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The Birthday Boy of Bingford
Alexandra Kitty
Alexandra Kitty won the 2004 Arch Award from McMaster University.
She has written for Elle Canada, Quill and Critical Review. The
author of Don't Believe It!: How Lies Become News and Outfoxed: Rupert
Murdoch's War on Journalism, Alexandra teaches writing at the Sheridan
Institute and lives in Hamilton, Ontario, Canada.
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The party guests were
getting bored, weepy and restless, but they were willing to endure the painful and prolonged
routine until dessert arrived. It was something about licking the thick neon green cake icing
that made their patient gallantry worthwhile; besides, homework and bedtime hours weren't
negotiable, either. The reluctant visitors were used to living captive, disjointed lives and
their battle scars showed up readily in their attire: loose socks, open flies, runny noses,
bruised knees, messy pigtails, and dirty fingernails all declared that this crowd was a tough
bunch. The entire affair was as boring as last year's party, though their teachers and parents
repeatedly assured them this festivity would be a Fun Thing To Do.
So far, the grown ups' promises had been off the mark that one
had to wonder about their accounts about the benefits of eating vegetables and even the veracity
of Santa Claus. Where was the fun? The stale air and the squirm crush of antsy guests made the
large room seem strangely small and stifling. The sun-faded red, blue and green streamers had
holes and dust and the helium balloons were as appealing as lumpy, overripe fruit. The back of
the room was the tidiest corner, with a table dotted with small but expensive slices of shocking
green, pink, red, blue, purple, and yellow cake all neatly aligned in perfect rows according to
colour, size, and price. The room's lighting was as bright as the cake colours and old, matte
confetti lay lifeless on the scratched tiled floor.
On the podium stood a middle-aged man and a woman behind the
wooden dais: the man was short and stocky with an oily black hairpiece lying awkwardly on his
round, red head. He was wearing a white suit and tie and a large name tag proclaiming in big
black letters that he was "Mayor C. Cole Capshaw." The woman beside him was somewhat younger
and more alert. She was tall and slim; her red suit looked expensive and sinister, as if it
were protecting the angular contents inside it. Her blue eyes pierced souls like talons and
her backside seemed to be made of stone. Her perky, vicious smile revealed a mouth full of
white, obedient teeth and her blonde hair was coifed in a stiff, disciplined style. Both the
man and the woman seemed too cheery for the occasion.
"Now, kids," said the man as he pointed his stubby red index
finger to a figure sitting beside the podium, "Won't you all join me in singing a very special
Happy Birthday to Bingford's most famous birthday boy!"
A small, collective and resigned sigh oozed from the audience.
All the guests had felt embarrassed and reluctant, but joined in the familiar chorus.
"Happeee birthdaaay toooo yoooou! Happeee birthdaaay toooo
yoooou! Happeee birthdaaay deeeear Birthday Boy! Happeee birthdaaay toooo yoooou!"
The half-hearted obligatory applause followed as more sighs and
complaints bubbled to the front of the room. The guests already felt the party had dragged on
even longer than last year's: the museum tour took twenty minutes longer than it was twelve
months ago, and the parade had three new floats and a battalion of perky baton twirlers with
plastic red and pink strawberry charms framing their ponytails. But at least there was only
one more song to sing and one more story to listen to before cake and ice cream would be
served.
The ruddy man with the white suit and big name tag still seemed
happy as he continued speaking to his captive audience: "What wonderful singers you kids are!
Now let's ask how old the Birthday Boy is this year, boys and girls!"
The Birthday Boy in question was drooping and squirming in his
birthday chair beside the podium: it was an old red and gold throne, though the red cushions
were frayed, flat and faded and the gold paint was dulled and peeling from the wooden frame.
The man's old, wrinkly face sagged in boredom and resignation; it was as if he had long ago
lost any enthusiasm and lust for his own special day. The Birthday Boy's long, frail, and
lanky frame looked as bored and resigned as did his sullen, lined face. The ashen man appeared
even more ghostly with his gold paper crown resting crookedly on his small, bald head. His lime
green polyester trousers lay uneasily on the twitching man, as did his matching dinner jacket
and bow tie. The face, the back, the arms, the legs and even the feet seemed disjointed from
each other, but all his parts looked as desperate to leave the room, as did the young guests.
At the repeated urging of the man and the woman on the stage,
the impatient chorus began to sing a little faster and more curt than before:
| "It was a magnificent eulogy, a chunk
of randomness which breathed of art and which screamed; look at me and weep!
This is the folly that your youth drives you to! Here is final decay and the end
of the night!" |
"How old are you now? How old are you now? How oooold are
you now-oww? How old are you now?"
The tepid and melodic query was met by a tired, but dutiful
voice that warbled into the microphone softly as it wheezed:
"I'm a hundred an' two! I'm a hundred an' two! I'm a hundred
an' twooo-ooo an' a lot older than you!"
