Female Trouble

Preface: this is a rant about the barrage of systematic misogyny and anti-woman legislative attacks being carried out by the Regressive Conservative Republicans in Congress and state houses across the country. If you don’t believe there’s ‘War On Women’ taking place in our modern political discourse, then IMHO you are either not paying attention, don’t care or live in a world without women (a sad and lonely place, indeed).

My, my, my… isn’t it just adorable how suddenly, out of the blue, the issue of women’s healthcare, access to contraception and abortion services has become THE hot-button issue lately? Oh wait… it seems The American League of Catholic Bishops are the ones who sparked this fire, seeing as how they feel the VeryEvilSatanic Obamacare ACA mandate for contraception coverage denies them of their religious freedoms from an overbearing, secular Jesus-hating socialistic government. Poor babies.

How ironic that the Catholic Bishops are trying to assert their religious authority over secular laws, the same laws which seem unable to rid Catholic priests of their penchant for having sex with minors. Can you think of any other worldwide organization that condones, promulgates and covers up child molestation better than the Catholic Church? Can you imagine any American business or corporate entity that could get away with the institutionalized child rape so endemic to the Catholic Church? No… I didn’t think so. TAX THE CHURCH…. but I digress.

I am not a woman, so I will assume that some of the nuances involved in the subject of this essay will never EVER be completely self-evident to me. However, I feel like I have more female-centric empathy than the Average Bear. A staunchly conservative female co-worker once described me as ‘the gayest straight man’ she’d ever known, and I took that as a serious and honest compliment because that's how she meant it. So, there’s that.

I simply cannot understand the current brouhaha being screeched by Conservatives over family planning, contraception, abortion and the subject of women’s healthcare. It’s the antediluvian mindset that seems to have taken over those who would limit, restrict or eliminate a woman’s right to make decisions about her body. It appears an entire (mostly male) segment of our Right-leaning politicians and citizenry are bound and determined to take us back to the days when women were chattel, owned outright by their male overlords, subject to their every hairy whim and smelly notion. Don't forget... it wasn't so long ago that women weren't even allowed to vote.

“If men could get pregnant, abortion would be a sacrament.” – Florynce Kennedy

Make no mistake about it… it isn’t simply a case of Regressives not wanting ‘their’ tax dollars used for things they don’t really consider healthcare. It’s actually an overreaching ploy to establish and maintain authority and control over women’s individual rights and life choices. Regressive males need to feel they have control over women, and the pious Rethuglicans keep sticking their size 10’s into their mouths with every pronouncement of how they will assert control over said female bodies, specifically the uterus.

One of the enduring images that sticks in my brain is of the ridiculous House panel, chaired by Darrell ‘Convicted Felon’ Issa (R-Scumbag), that was called to 'investigate' the issue of contraception coverage as it relates to the religious community, yet no female was allowed to sit on the panel of experts or to provide testimony. You’ll recall that Georgetown graduate Sandra Fluke was the lone female witness who Mr. Felony kept out of the proceedings, but she was subsequently allowed to speak to a panel chaired by the Democrats. Oh yeah, and that sparked the infamous Rush Limbaugh tirade wherein he branded her a slut who simply wanted the government to pay for her to have unlimited sex without the responsibility of creating bebbehs.

The teeth-gnashing and pearl-clutching by the morally upstanding Religious Right could likely be heard on the Moon. How DARE that harlot expect good and decent and moral people to turn over their hard-earned money just so that she and her horny college systers could engage in fornication-without-conception. How… how… how DEVIANT! How on EARTH could ANYONE think that their gospel-soaked tax dollars should be allowed to fund the shameless sexing that is obviously taking place in dorm rooms across Ameikkka, in full view of the Lawd Almighty?!??!

Please, spare me.

I find it endlessly fascinating that the same folks who are espousing the concept of Smaller Government and States Rights and Personal Freedom and all that… want the government to force women to simply roll the dice when it comes to having sexual relations. If they wind up preggers, oh well… GOD’S WILL and all that. Don’t kid yourself – these people aren’t just wanting to eliminate contraception, abortion and family planning. They want a level of theocratic control over women’s physical lives to match their own stunted and stilted vision of How Things Should Be, as directed by that Great Eye In The Sky and his minions on Earth who wear dresses in church and rape young boys in the small rooms behind the altar, with the visage of a mythical dying man nailed to a torture device, hanging on-high, exalted.

Is that too harsh? Too bad… deal with it.

I have no use for pompous and narrow-minded religiosity when it comes to the issue of women's reproductive rights. In the larger picture, as it relates to the Affordable Care Act, there’s no getting around the fact that 98% of women in this country use, will use or have used some form of contraception in their lifetimes. Since they are uniquely equipped to give birth, it only stands to reason that each and every woman must have the ability, the right, the choice to conceive or not to conceive as they see fit, and this is specifically a women’s health issue. It has nothing to do with religious freedom, and saying so doesn't make it so.

"Keep your rosaries off my ovaries" -- anonymous bumper sticker

Let me be clear on something before I continue with my little rant: I totally accept that there are lots of people who consider every aspect of my viewpoint on this issue as a non-starter. For them, anything that interferes or obstructs the natural process of conception is an abortifacient. For them, anyone who willfully terminates a pregancy before giving birth is guilty of MURDER. I appreciate their arguments, but as has been confirmed by the Supreme Court and in countless surveys, studies and polls, the vast majority (70%+) of Americans are, in fact, pro-choice and support a woman's right to choose whether or not to conceive and/or give birth. Sadly for the anti-choicers, they are now a minority group, losing adherents every year. Blame it on a growing rejection of religious intolerance, or perhaps that more people are educating themselves on this issue rather than parroting the worn-out pro-life talking points. Whatever. I will always respect an individual's right to believe what they choose to believe, but there is only one set of facts, and the facts simply do not support those who vehemently oppose and want to eliminate access to family planning, contraception and abortion.

OK, back to the ranting.

If a church-run hospital deals only with adherents to that religion and has no involvement with the secular world of healthcare provision and insurance coverage, hires only doctors and nurses and orderlies and only those who are believers… fine, good luck with that. But a hospital is not a church, and therefore does not qualify for tax-exempt status (TAX THE CHURCH!!!) nor the very special exemptions to secular laws currently enjoyed by churches. In this country, private and public hospitals are by-design involved in the public sector regarding healthcare. That blows the whole ‘religious freedom’ argument right into the dumpster, because they can’t have it both ways… they are part of the system, so they must work within that system and toe the line. IT'S DE LAW.

I hate to break it to the forced-birthers out there, but here’s a news flash: contraception is a modern woman’s RIGHT, not a privilege or some special gift that requires anyone’s approval or blessing. Limiting and/or eliminating access to honest family planning, contraception and (as a natural progression) abortion services does NOTHING to advance the role of women in our society. In fact, limitations to these services only holds women back, hostages to their evolutionary role as progenitors of the species. Women are not simply walking uteri, mammalian vessels whose sole purpose is to give birth and make dinner, a concept essentially championed by the uber-religious on behalf of their Unseen Sky Wizard and his ghost-written opus.

“If men could get pregnant, they’d sell do-it-yourself abortion kits at Home Depot.” – anonymous bumper sticker

Women are half of our citizenry. Women are now more than half of our workforce. Women deserve to be treated with the same respect as men at every level of our society. HOWEVER… since men will never EVER be put in a position to have their bodies taken over by the process of childbearing, women also have a far heavier burden of responsibility towards procreation than any man can ever imagine. Therefore, since women are solely responsible for gestation of the unborn, it is logical to conclude that ONLY women should decide whether to conceive and give birth or not, and must have at their disposal every option, tool and opportunity to exercise their choice. It's the only truly civilized response to their singular stature. It’s not that difficult a concept to grasp, now is it?

I have often posed the concept that women, as a member of the species homo sapiens, are just a tick further evolved than men. That statement is usually met with sneers of derision and head-shaking sarcasm from men (and affirmative head nods from women) until I list the facts:

1. Women live longer than men.
2. Women can handle pain better than men.
3. Women regenerate blood and sinew faster than men.
4. Women are all, to a certain extent, psychic (sorry, guys… you know it’s true).
5. Women have an incredible level of sensitivity and intuition.
6. Women can engage multiple layers of conscious thought streams simultaneously.
7. Women have their reproductive organs on the inside of their bodies.
8. WOMEN CAN GIVE BIRTH.
9. Women have the enviable capability to make men completely wall-eyed and stupid with the merest action, thought, word or deed. A push-up bra also puts us into full-tilt chimp mode (sorry, guys… you know it’s true).

In my tally, these are only a few of the the facts that establish women as the stronger of the species, as the ones we single-minded testicle-dragging meatheads should and must offer as much deference to as possible. Conversely, these facts are also why, in almost every humanoid society since the Stone Age, women have been oppressed by the ruling males to control their influence and quash their voice. In almost every religious doctrine now being practiced on this planet, women are second-class, second-rate, second-in-line. Women have been cast as the lesser of the species, subject to the vagaries of their ‘stronger’ male counterpart, when in fact men have always oppressed women because they secretly feared the power of the uteri-laden.

"For a woman to get half as much credit as a man, she has to work twice as hard, and be twice as smart. Fortunately, that isn't difficult.” -- Charlotte Whitton

It reminds me of a favorite scene from the film ‘My Big Fat Greek Wedding’, where patriarch Gus Portokalos, taken to task over another instance of his dunderheaded ways, pronounces “MAN… is the HEAD of the family!" As an aside, his wife then tells her daughter, “The man may be the head of the family, but the woman is the neck, and the neck can turn the head ANY WAY it wants to”.

Soooo... now that you have a pretty good idea of where I stand on the issue of women's reproductive rights, you may be asking yourself "Self, what in blue blazes does this chrome-domed Messican want ME do do about it?!?!" The answer is simple: SPEAK OUT. Don't stand by and allow the regressive theocrats to take another step towards the oppression of every American woman. Our wives, girlfriends, sisters, daughters, Mothers and friends of the female persuasion need every voice to be raised in support of their singular and ongoing struggle to control their own lives, to control their individual futures.

This is not really a partisan political issue, although the battle lines do seem to be drawn in shades of bright Red and Blue. Sad to say, in the year 2012 we are still having a heated national argument over women's reproductive rights. I remain optmistic that we'll eventually get to a point of agreement on this issue, although it promises to be a knock-down drag-out talking point in the upcoming Presidential election season. I know this much: when it comes to the subject of women's rights, I am a foot soldier on their behalf, ready to lead the conga line towards a more equal society. Come along, won't you?

"If you can't trust me with a choice, how can you trust me with a child?" - anonymous bumper sticker



Lead image 'Crucified Woman' by Eric Drooker, Muchismas Gracias de globalvoicesonline.com; Garbage 'Sex Is Not The Enemy' video, gracias de youtube.com

1970: A Space Odyssey

I’m not sure why these weird time-warp mind games keep happening. When I bring up the subject of my 'time slip', The Artist claims that I am too obsessed with time. She’s right, of course, but I am obsessed with what happens in time, whether then or now, and what impact it can and does have, and how that impact resonates throughout our lives.

In this case, methinks the current political screeching from the Ignorant Right about how they ‘don’t need no damned science’ pushed me into Mr. Peabody's Wayback Machine, back to what became one of the most important days of my life. The fact that it happened when I was only 13 years old is of Major Significance as, naturally, everything that happens at 13 years old seems to be earth-shattering and important.

