PART XXVIII THE MASTER

PUMPKIN

The master was lost in thought when a woman's voice interrupted his ruminations.

"O Venerable One, how are you?"

She was the daughter of one of his students from many years ago.

"I am fine, young lady. How is your mother?"

"She is fine. She says that you were her favorite teacher."

"She was certainly one of my favorite students."

The mother had a bohemian nature. She wrote poetry and played the guitar. A free spirit with a love for Portuguese and born into wealth, she would travel to the most exotic locales: Brazil, Cape Verde, Angola, Macau, Goa.

"I was remembering my Pumpkin," she confessed one day when they were eating in the academy's cafeteria.

"Pumpkin?" replied the master, slightly confused.

"He was my boyfriend."

"And why did you call him Pumpkin?"

"I know that it is a cliché that lovers often use to address each other, but calling him Pumpkin seemed like the most natural expression of affection for me."

"What happened to Pumpkin?"

"The candle suddenly extinguished and the round eyes, the triangular nose and the jagged mouth went dark."

"I'm sorry, my daughter."

"There's no reason to feel sorry, O Venerable One. When I revisit the dark chambers of my memories, his candle still burns."

OPPOSITES

The master was pondering that opposites comprise reality and lead to enlightenment:

I am, but I'm not.

I was, but I wasn't.

I will be, but I won't be.

By understanding, I don't understand.

When I open something, something closes.

I am here, but I'm not here.

I tremble at the thought of death, yet I quiver living life.

There is not there.

The master rose and went to the bathroom. As he urinated, he noticed that his stream was a dark yellow.

THE HAPPY HUSBAND

The master greeted an old friend. He had been married for years.

"How are you, brother?"

"Nothing changes, O Venerable One."

"I learned many years ago that change is the one constant. Most sages agree that we live in a constant state of change."

"Not me, O Venerable One."

"How so, my brother?"

"My wife and I have a relationship that never changes. We fight and then we reconcile. We fight and then we reconcile. As is our custom, we are fighting once again. Why can't we live a peaceful life like other couples we know?"

"Because both of you are at your happiest when you are reconciling. You are lucky, my brother. Not many people experience true happiness."

RAINDROPS

The master lay in his bed and looked out the window. He had a partial view of the eaves against a gray sky.

As he stared heavenward, he noticed a drop forming at the edge of the roof and then falling to the ground.

"I wonder if another will follow?" he asked himself. And soon enough another did followed by another and another.

"It must have rained last night," he said to himself, content that knowledge was so easily attained.

101 ZEN STORIES

The master opened his laptop. Many of his fellow towns people thought he was opposed to modernity. They found it unfathomable that someone could live without an automobile.

"How do you get back and forth to work with no car?"

"I don't work," he would reply. He did work, but his pupils came to him.

The master was blessed with few materialistic desires. He hadn't been converted to this belief. He had learned it watching others work themselves to the bone in order to buy "stuff" as people qualified these purchases.

The master was not a rich man, but the money he needed he preferred spending on a good pair of sandals or a hot cup of tea. He wasn't against modern conveniences. If someone stopped to give him a ride, he gladly accepted.

The master punched in 101 Zen Stories on the keyboard. These writings were a classic collection of Zen insights and observations.

The master felt a weight lift from his psyche when he read, "This website has been reported unsafe."

THE SLOW DEATH

The master wandered around the plaza. For him, every day was the same. Sometimes he had to think twice to remember the exact day.

It was the holiday season. The faces of the children emanated excitement. People greeted each other warmly, but there was a subtle preoccupation in the countenances of the adults. Maybe it was the memories of more innocent times. He had rested his weary bones on a bench when the man known to his townfolk as the writer joined him. He wrote a column in the daily with which most the community began their day. His political commentary often decided elections and issues.

But he also had a creative side. He liked to mix reality with fiction to create the scenario and characters he needed in order to communicate his message. He liked to speculate about a side of humanity that most people preferred to ignore or keep hidden. The master loved the writer for his abject honesty. After sharing embraces and exchanging seasonal greetings, the writer told this story:

"Why don't you kiss me anymore, son?" asked my father with a resigned sadness in his face.

"Dad!" I stammered. "Dad!"

Didn't he understand? I was 15. I was too old to be kissing my father. He looked at me with his sympathetic demeanor. I didn't have to explain. He understood. He always understood. He was a man of great patience and discipline.

As I passed through adolescence into adulthood, I never forgot to kiss him on the cheek if we had been separated for any period of time. What I would give to kiss him now, but he departed for parts unknown seven years ago.

I have three sons and a step-son. I coached soccer for many years as you know. Most people don't know that I began my career covering sports. I know something about boys. A Jewish friend of mine with all the knowledge of the patriarchs has four sons.

"They are beautiful when they are children, but then they grow up," he told me with a wistfulness in his voice.

My youngest is 15. He, like my other sons, has been affectionate with me. Since he is my baby, he occupies a special place in my heart. For the record, all my sons occupy a special place in my heart. My mother had eight children, but she had the gift of making each feel like an only child. I inherited that talent from her.

