Volume One...Issue 10...December 1, 2000
Published by "The Wizard of Odd"
-The season to be thankful, and grateful for everything bestowed upon us, like...AIDS, CRIME, DECEPTION, HATRED, POVERTY, GREED, ETC.-
(-All items are the sole property of Wayne Brown. Use of my properties without my express written consent, is against the law-)
by Wayne Brown...March 1982
(Copyright ©1982)
"Your Honor...At this time the prosecution would like to enter as evidence, these excerpts from the defendant's personal diary. We believe these entries will supply incontrovertible proof that the defendant did act with forethought and malice against the deceased. The entries are dated, and in the defendant's own handwriting." The District Attorney eyed the Defense table with a look of assured victory.
"It is so ordered...Bailiff, if you please..." The Court Officer gave copies of the diary to the presiding Jurist.
ARIL 4, 1963:
"Today, while concluding a business deal of a small nature with a friend of my father's, I was approached with the proposition of drawing his handicapped child. The gentleman told me he had been unable to preserve the likeness of his son due to the nature of his disability. It seems that were the father, or anyone else, to take a photograph of the child, the intensity of the flashcube, would shock him almost certainly unto death. (The child was kept in near darkness at all times. Whether this was in itself the cause of the child's distress was never made clear.) Apparently, the father had also been in contact with other artists, all of whom had declined his offer. It seemed the child was not long for the world and hence, money had become no object. The father added that the visage of the infant was quite hideous and most people had been unable to peruse his features for more than a few moments." The District Attorney stopped long enough to clear his throat.
"I was at first startled by the proposition. I have been an amateur commercial artist for quite some time now, and because of my chosen vocation, I am frequently in need of funds. I tried to visualize what decrepit kind of individual would be so hideous as to force my compatriots in the field to decline such an offer. My morbid curiosity also played a factor in my decision to investigate the matter further. I confidently told the father to show me his son."
"As the child's father led me to his room, fantastic images of the most grotesque and bizarre beings of Man, Myth, and Magic, assaulted my ever fertile imagination. I had long been fascinated by horror and the macabre, and felt that nothing he could show me now could make me flinch. I was wrong. Before me, in an elaborate and oversized crib lay the most pathetic and horrifying creature I had ever seen. A child, 14 years old, with the body of a three-month old infant and the head of a...It looked like a deflated watermelon with humanoid features. I looked for a moment, I discerned a diaper on the frail, a full head of hair and fully matured teeth and eyes...eyes like I'd never seen before. One gray, and one yellow...and both pleading to me..."Let me out, please let me out!"...I felt a wave of nausea and at the same time, pity for this child. I had never seen anything like him in my entire life."
"The body breathed slowly and with great discomfort, and the child tried to suck thumbs on fingerless, atrophied hands. Movement for the child was impossible and despite my revulsion, I longed to reach out and help the infant. I was at a total loss. My pity told me to draw the child, but the parents had suffered enough. Furthermore, I didn't feel I had the strength to sit and face the horror long enough to pencil it."
"I told the father I would consider his proposition, and possibly favorably. I lied. I had already made up my mind. I would not...could not...draw the child. I will always remember what I saw in those eyes..."
ARIL 5, 1963:
"I had a disquieting nightmare last night. I dreamt that I returned to the home of that child and smothered it with a pillow. What I find most distressing, is that I feel it to be the moral thing to do."
APRIL 6, 1963:
"I cannot take it anymore. The child haunts me in all that I do. I must free that tortured soul...I have no choice...It must be done..."
APRIL 7, 1963:
"It is done. Last night I stole into the house of my tormentor and gave him the freedom he so deeply craved. May he now find peace and may God have mercy on my wicked soul."
The District Attorney looked quietly throughout the courtroom. A deafening silence permeated the chambers. He turned and faced the judge.
"Your Honor, I rest my case..."
On September 22, 1963, William Arthur Brogan was found guilty of 1st degree murder in the State of New York. Four months later, he was sentenced to die in the electric chair. He was remanded to the State Penitentiary at Dannemora, to await execution of his sentence. He was nineteen years old. The Appeals process kept his case active for several years. Luckily for Brogan these delays saved his life. At some point in the late sixties, he couldn't remember exactly when, the Death Penalty had been declared unconstitutional and his sentence was then commuted to Life Without Parole.
