Gathering of Imbeciles: Book One

by Paul Kmiotek

  2

  Pablo, Dexter, and Golda Meir

  I

  When Donald was nine years old, his mother sent him to stay with his grandparents in Greece for the summer. Despite his constant bitching and moaning; Yaya Eurythra’s mustache scratched his cheek every time she kissed him, which was all the time - Yaya Eurythra and Poppa Faeces smelled like old, moldy, runny, Greek cheese - the only music they had in the house, well . . . shack, really, was an old eight-track tape of Anne Murray’s Christmas Album. And it was so worn that every song fluttered, warbled, and yawed from the beginning of track one to the end of track eight. And they listened to it 14 hours a day, seven days a week, every day of the year except for the two weeks preceding Christmas. Those blessed days were reserved for Jim Nabors. Despite his complaints, Donald had a good time that summer.

  It was there, the three of them sitting on rickety wooden chairs on the back porch, watching the hogs frolic happily in the mud, the warm golden glow of the setting sun glinting off of their wet bristly snouts (the swine, not the Greeks), it was there that Donald first developed his fondness for tobacco. His grandmother would give him one of her cigarettes, and the three of them would sit for hours, silently enjoying a good smoke.

  When he returned home to Queens at the end of August, he surreptitiously continued to indulge in his newfound love, but found most American cigarettes to be a less than satisfactory smoke. It wasn’t the taste, it was the diameter. In his opinion, the local butts were simply, obscenely large. Thus, the Virginia Slims, the only readily available smoke whose girth felt right between Donald’s lips. And it was a Slim that he was enjoying on the zoo path when he heard a voice behind him.

  “Excuse me, Sir! Hello! Excuse me!” Donald turned to find an elderly man, surrounded by about forty eight-year-old boys, beckoning to him from the public path. He was dressed almost entirely in black – from his laced-up leather boots, his sharply pressed slacks, his satin, calf length overcoat (despite the fact that the Indian summer weather was 90 degrees and oppressively humid that day), all the way to his fuzzy, wide-brimmed hat. Only his button-down shirt was white. He wore wire-rimmed glasses and sported a chest-length gray beard, flanked on either side by curly strands of hair, extending from his sideburns and hanging down past his whiskers. Donald looked around desperately, hanging on to a faint glimmer of hope that this man was talking to somebody else. He was the only one there.

  “What’s up, Bubbaloo?”

  “Can I speak to you for a moment, Sir?” He spoke with a slight, eastern European sounding accent.

  “Make it quick. I’m very busy.” He wasn’t, really. He’d just made a little girl cry by telling her that the squirrel that she was attempting to lure closer with a potato chip was going to rip her throat out, eat her flesh, and then make a nest out of her dried and bleached bones. He truly believed that it was for her own good. She needed to learn to fear wild animals. Now he was wandering around the zoo, looking for Gun.

  He couldn’t wait to tell the Maintenance Supervisor about his latest e-bay conquest; a near mint Partridge Family ColorForms set; still in its original packaging. Granted, Keith’s head was missing – no big loss, really – but it had the original Chris; the retarded one; not the bland and totally forgettable one that replaced him in the second season. This made the set very desirable to hard-core collectors.

  “I vas vondering if I could interest you in a deal? Of course you vould be vell compensated for your part.”

  “What kind of deal?” Donald was always interested in making a little extra cash. Especially cash that his wife didn’t know about.

  “Ve vould please like a tour of ze zoo. Some of ze more interesting, behind ze scenes areas zat only employees have access to. Ve vould pay you five dollars.”

  “I don’t think so. We’re not allowed to accept money from the public.” Not that pitiful amount, anyway.

  “Please, Sir. How about six dollars?”

  “Listen, Beb, I gotta go.”

  “But it would please ze kinder zo. Eight dollars is as high as ve can go.”

  Donald rolled his eyes and continued his search for Guenther. If he was going to risk his cushy job at the zoo, it was going to have to be for a lot more than eight dollars.

