I could see the hurt in Waldo Suggins’ face.
“Dennis, you said I could coordinate everything for the ‘Free Noam’ concert,” he said, without attempting to disguise the reproach in his voice.
I set my still unread issue of Tax Dodge Monthly down on my desk and let out a sigh.
“Waldo,” I said with what patience I could muster, “you’re a fine dyslexic CPA. One of the best, in fact. But the reality is this: If I had sent you off to book Sophisticated Savage for a ‘Free Noam’ Kon-Tiki party, I’d have ended up with a Bulgarian all accordion polka band ready to play a Jerry Lewis telethon.”
Waldo took off his glasses, uncrossed his eyes, and tried to stare me down.
“I think you’re guilty of exaggerating just a bit on that,” he protested.
“Oh really?” I pounced. “What happened when I asked you to file a City of Obetz tax return for Emma Krunk last year?”
“Um...”
“She ended up getting a $450,000 refund from the State of Maine.”
“OK, there was that one...”
“Presenting Clyde Woodrow, tractor repairman, with a tax bill from Guatemala,” I said as I held up two digits from my hand. “That makes two.”
“OK, but...”
“The affair of the $265,000 addition error in the books of the Carbs ‘N Coffee,” I said as I held up a third digit.
“But...”
“And then there was...”
“OK! OK!” shouted Waldo, tears forming in his eyes. “OK! I’m not perfect...So sue me!”
“Waldo,” I said. “I have sued you. More than once.”
Waldo was just opening his mouth to reply when Effie buzzed in over the intercom.
“Dennis, it’s Mayor Sewell. He says it’s an emergency,”
“What isn’t these days?” I said, exasperated. “Ring him through.”
I picked up the phone and heard pure panic on the other side of the line.
“Dennis,” Rufus Sewell was shouting into a cell phone from the sound of it. “You’ve got to get down here. They’re demanding to see you!”
“What are you talking about?”
“The women,” he said. “They’re down here at City Hall. They’ve set up a camp.”
“Women? Rufus, have you been having a wine tasting of your own?”
“Look,” he shouted again. “Just get your ass down here to City Hall and you’ll understand everything.”
“I’m in the middle of a discussion here...”
“If you’re not here in 5 minutes, I’m sending Chief Plummer to get you.”
Before I could say anything he hung up on me.
“Oy,” I said as I stood up. “Come on, Waldo. We’re going to go down to the jail and have a look-see.”
Waldo wiped the ears away and straightened his tie.
“I get to come along?”
“Sure,” I said.
“You must really like me...You must really, really like me,” he said, wistfully.
.................
As we pulled up to City Hall, it was apparent something big was going on. On the lawn near the building’s entrance there sat approximately 25 people. Scattered around them were clusters of what appeared to be cardboard squares on sticks that had been stuck into the ground. Over their heads flew several handmade signs and banners, with slogans that included Free Noam, Make Bingo Not War and What, Me Worry?. There was one large paper mache head that rose above the signs and banners. It bore a striking resemblance to yours truly.
“Oh, shit!” I muttered.
“Who are they? What’s the problem?” said Waldo, shifting his glasses. “I can’t make out the signs.”
“Of course you can’t,” I replied. “You can’t make out anything.”
“Oh, wait. I can read them now,” Waldo was squinting hard enough to hurt himself. “We’re Worried Britney’s Wardrobe Wasn’t Free? I don’t get it.”
I was about to backhand my sidekick when I noticed a parking spot.
“Waldo,” I said as I pulled the Benz into the empty spot. “Just stay behind me and don’t say a thing.”
“OK,” he said as he opened his door.
I took in the scene as I exited the SUV. The women had not seen me yet. It appeared most of the crowd were members of Westerville’s only known gang, the Westerville Senior Center Bingo Grannies. Beyond that, there were 3 women in dark blue suits and wraparound sunglasses holding clipboards and cell phones. Beside them was a single small, 70-ish, and thoroughly disheveled woman who was talking to C. Babbington Cudworth of the Westerville Daily Movement. ‘Blabby’ was scribbling furiously in his reporter’s notebook.
