by Michael Dare
with apologies to Charles Dickens
Stave 5: The End of It
Yes! and the bedpost was his own. The bed was his own, the room was his own. Best and happiest of all, the Time before him was his own, to make amends in!
“I will live in the Past, the Present, and the Future.” Clinton repeated, as he scrambled out of bed. “The Spirits of all Three shall strive within me. Hillary? Are you listening?. I’m on my knees, Hillary, on my knees.”
He was so flustered and so glowing with his good intentions, that his broken voice could scarcely answer to his heart’s call. He had been sobbing violently in his conflict with the Spirit, and his face was wet with tears.
Then he remembered one particular prophesy, in a fever tore down his own pants, and did not fail to examine the contents of the exposed BVDs. “It’s still there!” cried Clinton, “they haven’t sold it yet. The shadows of the things that would have been, may be dispelled!”
Then he pulled his pants back up. He was laughing and crying in the same breath; making a perfect idiot of himself with his socks. He felt light as a feather, happy as an angel, innocent as a schoolboy, and flat out plastered. If this was what Valentine’s Day was all about, you could count Clinton in. Valentine’s Day wasn’t just a vacant homage to an ancient priest of a religion he didn’t believe in. It wasn’t a commodity from which to garner profits. It was but a state of mind, and he was in it, full of exhilaration and promise. Were there people like this walking on earth? With a profound understanding of everything. Full of acceptance. Simple yet firm. Overflowing with love. Devoid of doubt. So sure of themselves. So exploding with confidence? Never! There was never one such as Clinton, and he knew it.
He also knew exactly, without the briefest nanosecond of hesitancy, what he was going to do next. “Hoo boy,” he finally said, “have I got a lot to do.”
Clinton looked about the room. “There’s the sauna, where I saw the Ghost of Hillary. There’s the window where I saw the wandering Spirits. It’s all right, it’s all here, it all happened.”
Or did it? He wasn’t quite sure that the reality to which he had returned was the precise reality from which he had departed. He decided to test himself.
“What day is it?” said Clinton, rapidly glancing at his watch. “February 14, 2010. I’m back where I was.” He didn’t know how long he’d been among the Spirits. He didn’t know anything, feeling quite newborn to the planet of possibilities ahead.
Running to the window, he opened it, and stuck out his head. Golden sunlight; passionate sky; sweet fresh air; happy sea breeze. Far out, man. Far out. The world’s still there. Don’t let it escape you. This perfect moment. Wiser but not older. Younger, in fact. Much younger, like a baby entering the world.
Clinton has been rebooted with new software. He has resolved to live in the present, so his mind, not to mention his sentence structure, is mysteriously moving into the present tense. Going, going, gone. Clinton no longer did things, he does things. No more “he woke up.” From now on, “he wakes up.” Clinton lives in the present. No more looking back.
But still unsure of his present circumstance. Watches can lie, so he opens his window. “What’s today?” cries Clinton, calling downward to a surfer boy in Speedos, who perhaps has loitered in to look about the famous condo.
“Huh?” returns the surfer boy.
“What’s today, my fine young fellow?” says Clinton, no longer homophobic.
“Today.” replies the surfer boy, basking in the glory of his newfound friend. “I think it’s Valentines Day.”
“It’s Valentines Day.” says Clinton to himself. “I haven’t missed it.” The Spirits have done it all in one night. They can do anything they like. Of course they can. They’re fiction. Fiction can do what it likes. “Hello, my fine fellow,” Clinton calls out again.
The surfer boy, who is none the wiser, can’t decide if somehow he has just been insulted. Maybe Clinton is being sarcastic. The surfer boy doesn’t like sarcasm because he doesn’t understand it. He always confuses it with irony. Summoning all his wits, he gathers together a response, blurting out “I’m not your fellow.”
“No, I suppose you’re not,” replies Clinton, distracted, “but don’t hold it against me.”
Is he being sarcastic again? puzzles the surfer boy, wondering if he should point out that his name is Nigel.
“Do you know the candy shop at the corner?” Clinton suddenly inquires in another throwback to the original novel.
