  | Beauty Tips for the Dead
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Excerpt
Jonathan’s knuckles glared white above his bulging veins as he manhandled the screaming Volkswagen Beetle in a death grip across Ashland Avenue.
“Shift, for God’s sake, shift! You’re going to blow the motor!” David shouted over the piercing scream of the engine.
“Eeeeee – ahhhh,” the engine sighed as Jonathan shifted and the engine relaxed into third gear, but accelerated even faster as they careened around corners, flew down alleys, and skittered over forgotten side streets.
David tightened his seat belt and straight-armed the dash board as he pressed his foot into the floor board seeking succor from a fantasy brake. “Slow down, you’re gonna kill us!”
Jonathan dared a quick look at his watch. “It’s 6:24. I can’t slow down. We’ll never make it.”
He flew out of an alley, turned left up the wrong way of a one-way, laid on the horn, scattering children left and right like Nogales chickens.
“Short cut,” he said as David searched through the back window for signs of torn and broken kids.
Jonathan’s eyebrows furrowed and his chin tucked ever so slightly as he set his jaw and stared grimly at the stop light, still green, but so far away. His foot began to vibrate from holding the accelerator so desperately to the floor, sending psychic urgency to the little engine.
David was transfixed by the green light, still holding, holding, holding as they approached at a dizzying speed, but he chanced a quick look at the mad man who had commandeered their vehicle and taken over gentle Jonathan’s fragile mind. Jonathan grinned and laughed hysterically as he bore down on the fading green, now yellow light.
David closed his eyes, envisioning the mythical hayrack pulled by the donkey, and screamed as they passed safely through the intersection just as the light turned red.
Jonathan snapped a U turn, jumped the curb, plunked down off the curb, and screeched to a halt as he threw his door open and raced to the house, keys in hand. When David caught up to him Jonathan was madly twisting the key in the lock and begging the door, “Open, open, please in the name of all things sacred, OPEN.” When the lock gave, Jonathan flew through the door and scrambled to the flat screen TV. He looked left and right for the remote, ran to the sofa, tore the pillows off, turned a circle desperately searching the room and found the remote on the end table. He clicked it on, set the channel, and assumed his Buddha-like position exactly fourteen inches from the huge, flat screen TV.
Pat Sajak and Vana White came briskly onto the stage of “Wheel of Fortune.”
Pat said: “Hello everybody and welcome to our show.”
Vana said: “Hello.”
And Jonathan sighed as the day’s stress visibly drained from his body.
Pat said (to Vana): “I’ll see you on the other side.”
Vana said: “Okay.”
Jonathan was transported as he muted the TV but continued to watch intently, cravenly.
David, watching the transformation but remembering his recent near death experience, paced behind the sofa fuming.
“Are you out of your. . .”
“Shhh,” Jonathan shushed him with a look that could quick-freeze a side of beef.
So David paced and fumed as he watched Jonathan watching Vana strut back and forth, turning the letters on the puzzle board.
Jonathan’s eyes took on a glowing intensity as he watched her walking, standing, strutting silently right and left, left and right; then standing, waiting, waiting for her cue - her cue, which she never, ever missed.
“Magnificent," Jonathan marveled as he wiped the corner of his mouth, having forgotten to swallow for a very long time.
His eyes revealed intensity, passion, and lust of course; but much more. They showed deeper and stranger feelings, like the possessiveness of a son’s love for his mother. But Jonathan’s mother was no Vana White, his mother looked a lot like. . . no, exactly like Dick Chaney; same hair, same shape, same gravelly voice. How could Jonathan transpose, transfer, transport, transmogrify his mother (Dick Chaney) into Vana White?
David watched in wonder as Jonathan transformed from the raging maniac, cursing and screaming his way across town, to the horny little Buddha mesmerized and worshipping Vana’s performance extraordinaire. Then he looked at Vana and concluded, not bad, for an old broad.
The program was coming to an end. Jonathan, discovering the remote still in his hand, punched the sound on and shot David another “Shut up or I’ll kill you with my bare hands” look.
Jonathan held his breath.
Pat Sajak said: “Thanks for coming everybody.”
Vana White said: “Goodbye.”
Jonathan watched as Vana waved goodbye to him. Then he clicked the TV off, turned to David and said, “Now, what were we talking about?”
“Talking? Who could talk? I was too busy trying not to die out there! And when I finally arrive alive, and I think I’m in the sanctuary, the sanctum sanctorum, all I get is shushed until you finish your slavish worship,” David scolded.
“Slavish? Moi, slavish? I think not. But Vana is a goddess deserving of worship.”
“She turns over letters on a puzzle board for. . .” And before the last word had even left David’s mouth he knew he had gone too far. He’d stepped over the line and needed to back up quickly. “I’m sorry. Of course she’s. . .”
But Jonathan pounced. “She’s more than a TV star. She’s a movie actress and. . . and a goddess.”
