|
Columbus
is a town in which almost everything is
likely to happen, and in which almost everything
has." --James
Thurber-
Chapter
1
Two Years Ago
Somewhere
South of Columbus, Ohio
Texas Ranger Bill Ed Ramrod was as ugly as an
armadillo and had a sense of humor as dry as a
New Mexico sagebrush fire, but it was the kind
of ugly and the type of sense of humor that drove
women mad with desire and made him the envy of
men everywhere. However, being handcuffed to an
abandoned car in the middle of the desert led
Ranger Ramrod to view his predicament with more
than the customary dose of irony, a posture all
the more remarkable for being simultaneously postmodern
and existential. He felt as though he were a character
in Jean-Paul Sartre's High Noon or a classic of
the cinema nouveau like Robbe-Grillet's Last Year
in Marienbad, Texas, undoubtedly directed by Wim
Wenders.
As his head recoiled from the savage blows being
offered, images of lost loves and forbidden desires
blurred in his rapidly diminishing consciousness.
Simone de Bouvoir melded into Dale Evans; Gertrude
Stein transmogrified into Annie Oakley; and Rosa
Luxemburg was somehow miraculously transformed
into Miss Kitty from Gunsmoke.
Ramrod licked the blood and perspiration from
the corners of his mouth and defiantly shouted,
"You'll never git away with this, Bandito.
The Texas Rangers'll track you down to Hell and
back."
Then, with the type of calm deliberation that
only comes from having looked Death in the face
more than once without blinking, he spat in the
face of the hooded figure standing in front of
him.
The Bandito wiped the spittle off of his hood
and replied, "You talk pretty tough…Ranger
Ramrod." His cackling was joined in quick
succession by Three Henchmen.
"Whoo boy. What kinda name ees…Ramrod?
Big tough name, huh? Well, I theenk eet's time
for choo to undergo some gender transformation."
The Bandito opened a switchblade and started to
inch ever closer to the Ranger, the shaft of the
blade glistening in the hot desert sun.
"You wouldn't, you loco bastard."
The Three Henchmen also took out their switchblades
and, mimicking their leader, proceeded to advance
towards the Ranger in ever-threatening steps.
Even in the growing knowledge that today would
probably be his last roundup, Ranger Ramrod maintained
his cool and projected a stoic acceptance of fate
that would have been extraordinary for a mortal
man, but just par for the course for a Texas Ranger.
"Go ahead, do yer worst, Bandito. I ain't
never figgered on a-livin' this long anyway."
A wide grin came over the Bandito, but of course,
it was hard to tell inasmuch as he was wearing
a hood at the time. But you'll just have to take
my word for it. They don't call me the Omnipotent
Narrator for nothing.
"You heard the hombre. Do it."
The Three Henchmen got so close to the Ranger
they could smell his breath and tell what brand
of bourbon he had with his cornflakes at breakfast.
One of the Henchmen brought out a sinister looking
box that had the Frederick's of Hollywood logo
emblazoned on its top, the lettering in a purple
so gaudy it was like the purple stretch pants
400-pound women wore when they went out in public
in Columbus, Ohio.
Another Henchman took his switchblade and, in
one fell swoop, cut all of the strings attached
to the box.
Ranger Ramrod resisted mightily, but in the end,
even this bravest Texas lawman of them all let
loose a bloodcurdling scream in response to the
savagery meted out by his Mexican tormentors.
Satisfied with their work, the Bandito slapped
the backs of the Three Henchmen.
"Let's go.
"Si, El Jefe."
It may have been a matter of minutes or perhaps
a few hours. It's even possible that an entire
day passed before Ranger Ramrod regained consciousness.
All that is known for certain is that the desert
sun was setting, the coyotes were howling, and
two buzzards eyed the weakened Ranger with as
much morbid intensity as Anna Nicole Smith dating
an octogenarian billionaire.
He opened first his left eye and then his right,
slowly at first, but then he began to blink them
rapidly as he adjusted to the Westward intensity
of the setting sun.
"I'm still alive…" the Ranger muttered
to himself as he awkwardly maneuvered his still-handcuffed
hands down towards the storehouse of the family
jewels, "…and Sam Houston's still in
one piece."
Then Ranger Ramrod looked down and saw that he
was dressed in the traditional skimpy outfit of
a French maid.
