CRUSHING BLOWS
- JOHN HAINES -
…it’s not over… keep thinking… keep believing…it’s not over - the pain is kicking my ass…more drugs please…Q…sucks… hair plastered to my cranium. Fallen…and it can’t get up. Really don’t wanna to die. Not yet. Not without some fluff back in my hair first. Can’t die; be too many people sad people, people I love - friends and family type people Weapons-grade grief - for them, from me. Truth is - I’d feel terrible for all who enjoy me. Be a lotta pain – different pain from this…my ‘might-just-die pain’ – I’m talking about the pain of losing me - me -flat haired man. Call me Matt. Ah, damn… many people very sad… Don’t die… need some fluff…
…I’d feel bad for the folks I don’t know too, the folks close to those who loved me…gotta be sorta special if they like people who like me. An’ how ‘bout the people with no connection to me at all… who really probably wanted to meet me some day, or maybe woulda had I not croaked… croaked with no fluff…feel bad for them too - they’d be okay in time. Still have their memories of me- good memories – all comes down to the editing though…yeah…they get memories, I get embalmed. Bummer. At least they’d probably fluff me up… a little…ain’t ever like when you do it yourself…
…of course, they’d all be better off than me, what with me being dead and all - my, ah, force-field of faith notwithstanding. Whoa… I have no proof of any of this stuff swirling inside my bed head, just…faith in faith…ha, faith in faith, funny, like, faithy faith - delusion or dilution…NO...force-field. But yeah, everybody gonna miss me…they’ll be sad. I can hear ‘em. Hot-damn…everything hurts too much…Hey God, it’s lefty-loosey…loosen the screws Dude…Jesus Christ somebody drug me…please….Q…
…a little better....but guess what…Think about all the sad people at my funeral. See ‘em cry. Usually, well not usually, but sometimes I focus on the ones I didn’t think would miss me. I cherry pick which ones…uh huh, on a ‘death fantasy’ by ‘death fantasy’ basis. Yep - I do…bet they wish they woulda said they liked me when they had the chance…people die don’t ya know…but – it’s not over…
…I think I’ll just lay here…m’eye-lids’r super-glued… must look dead… really, it ain’t just the wonders of me that’d push the sadness factory, three shifts 24/7. No - be kinda’ vain …it’s more, uh, the qualities of those I’m lucky enough to be surrounded by. Seems I’m always surrounded lately…like in a casket - but I know I’m not cuz my hair’d have more fluff but not like I did it myself. But they’re so cool all these people always around me… so willing to yank back the drapes…call’em…ah…the curtains of absurdity…I like that…they yank ‘em back to find the nutty stuff…my nutty stuff - sometimes I can actually hear those curtains. But they get me, usually …me, Tony Pieper… why they’re sad, you know…‘cuz I got something to say sometimes even though they might think it’s stupid or won’t admit, like, it’s not stupid but say it’s stupid anyways…like my wife …uh, anyway, yeah, me, The Peep…some guy believes miracles can happen…every damn day…little ones … sometimes, like with the chili and the oven mitt…or with my mucus…yeah, … more drugs? Yes please…oh yeah…Q…how’d they know? Talking or thinking now? Who cares….
…ahhhh, anyway s’pose it’s how you live…. why people are sad when ya die….If they’re sad at all… Oh man, I’m a phony…Phony Tony…I guess I really do want people to be sad…miss me? Shoulda kissed me …stupid little thoughts’r a big deal… attitude is everything…Right? “Marcus and Lief”… just my observations - running away with me…good song…choices…long-distance provider of choice – God? AT&T? Supreme court? Thinking… dreaming… wrap it all up - burrito supreme philosophy?…hell there’s a fee for everything…how we live… it’s in our choosin’…’zat mean? Roe v. Wade? Ginger or Mary Ann? Feeling better I think… “Marcus and Leif”…..tired…..sad…Jesse… happier….not dead yet…It’s not over….
… Jesse? My nephew….my nephew from MU....Marquette University…..We are - Marquette…Jesse…talkin down at me…saying he liked “Marcus and Leif”… emails?…a lot of emails… a good story…told me…wanted me to know …funny story…helping …helping me too? ....everybody keeps sayin’ my hair is pretty bad….. but they liked - “Marcus and Leif”?…a reason to be sad if I died…It’s not over…hearing…or dreaming.....huh?