“I know, I know. I‘m sorry. We‘ll watch her movie again, I promise. Maybe Thursday night. With the sound off of course.”
“Of course. Dialog would only interfere with the essence of the beautiful creature she plays so wonderfully.” Jonathan, mollified and relaxed, flopped contentedly onto the sofa.
“So why don’t we have the consummate, ultimate Pee Pee plan of action yet?” Jonathan asked and he was serious. They had been working off and on for months only to eventually discard whatever plan they had developed. By Pee Pee he was referring to the position of Product Placement Specialist to which they both aspired at Saul and Son Advertising, the firm for which they both worked.
“It seems to usually come down to money. We come up with a dynamic plan, but somebody else ends up with the money. Take car racing. The stadium, the billboards, and even the guardrails are covered with advertising, and the best spots cost the most because they’re the ones that are most likely to get camera time. The race car is covered with advertising; so much so, there’s no more room for ads. Until we came up with the center of the wheel ad. . .” David said.
“Shift, for God’s sake, shift! You’re going to blow the motor!” David shouted over the piercing scream of the engine.
“Eeeeee – ahhhh,” the engine sighed as Jonathan shifted and the engine relaxed into third gear, but accelerated even faster as they careened around corners, flew down alleys, and skittered over forgotten side streets.
David tightened his seat belt and straight-armed the dash board as he pressed his foot into the floor board seeking succor from a fantasy brake. “Slow down, you’re gonna kill us!”
Jonathan dared a quick look at his watch. “It’s 6:24. I can’t slow down. We’ll never make it.”
He flew out of an alley, turned left up the wrong way of a one-way, laid on the horn, scattering children left and right like Nogales chickens.
“Short cut,” he said as David searched through the back window for signs of torn and broken kids.
Jonathan’s eyebrows furrowed and his chin tucked ever so slightly as he set his jaw and stared grimly at the stop light, still green, but so far away. His foot began to vibrate from holding the accelerator so desperately to the floor, sending psychic urgency to the little engine.
David was transfixed by the green light, still holding, holding, holding as they approached at a dizzying speed, but he chanced a quick look at the mad man who had commandeered their vehicle and taken over gentle Jonathan’s fragile mind. Jonathan grinned and laughed hysterically as he bore down on the fading green, now yellow light.
David closed his eyes, envisioning the mythical hayrack pulled by the donkey, and screamed as they passed safely through the intersection just as the light turned red.
Jonathan snapped a U turn, jumped the curb, plunked down off the curb, and screeched to a halt as he threw his door open and raced to the house, keys in hand. When David caught up to him Jonathan was madly twisting the key in the lock and begging the door, “Open, open, please in the name of all things sacred, OPEN.” When the lock gave, Jonathan flew through the door and scrambled to the flat screen TV. He looked left and right for the remote, ran to the sofa, tore the pillows off, turned a circle desperately searching the room and found the remote on the end table. He clicked it on, set the channel, and assumed his Buddha-like position exactly fourteen inches from the huge, flat screen TV.
Pat Sajak and Vana White came briskly onto the stage of “Wheel of Fortune.”
Pat said: “Hello everybody and welcome to our show.”
Vana said: “Hello.”
And Jonathan sighed as the day’s stress visibly drained from his body.
Pat said (to Vana): “I’ll see you on the other side.”
Vana said: “Okay.”
Jonathan was transported as he muted the TV but continued to watch intently, cravenly.
David, watching the transformation but remembering his recent near death experience, paced behind the sofa fuming.
“Are you out of your. . .”
“Shhh,” Jonathan shushed him with a look that could quick-freeze a side of beef.
So David paced and fumed as he watched Jonathan watching Vana strut back and forth, turning the letters on the puzzle board.
Jonathan’s eyes took on a glowing intensity as he watched her walking, standing, strutting silently right and left, left and right; then standing, waiting, waiting for her cue - her cue, which she never, ever missed.
“Magnificent," Jonathan marveled as he wiped the corner of his mouth, having forgotten to swallow for a very long time.
His eyes revealed intensity, passion, and lust of course; but much more. They showed deeper and stranger feelings, like the possessiveness of a son’s love for his mother. But Jonathan’s mother was no Vana White, his mother looked a lot like. . . no, exactly like Dick Chaney; same hair, same shape, same gravelly voice. How could Jonathan transpose, transfer, transport, transmogrify his mother (Dick Chaney) into Vana White?
David watched in wonder as Jonathan transformed from the raging maniac, cursing and screaming his way across town, to the horny little Buddha mesmerized and worshipping Vana’s performance extraordinaire. Then he looked at Vana and concluded, not bad, for an old broad.
The program was coming to an end. Jonathan, discovering the remote still in his hand, punched the sound on and shot David another “Shut up or I’ll kill you with my bare hands” look.
Jonathan held his breath.
Pat Sajak said: “Thanks for coming everybody.”
Vana White said: “Goodbye.”
Jonathan watched as Vana waved goodbye to him. Then he clicked the TV off, turned to David and said, “Now, what were we talking about?”