So here goes… stick with me, because it all happened in one day.

Summer of 1970, weeks before the start of my Freshman year in high school, saw me at the cusp of an emotional and philosophical breakout. As with most 13-year-old males, I was in a constant state of agitation over girls, school, parents, girls, homework, Playboy Magazine, Boy Scouts (figger that one out), music, girls, reading sci-fi, cars, girls, building car models, going to the drag races, girls... you know, typical stuff. Mostly it was girls and school. I was on the verge of an important personal epiphany, but on that fateful 1970 summer day, it was all about girls. One girl in particular.

Her name was Janet, and although she was the object of undeserved scorn from many of my friends (something about her buck teeth and the way she sat in the cafeteria during lunch), I was smitten. I’d had her in a few classes at junior high but never really got to know her until we paired up at several year-end Friday night dances. In that brief summer between junior and high school, we sorta ‘went around’ (a.k.a. going steady, do teens still do that?), but it was really only a handful of languid afternoons spent at her house, making out junior-high-stylie while her parents were gone, just being dumb teens, you know?

That summer afternoon I walked to her house, making sure her folks were gone because I dinna think they knew what their only daughter had been up to. She let me in, we drank some lemonade, she put on some 45’s and we started necking as usual. After a few minutes of heavy teen-dream-breathing, she pulled away and said “There’s something one of my friends showed me today… wanna try it?” Being as suave as possible, I answered “Uh… well, OK. What is it?” She stood up and instructed me to stand behind her with my arms around her stomach. “I’m gonna start breathing in and out really fast”, she told me, “ …and when I tell you, squeeze your arms really tight around my stomach… it’ll make me pass out for a minute. It’s really neat!”

Before I could say anything, she began to hyperventilate herself and, when she felt lightheaded enough, gave me the signal to squeeze, which I did with vigor. In an instant, she passed out in my arms, something she’d said would happen but caught me by surprise. It was pretty weird and kinda sexy, holding this limp cutie in my arms, but in just a few seconds she came to and began to laugh at what had just happened.

“OH WOW THAT WAS CRAZY NOW IT’S YOUR TURN!!!!!!” she shouted, spun me around and wrapped me in her arms from behind. At this point, I was feeling like I’d rather get back on the couch, but she was adamant that it was my turn to pass out. Wishing I could suck her face instead of sucking wind, I started hyperventilating and after a minute or so, felt lightheaded and gave her the signal to squeeze and then...

I awoke and realized I was lying on the floor, with Janet screaming hysterically and jumping around. I slowly sat up, rubbed the back of my head and felt something wet. I looked at my hand and saw it was covered with blood, same as my arm, the floor, the carpet and the corner of the coffee table that my head had smacked when I passed out and fell because she wasn’t strong enough to hold me up. There was blood everywhere, Janet was screaming, and I gingerly felt the huge opening on the back of my head with my index finger. I stuck it in there and realized I was racked up pretty good, a 2-inch gash at the very least.

I felt OK, maybe a little weak, but was able to stand and get my bearings. Janet was beside herself, looking at the bloody mess in her den, knowing she was in deep shit now, same as me. She threw me a towel and, thanks to my excellent Boy Scout training, I knew to press and hold it to the wound to stop the bleeding, which was flowing pretty good. After a few moments, I told her I needed to get home right away, so without helping to clean the mess, streaked with blood and holding the blood-stained towel to my head, I walked slowly home.

That would be the last time Janet and I ever spoke to each other. I would see her at high school in the fall, but she never again acknowledged my existence. I figgered she got nailed pretty hard by her folks, coming home to find the bloody aftermath of our teenage games. I can’t say that I blamed her, maybe I should have talked her out of the whole thing. Maybe we would have, you know, gotten to first base instead (yeah, right). I really liked her, too… even her buck teeth.

So anyways, I walked the half-mile or so home, with people staring at me all along the way, but that’s not what I was thinking about. I knew that I would have to call my Dad at work and tell him what happened, because I’d need to get stitches at the hospital. I was frantically thinking of an excuse as to how I cracked open my head, because I sure as hell wasn’t gonna fink out on Janet. By the time I got home I had decided that it was a trip and fall accident, hitting my head on the curb, yeah, that’s the ticket, that’ll be a plausible scenario, no one saw me, someone gave me a towel for my head as I walked home, makes sense to me, right right right.

I called Dad. He was really pissed off, but he came home immediately and took me to the ER at our local community hospital where the Doc sewed up my noggin. The Doc asked me what happened, I told him my huge lie, he just went “Hmmm… OK”, and finished the job (thanks, Doc!). It felt really weird having the needle push back and forth through the skin on the back of my head… kinda cool, actually. I got a tetanus shot, they bandaged my head and we left the hospital.

I knew I was in trouble, dragging Dad home in the afternoon to go patch me up, but he seemed bemused, almost like he thought it was funny, so I was relieved that he didn’t start yelling at me for getting hurt. We got home and just hung out for a while when he surprised me with a question. “Son, you probably don’t feel like going to the scout meeting tonite, right? Why don’t we skip it and go see a movie instead?” I didn’t fall to the floor again, but I felt like it… this was a totally unexpected turn. Without hesitation, I said “Let’s go see ‘2001: A Space Odyssey!!”. I instantly knew this was not what he was hoping to hear, but being the most Awesome Dad Ever, he agreed.

Now, this was a Big Deal, skipping our Wednesday night Boy Scout troop meeting. Not only was Dad the Scoutmaster, but I was a patrol leader. We NEVER missed scout metings, so for him to take a night off was rare.

At this point, I need to fold a few pertinent facts into this recipe for context.

Firstly, I had just finished reading the novella of ‘2001: A Space Odyssey’ by Arthur C. Clark, who also wrote the screenplay for the film. (I recently found out he wrote the novella after Stanly Kubrick had agreed to direct the film but needed more than the original short story). The novella had a dramatic impact on me, and the sci-fi books I was inhaling at the time were simply blowing my mind, philosophically-speaking. I wanted to see that movie… BADLY.

Secondly, I was in the throes of seriously questioning my Catholic faith, and had been for at least a year. After attending the obligatory church studies known as catechism, I found the whole religion thing far more unbelievable and ridiculous than anything I was reading by Asimov, Clark, Bradbury or any of the other sci-fi stalwarts that had captured my imagination. The whole god/jesus/heaven/hell/sinner/saved/bible meme had left me cold, had not incorporated into my brain, had not convinced me that it made one iota of sense. Attending church services seemed like a monumental waste of a good Sunday morning, especially since my brother and I weren’t allowed to have breakfast until after we got home from church. THE HORROR!!!!

Thirdly, I was ripe for a new way of thinking, of understanding the world around me. I had already decided there was more to this existence than what they talked about in church… much, much more, but I didn’t know what that was. I was ready for The Enlightenment, but little did I know that it would soon enough stomp me hard without any warning.

OK, back to the story of that weird day. I knew Dad was going way out of his comfort zone by agreeing to take me to see ‘2001’, just out in its wide theatrical release. He didn’t like sci-fi, didn’t like movies that made you think, only wanted to be entertained. Methinks my bandaged head and ugly wound gave him enough reason to swallow hard and do something that he abhorred, but I reveled in. So we drove to a local theater, known far and wide as one of the few left to still have a live organist play muzak between the features.

How can I describe what happened to me that evening, sitting in that theater with my bandaged head, sitting there with my Dad who honestly would have rather seen any other movie in the world? Yes, I already knew the movie’s plot line, but from the very start of the film, I was transfixed at what I was seeing on that huge screen. The moment when, after discovering the violent uses for their newly-discovered tools, the Chief Ape threw his bone-weapon into the air… and it changed into a modern spacecraft circling the Earth, I was spellbound. When Strauss’ ‘Blue Danube Waltz’ began to play (still my favorite piece of classical music) and the spacecraft swam in the blackness of orbit around the space station, I was OUT THERE WITH THEM, living the reality of our future, floating in zero-g.

That movie… a film, a vision, a director’s perspective… it affected me to my very core. I had read Clark’s words, but when they were transformed into the stunning images before me, well... it moved me deeply. I was sitting right there next to my Dad, and he didn’t have a clue what was happening. Clark’s story came to life for me, it resonated with my understanding of the universe, and it confirmed my newfound concept that religious belief was nothing more than man’s pitiful attempt to explain away the vastness of the cosmos. And at the film’s end, when Dave was mutated from an old man to the Earth’s embryonic savior, returning to protect mankind from his own pending self-inflicted destruction, I found the answers I had been searching for. Which means, of course, that I finally discovered there ARE NO ANSWERS, only questions that push us to seek and explore and query and discover, without end.

We left the theater, me totally changed and raw and new, Dad bored to tears. To this day, he still says ‘2001’ is the worst movie he’s ever seen. I wasn’t the same teenager that entered the theater two hours earlier. I was this new being with an expanded mind and a new understanding about my place in the universe. In the weeks that followed, I would attend church services for the last time, never to return except for weddings and funerals. I had left behind the simple fables of religion. I felt alive, maybe for the first time.

From then to now, the epiphany I reached in that darkened theater still resonates and gives me strength. Would I have felt the same way had I seen ‘2001’ on a different day, under different circumstances? Hard to say, but I’m glad it happened the way it did. I have learned a lot about the world, a lot about myself, but my understanding about my place in the universe, thankfully without the shackles of religious belief, is healthier and more defined than ever.

I reckon this essay was spurred by the pronouncements of former Republican Presidential candidate Rick Santorum, a devoutly religious man who claims his God and Bible are first in his life, as he believes it should and must be for everyone. He has belittled the concepts of evolution and climate change, has denigrated the importance of a college or post- high school education (while holding two degrees himself), and claims that “colleges are responsible for indoctrinating liberal ideas in students, coercing them to leave behind their well-formed traditional religious beliefs.” He is not alone in his conviction, as there are many people who feel the same way. How tragic that is.

I’m all for every individual choosing for themselves what and what not to believe, but it seems to me that as a 13-year-old, I was more self-aware and mind-expansive than this man who wanted to lead our nation, using his long and firmly-held religious beliefs as his guide. I read a commentary regarding his statements that asserted it isn’t the education that tramples traditional religious beliefs… it's called GROWING UP, and it happens all the time. The Greek philosopher and biographer Plutarch (45-125 AD), said “The mind is not a vessel to be filled, but a fire to be kindled”.

That summer Wednesday in 1970 started out simply enough for my 13-year-old self, but it escalated beyond anything I could have expected. I had no clue that would be the last day I would ever speak to Janet again. I had no clue that I’d crack my head open on a coffee table. I had no clue that by day’s end, I would experience a philosophical and life-affirming epiphany that would stay engrained in my psyche for my entire adult life. But that’s how these things work. You just… never… know.

I’ll never forget those makeout sessions with Janet, coated with the gauzy haze of time and space. I hope she’s still out there, somewhere, wondering whatever happened to the cute moron who got her in so much trouble by bleeding all over everything in her parent’s den.

I wouldn’t trade one split-second of that day for anything.



