THE LAST STRAW

                           By Leon Berger

 

    “That’s it.  That’s the last straw.”

     “Uh, huh.”

      “Are you listening, Lois.  I said ‘that’s the last straw’.”

     “If you are going to tell me the story about the 5 cent malted you shared with

your brother, both of you drinking out of the same glass at the same time with separate straws until one day the candy store owner offered only one straw, because it was ‘ the last straw’, I have heard that story before.”

     “No, this is different.  I’m going to give up writing.”

     “What has that go to do with the ‘last straw?,”

     “Just this.  I wrack my brains for ideas,  pounding out my stories on the keyboard until my fingernails are pushed up to my knuckles and sometimes I don’t get to bed until Leno signs off  and then what do I get?”

     “I don’t know Harry, what do you get?”

     “What do I get?  I get $5.00 from the OZARK SENIOR CITIZEN for a great story and now I’m being hassled by the I.R.S. because my accountant said I am a ‘professional writer’.  That’s the last straw and that’s why I am giving up writing.”

     “I thought you enjoyed writing.”

     “I do, I really do, but I also enjoy painting. That’s going to be my new profession.”

     “Hold on.  Where are you going to do this painting?”

     “The garage is too hot and I’m certainly not going do my painting in any room with carpeting.  I think the kitchen will be ideal.”

      “The kitchen, huh?  Over my dead body.”

     “Lois, when you listen to what I have to say, I think you’ll cut me a little slack. Do you know that a Picasso recently sold for $104 million?  And get this, a simple painting of a step-on garbage pail by some guy named Lichtenstein sold for $5.1 million.  I tell you the big money is in painting, not writing.”

     “I don’t think you know who Lichtenstein is.  He is an important figure in American art, and don’t you even dare compare your paintings to Picasso.”

      “Lois, I’ve thought this out carefully.  What I lack in artistic creativity will be made up by my business acumen.  I know where I can acquire a list of individuals who have signed up for cryogenic preservation.  I will sell them my paintings exclusively.”

     “What do you mean by ‘cryogenic preservation?”

     “I’m sure you have  read of individuals who have indicated in their will that when they expire, they wish to ensure that their head will be surgically  removed from their body, placed in some form of thermos container until futuristic science permits reattachment to a compatible body.  I’m going to offer them a proposition they will find difficult to resist.”

     “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

     “You bet I am.  I’m going to guarantee them a return of 300 percent on the price they pay for the painting and this will be backed by Lloyds of

London.”

     “You’ve discussed this with Lloyds of

London?”

     “Yup.  They’re flying over one of their employees to check my paintings and that’s why I need the kitchen table.  I promise I‘ll clear the area when we are ready to eat.”

     “When do you pay the 300 percent?”

     “The 300 percent will be paid when the head demands payment.  This offer will be limited for 50 years.”

     “Excuse me dear, I’ll be back in a minute.”

     “Where are you going?”

     “First I am going to see if there is a neurosurgeon in town that will check your head.  Then I am going to locate the outfit that does cryogenic preservation and see if they will take the whole individual if the wife consents.  If they just take heads, I think I can arrange that too.” 

                                                       

                                                  NOT MY STORY

                                                       By Leon Berger

     Carl Notar had good reason to believe ‘That if it doesn’t kill you, it will make you stronger.’  As a small boy, the calamity of a depression extending to his fortuitous survival during WWII created a matrix that was cautious yet optimistic,

watchful but tolerant. He had learned to ride with life’s punches and now, at four score plus, thought there wasn’t anything he had not experienced, read about or heard. He was wrong, of course.

 Carl and his wife Ivy are good neighbors; not perfect, but good.  I wasn’t aware of any personal problems that the Notars might have since all our conversations have been amiable and uncomplaining.  We respected their privacy and they treated us with the same consideration.

     It was Sunday afternoon and I was watching the Dolphins play the Raiders in what seemed destined to be another ignominious defeat for the

Miami team when the phone rang.  To my surprise, it was Carl; rarely do we speak on the phone.

     “Hey, Lee.  It’s Carl, your neighbor.  If you aren’t busy I’d like to drop over; I have an extraordinary story to tell you.”

     “Sure, Carl, come on over.  I’ll put up some coffee.”  I was happy to tune out the Dolphin game.

     The coffee was just about done when the bell rang.  I poured the coffee and we settled down in the den.  I wish to emphasize here and now that this is not my story.  It is Carl’ story and I’m going to tell it to you the way he told it to me:

     “It was this past Friday and I was driving  north on Boca Rio Road, heading  out to the library on Glades Road, when I decided to stop at the Mobil station and pick up a chocolate bar.  My energy level was low and I thought a DOVE bar would be just the thing to perk up my blood sugar.  The place was jumping as usual since the price they get for gasoline is the cheapest around.  I finally found a parking spot near the air hose and headed for the Food Mart.

    “Headed in the same direction, just a few steps ahead of me, was a tall, slim dude, well dressed and walking with a kind of swagger.  He was obviously a Rastafarian, his dreadlocks contained by a knitted green, yellow and red hat.  To my surprise, without turning around, he held the door open for me.  [I have since concluded he must have seen my reflection in the glass door.]  I nodded my head in thanks and said ‘You, sir, are a gentleman.  Let me hold the door for you.’  He smiled, walked past me, and we both went our respective ways.  I for the chocolate bar and he, I could see, went for a soda.

