Chap. 22 - 'Gin Puts the Great in Alexander'

Not-Exactly-Chopped-Liver Fiction™
a could-be-worse division of None-Too-Shabby Enterpises, Ink

PRESENTS :

The History of Gin
or
A Fox's Tail©


Is Life Existential?   You Decide.
by   ' Colorado '  Gumi
...I n s p i r e d By T r u e E v e n t s...


Chapter 22

Gin Puts the Great in Alexander

Ginny was delighted to be in Greece.

However, truth to tell, given her druthers she’d have preferred to be there some time like a week from next Tuesday, not 2,300 years ago. You see, she had dreamed of escaping and losing herself in the Land of Zorba, where the poet Homer was a vague memory. . .not the Land of Socrates, where Homer was the bug-eyed dude walking by just now. In any event, she'd always wanted to go and didn't question the series of circumstances that had landed her there a couple millennia too soon. As always, she resolved to make the best of the situation -- At least the Iron Age was well along.

Thing is, Ginny wasn't exactly in the Greece. She was in Macedonia, which though decidedly "Greekish", wasn't considered "Greek" by the "Greeks". It was all "Greek" to her, but not to them apparently. Anywho, Gin found herself a welcome guest in the court of King Philip II of Macedonia, who was doing very well at uniting Greece and had all kinds of Greeks and Greek wannabees hanging around. It was amazing how easily she fit in -- She attributed her ability to speak and understand ancient Greek to all the Frat parties she'd gone to at Cornell. When asked, she said she was from Ithaca, which was true enough.

Gin was immediately adopted by the "In Crowd" at the Macedonian court, who greatly appreciated her New York City temperament and fashion prowess. It also helped that law school had trained her to remain docile while blowhards pontificate. It was a lot like listening every evening to the George Burns standup routine delivered by a somnolent professor-emeritus draped in a sheet, only not as funny. One fellow, a struggling former student of Plato named Aristotle, was smitten by Ginger and developed feelings best described as an embarrassingly pathetic mix of puppy-love and hero-worship wrapped in resolute cluelessness.

It was Ginny who inadvertently taught Aristotle to think like Aristotle. He hung about harvesting her every word like a crop of grapes; gently mashing them around in his head and carefully fermenting them in his thoughts over time. The invariable result was vinegar. Early on she made a big boo-boo with him. One day she was trying to get away from the hubbub for a few hours by hanging out at the amphitheater, which was empty at the time. She was lying nude on an upper bench working on her tan when Aristotle stumbled on her ...he was quite clumsy... bearing a perplexed expression. Pretending to run into her by chance -- he'd really been scouring the country for her all morning -- he exchanged pleasantries then stood there getting a brimming eyeful of Gin 'au natural.' Suddenly he blurted that he was stumped and it was driving him nuts. Turns out he was trying to get his head around a real puzzler... if a stone and a feather are dropped from the same height, which hits the ground first. His distress was such that he contemplated drastic action to resolve the question by actually testing it and observing the results ...he called it an "experiment", or something similar. Gin, who was dreamily watching clouds drift across the sky, told him not to bother; to just think about it calmly for a minute and work it out in his head -- A feather was lighter, ergo, the stone would land first. Aristotle seized upon this logic, developed a philosophy around it (without crediting Ginny at all) and crippled the Scientific Method for many, many centuries. Now while it may be true that Ginger didn't pay strict attention in High School Physics, the blame was entirely his for being such a dimwitted glory hound in the first place. ...Unfortunately, there was a similar incident involving that Sun-versus-Earth Orbit thingy -- That took two thousand years to sort out right.

Aristotle served Philip's court as the un-notable tutor to Morris, the least notable son from one of Philip's less notable wives. This pair, Morris and Aristotle, were easily the most angst-wracked persons in the Ancient World... beside them Woody Allen looks like Teddy Roosevelt. Invariably Aristotle would approach Ginny (a person who kind-heartedly avoids telling people to fuck-off) and confide to her the neuroses Morris constantly confided to him.

First, it was that Morris got no respect and people made fun of his name. So Ginny suggested changing it to something cool, like Alexander.

Next it was that he was the second-rate son of an "also-ran" wife. Ginny suggested telling everyone his father was a god, Zeus would be good.

