je propre la nuit, part 49

by jean-claude etranger

illustrated by roy dismas

part forty-nine of fifty-two

to begin at the beginning, click here

"verily, verily, i say unto you i know her from somewhere." "so?" hogan stopped the car.

part 50

second anniversary/the wallet

today is the second anniversary of "flashing by". thanks again to all who have contributed or perused. here is a reprint of the first post, from december 12, 2009:

the wallet

by timmy t jones

illustrated by anonymous

bob was a very nervous person, always worrying about something. there were two things in particular he worried about. the first was that was life was not real. he constantly found little things, little discrepancies, that made him think the world was a dream and that he would wake up and find himself - where? socks and handkerchiefs were almost the worst - every time he lost one - where could it have possibly gone? - he was sure the fabric of the "real world" was dissolving. but the worst was at work , where pieces of paper would disappear - where? there was no wind in the office - leaving him in terrified despair. sometimes he would stay after hours - with no overtime pay - desperately searching for a paper that had to - had to - be somewhere. the cleaning people, who spoke some language he didn't understand - spanish? russian? - never showed any interest or annoyance at him. his closest call came one night when he stayed six hours after work on a friday and finally found a piece of paper with a phone number on it in a wastebasket he had already looked in eight times. he made his way to the subway almost sobbing with relief. he felt that this ordeal, since it had not destroyed him, had made him tougher. but just as he entered the subway it occurred to him - what if the paper had in fact disappeared - and then been put back? but this thought was too terrible to contemplate and he pushed it away. but the second thing - the thing that frightened him most of all - was the thought of losing his wallet. and then one evening it happened. he was almost at the subway - again, on a friday! - when he reached into his pocket and his wallet was gone. although he checked his other pockets - without breathing - he knew right away it was no use - he always kept the wallet in his left back pocket. for a moment he couldn't see - had he actually blacked out? he tried to pull himself together. i can get through this, he told himself. i can do this. i only have to get through the weekend, until monday morning. he had a few dollars in a drawer in his apartment - his keys!! he plunged his hand into his right side pocket where he always kept his keys - and they were there! it was going to be all right. he could buy some food and in any case he had enough peanut butter and crackers and milk to get through the weekend even if he hoarded the money. when he got home he would call the credit card companies - he only had two credit cards - he had their numbers written down in a notebook that he kept in the same drawer as the money - but what if it wasn't there? he started to tremble and he forced himself to start walking. with luck he would be home in ninety minutes, the keys in his pocket would let him into the apartment building and his own apartment and the notebook with the credit card numbers would be in the drawer. all this, of course, if life were real. i can do this, he repeated to himself. on monday morning he would start recovering his i d. he would explain to his supervisor what had happened and that he had to make some personal calls. as a rule, he never made personal calls so he hoped she would cut him some slack. maybe he could even get some one in personnel to help him. he would have to have the security people at the front desk call the office to let him in so he would have to tell them what had happened anyway. it would be embarrassing but maybe for the best. thinking these things through made bob feel a little calmer. i can do it, he thought, it will make me stronger. life is real, we have to do these things. he realized that his heart was still pounding. then it hit him - what if a terrorist had his wallet and used his credit cards to buy - "hey, mister -" he heard a voice behind him. "hey, mister -" the voice came from a million miles away. he turned and saw a teenage boy wearing a red jacket with a big letter "w" on it. a teenage girl with the same jacket was standing a little behind him. they both looked at bob curiously. "you dropped your wallet."

je propre la nuit, part 48

by jean-claude etranger

illustrated by roy dismas

part forty-eight of fifty-two

to begin at the beginning, click here

whoa! --- whoa!

part 49

The Big Difference

Throughout the summer, Columbia University paid Zach his full salary. Officially, he was adjusting  the syllabus. Dorothy Zimmerman, however, told him this was pro forma: his courses were thorough and up-to-date. His apartment, his office, and parking space remained his own until September. The University of Nebraska had hired him, retroactively, as both dean and administrator of their Poli-sci department. Combined, this influx of money boosted his confidence and his bank account enough to inspire generosity.