"Where is my beautiful boy?" I would call when I went to collect him at school. He would come bounding to me as children do when they see the parents they love. Rather than hooking up with the buddies--who chided me for being too old to be raising a child--for Happy Hour, I would spend my afternoons teaching him everything from kicking a ball to riding a bike. It was pure joy.

I have never been able to satisfy my desire to hug him because from the knowledge gained experiencing the passing of time via my older sons, I literally visualize the sand pouring like a huge waterfall through an hour glass. Next year I will be 65. Soon I will be dead. Time is an incomprehensible phenomenon for me.

Meanwhile, he is going through puberty and I'm paying the price for his passage. He doesn't want to hang with me as he once did. He stays in his room when he isn't in the streets with his friends. When I ask him a question, he answers in a gruff syllable or two. He pushes me away when I try to embrace him. The tenderness has vanished.

There are photos of him throughout the house that capture the innocence I worshipped. Regrettably, that little boy is gone, gone forever. We have moments at the stadium watching a game when he will return to his former self and sling his arm around my shoulder, but those intimate exchanges are few and far between.

This Christmas I will have all four boys. There will be one day that we will spend together at a favorite establishment. We will eat well and drink well and our spirits will be high. They appreciate their old man. For all the bad that I have done in my life--not enough to spend eternity in hell, I hope--I will go to my grave with the satisfaction that I have been a good father.

But I can't escape my melancholic nostalgia. Since I don't believe in Santa Claus anymore, I can't count on ol' St. Nick bringing back my baby. When you live a long life, you die a slow death.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY

The master was celebrating his 70th birthday. It was neither here nor there for him. He had risen earlier than usual. He drank several glasses of water and embarked on a long walk that took him along several streams, through wooden areas, past fields of corn interspersed by stretches of green and finally over a knoll that dropped down onto the monastery's grounds.

He ate a large bowl of chicken soup filled with vegetables. He drank several more glasses of water and retired to the garden where he sheltered himself under a large hat.

He wasn't sure about the knowledge that he had gained from several decades on this orb except that he had been lucky. He had been blessed with loving parents, a strong body, a good education and a healthy curiosity. A smile creased his still youthful face as he quietly sang "Happy Birthday" to himself.

A BLUE NORTHER

The master was wandering through the woods in late fall admiring the trees adorned in their many colors when a blue norther surprised him. He sought refuge behind a huge trunk as the cold wind swept the land.

He huddled in self-protection. He thought the skies had opened also, but when he opened his eyes, leaves and not rain were showering him. For two hours he didn't move until the wind slackened.

He stood and looked around him. He was stunned by the change in the panorama. Nothing but bare branches hung over him. He pulled his coat closer. Soon an Arctic zephyr would sweep his world, reducing the master to little more than skin and bones.

THE DRUNK

The master received news that someone was waiting to talk to him in garden. It was a young widow. Her husband had recently passed.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"He was a good man, but he drank too much and it finally killed him."

The master sympathetically nodded his head.

"Everyone loved him and he treated everyone with great affection," she continued. "I don't think I can ever love another man. His children, his family and his friends loved him. But I would tell him that he loved drinking more than any of us. I wish things could have been different."

"Don't destroy yourself drowning in negatives," counseled the master. "I would occasionally pass him on the road when he was returning from a tavern. Alcohol put him in good spirits. Maybe if it hadn't been for his drinking, he wouldn't have capable of so much loving."

THE APPLE AND THE ORANGE

The master rested on a bench in the park. The fountain attracted youngsters who ran their hands through the water.

One of his ex-students, now an adult, took a place next to him.

"How are you, O Venerable One?" he inquired.

"I am fine, but by your expression I discern that you are troubled. What is the problem?"

"I find myself in a dilemma. I love two beautiful and intelligent women and they love me."

"I congratulate you on your surfeit of riches, my son."

"But I know that I can't have both. What do I do?"

"If I showed you a ripe apple and a juicy orange and asked you to choose one, would you savor the fruit you were eating or would you be craving for the fruit you had rejected?"

"I would savor the fruit I was eating."

"Then pick and relish."

WINE

The master gazed toward the horizon from the window in his cell. In the distance he could see the spires that overlooked the plaza. On foot from the monastery it was an hour journey to the city's center.

On his table was a glass, an uncorked bottle of wine and a plate of salami, cheese and crackers. The sun was disappearing behind the mountains.

Three hours later a full moon filled the sky. The bottle was empty. The plate was empty.

The master asked himself: "Have I attained a temporary state of nirvana or am I slightly inebriated?"
He relished the passing euphoria.

"Not every question has an answer," he thought to himself. "And not every question requires an answer."

THE LION TAMER

The master walked to the edge of town where the Circus Olympia was erecting its big tent. The circus had been coming to the master's town for decades. Through the years the master had become friendly with many of the performers and their descendants who had replaced their parents in the various acts.

The lion tamer was snapping his whip as he smoked a cigarette. The master approached the cages that held the lions and tigers. He noticed that the animals were undernourished. Their ribs protruded from their flanks. When they yawned, however, their teeth were as sharp as ever.

A few months later he was perusing the newspaper when he read this headline: TIGER DECAPITATES LION TAMER'S HEAD. The story related the tragedy that the lion tamer for the Circus Olympia had stuck his head inside the tiger's mouth and the cat had bitten it off.