Then the problem was that Philip didn't pay him any attention. Thinking for a moment, Ginny reminded Aristotle that Philip was getting married yet again in a couple of days and perhaps the best way for Morris, now known as Alexander, to get in his good graces was with a really killer wedding gift. When Aristotle said Philip was a big-time dagger aficionado and always loved getting a new one for his collection, Gin suggested Alexander get a really keen one and give it to his father at his wedding for a big surprise.

Of course she meant to give the dagger to Philip in a box wrapped with pretty pink paper and a ribbon... not thrust deep between his ribs.

With Philip of Macedonia's death Ginny reckoned either Aristotle or Alexander, or both, to be a couple amphorae short of a full trireme. Deciding some improving travel would add welcome distance between these numb-nuts and her, she quickly embarked for Italy to see all the famous sites ...before they actually became the sites of anything famous.

Some time later Ginny stood calf deep in water on the edge of a beautiful wave-dappled estuary with her toga, introduced by her that season in Rome to great acclaim, pulled safely above her knees. She looked over the water at several low islands where Venice would be -- she was somewhat concerned that even now the place stank. Presently her thoughts were interrupted by hoots from some guy hoofing it hell bent for leather toward her. It was Aristotle yet again. Over the past several months this dude had been running relays between the erstwhile Morris and Ginger bearing, for her consideration, every little problem furrowing Alexander's increasing noble brow. As he'd become the King of Macedonia mainly by her unwittingly Machiavellian advice, Gin felt obliged to help.

Problem was, too much seemed to get lost in the translation between what Ginger said and what Alexander heard from Aristotle. Ginny really regretted the time not long after she settled in Rome that Aristotle showed up to report Alexander was going stir-crazy cooped up in Macedonia. Ginny, who found her travels remarkably refreshing and was totally stoked by the successful premier of her design boutique near the Temple of Vesta, ventured innocently that Alexander also might benefit from improving travel by leaving stodgy Macedonia and touring Greece. Not long after Alexander followed her advice; only he took an army, subjugated southern Greece and rampaged roughshod over Thebes -- Gin felt like the poster child for the "Law of Unintended Consequences". But it was encouraging at least that Alexander finally was showing mettle -- On reflection she believed probably the name change from "Morris" had kicked off his career. And considering that his mother, Olympias, was a psycho bitch (who distinctly reminded Gin of someone she knew well at Cornell), Alexander was coming along really fine, if not great. Aristotle on the other hand still was a complete schmuck. . .thing is, he seemed also to remind her of someone she had known. And then there was his lame obsession to invent a popular new game -- all he'd come up with was a name... "Doon".

Anyways, the time just before this Aristotle had found Gin outside her Roman villa as she strained to figure out the best way to ride a large Nubian stallion that caught her fancy earlier in the day as he drank from the fountain near a stable just off the Forum. Borrowing the steed for a trial ride, she couldn't get comfortable because he was so big and had tried adjusting her mount several times. She'd finally decided to do it just sitting up straight in his saddle when Aristotle popped out of the bushes and spoiled everything. Gratefully giving up on the Nubian (as it was, she was sore for 3 days after) Ginny listened to Aristotle's recitation of Alexander's latest problem. It turns out Alexander had cleverly clobbered the Persians thru Anatolia and along the eastern Mediterranean shore. However, he now was stuck in Tyre and going flat. His initial offensive was punctured on the defenses of Tyre and the campaign was loosing air fast. Alexander needed something to pump up his army and get it rolling again. Thing is he'd committed all his phalanxes to take Tyre and didn't have a spare. Frankly he was tiring of Tyre. Gin understood Alexander's predicament perfectly. . .she once had much the same problem on the New York Turnpike with a Michelin. She carefully explained the solution to Aristotle -- in a nut shell, Alexander had to build a giant mole, a causeway accessing the island, to flatten Tyre. Aristotle was happier than a pig in slop as he hustled off to deliver the clever stratagem to Alexander. Strangely, Gin fancied she almost could see misfortune, misery, misadventure and mayhem trailing in his wake, like a line of baby ducks.

That was several months ago. Now as the proto-Venetian wavelets gently lapped her shins, Aristotle approached Ginny in a dither. He told her they'd done at Tyre exactly what she advised but it was going nowheres fast and Alexander was begging her to come quick. Gin had planned on next seeing where the Leaning Tower of Pisa wasn't, but immediately agreed to come along to help Alexander -- She was beginning to feel a profound sympathy for Frat House Mothers.

