Ridicula Read online

  “If I can play the banjo, I can understand my own work,” Faulkner finished.

  “You mean the book you read, right?” Maria inquired.

  “Yeah, read it and wrote it. My name is on the cover, don’t you see?”

  Maria looked at George, silently asking, “Is he serious?” George just shrugged.

  Faulkner handed the book to Kenny, who seemed to still be recovering from all the alcohol he had drunk so had not yet uttered a word in the apartment. He looked at the book and saw Faulkner on the cover, but the name William was nowhere to be found. Subsequently he unfolded it, for it was not a book at all. Instead, what now lay outspread was a poster annotating the song, “The Sound and the Fury.”

  George laughed. “I knew you couldn’t read the William Faulkner book, but I bet the song is good.”

  “It will be a banjo classic. Mark my words. Right up there with “Cotton-Eyed Joe” and “Doggy Salt,” remarked Faulkner, eying his apartment, apparently looking for his banjo.

  George nodded his agreement, keeping silent about the fact that he had never heard of the song, “Doggy Salt.” “Let’s have a listen,” he said, seeing that his friends immediately frowned at his suggestion. Bobarino even went as far as to leave the room, supposedly because he needed to go to the bathroom.

  But his friends had never heard Faulkner play. The man might be a lot of things, but he was also a fantastic banjo player.

  That excellent musician wasn’t one for tidiness. The apartment was so cluttered that George could not see most of the carpet. No wonder Faulkner was having trouble spotting his banjo.

  The banjo might not be in the room either, for Faulkner was notorious for leaving his banjo in weird places. As a matter of fact, he had planned to leave 16 1/2 Street a month earlier than he had, but it had taken him that long to find his banjo, which had somehow ended up in a hammock atop a tree. George had never found out how it had gotten there or how it had survived the weather that entire time. He was not certain if Faulkner knew, either.

  Jade stepped into Faulkner’s view before he could locate the banjo, if it was indeed in the living room. “Get me some clean sheets and Maria and I will take your bed.” Yep, there it was again: Jade in command mode. Why did he like her so much?

  Faulkner looked perplexed as he searched around the room. Evidently, both his banjo and clean sheets were difficult to locate. After a moment, he decided that it would be best if he looked elsewhere, so he walked to his bedroom.

  The host was gone for quite a while, so the men picked areas of the floor that appeared most sanitary on which to sleep, leaving the couch for Faulkner. After all, he had been gracious enough to welcome them this late at night. Whether the accommodations were comfy or not mattered little to George, at least for only a few hours, although he knew that Jade would disagree.

  “I found a clean blanket and a top sheet,” Faulkner announced excitedly, sheet in hand. “You ladies can do without a fitted sheet, right?”

  Before Jade could answer negatively, Maria spoke out. “They’ll do.”

  The women went into the bedroom as Faulkner realized that the couch had been left for him and sat on it. Immediately, George heard a twang and a crunch, like a country song gone bad, and the musician jumped up. “Found my banjo. Under the couch cushion the whole time.”

  Faulkner’s weight had crushed the banjo. “Can you still play it?” George asked.

  “Break it all the time. I’ll have it fixed by the morning.” With those words, Faulkner took the banjo and opened a door that George had not noticed. Faulkner walked through and did not come out until morning.

  After a few moments, Bobarino couldn’t wait any longer and took the couch as his resting place. George scrunched in the corner next to a real copy of The Sound and the Fury and used the book as his pillow.

  George fully expected to be tossing and turning against the wall and bumping his head against the book all night, but instead, he went out like a log and found comfort in the pages of the book. Perhaps that was a sign that he should read more. He told himself he would try to read a William Faulkner book (not the Faulkner song) when he was back home, relaxed in his apartment.

  In the morning with banjo fixed, Faulkner began to play and sing in a low, melodic, yet jumpy voice:

  In Jefferson, the Sound and the Fury awakens my wraith;

  Dying, dying, dying townsmen.

  A systematic thirty years of family gone down a path

  Where finances die of way back when...

