and Digital Home Economics and I don’t have a lot of time for fun, but Elf and I get along like two peas in a pod, so — “

“Go not further. I get the message. But if you pee in my daughter’s pod, I tell you now: I’ll murdalize you. Got it?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And don’t call me ma’am. My name is Candy.”

“Candy, then.”

“Yeah.”

And so dinner

Most of these ‘dips’ can be eaten/consumed/read in a single sitting. Then, if you wish, you may shoot me a note declaring this or that tale was “frightfully awful” or “splendid” or “enh” or “gimme more.”

It’s said that there’s a story in every human alive.

Same can be said of all the animals and birdies and fishes on land and sea.

You oughtta read an English translation of a fierce argument between the canines and the felines here on the farm. It makes for torrid reading.

Enough fol-de-rol.

It’s almost time to start dipping, but first, a little backstory about this writer.

Nevertheless, there’s this:

Born in Boston last century.

Navy officer father. Translated: you move somewhere else in the world every two years, carted, flown, shipped hither and yon.

A peripatetic youth. Just when you’ve settled into a routine at a new school, new friends, new culture and language, BOOM, time to go.

At age fifteen, off to boarding school in New England, then the stint/sprint to a sheepskin at Johns Hopkins’ Writing Seminars Program.

Settled in Washington DC for “careers” in public relations, currency arbitrage, cheffing at the city’s finest French restaurant, and old house restoration guy.

Married a doc.

Fled crazy DC a year before 9/11 turned the Capital City into an armed camp and bought a horse farm on a river on Maryland’s Eastern Shore, nine miles from the Atlantic Ocean.

Wife still doctoring while this husband manages the farm and writes everyday.

Enough already. Time to start dipping. Enjoy! 

So on accounta that stuff, and a lotta other stuff no one needs knowin’, when he died, Claude Mastrey, the known nonagenarian, did the twenty-first century thing and lambasted his apparent heirs in the board room atop Century Plaza II, in the offices of Jankins & Rowdoww, attorneys at law.
By way of a post-mortem video.

With senior partner Harry Jankins in attendance.
Who nodded towards the technician at the rear of the room, to dim the lights and proceed with the presentation.

Thus spake Mastrey:

When I was a boy, I traveled all over.
All over the world.
So many times.
So many times on ships, across oceans and seas.
One time when Mom and Gran and I were sailing from Shanghai to Hawaii, back around ’36, before the Nanking massacre, I got to celebrate my birthday twice, on account of crossing the International Date Line.

But I’m not digressing, thank you.

I’m taking time and full advantage these few minutes I share with you, even though now I’ve gone from all of you.
Loved and not.

All of you assembled here know that I came from nothing.
Yet in my time here I’ve assembled a lot of stuff.
The beaners’ve told me ‘four bills,’ but I don’t believe them.
It puffs up their commish.

No matter. 

I know this I gotta say is gonna disappoint all of you. 

You think: Christ! All those billions?! There’s gotta be a  slice ‘a the pie fer me!”

Bang.
Yer dead, son. Or stepson. Or grandson. Or daughter. Or Who the fuck ever. Ever.

It had to come to this.
Not giving or begetting or however the legals term it, I don’t want to share what I made with you.

But how does a dead man’s wealth transfer?
Call me crazy, and you will, but at the end of this road I’ve been travelin’ on, and wonderin’ what’s goin’ on, I’ve taken my current pot of gold: 9.3 billion US dollars, and instructed a private airplane company to disperse my entire fortune in one hundred dollar bills, all across above this glorious planet.

Tonight.
As you all sit here in splendor, hoping.

Howzat for a tender awakening?