*********************************
From: tonypieper@aol.com
To: jessejames@wi.rr.com
Sent: 7:17 am 11/29/02
Subject: Avuncular Wisdom
Jesse,
Great to see you last week end. Thought you seemed a bit more low-key than usual but then you’ve made nonchalance an art form all your own. Perhaps being a junior in college getting straight A’s with occasional effort leaves you somewhere between Ho and Hum – but Ho-hum can be habit forming. As I age, the more I believe Ho-hum is something for recreational use only.
To that end, I’ve attached a document with my first draft of a short story; a first person narrative….it’s anti-Ho-Hum. You know how some little things can jack me up. This one’s about…well you’ll see. My loving wife, your dear Aunt Tina who adores you, just shakes her head at me on this stuff.
What can I say, Jesse… can I help it I find something profound in, for example, how the last trash bag in the box takes in the box from whence it came and – off they go, oldest and youngest in a reversal of wombs, to die together…after the box, like the protective, chipboard mother it was, simply gave until it had no more to give. Or, the time I made my special chili, and poured some of the steaming chili from the crock pot into a smaller bowl with the help of Aunt Tina’s “good oven mitts” – some flowed over and it left a long narrow stain on one of them - in almost the exact shape of Chile. Darn near a miricle. I am but a vessel.
There are those who delight in the presence of God because a butterfly landed on their shoulder for a moment. That’s great. But He does some funky stuff too. I try to be open to the funky stuff. At 46, still El Gato….see attached – correct my tenses and my passive whatevers if you like. Thank you, Jesse.
Uncle Tony
--------------------------------------------------
attch:
MARCUS AND LEIF
By Tony Pieper
It was late October; felt like December, an ice-pick wind made my task of cleaning the gutters a little less fun than usual. I had a nasty variation on a cold and my head was so stuffed I was forced to breath through my ears. Dark clouds threatened a strategic Zulu attack from the perimeters - just a matter of time. Though dry and dusty on top, the leaves, seeds and gutter crap at the bottom were wet and heavy and seemingly welded to where they were. It was slow going and I felt sicker still.
Inside the house our nine-year-old year old boy antagonized the current version of our 13-year-old daughter. They traded loud and angry squeals like dueling hair metal gods. From the roof I could hear them easily penetrate the ceiling and the arctic bitch-slaps of the wind. Their Saturday chores were done. They each have one. Our daughter’s job is to push the little stool under the computer desk after getting off the internet. Our son’s chore is to always, I mean always, return his Gatorade cup to the kitchen after he’s done killing whoever deserves to die on his Playstation2. As parents we are demanding because we love them.
I relentlessly blew my nose in search of air. Not happening. I couldn’t mouth breathe either – too much dust from the crusty top layer of gutter leaves. Not into mulch-mouth. I manipulated my nose like a stick shift – but the engine just wouldn’t turn over. It was like trying to blow out candles through a wine cork. No go.
Below me I could hear the door-slams and some of the other sound-effects from my wife touring the house; storming from room to room, seething at each sign of life and the imperfection of everything. Mostly about who left out what and why they will one day suffer. Why and how. Damn - I’m better off on the roof, dog sick, ice cold, and unable to breathe while combating the gutter gunk. Sickness above, ill will below. Beautiful. Leaves continued to fall, some where I’d already cleaned. Leaves can be assholes.
I resumed the gutter dig; underneath wet gloves my fingers are peach popsicles with blueberry tips. A minute later I blew my nose so hard my ears popped, my eyes bugged out and nearly froze over. Vitreous floaters did their white tracer thing. My head was a vacuum. I’d want to die if it wouldn’t make many people very sad.
I noticed the vents near the peak of the roof. I recalled my dad telling me how a house has to breathe. Hmph… Right. I heard a rumble of thunder, I looked down at the gutter cleaning trowel in my hand – hmm, made of steel - if I see lightning, I may go to the peak of the roof and hold it to the sky - no matter how many people would be sad.
I recalled a license plate I saw the other day: I SUFFER it read; it was attached to a shiny Jeep Cherokee. There’s probably a rusted and mufflerless Pinto limping around somewhere with IM LUCKY plates. Lucky, at the moment, would be to be the proud owner of at least one clear nasal passage. I decided to moan, loud and free – why not - no one else in the neighborhood was outside on this dreary day. If a man moans in the wind and there’s no one there to hear it: does it make the misery worse- or merely mythical? Hmmm.