  “Tell me the truth,” George interrupted. “Did you actually read the entire book or just the back cover?”

  “Of course, as I said yesterday, I read the whole book. Many times,” Faulkner responded, unoffended by any hint that George might have given to Faulkner’s past illiteracy. “I needed inspiration for the song.” Okay, there is that. Although after he thought about it later, the song had nothing to do with the book and had been composed long before Faulkner had the education to fully read and understand it. Nonetheless, Faulkner’s own inane comprehension of the novel had led to the song. George left it at that, now coming to believe his friend.

  Stopping his song, Faulkner simply said, “Time to go,” and they all packed into his old beat-up Datsun and drove to where the cab lay. The roadside assistance vehicle was already there. The only problem was that most of the cab wasn’t. The tires, including the flat, had been stripped, the windshield whippers taken, the trunk jacked, the doors fully opened with the radio, cushions, and steering wheel gone. “No engine either,” said the roadside assistance driver when he looked under the hood of the cab. “Still just want a new tire?” he continued, facetiously.

  They were shit out of luck. When they had left, George had had a nagging suspicion that something like this would happen. After all, they were too close to Newark. What could they do now?

  Damn Jersey!

  Chapter 9

  This One’s for the Birds

  “That damned weasel or whatever it is has been stirring up trouble again,” said Harrison one morning from the porch deck. Freckles perked up his ears.

  “It’s a pine marten, Harry. I’ve told you that many times,” Lana yelled back to him from somewhere on the other side of the house. Freckles heard her and now had the name of that dastardly creature. Finally!

  “Took our berries right from the high bush. We barely have any blueberries left. Thought at that height that critter wouldn’t get to them,” Harrison continued, staring right at the bush, but the marten was not there. Freckles would have charged right through the screen door if it had been shut. That creature had to be taught a lesson.

  “They can climb bushes, you know.” Lana walked into the kitchen and patted Freckles on the head. He liked that. It made him feel comfy, as his hair puffed up, giving him a cool chill. This time, however, Lana stopped patting him before that effect could be achieved.

  “Don’t those things mostly eat mice? Why our blueberries?”

  “I don’t know, dear.” Freckles thought about the chase. It seemed that this one preferred chipmunks and blueberries over mice.

  “Well, enough is enough. I’m going to set a trap for it,” Harrison said. Freckles’ ears perked up again. Then he barked softly with excitement.

  “No, you’re not,” replied Lana, who always stopped everything Harrison wanted to do, which was usually the correct action. “You’ll get yourself or someone else hurt or will kill that innocent creature.”

  Innocent? Hardly! Freckles still had a few scratches from when he had first met the marten.

  “I’m handy. I can do this,” Harrison spoke assuredly.

  Freckles watched as Lana did something with her eyes. She did that often when Harrison spoke about something she didn’t think was true.

  “Stop rolling your eyes,” Harrison confirmed.

  “You can’t even see me.”

  “I know you, though.” With that, Harrison walked off to the tool shed, not giving his wife a chance to dismiss his id
ea.

  Freckles wanted to go with him. There must be something in the shed that he could paw if the marten showed up. “Woof,” he barked, only to get Lana’s attention, and lightly scratched the back-glass door.

  “You want to check up on my fool of a husband, boy,” Lana said. “Are you going to protect him from his follies?”

  “Woof,” Freckles responded with his most good-intentioned bark.

  “Don’t you go knocking over anything like you did last summer, Freckles.” His female caretaker always brought that up whenever he went to the shed. He hadn’t known the rake was there, so he couldn’t help but step on it, which lifted the handle up and knocked into other tools. This caused a chain reaction of tools falling and the work bench breaking. Freckles had narrowly escaped a flying screwdriver to the ear. He had heard it whiz by him like an angry wasp. The sound still haunted him.

  “Woof,” he replied, acknowledging his past mistakes and promising not to do so again with his concise bark.