The master shook his head. He wished now that he had passed along his father's advice to the lion tamer when he had last seen him: "Never stick your head into the mouth of a wild beast unless it has a full stomach."

THE JOKE

The master was a light-hearted soul.

"Did you hear about the comedian whose autobiography was released after his death?" asked the master.

"No, I didn't," answered the friend."

"The critics are saying that it was published post-humorously," chuckled the master.

DOGS

The master barked: "Woof! Woof! Woof! Woof! Woof!"

The people gathered around him exchanged perplexed looks.

The master continued: "Woof! Woof! Woof! Woof! Woof!"

The people began to murmur among themselves: "Has the Venerable One gone crazy?"

"Woof! Woof! Woof! Woof! Woof!"

"Why are you barking, O Venerable One? We are not dogs."

"I know, my brothers and sisters. Forgive me, but I was speaking a truth that only dogs could understand. We should never underestimate the intelligence of our fellow animals."

THE CHILD

The master watched the children play.

"Does it make you sad that you have elected a calling that precludes children?" asked a young woman.

"Not at all," said the master. "A child should never have children."

"But you are no longer a child, O Venerable One."

"You are wrong, my sister. I was born a child and I will die a child."

THE LIE

The master spoke to a multitude. He had no fish nor bread. He could only feed them with words.

"We are only capable of the truth when we are no longer capable of the behavior that precipitated the lie," he said before waving good-bye.

THE CROW

The master was tramping through the woods when he felt something soft hit his head. He ran his hand through his hair only to discover that something had defecated on him. He peered into a tree and scoured the branches. A crow was perched on a limb. He defecated again on the master's head.

"I hope you feel better," said the master.

The crow flapped its wings and flew away.

THE TWO LABORERS

The master approached two laborers lying on their backs alongside a field.

"Why aren't you working?"

"We don't like working."

"Then don't work."

"Then we won't be able to eat."

"Then don't eat."

The two laborers looked at each other. They returned to the fields and worked until sundown.

THE BLIND MAN

The master was strolling along the beach when he saw a monk sitting in the sand staring at the sun.

"Be careful, brother, or the sun will blind you."

"I am blind."

"I am sorry," said the master.

"Why are you sorry," replied the monk. "I feel sorry for you."

"Why?" asked the master.

"Because I can see things you can't."

THE DEAD MAN

The master spotted a man in the high grass next to the path. He was dead.

"How are you?" asked the master who often had long conversations with rocks and trees.

The dead man didn't answer.

The master bent over and closed the man's eyes.

"Sleep well, my friend."

THE CARROT AND THE TOMATO

The master was shopping for vegetables at the market when a vendor asked him, " O Venerable One, what are you going to prepare with your purchases?"

"I am cooking a stew for my fellow communicants."

"But doesn't a stew require meat?"

The master extracted a bunch of carrots and said, "Here is my meat?"

"That isn't meat," asserted the vendor.

"Do you see with my eyes?" asked the master. "Do you smell with my nose? Do you taste with my mouth?"

"No."

He next pulled a tomato from his basket.

"This makes a wonderful roast," tittered the master.

THE MUSE

The master sat in a café sipping tea by the side of a river when he saw a woman whom he had known in his youth before he entered the monastery. She looked at him and they smiled.

He observed her fingers from the distance. They were long and lithe, slender and supple, just as he had remembered them from those many years ago.

They resembled the wings of a swan.

He recalled them dancing across the keys of a piano and plucking the strings of a guitar. Like Midas, everything she touched turned to gold.

He had loved her. He still loved her, but the wind had changed and had blown them apart.

The master looked skyward. A flock of geese were flying south.

THE CATHEDRAL

The master entered the cathedral. When he left, a priest was waiting for him outside the vestibule.

"I know that you are not a Catholic, O Venerable One, but I noticed that you blessed yourself after you had dipped your fingers in holy water, that you genuflected in front of the altar, that you lit a candle at the foot of the statue of St. Jude Thaddeus and that you knelt in a pew and opened a bible. What were you reading?"

"I was reading the Psalms?"

"Why?" asked the befuddled father.

"Why not?" answered the master.

THE STICK

The master took his stick and swatted the student across the head.

"Why did you hit me, O Venerable One?"

"Because you aren't listening," replied the master.

He took his stick and swatted the student a second time.

"Why did you hit me again, O Venerable One?"

"Because you aren't listening," repeated the master.

He took his stick and swatted the student a third time.

The student said nothing.

The master placed his stick against a wall and the lesson continued.

LANGUAGES

The master spent long hours learning many languages, yet he never traveled to foreign countries. In fact, he seldom strayed outside his village except to wander through the countryside.

His ardor for languages mystified his disciples. The master was ambling through the corridors when one of his disciples found the courage to stop him and ask:

"O Venerable One, forgive me for my impertinence, but why do you learn these languages? You never talk to anyone in these foreign tongues?

"You are wrong, my son."

"With whom do you speak, O Venerable One?"

"I converse with myself, my son."

THE FISH

The master spent many hours fishing, but he inevitably cast his catches back into the water.

A little boy was puzzled by the master's actions. He could no longer contain his curiosity.

"O Venerable One, why do you return the fish to the water?"