When Ginny, accompanied by Aristotle and Alexander, broached the summit of an intervening hill for her first glimpse of what they had constructed over many months on the shore before Tyre she had to admit it sure looked like a mole. Made of huge beams and planks; covered with raw hides, fitted with wheels and filled with soldiers, this giant mole looked exactly like the lawn munching critters cats drag in. Obviously, these guys had "The Iliad" too much on the brain. And the only effect this "giant mole" had on the defenses of Tyre was that the Tyrian guards kept falling off the walls from laughter. Livid from exasperation, Ginny immediately invented the drawing board. . .then went back to it with these two. Soon the mole was reconstructed in strict accordance with her plan and Alexander nailed Tyre in a blowout reminiscent of some Firestones.

With this latest cock-up resolved, Ginger decided it was time for a heart-to-heart with Alexander. She began by relating the story of Martin and Lewis, only for Alexander she couched it in terms of a fable involving a heroic pair of Cretan bull-leapers. Bottom line was she told Alexander it wasn't him... he was coming along absolutely fabulous, even great. But Aristotle was "Special" (a term with the same connotation then, as now) and Aristotle's specialness was holding Alexander back from his destiny. She advised him to break up the team, just like Martin and Lewis, and go his own way to greatness. She assured him that Aristotle would be OK, his "genius" eventually would be appreciated by somebody somewheres, maybe the French. Alexander greatly appreciated Gin's counsel and swore an oath by Zeus and Ares to follow it to the letter. Fortunately, the very next day Aristotle was diagnosed with leprosy and immediately shunned by every rational being in the Mediterranean Basin.

For his part, Alexander strove greatly to merit the adjective Ginny had kept using. And he soon did.

Relieved of babysitting Ren and Stempy, Ginny continued her perambulation, striving still to miss the crowds by visiting all the famous places ahead of their fame. Remarkably enough she eventually came to a famous place crammed chock full with famous stuff she knew very well. She was back home exactly when she had started.

Refreshed from this Grecian sojourn, first thing she did was buy her car a new set of Pirelli tires.


Epilog

As it turned out, Aristotle didn't have leprosy at all, just a severe case of scabies contracted from his young son, Brodicles. This Brodicles, son of Aristotle, had a son named Brodicles, son of Brodicles, who had a son, Brodicles, son of Brodicles, son of Brodicles, who had a son, Brodicles, son of Brodicles, son of Brodicles, son of Brodicles. Things continued in this vein for many more generations until eventually, after a couple centuries, the pattern in it all became discernible even to the descendants of someone as "Special" as Aristotle and the name just "Brodicles" became a family fixture.

To Be Continued

Chap. 21 - 'The Unbearable Lightness of Peeing'

Not-Exactly-Chopped-Liver Fiction™
a could-be-worse division of None-Too-Shabby Enterpises, Ink

PRESENTS :

The History of Gin
or
A Fox's Tail©


Is Life Existential?   You Decide.
by   ' Colorado '  Gumi
...I n s p i r e d By T r u e E v e n t s...


Chapter 21

The Unbearable Lightness of Peeing

"You unlock this door with the key of imagination.
Beyond it is another dimension -
A dimension of sound.
A dimension of sight.
A dimension of mind.

You're moving into a land of both shadow and substance.
Of things and ideas.
You've just crossed over into;

The Twilight Zone."

A young woman, smiling in anticipation, stands with garden hose at lawn's edge, surveying a thirsty patch of plump watermelons. She begins twisting the brass nozzle to drench the green orbs of saturated sweetness in a spewing stream... From this vantage, through a wide kitchen window, the faucet empties noisily into stoppered kitchen sink. Clear water rises slowly to the porcelain rim; it crests in a surge but is not released. Rather the fluid tumbles into the empty side of the double sink, which also is stopped. Once more inching up, a watery volume now threatens to overflow to the floor -- the water surface bulges with tension as it nears escape... In a nearby brook a liquid ribbon trickles along the bed, babbling happily on its way. The watery sound is engaging and hypnotic as the flow bounces along, tossing fat, noisy drops against stones and leaves... Farther down a fresh beaver dam impounds this fluid, which is going nowhere. . .just building and building; steadily pressing against confinment. All day long the pond's level has risen, creeping slowly up the frail embankment that blocks the sweet satisfaction of release... Overhead roiling waves of pregnant clouds race to blanket the sky; bellies obese with swelling burdens of rain. Though aching to release a torrent, the swollen clouds must wait and hold fast against mounting pressure; not a drop can escape before it is time...