Update 4/3/12: I watched '2001' again this past weekend, with special thanks to The Artist for recording it. She RULES. I hadn't seen the film in perhaps a decade, but I completely enjoyed the story, the nuanced perspective of humanity and the grand vision that Mr. Kubrick committed to film. I was also surprised at Kier Dullea's subtle but powerful performance as Dr. Dave Bowman, caught in deep space with a rogue computer and nowhere to go but further out. I can totally understand how this film might confuse someone who doesn't have the foundation of reading Clark's novella, but I highly recommend reading the book and then watching the film. It might prove to be a very interesting journey.

Lead image, Gracias de cheap-modern-wall-decor.blog.hr; video 'In The Summertime' by Mungo Jerry (#3 on the 1970 Billboard Top 100!!!), Muchismas Gracias de YouTube.com.

The Longest Night

It was a recent conversation that brought the memory of ‘that night’ back. A memory that is usually deeply imbedded in my subconscious, only to be dredged up by a word or image or a certain feeling. One of those really awful, debilitating, soul-sucking sequences of hours that each of us suffer through and hope will never EVER happen again.

Of course, now I can view ‘that night’ with a good hard laugh and a head shake and a true sense of how much time has gone by. It doesn’t lessen the sting, but those painful times only serve to highlight the rest of the really good times, of which I've had a great many.

But ‘that night’… oh man, was it painful.

The first part of 1982 was one for the books, filled with anger and dread and anguish and sadness and hostility and yes, I am speaking about the death of my first marriage. Actually, when ‘that night’ took place, I had already been booted out of the second-floor apartment we shared with my young daughter and (if memory serves me) at least three cats. Yep, after we had married and separated and gotten back together for only a year, I came home after work to find my belongings sitting out front next to the trash, waiting to be scooped up and carted off to the landfill. And it would have happened if I hadn’t gotten home just in time to jam as much of my stuff as possible into the car I had borrowed just a few days before. It would be my final day of co-habitation with my nuclear family.

But ‘that night’ happened a few months after the boot was applied to my skinny ass.

I was renting a room from a friend and co-worker who took pity on my homelessness. I had been lucky enough to keep my job during the initial marriage blowup, and had just bought a really cheap car, specifically a huge White 1961 Ford Galaxie 4-door that my work pals had dubbed ‘The Orca’. I was drinking more than ever before, but only as a salve to my wounded soul, shredded and bleeding from the breakup. I missed my daughter, missed what I thought could have been a decent if mostly loveless marriage, and I dreaded the unknown days and weeks and months that lie ahead. Tequila helped with all that.

My new lead sled would allow me to make the trek to see my daughter, and one night after work, I headed back to the scene of the marital disaster at the invitation of my soon-to-be-ex-wife to visit with the offspring and share a meal with them both. I didn’t know what to expect, but had been tempted with the promise of stuffed pork chops and scalloped potatos. How could I refuse? So I rolled the 50-plus miles, parked The Orca out front and climbed the Stairs of Shame back into the Den of Sorrow.

We talked. We ate. The food was good, the atmosphere was better than I had known in a very long time. I was feeling oddly satisfied and strangely welcomed. After the meal was done and the dishes were washed, my daughter and I played for a bit and then we put her to bed. Then it happened.

Yes, my soon-to-be-ex-wife and I fucked. I had promised myself that I wasn’t gonna let it happen, but it was obvious to me that I was set up, and no way was I going to pass up a chance for some sexy time. I was lonely and distraught and horny and lost, so her warm body and button-pushing were impossible to ignore. So I didn’t. When we were done doing each other, she smoked and I lay there, dumb and dumfounded and feeling like something weird had just taken place. Then it happened.

She said “You know, I want you in my bed, but not in my house.” CRASHBANGBOOM.

Sucker punched, knowing I’d been had, cursing my own stupid horniness, I mumbled something inane and meaningless, got dressed and left the Den of Sorrow to make the long drive back to my dark and mostly-empty rented room. How could I be so fucking stupid? How could I have let her coax and tease me back into the apartment and into her? I was pissed off and cussing at the top of my lungs on the freeway at 70mph at 11:30pm on a work night. I’D BEEN HAD. I’m a moron.

Still cussing, I exited the freeway and onto the main road to get back to my rented room. There were no other cars on the road, just me and The Orca and my anger and my balls covered with the remnants of her conquest. I drove along and came to a stoplight, just me sitting there at the intersection, all alone in the entire world. Then it happened.

At first, I thought I was seeing things… I noticed the hood of my car seemed to be changing color, but maybe it was just the street lights causing an optical illusion. Then I noticed a wisp of smoke seeping from under the hood, and before I could open the door, the wisp turned into a billow. Still idling in the street, I slammed the tranny into Park, jumped out and popped the hood, only to be met with a WHOOOSH of smoke and flame and heat and sparks. Yup, my new old car, The Orca, all $500 of it, was on fire, at 11:30 at night, in the middle of the street, with no one else around.

It seemed like forever, but as I stood there, looking at the raging fire consuming the engine of my new old car, I had the sense that I was at the center of an immense metaphysical joke. Somehow, I had brought all this misery and sorrow on myself. How dare I tempt fate and try to extricate myself from a marriage that would have dessicated my soul but given me a semblance of a life? Who did I think I was, trying to reassemble the shards of my sad existence? My gosh, I was only 25 years old but felt like a worn out skin bag. How could I be so stupid. Then it happened.

Out of nowhere, a ratty Porsche 911 screeches to a stop next to me and The Flaming Orca. The driver rolls down his passenger side window, yells “HERE… TAKE THIS!” and tosses me a chrome-plated fire extinguisher, then blasts off without another word. I didn’t miss a beat and began to douse the flames, with smoke and ash and extinguisher powder covering everything. After a few moments, the fire was out and the smoke cleared and I stood there, empty extinguisher in hand, burned up car in front of me, once again completely alone in the intersection.

After sizing up the situation, my first thought was that I needed to get my new old burned-up car out of the street, so I put the tranny in Neutral and slowly pushed it through the intersection. How I did it by myself, I’ll never know, but somehow I was able to get it rolling with enough momentum to get up a driveway and into a darkened parking lot. Yes, I rolled up the window and locked the doors, as if someone would actually try to steal this ticking, dripping, melted beast. I knew I was only about a mile or so from my rented room, so at around midnight, I began to walk along the side of the road, no one around, only me. Then it happened.

As I walked, I heard a vehicle with a loud engine approaching me from behind. I also heard the whoops and shouts of several people that were probably in the car, and it all got louder the closer it came up behind me. I was walking on the grassy parkway, out of the street and harm’s way, so no biggie. No sooner had the vehicle drawn up next to me when WHAPWHAPWHAPWHAP I was pummeled with a barrage of water balloons that blasted me off my feet and dropped me right on my face and into the street. I could hear the loud engine and howling laughter fading away as they sped past me, lying there with my head in the gutter, soaked with water and mud.

I lay there calmly for a few minutes, looking up at the stars and dark sky, wondering what in the fuck I had done to have this all happen to me in one night. It started out with the best of intentions, just a visit with the soon-to-be-ex-wife and my daughter. And there I was, lying in the gutter, hammered with water balloons, covered with mud, my burned-up new old car abandoned in a parking lot, my soon-to-be-ex-wife’s crusty juices covering my genitals, and my former life blowing away like fire extinguisher powder. And the dark empty rented room was waiting to mock me even more. Finally, I dragged myself to a standing position, looked around and slowly walked the rest of the way, no one else around, not a car or a soul or anything. Just me and my horrible, debilitating, soaking wet misery.

Yep, it was The Longest Night, it was. But wait… there’s more, and it was actually pretty good.

The next morning, my car-geek roomie heard all about it and, after a huge amount of howling laughter out of us both, he grabbed some tools and we jumped in his car and went to inspect The Orca. It looked bad enough that we towed the thing back on a rope and, after some peeling and scraping and cutting, he determined the coil cover had cracked and sparked and caught the plug wires on fire, which caught all the other wiring on fire. Did I mention he was a master mechanic? After just a few hours, some beers and a couple of parts runs, he’d replaced all the burnt parts, re-wired the car and had it running again, smooth as butter. What I’d thought was a lengthy and horrific immolation was a hot but brief engine fire, and The Orca had been saved by the mysterious Porsche driver and his chrome-plated extinguisher. Thank you, whoever you were.

The only evidence of ‘that night’ was the large burnt spot on The Orca’s hood, but I never painted it out. And soon enough, my life would take a turn that I could never have dreamed after The Longest Night. She came into my life during that insanely low period of 1982, and she is with me to this day, sharing and caring and laughing and loving and supporting me to become the person I always hoped I would or could be. She also had a special connection to The Orca, something she told me only after we had realized that we'd be together forever. But that will remain a secret, one that I'll never tell. Ain't life grand?



Lead image, gracias de coreyhau.blogspot.com; Chicago 'Happy Man' video, muchismas gracias de youtube.com.

Cover Story

This fictional short story, written by and for adults in 1996 and containing references to straight and gay sex, death, gambling, bodily fluids and (omigosh!) smoking, is purely fictional. All characters, most places and many factoids are pulled completely out of my feeble mind. Any similarities to real people, places or facts are simply a horrible, horrible accident. -- Oblio

ONE
Inside the darkened room on the 6th floor of the Bayou Casino and Resort, the two lovers were engaged in the favorite pastime of most who came to the quiet resort town of Indian River, Louisiana -– they were fucking each other’s brains out. They had met downstairs in the Creole Bar, and after ingesting mass quantities of beer and kamikaze shooters, the next logical step was to retire upstairs and do each other until they passed out – at least, that was the plan.

They were not shy about their lovemaking, and the hotel guests on all sides, above and below could hear the grunts and moans of strenuous sex for the better part of an hour. She was on top, riding him like she was in the rodeo as they bounced and bashed away on the bed. She began to get a white-hot noise in her head and knew this was going to be an orgasm to remember… he started to feel faint and knew he would come like a volcano. They simultaneously increased their pelvic thrusts in anticipation of a mutually explosive climax. As they came together, screaming with ecstasy, they immediately lost consciousness and slumped hard against the headboard –dead as doornails.

TWO
Detective Henry Lofy knew the good and bad parts of Indian River, a sleepy burg hard on the shores of Lake Ponchartrain and due West of New Orleans. Having grown up as a wild child in the Big Easy, he lucked out by graduating from college with a degree in Police Science and fell into a job as a dispatcher for the N.O.P.D., where he toiled in a variety of posts for over ten years. He worked up through the ranks, eventually earning his Detective’s shield, and immediately transferred from the rot of downtown New Orleans to the dank beauty of Indian River, a favorite haunt from his drunken college years.

Looking much younger than his actual age of 41 years, Henry was one of those rare men that had learned how to dress and comport himself from the many women he’d called lovers throughout his life. Although not handsome in the traditional sense, his dark eyes, sandy hair and lanky frame combined to give him a magnetism that was quite appealing at first, and only compounded once he began to speak… his well-read intelligence could be both a blessing and a curse, depending on his mood.

He never wore his police uniform, preferring instead any number of light cotton suits that he loved but was constantly ironing the wrinkles out of. He considered himself a confirmed bachelor, but knew deep down that he was too particular about his job and lifestyle for any serious relationship to take hold. He smoked too much, slept too little, and fussed over his receding hairline, discreetly hidden by a series of expensive hats and a close-cropped hairstyle.