The master had a deep appreciation for the honesty of a child.

"Because I wish that they be as merciful with me."

"I don't understand," said the child.

"If one day I am drowning, I hope they will return me to land."

FLOWERS

The master sat in the garden filling his vision with flowers. The many colorful petals spoke to the glory of existence. A fellow monk began to pick some of the most beautiful flowers.

"My brother," called the master. "Would you cut off the heads of children and display them in a decorative bowl?"

"What horrible words you speak, O Venerable One. What are you saying?"

"Then why are you killing these flowers? No vase is worth filling at such a terrible price."

WRITING

The master spent a part of each day writing. He would reread his words, then close his notebook.

"What do you write about?" asked a monk.

"I write about you," answered the master.

"Me? What do you write about me?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"Nothing."

"And when you write about yourself, what do you write?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"Nothing."

The master gripped the monk by the biceps. They shared much in common.

STRAWBERRIES

The master was sitting on a bench eating strawberries when a rich merchant approached him and told him a story about a woman he loved with whom he had reconciled after a long separation.

"She said she was always thinking of me.

"Was she thinking of me when her lover first kissed her?

"Was she thinking of me when her lover was biting her neck, her shoulders and her back?

"Was she thinking of me when her lover was fondling her tits?

"Was she thinking of me when her lover was sucking her nipples?

"Was she thinking of me when her lover was fingering her?

"Was she thinking of me when her lover was eating her pussy?

"Was she thinking of me when her lover was sliding his cock into her mouth?

"Was she thinking of me when her lover was fucking her?

"Was she thinking of me when her lover was ejaculating inside her?

"Was she thinking of me when she was wiping his sperm out of her cunt?

"Maybe he hopes she's still thinking of him as I kiss her, as I bite her neck, her shoulders and her back, as I fondle her tits, as I suck her nipples, as I finger her, as I eat her pussy, as I slide my cock into her mouth, as I fuck her, as I ejaculate inside her and as I watch her wipe my sperm from her cunt.

"I am thinking of all the things that he did to her then that I am doing to her now. No amount of pleasure she gives me can ever erase the pain of him possessing her. I am an animal. I cannot escape my instincts."

"Let me help you escape your cage with these strawberries," laughed the master. "Eat them. They are delicious."

MEMORY

The master was walking through the city's center when he stopped and purchased a corn cob. He was leaning against a building near a busy intersection savoring his snack when a harried businessman stopped.

"May I bother you for a few minutes of your time, O Venerable One?"

"You can have my entire day if you so desire."

"Thank-you for your generosity O Venerable One, but I am late for a meeting that had escaped my mind."

"If your meeting is important, I do not wish to detain you, my son."

"I have a problem that I must resolve or I will go crazy. I am suffering from forgetfulness. Last week I forgot it was my wife's birthday. I forgot to pay the monthly rent on time and the landlord charged me a late fee. Yesterday I forgot about my daughter's violin recital and couldn't understand the reason the house was empty when I arrived home from work. Can you help me, O Venerable One?"

"Stop remembering."

"Stop remembering?"

"If you stop remembering, then you won't have anything to forget."

THE EXECUTIONER

The master watched the soccer game from the sidelines. He had learned to walk and kick a ball at the same time. He was a capable midfielder in his prime. He understood the art of sharing the ball. Offensive players wanted him on their team because he evenly distributed the ball and had an innate skill to make the perfect pass at the most opportune moment.

In his youth nobody electrified the crowd like The Executioner. He was a swift athlete who could dribble and shoot with both feet. He earned his nickname because he never pardoned a goalie by squandering a scoring chance.

It had been several months since the master had seen The Executioner. He was old and hobbled by age, but he never failed to take his evening walk even though each step he took hardly evoked the legend he once was.

"Don't you miss those days, Executioner, when nobody was your equal on the pitch?" the master asked his enfeebled idol after crossing his path by chance.

"I have been inspired by challenges since I was a child," answered the fabled star with a wry smile.

"And nothing inspires me more than my daily stroll. I have never been more excited because my saunter through our city's streets is the greatest challenge of my life.

"I have never faced a task that required such energy and a sharper focus than this one," he continued. "When I reach my humble abode, which is your abode, I feel more elated with my accomplishment than if I had score ten goals in a match."

The master nodded his head in awe. The supreme master had spoken.

THE PATH

The master was circling a pond when he remembered the words of a master from his youth: "When you accept that you know nothing and that the little bit you think you know is only making you more ignorant, then you have embarked on the path that leads to knowledge."

PART XXVII

Cinco de Mayo. The Mexicans defeated the French at Puebla in 1862 on, you guessed it, the Fifth of May. The victors, subsequently, lost the war, but since life is an unending war that we're destined to lose, only the battles matter.

For the next several days the weatherman is forecasting temperatures in the mid-nineties. We endured our third hottest April since stats were recorded in the mid-1800s. There are only two seasons in Brownsville. There is the hot season that begins in April and prevails through September and there is the cool season that lasts from October to March. For six months we are the land of the not-quite-so eternal spring. Nevertheless, there are days in December and January when we are the hottest city in the United States, somewhere in the 85s when the rest of the country is freezing.

