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Get a Whiff of the Prices - poem

Get A Whiff of the Prices

low*prices*

Prices are so low!

That used to be Spain back in the days before it entered the European Common Market (pardon me, the EU)

Prices were so low you could buy anything there.

Greece was like that and definitely the Holy Land, when my Grandparents visited in 1961.

 (No one’d go to Cozumel or Puerto Vallarta. Mexico didn’t exist.)

 
‘Note the low prices on everything in the store’ Motto courtesy of the five Sergeant stores in Indianapolis, USA, 1967.

‘Exotic merchandise from Egypt and Africa – bargains galore’, announced the Worlds of Wonder chain. Why, this figurine of Anubis was only twenty dollars American!

The prices have to felt to be believed!

Copyright 2013 Patrick Calhoun 29205

Poem URL

"Whiff of the Prices"

http://www.theholidaycafe.com/index.php/features/poem/122-p-o-e-m-whiff-of-the-prices

The publication

Holiday Cafe - about page

http://www.theholidaycafe.com/index.php/about

Holiday Cafe - Summer 2013

Who knows what you’ve gathered from the poem.  But there were a couple of things I thought were in there. 

The syntax of the poem jerks around the way the traveler is worked over by a constant change in local languages.

Tourists of the 50s and 60s who traveled in search of bargains on native merchandise are not held in contempt by the poem: Americans, like all buyers, love a deal.

Works of the Devil

Works of the Devil: the Division of Labor in Hell      

The Devil doesn’t work too hard.  Anytime this is called sloth, He is pleased.   One key to the Devil’s relaxed state is that He is satisfied with his handsome share of fleeing human souls. With almost no effort, He gets a crack at sixteen percent of humankind for his eternal pleasure.  Let’s break down this sixteen percent, classifying the candidates into smaller groups according to their qualifications.

Eight per cent of souls dwell in people who are simply evil.   At their arrival the Devil breathes deeply, absorbing their putrid breath with his eyes widened.  He feels the blood rush of his destiny; his sense of purpose comes flying back to him like a falcon to the falconer.  

On earth, the truly evil are rarely spotted: their powers of manipulation, along with their put-on faces of cordiality, grief and empathy, take in ordinary people.  Evil souls work particularly well on people who claim to be particularly keen or sensitive to evil.

Another 7% include the agnostic (or ‘Confused’), Buddhists, fanatics and corporate executives. Of these, more in a moment. 

Atheists make up the last fraction, the last 1%.   Dealing with them involves a logical black hole because no one in Heaven believes in them.  What’s more, if Celestial Functionaries uncovered their existence, they would not be welcome at the Gates, for there is to be no philosophizing in Heaven: answers relevant to matters once important on earth, under the sea and in the air were provided in the Original Operating Manual.  A stray atheist could produce a fatal crack in the Celestial Aether.  No relativity there.

The three groups account an overall sixteen per cent:  His arithmetic is a shade off, but the Devil is not into details.  In the form of a fraction of mortal souls, the Devil claims a share of one-sixth (a repeating decimal of .01666 etc. or 16.667 per cent for short).

St. Peter’s expert panel of saints (activated after the Second Council of Nicaea in 787AD) rule on the Confused, the Off-Balance and the Buddhists – Amida, OK; Tantra, no way! and Zen, depends.  Fanatics are treated case-by-case.  Where snake-handling or phrases such as ‘eternal fricasee’ are de riqueur, Heaven rules against.  Corporate executives are judged by the panel regarding their fitness for Heaven, with an average drop rate of 7 in 10.

All immigrants to Hell present their credentials at the customs house next to the Gates of Hell.  Due to Heaven’s very generous measuring stick, only a small number of the deserving dead are presented to Customs at the Bakin’ Ranch.  Even as they check in bearing their earthly baggage, applicants get an invitation to the Devil’s Ball.

The Atheist deserves comment. As a thoroughgoing non-believer, she has several options.  Oblivious to the processing experience, she can return to Earth or another planet as an infant with a clean sheet, or based on native disposition, she resume a earthly path whether in scientific accomplishment, central banking, in an elite military unit or as an archaeologist.  Or – and this serves the Devil well –  she can make ad-hoc contracts with Hell for work on Earth.  The Atheist may at her discretion also attend the Devil’s Ball.

