Moss and Mae Just Miss Buck Buckskin

I'm hoping to ride this idea to fame, riches, and glory -- the lives of Mae Healy and Moss Stipple.

I've already heard from a friend of mine, saying leave it alone. There's "big interests" out there, his words, who've cornered the market on great ideas, and apparently they'll do their damndest to keep small fry like me from horning in. I, however, refuse to give in to such threats. I feel I have as much a right to express myself as anyone.

OK, I'm leaving all my fears of the syndicate (paranoia) behind and I'm simply going for it. Not another word about it.

Mae Healy appeals to women readers, Moss Stipple to men. I've heard from enough of you to know where your allegiances lie. So I will address both characters, their development thus far, and some of the story lines I've already thought of.

Ladies first. Mae Healy. Mae is a dear old soul who wouldn't hurt a fly. She was once married to a man now deceased, Mr. Healy. She was his faithful partner through thick and thin. They had the same problems other average folks have. But Mr. Healy, being a competent man, was able to provide, thanks to his job. Mae did the honorable thing as his helpmeet. They had children and were very happy. At some point he died.

Enter Moss Stipple. When Moss turned 70, he sold his grandparents' old half acre and their deteriorating house he'd lived in most of his life. He looked for another place to live, and ended up as Mae's boarder. Though they lived together -- man and woman without marriage -- it was all quite innocent, no hanky panky.

That's the story so far. But they need to have some adventures, to make things more interesting. With most of them being, no doubt, on the tame side. I don't think it'd be plausible to have them suddenly become world travelers, crime fighters, etc. But it would be plausible that they might take a trip to the big city together or to a State Park for a picnic. That's a great idea, so that'll be the first one, a picnic!

One day Mae said she'd seen enough of these four walls. "The walls are closing in on me!" she declared, not usually given to complaining, but this day -- whether it was biorythms or simply bitchiness -- she'd had enough.

Moss sat in his easy chair, startled at Mae's blunt eruption, it being out-of-character for someone generally so docile and well-pleased. He lay his newspaper aside gently and gave Mae his undivided attention. "Is there anything I can do about it?"

"I don't know what it might be," she snapped, "I'm trapped 24/7, confined, like a circus animal dying in its cage."

Moss wanted to dismiss the tirade, but instead considered it silently, thinking it indicative of something going on in the older woman's spirit. He thought back on the cases he'd known over the years, of his own Grandma's occasional outbursts and how Grandpa would handle her. Of course he had scant minutes to come up with something before Mae blew her top.

"We ought to go to the State Park," he ventured. Just the thought of something like that brought a smile to Mae's face. And her old radiance was back. In a flash, then, she was up, preparing a picnic basket.

The State Park was lovely that day, with picture-perfect weather, like the weather we used to have -- not too hot, not too cold, no global warming, no melting icebergs. They drove to the campground area, knowing they could use a picnic table without paying the camping fee. Policies were very lax in those days, before all the current moneygrubbing when it comes to state parks.

Mae was the picture of delighted health, and Moss wasn't too shabby either. Mae wore a nice sheer scarf, Moss his cap. A gentle breeze off the lake refreshed them, and moved the hair at the edges of her scarf. She hadn't looked this great for decades. As for Moss, he was able to tilt his head back with abandon and roar out a laugh of delight.

They shared in conversation, Mae remembering how she and Mr. Healy used to camp here early in their marriage. "We had a tent in those days and it rained cats and dogs. You couldn't touch the canvas or it'd run right through. But you couldn't move without touching it. We were drenched, but got to the car and made it home. Mr. Healy looked like a drowned rat! And I didn't look much better!"

"What about the tent and your things?" Moss asked, laughing at the ancient predicament.

"We came back the next day and got everything! No problem!"

