Richard W. Jennings

Mr. Biddle couldn’t sleep.

This was not because of his prostrate problem, a common affliction among men his age. Nor was it because of a delicate and inconvenient digestive condition, also routine among the elderly. Nor was it because of his advanced arthritis, nor the torn ligaments in his right arm and knees, nor from the weight of a guilty conscience, nor his recently received superficial wounds from attempting to capture one of his little runaway dogs (the longhaired twin — the rambunctious one) in a briar patch that had grown up around by the neighborhood retaining pond.

No.

The reason that Mr. Biddle couldn’t sleep was because he’d failed to push the two matching battered leather sofas together tightly enough to hold him and his three little dogs securely. The dogs had found comfortable spots, to be sure, some under freshly washed covers, one on the very edge of the back support.

The sofas were piled high with comforters and blankets and quilts. The problem was that Mr. Biddle had wound up in the middle and found himself continuing to slip inch-by-inch through the crack to the floor, a hard, dusty, cold surface of ceramic tile, marked by dead ants and dog hair, installed recently at considerable expense to Mr. Biddle simply for the convenience of the three occasionally piddly little dogs.

That Mr. Biddle should have vacuumed the floor daily was a given. That he did not, tells us something about Mr. Biddle’s station in life.

In a manner of speaking, Mr. Biddle lived alone. He was somewhat up in years, and had settled into a household that consisted on himself and three little brown dogs of equal size, similar breed, and different ages. Two dogs were about one year old, and the third dog, the fattest one, was three. Unlike the twin puppies, He was also bow legged in the back and wrinkly in the face.

All were sweet and loving animals that doted on Mr. Biddle, as he did equally on them. Indeed, much of Mr. Biddle’s day was given to head scratching and tummy rubbing, not to mention treat giving, nose kissing, and creative meal preparations.

That Mr. Biddle’s dogs were an obvious substitute for the three children he’d lost in a divorce did not confound his conscience. As far as he was concerned, love is love, and whether it was for child or beast is neither here not there. The important thing, he reasoned, was that the effort be acknowledged and returned.

To this end, Mr. Biddle had it made. The three dogs were natural born custodians of selfless love. Mr. Biddle had only to tap into their resources.

Mr. Biddle was over sixty-three years old. At the age of sixty-three, it is possible to obtain free money from the United States Government. Not enough to live on, of course, but enough to buy dog treats and put gas in the car. Beyond these few items, anything else would require resourcefulness, of which Mr. Biddle had a certain amount, but not quite enough.

He was always coming up short.

At one time, when he was younger and considerably more enthusiastic about the sport of business competition, Mr. Biddle had been a top executive in a big company handling millions of dollars of other people’s money. For this he had been well paid. But the money he had accumulated, a substantial sum, had begun to run out, and Mr. Biddle was struggling now with the thought of ending up in poverty.

This, like the crack between the two battered leather sofa, concerned him daily — and nightly.

Mr. Biddle lived in a townhouse at the edge of the city. In the far distance was a wooded area that went on seemingly forever. Closer by was a Wal-Mart Supercenter, a UPS store, a CVS Pharmacy, a Starbucks drive-through coffee shop, and a high school, two middle schools, and an elementary school.

Within a ten-minute drive were three major hospitals, all branches of big downtown hospitals with teams of heart surgeons and neurosurgeons and oncologists and psychiatrists and osteopathic surgeons and experts in bug bites and bird viruses.

There were also at least twelve high-quality restaurants featuring fresh seafood, and Kansas City barbecue, Chinese food, Thai food, French food, Northern Italian food, and genuine Southern cooking prepared under the supervision of three stout black women — sisters — originally from central Alabama who’d become wealthy cooking in the Midwest.

It was, in other words, a very good location.

Not a day went by that Mr. Biddle did not count his blessings.

When he was not counting his blessings, Mr. Biddle was reading books, or working in his patio garden, or watching cooking shows on TV, or trying out the recipes that he’d seen while watching cooking shows on TV, or sending post cards to people he used to know, or playing with his dogs.

These were his habits.

Mr. Biddle spent no money on clothing, none on travel, none on dating, none on gambling, none on any of the common vices offered to grown-ups by a big city of which there were plenty.

Mr. Biddle spent no money on clothing, none on travel, none on dating, none on gambling, none on any of the common vices offered to grown-ups by a big city of which there were plenty.

Mr. Biddle had discarded the prescriptions his doctor had given him for high cholesterol, high blood pressure, chronic acute depression, arthritis, glaucoma, a tendency for accidental bruising, and occasional but persistent earaches.

“You can’t fix everything,” Mr. Biddle concluded, perhaps somewhat unwisely.