Resigned, I continued to scoop crap from the gutter with my trowel and flip it towards a tall multi-ply brown paper yard bag stuffed with the martyred leaves my wife had raked-up from our back yard. I hadn’t made a shot yet and probably wouldn’t make one all day, maybe ever. Probably why they call dumb luck a crap-shoot. The whole damn experience was dragging on like DNA testimony in a meat locker.
A thought gnawed at me. I kept at the chain-gangy chore; digging, crap-shooting and missing, digging, shooting and missing again, and again. Still, the ghost of fugitive thought persisted. I stopped, looked into the mercury sky. I can’t say for sure, but I think I was in denial. I was actually feeling sorry for myself, something I despised. And worse, I was failing to come up with a justification worth saying out loud.
A sparkler ignited in my mind, it got my attention and provided just enough light. A dawning of sorts. Let’s face it; there are going to be times when a guy feels like he’s shoveling a pile of drudgery back and forth. And hassles; they’re relative. The kids fight, wives get cranky, gutters get plugged, noses get stuffy, and it gets cold in Wisconsin. None of it is permanent. The gutters are attached to a nice home, the nose will one day work, the kids love me, and, on odd days, so does my fine looking wife. Indian summer’s coming, and really, to list all my blessings would take longer than it takes Sting to properly satisfy Mrs. Sting.
Pitiful. Me.
Just like that. My attitude began to change for the better and I began some rather congratulatory inner dialogue for evicting my inner pathos. The gutter cleaning came a little easier. A sliver of sunlight shot through the Zulu clouds, and, at that exact moment, without effort, after all my frantic and fruitless nose blowing, everything in my sinuses backed up into my throat.
In an instant I expectorated a raw eggs worth of snot. A major league spew - far beyond the roof. Against the eastern skyline my snot hung suspended in the breeze, unitized and shiny. Some would say raw egg is exactly right, translucent slime with a yolky cast. In the sliver of sunlight, however, it was a figurine in flight. I saw it glisten; an undulating paramecium of liquid glass and laced with ornate veins of gold.
Let’s call my mucus, Marcus.
Air rushed into my head and directly to my brain. Orchestral music soared, the sound of breaking euphoria. My airborne hunk of languid snot, Marcus, began its descent, drifting with the wind, from my left to right. In an act of inexplicable aerodynamics, floating strangely from the opposite direction was a single, massive leaf. A barge of a leaf. It was spinning slowly in an updraft as if to meet Marcus in midair.
And meet they did – just as an army of endorphins joined forces with the oxygen flooding my brain. To an epic crescendo that only I could hear, Marcus went smack into the bare back of the broad leaf. Let’s call the leaf, Leif, and together they began a freefall towards earth. The wind huffed and puffed but straight down with only gentle canoe wobbles, Marcus atop Leif like a magic carpet, as one, with purpose and a sense of direction – as if they had a goal - a destination.
They approached the narrow opening of the nearly full lawn bag like a bird of prey, like a Golden Eagle. It wasn’t a swish, but then it wasn’t supposed to be. With the stem-end of Leif expertly catching the rim of the bag, he flipped himself over and covered Marcus, protecting him from the elements. And, poetically, Leif was reunited with old friends and neighbors, certainly no assholes. The whole event took less than four seconds.
I believe with all my heart, that the mid-air merger of Marcus and Leif, along with precision with which they stuck their landing, has never, and will never – ever - happen again. Not like that. Not with such élan.
It struck me somehow. The image of Marcus saddled up on Leif, and then turning over. It was telling me something. Over and over…but not over…. It didn’t take long before I understood. I laughed out loud. Certifiable. Me. Just when a person thinks things are too tough and trouble is all around, that it’s all over, Well….it’s not. And there it is – it’S NOT over. Leif and Marcus, coming together and turning over. I can’t give up – because IT’S SNOT OVER!
I was inspired to the point where I felt the story should be told. So others could benefit as well. The symbolism of clearing the canals and passageways of ones house, ones sinuses, and ones mind, with all its holistic connotations, was to me, profound.
That my tendency towards the willful ethic of “pushing hard,” only to find that the philosophically Zen precept of “letting” often works better, was instructive. Not only in dealing with a stuffy nose, but in achieving perspective.
