Thursday, November 22, 2007

Chapter Twenty-Nine

The sheriff may have won the battle, but the flower caravan would win the war. He drove them out of town, but they wouldn’t stay driven out. The next morning, as the sun was rising over the horizon, they drove into the main square of the town and set up the flower show once again: the gazebo truck in the middle, and the flowers set on the ground around it. The townspeople gawked, wondering if these people were incredibly brave, or just incredibly stupid.
A dirty white van pulled up into the town square and skidded to a stop. David recognized it as the same white van that had been tailing them on the highway. The side door slid open and about a dozen people slid out, their eyes vacant, their clothing unwashed. The men had scraggly beards and the women had knotted, unkempt hair. They were the grubbiest bunch of people David had ever seen.
Each person carried a wooden stick with a piece of white poster-board taped to the end of it. David smiled so broadly that his face hurt. It was a strike! They were going to picket! Finally, the workingman was standing up and refusing to take it anymore.
Then David saw what was scrawled on the poster-boards and his heart sank.
“Stop the Flower Show!” one sign said in angry red marker.
“Set the Flowers Free,” said another in navy blue.
“Animalists Go Home!”
“Plant Rights Now!”
“Born Free!”
“Tear down the gazebo!”
It wasn’t a strike; it was a protest. And the protest was against them, against their flower show.
The protestors thrust their picket signs like spears. One hefty young woman in an orange dress handed out homemade Xeroxed pamphlets to the confused townspeople. A townie in a straw hat politely accepted the pamphlet and scratched his whiskers. Was this part of the show?
Elizabeth stomped straight up to the oldest protester, a thin man with stringy gray hair.
“I know you!” she shouted. “You stole my begonias!”
The gray haired man jumped back but then quickly composed himself. He smiled and David saw his teeth were yellow with black spots. “No I didn’t,” he said. “I liberated them. And I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You do too. I know it was you. Why don’t you go away, leave us be, and let us have our flower show.”
“We have a constitutional right to do express our opinion.”
“The Founding Fathers never intended this.”
Natasha was shaking her head and looking down.
“You know them?” David asked her.
“The Founding Fathers?” Natasha said.
“No. The protesters.”
“Sure. They’re just some crazy cult that always harassed us. They don’t think people should own flowers. They say we shouldn’t keep them in captivity.”
That was pretty crazy. David thought they needed to enter Pat Henderson’s deprogramming program. He wished he had brought some of those pamphlets with him. Maybe if he splashed Ghetto Traveler in their eyes…
“I’ll talk to them,” David said.
“Don’t get too close,” Natasha warned. “They might have rabies.”
David walked up to the man with stringy gray hair.
“Look,” David said. “There’s no need to protest. We’re just trying to inspire these nice people here. We’re sharing the beauty of flowers.”
“Sharing the beauty of flowers?” the man scoffed. “That’s a nice euphemism, but they’re not yours to share. How would you feel if someone shared the beauty of you?”
“Flattered, I guess.”
“You wouldn’t be flattered if someone owned you, if you were his property. You can’t own plants.”
“They’re not mine,” David explained. “They belong to Elizabeth.”
“No,” Elizabeth corrected. “They belong to everybody. We’ve come to share the beauty with everyone else.”
“No,” Gray Hair said. “They belong to nobody. They only belong to themselves. You can’t keep plants in captivity. It’s wrong.”
The protesters cheered and thrust their signs.
“It’s not captivity,” David said. “It’s soil. It’s their home.”
“It’s a flowerpot,” Gray Hair said. “Flowerpots are flower jail.” He turned up his head and shouted, “FLOWERS YES! FLOWERPOTS NO!”
The rest of the protesters picked up the chant and thrust their picketing signs.
“FLOWERS YES!!! FLOWERPOTS NO!!! FLOWERS YES!!! FLOWERPOTS NO!!!”
