The Whistler

Some of you may recall my blog of April 27th 2005--Which reminds me of The Whistler--a recollection that will have to wait until after my daily classes. Or, more realistically, never. If you are having difficulty recalling it, you could find it quite easily on this blog. If you do recall that entry, then I salute your superb memory. If you do not, I sympathize.

Now that we're all more or less on the same page...
The date was February 24, 2004. I was, in those days, an unshaven man-beast haunting the Purple Line of the "L". I rode with California Rolls--there's no better way to travel. Halfway to Chicago from Evanston, I accidentally ate a fingernail sized chunk of wasabi paste. It seared my nostrils and my eyes poured forth their protestation. Through the tears, I saw an ordinary fellow with two bags board the train. He was in his mid-40's and had tousled curly hair. I began to relax in my seat. Then, the man began to whistle. He whistled no tune I had heard before; he whistled no tune I have heard since. He whistled a haunting requiem that chilled my blood and brought desperation to my soul. Who was this foul Whistler? He reeked of sulphur and his luggage brimmed with brimstone. He was Satan's homosexual son, a demonic whistler to torment commuters.

Being the unshaven man-beast that I was at that time, my intellect was not entirely affected by his evilly whistled dirge as it was directed at average mortals. I was something more and something less; the sorrow held between his notes was deep in my heart and could do no more harm. I dedicated the time before the next stop to devising a way to offset his most-potent spell.

"Zipper", I intoned.
I paused to see the effect. Nothing

"Woodchuck? Cinder Block...SOUP CAN!"

People were starting to look at me, but not yet the Whistler.

"Sasparilla. Succotash. SUCCULENT LEAVES!"

I dropped nouns into the air with varying emphasis and emotion.
All the appearance of a conversation with but a single conversant. The Whistler had ceased whistling and was now eyeing me with fear.

"Peanut", I said knowingly. "Cilantro", I teased.

The Whistler put his hands on his luggage and averted his eyes.

"Parsley", purred the lovely Goth girl opposite my side of the car. She was on to the Whistler's ploy and had decided to aid me in my quest against evil.

"Cardamom?", I inquired.

"Sage. Rosemary. Thyme."

She couldn't break out of Scarbourgh Fair. She was of no use to me so I hit her with a barrage of spices.

"Ginger. Nutmeg. Aniseed. Fennel."

The Whistler disembarked the car. The Spice Chant had vanguished him and driven him back frome whence he came. Or to whence he was going. Or whatever.

"Um...I don't know any other spices."

The Goth Girl was done too. I popped my last piece of sushi in my mouth.

"Calamari is an animal. If you know what I mean."

"I don't", the Goth Girl lamented.

"Suit yourself." I got off the train and walked into the morning sun.

There is actual photo-documentation of this inhuman calamity, This repugnant Whistler and I feel that I would be remiss in my duty to you, the unfortunate readers of my unfortunate journal to not share it. So please, enjoy the Whistler, his repulsive behavior captured in mid-note.

In a Cold Sweat

Yesterday, J. and I went out to lunch at Siam Terrace. As we got out of the car, an extrordinarily dented Chevy Malibu cruised past us with an unkempt wild-eyed fellow at the wheel.
J. joked, "I sure hope he doesn't park near my car, he looks like he'd probably hit it."
"Merrrrful merrrrful", I chuckled.
So we went on in to have lunch and it was wonderful as usual. After we paid our bill, we made our way back down the street to the lot where we were parked. Just as we reached it, an awful ruckus assailed our respective ears. The crazy man we had seen earlier tore out of an adjacent parking lot and swerved toward us, then, just as suddenly, he swerved away from us.
"Get his license plate number!"
"Okeeday!"
With a banshee shriek of rubber, the psycho peeled away.
We investigated the damage. The nutball had pushed his midsize car through a space wide enough to accomodate two motorcycles side by side and distinctly too narrow for a Chevy Malibu to pass.
Hence the ruckus.
"Let's call 911!"
"Is this an emergency?"
"Let's go into the building and find the owners of the cars!"
"Okeeday!"
And in we went. We walked down a long and eerily white hallway to a door mysteriously marked, "Accountancy Office". Below those terrifying words there was another sign. In an ominously curling script it read, "Please Come In." I suspected that we would be killed immediately upon entrance.
Instead, a cheerfully plump woman inquired, "Can I help you?"
"Hi", I began, "we are but two humble witnesses to an egregious crime, the maiming of an innocent pair of automobiles in your parking lot. We have the license plate number of the villian responsible. Perhaps we can give you this information so that you could contact the appropriate authorities and bring this man to justice?"
"Heavens to Betsy! Those are probably Marcy's and Beatrice's cars. Let me get them." She disappeared into the office and returned with two women who were utterly indistinguishable from her and each other.
"Okeeday...", I mumbled, exchanging a look with J.
J. and I followed the three identical middle-aged women out to the lot. Upon seeing the respective states of their automobiles, a mournful keening broke forth from 'twixt the smearily rouged lips of Marcy and Beatrice.
When I could take it no longer, I cried out, "Halt thy repulsive tears, vile maids! The identity of this foul character is easily ascertained! We have his license plate number and a speedy call to the local law enforcement should deliver the dastardly knave unto justice's powerful grip."
"Yes! Yes! We shall contact them immediately", the shrews cried in unison.
"I am afraid that I have an engagement elsewhere", I excused myself, "but allow me to leave you my contact information in the event that the investigating officer requires a witness."
"Thank you, Oh Benevolent Manchild!"
"'Tis nothing", I replied.
They took down my name and number and J. and I drove off to the hospital because I had had a fever of 102.2 for 2 days. (Note: The doctor said I have a cold, but I STILL have a fever and I am not sneezing.)
Not much later, I received a call on my mobile telephone from an Officer Rhednec.
"Could you describe what you saw, son?"
"I'm really more of an ear-witness", I joked through my feverish haze. "But, I heard a terrifying rending of metal and fiberglass and I saw a severely damaged white car with a grey-haired oldish sort of fellow at the wheel."
"Did the man look...unbalanced?"
"Well...", I considered his query. "He did look a bit harried, but he had just hit two cars, so..."
"Can you think of anything else?"
"There was a Jesus-fish on the back of his car."
"Hmmmmm. That seems kind of contra-dic-tory", drawled Officer Rhednec. "You'd think he'd of stopped."
"Well, you'd hope", I replied.
Officer Rhednec thanked me and, as I hung up, I felt my precious organs being cooked by my still-raging fever.
"The horror...", I choked, "the...horror."

True story.