As important as anything was the reinforcement that there can be art and meaning in the little things of life, even a four second episode involving some unlikely elements splicing through the middle of one mans misery. A part of me and a part of nature, collaborating to create something inspirational, and damn near divine. That allowing the odd, odd-occurrence into your life, and taking note of them, can, often, reveal a curious phenomenon worthy of wonder, and perhaps the contemplation of a greater power. Just pull back the curtains; the curtains of absurdity, and behold many blessings.
I say this because after the miracle of Marcus and Leif, I finished my work quicker than I thought possible. A spiritual reload of sorts. More serene than giddy; I went back into the house which was under a mom-ordered cease-fire and the kids’ had mellowed to where they were on the verge of apathy naps. My wife was hissing at a loose cabinet knob and would I ever fix it. I shrugged. I wanted to tell my family of my experience.
I gave it my best. At the end, I summarized all the lessons. First, never give up….because it’SNOT over. Second - it’s often just a matter of attitude that makes the difference. Third - the biblical notion of addition through subtraction- the gain that can come from good riddance. Fourth - the Zen thing, letting, instead of trying. And finally -the power of observation: by simply taking note that little things can change the big picture, for others and for yourself, for the better. That, sometimes, a person can tug at a small thread that leads to a bigger cord and – what do ya’ know - the curtains pull apart to reveal something someone has yet to imagine. Something for which there are no limits.
I looked at them expectantly, my soul exposed.
Eye rolls. A patronizing “ooo-kay” from my daughter. A sigh from my wife. My boy, well, he’ll talk snot anytime. But not this time. His mother chose that moment to interrogate him as to the whereabouts of his Gatorade cup. Busted. Apparently, my family was not in the mood for me or my story. I was a bit deflated, but not surprised. Maybe one day.
Over the next few weeks all three of them, in their own way, made light of both me and the story of Marcus and Leif, laughing authentic laughs, and recalling parts I was amazed they remembered. I’d tie in the little lessons with every crack. And sometimes they did too. Probably so I wouldn’t. Our nine-year-old fixated mostly on “It’SNOT over,”
With every laugh they confirmed one more message to be culled from the story of “Marcus and Leif”. They were enjoying the moment – embracing one of the plentiful, random moments that make up our lives; some little thing someone took a moment to notice, and then shared. If making fun of me gives them a reason to smile, then, please dear family, feel free, because this stuff is free, and it glues us together more than you know. Like mucus, there will be more, it is always present, without it we would all die – in some manner - breathing or not.
********************************************
“Jesse?” … my mouth’s too dry, but I’m audible – I think. I’m attached to tubes that lead to machines and everything is hospital white and painfully bright. I hurt. I feel like an insect that just met the windshield. Just not as strong.
“Uncle Tony? Oh my God, oh wow…..” Where was the nonchalance? His eyes seemed red and watery. He was at my bedside, reading The Onion. He sensed my curiosity over why his eyes were watering. He pointed to the humor tabloid and mouths the explanation, “The Onion,” he says.
“The hell…”
“You were crushed by a truck, could you hear us tell you? You’ve been in an out of it, mostly out...since last week; you were on your bike. Cube truck – carrying Adult arcade games and pornagraphic pinball machines, yeah, no lie – and they got the guy. But oh, man….you’re awake, you’re gonna be okay…right? Grandpa, Grandma, Aunt Tina, my mom – they’re all at the cafeteria.” There is a quiver in his voice. He looked over his shoulder as if the foursome were about to materialize.
I never saw him look back. Heard him though.
“Uncle Tony, come on, hang in a bit, they’ll want to see you with your eyes open…….” Then, medical gibberish from a man and a woman. Asking questions. Slowly. To whom I did not know.
Too tired. I heard some curtains.
*******************************************
It was unbelievable. “Marcus and Leif” took off in a way that one could only dream. Go figure.
Jesse had emailed the story to a few friends at Marquette and some others. It, in turn, was forwarded to many and more diverse numbers and took off from there. How the story of a middle-aged suburbanite fighting sinus issues while cleaning gutters on a dreary day struck a chord with so many is anybody’s guess.
Some, of course, saw Marcus and Leif as drivel. Fair enough. Some hated it simply because they saw it as a micro-cosmic and not very hip twist to the ‘Don’t Worry, Be Happy’ world view. The inevitable backlash; but guess what - you don’t get blasted unless you stand for something. And you get ignored if you don’t.
