The Faults Of Tom Jones

July 3rd had been their anniversary, she guessed it still was, but to Shirley Jones it was just another day.  Not that it had always cracked up to be such a special day when he was alive.  There were the war years, Korea, when she obviously forgave his absence, even found it romantic to receive his happy anniversary cards with a few sincerely scribbled words of love and yearning, anywhere from a week before to three weeks after July 3rd.  But then upon his return he was changed.  And she didn't read it as some sort of post traumatic syndrome but rather a part of Tom's makeup that would have clicked on at a certain time in his life no matter where he had spent the previous years or what he had been doing there.  He became distant (oh how she hated the cliche, was it really a noteworthy thing to say about any man, that he was distant, might as well try and distinguish your man from others by saying he had a dick.) But Tom after the war just seemed increasingly to get everything out of context.  There was the year little Jimmy had received his first bicycle on their anniversary (it was on sale honey, there are no good sales around his actual birthday), and the years he had simply forgotten but would sheepishly grinning bring her breakfast in bed days or weeks later (remember during the war when my cards would be delayed?), or the three or four hard years where there was no card or gift, or remembrance of any kind excepting that palpable angst arriving around the end of June like a ribbon wrapped box of shit.  She didn't consider herself blameless in all this, she could be a hard and unpredictable woman, sometimes irresistible and seconds later quite the opposite. But she had been good to Tom for the most part, there was no one that saw it any differently. Maybe it was all men, maybe they all really were shits, except for those ones you didn't marry but kept in your fantasies to puff up your self-esteem. Shirley however had not been married to all men, only the one, his name had been Tom, and for the last 17 years the only absolute certainty was that he was dead, and that despite his many, many faults (don't get me started on the faults of Tom Jones), she did (was she cursed?) miss him.

The Contrition Of Abel Gardner

The opportunity to contribute his world view via film did not present itself to Abel Gardner and instead he was made, per instructions from his lawyer, to apologize to the judge and this he did sincerely without being obsequious, reading from his own hand written script.  The judge, a dour, grey bearded black man kept his head down during the brief apology and it was hard to tell if he was a man prone to forgiving foolishness or as might be construed from his demeanor, more likely to throw the book, make an example, or put some other common euphemistic hurting onto Abel that would certainly result in his future times being unhappy ones. Abel felt shame as he read, his head down not unlike that of the judge.  But his lawyer had made it clear to him that however noble might be his intentions, neither he nor his film nor the impressive handful of fellow radicals he had asked to support him at the hearing, nor even the two Times reporters invited by one of his group, would in any way change the justice system, except perhaps in the minutest way, like how might be changed the disposition of a rhinoceros from a mosquito bite on its ass. The judge let out an almost inaudible grunt following the completed contrition of Abel Gardner, still looking down and at no one, which strangely made it seem that he was looking at everyone all at the same time, and then slowly raising his head and with black mirthless eyes locked on Abel's lawyer, beckoned with a slight wave for him to come forward. There was then a muffled conversation between the two of them, punctuated with many nods; nods from the judge which did not convey agreement but rather you better be hearing me and nods from the lawyer of yes absolutely of course I understand and thank you judge.  Abel and his lawyer were then allowed to exit the courtroom under no constraints, excepting those just discussed in private between the lawyer and the judge: that there must be no outbursts of celebration from the gallery, no fist pumping or expressiveness of any kind, and under no circumstances was Abel Gardner allowed to speak to the press about this matter.  Other than that, he was a free man.  The mandate extended even to the outdoors surrounding the courthouse and Abel was persuaded to keep his distance from his friends until that time they could all if they chose to, meet for lunches and get back to their private discussions about any number of things.

Diagonal And Askew

The mylar walls of his toolshed abode shimmered mutely with the light of dawn. This was Ward Ambler's introduction to each day.  The one east facing window had no drapes but could be covered with a pink plastic shower curtain whenever he desired privacy from the black squirrels, who routinely perched their jittery selves on the flower box outside.  This morning he lay fetal, slightly askew of the diagonal axis of his plywood floor.  On the diagonal was the only way he could stretch out his length unobstructed.  The rabbit Leander could be heard moving around in the attached doghouse on the western side.  There was a chill in the air and Ward knew the patchy backyard grass would be wet with dew.  Birds were waking up. Nothing too unusual this late in June, just the resident Jays, Robins, and Cardinals.  There was a Catbird he called Cal, but there was no Mockingbird to be called Mike.  And also, there was this morning like there had been last night, an uneasiness that pervaded Ward Ambler.

