Three Scoops is a Blast! Read online

  Try as they might, the Smith family elders had never been able to rescue him from his demons. Bouts of rehab and mood-altering drugs all came up short. The upshot was Edward disappeared into the legions of the homeless in the city’s core when Liz was only in her teens. She’d been too young to do anything about it then and her sense of loss and impotence never left her. There was no doubt in her mind she still had a duty to perform.

  Since her father died and her mother’s health deteriorated, mainly due to heartache, Liz had adopted a new routine. For the past decade, there was one day a year when Liz would go to her friend Cynthia’s florist shop and purchase two dozen yellow roses. Cynthia would usually throw in an extra one for good measure, bringing the total to 25. Liz would sit in her car and carefully cut each blossom to a length of five or six inches, also snipping off the thorns along the remaining stems. Then she would drive downtown. This was a journey that always threw her into heightened anxiety, not only due to the traffic but also on account of what she imagined she might find when she got there. She never wavered, though, and proved she was a trooper.

  She’d park the car around Sherbourne and King Streets and make her way west on foot. Along the route, she’d pause when she encountered some derelict soul and hand them one of her roses, all the while checking if a flicker of recognition might cross their face or creep into her own. Originally, she had shown pictures of her brother to some of the people she met, including social workers and the “soldiers” of the Salvation Army. Lately, though, she’d given up that effort.

  Life on the streets was hard on people and the change in appearance in a short period of time could be unbelievable. She wasn’t even sure what she would do if she did meet her brother. It wasn’t as if she could take him into her home. His problems had always been too deep and ingrained. But she had to try to find him if for no other reason than to let him know she cared.

  The first person she encountered that night seemed harmless from an approaching distance of ten feet or so. He was a stooped version of a former giant, with straggly red hair and craterous skin. But standing right in front of him and getting a close-up look at his face, sent a jolt of fear through her. His countenance was as angry as any she’d ever seen. Suppressing her trembling, she handed over a flower. It took a moment to register, but the positive change in his appearance was astonishing. Liz moved on quickly. This might augur well for the rest of the evening.

  Two hours later, Liz had worked her way across King Street all the way to Bay. That’s where the skyscrapers stood. Sixty-storey and higher towers loomed over all the corners of the intersection. Giant media screens with advertising, stock information from foreign exchanges and the latest news lit up the sky. Human diminishment and eerie dislocation were hard to shove aside.

  Liz was getting tired and there was only one rose left. She crossed the street on a green light to pass on her final floral treasure to an indigent who had camped on the south sidewalk, swathed only in a sleeping blanket, other assorted scraps of fabric and cardboard. The cold of the night at this time of year was like what one might imagine encountering in the vacuum of outer space.

  ~~

  Ever since the Wiz came to appreciate his skill in math, he’d been grappling with one question. It occupied all of his time, costing him all prospects and pushing him to the brink of insanity. He had a theory with the potential to explain the most important subject of all, good versus evil.

  In his younger days, when he’d been more cogent, his proposition was framed as follows. Most people think they know what one plus one adds up to. Well they’re wrong. One plus one does not equal two. Nor does it make 11 as grade schoolers like to say in their riddle. Nor is it the punch line for the joke about the shady accountant which ends with, “Whatever you’d like it to be.”

  No, one plus one, when it comes to human affairs, is always more or less than the individual parts. The interpersonal reaction of one-on-one results in a net plus or a net minus. In the case of the former, the difference between the whole and the sum is a quantifiable good. That’s where angels live. In the event of the latter, the net negative, that’s where soul eaters are born and derive their nourishment. One always has to worry about being pursued by soul eaters.

  When many people get together and behave well, such as in charity events or in response to catastrophe in weather-ravaged regions of the world, the storehouse of good receives a boost to its inventory. When gatherings of people turn into a lawless mob, the subtraction from the whole is nothing short of evil. At all times, the psychic balance of the world can be determined by mathematical calculations. The Wiz had been working for years to figure out the exact formulas.

  Earlier that evening, the Wiz had been expounding on his theme once again while taking sustenance at the soup kitchen on Sherbourne. The usual semi-lucid audience was there, paying him minor attention. He’d noticed Red in the background. Most of the Wiz’s colleagues had assumed names or street names. Red originally got his from the colour of his hair. More appropriately now, it reflected the colour of his skin. The dappled blotchiness was the result of drinking too many bottles of plonk. When the Wiz thought of Red, he thought of blood. Red scared him.

  The Wiz appreciated his name. It matched his tendency to pontificate. But he’d only acquired it after a former Wiz had departed the scene, taken down by despair and alcoholism. The previous Wiz had been given his name by the cops for a diametrically different reason having to do with incontinence. The new Wiz much preferred his new sobriquet to his old nicknames of Eddie and Smitty. Besides, it helped to confuse and throw off the frightening pursuit of the soul eaters.