This was Not Good.
What I wanted to do was get into City Hall and see the Mayor. I had no idea of what was going on, and wading into the crowd on the lawn didn’t seem to be the best way of finding out. But as fate would have it, Waldo’s hay fever kicked in and he let out an extremely loud sneeze. ‘Blabby’ Cudworth, his attention drawn by the noise, spotted us.
“There he is!” Blabby shouted.
The 70-ish woman standing next to him immediately began wailing and pulling her hair.
“What the...,” I said.
“That isn’t Britney Spears,” said Waldo as he prepared to blow his nose.
The woman pointed an accusing finger at me and started to move forward.
“You imprisoned my son!” she bellowed. “Help! Help! He’s being repressed!”
“What?” I said in disbelief.
“Wait,” said one of the suited women as she held up a hand. “CNN and the photographers will be here in less than five.”
The 70-ish woman stopped in her tracks. Waldo blew his nose and then immediately sneezed again.
“What?” I said again.
“Anyone got a mint?” the old lady said, turning to the crowd. “That chili we had for lunch is coming back...and it tastes like the bottom of a birdcage.”
At this point, I seemed to have two choices. It was clear I couldn’t get past the crowd to enter City Hall without throwing a few elbows, which I wouldn’t have minded doing. But with Blabby around I didn’t think I could get away with that. So that left me with either running back to the Benz and getting out of Dodge ASAP, or marching up to the whole lot of them and finding out what was going on.
I decided a good offense would be the best defense.
I marched up to the old lady and stuck out my chin.
“OK, what the fuck is all this about me imprisoning your son?”
“Stow it, Tubby,” she replied without even turning towards me. “The media ain’t here yet. Where’s that breath mint, eh?”
“Tubby?” I said, hurt.
A tall man approached the old woman and held out his hand. The woman took a mint from his palm and popped it into her mouth. I was confused enough to not recognize him on sight.
“Howdy, Dennis,” he said and smiled broadly.
“Ward Churchill!?”
“The one and only!” he replied and stuck out a hand, which I took.
“What are you doing here?”
“The Honest Injun’s Radical Event Planning, Demonstration Coordination and Organic Catering, Inc. was hired by Ms. Plotnick to service this event,” he said with a laugh. “And that be me...”
“Oy,” I muttered.
“Aha!” the old lady yelled as she pointed in my direction. “A Zionist plot. I knew this was a Zionist Plot.”
“Let me introduce you to Myrtle,” Churchill said smoothly.
“Myrtle, Myrtle honey, I want to introduce you to someone,” he said in his sweetest tones. “This is Mr. Dennis T. Peasant, CPA.”
She eyed me suspiciously.
“Dennis this is Myrtle Plotnick.”
“Are the cameras here yet?” she asked Churchill.
“Nope. Not yet.” he answered.
“Oh. OK,” she said as turned to me. “How’s it goin’?” she continued as she grabbed my hand and shook it.
Myrtle Plotnick was both short and stout. Her hair was white, except for the roots, which were a shade of pale blue. She wore a pair of Land's End cargo shorts, flowered beach clogs and a No Oil For Chimpy McHalliburton tee shirt.
“You know, if you don’t close your mouth soon you’re going to end up with flies in there,” she said to me.
“Who are you?” I asked.
“I’m Sheldon’s mother,” she replied with a hint of exasperation.
“Who is Sheldon?” I said, thoroughly confused.
“What kind of smartass question is that...”
“What Myrtle means,” said Ward as he quickly covered Myrtle’s mouth with a hand, “is that you and the rest of The Oppressors cannot deny you have Sheldon Plotnick in the Westerville Jail. We have photographic proof.”
“There is no Sheldon Plotnick in the Westerville Jail. As far as I know the only person in the Westerville Jail is Noam Fernworthy.”
There was a pause, then Ward Churchill fished a small photo out of his shirt pocket and handed it to me. It was a picture of the pre-conversion Noam, complete with dreadlocks.
“That’s Noam Fernworthy,” I said.