         “The line for the cashier was moving slowly, but I was in no hurry, and my thoughts were elsewhere until I felt a tap on my right shoulder.  To my surprise, standing behind me was the Rastafarian, soda in hand. 

     “He looked at the chocolate bar I was holding, then said:: ‘I hope you are going to buy a lottery ticket also.’

     “’No’ I replied, “I gave that up sometime ago.  The odds are too great.

     “He smiled, a great smile, for his teeth were white and perfectly aligned.  ‘Buy a lotto ticket today…now.   I can see a magical aura that surrounds you and I think our meeting was not accidental.  Buy a lotto ticket.  You will not regret it.

     “I’m from

New York and I have seen my share of scams, but he impressed me with his earnestness so I decided to be a sport and invest a buck.  ‘What’s your name?’ I asked.  He replied ‘Ababa, but you can call me Abe.’

     “‘Okay, Abe.  I tell you what.  Anything I win, I’ll split down the middle.  Half for you and half for me. Today is Friday, the drawing is Saturday.  If I have a winner, I’ll be here Sunday at noon.’  We shook hands and I headed for the library.

     “Call it a coincidence or a fluke, but on Saturday the ticket hit for four numbers and on Sunday, when I walked into the Food Mart, Abe was there, waiting for me.  When he saw me, he started jumping up and down, shouting ‘I knew it… I knew it… I knew it.’  He paused for a moment, then ‘How much?’

     “Abe, all smiles, stood beside me as the cashier counted out sixty dollars and change.  I gave him $30.00, which he took and carefully folded, placing it into a black leather, snap-clasp change purse.  I extended my arm assuming he would shake my hand,   To my surprise, he ignored my outstretched hand but kept peering intently into my eyes.  ‘You are unhappy, my friend.  If it is the $30.00 I will return it to you.’

     “’No, no.  The $30.00 is nothing.  If I look unhappy it is because of a personal matter and I must rush home.’”

     “’Somebody is waiting for you?  A wife perhaps?  Is she not well?’”

     “Before I realized it, I was telling this complete stranger personal information about my wife’ Fibroneuralgia, how she was in constant pain and how all the medications we have tried have been ineffective.  Abe listened intently as I babbled on about the callousness of the doctors and the hollowness of The Golden Years.”

     “Have you tried ganja?  Spliff?’”

     “ ‘I don’t know what that is.’”

     “Abe shook his head, laughing out loud.   ‘Ah, you white folk never fail to amaze me.  Has your wife tried a reefer, a stick or a joint?’  I was still confused.

‘Hey, man, listen to me.’  Abe was getting impatient.  ‘Has she every tried cannabis….marijuana?’

     “It finally dawned on me.  ‘No, I’ve heard that it might be helpful but I never knew where to get it.  Her doctor discouraged us, saying it would be a waste of money.’”

      “‘Your doctor is an ignorant man.  I can sell you some.  Even though you are my friend, I must sell it to you.  I’m just a middle man.’

     “That’s okay.  How much is it?’

     “’$20.00 a bag and I have two bags with me now.’

     “’I’ll take it.’ 

     “He took me by the elbow and guided me to a corner of the store.  The exchange was made.  I have him $40.00 and he gave me 2 bags of what I assumed was marijuana.  ‘How do I use this?’

     “He laughed.  ‘Chop the leaves and bake them into cookies or cup cakes.  If you need more, I will be here next Sunday.’

     “We shook hands and I left, all excited.  As soon as I stepped out the door, I was surrounded by three men wearing jackets marked SHERIFF.  The man in the center, shorter than me but muscular, was smiling broadly.  ‘Okay, pop.  You’re under arrest.’

     “’Arrest?  What did I do?  I didn’t do anything.’

     “’Well, we do have a tape and a video of you buying two bags of cannabis. I know your wife isn’t well so I’m going to give you a ticket instead of taking you in.’

     “And that’s where it stands now.  Needless to say, I still haven’t recovered from this incident.  I’m scheduled to appear in court a week from tomorrow.  I have a lawyer who is charging $400.00 per hour with a cap of $5,000.00, money I can ill afford to spend.  I’m depressed and sick about the whole situation.’

     “There were tears in his eyes, and for a long moment I was at a loss at what to say.  ‘Is there anything I can do for you?”

     “Yeah, there is.  This incident reeks of entrapment that should never have occurred.  One wonders if the Sheriff’s Dept. is primarily interested in looking good statistically. It is a shameful waste of manpower and vile from every viewpoint.  I’m telling it to you because this story has to be told…must be told.  You have the know-how..Put it in your blog; send it to your agent.  Let’s eliminate this kind of crap by exposing it. It won’t be easy; they will deny the particulars.  Will you help me?” 

     “And that’s the story… Of course I am going to to help Carl; periodic progress reports will be posted in my blog.  

___________________________This is a work of fiction.  Any resemblance to individuals or similar events is purely accidental and unintentional.