The Non-adventures of Agent Smith... and Other Tales
“Gimme a kisssss, Keith. KEEEEEITH, gimme a kisss,” blared the shrill little voice. Mrs. Warmsley lovingly strengthened her clutch on poor Keith’s small, green-feathered frame as she approached her purpley-pink puckered lips to the bird’s trembling head.
Feelix, Mrs. Warmsley’s cat, observed the ritual from a distance. The green thing in his mistress’s choking grasp was, in reality, Keith No.4 or 5 (cats didn’t count much beyond 2). In any case, two of poor Keith’s predecessors, unable to resist Mrs. Warmsley’s need for love, had already been love-crushed and thrown into the garbage can - they made great toys.
The telephone rang and Keith got off easy. He quickly flew back to the top of his cage and gave Feelix a taunting beak-scowl as he heard Mrs. Warmsley answer: “Hello?”
“Hello - Mrs. Warmsley?”
”Yes. How nice of you to call. I was just…”
“This is Sharmeel, Dr. Eisberg’s secretary. He asked me to remind you that you have an appointment for your shots tomorrow at 4:30. You’ve already missed last week’s. They’re very important, you know.” Sharmeel waited for an answer. And waited… Old people were such a drag, she thought.
“Oh,” answered Mrs. Warmsley. “Tomorrow, I can’t come… I have… things to do,” she said, nonchalantly eyeing the baseball bat in the corner of the kitchen.
She put down the phone and blew a kiss to Keith who, still atop his cage, let out a quick, nervous poop while checking out a safer spot to fly to - just in case. But Ida Warmley’s mind was already elsewhere, imagining how her grandson, Shance, would be so happy when he got his new baseball bat for his birthday tomorrow.
She had never got used to the boy’s name, but after all, the choice was not hers to make, despite her insistent protests when her daughter had proudly announced his arrival. Shance… Hmmm. It seemed that nowadays people were so desperate to assure some kind of future for their kids that they figured that having a safely original name would help their offspring stand out from the crowd. Ida would have preferred Robert, like her long-departed husband.
Mrs. Warmsley shuffled to her small garage and got out the wrapping paper. Maybe she would even get an extra big kiss of gratitude after explaining how much effort it took, with her arthritis, phlebitis, back aches, dizzy spells, etc. to go out and buy Shance’s birthday present. Perhaps the more her suffering was involved, the more the boy would love her.
So far, this subconscious reasoning hadn’t really paid off too well, (and sometimes even backfired), but Ida Warmsley was stubborn; and so was her need for love. Now that Shance’s father had taken off with some hussy, (Ida had never liked him anyway), maybe the boy would show more affection for her. At least she hoped so.
Mary Richards’ phone felt like it weighed a ton as she reluctantly picked it up: this would not be an easy one to pull off. Shance sat crumpled up on the living room couch, arms crossed theatrically and red-faced with tearful determination. There was NO way he was going to see his grandmother, even if she DID have a present for him. Anyway, it was probably just some crappy toy, or a book, or - yuck! - more geeky clothes. Besides that, she smelled bad and her kisses were scary. Each and every time, Shance felt like she was about to crush his skull in her dreaded kiss grip. This was always followed by the energetic hair-rub and cheek pinch that he hated so much.
Shance had decided that he was NOT going through this again, especially on HIS birthday, and Mary’s recent domestic crises had simply left her too worn out to argue about it.
“Hi, mom,” she started, trying to avoid asking “how are you?”. She leaned a look over to the couch, giving Shance the irate head-shake. “I’m alright, mom - hanging in there. But Shance has come down with something… Yeah a slight fever - poor boy. I think it’s best that he stays home tomorrow; even though he was just dying to see you,” she lied. “No: it might be contagious, but I’ll be stopping by, as promised; let’s say around… two or three.” There was a long pause while Mary listened to her mother’s tales of hardship, occasionally emitting a “hmmm” to show she was still listening. Twenty minutes later, the deed was done and Shance was off the hook.
Minutes later, Mary’s phone rang again. She feared it was her mother again, going for an extra ball, but no: the number was unfamiliar.
“Uhh hello. Mrs. Richards?”
“Yes.”
“This is Sharmeel, Dr. Eisberg’s secretary. It’s about your mother, Mrs. Ida Warmsley.”
“Yes?” Mary waited nervously for Sharmeel to continue.
“Your mother told us this morning that she won’t be coming in for her shots tomorrow. Something about her grandson’s birthday. She already missed her last session. Dr Eisberg was hoping you could convince her to come to her appointment - they’re very important, you know.”
“Yes, I know. For her LDS,” replied Mary. She didn’t really know what “LDS” stood for; but if there was one thing she didn’t need right now, it was her mother freaking out again and her having to spend hours at the police station trying to explain something she didn’t understand to begin with. True, there was nothing really dangerous about an old woman chasing people around a supermarket, library or parking lot begging them to hug and kiss her. But some people didn’t take too kindly to it and the police would sometimes be called in. Once, Ida Warmsley had even been taken to court for this strange behavior.
“What time is her appointment?” she asked.
