A Duel with a Dandy

With steel in hand, Marcus eyed his nemesis warily.  “Lay on, Geoffrey.  Damn your…” A deafening roar of ball and powder interrupted his soliloquy, as the words could find no air through the wall of blood suddenly filling Marcus’ throat.  His hand, which, a moment ago firmly and expertly clutched his rapier, now clawed at his neck in an attempt to stem the free flow of his lifeblood.  His body and his blade hit the ground with a thud, the former as lifeless as the latter. 

Geoffrey looked down in disgust at Marcus, the latter dressed in velvets that were considered all the rage this year. Geoffrey thought that there were too many feathers and frills, loops and fringes.  “Stupid foppish boy!” thought Geoffrey.  The two had always shared an intense hatred.  Marcus was always quick with a quip, often at Geoffrey’s expense, and overtly dramatic, as evidenced by his attempt at a monologue before their duel. 

Even in death, his mouth was open.

“Now, to dispose of the body.”  Leaving it where it fell, atop castle’s battlements would hardly be a discreet hiding place.  He bent down and grabbed Marcus and hefted him over his shoulders.  He would have to hurry.  Someone would come to investigate the ruckus.  As Geoffrey broke into a trot, his fine leather boots padding softly on cobbled stone, he thought back to the insult that had brought him to this.  The fight broke out over a woman.  Well, not any woman.  The fight had broken out over Micelle.   Geoffrey met her 2 years earlier while walking through the market.  She was enchanting, beautiful.  They began a fast friendship, though Geoffrey had always been explicit in his desires for more.

The plague had taken her last week.  Taken her from Geoffrey.  He went to the tavern to spend what little gold he had left to drown his sorrows.  It was there Marcus had committed his fatal error.  That little weasel, surrounded by his several sycophants, loudly boasted about bedding the fairest maidens in the land.  When he began to describe in agonizing detail an encounter with Micelle, Geoffrey ran to their table and threw Marcus from his chair.  He wished he had said something chivalrous like “Besmirch not the name of mine fair maiden.  Keep her name from thy lips and her face from thy thoughts.”  Instead in his rage addled mind he could only muster a single syllable: “Don’t.”

Marcus, having been chided in front of his dandy army, was quick to challenge Geoffrey to a duel.  Geoffrey, against his good nature and better judgment, quickly accepted.  No seconds, at dawn, atop the battlements.  For Micelle. 

And now Marcus was dead, draped over Geoffrey’s shoulders like a feathery sack of potatoes.  Sure, Geoffrey had cheated, but he also had lived.  Geoffrey slowed to a walk to look over the wall.  It was a three hundred foot drop to the ocean below.  No one would find his body there.  He felt a sense of relief as he let the body go, followed quickly by a sharp tug as one of the loops in Marcus’ natty outfit caught Geoffrey by his sword belt.  Soon he and the body pitched over the battlements towards the ocean below.  “Stupid foppish boy!” were the last thoughts Geoffrey had.

Student Vigorish

Dear Jeffrey,

This is a message regarding your student loans.  We would like to welcome you as a customer!  Sallie Mae, in reviewing its financial stability, has come to the conclusion that the company needs to sell aging debt in order to maintain financial viability.  Therefore, in an effort to help the struggling institution, we, the Puzzo Family of New York have purchased your student loan in the amount of $135,347.03.

With the change in ownership of your debt, some change in loan terms also apply. 

The interest rate for your loan, hereinafter referred to as “the vig”, will increase to 10 percent compounded daily, up from 4.5% compounded annually. 

Failure to comply with the terms listed in this document or failure to pay back the loan in full including the vig will result in immediate mediation, with the mediator to be chosen by the Puzzo Family, likely in the person of Vinny the Hammer.  All decisions and determinations by mediation are permanent and will be carried out immediately, including, but not limited to, maiming, dismemberment, and termination.

Should you have any questions, feel free to call the pay phone outside Tony’s Bar, or stop by and pay us a visit.  Please note: any unfavorable visit may result in an increase in the vig or other “penalties” as we see fit. 

Sincerely,

Sal Puzzo

Let them have cake...and ice cream

“You can have some ice cream when you finish your dinner.”