There was major controversy over the commuting of his sentence. The general public still looked at him as the infamous "Baby-Killer", and their demonstrations were not infrequent. The super market tabloids kept his picture active, and managed to attribute all manner of mayhem to his name. In reality, the only crime William Brogan ever committed was the smothering of the 14 year old boy suffering from Hydro-Encephalia.
Over the years, "Willy", as he came to be called, exemplified the model prisoner. He was a friendly, hard-working, and talented man who grew to be well liked and respected by his fellow prisoners and warders alike. He never complained and seemed to accept his lot in life with as much grace, as could be afforded by a man in such surroundings. Despite his character and obvious reformation, Willy was still continually turned down in his bids for parole. At least, however, until the year 2008.
On January 1, 2008, a new Governor took the oath of office in Albany, New York. He was a relatively young man for the job, and he was extremely well liked by his constituents and even his opponents. His rise to power was the American Dream...a Cinderella story. He graduated High School at sixteen...Harvard Law School at twenty-two. Followed by four years of living in the streets, working for the renewed Civil Rights movement, and assisting the poor. At thirty-two he was elected to the New York State Assembly. It was said that while he was representative to the United Democratic Nations, he was responsible for the resolution of the Israeli-Turkish border dispute that had once again brought the world to the brink of a Nuclear War. He was responsible for the implementation of Socialized Medicine in the newly founded Republic of New York. His accomplishments were monumental and he was compared to the likes of Lincoln, Kennedy, and King. His name was Thomas L. Hardy and some said that he'd soon be President of the United Federation of Western Democratic States.
Thomas L. Hardy shocked the world on his day of inauguration. Relying on an old and archaic New York tradition, he pardoned the notorious child murderer, William Arthur Brogan.
"Well Willy, I can't say I'm sorry to see you go...You've been a pleasure to know, but your freedom...eh?! I'm real happy for ya, Will. Don't forget us, okay?" Warden Michaels helped Willy with his bags and led him down the hall. Willy had been at Dannemora as long as anyone could remember, and the Warden could not help but think of the injustice dealt him.
"Thank you, Warden...You've been most kind." Tears and confusion were evident on his time worn face, as he shook hands with the Warden. They had become friends many years ago, and genuine warmth was evident in their parting.
"Oh, by the way, I almost forgot. You've got a visitor."
"A visitor? After all these years?!?! My word. But who would want to see me?" His face beamed with delight and anticipation. In the forty-four years of his incarceration, the only visitors he had ever had were a couple of young lawyers looking to make a name for themselves, and a cadre of ravenous reporters looking for new insight to an old story. He had always been candid about his guilt, and for some reason writers weren't interested in tackling the subject of Euthanasia.
The Warden showed him to a private office, where Willy met his unknown visitor. The man was tall, good-looking, and confident. His dress was informal, and he exuded warmth and compassion.
"Hello, Willy...I'm Tom Hardy." The man smiled warmly and offered his hand.
"Oh! Mr. Hardy! You're the one who...Oh,...Thank you, thank you!" Willy shook his hand voraciously, smiling and crying with joy.
"No, Willy. It is I who should be thanking you.." A look of deep love and genuine respect crept over the Governor's face.
"Thank me?...But...Why?" Willy looked incredulously at the man.
"Let me show you something, Willy...And maybe then you'll understand."
The Governor then reached up to each eye and slowly, carefully extracted a contact lens from each of them. He then set each lens on the desk before him.
"Whaaa...?!?!" Willy looked at the lenses quizzically.
"Look at me closely, Willy...And you'll see why I must thank you."
Willy leaned closer and peered up into the Governor's eyes, and then he knew. Yes, now he remembered. When he recognized the gray and yellow orbs, a smile now came to his face, and a calm into his heart.
-The End-
(I have made some minor grammatical changes to the original MS. -Wayne Brown)
" FARE"
by Wayne Brown June 1982
( Copyright ©1982)
"That'll be $3.50, Buddy..."