"Waaaaahh! No, you're not!" a disgruntled little wail protested
amid indignant and whiny tears. The song was topped with softer, bored applause mixed in with
throat-clearing, shuffling and general churlish whining.
No one, it appeared, was having fun.
"Now, Birthday Boy," the man with the wig and white suit said
in a perky and patronizing tone, "make a wish and blow out the candle!"
On cue, a stout young black man wearing a lime green polyester
bow tie with matching slacks and dinner jacket came out from the back door and begrudgingly
headed to the red and gold throne. The chubby young man, who looked no older than twenty,
dragged himself over to the Birthday Boy with a small lime green frosted birthday cake with
a single lit candle protruding on top. The cake holder looked bored, embarrassed and restless,
as he rolled his eyes and somewhat abruptly and impudently shoved the birthday cake in front of
the guest of honour.
"Here, Birthday Boy," the young man muttered with a tinge of
faux enthusiasm, "blow out the candle and make a wish or something."
"Okay," said the Birthday Boy deferentially.
Filling his lungs with the stale room air, the old man's wrinkly
face expanded and stretched until he inhaled enough wind for the task ahead. Then slowly, the
old man began to blow out his candle. At first, the stubborn flame bent, but did not dissipate.
The old man frowned and refilled his aged lungs once again, this time with more ardour. Looking
determined, the old man with the bow tie blew at the candle with all his might. The flame bent
horizontally, waving its light, like a flag in the wind, for a brief moment before it flung
itself vertically on top of the candle.
The old man looked at his audience: the guests looked agitated,
as did the cake holder and the man and woman on stage. With a weak smile, the old man filled
his sore lungs with air and blew at the candle once more. With a jolt of passion, the Birthday
Boy hurled a gust of wind toward the candle; then suddenly his dentures flew from its owner's
crinkly and thin mouth and landed on top of the birthday cake. With the sudden motion of the
disembodied teeth and gums, the yellow flicker crowning the candle disappeared.
"Ewwww!" a disgusted chorus of small, shrill voices yelled in
unison.
"Mommy! His teeth fell out!"
"That's gross!"
"I don't want my teeth to fall out, too!"
"I'm not eating that cake!"
"Children! Please settle down!" The man with the white suit said
somewhat curtly as he glared at the young black man. The young man scrunched his nose, then
with some facial expression of disgust, removed the offending dentures from the cake with his
thumb and index finger, and returned the teeth to its rightful owner. The old man looked around
the room before he reclaimed his teeth with his shaky, thin hand and placed the teeth back into
his mouth.
"Now, Birthday Boy," the woman with the forced smile and rock
hard buttocks began to enunciate deliberately, "tell the children how you became world famous
for your birthday!"
The old man with the paper crown and loose teeth sat up with some
effort in his chair.
"Well, Denise," the Birthday Boy began, "over a hundred years
ago, my parents lived in Bingford and owned just about every business in town. They had plenty
of money and a lot of nice things, but they weren't happy because they were missin' somethin'.
My parents always wanted to have children, you see. For years and years and years they wanted
kids. Used to make my mother cry all the time because she was forty-four and didn't have no
children. Then one day, she got in a family way and nine months later, I was born and my parents
were so happy, they wanted to share their joy with everybody in the world." The old man's wet
cough interrupted his narrative before he regained his composure and continued.
"And when I turned one, my mother and father threw me the biggest
birthday party you ever saw and invited everyone who wanted to come to join in the celebration
and everyone could have some cake and ice cream. Then they did it every year after that and the
parties just got bigger and bigger until one day one of them big city papers wrote about my
birthday parties - then them big parties got really big and the city got involved, too. Even
after my folks passed on, Bingford still celebrated my birthday and everybody 'round the world
liked it so much, the town decided to do it more often. So now four times a year, I get a nice
birthday party and all the little boys and girls come for cake an' ice cream. And that's how I
became the Birthday Boy of Bingford!"
"Thank you for that lovely story, Birthday Boy!" the woman on the
stage chirped as she focused her intense blue eyes on the old man on the throne and began to
clap.
As some of the guests followed the intense woman's lead in a
tepid round of applause, others had lost their patience altogether:
"Mommy, the Birthday Boy is scary!"
"I wanna go home!"
"Waaaaahh!"
"I hafta go to the bathwoom!"
"I'm not a booger brain!"
"This is boring!"
"Why do we have to come here every year? I'm in medical school
now!"
"I hate the Birthday Boy!"
"Ewwww! Billy peed his pants!"
"If you don't stop whining, we're going home!"
"His teeth fell out!"
"What do you mean you don't want to take your picture with the
Birthday Boy? Why did I drive five hours here for?"
