allen frost library: The End Of Beryllium

Quick Thinking
Cruise Control
The Greyhound
Three Masquerades
The Horse
American Stars At Night
Honest Ron And The Settlers
The Boy Who Spoke Robot
Ronald Orkinson
The Beryllium Tanager
For A Couple Stars And Wind
Lucky

Quick Thinking

“Is it fair to Midland?”
“I don’t know, let’s call him in here.”
He pressed the intercom. “Midland…”
A few seconds later, a tired voice
crackled in the speaker, “Yeah?”
“C’mon in here.” He turned off
the intercom. “I’ve always trusted
Midland’s opinion in the past.”
“We’ll see,” said his partner,
shuffling a hundred page tome.
“I’d be surprised if—” he stopped,
as the door to his office opened.

Cruise Control

A gray cool morning, dew rolled
across the windshield, the Winnebago
flashed along the highway.
They had been driving for an hour
or more when the old man turned to
his wife and said, “I think I’ll go in
back and have some tea. Can you
take the wheel?”
She smiled and put her book on
the dashboard, “Of course dear.”
He stood up in the aisle as she
scooted into the driver’s seat.
Yawning, he rubbed his weary
muscles. “I’ll be glad when we’re
there.” He made his way to the
kitchenette. He turned on the burner
and sat onto vinyl. The window blurred
with the sweep of dry farmland. Mile
after mile, until the teapot broke his
reverie. The Winnebago gently rocked
like a cradle.
“I decided to join you for some tea,”
his wife said pleasantly. She poured
two cups.
Then it dawned on him. “But who’s
driving?!”
“It’s okay. I put us on cruise control.”
In the serious pass of those icy seconds,
they felt the Winnebago start to lean.
The tires beat across the lane divots.

The Greyhound

Freddie Silk had to spend the night
at a friend’s house. Dawn barked at
him in the form of a purple and blue
greyhound. Its bulging eyes goldfished
urgently while its mouth opened and
snapped. Bark!
“What do you want?!” Freddie bolted
upright on the sofa. His head spun.
The sleek dog shuddered and it took
a few mincing steps.
Freddie seemed to recall a request
to take the dog out when nature called.
Freddie groaned and got up. His bare
feet hit the floor and he cursed, “Let’s
go dog!” Only after he stumbled to
the front door and opened it did he
realize what he had just done.
His friend’s retired greyhound racer
launched off the porch to rocket
down the sidewalk.
“Waaait!” Freddie called. “Hey—!!”
he struggled to remember the dog’s
name. The lope and curve of its
disappearance was awe inspiring.
Frightening. 35 mph on the loose.
Freddie had to chase it in his
undershirt past every cold
sleeping house in the neighborhood.

Three Masquerades

There were funerals every day, and this
afternoon there were two. As the mourners
of the first sadly departed the funeral home
in long black shadows down the path, got
into cars and slugged away, unlike them
he couldn’t conceal his joy. He ran across
the lawn, a smiling maniac. A Transylvanian
thing might have been at work for he had
just found a way to bring dead back to life.
Now he had a whole new chance at living.
Behind him, as his father was getting
used to an unmarked grave,
he took the bus on a fifteen minute ride
back to the brier patch, his home. Sorrowful
buildings, brown colored scribbled plants.
It figures…He hopped off and made for
the nearest bent-over house.
It was the house he used to share with
the old man. It was all his now. It sagged
as he went in, then down the flimsy stairs
to the basement level where the grim
washing machine and furnace shook
against the air and walls.
Frank Shliefer Jr. had what he wanted
and he was happy. At last and never again
would he have to fear for rent, costs, the
day to day job at the funeral home, the
enormity that made his young life so hard.
Everything was taken care of.
He was gone behind the door for half
an hour or more. What came out was
another man. The years wore on him…
Yet there was something familiar…
The amazing camouflage made it look
so real. Maybe he had to go around in
ancient disguise whenever he went out,
but Frank was free. While the rest of the
crowd he used to know had to wait for
their sixties to retire, slaving away for
the golden day of their old age pension,
he beamed like a full harvest moon.
So a few months passed, perhaps a
year. Frank could go on and on
without worry. The checks covered
food and shelter expenses and he even
had the old man’s bank account.
The winter melted into the ground.
With the arrival of the warm season,
Frank could venture outside, in the
old man’s spring clothes. Plaid pants,
green shirt, white sweater and hat.
Cherry trees blossomed innocent pink.
On the pathway, he laughed at daffodils
tilting their yellow faces towards him.
His own face wore a quarter inch of
makeup that stretched to wrinkles
around his smile. The whole world
was coming through to a new life.
“Hello there,” warbled the voice of
Bea Lefter, his neighbor.
“Good morning!” he returned, even
gesturing an old man’s way. “It’s a
beautiful day.”
The old woman on the porch
watched him so intently that he
was worried his act may be failing.
He caught his breath next to the
picket fence, ready to run if
necessary.
“Yes…” she agreed at last.
“But how could you forget
the Spring of 1975?”
Frank laughed in relief.
“That’s right! I remember!’
Safe. He straightened out of a sag.
“Say, listen…” she hushed, and
leaned a hand to her mouth. “You
ought to come over and see me
again. Next time that boy of
yours falls asleep before you.”
“I…”
She smiled and blushed. “You
know where I keep the key.”