“Four thirty. Tomorrow.”
“I should be able to convince her, Sharmel.”
“SharMEEEEL,” corrected Sharmeel. “Thank you, Mrs. Richards”
So it looked like there was no way Mary could get out of tomorrow’s visit to her mother with a last-minute excuse. But it was for a good cause.
Feeelix was purring up a storm as his claws convulsively dug ever-so-slightly into Ida Warmsley’s lap. After almost three hours of continuous, hard petting, Feeelix was now stocked up to maximum in static electricity and was starting to emit small, blue sparks every once in a while. A familiar car sound coming from down the block captured his ear. Mary would soon be here - perhaps with her horrible son. There was still a bit more petting time left and Feeelix decided to wait for the car door to shut before heading upstairs to one of his hideouts.
RINNNG. Ida let out a screech: Feeelix had dug his claws in and was upstairs before the door opened. “Hi mom,” came Mary’s voice from the vestibule. “Sorry I’m late.” Feelix was glad to see that the boy had not come; maybe he would come downstairs to say hello a bit later.
“Hi sweetie,” answered Ida, putting on her best badly-concealed grimace of pain as her daughter entered the room.
“What’s up mom? Are you hurt?”
Mrs. Warmsley smiled courageously (ah! her loving daughter had noticed.) “Oh, it’s nothing, sweetie. Just that Feeelix was startled when the bell rang and he dug his claws into my leg. It does hurt a bit though.”
Mary dutifully inspected the indicated area that had fallen victim to Feeelix’s claws as she moved in closer, braced for the kiss. It was a pretty good one, she thought to herself as she felt her cheek squashed paper-thin against her cheekbone by Ida’s powerful lips. In fact, more than ‘pretty good’; Mary mentally counted up to fourteen before finally feeling her mother’s strong grip start to let up. Yeah, her mother definitely needed those shots before something weird happened again.
“I got a call from your doctor’s secretary, Sharmel, yesterday,” she began, looking at her watch. “Your appointment is in a little over an hour, today - I can take you there if you want.” The plan was foolproof.
“Oh, yes, we could go there together!” exclaimed Ida, submerged with joy. ”I’ll go get my coat and purse right away.”
‘Hmmm,’ thought Mary to herself, not really surprised; ‘she’s already forgotten about Shance’.
“Shance says he’s really sorry he couldn’t come, mom.”
“Oh, yes… Shance… How is he?” asked Ida from down the end of the hall. “Still too sick to come s
ee what grandma got him for his birthday?” Mrs. Warmsley returned with her coat, purse and a brightly wrapped cylindrical gift that left little doubt as to what it was, seeing as Shance didn’t play golf and already had a telescope.
Mary put on her best smile of happy surprise.
Ida finally decided the suspense had lasted long enough and announced: “I remember you said, last month, that he has been playing a lot of baseball lately. You know, it wasn’t an easy task getting this.” Ida imagined the bat weighed a ton, accordingly gritted her teeth and held out the gift and her hungry cheek.
“Oh! A baseball bat! He’ll be so happy,” lied Mary already dreaming up explanations for both parties. For the brand new 32 inch Hank Aaron model length of ash had very little to do with the latest “Bases Loaded III” that Shance’s father had bought him last month for his Nintendo N4900 Hotshot Box. Prying a convincing ‘thank you’ out of the boy would not be easy, even if it was by phone.
Mary quickly snapped back into the present when she thought she heard one of her ribs crack under her mother’s powerful hug. She took a deep, verifying breath and pushed with all her might to get her face out of her mother’s blue gray hair-do and into position for the thank you kiss on the cheek. A few slightly painful minutes later, the mission was accomplished, and after another twenty minutes of coffee sipping and reminiscing about this and that, the duo was on its way to Dr. Eisberg’s office.
Mary had never been to Dr. Eisberg’s place; Ida’s neighbor usually took her. Although waiting rooms were pretty much the same, this one did seem strangely different to Mary as the vintage turquoise naugahide chairs creaked underneath them while they patiently waited Ida’s turn. Mary tried hard to identify the discrete yet distinctive smell that imbibed the dimly lit atmosphere; it was unexpected yet familiar…
“Bread!” half-shouted Mary all of a sudden. A small man sitting near the darker corner of the room jerked his head up, startled by the sound, before letting out an annoyed sigh and going back to his magazine. Mary hadn’t noticed him, probably the way you don’t “notice” people in waiting rooms, as if looking at sick people were a particularly impolite encroachment upon their dignity. “Don’t you think it smells like bread in here?” she asked, hoping her question would serve as a good explanation for her outburst.
“What’s the difference?” mumbled the man, half to himself and obviously in no mood to carry on the conversation. Mary turned to Ida, but from the corner of her eye, she took a longer glance at the man: there was something odd about him too – as if he were kind of shriveled up from the inside, like an inflatable man with a leak.
“I think it smells more like tuna fish,” offered Mrs. Warmsley.
“Tuna fish!? No way,” replied Mary. “No, it’s definitely bread.”
“Grapefruit,” mumbled the man, scowling as if he felt forced to correct these olfactory idiots. “It smells like grapefruit.”