“Of course I do,” says the surfer boy, unsure of his own masculinity, wondering if he should have worn his thong. “I can see it from here.”
“An intelligent surfer boy.” says Clinton. “A remarkable surfer boy. Do you know whether they’ve sold that gigantic heart-shaped box of chocolates displayed in their window?”
“What, the one as big as me?” returns the surfer boy.
How big was the surfer boy? Do you really expect me to answer that question? Is that a heart-shaped box of chocolates in the surfer boy’s Speedos, or is he just happy to be here? “At least,” says Clinton, oblivious to the sexual reference.
“It’s still there,” replies the surfer boy. “I saw it.”
“Good,” says Clinton. “Go and buy it.”
“Bite me,” exclaims the boy.
“No, no,” says Clinton, “I’ll pay you for it.” He reaches for his wallet, then wonders if he can really trust this kid with his credit card, and decides to go with cash. “I mean it. Go and buy it, here’s a C-note. Tell them to bring it here. Come back with the box, and I’ll give you an autograph. Come back in less than ten minutes and I’ll give you a free dinner for two at Hooters.”
The surfer boy is off like a shot, totally oblivious to Matt Drudge, who is hiding behind the bushes with a camera, sure in the knowledge that the shot he has just snapped of Clinton handing a C-note to a cute young surfer boy will keep him in Vaseline for a year. He decides to stick around.
Clinton is still in the window, rubbing his hands, and giving forth another laugh. He goes downstairs to open the street door, ready for the coming of the surfer boy with the chocolate.
Drudge is starting to itch when he sees the front door open. Could this be it? Is he actually going to get the shot he’s been seeking for years? What? This is too much. The surfer boy is handing Clinton a Valentine. Drudge snaps away, then ponders the possibilities. He’s got two good shots: one of Clinton handing money to a mainly naked man, and one of the surfer boy handing Clinton a Valentine. Together, they tell the story of a man buying a Valentine. No story there. But using the second photo all by itself, just showing a cute young surfer boy handing Clinton a Valentine, tells an entirely different story, one full of intrigue. What’s going on between Clinton and the surfer boy? The public has the right to know. Drudge decides he’ll go with just the second photo. The very thought of running home to his computer, plugging in the digital camera, and uploading his shot to millions of computers simultaneously across the globe is getting him hot.
The Valentine itself is indeed quite large, too large for Clinton to carry.
“Why, it’s larger than I remembered,” says Clinton. “You must put it in my backseat”
What is he talking about? thinks the surfer boy, pondering the significance of “larger” and “backseat,” staring at Clinton as, oh my god, he’s reaching for his pants. This is it. But Clinton just removes the remote from his pocket, staring at it, patting it with his hand, remembering Hillary’s face contained therein, gazing at it as though oblivious to the whole world of electronics. “What a great contraption this is,” he says out loud. “It’s a wonderful remote.” The chuckle with which he says this, and the chuckle with which he opens his garage door and orders the chocolate box put in the backseat, leaves the surfer boy to yet again ponder the difference between the literal and the figurative. Sometimes a backseat is just a backseat. Or is that irony? Putting the chocolate box in Clinton’s backseat, he resolves to figure it out later, but never does.
The surfer boy bids Clinton a fond farewell. As Clinton slams the door, he heads back up the street towards the boardwalk when he hears a “Pssst” coming from a bush. Was that literal? He isn’t sure until he spots the unmistakable countenance of Drudge installed in the shrubbery.
“Hey kid,” says Drudge to the surfer boy. “Wanna make some money?”
Back in his bathroom, Clinton discovers that shaving is not an easy task as his hand continues to shake; and shaving requires attention, even when you don’t dance while you are at it. But if he had cut the end of his nose off, he would have put a piece of tape over it, and been quite satisfied.
He dresses himself all in his best. Where is he? Oh, yes. Home. Keys? Got ‘em. Wallet? Safely stowed. Okay, out of there.