They continued to chant and the townspeople stared at them; they had never had such action in their sleepy little town. Larry Shoemaker picked up a potted orchid and prepared to launch it at the protesters.
“Flowerpots yes,” he said.
“Don’t!” David shouted and grabbed Larry’s arm in mid-throw. Larry didn’t get a good follow-through and the orchid only reached halfway to its intended target (the protester’s skull) before it shattered on the ground.
“Don’t lower yourself to their level,” David said.
“What? You’re just gonna stand there and let them get away with this?”
“No. I’m not. But I’m not going to use violence. I’m going to use poetry. Just let me try.”
Larry shrugged. “Go for it.”
David tried to get the protesters attention, but they were still chanting, “FLOWERS YES!!! FLOWERPOTS NO!!!”
“QUIET!!!” David screamed. It felt like he tore something in his throat.
There was an instant hush. David recited The Fire of Flowers:
Forest Fire:
Tropical rain forest fire
Burning the dense gray jungle of tedium and oppression
to make room for Agriculture.
The crop is not corn, but fields of flourishing flowers:
a harvest yielding truth, love, and beauty.
The Great Chicago Fire of Flowers:
a cow knocks over a lantern and burns down the city,
the cow is a poet
his udders squirt the milk of poetry
that drips off tender petals
and down the sturdy stem
the calf is a flower
suckling milky verses from the poet’s torso
Traveling Arsonists Shouting:
Fire of Flowers in a crowded theatre
yellow pollen sparks
kindle dried-out hopeless hearts
Burning, blooming, billowing
lighting up the Earth like Jupiter, a big ball of flaming gas.
It had sounded better in his head, before he said it out loud. David had been a little apprehensive about some of his metaphors, particularly the one comparing himself to a cow. It might seem a little arrogant, putting himself in the poem. He hoped that they liked it.
“What was that?” Gray Hair asked. “Was that supposed to be a threat?”
“No. It was a poem,” David said.
“It didn’t rhyme.”
“It doesn’t have to rhyme. And who says threats can’t rhyme?”
“You said you’re going to burn my house down. That’s a threat.”
“No I didn’t. I said that the Fire of Flowers is going to burn down the forest.”
“Well, I live in a forest.”
“Really.”
“Yep.”
“You’re a hermit?” David asked. “Do you know Toby?”
Then he realized it was a silly question. Just because he was a hermit didn’t mean he knew all the other hermits.
“I’m not a hermit. We all live together. We have a cabin in the forest.”
“Well, I wasn’t talking about your forest. I was using the forest as a metaphor.”
“A metaphor? So it’s a veiled threat. It’s still a threat.”
“No it isn’t. What I was trying to say was…”
David trailed off. He had promised himself that he would never become one of those poets who said, “What I was trying to say was….”
Just then, Sheriff Webber’s police cruiser rolled slowly over the gravel and crunched to a stop. He opened the door, stepped out, and shook his head. The flower show had returned and now there were more people.
He approached them, took off his sunglasses, and rubbed his sizable gut. “Who’re these?” he asked David. “Your reinforcements?”
“No,” David said. “They’re our groupies.”
“Sheriff,” Gray Hair said shrilly. “We’re peaceably assembling here, as is our constitutional right, and this right wing extremist is threatening to burn our house down.”
“I’m not a right wing extremist,” David said. “I read poetry to flowers.”
“So did Genghis Khan,” Gray Hair said. Then he explained his theory about how people shouldn’t hold plants in captivity.
Sheriff Webber rubbed his chin thoughtfully. He looked down at the flowers, looked at David, looked at the protesters thrusting their signs, looked back at the flowers. “What have I done,” he muttered.
David saw that the sheriff’s eyes were filled with tears.
The sheriff straightened himself up and wiped his eyes. “You’ll have to pardon my tears,” he said. “I’m allergic to carnies.”
“Carnies?” Gray Hair asked.
“You,” the sheriff said.
“I’m not a carnie. I’m a Plant’s Rights Activist.”