"Tarnation," he exclaimed in disgust.
"This rig is sure embarrassin', and to top
it off, it makes my thighs look fat."
Chapter
2
The Present Time
The Family-Friendly Metropolis of Columbus, Ohio
The 400-pound woman wearing purple stretch pants
waddled down South High Street and got into her
1976 Toyota hatchback. As she pulled out of the
parking space the Kentucky temporary tags became
visible attached to the Saran Wrap that served
as a rear window. There were two stickers barely
clinging to the oxidized remains of the chromium
bumper: the obligatory "Go Buckeyes"
and the ever so subtle "Truck Drivers Do
It For the Long Haul." The woman rolled down
her window, lit up a Marlboro and proceeded to
smack the three crying children who had been left
unattended for several hours. She pulled out into
the traffic, the car leaving behind a black trail
of uncatylically-converted emissions so thick
future generations of archaeologists would be
able to trace her pilgrimage to Wheeling, West
Virginia to see the Flatt & Scruggs/Ferlin
Husky double bill at the WWVA Country Jamboree.
"Ah, the first morbidly obese white trash
woman wearing purple stretch pants of the season,"
Fred Livingston said as he maneuvered his Lexus
into the space vacated by the portly Appalachian.
"It's springtime in Columbus, Ohio,"
replied his passenger, John Mulligan. "Can
the BLTs be far behind?"
"BLTs?"
"You know, Beehive-hairdoed Ladies with Tattoos.
"Well, John, at least you still have your
sense of humor, considering what lies in store
for you tomorrow."
John and Fred got out of the car and walked along
the deserted sidewalks. Although it was a Friday
night there were few cars to be seen and even
fewer people, for it was a fact widely accepted
by….uh… Columbians?.. Columbussites?…
well, good folks from Columbus….that it was
impossible to park downtown and that every single
person who went downtown after 5pm was mugged,
robbed, raped and worst of all, had their SUVs
scratched by menacingly-attired "colored
people" (read African-Americans) or "them
folks who talk funny and work at Wendy's"
(read Latinos).
As they waited for the light to change at the
corner, they paused to read the headline on the
front page of the last Columbus Dispatch in a
newspaper machine. "Columbus Now 15th Largest
US City; Bolts Ahead of New Orleans To Become
Most Overweight Metro Area."
"We're No. 1. We're No. 1" Fred intoned
as he and John crossed the street and passed through
the entrance to Barrister's Hall, a nightclub
that featured surprisingly good jazz and whose
patrons shared several characteristics: (1) they
knew nothing about jazz; (2) they never listened
to jazz; and (3) they talked so loudly they were
unaware that jazz was actually performed at the
club, although a few were curious about why those
fellows stood on the bandstand with musical instruments
and seemed to move their fingers periodically.
"Let's sit near the bandstand," John
shouted as he and Fred maneuvered through the
cackling hordes of perky blonde cornfed Midwestern
administrative assistants, flight attendants,
and junior-level professional types already feeling
no pain from the second daiquiri of the evening
and all longing for that blessed day in the hopefully
not-too-distant future when they would settle
down with the "man of their dreams",
join the Junior League, have 1.7 children, three
mortgages, $40,000 of credit card debt, and be
able to balloon to size 22, finally coming to
terms with their inner Camryn Mannheims.
"Sometimes if you sit real close to the bandstand
you can actually catch a few bars of music every
now and then." John sighed as he vainly attempted
to listen to the combo performing Charlie Parker's
bop classic, "Billie's Bounce." "I'm
really going to miss hearing live jazz. You know,
Barb doesn't like jazz. She says it has something
to do with her religion."
Fred coughed and took out his handkerchief, covering
his face just in time to hide the embarrassment
he was feeling for his friend. Yeah, no doubt
about it. His best friend was about to make the
worst mistake of his life and there was nothing
he could do to help. If a friend's drowning you
can throw him a lifeline. If he has cancer you
can take him to the Mayo Clinic. But if a friend's
in love you might as well sit by the phone with
a bottle of Maker's Mark and keep your scanner
tuned to the police department's frequency. The
news isn't going to be good and you want to be
home when the one phone call allowed all prisoners
comes through.
To
Be Continued---
|
