F. Scott Fitzgerald was catching a ride in the back seat of Teary’s Subaru Forester. He didn’t know where he was going. Scott leaned over, searching for a bottle under the driver’s seat. He wasn’t sure there would be one, but he had an idea that Teary wasn’t all she cracked up to be.
Teary was humming to herself.
Scott had seen how she’d sprinkled El-Don’s food with pixie dust. He was no dummy about drugs. Fitzgerard was anticipating a wild New Year’s Eve bash. He wondered where the driver had stashed her drugs, booze and party clothes because she definitely was not prepared for the party dressed as a receptionist and sober as a judge.
Teary was feeling well turned out in her navy blouse and grey slacks with navy blue piping. She’d even picked up a caramel cappuccino on her way out of town. The caffeine would help her stay alert. She felt she had to be on her toes. That was why she opted for the sugar rush.
Having found no bottle under the driver’s seat, Fitzgerald noted the sign standing outside Voodoo Donuts that read, “SHOW ME A HERO, I’LL WRITE YOU A TRAGEDY - COUNTDOWN TO 2025 STARTING NOW!”
When Teary pulled up to Rabbi Dinah Lakein’s house, she checked her lipstick in the mirror. Then she went to the back of the Subaru and pulled out her pan of burekas from a cardboard box wedged in the trunk. She had her “grandmother’s recipe” all prepared. Teary tugged on her blouse to set it straight after reaching for the pan of burekas.
Rabbi Dinah Lakein welcomed Teary. She didn’t notice F. Scott Fitzgerald standing behind Teary.
Teary smiled and said that she’d brought the family recipe handed down from mother to daughter. “It is one of the few Jewish traditions my family kept, even though,” Teary sighed, “they didn’t call the dish by its correct name.” She smiled, as if she had cracked an inside joke. F. Scott Fitzgerald rolled his eyes.
“That’s okay, Teary!” Rabbi Dinah said, “We are happy to have you here with us tonight to celebrate Hannukah!”
“Yes,” Tirzah Pyrestone appeared, “it’s important to be with family and you are part of our family now. The bigger Jewish family.” She put on her coat. "Don't wait for me. I'll be back in a jiffy."
“Well I am sorry I didn’t make it to the service earlier,” Teary said.
“You have another chance, you know! Eight days of chances!”Rabbi Dinah said.
“If you ask me,” F. Scott Fitzgerald thought, “this crazy woman who is poisoning her husband is as Jewish as Irish whiskey.” Scott thought about his secretary Frances. Frances was undeniably Jewish. Cute as a button, too. Plus she got rid of all the bottles like a pro. Teary wasn’t such a pro at deception but she was devious enough that Fitzgerald didn’t trust her. He gazed at the pamphlet on the hall table. “Filling the Void with a Narcissist - a Discussion about Healing after the Circus Leaves Town with Rabbi Dinah Mifferet Lakein.”
Everyone but Keith was sitting down at Buck’s dining table. Dinner had just been eaten with relish, the dishes had been cleared away by discreet and handsome men named Pablo and Juan and Trevor and now the guests were being prepared for the seance.
Watching Buck’s esteemed company devour escargot and faux escargot, Keith swiftly came to the conclusion that “All Was None." It was a demonstration of happy Zen coincidence at it's finest.
As a preliminary act to the seance, the Poet stood up to read his latest piece. The Poet was present because he had been granted a three month retreat (with free board and fare) at the Rimbaud Ranch to work on his latest project, “Mental Furniture School.” It was a work in progress intended to roughly sketch out a solution to the loss of jobs due to the growth of AI.
When the phone rings, I usually hear it ring. Even if it doesn’t ring like an engagement proposal gussied up and down on one knee, nine times out of ten I hear it loud and clear. And I always stop what I am doing before picking up the phone. It doesn’t pay to do two things at once.
Optimistically I ask myself, “Who could this be?" Then I announce my name without looking at the number. This is a routine of mine because when a woman is going to get down on one knee and propose, I find it a fine idea to act surprised and appear to take time and reflect carefully on the matter. This part is sometimes surprisingly easy.
Just how much commitment do I want to encounter on any given afternoon?
The first person I thought of was Marcia. I happened to be alone and it was a premonious time to talk to Marcia. I had nothing better to do.
After I said my name, Marcia said her name. It was a good start.
Marcia told me about how she just attended her university class on Wittgenstein. Marcia’s voice was as translucent as a medium’s crystal ball at the rodeo fairgrounds as she explained she had already seen the lecture on YouTube last summer.
“Why am I paying donkey’s balls to see it again?” she asked me.
“False premise,” I answered, fairly sure of my response.
“I’ll be over in fifteen,” she said.
The Poet sat down. Next to him Neurosis shot an amused glance his way. She was dressed in red velvet and had crimped her hair. Neurosis was a brunette that week.
“To the Poet!” The Artist said, raising his glass. “I am not sure how this work solves the dilemma of unemployment, but I recognize the effort.”
Musetta rose to the occasion, “Gentlemen....and Ladies,” she enunciated sweetly, “may I just say that before we learn about the future, indeed our collective futures, let us reflect on the past.” Musetta began to sing her best aria.
“Thank you!” Buck said loudly, interrupting the singer. “I will have to ask you to set your fanny back on your chair. We don’t need the dessert trolley just now.” Mrs. Buck, put a hand on his arm. “Exactly, I now invite Gator to say a few words. Gator has been assessing the affair of the missing manuscripts of Keith Kumasen Abbott.”
Tirzah shot Gator a look of concern. Gator had not been happy to discover his dinner companion at Buck’s New Year’s Eve party was Tirzah. Where had Gertrude Stein gone? Gator thought Gertrude was much more enlightened than the Outback Oracle. Gator was a little frightened of the seance, would Tirzah be leading it? He hoped not.
Lolly had grown terribly silent when he heard Buck mention Keith Kumasen Abbott’s missing archival materials. Was this a trap? Did everyone know he had them in his cabin off the grid?
Gator was searching for words. “Identity is key,” he started saying, “to realize the importance of interpreting knowledge. Of course in any good graduate school, we learn to compare sources to reach a conclusion that fits the description.”
Mrs. Buck frowned.
Musetta yawned.
“It could very well be that Keith Kumasen Abbott is Keith Kumasen Abbott. And it could also be perception that misleads us to think that what we are missing is the archival materials of the ex Naropa faculty member, however,” Gator paused.
Buck looked annoyed.
“Greater things,” Gator resumed, “could be afoot.”
“Tirzah,” Buck said with his best charm, “did you see Moses the night you picked up Gator from the hospital?”
“I swear to you I only saw a prairie dog wearing a Christmas bow.” Tirzah said.
“Yes, but in the mouth of a mountain lion,” Gator corrected her. He was certain of what he had seen that night. And now he had been watching Moses all evening. He was the only person present who could see the apparition. Gator was also certain of this.
Keith was sitting on the buffalo head that was mounted above the fireplace. He had a bird's eye view of the proceedings.
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