“Do you have a permit?”
“A permit? No.”
“Well, don’t fret. I can sell you one. Ask me how much.”
“How much?”
Sheriff Webber slapped Gray Hair in the face with the back of his hand.
The protesters gasped as Gray Hair fell backwards, landing on his rear end in the dusty street. He rubbed his face and glared at the sheriff.
“Now git,” the sheriff said. “Get out of my town. I don’t like long-haired, dirty hippies tellin’ us we can’t look at flowers. Those flowers are beautiful, and if you can’t appreciate it, then you’re the one who’s Genghis Khan.”
Gray Hair stood up and dusted himself off. “We’re not going anywhere!” he screamed. Some of the other protesters clearly wanted to go; their knees were knocking and they kept glancing at their van.
“Don’t make me get the volunteer fire department,” the sheriff said.
The gray haired man laughed this threat away. “We have a right to make our voices heard,” he said, shooting spittle with every word. “We shall not be moved.”
The sheriff shrugged. “All right. You asked for it.” He turned towards the assembled townspeople and asked them, “Is there anyone here knows how to put out a fire?”
“Water!” called one person.
“Yeah! He’s right!” called another. “Water’s the way to do it!”
There was a chorus of agreement. Water would put out a fire nicely.
“That’s not what I meant!” the sheriff said. “I’m askin’ fer volunteers to help put out this fire. The flames of these here flower-haters.”
“Oh boy!” shouted one young freckled lad. “There’s gonna be a dousin’!”
They all cheered and volunteered to help.
The sheriff slapped a meaty palm on David’s shoulder. “Tell you what, son. You got a choice. You join the volunteer fire department and I’ll pardon ye’. You won’t have to go to jail. What’s it gonna be?”
David’s childhood dream was to be a fireman; even as a young boy he had empathized with the workingman. You didn’t get more workingman than fireman. Now he finally had the chance.
“I’ll do it.”
“Great. Say, you don’t have a hose, do you?”
“No.”
“Neither do we. This could be a problem.”
“We have watering cans,” David Schweitzer, the driver of the tulip truck, pointed out.
The sheriff nodded. “That’ll have to do. Follow Travis. He’ll show you where to fill up.”
They grabbed some watering cans and followed the lanky, bowlegged Travis over to a faucet. Some stood in line waiting to fill up. Others went into the buildings to find a sink.
While they were filling up their watering cans, the protesters were making preparations of their own. They took several lengths of rusty chains out of the back of the van, and dragged them over to the gazebo. They began chaining themselves to the wooden gazebo posts.
“Ouch!” said the slim young woman being chained to one of the front posts by the stairs. “Randy, these chains hurt! Why’s it always have to be chains? Why can’t we use rope? Or handcuffs?”
“Quit whining,” Gray Hair said, tightening her chains. “It’s for the greater good.”
“But Randy, why do they have to be so rusty. Now I’m gonna get tetanus. And I already had a tetanus shot. I don’t want another.”
The townspeople and caravan people lined up in formation in the street, holding containers of water: watering cans, buckets, vases. The sheriff bent into the driver’s seat of his police cruiser and switched on the siren. Flashing red lights lit up the square. This was the bugle that started the charge; the townspeople started walking towards the gazebo. Everyone was there. Even the little girl with the pigtails, apparently over her concussion, carried a small glass of water.
The protesters started to chant.
“PLANTS ARE NOT YOUR SLAVES!!! PLANTS ARE NOT YOUR SLAVES!!! PLANTS ARE NOT YOUR SLAVES!!!”
When the townspeople were just inches from the protesters, and about to drench them, there was an earsplitting scream.
“AAAAIIIIEEEEEEE!!!!”
Everyone turned and looked. Rolling toward them at great speed was a man in a wheelchair with pencil-thin legs and massive arms that pushed the wheels frantically. He zoomed towards the protesters at top speed, lifted up the fireman’s axe from his lap, and began to swing it over his head. His eyes gleamed madly.