Sitting at the wheel of his White ’66 T-Bird convertible in the parking lot of the IRPD, he lit his first Lucky of the evening when a call came over the radio: “SSE to 66T, do you copy?” Henry sighed, took a drag and picked up and keyed the mic: “66T copies – How may I be of service to you, Sharon my dear?” Her response was immediate and terse: “66T, please use the proper code name ‘SSE’ as previously instructed, and haul ass down to the Bayou and see Junior. We got another pair of screamers keeping up the nice gamblers and their hookers!” “Yes, Ma’am!” was all Henry could manage without laughing into the mic. “SSE” stood for “Star Ship Enterprise”, and he knew that Sharon just loved to make as many Star Trek references on the radio as she could in a single evening. Oh well, he thought, at least she was a great mother to his two beautiful nieces, even if she was a little strange.

He finished his smoke, carefully snuffed out the butt in the ashtray of his immaculate ‘Bird, and twisted the ignition key. The rebuilt 428 big-block was the original engine in this fine beast, and it started right up with a growl from the glass-packs and settled into a motorboat-like burble. “Hmmm, a ten-minute ride to the Bayou calls for something short and sweet, so what shall it be?” he said to himself while rummaging around in the center console for some appropriate music. “Ahh, a little Brubeck shall do nicely”, and he slipped in the CD, shifted into gear and slowly pulled into the light traffic on a clear, muggy night, heading for the other side of Indian River.

As he cruised through the heart of town, he saw many of the people who knew him and his car from a mile away, and most nodded their heads or waved in his direction. Even those local citizens who got on the wrong side of Henry’s local law acknowledged his passing by, for Henry was tough AND fair to everyone he came into contact with – something not remotely like the peace officers in New Orleans. He drove the speed limit, top down, while the long version of “Take Five” oozed out of the six-speaker sound system he’d installed himself. As the final drum solo reached its last few percolations, he pulled into the circular driveway of the Bayou Casino and Resort and parked at the curb opposite the front entrance. Leonard the valet was on duty and coveted Henry’s car, so it was normal for him to come up to Henry and ask him for the millionth time, “Hey, ‘Shoe, when you gonna’ sell me this fine au-to-mo-bile?”

Henry threw him the keys as he walked across the cooling asphalt. “Make me an offer that you can back up with cash, and I’ll turn it down just like I always do, Big Man! Be sure to watch my baby.” Leonard smiled, took the keys and parked the car angled just so in front of the main casino entrance, next to the BMW 850 and the Escalade – it always looked good to have nice wheels out front. Henry strolled through the forced opulence of the Bayou’s main lobby and made a left away from the gambling floor and into the offices where the real work of schmoozing high rollers and counting money took place. He walked through a nondescript doorway off the long hall and into the palatial outer-office of Lamont Beverly Jr., the casino’s owner and son of the infamous Lamont Beverly Sr., the casino’s builder and known fixer of big-time college football games in his day.

Sitting at the dark rosewood desk was Junior’s secretary and main squeeze Hallie, dressed to the nines in a black velvet catsuit. “Hey there, MISTER. Lofy, I heard you were stopping by. Go on in – he's waiting for you.” She shot him a sideways glance that someone else might have mistaken for a come-on, but Henry knew that she was always watching out for her man, no matter who walked into the office. Henry had just placed his hand on the glass doorknob to enter when the door was snatched out of his hand and out rushed Lamont Beverly Jr., obviously in a fret about something, shouting “Goddammit, Henry, I’m getting tired of this kind of thing! As if I have the time to worry about people’s love lives or something. You’d think they’d at least keep the bed in one spot!!”

All five-feet-two of Junior was in a tizzy, his expensive razor-cut hairstyle and red smoking jacket giving him the appearance of a pissed-off maitre’d. Henry held up both hands and caught Junior before he could crash forward and knock them both over. “Easy, Junior, just tell me what’s up and why you needed me here in such a hurry.” Junior’s mouth continued to flap for a moment, then he stopped jawing and relaxed. “Sorry, Henry. I just got a little spooked tonight and thought you’d better be here when I checked this one out. We got several calls from the 5th, 6th AND 7th floors about some serious rutting taking place on the 6th floor. Now, you know how these things usually go – an hour or two of loud screwing and then they go to sleep and everyone goes about their own business.”

Junior stopped to light a cigarette, took a long drag and continued. “This one’s a little unusual, ‘cuz after an hour of complaining, we got several more calls about loud screaming then noises like something hitting the wall, then… well, then nothing! The Desk Manager calls the room – no answer. The floor Dick knocks on the door – no answer! Damn, Henry, I ain’t got time for this shit!” As Junior relayed his story to Henry, they walked into Junior’s private elevator and rode to the sixth floor, where the doors opened behind a well-placed tapestry at the end of the hall and away from curious guests. They walk up to Room 613, where they meet two nervous looking guys standing a few feet from the room’s door.

Henry nods to them. “You the Night Dick?”, he asks the beefy one and gets a nod back. “I haven’t met you before. I’m Detective Lofy from the IRPD and you can leave now because you certainly don’t want to have to write a report on this, now do you?” The man wags his head in agreement and bounds down the nearest stairwell. “Well now, Charles”, he says, talking to the Night Manager, “is this one a usual case, or should I get out my gun right now?” Charles smiles and chuckles softly. “Henry, I don’t make judgment ‘bout nuthin’. Junior called ‘cuz you the law around here. I’m just the Night Manager.” Henry reached out to Charles and says, “Fair enough – key please.” He slips the card key into the door, inserts the deadbolt key and slowly turns it until the bolt slides away, puts his hand on his holster, then gently pushes the door into the room.

Once the door had swung open all the way, Henry peers into the darkened room with a bit of apprehension, but slowly steps inside, with Junior and Charles close behind. “Hold on, you two – just cool your jets in the hallway while I take an official look-see, OK?” Henry whispers back to the two men, who shuffle backwards into the lit hall. The room is totally dark, so once inside Henry stands still for a few moments to let his eyes get acclimated. Slowly, the features in the room begin to reveal themselves. The first things he sees are clothes strewn all over the floor. Without moving further into the room, hand on his holster for good measure, he continues to let the room come to him. Then, almost as an anticlimax, he can see the king-size bed and two dark shapes lying entangled with each other, leaning against the headboard.

He gingerly sidles up to the bed, waiting for something to happen, but nothing does. Suddenly, a smile comes across his face as he recognizes the dankly sweet smell of sex that permeates the room. A sort of cocktail of perfume, sweat, cum and ‘hotel room’ that you never forget once you’ve had the joy of creating it. With his vision now totally adjusted to the darkness, he takes his hand off the holster and reaches down to check their pulses… the two people on the bed are obviously dead. He calls out softly to the hall, “Junior, send Charles back downstairs to call for an ambulance and the Coroner, and tell them no hurry. Come on in here and close the door behind you, but don’t touch anything!”

A moment later, with Junior behind him, Henry takes a pen from his pocket and uses it to switch on the light. The sight in front of them is one of those strange visions that are impossible to keep from gawking at. Lying on the bed, an obviously dead pair of lovers tangled up in the bedclothes. John Doe is sitting up against the headboard, with his face shrouded by the upper torso of a voluptuous female straddling him, with her head and upper body leaning against the wall. “There’s the loud thump our neighbors next door heard,” he says to Junior, as the two men just stand a few moments and stare at this tableau. “If they weren’t expired, I might be inclined to say ‘Pardon us’ and let them keep going”, Henry says with a grin. “Junior, you OK with this right now?” He looks at Junior, who seems a little paled by what he sees, and says “Easy now. I’m going to move the lady here a bit so we can get a look at their faces, and you tell me if you recognize either one of them, OK?”

Henry reaches down to the woman and holds her by both shoulders, using the surrounding sheets as a barrier between his hands and her skin, and gently draws her away from the wall where her head was resting. Once she was upright, Junior comes around Henry’s side and peers at both of the victim’s faces. “Nope – sorry, Henry, they’re just another anonymous pair getting their rocks off in one of MY rooms. Lord knows what’ll happen if some of the other guests on this floor get wind of this, ‘cuz sure as shootin’ we’ll start getting calls…” Henry cuts him short; “Easy, Junior… just be cool and this will not raise an eyebrow anywhere. Why don’t you go downstairs and check on Charlie’s call for the ambulance, and for God’s sake, make sure you two keep quiet about this, OK?”

Once Junior left, the room’s stillness really set in. Henry let the female rest her head back on the wall so the Coroner could see the condition of the couple as they were found, then he began his slow walk around the room, touching nothing but seeing everything. As he circled around the bed, his first impression was that it was definitely NOT an unusual scene. A naked couple lying dead on a bed wasn’t a typical situation in Indian River, but he had seen his share of dead bodies in hotel rooms during the last 10 years. Usually, there was a gun, drugs and an angry lover involved, but this pair seemed somehow different.

He walked over to the dresser and saw two glasses half-filled with liquor – “Probably from the bar downstairs”, he thought to himself. He made a mental note to find out who was working in the lounge earlier in the evening and have a little chat with whoever it was. He noticed there was no luggage in the room, so he assumed this was a purely physical meeting, not a planned overnight stay. Still, he needed to find out who these poor souls were, check for priors, see if either one of them were registered into another room in the hotel, see if… something caught his eye on the nightstand on the other side of the bed. He walked over and noticed the remnants of a large joint left in the ashtray. He got a tissue from the bathroom and carefully folded the roach into a little bundle, putting it in his pocket. May as well have it checked out for something special that could have been soaked into the weed. Then he spied something else – he reached down between the bed and the nightstand and picked up an opened condom wrapper, again using his pencil. “Damn”, he thought to himself, “two responsible adults practicing safe sex and they wind up dead”.

He searched for and found a man’s wallet and ID in the tangled clothing, noting the anonymous face, name and Slidell address on the driver’s license – could be real or faked, you never knew. Her purse or ID was nowhere to be found… not surprising at all; she’d probably carried her money in her brassiere and left her personal belongings – where? He gazed at the condom wrapper perched on his pencil and figured to get a nice set of fingerprints from it – probably better than the cocktail glasses, which had been sweating moisture from the now-melted ice inside. He bundled up the condom wrapper as he had with the roach, walked over to the closed room door, turned around, leaned back and took in the entire scene with a laser-like intensity, as if he had just walked in and had not already been here for almost 15 minutes. The naked bodies, the glasses of booze on the dresser, the roach in the ashtray, the condom wrapper, the clothes strewn on the floor, the absence of luggage – it all seemed so logical that he thought to himself, “Something tells me that there’s more to this than meets the eye”. He quietly thanked the NOPD for the decade of brutal police work that had given him a second sense about things. That’s probably why he had such an easy time being a cop in this town, because he was a thorough SOB. He closed his eyes and waited for the ambulance, softly humming the melody from “Take Five” to himself, imagining what these two poor dead souls were enjoying before they met their untimely demise…

THREE
Detective Henry Lofy was pissed off as he sat, fuming, in the office of County Coroner Doc Etoufee’. He jumped out of the overstuffed chair and paced back and forth across the office, while the Doc sat at his desk with a calm, almost bemused look on his face, watching Henry being pissed off. Doc was in his golden years at the Coroner’s office, having spent 45 years as a public servant in the healthcare sector. A portly man of 70 years, he was nevertheless fit and vital, and carried his 5’9” frame and 250 lbs with a measured dignity. “Now Henry”, he said, “there’s no sense getting yourself all worked up over this. Just let us have a little more time and we’ll figure out what the devil is going on in that town of yours”. Henry almost jumped over the desk at the Coroner, but stopped himself short, sighed heavily and fell back into the chair he had just leapt out of.