Despite the small increments by which Hell grows, the Devil’s domain, His Wretched Ranch, reaches its metaphysical limits from time to time.  To get more space, He has to petition Heaven.  After an eternity of rounds, He has tired of the ritualistic bargaining with the bureaucrats from Archangelic Commission on Real Estate. His trusted atheists cannot be his proxy.

This week, from the brilliant ruminations of his broiling brain, the Devil has again shown why he is the Master of Muck, the King of Kaka, the Sultan of Sloth.  He has decided to use the resources to hand to solve several annoyances at the same time.  The simplicity of the solution requires us to understand the work processes, talent, and incentives that lie beneath the Division of Labor in Hell.   When changes are made for the badder, a little cotton-candy cloud in the heavens melts – a small bonus.  The key stratagem will be vetting the Morally Dubious by their enjoyment of the Devil’s weekly Bouncing Ball.

The group will be regaled by the sweetly chaotic music the band pukes out.  They’ll mingle with the standard ugly souls, eat delicacies of the underworld and drink flaming cocktails while they bellow over the music.  The ebullient will socialize widely from the start of the party; the shy will gain confidence.  The Devil’s devious will focus on the guests who are too genuine or pure or earnest.  Milder attendees might drink too little but and fail the simple tests set out at the party; they’ll stick out by asking that the music be turned down, by attaching to an individual person, or by making conversation.

Selfish and boorish guests among the Morally Dubious will grade out as successful Hellions and receive a promotion to full citizens of Hell.  The Devil foresees that the best of the worst will turn over tables, mouth off to the band, mob the bars and try to break up couples that have been forming during the event.    For someone who sincerely misbehaves at the ball, an immediate decision is taken that Hell's best career paths are open. 

Such a soul is a godsend in solving the one of the Devil’s current problems: real-estate acquisition.  For some weakness survives in every soul.  Equipped with finer skills of deception and crafty, such a corrupt soul can present itself to St. Peter’s Land Commission as a lamentably lost lamb while following an aggressive hidden agenda. Such a miscreant will come out of the meeting with handsome gains and the Commission will think itself charitably and fairly dealt with.

The second problem has two dimensions: maintaining the Devil’s cred and keeping spirits up in his domain.  Whenever his reputation suffers as a result of marketing disasters such as the US Supreme Court's Ruling to reverse Citizens' United, the Devil wants to reinforce his reputation as a Hell-raiser and as a Punisher. 

Middle management has historically assumed the charge of carrying out Hell's suite of punishments and humiliations. And with the new pool of perverted blood of being infused regularly into Hell, degradation always takes new forms. Often, Managers act on imaginative ideas from individual Hellions. 
In a pilot program, a shift worker will report to research facilities to participate in design: one such case resulted in the popular "Hotspot" standing torture.

Vacations get approved swiftly, from select Heavenly locations for the advanced to drop-ins at malls and NHL games.  This philosophy, in the opinion of the Devil, further demonstrates the superiority of Hell.  A new twist is the working vacation.  Rising supervisors may choose to visit such places as Omaha, Singapore, and Brussels to disrupt their orderly operations.  Putting the Rutting Rabble to work as soon as possible puts them in position for an earlier promotion and an earlier getaway from Hell to divert themselves.  Visitors have returned with descriptions of cruelties unheard of here -- Earth's horrors once again Hell's delight.

The Devil has always looked to reward the crackerjack red soul.  A steady job would be poor compensation for a job ill-done on earth; boredom itself is part of the torment used on our patrons that make up the Morally Weak.  The evil sould be occupied with a continuing variety of tasks, the chance to innovate and frequent change of career stimulate the resident Henchmen of Hell. 

(In this, the Devil asserts the superiority of his Infernal World: the emphasis on quality of life, work and play in balance, shows the forward thinking of hellacious management.)

