Diederich's Writing: Easter Bullets, Sun Visors, The Alamo, Multi-county Criminals

Saturday, July 19, 2008

Easter Bullets, Sun Visors, The Alamo, Multi-county Criminals

Ok, odd story, then I promise I'll change modes...

Ran over to get some ice at the gas station and take Bill some dbl Chocolate Zucchini Brownies, then stayed to shoot the breeze at the counter. Another guy was standing there too-- he joined in our conversation for a while; a personable cleancut, redneck-type man. I was trying quite hard to keep a straight face, for the Judy Garland singer/painter came in and I could hear “Dancing in the Moonlight” tinkling in my head... and redneck man was making conversation and wanting to know if there were any people around that 'talked weird'--we filled him in on LOTS of those!

Meanwhile, 3 little girls told Bill they liked his Hooters hat as they left; he blew up with: “It's a VISOR! It's a VISOR!”
He must get exasperated by evening, you know, soaking up so much stupid and all.
He proceeded to tell us that visors have always gotten him into trouble and his 3rd visor story occurred when he went to San Antonio to watch his son graduate from Air Force basic training a few years ago. (I could share in this experience, as I had also went there to watch Bailey do the same thing.) After the ceremony, you could ride the tram to the Riverwalk and visit awesome shops, eat at Joe's Crabshack, visit the lovely, low, live oak that sprawled all over and....go to the Alamo!

Bill's visor caused huge Texas Security men to surround him at the Alamo and oh, so kindly, tell him to take it off or leave. Bill, never the conformist, pointed out that the sign said “Remove Head Coverings”. He removed the visor, picture-framed his face with it and pointed out that the police COULD see his face THROUGH the visor, it was hollow, thus it was NOT covering his head, whereupon he replaced his visor. (Bill has long hair and a pony-tail, probably disliked by typical Texans!)
Eventually 4 Rangers insisted he take off the visor or leave; Bill pointed out the Arab that was inside WEARING A TURBAN that covered HIS head. Well, apparently turbans and the like are OK; (even though I jokingly/indignantly declared he could have had an Uzi under it or something! or like Cop friend later said—packing C4!) and Bill couldn't quickly think of a religious/cultural reason depicting a necessary visor, so needless to say he didn't visit the Alamo.

Cop friend called shortly after Bill's story to share his daily number of warnings/tickets/arrests. He works in another county and was talking about an individual that I knew...whose brother used to live with my sister. Of course this naturally led to the Easter Bullet Suicide Story:

It was Easter Sunday, probably in the late 80's & we always played baseball with the little kids in the front pasture at my mom's. This was a tradition and now broken by a phone call that came from my sister's then boyfriend, Devon. He'd stayed home feeling sorry for himself, having missed out on egg-hunting and a delicious Easter ham... My sister, BG, came back out of the house and told us that he was going to kill himself.
Immediately we jumped in my little Datsun to drive the backroads to a tiny, hidden town. There on the roadside by a little wooded area, was his vehicle. We could see a note inside, and for some reason, by Datsun key opened his door and we read a suicide note. We walked hesitantly into the woods, abruptly stopping when we saw his body slumped against an oak, hat over his face, gun in hand by his side....where's the blood? was he dead? what do we do?
We tiptoed up and then he moved, grumbly, scary, insisting that I leave and BG remain. I would not leave her alone with him ('he'll shoot her' I thought-- rocky relationship, etc). Finally I told him that I would let them talk together if he gave me the gun. He absolutely would NOT, so I insisted on the clip. “I'm not leaving her alone with you until you give me those bullets.”

Eventually he removed the clip, showed me it was empty and I stuck the clip in my pocket and walked away. I froze when I suddenly heard 2 shots-- “What? Oh my God—he shot her, then himself!” but as I turned around, she was slowly walking toward me... “Go” she whispered, “just go—walk natural!” We kept walking but I was terrified sick and rigid as a board—kept thinking that any second I was going to have a bullet in my back—I could just FEEL it-- and the back of my knees were all wobbly. We were almost near the car when we heard shots again and we ran and drove back to grandma's as fast as we could, calling the Sheriff and Devon's family. No cell phones back then... (No suicide either.)