“I’m really sorry, Doc, but this whole thing has me spooked! Who’da thought three weeks ago that we’d be here today with four pairs of unexplained deaths in Indian River, all while having sex in hotel rooms?! I swear, in all the years I’ve been in police work, this is the weirdest series of events I have ever been involved with!” Henry wasn’t overstating the case he was working on, either. In the three weeks since he discovered the nude bodies of the two illicit lovers at the Bayou Casino, three more couples had expired in the same fashion – one more pair at the Bayou and two at the Ponchartrain Manor. He had been able to keep the whole thing quiet for a while during his ever-expanding investigation, but after the discovery of the fourth pair leaked out to the Hoteliers Union, Henry had been pressured to solve the mystery by everyone from the Mayor to the Chamber of Commerce. And they wanted an answer soon or they’d find themselves another Chief of Police!

Now Henry was really under the gun to figure out what the hell was going on, before the local media found out about the mystery deaths, blared it all over TV and sent Indian River’s tourism trade into the toilet. No, he was going to solve this case, no matter what it would take – his own sense of honor was now at stake. He thought for a minute and said, “Doc, do you agree that this series of hotel deaths and their cause is a complete mystery to you?” Doc Etoufee’ smiled and shook his head in agreement. “Henry, we have performed complete – and I mean COMPLETE – autopsies on every damned one of those eight poor souls, and I’ll be dipped if I can establish a cause of death. No force trauma, no poison, no physical defects, save for Ms. Phillips pregnancy, and it’s a sure bet she didn’t even know it yet. I swear Henry, it’s as if every one of them… well, just stopped living! Like someone up there pulled the plug and they died where they laid. At least they was having fun when they, uh, met their great reward”.

Henry slowly rose from his chair and walked over to the window, looking out over the New Orleans skyline as the midday sun began to really heat things up. "Doc, you’ve been a gem through this whole thing, and I really owe you big-time, but we have to reach out now to some high-powered specialist who can help us with this mess. Otherwise, we’re both gonna’ be lookin’ for new jobs!” Doc slowly shook his head in agreement. “I agree with you one thousand percent, Henry, but who do you suggest?” Henry cocked an eyebrow towards the Doc in a conspiratorial fashion. “Doc, do you have any connections at the CDC offices in Atlanta?” This time, it was Doc Etoufee’ who jumped out of his chair. “HENRY – are you really contemplating getting the Feds involved in this? My God, man, one whiff of this and you’ll be getting national exposure, never mind local media!”

Henry gave Doc a reassuring look. “No, no, no, Doc. I don’t mean calling in the Cavalry with flags waving and guns shooting. I mean, do you know someone on a personal level that you could invite down here for some professional guidance and a home-cooked dinner who might be amenable to listening to our problem and giving us some advice. Sort of a mutual admiration visit covered in the veneer of business, if you know what I mean”. Doc looked thoughtful for a few moments, then his face brightened up. “Well hell yes, I know exactly who to call. Her name’s Belinda Pomeroy, and she’s one of my former technicians. A real whiz kid, that Belinda. Was snapped up in her third year here at our offices by the Feds and transferred over to Atlanta must be, oh, five or six years ago now. She helped me out with a botulism scare in Houma two years ago, and said she’d love any opportunity to come visit with me and the missus.”

Henry smiled at this revelation, like he had just uncovered an important clue. “Doc, please give Miss Belinda a discreet call, won’t you? The sooner the better! And be sure to call me for a dinner invitation when she just happens to be sitting in your grand estate drawing room, hear?”

FOUR
As he drove the twenty miles from Indian River a few days later, through Kenner to Metairie, Henry was feeling a little bit nervous about meeting Belinda Pomeroy, the forensic pathologist friend of Doc Etoufee’. He wasn’t nervous about anything in particular, but having to ask for help to solve this series of mysterious deaths was out of character for him. “Probably some stupid male ego thing”, he thought to himself, as he cruised in the late afternoon. He had dutifully washed the ‘Bird, pressed his suit and picked out a new tie to wear for the occasion – you never know what kind of interesting situations can develop when you meet a new lady.

A few things worried Henry, though. The way Doc talked about her, Ms. Belinda was a “whiz kid” in the field of forensics, and he had worked with her a number of years back. Had her time in the tomb-like offices of the CDC in Atlanta taken the shine off her methodology? Had the Doc accidentally appraised her as to the true reason for her invitation to supper? Did she get the impression that she was getting “set-up” with one of the Doc’s single friends? Henry laughed out loud at the thought of a blind date – he hadn’t been on one since his days in college. “No, Henry, this is ALL business”, he said to himself. “Keep your mind on the seriousness of the problem at hand, and no matter how sweet she may be, just be a nice fellow and don’t scare her off”.

Once he had reached the outskirts of Metairie, he exited the highway and found himself passing through some of the oldest neighborhoods in the area, with beautifully restored antebellum homes fronted by sweeping yards with sculpted gardens and huge, grand old trees. Looking at his directions, Henry followed the drive as it meandered for about a mile, then turned left on Acacia Lane and looked for the Doc’s address. As he pulled up to the curb in front of 115 Acacia, he was taken aback by the grandeur of the home Doc lived in with his wife of 45 years, Lila Etoufee’. Henry had met her at a county Christmas function a few years ago, but wondered if she would remember him from that single evening. Deciding to leave the convertible top down (this looked like a very SAFE neighborhood), Henry gave himself the once-over in the rear view mirror – no razor cuts on his face, no shaving cream under his ear, tie straight. He picked up the gift-wrapped bottle of Peppermint Schnapps (Doc’s favorite) from the back seat and walked up the driveway to the magnificent front veranda and porch, dominated by a five-foot wide mahogany front door inlaid with stained glass. He reached up to ring the bell, but the door opened suddenly, with Miss Lila beaming at Henry from inside the entrance.

“HENRY LOFY! It is so good to see you again! I keep asking Bernard to invite you over, but he always forgets!” Lila takes the bottle from Henry’s hand and gives him big hug, dragging him into the house (so much for the forgetful wife!). The inside of the home was as beautiful as the exterior, and exuded a warmth that seemed to permeate him almost immediately. There was the requisite grand stairway in the main entrance, leading gracefully up to the second floor, with tables everywhere covered to bursting with flowers, lit candles and mirrors. Truly a home to be proud of.

Ms. Lila took Henry by the arm and walked him through the mezzanine. “Bernard tells me you still have that lovely white Thunderbird. Perhaps before you leave this evening I could coax you into giving me a ride around the neighborhood? I just love convertibles, and my friends will be ever so jealous if they happen to see me out gallivanting around with a handsome young man like yourself!” Henry’s face felt like it got red and he smiled. “It would be a pleasure, Miss Lila, to have your beauty grace my humble chariot”. She laughed as they walked out through the back of the house, on to a covered veranda and patio area. The veranda was magically lit with lamps and candles, an open pit fireplace and the warm glow from inside the house.

Sitting on a large sofa in the center of the veranda was the Doc and (apparently) Miss Belinda Pomeroy, the reason Henry was here. They were laughing out loud at something as he and Miss Lila came out, and got up to welcome them both. “Henry, glad you could make it out here this evening. May I introduce you to Belinda Pomeroy, my friend and former co-worker?” Well, if Henry had any preconceived notions about Ms. Belinda, he couldn’t have been more wrong. He found himself shaking hands with the most beautiful black woman he had ever met, easily six inches taller than him and at least ten years his senior. Her long hair was swept up in a graceful bun, which accentuated her striking features and slim build. Her smile was dazzling!

“A pleasure to meet you, Henry! Lila has already given me your curriculum vitae, so I must confess that I know more about you than you do about me. Of course, Bernard speaks very highly of you”. Henry smiled at this revelation. “The pleasure is all mine, Ms. Pomeroy”. She gives him a mock scowl. “Please, it’s Belinda”. They both sit on the sofa, joined by the Etoufees, and the evening begins.

The next three hours are spent consuming large quantities of wine, antipasto, boiled red potatoes, wine, freshly baked bread, spinach salad with hot bacon dressing, wine, soft shell crab, deep fried scallops, wine, jambalaya, lemon sherbet, petit fors, and of course, more wine. With coffee and a fresh carrot cake staring at them from the low table, the meal was a complete orgy of gastronomic delights. Henry couldn’t remember the last time he had enjoyed a meal so much, especially given the most pleasant company of Lila, Doc and Belinda. All throughout the meal they had talked of many things, important and trivial, from classical and jazz music to law enforcement to gardening to the merits of hardtops versus convertibles. Once the carrot cake had been brought forth and some more wine was poured, the time had come to apprise Belinda of the true nature of her visit. Naturally, it was no surprise!

With Ms. Lila as an interested spectator, Henry and Doc began to unfold the bizarre tale of the Indian River deaths to Belinda, beginning with the first discovery and ending with their discussion in Doc’s office to call in for reinforcements. As they related the story to her, Belinda listened intently, asking no questions but raising an eyebrow every once in a while, letting out a soft low whistle, and refilling her goblet with more of the delicious vino. When they had finished tag-teaming her with their tale of mystery and intrigue, they fell silent, sipping wine and letting the information soak in for her. Several minutes went by without a word from any of them, the only sounds coming from the bubbling Koi pond a few feet away in the back yard.

After what seemed like an eternity, Belinda got up, walked over to the edge of the veranda, and looked over the sweeping foliage. She swallowed the last of the wine from the goblet in her hand, turned around quickly and looked directly at Henry and Doc, with a wide grin spreading across her face. “You two gentlemen are completely stumped, aren’t you”, she said with a Cheshire cat smile. Before they could answer, she threw back her head and laughed heartily. Then she came back over and sat down next to them. “First of all, I want you to know that no matter the reason why, I am so very glad that you used this as an excuse for me to come out and break bread with y’all, so let’s get that straight, OK?” She raised an eyebrow at a somewhat sheepish Doc and Henry, who both seemed relieved that she wasn’t miffed at their subterfuge.

“Belinda, we needed to get you out here without the slightest hint of what was up”, said Henry. “We simply could not afford having a whiff of this getting out before we had the chance to run it by you. Doc here was most effusive of his respect and admiration for your expertise, so you were the logical choice”. Belinda went over to Doc and kissed him gently on his shiny head. “Bernard, thank you for thinking of me that way. Truth be told, this sounds like something very out-of-the ordinary – definitely the most interesting thing I’ve heard about in some time. I hope I can help!” Doc let out a heavy sigh of relief. “Whew! Well, that’s good to know”, Doc said. “I just… well, I just wanted you to give us an objective opinion, you know, away from the heat of the CDC offices”.

That being said, the final round of the meal was completed, with nary a crumb of carrot cake left for the fish. While Ms. Lila swept away the dishes, Belinda started her questioning of the two puzzled men. “Bernard, were there any anomalies in the toxicology results, even the smallest?” “Nope, unless you count the fact that several of the victims tested positive for THC” Doc stated. “But we found traces of the cannabis in each case, and there was nothing out of the ordinary – no oil, dust or strange residue”. “What about inhalants unconnected to the weed or cigarettes they were found with”, she asked. “You know, toxic fumes, sprays or dust that infiltrated the alveoli in their lungs”. Doc sighed again, weary of the story, “Naw, we did a complete dissection and chemical analysis bombardment of the victims lungs, livers, kidneys, pancreas, stomach, bowel – you name it! Nothing! Like I told Henry that day, it’s as if they just stopped living!”