“Talking? Who could talk? I was too busy trying not to die out there! And when I finally arrive alive, and I think I’m in the sanctuary, the sanctum sanctorum, all I get is shushed until you finish your slavish worship,” David scolded.
“Slavish? Moi, slavish? I think not. But Vana is a goddess deserving of worship.”
“She turns over letters on a puzzle board for. . .” And before the last word had even left David’s mouth he knew he had gone too far. He’d stepped over the line and needed to back up quickly. “I’m sorry. Of course she’s. . .”
But Jonathan pounced. “She’s more than a TV star. She’s a movie actress and. . . and a goddess.”
“I know, I know. I‘m sorry. We‘ll watch her movie again, I promise. Maybe Thursday night. With the sound off of course.”
“Of course. Dialog would only interfere with the essence of the beautiful creature she plays so wonderfully.” Jonathan, mollified and relaxed, flopped contentedly onto the sofa.
“So why don’t we have the consummate, ultimate Pee Pee plan of action yet?” Jonathan asked and he was serious. They had been working off and on for months only to eventually discard whatever plan they had developed. By Pee Pee he was referring to the position of Product Placement Specialist to which they both aspired at Saul and Son Advertising, the firm for which they both worked.
“It seems to usually come down to money. We come up with a dynamic plan, but somebody else ends up with the money. Take car racing. The stadium, the billboards, and even the guardrails are covered with advertising, and the best spots cost the most because they’re the ones that are most likely to get camera time. The race car is covered with advertising; so much so, there’s no more room for ads. Until we came up with the center of the wheel ad. . .” David said.
Reviews:
FROM AMAZON.COM:
Great Book! Very creative and a fun read.
Gerald Medenwald has done a masterful job of weaving a variety of complex threads into an intriguing story about modern life.
KJB, AL
FROM BARNES AND NOBLE:
This is a very funny book!
As a reward, some books deserve a second reading.
Gene's Books, KS
From this website's comments:
Cover to cover, the best book I've read in ten years.
Roberto S., MN
Great Book! Very creative and a fun read.
Gerald Medenwald has done a masterful job of weaving a variety of complex threads into an intriguing story about modern life.
KJB, AL
FROM BARNES AND NOBLE:
This is a very funny book!
As a reward, some books deserve a second reading.
Gene's Books, KS
From this website's comments:
Cover to cover, the best book I've read in ten years.
Roberto S., MN
Excerpt # 2
The phone rang. Jane answered. It was her mother.
“Yes, mom.” Pause.
“Yes, mom.” Pause.
“Yes, mom.” Pause. Jane’s theory was that if she agreed with everything her mother said, eventually her mother would quit mothering and actually have an adult conversation with her.
“Yes, mom.” Pause.
“Yes, mom.” Pause. Twenty five years. It hadn’t happened yet.
“Yes, mom.” Pause.
Turning her head away from the phone she hollered at Mary, “The pope is humping my leg again.”
Jane jiggled, twisted, and shook her leg trying to dislodge John Paul the Second, Mary’s midsize white poodle, who hung on with his front legs while his little curly behind thrust mightily like the little engine that could; even though he couldn’t because he had been fixed, then a month later checked and rechecked and checked again and given a trial of the drug, Depo-Provera, and still he persisted.
“No, mom, it’s just a dog,” Jane said, then turning her head again, “Mary, the pontiff is going to have a heart attack if you don’t pry him loose.”
Jane shook her leg again, then leaned back and lifted her leg straight out, but John Paul the Second hung on.
“Mom, I’ve gotta go. No, it’s just a dog. Mary’s dog. Gotta go. Call you later. Bye.”
Jane hung up the phone and grabbed the scruffy little dog by the collar just as Mary came out of her bedroom. Jane picked him up and handed the still humping dog to Mary who held it out in front of her like one would hold a too - long - dead carp.
“J. P.” Mary snapped. “J. P. Give it a rest for goodness sake.”
Mary held the dog in front of her (still humping), ran him quickly to the back door, placed him in his backyard kennel and closed the door.
“Good grief,” she said in exasperation as she leaned against the door with her hand pressing the edge of her left eye, trying to quell the sudden onset of a persistent twitch.
When she had first gotten the pup, she had called him John Paul the Second in honor of the then reigning pope; a sort of warm and fuzzy guy. And then John Paul the Second’s (the pup’s not The Pope’s) propensities surfaced and Mary shortened his name to John and finally to J. P. to disguise his true moniker, especially, when he was in the throws of an extended and unrequited leg hump.
Jane always honored his namesake by correctly referring to the pup as John Paul the Second, His Holiness, The Pontiff, or The Pope – especially when the pup (not The Pope) was engaged in extended leg rapture.
But John Paul II was basically a very good dog - affectionate, reasonably well-trained, and easy to manage; except for the one peccadillo to which Mary had resigned herself like a good, but embarrassed, French wife. Se le vive.