Louis Manhattan pulled on his
company shirt and blue matching
slacks, zippered his coat and put
on his cap. Before the mirror, he
examined himself, setting his jaw
squarely and proudly. The company
colors, stripes and logo were still
his…though he had been fired half
a year ago. He wore this uniform
every day. The disgrace had simply
been replaced in his mind, he
continued to live as though on
payroll. In a way, he was too.
In his blue pocket was a company
credit card. He still used it. Who
would ever know? The company
practically owned America. Why
not? He was just one flea feeding
from it. Completely dressed, he
swung round, turned the TV off
and left his hotel room.
Downtown, Louis imagined
employment, going into skyscraper
lobbies. From one to another, he liked
the polished copper light of them,
the red carpeting, all the marble
and brass trim and the official
feeling that permeated everything.
His everyday routine was to carry
a big box in the elevators on his
mock business. Sometimes he would
get out and explore the plush halls,
maybe stare in glass doors. He could
admire his reflection or tip his cap for
the secretaries. Back in the elevators,
he’d talk to the other riders about
the weather and news headlines.
Things he knew they’d agree with.
At noon, he left for the street.
The whole avenue was company
uniforms and it felt so good to be
a part.

The cafeteria filled with sunlight
and the clatter sound of the lunchtime
crowd. The skyscrapers had let go.
So many men and women went
through the line and carried their
trays to tables set in even rows.
The chatter was muzak to the ears.
Only fate would will it so, that Frank
Shliefer would sit next Louis Manhattan
and the two of them would be eating
the same Special of the Day. They
chopped up their meals and ate
suspiciously…Last night they had
shared the same dream. A policeman
was looking for them…It was only a
matter of time…Magnet attention on
the door and the line of people forming
there. Half their food was gone before
they both stopped, blinked, realized
and froze.
A policeman had joined the line
entering the room. He took each slow
step like a tidal crab, or a comb
though hair. He jerked his belt,
disturbing the gun and billyclub.
Nobody else seemed to worry, but
the eyes of those two men grew large
as lamps. Frank and Louis were one in
fear of their nightmare coming true.
The policeman grabbed a plastic orange
food tray off a full steel shelf. He took a
step.
Suddenly two people crashed from the
tables and tangled up in running.
They flipped around on the floor
like just caught silver fish.
What did they expect?
The policeman broke from the line
and grabbed them. “That’s far enough!”
he ordered. They were tight in his claws.
He stood them in front of him, one in
each hand like a puppeteer. “What’s
your hurry?”
To the policeman’s surprise, the two
began to cry and confess outrageous
stories. One had been living the life of
a dead man, the other was stealing from
a company. They were both guilty of
crime. He reached for the handcuffs
on his belt, cleared his throat to read
them their rights, when another voice
stepped on his words.
“What are the charges?”
The policeman swung his puppets
around to face the questioner. A scared
gasp betrayed his confident expression.
His eyes saucered wide and
he let them loose. He was caught.
“That’s not a real badge…Where did
you get that?”
“Woolworths,” admitted the fallen,
so-called policeman. “For half price.”
“Right…” said the officer, new to the
scene. “And who are these two?”
Every masquerade had ended, the music
had slid out the cracks, all anyone could
do was admit.
“I’m not a cop…”
“I’m not dead…”
“I’m not working…”
That was it.