WKLH 96.5 morning personality, KB, received “Marcus and Leif” in an email from someone he didn’t know but he knew Tony Pieper. He hilariously paraphrased the story on the air as a means of soliciting prayers and best wishes for his friend, The Peep, who lay in St. Mary’s ICU, fighting for his life, having been hit by a truck carrying pornographic pinball machines bound for various strip clubs in Windsor Canada. He had had the story posted earlier on the stations website.
Comedian Dennis Miller, appearing in Milwaukee that evening was scheduled later that morning to call in to the Dave/Carol/KB morning team at KLH - to hype his show - even though it was already a sell out. When he did, he said was just sitting around his hotel room the night before and decided to visit the stations website via his laptop “to put some pixels with the names and voices” In doing so, he came across “Marcus and Leif.” What he had to say about it was then posted on the stations website as well. His statement:
“It’s not in my DNA to side-step topics of importance or the sticky issues others may give a wide berth to, and so it may come as a surprise that I haven’t come out, at least publicly, on mucus. Personally, I find the raw material for boogers a touchy subject but that has never stopped me before. There is not, however, a more vital, valuable substance on earth that, sadly, gets unceremoniously dumped into the ‘loud fart’, ‘big belch’ pigpen of cheap-laughs more than our innocent, yeoman pal, snot. This is patently unfair and I find myself perpetually nonplussed by the blatant condescension folks of every strata show for a border patrol substance that exists only to serve and protect the lion’s share of the world’s life-force as we know it. Mucus, my friends, is what keeps the body’s digestive acids from doing the Pacman shuffle and munching through your stomach lining and the vital parts of your thorax -- and possibly your belt-buckle depending on which way your personal fashion inclinations skew.
“The cultural taboo on mucus and it’s mutations in America is seriously mind-boggling when you consider its unquestioned courageousness in waging war against myriad infections and diseases we can’t even pronounce; not to mention its role in something I simply refer to as ‘pain-free sex.’ Sex without snot, with its unparalleled lubricating qualities is like digging a post-hole in concrete with a Popsicle stick, yet we scoff and scream and contort our faces at the very thought of this precious, gelatinous gift of our own physiology. It is far more critical to the human condition than anything Madame Currie ever stumbled upon and I for one now stand with Mr. Anthony Pieper in bringing some dignity to any fighting force that’s protected all our lives with such valor. Like mucus. Like Marcus.
“The story of ‘Marcus and Leif’ is one that needs to be told, and Tony Pieper, The Peep to those who love him, has done so, cleverly, and on the crusty edges of profundity and enlightenment. One mans mucus is another mans shining star in the east – guiding him, and many more, to that holy land of the greater good. And, if The Peep chooses to scale Mount Maslow on a precipitous ascent to self-actualization through the magical incarnation of his own mucus, then I’m only too happy to be right here in the Milwaukee area where it all went down, so to speak…. for all of us. My prayers, too, are with Mr. Pieper and his family. Something tells me he won’t lose this fight. Truly, my friends, it’s not over.”
- Dennis Miller –
Not long after that, on ESPN radio’s Mike and Mike show, Mike Greenberg announced, “With us now; Marquette University head basketball coach Tom Crean, Coach, there’s a bizarre, albeit, inspirational story, taking place at Milwaukee’s Bradley Center during Golden Eagles basketball games. Something about…., and forgive me for chuckling – I know this story has a serious side too, but …what’s this about your team rallying around a piece of snot named Marcus? ”
“Well Greenie, if you would’ve told me what’s going on here a few weeks ago, I would have said you were crazy - or on something,” said coach Crean in the requisite raspy, coach-voice endorsed by the NCAA coaches association. “But a long time MU basketball fan was out riding his bike when he was hit by a truck….”
“A truck carrying pornographic pinball machines from what we hear, coach.”
“That’s what they say, but it’s not really important. The guy’s fighting for his life and our thoughts are with him. Anyway, he had written a silly short story, well it seamed silly at first… but….it’s really about drawing inspiration from an experience he had while cleaning the gutters on his house and…..”
The head coach for The Marquette Golden Eagles then told a national audience about “Marcus and Leif” - in his words – and in between playful comments from the Mikes.
Mike Golic jumped in. “So, you thought the team was playing… tight…and as you said, you’d lost a couple games in a row, your student manager hands you an email copy of ‘Marcus and Leif’ after practice one night,’ and somehow you thought this off the wall story written by a long time fan of the program might loosen up your student athletes - and is it true they were required to read it and then have a team discussion about it before your next practice?”