“That’s Sheldon Plotnick,” Ward replied.
“That’s my son,” Myrtle stated.
Before I could process this turn of events, the three suited women appeared at Myrtle’s side.
“Two minutes to CNN,” said the first.
“Who are you?” I asked the three simultaneously.
The three gave me expressionless looks, which were made even more so by the sunglasses they wore.
“Tallulah Zapata. Vice President of Public Affairs. Moveon.org,” she said.
“Patti Sue Allende. Vice President of Protest Affairs. Code Pink.” said the second.
“Jasmine Guevara. Personal Assistant to the Chief, Michael Moore, Inc.,” said the third.
I looked at Ward Churchill and pointed to the three women. I’m sure my face said What The Fuck?.
Ward shrugged his shoulders and smiled.
“They came on board the moment the grieving mother made the totally spontaneous decision to come here and mourn her loss,” Ward told me.
“He’s not dead. He’s in jail,” I said.
“Whatever,” said Myrtle, who was busy scanning the streets for the CNN truck.
“There’s CNN!” cried Tallulah, pointing up Main Street towards Uptown Downtown Westerville.
“Places everyone!!” yelled Patti Sue.
The bingo grannies began ditching their cigarettes and picking up their signs.
“Remember, ladies,” shouted Jasmine, “Free Noam! in unison. On my signal.”
The CNN truck pulled up and a camera crew burst form the back. They ran up to Tallulah, Patti Sue and Jasmine and pointed their equipment at Myrtle.
“Action!” shouted Jasmine, pointing to the Bingo Grannies.
“And go” yelled Tallulah, pointing to Myrtle.
Suddenly, as if on cue, the Grannies started chanting “Free Noam!”
Myrtle Plotnick wheeled around and re-pointed an accusatory finger at me.
“You killed my son!” she screamed.
“CUT!” bellowed Tallulah.
The CNN cut shut off their equipment.
“Myrtle, it’s ‘You’ve imprisoned my son’, OK?” Tallulah barked. “Let’s try to focus here. Ready?”
"Sorry."
The CNN crew turned their equipment back on.
“And GO!” Tallulah shouted.
“You’ve imprisoned my son!” Myrtle screamed.
I said the first thing that came to my mind.
“Lady, you are bat-shit crazy.”
Myrtle straightened up and looked at Tallulah inquiringly.
“Keep going,” said the CNN soundman. “We can edit it out later.”
Satisfied, Myrtle turned to me again, re-re-pointed an accusatory finger at me and did her line.
“You’ve imprisoned my son, Bushite warmonger! You’ve repressed him just because he opposed Bush’s War For Oil™!”
While Myrtle Plotnick bellowed her lines she began pulling on her No Oil For Chimpy McHalliburton tee shirt, evidently rending it in agony, which then promptly fell apart at the seams, exposing the braless 70 year old glories beneath.
“Whoa...!” exclaimed Ward, covering his eyes.
“Aarrgghh!” shouted Waldo as he turned away.
“I’ll never eat chicken again,” cried Blabby, grabbing his stomach.
“Oy,” I muttered as I looked towards the Bingo Grannies.
It was then that I noticed the objects behind the Bingo Grannies.
“What the...” sprang involuntarily from my lips.
The three women in suits began looking around frantically for something to cover Myrtle. I wasn’t going to be able to get an answer out of them.
“Cut!” exclaimed Tallulah.
“Another tee shirt!” shouted Patti Sue.
“A bra!” cried Jasmine.
“Jesus,” said the CNN cameraman. “She cracked the camera lens.”
“What?” said Tallulah.
The CNN cameraman had turned the camera around and was looking at the lens.
“She broke the lens.”
“Don’t you have another?” asked Jasmine.
“No,” said the cameraman. “We’ll have to call in another truck.”
While this was going on, I marched over to the Bingo Grannies. I pointed to the neat row of objects stuck into the lawn behind them.
“What are those?” I asked angrily. “Are those crosses?”
“Of course not, Dennis,” one of the Grannies said. “We just stapled some old bingo cards to tomato stakes.”