  II

  Dexter Gordon was the director of the zoo. He’d held that position since the day (June 25, 1964) that his parents bought it for him for his twenty-first birthday. They were concerned that a person of his . . . questionable capacity . . . as the doctors put it, couldn’t be trusted with the tremendous amount of money in which he was in line to inherit. Dexter’s father had influence in city hall, so he made a deal with the city. Dexter’s salary would be paid from a trust fund set aside for this purpose. In return, he merely had to sit in the mustard colored, sweat stained, velour covered recliner in his office, play his video games (his favorite was asteroids (it started with “ass” and ended with “’roids”, heh, heh)), and promise to stay out of the family business.

  And now Donald spied Dexter approaching on the public path. He slipped behind the picnic area totem pole, but it was already too late.

  “Hey, Donald! Just the man I’m looking for. I’d like you to meet my good friend . . . uh . . . Golda Meir.”

  “Zat’s Gilbert Meyer. Rabbi Gilbert Meyer. I’m pleased to meet you.”

  “Yeah, right. Anyway, I’d like you to show him and his kids around. That’s a good man. See you later.” And he was gone. Donald, slightly dazed by this unfortunate and unforeseen turn of events, turned to face the Holy Man.

  “Okay, where’s my eight bucks.”

  “Vat eight bucks? I gave ze fat man ten and he gave us to you, zo start showing.”

  “Ten? I thought eight was as high as you could go.”

  “Ze fat man vouldn’t get off of his tochus for less zan ten, zo I had to collect a nickel each from all of ze little kinder to make up ze difference.”

  “I see.” Donald’s perpetual scowl defied all logical laws of physics and somehow deepened. “Okay, let’s make this quick. Whaddaya wanna see?”

  “Vell, I understand you are opening an exhibit of extremely endangered parrots zoon. How about ve start zere?”

  The unlikely congregation arrived at the parrot holding area just in time to watch one of the birds, who’d spent the morning chewing through a heat lamp power cord, explode in a burst of sparks, smoke, and green, red, and yellow feathers. Forty eight-year-old boys gasped in unison.

  “It’s okay.” Donald quickly explained, turning the crowd around and pushing them toward the door, “Natural causes. Happens all the time. That’s what happens when they get old.”

  “Aaah.” Forty eight-year-old boys sighed in unison, clearly relieved that they had not just witnessed the senseless murder of one of God’s most beautiful creatures.

  “Alright, let’s move on. Wanna see some cows? They’re sacred to you people, right?”

  III

  “GOOD MORNING, BUDDY.”

  “Wha? Who’s that?” The old man woke with a start and peered around; trying to distinguish whatever disturbed him from all of the other blurry forms surrounding him.

  Buddy Crabbe appeared to be about a hundred years old when he started collecting tickets at the zoo. That was forty years ago. Time had not been kind to him, but he was tough. He occupied the rickety, hard wooden stool in his booth eight hours a day, five days a week, and fifty-two weeks a year, every day since the zoo opened. He had, up to this point, accumulated seven years worth of vacation time, sick days, and personal days. Dexter had promoted him several times, retired him three times, and fired him twice, and each time he returned, eight AM sharp the next day, perched himself atop his beloved stool, and promptly fell asleep.

  “IT’S DONALD, BUDDY, HOW’RE YA DOING?” Screaming so that the old man could hear him.

  “Come back here ya little bastard. Nobody gets in without a ticket.”

  “I WORK
HERE, BUDDY. REMEMBER? DONALD?”

  “Yeah, yeah, big fuckin’ deal. Who’s yer hippy-freak friend there? Fuckin’ hippies breed like cockroaches. Got no shame, longhaired freaks. Whatsa matter? Can’t afford a razor?”

  “HE’S NOT A HIPPY, BUDDY, HE’S A RABBI. AND THESE ARE HIS STUDENTS. HE’S A FRIEND OF DEXTER’S. I’M SHOWING HIM AROUND.”

  “Who the fuck’s Dexter?”

  “UM . . . HE’S OUR BOSS.”

  “Might be your boss, you spineless freak. Not mine. I’m my own man. Yessiree. Do whatever the fuck I wa . . .” Mercifully, the old man had exhausted his energy for the day, and nodded off.

