Where His Ambulances Sat

 [Written around 2000]

Where His Ambulances Sat

     By Peeing Pablo Picasso

Frederick Henry speaks of Udine as the name of the town where his ambulances sat stationed, ready for the call to the front. Hemingway must have been conscious of the urine suggestion: “The men in Udine waited, kicking stones of impatience, testing the will to be home and out of here.” It wouldn’t do of course. I (Salmi Slicthain) am a pizzeria cook who used to teach history at a university with a student population of 14,000. I gave up teaching for two reasons: one, that I became more interested in another discipline than the one I had trained for; two, as a result of something I am not able to divulge because it is still before the courts. 

     George Woondkoont (Dutch ancestry; literary critic and fiction writer) once said: “Formal training is ruseful; read, read, read and educate yourself. If you must supplant your personal, natural, bodily purveyance by enrolling in a university, then stay there for as short a time as absolutely necessary.”

Franky Dave took him to task for his “profound stupidity.” He wrote, at length and with obvious hostility, that Woondkoont deserved no followers. None whatsoever. 

     “George Woondkoont knows nothing about the dedication and devotion to knowledge of the Arts professor and scholar, never himself having stepped inside a postsecondary institution. Autodidacticism is overrated. Stay as far away from the idea that you can educate yourself as you would stay from the evangelical mantra that Satan is behind all that is evil.”

     Woondkoont responded, in the Vancouver Gazette, a year later, once he’d heard about the statement and read the piece. “Devious fails to notice my absolute devotion to precision and my care for nuance. Never, once, have I slandered anyone from a university. See how Devious slanders me? Well, Franky, go ahead. I am not bothered in the slightest. My course is set for me, and I continue forward as I always have. Write on, sir! Slander with a will! I, for one, will never again answer a letter or an article, nor will I ever again read anything, that you have written, for I consider you the spawn of Satan.“ 

     With that the two parted company and never were heard from again in the light of open contention.

      I am not impatient with my new lot, though I tend to make those pay who caused it. I welcomed this job, for it allowed me to continue to read and prepare lectures. I am known for two traits in particular: patience, and straightness of direction. The late John Jacob Astor, vice provost at my university, said this about me on more than one occasion. “Leave him to his peace. His rest has begun.“

     Not long ago, when a certain female of my acquaintance judged that she had awaited tenure long enough and that the time for her promotion had arrived at least a year ago, began to leave signs of her impatience at the doors of the members of the tenure committee. Her daughters’ dirty diaper, for one, and various items of used female toiletries, for another, found their way to the base of the four professors’ doors on successive weekends. No note indicated from whom these missives had originated, but the message found its mark and made a difference. Confused by the sudden hate mail, convinced that some sort of general change in their behaviour was necessary if they hoped to avoid further humiliation and, if truth be told, disgustment and downright abjection, these men and one woman unanimously voted into tenureship each of the seven junior lecturers who had applied. All received tenure, all were delighted, and even my acquaintance smiled as she reflected before me on what she had done. 

    I, by way of contrast, to make my point, do not abuse the peace of my colleagues. My patience knows no bounds. Some have said, however, that despite my longsuffering, I tend to waiver to one side or the other of an issue without knowing myself that I do so. Now, I object. Most strenuously. Never in all my life do I recall deviating from a promised action, or from a line of attack. I once vowed to myself, as a young man, to allow none to irritate me to such an extent that I would form plans of revenge and carry them out against another human being. History shows us that such vengeful individuals fail to prosper. George Washington, Genghis Khan, Fiona Judd, Leslie Fiedler, Winston Churchill, these are all examples of this self-defeating impulse. Attack someone viciously, and you will yourself become the object of onslaughts and hatred. 

     One reason only makes my job painful. The young women here do not cause a stir in me against my joy. The pets that cross on the crosswalk and get hit by speeding vehicles immediately in front of the pizzeria windows, make me sing and shout, for I have allergies to both those species of animals. Foods’ blandness (all pizza pastry tastes the same and even the salads become flavoured of flour and garlic) bothers me not in the least. 

     Here is my pain. The boss’s tendency to ignore me and speak rather to individuals who are younger and have a longer tenure at the place. This preferment, this snivelment, forms the subject of my inward discussions. Advancement for any of the staff here, and thus also our sense of self worth, depends on his attention to one. And he pays no heed to me. So, forgivably, I tote around a secret dislike of him and have already paid him back, though he does not know about it. There are ways (let yourself imagine them) of paying someone back in a pizzeria. Many ways. I’ll just say that six of these 200 ways have already been brought to fruition. The seventh and eighth are in their planning stages, but their effect already underway as I speak. They do involve, or one of them does at least, the collecting of a substance already referred to in the language at the opening of this account. The other requires to hand (that is, available) a certain material substantially connected to that less substantial product referred to a moment ago. Good luck boss. I will not quit my job just because of a little misunderstanding. No, not me!