  Seated in the cafeteria, Red looked his usual sullen self. But who knew, maybe some of what the Wiz was saying was having an impact. Maybe that explained why later that night, Red offered to let Wiz sleep on top of a warm air vent. These were prime real estate locations for their sub-culture above subway lines, underground parking lots and hot water pipes that heated several downtown office buildings. On any other night, Red would have given him a hassle and driven him away for the fun of it, employing the threat of physical violence. On the other hand, maybe it had something to do with the yellow rose Red was clutching in his beefy paw.

  It was a joy for the Wiz to stretch out on Bay Street in what was, for him, rare comfort. He lay facing the street in the peace of the evening. A lady approached him from behind. He knew her gender from her footfall. Then a man walked up and the two of them started conversing.

  “I wish they’d go away. I’m going to keep pretending to sleep. They must know each other. Yes, that confirms it, they’re talking about their marriage. Well, I have my theory about relationships. I’m going to let them have their privacy. Hope this doesn’t bring out the soul eaters.”

  ~~

  Brian Stuckey stepped out of the sports bar and into the cold night air. He’d gone downtown with several of his buddies from work in the government office building near Wellesley and Bay. This was fairly common practice for the lot of them. They’d knock back a few brewskies, flirt with some waitresses, talk about their sports heroes and get into a silly pointless dispute or two.

  They started out in the trendy area of Queen Street West. Then they moved closer downtown. Heading into the third bar-hop, Brian became restless and unhappy. This was happening more frequently lately. The thrill was going out of sitting and getting hammered with his frat boy companions and arguing about what was wrong with the Leafs or the Argos or the Raptors.

  He had a great wife and adorable daughter back home. What was he doing down here? Brian left the group and walked along King to clear his head. His intention was to eventually climb into a cab to take him to his parked car. Then he saw her. She was about to bend down over a homeless person sleeping right there on the street. Could that really be Liz? He called out to her.

  “Sweetheart, is that you?

  She looked back. Startled at first, she was too tired to register a whole lot of surprise. “Yes, fancy meeting yo
u here. We’re going to have to stop meeting like this.”

  Then it came to him. Brian remembered his wife’s obsession with finding her long lost brother. In many ways, she was a remarkable woman. His heart melted.

  “I forgot you do this every year. In fact, I just realized something. If you’re doing this, then it must be Valentine’s Day. I’m sorry, it slipped my mind.”

  “You’re absent a lot these days, Brian, in mind and body. Abby and I miss you.”

  “You’re right. I don’t know what I’ve been thinking. I’ve been neglecting you for no good reason. It’s not acceptable. Will you forgive me?”

  “Possibly. Probably. I’m beat. Can we talk more later? I’d like to leave now.”

  “You still have a rose left.”

  “Yes, I was going to place it on that man’s shelter. But here, let me stick it in your lapel instead.” Then stepping back and examining the result, “That looks really nice. Let’s go home, dear.”

  Herb Green discusses his Finances in Four-letter Words

  January 16, 2010

  Herb Green was frustrated beyond containment. His toxic mood might not have been impossible to deal with except he had newly acquired a truly foul vocabulary. He started swearing like Regan in The Exorcist. Furthermore, he lacked the originality to be entertaining in his gross verbiage. No, he was disgusting to listen to. His wife, Wanda, was really fed up with him. She’d once dated a rapper and swore she would never again breathe in that kind of atmosphere.

  Under normal circumstances, Herb was a soft-spoken decent man. But these were not normal times. In fact, these were the most difficult economic times ever experienced by someone of Herb’s age. He knew about the Great Depression through what he’d learned in school. Even his father was a child in the Dirty 30s. Herb wasn’t equipped to handle the emotional roller coaster that saw him lose all of his money and go deeply into debt in the latest Great Recession.

  Now he swore and cursed about his depleted finances all day long. He turned the air blue with his ranting. Wanda instituted a new rule in the house. Every time Herb cursed, he had to put a one-dollar IOU in a large glass jar. In quick order, Herb was in debt by another $1,000. This distressed and depressed him even further. That is, until he came up with a novel idea.

  Herb discussed his proposal with Wanda. She claimed every second word out of his mouth was a swear word. Herb loved his wife, but there were times when he found her to be too uptight. Nevertheless, he knew he’d gone too far. He set his mind to the task of making relations with Wanda better again. And it wouldn’t hurt if he could get the extra $1,000 debt off his back.

  Herb asked Wanda if she would free him from his cuss-jar obligation under condition he complete a “quest.” He promised to write a description of how his financial failings were affecting him, using primarily four-letter words, but in a manner to which she would not object. If he could write a lengthy diatribe 50% comprised of acceptable four-letter words, would she put aside the matter of the outstanding chits? “Yes,” she said and the challenge was on.