  “Okay then,” said Lana, sliding the door open for him. Freckles ran out, looked back at Lana for one quick grin, and took off for the shed.

  Harrison was already there, sorting through junk, which was most of the shed’s contents. He went through cardboard boxes and newspapers, like they were old news, but he mostly fidgeted with cracked bicycles, which had been ridden when Harrison was a lad — five dog generations ago. That bike had not been ridden since Rags was a pup. Freckles had heard about Rags, the Saint Bernard from numerous Harrison youthful stories. As a matter of fact, it may have been Rags who wrecked the bike.

  “What do you think, Frecks? What can make a good trap for that rascal of a marten? I was thinking of using this brake pedal so that it could be knocked out at just the right angle. Then the basket would trap it. The weasel could be baited with the blueberries.”

  Freckles nuzzled against Harrison’s leg, giving him encouragement, although the Rottweiler was uncertain that something that simple would capture that smart-alecky marten.

  “Did I ever tell you about the time me and Rags chased down that rattler that spooked a little boy? We wanted to make the rattler see how scared it could be. And as big a dog as Rags was, the rattler was plenty scared. Rags was smart enough to keep out of striking distance but swiped at the snake before it could bite. Rags threw the snake clear across the road. Not sure if it survived.” Freckles recognized the smile of when Harrison reminisced. His face was gleaming now.

  His longish “woof” was always Freckle’s reply to any given story. He had heard this one many times before, but that didn’t matter. His “woof” was still apropos.

  “We might have a similar adventure with this weasel creature, Frecks,” continued Harrison. “We’ll have some fun.”

  Freckles knew that the man might be in for more than he bargained for. His male caretaker, Harrison, tended to get himself into odd predicaments. The Rottweiler was certain that the rattlesnake incident hadn’t gone exactly as Harrison said. Freckles was just glad that good old Harry or Rags hadn’t been bitten. On the other hand, the dog knew his own personality and probably would have charged right at the snake, as the Saint Bernard had likely done. After all, Rottweilers weren’t known for their caution, either.

  Case in point: chasing the marten the first time hadn’t come out as he expected. And neither did his next encounter—for out of the corner of his eye he saw the rascally marten staring at him from outside the shed.

  The second chase was on!

  In his hurry, Freckles knocked over the bike to get to the marten, breaking the kickstand in the process. “Freckles!” Harrison yelled, but the dog had already run out the shed door.

  This chase didn’t last nearly as long as the first. As a matter of fact, it was over before it started. The Rottweiler saw the weasel (or rodent or whatever it was) just in time to see its flippant grin toward the dog, and then it was gone. Freckles circled the area in hot pursuit but could not find the marten anywhere. He had lost its scent, too. Where had it gone?

  Harrison stepped out of the shed, “Come here, boy. We’ll get that critter, don’t you worry.” So, his caregiver had seen the marten, too. Perhaps it would be better if they worked together to address their common foe.

  “Look at this, Harry,” yelled Lana from the house. “A bunch of hummingbirds have congregated at the bird feeder. It’s odd to see so many here at once, especially since all the nectar has been eaten already.”

  Freckles’ ears perked up for a third time. The hummingbirds had returned. He hadn’t imagined them. So, he strutted over to say hello.

  When they saw him, the seven hummingbirds completely ignored him, preferring to continue circling the bird feeder. At first, Freckles was disappointed. He had thought that they were his friends.

  Harrison strode to the bird feeder, and Freckles thought that he would shoo them away. Harrison had only agreed to a bird feeder at Lana’s insistence. He wasn’t one for decoration, nor was he particularly fond of birds.

  He surprised the dog, however. He looked at them as if they were a natural art form. Contrary to his gruff self, Harrison was a lover of paintings, usually depicting history. What he liked about this picturesque scene Freckles could only guess, but he admired it nonetheless.

  “Aren’t they lovely, flying like that,” Lana said. “They are flying in such rhythm and harmony. It’s as if they want to show us something.” Maybe so, but it wasn’t the humans that the performance was for. Freckles watched to figure out what they were attempting to tell or show him.