The Horse

“How great an act can you do in a horse costume?”
he demanded. He put another toothpick in his
gritted mouth. It already looked like a porcupine.
His acts gave him the same trouble anytime applause
closed the curtain on them. “Look, this is a simple
crowd, they just want to laugh. They like what you
do, you’re successful, why change it?”
“We can do Shakespeare,” said the front of the horse,
Joe was his name. “Othello, or Macbeth.”
Simmons, the back end of the horse, broke in seriously,
“We don’t want to do the same old juggling and
limericks anymore. We have big ideas for a new show.”

They could hear the crowd out in the theater still
clapping for them. On through the walls until the
orchestra played for the dancing girls kicking the
next act on. A toothpick fell. It blended in the plaid
of the manager’s trousers. “Listen boys,” he sighed,
“I been in show business for forty nine years…
Forty nine…That’s a long time. I’ve seen a lot of
acts rise or fall.” He took one of the toothpicks out
of his mouth and studied it for a moment. “When I
choose to book someone such as yourselves, it’s
because I have a wealth of experience. Suppose
the spark I see you possess will be the next Martin
and Lewis? I take a chance, I gamble, I bet, I get
you on stage and I let you perform. I have a vision
of what you will be.”
“Yeah…” Simmons interrupted defensively, mad,
“You haven’t seen half of what we can do.”
“That’s right,” Joe agreed.
Simmons insisted, “We don’t need you to tell us
what to do. We’re taking the show on the road!”
The two stood up defiantly, clutching the halves
of their costume.
The manager shrugged, unaffected. “I already
got a dancing cow waiting for a call back.”
Joe scoffed, “Replaced by a cow! What a sad
joke. Good luck!” He and his partner kept laughing
as they took up their bags. All down the stairs to
the door they joked. At the landing, the green exit
bulb buzzed and flickered like a radio dial. They
swung the door open and went out into the infinite
blue and moon shadowed alley.
“We’ll go to Chicago. There’s plenty of shows
there.”
A pail colored taxi slowed past on the street
and they ran to it.
“Take us to the train station!”
They lit up cigarettes and glowed in the dark
back seat. Joe rubbed his hand over the horse’s
carpet fur for luck.
A couple hundred yards was all it took.
The taxi journeyed to a stop beside a brick,
yellow lit platform with a little bungalow
stumped next to the tracks.
While the car idled, the driver’s eyes moled
in the mirror, looking at them. “We’re there.”
He stuck his hand over the seat at them.
Joe dug in his pocket.
“Here, let me,” said his partner. He paid
the man and opened the door. “We’re on
the up and up. I want to breathe in that Chicago
wind.” The taxi left them into the dark pour.
No lights of Broadway. Standing there,
they could hear crickets calling back and forth
from the wheat stalks that grew in between
the pavement slabs. “Goodbye nowhere!”
They walked to the glass booth that held
a goldfishing man. “Two tickets!” Simmons
beamed. “To Chicago!”
“You’re in luck, boys. Train just arrived.”
Simmons laughed, “See Joe! Everything’s
working perfectly!” Under the slip of window
he paid enough money. They could practically
hear the music with them, running to the waiting
train, to leave the old for the new dream of
skyscrapers. They showed their tickets to the
porter in the door and found their two seats.
The car was filled with sleeping people
who had already been a long way, too long
to open their eyes for some dustbowl late at
night, yet a small boy with a wooden toy
watched them sit down with their curious
animal halves. Simmons pushed the horse
body under his chair, reclined and pulled his
coat tightly around himself like a blanket.
“Just wait…” he yawned. “Chicago is on
the way.” The train lurched as the wheels
bit hold of the path again. The town was
leaving them forever. So long. Joe could see
the gray whale slant of their old theater amidst
