At the dentist’s office, he asked where the bathroom was

when he saw the dental hygienist begin to make a fuss,

and dismissively point him toward the way

and without missing a beat officiously did say,

she was ready for him now so don’t delay,

so he hurried into the bath and out again, lickety-split

and jumped in the chair before Frau Blucher had a fit.

She whipped the bib around his neck and throat

and yanked so hard he wanted to scream, “You old goat!”

But she had her hands buried in his mouth

faster than he could plead, “Please let me out.”

She rubbed and scrubbed never taking a moment to chat.

Small talk was not her forte; she wanted none of that.

She pushed and pulled the floss like a saw between his teeth

and announced that soon he could take his six month leave,

but first she demanded that before he came back,

he must do better at attacking the plaque.

With his sweat dripping from his brow and over his teeth

he shook his head affirmatively and jumped out of the seat.

As he fled the office and made a quick run for his auto,

Frau Blucher shouted “Whose next?” “Get in here pronto!”

Six months would fly by way too fast to give another thrill

to the sadistic, Nazi hygienist with on her face a smile and

in her hand a big drill.

Standing along the channel

watching pro bass fishers

ply their trade in search of

fifty thousand dollars and

a new bass boat, he heard

the man ask his two sons

if they had seen the red

breasted nuthatch. He

looked but saw nothing

in the fall foliage. He

thought of the grey

catbird, which had flown

into a downstairs window,

had snapped its neck

and had remained unseen

for what the man guessed

were weeks because of

where it landed and because

its color was dingy like

the gray of the cement.

He flipped it over with

a shovel and it boiled

with ravenous maggots

planted by parental flies

to eat and grow.

He flipped it onto the

shovel and tossed the

carcass and the maggots

into the weeds and dune

grass in the depression behind

the pine grove. He wondered

if the catbird had had a

partner and maybe a nest

and perhaps a brood of

baby catbirds who, by

then, had stopped waiting.

A friend, someone

who

lost it all

to an unscrupulous

counselor,

believes that the growing

gap between the

400 richest Americans

and everybody else

especially the

gargantuan number

of poor and

growing,

will result in

revolution.

The tipping point

is very close,

he says.  Because

he’s now poor, too,

and angry?  Actually,

he’s adapting well

because of faith.

He’s getting to

know Jesus

a lot better

than ever and has

taken to the simple

life. The social

contract kicked in,

and he has government

help except for

the 95% of his

food stamps now

gone like the wind. Millions

don’t

and by now are

beginning to understand

that they aren’t a

simple, temporary

misfortune away

from being

millionaires as

Steinbeck described

the great American

myth.

He watched the little,

pudgy, double chinned,

unassuming,

self-effacing,

really funny

woman

interviewed on late

night T.V.

She talked frankly

and humorously

about the reality

of ever-present

white-hot

horrible

music

from which no

one can

escape. It’s

omnipresent – on

the street, blaring

down the halls

in buildings, beside

you in the

commode.

She seemed so

down-to-earth-

real-unaffected-

doing-laundry-

not-getting-the

right-kind-of

pickles-at-the

grocery-kind-of-

a-person, not to mention

celebrity. She had been

his girlfriend from

afar and many albums

gone by. Asked about

Jerry, she smiled and

said she thought he

was doing

a fine job.

Mr. Parkinson had

robbed her of her

singing voice

but you wouldn’t

know it bothered

her to look

at her and hear

her talk.

Her sense of humor

transcended the

sadness and she

had the host in

tears of

laughter.

This star who sat

cross-legged in

the guest’s chair

talked about

her journey without

pity or self-

indulgence. Did he

detect a profound

sense of

gratitude?

She had survived

when many friends

had not due to

drugs and Aids and

other stuff. He sat in

a St. Thomas bar on

a Saturday night

years and years ago

and watched and

yearned for the

the sexy singer

on the huge

screen who

howled to the

great down beat,

“You’re no good,

You’re no good,

You’re nooo gooood.”

and years later

with Nelson Riddle,

thrilled him as

he sat in the big

green leather

chair and listened

to the high notes

ascending to

heaven with

“Skylark.”

It was his Linda

and he couldn’t

help calling out at

that late hour,

“You go, girl.”

Turning on the Camry Hybrid’s

radio, he heard music he didn’t

recognize

but immediately he was transported

to the backseat of his parents’ car for

the comfort

and security of a Sunday ride after

church out along U.S. 30 toward

Valparaiso

for a $1.39 fried chicken dinner at

a genuine mom and pop roadhouse.

His suit

jacket rested on the seat beside him

along with his snap-on tie while he

thought of

the little league game later that day.

He was sure he would get home on

time because they

had made this trip before. Was it

music that had played on the Dodge’s

AM radio?