“That’s pretty much it. Thing is, I’d never would have taken the time to read something like this but…well...intestinal issues gave me the time. But this crazy story got me thinking.’”
“That’s beyond cutting edge coach,” said Golic
“They’re great kids, very serious, they’re focused and very assignment-sure, but we needed to have a little more fun, to enjoy the process, maybe laugh a little. We were grinding so hard we went stale.”
“But then the student section at the Bradley Center, where the Golden Eagles play home games, got in the act. What’s up with that?” Greenberg asked, but knew full well.
“Well, one of our back up point guards shared the ‘Marcus and Leif’ story with some friends, mostly students, big supporters of the team, and before we knew it, in our game against a fired up, defensive-minded DePaul team, when we were down by 7 with a little over 4 minutes to go, in danger of losing our third straight game, almost the entire student section, a few thousand strong, stood up as we were coming out of a timeout, and started screaming ‘SNOT! – SNOT! - SNOT OVER YET! –after the first two SN0TS they make like they’re blowing their noses using blue and yellow tissues, just honking like geese, then they toss the tissue over their shoulders, it’s a sight to see…Vitale was there screaming ‘SNOT OVER BABY! NO WAA-AAY’ …. I guess someone had gotten word to him before the game and clued him in. Some students held up signs made for the moment…in case they were needed. Stuff like MARCUS IS A GOLDEN EAGLE and MARQUETTE + MUCUS = MARCUS…it’s crazy, I know,” said Tom Crean, disbelief in his voice from even talking about such madness.
“And you went on to win against DePaul 53-43 and a whole new spirit…”
Crean interrupted. “Actually, the final score was 53-43, those numbers 5 3 4 3 - on a phone – it was pointed out to me -- spell Leif.”
“Spooky,” said Golic.
“Correct me if I’m out of line, coach,” said Greenberg, “but do you this may be the late great Al McGuire at work…maybe conning God into having some fun?”
“That could be, Greenie. Coach Al would love this this. He was one of the last Bohemians in major college sports. Coach Al would not only embrace this - he’d be visiting Tony at the hospital, whether he was conscious or not, whenever he could. I try to stay in touch with Tony Piepers family, who are longtime season ticket holders.”
And so it went. Jim Rome, read the entire story on “The Jungle,” his radio show, and then addressed the subject in segments for 3 straight days in his inimitable way. His listeners, the so-called “clones” were warned to stay off “the vine” if they were going to get all lathered up over the bodily properties that make up Marcus. That they should respect that the author of ‘Marcus and Leif’, The Peep, Tony Pieper, was in the hospital fighting for his life.
Some excerpts from “The Jungle:”
“…The man was hit by a truck carrying pornographic pinball machines…..I hate when that happens,” said Rome. “every morning I get up and my wife says to me, ‘have a great day honey – and watch the hell out for trucks carrying pornographic pinball machines…..what wife doesn’t warn their husband to watch out for pornographic pinball machine trucks?...it’s a freaking cliché…. bring some Chinese take-out on your way home huh, honey – but don’t let the porno pinball trucks get you – oh, and your mother called.” And….
“Great…..The Marquette Golden Eagle’s new spiritual mascot is a loogie…and the student body cannot control themselves….they are ‘snotting all over’…..great… a loogie named Marcus…..a freaking loogie……a loogie named Marcus…..this from a program that decided - ‘warrior’- was objectionable…. Quoting the author, Tony Pieper, – ‘I expectorated (“that means ‘to spit’ clones) a RAW EGGS worth of snot’…great…. ‘it hung suspended in the breeze…. unitized and shiny’….again, were talking about a loogie here, nothing more, again quoting... ‘an undulating paramecium of liquid glass with ornate veins of gold?….a figurine in flight?’ By the way clones, a figurine is a small statue or ornament…..the man is talking about a freaking loogie -and his name is Marcus, …how fresh is that?...and it’s getting good run in Milwaukee, at Marquette basketball games in the Bradley center - and here in the Jungle….Too wild….even to guy from So Cal. Like myself.”
And the next day…..
“Clones in Milwaukee have forwarded to The Jungle, comments attributed to Dennis Miller about the loogie that’s become a Milwaukee icon….I’m sorry, not a loogie, the loogie has a name… …Marcus, no disrespect Marcus….anyway, we’re going to wrap this up and move on, but I’m going to pass on a short take from Dennis Miller - that’s right - Dennis freaking Miller, and what he said summarizes this story as well as anything can, and then that will be it clones… Dennis Miller said, during the time when he was appearing in Milwaukee, just when the loogie story first broke…..he said, ‘One man’s mucus - is another mans shining star in the east’….That’s strong…. spewed phlegm - or star of Bethlehem….phenomenal.…I’m out.”