  Donald scanned the farm, looking for somebody who might have been willing to take this herd of Hebrews off his hands when he noticed Morty, over by the sheep corrals, talking to some young Asian woman with a stroller.

  IV

  Morty Goetz had a saying: “What Morty wants, Morty Goetz.” Mostly, what Morty wanted was to get laid. Mostly, what Morty got were a bunch of bogus phone numbers from young, unwed mothers (a favorite target; desperation drove them to do things most women would never dream of - like dating Morty, for example), most of whom spoke little or no English, and all of whom vowed never to return to the crappy little zoo with the creepy guy walking the cranky beast.

  Morty loved to walk Pablo, the zoo’s five year old llama. It wasn’t that he liked the animal. He didn’t. Actually he hated it. Pablo’s breath smelled like rancid hay, and he often spit on Morty, who, in turn, would also smell like rancid hay, (though, to be fair, it was often difficult to discern any new stenches from the mélange of pre-existing stenches emanating from Morty’s infrequently washed uniform). But if you didn’t have a bunny or a baby handy, and you wanted to attract pretty, young mothers, then a llama was the next best thing.

  Most children can’t resist a big, brown-eyed, fuzzy animal, and the mothers were usually just as charmed. While the kids stroked the llama’s woolly neck, Morty would stroke himself, hands discreetly pocketed, while chatting up the hapless mom. During the course of such witty repartee as: “How’dja like to see my pet python?” or, “If you like fur, you should see my back.” Morty would slip them a scrap of paper, on which was scrawled: “Hi, I’m Morty. I’m a nice Jewish boy. My phone number is 555-6890. Please call me. Have a nice day.”

  Donald turned to his small horde of Hasidim just as one of the boys cried out “Look! A shofar! Mr. Zookeeper, do you ever blow the shofar?”

  “What?!!”

  “The shofar. We blow the shofar on Rosh Hashanah.”

  Donald was horrified by this little eight-year-old bastard’s insinuations. “Look here, you little shit, I don’t even have a chauffer.”

  “No, no. You misunderstand,” the Rabbi interceded. “Ze ram’s horn.” Pointing to a pair of repulsively overweight angora goats named Sam and Ollie, which were standing nearby, hoping for some free handouts. “Ve hollow it out and blow zrough it to zignify ze New Year.”

  “Oh . . . Uh, no. I’ve never blown a shofar, kid. Uh . . . Wait here, I’ll be right back.” And he turned to leave. He didn’t notice forty eight-year-old boys snickering in unison. Stupid goyim, fell for it every time.

  He crossed the farm to where Morty was doing his “Wanna pet my llama?” routine and overheard a young woman of Far Eastern descent say, “Eww. . . your cow smell baaad!” Any women who actually took Morty’s number and ended up seeing him outside of the zoo (there actually were a few) would soon find out, much to their dismay, that it wasn’t the llama that smelled bad.

  It would certainly seem logical to assume that the stench emanated from his uniform, which was splattered with the feces of animals of many species, and was washed about as often as the Pope sat Shiva, but there were those who believed it was related to his diet. Once a month or so, Morty would drive over to his local, members-only warehouse store and buy a few cases of “Franken-Beans”. He figured it out once; it came out to less than 25 cents a can. And one can for lunch and one for dinner of the delicious bean-like substance, with the scary little meat by-product monsters was about all that he could afford on his meager alimony/child-support burdened salary.

  Donald patted Pablo on the back and the startled animal swung around and unloaded a gutful of foul smelling, slime covered grass clippings and grain bits. It spread like a shotgun blast, splattering Donald from the third button of his wrinkled tan uniform shirt to the top of his filthy, faded green baseball cap, and from shoulder to shoulder. Donald reeled back in disgust, spitting out the pellets that had landed in his mouth.

  “Fuckin’ Christ!” He spat. “Get that fuckin’ thing away from me.”

  With a mortified look on her face, Morty’s young Asian target sped away as fast as her wobbling, little stroller wheels would roll.

  “Thanks a lot, man. I was this far from getting her number.” Holding his thumb and index finger an eighth of an inch away from each other.

  “I don’t think advertising your dick size is gonna get you laid, Beb.”