  One hummingbird flew below the bird feeder until it touched the ground slightly with its beak. Then another hummingbird joined the first, circling the land-bound bird and then thrusting with alarming speed back to the bird feeder, like a rocket into space. Freckles had once seen a rocket on the flat box that Harrison was always watching. Ever since, he had wanted to see it again. Perhaps this hummingbird was providing him this image.

  “What are they doing?” Harrison asked.

  “Don’t know,” his wife responded. “But whatever it is, it’s got to be better than whatever lame-brained idea you were conniving in the shed.”

  “Didn’t I build you that bird feeder?” her husband retorted. “Never get any respect, I tell you,” he continued, addressing the dog.

  “If you got it right the first ten times, Harry, I’d give you some respect,” Lana jibed. Freckles was used to this banter and realized that this was the way that humans interacted lovingly. The Rottweiler preferred sniffing butts, but different species had distinct ways of connecting with each other.

  Meanwhile, the remaining birds formed a picture, flying left and right of the thrusting hummingbird, beaks outward, depicting something Freckles was beginning to recognize. They were showing him a tree, but not just any tree; it was the Douglas-fir, where he had gotten stuck after the chase.

  “Are they showing us some kind of metaphor?” Lana asked.

  “They’re just dumb birds. They aren’t showing us anything,” her husband said.

  “They are graceful and beautiful and are in tune with nature,” his wife responded. “When was the last time you admired anything in nature?”

  “Eh, I’m a builder, not a naturalist,” said Harrison.

  These two don’t get it, the dog thought. But Freckles was on the hummingbird’s wavelength. He knew this had something to do with the pine marten, for he and the hummingbirds were joined against the dastardly weasel (or whatever), although the Rottweiler did not yet know what the marten had done against the birds.

  The answer came rather quickly, for the bird whose beak touched the ground suddenly rolled over as if it were dead as another hummingbird seemed to attack it. Freckles spoke predator-prey language so understood right away. The marten had attacked one of their own, perhaps beneath the Douglas-fir. The marten seemed to like to trap or catch its prey off-guard at that location.

  That’s it, Freckles thought. We will turn the bones on the marten so that it becomes the prey.
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  The birds seemed to have that exact sentiment, for the bird that had feigned death rose from the ground and attacked the other hummingbird, who then was the one to fall to depict the marten’s demise.

  “These birds are funny,” Harrison was saying. “They are fluttering all around but not really doing anything. Is this what those birdwatchers do all day, watch nothing?” The old man had had enough and walked back in the house.

  The old woman dismissed him with a wave of the hand. “They are lovely—right, Freckles?”

  “Woof,” he barked in agreement. And Freckles started plotting out his plan for the marten, which would involve these fine hummingbirds, if they were agreeable to it, which they seemed to be.

  Chapter 10

  Following Each Other

  What were they doing after hours? Certainly not construction. The place might be a construction site, but assembling or building was not on the agenda. Could they be doing something illegal? But where was the cocaine, LSD, prostitution ring, stolen material, or even a bong? Weren’t big bouncer types supposed to be selling drugs or hoarding stolen goods? For all he knew, these materials could be stolen. But why? He mostly saw these guys sewing garments with pretty flowers embroidered on them. These broad hulky men were wusses stitching clothes instead of carrying gold bars or mounds of coal for rich men, polluters, or pseudo-politicians.

  Now don’t get him wrong. Hippie liked the clothing. The garments reminded him of peace and love, so foreign in most of today’s culture where money ruled all. But that’s what confused him so much—where was the money?

  Hippie gave up trying to piece out what he was seeing. “What on Mother Earth is going on here?” he asked Maude.

  “Can’t you see? They’re making clothes for Christmas.”

  “Ummm. But it’s huge men knitting in August at a construction site in Lake Tahoe, not elves sewing during Christmas time in Santa’s workshop at the North Pole. Can you understand my confusion?”

  “They got to do it sometime, somehow,” Maude replied.