So I am telling Cop friend this, and about Bill's visor and Judy Garland, and about the redneck man at the counter, when he says “WHAT! You were talking to HIM?! He's one of the biggest criminals around! Always in jail!!!”
I was shocked-- “No way, I didn't think so; he didn't LOOK like one; no way; must be a really bad judge of character...I'd always assumed that person I'd heard about was wild and sleazy lookin with no teeth....are you sure???”
I was reminded that Thomas Crown looked nice too. So now I have met one of the 2 notorious Sever brothers.

3 comments:

Dan Johnson said...: Wow... who are the Sever bros.?

We had a problem here with the Sikh RCMP (Royal Canadian Mounted Police) wanting to wear their turbans instead of the standard head gear, authorities opted for a badge on a turban... don't get me started...; July 20, 2008 at 9:20 AM
B. Diederich said...: Of course, I try not to use anybody's real names on here...
Some guys that have been in jail on and off forever; nearly my age. After I met that one, I think they must just do it for the adventure...steal anything they can get their hands on...no matter what or why...little things and even huge things...like backhoes and stuff!

In our town, we have only a couple african-american or oriental kids at school-- I mean like maybe 3 or 5 total...
However, we are now getting several spanish-speaking workers, so it will be interesting how the community handles this. They live pretty much in an old renovated house together on one block (by the river!) that I now refer to as 'Mexiville'!
BD; July 20, 2008 at 5:47 PM
Dan Johnson said...: That's funny. When I was in elementary school, I think there may have been one Chinese kid and I can still remember when the first East Indian kid came, his name was Shikar Dudj. I'd never seen dark skin up close before (maybe somebody on the street). Vancouver is a melting pot now of absolute epic proportions,Chinese, East Indian, North Van has lots of Iranians.Sometimes I think Whitey may almost be the minority. Now there are suburbs of Vancouver that English is almost the second language...

Crack heads and heroin addicts have also taken over our lovely city but I think they may be squeezed out before the 2010 Olympics... I could go on about this but it's time to make some dinner...'Til soon, Dan...; July 21, 2008 at 8:40 PM

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AGGIEVILLE BAR ENTOMOLOGY

My daughter fell in love with her boyfriend
over jewelry.
Not the amazingly brilliant diamond
or the classical high school ring.
She's still tickled to tell her story--
about the perfect college snobs
seated at the bar,
vying for that dreamy dude's attention.
She sat quietly
with those large brown eyes
in her muddy work jeans
and torn tee.
He came close, wiping a glass,
glancing at the bead about her throat--
his face split into a grin:
"Hemiptera?"
She grinned too...
"No, Coleoptera. I made it last night."
They discussed the art of making fine jewelry
and he fingered the necklace:
fishing line and tackle box paraphernalia.
The jealous ones didn't understand
the language of love,
not even its simplified version
of "dung beetle" tossed in their direction.
It aggravated them to ask;
then flounced out with noses in the air.
"You know...
a round ball of cow shit!"

CHOKING

I abhor a shirt with a collar.
I've an aversion to them;
can't wear them;
can't stand to feel them behind my neck.
I don't know if it’s the extra thickness-
a minute pressure
that rides on the skin too deep.
I find I cannot take it.

It's not that they're tight
like hands around your throat
or thumbs pressing on your windpipe;
even unbuttoned,
its still an unbearable weight.

Like that guy that rested his arm
across the back of my neck
just to 'say hi'.
It feels like that:
Unwanted.
Subversive.
Additional.

Unnecessary.

A tee shirt fits just fine--
there's no constraints;
whether loose or close
you don't have to make decisions.

Men wear them. But I prefer tees.
Precisional, perfectional dress shirts
just seem like undue grief.
It’s hard to talk to one of them
with their collars.
Taut buttoned,
impressing about their throats,
like some perfect picture.
Tight.
Confining.
They all make me choke.

GLOOM Oct 2007

I watched the moon.
I thought I watched the moon.

I was vaguely aware that it had risen and although I seemed mesmerized by its holy whiteness and stared unblinking at it's superior roundness it did not dawn on me for many hours that it's orb had varnished my body with a pallid glow, nor realized that it's indifferent brightness had sapped my soul and gradually crushed my size
to that
of a crumb
or less...

