Do you remember Beulah Minor? Oh,
sure, everybody says that they remember Beulah Minor, but only a
handful of people actually do. Beulah used to play first trumpet for
the executioner's orchestra on the planet Bezelda. This was long
before Jerry Grogan became a naturalized citizen there, of course
(please refer to my novel Yerba Mate
– if you cannot get a hold of a copy, you have the choice of time
traveling into the future to obtain one from almost any North
American or European home, bookstore, library, college, university, synagogue, or brothel, or of taking my word for it).
Beulah held
almost everyone in high esteem. She was known for this. In her high
school yearbook, there was a tiny, little listing by her picture, and
it read “most willing to hold someone in high esteem.” People
had her number. They were on to Beulah Minor. This was many years
before she was shot by the policeman in the woods outside of
Bennington, Vermont (please refer to my short story “Priceless and
Serene.” If you cannot get a hold of a copy, well, it looks like
you are up die scheissenfluss, as we used to say in Tulsa).
In case you are
wondering, “schiessenfluss” is the author's manner of rendering a
pidgin-German translation of “fecal matter river.” Why the
author chose to do this is anyone's guess.
There was one
person, however, that Beulah Minor did not hold in high esteem, and
that was Crackface Eddie. Crackface Eddie was a dealer of the
extreme variety, and he would calculate the molecular weights of all
contraband that he peddled, and sell it by the mole. Crackface Eddie
got his name after a barroom fight when he was young, and it actually
had nothing to do with illegal drugs – the name, that is, not the
fight. The fight had everything to do with illegal drugs. Eddie got
sliced by a man who had a razor. The man wanted some chemicals that
Eddie had up his sleeve and in his pocket and, sadly, within his
bodily cavities. The man with the razor, when told that he could not
have the chemicals, sliced Eddie's face with said razor, leaving a
wound from upper lip to forehead. Eddie's colleague, Finchbreath
Hernandez (don't even try to figure it out), said that the new scar
made Eddie's face look more like his backside, and that his face now
reminded him of a plumber's derriere. “Crackface” was born.
Before the
“Irreputable Naysayer's Narcotic Act” was passed, people were
always trying to obtain illegal chemicals (in any molecular weight,
it seemed) so that they could render them into liquid form, place the
liquid into a syringe and then inject the lovely little chemical
cocktail into their veins. The chemicals would course through the
person's body and sometimes render their brains as pliable as
salt-dough. Sometimes their hearts would explode. Sometimes their
eyes would bleed. Life was fun and unpredictable back then. Hooray!
Beulah Minor
once received a lovely gift from Crackface Eddie. Beulah had tried to purchase a Mother's Day gift from Eddie, and Eddie made it
difficult for her. I mean, really, who buys only 20 milligrams of
methamphetamine for a Mother's Day gift? Eddie was adamant about
only selling less than a quarter gram a day, and he was getting near
his daily limit when Beulah showed up. She pleaded and pleaded, but it was
no use. Eddie stood fast. He always used to say “what good is a
rule if you don't keep it?”
A good saying, I
suppose.
Beulah was
beside herself, but Eddie was unwavering. He did, however, sweeten
the deal, but promising to give her a wonderful, lovely gift if she
went away with only 20 milligrams.
Beulah though
about it, and decided that there was probably no other meth lab open
at that late hour, and she would otherwise be unable to purchase a gift
for dear old mumsie on the eve of Mother's Day (all the pipe-wrench
emporiums were closed, after all).
Beulah quickly
nodded her head and got out her credit card. Crackface Eddie swiped
it, closed the deal, and gift-wrapped the tidy little package.
“My gift?”
whispered Beulah Minor in a voice as light as cotton.
“Memories,”
said Crackface Eddie, smiling a greasy, toothless smile, “which are
better than the real thing.”
Beulah walked
home several inches above the sidewalk.
The next day,
after her mother's brain had been rendered as pliable as salt-dough,
her heart exploded. Beulah watched as her mother took her last
breath and as her eyes fluttered shut like the closing wings of a
briny-flower moth.
The days ahead
and behind were cold and broken like a glass-shard siren. Veins and
nerves and breath of stale air, nestled in lungs that shook at the
slightest suggestion of a human touch.
But the memories
were better than the real thing.
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