Boots

Ward hooked the diamond jig to the bottom guide of his ten foot paraflex rod and reeled the 30 lb braid taut.  He turned his back on the crashing waves pounding the shore by Old Inlet.  A front was moving through, that seemed certain, but his understanding of how meteorology affected wave dynamics was lacking.  Hell of an east west current on a south facing shore was all he knew.  He had been casting far to his left into the wind and by the time he got his lure to shore the trailer hook was digging a skinny trench across the sand well to his right.  Covering a lot of ground he reasoned at the same time knowing that if there was a sweet spot in this water his lure was actually in it for only the briefest of moments.  He was now barefoot.  As he walked back to where he had left his boots, near that minimally protected area enforced with a string fence and warning signs, behind which the plovers laid their eggs on top of the sand, he was as he blinked walking on a gum and spit dotted sidewalk in New York, with a rabbit named Leander inside a tote bag in his left hand and his tool bucket in the other.  He zig-zagged back and forth, dodging the cell phone worshippers and the overly confident, the women walking three abreast and the parents with strollers.  He felt that he spent a lot of time on the lateral in New York, always moving sideways to move forward.  He picked up snatches of conversation.  At 23rd street and 3rd Avenue a somewhat masculine looking woman with large hands wearing her wig slightly askew said to her companion, that was my second daddy, my first daddy, my real daddy, he got beat to death with a baseball bat, it was over drugs, oh my it was very sad.  It was cold on the beach in June.

The Rain

A sodden Ward Ambler trudged gamely in the rain.  To a fellow angler on the beach he called out, any luck?  A lousy sea robin and a bunch of eel grass, said the other.  Catching shorts in the river from my kayak but nothing out here.  Ward nodded, his mind blank, unable to respond verbally in some commiserative fashion he just went from nodding to shaking his head like some goofy assed scar faced bobble head doll.  He continued up the beach with a barely audible see ya later to the other fisherman, whose back was already turned. Earlier, having misjudged an incoming wave his rubber boots were now holding an inch of water and sand and were pulling away from his feet with every step. His socks were all but slipped off and they floated bunched up in the toe of each boot. He didn't want to carry the damn things, they would be heavy, so he kept them on, and kept moving forward, miserably.  On his walk he periodically casted out into the ocean a chunk of shiny metal with its green tubing covered tail hook and unsurprisingly brought back to the beach only eel grass and the occasional sand flea wriggling on the dull hook piercing its belly.

Jimmy Jones was four feet deep in a hole shoveling sand and rocks up onto the growing pile.  The rain was not constant but the mosquitos were.  His trip up the river had been a short one and now in his back yard he was determined to finish the digging of the ditch for the new dry well, into which the dishwasher and washing machine drained.  The old well had been container-less and was apparently some old school attempt at a french draining system but instead of containing a combination of pebbles and larger smooth river rocks had contained 50 to 80 pound blocks of broken up concrete foundation material, surrounded by a few river rocks, and dirt.  His three-year-old hernia scar glowed red.  He climbed out of the hole and dropped one of the two 50 gallon dry well containers into it to test its alignment with the incoming drain pipe, which ran from near the washing machine in the basement to this hole in his back yard.  It did not align and he would need to make adjustments and probably a trip to Hardware Hell for an elbow or two.

Oh be serious William, how many people can tell you what day it is and who's the Vice-President.  It's no secret that my memory is fading but it was never that good to begin with.  Is it Tuesday?  Nope, said William Fillmore.  Well who gives a good goddamn?  I can remember a lot of things.  Just this morning I was thinking about when Tom was still alive.  It was 20, 25 years ago, he had just turned 65 I think and we wanted to get him set up with Social Security but he never got a card, don't know why, seems unlikely but there you have it, he didn't have one.  Didn't have a birth certificate either, or had one and used it to wrap fish, either way he had to prove his age to the people down there so he takes off his shirt, shows them the gray hair on his chest and they cut him a check.  Comes home, shows me the check and you know what I said to him.  Dr. Fillmore spoke up.  You told him to go back down there, pull down his pants, and see if he could get disability.  Oh, I've already told you that one?  Yes, last time you were here.  Ok, Ok, so I need to get some new jokes, but I'm fine, I'm as good as I'm going to get, so please just back off with all those silly questions you keep asking.  Ok, Shirley.  Anything else you'd like to tell me, any complaints or concerns?  Yes, I can't stand that new rap and roll music the kids play but whaddaya gonna do?  Now I'm going to get out of here so you can try to get something useful done today.  It was a pleasure to see you again Bill.  You as well, Shirley.