#
No doubt about it, I was feeling better than anytime I could recently remember. I was sliced up, caved in and weak, but I was alive and making a difference in peoples lives - as well as a major college basketball program. Even with my eyes shut, I could tell it was too bright to open them. But so what? Finally I was getting a little recognition for something; my perspective on life no less. Dennis Miller, Tom Crean, Mike and Mike, Romie, hell maybe someday we’d all do lunch. Maybe even find some time for KB.
I have to admit, I liked it. No. I loved it. I was adding folks to the list who would feel bad at my funeral if I were to die, which I wasn’t going to do, yet. Maybe my next death fantasy would have some new eulogizers. “Marcus and Leif” had seen to that. I would be sure to remain humble though. Yes sir, The Peep would remember who his friends were.
Then I opened my eyes. Curtains. A hospital. No strength. All things I think I knew but...reality was establishing order with the truth. My brain was collecting data so fast that, despite the confusion, I knew depression was just around the corner. I could feel it. It was that moment when consciousness confirms the folly of the fantasy world created by the unconscious. Two Doctors and a nurse arrived quickly and informed me how right I was. It was 6:30 am on, who knows what day. I was crushed. Again. No truck this time.
It was all a dream; dreams are the worst gimmick in movies, literature, and sometimes, life. I hate dream sequences. No matter how they are presented. Now, it was a mule kick to the balls. But here, I can only tell it as I understand it it. The medical people used foreign terminology like “wake state mentation,” or something like that. They threw out other terms like “neuro-imaging,” and “neuro-modulation, “delta-sleep” and “phenomonolgy.” And the role of morphine. No real explanations, but “possibilities.” They said I was lucky to be alive. But I didn’t feel lucky. I felt crushed, in every way. They said they were going to start weaning me off the dope too. Wonderful.
In the ensuing days my mom and dad, Tina and Jesse and others, through tears of joy told me everything, which to me, meant everything that didn’t happen. Really only two things were true as far as I knew. Yes, I was hit by a truck carrying adult video games and pornographic pinball machines, and yes, “Marcus and Leif” was a true story I had written a few months ago. Apparently, through my various states of consciousness, I had babbled on about it – fixating on ‘it’s snot over.’ Kept saying it. Over and over. Jesse, who had emailed the story to a handful of people, explained what it was about to the doctors. They said that likely it was the nature of my story specifically, and the power of the mind in general, that may have saved my life, what gave me the will to fight. Yeah, the omnipotent mind. An innate drive to survive. Right.
No. It was more believing that I was finally becoming a somebody, somebody that could crack up other somebodys -- as well as their listening audience. Believing I could inspire people simply by taking down the minutes from an especially poignant rooftop spew. That my approach to life - coupled with my drive to chronicle it all in a way that could only be told by me, my words, in my voice, the way that I do - was something in demand. By famous guys, famous guys with fluff. Fluff would be a start. In the end, they would never know me.
How egotistical is that? Can’t help it. I loved it when I thought my mucus was the driving force behind Marquette turning around their season and that the students had all jumped on board. That the national media was eating it up. Anything wrong with wanting that? I was glad to be alive, don’t get me wrong, but it all seemed so real. Me, The Peep, making a difference in the world. Sting - happy just to be mentioned.
That night, alone, I started working on regrouping. I realized how badly I missed my kids, my friends, and my ability to have a bowel movement without assistance. Still I couldn’t shake what it felt like to taste my 15 minutes of fame. Damnit! It made sense, me and those famous guys; we were cut from the same cloth…..weren’t we?
There were plants everywhere. I looked at the stacks of cards on my nightstand. I couldn’t open them without help. I wasn’t as touched as I should have been. I was a crabby son of a bitch with no fame, no fluff, no strength and pretty soon, no dope. Can’t even claim the default “at least I have my health” line. Plus, my body smelled funky. Funky bad. The cherry on top.
#
I heard the curtains open. Jesse. A new day. I had been bathed and fluffed. Somehow my head, for the most part, had been spared from the red light running porno pinball truck attack. The rest of me, well, Wile E. Coyote comes to mind.
