Rip © John Blandly If you've been to Bonages, you'd understand the terror of Rip Van Winkle waking up there.
Then you could imagine the fear and loathing experienced by Bernard Notlieb when he opened his eyes to find himself staring at the inside of a no star motel on the outskirts of the Greene County village known as Bonages.
Bonages is so bad it drove world heavyweight champion Ricky White insane. So off his rocker that even marrying a Hollywood TV actress was not enough to deter his plummet into prison, plus all that facial tattooing.
No. No way you want to wake up in Bonages, no matter how long you've been asleep.
Best course of action is to never wake up, if you end up there.
So, Notlieb was practically a blithering idiot once he'd discovered that somehow he'd been transported to the stupid, horrible locale known as Bonages.
"Where the hell am I?" he inquired of the desk clerk, after making his way through the hazardous aluminum screen door that Vladimir Nobokov used to check in with his underage girls.
"Bonages. Why?"
"I, like, can't figure out how I got here."
She giggled. "You were a little tipsy last night."
From behind him, Rip heard, "Hi, hon. What's up?"
Notlieb turned to see a bleach blond former hippie-like chick grinning at him.
He was about to say, "Do I know you?" But, in all his cowardice, he was afraid she'd whip out a gun and plug him. So, he kept mum. Only said, "Just getting a map."
"So," she continued. "We're going to breakfast?"
"Sure."
He fought his way out the screen door and staggered through the parking lot.
Suddenly, he recognized his car—his terrible—awful Buick, parked half on the front lawn, right on top of a shuffleboard stick.
Now, maybe you thought I was kidding about that Rip Van Winkle crap. Well, think again.
Notlieb returned to the motel office and got directions to a local diner, and after a pretty good breakfast of scrambled eggs and sausage, reached into his wallet and found a credit card with the old snoozer's name on it. That's right—Rip Van Winkle.
Notlieb's hand kind of trembled when he offered the Mastercard, wondering if he was ripping the establishment off. Please excuse the double entendre.
The cashier thought nothing of it.
What was Notlieb to do? He had only three dollars in his wallet, and that's the only card he had on him.
Maybe he should have checked earlier, but he was too busy responding to the middle aged blond woman's questions. Seems like she didn't know him too well.
Asked where he worked and all that--troubling—troubling questions. Astronomer—yes, that's what he was—at least for now. Sure, studying Sirius—seriously—studying Sirius—get it?
"What?" she said. "Like, what's Sirius?"
"Never mind," he said. "It's really far away."
"Far out," she said, applying some lipstick.
So, as the cashier comes back, he's looking through his ID. Wow, he says to himself, as he notices Rip Van Winkle's date of birth as August 12 th , 1650--a full 400 years prior to his own. What a coincidence.
"Pinch me, Blondie," he said.
She reared back in her chair, like in a huff. "You don't remember my name, do you?"
"Sweetie, I don't even know my own."
She waved her hand, picked up a coffee cup with the other, and smiled. "Whatever. We were really gone last night. I really had fun. Man, it was like I was young again."
Her eyes drifted off as she stared out a window at the passing trucks.
Turns out, Blondie was Veronica Bronte, and her mother was being held hostage in Uganda.
He learned this as he dropped her off at the trailer park, and as she got her mail out of the mailbox.
There was some airmail from Africa, and the tears flew from her eyes as soon as she saw the envelope.
(Note from author: We'd wrap this stuff up, but it's still going on. We're reporting it to you verbatim—as it happens. We're as confused as you are.)
Back at the motel, it's about 11 AM, a nice warm, sunny day—and Rip's wondering—what month is it?
He thinks about asking at the front desk, but decides he asked the clerk enough stupid questions for one day. He wasn't even sure how long his reservation was for. Was he paid up for a few more days? He had no idea.
Looking out the picture window of his room he saw a swimming pool.
It was truly fortuitous that he'd packed a swimsuit—or maybe Ms. Van Winkle did?
In any event, he changed into his suit, got a towel, and went across the lawn to the pool.
A young girl, who appeared to be about twelve or thirteen, garishly festooned with eyeliner, eye shadow, various piercings and tattoos, sat on a lawn chair and painted her toenails. She had tiny wads of cotton between each toe.
Rip tried not to look at her in her extremely brief bikini. It was really hard to tell how far she'd matured. She was pretty, in a billboard, neon sign sort of way.
As Rip tested the water with his foot, an older guy, sort of a paunchy middle aged fellow, ran up to the girl with a butterfly net and said, "Lolita, hold on to this will you? Don't lose it this time, okay?"
"Yeah, right Vlad," she said, barely looking up from her nail polish brush.
"Okay," the guy replied. "Just have to pin this one in the book."
He rushed off, holding a big yellow butterfly by the wings with both hands.
Why—why is the world so weird? Rip said to himself. Just this morning he was thinking of Vladimir Nobokov—was that him?
Suddenly, Rip heard the girl say, "Man, that guy's a freak."
Rip turned to her and looked around. There was no one else around.
"Sorry," he said. "What did you say?"
"The guy's a freak. As if I got nothing better to do than keep an eye on a butterfly net. You know, life's too short."
"I know what you mean," Rip said, forgetting for a moment that he may have been asleep for about four hundred years.
She held a palm out to the sky. "It's like—life is to be lived—to figure stuff out—like the meaning of life."
"Yes," Rip replied. "I totally agree."
It seemed weird to be talking to a twelve year old girl like this, but for some reason, she didn't seem that young.
"Do you have any idea—any clue—about the meaning of life—what it is?"
She seemed really earnest, holding the nail polish brush in the air. Not insulting or anything—like he had to be a lunatic not knowing what the meaning of life was. It appeared to Rip that she just wanted to know.
He stared into the distance, and looked up into a cloudless sky.
"Yeah, the meaning of life, that's really heavy."
"I mean," she continued, "what does that flower say?" She was pointing to a nearby garden. "Or that tree?"
"I don't know. I don't hear them saying anything."
"I think they're saying, 'I want to have sex,' or whatever it is they do to reproduce."
Just then, a guy stormed up on a horse, and stopped right near the pool. He and the horse seemed out of breath. The horse snorted, and pounded its hoofs.
"The English are coming! The English are coming!" the man yelled, and hurried off to the main road.
Lolita barely paused.
"It's like—they are saying things—and the things they are saying—we should listen to, because why else are they there?"
"Yes, I know."
Actually, Rip didn't know. He just wanted Lolita to keep going.
"I mean, if a guy comes from a foreign country, and sees a wanted poster—one that says, like, 'wanted, dead or alive.' He might ask somebody, 'What does that mean?' He needs to know the meaning of it."
Rip watched her continue to paint her nails. "Yeah, like it's a foreign language."
Another man on a horse pulled up and yelled, "The French are coming! The French are coming!" He then quickly rode off.
"Did you see that?" Rip said.
She ignored his question. "So, the meaning is out there—it may be in a different language—but it's there. The birds, the chipmunks, the squirrels—they are all talking—collecting nuts and berries—saying—'Get me some food' That's what it means—sex and food."
"That's the meaning of life?"
Before she could answer, another horseman rode up and pulled back his reins. "The Irish are coming. The Irish are coming!" He rode away.
Lolita quickly bent over and stuffed a towel into a beach bag that was on the concrete next to the pool. Still holding the nailbrush, she picked up her sandals. With her other hand, she grabbed the nail polish bottle and the beach bag.
"Not the Irish," she said. "Goddamn it. Not the Irish. Take cover!"
She then ran briskly away towards the motel rooms, cotton still between her toes. |