"And remember, kids," the woman on stage said brightly with a
venomous smile, "after you take your very own picture with Bingford's very special Birthday Boy,
the gift shop has a two for one special on Birthday Boy lollipops, and Birthday Boy watches are
twenty per cent off!"
It took almost another two hours before all the guests hopped on
the Birthday Boy's knee for their photograph and bought their slice of cake and scoop of ice
cream. The persistent complaints and whining were met with increasingly severe parental
admonishments and threats, while the man and woman on stage continued to nod their heads and
display their frozen grins.
* * *
It was early evening when
all of the guests finally left the party. The only ones remaining were the Birthday Boy, the
young cake holder, the man with the white suit and the woman with the firm buttocks and baleful
smile.
The old man with the ersatz crown slowly rose from his chair. He
looked around the room, frowned, and pulled the paper crown off his head as he examined his pant
legs.
"Stupid little brat," he wheezed as he got up and pointed to his
pant leg with his other hand.
No one acknowledged his outrage. The young man was too busy
drinking his soda and fixing his short dreadlocks. The man in the white suit was sombrely
reading over some documents. The woman was rummaging through her briefcase, looking for her
cigarillos.
"Stupid little brat," the old man in the green polyester suit
snarled again. "Pissed on my good slacks. That's disgusting and it's ain't no way for some poor
old man to be living his final years."
"Ritchie, stop whining, will you?" said the man in the white
suit. "At least none of those kids puked on your shoes this time. That has to be a first."
"Capshaw's right," noted the woman as she found her cigarillos,
"I don't know what's the big deal, anyway. You get paid to sit on your skinny little ass and
sing happy birthday. You get a house, fame, four fabulous parties a year, and a sitter. You're
swimming in gravy, you disgusting little ingrate. Most people would kill for that. So some rug
rat spills his lunch on you--get over yourself."
"I hate when they piss on my leg. It makes me sick to my
stomach," whined the Birthday Boy.
"Cry me a river, you mangy old man; I've got my own problems--you
try working for Jared Smythe. And another thing," Denise hissed as she lit a cigarillo, "What's
with your damned dentures falling out like that? You moron caused a whole scene for nothing!
Scaring all those little jerks right out of their soiled diapers. Those are kids. That's bad
for our image and bad for business. Thank God this wasn't the big show--if the media got a hold
of that scene this whole town would be wiped off the map!"
"It ain't my fault," the old man said angrily as he shook his
long crooked finger at Denise. "Homer buys my denture cream. I'm not allowed to go to the store
by myself. He bought some new cream yesterday. Smells funny, too."
The woman turned to the young black man in the green suit and
bow tie and started to scream, "Homer Juneau, you incompetent slacker...!"
"Hey," Homer protested as he removed his clip-on bow tie, "You
cut my shopping budget. I can't buy the good stuff with the bread you guys give me."
"Give me a break! How much does decent denture cream cost?"
"Hey, man," Homer snapped as he took off his jacket, "I can't
buy the good denture cream, and all those skin rags and chocolate Popsicles with the money you
cheapskates give me."
"You're not supposed to be buying yourself dirty magazines with
that money!" Denise shrieked as she jabbed her index finger into Homer's well-padded chest.
"Not for me, for Mr. Ridgely!" Homer said, pointing to the
Birthday Boy.
"That's right," concurred the Birthday Boy, "I like my magazines
with all those nice looking girls. There ain't nothin' else to do around here and you won't let
me go to the Torpedo Mama. I'm bored."
"But how many damned magazines is this jerk buying for you? And
chocolate Popsicles..."
"It's my very favourite kind," the Birthday Boy noted proudly.
"Who cares? From now on, no more Popsicles and no more magazines!
All that junk food can't be good for you and we don't need some kid coming across your stash of
porno mags and causing a scandal. New directive, Homer: you collect and destroy every magazine
in that geezer's collection..."
"Look here, Denise!" yelled the trembling Birthday Boy, "I'm a
hundred an' two! I ain't got nothin' else to live for. I just sit here on an uncomfortable chair
havin' to listen to all those screamin' and cryin' little brats who pee and poop and throw up on
me! An old man is entitled to somethin' nice before he dies! And I like my Popsicles and my
magazines!"
"You live in this nice, big house just by wearing that stupid
paper hat. You never had to work a day in your worthless life and you have the nerve to
complain!"
"Let's cool it, okay," warned Capshaw somewhat nervously. "I
don't want him getting a heart attack or something even worse, okay? Let's just calm down.
Ritchie, the Popsicles are okay--in moderation, of course, but Denise is right: those magazines
can make trouble for your image and for this town. Gotta keep it clean for the kids. Find
yourself another pastime, okay?"
"No, it ain't okay. I can't take it any more. I'm a hundred an'
two! Why can't we have only one birthday party a year for me, like everybody else?"
