I was going to go to the Mars Bar tonight to make up for yesterday’s somewhat dud of a post. But work got nuts and I found out I have to come back at the god-awful hour of ten in the morning. That may not sound late to you, but I’m used to staying up till around four or five in the morning drinking working on my writing, so ten o’clock comes around pretty fast and furious. So I won’t be going to the Mars Bar tonight. Maybe next week, definitely on Easter!
I think tonight I’ll just take a few photos on the walk home and then I’m going to post one of my favorite things I’ve ever written. It’s a fictional short story called, “For the Love of Harry.” Some of you who used to follow the old Marty Wombacher Show blog may remember it, I think I put it up there a long time ago. Anyway, I hope you enjoy the story.
Oh and I was really pleased that people liked the jury drawings, so I thought I’d start including some every now and again, especially on nights like tonight when I won’t be able to get out and do anything. Today starts a famous celebrity series. And the first person to leave a comment gets the original if he or she wants it. Hang on to it, it’ll be worth 10 to 12 cents after I die. And I should’ve kicked the bucket about ten years ago, so it could be any day now!
I forgot to take my camera to work with me, so I'll take some photos of stuff around my apartment. Here's one of my favorite things in life, my Furious little Monkey statue.
Joan Jett on the cover of Creem magazine.
And a copy of my magazine fishwrap. What's that writing on there you wonder?
It's an autograph that my pal, Brad Elvis of the aforementioned Handcuffs got for me from Joan Jett. It says, "To Marty, Rock till ya drop! Love, Joan Jett." That's right, Joan Jett loves me! So there! Okay, here's tonight's short story, "For the Love of Harry!"
For the Love of Harry!
Harry Edelson was a simple man, who never asked for anything out of life. “Chicken dinner with all the fixin’s!” he’d shout at his fellow workers in the Potterstown Rust Removal company where he had toiled for the last 40 years of his 63 year long life. Nobody really knew what the phrase, “Chicken dinner with all the fixin’s!” meant, but they would wave at Harry and smile all the same.
Harry was a simple man and he had an infectious love of life that was as contagious as an HIV positive prostitute locked in a room filled with suicidal sex addicted lottery winners. Yes, Harry was one of those rare curmudgeons blessed with always seeing the positive side of life.
When he was 41 years old, he was removing rust at a sawmill factory when all of a sudden a blade slipped and severed Harry’s right hand. Harry was rushed to the hospital emergency room. When asked by the doctor if he was allergic to anything, Harry calmly replied with the slightest smile he could manage to muster, “Yes, I’m allergic to saws that sever my right hand off!”
They moved Harry into the office after that tragic mishap, and while he missed going out on field calls, he took it all in true “Harry spirit.”
“Chicken dinner with all the fixin’s!” He’d cry out as he danced into the office every day.
“Chicken dinner with all the fixin’s, Harry,” the office would answer back as Harry would offer everyone donuts he had purchased at the local Donut Hut. Most appreciated the offer, but also passed, as one look at Harry’s miscolored stump where his hand should have been would cause everyone to lose their morning appetites and feel just a little sick.
Life rolled along for Harry until years later when he learned he had contracted the fatal Lou Gehrig’s disease. But as always, Harry’s happy and positive spirit seemed to be unflappable.
“Maybe old Lou couldn’t fight this disease, but I’m going to beat this thing Doc!” Harry promised kindly old Doc Ramsey.
“You’re truly an inspiration to us all,” the doctor beamed back while shaking Harry’s remaining hand and walking him to his car.
“Chicken dinner with all the fixin’s!” Harry called out to the doctor as he sped away.
“Chicken dinner with all the fixin’s, Harry,” Doc Ramsey shouted back while fighting the tears that were welling up in his eyes.
Instead of going back to work after the doctor’s appointment, Harry went home. Once he was safely inside his modest apartment, he drew the curtains and looked into the mirror on the medicine chest in his black and white-tiled bathroom.
“Dear God, why me? Why me? Why...why...why?” He cried out. Soon he was sobbing hysterically while curled up in the fetal position on his bed.
Five minutes later Harry Edelson used his left hand to squeeze the trigger from a gun he had bought after leaving Doc Ramsey’s office. He unloaded two bullets into the left side of his brain. After about a pint or two of blood gurgled out of his mouth Harry was dead. He was two weeks shy of his 64th birthday.
Three weeks later his neighbors complained to the landlord of a foul stench that was emanating from Harry’s apartment.
As they entered Harry’s apartment they followed the stomach-turning odor into the bedroom and it was then that they saw Harry’s rotting corpse laying on top of his bed. His brains and chunks of his skull were dotted and smeared all over the nearest wall.
Elderly Mrs. Jenkins slowly walked over to the brain splattered wall, pointed at the chunks and said to the crowd, “Are you people thinking what I’m thinking?”
And, as if rehearsed, the group shouted out in unison, “Chicken dinner with all the fixin’s!”