yustyoking

*** [ Another TWO chapters from the Jack Reacher parody Sodden Death. ] ***

*****     *****     *****     Roxie Music     *****     *****     *****

I’m a mean MOFO.

Fresh out of better ideas, I have decided to found Rehcaerp Security. Rehcaerp is Preacher spelled backwards. I’m Josh Preacher. Security spelled backwards is ytiruces. But unless you’re Greek and drunk, who’s going to dial the phone number for Ytiruces Rehcaerp? People, I suspect, have better things to do with their lives. Maybe, maybe not.

Farting around in Washington, D.C., you’d have to be insane to go anywhere else to start a security outfit. Nobody is as needy of security as the federal gov. I’m sitting on a goldmine, here! Actually, where I’m sitting is one of those newbie professional plazas Mayor What’s-His-Face is busy allowing Congress to authorize. Who pays for these things?

YOU DO, you taxpaying fool!!!

This half-acre of concrete has a cute little fountain in the center, surrounded by a two-foot high adobe wall. A metal flower sculpture gushes H₂O in enormous, silvery waves while droplets of water daintily dimple the surface.

If I sound caustic, fountains aren’t my thing. Too feminine, thank you. I’m only sitting here on a bench eating lunch because one of the food trucks belongs to my old buddy Eduardo. I still have yet to find a better taco.

You look worried. You’re probably wondering, “Gee, Josh honey, if you start your own business, where’s the start-up capital gonna come from? Venture capitalists? They’ll own you!”

Rest easy! I may dress in a T-shirt, chinos and worn-out boots. I may wear a baseball cap. But a couple of years back, I took a flier and joined Paul Singer’s vulture fund NML Capital, buying Argentine debt. At 6 cents on the dollar! Bea-u-tiful! Love them vultures! Sure, it was a risk. Those Argentines are your proverbial dreamers, caballeros who still believe they own the Falkland Islands. Pul-lease! Playing hardball, we intended to stampede the Argentine government into paying us the full face value on the bonds. When the Argentos came to the table and settled on a payment plan with 92.4% of their creditors, paying only 30 cents on the dollar, we saw our windfall profits going through the floor. Bigtime.

No worries! We’ve taken Argentina to court and in August 2013, we got U.S. District Judge Thomas Griesa of New York to rule in our favor, declaring Argentina to be in technical default. The U. S. Supreme Court has upheld that ruling. Gotcha! God sides with the big battalions, baby.

So I’m flush.

Fortunately, I am also a patriotic American. I’ve killed al-Qaedans. I’ve put a hurt on Somali pirates. I’ve whupped Jihadi ass. That makes whatever I do all right.

It’s a beautiful June day, marred only by the presence of redmen in American Indian regalia and headdresses who noisily beat on skin drums, declaring, “We dance to the right to summon our gods to punish the infidel Dan Snyder for calling his football team the Redskins. We can use the name, but not him! As Boris Pasternak could tell you, prejudice is a terrible thing. We dance to the left to summon the devils of war to punish the infidel Dan Snyder’s beloved Redskins football team on the field of battle, as the Indian gloriously did General Lance Armstrong Custer at Little Bighorn. Next, we shall try to get Winnebago Industries to change its name, as we Indians find it demeaning to share our heritage with a common recreational vehicle!”

Kind of a lot of politics for lunchtime, y’ know?

Padding around in moccasins, they use smartphones to take selfies of one another on the warpath. Eventually, they move their road show elsewhere. Wrapped up in my burrito, I don’t really care about the statuesque babe in flats who is standing by the fountain, unbuttoning her white cotton blouse. Typical office worker, I assume. A southern beauty with curly black hair, enormous hazel eyes and a cute nose. Somebody’s secretary. I do fixate on the white plaster cast on her left arm, between wrist and elbow. The perfect location for a concealed, spring-loaded knife or gun. Very new, there isn’t a signature on it. Already, she’s making me nervous.

Considering all the doggie poop that has gone on previously in my life, I sit in the sun, determined to maintain a low profile: “No war, no drugs, no sex, only rock ‘n’ roll!”

 

She takes off her blouse. No bra. Enormous breasts like torpedoes grab the undivided attention of every man jack one of us. And some of the ladies, too. Except for the gurgling fountain and the caw of a crow, it’s so silent, you could hear an anvil hitting the pavement. Leaning her right hand on the two-foot high retaining wall, she undoes her belt and lets her skirt slip to the ground. Some jokers start to applaud. She’s wearing pink panties. Which she slowly, luxuriously pulls down around her shapely ankles and daintily steps out of. Kicks off her shoes. Piling her garments on the adobe wall next to her carry-all, she climbs into the fountain buck naked. Lying face-up, she floats, holding only her plaster cast above water. As two police cruisers pull up from different directions, two black cops in one, two white cops in the other. The white policemen survey the scene and smirk. “We’ll handle it,” they offer. You can’t have black police officers dealing with white women, it looks bad. The white cops grab a gray blanket from the trunk of their cruiser, pull the lady from the water, wrap her in the blanket and hustle her into the back of their vehicle for questioning.

“She’s French,” insists a goggle-eyed stooge to my right. “Only a French woman would take such liberté with a public fountain.”

“Naw, I know that face. She’s Italian,” insists the dude to my left. “Buxom like Gina Lollobrigida.”

“Whatever,” I surmise. Irritated that the police have her cocooned in a dirty gray blanket, I pluck her panties, skirt, blouse and shoes from the wall and trot them over to the police car. Her carry-all feels as greasy as a rag mop.

“Jesus H. Christ, what the fuck are you doin’?!” demands the cop closest to me, rolling down his car window. “That is evidence! How dare you touch it! Now go put it back where you found it!” One cop is interrogating her, the other is scanning their computer. I’m talking with the dude on computer.

Abashed, I carry her things back to the fountain and arrange them on the wall. The cop gets out of their cruiser and uses a smartphone to take a picture of the fountain and a close-up of her neatly stacked clothes and bag. Scooping up the apparel, he takes them with him back to the car. “You! Goody Two-shoes!” he calls. “Yeah, Mr. Volunteer! You put your fingerprints all over her clothes, come here and let me scan your prints.”

Constitutionally, I feel that fingerprints are personal property, even more so than emails. I’ve only got ten fingers and each one belongs exclusively to me. My fingers, my prints. Yet, every effing snoop bureau— FBI, CIA, NSA, DEA, Homeland Security— plays fast and loose with fingerprinting. I’ve spent mucho effort AVOIDING having my fingerprints taken.