the trees and bleak. Simmons yawned and
sighed, “I need to catch some shut eye, pal.”
The rails began to click the passing wheels
monotony. “I’m gonna get some air,” Joe said.
“Don’t forget your head,” Simmons reminded
him sleepily. Every performer knew that much.
There were stories beyond number about
costumes and lives lost in transit.
“Right.” He stuffed the horse head under
his arm and went down the rocking aisle
past crooked uncomfortable sleepers. A few
cars opened doors until the last one ended on
a little airy porch affair. He sat down on the
wooden chair and dropped the head at his feet.
What a relief. What a relief, watching the brief
lights of farm houses, shadows, the bleary fields
revealed by half moon, the sleeping lion bales of hay.
He shut his eyes and listened to the rhythm until
it became the crackling Victrola soundtrack to
a dream. In the Chicago of his dream, he and his
partner danced with a line of beauties across a
stage set Eden. Their tapping four hooves stopped
in a dramatic spot and from the horse’s mouth
spoke verses of poetry. It seemed so real that
when it changed song, he couldn’t believe that
world was gone. The train was stopped in
blackness. Boiling clouds hid starlight.
Maybe it’s been here for a while…He stood up.
Silence until he coughed. By squinting his eyes
at the midnight, he could almost see trees shaping
hills far away. It was a little spooky to be this
alone, wondering how his partner was in the cars
far ahead. Joe opened the door and went into
the desolate. What a nightmare. The abandoned
rows of seats faced quiet air. “Hello?!” Nothing.
He hurried anxiously to another door.
Turning the handle, he nearly collapsed into
the tracks laid yards below. The horse head fell
out of his grasp, end over end, to land on the
rock chips and gray slates in between the iron path.
Where was Chicago? Where was he now? There
wasn’t a sign of civilization. If he let himself down,
where would he go? He was trying to figure out
the riddle when his body was shaken into waking.
Suddenly he was staring at the frantic cut silhouette
of his partner Simmons.
“Joe! Get up!”
“What is it?” Joe straightened up in the chair.
The train was still tearing up the night. A little light
passed them by like a shooting star in the black.
“Wake up. We’re in trouble…”
Joe rubbed his eyes, “Why? What is it?”
“Never mind right now. I have to borrow this.”
Simmons grabbed the horse head from under the chair.
Joe seized hold of his sleeve before he could disappear
back into the train. “What’s happening?”
Simmons tugged his arm back. “I’m in a little fix.
Don’t worry. It’s nothing I can’t handle. I have to win
back the rest of the horse.”
A clown appeared in the lit doorway, ominously
blocking it. “You aren’t trying to run off, are you?”
He had a black ace of spades tucked in his hat band.
“No! No!” Simmons laughed. “I’m just getting some
collateral.” He quickly revealed the horse head. “See!”
The clown nodded slowly and wheezed, “That’ll work.
Come on back. The dealer’s ready for the next hand.”
Clinching his arm over Simmons’ shoulders, the clown
led him back into the car again.
The door shut behind them.
Joe sat where he had been, blinking his eyes,
waiting for that new dream to begin.

American Stars At Night

Applause and fanfares from the big band as
he came out onto the stage. He did a double-take
under the flashing clapping meters and then he
waved to the audience. With all that amplified
commotion pushing him along, Stu Tipps swaggered
over to the bronze colored desk to sit down beside
the host of American Stars At Night.
“How you doin’ Johnny?” he grinned.
“Good, good. It’s been a while, Stu...”
The crowd and technicians had settled down
to be entertained by the Hollywood colossus.
“Yeah, I been busy. Another movie in the can.”
Stu nodded gratefully towards the impromptu cheers.
“My fans…” he smiled another million dollars and
pointed his thumb at them.