   (Click here for the first episode; here for the previous one.)


On most weekends, he visited UNO or Vida, who had hired a nanny and already bought an estate in Maryland so that when baby Alice and Corrine were older, they could have ponies. Zach put the legally decreed child support into trust funds.

The twins were six weeks old when they, Vida, and the nanny moved into a home with separate wings and cottages. Also included in their household were: a groundskeeper and his wife, who worked as Vida’s housekeeper; a full-time cook who tended a vegetable garden; and Vida’s gentleman-friend, a Republican state senator named Henry. The property included a huge, sparkling swimming pool and pristine tennis courts canopied by leafy trees. Vida and Henry entertained friends and benefactors almost continuously and Zach really was welcome any time. So while Vida and her coterie lounged by the pool or played leisurely tennis games, Zach walked around carrying Alice and Corrine, sometimes one in each arm, sometimes cuddling them one at a time. He sang them songs he remembered Beth singing to Rosalind and Matt, while he was busy earning his Ph.D. Although in those days, his perception of himself as an Eagle—an outdoorsman, academic, and ambitious provider—prohibited singing to babies, his own, or anyone else’s. A lot had changed in twenty years.

As for Rosalind and Matt, after the divorce became final and Beth resumed speaking to him, they grew more open and fond of their father than ever before. Matt followed his inclination to please his mother—and his father, providing he wasn’t hurting Beth.

In contrast, Rosalind maintained a chilly silence for weeks while her mother strongly suggested she start showing Zach some respect and appreciation.

Reluctantly, she agreed to write him an email once a week but “neither should hold his or her breath for phone calls.”

“Tell her,” Zach told Beth, “that I’m glad she wrote ‘his or her’ and not ‘their’—since as she knows, ‘neither should hold their breath’ is common usage but incorrect.”

“Wait a second,” Beth said. “I better write that down.”

He had laughed. “Tell her I’m pleased she’s such a little stickler.”

In the same email, Rosalind had reported: “Mom says I must write you ‘a nice, long,’ letter or stay home, like, indefinitely. I have my own life, Dad, and it doesn’t exist within the confines of this house. But thanks very much for giving Mom the house and paying off the mortgage. She says that if you hadn’t done that, she would need to sell it. And we would live in a cramped apartment like the one Ellen from the food co-op has.

“I grew up believing you and Mom had principles. But when I became a teenager, you got greedy and blew them off. You had a long-term affair. Mom pretended you weren’t because you both wanted everyone to think we were the real deal—one happy little family. But that meant you had to live a lie rather than simply telling an occasional white lie, which (I don’t know about you) doesn’t go against Mom’s principles.

“Anyway, you both went against most of your principles most of the time, lying, cheating, and being self-indulgent assholes. (Pardon me. Or pardon my ‘French,’ whichever’s easier.) You screamed and yelled and stuffed your faces until you looked like balloon people. And you’re still going against everything you taught me: You bribed Mom with enough money to maintain her lifestyle. Since she took the bribe, she’s threatening to punish Matt and me unless we give you proper gratitude. So consider me—gratefully yours, Rosalind.”

Zach stopped by the house later that week. He and Matt reviewed their canoe trip, planned their meals, and composed a checklist of camping equipment. Rosalind ran from the front door as Zach was pulling out of the driveway. “I wrote you another email, Dad, apologizing.” She kissed his cheek. “If I’m a stickler, I inherited the tendency from you.”

He opened Rosalind’s new email when he reached his office.

Her mother had pointed out stuff that Rosalind should have figured out on her own. “After all, why spell out every tawdry detail? Such as, if we moved to a cramped apartment and Mom had to work as a receptionist all the hours she could get, Matt and I would have to do the grocery shopping. We’d have to cook and do the dishes and all the other errands and housework. We wouldn’t have time for parties and friends. We wouldn’t be buying the latest electronics and we certainly wouldn’t have our own credit cards. We wouldn’t have a cheerful mother who was glad to arrange things so we were free to study hard and play hard. If she couldn’t afford to pursue her artistically satisfying but non-lucrative pottery-making, and take fitness classes and get massages from Leon, she’d be irritable even if we did all the housework including the laundry. Not only would Matt and I not have friends but she wouldn’t either. She’d feel sorry for herself until she was so depressed she lost her health. Then Matt and I would have to take care of her the rest of our lives! So Mom said to think about the difference between a bribe and generosity.