For those of us who deal with the heat, and I have lived in Brownsville for 45 years, we don't deal with the heat. We eliminate its existence. We live in eternal air-conditioning, moving from cool structures to cool vehicles. We avoid the heat during the day at all costs. I am so effective at this strategy that I cannot honestly say if last summer was hot or not. Based on past experiences and off-handed comments, however, I assume it was dreadful.

We are in the middle of a drought, which isn't uncommon for this region that survives of the edge of civilization and was one of the last frontiers in North America as the population increased and expanded. The railroad didn't arrive until the early 1900s. Though the ground is presently barren with the exception of fields of well-irrigated crops, the land, a river delta that stretches approximately 100 miles from the Gulf of Mexico westward, is rich from centuries of the Rio Grande's deposits. Rains falls and the landscape explodes in green.

Droughts don't receive their just due when they are overwhelmed by plagues. Deaths in the United States crossed 70,000 today (We are presently losing this battle in spite of a general who is telling us otherwise) with cases passing the 1.2 million mark. We have one-fourth of the world's death total and one-third of its cases. Italy is second with 28,000 deaths and Spain is second with 220,000 cases.

Trump, sitting beneath the Lincoln monument in Washington for an interview because he is a megalomaniac with no sense of decorum, humility and history, spewed that nobody is doing a better job at combating Coronavirus than the democratic dictator himself. From a hoax to COVID-19 suddenly disappearing due to a miracle because we have replaced the Jews as God's Chosen People to injecting disinfectant to clear Coronavirus corroded lungs, this is the mad man who ran on the quixotic crusade of making America great again. If we ever were, we sure aren't now.

You can hear the Chinese laughing all the way across the Pacific and other countries nodding unsympathetically that arrogance precipitated our downfall. We used to ridicule other foreign countries because their citizens had to wait in long lines only to find the supermarkets' shelves empty. How things have changed.

Trump refuses to learn the lesson that as individuals we must remain humble and solely open our mouths to give thanks for our blessed circumstances. As mentally ill as he is, what does it say about the millions who follow him? What does it say about the Religious Right who consider this bad apple rotting and riddled with worms their savior? Is he a second Eve who is feeding us a forbidden fruit for which we will be exiled from The Promised Land?

Should we be surprised that a remarkably educated and intelligent society like Germany could succumb to Hitler's mystique when we are witnessing our own perverted Pied Piper turn millions of mentally sodomized homo sapiens into zombies whose attitude is to let the chips fall where they may. If thousands have to die in order to reopen the economy, then Trump and his Darwinian grunts have no alternative but to weed out the weakest and rejoice at their bravery for making the tough decisions.

Maybe if Hitler had adhered to a more subtle strategy rather than resorting to the quick-fix solution of concentration camps but having to confront the concurrent repercussions of adverse publicity, he might have produced a superior race. In Trump's mind, we are a superior people but returning the runts to dust can improve our genetic makeup.

The common trope among millions if not billions of Trump critics in dealing with the financial crisis is that businesses can recover but dead people can't. As Texas nears 1,000 deaths and the Rio Grande 20, businesses are slowly reopening. (Brownsville has had one official death, which raises questions in the minds of the doubters about limiting movement and large groups since many more die from flu and pneumonia here every year.) It's the big gamble.

When Cameron County eliminated its curfew and shelter-at-home ban, few people flocked to the streets although there were reports that two days ago on Sunday there were cars lined from the entrance to Port Isabel, stuck for hours on the Causeway before emptying onto the Island. Mick, who has shown no signs of cabin fever, told me that he wanted to eat at Wings & Rings when restrictions lessened. I wasn't prepared for an adventure of the Island's magnitude, but I do my best to please my baby and we went for wings. The joint was one-tenth filled at best and for the first time in weeks I savored draft beer.

This outing hasn't incited my interest to leave the house on a more regular basis. With the Coronavirus cloud hanging over us and projections dire as experts predict that more social contact will have deadly repercussions, I am inclined to stay home and maintain my distance from human interaction. To be honest,  I have not missed social activity during the Coronavirus crisis because, as I finish my third year in retirement, I have slowly withdrawn to a quieter existence. With the writing, reading, exercising, studying Spanish, Portuguese and French as well as my every-day interactions with Olivia and Mick, I don't have extra time.

I'm not bored. When I choose to relax, there are so many excellent movies, series and documentaries on television that I'm completely entertained. If I want to spice up my evening, I fix a plate of salami, cheese and crackers and pour myself a glass of wine. I pop a Xanax, take two Tylenol PM and drink a cup of tila tea before I go to bed. I sleep like a dead man. I resurrect the next morning and repeat my daily ritual. I shop at HEB every three or four days and return the greetings of acquaintances whom I don't recognize. They are hidden safely behind their masks. That suffices for rubbing elbows publicly.

Financially, I am in the best shape of my life. I'm not spending money eating out or paying the inflated prices for beer and wine. Both are significantly cheaper at HEB. Besides my substantial teacher's retirement, I receive a small monthly allotment from social security and The Murphy Report yields me botana money, extra cash for the youngest son's regular requests. Yesterday I doled out $300 for his driving lessons.

