CHARACTERFARM

I was leaving a convenience store, newspaper under my arm. I was slightly aware of someone approaching the store from my right. As I pushed open the door I heard a car horn blowing. I looked up, right into the face of The Pretty Girl.

She had a broad smile on her face. She knew (or thought she did) that the horn had been blowing at her. She liked that.

I tried to take her in. Tall, but not too tall (too tall would be taller than I am). Slim, but not stick-figured. Blue eyes, or maybe gray. Head up, shoulders back. T shirt, shorts. Light brown hair to the shoulders. Toothy. Maybe 19.

She passed by me. I held the door for her. I think she said thanks, but I'm not sure.
-

It was a Saturday morning when D was about seven or eight.

"There's a short, burly guy with a baseball cap coming up the walk," LZ said.

"That must be D's new baseball coach, Dan B," I said. "Let me get the door."

"Coach Dan," I said. "What brings you here?"

"I wanted to talk to you about your boy, D, and baseball," Dan said. "Mind if I come in?"

"Not at all," I said. "Can I get you a cup of coffee?"

"Never touch the stuff," Dan said. "No stimulants, no depressants, nothing. I try to stay on an even keel."

"That's commendable," I said.

"About D," Dan said. "He has some ability, but he needs work. Now, when My Boy was three, almost four, I had the wife change his nap time and our dinner hour so when I got home we could work on hand-eye techniques. We went down to the basement every night. I rolled him fifty balls, then I bounced him fifty, then I lobbed fifty right to his midsection."

"I have noticed that Your Boy has excellent coordination," I said.

"You haven't been doing this with D, have you?" Dan asked.

"No," I admitted. "I haven't."

"I've developed a list of skill building drills that you can work on with him," Dan said. "You don't want to wait until it's too late."

"Too late," I said. "Too late for what?"

"Why, for All-Stars," Dan said. "That's what we're working for, isn't it?"

"I didn't even know they had All-Stars at this age," I said.

"They don't," Dan said. "I'm talking down the road a few years from now. But this is the time to get ready. Don't kid yourself, all the coaches are making notes and planning."

"I didn't know that," I said. "From what I remember, they had tryouts every year, and the kids who did the best made the All-Stars."

"That's the old way," Dan said. "Current thinking is that you've got to get a core group of kids early, groom them, work with them, and forget the rest. It's the only way to succeed."

"No tryouts, then?" I asked.

"Oh, they still have tryouts every year. It's required. But it's just a matter of form, making it look fair, so everyone thinks they have a chance," Dan explained.

"I see," I said. "So, did you play a lot of baseball yourself?"

"No," Dan said. "I didn't start playing baseball early enough to really get my skills developed. I was a wrestler. I wrestled my way all through college."

I could believe it. I had a vivid image of him grappling with an opponent, a mirror image of himself, tussling out of a classroom, rolling down a hallway, bumping down stone steps, ending up in a heap at the edge of that stubby grass plot optimistically known as the quad.

"Also, if you're interested, I've got a copy of the national physical fitness standards," Dan said. "There's no way I trust that grammar school gym teacher to keep anyone in shape. What I'm working for is to have My Boy exceed the standards by 100% this year, by 200% the next year and so on."

He handed me a pamphlet and some loose photocopied sheets.

"Thanks," I said.

"Well, I've got to go," Dan said. "I've got a couple more stops to make this morning."

"I'll tell D you were here," I said.

"Hit the ball in front of the plate. And swing through the ball. Tell him that," Dan said. "It's important. For his future."

"Have you heard of those Living Wills? Bugel asked me.

"Of course," I said. "They're pretty common now, aren't they?"

"They're a bunch of shit," Bugel said. "I'm not signing one. I want to live as long as possible. Coma, oxygen, ventilator, whatever. It's better than being dead. You know if you go in the hospital they can put that DNR on your charts? Not for me. I'm having a big R on mine, fuck the DN."

"I'n not clear why you're telling me this." I said. "Shouldn't this be something you go over with your family?"

"I've made a list," Bugel said. "I'm telling everybody on the list. That way there's no confusion. If anybody ever says, for example, that's it's better that I'm dead, that I wouldn't have wanted to be a burden, that's a lie. I've got no problem being a burden. In some ways, I'm almost looking forward to becoming a burden. I hope I do live long enough to be a burden to someone."

"I guess you don't check off that box on your license about organ donation," I said.

"Are you out of your mind?" Bugel laughed. "That's worse than signing your own death warrant. You're talking vivisection."

"So, how is your health?" I asked

"Oh, I'm perfectly fine," Bugel said. "I'm just trying to take care of things responsibly, like they tell you to. Before it's too late."

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"I ran into Bugel, over at MonsterShoppingWorld," I told LZ.

"I haven't seen him in years," she said. "How is he doing?"

"He's fine," I said. "Physically. He was talking about Living Wills and the future."

"That doesn't sound like Bugel," LZ said. "He was never the responsible type."

"I guess people can change," I said.

Jimson: His passion was barbershop music. His efforts to mold the Jurvoz brothers into a top notch quartet were frustrated by Jake's increasingly erratic behavior. Eventually he stopped singing altogether. In his later years he reportedly became enraged if he should hear even so much as a few bars of Sweet Adeline. Jimson never married. He died an angry and bitter man.

Old Jake: Mister Green Jeans with a carpet knife. Moved out west to become a potato farmer. Never very stable, Jake became increasingly unhinged by the bleak and frigid Idaho winters. He sexually violated and murdered three local girls. I won't go into any of the details here, but Jake's deeds received extensive tabloid coverage at the time. You could look it up.

The B movie Russet Rampage is a lurid look at Jake's atrocities, albeit one that plays fast and loose with the actual facts.

Jake is still alive and resides at the Ketchum Home for the Criminally Insane.

Jervez: A recluse who preferred the company of horses to that of humans. In his later years he was stricken with arthritis, lupus, myasthenia gravis, scleroderma, and a myriad of other, minor ailments. He treated himself with horse medicine, primarily pills, liniments and poultices, estimating the dosage by dividing his weight into that of his favorite horse, Napoleon III. He finally succumbed one cold January evening, after falling face down in a bucket of oats. He was found a few days later when the frantic whinnying of his hungry horses alerted a neighbor.

Jorrel: Youngest of the four. Was a jukebox stocker for a company controlled by the local crime syndicate. Amassed a tremendous collection of used 45's. Became a self-professed expert on one hit wonders.

After many years of working in bars and listening to the pop song after pop song, he turned to painting to quiet his nerves. Worked in oils, painted many cliched scenes of an imagined west. Craggy men, craggy mountains and craggy horses featured prominently in his works. Now also collects western memorabilia.

Father of the Jurvoz who has begun appearing regularly as a more fully realized character in an obscure blog.

Joe H. and I were were discussing the casual cruelty of children.

"We had this kid in our school with a really big head," Joe said. "Everyone called him Billy Big Head."

"That's pretty bad," I said. "I wonder how he ever turned out. Can you get past stuff like that?"

"In this case, it's moot," Joe said. "Billy died. Just a few years later."

"Was his death related to his head size?" I asked.

"I think so," Joe said. "Or maybe I just assumed it. I never really bothered to find out."

Ann S has enjoined me from placing her on the farm. She has threatened me. So, for the present time, Ann will remain a ghostly, undefined presence.

The long thin black hairs on her forearms, standing out in dramatic relief from from creamy, extremely white skin, are, however, in the public domain, and, as such, can be referenced here.