Sharmeel entered the room carrying a small clipboard. “I’m so happy you could finally make your appointment, Mrs. Warmsley. We’re still 12cc’s short of fluid, so you’ll have to wait a few minutes – I hope you don’t mind,” she smiled.
Not waiting for any particular reply, and understandably avoiding one of Ida’s iron hand-clutches, she turned, arm extended, to the small, shrunken man. “Alright then, Mr. Givings. Let’s go. So kind of you to come on such short notice. I think you know the way by now.” Mr. Givings got up slowly, shot a quick, dry glance at Mary and Ida and, mumbling something about needing time to recuperate, and headed down the hall.
Mary couldn’t resist the urge: “Excuse me, Sharmel. I was…”
“SHARMEEEL,” corrected Sharmeel for the zillionth time in her life.
“Sorry, Sharmel - uhh, Sharmeel. I was just wondering - have you noticed any particular scent in the waiting room? Don’t you think it smells like bread?”
Sharmeel gave the air a polite sniff before answering: “No. I don’t smell anything in particular… Maybe… broccoli.” She and Mr. Givings disappeared into one of the consultation rooms, leaving Mary with a growing sensation of weirdness.
“What an odd little man,” said Mary. “Ever seen him here before?”
“Oh yes,” answered Ida. “In fact, I can’t recall NOT seeing him here. He’s not bad looking. I don’t know what’s wrong with him: once he gets out of the office, he’s a real grouch - one of the most unpleasant individuals I’ve ever met. Usually he doesn’t say a word, but he doesn’t have to; it’s pretty clear that he despises everyone on earth.”
“And he must be crazy,” added Mary. “Grapefruit?! Something MUST be wrong if he can’t tell the difference between bread and grapefruit.”
“Tuna fish,” corrected Ida.
‘Grapefruit!?’ thought Mary, relieved that they had chosen seats not too close to this odd, shriveled man. Her mother had an excuse for the tuna fish: she was half nuts. But there was no way that this waiting room smelled like anything other than bread. And that was that!
Mary’s stern preoccupation was interrupted by the digital chime in Dr. Eisberg’s hallway. A portly young woman with a pink sweater and pimples entered the waiting room, smiling nervously. After sitting down in front of Ida and Mary, she sort of leaned forward without moving her body. “Hi. My name’s Karyn, ‘YN’.” (She was one of those people who feel compelled to spell out their “original” names.) Mary had no intention of writing her a letter, but she gave her a half-smile and a polite nod in return.
“My name’s Ida!” Mrs. Warmsley’s eyes had lit up with a strange intensity, locking almost at once with Karyn, “YN” ‘s now fixed stare. There seemed to be a growing kind of static, electro-magnetic, immaterial, attractive energy thing between them, like invisible prickly Jell-O. It was irresistible, and less than ten seconds later, the two women were furiously hugging, clutching, kissing and grasping each other.
Mary let out a pretty decent scream as the love-deficient pair rolled around on the waiting room floor. Sharmeel ran in, followed by Dr. Eisberg.
“Quick!” bellowed Eisberg. “A No.3 separation clamp and a pair of sterile clutch retainers!” Sharmeel was out and back in a flash.
Luckily, Dr. Eisberg was not only foremost in his field but was also still fairly strong. Thanks to his long experience dealing with Love Deficiency Syndrome victims (and his brown belt in Kwang Fe), he was gradually able to wedge in the N°3 separation clamp, pry one of Ida’s arms away from the young girl’s neck and apply one of the clutch retainers. The rest went fairly easily and the two women were finally separated.
Eisberg wiped his brow and shot a fiery look at Sharmeel. I’ve told you a thousand times, Sharmeel! NEVER, never ever two LDS’s in the same room at the same time!”
Sharmeel’s initiative to squeeze Karyn “YN” into an open slot in the agenda for an emergency shot had turned out to be a pretty bad idea. “I’m so sorry, Dr. Eisberg. I really don’t know what happened... It was…” Fishing deep for some sort of excuse, she was interrupted by a long moan that emanated from the room where Mr. Givings had been taken.
Dr. Eisberg jumped up and exclaimed: “Oh shit! Quick! Turn off the extrusion pump before he implodes!” Sharmeel raced down the hall and the moaning soon stopped. Turning to Mary, he sighed apologetically: “A rough day today. It’s a good thing we know what we’re doing here.”
Staring at the two women immobilized on the waiting room’s floor, Mary was not 100% convinced. “What is it, exactly, that you DO here, Dr. Eisberg?” she asked. “Are all your patients this weird? What about that strange, shriveled guy? Does he also have LDS? And I’m sure that I’m not the only one that would like to know exactly what LDS is!”
The specialist’s eyebrows twitched upwards an instant. “Love Deficiency Syndrome. First identified, and officially recognized, around twenty years ago. It’s all very complicated,” he started. “In fact too complex for the layman to grasp - even a lot of doctors don’t fully understand it.”
“A lot of d
octors don’t understand a LOT of things,” observed Mary. “So what about that man? He didn’t look like HE needed any extra love.”