In for a penny, in for a pound, the cops have me press my digits directly onto their computer screen. New technology, they record both my pointer fingers and my thumbs. Left hand, right hand. Only to come up blank. “Who the fuck are you, anyway?” asks the one cop, surveying my 6′ 3″ hulk and 250 lbs. of pure muscle.

“John Doe,” I assure him. “Everyman… for himself!” Walking up to their vehicle, I push one of my business cards through the window, proffering it to the lady. Who looks a little wild-eyed and frightened.

“Ma’am, You don’t have to take that card!” cautions the second cop. “That guy is NOT a policeman.”

“Listen,” I tell her, sick of nobody ever calling me after I give them my card. “I am a lawyer…”

I am NOT a lawyer.

“If you’re incarcerated and need bale money to get out, call me! If you can’t pay your misdemeanor fine, call me!”

Speaking the jargon, I can actually see the policemen’s attitude changing. They go from being openly hostile to being frankly terrified. A lawyer! Another fuckin’ lawyer!

She takes my card.

“CALL ME!” I tell her. “Whatever happens, CALL ME!…” Watching her eyes widen, I suspect I might actually have gotten through to her. “She’s French, right?” I ask the cops, preparing in my mind for an evening en français, maybe a French movie VOD.

“Nope! Hate to disappoint ya. True, blue American!”

Behold, 23 minutes later, my cell phone rings. I’m still by the fountain where the plate hit the wall. Which is dumb! The very first rule of tradecraft is “Move! Don’t wait around to get caught or shot.”

So I have the honor of speaking with a beautiful stranger on my cell phone, an experience missing for far too many moons. “It’s a misdemeanor,” she explains. “Somebody’s gotta pay the $250 fine and come get me.”

“THAT’S ME!” I assure her. As I approach the police station, a stack of bills from an ATM on the front seat of my jalopy, I figure the chances are pretty slim that I’ll ever even see this lady again. With her looks, with that dynamite body, all she needs to do is cry “Damsel in distress!” before a bail bondsman. He’s gonna cave. If she makes it as far as the highway, all she needs to do is wave her arms. She’ll get a lift immediately. Men are going to stop. By the carload. So I’m delighted and a little unnerved to find her waiting behind the door in lockup, arguing with her jailers, swearing and noisily banging her cast against the green metal lockers. When she sees me, her savior, she stops raising Hell and smiles sweetly, all kindness and light. “Hi-i-i-i,” she breathes, widening her eyes passionately. I am a knight errant, my joy comes from helping people. It also helps if the women are beautiful.

The black clerk takes my money and fills out the paperwork, a nasty smirk fighting to break free. “Wow, man!” says he. “Your lady sure do change her tune when you be around.” A statement which, if true, does not necessarily bring me comfort.

Outside and free, finally reaching the car, I bark excitedly, “Hi!”

“Hi-i-i! Whew! What an experience!”

“Why did you do that?” I ask.

“Why did I do what?” she replies in a soft, sweet Tennessee accent.

“Take all your clothes off.”

“To bathe in the fountain, of course,” she replies forthrightly.

I make no claims regarding Tennessee. People say “Memphis, ooh la la!” They say “Nashville! Grand Ole Opry.” I have no personal experience of either. So this girl Roxie is something brand new to me. I drive us across the river to my dickwad apartment on the wrong end of Arlington, Virginia. “We came into town on Jimmy’s Harley for Rolling Thunder and never left,” she explains, falling onto my bed as if exhausted. “I did most of the panhandling. Then Jimmy got mad when this gen’man offered to take the two of us to din-din,” she drawls. ” ‘He jus’ wants t’ fuck you! ‘ Jimmy swore. When he went to hit me with a wooden chair at the Day’s Inn, I put up my arm to protect myself and that’s how I broke two bones in my left arm. The doctors say they’re hairline fractures.”

I feel like James Bond tending to “a bird with a wing down.”

I don’t tell Roxie, but inside, I’m groaning. Horror stories! Everywhere you go, people roll out their horror stories: Investments that turned sour, uninsured possessions lost in transit, favorite pets that died, homes burned to the ground, favorite aunts withering away in cancer, boo hoo hoo! “Wait! Here’s another sad story.” I served in the Persian Gulf War and Somalia. Bigger suck-holes you’d be hard-pressed to find. So your sad stories don’t impress me much!

What does impress me is the revelation that Roxie and Jimmy are very physical, violent people. He’s out there cruising the streets looking for his baby, a .38 caliber pistol tucked in his boot. A battered lady with a loose cannon for a boyfriend? We’re not stepping outside my front door!

Winning is everything.

A philosophy adopted by the late William Taylor. (No relation to James Taylor, Taylor Swift or Zachary Scott.) A true American original, Old Will was something of a mentor to me, stiff-arming people outside the men’s room at football games, browbeating his subordinates and showing up stinking drunk and unshaven for Sunday morning church services, where he bellowed the hymns loud enough to reach heaven without artificial amplification or divine intervention.

As a military leader, Old Will combined two principles: (1) “They should bring back the code duello” and (2) “Full speed ahead.” A butter bar lieutenant in Vietnam, Old Will’s very first platoon got totally annihilated, although no one blamed him at the time. (I accompanied Will to reunions where not even the servers would speak to us. Parking lot attendants shunned him.)

Blustery, red-faced and barrel-chested, as Irish as a leprechaun, an industrialist of the Old School and a proponent of conglomeration, Will made his career in the oil industry. He cut prices to starve his competitors, specialized in hostile takeovers, bribed— wherever possible— public officials, and generally made a name for himself as a hard-living, whisky-drinking real life J. R. Ewing-style impresario.

Kind to a fault, Old Will let me clean his stables (“Good exercise, shoveling shit!”), wax his cars, clear brush from his acreage and lay bricks for his patio. A joker, Old Will would come upon me sweating and swearing in the Texas heat, at which point he broke into a rousing chorus or two of the Marine Corps Anthem.

His disciple, I am blackballed from golf courses as far north as Maine and as far south as Florida. My game reflects all that Will taught me: I play golf the way we took the island of Grenada.

Brute force.

But I digress.

“Can I borrow your cell phone?” Roxie asks, kind of melting, hazel eyes staring innocently, enormously into mine.

“Sure. Please. No biggie,” I decide, busy planning my shopping list. As I leave the apartment, she’s on the phone: Spread out all over my bed, bare naked, chewing on a pencil, her sweet pink butt sticking up in the air, a spiral notebook open in front of her. “Ronald?” she is saying. “Hi, it’s me, Roxie!… No, Jimmy’s not here. That’s why I’m callin’, honey. I’m kinda stranded and I sure could use some money…”

 

Summer radio, I get Rihanna, Ke$ha and Krewella. This season’s R & B rap sensation, Lady Arby— just left of Nicki Minaj on the dial— belts out a song entitled Mr. Coatrack.