I am no one.
The moon knows this.

The moon observes my inadequacies and waits.
The moon does not care.
Human-like in its countenance the moon glows callous like all others.
I know this.

I am no one.
I am always no one.

(The beginning of a short story. Shall I continue with this depressing servitudal self-pity??? I think that sentence is in error!)

SHIIMMER and SPARKS

Once upon a time there lived in the deep wood a most beautiful child, with radiant pale skin, lovely pink rose petal lips, and hair long and sleek as a raven’s wing. Her eyes whispered dark as smoking coals and her disposition was so sweet and enthralling that even the smallest creature was immediately enraptured by her very look and gentle voice.

Shimmer, she was called, because although she lived very poorly, the animals and insects of the forests took it upon themselves to transform her meek garments into things of exquisite beauty. Her tiny white frocks were trimmed in gossamer laces, intricately woven, a gift from the forest spiders, and each gown gleamed and shone like glitter in the dappling sunlight, for every butterfly would swoop down and gently wipe his wing upon the cloth, leaving behind an everlasting sparkling gift. Shimmer, she was called, and she shimmered as she lit from flower to flower, playing and transforming her marvelous forest garden.

Now, deep within this woods, a quaint and lovely stone cottage had been occupied for many a year by Shimmer’s grandmother, a wizened white-haired old woman who took it upon herself to raise her infant granddaughter there and teach her all she knew of the ways of the forest. She was wise and nearly magical [mysterious/mystical] with her lore of plants and as Shimmer grew, flitting from one garden blossom to another, the grandmother was aware that her granddaughter too had inherited that special gift, and even more so. For not only was Shimmer gifted with plants, she could engage and tame [hear? understand?] the animals in a nearly magical fashion. [with her gentle touch and charming smile. ?]

Shimmer’s grandmother had labored nearly a lifetime around the mossy-thatched cottage, cajoling brambles of tremendous white roses to climb as high as the eaves. [clamber higher than the eaves]. Shimmer learned to trim and train their boughs too as she grew, but never did their thorny branches pierce her delicate skin. Luscious fruit trees filled the garden with ripening scent as sweet as honey and great bowers and clusters of vines and petals wove their way about other paths in the garden and in between the smoothly worn stepping stones; the pair nurtured beds of delicate lettuces, crisp vegetables, and many fragrant spices and herbs. But it was the gorgeously scented roses that were their favorite; every evening Shimmer would cut a single blossom to place within a bowl upon the hearth [mantle/old wooden table?] where its sweetness would fill the house and lull them to sleep amidst a gentle breeze.

Occupied with her little garden and beguiled by the beauty of nature, Shimmer passed nearly all the hours of her days [her waking hours?] outdoors happily completing the many tasks set out for her by her grandmother….plucking sticky ripening cherries and plums and rich berries from lowered branches, arranging jewel-toned flowers along the garden paths, digging into the dark rich loam to set forth great fat bulbs and coax delightful bouquets of blooms into fragrant displays; why, no one could be richer than they. Yet it was Shimmer’s skillful gardening that helped the grandmother produce what meager income they had—quite often a crone from the distant village would journey into the deep woods to purchase a small handful of one such healing herb or another, or a dried root, or to taste [sample] a tiny pot of fresh fruited jam or marmalade.

Such were the days that passed and as Shimmer grew more and more into a lovely young maid with alabaster skin and a delicate flushed cheek, so did the white roses begin to change…slowly at first, unnoticeable, until one day they perceived a faint pink hue had lit upon all the petals. [as subtle as…?]

It was then that the grandmother began to feel slight trepidation, a vague [stirring?] uneasiness that caused her to be sharper in tone and more watchful [hawk-eyed?] as the weeks passed by, and as the roses maintained their slight pink tinge, she called Shimmer into the cottage slightly before dusk now, sending her not quite as far a field when in search for a particular rare root or leaf. Whereas their evenings had previously consisted of an amusing animal story or occasional folklore tale, now the old woman hovered closer, gruffly mumbling warnings and parables [accounts] of a creature she called ‘man’.