"Once a year? Come on, now, Ritchie," said Capshaw in his
patronizing drawl, "you know Bingford's entire economy depends on your birthday parties. We
can't run this town without 'em. Now, why don't you go upstairs with Homer and he'll fix you a
nice warm glass of milk before you go to bed."
"I just about had it with birthdays!" the old man protested with
a wrinkly fist in the air as he left the room with Homer. "They make me sick!"
Capshaw shook his head as he gathered his papers. "He's getting
worse every year. It's getting harder to control him."
"Controlling him and his image is my job. You leave that bitching
old bag of bones to me. I'll set him straight, all right."
"You watch it, Denise. I don't want that old man dropping dead
on the account of you terrorizing him. It's bad enough you have a big turnover with your
staff."
"Those good for nothing morons couldn't hack it. We don't need
wusses who burn out in three months, dammit. You think running a PR company is easy? Dammit,
just look at this account: trying to make some dirty old man seem cute and cuddly."
"But I have to admit you and your team do an excellent job of
it."
Denise grabbed her briefcase and started to head out the door.
"Of course I do. That's what Jared Smythe pays me for, Capshaw. Now, if you'll excuse me, I
have to make sure the new ad campaign is ready to go. Christ."
* * *
It was the day before
the "big one": the Birthday Boy's "real" birthday party. Ridgely's one hundred and third
birthday was sure to be largest party yet. Many reporters and photographers had already
descended to Bingford as did tourists who had flown in with their young children to join in
the festivities. Their various needs, from diapers to technical support were met with typical
Bingfordian politeness and efficiency.
Sitting behind her desk at the "Birthday Mansion" was Denise,
going over the schedule for tomorrow's party along with Mayor Capshaw who was sitting in a plush
chair across from her.
"Everything seems to be in order for tomorrow. Even the weather's
supposed to be nice. Not too humid. A perfect August day for a birthday party! That always helps
attendance," noted Capshaw.
"What helps attendance is my impeccable planning and genius--and
don't you ever forget that," snapped Denise as she glared at Capshaw.
"I didn't mean to imply that you weren't an excellent promoter
and marketer..."
"Well, I am and I'd appreciate it if you'd acknowledge my prowess
before you acknowledge the weather..."
A gravel baritone voice and the whiff of strong cigar
smoke crashed in on the conversation. “Denise Smother-Tucker, you were
always such a shameless braggart.”
“Who the hell said that?” Denise yelled as she turned
around to face her detractor. “Oh, it’s just you, Jared.”
Jared Smythe stood in the doorway for a brief second before he
sauntered inside and regally acknowledged his associates with a slight, but confident nod. Jared
was a tall, well-built man who indulged in his dark, rugged good looks. His long salt and pepper
hair was as well-tended as his granite pressed suit and white, buttoned shirt. Even the wrinkles
and lines on his face worked hard to make their owner look attractive.
“Everything seems to be going smoothly this time. The food and
souvenirs are in order, I hear. What about the Birthday Boy? Is he ready for tomorrow?” Jared
asked as he sat down in a chair next to Capshaw.
Denise scrunched her nose as she frowned. “Of course he's ready.
What other responsibilities does that moron have? We just had a dress rehearsal this morning
and he knows his lines. Dammit, if we could just keep that repulsive relic in check. He's getting
to be a real pain in the ass. Still carrying on about some kid taking a leak on his leg and then
griping about losing all his magazines. It doesn’t seem to matter what anyone says or does, he
just pounds his decrepit little fist on the table and screeches like a baboon. He quiets down only
if I let him have it, but even then he gets all upset. I've got better things to do than discipline
some old jerk.”
“We don’t want him too upset,” cautioned Jared as he took another
long drag from his cigar, “After all, the big show's tomorrow and all the media will be there. The
Big one-o-three. The real birthday, as that old coot calls it. I want it to be bigger and better than
last year's. Have you finalized everything, Denise?”
“Of course I have. We got some B-list country singer who came
from a town near Bingford to sing at the opening ceremony. We've added two more floats for the
parade, plus, there's going to be a dinner show starring some old retired soap opera star as
Ritchie: a musical about the origins of the Birthday Boy. That shouldn't be too long. Other than
that, everything is pretty much the same.”
“How are the acts? Have you seen them?”
“They stink. But who gives a damn? It’s just kids, what do they
know? The parents bring them here for a dose of wholesomeness. Besides, it’s cheaper than
the amusement park.”
“That’s a benefit,” nodded Jared while he leafed through a pile
of brochures on Denise's desk and began to reminisce. “Attendance has improved substantially
ever since I hired your firm to promote Birthday Boy events.
| "It is night and the task is done.
His pyramid rises before him into the streetlamp glow of the suburban sky.