“Smooth Jive Jackson, where you been? / You ain’t Michael! You ain’t him. / Tour the country, makin’ speeches. / Talk in diners, eatin’ peaches. / We hear you lecture, preach and shout, / But Russia and China, they win out. / Hey, Oreo, where’s the elevator? / What’s this bullsh-t ‘See ya later’?”

At the International Grocery on Route 50, I peer into the green algae-tinted water and count the number of lobsters, rubber bands on their claws to keep them from fighting. I ask the Vietnamese seafood chef to cook me up two. “Sho’ fing!” he insists. “Twanty minutes.” I buy us a bottle of Chablis, carrots, greens, tomatoes, an oil and vinegar salad dressing and a layer cake for dessert. I throw in some Tanzanian coffee. Checking the label, I find even the milk comes from a Mennonite dairy in Pennsylvania. I pick up our lobsters, glowing red and gorgeous. The man wraps them in butcher paper. I pay for everything at the check-out counter, getting ambushed as usual by the Vietnamese girls working there, their hungry eyes eating me alive. Velly American, I decide.

I get back just in time to find Roxie still on the phone, “Hello, Jerry! Boy, it’s been awhile. Hi-i-i-i! Well, I miss you, too… Honeychild, the reason I’m callin’ is my boy Jimmy done left me… That’s right, stone cold! I’m a free woman…”

 

As paranoid as anyone, I open an envelope I found stuck in my door.

***   ***   ***   Hello there, Happy Apartment Dweller!   ***   ***   ***

Yes, it’s that time again! Just outside your bedroom window, everything is growing like mad. Whether it’s tending the flower pots on your balcony or power blowing the front entrance to your building, you need a gardening service provider you can trust. And one who can trust you! Trust you to

— pay your monthly invoice on time

— follow the watering instructions enclosed with every plant treatment

— stay off the front lawn for 2 hours after each treatment

— stay off the phone during our peak business hours

— be courteous and kind

— recommend us to your friends!

If you fulfill the requirements listed above— and we just know you do!— GIVE US A CALL! TODAY!!!

Harry Houdini Lawn Care *** “Watch your weeds (and money) disappear! ” ***

 

I fix us dinner, proud of my culinary expertise. I even put out the little forks and nutcrackers you need to do justice to lobster.

We sit down to eat. It finally dawns on me that I’m living with a nudist. Situated across from me, gorgeous breasts fully on display, pink skin, notebook open to another page, phone pressed against her ear, Roxie chirps, “Paul? Hi!… Sure, it’s me! Uh huh! Roxie. Uh huh! Uh huh! Listen…”

Diving into my lobster, I’m reminded of a visit I made to Eastern Germany just after the Wall came down. New money had flooded into Frankfurt an der Oder. Construction everywhere. Cement mixers, cranes, trucks. Dressed in a black leather jacket and slacks, I paused before the display window of a bakery shop, unsure whether to enter. Or not. When a Mercedes pulled up and a finely coifed and clothed gentleman got out and walked up to the entrance. His hat alone cost as much as some poor slob made in a month. Seeing my hesitation, he chuckled and thrust out his hand. “Guten Tag! Ich bin die Bürgermeister.” Bowing me into the shop, the Mayor was effusively greeted by the two plump salesladies in white aprons behind the counter. I stood there smiling shamelessly, implying “I’m with him.” Such a conversation ensued!

“Mr. Mayor, you must try the kugel.”

“Oh, that’s very refreshing! ”

“Mr. Mayor, a tart.”

“Mmmm, too sweet.”

“Mr. Mayor, a pastry, your honest opinion.”

“Hmmm hmmm hmmm, needs more butter.”

Those two ladies looked to my right, to my left, above my head and down at my feet. Everywhere but at me. They didn’t try to sell me anything. Not only did they provide zero service, as far as they were concerned, since I wasn’t a local and didn’t come from there, I didn’t exist. That’s how I feel, watching Roxie finally drop the cell phone on the table and dive into her lobster and salad. No polite conversation, “Oh, lobster! How delish!” No small talk, “Big city Washington isn’t so scary, after all.” Not even any gratitude, “Gosh, Josh, you’re an angel for rescuing me like this.” She eats a claw, eats the tail, wipes her hands on a napkin, downs a glass of Chablis and hits the phone again. “Hello, Greg? Shit, yes, it’s me! Uh huh. You’ll never guess… Washington, D.C.! Or Arlington, Virginia to be exact. Listen, honey, you got any money? Tee hee hee…”

I go to bed.

“Where am I supposed to sleep?” Roxie asks, waking me.

“Oh, yeah,” I yawn. “I remember you! You were that lady I helped earlier today.”

“Now don’t be that way,” she scolds. “I need your help.” Turning on the light, still totally nude, she drags a chair across the room and sits at the edge of the bed.

“I already gave you my cell phone, dinner, a roof over your head and toiletries. What else do you need?”

I mean, what do I know from Tennessee motorcycle mamas?

“You’re sore because I’ve been neglectin’ you,” she says in that soft purr of hers. “But I tried to warn ya! Either you loan me money— which you don’t want to do— or I’d have to make some calls and borrow it elsewhere. WAKE UP! It’s time fo’ us, honeychild.”

“I’m not sure I know what that entails,” I point out, amazed at the way she leans over the bed, breasts swinging, undoes my belt and unzips my fly. “Don’t be afraid,” she drawls. “Pull down your pants!”

I admit, that late at night, in the stark light of the overhead lamp, naked in my bedroom, her long black hair a Medusa’s head of coils, she looks exotically southern and attractive. “What’s the word?” I ask. “I don’t wear no undies.”

“Even mo’s the reason fo’ yo’ t’ pull down yer pants!” she cackles, giving me the start of an enormous boner. “Now what you got here?” she exclaims, clasping me with both hands. “In New Orleans, they say lobster be an aphrodisiac! But, I mean, d’ ya think that’s true, honey, or what?” Sitting back, she says, “Okay, you try.”

“Try what?” I ask, confused.

“Go for broke. Blow the pistol. Explode. Ejaculate. Whatever gets you through the night.”

“What are you saying? You want me to jack off?” I ask incredulously.

“What I’m sayin’,” she coos, stroking me with her fingertips, “is you gotta jack off. I’ll watch! ”

“I don’t think so.” Where’s my sense of fun? Where’s my sense of play? Where’s my sense of love? Check “None of the above.”

