El-Don woke up on Boxing Day. He opened his eyes and discovered that he was hungry. He also discovered, checking his phone, that it was quite early. Earlier than he was accustomed to rising. What time had he gone to bed?
He thought about this and remembered coming home from the Christmas Service after the community luncheon that was served to the needy and lonely. Teary had volunteered both of them for kitchen duty since their own children were not coming home for Christmas Day. He remembered calling Zelda and trying to get ahold of Flora. Had he talked to Flora?
El-Don lay in his bed with Teary next to him. She was still fast asleep. He felt confused. He recalled the words of Pastor Brandy’s sermon on the coming of Jesus. Pastor Brandy had quoted the Biblical passages from Ezekiel. El-Don liked remembering words. “The importance of the coming of the Saviour of the World is not to be understated,” Pastor Brandy had preached. “As we celebrate the birth of Jesus, let us remember the words of Ezekiel, ‘I looked and saw an immense cloud with flashing lightning and emitting a brilliant light. The center of the cloud glowed like hot metal.’ Here Ezekiel recognizes the core, the everlasting life, the rock, the fundament and the coming of Jesus to save mankind. We put our trust in the Lord and his only Son. We believe in His presence and love. Jesus has been born this day and will come again. Amen.”
How come El-Don could recall the exact words of Pastor Brandy yet couldn’t recollect if he had talked to Flora? And then there was that dream, the dream about an alien spaceship. El-Don was sure this was the second time he had dreamt about the aliens and the spaceship. But this time El-Don had dreamt he was walking down Main Street and whistling “Don’t Worry, Be Happy” with the aliens. Strangely enough all his alien friends were named John.
El-Don never used to dream of aliens. He didn’t really like this turn of events and he decided not to mention it to Teary. He silently slipped out of bed and went to the kitchen. He stood in front of the coffee machine that was prepped to make chicory coffee. El-Don just wanted regular coffee. It was Boxing Day, goshdarnit, and he wanted regular coffee. It was also four in the morning.
El-Don opened the refrigerator and stared at the plate of latkes under saran wrap. Had that Pyrestone woman dropped off the plate of potato latkes? El-Don sighed. He went into the garage and put on a pair of overalls, the ones he used to shovel snow but there was hardly any snow. He also put on his winter boots and gloves. As the garage door slowly opened, El-Don released the remaining prairie dogs from their cages. They darted off into the darkness, festive in their red ribbons. Maybe he should have taken the ribbons off the prairie dogs.
What did it matter? El-Don thought. Truth was, he didn’t like prairie dogs. He rubbed his head, feeling pretty out of it, and reckoned that he’d feel better after breakfast at The Waffle House.
“Trust me,” Mila said to Blessing, “she’s wilder than you and me put together.”
“Do you think there’s anything between her and this Gator person?” Blessing asked.
“Ugh no, have you seen the man?” Mila scoffed. “But she could get herself into real trouble. You know.”
“Yeah, but her dad’s the chief of police.” Blessing whispered.
Aunt Carmen interrupted them. “You girls doing okay? I thought it went well today. So I need you to come back tomorrow and we’ll review and maybe continue.” Carmen looked at the girls. “If you are alright.”
“Mrs. Garcia, I would love to come again. You are a great teacher,” Blessing said.
Mila agreed.
“Good.” Carmen was satisfied. “Mila, Tristan is here to pick you up. Can he drop off Blessing?”
“Yes,” Mila sighed. “I can’t wait to get my license. Only two more weeks.” She turned to Blessing, “Then we can make some plans. I was thinking we should take that judo class.”
“Why?” Blessing stopped in her tracks.
“Because,” Mila said, “you heard of that girl that was nearly sex trafficked?”
“Is Emery coming too?” Blessing immediately asked.
“She better,” Mila said.
Gator was watching Buck Rogers carefully. Buck was eating a bowl of oatmeal.
Last night’s party had gone on so long that Gator didn’t make it back to his room at the Longmont Holiday Inn and Suites. Mrs. Buck Rogers was also eating a bowl of oatmeal.
In fact all the guests from the party were in the ranch’s dining room eating bowls of oatmeal. No one was complaining about the oatmeal.
The party had gotten out of control about the time that they were seated in a safari jeep being driven out over a large stretch of Rimbaud Ranch. It was beautiful out under the dark blue sky and sparkling stars, but Buck’s guests were cold. No one had anticipated spending Christmas looking for Moses’ lost notebooks.
“You see them?” Buck asked Gator who was sitting beside him. Buck was drunk and driving erratically. “You see Moses’ tablets out here?”
“Buck,” Gator said, “I could have been mistaken. Maybe it wasn’t Moses.” Gator was beginning to regret telling his story about seeing Moses.
“You son of a bitch. I know it wasn’t Moses in the back of the Outback Oracle. It’s you who can’t figure things out. Keith Abbott, that’s who was in the back of the Outback Oracle.” Buck braked hard. “Keith Kumasen Abbott.”
