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Duel By Rimshot © 2004 Martin Tays Showdown. The final confrontation. High noon. Mano a mano. Lew eyed his adversary warily across the crowded room. Johnson was not going to make this easy. But the time had come to make a stand. Lew had put up with the petty insults and put-downs, the wisecracks, the jealousy…but now, Johnson was putting the moves on Lew's woman. And that was going. Too. Far. Eyes never leaving Johnson's face, Lew dropped a hand down to his weapon. And with unerring accuracy, six ounces of nonfat, low-cholesterol prune whip arced over the heads of the patrons of the Bide-A-Wee Nursing Home, Mortuary and Landfill ("For ALL Your Disposal Needs!") to strike Irving "Killer" Johnson in the face with a splat that echoed through the stunned silence of the dining room. "Johnson,” said Lew, venom and low-grade glaucoma flashing through his trifocals, "I'm calling you out." The confrontation had been inevitable, from the day Johnson's son Mortimer, of Mortimer's Plumbing Supply Kingdom ("I am the King of Bathrooms, but you can use my throne!") had deposited him at the home. Johnson, freshly retired with a gold watch and three surviving non-frostbitten toes from forty mind numbing years on the FrozeKing Refrigerator assembly line as the making-sure-the-little-light-actually-goes-off quality control guy and looking forward to a life of rest, relaxation, and making Mortimer regret flushing his antique coin collection down the john when he was six years old, was understandably distressed at being placed in a nursing home. In fact, it took seven orderlies and 10cc's of Demerol to convince him that he wanted to give the loving staff at the Bide-A-Wee a chance. And he still managed to break Mortimer's nose. So Johnson came into the home with an understandable attitude. Now, up until the unfortunate arrival of Johnson, Lew Hornbobble had been the undisputed leader of the Bide-A-Wee internees, benevolent ruler of an incontinent kingdom. Other patients came to him for advice and to arbitrate their disputes, and even the staff deferred to him, calling him "sir" before strapping him in for the night. Life seemed calm and ordered as he quietly doddered his way into the sunset. Then Johnson appeared, and took the staff and their elderly charges like Grant took Richmond, but without all that tedious mucking around with trenches and artillery. Lew, placated by his power, was slow to recognize the threat. By the time he took a good look around, Johnson was in. Book approval for the library: Johnson. Lawn chair dispersal: Johnson. Saturday night bingo caller: Johnson. He was even getting an extra cherry Jell-O on Tuesday evenings. Johnson had taken control. All Lew could do at this point was damage control. He managed to hang onto the prestigious job of medicart pusher during the afternoon dosage rounds, but only at the cost of losing control of the main lounge TV remote three nights a week. Thus, rather than watching his beloved Pompous Broadcasting System, he was forced to endure Geriatric American Gladiators and, worse, America’s Most Embarrassing Home Videos. All through this came nasty looks, sly comments, and cruel practical jokes (Lew didn't think he'd ever get his colostomy bag to work quietly again). And, on top of it all, Emma. Emmaline Amelia Maybeth Allisandra Bronski Jane Weisenheimerstein (her Mother was the indecisive type) had been one of Lew's only joys since she was admitted by her niece two years before. Though her antiquated hearing aid made conversation problematical (Her side of any discussion usually consisted of either "WHAT!?" or, for some unknown reason, "HAVE YOU SEEN MY KIDNEYS!?") and her mustache needed only waxing to make her the spitting image of Wilfred Brimley in drag and having a bad hair day, she still brightened up Lew's life enormously. Seeing her over there next to Him, laughing at one of his comments and accordingly launching little bits of half-chewed Grape Nut Roast in unaimed trajectories that had fellow diners for three tables diving for the dubious protection of the tile floor, something had finally snapped. Lew had known that the time had finally come. Standing there, rivulets of Lew's well-aimed projectile dribbling down the front of his lime green leisure suit, Johnson glared at his opponent. He knew it would finally come to this, had known for months, but he was still saddened. He’d hoped that they would be able to work out