“Ah, Josh, honey, don’ be like that!” she admonishes me, sliding onto the bed next to me, all warm and tangy, gripping my penis and nuzzling my neck with her lips. I feel like Hugh Grant. The smallest tug and I’m gonna blow. But no, teasing me, she slides back off the bed— I’m going crazy here!— and sits back down in the chair, crossing her pretty legs and bouncing her left foot up and down, eyeing me like a crocodile. “You know what you need?” she asks.

“A psychiatrist? Spanish fly? A trip to Mallorca? Dental floss?”

“Toilet paper!” she announces and goes to get a monstrous amount. Jamming it under my cock, she strokes me once, gently, and I blow sky high. “Shee-it! ” chirps Roxie. “Holy shit !” Grinning from ear to ear, beginning to giggle, she gasps, “Oh my God, did I do that?”

“Yes, you did. And I’m glad you did,” I remark, getting up and carrying the TP to the toilet. By the time I take a leak and get myself put together, Roxie is lying flat across my bed, dead asleep. Sighing, irritated— to put it mildly— I give up, grab a blanket from the linen closet and go to sleep on the floor. A soldier, I’m used to sleeping on the hard, cold ground.

We spend half our days driving to post offices to cash money orders and banks for wire transfers. Twenty dollars here, $50 from another beau, $150 from some Desperate Danny who seemingly can’t get Roxie off his mind. Mostly, it’s twenties and fifties that come trickling in. She sure knows a lot of dudes. “They’re my harem,” she giggles, running a finger down my cheek. “They love me. You love me!”

Henry’s bird call, he comes to stiff, aching attention.

“Let’s get back t’ yer apartment,” Roxie coos, her hand busy feeling my crotch for bumps in the fabric. Once we get there, however, it’s nag, nag, nag. And not in a good way: “You have ants!” she insists. “You also have these tiny fuckin’ bugs on the window sills.”

“Springtails. Ignore them! What planet did you grow up on? You’re living in Virginia in the summer and you don’t want any bugs??? Well, d’oh!”

“We gotta clean this apartment,” she declares, and that’s the other big activity every day, cleaning the apartment.

Worst are the nights, when Roxie dances totally nude in front of me, by the bed. I lay on my back and try to resist her incessant teasing: “C’mon, big boy! Tech yerself! You know you want to! I dare you to tech yerself! Don’t look at my face, Josh. Look at my twat. Tech yerself! Rub a dub dub… oh, it feels so good! Ohhhh! Don’t look at my face! Look at my twat. You’re so big! Uh-h-h-h, so strong. Don’t look at my face, Joshy, look at my twat! My God, yer about t’ blow sky high. Grab it! Oooooh!” she groans, grinding away at thin air, her small, round stomach flashing at me, her dynamite buttocks dancing closer and farther away, her dark, curly bush ducking into and out of the shadows. Her cackling laughter fills the room, driving me into helpless ejaculation after helpless ejaculating. Every single night.

 

*****     *****     *****     …in My Ear     *****     *****     *****

 

We gotta get out of Dodge. With Roxie telephoning to every Tom, Dick and Seymour with whom she and Jimmy are acquainted— begging for a handout and giving them my address— we’re sitting on a time bomb. Gourmet meals and a third floor apartment or no, burple, zurple, feel the purple, sooner or later, Jimmy the Fireball is gonna make an appearance. My next-door neighbor Alan is in a panic: “I was grilling the daintiest little lamb chops and fresh potatoes on the gas grill on my balcony when this ugly, rough mother pulled up in the parking lot on this oily, monster motorcycle and demanded to know which windows belong to your apartment. If my male friend hadn’t come outside and given him what-for, I just don’t know what would have happened. Any moment, I expected that beast to scale the building and grab us!” A choirboy, when Alan gets excited, his hair stands on end like Dagwood’s.

“How were the lamb chops and fresh potatoes?”

“What? Oh, we ate them with green mint jelly. Such a treat!”

I go online at the library and find some unremarkable motels in Ocean City, Maryland. Going out into the hall by the bathrooms, I call one of them on my cell phone. “Got any rooms available for this weekend?” I ask.

“Ho ho ho! ” chortles the clerk. “July 4th weekend. Yeah, right! We were fully booked months ago!”

“Got any cancellations for a vet of the First Gulf War and Somalia?”

“A vet, huh? Hold on, I’ll look… Yes, I have a room. The family in 104. Their kid got sick, some stomach problem. They bailed. You can have their room.”

Mayor Vincent C. Gray of Washington, D.C. is in a pissing match with Representative Andy Harris, the Congressman from the First Congressional District of Maryland. Which includes Ocean City. Mayor Gray and 80% of the electorate in D.C. want to reform the marijuana laws, eliminating the current year-long jail time. Too many blacks are going to jail while white boys only get a slap on the wrist. The new regulations will legally allow possession of up to two ounces of marijuana for personal use and to grow as many as three marijuana plants at home. Unlike the states, the District of Columbia is a ward of Congress. Congress decides what’s best for the District. Congressman Harris, a doctor representing Maryland’s Eastern Shore, opposes new, lenient drug laws for the District. “This is not about medical marijuana. This is about decriminalization and the effect of that on the youth of this country,” says he. Meanwhile, Mayor Gray, him be guh, street slang for angry, upset. Retaliating, the mayor has called for everyone to boycott Ocean City!

Ha! Nice thought. Never happen.

 

With hurricane Arthur lurking down the coast, the sky is a swirling palette of ragged gray and black fluff. It resembles a painting by Vincent van Gogh. “It looks like the cloud effect in Steven Spielberg’s Close Encounters of the Third Kind,” suggests Roxie.

Huh? I can’t believe she said that! I can’t believe she’s even seen that movie. I must be telegraphing my amazement, because she makes a face and says, “Jimmy’s hooked on old movies. On cable. AMC, TNT, TBS, TCM, IFC, HBO…”

We watch ten-foot swells march into shore, as regimented as gun metal landing craft. Surfers in black wet suits bob like seals, riding the crests. Further down the beach, members of MS-13 are having a stick fight with a gang of Vietnamese youth. Beyond them, a group of kite surfers have set up camp, taking to the water with their sissy boards and crescent sails, showing us landlubbers how it’s done.

Crossing the boardwalk, we dodge a group of Brighton Beach Russians marching along chanting “Long live the Donetsk People’s Republic and the Eastern Ukraine for which it stands!”

As RT, Russia Today,says, “Why are these people laughing?”

“Where is it?” Roxie asks, interested.

“Where’s what?”

“Their donut stand.”