"Submitted for your approval. Ginger Sue Mullins,
portrait of a dreamy young woman.

Ginger has many dreams.

Some are the literal aspirations of consciousness.
Others are the idle longings of daydream.

Then there are the frilly pink thingys that bubble up
when she is really into a good snore . . .
snuffling softly as she floats on a satin bed,
wrapped in downy covers,
soft brown eyes darting behind tight lids.

But the dreams this time will be different.
Because this time Ginny is dreaming
...in 'The Twilight Zone'."

From her car a woman scrambles to a nearby house after a long trip from the city. -- Failing to go before embarking, she drank an extra-large Dunkin Donuts coffee, a 24 oz. bottle of some fancy water and a Coke while driving. Upon the first twinge from protesting bladder she stopped at a gas station toilet. It was filthy; she refused to go in. Back on the bumpy road her kidneys soon throbbed in time to the slow click of tire treads as the car barely inched along in an interminable traffic jam. With fresh memories of that nasty gas station, she'd resolved not to stop again, in spite of the agony. Her back teeth were floating as she slowly rolled through several School Zones in town, only to wind up behind a school bus packed with bouncing kids. Her kidneys still throbbed, now in sync with the bus' flashing red lights at each excruciating stop. Finally she reached the driveway.

At the door, entry is barred by a lock set to keep her home safe from intrusion. She fumbles to open a zippered bag, scrabbles to find an elusive key, dances before a wavering keyhole and resistant new lock. The deluge looming in the sky over her shoulder just adds to the tension, slowing fingers and legs. All the while she's tormented by the image of a dark, damp spot appearing suddenly on an expanse of pristine white cotton fabric; the darkness spreads, corrupting everything with humiliating wetness -- She can't allow that. Her entire intellect - at that moment - condenses to a single thought stomping with heavy boots through her being ..."NOT YET! NOT YET! NOT YET!"... as she fumbles with the lock.


The Wal*Mart is nestled close by along Routes 34/13 amongst the web of channels connected to the ripply waters of Cayuga Lake. Strolling the aisles of this mega-store can, and did, take an hour or more. Now the woman looks for the ladies' room; itself a daunting quest in such stores. Anguished minutes later the restroom is found. . .to be closed for cleaning. Summoning the reserve of will that always must be there, she continues gawking at merchandise, making every effort to appear nonchalant while straining to keep a protesting bladder sealed watertight. Her universe collapses into a pair of opposing elemental forces; a throbbing demand to release the pressure and the stronger need to fight the urge. Preoccupied by the conflict raging deep, she maintains a mindless orbit close by the restroom, awaiting its opening. She stops in a daze, staring at lines of shelves before her. The nature of the products on these particular shelves eventually penetrates the stupor. Adult incontinence products. Stack upon beckoning stack of adult diapers ...of every type and description. And close by, bulging packages of thick, absorbent bed pads. They call, bewitching her thoughts; telling her she's wearing one now; that it would be OK; the pain would drain with the flow; every drop would be caught; no one the wiser. JUST LET GO. NO. She fights the urge that MUST be controlled for one to live with dignity in any culture on Earth. She would wait for one more minute. . .two more minutes. . .three more minutes. . .for lingering second mounted on second after lingering second...