We are not going to escape alive and in my most depressing moods I feel the walls enclosing around me. I'll be 70 this year, my body aches, impending health issues fill me with paranoia (Coronavirus is gas on the fire.) and there doesn't appear to be any exotic voyages on the horizon like taking the train in Cuba from Havana to Santiago or in Portugal from Lisbon to Porto. Time speeds past so fast. If time were an animal, it would be a cheetah and not a turtle.

As long as I have my health and bucks in the bank, I am a stoic at heart who has few materialistic needs. I lived for the last seven years in a hotel without a car or any other possessions such as furniture or appliances. I have never desired much. The alleged basics have found their way to me without much effort because I have held steady, decent-paying jobs. Now that I have reconciled with Olivia, those absences have been alleviated and I go with the flow.

I am also blessed with a modest ego. Some individuals are burdened with the need to be told that they are great or special. I prefer hearing nothing at all. I know who I am. I know my strengths and my weaknesses. My strengths give me the confidence to forge onward and my weaknesses give me pause to think twice before I make the same mistake again. I often chuckle to myself that life is a joke except when misfortune befalls a family member or a friend and the laughing matter returns to a mournful reality.

I also give thanks that I chose the socialistic rather than the capitalistic route in my professional career. I would hear acquaintances rave about being their own bosses and not having to take orders from others, but there is no worse taskmaster than oneself. I became a teacher by chance and remained in the profession for four decades. Olivia is a teacher and she's not worried about reopening a business. The roof at her school could collapse and she would still have a job just as she is receiving her regular check staying home during the pandemic. She would have no reservations about social distancing for the next ten years until she retires.

Meanwhile, those in the private sector are suffering with an uncertain future awaiting them. Under the best of circumstances, their recovery will be slow and painful. There are many former patrons like myself who will remain at home fixing their own meals and sipping wine rather than risking their health and paying high prices. I hadn't paid a restaurant tab in so long that I was taken back by the $50 bill at Wings & Rings when before the outbreak I often spent $100 two and three times a week.

So life, as well as death, goes on as I allow The Coronavirus Chronicles to write itself. I am preparing to post my 17th book on Amazon--The Master. It is my amateurish tribute to Zen. If it weren't for my insatiable animalistic appetite, I'm a monk at heart. This is my shortest book. In contrast, and for no other reason than you take the inspiration and the idea to wherever they may lead, The Coronavirus Chronicles will be the longest. This particular article appearing on the blog will make a second appearance in the final version as this undertaking is arguably a diary ultimately rendered artistically in the fictional/realism genre.

Though The Master is short, it is complete. I contemplated a longer work, but that muse was more like a one-night stand. Nevertheless, the coupling was consummated. Another notch on the belt for posterity as if anyone really gave a fuck.

PART XXVI

Melania Trump says:
"That worthless pervert I'm going to dump!"

Michelle Obama states:
"Trump's mouth emits nothing but anal gas!"

Tom Hanks avers:
"He ain't no Forrest Gump!"

Oprah Winfrey avows:
"The man is the epitome of crass!"

Elton John exclaims:
"I find Trump has a disgusting rump!"

Jerry Rice explains:
"Trump is a dropped pass!"

Lassie barks:
"Trump is one mongrel I wouldn't hump!"

The Democratic donkey brays:
"Trump is an ass!"

Smokey the Bear growls:
"He's no redwood! He's a stump!"

Pope Francis pronounces:
"Trump desecrates the mass!"

Barack Obama announces:
"That honky can't jump!"

Mick Romney articulates:
"Trump disgusts Americans with his childish sass!"

Dr. Anthony Fauci communicates:
"Trump is a malignant lump!"

San Quentin con expectorates:
"Trump would be my bitch lass!"

A gay macho ejaculates:
"I'd turned that dirty bastard around & pump & pump!"

PART XXV

Who says that all St. Joe girls want to be nuns? Four graduates from many years ago gathered for pizza with extra salami at Gio's when Yolanda suddenly shocked her companions when she spat, "I want a big dick!"

Her former classmates--Rosa, Dalila and Melinda, all in their mid-forties--looked at each other dumbfounded as if they had been struck by lightning. Their hair literally stood on end when Yolanda burst a second time, "I want a big dick!"

There was both anger and frustration in her voice.

Her three friends took sips from their glasses of wine before Rosa summoned the courage to break the ice by asking, "Will a little dick do?"

The quartet tittered nervously. All of them were single mothers with children in high school and college. They had come from privileged backgrounds and were fortunate to have professional ex-spouses who were meeting their obligations to their offspring both financially and emotionally.

None of the four were in relationships. Unlike men with their over-powering sexual drives which require reaching out to the opposite sex in order to satisfy their bestial instincts, these women were not usurped with relentless libidos. They still possessed clear minds. None had had sex in several years. They preferred their solitary existences to sorry relationships.

Yolanda, however, had reached the end of her rope as she stared at herself in the mirror every morning and couldn't escape the hard reality of wrinkles fiercely invading her face from several fronts. She was on the brink of menopause when, in her own estimation, she would be reduced to a hollow shell.

"I was a virgin when I married," she lamented. "That was the biggest mistake of my life. I don't want my experiences to be limited to one man."

"It's been a while, but during my college years I had a series of lovers," offered Dalila. "I can't say that any of them left much of an impression. If I never have sex again, I couldn't care less. I don't miss it now, so I don't know why I would miss it in the future.