A palace of junk, a cathedral of discarded remnants of the world." |
You know, the Birthday Boy was
always a big deal around these parts, ever since I can remember. Of course, it wasn’t as big as
it is now, but it wasn’t really organized. Darrin and Louella, Ritchie's folks, used to invite anyone
for free cake and ice cream; so that’s why all the little kids came over. Then when Ritchie grew up,
City Hall took over the parties for the publicity, but City Hall being what it is lost money on it. It
didn’t matter all that much since the Ridgelys were wealthy and kept this town afloat. But then
they sold every business they had and when they passed on, everybody was in trouble. The mayor
back then got desperate and started to push the only asset Bingford had--it’s birthday boy...”
“And they couldn’t make it work until you blew back into town
and bought the rights to the Birthday Boy?”
“I'm boring you again, aren’t I? But to answer your question, yes,
soon after, I made it a bona fide tourist attraction, and could start rebuilding this place with the
money. But you, my dear, have made it into the childhood milestone and media pilgrimage it is
today, though that’s not to say there isn't room for improvement...”
A frenzied rhythmic knock interrupted Jared's musings, followed
by a slam.
“We got serious trouble!” screamed Homer as he ran inside the office.
“What’s the problem now, dammit? Ritchie lose his teeth again?”
Denise barked.
“No! It’s worse! The Birthday Boy is dead!”
* * *
Denise shook her head as she examined the green polyester suited body
lying spread eagle on the living room floor. “So what exactly happened, Homer? You’re supposed to keep
an eye out on him; so how is it that Ritchie's dead, you big stupid idiot!”
“Hey look, man, it’s not my fault he's dead! You made him upset. He probably
had a heart attack because of you! He's been trippin’ ever since you took his skin rags away from him. He's
been impossible to live with: always ranting that his rights are being violated and pounding his fist on the table.
I couldn’t take it anymore; so I left him to throw his little tantrum all by himself after dress rehearsal this
morning and when I came back a few minutes ago, this is how I found him.”
“For hours? You mean to say you left him alone for hours?”
“Hey, I can’t just sit around and hold his skinny hand all day long; I got my
singing career to think about. I don’t wanna be the Birthday Boy's baby-sitter for the rest of my life, man!”
“He's a hundred and three years old, stupid!”
“Still man, I gotta think ahead. I went out to cut a demo. It was a wasted trip.
I got into a fight with the guy who was supposed to lend me his drum machine, and then he got mad at me
and left. I was so mad, I went to the Macho Nacho to drown my sorrows in processed cheese. When I came
back, I found him just like that.”
Capshaw examined the body with a shudder. “Yeah, he looks dead to me. Angry
as hell, but dead. So now what?”
“Get Jared Smythe in here,” Denise spat as she lit a cigarillo and kicked the
motionless Birthday Boy, “this is his little cash cow!”
Reluctantly, Jared walked into the room and winced as he saw the pale, lifeless
man on the floor. “I always hated looking at dead things. Ugh, that’s him all right, that shrivelled up old prune.
But he must have been mad about something before he died. Look at his face.”
“Who cares about his face! What happens next?” snapped Denise as she began
to pace.
There was a moment of silence before Capshaw sighed. “So what are we going
to do with Ritchie? I guess one of us should make an announcement and funeral arrangements...”
“Are you out of your mind, man?” Jared snapped as he shook his cigar at Capshaw.
“All my investments - this entire town's survival is pinned on the Birthday Boy! No one can know about this!”
“But the big party's tomorrow! We can’t hide this kind of thing from the public!
They come here to see the Birthday Boy; if he doesn’t show up, they'll know something's wrong. We have to let
them know...”
“Don’t you realize this whole damn town's survival is dependent on the Birthday
Boy juggernaut? This little backwards hell hole has no resources--nothing! No agriculture, no factories, no
beauty, no industry, no charm, no convenience! No Birthday Boy, no Bingford! If it weren’t for that old relic's
birthday, Bingford would have gone belly-up decades ago! We’re not like Turkeytown! If a turkey dies, by gum,
they can always find themselves another turkey! Those vultures can’t wait until we lose our crown jewel. We
don’t have another Birthday Boy in the popper. He was it!”
“So, Jared, what do we do?”
“We need to find another Birthday Boy and pronto--we have the big show tomorrow.”
“Ritchie was an institution! People are not going to warm up to another Birthday
Boy. They'll see any heir apparent as a little usurper.”
“No! We have to make the public think it’s Ritchie.”
“What! Are you suggesting we dress up some poor old schmoe and pass him off as
Ridgely?”
“Exactly.”
“How are we going to find a look alike on such short notice? The party's tomorrow;
he has to be groomed and trained! There's no way we can do that on that kind of tight timeframe!”
“It’s a gamble, but at this point we have no choice but to try. There's a nursing home
up the block. There has to be some wrinkled old prune that fits the bill.”