Henry was watching and listening to this exchange between the two medical professionals, and he had a sneaking suspicion of what Belinda was going to ask next, so he said it to her instead. “Belinda, what are the chances of you actually spending a little time here in New Orleans with the Doc and me to have a good long look at the bodies, the autopsy results and my fair city of Indian River?” Belinda flashed that amazing smile of hers – “Henry, you read my mind! I have beucoup vacation days accrued right now, and this case is very intriguing to me. Kind of a busman’s holiday. I’ll work it out at the office – no problem – and we can jump into this with both feet!” From the house, the three of them heard Miss Lila bellow “…AND YOU’LL BE STAYING HERE WITH BERNARD AND MYSELF, NOW WON’T YOU, MY DEAR?!?!” They all broke out laughing, and it was settled. All that was left was the evening drive in Henry’s “Chariot d’ Blanc”, and with Doc and Lila in back, Belinda lounging in the passenger seat, and Van Morrison on the stereo, Henry chauffeured as if he’d done it all his life.

FIVE
Two days later, Belinda returned on ‘holiday’ and immediately began a thorough review of the forensic evidence that had already been amassed by Doc Etoufee’ at the New Orleans Coroner’s Office. She spent hours and hours poring over lab results, autopsy photos, medical reference books and notes, and even had a look-see at two of the bodies that had so far gone unclaimed by grieving relatives. Belinda’s methodology was sterling, leaving nothing to chance and making sure she had each of the facts well in-hand before she moved on to the next series of questions and revelations. She and Doc fell into the familiar working relationship they had enjoyed years before, sometimes not even speaking to one another about what would happen next… they were professionals and knew what they were doing.

Each night she would head back to the Etoufee’ home to sup with the lovely old couple or sit in the luxurious library studying her notes or simply walk through the neighborhood, lost in her thoughts of the poor souls who died so mysteriously, albeit with a final hurrah. By her fifth full day in town, she was coming to the end of the information available and began to wonder where this was all heading. Sitting in her temporary office down the hall from Doc’s, she sighed and reached for an autopsy reference volume she had already reviewed when her intercom beeped – it was Doc. “Belinda, can you mosey on over here for a moment?” She finished her coffee and made the short walk to Doc’s office, finding him at his desk with the phone held between his ear and shoulder, madly scribbling notes about whatever information was being given by the caller. She sat and waited for a moment, then Doc replaced the receiver and looked her square in the eye. “That was Henry… there’s another pair of fatalities in Indian River and he wants us over there right away!”

As they cruised swiftly through the early afternoon to the shores of Lake Ponchartrain in Doc’s black Lincoln Town Car, Belinda felt a rush of excitement about getting involved in a real-world case again. She had become a high-paid bureaucrat at the CDC, seeing less and less of the field, which she missed very much. She peppered Doc with questions… “Is the morbidity report the same as the others? Was there any marijuana found at the scene? Have they secured any samples of bodily fluids yet?” Patiently, Doc answered each time, “Yes, no, I’m not sure… here now, you’ll get your answers soon enough. Henry is really worried right now; good thing it happened while you’re here… er, ah, well it’s not actually a good thing, but… well, you know what I mean!” Although it had been some time since Doc had been back in Indian River, he knew exactly where to go, and following Henry’s directions drove directly to the scene of this latest mystery: the sprawling new Resort d’Beuleaux on the edge of town.

As they came to a stop in front of the ornate entrance of the lavish resort, Belinda spied Henry’s T-Bird off to the side, being scrutinized by two parking attendants. They exited the car and entered the building to find Henry, but he was already waiting inside the foyer, looking relaxed but wary. He walked up to Belinda and Doc, shaking hands with them both in a professional but friendly manner. “Thank you both for coming out here on such short notice. This latest… discovery is all of two hours old, and so far, no one’s the wiser. Let’s have a look, shall we?” They boarded the high-rollers lift from the foyer and began a slow ascent to the seventh floor when Belinda turned to Henry and began to speak, but Henry held up his hand and gave her a facial expression as if to say “Not here, not yet.” She bit her lip and looked around in the large elevator, but it was occupied by them alone. She nodded and waited for the lift doors to open.

Once they had exited the lift and began to walk down the opulent hallway, Henry turned to Belinda. “Please forgive me, … I didn’t mean to be rude, but all the lifts in this place are wired for live video, and I don’t want the security staff monitoring the helm to catch a whiff of why we’re here. At least, not yet. And by the way, it’s very nice to see you again! I understand from the Doc that you’ve been extremely busy on our behalf.” Belinda beamed. “Why, thank you, Henry. Yes, it’s been very interesting, to say the least. I was getting a bit frustrated by the lack of any anomalies jumping out at me, but sad to say, your call may provide us with some fresh clues, don’t you think?” As they came up to Penthouse Number 8 near the end of the hallway, one of Henry’s department officers was standing by the door, awaiting their arrival. “Thanks, Mert… can you stay put while we have a look around here?” Mert silently nodded and slid the card key through the lock, which gave a hushed click to indicate the door was unlocked. Before he opened the door, Henry looked at Belinda and Doc. “This is a fresh crime scene, as you know, so do me a favor and be sure to give everything a good hard look. Doc, your boys haven’t even been here yet, so you know the drill.” With that, Henry slowly opened the door and the three of them entered the room.

The Penthouse Suites at the Resort d’Beuleaux were designed to elicit a feeling of drama and opulence for their high-rolling guests who opted to pony up the $1,000 per night to stay in these luxurious surroundings, and thus when the three of them entered the foyer they were swallowed up in a jungle of velour curtains, gilt mirrors, tassels, floral arrangements and all the trappings that are considered ‘de rigueur’ for the cost. Henry ushered them across the expansive marble-floored sitting area where the IRPD investigation team was already situated, surrounded by boxes and equipment and cameras, preparing for their task… the whole scene displayed a hushed intensity that Belinda and Doc were familiar with, but left Henry feeling somewhat uneasy and exposed to a loose-lipped tech who might spill his or her guts about what was going on.

Their footsteps were muffled by the thick tapestry rugs covering the floors as they traversed an endless hallway, crossed through a set of beautiful white French doors and entered the Master Suite after being appraised by another IRPD officer standing just outside. An explosion of expensive tapestries, furniture and mirrors, the room was dominated by a huge four-poster bed located in the center that faced the floor-to-ceiling windows looking over the shores of Lake Ponchartrain. The investigation team had already taken a number of crime scene photos and exited the room on Henry’s request… the quiet stillness of the room was heightened by the sight of two nude men lying on the bed, tangled in the sheets and obviously dead. Judging by the look on Belinda’s face, it was apparent to Henry that she had not expected the scene to include two men. Doc merely seemed impassive and silent, perhaps out of respect for the deceased.

For the next several minutes, Doc and Belinda performed a cursory inspection of the two bodies, being careful not to move them too much, all without saying a word between them. Henry stood by the wall of glass, watching the two professionals at work, craving a smoke but knowing that this was not the time or the place. After about five minutes, Doc and Belinda stood up straight, looked at each other across the bed and walked over to where Henry stood. Again, nothing was said for almost a minute when Henry finally broke the silence. ‘Sooooo… any initial thoughts about what we see here?” Belinda spoke first. “Henry, it’s pretty obvious that we have another example of the same type of COD that befell the previous four pairs, and yet… this one seems a bit off for some reason, and it’s NOT because we have, eh… shall we say a same–sex couple.” She grinned expansively to show Doc and Henry that although the situation was serious, she was unruffled and ready to work.

Doc spoke next. “I agree, Henry. They too seemed to have expired ‘en flagrante delicto’, as it were. However, these two have obviously been entertaining each other in this room for some time, and there is evidence that suggest they have been having quite a bit of sex, unlike our other victims who all seemed to be involved in what might be referred to as ‘quickies’… I believe that’s how you youngsters say it, right?” Henry smiled and looked at Belinda, who was already grinning at Doc’s appraisal. Doc walked over to the bed and continued, “There’s evidence of oral and anal intercourse, multiple times if my eyes don’t deceive me, and judging by the number of condom wrappers in the bed and on the nightstands, these fellas were quite active and energetic.” Doc pointed out silk scarves and surgical tubing tied to the headboard and bedposts, and began to count the condom wrappers, ‘One, two, three, four…’ and finally looked up at Henry and Belinda to announce “Nine! Damn! Henry, how were these two discovered? This place has enough sound-absorbing surfaces to allow a rock band to practice without the neighbors hearing a thing.”

“Apparently housekeeping knocked on the door to make up the room and came in when no one answered, finding our friends here”, Henry said, making slow laps around the gigantic master bed. “Once again, the toxicology results will tell us more, but I am not optimistic about finding out anything that we haven’t already seen with the others. I just cannot believe that this has happened again and we don’t seem to be any closer than we were last week!” Henry fell onto an overstuffed divan behind the bed in obvious frustration, taking his hat off and rubbing his eyes, which were red and watery from many sleepless nights. He knew his job was at risk and was feeling the pressure in ways he had never experienced. Belinda walked over and sat down with him, giving him a good-natured slug on the leg. “Henry”, she said, “this is all going to make some sense, and unfortunate as their deaths may be, this fresh scene will allow Doc and I to take as much time as is necessary to figure out why this case is different. I feel confident that we will find something… we won’t let you down.”

Henry shrugged and smiled. “Thanks, B… I appreciate your tenacity. If anyone’s gonna’ see this for what it is, it’ll be you and Doc. I guess this is all way out of my league and I don’t have the answers. I’m not used to being stumped, and I don’t want there to be a first time.” They both got up and walked over to Doc, who was gazing at the bed from the window wall with an expression of determination and a set jaw. “OK”, he said, “let’s start at the beginning and miss nothing and see what we can find that sets this apart. I feel like we are in the presence of a missing puzzle piece… don’t ask me why.” With that, Henry summoned the investigation team back into the room, and the assembled group set out to do what they knew best.

SIX
Beeeeeep…“Henry, Doc and I have some questions we’d like to go over with you. If it’s not too much trouble, can you swing by the manor this evening so we can talk? Thanks… sorry I missed you. Bye!” Beeeeeep.

Henry had just finished washing his car and had found Belinda’s message on his answering machine when he came in for a beer. “Dammit’, he said to himself, “I guess I need to get me a cell phone.” He took a quick shower and threw on some old jeans, a pair of Top Siders and his favorite NASCAR sweatshirt, grabbed a Steely Dan CD and headed off to Doc’s place. Although the evening had turned chilly, he loved driving his T-Bird with the top down and the heater on, so the drive to Metairie was pleasant enough, especially listening to one of his favorite bands. One thing puzzled him, though: why had Belinda asked him to come over, rather than just call her back? Had they found out something that required his immediate assistance? Hell, they had just left each other a few hours earlier, having spent a second full day at the Doc’s laboratory in the Coroner’s office, evaluating evidence, looking at blood samples, comparing fluid specimens. It gave Henry the willies, all that bodily fluid stuff. “Yuk”, he thought to himself.