“They’re high-tech and cheesy at the same time. I guess the more a ball is in play - the more you score, the more the machines moan and howl with pleasure. The proverbial whisper to a scream.” Jesse presented his pornographic pinball machine research straight-faced – as if offering some conclusion ala the scientific method. Ho Hum. “There is a synchronized silhouette of two people going at it, more points, more intense until….”
“I get it Jesse. Thanks. I did wonder.” I’d grown accustomed to my nephew digging up whatever data was needed to keep his curious world spinning. I usually just speculated on most things, or made it up. I was in sales, it’s what we do.
“Uncle Tony, I brought two cards - one from Maggie, and one from a friend of her moms, her name is Eileen. Eileen is “cuckoo for Coco Puffs.” Read Maggie’s second. I’ll help you open them. Maggie and I will be back later. She’s got one more exam”
Eileen’s card was simply a housing unit for maybe a half dozen folded yellow legal sheets, both sides filled completely with near perfect penmanship.
I read your story, “MARCUS AND LEIF” two weeks ago. That night, I tried to kill myself. The reasons for wanting to end my life are complicated and none of your business. I had tried running dryer venting from the tailpipe into my Jeep. The vent opening was too big and duct tape wouldn’t hold to the tail pipe. I ran out to Walgreen’s and bought four Nerf balls. I squeezed them into the excess area of the wider venting pipe to hold it in place and optimize the in-flow of carbon monoxide. Turns out I needed six Nerf balls. I went back to purchase the last two Nerf balls at Walgreen’s. I thought I had finally gotten the vent nice and tight. Six Nerf balls worked perfectly. Or so I thought. I gave the vent one last tug to test it while under the car. The Nerf balls held the vent, and then they didn’t. They rolled slightly forward toward the opening and then all six shot out at once, some hit me in the face, and others ricocheted off the cars underbody and all about the garage floor. I came back into my house and read your story over and over until I fell asleep.
Mr. Pieper, I am a writer, and I have suffered from something called “hypergraphia.” It is the compulsive impulse to write endlessly about everything. A blank sheet of paper used to set me trembling. I had been on medication in order to gain control of my life but the medication caused me to suffer from writers block. I went off my medication, and the writers block remained. I was not much interested in existing without my gift for the written word.
I noted earlier that the reasons for wanting to end my life were “none of your business.” I would take that back if my Bic pen had a backspace bar and were I not so pleased with how I expressed my Nerf ball experience; not to mention the flow of my penmanship thus far.
Your narrative, while in parts repulsive and over-reaching, (to say the least) has nonetheless unlocked something inside of me. The fact you could write so earnestly, in your clever but amateur way, about something so mundane and quite likely beyond the accepted boundaries of poetic license, was indeed inspiring. I have not stopped writing since.
I am alive today because of you. There, I said it. And I said it on paper. Thank you, Mr. Pieper. Further, you and I are connected in way that would indeed surprise you. I would like to reveal this to you in person someday.
As I write this, I note that for many months, the only sign of growth under this roof has been from the crack in my living room wall……
* * *
I set aside her tome, worn out and put off. So far this woman, Eileen, whoever the hell she was, or thought she was, had some great things to say to a guy in the hospital recovering from a near death experience. She read my story and tried to kill herself. Then she read my story and it put her to sleep. Then she called “Marcus and Leif” repulsive, and essentially, untrue. “Over-reaching.” Poetic license? She wasn’t there.
And to think I saved her life. You’re welcome, Eileen. Shove it up your ass.
Then I opened Maggie’s card. She had been coming by the hospital regularly with Jesse, so I wondered why she was giving me this card. I opened it and read what she had written.
Hi Mr. Pieper,
This is hard for me. I don’t know what Eileen has written, but my mom wanted you to know some things. I had no idea. This is what she told me.
Eileen is a hypochondriac and has suffered every ailment and neurosis she’s ever read about. Eileen is not a bad person, she means well, but she needs help. She claims every counselor she’s met with wants her for unsavory reasons, man or woman. She’s fixated on you now. She gets these crushes….. I’m sorry for sending her your story. I thought she’d like it. She talks a lot about writing. I did not know her license plate reads… I SUFFER.
She doesn’t go away easy. I’ll talk to my mom. But sometimes it takes a restraining order when she sets her sights on someone she thinks she has a connection with. I’m so sorry.
I’ll see you later,
Maggie
The irony hit me like a truck.
It’s not over.
Yet.