I saw the look of consternation on my mother’s face.  Mom was all powerful in my house and she wielded that power with awesome force of will.  But my cousin Tina didn’t visit often and was obviously not intimidated. 

“I want dessert now!”

I couldn’t believe it.  She had done it.  She had thrown down the gauntlet.  The die was cast and she was crossing the Rubicon.  The import of this moment was not lost on me.  Even at five, I realized the ramifications if Mom allowed my 7 year old cousin to have dessert.  Think of the precedent it would set!  No more broccoli, no more brussel sprouts.   No more “Finish your plate” lectures.  From now on, I could have pie for an appetizer and eat the rest of my dinner only if I felt like it.  Soon, we wouldn’t need to buy dinner at all!  Mom would realize that dinner had become a moot point and our freezer would be full of Otter Pops and ice cream sandwiches.  I would be the most popular kid in school.  Kids would vie for my friendship and for dinner invites, knowing that veggies were a thing of the past, all thanks to the gumption of a seven year old Magellan, charting into the unknown seas of dessert innovation. 

“I will not be dictated to by a seven-year old child,” Mother pronounced. 

So much for pie and popularity.

She Stands, Resolute

Deborah sat, staring at the paper she held with her soft hands, “2012- Resolutions” carefully scripted across the top of the page.  She slowly began to survey the list she had before her.  This wasn’t a yearly tradition for Deborah, she just happened across the list while cleaning out one of her desk drawers.  “Let’s see how I did!” she thought, a little excitedly.  Never did it cross her mind that if she didn’t already know how well she kept her resolutions, then she did not keep her resolutions.

There were the typical ones: “Go to the gym everyday”- that ended before January did.  “Get skinnier”- nope, she weighed the same.  “Get engaged”- she probably should get a boyfriend first. 

Her eyes then settled on the last item on the list: “Be Nicer”.  “How is that even count as a resolution?” She grew angry: at the list, at herself, or whatever version of herself it was that wrote this list last year.  “That one’s not even measurable!!”

With every passing heartbeat, she grew more and more upset.  “That’s it!  I was not able to keep a single resolution, nor do I care to anymore.  I’m not making any new resolutions this year or any year for that matter.”  She was determined, resolved, resolute.  “Dammit.  I guess I just made one.”

To Posit a Post

James finished typing and sat and stared at the cursor.  Blink.  Blink.  Blink. 

Sure, it was hilarious.  Damned hilarious.  And offensive.  Actually, the offensive part is what made it so hilarious.  He quickly weighed the pros and cons out in his mind.  He could offend Stacy, the girl he’s trying to make laugh by posting this about her and her friends.  This could offend her friends.  Soon all of the girls he knew might hear about this; that he’s offensive and rude and he may never date again, at least not in this city. 

Then again, it was the funniest thing he had written in a long time, proving him way funnier than Carl or Martin or Frank.  Those idiots always posted obvious, vanilla puns, requiring no thought, or sense of humor for that matter.  James knew he was better than they.  A simple survey of the number of friends each had indicated such was the case.  Carl and Martin each had about 450 friends, while James had close to 600!  Sure, Frank had almost 700, but he wasn’t on Instagram, so what the hell did he know anyway? Who knows what Stacy was thinking when she hung out with those guys.   

Still the cursor sat.  Blink. Blink. Blink.

If a post was any good, somewhere between 8 to 10 percent of his friends should like it.  Or so the math indicated.  Big events like a first child or graduation always garnered closer to 20 percent, but a funny post could, at best, hope for 10 percent, or 60 “likes”.   “This post deserves 100 ‘likes’,” he thought.

He also took into consideration when the best time to post to maximize his “likes” would be.  “Tuesday at 3 pm.  That’s a solid time to post on Instagram,” he thought.  The secret is to post when few others are planning to do so, thereby maximizing your visibility.  But if some girl happened to be on vacation to Puerto Rico, you’re screwed.  She’s going to post 5 pictures in a row of her bare feet in different locales: the beach, the swimming pool, her hotel bed, at a spa, on the plane.  James never saw so many feet as he had since joining Instagram.  With so many feet photos, no one will ever see your post; ergo, no one will “like” your post.  What’s worst is you have to endure two weeks of “#latergram” photos which apparently weren’t good enough to make the cut when the event was actually occurring but is now good enough to inundate her friends with, since no one wants to look at pictures of her fifth cupcake in as many hours. 