“I’m afraid that I’m sworn to medical secrecy here. After all, Mr. Givings’ health and presence here are a matter...”
Sharmeel briskly entered the room. “Extrusion pump off, Dr. Eisberg. I think Mr. Givings can be disconnected.”
Dr. Eisberg excused himself and scooted down the hall while Sharmeel turned to Mary while helping Mrs. Warmsley up from the floor: “Alright, Mrs. Warmsley. We’re ready for your shots now. Please follow me.”
An awkward silence set in between Mary and Karyn, “YN”. Partially immobilized by the clutch retainer, the young woman seemed sufficiently harmless. Mary picked up a magazine – the type of waiting room magazine that, once you’ve perused it, you’re glad you didn’t buy a copy when it came out five years ago. The name and the image of Mr. Givings’ face stuck in her mind. There was something oddly familiar about it; a fuzzy déjà vu feeling that was starting to materialize. Yes, that was it! Maybe Karyn, “YN” knew something about him.
“Do you know that man… Mr. Givings? He reminds me of a teacher I used to have.”
“No, I don’t know much about him,” offered Karyn, “YN”. “Only that he, or his father, used to be a teacher. I don’t know what he does for a living now. But he sure looks like he’s loaded with money, whatever he does. He’s much younger than he looks now. He’s probably pretty old but he looked a lot younger last year…” None of this made much sense to Mary. But at least it was consistent with the rest of this spaced-out little universe that was Dr. Eisberg’s.
A short, cyclical squeak came from down the hall, followed by Sharmeel wheeling a very tired-looking Mr. Givings out to the parking lot where a large limousine was waiting. Sharmeel steamed back into the waiting room, silently grumbling as she pushed the empty wheelchair. As she zipped by, Mary tried to lighten up the atmosphere and perhaps get more details: “Boy, that Mr. Givings certainly is unpleasant - what a cranky guy!”
Sharmeel composed herself, sighed and replied: “He is – or at least was - in fact a loving, wonderful person.”
A few minutes later, Mary’s mother was escorted out by Sharmeel. Heavily floating around in a curiously detached silence, Ida was soon inside Mary’s car, on her way back home.
“So how did it go?”
“Alright,” replied Ida before returning to her blank gaze.
“Thanks again, mom, for Shance’s new baseball bat. I’m sure he’ll like it,” tried Mary, changing the subject.
Ida Warmsley turned her head ever so slightly. “Hmmm. Yes. Maybe he will. Could you stop by the Quick-Mart on the way? I’d like to pick up a few things for tonight.”
Mary waited in the car while her mother zipped into the grocery store. For once, her mother had not implored her to go along with her; to help her step up the curb, or open the heavy glass door, or help her carry her minuscule paper bag. In fact, Ida’s step had mysteriously picked up; the huffing, puffing, limping, whining, moaning, cringing, sweating, grimacing, hip-holding and most of the other tell-tale signs of suffering had vanished.
Mary’s thoughts went back to Mr. Givings. She remembered a vague high school rumor that Mr. Givings had a handicapped son of some sorts; or a son that was having some kind of problem with his classmates. Or something else - she couldn’t really remember much more than that. But kind Mr. Givings was no longer teaching at Muchtu High that following year – something to do with family reasons. The resemblance was uncanny. So, that man she had seen in Dr. Eisberg’s could be his son?! Impossible: he would be what? – 35 or 40 – maybe younger than she was? Impossible.
Mrs. Warmsley trotted back to the car with a small bag of avocados and a chocolate bar already half-eaten. “I think I’ll have some tuna and avocado salad tonight,” she said flatly without offering any of her disappearing Smoothy Crunch bar.
“Hey, mom; do you know that guy, Mr. Givings?” she finally asked.
“No, not really. But he has his appointments on the same day as me. We don’t talk. I tried, but he avoids me - not very friendly, especially when he gets out of Dr. Eisberg’s office.” Ida nonchalantly dropped the finished Smoothy Crunch bar’s wrapper on the floor of Mary’s car and resumed gazing out the window.
Mary started wondering if she didn’t prefer her mother in her love-hungry phase. Yes... then again, maybe not. She couldn’t really say. She checked her watch - 5:20 and getting near time to head back home and see what Shance was doing.
As she dropped her mother off, Mary braced herself for the cheek-squashing kiss but, mildly surprised, she gladly settled for a quick peck before speeding off to see how the birthday boy was doing.
Shance was crumpled forward on the couch, along with a couple of friends, all intensely hypnotized in a video game of... something. Mary’s arrival and “hello” went unnoticed as she walked through to her kitchen carrying the gift-wrapped baseball bat. Later would probably be a more appropriate time to spring Ida’s gift on her son.
One of Shance’s friends had just struck out and his eye caught the wrapped and ribboned birthday gift disappearing into the kitchen. “Hey, you got a present,” he observed. “Let’s see what you got.”
“Later,” barked Shance nervously poised for the next pitch. “It’s prolly from my grandmother.” The other two boys snickered.