Despite these infirmities, Mr. Biddle found joy in each day.Most often, this joy was provided by the antics of his dogs.

The only serious setback to Mr. Biddle’s luck-filled life was the occasional, unexpected release of tears.

This Mr. Biddle could not explain as he wiped his watery face with a recently laundered washcloth.

How did I get to be sixty-three?" Mr. Biddle sobbed. "I was considerably happier when I was twelve."

". . . a fun ride . . ."

PUBLISHERS WEEKLY

© 2009 RICHARD W. JENNINGS

Mr. Smart Mouth
Mr. Biddle’s Alter Ego
In
“Putting Up With Annoying Neighbors”

Mr. Smart Mouth’s little bow-legged dog likes to sit on top of Mr. Smart Mouth’s cream-colored leather couch and look out the window. Sometimes, when a neighbor passes by on the sidewalk, only four or five feet from the window, Mr. Smart Motuh’s little bow-legged dog begins to bark.

Like most of the members of his species, barking is the only form of speech Mr. Smart Mouth’s little bow- legged dog is blessed with. On most occasions, what he is trying to say is, “Hello, who are you? Won’t you play with me?”

This is especially true if the neighbor is walking a dog that has paused to go to the bathroom in Mr. Smart Mouth’s front yard, an all-too-common occurrence.

Sometimes, however, what Mr. Smart Mouth’s little bow-legged dog means by his barking is, “Go away. This is my house. You don’t belong here.”

This is what he meant when he barked at the man from the electric company who came out to read the meter this week, and also to the woman who was selling specially revised vinyl-bound Bibles door-to-door last month.

When the weather is nice, Mr. Smart Mouth opens the windows so his little bow-legged dog can enjoy the breeze as well as the abundant sunshine. Under these conditions, the barking of Mr. Smart Mouth’s little bow-legged dog, like any loud noise, can be heard for a considerable distance.

None of this behavior bothered Mr. Smart Mouth. Dogs are dogs, and to deny them the opportunity to be dogs is just wrong, as far as Mr. Smart Mouth is concerned.

But not everyone in the world agrees with Mr. Smart Mouth’s point-of-view.

In fact, not even everyone in Mr. Smart Mouth’s neighborhood agrees with Mr. Smart Mouth’s point-of-view.

One day, when Mr. Smart Mouth walked to his nearby mailbox, he found a letter inside that had no return address, and, upon opening it, no signature either. The letter said: Your dog’s barking is disturbing the peace and quiet of the neighborhood. This is against the official rules. If your dog doesn’t stop barking, action will be taken.”

Mr. Smart Mouth was taken aback.

Who could have sent such a message?

Was it the woman whose two beagles always pooped in his yard then left their mess behind?

Was it the man who put his trash out an hour after the trash trucks had already come, then left it sitting on the curb until the following week?

Could it be the couple that operated a construction business and parked their loaded trucks in front of Mr. Smart Mouth’s house for days at a time?

Perhaps it was the man who held parties every Saturday night until the wee hours of the morning, with recorded music playing loudly, whose guests threw cans into the street.

Or the woman who held garage sales every weekend and left her hand-made signs posted at the street corner all week long.

Maybe it was the neighbor who once in a while stole Mr. Smart Mouth’s morning newspaper from his driveway forcing Mr. Smart Mouth to call the newspaper headquarters for a replacement copy.

Perhaps it was even the old woman in the yellow duster who, after walking her own dog one morning, attempted to enter Mr. Smart Mouth’s identical-looking house thinking it was her own.

How could he know?

Mr. Smart Mouth was seized with a sense of suspicion and distrust.

“I thought we got along with our neighbors,” he said to his little bow-legged dog. “But obviously, with one of them, at least, we have a problem.”

After that, Mr. Smart Mouth was careful to shush his little bow-legged dog whenever he barked at the window. Mr. Smart Mouth also kept the windows closed even though the weather outside was a most unexpected and glorious Indian summer.

Whenever he saw a neighbor on the sidewalk Mr. Smart Mouth wondered, Is this the one?

Mr. Smart Mouth had never been one for introducing himself to strangers. Now, he found himself becoming even more of a recluse. In the evenings, when he watched his cooking shows on TV, he closed his blinds. In the mornings, when he took his little bow-legged dog for a walk around the pond, he tried to avoid speaking to anyone. And throughout the day, he was vigilant about keeping his little bow-legged dog quiet, lest someone, somewhere be disturbed.

But one day, the time came when Mr. Smart Mouth had had enough.