"Whaddaya mean $3.50! The other night they only charged me $2.50!" The irate passenger squirmed and reached angrily for the door.
"I said $3.50, and I'm not going to play anymore games with you!...Pay up!" I reached for him with my right hand as his door clicked free. I threw the car into park, the flashers were already on, and I snatched the keys from the ignition as he jumped from my cab. I threw myself clear of the car, her door rocking on long ago spent hinges, and chased the runner with full intent.
...Of what? Not sure...certainly frustration and anger...plus, a driver still had to pay any uncollected fare, and at what amounted to approximately $2.50 an hour, I wasn't ready to lose my fare to some S.O.B. with a hole in his pocket.
The bastard was lithe and quick. At twenty-eight and in pretty good shape, I figured I could handle just about anyone. Of course, I hadn't reckoned on a foot race with a young kid who probably ran the four-minute mile for his High School Track Team. Two packs of Winston's and a six-pack a day had certainly taken their toll...and the mud! 'Course I have to admit it was a convenient excuse for slipping and falling and losing the son-of-a-bitch! You could bet your last dollar, I didn't let the other drivers know that I had also lost $6.00 in loose quarters from my jacket pocket in that damn mud! They'd never have let me live that down!.
Yeah, the little punk had been fast. He looked like a jockey. Of course, that didn't mean anything. All those Spics at the flat track looked like jockeys.
Saratoga Springs, New York. Summer Mecca for dreams, schemes, last chances, and nightmares. The oldest continuously operating racetrack in America, and she's very wise in the ways of the world. "A good place to learn to live the blues. A good place to give your all and lose." (I'm a Poet, and I...etc.)
I'd been living there for about six years. I tried to move away once, but I returned out of love for my daughter. Ohio had seemed like a good place for a new start, but the miles separating me from her, grew longer with time. After my hiatus in eternity, I returned and set myself to making a living in the least objectionable fashion I could find. Faced with my inability to take orders, my extravagant dreams and my need for ready cash, I settled on cab driving. It was about all I had left. The F.B.I. had a file on me for subversive attitudes in the sixties (I was caught wearing an American Flag vest to my Political Science class.). Social Services wanted my right arm, and my family viewed me as some rare form of cancer. I was even beginning to find the idea of religion enticing. At any rate, I'd developed a sudden need for independence and a certain amount of space from the lifestyles and people that I had in recent years embraced. Working the night shift, driving a hack, seemed to offer me some respite.
Anyway, this background isn't all that relevant to the tale I've endeavored to set down. One day, a couple or three years ago, I had this fare...
"Car #18...Pick up a call at the corner of Caroline and Broadway." The gravely voice of "Big Bob" O'Conner came grumbling over the taxi two-way. I hated working the day shift, mostly because of "Big Bob", but I owed a buddy a favor, and so got roped into driving this miserable day, complete with a blazing sun, a cloudless sky, temperatures in the eighties, and a steady flow of lonely, old widows spoiled for attention and bitching about their 25-cent discount.
"Yo!...Top o' the hill, gotcha..." I keyed the mike and answered "Bob the Lob", which was what we called him on the night shift. He didn't like our euphemism for Caroline and Broadway, either. I gave myself a chuckle, knowing that "Big Bob the Lob" was probably sweating behind the front desk over on West Harrison Street and grumbling because he wasn't allowed to smoke in the office. The office was without air conditioning and the boss, a self-righteous, ex-smoker was prone to popping in without notice. He had fired a Dispatcher just last week, when he caught him sneaking smokes in the john. We figured the only real reason that the boss, "Richie Bitch" wouldn't allow smoking was because his wife wouldn't allow him the privilege. He did a lot of things for the wrong reasons.
I keyed the ignition and played with the accelerator to get the engine to turn over. I shifted from park to drive and with a strained effort on the part of the over-worked Fairmont, I finally got started and pulled away from the curb, squeezing between the blaring horns and irate stares of a Winnebago and an imported Austin-Healy sports car, probably owned by some wealthy Skidmore student in summer residence. As to be expected, I caught the light on red at the intersection of Division and Broadway...left turn directional...impatience...seemingly blind pedestrians, with pedestrian sensibilities...