Far away and a while ago, the "Prague Spring" ends in a blizzard of invasion. The streets of Prague often have echoed the sounds of armor... clanging shields, clinking chainmail, clomping knights, clattering calvary, clanking panzers. Now the clunk of Russian tanks. Tereza was desperate. Stuck on the streets at night amid the mounding tension her concern was not the tanks nor the infantry nor some other danger. Her concern was the fact she had to go bad and couldn't find anywhere. She cursed herself for drinking so many delicious Czech pilsners at the bar. She castigated herself for not going before she left that place. She condemned the curfew that closed everything between the bar and the long way home. Where could she go? She had to find someplace... But she refused dishonor -- Her whole life she always had gone with dignity, on a proper toilet, with her knees discreetly together and when done, wiping from front to back. That wouldn't change now, and it never would! But her taut bladder was about to explode. As she scampered along, a dangerous thought washed her repeatedly... "Any minute I'm gonna leak". . ."Any minute I'm gonna leak". . ."Any minute I'm gonna leak"; it pressed on her with unstoppable and irresistible certainty. The tormented muscle holding it back was on fire. One cannot permit desperate thoughts a toehold, they become self-fulfilling. But her dammed kidneys were throbbing.

Where was she now, anyways?? Wait -- That building down the next street and over one block. . .the Train Station, with a sweet multitude of Water Closets. She could make it if she squeezed tight -- tighter then she ever squeezed before. She hurried forward in a strange, stiff shuffle. Drawing closer she knew she could make it. Yes, she had the power to make it. . .just around a corner and across a street. Closing on the goal, she then noticed the military vehicles parked at intervals along the street. . .the soldiers stationed at intervals between the vehicles. . .the people roughly turned back from entering the Station. She stopped, knowing she would lose control at the mere thought of explaining all this to a Russian. Tears welled in her eyes as she realized the tired little muscular ring was relaxing against her will.


Back in New York City a woman sits in an important meeting of her firm; important not particularly in a business sense, its more a "Beauty Pageant" of office politics. Although the meeting definitely is not about her, she and the other young aspirants there are on display for judgment by their elders, like Rockefeller children round the dinner table -- Behavior must be perfect to remain "Partner-worthy." Only thing is. . .she has to pee.

Oh yeah... all day long she happily gulped the juice and soft-drinks provided gratis by the firm. She sent the office gophers out for flavorful frappuccinos that on arrival gurgled quickly down her gullet. And she guzzled fancy foreign waters from recyclable designer bottles. All this was done with giddy abandon. Then she rushed to the late afternoon meeting without first ducking into a Ladies' Room. She was smiling when the thing started; even sipping from another delicious cup of coffee.

Now the piper is being paid. She squirms deeply into the chair as a newly-minted junior partner continues the excruciating Power Point presentation he dreamed up at home late yesterday sitting before his original Dali. Through the night the presentation expanded in concert with his inflating ego as he contemplated the opposing wall where an anticipated Van Gogh would hang. ...Slide follows slide in super slo-mo. She visualizes her kidneys rolling up sleeves and warming to their task; wringing even more moisture out of her insides, drop by drop, and merrily sending it all downstream to her bladder, which seems to float in her chest. "Row, Row, Row your boat" plays on an endless loop through her head -- She curses their diligence and wishes those pesky little fellas would slack up a bit; maybe even call it a day. ...Meanwhile this presentation grinds on and on.

In extreme distress, pain and boredom, she drifts somewhat from full consciousness and imagines herself on a toilet. This image becomes reality. What a hoot... the meeting is a daydream and she actually is in a restroom after all. GREAT!. . .It's OK. . .She can let go. . .End the pain. . .It's now time. . .Everything will be fine. . .Just a moment more to finally unclinch the knotted little muscle. She sighs with relief, happy that the first drops soon will flow free...


In an apartment back at school, a young bleached-blond woman reclines in the empty bathtub. A second women, naked except for a pink pullover sweater, stands in the tub over the prostrate woman. During the long evening the second has imbibed several potent pilsners imported from the Czech Republic. Her bladder is distressingly taut with the fluids efficiently processed from that lager. She doesn't understand why Stacey always craves the thing she is about to do, but she does know she has come to enjoy doing it -- It seems appropriate; even deserved.

She plants a foot firmly on the edge of the tub to spread her legs. Her hand descends to the place between, where fingers spread the skin a trifle and pull up a tad to ensure the stream flows freely and directly on target. Tilting her hips a bit to perfect the aim, she begins to telegraph the enabling command, willing it to race along a familiar nerve to the protesting ring of muscle. Soon the dull ache in her belly will rush in an arching flow that strikes the eager, upturned face she sees there beneath her...