Germinating these ideas has taken more effort from the Devil than he likes.   More even than some Millennia ago, when He wore the hats of both Chief Operating Officer and Chief Executing Officer and every day was both fruitful and exciting.  He now has designees in both offices.  In keeping with His personal management ideas – generated in the late three millions BC (this mode of telling time is repulsive but convenient) – the Officers have immediate reports that work on the firing lines. 

Despite the mental strain involved in changing policies and procedures, the Devil has derived a thrill much like the excitement He felt during hands-on direction of the Excremental Empire.  Revisiting the many aspects of His domain must be done more often, He thinks. 

.

This about wraps up this month's Horrid Herald.  Changes are coming at a millennial rate: anything could happen at anytime.  Whenever something does, we will be disgusted to bring you more news.

Yours sincerely,

Teddie von Teufel

Mama and the Conduits

Mama cools off

Before company came on Thursday night, I was turning off the light next to the TV in the living room and thought of the ritual Mama followed when she gave cocktail parties forty years ago.

It had been hot and sunny for days on end and Mama’s grass was getting scorched.  The clumps you could pull up had the texture of the translucent stuff in an Easter basket.  Another week of this and it wouldn’t be a lawn, it’d be a hayfield.

Mama was going to have six couples over that night for cocktails and hors d’oeuvres.

She planned to put the guests in the living room.  Taking inventory of her liquor, she thought, “Vodka for Lilly’s martini and gin and tonic for Rich and Sarah and Thaddeus Milton.  Bourbon for the Battles, Blacks and McGoverns plus Daddy.  Mary and I will have two Canadian Blends apiece.  Joe – Scotch.”

The hall bar would serve as the main station, where there already was an open half-gallon of blend and a half-full quart of vodka.  In the cabinet underneath there was gin and a half a bottle of bourbon.  The two bottles of soda were fine but she knew the tonic was flat because the last tonic drinker, her son-in-law Frank, had come over most recently back in February.

Mama looked up from the small blue oriental where she stood in the living room. She looked vacantly between the open drapes through the picture window, past the pink stone patio.   A second set of drapes was open to sliding glass doors that served as the entrance to the porch, a slate affair surrounded on the remaining three sides by screen windows.  There were six-foot plastic panels that fit into the screen windows for the extreme seasons.  They were in now.

“The other half-gallon of bourbon is out there, “ she thought.  She flipped up the catch of the sliding door to the porch and strained to move it the first few inches.  A short burst of irritation hit her.  Frustratingly, there might still be something stuck on the rail -- the door had been oiled the week before.

Earlier this month, she had had a dream that pictured the halves of the door perched askew in the air under dark red blossoms, with a dozen plastic panels splayed out below and the slider track bent and laid across two saw horses.  A giant white glove was hanging in the place of the moon. She waked up at that moment with a sore neck. 

“I have to remember the vermouth, too,” came to her mind as the images dissolved.  For an instant she recalled a photo in last month's Horizon feature on Marc Chagall.

Mama stepped across the large green tiles to the stand-up bar.    Seeing that the last panel on the southern side had come loose, she walked over and tried to push in the bottom corner.  As she did the diagonal corner above popped out; the panel began to fall on her.  She stepped back surprised: like a parachute, the panel filled with air and fell in slow motion, barely missing her and clattering awkwardly over a glass table and wrought iron chairs.  “Dammit. These things are so amateurish.  I wish we’d thought …” and she suppressed an old tiresome thought, returning to focus on the party.  She seized the bourbon and vermouth from under the bar.   

Things were already organized on the indoor bar.  Mixers stood to the right of the ice bucket and pitcher of water, liquor bottles stretched out along the wall with the jigger in front of them.  Cut lemon and a slim bottle of olives sat on the tray with the ice bucket.

In the kitchen, Myrtle had just finished the circles of white bread for cucumber sandwiches.  Nuts had been poured into a wooden bowl.  The Havarti, Gouda and Cheddar cheeses stood out on a cutting board to soften.  Myrtle appeared to be in steady mode and was in the process of changing from one gospel radio station to another. When she had rotated the dial, Mama said, “What do I smell? “  Before Myrtle could answer, she said, “Oh yes, bacon for the water chestnuts.  Those always go over well.  Would you please use the bigger cutting board for tonight?  I guess you saw the crackers I got this morning?”