Facebook, however, is a different monster all together.  The best time to post ebbs and flows.  It is really luck of the draw.  Best rule of thumb is to go to Facebook and make sure no “major” story is trending.  “Major news,” he harrumphed out loud.  Major news meant as long as Buzzfeed didn’t feature something about “How You Know You are From…” or as long as Yahoo! News didn’t feature a celebrity break up.  Surveying Facebook, one would think that Slate and the Huffington Post are the two most influential newspapers in the country. 

Blink. Blink. Blink. 

“Eh, screw it” he thought, as he hit enter.  And then he sat:  watching his computer screen, waiting for “likes”, waiting for validation. 

 

Epilogue

He looked at his coworker Mark. 

James was in a new conundrum.  He was proud of this post.  He knew his coworker would love it.  It would be better if Mark stumbled upon it himself.  But he wanted to be there when Mark laughed. 

“Eh, screw it,” he thought.  “Hey, Mark!” James said.  “Did you see Facebook?!”

Welcome to the Jungle

He looked around his war table with cautious optimism.  “Table” was the wrong word for it- “boulder” was more apt.  The war was going poorly and this meeting became a necessity.  The soldiers from the Congo continued to push farther into the jungle driving the native defenses from the trees.  In times such as these, the opportunities to meet in war council were rare, indeed, and such opportunities must be capitalized upon. 

As General Bonobo stood to speak, the raucous din of the council members and warriors became a hushed whisper. General Bonobo, known affectionately as “Bobo” was the jungle’s greatest warrior and although short in stature, he was tall in courage.

Sweat poured down his face.  “The heat today is sweltering,” he thought.  He brought a dirty hand to wipe his face and it continued upward through his dark, silver-touched locks as his almond eyes surveyed the scene before him.  This was a gathering of the finest warriors of the Congo, but sticks and fists are no match for guns, at least not head on.  A new strategy was in order. 

“We are overmatched,” he began.  The warriors began to murmur, creating a buzz through the forest, but many of the council members nodded their heads in solemn agreement.  “We are overmatched!”  He said it again, raising his voice to drown out the seeds of discontent.  “We cannot meet this enemy’s strength, for they are strong and they are capable.  Brethren, we are overmatched, but we are not beaten.   We have convened this council in war, not to surrender, not to retreat, but to fight on.  And fight we shall.  We will change our tack.  Our enemy’s power lies in his weapons, as does his hubris.  He does not imagine that we are a threat.  He does not imagine that he can fail.  But he can.  And we will expand the boundaries of his imagination.  We will attack, harry and flee.  We will not allow our enemy to bring his might to bear!”  He steeled his gaze on his rapt audience and drank it all in.  His eyes were greeted by a sea of visages reflecting his own sanguine serenity, an army of animals prepared to die for their homeland.

Bobo slammed his chest with his black fist.  “We will take back this jungle.  It is our home.  We will drive man out, back to his villages, back to his huts. And man will tremble in fear, behind his fire.  And he will tell his children about the day the animals took back the jungle.  He will tell his children about our Gorilla warfare.”

For Mary

We all have heard the phrase “It takes a village to raise a child.”  As apathy has replaced sympathy and moral relativism has replaced moral obligation, these small community values have become considered small town ideas.  But, I am thankful for my “village”. From seminary teachers to school teachers, I am thankful for the people who weren’t family per se, but took the time to care for me, to listen to the ramblings of a teenager and make him feel valued.  I am thankful for these people who, with my own family, gave me confidence and with gentle and loving correction when I have acted inappropriately, gave me the values I cherish today.

Today, Mary Kirk, one of the matriarchs in my village passed away.  When I was in high school, she was the mother of my best friend, but the day I moved into her small town and befriended her son, I was more than an eccentric, gangly 15 year-old, I was under her wing, I was her responsibility.  In short, I was in her village.  Every week at church, she would seek me out, ask me about my week, give me a big hug.  Every visit home, I could look forward to these impromptu chats.  They took no more than 5 minutes of her time a week, but they mean the world to me.  I’m going to miss those hugs and my village won’t be the same without her.