Far to the north in a small rented cottage, two women are gabbing, as is their wont; sharing female confidences about. . .feelings. . .relationships. . .Oprah... One of the women is a particular fox. As they wax philosophic they share something else, which they smoke. -- Call it a Marlboro for the sake of discussion. And in the bathroom, which has gone unused for an inordinate time considering we're talking about women here, the toilet leaks; noisily trickling water into the bowl as is the watery way of leaky toilets. But this harbinger does not penetrate the smoke about their heads.

Instead they chug lots more Sam Adams and lite another Marlboro. "Puff, the Magic Dragon" now is playing on the radio. The song before that was "Don't Bogart Me." The next song probably will be "Norwegian Wood." Things are really getting groovy. If the hallmarks of the "Love Generation"; Hippy tie-dye. . .daisies. . .incense... aren't actually present, they are there in spirit. And in the bathroom, calling with a Siren's insistence that is ignored at peril, incessant streams from both the shower head and tub spigot splash on the slick porcelain like waves against Scylla, then gurgle down the dark Charybdian drain. But the bathroom's call hangs in the air, unanswered.

Both women smile when the foxy one bogarts the Marlboro. Actually, the funny part was she didn't "Bogart" so much as "Gable" it; meaning that when confronted about a perceived inequitable distribution of the item, she replied; "Frankly, my Dear, I don't give a Damn." And in the bathroom, drops of water form at the sink faucet, grow fat quickly, bulge with gravity and fall free into space, mimicking, in reverse, the globular boil of a lava lamp. The escaping drops plop loudly in the sink below, which is clogged with the long hairs of countless co-ed vacationers -- the water level mounts inexorably in sympathy with the growing pressure in the women's bladders. But all this goes unperceived, for now.

Instead, the foxy woman starts to giggle -- who knows why, maybe the broom or the fan on the ceiling caused it. The giggles escalate to chuckles, as amusement often can. Again who knows why, perhaps a sudden realization that the broom and the ceiling fan that ignited the whole thing aren't even there. . .At this point answers are not possible nor even important. What is important are the involuntary muscular gymnastics in the fox's abdomen as her laughter evolves into one of those wrenching doubled-over bellylaffs that force tears from squinting eyes and empty lungs with unstoppable brays and hoots of humor. Of ancillary pertinence is the mounting pressure and flagging control downstream of her kidneys. When she manages to pry an eye open against the incredible weight of this funniest moment on Earth and sees her companion rolling backwards from her seat with sympathetic horselaffs, the mirth increases beyond all human endurance.

Just as foretold by the classic cinematic Cassandra, "Reefer Madness", consumption of Marlboros consistently conceives cruel cacophonies of cascading crazy cackles culminating in catastrophic consequences. Wracked by convulsive laughter, the foxy one's grip on things slips momentarily and the iron-willed ring of muscle that confines pulsing pressure and staunches fouling flow twitches for an instant. That's all it takes. A dark spot appears at the crotch of the woman's blue jeans as the hot liquid jet escapes like the spew of misfortune from Pandora's Box.

Dark blue wetness spreads over the lighter jean fabric like Mongols across Eurasia, only funnier. And like the hapless souls in their path, the fox couldn't stop it if she wanted. So there she was, marked with embarrassing oblongs of chilling moisture staining her jeans from the crotch. Although one might expect such an event would reinforce the shrill warning that casual indulgence in Marlboros inevitably leads to more serious things, such as peeing one's pants, the two friends continue to hoot over it for another hour or more. Perhaps they still are laughing about it...



Warned of impeding calamity by increasingly strident dreams, Ginny bolts fully awake in bed. Absently rubbing her pert bosoms, she scuffs to the bathroom and has a really long and satisfying pee. Giddy with relief she climbs in bed and returns quickly to slumber. Her brown eyes again dart behind lids rimmed with graceful, dark lashes. Snoring softly and drooling a lot, she now dreams of going to Starbuck's, ordering a medium cappuccino, meeting Jon Stewart at the condiment counter and seducing him in a hot tangle of arms and legs. It was better than she had ever hoped....

Stay tuned for a word from our sponsor.


The word is:

"iPhone!"


And now, Mr. Serling...

"Next week we'll take yet another heady
draft from the brimming talent-laced goblet of
"The History of Gin." The author promises a
treat with a special twist. Be sure to join us.
You'll be glad you did."

To Be Continued