Mary was already icing the birthday cake, still wondering about Mr. Givings. Yes, she would have to find out more about her former teacher and his son. And perhaps this Dr. Eisberg while she was at it. Internet seemed like the logical move.
Shance’s birthday afternoon went well, as far as he was concerned. He had gotten some cool things, mostly dealing with virtual reality best experienced on a screen, including the latest Hot-Shot game, “Crunch City”, from his father. It was really cool: you could grow muscles and punch people, stab them, shoot them, or even blow them up if you gained enough credits (invalids and old people were worth less credits). You could do all kinds of violent stuff in perfect innocence – and it was very realistic too!
His grandma’s baseball bat was something else. It was a lot heavier than what he was used to. And being “real”, it implied a lot of things to do, an armada of organization, like getting together enough boys – at least four – to agree to play along outside if the weather was right and a lot of other stuff that Shance found boring. And Shance was into a phase of his development where many things were “boring” to him.
But despite poor Shance’s boredom, at supper time, he was told that he must telephone his grandmother to at least say “thank you”. Mary waited, arms crossed, next to the phone to ensure that her order was carried out. To her surprise, the short conversation went very smoothly and was soon over. Shance didn’t even seem annoyed and stranger yet, her mother had not asked to speak to her. That change, ever since Ida’s treatment at Dr. Eisberg’s, was – for better or for worse – creepy. She was pulled out of her reverie by her son.
“Boy, that’s space-O. She just said “you’re welcome” and that’s all. Cool!” Feeling that this “good” news merited some sort of reward, he asked: “Can I play a little more on my new “Crunch City” before supper? Pleeeeeese?”
The “please” got a mental gold star and Mary nodded an OK. “Alright, but not for long. Twenty minutes – no more – before supper... but after supper, I’d like you to help me with finding something on the internet.”
For once, this was a cool chore and Shance was delighted at the idea of being the teacher instead of the pupil. “Sure, mom,” he answered, already heading for his world of couch and screen. Maybe, in the huge arsenal of weapons available in “Crunch City”, there was a baseball bat, something like the ones in “Bases Loaded III” but a lot bigger with spikes and blades and other cool stuff sticking out.
It was getting close to 11:30 before Mary noticed the clock. “Wow! 11:30 already! Time for bed. And thanks a lot, birthday boy,” she said, giving Sh
ance an affectionate good night peck.
It had taken some time, but Shance was quick with doing things on the computer and, thanks to some speedy detective work on Google and sites like MyFace and the group Memories From Muchtu High, he had managed to eek out some meager bits of information concerning Albert and Josh Givings. There was quite a bit more on Dr. Elvin Eisberg and his unique views and treatments for Love Deficiency Syndrome, including a brief mention of his controversial patented extrusion pump.
As interesting as these bits of internet information had proven, Mary’s growing curiosity still remained unsatisfied. Her mother’s compulsive, growing need for love, followed by periods of calmer sanity after her shots, was certainly strange. But this time, the metamorphosis was dramatically offsetting.
The only hope of clearing up her concerns seemed to point in one direction. There was little doubt in Mary’s mind that there was a connection between Dr. Eisberg’s shots and this dried up Mr. Givings who had once been such an exceptionally loving person. Perhaps he even remembered her as one of his students and would be willing to offer an explanation for his presence at Dr. Eisberg’s small clinic, confirming her suspicions. Maybe, she could, like on TV, go on a stake-out in Dr. Eisberg’s parking lot and follow Mr. Givings home. Not right away; the best time would be some time next week, whenever her mother was due for a shot of Dr. Eisberg’s concoction. In any case, she would have to speak to this Mr. Givings. In person - and not in Dr. Eiseberg’s waiting room, where she had no business anyway. A difficult task, but the beginnings of something started to emerge.
‘Hmmm, those shots...’ she wondered. Surely if a shot made you feel good, there must be something wrong with it. Were things like that legal? Probably, she concluded; after all, Dr. Eisberg was a doctor – despite certain colleagues’ claims on the internet. So that aspect was settled... legally, as long as Ida Warmsley paid her bill.
Suddenly Mary had an illumination, a divine inspiration – the sort of thing that would look like a lightning bolt or a light bulb in a comic strip.
Mary had come up with a plan! If it worked, there would be no more costly shots; no more mother freaking out, hugging people in parking lots; and no more shrunken up poor Mr. Givings. She would short-circuit Dr. Eisberg’s clinic – cut out the middle man!
The plan was based on a simple observation of the men Mary had known. No matter what physical shape they were in, they all thought about sex a lot. (Had Mary been a man, she would have realized that they thought about it even more than she imagined.) If she could get this Mr. Giving’s testosterone going, and going in Ida’s direction, he and her mother could be having it off in bed once a week. ‘That’s once a week more than I’ve been getting these past few months,’ she mused. All in all, it was great plan!
The details would work themselves out. But there was one catchy thing: Mary’s scheme was like mixing up some nitroglycerine. Bringing together what could be Mr. Givings’ incredibly powerful source of love and Ida, a sort of anti-matter love sponge, could produce some kind of cataclysmic reaction. Then again, that was more or less what Dr. Eisberg had been charging a lot of money for doing quite some time now, with the moral approbation of medical science. So... why not?