...I made the left turn and veered towards the "Top O' the Hill". As I pulled alongside the curb, I automatically scanned the corner for my prospective fare. Aside from still more wandering blind pedestrians, the only person present on the corner, who seemed interested in a taxi, was an old man in rags, reminiscent of the "Bag-Ladies", I had recently seen profiled on a local television news program.
He raised his grubby hand in a hail. I said to myself, "Jesus K...Rist!...", and appraised my prospective passenger. He was short...very short, about 5"2" and old...I'd say about 75. His clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot...If you know what I mean...and I wondered if he'd had any conception of personal hygiene. He waddled to my cab, which immediately made me think of the inadequacy of public rest room facilities in our fair city. He opened the door, poured himself into the back seat, and spoke in a raspy voice, not unlike my buddy "Big Bob the Lob".
"...To the track, please..."
I'd had guys like him in my cab before, and from my experience, money in advance, was the order of the day. There were times though, that I felt sorry for the old guys.
They literally lived in the streets, from season to season, scraping bucks from the soles of shoes. Stuffing Kleenex up the coin returns of phone booths, and sleeping in garbage dumpsters in the winter and on park benches in the summer. There was a large area beneath a Broadway parking lot, behind a row of College bars, where an aspiring drunk could shack up in relative comfort. They even had a couch and end tables. All the comforts of home! Some of them had mothers many years ago. Some of them had children...not so long ago. I knew this one guy, who swore up and down, that he'd played tenor sax with the Glen Miller Band. I believed him. Why not, it didn't cost me anything! I look at these guys and sometimes I say to myself, "There but for the grace of God, go I!" It's an old cliché, but it makes it's point.
Ah, but I'm off on a tangent again. As I was saying, I get my money in advance from these guys. Hey, I don't mind buying 'em a beer once in awhile, but I'm working, and business is business.
This old guy was polite, I'll give him that. He smiled at me with teeth so badly rotted, that he looked like a Steinway. He then handed me the money with no argument and settled himself comfortably in the back seat. He had long and dirty gray hair, and sun parched skin, and smelled like last week's garbage, like salad dressing gone over. There was something different about him. I couldn't quite figure it out, but his eyes were still filled with dreams.
"Can you get me there by the sixth race, young man? He asked pleasantly, despite his labored rasp.
"Why sure, Pops. It's early yet. You've got plenty of time."
Traffic was heavy, but at the very most the ride would cost him about twenty minutes of his already well-worn span. I wasn't positive, but to my knowledge, the sixth race wouldn't be starting for at least another hour and a half.
A u-turn proved impossible with the traffic as thick as it was, so I headed toward Lake Avenue. As I approached the first intersection, I chanced a look back in the mirror, at the old man and chided him with a bit of sarcasm.
"Didja come up to play the horses, Pop?"
He looked me straight in the eye in the rear view mirror and warmly replied, "Son, you don't play the ponies...They play you."
I liked what he said and it suddenly occurred to me that he didn't look quite so old and pathetic anymore.
I wormed my way through the traffic light wondering at the licensing procedures in other states, and continued down the tract known as Lake Avenue. (Of course, no one knows why they call it Lake Avenue. There isn't even a puddle anywhere near its entire length! Kinda like Church Street without so much as a confessional!)
We approached the intersection of Lake and Circular, and I decided to face my passenger. I quickly turned back due to traffic concerns and what I took to be an illusion at the time. As I took the light, I wondered at my sanity, for at my last glance, I could have sworn that my old and indigent passenger had adorned a wig. His hair now appeared raven black, shiny and neatly trimmed. I discarded the hallucination as a trick of the sunlight, and returned my attention to the drive.
Traffic, as usual in Saratoga during the August season, was tight and hectic. My attention, I daresay, was predominantly centered around my labors, and not my fare's sudden influx of conversation. Hence my transposition here may be somewhat lacking in accuracy.