Shimmer perceived that her grandmother’s worries had something to do with the odd white [oddly colored] roses and easing her mind, would nod her head in agreement that these creatures should be avoided, even though she knew not what they were…She listened carefully to the joyous singing of the birds and the bright humming insects and the tiny squeaks of the sweet grey mice and knew there was no danger about. She doted on her grandmother, soothing her anxious headaches with cool berry-scented water and honeyed teas and attributed the old woman’s tales to the older crones’ neighborly gossip.

However, despite the love Shimmer had for the chattering and songs of her dear forest friends there were times when she felt slightly apart, for although they chirped and twittered with her daily, she was not really like them at all…

Subjugation

Leroy Raugowitz was slapped hard across the cheek and chained to a bed when he was of the age of four.

This was a normal household routine and substantiated by the hunger, sarcasm, and gross ill will that comes to all bad boys that are born poor and undesired. All his life Leroy would remember his first meal at an all-night diner that served the finest fried chicken and smoothest mashed potatoes he had ever seen and then the night spent on a soft bed tucked between clean white sheets.

He would always remember the night he left his meager life as a child of chains, to a glorious two-day escapade of real food, fairy-tale freedom, on to a new unknown eternity of chance—one consisting of criticism and doom. It would be hard to determine which life was worst.

The midnight Leroy awoke in snowy sheets remained crisp in his mind forever—his legs were free to move about, unrestrained; he could stretch and wiggle and dig his toes into their starchiness. And with a belly full and taut, his eyes wide, he glanced about at cleanliness for the first time in his existence. A brief smile fluttered on his lips before he let the enveloping softness carry him back to sleep. It was heaven.

It didn’t last long.

For two days, ever since the nice men in blue uniforms with shiny gold buttons had taken pictures and broken through the heavy hasp, and the mustached man in the white coat had stroked his chin, peering into the black bag, peering at his raw ankle, and the matronly dark-haired women, Leda, methodically wrote notes with a sharpened pencil while shaking her head and staring about the room, well, Leroy got to see how a real boy lived.

For two days, he was treated like a real boy, in a real home, with a real life. It remained with him eternally.

He was scooped gently over the shoulder of one the blue-clad officers and placed in an automobile to be driven to a stoic, dull brown-brick building used for Official Purposes. He answered to what questions he was capable, then again placed in the automobile, where, after his chicken and mashed potato supper, he was served his first dessert. It was a magnificent creation; a piece of real cherry pie in a golden sugary crust and running with sweet red juices, topped with a scoop of ice cream. He saw this jewel pass before his widened eyes on its way to another customer, which made Leda nearly smile—she immediately called to the waitress, who brought one right over. Of course, he couldn’t finish it, which made him afraid, but it was apparent that his matronly caregiver was in a hurry and soon they were driving to a new location, a few meager cherries left drowning in a sea of pink.

He lived the life of what he determined must be ‘royalty’ for two days; his first experience being that of a warm bath; an immersion into a frothy warm mass of fragrant bubbles. Someone, a lavender-scented woman with short blond waves, bathed him, fawning over and delicately rubbing and rinsing him from head to toe. He was petted and dried and enveloped between layers of a thick creamy towel, so warm and soothing he nearly dozed.

He saw new clothing laid out on a dresser before him: light blue flannel pajamas with clouds and red bi-planes, new pants and a tiny striped tee, all complete with stickered prices still attached. While his ankle was delicately re-bandaged, he ogled the clothing and smiled to himself again: these would be the first new clothes he had ever had.

The pajamas were divine.

(More later. Much Later.)

Diederich's Writing

Saturday, July 19, 2008

Easter Bullets, Sun Visors, The Alamo, Multi-county Criminals

3 comments:

Art, Trash, and My Own Personal Wasteland: Check out all my sites for random art!

AGGIEVILLE BAR ENTOMOLOGY

Jooble Read my Blog, thus this link!

Sad

My Favorite Drawing

CHOKING

GLOOM Oct 2007

Rats.

Blog Archive

About Me

Torpedo Tire Bomb w Architeuthis

SHIIMMER and SPARKS

Not really sure what to call this drawing...

Subjugation

Displaced Cosmonaut

2 drawings hanging on my wall