their differences amicably. Sadly, though, he realized that this had been futile. And today, the future leadership of the Bide-A-Wee would be decided. Without deigning to wipe his face, he reached out slowly to the table in front of him, a slow, lazy smile crossing his face. The onlookers broke into shocked whispers as he selected a weapon (except for the octogenarian Miss Hulcifer, who believed she was a duck. She broke into shocked quacking), and the whispering quickly changed into panicked shouting as he brought the dinner roll up and, with practiced ease, winged it across the heads of the fleeing diners to impact with an easily audible thud right in the middle of Lew's chest. Lew was stunned at the sudden escalation in weapons. The Bide-A-Wee kitchen's dinner rolls were highly regarded by the nursing home maintenance staff, who used them for pipe patching and stucco repair, and even the patients found them irreplaceable as door stops or for when they wanted revenge on those pesky pigeons, but in the long communal knowledge of the group no one had actually eaten one and never, ever, had one been thrown in anger. The consequences were just too…severe. Lew, an astonished expression on his face, sank slowly into his dining room chair with the sort of quiet wheeze one normally associates with an unplugged iron lung. Rioting rocked the room around him as patients, in a desperate attempt to get out of the line of fire, hurled themselves into each other, the floor and the wall. Cries of "Oh! Excuse me!" and "WHAT!?" mixed with wails of terror and the occasional quiet quack. Tables, overturned in the rush, spilled their contents in colorful patterns and interesting combinations that, given a methane reduction atmosphere and a good whack of lightning, might well produce life. The lights overhead swayed dizzily, adding a coruscating pattern to the chaos. Mr. O'Bedderman, who for the last ten years had clung proudly to his title as the world's oldest living Deadhead, watched the interacting lights and shadows for nearly a minute before he quietly muttered "…cool…" and passed out in his half eaten chicken and stars soup. The subdued burbling made a surreal counterpoint to the surrounding noise. Gradually, the clatter of seats hitting the ground and walkers in overdrive faded as the non-combatants made their thankful way to safety. In the ensuing silence, the ominous thud as Johnson dropped an entire bowl of dinner rolls down on the table echoed like a gunshot in a gong factory. "Go Ahead." Said Johnson, standing hipshot and pointing his cane like an arthritic finger of doom. "Make my day." "Quack?" "Not you, Miss Hulcifer." "Quack." Miss Hulcifer went back to assisting Mr. O'Bedderman, whose only response so far to her ministrations had been the occasional "blorp!" and one small tsunami of star shaped pasta and broth. The ticking of the clock was now loud in the dead silence of the room. Well, that and whatever passed for conversation between Miss Hulcifer and the rapidly asphyxiating Deadhead, whose last "blorp!" had contained a note of urgency. Fortunately, she managed to rescue him at the last minute, drenching his tie-died jogging suit in broth. As he raggedly dragged in enough air to observe "Woah. Dude!" she quacked happily and calmly upended herself in the half-empty soup bowl to go for the oyster crackers still lurking on the bottom. Meanwhile, back at the Bide-A-Wee Corral, Lew sagged, his eyes breaking contact with his triumphant foe. He knew that he'd been beat. The spectators, watching from the doors and through the windows, knew also and gradually started making their way back into the room. No one looked at him. He sat as he was, ignored in the hubbub, well wishes and occasional "WHAT!?" that centered around Johnson. Finally, he gingerly raised himself to his feet and slowly made his humiliating way down the hall to his room. His exit went unnoticed by all save the sodden Mr. O’Beddreman, who waggled his hand in salute, thumb and pinky extended, at the defeated warrior. Lew sat in his semi-private oasis of pain for several hours, thinking, before he managed to convince himself that he had make his best try. He had done nothing to be ashamed of. Also, he thought, rising to his feet, losing the battle does not mean losing the war. Slowly, a smile came across his face. And two minutes later, back straight, head held high, and used bedpan clutched firmly under his unwavering arm, Lew strode forth to do battle. |