Johnny leaned over eagerly. “I understand it’s
something different. You directed the picture
this time, right?”
“Not only that, Johnny. I produced it, I wrote
the screenplay and I star in it. The works! It’s
my baby.”
“Fantastic!” Johnny sat back for a moment of
applause to wash over the studio shell. “Could
you tell us a little about it?”
“Sure Johnny. After I finished Buck Shot Cop,”
the mention of the film caused more pandemonium,
but Stu smiled and went on, “I couldn’t stop
thinking about Easter Island. I was being haunted.”
“Fascinating,” Johnny intoned.
“Do you know about that place?”
“I’ve certainly heard of it. I understand there’s
quite a mystery there.”
“You better believe it, Johnny. Once upon a time
there was a civilization there. They had towns
and road and a religion and they also had forests.
No different than us. So what happened? What
did they do to their land? You go there now and
all we know is traces, there’s nothing left, only
the hills and the rocks. The ones that look like
faces. People today like to say the whole thing’s
a big mystery, but I’ve been thinking. It’s not
so strange. It makes sense, even to me. I think—”
“Hold that thought, Stu,” Johnny interrupted.
“We have to go to a commercial break for a
word from our sponsors.” He winked at the
camera, “Don’t go away.”

Honest Ron And The Settlers

(Horse clopping, pulling a cart)
“Martha, it will be a miracle if we get this
Conestoga through the desert to Fort Bixby.
But we must press on across this God forsaken
land…”
“Hold on Jebediah! What’s that up ahead? Are
my eyes playing tricks on me?”
“It looks like some kind of odd contraption.
There’s a man standing next to it!”
“Look at those outlandish clothes!”
“Step right up folks, don’t be afraid. Welcome
to Honest Ron’s. I’m the time-traveling used car
salesman. Have I got a deal for You!”
“I…”
“Fellah, I don’t mean to insult you, but look at
that jalopy you’re driving. Two horsepower!”
“See here, strange man.”
“Look, don’t you want your little lady to feel
proud beside you? What’s that wagon made out
of—wood? C’mere friend, let Honest Ron show
you a 72 Buick. Solid Detroit steel!”
“I don’t know…”
“Listen pal. I understand your situation. You
need a reliable car at a fair price. Go no further.
Check out the mileage, FM radio included, just
kick those sidewalls!”
“What??”
“Can’t you see what a deal it is I’m giving you?
Look at the aerodynamics.”
“I don’t even know how it moves. Where are the
horses?”
“They’re under the hood, kid. A hundred and fifty!
All you have to do is get behind the wheel, step
on the gas and ZOOOMM!”
“But what do you feed it?”
“Heh, heh. That’s the beauty part. You don’t feed
it! And an automobile from Honest Ron is guaranteed
to run forever.”
“I like it Jebediah.”
“There! You see, she’s got vision!”
“I’m not so sure…We have seven days traveling ahead
of us. This desert is powerful hard.”
“Hey! Would Honest Ron steer you wrong? This
Buick will get you there in hours! In the future where
I come from, the 72 Buick is the King of the Road.”
“Let’s get it Jebediah.”
“I don’t know if we can afford such an…auto…mobile.”
“Friends, today is your lucky day because I’m gonna
sell you the car of tomorrow at the price of today.
What do you got?”
“Ahhh…some Confederate money, some gold coins,
aahhh this letter from Robert E. Lee, maybe we have
something else in back…a map of America drawn by
Lewis and Clark…”

The Boy Who Spoke Robot

There was nothing anyone could do to
get him to talk, though something different
happened whenever he saw a machine.
He would get as close as possible to hum
a secret. Anything that clicked and whirred
to those tasks it was programmed for,
he would run up to it and make friends.
The mechanical driver of the monorail,
the eggbeaters there past the kitchen doors,
the traffic light post shining red yellow green,
even the simple LED calculators stuck in the
bargain store bins. All of them heard him sing.
And since it took so many machines to make
a city run from day to day, it could be that
he would still be known after the war,
when the machines overthrew.
After the static, quiet calm formed,
as if a new ocean was laid down,
and a time to try again began and
someone would be needed with
a song.