Watching the streets, people are by this time pouring forth, as he has seen them with the Ghost of Valentines Day Present. Driving with the top down, Clinton regards every one with a delighted smile, oblivious to the fact that he is being followed by Drudge in a green Pontiac, snapping away. Clinton looks so irresistibly pleasant that three or four good-humored fellows shout out “Good morning, sir. A happy Valentines Day to you.” And Clinton said often afterwards, that of all the cheerful sounds he had ever heard, those were the most cheerful in his ears.
Parking in his usual spot, he enters Hooters, while Drudge plants himself inconspicuously across the lot and plays with his laptop.
Clinton has not gone far into the club when sitting at the bar, besotted with drink, he beholds the portly gentleman whom he had met the day before, the one who said, “Clinton and Hillary’s, I believe.” It sends a pang across his heart to think how this old gentleman must have looked upon him when they met; but he knows what path lays straight before him, and he takes it.
“My dear sir,” says Clinton, quickening his pace, and shaking the old gentleman by both shoulders. “How do you do. A happy Valentines Day to you, sir.”
“Mr. Clinton,” says the old man in an alcoholic daze.
“Yes,” says Clinton, and with that he removes his checkbook from his pocket, hastily scribbles an amount, and hands it to the fellow.
“Holy shit,” cries the gentleman, as if his breath were taken away. “My dear Mr. Clinton, are you serious?”
“If you please,” says Clinton. “Not a penny less. A great many back-payments are included in it, I assure you. Will you do me the favor of accepting this donation a day late?”
“My dear sir, I don’t know what to say to such generosity” says the inebriate, shaking hands with Clinton, wondering what he means by “back-payments.”
“Don’t say anything please,” retorts Clinton. “Just put it to good use. Will you?”
“I will.” cries the old gentleman. And it is clear he means to do it as soon as possible.
“Thank you,” says Clinton as he watches the people hurrying to and fro from the kitchens and up to the office, and finding that everything can yield him pleasure. He has never dreamed that the details of life can give him so much happiness. He owns the place. Feels pretty good. He bids his farewell to the besotted old man and heads towards the office.
Shit, where is Crotchet’s address? He searches through the rolodex and finds it not. Then, somehow, bits and flashes of the previous night come cascading towards him, and he knows exactly where to go. He can see it now. He jumps back in his car, keeping well within the posted speed limits, making it difficult for Drudge to maintain a discrete distance.
At that moment Crotchet is on the phone, talking to poor Molly, inconsolable having just heard the surgeons prognostication concerning her son’s unworthy demise due to a disease that would be easy to cure if they could just come up with enough money. $500 would do.
Why has he waited this long to tell her? There will be no money, no more $500 a month. He has been fired just the previous day by that wretch, that mongrel, that scandalous ex-president who is at that very moment approaching Crotchet’s door to knock.
Crotchet puts down the phone and looks out his peephole, beholding a sight he has sworn off forever, the face of Bill Clinton. “What do you want?” Crotchet shouts in disbelief. “You can’t fire me again.”
Clinton stands his ground. “Look, I’m sorry man, I had a bad day. Come on. I didn’t mean it. You’re hired. I mean you’re re-hired. At, what the hell, twice your old salary.”
Crotchet looks yet again through the peephole, unable to reconcile what he has just heard with the person he has just seen. Distorted, bulbous, fisheye peephole, making Clinton look a caricature of himself, like those presidential Halloween masks, not the real thing. “You’re kidding” he finally replies.
“I’ve never been more serious,” continues Clinton, “There are only two things you’ve got to do. Number one, tell the woman you’re talking to on the phone right now that we’ll be right over, and Number two, grab your dog.”
The top is down, the hot wind blowing through his hair, and the hair of his dog, and the hair of his reinstated employer. All is right with the world. He has passed by the place a million times, always wondering if someday he might be able to afford the wares offered within. Now he is directing Clinton to drive there. He points out the sign - Bart’s Canine Prosthetics. Clinton stops and they enter the establishment, leaving Drudge outside to ponder the significance of this. Obviously it’s something sexual, and Drudge is delighted to visualize the uses to which Clinton might put a Canine Prosthetic. Soon, his questions are answered. Tiny Tim comes scurrying out with a brand spanking new, state of the art, artificial dogleg. Crotchet beams as he takes his dog for a walk with his beloved ex-pres, Drudge at their heals.