“Barry! It’s Barry!” the townspeople called.
This must be Gimpy Barry, David thought, the one they wanted him to heal.
Barry soared right at the protestors, swinging the axe with his powerful arms. They dove out of the way to avoid his powerful axe chops, and then scurried away in all directions. The young woman chained to the gazebo screamed hysterically.
The skinny freckled lad ran after Gray Hair, holding a paint-splattered aluminum stepladder like a battering ram. This wasn’t a proper fireman’s ladder, but it worked just as well to get cats out of trees or anti-flower protesters out of town. He came to a sudden stop, set the ladder upright, and kicked it open. He climbed to the top step, jumped off the ladder, and dropkicked Gray Hair in the mouth. The crack of his jaw breaking echoed through the town square.
Everyone used their watering cans to soak the protesters. Only Larry Shoemaker used his tin watering can to hit a pudgy young protester over the head.
Gray Hair, grabbing his bleeding mouth, leapt into the driver’s seat of the van and started the engine. The others leapt in as it started to move. Those who were chained up wiggled out of the chains like Houdini and rushed to the van. They all managed to get inside and slam the door as Gray Hair drove away.
“Fascists!” the protesters shouted behind them, except for Gray Hair who couldn’t speak because of his broken jaw.
Gimpy Barry threw his axe at the van, hitting one of the back tires, and popping it with a loud bang like a gunshot. The van sped away, one back side dragging, the metal frame shooting out a trail of sparks. David expected the gas tank to explode, but it didn’t and they drove out of sight.
A big cheer went up from the townspeople and they shook their watering cans high in the air. The sheriff bent into his police car and turned off the siren and flashing lights.
“Now,” he said. “LET’S SEE SOME FLOWERS!!!”
The townspeople picked up the flower and danced around with them, circling around the gazebo. Even Gimpy Barry danced, doing wheelies in his wheelchair. Then he pulled himself out of the wheelchair, stood on his head and walked on his hands, his legs flopping limply to the side. There was talk of setting this date as an annual festival. Even Derrick managed to seem happy, dancing around with a giant potted sunflower.
Only David felt deflated. The protestors had spoiled the metaphors in The Fire of Flowers. In his poem, the flowers were the fire that burned away the timber of evil. Now the fire was the protesters (the force against the flowers) and the volunteer fire department put out the fire. The poem was ruined. David was no longer a cow.
“What’s wrong?” Natasha asked him. “You look like you’re gonna cry.”
“It’s nothing,” he said.
“I know what you need,” the sheriff said, placing his hands on David’s shoulders as if to start a Congo line or give him a massage. “Flowers!”
***
י''ג בכסלו תשס''ח
ירושלים
November 23, 2007
Jerusalem

Tuesday, November 13, 2007

Chapter Twenty-Eight

The morning of the funeral was cool and cloudy, threatening rain. Wealthy people from the first party mingled in the rose garden. The workingmen from the second party seemed to prefer the mums.
On the lawn, rows of metal folding chairs faced a small wooden stage. In front of the stage, Howard’s polished oak coffin rested on the exact spot where he had dropped dead: a chalk outline.
Elizabeth stood a few feet from the open coffin, wearing a black dress and black veil, dutifully accepting condolences. Derrick stood next to her to keep the mosquitoes away, but there were no mosquitoes; the cool weather had chased them away. The flies were out, however, and buzzed around Derrick’s head.
David walked up to Elizabeth and tried to think of some comforting words. She put a finger to his lips, silencing him. “Don’t say a word,” she said. “Save it for the poem.”
David nodded. He had finally decided what to do for his poem. He would stand up on the platform and say, “Howard inspired me to write this poem.” Then he would read My Name is Higgs Boson.
“He was my favorite Physicist,” David said. Then he approached the casket and looked at Howard. The interior of the polished oak coffin was red satin. Howard wore a navy blue suit and tie with a large nineteenth century ruffled collar that completely covered the neck. A neck wound made a bad impression at an open-casket funeral, so the undertaker had been creative in hiding it. Howard looked like a British Lord.