Mary figured that she’d wait a few days before proposing to drive her mother to the tiny clinic. Ida’s need for love would start returning by then and she would wholeheartedly accept the offer.
Four or five days later, Keith N°4 was starting to sweat it out again. The human had begun to call him again and had even attempted a mild clutch. Feeling that pets and head scratches were once again on the menu, Feelix had returned to his favorite spot on Ida’s lap in front of the TV. The phone rang; he dug his claws in just a bit – for fun – and leaped off gracefully.
“Hello?”
“Hi, mom. I was just thinking, would you like me to take you to Dr. Eisberg’s next time? I’ll check out your next appointment with Sharmel to see if I’m free that afternoon.”
“Oh, yes. That would be nice,” replied Ida. There was a brief silence. “And how is Shance? Is he feeling any better?”
“Oh, he’s come out of it now. It was just a minor case of...”
“I’ve been having a bit trouble with my back since yesterday,” cut in Ida. “I was in the kitchen and...”
The bad health report lasted a bit over three minutes; Mary had her eye on the kitchen clock. The whole conversation clocked in at fourteen minutes. Yep, her mother was coming back to “normal” and could soon be way beyond that, once her LDS kicked in. Another few days and her mother would be ripe. But before Ida started getting weird on people, the hairdresser’s seemed like a good move. ‘She’s still pretty good-looking for her age,’ thought Mary. ‘Next week, I’ll bring some make-up along with me.’
Mary dialed Dr. Eisberg’s number. An unfamiliar voice answered: “Hello. Doctor Eisberg’s office.”
“Hello... Sharmel?”
“Sharmeel,” corrected the voice. “No, she’s sick. It’s some kind of nervous breakdown. She was having a bad day and somebody got her name wrong three times in a row; and she just cracked. She does that once in a while... (Well, who wouldn’t with a name like that?) She should be back by Thursday or Friday. I’m Rita. Who are you?” Sharmeel’s last-minute replacement was obviously not accustomed to dealing with patients but, luckily, she seemed more than willing to disclose personal information.
“I’m Mary Richards, Mrs. Warmsley’s daughter. I just called to check on what time her next appointment was.”
There was a long pause while Rita fumbled through the agenda. “Three thirty, Monday, the 8th.”
“Thank you...And I suppose Mr. Givings, Josh Givings, will be there too?” she tried.
“Oh, you mean Bert? Josh is his weird son; He just drives the car. Nope. Bert won’t be in before Thursday, the 11th. Old Bert’s been having a pretty rough time lately: we had a minor incident here, Monday, with the extrusion pump and the poor guy got pretty dried out, from what I hear. But don’t worry; we’ve still got enough preparation to see your mother through.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” sighed Mary, already trying to deal with this set-back. She thought she heard Dr. Eisberg’s voice in the background and Rita suddenly became more business-like.
“So that’s three thirty, Monday, the 8th, Mrs....ummm...Richards. Will that be OK?”
Mary’s mind began clicking: ‘So it is Albert, the father, her good-natured high school teacher. Great! The age problem was settled: Ida would be hooked up with someone her own age and similar sexual tempo, instead of a 40-ish guy with overly-demanding gonads in full working order... like her asshole husband, who was probably getting it off right now, while she was there on the couch with her fingers unconsciously sliding up her thigh. Mary snapped out of it, getting back into more important matters at hand. And it was imperative that Mr. Givings be there for her mother’s appointment.
This change in plans would require some minor adjustments. And perhaps an extra few days would also prove beneficial to Mary’s scheme.
She adjusted accordingly. “Uh, wait a minute. No, Monday won’t be possible. Would the week after be Ok?”
“Let’s see… We have a last-minute opening Tuesday afternoon, the 16th, at 2:45. It’s a bit late for your mother’s shot, but it should still be OK, if that’s alright with you. I think Mr. Givings should be in just an hour before then.”
“That will be fine,” smiled Mary.
Things were going in the right direction. It was a question of timing. While her mother was still ‘presentable’, the hairdresser’s was next on the schedule. She thumbed through her phone book, zero-ing in on her mom’s hairdressers, the Magic Curls Salon.
Mary had had her hair done at Magic Curls twice. After the second time, she realized that her first judgment had been right; and two minor disasters were enough. But Ida seemed to appreciate the salon’s specialty: going berserk on older women’s hair. Technically, they certainly could come up with
a remarkably ornate combination of curls, waves and freaky “highlights”: those pink or bluish colors that were even off-limits for punks.
She wondered which of those spaced-out color rinses Mr. Givings would go for. It was more a question of instinct than deduction. Pink. Magic Curls had another name for it, something dreamier that seemed to tickle the older women’s libido. But, basically, it was pinkish. Yes, pink was the move. It also favored her mom’s complexion better than that electric blue. Matching nails would be nice. Mary would adjust the lipstick later, accordingly.
She picked up the phone and dialed.
Two rings. A voice answered. “Magic Curls Salon.”