"I have no urge and I'm content living alone with my energies focused on my kids," she continued. "Men are too shallow and they are not worth the effort with all their needs. Infants are less demanding."

"But you had men," insisted Yolanda. "I don't want to be condemned to just one man. It's not fair. He was such a loser with all his infidelities and infecting me with STDs. I deserve justice and I want a new dick in me. I don't give a damn if it's big, small or average. I want another dick in me before I'm reduced to an old maid."

Melinda had remained quiet. She had been married twice. In her last marriage her husband had unexpectedly wined and dined her on their anniversary when he suddenly informed her at the end of the festive night that he was leaving her for a younger woman.

"That was the last straw," she said as she sadly shook her head. "First and foremost, sex is highly overrated. I've known a few gals who were as promiscuous as men, but the majority of my friends and acquaintances couldn't give a damn if they ever had sex again.

"Several years ago I had tumors in my breasts and the doctor counseled that I might I have to undergo a mastectomy. Everyone was wringing their hands over my cruel fate, but I told them to quit feeling sorry for me because I couldn't give a damn if they lopped off my tits or not. For the record, the tumors were benign."

The pizza arrived. Each took a slice except Yolanda. She refilled her glass and swirled the contents. Her furrowed brow indicated that she was seriously weighing her friends' commentary. She heaved and then sighed, "I don't care. I want a big dick in me."

"To a big dick!" toasted Las Tres Amigas.

PART XXIV

I was in the vegetable section at the HEB Plus when I saw Chris Rivera fondling the avocados. If there had been a policeman patrolling the aisles, he could have been arrested.

"I'm excited," he said.

"I can tell," I replied.

"Oh this," he laughed. "I'm just exercising my hands."

"When are you going to start exercising your hands in your more traditional style?"

"That's funny you should ask. I'm playing tomorrow at the Island."

"Where?"

"The Longboard Bar & Grill."

"That's a nice spot. I always enjoy the bayside. Are you part of Governor Abbott's pigeon in a cave experiment to determine if the Coronavirus remains contagious?"

"I'm a Democrat, bro. I would never do a Republican's bidding. Trump has ruined Republicans forever."

"Nobody has paid a higher price during this pandemic than musicians. Business goes bad and you guys are immediately out the door. You guys are lucky that your viejas don't base your relationships on the bottom line. You'd be downtown with the homeless. Are you not worried about social distancing? I will be anti-crowd for several months, maybe forever. I like quiet places."

"We're no different than mailmen. Neither Coronavius nor gonorrhea will keep us from our appointed rounds."

"In that case, will everyone be wearing masks with condoms in their wallets and purses?"

"We play our music. How the public chooses to play, that's their business."

"I'm glad you're back."

"I'm glad you're back. I hear there's going to be the Doc Scully/Delta Dave reunion show at Ben Neece's Spanish Moon next Saturday."

"It's tentative, but then life is tentative these days. Have a good time tomorrow."

"Thanks, bro."

PART XXIII

BOOBY WITLESS-CERVEZAS: "Here is the deal: Instead of using his money to help the city buy testing kits, he is doing free graduation pictures and running cover for the local news media. This turkey has no shame and is everything that is wrong with the legal profession. No self-promotion will be tolerated at The Brownsville Voice." 

(EDITOR'S NOTE: Attorney Jesse "The Joker" Gonzalez says: “We rely on local journalism to give us what we want and that’s the news. We get it in an unbiased way. I can’t say that about some of the cable news networks, but I can say it for our local stations and our local papers. I think they are doing a fantastic job and should be the model for the rest of our nation.” At The McHale Report we can only hope that he knows more about jurisprudence than journalism. The Brownsville Void's Publisher Booby Witless-Cervezas is right when he accuses the attorney of being a "turkey" having no "shame." The Brownsville Herald, The Harlingen Valley Morning Star and The McAllen Monitor are among the worst newspapers in the country. Gonzalez is kissing the mainstream media's ass for a reason or he is a complete idiot. Trump wishes that these three newspapers were the models for the rest of the nation. They would condemn us to permanent ignorance and Trump could dedicate himself to his excesses with impunity. We have noticed that Gonzalez has inundated the media with advertising. What is his objective besides the newspapers reciprocating with a craven article about his good heart and generous soul? There is something fishy transpiring between Gonzalez and the mainstream media and it isn't the smell of rotten cunt. We praise him for his contributions to high school seniors, but we condemn him for his crass stupidity. The Herald, Star and Monitor echo the sentiments of the status quo. They report nothing. They break nothing. They comment about nothing. For Gonzalez to put them on a pedestal with a homage to their reporting may be a product of the many years he spent in the field as a migrant worker and the sun fried his brain. The planes spraying insecticides overhead as he slumped down picking tomatoes wouldn't have helped either. Keep an eye on this shyster. He is whispering sweet nothings into the easily seduced newspapers that out of desperation will prostitute themselves for advertising money. Gonzalez wants something. Is he preparing to launch a political career? There is no question that this macho man is in love with himself. These types are the worst kind because they demand adoration. They expect the public to feel the same way about them as they feel about themselves and they take it personally when independently minded individuals don't prove to be mirrors reflecting these egomaniac's vanity. Ponte trucha!!! Huele de una rata!!!)   