This lady never stops eating!!!

We make it to the beach.

A local lass, at most 16— barefoot— dressed in a tattered tee and cut-offs, walks her dog, an American Staffordshire Terrier, a strange black and brown bruiser with white paws and pointy ears. “What’s your dog’s name?” I ask, scratching him under the collar. She sighs dramatically, as if I’ve asked the most boring question imaginable.

“Arthur C. Ramsey IV,” she says. “We call him Art.”

When she’s wandered off, Roxie awakens from her torpor atop a brown and white striped beach blanket to ask who I was talking to.

“Myself. I’m so lonesome, I’ve taken to having conversations with myself!”

“Oh, sho’ nuff, sugar!” she remarks, nodding her head, her life a mystery behind her mirror-coated sunglasses. Pulling and straightening her bikini top, she lies down on her back to assure herself of an even tan front and rear.

Even without sun, lying on the beach puts the two of us in a contemplative mood. Discreetly quaffing Grolsch in signature green bottles and munching on corn chips, it is here that Roxie and I have our first serious discussion.

“When Jimmy finds us, I don’t want any Gunfight At the O.K. Corral,” Roxie points out.

“How about Hogan’s Heroes?” I ask sourly. “What are we supposed to do, make nice like Beach Blanket Bingo while Jimmy beats the crap out of us?”

“No,” she drawls, “I just don’t want to have to relive The Longest Day, is all.”

“Well! Excuse me, Miss From Here to Eternity.”

Flushing angrily, fists clenched, Roxie storms down to the waterline and sticks in a big toe. Not to her liking, she sulks, returning to her brown and white striped beach blanket. “I’m no bimbo, y’know!” she insists.

“Honey, nobody ever said you was!” I soothe, taking her hand, lifting it to my lips and kissing her fingers.

“What are you doing?” Roxie coldly demands. “Women’s rights! I’ll tell you when you can physically touch me or not.”

“I am a knight errant,” I explain, “hell-bent on helping my fellow humans, with or without their permission.”

“Really?” comments Roxie. “Well, I’m a Type A personality whose life seems to consist of a series of dramatic meltdowns, most often coinciding with my time of the month. Although I consider myself free of prejudice, after we robbed the Oconee State Bank in Athens, Georgia, I found myself spread-eagle on the floor of our motel room, bawling my butt off when Jimmy wouldn’t split the loot with me fifty-fifty. ‘You male chauvinist pig! ‘ I screamed at him and, at that moment, Josh, I could identify with every sexually abused, disheartened, downtrodden woman tied to a shiftless skunk of a plain’s drifter. I — ”

“Does this end anywhere or does it just keep going on and on?” I feel compelled to ask.

Unperturbed, Roxie continues: “I realized that I had been suppressing my bisexuality in an effort to appease the testosterone-fueled needs of my voracious boyfriend. The first time I went down on the Spanish-speaking maid at the motel, I discovered to my great relief that far from feeling threatened, Jimmy found the entire lesbo scene a huge turn-on. As long as I let him watch— jacking off to his heart’s content— he and I could compensate for, shall we say, the lack of other mutual interests. I have absolutely no desire to repair motorcycles. Jimmy wouldn’t dream of anything as girly as a spa treatment.”

“Maybe we ought to go get some din-din…” I suggest.

“Having grown up in a family with lots of older brothers, of course, I know full-well that a girl’s best friend is her strong right hand. The enemy of any good jackoff artist is carpal tunnel syndrome— ”

“Hup! It’s getting chilly!” I declare, jumping to my feet and scooping up my gear. “Time to go indoors, dear!”

“But I prefer to think of it as a return to the innocence of childhood,” she explains, getting to her feet and shaking sand off her beach blanket. “Making men play with themselves— masturbate— takes us back to our school days. When we boys and girls lusted after one another, but our clumsy, young, immature bodies had no other way to express or fulfill our sexual needs. Young people whack off. Conversely, whacking off keeps us young. And the bonus is, we’re unburdened by STD’s, sexually transmitted diseases! Everybody wins!”

Dr. Kinsey she is not. Trudging up the beach to the boardwalk, I feel like murdering seagulls with my bare hands.

We examine a billboard for The Lunchbox Corporation. They sound like a rock music collective, but behind the slogan TO ACHIEVE A MORE SUITABLE LUNCH, these dudes have actually been manufacturing metal lunchboxes since the 1940’s. Quality never goes out of style.

Even on vacation, you stumble upon the more fortunate. A dumpy Russian pulls up on Talbot in some incredible machina. “What is this he’s driving???” I wonder. It looks like a beach buggy, but it’s a canary yellow Plymouth Prowler from 2002. I mean, this is one beautiful, $60,000 car. “Nice!” I tell him. “Worth every penny.”

“They didn’t make very many of them,” he rumbles defensively.

“Good you got one, then.”

His accent is as thick as borscht, but it turns out he’s not really Russian. He hands me his card. Here we go again. I can’t get away from these people! Second Consul, The Donetsk People’s Donut Republik. All Hole. Which, I admit, reads better in Ukrainian.

“When is Putin going to invade?” I ask.

He gives me a sad look: Is that the best you can come up with? Grabbing my arm in a bear-like grip, he smiles with a mouth full of yellow teeth and breath like an acetylene torch. “Inwade Tel Aviv?” he says. “Maybe never!”

Meanwhile, under the banner << Secession is always an option! >> the Amerusia Militia (Am-er-ru-cha) of New Hampshire has sent a ragtag delegation to Ocean City, Maryland to declare their annual insurrection. “The mosquitos are said to drive the citizenry mad,” explains a scrawny old crow in a moth-eaten majorette uniform. “Instead of sending troops to put down the rebellion— Hey, Israel, learn a lesson, dudes!— the U.S. Army has sent helos to spray DEET deep into the backwoods.”

I’m glad to return to our motel in one piece.

We shower and freshen up. Nag, nag, nag, Roxie wants grain alcohol with her fruit smoothie. I drive to a liquor store on Philadelphia Avenue. The dude behind the counter smiles regretfully and says, “You’re plain outta luck! July 1st, a new state law went into effect, prohibiting the sale of anything 190 proof and stronger. Y’know, we get these college kids stumbling over their own two feet, they’re so polluted. Looks like Annapolis wants to curb their enthusiasm. I still have stock in the back of the shop, but I’ll go to jail if I sell you any.

“Can you believe this? Kids are INHALING alcohol through a vaporizer and getting it directly into their bloodstreams through their lungs. Will sniffing alcohol and Vaportinis be the products of the future?”

I settle for a bottle of Absolut, 80 proof.