“But what do we do with Ritchie?”
“We need to hide his body--we can’t let anyone see it or it’s good-bye Bingford.”
“Do you know what you’re suggesting?! That’s outrageous!” Screamed Capshaw.
“Do you want the media or some little kid to find his corpse and cause a scandal?
They won’t believe an impostor is the real deal when the real deal is lying here dead on the floor!”
“So where do we hide Ritchie,” asked Denise as she stared at the corpse by her feet.
“I know where we can stash it until tomorrow, “ sighed Jared. “There's the florist
shop -De Flowers. That’s Hanna Barbara Herman-Helfer’s shop. She doesn’t care too much for me or for people
investing in the Birthday Boy, but at least her shop has a big freezer room where she keeps her wares. We could
wrap up Ritchie and put him in her freezer until after the party tomorrow. But she would never play a part in this;
we'll have to sneak the body in there and not tell her.”
“And hope to God she doesn’t stumble upon it,” blurted Capshaw.
“I know it’s a big gamble, but she's not the most observant person in town. Let Homer
take Ritchie there while the rest of us work on finding a replacement.”
Homer looked up. “Me? Why should I risk a rap sheet?”
“Because if you don’t, you’ll be safer in jail than being on the outside with me,” spat
Denise. “Just be careful and don’t get caught.”
“Use the back door, Homer,” warned Jared as he fixed his jacket collar. “Then go
out to the back of Hanna Barbara's store when it gets a little darker. The freezer room is on the left. Hide it in the
back corner--she doesn’t use the entire room. Make sure no one sees you.”
Homer grumbled beneath his breath as he began to drag Ritchie by the feet. “I'm
sick and tired of doing all the dirty work. I want a raise for this.” With some effort, Homer dragged the body out of the
room, while muttering various disturbing and revolting obscenities. The sounds of bumping and cursing slowly tapered
to a dead silence.
* * *
The inside of the Atropos Nursing Home was dilapidated: old sun faded furniture
clutched and cradled gnarled bodies with closed eyes and telescoped backs. The wallpaper and carpets housed various
stains and torn edges. Capshaw slouched as he shook his head.
The pickings were slim, indeed, thought Capshaw as he scoured the room for a promising
replacement. But the odds were against them: first, the vast majority of candidates were female and this was no time for
equal opportunity. Some of the candidates were in wheelchairs or using walkers: another drawback. Those who were
rambling about the government had to be rejected, too. This left Capshaw with only a handful of promising recruits.
“What about this one?” Capshaw nudged as he pointed to one man playing solitaire
at a table.
“Too fat and bloated. Besides, he's missing his two front teeth.” Said Denise.
“That one looks kind of like Ritchie...”
The old man in question was sitting in a rocking chair, reading the town's newspaper.
Capshaw studied him closely. The man was probably Ritchie's height and build, though there were differences. The
man seemed to be twenty years younger than Ritchie, darker, and somewhat fatter. His thick white hair also seemed
problematic. But the eye colour matched, and at this point, beggars couldn’t be choosers.
Denise sat beside the old man as she smiled.
“Hello,” she chirped kindly. “What are you reading?”
“The Bingford Beaver,” said the man proudly as he looked up at Denise, “I've been reading
the Beaver for sixty years. Never miss a day. Have to know what’s going on in town.”
“You seem very smart,” noted Denise sweetly. “What’s your name?”
“My name is Clement Gotch,” said the old man.
“Really? I'm Denise and this is Mayor Capshaw.”
The old man squinted as he took a closer look at Denise's companion.
“Why, it is! Hello, Mayor Capshaw! How are you today?”
“I'm fine,” muttered Capshaw nervously. “We’d like to talk to you for a few minutes.”
“What about?” Asked the old man nervously. “Am I in trouble?”
“Not at all,” laughed Denise as she patted the old man on the shoulder,
“In fact, we have some very good news for you. Do you mind if you answer a couple of
questions for the mayor?”
“I guess not,” shrugged Clement, still uncertain about his sudden visitors.
“How old are you? Are you in good health?”
“I'm eighty-seven and in pretty good health. Why does the mayor need to know that?”
“We’re giving a prize and we have to know for our records,” said Denise. “Do you have any
family around here?”
“Not here. They live in Turkeytown. I got a daughter and a grandson named Nermal--he's
eighteen years old. His mama never said who his father was, but Nermal's a real nice and good-looking boy and he means
the world to me, but his mama says he ain’t right in the head. Mind you, he ain’t the smartest boy in town, but then again,
his mama is a real mean woman...”
“Yeah, yeah,” a peeved and impatient Denise snapped. “Look, do you want to stay in this old
people's orphanage for the rest of your life or do you want to live in a nice big mansion with a staff and wonderful parties?”
“I'd like to live in a nice house, but I'm old. I can’t take of the chores; my knees don’t
work like they used to.”
