Dear diary,
I’m offroading through the forest in an ultramagnetic locomotive that is being chased by its own caboose. Thankfully, my getaway horse is right where I told her to wait. So I leap from the cab and watch the train veer hard-right and zigzag into the distance with its pursuer hot on its trail and matching all of its moves. After enjoying the airborne state for a number of moments, I land in the saddle and kiss my horse on the side of her face. She shakes her large head around, signifying that she’s either joyful or enraged. I give a gentle tap on the side of her neck, and we head off in the direction of the public school, where I am employed as a custodian.
I should probably introduce myself. My name’s Bryan Ray; I’m the ghost of a modern cowboy, and this is my white winged zebra: The Real Pegasus.
When I reach the school building, I tie my zebra to the bike rack and she immediately attempts to fly away but can’t. “Calm down,” I say; “I’ll be back in thirteen hours.” Then I enter the school to begin my shift.
I go to the janitor’s closet and get the mop and the wheeled bucket. I begin to mop the gymnasium. Then I mop the cafeteria. Then I mop all the classrooms.
A teacher enters. “Hi,” she sez.
“Good morning,” I say. “Early start?”
“Yep,” she sez. Then she disrobes and showers for forty minutes.
I finish mopping the map of the United States and then push my scum bucket into the principal’s office. I dip the mop in the gray water and begin to wet the desk. Soon the door creaks open.
“Aloha,” I salute the principal.
“Aloha, Bryan,” he sez. “Would you like a bacon salad? The fast-food restaurant whose drive-thru I visited on the way here was offering a two-for-one special; so I have an extra breakfast.” He pulls a box out of a bag and rattles it.
“Bacon salad?” I say. “Is that like a regular salad except with no lettuce or any other ingredients except bacon only?”
“You betcha,” sez the principal, while retrieving a second box from the same bag. He opens this container, grabs a strip of bacon between his fingers, holds it up to his lips like a cigarette, pretends to smoke it, then smiles and laughs and takes a bite. “Mmm! that’s good — here, get it while it’s hot…” he pushes the first box in my direction.
I open the container and inhale deeply. It smells very good.
§
After work, I find a 1952 Nash Rambler station wagon that I like the looks of, so I drive this car to the Wholesome Entertainment Parlor and park it next to a steamroller. I leave the car unlocked and running; then I pace toward the entryway. The French sliding doors are opened by two muscular bouncers: one with a high, tough-guy voice and one with a low, tough-guy voice. The way that I know the pitch and character of their voices is that they both greet me by saying “Welcome to the Wholesome Entertainment Parlor” when I enter.
“I’m beaming with appreciation, thanks! You make me feel so lucky,” I say, while standing and looking from strong man to strong man.
“You’re welcome,” the one with the deep voice sez. Then his partner with the sharp, high voice adds: “Let’s hope that you do not prove to be a troublemaker, for we would hate to be obliged to eject you from these premises.”
“Guys, you know me,” I say; “I’m Bryan the ghost cowboy. I come here every Tuesday after work. I tip really well. I’ve had affairs with both of your sisters and your mothers.”
The huge strong bouncer with the deep voice puts a hand on the bicep of his partner with the high voice and sez: “Be cool, Jay; it’s Bry the phantom goatherd from Ancient Egypt — he’s a good egg.”
I bow to the hot-tempered bouncer with the higher voice; then reach into the pocket of my flannel shirt and pull out two large brilliant golden coins. Using both of my hands, I flick these into the air and they land on the carpet: one at the feet of each muscleman. Both bouncers carefully note which side of their coin is showing before they crouch down and retrieve it.
“What did you get?” I ask, smirking.
“Heads,” they both say.
“Turn the coins over,” I say.
Both bouncers flip their respective coins to the other side.
“What do you see?”
“It’s a trick: they’re loaded,” sez the high-voiced bouncer. — “Yeah, they’re the same on both sides: like my ex-wife, they’re two-faced,” sez his deep-voiced comrade.
“And whose image is depicted on these coins,” I ask, smirking cockier now.
Both bouncers squint and move the coins nearer and farther away from their eyes, as if trying to focus. “We can’t tell — the appearance is too dazzling,” sez Bouncer One. “I’m guessing it’s Caesar,” sez Bouncer Two.
“Caesar likewise was made in the image of God,” I say, then I wink. “Smoke THAT in your pipe.”
While my bouncer friends are busy enjoying their treats, I stroll into the main room of the Wholesome Entertainment Parlor.
This place is really fun. It was created with the idea of copying a Strip Club, except minus the disrobing. (Kinda like the bacon salad in reverse.) So there are females here and there, on short pedestals, gyrating and squirming, albeit modestly clothed. The only flesh they show is their hands and their face. They all wear ankle-length dresses and collared blouses, fully buttoned; and some have flowers in their hair. Most wear glasses.
“Bonsoir, kow-boi fantôme,” say the women, one by one, as I pass before them. I shake hands and lock eyes with each soul, as I greet them by name.
Making my way to the far end of the club, I sit down in my favorite large curvy black leather booth. I kick my boots up on the table, and a waiter appears.
“The usual?” he lifts his brows.
“Please! Thank you,” I make the praying sign with my hands.
The waiter returns with ten pitchers of vodka and two conversation partners.
I spend the next few hours politely and pleasantly arguing with Claudette and Dominique about Wittgenstein and Lord Byron. Then we take a trip to one of the pitch-black rooms and enjoy a group hug. (There are rooms at the side of the club which you can rent, and they have no lights — they’re so dark that you can’t even see your hand in front of your face.)
§
When I leave the Wholesome Entertainment Parlor with more money than I entered with, I wave goodbye to the pair of muscular bouncers who guard the French doors. Now, pacing toward the center of the lot where I parked the car that I drove here, I stop about two steps from the place where the Rambler should be — but it is gone. I look right and left. There is the steamroller still occupying the spot next to where I parked the station wagon; but my own ride has vanished.
I call the police, and they come and ask me some questions.
“What was the make and model of your car?” they say.
“I don’t remember,” I reply.
“OK,” the cops scribble down my answer in their notepads, “here’s the next question: Did you lock your vehicle before leaving it?”
“No,” I reply. “I left the windows open and the engine running, because I planned on only spending a brief interval enjoying the wholesome entertainments of this here parlor — I assumed that I’d come right back. I never dreamt that someone would open the door and sit down at the steering wheel and drive off with the car while I was indoors having fun.”
“Alright,” the cops record my answer faithfully; “now, did you have insurance for this vehicle?”
“No,” I say. “I dislike filling out legal forms.”
“So… did you own this vehicle outright, or were you leasing it?”
“I discovered the car in our school parking lot this morning, when I was finished with my shift. I liked its color, so I took it for a spin. I have no idea who it belongs to.”
“OK,” say the cops, after closing the covers of their notepads. “We’ll see you around.” They make a friendly salaam and climb onto their motorbikes.
“Thank you so much,” I return their salaam.
Eventually an animal wanders up and stops before me while I am salaaming; so I begin to pet this creature.
[To be continued...]
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