“Why?”
“We need to get Noam back calling Bingo,” another said. “The nice ladies from the Berkeley Rotary said this would help.”
Now it was all making sense.
“OK. First of all, this is not going to get Noam out of jail. Those women are not from the Berkeley, California Rotary Club. They have tricked you. Second of all, I will have Noam out of jail by next Wednesday.”
“Really?” the Grannies asked in unison.
“Really,” I replied. “I’ve got into all planned. We’re going to have a ‘Free Noam’ Kon-Tiki party this Sunday after Church. I’ve got the greatest Kon-Tiki band in the world playing.”
The Grannies looked at each other and muttered approval.
“Now, if you want to help free Noam, what I would suggest is that march on down to the Uptown Downtown Theater. You could help Kevy Bellouche and the Gay Men’s Choir assemble the palm trees, grass skirts and torches. Or maybe you could make the posters. OK?”
“OK!” they yelled, and tossed their signs to the ground.
As the Grannies began marching away, a harried Tallulah Zapata came running up.
“Ladies! Ladies! Where are you going?”
“Buzz off, Spanky, or we’ll rip your lungs out,” came from the middle of the Grannie Pack. “We’ve got work to do...”
The meanness of tone stopped Tallulah in her tracks. She looked at me suspiciously. I shrugged my shoulders and tried to look innocent.
“Things haven’t gone quite the way we had planned,” she said as she put her hands on her hips.
“Oh, well...” I said noncommittally.
We looked back towards Myrtle and what remained of the crowd. Ward Churchill had found her an Indian blanket to cover herself with. Patti Sue and Jasmine were busy on their cell phones trying to rope another camera crew from a major network. The CNN crew was busy loading their equipment back into their truck. Blabby and Waldo were reciting every mammary-related joke they could recall and giggling like school boys.
“OK, everyone,” shouted Tallulah. “Let’s get everything packed up and get going!”
“Going?” I asked.
“Screw this burgh. We’ve got a road show to do all the way down to Crawford,” she said as she began walking towards Myrtle, Patti Sue and Jasmine.
I followed her up to the group.
“Could I get another mint?” said Myrtle as she started for the bus they had arrived in. “Jesus, Ward, that chili could stop a Mack truck.”
Before Churchill could answer, I asked Myrtle a question.
“Don’t you want to see Noam?”
“Noam?”
“I mean Sheldon...”
“Oh...” Myrtle said, sounding doubtful.
She looked to Tallulah, who shook her head ‘no’.
“We’re already behind schedule,” Tallulah said.
Myrtle looked at me and then looked in the direction of the Westerville Jail. She hesitated for only a second.
“I’ll catch him on the flip side,” she said and started for the bus, walking quickly to catch up to the three women.
Ward gave me a quick wave and started after her.
“Ward, where the Hell is that mint?” was the last thing I heard from the lot of them.
Thanks for the plug, Dennis, but I regret to inform you we are going to suspend publication until some legal matters with the federal government are straightened out. I'd gladly refund the balance of your subscription fee however all bank accounts of Tax Dodge Publications LLC are frozen at this time.
Posted by: J. Ken Waldrip, editor, Tax Dodge Monthly | August 27, 2005 at 08:10 AM
That's OK.
The check I sent you was on a closed account.
Posted by: DennisThePeasant | August 27, 2005 at 11:00 AM
Be careful what you ask for...
Posted by: richard mcenroe | August 27, 2005 at 11:51 AM
Mr. Patel, the manager at Convenient Cash Advance in New Port Richey, Florida, will be very upset to hear that, Dennis.
Posted by: J. Ken Waldrip, editor, Tax Dodge Publications, LLC | August 27, 2005 at 06:07 PM
Waldrip — It's OK, the account wasn't his.
Posted by: richard mcenroe | August 27, 2005 at 07:25 PM
An acquaintance once worked in a multi-story parking garage in a college town and detested Monday morning when he'd have to clean it of the weekend's debris, typically beer cans and liquor bottles. This also included proof of promiscuity, real or imagined, such as a copy of "Buff," a softcore "porn" mag of obese women; the term "caterpillar lady" comes to mind. The crony kept "Buff" with the idle threat of slipping it into the coffee table reading material of his doctor's or dentist's office if they ever treated him poorly.