Now it just so happens that on this occasion, Stan Dandyliver, a Wheatina salesman from Albuquerque, has decided to give his sweetheart, Ida Zervbetter, a grand piano for Valentines Day, despite the fact that she lives on a five story walkup just up the street from Bart’s Canine Prosthetics. The three Mexicans that Dandyliver has hired to deliver the piano are having a hard time getting the piano past the fourth floor fire escape, and the rope they are using to circumnavigate the landing is getting frayed. If Clinton and Crotchet would but look up, they would see the precariousness of their situation as the ropes start snapping. If Tiny Tim hadn’t his new prosthetic leg, the piano would have fallen on him instead of Drudge, who’s place in history is insured by a death out of a Warner Brother’s cartoon.
Clinton and Crotchet ignore the Steinway from heaven and get back in the car. Together they speed through traffic, merrily shouting “Happy Valentines Day” to one and all, receiving bounteous middle fingers in response, but allowing nothing to diminish the bounty of their pleasures. Clinton spots a card shop just like the one from which you purchased this book (unless you downloaded it for free from the internet. Bounder! Cur!). He feels compelled to explore the commercialism purveyed therein.
He sallies forth to the cash register, MasterCard in hand. “How much for everything in the store?”
The transaction is unavoidable. Clinton has the entire contents of the store put into garbage bags and delivered to Monica’s front door, then set ablaze when she opens the door.
This display of flamboyant good sense so impresses Crotchet that he willingly breaks a promise he made years earlier, directing Clinton to a house on the other side of town.
It’s a ramshackle house in a bad neighborhood. Clinton pulls up, gets out of the car, runs to the front door, and knocks. The door opens. It’s Molly, who quickly tries to close it, but Clinton wedges his foot in and stops her.
“Wait, wait, it’s all right. I’m not angry. I’m happy. Look at me, Molly. I don’t mind. I want to see you.”
Molly slowly reopens the door, giving Clinton his foot back.
“My God,” she says. “I’m sorry. Are you okay?”
“Yeah, it’s just my foot. I’m better than okay. Molly, it’s so good to see you.”
“It’s good to see you too.”
“I’m not angry. Just hurt.”
“I don’t blame you. Listen, Molly, I was an idiot, a total jerk, but I just didn’t know any better, so I hope you can forgive me.”
“It’s hard. It’s been so long.”
“I know, but listen to me, please. You were right. You did the right thing. You were right to keep the baby, and you were right not to call me. I wouldn’t have understood. And you were right to get money from me.”
“I can’t believe you’re saying this.”
“Neither can I. I’ve changed. Something happened to me. I can’t explain it, but it feels right. My life has been empty. And your life? I can’t imagine what your life has been like.”
“Not so bad. I’m sorry we had to be so sneaky, but we needed help.”
“It’s all right. I had something you needed and Crotchet gave it to you. And you’ve got something I need...”
She looked down the hallway.
“Is he home?”
“Yes.”
“Can I meet him?”
Molly leads Clinton and Crotchet down a hallway to a door. Molly knocks.
“Honey, can I come in?”
“No, go away, I’m busy.”
“Just what are you doing in there young man?”
Clinton feels at home in five minutes. Nothing can be healthier. His son looks just the same. So does Crotchet. So does the plump sister when she comes. So does every one when they come. Wonderful party, wonderful games, wonderful unanimity, wonderful happiness.
Clinton has no further intercourse with Spirits, depending, of course, upon what you think the word “intercourse” means. He lives upon the Partial Abstinence Principle ever afterwards; giving his love to Molly only. And it will always be said of him that he knows how to keep Valentines Day well, if any man alive possesses the knowledge. May that be truly said of us, and all of us!
And so, as a wise man once observed, an idle mind is the devil’s playground. Thank you for allowing me to play in your swingset.
The End
Stave 1: Hillary's Ghost
Stave 2: The First of the Three Spirits
Stave 3: The Second of the Three Spirits
Stave 4: The Last of the Spirits