“Here’s my new way of thinking: A bribe is when you pay someone to cover up your wrong-doings or even to look the other way. It has nothing to do with being a loving father and ex-husband. Thank you for giving us whatever we want. (I know the legal requirement wouldn’t make a dent.)

“You’re extremely generous and I’m sorry for being a spoiled brat. Love, Rosalind.
P.S. Any time you feel like taking me to the Four Seasons, I’d love to go.”

(click here for the last episode.)

a dream within a dream

by fan taser

illustrated by rhoda penmarq

bob woke up. he had had a long confused dream in which he had purchased a rifle at a pawn shop and felt self conscious carrying it on the subway, and on the street as he walked home. then he had hidden the rifle in a closet. to hide it from his mother, who had been dead for thirty years. then in the dream he had woken up and found the rifle in the closet, and thought, it wasn't a dream. i really bought a gun. and then he really woke up. a strange dream, he thought, as he had never had any interest in firearms or weapons of any sort, and never held one in his hands. he had fallen asleep the night before thinking of all the humiliating moments in his life. it had taken a long time to remember them all.

je propre la nuit, part 47

by jean-claude etranger

illustrated by roy dismas

part forty-seven of fifty-two

to begin at the beginning, click here

you never know who you are going to meet on a rainy night on a lonely highway, so it almost did not register on hogan when he caught ricky in his headlights , with the hermit holding the umbrella over her.

part 48

“A Town Called Disdain”, Episode 105: staccato

In our previous chapter, Daphne’s extra-terrestrial father -- "Mac" MacNamara -- began to present our heroes (and our not-quite heroes Frank and Brad) his apologia pro vita sua.

Scene: the bridge of one of the beautiful new 1969 flying saucers -- the ones with the mahogany trim and built-in chrome ashtrays -- in an alternate dimension somewhere between the Earth and the Moon.

(Newcomers may click here to return to the obscure beginnings of our epic.)

Mac ignored this last remark.

Dick came up from the refrigerator with a can of Pabst, turned and picked up the two fresh martinis with the splayed fingers of his left hand.

“Sorry, Mac,” he said. “Excuse me.”

“Not at all, Dick. I think I’ll just have one more splash myself before I have to take the wheel again.”

Dick went past Mr. MacNamara with the drinks, and Mac reached for the bottle of Cutty.

“I wanted to be in the casino to meet you all,” he said, pouring his splash, well, two splashes. “I begged the Home Office to send me out.”

He re-capped the bottle, picked up his glass, swirled the scotch while Dick handed the beer to Harvey and a martini to Daphne, who was half-sitting in Dick’s vacated seat. She started to get up but Dick waved her down.

Mac went on:

“I was afraid of what’d happen with this mook in charge.” Mac gestured toward Frank with his glass. Frank shrugged, and Mac paused, taking a drink.

“But they wouldn’t let me go,” he said. “Said I was too emotionally involved.”

“Q. E. fucking D.,” said Frank.

“But I knew I had to come,” said Mac. “Something didn’t smell right. Especially you, Frank. You didn’t smell right.”

“Ah, dry up.”

“But --” said Daphne, “how did you get back, Papa?”

Buddy answered her question while flicking a couple of switches:

“We hijacked this damn saucer is how we got here.”

“Oh my God,” said Daphne, “look at you two!”

“And ain’t it a beauty,” said Buddy. “I been working on this baby personally for the past five years. State of the art. Travels like a shot through four different dimensions. Man, I couldn’t wait to get this scooter on the road.”

“Buddy,” asked Daphne, “if you don’t mind my asking -- are you human?”