“You'd have people who'd take care of that for you. All you have to do is follow our orders,
go to four parties a year in your home, starting tomorrow, and not tell anybody about this agreement. What do you say?”
“Why shouldn't I say anything?”
“Because if you do, everybody else will want a piece of this generous offer and then there
will be nothing left for you or your family. Well, are you interested?”
Clement pondered then nodded. “Sounds fine to me...”
“Terrific, now sign here,” Denise said nonchalantly as she pulled a pen and contract from
her briefcase and handed them to the old man.
Clement looked uneasily at Denise, “What’s this?”
“It’s your standard nondisclosure agreement,” dismissed Denise.
“I don’t like the sound of any phrase that I don’t know what it means,” replied Clement suspiciously,
“signing things with fancy words always means trouble. Contracts are for fat cats who want to boss around the mice.”
“Clement, think of your grandson Nermal,” Denise cooed sympathetically, “if he's
developmentally delayed or whatever the hell's wrong with him, don’t you think it’s your duty to provide for him long after
your gone?”
“Nermal ain’t slow,” protested Clement somewhat angrily. “But it’s just that his mama says
he ain’t right in the head, but she won’t tell me how. I can’t tell what’s wrong, though; he looks okay t'me. He's very polite
and kind. Nice t'animals, too.”
“What difference does it make?” Denise hissed while trying to control her rage. “Don’t you
want to provide for your family and live your reclining years in comfort? This contract will ensure that you provide for him
in the right way. It prevents anyone from breaking promises and destroying your grandsons future.”
As the old man took the pen to paper with his frail, trembling hand, he carefully signed on
the lines marked “X.” He returned the pen to Denise and looked at her curiously. “There. Now what do I have to do?”
“First, you come with us to your new house. When we get there, you’ll go through orientation.
But hurry up, we haven’t got all day.”
“I have to get back to City Hall,” said Capshaw as he walked out of the room. “What for?
To meet with one of your bimbos?”
“Something like that. I'll see you in the Birthday Mansion first thing tomorrow. Bye for now.”
* * *
When Denise and Clement arrived at the birthday mansion, both Homer and Jared were already
waiting: Jared was tense, but alert, while Homer was nervous as he sat on the sofa, biting his lip and fixing his hair. Jared
looked at Clement and nodded approvingly.
“Good choice,” he nodded as he smoked his cigar. “Dinner finished early; so I decided to come
back here and see how things were progressing.”
“They’re progressing as good as can be expected under the circumstances. Well, Homer?” Denise
asked tersely as she lead Clement to a chair in the living room, “Did you move him to Hanna Barbara's as you were told?”
“Yeah,” Homer moped, “I did. It was a clunky job, but lucky for me, Ms. Herman-Helfer wasn’t
around. Everything was unlocked; so I just dragged him in, covered him up with a sheet, and put him in the farthest corner.
You can’t see him unless you go behind some boxes and it doesn’t look like anyone's been there for ages. He should hold until
tomorrow. But what if she finds him before then?”
“She won’t,” Jared interjected, “She keeps saying that refrigerator room is too big and that
she only uses about half of it. She's too busy thinking about her various causes to notice it, anyway.”
“So that’s settled,” Denise nodded as she took a cigarillo out of her briefcase and lit it.
“Not everything's settled, ma'am,” interjected Clement sternly, but politely, “you still haven’t
told me what it is I have to do to live here in the Birthday Mansion.”
“What do you think, stupid? You have to pretend that you’re Ritchie Ridgely, the Birthday Boy
of Bingford.”
“What? The Birthday Boy? Why do you want me to make up a story like that?”
“Because the Birthday Boy can’t do it anymore.”
“Why is that? Is he ill?”
Denise put out her cigarillo in annoyance. “He doesn’t want to make little boys and girls like your
Nermal happy anymore. See, that’s bad for Bingford. And you want Bingford to be a good place for your grandson to live, right?
“But he lives in Turkeytown, ma'am.”
“Who cares? You are to do what we tell you, understood? From now on, you tell people that you
are Ritchie Ridgely, the Birthday Boy of Bingford who is celebrated worldwide because he is the most special birthday boy of all.
“Now, Clement,” Denise asked sternly as she stared furiously at the timid old man with her cold
eyes, “What's your name?”
“Clement,” the old man answered dutifully. “Clement Gotch.”
“No, you idiot! Your god damn name is Ritchie! Ritchie Ridgely! Got that?”
“No, it ain’t,” the old man protested angrily before he felt his body rise from the chair. He looked
up; Denise's fierce scowl cornered his face and her wiry hands clenched his plaid shirt and lifted him several inches from his chair.
“If you want to live to see another birthday, you better start coughing up the answers
I want to hear! Now, what was your name again?”
“Ritchie Ridgely,” Clement whispered timidly.