Anonymous, unsigned threats from sneaky, furtive people hiding behind their curtains was not something that Mr. Smart Mouth felt a reasonable person should endorse. If someone had a problem with him, or with his little bow-legged dog, let that person come out into the open, and speak up.

Otherwise, Mr. Smart Mouth thought, their complaints are like a tree falling in the forest when no one is around.

They cannot be acknowledged.

Mr. Smart Mouth raised the blinds and threw open all the windows in his living room. He put his little bow-legged dog on his favorite spot on the back of the cream-colored couch.

“Have at it,” he advised. “Bark at anything you wish. As much as you want, as loudly as you want, for as long as you want.”

In no time at all, Mr. Smart Mouth’s little bow-legged dog was barking at a scruffy little Maltese that had stopped to pee on Mr. Smart Mouth’s holly bush.

“More, more!” cried Mr. Smart Mouth. “Let yourself go!”

The little bow-legged dog complied by barking at the men on mowing machines cutting the grass between Mr. Smart Mouth’s house and the mailbox. He barked at the UPS man stopping his truck next door. He barked at the street sweeper driving in a circle around the cul-de-sac.

“More!” Mr. Smart Mouth demanded. “Give it all you’ve got.”

A pretty young woman pushing her new baby in a stroller passed by. Mr. Smart Mouth’s little bow-legged dog barked like an angry harbor seal. A man in a zipped-up silver running suit zoomed by. Mr. Smart Mouth’s little bow-legged dog lunged at the window and barked as if he were in the country cornering a covey of fat, feathery prairie chickens.

“Bark!” Mr. Smart Mouth insisted. “Bark until you can bark no more.”

Really, Mr. Smart Mouth thought. If a little bow-legged dog has the guts to speak up, shouldn’t a person?

That evening, Mr. Smart Mouth and his little bow-legged dog walked up and down the sidewalks of the entire neighborhood. Whenever they chanced upon a neighbor they paused and politely introduced themselves.

Mr. Smart Mouth’s little bow-legged dog made a point of licking the ankles of everyone they met. By the time they got home. Mr. Smart Mouth’s little bow-legged dog was exhausted.

But Mr. Smart Mouth wasn’t finished.

He placed his little bow-legged dog on top of the sofa by the window and turned on the porch light. Patiently, he waited for someone to walk by. For the longest time, no one did. Only mosquitoes, fireflies, moths, and gnats, all attracted to the warm porch light.

Then, from out of the shadows, came a man walking a big, fierce-looking German shepherd dog.

“Now!” Mr. Smart Mouth said to his little bow-legged dog. “Look outside now!”

Alas, Mr. Smart Mouth’s’s little bow-legged dog was too tired to raise his knobby little head.

Dang! thought Mr. Smart Mouth.

But before the dog and his mysterious master had passed by, Mr. Smart Mouth thrust his face to the window screen and shouted, “BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK!”

Mr. Smart Mouth’s little bow-legged dog paid no attention but the German Shepherd dog began barking back as if it had a need to kill while his master stared intensely at Mr. Smart Mouth’s house with a look of anger frozen in his face.

Aha! thought Mr. Smart Mouth.

Two can play this game.

© 2009 Richard W. Jennings

Mr. Biddle’s hair had begun to look like cabbage leaves.

Clearly, he was past due for a haircut. But Mr. Biddle hated getting a haircut.

First of all, it was a lot of trouble. Secondly, it cost too much for what it was. And thirdly, he never like the way he felt after a haircut. His whole body itched. The discomfort would not go away until he’d had a long, hot shower.

It was the same way Mr. Biddle felt about getting the oil in his rusty blue car changed. Or sitting in the lobby waiting to see his doctor. Or waiting at the airport for someone to arrive from far, far, away.
A lot of money and half a day wasted.

Meanwhile, Mr. Biddle’s little bow-legged dog had to sit at home with nothing to do but wonder when Mr. Biddle would return.

Mr. Biddle worried about this.

Dogs think that when you leave without them that you are never, ever coming back. No one knows why this is so. It is simply a quirk in the mind of dogs.

So Mr. Biddle sat in a split leather chair with tarnished chrome arms and fretted over his dog fretting about him. Under such circumstances, Mr. Biddle could hardly enjoy the magazine article he’d picked up, which, on this occasion, was about smoking cigars and shooting bears.

There were five barbers working in Mr. Biddle’s neighborhood barbershop that day. Two of them were young women, which was a big change from the days when Mr. Biddle had gotten his first haircut. Overhearing their conversation, he realized that the women were neighbors who had recently dated the same young man.

One of them was also playing a radio featuring a non-stop block of an hour of popular love songs, uninterrupted by commercials. Mr. Biddle, already slightly hard of hearing, suddenly wished that God would go ahead and finish the job.