I relate this anecdote because, since there's "Buff," there's probably something out there for people who'd loved to have their lenses (and their worlds, baby!) shattered, rocked, or swung by "70-year-old glories." Not that I'll be looking for them (or at them).
Posted by: Comrade_Tovarich | August 27, 2005 at 09:34 PM
Mcenroe: Ah, that's why Patel called me about someone named Peter in the UK.
Posted by: J. Ken Waldrip, editor, Tax Dodge Monthly | August 28, 2005 at 12:09 AM
The name isn't Peter in the UK,it's PeterUK,all one word!
Anyway,it is about time you rebranded Tax Dodge Monthly,something modern with zing,call it "Offset" Magazine. This is Westerville,this is 1926,get with it !!!
Posted by: PeterUK | August 28, 2005 at 01:46 PM
I will take that under advisement, Peter, but my next project is an expose of the brutal conditions under which so-called white collar criminals are remanded into federal custody as result of witchhunts by the IRS and SEC which have the effect of squelching free speech and American entrepenuerial spirit.
Posted by: J. Ken Waldrip, editor, Tax Dodge Publications, LLC | August 28, 2005 at 03:16 PM
The rot set in when your government started to persecute Mr Capone's family business,as well as being an assault on the Italian American community,it was also the crushing of that entrepenuerial spirit that made America great.
Are you sure the President is a Republican?
Posted by: PeterUK | August 28, 2005 at 03:26 PM
I wish to state categorically that I am not dead,I am issuing an injunction to prevent my mother Ms Myrtle Plotinick from pretending I am dead for political purposes.
I am a registered Republican despite my mother claiming,
"My son the accountant,is a Republican,he is dead to me! Why should a poor mother suffer so? What would his late father say?" Actually my father hasn't got a word in edgways in forty five years and is also not dead.Once my mother gets an idea into her head.....
I still fill in her tax returns which she sends me addressed to "My Dead Son the Republican Accountant,the shame of it"
Melvin Plotnick CPA
Posted by: Melvin Plotnick | August 29, 2005 at 01:49 PM
My son's a cornflaske and my wife is Cindy Sheehan on a bad hair day, with liver spots.
If I win the lottery, I'm going out the back door in the middle of the night......
Posted by: Stanley Plotnick | August 30, 2005 at 11:03 AM
Stanley Plotnick,how can you lie about a poor childless widow woman? My mother was right,you were a liar when I married you and you are liar now,not a word for forty five years and now lies.No wonder our poor deceased son has turned out so badly,did ever a poor grieving mother suffer so.Who is this fancy woman Cindy,playing around behind my back,and you a dead man, have you no shame?
And where did you leave your bankbook,satellite doesn't grown on trees
Posted by: Melvin Plotnick | August 30, 2005 at 02:03 PM
CORNFLAKE !
Posted by: Stanley Plotnick | August 30, 2005 at 03:51 PM
Stanley Plotnick,
Don't you talk about my poor little lost baby like that,and you,no better than you should be, cavorting with hippy women,my mother,rest her soul,that she should live to see this,said you were worthless,you, you old goat,putting the Cin into Cindy no doubt.wait 'til my lawyer gets through with you!
Posted by: Myrtle Plotnick | August 30, 2005 at 06:08 PM
Shut up Myrtle, Mel thinks you're dead. Lucky you. He's a cornflake, like I always said. He got it from your father. You got a touch too, keep away from sharp objects.
And do me one favor. Forget you know me.
Posted by: Stanley Plotnick | August 30, 2005 at 08:00 PM
Let me put you folks on national television.
Posted by: Jerry Springer | August 31, 2005 at 09:52 AM
Why do you keep calling yourself Stanley,your name is Sydney,have you gone bankrupt again?
Remember,the house is in my name!
Posted by: Myrtle Plotnick | August 31, 2005 at 12:17 PM