PART XXII

Marshall Law, a retired patrolman and DEA agent, is the latest member of The McHale Report editorial staff. He is our expert on all matters regarding the men and woman in uniform. He urged Jack O'Connell, the great unpublished novelist, to meet him on the deck at Cobbleheads. O'Connell expressed misgivings about the choice of locales, but Law insisted that there would be nobody on the deck and he had a bottle of Jameson that was waiting for an appreciate audience. It didn't take much to convince O'Connell to join Law.

Indeed, the deck was empty. They sat near the resaca. The trusty southeastern blew from the gulf and the breeze was refreshing as it swept off the water. With the shelter-in-place order coming to an end, Law assured O'Connell that the BPD would have better things to do than harass a couple of over-the-hill jocks. The whiskey and the weather were the perfect ingredients for relaxing. They covered a number of subjects. With incumbent Sheriff Omar Lucio involved in a competitive race against ex-District Clerk Eric Garza, O'Connell was curious about Law's opinion on the July 14th runoff.

"We have always been told that children shouldn't play with matches, correct?" said Law.

Of course.

"Doesn't it make sense that we would never allow children to play with guns?"

Seems logical to me.

"Lucio has more than 50 years in law enforcement. He has seen and done it all. His critics want to make his age a factor. I would agree that 86 is old, but he runs his office and jail without many incidents and there hasn't been one COVID-19 case among his officers or his prisoners. We know that reality can change in the wink of an eye because that shit is so contagious, but he has done the job. You never hear accusations about corruption even though several sheriffs along the border have been nailed for cooperating with the cartels."

You won't hear an argument from me. I speak with him occasionally and both physically and mentally he seems sharp. I like the way he respects people and the measured tone of his voice.

"His opponent hasn't so much as worked as a security guard and he wants to be Cameron County's next sheriff! Can he load a gun? Can he handcuff a suspect? Do you think he has the experience to supervise seasoned cops and hundreds of hardcore prisoners who have risen through the drug ranks and are pitiless individuals?"

Garza's candidacy has never made any sense to me. He had a laid-back position as district clerk with a handsome salary. If there is any truth to the rumor, he is running out of revenge. One of the sheriff's deputies competed against his friend who was a justice of the peace. This became personal among the two camps. When Garza's friend won, he swore he would find someone to run against Lucio and Garza accepted the challenge. He only lost 43% to 41% in the primary and forced a run-off, so the sheriff knows he isn't facing a political patsy although the deputies and prisoners know that Garza doesn't have a spine of steel. He may think of himself as a successful administrator, but this is a post that requires experience and knowledge. There is no way in hell that Garza is qualified to serve as sheriff. He is a joke. When the bars were open and everyone was drinking too much, you would hear someone joking that Garza aspires to the office because he wants to screw a chick while the siren is wailing. Apparently, he thinks that a siren is more effective than an aphrodisiac.

"Funny, but being sheriff is no laughing matter. Do you recall when Lucio lost after his first term and Conrado Cantu took over? He was a coke head, an alcoholic and a womanizer. I'm not saying that Garza is a victim of those vices, but he is a target whom the criminal element will tempt. Cantu was a smuggler's dream and he finally went to the pen when the authorities nailed him escorting drug shipments north. Nothing has changed in Mexico. In fact, it's worse than ever. Garza is stepping out of the amateur ranks and three-round botana fights into the ring against tested professionals who can go twelve rounds of non-stop punching. And then you add the Coronavirus crisis. This is not the time to be changing horses in the middle of the Rio Grande. As voters we made the greatest mistake of our lives electing Trump. If we were ever great, we will never be great again with this democratic dictator imposing his megalomania upon us. We are learning at the expense of our health and wealth that he didn't have the background to sit in the White House. I am convinced that he is such an evil and sinful man that Coronavirus is the result of his bad karma. I will concede that it seems far-fetched, but I believe in karma. In my opinion he has 666 tattooed across his forehead and upon his death he will return to hell where he will spend eternity. Garza may not be worse than Trump or Cantu, but he is a bad choice. He brings nothing to the table that would qualify him as sheriff."

You're the man, Marshall. You've collected dead bodies and gone mano-a-mano with the detritus of humanity. I've heard that Garza faints at the sight of blood. I once saw him in a bar as he was entering and I was exiting the bathroom. I asked him if he was running for sheriff. He started stammering about whether or not I had washed my hands. I had just taken a piss and I hadn't washed my hands, but I told him I had. He then stuttered that he wasn't sure about his intentions. I replied that I was going to write in The McHale Report that he hadn't reached a decision about his political future. I was sitting at the bar when he passed. He briefly stopped and told me he wasn't running for sheriff. Subsequently, I was talking to another politico. During our conversion Garza's name emerged as the topic and I told my acquaintance that Garza wasn't entering the race. My friend laughed and said that he had printed his signs and cards. He knew because he was using the same individual in his campaign. It was then I determined that Garza was a wimp. You're right, Marshall. It's an easy pick. Do we want our sheriff to be a shark or a shrimp? I'm with you. Lucio is a no-brainer.