“I did.  I’ll use it.  Do you see anything else that we need for tonight?” 

Mama paused, her eyes quickly surveying the counters.  “You’ve handled everything, I think.   And beautifully, as always. ”

“Thank you, Mrs. Calhoun.  And, I’ll be leaving at 5:15 as normal.  Tony will be along to park cars.”

“Very good.”

With food and drinks covered, Mama went to look at the thermostat in the hallway.  Seventy-two degrees. This was barely cool enough; the front door would be opening and closing in an hour and a half.  

She stared at the thermostat for a moment more.  The dull brass fixture had survived the twenty-three years since 1949, when the house was built, four years after Alan had returned from Germany and two years before he went to work for his father.  The store had given them the steady income that Alan supplemented with real estate and stock trading.  

Her short interlude in the 1940s evaporated.  Moving around the room, she turned off the five lamps, including the standing model by the piano opposite the entrance.

Having saved about two degrees, she reckoned, she went downstairs to close the door to the playroom to shut off any warm updraft.  She climbed back up the staircase and turned a few yards back to the children’s room.

Their doors were open and she realized she was losing some coolness to Daisy’s room.  The drapes were open and it was bright and warm there on the southeast corner.  

Once it was attended to, she considered Penelope’s room.  It was cool, darkened by the boxwood outside its window and the shade that the afternoon sun granted to the east side.  She concluded there was no loss here. 

After these measures Mama turned to the room of extremes, the den.  Although the sun might have fled the room, some residue might remain:  in the furniture, in the carpeting, the converted closet – anywhere.  She closed the door to the offending room.

After consideration, Mama viewed her latest moves as preventive but not producing cooler air.  She thought hard: her door was shut, heat leaving the kitchen had become minimal, and the dining room was amplifying the cold air.  She sat down in her chair in the living room, the blue-green Queen Anne, and cogitated. 

Mama pondered with her eyes alternately settling and flicking around.  They alighted suddenly on the track that ran above the closed drapes. “Fluorescent generates practically no heat,” she thought,  but she rose and flipped their switch.  The tubes flickered off.   

Myrtle left at quarter after five.  Mama said goodbye to her from the Queen Anne. Mama stayed there for fifteen minutes more and went to check the thermometer.

It read sixty-eight degrees.   

Victorious, Mama floated to her room and put on her make-up.

the Soul Crab takes over

Soul Searching

   or  the Arrested Cop

Crime pays, satisfies the soul somehow.

That yearning.  An elemental surge

in ripping veins out from

under the skin

A cop jackknifed over the dumpster lip

digs an eight-foot wand

into the rectangular box.

He scatters tribes of crawlers.

Lodged in the far dark corner

A second quiet body sprays

scents attractive to

decomposers

When their turns come up, visiting bugs,

worms and smaller, feed expertly

on skin, fluids, nerves,

heart and liver

Another guest arrives at the luncheon party

of busy diners foaming at the

delicacies sweet and sour.   Presenting! …

Mr. Soul Crab!

The soul crab shuttles between He-is

and He-was, to measure how their souls

are breathing.  The cop’s soul

is strangling

The Crab makes an immediate judgment

(The word from the Crab Council to first responders:

“If any spine’s unwinding, knit it.

If the heart is split, fill the crack.

If the soul is drying, water it.”)

                                                                     

            In an instant the Mr. Soul Crab jumps in

He draws from the corpse a cylinder of soul,

empties it onto the Cop’s browned ulcerate Spirit,

which gasps and gulps in 

bubbles, wintergreen, the Easter Bunny,

Miles, Switzerland

The lab smells like Pine-Sol and ammonia

The corpse, laid out on stainless tanning table, breathes

In crab-scent, deep and sweet.  His body massaged,

probed, tickled, its sweeter parts removed,

looks pocked like Minnesota, with its ten-thousand lakes

A three-creature moment provides cream cake to share,

cut for the living and the dead, slabs to fill the cheek.

Our three Players ravage their slices.  Faces wearing stray icing,

the Cop, the Pocked Man and the Soul Crab

bring a sticky finger to their lips.

&copy 2013 Patrick Calhoun 29205