In a distant city, Mr. Biddle had a brother. His brother had no hair at all so never went to barbershops. Mr. Biddle thought about the concept of divine compensation. For whatever we receive, we also pay.

Everything comes at a price.

Clearly, Mr. Biddle was nervous about getting a haircut.

The barber whom Mr. Biddle had selected was the owner of the barbershop. Mr. Biddle preferred to work with the boss, whatever the situation, because in Mr. Biddle’s experience hired help is frequently unreliable. This is especially true in restaurants, he thought, but it also applies to dry cleaners, video stores, repair shops, and hospitals, among other places.

In this particular case, the boss of the barbershop wore his own hair long and swept back like a once-famous dancer from a 1970s disco movie. Mr. Biddle wondered if maybe he might have been better off to choose one of the two gabby women, or the young man who wore his hair gelled straight up like a sea urchin, or the old man who kept taking bathroom breaks and muttering to no one in particular about corruption at every level in the government.

The quickest way to kill a bear is to put three slugs into his midsection, Mr. Biddle learned from his reading, a fact he dearly wished he hadn’t. The slowest way is to introduce the bear to tobacco, an addictive and ultimately deadly drug.

Either way is very hard on the bear.

Mr. Biddle wasn’t the only one waiting for a haircut. There was a tired-looking woman with three little boys who swarmed around the room like hamsters suddenly freed in a pet store. There was a man dressed in typical businessman attire who looked as if he might enjoy killing a bear right now, with or without a weapon. And there was an old, bent-up looking man in thick glasses whose hair resembled wilted cabbage leaves – no wait, that was a reflection in the mirror.

It was Mr. Biddle, himself.

Horrors! Thought Mr. Biddle. I got here just in time!

The owner of the barbershop enjoyed his work. He especially enjoyed getting to know his customers. In the course of twenty minutes, after removing Mr. Biddle’s glasses so he was cut from all of his senses save hearing, he asked Mr. Biddle if he were seeing any women, how much he’d paid in taxes the year before, what kind of car he drove, what his plans were for the upcoming holiday, what he thought about the prospects of the football team this year, and how many different kinds of fruit he’d ever grown at one time.

Unaccustomed to such rapid-fire interrogation, Mr. Biddle got a few of his facts wrong. For example, he inadvertently claimed to have grown olives, when what he meant to say was oranges. He also confused the name of the football team with the name of his bald-headed brother.

Then the barber spritzed Mr. Biddle’s hair with a clear concoction from a plastic bottle that had no label and spun Mr. Biddle around in the chair to admire the results in the mirror.

Seeing nothing but ghostly shapes, Mr. Biddle requested his glasses.

No longer did Mr. Biddle’s hair look like cabbage leaves. Now his hair looked like a cabbage whose outer leaves had been carefully plucked off and discarded down a disposer.

Mr. Biddle was reminded of the first horror movie he ever saw as a boy, “Invaders from Outer Space.” In the movie, each of the space aliens had heads that looked like cabbages with alien blood — consisting of pure alcohol — pulsing intermittently through prominent veins.

As a child, Mr. Biddle had nightmares about these cabbage-headed creatures for weeks.

Now he was one.

With his right hand, he felt the top of his newly spritzed head. Mr. Biddle’s hand bounced right off as if he’d just smacked the winning shot in a game of handball.

When Mr. Biddle stepped outside, the wind whistled around him as every strand of hair remained in place. It was as if he’d exchanged his hair for a scouring pad. Bits of fluff from cottonwood trees attached themselves to Mr. Biddle’s still-drying adhesive spritzed coiffure.

At home, Mr. Biddle’s little bow-legged dog barked at him, and not happily. The little bow-legged dog had been expecting Mr. Biddle. But what stood before him was worse than a stranger.

It was an invader from outer space.

After showering, washing his hair thoroughly, and fluffing it with his fingers, Mr. Biddle held his little bow-legged in his lap, comforting him while the two of them ate a nice, warm dinner of beef stew from matching bowls, while watching a cooking show on TV.

The lady on TV was tall, slender, and very pretty. As she began arranging decorated cookies on a fancy plate, she leaned in front of the camera exposing her modest cleavage and draping her long, blonde hair onto the fresh- baked treats.

“You know,” Mr. Biddle said to his little bow-legged dog, “if she’s going to be in that line of work, she really should get a haircut. It’s not like it’s any big deal. Just snip, snip, spritz and you’re done.”

“Arf,” said Mr. Biddle’s little bow-legged dog, happy that Mr. Biddle had at last returned.

How he’d missed him!