“Never been to a British funeral before,” Tyrone said.
David jumped, startled. Tyrone was standing right next to him.
“He’s not British,” David explained.
“So why’s he…oh, right. You stabbed him in the throat. Still a silly outfit he’s got on, though.”
Tyrone was no one to comment on how other people were dressed; he wore the ugliest brown suit David had ever seen.
“Is that burlap?” David asked, rubbing the coarse material between his fingers.
“It’s sackcloth. Tailored it myself.” Tyrone grinned his gap-toothed grin. “Before there was suits, what’d folks wear to the funeral? Sackcloth! I’m startin’ my own clothin’ line. It’s called Sackcloth and Ashes.”
David had to admit: Sackcloth and Ashes was a classy name for a high-end men’s clothing store. It had a ring to it.
Tyrone scratched his side and frowned. “It’s kinda itchy. That’s the only problem. Scuse me. Lots o’ rich folks around. Maybe I’ll find some investors, want to invest in Sackcloth and Ashes.”
Tyrone walked off to find investors, scratching himself as he walked. David was shocked that Tyrone would use the professor’s funeral as a way to make business contacts. He couldn’t criticize though; he himself was doing the same thing. He had a stack of business cards in his pocket, advertising his poetry services.
David looked back at Elizabeth and saw a thin man in an expensive suit handing her a bouquet of flowers. The man looked familiar (he had been at the first party) and the flowers looked familiar too.
“Please accept my condolences,” the man said and handed Elizabeth the bouquet. Elizabeth took it hesitantly and squinted at the yellow and pink tulips, their stems wrapped together in newspaper.
“Are those mine?” Elizabeth asked.
“They’re for you, yes.”
“That’s not what I mean. Did you steal them from my garden?”
That’s where David knew the tulips from: he read to them every day.
“You’re crazy,” the man said, but he looked nervous and his voice started to skip. “I got them at a flower shop.”
“Which flower shop?”
“I don’t remember.”
“You have a receipt?”
“I can’t show you the receipt. You’d know how much I paid for them. That wouldn’t be right.”
“So if I go over to the tulip patch, I’ll find it intact?”
The man looked around frantically for help, but there was no one to assist him; he was caught. He straightened up and stared straight at Elizabeth.
“I take back my condolences,” he said.
“You can’t take back condolences,” Elizabeth told him.
“And my flowers.”
He grabbed the bouquet of flowers, but Elizabeth held on tight. They both tugged with all their might, grunting and squealing. They dug their shoes into the grass tearing it up. The colored paper holding the bouquet together tore and the flowers fell to the grass.
Elizabeth stared down at the mangled flowers and her face froze in a catatonic stare. This was what David had been afraid of, what he had been trying to avoid: Elizabeth seeing dead flowers that would send her over the edge.
“All right, fine,” the man said. He knelt down and began gathering the flowers together. “I’ll put them back.”
He stormed off to the tulip patch.
Several people gathered around Elizabeth and tried to console her. David saw that Derrick was also not faring too well: he was surrounded by a swarm of flies and swatting wildly at them. David walked up to him and asked how it was going.
“They’re trying to climb in my ears!” Derrick moaned. “Why are they coming after me? There’s a dead body right there!”
“Shhhhh!” David said.
“What? He’s dead. He can’t hear me.”
“Elizabeth’s right there.”
She was only a few meters away, accepting condolences. She pretended not to hear or maybe she was too upset to notice what Derrick said.
Derrick moved his mouth close to David’s ear and whispered.
“How come they’re not buzzing around him?”
“The mortician probably used special chemicals to keep the bugs away.”
“I need to talk to this mortician. I need some of those chemicals.”
“They’re only for dead people.”
Derrick glared at Howard’s corpse.
“Lucky stiff.”