When he arrived at the Etoufee’ home, he found Belinda sitting on the front veranda, sipping iced tea with her feet up and her hair down, looking for all the world like a lady to the manor born. They had developed a real friendship over the last few weeks, and even though it was void of any sexual tension, Henry found himself looking forward to seeing her on such a regular basis. Sure, she was extremely attractive and intelligent, but she had an appreciation for fast cars, rock n’ roll, modern art and possessed a satirical sense of humor that had caught Henry quite by surprise. Regardless of when this investigation was all over and done with, he’d found a true friend and a worthy contemporary in this tall ebony woman. If she felt the same way, she was being coy about it, but he felt comfortable enough with their relationship that when she rose from the porch swing to greet him, they embraced and grinned like a couple of teenagers who had just successfully toilet-papered the teacher’s house.

“Thanks for buzzing out here on short notice, MR. Lofy. I hope I didn’t catch you in… the middle of something.” She flashed a wicked smile that inferred Henry might have been entertaining when she had called earlier, which immediately caused him to be embarrassed and get completely red-faced. ‘No no no, quite alright, B… the women I entertain all understand that my work always comes first, so to speak.” They both looked at each other, wide-eyed, then broke down in raucous laughter at Henry’s pun. Doc came out onto the porch with Lila on his arm, mock scowling at the two who were teary-eyed from laughing. “I think I’ve created an unholy alliance among these two, Lila”, he told his wife, who ‘pooh-poohd’ him in a joshing fashion. They sat down across from Belinda and Henry, sipped from their glasses of wine, and all four were quiet for a few minutes, taking in the rustling of the cool evening breeze through the treetops and the sounds of kids playing somewhere off in the distance.

Belinda spoke up after a bit. “Henry, we have some bad news, but we have some good news as well, and wanted to talk about this with you in person to see your reaction. That will help us to see if we’re just crazy, or maybe on to something.” They all looked at each other in a conspiratorial fashion, and Henry said “OK, let’s hear it. I’m open to anything.” Belinda got up from her chair and walked the length of the veranda, came back and stood in front of Henry. “Well, the bad news is this: based upon the evidence we have evaluated so far, there’s nothing unusual regarding the ‘Beauleaux Boys’ in comparison to the other victims. No trauma, poison or other obvious COD, so in effect, we have an identical situation to the others. Like I said, that’s the bad news.” Henry looked at Doc, who was nuzzling lightly on Lila’s neck, then back at Belinda and said “OK, so that’s not such a surprise. Now give me the good news.”

Belinda smiled, sat down and looked at Doc, who was still nuzzling his beloved. Henry looked at Belinda looking at the nuzzlers, then looked at them with a questioning face when Doc stopped nuzzling his wife and said, “Now, this is something Belinda and I have been talking about since shortly after we arrived back here this evening, and we think we have an idea about where to look for our answer… a long shot for sure, but it has merit. Actually, it was Lila’s idea… she came up with the thought while we were all shelling peas for dinner. Isn’t that right, Lila?” They all looked at Lila, who threw them a Mona Lisa smirk and said ‘Go ahead, Bernard… you’re doing just fine.”

Doc continued, “Well, as you’ll agree, all of the deceased got that way without any physical or toxicological reason that we can find, right?” Henry nodded his head in agreement. “And furthermore, the similarities in each case – all died during sexual intercourse, all died in local hotels, all except the Beuleaux Boys were enjoying one-night stands – all seem to be happenstance, correct?” Henry was still showing that quizzical look, so the Doc continued, “Another similarity was that each of the couples was practicing safe sex by using condoms, which were all tested for residue of toxins, yet nothing out of the ordinary was noted. What we did find extremely interesting was that all five couples were using the same brand of condoms – that is made by the same company, although there was some differences in the… er, style of prophylactics being used.”

Henry was still confused, so Belinda carried on, “Now remember, we have checked out each victim for toxins, and have even checked the condoms for toxins, but so far – nothing! Seems like a dead end… oops, sorry – wrong term to use – unless you change the way you look at the evidence, and Ms. Lila gave us an inspiration, right?” She looked at Lila, who stood up and said, “That’s right, my dear. Things change when you least expect it, and sometimes the answers are right in front of you and you never even know it. While these two (indicating Doc and Belinda) were helping me shell peas and were talking about the similarities in these poor souls’ demise, they had mentioned that the only real one-hundred percent similarity in each case was that they were all using condoms made by the same company. Please forgive me, but I kept thinking about that while I was preparing a roux for dinner this evening and was cooking up some flour… while stirring the mixture slowly over heat, it stayed white until just the right temperature was reached, when suddenly, the ingredients instantly changed color to a lovely brown. All it took was a little heat to make it happen, but without the heat and the right amount of time, the mixture and ingredients stay white.”

Doc jumped in, “Now stay with me, Henry. We already know that each couple was using condoms made by the same company, and that they’re non-toxic – we know the company makes a great product that saves lives, prevents babies and what not. Never had to use one, naturally… Lila! Stop laughing like that! I’m trying to make a point here… OK, so Lila is mixing up the roux, sees the color change take place under heating, then says ‘Bernard, if all those folks were using the same condoms when they expired, what if something in the condoms changes when they get heated up, like in this roux?’, and I say ‘What do you mean heated up’ and she says ‘you know… HEATED UP’. And then it hits me. What if the condoms have an ingredient in the latex mixture that changes under heat and becomes toxic, yet stays inert when at room temperature? An ingredient that passes muster when the condoms are being manufactured and tested, yet doesn’t kick in until the condoms are being… well, utilized. An ingredient that appears to be normal for an organic, yet changes and becomes toxic when heated up by body heat and friction, like when two people are having sex!”

Henry’s head began to hurt. A heat-induced toxin that killed people who were wearing condoms during sex? How could something like that pass a chemical analysis at the factory? Could a manufacturer know they were making a potentially deadly product? Was it done on purpose? If it was possible, how many others had died using the same product? Why wasn’t it all over the news? Was the CDC hiding something for fear of creating mass ‘safe sex’ hysteria? The questions came rushing into his head at 150 miles-per-hour, and it showed on his face. Belinda and Doc saw that Henry was cogitating at a rapid pace, and they looked at each other and knew that they may just have the one lead that would go somewhere… Henry’s law-enforcement background and analytical nature helped him to organize his thoughts, and they could see it happening right in front of them. Getting Henry out here to run the idea by him to see his reaction to such a hare-brained concept paid off, and they knew it.

After contemplating for a bit, Henry had only one question. “Tell me, Belinda… the Beuleaux Boys had nine empty condom wrappers in their room, which means they were wearing several sets each during their interlude. Why didn’t they die after the first one?” Belinda smiled knowingly. “Henry, my dear, it’s true that there were nine condom wrappers – but only one was the same type as the other victims had used. In all likelihood, the Boys had been having a vigorous workout with eight safe ones, but it was the last one that killed them, and that’s the one we found on his member!” Henry grinned like he just won the lottery and said “Well then, what say we take a drive back into town tonight and play with Doc’s chemistry set?”

SEVEN
In the jungles of Honduras, just West of the capital city of Tegucigalpa, a small but thriving rubber plantation is scratching out a place in the country’s destitute economy. Built by a local named Beto Quijas who grew up to make a small fortune in the Mexican tire industry, he returned to his Honduran home to start a business growing and harvesting the small but sturdy ‘vancha’ trees, known to produce a silky and pure natural latex that is sought after throughout the world for numerous medical purposes. Beto was wise with his money, only clearing enough of the jungle to let his new young trees prosper, never destroying the jungle surrounding his plantation land just because he could. He hired local men and women, paid them well and even paid for their healthcare, an unknown luxury in his country to everyone except to warlords, narcotraficantes and foreigners. His years in the tire industry taught him how to communicate, negotiate in a brutal-yet-fair manner, and always to speak the truth, unlike most of his ‘llantera’ competitors. It was his connections in the tire business that taught him about the medical-grade latex market, and he knew he could make it work for himself and his growing family.

The work was hard and the hours long, but Beto’s employees loved him for treating them so well. They were in the groves before sunrise, tapping the vancha trees with deft strokes of their machetes and watching as the beautiful white gold oozed from the tree trunks like syrup. Each tree could be tapped once a week, and each tapping yielded almost 3 gallons of pure vancha latex, which could be sold on the world commodities market for almost $500 a gallon. His plantation had over 2,000 adult trees and another 2000 saplings in various stages of maturity, which meant that his small plantation could yield almost 6,000 gallons of latex per full tap at a market value of over $3 million dollars. His plantation could see each tree tapped at least five times per year, so he was making an unbelievable amount of money that allowed him to become wealthy, a patron to his country and a hero to his workers, who were all inspired by his story. If Beto could do it, they could too.

Unbeknownst to Beto, the narcotraficantes South of his plantation were using toxic chemicals to produce a high grade of coca paste that was also much sought after in the US, and the pools of chemicals that were used to leech the drug from the coca leaves were being dumped all over the countryside, with a disastrous environmental impact that wouldn’t be acknowledged by the corrupt Honduran government for years. The chemical runoff was killing the jungle foliage, forcing the animals that lived in the decimated jungles to escape to other areas that had not yet been damaged by the coca cookers. One of those migrants was a tiny black tree frog that displayed a bright green spot on its back that the locals called a ‘cuchillo’ or knife, because it had a terrible secret on its miniscule body. The cuchillo weighed less than ½ an ounce.

Although small, the green patch on its back showed the world that it was extremely dangerous, and any animal that wanted to have it for a snack would swallow it whole and be immediately sorry, for the cuchillo was covered with a foul-tasting excretion that would cause the eater to expel the tiny frog before it could be digested. Most of the time, animals would learn not to try and eat the tiny morsel, but animals that hadn’t learned yet would gobble down and swallow it, not knowing that once the frog’s body excretion reached a temperature of 110 degrees F, the excretion became a powerful neurotoxin that would short-circuit the eater’s central nervous system and kill within 60 seconds, allowing the cuchillo to crawl out of the dead animal’s stomach and head back into the jungle. Once the temperature fell below 110 degrees, the excretion was just a foul-tasting slime that wouldn’t harm… a frog.

The toxic spills had forced the cuchillo and many other animal species to migrate to safer areas, and although they had lived only in the small, isolated section of Honduras for a millennia, the tiny frog population migrated to the only place they could – downhill towards the North and directly into the groves of Beto’s vancha trees, where they found a new home. They were safe, the thinned out jungle was actually better for them and they thrived. Normally, when a cuchillo grew too old to remain hiding in the jungle canopy, they returned to the ground to die, decompose and help in their small way to rejuvenate the jungle loam. In their new habitat, they simply expired where they hid in the trees; occasionally a dead cuchillo would drop into one of the tapping buckets and become infused with the thick, gooey latex base. The tiny cuchillo became one with the latex, and processing rendered away any hint that the little frog was now another inert component of the natural latex. The processed latex was sold and shipped to points all over the world and used for every imaginable use – medical tubing, artificial heart valves, surgical tubing and gloves, clean room hermetic seals… and condoms.