Carrying the brown paper bag to my car, I’m kicking myself. Returning to the shop, I ask the clerk, “What’ll you do with your stock on hand?”

He shrugs his shoulders. “I’m not the owner. He’ll probably sell it out of state. There’s still a market for grain alcohol, only not in Maryland.”

“I’ll bet you $50 we have a major thundershower in the next 30 seconds!”

Smirking at me like I’m an idiot, the clerk and I walk to the front window. We squint up at the cloudy sky. No rain. I peel him a fifty.

He pockets it knowingly. “I have to clean out some junk in the back,” he says.     ” ‘Scuse me a minute.” Returning with another brown paper bag, he wishes me a happy holiday. “You know what Bill Clinton says: Don’t inhale!”

As easy as falling off a log. At least my fortuitous acquisition keeps Roxie off my case for the rest of the afternoon.

Summer on the Maryland shore, we hit the boardwalk for dinner. Every half block, we are brought to our knees by the smell of meat sizzling on outdoor grills: beef, lamb, chicken.

Behind pulled curtains, night passes in our motel room in the usual fashion: HBO, nudity, Sobieski vodka, frustration and masturbation. The ceiling fan twirls like the propeller on a biplane.

 

The last exam I had at the old Walter Reed— before they moved to modern facilities at NIH— was a rectoscopy. Two young, pretty female doctors in white lab coats literally shoved a greased metal tube up my ass. Crouched on all fours on the examination table, bathed in sweat, I listened to them discuss in detail the nature of my bowel movements. At first you think “Okay, I can do this. It’s only once in a lifetime.” You also begin to fathom the rigors of impalement. Halfway through, you think “It’s half over! I’ll survive this.” As they remove the tube, inch by painful inch, you are dying. You console yourself with the thought “HOORAY! It’s almost over! ”

Forget sex— that was the most intimate experience I’ve ever had with a woman. Those two ladies were as far up inside me as you can go without employing a scalpel.

 

The next morning, Roxie and I hang around the motel. There’s a heated indoor pool. Where she just manages to keep her boobs inside her bikini. “I always thought my ma and pa would sell the mineral rights to our land for a lot of money,” she drawls languidly, her incredible body perched on a beach chair, on display for all to see. “Then the wells on adjacent properties went dry. Hydrologists took soundings and said we were sitting on a mountain of granite. They’d have to drill down to the Earth’s mantle to get anything. The fracking company rescinded their bid and we were left with nothing. Oh well, water down the drain!

“Jimmy and his cohorts were going to run their own motorcycle delivery service, but FedEx and UPS have the market cornered. Oh well, water down the drain.” Roxie herself intended to train to be a nurse, join the U.S. Army and serve in Iraq or Afghanistan. By the time she got around to it, both wars were over. “Water down the drain,” she muses.

It takes me awhile to realize that “water down the drain” refers to what the rest of us call “pipe dreams.” Woulda, coulda, shoulda aspirations that don’t pan out.

The motel also has an outdoor pinewood deck facing the ocean. With two Jacuzzis pumping hot, sudsy water to ward off the chill of the wind. We jump into one of them, Roxie’s bathing apparel instantly floating to the surface. It doesn’t bother me, but after a lunch of pâté foie gras and pan-seared pork tenderloin with tarragon, the motel has hung a newly-minted sign on deck: PLEASE WEAR APPROPRIATE SWIMWEAR AT ALL TIMES! THANK YOU. THE MANAGEMENT

 

That afternoon, we don wet suits, rent surfboards and paddle out to join the seals. I won’t say we’re great surfers, but we make a go of it. Rank amateurs, in paradise, Roxie and I spend a lot of time calmly sitting astride our boards, ostensibly waiting for the next big wave. One of which comes about every 120 seconds.

A bronzed Tarzan in a black rubber body suit and beard is racing a jet ski between us surfers and the shoreline, throwing outsized firecrackers at passers-by. M-80’s, these tubular red mini-depth charges float on the surface, then go off with a sploosh! Shooting aloft a fountain of spray. SPLOOSH! … SPLOOSH! At first, I think the dude’s a World Cup fan shouting “Viva Argentina! ” Watching him circle in endless figure 8’s— and after numerous repetitions— I eventually realize he’s chanting: “Viva Palestina! Death to the Jews! Protest Israeli aggression!”

Confused, I reach in my fanny pack and pull out my waterproof tablet. I go to ask.com. “Does the Koran allow jet skiing during Ramadan?” I query.

A smiley face answer quickly materializes. “Yes. Although not in a class with fasting, prayer or good deeds, jet skiing contributes to good health which is a virtue according to the Koran,” I am told. This helpful message has been posted by Marty_the_Martyr @ Megamadrassa_Mecca. If Marty’s on the Net, it must be after sundown in Saudi Arabia.

So now I know.

 

            The 4th of July. A sound system set up on the grass plays the uncensored version of metal band Deuce’s hit America. Small children eating cotton candy strut to the beat.

Ah, Maryland! Here’s a sticker on a park bench: “Guns and children don’t mix! Who needs children?”

Devouring gelatos, we wander as far north as 32nd Street, stopping to admire the pyrotechnics among a crowd who must have spent half their travel budget at a fireworks stand in Virginia. Except for sparklers, fireworks are illegal in Maryland. You risk confiscation and fines up to $250, but still…Star bursts fill the night, as clouds of spooky gray smoke envelope us. “Just like Robert Redford in The Natural,” observes Roxie. “Same vibe as in the movie.”

A 30-something Marylander brandishing a can of beer in each hand marches up. “Hey, hey, hey!” he blurts.

“Sho’ nuff, sugar!” Roxie smiles.

“Great display!” I add, pointing admiringly.

“Well, see, we bought these fireworks specifically for our famblies,” he exclaims blearily, weaving in front of us. “You wanna enjoy the show, maybe you reach in yer pocket and make a financial remuneration!”

¡Aj caramba!

            Clucking her tongue like an angry rooster, a veteran of many domestic disputes, Roxie seizes my arm and leads me away before there’s a major fistfight.

Heading back downtown, we join a crowd facing a small stage where a pale, blond, androgynous youth in a baggy Uncle Sam suit is singing:

“No danger! But major trouble / With our telescope The Hubble. / Nothing but headaches with this baddie, / Buy me a new spy satellite, daddy! / The Hubble is expensive but makes no progress. / The same can be said about the U.S. Congress! / Three things are missing this 4th of July: / Leadership, peace and mom’s apple pie!”