“You should be grateful you’re alive.”
“What’s with you poets and gratitude?”
“What’s wrong with gratitude?”
A cold, gloomy wind blew through the garden, rustling the tree branches and rushing through flower petals. Dark storm clouds moved in front of the sun, dimming the garden. A couple raindrops drizzled down and then stopped. David hoped the funeral wouldn’t be called off due to rain.
Some people suggested moving the funeral inside, but Elizabeth refused; she was set on having it out in the garden, and it was only a couple drops. She sent someone to bring out umbrellas. She had hundreds of umbrellas in her house for just such an eventuality.
Elizabeth didn’t want to move the funeral inside, didn’t want Howard rained on, didn’t want to close the coffin, and didn’t want to cover him with plastic wrap, so she asked that the casket be carried up into the gazebo. David enthusiastically grabbed the front right side and heaved; glad to move it off its chalk outline spot.
They lugged it up the steps, into the center of the gazebo, and set it down on the duct tape. David’s lower back hurt and he was pretty sure he had a hernia. He had forgotten to lift with his legs.
Natasha was standing by herself over in the cherry blossom grove. David walked over to her.
“How you doing?” he asked.
She burst out in a sob. David put his arm around her shoulder to comfort her.
“He died on his birthday,” she sniffled. “That’s the worst birthday present ever.”
David was about to say, “What about socks?” but he managed to restrain himself.
“At least I’ve got you,” Natasha said, hugging him tightly. “I’m so glad you’re here. You’re like a brother to me.”
David’s heart sank. “Thanks,” he said through gritted teeth.
David looked over to the shadowy pine trees and noticed Tyrone and Loquacious Washington whispering to each other conspiratorially.
“Look at that,” David said to Natasha.
Tyrone reached into his sackcloth jacket and pulled out a bottle of red wine and a corkscrew. Loquacious held out a drinking glass. Tyrone corked the bottle and poured Loquacious a full glass.
“So what?” Natasha said. “They’re having a drink. I don’t see why funerals don’t serve alcohol. They force people to bring their own. I wish I had my flask.”
“It’s not that,” David said. “Loquacious is a teetotaler.”
“A what?”
“She doesn’t drink alcohol. Once, many years ago, she got really drunk and took a solemn vow never to touch alcohol again…and she never did. Loquacious takes her vows seriously. Something is going on here.”
Loquacious glided casually next to the rose bushes, through the crowd of wealthy people. She swirled the wine in her glass and sniffed it, making exaggerated facial reactions. My! That’s some nice smelling wine! I would never expect wine to smell so nice! Suddenly, Loquacious “accidentally” stumbled, fell forward, and spilled her red wine all over the front of a man’s white shirt.
The man looked down at the red stain spreading over his chest pocket. His tie and shirt were ruined. An angry look came over his face.
“You ox!” he shouted. “YOU CLUMSY OX!!!”
“Now Pete, take it easy with her,” a man said, placing a hand on Pete’s shoulder.
“No!” Pete shook the man’s hand off his shoulder. “This is my favorite shirt! It’s filled with sentimental value!”
Loquacious shook her head and clucked her tongue. “That’s a shame,” she said. “Nothin’ gets red wine out.”
“Who drinks wine at a funeral?!” Pete screamed.
“If only we had some Ghetto Traveler,” Loquacious said. “That’d do the trick.”
“Ghetto Traveler?” Pete said. “What’s that?”
Tyrone came running through the crowd, holding out a bottle of his patented multi-purpose cleaning fluid.
“Ghetto Traveler comin’ through!!!” he called. Everyone backed up and gave him some room. Tyrone tore off the cap, and splashed a generous amount of the front of Pete’s shirt.
Pete screamed, tore off his blazer and tie, and ripped at his white shirt. “It burns! IT BURNS!!!”
“That means it’s workin’,” Tyrone said. “The tingling sensation.”