  Wanda went to bed. Herb went to work. He sat down at his computer keyboard. It was a Herculean struggle. His composition began as a scattering of words and phrases. To hone his alertness, he drank one cup of coffee after another. Pretty soon, it was past midnight. He began to make some progress. By 2:30 a.m., the journey was well underway. It wasn’t until 6:00 a.m. that he was finished. Herb pulled an all-nighter. When Wanda rose in the morning to prepare for the day ahead, the following is what she found taped to the door of the master bedroom’s bathroom.

  Sure, fate, kick my rear,

  I’ve got nothing left to fear.

  Greed and envy were my goad,

  high interest rate my heavy load.

  Bond, loan and cash lost on the crash,

  illusory glitter a dash, I acted rash.

  Markets turn sour

  for stock and gold holdings.

  Bear-after-bull timing

  is crucial for foldings.

  Gear up for rain,

  turn on the sump pump.

  Move from gain to pain,

  when one fails to lump dump.

  Urge reader beware,

  don’t follow my strategy.

  Buy high and sell low

  is no good for one’s sanity.

  There’s a hard lesson to learn

  when fleeced by a liar.

  Loot, steal, rob and burn

  by my financial adviser.

  He fled the city and took all my pay.

  Must find my broker some extra fine day.

  Suntan your face, feet, ears, back and limbs.

  Drink rum and coke and sink in your sins.

  At my dear cost, laze and daze on a beach.

  To kill will be kindness, when you I do reach.

  Hope almost shot,

  Don’t snub my spun song.

  Rant and rave slow from trot,

  to stop and wave so long.

  Wanda read the note. She was stunned. She hadn’t thought Herb had it in him. There were moments of doggerel, but the basic story was all there in outline.

  Besides, she was always encouraging Herb to open up about his feelings. Okay, this wasn’t so much about his feelings for her, but it was a second-best effort. Maybe she’d cut him some slack.

  WANDA: So did you do it? Are the italicized words half of the total?

  HERB: They are if you include the title.

  WANDA: And what’s the title?

  HERB: Two more four-letter words. “Enuf Said.” That’s enuf spelled E-N-U-F.

  WANDA: Okay, we both know that’s a bit of a cheat. But I’m going to rule in your favor.

  And that’s the way they left it. Wanda relieved Herb of his debt. She was proud of her man. He had faced adversity and was in the process of coming through unbowed, if not quite triumphant. Furthermore, she took pride in the role she’d played in cleaning up the verbal environment.

  On his side, Herb was pleased too. He was back in Wanda’s good graces, the nagging eased and the extra $1,000 for his foul-mouthed ways was forgiven. Plus, there was one financial worry that would no longer be hanging over his head. He was thrilled he wouldn’t have to incur the additional expense involved in hiring a magician to pull the pickle out of his wife’s butt.

  A Curious Case of Bottled-up Passion

  January 23, 2010

  Pug-nosed Pat and gum-chewing Chris, two long-time Irish cops, were back on the day shift after a month spent on the night rotation. Their patrol area ranged from the honky-tonk district in the east to the upscale shopping quadrant downtown. Being a cop these days was a quite different experience than it had been for their family forefathers on the force. The city-state had morphed beyond recognition.

  At the turn of the 22nd century, the world had changed considerably from what it had been 100 years before. War and most other manifestations of violence had been eliminated. Peace gained a stranglehold. Social media monitored and controlled all economic activity. Women held every managerial and leadership position.

  The transformation began slowly in the early years of the preceding century, then exploded. The first big shift came with the founding of the FLYT Corporation. In the same way the word NEWS is derived from North, East, West and South, FLYT is a combination of the first letters of Facebook, LinkedIn, YouTube and Twitter. FLYT Corp., in a brief period of time, took over all communication on earth – news, messaging, broadcasting and entertainment for starters, then inventory management, data processing and the full range of other business functions stored in the clouds. The resulting paradigm shift was unprecedented.

  When FLYT took flight, women finally achieved their full potential. The ladies were far more adept than the men at welcoming and making use of the new tools at their disposal. The sisterhood, through a shared heritage of quilting clubs, book clubs, watching Oprah and The View, coffee klatches, spas, trips to the hairdresser and a willingness to seek advice was much more adept at social networking.
Sure, men had their lodges and their drinking buddies, but these were technologically ancient.

  At the quarter-century mark, another fact came to light that also significantly altered the social structure. While accepted as a fine idea at the time, security measures to combat terrorism had gradually rendered all humans, male and female alike, barren. Full-body x-ray machines, first established at airports, then at entranceways to all public buildings, made everyone sterile. This was not the catastrophe that might have been expected, due to advances in genome research.