I’m confused, but I’m in luck. Standing within 10 feet of me is a crusty old curmudgeon wearing a dusty carnation and a frilly name tag identifying him as “Mayor of the Boardwalk.” Shaking my hand, he introduces himself as Thadeus Cox. When I ask about the music, Thadeus breaks into a grin. “Recycled lyrics!” he chortles. “We have used that same song for over 20 years! Some things never go out of style! Is this a great country or what?!”

All night, people are out walking their dogs on the beach, the surf a foamy white froth, while troopers from the Maryland Army National Guard roar along the shoreline in dune buggies. A single, crazed soldier, convinced he’s seen a shark, stands in the water up to his knees, emptying a clip from his M-16 into the ocean: BRAP! BRAP! BRAP! “Gaaaa! ” he screams. “Git some! ” On the outdoor deck of the motel, the coconut smell of suntan lotion mixes with the reedy reek of marijuana. Individual firecrackers pop hollowly in the distance. If ever there was a time to cuddle, it’s now. Instead, you know where The Rock wants to go. Our room. And what she wants to do. Parade in the buff and munch tacos while I fondle myself.

Happy 4th of July!

 

The 238th anniversary of American independence, over a million dollars in fireworks is set off on the East Coast alone. Without pacifying a single radical Muslim. We have a group of them at our motel, gaunt gentlemen dressed in off-white shawls and blue-and-white mottled beanies. They sport conspicuous beards and sandals on their feet. We sit around the pool, where I gorge on greasy slices of piping hot pizza. They sip bottled water, fasting and meditating during the day in accordance with Ramadan. They can’t take their eyes off Roxie who sits in an aluminum beach chair and struggles to keep her boobs from jumping out of her polka dot D-cup bikini top.

“We are followers of Abdullah K’sah Muck. He’s half-blind and crazy, but a great spiritual leader.”

“Is he in America?”

“At a girls’ school in Baltimore. He feels he must at all times surround himself with 72 virgins.”

I google them on my tablet. Oh, boy! Not just any Shiites, they are angry Zaidi radicals. “What’s with all the anger?” I ask them. “You’re not Palestinians.”

“Yeminis,” they confirm. “From Sana’a. The actions of the Great Satan justify blowing up the Chesapeake Bay Bridge.”

“Come again?”

“We shall blow up the Chesapeake Bay Bridge.”

“Oprah would disagree!”

“Never-the-less, we shall blow up the Chesapeake Bay Bridge. Insha’Allah.”

“You’re just angry because of Justin Bieber!”

“We shall blow up the Chesapeake Bay Bridge.”

“Now I got ya! You’re angry because western girls are prettier than yours!”

“Say what you will, we shall blow up the Chesapeake Bay Bridge.”

“That’s a terrible idea! You cannot hop around the globe like grasshoppers, setting up caliphates wherever you go. Such an agenda leads invariably to a roach hotel.”

“We shall blow up the Chesapeake Bay Bridge!”

“C’mon! Historically, we Calvinists have a right to live under the Judeo-Christian tradition.”

“Which is why we shall blow up the Chesapeake Bay Bridge.”

“I give up.”

“You infidels spread your impure blasphemies throughout the Third World. Not until Kashmir is purged of impurity shall we cease our armed struggle.”

“I thought you were from, like, Yemen. Where coffee originated. Listen— ”

“This is true. Still, the plight of the Kashmiris cries out to us. Beckoning soldiers of Islam to fight. In Syria, Iraq, Libya, Nigeria, Palestine, Antarctica and Brazil!”

“Is that going to be all one big caliphate or a lot of little caliphates?”

“Your slander proves our point! You must be punished! Everyone but her, the   D-cup lady. Soon, we shall blow up the Chesapeake Bay Bridge.”

“If you blow up the bridge, we’ll all be stuck here in Ocean City, Maryland, like, forever.”

They pause. So far, this is the only argument which seems to make a dent.

To paraphrase Bob Dylan: You don’t need a weather balloon / To know it’s thunderstorming.

Driving back over the bridge, we get local news radio: “… Sue Mellon reporting from Ocean City, an ugly scene of cardboard cylinders and black burn marks. All left over from numerous illegal fireworks displays along both the boardwalk and the beachfront. Compounded by vomit, beer cans and dog poo. A major clean-up is currently underway, as Mayor César Castellanos calls upon all upstanding citizens to join in this monumental, although miniscule, effort… ‘Blame must be shared equally,’ ” croaks the mayor. Co-pilot and navigator, in charge of both the sound system and the climate control, Roxie switches to a rockabilly station broadcasting out of Havre de Grace.

 

A helo pilot in the First Gulf War, “Operation Desert Storm,” I get called into D.C. to give testimony in a Senate hearing of the DHS Oversight Committee, entitled “Who Lost Iraq?” Chaired by a volatile senator from California, I find myself sparring for pixilation over issues like the retail black market price of AK-47’s in Mexico. A $750 semi-automatic rifle Stateside fetches $5,000 south of the border. Or the political allegiance of Muqtada al-Sadr. “As far as I’ve been able to ascertain,” I testify, “that Shiite cleric has no political allegiance. He’s all me-me-me and I-I-I.”

Like a classroom full of Third Graders, photographers are curled at my feet. In the audience section, every seat is taken, although truth be told, a lot of those people are high school classes making their first pilgrimage to the Nation’s Capital.

Air conditioning was first invented in 1902 by W. H. Carrier of New York for cooling off a printing plant. Since cold air is cold air, he founded the Carrier Corporation and began installing A/C in offices and homes. The senators on this committee have taken Carrier’s lesson to heart: It must be 50° Fahrenheit in the hearing room. Even in seersucker suits, some of them look about ready to explode.

“Did you just say aye-aye-aye to this committee?” demands the chairman.

“No, your honor, I did not.”

“Who specified that the American compound in Baghdad should be designated ‘The Green Zone’? Was that you? Are you an Environmentalist, a member of the Green Party, by any chance?”

“No, your excellency.”

“Then why did you call it a ‘green zone’?”

I admit honestly that I just don’t know. “Ask L. Paul Bremer III, he was the appointed viceroy,” I request. “A staunch Republican, Bremer arrived knowing next to nothing about Iraq. Yet he proceeded to disband the Iraqi Army. He purged the bureaucracy of Baathists. And he forbade the Iraqis from forming an interim government. Unlike some people, sirs, I know what I do not know.”

“Are you trying to be cute? Is this a play for public sympathy?” demands the chairman.