Mary recognized the voice. It was Betty, the senior hairdresser – and her mom’s favorite specialist. Great! “Hello, Betty. I’m Ida Warmsley’s daughter and I’d like to make an appointment for her. It’s for a pretty special occasion and we’ll be going for pink this time.”
“You must mean Blushing Rose Garden; it’s a big favorite with our seniors.”
“Yes, that’s the one! We might be getting it done a few days early, maybe a week – it depends. How long do you think it will… ummm hold up?”
“Oh, don’t worry about that. We have a special hair spray that makes our coiffures practically indestructible for at least a month. Everything will be just fine,” she chuckled. “Let me see… Would 4 o’clock this Wednesday be alright?”
“That’ll be fine, thank you.”
Mary jotted down a quick schedule. So… if she arrived with her love-hungry mother fully spruced up at around 1 o’clock, Tuesday the 16th, at Dr. Eisberg’s parking lot, they could intercept Mr. Givings before he was drained of his excess love.
The following week, things went pretty smoothly for just about everyone except Keith. The poor bird’s stamina was starting to wane from dodging the growing number of Ida Warmsley’s clutch attempts, and this morning he had barely managed to escape her grip; it had cost him a feather or two.
Shance was spending less time in front of his screens and was actually doing something with real things: a science project that was soon due for school. Mary had no idea of what he was making, and she didn’t really understand Shance’s vague explanations, but it kept him busy and had left her ample time to take care of the business at hand.
She was now seated comfortably in the front seat of her car on Dr. Eisberg’s small parking lot, her cheek gradually recovering from her mother’s hello kiss. Ida was sitting next to her, feeling weirdly hungry but looking her absolute best. Arriving early to her appointment hadn’t seemed to bother her.
Mary had had no problem keeping her plan to herself. She checked her watch – almost 2 o’clock now. Mary listened and commiserated another ten minutes with Ida’s account of her left shoulder before seeing Mr. Givings’ limo pull up slowly. A chauffeur emerged. There was little doubt about it: it was Josh Givings, looking surprisingly like his father did in his teaching years at Muchtu High. As Josh was opening the back door for his father, Mary and her mother stepped out of their Ford into the balmy spring air. It was time to move.
Mr. Givings was definitely looking much more rested, and certainly not as dried up. He was smiling quietly, something like a mixture of loving kindness and contentment. But what really captured Mary’s thoughts was Josh.
They should be around the same age, but Josh had never attended Muchtu High; and so the two had never met. Yet somehow, Mary had the impression she had always known him. And liked him. No… “like” was not the word, the feeling. Much more than the fact that Mary also found him fairly good-looking, there was something about him that Mary found very attractive. Definitely attractive. And growingly attractive as she and her mother approached the limousine.
Josh looked up for an instant at the approaching women, smiled and nodded a short hello. His eye lingered slightly on Mary. It was enough to instill a mild amount of confusion in Mary’s mind, born from a seeming conflict of rationality and emotion. She didn’t know this man but she felt as though she were… falling… in love. It didn’t make any sense but it felt good – to the point that Mary had almost entirely forgotten her mother, her plan or even why she was standing here in Dr. Eisberg’s parking lot.
“Uh… hello. I’m Mary Richards,” she heard herself say.
“Hello, Mary. My name’s Josh Givings. Can I help you in any way?”
He had a beautiful voice – manly yet musical. Mary was melting. Her legs began to feel rubbery and a strange new metaphysical experience entered her life: she was swooning! Josh caught her before she hit the pavement.
Mary’s eyes soon fluttered her back into a more functional consciousness. “Sorry,” she sighed.
“Mary! Mary Warmsley. I remember you!” Time and life had not affected Mr. Givings’ memory. Leaning next to him was Ida Warmsley with her arm firmly anchored around his neck. He didn’t seem to mind. And Mary simply didn’t care: Josh was helping her back on her feet.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“Yes. Just fine… just fine.”
Josh turned to his father. “I think I’d better stay a while with Mary – just to make sure she’s OK.”
“Sure, son,” replied Mr. Givings, slowly walking away with Ida. Josh brought his attention back to Mary. Neither of them noticed that Ida and Mr. Givings were not heading in the general direction of Dr. Eisberg’s waiting room.
Mary and Josh were comfortably seated in the limo’s front seat when Sharmeel’s energetic knuckle knocked on the window. “Mr. Givings, we’re still waiting for your father. Where is he?” she barked.
Mary, bathed in the comfort of Josh’s presence, was startled by the intrusion. Something in Sharmeel’s tone and attitude suggested… jealousy. And although Sharmeel’s natural preferences went toward women, Mary was right: Sharmeel sounded jealous and nervous.
Mary was still unaware of Josh’s unique gift – or handicap. It seemed he had been born with a combination of traits that made him much more than simply attractive to women. To most of them, he was irresistible.
And this peculiar “gift”, that most men would have loved to possess, had very soon become a source of trouble for Josh and his parents. Little kindergarten girls would wind up fighting over him, while some of the boys felt a sort of envy that sometimes degenerated into hostility.