Moss had a story of his own. Involving one of his pet peeves from 30 years before. "I was on the other side of this very lake, fishing. And some guys showed up and ruined it for me, with a boom box, playing it loudly. In those days I had one huge hangup, listening to 'the music of someone else's choosing,' a phrase I used in those days. But these louts kept it going, no matter what. So I packed up my fish and went home."

"Good for you," Mae commiserated, "No one should have to take that.."

The picnic, like all good things, ended, and they went home, retiring at the appropriate hour. Not realizing what they missed had they stayed till night.

The Hiatus Gunslinger

I've got a very itchy keyboard finger today.

I'm staring down an imaginary muzzle, my eyes very intent, taking dead aim at every purposeful person in my path. Notice I said purposeful. I've seen enough westerns to know that any gunslinger who stands on Main Street pays no attention to old men dashing out to pull children back in their house or ladies hurrying home with their hats. You might have the old undertaker standing over by his door, but he's OK too. It's only the hombre that comes strolling out with purpose, looking intent, just asking for it who's going to get it.

There'll be no self-berating today. I'm all stewed up. Nothing new about that. But today all my wrath is outwardly focused. Toward those purposeful hombres who say I shouldn't have taken a hiatus, that I shouldn't have prolonged my hiatus, that I either ought to be here or simply go away -- no muss, no fuss -- and every other variation there may be on the subject of my hiatus and what I should or should not have done or should or should not do now.

Well, the time for talk is over, that's a given. Now it's time to meet one's maker. I wonder about some of my enemies here if they were made at all. Maybe they were formed, you know what I mean? Like something that exits the back gate. Patties. Pies. Piles.

A guy just went by my house with his black dog, Extra Crispy, and Extra Crispy dropped one of my enemies (a representation). You remember the old creation story about the god who threw dollops of mud behind him and those became man. That's what I'm talking about. Extra Crispy arches his back toward the same purpose. They teach that in Instinct School. He has a look of quiet intensity. He may not make many decisions on his own, but this is still one that can't be performed by others on his behalf. He knows when he needs to go and when it can be pronounced done.

As to my enemies -- self-pronounced, because I am as harmless as a feather; I'd do anything for you, just ask. I greet with a smile, no scowl, no scorn. As to my enemies, whether they are made or formed, they must meet their maker. Because I am standing in the street -- just itching to reach. It's high noon. There's a light sweat at my temples. My hat keeps the sun out of my eyes. Someone's got some western music playing softly on their boom box. My fingers are rubbing themselves, hovering just over my holster.

I've got my legs spread a little. I'm slightly bowlegged anyway, going way back to when I was a baby and Grandpa set me on sawhorses. Those tiny pelvic bones had a way of remembering. But it was OK with my Mom because it made it that much easier to get my diapers on. So I'm waddling along. And anytime we played crawdad soccer in gym I was a natural. When the other kids would see my legs spread and my feet at an angle hurrying across the gym floor, they knew they didn't stand a chance. The only way to slow me down was to tie my hands, and even then I could still drag the upper half of my body at the same speed the other kids were going normally.

Anyway, my legs are spread a little. I'm waiting for my enemies to appear. You don't like my hiatus, huh? You think I should either get on with it or drop out all together, huh? You're calling me out? We'll see about that. I'm calling you out! Come out and show me what you got. It better be something or I'll drop you like Extra Crispy's latest thud. Waiting, waiting ... anticipating.

Until -- this is a mental picture -- Garrett Al, whose name always reminds me of Geritol, steps out of the Skidrow saloon. Typical. The man is drunk with lust. He's tipsy. He's over the legal limit. And that's why every man, woman, and child has a restraining order against him. He doesn't know anything about taking me on. But let him try. I could drop to my crawdad stance and be wrapped around his legs before he knew what happened, but I'll play fair ... this time.

We might have a conversation. "Great day to die, Al." And it would go on like that ... until, finally, he would be lying in the middle of the road. But then, after everyone has given gifts to one another in celebration, after a couple of days, Garrett Al rises from the dead and vanishes from sight.