“And what makes you special?” barked Denise as she lifted Clement even higher
from his chair.
“I got a birthday,” the old man wheezed as his lower lip quivered.
“That’s a start.” Denise growled as she let go of Clement. With a dull thud, the old man
fell back into his chair and whimpered.
“Homer,” Denise yelled as she firmly grabbed the young man by the arm, “get some
tweezers and start plucking that old coot's hair.”
“What the…? You want me to pluck his hair? All of it?”
“That’s what I said.”
“What the hell for?”
“Because Ritchie was bald, you dumb stupid moron! See, that’s bad. The Birthday Boy
is bald. This old geezer's got a head full of white hair.” Denise grabbed a handful of Clement's snowy mane with her free hand and
gave it a tug toward Homer as if to emphasize her point.
“Owww!” screamed Clement.
Denise ignored the old man. “He'll never pass muster. He has to look bald, dammit!”
“Then just shave it off or something.”
“Stubble, stupid, stubble! If we shave it, he might grow some stubble by tomorrow. We
can’t afford stubble. It’s too telltale.”
“Then shave it tomorrow! I'm not plucking any old guy's hair with tweezers!”
Denise tightened her grip on Homer's arm as she flashed an angry sneer.
“No good. We don’t have time to shave his head tomorrow. It has to be tweezed.
Right now.”
“The whole thing is whacked,” Homer pouted as he shuffled his feet.
“Who asked you? Now get those damn tweezers and start plucking his damn head.
I haven’t got all day!” She pushed Homer toward the door.
“Okay, okay...” Homer sighed as he left the room to look for tweezers.
“And something else,” Denise said slowly as she turned to look at a pacing Jared,
“We need a girdle--that old coot has to be at least twenty pounds heavier than Ritchie. We have to make him look thinner.”
Jared considered as he scratched his salt and pepper hair. “What about Angelique
LaFleur?”
“What about that slut?” Denise growled as she frowned.
“Well, she's a stripper at the Torpedo Mama. Pretty little thing, too. She's
gotta have herself all sorts of frilly contraptions like that.”
* * *
The day of the “real”
birthday party was always full of worries, thought Capshaw as he waited nervously in the media relations room in the Birthday
Mansion. Ritchie would complain about the children and the restrictions;
| "It was a magnificent eulogy, a chunk
of randomness which breathed of art and which screamed; look at me and weep!
This is the folly that your youth drives you to! Here is final decay and the end
of the night!" |
Jared would complain about the bottom line; and
Denise would terrify her staff and anyone else in the vicinity. But now Ritchie was dead and his body stashed in a florist's
freezer and his replacement was essentially a senile hostage. Could Denise and Jared really pull this off? The odds were
against them: for one, this time the media would be there, snapping pictures. For another, there wasn’t enough time to
properly groom and train the new Birthday Boy. Untested commodities, as a general rule, could never live up to a well-rehearsed
veteran. But for Capshaw, the most frightening prospect was if Ms. Herman-Helfer stumbled upon Ritchie's frozen corpse.
But the wheels were already in motion. Capshaw anxiously adjusted his hairpiece as
he looked at Denise. “Do you think that old geezer's ready? Do you think he'll pass muster and all that?”
“He better be ready,” spat Denise as she lit up her cigarillo. “Or he's going to
find his other foot in the grave.”
“Denise!”
“I don’t mean literally, you stupid moron! What do you take me for? Anyway, where's
Jared and Clement?”
Jared walked inside as he heard his name. “I'm here. Have you seen the replacement yet?
How does he look?”
“We haven’t seen the final product yet,” Denise groused as she paced the room.
“But just to be safe, we'll keep the lighting darker than usual and we won’t let the media come close to him. That ought to help
our case, in any rate. Christ, I hope that idiot didn’t screw things up.”
It was less than ten minutes when a loud, rhythmic knock danced on the door.
“We’re here!” chimed Homer. In the background, an old voice could be heard
simpering.
“Get him in here now, Homer!” Denise yelled as she opened the door. Her eyes widen
as she looked at Homer and the elderly man weeping beside him.
Denise's face redden as she screamed, “He looks like a god damn freak! Look at that
make-up--it’s totally sloppy. What’s with this kabuki look, anyway?”
“Don’t blame me,” Homer protested, “I'm no Max Factor. That’s the only stuff I got--I
can’t make magic with grease paint.”
“Can it,” Denise screeched.
“Why are his eyes so red and swollen?” Asked Capshaw.
“He was crying the whole time I was plucking his head.”
Capshaw stood over the old man, frowning. “Speaking of which, just look at his head!
It’s all raw and bumpy.”
“Bleedy, too,” nodded Jared.
“Well? What did you expect? Can’t pluck all that hair just like that! I told you we should
have shaved it off.” | |