However, the man suddenly began a voluminous diatribe about his past, his love for the horses, the fates, Reagonomics and God only knows what else. I tried to assimilate what I could, but as my attention was diverted, I'm afraid I was less than attentive. I did notice, however, that the aforementioned disagreeable odor had dissipated somewhat since the man had entered the cab.
Approaching the traffic light at Nelson and Lake, again red, I looked back and came as near to having a heart attack as I'd ever want to. I discovered that my old and decrepit passenger was now, at least apparently, about thirty-five years old, well dressed, with a full set of teeth and stinking to high heaven of some particularly pungent cologne.
"Is there a problem?" He spoke eloquently. A full palate does wonders for diction.
"Eh, No!?! I was just..."
"Just what, my friend?" He smiled with quiet amusement.
"Never mind...eh, Pops?"
"You are puzzled. I will tell you two things before you drop me..."
"Okay...I'll bite!
"The first thing is that Man is life, and life is your dreams, hopes, aspirations, yearnings, and your desire. Life is...Life."
"...And the second?"
"Ah! The second will be your tip! When we complete this little venture." He smiled again. I wish I had teeth like his.
The light finally changed and I turned nervously to the right making my way down Nelson Avenue. It suddenly occurred to me that I was sweating. I know that sounds strange, but I was so mystified by my passenger's metamorphosis, and so enveloped by my task, that I doubt I'd have noticed myself pissing my pants. It was sort of like the feeling you get when you've been out drinking and you've had too much, and you lay down, just for awhile...to get your head straight...and you wake up hours later with soiled shorts.
I almost missed the stop sign at the intersection of Caroline Street. I almost decided to stop drinking. I almost prayed to God.
As we approached the light at Nelson and Union Avenue, he spoke to me again. I did not look back this time. I was afraid. I don't know why...I just couldn't.
"Please, Driver...Would you take me to the stables?"
"Eh, yeah...Sure." I sputtered nervously.
I took him directly to the barns. The Security guards knew me, and they also seemed to know my fare. As I entered the Oklahoma Track on the North side of Union Avenue, he was met with smiles and waves. Everyone seemed to know him. I took him to barn number 32. As I pulled up near the docket, he spoke to me one final time.
"My young friend, you are impetuous, full of false bravado and disrespect, and tied within the boundaries of your simple, but necessary economical existence. Still I am amused by you. Remember, the only values to be found in life are dreams and nightmares. I once envied youth for it's vituperative nature, it's energy...but now...energy, love, hope...they are where you will find them. I will not leave you without gratuity. My name is Pepe' Juarez. Think of me in the sixth race. Go to the window. You shall find your reward."
He grasped my hand and shook it vigorously. He then bolted from my cab as though time was of the essence. I don't think I will ever forget that face. When Pepe' Juarez left my taxi, he could not have been more than seventeen years of age, dressed as a jockey with purple and gold colors, cap and riding crop and filled with sparkling vitality.
No, that's not the end of my tale. I grabbed a crib sheet, found a booth and bet my entire day's earnings on a horse in the sixth race called "Renaissance Man", ridden by a jockey named Pepe' Juarez. I lost. The horse bolted and ran for the outside fence, flipping over, breaking its leg and killing the jockey. They had to shoot the horse. They could've shot me. I lost a day's pay...and a lot of face.
I guess even dreams aren't everything...
-The End-
NEXT ISSUE:
-A tale of misbegotten promises-"SOMEDAY SON, THIS WILL ALL BE YOURS..." and "A CAMEL NEEDS LITTLE TO SUSTAIN HIM"-A Geography lesson from the world of loneliness-
"BE SEEING YOU!!!"
"THE ARCHIVES"
"Volume No. 1...Issue 1 September 1999"
"Volume No. 1...Issue 2 November 1999"
"Volume No. 1...Issue 3 February 2000"
"Volume No. 1...Issue 4 June 2000"
"Volume No. 1...Issue 5 July 2000"
"Volume No. 1...Issue 6 August 2000"
"Volume No. 1...Issue 7 September 2000"
"Volume No. 1...Issue 8 October 2000"
"Volume No. 1...Issue 9 November 2000"
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