As it happened, a tapper was making his rounds of the vancha grove he had prepared earlier in the week and was going from tree to tree, collecting the now-filled buckets, when he heard a faint noise from a bucket quite close to the tree he was working on. He swabbed the tree he was at with the sealer that closed the machete cut and ambled over to where he had heard the noise, looked into the bucket and saw the tiny shriveled body of a cuchillo slowly sink into the goo. He put down his gear, walked over to his supervisor and told her about what he had just seen, and she immediately contacted the grove manager. Less than two days later, a simple screen mesh was attached to the top of each tapping bucket, a simple and inexpensive way to ensure that no animal remains could fall into the latex. This was the first time anyone had ever seen an animal fall into a tapping bucket, so when Beto found out about the swift action his managers had taken to handle this minor quality control issue, he gave his entire staff of tappers and managers a four-day weekend off, starting with a catered luncheon of fresh tamales, empanadas, ceviche and icy Corona beer to show his gratitude for their alertness. Their commitment to him was what helped him to be a success, and he took great pleasure in thanking them.

EIGHT
The idea of a condom becoming a lethal device during sex was almost too crazy to be taken seriously, but after some simple lab tests, Lila Etoufee’s curious connection between her roux and the tainted condoms was proven to be the key to the mystery surrounding the deaths that had plagued Indian River. As it turned out, the CDC had in fact received reports about dozens of other similar unusual deaths from the Southeast portion of the country, but the analysis hadn’t yet reached the stage of concern to post an alert and get caseworkers out into the field. A national recall of the condoms was enacted, but analysis proved that only a very small number of the latex products were found to have the unusual toxin.

Word of the ‘killer condoms’ eventually got out, and although it was expected that numerous lawsuits would be filed against the condom manufacturer, only a few were deemed to have any merit, and most of the families of the victims opted not to sue, since their loved ones were, for the most part, engaged in extra-marital affairs that lead them to their ultimate demise, and the families wanted no part of the media circus that had now enveloped the ‘killer condom’ story. It was a major media story for weeks; senators proselytized on abstinence and safe sex, the religious community clucked their tongues, and lovers around the country took stock of their good fortune and kept on having affairs, making love and being responsible adults.

An investigation into the tainted latex was launched, and although the blame was ultimately placed on the raw product harvested from Beto’s vancha grove, his staff’s quick assessment of the problem and their immediate response vindicated him from any claims of wrongdoing, even though they had no idea of the dangerous nature of the tiny cuchillo, which was not native to the region where Beto’s vancha groves were located. Beto received praise from the medical community for his responsible business practices, and he saw his customer base expand, necessitating more vancha groves and managers and workers to harvest the white gold. Beto bought a new house for the tapper that first reported the dropping frog, knowing that had it gone unreported, the outcome of the CDC investigation could have cost him his livelihood. Beto became a hero in his country, and his business grew and grew.

For their part in uncovering the ‘killer condoms’, Belinda Pomeroy, Doc Etoufee’ and a very skittish Henry Lofy became instantly famous, receiving offers to be interviewed on news shows, TV talk shows, speaking engagements, and all sorts of publicity events. Doc was awarded with an honorary PHD from Harvard, and although he had received many offers of bigger and better jobs and posts, would eventually decide to spend the remainder of his career in his beloved New Orleans office, much to the relief of his colleagues. Belinda was appointed to a Director’s post at the CDC, where she became an advocate for a more responsive infectious disease program, drafting young and aggressive medical techs from all over the country that wanted to make a real difference. Her programs would become SOP at the state level, and there would be talk of her as a nominee for Surgeon General.

For his part, Henry let the accolades come his way, but he slipped into the shadows only a few weeks later, staking claim to the anonymity he reveled in. Like the others, he received offers for jobs with police departments all over the country, but he politely turned them down and asked the Indian River local government to count on him staying on board, which they accepted with relief and gratitude. He also accepted a substantial salary increase, saw his job description change to include a seat on the Board of Supervisors, and watched his departmental budget increase as well. Henry had done a great job, made the right calls all along, and stuck his neck out when it was necessary. All because a few tiny frogs decided to move to a new address.

It had been several weeks since he had spoken with Belinda Pomeroy. With the whole episode now months old and the media attention now given to a scandal involving a former president and his ‘press secretary’, the spotlight was gone and Henry was happier for it. Henry had also found out some facts about Belinda that were surprising, to say the least… that her and Doc had enjoyed a brief affair a number of years before (and that he had been forgiven by Lila, who wound up becoming very close to Belinda in spite of it all); that Belinda was a committed bachelorette who traveled the world and had suitors in many different countries; that Belinda now considered Henry one of her closest friends and confidants because he was the first truly fascinating man she knew that did not try to bed her immediately. All of these things just made him care for her even more, because it showed that, like him, she was human and needed loving friendship like anyone else. He could live with that!

Just after the holidays, on a slow Sunday evening, Henry was lying flat on his back in his remodeled garage, sliding around on a creeper underneath his T-bird performing his ritual oil change, chassis lube and visual inspection. His car was pretty old, and he relied on it as his main transportation, so he made sure to keep after it. He had just squirted the last bit of lube into a zurk fitting when he heard the side door open and close, and watched an obviously female pair of shoes walk slowly around the car. The shoes were open-toed sandals, strapped around the ankles (and lovely ones they were, too) with small multi-colored beads interlaced among the straps. Her toenails were painted a deep shade of bronze, set off against the mocha color of the feet and ankles wearing the sandals, and came to a stop where his feet stuck out from underneath the ‘Bird.

“Nice car”, the woman spoke, “ a ’66 right?” Without sliding out from underneath the car, Henry said “Excellent call, Miss. Are you a Ford fan?” “Yes, but only the older models, you know? The ones that have some character… new cars just don’t have any soul.” Now Henry was getting intrigued, but he wanted to stay ahead of the curve, so he clanked his grease gun a bit on the car’s frame, pretending to be working. “What can I do for you this evening? Anyone in trouble and need a cop?” She walked around the car once more and said “No, but I was told that a Mr. Henry Lofy would most likely be working on his pride and joy this evening, so I wanted to see for myself.” That did it. Henry slid out from under the car, stood up, and saw standing on the other side of the car a woman about 30 years old, 5ft even, with a lovely figure, short cropped dark red hair and a vaguely familiar, yet stunning, face and smile. She was wearing a black calf-length pencil skirt, a bronze twin set sweater that showed off her delicious figure to the max, and was carrying an oversized Armani bag. He must have really looked her over, because she smiled like the sun and looked down a bit sheepish and embarrassed.

“Wups, sorry… I mean, I didn’t mean to give you the hairy eyeball, but, well, I didn’t expect to find such a knockout of a woman standing in my garage this evening!” He quickly wiped his hands off and walked over to her side of the car and extended his hand. “I’m Henry Lofy, and whoever you are, I’m VERY pleased to meet you.” She shook his hand, but didn’t introduce herself. “So I understand that you are a bit of a car, nut. That so?” He was surprised that she didn’t tell him her name, but he wasn’t about to get cowed by her. “Yup, I can say that I love these old cars, but they aren’t central to my life, if you know what I mean.” She raised an eyebrow and said “Yes, I think I do. I also understand that you are a music enthusiast and devotee’ of modern art.” He was taken off guard by that comment; she obviously knew who he was and knew more about him than he knew of her. He was suspicious, but not the least bit wary. In fact, he found this whole episode very interesting.

“OK, now it’s obvious that you know all about me, although I must confess that I haven’t a clue who you are. I am most interested to find out, so may I ask who exactly I am speaking with on this lovely Sunday evening in my garage?” She smiled broadly again, walked up and extended her hand… a hand that was attached to a very lovely arm. “ I’m Roxanne Pomeroy, Mr. Lofy… I hope you don’t mind me barging in, but my sister said that you were a most agreeable sort that didn’t get flustered too easily. Sorry if I seemed a bit mysterious, but in my line of work, I tend to keep people at arms length for a bit until I can get a read on them. Being a police officer, I’m sure you understand.”

Henry’s mind was racing… beautiful smile – check. Familiar face – check. Knows that I’m a cop – check. Last name Pomeroy – OMIGOSH! “Why, you must be Belinda’s sister” he stammered, smiling and shaking her hand and oh so glad to be alive. “She mentioned you on occasion, but I had no idea that… I mean I never dreamed that… I mean…” Roxanne threw her head back and laughed a hearty laugh that brought a smile to Henry’s face. “I thought it would be a surprise for you to have me show up unannounced. My work brought me to New Orleans this week, and Belinda spoke so highly of you that I felt it was my duty to come by and meet the man in person. You ARE famous, you know!” Now Henry was really feeling the blood rush to his face and felt his cheeks burning. “Stop, please, you’re just saying that”, he said in a mock coy tone. “But seriously, I had no idea that Belinda’s sister was such a gorgeous woman, although it shouldn’t be a surprise to me… she’s a knockout too! Ooops, hope that wasn’t crude of me to say that. Damn!” Henry laughed at himself and found Roxanne looking at him in a way that he found both warm and enticing. “Do you have some time to sit and chat, or are you busy? I can always come back”, she said. “NO NO NO… don’t leave, I mean, I’m just finishing up, but I’m sorta grimy right now. If you give me a few minutes to shower and get presentable, I’d love to crack a bottle of wine and get to know B’s sister. Man, I’m glad I cleaned house this afternoon!” Roxanne raised her eyebrow again. “Handsome, fixes cars, is polite AND cleans house? Belinda was right… you are something special. Sure, I’d be happy to hang around.”

A few hours later, Henry and Roxy were cruising in the T-Bird, top down and heater on, headed into downtown New Orleans for some Jambalaya, sourdough bread and pumpkin pie. Roxy was an international finance broker in town for a few weeks, and although she didn’t say so, had been hearing all about Henry from her older sister for months now. She’d been traveling all over the world, was an independent woman who wasn’t ready to start a family, but hadn’t yet met a man that wasn’t threatened by her style and strength. Belinda had told Roxy that had she been less inclined to resist a relationship and was a dozen years younger, she’d have jumped Henry Lofy’s bones right after they’d first met. As it was, Belinda had found a lifelong friend in Henry, and she was grateful to have crossed his path and have him in her life. Of course, she also knew that he would be a perfect match for Roxy, had been feeding her info for months, and had set Henry up without his even knowing it, all leading up to this night.

The T-Bird’s big block rumbled and the evening chill snapped at their heads as they cruised 70 mph down the causeway into town. The lights of the city ahead in the distance, the sounds of Brubeck’s ‘Take Five’ on the stereo, the beautiful Roxanne sitting in the passenger seat, air drumming to the extended drum solo… it was almost too much to bear. “Tell me, Roxy”, Henry said, “do you believe in fate?” Roxy smiled, leaned over and kissed Henry lightly on the cheek and said “Well, I don’t know about fate, but I know what I like, and somehow I like where I am right here, right now. I hope that’s OK with you?”

Henry grinned widely, stomped the accelerator and felt the tires grab the pavement and rocket them forward, towards a night filled with the promise of food and talk and expectations of… whatever. He felt a warm glow inside, felt blessed to be alive, and sent a silent thanks to Belinda, whose smile he saw in Roxy’s face every time she threw her head back to laugh. As they drove into the city center, across the levee and down into the French Quarter, the stars seemed to vibrate with energy and the jungles of Honduras were a million miles away.

“I’m hiding in Honduras… I’m a desperate man;
Send lawyers guns and money… the shit has hit the fan!”

From “Lawyers, Guns and Money” by Warren Zevon



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