Buck brought out a pistol from inside his jacket and fired a shot into the air. “That was a mountain lion.” He gestured to the right of the safari jeep. Gator recoiled.
“Keith Abbott?” Gator asked blankly. Somewhere in the distance a wolf howled.
“Yeah, the Soto Zen monk.” Buck started the jeep. “He wears white robes and has a beard. You Jews call him Moses.”
“Moses was a Soto Zen monk?” Gertrude Stein asked politely.
Mrs. Buck Rogers shivered in her beaver pelts. “Darling,” she said to Buck, “I think we should abandon the search for Moses’ lost tablets. There couldn’t possibly be anything left to ban, of importance that is, and besides, you could ask Lolly to track those tablets down if you are really serious.”
Both Mr. and Mrs. Miscavige made a mental note. Who was Lolly? And what exactly could he supply on short notice?
“At least,” Buck muttered under his breath as he wrenched the wheel to turn, “those two Scientologists aren’t Mormons. Those two are only after spaceships.” Buck didn’t want to address the subject of the aliens. As far as he was concerned, the less folks knew about the aliens’ latest entrepreneurship, the better.
Buck reached over and pulled a grenade out of the glove compartment. He pulled the pin and threw it heroically into the distance. Buck had a good arm. Everyone sat silently and watched the grenade explode. It was almost like the fourth of July in Colorado, except colder.
Gator was becoming ever more perplexed about Buck’s tendency towards noisy acts of violence. Was it because he had attachment problems? Was it feeding his whimsical ideas about having incurable ADHD? Did Buck think he was going to get another medal for vaillance?
Buck was tired of all the yakking, listening to the dumb stories and witnessing the self righteous behaviour. And all that on Christmas. Buck felt that the grenade was the best way to get everyone back on track. He had instructed his staff to prepare the eggnog in the bowling alley. It was time to return to the ranch house. Everyone was already assigned to a team. Mrs. Buck Rogers with Mr. Miscavige, Buck with Mrs. Miscavige. Gator was paired with Gertrude Stein.
“You haven’t heard of Keith Kumasen Abbott, have you?” Gertrude asked Gator while they waited for Mrs. Miscavige to finish her turn. She was on her last throw and five pins remained in place. Gerturde watched Mrs. Miscavige gracefully slide to the left in her bowling shoes. “Amazing. You were lucky to see Keith. I’ve been looking for him. I represent the Rhino Ritz Detective Agency.”
Gator still thought he’d seen Moses. “Why are you looking for Keith Abbott?” he asked.
“We’ve been hired by him to find his lost manuscripts.”
“How come you can’t find him?”
“That is a very good question,” Gertrude replied.
Gator now suspected that Keith Kumasen Abbott had Moses’ lost notebooks. It was all a cover up.
By the time everyone was spooning up their morning oatmeal at three in the afternoon, Gator had a plan.
“Keith,” Michael Sowl said, “your daughter went out on a limb for you.” The evening was advancing in Beer Springs.
“Yeah,” John Veglia jumped into the story, “you know she read your poem My Penis out loud on YouTube.”
Keith thought about this. “Which one?”
“The one in Dump Truck.” Ethel said, referring to the 1967 publication, and set down fresh beers in front of all three of them.
“That was a fairly early penis poem,” Keith said.
“It had a certain familiarity,” John said. He quoted the poem:
This could be a
Long poem
Depending on how I
Feel
But if
I feel one way
Or the other
It wouldn’t matter
Here
I’ll tell you
What I’ve heard
Said:
You bastard
You shouldn’t be allowed
On the street
“Why’d she do it?” Keith asked.
“She needed thirteen signed disclaimers to retain your intellectual property after your old lady bought the farm. She got twelve and the synagogue was a holdout,” John explained.
“So she made a video titled with the name of the synagogue, your name and the name of the poem,” Mike said. “.....hashtag city on YouTube.”
“Yeah, she couldn’t reprint anything legally, but she could read your poem aloud,” John explained.
“And since the synagogue wouldn’t give up the right to associate with your name…..”
“They couldn’t shake her.” John tapped the bar counter.
“She even mentioned it was uncircumcised,” Mike said.
“In the details below,” John said.
“Persephone wasn’t taking any more shit,” Ethel said. “You gotta admit your old lady was crazy, jumping from one religion to another. The woman wasn’t even Jewish.”
Ernest Hemingway eased up next to Keith in his cardboard box. ”I know what you were thinking: I thought she was probably a little crazy. It was all right if she was."
“It was an adventure,” Keith said softly.
“Keith, the people at the synagogue apparently didn’t have any plans other than to bury your identity,” Ethel said. “Your work would never be published again.”
“Yeah,” Michael Sowl said. “That sucked.”
“Persephone,” Keith said.
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