Bruce Wagner - Memorial

All Joan knew was what she’d been told — ARK was seriously in play, along with Rimjob, Andy G, and other unknown soldiers of (fame and) fortune. She was on the short(hair) list; Lew confirmed it late last night. For the life of her, she couldn’t decide if letting him slurp the meat between her legs had strengthened or weakened her case.

But maybe those days and legs — bridge of thighs — were coming to a close, and soon she wouldn’t be capable of getting men to seek the peyote button visions of her clit. Maybe she was already on her way to excommunication — like the ex wife, the son, and the traveling roadshow shrink — all of them wilderness camp-bound. Soon she would be dumbed down, just like the Twain text; sex and hormones and Memorial gone, dumb and dumber.

Dumbed down, rubbed out, and old.

Old.

HE took Friar Tuck to the park, where he promptly bit a dog and its owner.

The old man hadn’t expected that, because the Friar was weak and sluggish. He was really just bringing him there for sun and fresh air. But when a Weimaraner came along and sniffed his hindquarters, the Nipper nipped, then attacked the woman as she jerked away her pet. Luckily, no blood was drawn on either side. The gal — a big, stocky type — was peeved, but softened when Ray said his friend had been shot, and this was his 1st “constitutional.” Ordinarily, he wouldn’t have played that card but the immediate situation seemed to call for some ham. (A lawsuit was all he needed.) She asked what happened and Ray said the sheriffs shot him by mistake. As it turned out, the woman had actually read about it, and softened even some more. She nodded in sympathy, commenting on the Friar’s sutures. Ray apologized again, and that was that.

He was going to leave but felt winded after the encounter. He sat on a bench on the outskirts of the meager greens. The Friar lay down and closed his eyes. The old man took the letter from the veterinary hospital from his coat pocket, put on his glasses, and gave it a read.

Dear Mr Rausch,

As you know, “Friar” was brought to our hospital approximately 2 weeks ago after sustaining a right radius fracture secondary to a gunshot wound. X-rays of the chest and abdomen, as well as a complete blood panel, were within normal limits. Because there were open wounds to the right front leg, and because the fractured bone pieces were still in excellent alignment, we did opt to treat Friar’s open leg with a splint. We have been changing the bandage every day. We are very pleased to see that the wounds are healing nicely, and the leg continues to have excellent alignment.

At home, it is imperative that Friar be kept as calm and quiet as possible for the next 4 weeks while his leg continues to heal. This means no running, jumping, playing, or roughhousing. Initially, we would like to see Friar back at our hospital every 2 days to change his splint. This will require a light sedative, so please do not feed Friar breakfast on the morning of these visits. If at any time you notice that this splint becomes soiled, please call us and we’ll be happy to change it immediately. A water-soiled splint can result in a serious underlying skin infection. In approximately 2 weeks, we will take a new X-ray to assess the healing progress of Friar’s fracture.

We are sending Friar home with a pain medication and antibiotics. Please give these medications as directed.

Thank you very much for the opportunity to help Friar. He certainly remains one of our most popular patients. Please don’t hesitate to contact us with any questions or concerns.

It choked him up — he was proud of his little warrior. Getting shot was a big deal. He’d rather have a heart attack any day. Nip still wasn’t sleeping too well; he was way off his game, crying out in the night at faraway sounds. He shook and puked during the day but the docs didn’t seem to think that would last. Ray was anxious to get him in the water, soon as he healed enough to swim. He lifted the submissive animal, cradling Nip in his arms as he hobbled to the car; 2 invalids. Then he laughed. Still had the gumption to take a bite out of a sonofabitch — and that fatso too.

That’s my boy.

THE next day, he cruised Sepulveda after dropping Friar for a splint change.

The boulevard had changed. It used to be ratty-looking but around Washington, he noticed all kinds of new places — coffeeshops, boutiques, upscale malls. He slowed at an elaborate building that actually seemed to resemble a railroad station. He circled around and parked, for a closer look. The sign said ALLIED TRAINS. He threw a quarter in the meter.

The store must have covered about an acre. A couple of employees loitering at the front gave him a deadpan greeting. He asked if this was the same shop that used to be over by Pico and Veteran. They said it was, but had moved to this location in ’86. “Really brings back memories,” said Ray. The men were young, and not up to kibitzing with a codger. They went about their business without asking if he needed help.

Every 10 feet or so was an elaborate, enclosed “city” with a train running through. A multitude of signs read DO NOT TOUCH, KEEP YOUR MITTS OFF, etc. (Ray thought it overkill, and a tad unfriendly.) He sure got nostalgic, though. Remembered buying Chesterfield his 1st set — must have been the early 70s. He could still feel the cold steel heft of the engine in his hand, a Lionel, and see the wonder in his son’s eyes when he opened it Christmas morning. White puffs came from the smokestacks, and when you pressed a button the train whistled. Toward the rear of the store, Ray looked inside a case and saw the very same model. The vintage engine wore a price tag: 13-hundred dollars.

He stopped one of the clerks. “Is that just for the engine or is that for the whole train?”

“Buy it!” said the clerk.

“But is it for the engine or all 6 cars?”

“Cash or credit card,” said the clerk. “Buy it!”

“OK, stop playing around,” said Ray.

An older clerk came around the counter.

The whippersnapper got lost.

“We bought that directly from the owner. It’s probably from about 1961.”

“Looks just like the one I gave my son.”

“Usually, the engine and caboose are what you’re buying — in this case, we’re just throwing them in. It’s the cars in the middle that you’re paying for. See that aquarium? That’s $600 right there. And the scraper on the flatbed — scrapers are rare, but this one’s rare-on-rare cause the flatbed is black instead of red. So that’s 400. See? So we’re actually throwing the engine and caboose in.”

Ray pointed to the set below, a string of Pullman cars with an observation deck.

“That’s not the California Zephyr, is it?” he asked.

The clerk looked at him blankly.

“Well, of course it isn’t. It says ‘Pennsylvania.’ ”

The tag on the Pennsylvania said 45-hundred.

The whippersnapper darted past.

“Cash or credit card! Get in! Get it! Get in and get it, right now!”

The old man scowled at him as he disappeared.

Maybe when the city paid the settlement, he would come “get it.” That punk was really getting Ray’s goat.

As he left he thought about his own defunct emporium, and miniature golfing with the kids — then it occurred to him another son might be on the way. He’d do right by this one, see this one through. He’d have the money to, anyway; it certainly cost a chunk o’ change to raise a kid. Besides, he was a different man now. He wouldn’t walk away. He had Ghulpa, and she was no Marj. She was no ballbuster.

Ray headed back to the hospital. He wondered how a place like that — they sold toy trains, for chrissake — managed to have such a lavish building. How in hell did it stay in business? The owner must be rich: only explanation. A computer geek probably bought it on a whim, for his own personal sandbox. That’s why the folks working there were so rude. Didn’t matter if they made a sale or not.