By the time poor Josh had reached sixth grade, his parents had been forced to put him in a “special” school just for boys in the hopes of keeping him away from the female gender as much as possible. It helped but not always, and the type of male friends that Josh attracted was unsettling to his parents. Years later, it became apparent to them that their son seemed devoid of any sexual drives whatsoever; a feeling that was both comforting and worrisome. As if to balance things out, Josh – who was an exceptionally attractive boy, then man, - was curiously almost devoid of feeling any kind of attraction. For many girls and women, this was felt as a comforting sort of security – just another trait that drew them in.
And so, Mr. and Mrs. Givings were gradually forced to spend more and more time and energy fighting off the throngs of undesired women and girls that had fallen helplessly in love with their son. Even worse, Mrs. Givings also felt the same compulsive attraction. The fact that her husband was a very understanding and exceptionally loving person didn’t help. On the contrary, she was plagued with the constant feeling that she was about to explode from an overdose of love coming from all sides. The situation became too much for her to handle, and she finally took the only option for her peace of mind: with tears in her eyes, she left the household and moved to Nebraska. Of course she maintained a frequent and loving contact with her husband and son; but from a safe distance. A year later, the poor woman’s plight ended when she was run over by a corn-laden trailer truck.
“Well, where IS he?” re-barked Sharmeel as Mary and Josh stepped out of the limo. Josh shrugged his shoulders in a way that Sharmeel found… very attractive. She had almost forgotten her question already
.
Mary was looking around for any signs of her mother in the nearby bushes. Suddenly she spotted a flash of the top of her mother’s Blushing Rose Garden hair! This was good news for Mary, but Sharmeel and her bad vibes would have to be dealt with. Mary let her searching gaze drift off to her right.
“There he is! I’m pretty sure I just saw Mr. Givings way over there, near the azaleas,” she lied.
“The what?”
Mary pointed in the direction she wanted to send Sharmeel, as far away as possible from her mother and Mr. Givings. “Those things over there; the bushes with the pinkish flowers.”
“Oh, right, I see them.” Sharmeel dashed off towards the mini-jungle of vegetation.
“I wonder where my father could be,” mused Josh.
“He’s probably over there… with my mother,” indicated Mary. They both slowly sauntered off to where the Blushing Rose Garden had last been spotted, while Sharmeel was getting hopelessly tangled up somewhere in the far-off azalea section of Dr. Eisberg’s parking area.
Although Mary had already guessed that her plan was going well, what she discovered still came as a mild shock to her once she and Josh had come close enough to their parents to have a good look at what they were doing in the bushes.
‘Oh my God: they’re doing it!’ thought Mary. And they were – or at least they were trying their best despite their age and lack of practice. And that Magic Curls special hair-spray was holding up amazingly well in the shrubbery. “It looks like they’re occupied for the moment,” offered Mary, wondering what Josh would think.
“Yes, it does. Perhaps we should leave them alone,” smiled Josh.
“Oh hello, dear. Is that you?” A few seconds later, Ida Warmsley emerged from the bushes, looking reasonably composed as she took out a small pocket mirror and a Kleenex from her purse. (‘Damn, she’s fast!’ thought Mary.) “I’ve just had a lovely time with Mr. Givings. We’ll be sailing around Trinidad and Tobago next week on Bert’s ship.”
After a minute or two, Bert Givings appeared. Apparently he had experienced a bit more difficulty with his clothing. In any case, his short-lived escapade with Ida had proven just as efficient, and much more pleasant, than Dr. Eisberg’s extrusion pump. Both he and Ida seemed miraculously balanced out. “Would you two like to come down with us for a few days?” he smiled. “It’s been a while since I’ve been down there, and it’s the perfect season for sailing and just about everything else.”
“Oh yes; that would be wonderful!” half-shouted Mary, her eyes riveted on Josh. A small cloud floated into her sky of dreams. “But there’s my son, Shance… I can’t just leave him alone, even if that’s what he usually wants.” She turned to her mother: “And then there’s Keith and Feelix.”
No longer desperately in need of love, her mother answered: “I’m sure Feelix will be alright for a few days. And a full refrigerator and some stupid video games should hold down Shance for a while. Canaries are a bit trickier, but maybe…”
“We could bring your canary along with us,” suggested Bert.
“Yes. And maybe it’s time for Keith to be set free back on Tobago… or Trinidad,” suggested Josh. Somehow it seemed to be a wonderful idea, even to Ida.
Five days later, Ida, Bert, Mary and Josh were dreamily sailing off the coast of a nearby Tobagan fishing village, sipping highly-colored mixed drinks from coconuts and eating grilled sardines. Love was everywhere except in their needs. And no one felt any particular desire to head back home, so Mary and Ida made a few calls.
Shance’s father had come around to pick him up, temporarily reclaiming his rights as a father. Shance was delighted, playing with all his new video games, and in no particular mood to change the situation. Feelix had run off and found himself a new home with the next door neighbors, (they even had a slow-flying parakeet!), and Keith had spread his wings in Trinidad, enjoying tasty worms and insects, far away from Feelix and Ida.