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 Oskar's Inspiration  (6 ratings)by Sean Bamman Page 2 of 3 Is it working? Of course not. She's crying, again. Think. Sotto voce: "We'll work everything out. And I support your decision whatever it may be. Remember..." "Decision?" She laughs and shakes her head. "You're not going to be a father." She waits and adds, "At least I'm not going to be a mother." "I don't understand..." "I know. Just listen." She hesitates again, breathes deeply and wipes her face with her napkin while I wait patiently with mine. "I found out today that I have a serious problem...an illness. I have a real problem and I don't know what to do about it. I hope that this does not concern you but I think it does. I don't know how or what to say..." Please sing, Oh, earthly muse. "Are you going to be all right?" I ask with direct, compassionate eye contact. "I'm not going to die if that's what you mean." Ill-fated woman discovers cure for death. "And I will manage. You know that I've been through a lot. This is just another sad part of my life." She continues her sad story as I hold her tightly, very tightly, and kiss her surprisingly dry forehead. Can't catch anything that way. Relax. She has it. Not me. My wife, clean and not too jealous. I must get home to her. "I want to stay longer but it's late, you know. I'm sorry but I need to go home. I really wish I could stay longer." "I know." I am always amazed at her understanding. "I'll call you tomorrow." I smile and she nods. "We'll have lunch at the restaurant of your choice." Another safe kiss on her dry forehead. "Bye. I'll call you tomorrow." The outside air is cold and refreshing. My familiar walk is much less than a mile. I blow a warm cloud of air for my face to pass coldly through. My childhood ineffective method of distracting my cold face on long, cold walks. Now, my fate may be herpetically sealed? No. Maybe? The mighty emperor, Hepatitis, be after me. It's not curable, I think. Not yet at least. More funding toward the cure of gonorrhea, down with syphilis! We will be oppressed no longer! That'll be my campaign slogan. A vote for Oskar is a vote against all STD's. I'll take it straight to the White House. There is no good disease. Brilliant, Oskar. But a lot of great artists have been infected with this or that. Herpes, such a silly name for a disease. A good name for a dog though. Herpes, the bastard daughter of Hermes and an Italian mortal. En route to Hades, Hermes notices a young mortal collecting pomegranates outside of her bronze house. She is the pure, innocent, easy Benedetta di Siena. So, of course, he swoops down, frolics and excuses himself explaining that he has an extremely urgent message from Zeus to deliver to uh... uh... Mercury in Rome! 8.75 months later, ecco Herpes. The mortal half stillborn. The immortal half alive but wretched. Herpes and its microscopic, hell-raising army are cursed to battle all mortals who passively or actively worship the venereal goddess in a half shell. Westview Lane. My street, or lane. At least, I live on this lane. Heading East, the view must be behind me. The lights are on. No miraculous intervention, no magic, no prayers answered for she is still awake and at home. Virgil is not waiting as I had hoped. The smell of wine and garlic and not of pork remain with me. Nobody around. "Herpes, here boy. Good boy, goooood boy. Sit. Stay. Just a little more ointment on your mange. Now that's a good boy." A vet's visit is needed soon. I'll need an excuse. To finish my short story. To finish my novella! Experience, first. Write, later. One last cold, refreshing breath. Keys. Enter Oskar, from the audience. "Queen Bea?" "In here!" Where? Not the bedroom. Kitchen? No. Bathroom? "Marco!" "Polo!" The living room. Nice, neutral and cozy. "My beautiful Queen. Your worker is home." I kiss her on the head. A silent confession of garlic and possibly wine. "I see that Her Majesty's faithful servant has found garlic from another Queendom." "Didn't you hear the news?" "What news?" "Well Miss Uninformed, the streets are full of the undead. Vampire-like zombies who only attack, and kill, uninformed humanoids like yourself. Garlic is simply the best and only defense." "Vampires, eh?" "Don't get your hopes up. Not those Hollywood vampires. But undead peasants who subsist on the blood, marrow and ideas of the living." "Is this the idea of your short story in progress?" "Novella, sweetie. And you were the inspiration." "Wonderful. Did you happen to see any vampire peasants?" "No, but I'm thinking about getting a dog." "He'd be your responsibility." "I know. I'll name her, not him, Nosferatu." "Well the living also need to eat and this living, uninformed Queen is still hungry. I waited for you." "I told you not to." "I know but..." "No excuses. But... since I'm sure you only had good intentions, I'll cook for you. How about a delicious Swiss dish?" "What? Spaghetti isn't Swiss." "Nein, no spaghetti. No Italian." "Meatballs?" "Nein! Beer and sauerkraut." "My absolute favorite. But we have neither, nor the makings for them." "I'll order you a pizza then." "That's Italian." Copyright © 1999, 2000, 2001 Sean Bamman, sffworld.com. All rights reserved. No part of this may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the author. The author has submitted the work in accordance with and in agreement with the following Submission Guidelines. |
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