The Purchase of Whiskey

The Purchase of Whiskey

        by Douglas Diablo Ben Gurian

Miranda. The gods call it home. The mine is now shut to the public after the explosion that killed ten. Prospero loved her too much, I now know that. On that mountain only ten have perished in the last decade. A happy consequence of improved technologies and superior techniques. In her the wicked queen saw herself and did not like what she saw. Snow White modelled her own beauty and her very movements through air on this personage. Gone for her father to town with a lantern, she lost her way in the blizzard and died. I am a great admirer, for she seems to my imagination to grace the world with the most winning smile, and the coyest of personalities. This company manufactures mustard by that name. Give her the boot and you show the courtly love tradition the road at the same time. For all the Mirandas. My cat once took that name from me and lived to a ripe old age. She died of natural causes, being flung down a set of stairs. This was a natural consequence of her positioning herself under my feet as I hurried to catch up to my responsibilities in the morning once too often. I bought a forty ouncer of Canadian Club in the Bahamas once and beside it, on the counter, was another whiskey of the same name that I had never heard of before. It must only be available in the Bahamas, I surmised. Sitting alone in the Miranda, thinking about days gone by. Hoping you'll see my veranda, where I am rocking to die. When the ship came into view, the Miranda showed first above the towering waves, then the hull, and finally the forecastle with the sailors waving hats and cheering to beat the band. Say it isn't so, Miranda. Miranda is not getting any better as we had thought for a time she was; the cancer has returned with a vengeance, and I, I lose all hope and lay about the house confused and desperate. As a new form of immune disease, it has surpassed all the others as a death threat to the masses. Given the shortness of life, Ma'am, could we just retire behind those willows down the river bank there and take off our clothes and enjoy each other's naked presence? Please? I wish I had called my first guitar by that name. She has that, had that, I'm sorry, quality of pretty self reflection. Miranda, Miranda on the wall, who's the fairest of them all? Break a Miranda and it's seven years bad luck. Mire is an especially disgusting root of that icing sugar name and I think that anyone noticing this fact should instantly be made to pay for that moment of imagination by being flung headfirst in a pig wallow brimming with fresh horse dung. And is better, but it leads to nothing. Take it out and you get Mira. Not a bad name, but nothing as wonderful as Miranda. I can picture her now, Lovely in her naturl get up, long legged, white skinned and smooth of features, plastic of hand motion, and refined of walk. Her dress flipping in a breeze catches the attention of larks above who for the quarter hour she bikes to school gauge the wind currents by it and float above her until she enters the red brick building. They wait around the flagpole for her until she leaves at lunch for a bite at home, where they hang around on the weathervane till she is done her repast and returns to school. I cannot but think that whiskey will never receive admittance to that coy mouth past those pink lips in all the years to come.

Wisecracking

Wisecracking

          By Doug the Coveteous

"Hey Joe," Snivel called across the parking lot. "What's got four legs in the morning, two legs at noon, and three legs in the evening?" Snivel smirked at the youth on his right and then his left, waiting. 

         "A man," Joe called, without turning around. Snivel stopped smirking and ran toward the car into which Joe was lowering himself. He got there too late and slammed the roof with his fist twice, not appreciating his wisecracks falling flat. Joe turned off the ignition, unlocked the door, got out, made a quick grab of Snivel's shirt by the tail, got him closer to the neck by the collar so that he couldn't writhe away, and hit him very hard around the side of his head and about the mouth. He let go, Snivel fell to the pavement, Joe took a few steps toward the other two, they ran, Joe returned to his place in the car, started it, and left the Overweighty parking lot. 

         He fished that night around Barkmann Bay Reef and caught a halibut. Cleaning halibut is an especially distasteful experience. To get over his repulsion, Joe whistled and sang. "I's the bye that cleans the fish, I's the bye that nails her," he sang, and, "Hope the fish don't tug  at my line." The fish guts smelled of swamp. Haddock were one thing, with their grease enough for an oil lamp, but halibut put the fear of food in one's heart, cleaning, until you et it, and then made you forget. Eating Halibut was a delight. The tail part, a delicacy of the very most rewarding sort, tasted of meganut clusters and limeade made with cane sugar, dashes of vinegar and a few flakes of extreme chilli. He had some prepared for dinner and invited Callaphette to join him, which she did, and most graciously attired, too, her dress adding to the halibut a most perfecting sprig of something, being a metallic blue with white flowerets on one shoulder and the other bare. Joe dined dressed in a suit, newly purchased at Tallman's, that fit well and snug over his masculature. A dash of shaving lotion, topped with hair recently trimmed by Aman On The Screeb, had him feeling fine and lovable. 

          Meanwhile the three men plotted revenge for the insult. They arrived at Joe's house, and through the curtains saw the duo eating and conversing. It was shadows that they saw and that was enough. They took rocks from their knapsacks and on the count of three threw them at the silhouettes. As the glass crashed inwards they smiled at each other. They forgot, though, about Joe's independence and fiery spirit. Before they could retreat to their car he stood between them and their escape. He took all three by their necks, together in a bunch, and led them inside. He invited Callaphette to retire to the couch and take in the show. Then he hit Snivel twice on his nose, which broke, and once on his chin, which also broke, and three times each about the head and throat. The others tried to get to the door but Joe dragged Snivel about after them and prevented it, all the while punishing him for his behaviour. Then he let him fall and started on the others. He gave both, one at a time, the same treatment about the mouth, the face, the head and the throat and then let them lay on the linoleum. He beckoned for Callaphette to step over and admire his handiwork. She did that and made a joke about three musketeers. She asked if they should do something to humiliate the group lying there but Joe declined, saying that it always paid one to treat humans with respect and kindness. They continued their meal with great conviviality and gradually the men came to and one by one slipped unnoticed out the door. 

        Callaphette suddenly announced that it was time for her to go and meet her boyfriend. Joe drove her to an address on Precisimo Ave., where the city's toffs lived, and watched her disappear into a front door. He stopped at Willard's for a beer and billiards, then drove to the waterfront, and ended up finally at a drive-in movie theatre north of the city on a rise of land known as the Great Hills of Russetteville. The moon shone and the stars lit up the sky to such an extent that Joe could not focus on the drama. He watched for a while as a man on horseback rode furiously for mile after mile through a desert filled with cactuses, shooting now and then over his shoulder at enemies who never showed themselves. Joe got out of the car and walked a distance into the gorse to view the stars away from noise and lights. He stood looking up. He counted a number of satellites flying by. He heard a pig a mile south on some farm. He smelled green grass and then cut grass, too, and lay down. He slept, actually, and then something woke him.

         Lo and behold, it was a couple whispering in the swale not far from him. They could not see him for they acknowledged mutual intimacies that made Joe blush and feel discomfort. Against his better judgment he peeked over and saw a male naked to the waist or more. He did not know if he wore bottoms, for the length of the grass. He heard the female making small sounds and then saw her raise her face for a moment above the thatch. It was Callaphette! This must be she and her boyfriend! Joe got up incautiously and walked away, not wanting them to recognize him, but not wishing them to be embarrassed.

          "Joe!" he heard a dulcet voice call. He turned. Callaphette stood there shining in heavenly light beside her young fellow, beckoning to him to come over. He did that. They spent a wonderful evening together at the drive-in and never thought once about the movie at all.