Pete threw his stained white shirt on the grass, swatted at his chest like he was trying to put out a fire. Then he stopped, dropped, and rolled around in the grass. That didn’t help. He jumped up, hooted and hollered and hopped up and down, then ran to the refreshment table and started ladling punch onto his chest with the serving ladle. That was going too slow, so he picked up the glass punch bowl and dumped the pink liquid on his chest. He sighed pleasantly and collapsed to a sitting position on the grass. His chest was now smooth; the punch had rinsed it clean of hair.
“Ghetto Traveler also removes hair,” Tyrone said. “No mo’ nicks ‘n cuts.”
Loquacious knelt down and rubbed Pete’s hairless chest. “So smooth!” she marveled. “Where does one get such a product?”
Tyrone picked the white shirt up off the grass and started to massage the stained area with his fingers, working the Ghetto Traveler through the fabric. The stain faded and then disappeared. Everyone applauded. Pete staggered to his feet, and Tyrone handed him his shirt back.
“Good as new, sir.”
Pete held his shirt up and stared at it, dumbfounded.
“What an amazing product!” Loquacious exclaimed. “Is there anything Ghetto Traveler can’t do?”
Tyrone looked at Howard’s coffin sadly. “One thing,” he said.
Suddenly, the sky lit up with a flash of lightning. Seconds later, an impressive roar of thunder shook the garden and the birds flew out of the trees. Without warning, water poured in sheets. Everyone ran to the nearest available shelter: those closest to the house ran inside, a couple people crouched under the refreshment table, David and Natasha ran into the gazebo, followed by a large crowd that included Derrick, Tyrone, and Loquacious. Soon, the entire gazebo was full. The rain soaked those closest to the edge, so they pushed towards the center. David and Natasha were crushed up against the oak coffin and about to be smothered; they had to climb up on top. David tried not to step on Howard’s neck or face, but his muddy shoes dirtied up the red satin. Howard didn’t seem to mind; his face remained calm.
Lightning crashed so brightly they had to close their eyes, then thunder so loud they had to cover their ears. Natasha grasped onto David tightly. Hail began plunking down on the gazebo’s wooden roof and then the little balls of ice started to fill up the yard. The winds roared and a huge crash of lightning exploded simultaneously with its thunder. The storm was right on top of them. David’s heart pounded and felt like it would explode. They were all about to die. It was the apocalypse. The world was going to end before David got to read his poem.
He grasped Natasha’s shoulders and kissed her forcefully on the mouth. She jerked back at first, startled, but then returned his kiss, passionately. The lighting crashed, the thunder shook the air, and the hailstones pounded the gazebo roof, but all that didn’t seem to matter.
Everyone was frantic, except for Howard who lay there tranquilly. He didn’t seem to mind that the side-sucker was now sucking on his stepdaughter’s face. David wasn’t fooled by the professor’s calmness. His calm demeanor and stoic face seemed to say, “I’m going to haunt you.”
A bolt of lightning cracked inches from the gazebo and Derrick let out a yelp; he had the most to be worried about. Lightning always went after him. He not only absorbed insects, but electricity as well. He was a human lightning rod as well as a human citronella candle. Lighting had already struck him twice in his life. Derrick suspected that this was because there were metal implants in his body, most likely placed there by aliens.
Derrick ran down the gazebo steps and made a mad dash for the house, crunching over the hailstones and slipping through the wet grass. His body jiggled madly as he ran. He was halfway to the house when a bolt of lightning struck him, making an exploding sound and sending him flying ten feet up in the air. He landed on the foldout table, breaking it and sending the deli meats to the grass. There was silence and no one dared breathe as they looked down at Derrick’s limp body, waiting to see if he would move.
Derrick sat upright, his face dazed and his hair frizzy. Two more bolts of lightning struck him in rapid succession, one in the leg and one in the shoulder.
“OW!!!” he screamed. “STOP IT!!!”
***
ב' בכסלו תשס''ח
ירושלים
November 12, 2007
Jerusalem