“Sure am, miss,” said Buddy, turning one of several small wheels just a smidgeon back and then forth. “Y’know, I first met the Major back in ’42, when he recruited me for the OSS. Now normally I fuckin’ hated officers, y’know? But the Major was different, he was a Joe. Only later did I realize how different he was. Anyways, we went through the war together, and I been with him ever since on the QT. Everybody thought I was just an easygoing mechanic in Cape May, New Jersey, who liked to go off on fishing trips whenever he felt like it. But actually I was off with the Major someplace helpin’ him out while he headed off some war or revolution in some goddam exotic clime or other.”

“Couldn’t have done it without you, Buddy,” said Mac.

“And so you went back to this other planet with him?” asked Daphne.

“What the hell,” said Buddy. “It was innerestin’. Although I gotta say it’ll be nice to get back to the Earth, get a real hot dog, a real cheesesteak -- a real dame -- hoo boy, just wait’ll I get my hands on a hot --”

“All right, Buddy --” said Mac.

“Sorry, Major.”

“Anyway,” Mac went on, “the truth is, Francis Albert here never wanted to bring you people in on the deal. I don’t know what he told you, but I’ll lay eight-to-five he offered you what looked like one sweet package all tied up with a pink ribbon.”

“I offered ‘em what you wanted to give ‘em all along,” said Frank, “-- power.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet you did,” said Mac. “But who would be the power behind the power, Frank?”

“Hey,” said Frank, “with the Sailor knocked off, it’s my job to, to oversee operations --”

“And for how long have you been trying to get the Sailor out of the way, Frank?”

“What? What?” said Frank. “The sailor and me, we go back, way back -- why, we were makin’ our bones on the Alpha Centauri caper when you were in short pants, pal. I’d’ve given my right arm for that little guy. On my mother’s grave. On all five of my mothers’ graves, may they rest in --”

“No kidding,” said Mac. “Then why’d you arrange for Hans Grupler to get involved in that heroin deal in Saigon?”

“Wha’?”

“Just when you knew Dick and Daphne would be there.”

“Hey,” said Frank, getting up off his seat, and taking a step toward Mac, who was leaning back against the bar, “it’s called coincidence, Mac.” He held up his empty glass. “Hey, Mac, ya mind if I --”

“Coincidence,” said Mac. “Like it was a coincidence that the Sailor left the ramp down on his saucer.”

Not bothering to pick up Brad’s empty glass, Frank took another couple of steps toward Mac and the bar.

“Hey, look,” he said, “do not blame me for the fuckin’ Sailor’s mistake. I told him once I told him five hundred fuckin’ thousand times, do not leave the fuckin’ ramp down. I’m just gonna help myself here, okay, Mac?”

Mac stepped away from the bar, watching Frank closely. Keeping his hands chest-high, Frank sidled past Mac to the bar.

“I knew the Sailor, too,” said Mac, as Frank poured the rest of the Gordon’s into the cocktail shaker without bothering to add more ice. “And the Sailor might’ve been a little screwy but he did not make rookie mistakes like that one. The Sailor took me down my first trip to the Earth, Frank. And the first thing he told me was, ‘Do not ever leave the ramp down.’”

Frank poured the slightly chilled gin into his glass, holding back the ice with a finger, spilling gin onto the counter.

“Hey,” he said, “everybody has their off-days, even the Sailor --”

“Especially,” said Mac, “when somebody else uses remote control to lower the ramp so somebody who doesn’t belong on a saucer can get on a saucer.”

Frank took a gulp of gin, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Fantasy,” he said. “The merest and wildest fantasy.”

“But your plan hit a little snag, didn’t it, Frank? ‘Cause Grupler and Marlene bumped off the Sailor and his buddies, but they didn’t finish the job. They didn’t bump off these three here. You’d underestimated these kids, Frank.”

“You’re fuckin’ nuts, man. You been watching too much earthling TV back home. Too much M Squad, fuckin' Johnny Staccato --”

(Continued here. As featured on the Dumont Network's Old Gold Cigarettes Amazing Adult Fantasy Playhouse, hosted by Walter Pidgeon and starring Edward Arnold, Joel McRae and Frances Farmer (Tuesdays, 9pm EST.)