Rabbit

In Dr. Fillmore's waiting room, sitting next to each other on burnt orange cloth covered foam seats framed in tubular chrome Shirley and Janice Jones looked with bewilderment at the hysterical receptionist. What do you think is wrong with her Janice?  She's blabbering as if the devil himself has a finger up her butt.  You don't remember her Mother Jones?  Shirley frowned, not at all, can't even remember ever seeing her before. Last time we were in here you said some unusual things to her.  Unusual how?  Well, you were upset that she asked you for your insurance card.  Why would she ask for my insurance card, I've been coming here for 30 years?  She didn't know that mother.  She is new here.  She was just doing her job the way she was trained to do it.  Shirley huffed. I think she might should find another line of work because I can't see how it would be comforting to sick people to be greeted with all that hysterical snot gobbling.  Janice became alert at the word, "gobbling."  The incident with the baby was still fresh in her mind, and some variation of the word often signified that Shirley Jones was under one of her spells.  During her last checkup three months ago, when the receptionist had asked for her insurance card, Shirley responded calmly, now you listen here you gooch gobbler, I have been a patient of Dr. Fillmore's for 30 years and not once in those 30 years have I been asked for an insurance card.  I am not some homeless person off the street.  Ma'm, I am not saying you are homeless, I just need to verify your insurance card against our records.  Do you have a dog? Shirley asked abruptly, the non-sequitur stutter step being  one of her signature maneuvers. Because if you do I sure hope you treat it better than you treat people in this office.  Not such a bad exchange really in the scheme of things Shirley but as it turned out the receptionist did have a dog.  And in what could only be coincidence, upon returning home from work that day she found the dog dead in front of her house, it having crawled under the fence and into the street where it was struck by a school bus.  The driver had not wanted to traumatize the children and so had not stopped to check on the animal, but just as well for the dog had died instantly from the blunt force trauma of a bumper moving at 30 mph meeting its skull. The receptionist, new to the area and not quick to make friends was especially close to her Phoebe, a mixed breed mutt with at least some poodle in its lineage.  The receptionist naturally assumed that the crazy lady who wouldn't give up her insurance card and weirdly asked about her dog had somehow caused this "accident," and upon seeing that witch again today suffered the opening of what she had thought was a healed wound.

Ward was back in the Winona tool shed he called home petting his new pet rabbit. In New York Abel had at some point become curious and asked, what are you looking at Ward?  Ward admitted he was looking at the construction dumpster across the street, wondering if there was anything of use in it.  Ward, you mustn't wonder, you must act, and rising from beneath the broken pieces of sheetrock in a cloud of dust, his black clothing etched white, Abel went to the magic sock drawer and this time pulled from it two fluorescent lime green safety vests.  Put this on, he said, giving one of the vests to Ward while donning the other. Let's go have a look. No, wait. From the closet near the door he brought out two hard hats. In answer to Ward's barely raised eyebrows, he offered, for verisimilitude. From the pocket of his vest he removed a laminated ID tag attached to a lanyard. Emblazoned on the tag was an official looking seal and below that, Inspector 23.  I get to wear the lanyard, but I'll let you wear it next time. Ward nodded.  Abel continued, it is my belief that a man without a lanyard is barely a man at all.  I don't know that I can adequately express what this lanyard means to me, he said reverently, fondling the tri-colored nylon weave.  I understand, said Ward. Unable to determine if he was being patronized, Abel said, come on, let's go get you something good, and they left the building. The two of them, looking almost authentic, had stood in front of the dumpster until two workers came down carrying old wall studs with remnants of lath and small pieces of plaster still attached.  Stand down men, Abel had ordered while flashing his Inspector 23 badge.  He then explained to the workers that pursuant to article 16 of the building code all wooden studs of a length greater than eight feet must be de-nailed before being placed in containers exceeding 70 yards of cubic volume.  The two men had stared at him for a moment before abruptly dropping the lumber to the ground and re-entering the building.  OK Ward, you have five minutes until the foreman comes down, before which we must be gone.  It took Ward only three to find the rabbit, which he at first thought was a giant rat, accept his congratulations from Abel, and be off in his Jeep towards the Williamsburg Bridge, and the LIE to Winona.