Winners never lose and losers never quit, I strut like a peacock before the podium. I admit, I am cised, excited. There are teenage girls ogling me from five rows back. Creaming in their panties. Gotcha! “Like, a green traffic light,” I suggest. “You know, green light means safety. A safe area. A green zone. If we’d called it a Red Zone, you’d claim we were communists. If we called it ‘The Purple Zone,’ you’d say we’re all fags. Maybe we shoulda called it ‘The Gray Zone.’ Bureaucratic gray.”

“Are you trying to be funny? Are you aping for the cameras, young man?”

“I don’t think so. Sir.”

Giving testimony is really hard when the committee members don’t like you and are themselves geekin’. Unhappily excited.

Unappeased, the chairman accuses me of being “part of a great, rightwing conspiracy.” He also excuses me from making any further remarks.

“Your eminence!” I protest. “I would like to read from my prepared statement!”

“What in God’s name…” I hear them muttering up there on the dais. “What kind of statement is that?” asks the chair.

“A statement regarding America’s role in the demise of Iraq, sir.”

“Are you lunchin’, young man?” asks the only Democrat— and the only woman— on the committee, street slang for acting crazy or doing too much.

“I don’t think so, your highness.”

“Well, let’s not have a three-ring circus,” grumbles the chairman authoritatively. “What did you have in mind? Or nah.”

I read: “Just as in Afghanistan— where we Americans preferred the Americanized, English-speaking Hamid Karzai to someone more genuinely Afghan— in Iraq, America put all its marbles in one basket behind the English-speaking, westernized Shiite politician Nouri al-Maliki. Even when he alienated his opponents and frittered away the geopolitical gains of the Sunni-based Anbar Awakening, replacing competent leadership with his own Dawa Party lackeys, we Americans failed to realize that al-Maliki was a disaster in the making. Also, we Americans foisted upon the Iraqis an unworkable constitution that says a lot about American democracy but entirely fails to come to grips with Iraqi reality. Stymied, unwilling or unable to recognize this sorry state of affairs, both Hillary Clinton’s State Department and Barack Obama’s White House never demanded the necessary improvements in al-Maliki’s governance. Today, those chickens have come home to roost!”

“HOW DARE YOU…!”

“Who is this fellow?!”

“What kind of partisan blame game are you playing here, young man?” demand the committee members.

Folding my papers, rising from the witness table and winking at the jont or prettiest girl in the room, I stride purposefully from the arena.

Mission accomplished!

Only to be physically detained by uniformed policemen and gruffly marched back into the committee room. Where the chairman brusquely informs me that I am in Contempt of Congress and will serve 30 days in jail. Pounding his gavel resoundingly, he watches with great interest as I am handcuffed and led through a heavy oak door.

“What the shit…?” I ask the Capitol police.

Uncuffing me, they say, “Leave quietly out the side entrance and we’ll pretend this sorry sequence of events befell someone else of similar physical description and name, but not necessarily you.”

That works for me! I skedaddle.

Crossing the street, I almost get bowled over by a long-haired vagrant in khaki work clothes. He carries a sign: “The beggar is proud to know he is not a thief.” This dude may smell like dead laundry, but he’s got my ear. “If Obama’s a lame duck,” he grouses, “why is he fundraising this week in Colorado and Texas? What’s he doing, raising money for his presidential library? That’s not his job! His job is running the country, not ruining the country!”

Help the neediest. A free man, I put 25¢ in his mason jar.

 

The Law of Diminishing Returns, the more time I spend with Roxie, the harder it is for me to enjoy myself. Maybe it’s cultural. I’m not from Tennessee. Anyway, all good things must come to an end. Jimmy… remember him?… finally makes a grand entrance, roaring one afternoon into the parking area behind our shabby abode. Accompanied by five other bikers, each atop his own hog. “COME OUT, COME OUT, WHEREVER YOU ARE!” bellows Jimmy. He’s just the sort of fat Viking pig I’d expected. Nothing smooth about that boy. The paunch, the leather motorcycle jacket, the torn jeans and black leather boots. The red beard, the ratty hair, the death’s head helmet. Pretty much, your standard issue jerk. Once upon a time, I might have asked what Roxie sees in him. Not now. Whatever it is, they’re what we call a matched set. They’re made for each other!

“I feel like we’re in the movie Arachnoquake,” comments Roxie worriedly.

“Is that anything like Sharknado?” I ask.

Finishing a meal of grilled bison hanger steak with plum ketchup and a perfectly chilled moscato, she and I tramp downstairs to see Jimmy and his gang.

“You deserve a punch upside the head!” Jimmy suggests, parking his bike and approaching me, pulling up his pants and tightening his belt.

“Aren’t you at least going to take off your helmet?” I wonder.

“Fuck the helmet,” he declares, taking a swing at me.

Spinning clockwise, I deliver a round kick, sweeping Jimmy’s feet out from under him. Turning, I rise to the occasion: Two quick steps and I’m airborne, slamming with both feet into Roxie’s shoulders, left side, right side. Sending her crashing backward into the dust as well.

With the two of them sprawled at my feet, I’m not sure what I am supposed to do with the other five bikers. I never get to solve this riddle. Two Arlington County police cars, sirens wailing, pull up on one side. Two State Police come prowling from the opposite direction. And a lonely brown cruiser from the Sheriff’s Office joins the festivities. Surprisingly, as the police exit their vehicles en masse, it’s the dude from the Sheriff’s Office who does the talking. “Hey, numbnuts! ” he scolds, addressing us all. “Motorcyclists can’t drive in a phalanx up I-66 without awakening a certain degree of attention, y’know?! We do have traffic cameras monitoring I-66, the Beltway and I-95. So whatever your beef, you better keep it peaceable or YOU WILL BE ARRESTED! Have I made myself understood?”

“I just want my lady!” complains Jimmy. I feel for him. I really do! I even help him to his feet. We all stand around while Roxie gets her stuff, until it occurs to me that she’s probably upstairs in the apartment robbing me blind. A lady cop and I hightail it up there and go through Roxie’s pockets and her carry-all. Leaving Roxie livid. And me embarrassed. She hasn’t swiped a single thing!

“Listen, sugar,” I tell her by way of apology. “Thanks for the mammary!”

POW! She slaps me across the face.

What is wrong with this picture?

We parade down the fire stairs, Roxie silent and furious. The lady cop, her voice echoing in the stairwell, says “She’d have to be a real cupcake to try anything with half the police force waiting outside.”

Aha! “Truer words rarely spoken,” I agree. I watch everybody disperse, motorcycles disappearing into the distance, police cruisers driving into the sunset. Standing in the empty parking lot, I remember Hillel’s famous dictum. A Jewish scholar, he asked, “If I am not for myself, who will be for me? And if I am only for myself, what am I? And if not now, when?”

When, indeed.