For years in the pulpit

his hope was that he

would give those who

sat in the pews some-

thing sufficiently,

spiritually tasty and

nutritious to last

them longer than the

coffee hour following

worship. Sometimes

he prepared and deliver-

ed a four-course meal

for chewing upon and

digesting at

least through Thursday.

But sometimes the

really spicy Spirit

crept into the ingred-

ients in spite of the

cook and gave the

folks indigestion

before the twenty-

minute delivery was

done. He knew he

would get no dessert

that day at the door

when he shook their

hands. He saw the

stares from those who

dished out the

lemon meringue pie

at coffee hour. When

he got home he told

his wife that they were

on the menu for Sunday

dinner.  His parishioners

would be chewing on

Pastor Tartare and his

lovely wife Pasta Al

Dente and their delightful

teenaged, if a bit ram-

bunctious, twin daughters

Sautéed Shrimp.

The pastor’s stomach

started to churn and he

made a beeline for the

bathroom while his wife

reached for the Tums.

Talking with a friend recently

about the vivid images in her

poetry, he remarked that

images, metaphors and similes

brighten the page so the

readers can look through and

beneath and pealing back the

page perhaps seeing beyond

the words into the depth of

their own experiences and

then maybe down to

middle earth where they

could play with all

kinds of strange metaphors

not even mentioned in the

poem. And it might not even

stop there. Perhaps, a

reader could see all

the way to China where all

the clothes he was wearing

at the time of reading the

poem were made. He thinks

he can see the basement

floor of the factory where

his running shoes were

sewn and glued. And it

was there he realized that

perhaps not only had he

not plumbed the depths,

he hadn’t even

scratched the

surface.

He hates
when his
dad bifurcates
the last donut
in the donut
case.
His dad is
into sharing
but he is just
glaring
at the one
donut split onto
two little plates.

He didn’t know where

he got the great idea,

but he decided that

planning his life in

five-year segments

was a pro-active,

eminently manage-

able life plan, to

use appropriate

management lingo

from a few years

ago. Of course, he

didn’t start such

calculating until

he had his first job.

Everything before that

had been pretty well

laid out for him – school,

summer school for typing,

school, summer, etc.

And then he knew

where the great idea

came from. This really

wise thought came

from the Great Beyond,

from the Oracle of Delphi

and Jesus whispering in

his ear, “What the hay!

Of course, you can

survive this gig for five

years, man.”  It was simply

a divinely inspired survival

plan to keep him from fight

or flight and to exercise his

cerebral cortex more than

his alligator brain which

was more or less success-

ful.  And so he has eight

times five-year segments

notched on his Bible, hav-

ing been a minister and

metaphorically speaking. 

Now he thinks in one

twenty-year segment, as

in “Given the best of the

family history and elimin-

ating unforeseen circum-

stances, I think I have about

twenty years left,” he says

regularly to his long-suffer-

ing wife, perhaps in an

attempt to convince himself

and asked her that at the end

of the segment (which would

be four more five-year seg-

ments for a total of twelve

segments plus the first

twenty-five years for a

grand total of eighty-five

years, if anyone is counting)

assuming he has run out

of segments that Loren

Eiseley’s epitaph be read

in the Saugatuck Dunes

just before his ashes are

tossed to the wind and ad-

justed so the ashes don’t fly

up anyone’s nose from the

usual gusts blowing southeast

to northwest across Lake Mich-

igan from his home sweet child-

hood home Chicago, “I loved the

earth, but I couldn’t stay.”

“We weep with those who weep and rejoice with those who rejoice.”

On a visit to the dentist he

met a careless person. He

pondered the meaning of

the encounter. This person

seemed like fun and that’s

important when one is visit-

ing the dentist, but….He

thought of Gatsby and Nick

telling Gatsby that Daisy and

her husband, fun people to be

sure, were careless people.

They cared less; they didn’t

take care…of what or whom?

Perhaps both; surely both.

Gatsby didn’t take care, either

— of himself. Then he re-

membered a careful person

and he liked thinking about

this person – a  person who

was full of care…for what

or whom? Definitely both.

This person cared fully about

life – the things and the people.

He thought about how you

knew when you were in this

person’s presence you were

cared for. Sometimes this

person cared so much that

it hurt and it hurt him to see

this person hurt, but as much

as it hurt him, it was so much

better to be with the careful

person than to be with the

careless one because with

the careless person he knew

he would feel cared for less. So

he took the pain over the mere

passing pleasure just to be with

the person who was careful,

ever so careful, with him…even

if it was just in the pleasure

of his thoughts as he sat in

the dentist’s chair and heard

the dentist say, “Open wide.”