  “Fuck you, man. I almost had me some Chinese for dinner, if you know what I mean.”

  “Unfortunately I think I do, and that revolting image is probably gonna haunt me for the rest of the day. Anyway, how’d you like to do me a favor?”

  “I probably wouldn’t, but tell me anyway.”

  “You see that group I came in with?”

  “The Hasidics? Since when do you associate with Hasidics?”

  “Never mind that. They keep following me around. I got important stuff to do. Show them around the farm or something. Let ‘em pet your llama.”

  “Forget it, man. I can’t stand those people.”

  “I thought those people were your people.”

  “No way! I’m Jewish. They’re Hasidic. Completely different. You’re on your own, man. I gotta put Pablo away. See ya later.”

  “Just wait till you want a favor from me, Beb. See what you get.”

  “Unless you got that pretty little dumpling’s phone number, I don’t think it’ll be a problem.” He led the llama back to the corrals to rejoin the rest of the herd.

  At that moment, Sally, bent over at the waist, arms flailing in front of her, and chasing a pigeon that was zigzagging ahead of her, came crashing through the gate from the service area behind the farm.

  “Donald! Help! Stop that pigeon!”

  The curmudgeonly keeper (for reasons he didn’t quite understand at that moment) had a sudden mental flash-back of Penelope Pitstop (boy, was she hot), before swinging his size 11, mud encrusted work-boot clad foot at the bird. The winged rat dodged the kick and fluttered to the peak of the cow barn roof.

  “What are you doing?!! Are you crazy?” Tears started to well up in her eyes.

  “You told me to stop it. I was just trying to help. What’d you want it for anyway?”

  “It looked sick. It was limping and there was crud in the corner of its eyes. I was going to bring it to Lori so she could take a look at it.”

  “It’s just a pigeon, for Chrissake. Why are you wasting your time?”

  “I love all animals. I don’t discriminate. A pigeon is just as important as a person in my opinion.”

  “Yeah? What about Pablo?”

  “Ooh! I hate Pablo! He should be dog food! I’d like to cut him up into little, tiny pieces and feed him to the alligators!”

  “Ooo-kay. Well, I don’t think Lori wants to look at any pigeons, and besides, it looks fine to me. Hey . . . , how’d you like to do me a fav . . .” Donald was interrupted by a blast of static erupting from their radios, immediately followed by Muffy’s panicked voice.

  “Ah . . . ah . . . the elk! He’s right there! Omigod, he got out!”

  Donald sprinted past his Judaic entourage, “Gotta go!” and disappeared through the farm gates to the wild side, followed closely by Morty and Sally.

  V

  Minutes later, the Rabbi and his students had
filed through the zoo’s main gates, and were now boarding a yellow school bus parked in the lot. The Rabbi was the last to board, and as he passed, the driver spoke to him in hushed tones.

  “So? Whadaya think?”

  The Rabbi took the seat directly behind the driver, removed his black felt hat (and with it, the long, curly hair extensions), revealing a full head of shiny, jet black hair, and began to peel the woolly, gray beard from his left cheek.

  “It’s no good. We’ll have to select another target. I don’t think anybody would notice if this place disappeared from the face of the earth.”

  “That’s very unfortunate.” The “rabbi” watched the driver speak in the rear view mirror. His swarthy, pimple-pocked face darkened as he continued. “This will delay the schedule indefinitely.”

  “There’s no point in destroying a target nobody will miss.”

  “Of course you’re right. Tomorrow we’ll start looking for a more suitable target. A target that will make the godless American infidels cry when it is gone.”

  “Yes! America will weep.” He paused for a moment before continuing. “So anyway, what’re you doing tonight?”

  “Not much. I’ve got some home-ec homework, but it can wait. Why? What’re you doing?”

  “Nothing. Wanna rent a movie?”

  “Sure. How ‘bout White Oleander? I love Michelle Pfeiffer.”

  “Great. I’ll come over around seven. I’ll pick up some ice cream on the way.” The “rabbi” sat back in his seat, used his pinky nail to remove a large wad of brown crud from his right ear, and watched as the streets of Queens passed by through the filthy bus window.