Ronald Orkinson

I had to stay in bed and watch the blinds.
The bright spring air rattled them with every breath.
My clock read almost eight, but time didn’t matter,
it was all a wait. Sooner or later the footsteps would
approach my door, a parcel would fall through the
slot and my day would begin. Until then, I listened
to the outside world, layered with cars on the street,
birds in the trees and far above the pull of an airplane.
Until then, I was nothing.
I must have drifted off because before I knew it,
the noise of the metal latch caught me by surprise.
The package fell inside, the footsteps disappeared.
Hard as it was to move, the thing drew me with
magnetic power. Ronald Orkinson was written on
the manila. I tore it open and let the good Book out.
Gold lettering on the blue cover announced my name
and Day 11680. I opened it up.
Get Dressed.
I obeyed instantly. My clothes were piled on
a chair in the corner. All I could think about was,
“What will happen? Where will I go?” At last,
I tied on my shoes and returned to the Book to read.
The next command was simple enough.
Go Outside.
I opened the door with the Book under my arm.
The stairway down the side of the house creaked
with my sneakers. A cat on the last step ran off
into the garden weeds. At sea level, I quickly
opened the Book again.
Get Breakfast.
I smiled. It wasn’t often that the Book allowed
me a treat like that. There’s a restaurant a couple
blocks away. I’ve smelled the wonderful aroma
many hungry mornings before as the Book took
me journeying somewhere else. I opened the
brass doors and let the waitress show me to a table.
“Coffee?” she asked.
“Sure. Why not?” This was going to be a great day.
I set the Book to gleam in the window light. My
eyes feasted upon the menu, finding the most
outrageous ingredients. My coffee arrived and
I let have it with my breakfast order. She filled
a whole green ticket. When I left I’d be walking
on air like a balloon. So I had my coffee and a
refill as well. A rainbow bent from the thick
window glass, spread on the cover of the Book.
“Thanks,” I told it and touched its corner with
affection. I felt compelled to read the next
sentence. Usually I wait until it’s appropriate,
but on this day…waiting for my meal…I felt
so warm and happy I had to know where it
would lead me next.
Get Money.
That took me by surprise. Money! I realized
I didn’t have a cent in my pocket. I looked
around me, I could see the waitress balancing
plates, spinning my way. I grabbed the Book
and bolted. It was the only thing I could do.
Running down the street, I wished I had the guts
to toss the Book in one of the passing alleyways.
It had done this to me before. Real funny, thanks.
I had to catch my breath, I stopped with my
hand on a white stone lion. I knew I could never
part with the Book, I knew that without it
I was helpless. It had always controlled my
days. Even now. It had led me to the bank.
The lion guarded the entrance. The stone eyes
watched me go in.
People echoed all over the marble floor.
I stood there with them, not knowing what
to do. You can’t just walk into a bank and
get money, didn’t the Book know that? In
exasperation, I consulted it again.
Get A Gun.
Where were these words leading me?
What did it want me to do? For the second
time, I felt an overwhelming compulsion to
reject it. Then I saw the guard sleeping at
his desk. His hand was slumped over the back
of the chair, newspaper fallen on the floor,
and a pistol beckoned, hanging on the side of
his belt. The Book was right, I could do it.
I moved along the shadow of the pillar.
I crept onto the Persian rug moating his desk
and I reached out.
“That’s far enough!” He bounced to his feet
with his hand on his hip. He drew the gun and
pointed it at me. “I always knew some punk
would try that,” he puffed steam triumphantly.
“Everyone thought Old Charley was sleeping
on the job. Hah!” Instead, he’d been waiting
like a spider. He set the gun beside him on
the table to fumble with his handcuffs.
My moment had come. I opened the Book
and as chaos shot around me, I tore the
morning out.

The Beryllium Tanager

For a hundred years, the Beryllium Tanager
has been extinct. The song that once clouded
the sky over America is remembered only
in the whistle of children and the squeak
of the factory rinds that are dying now too,
in the valley end of this century.

For A Couple Stars And Wind

After a last night in the ballroom
the elevator took them all to the top,
where they set up chairs and music stands
on a tarred roof, with chimneys and aerials,
an audience of a couple stars and wind,
to play music that was already the past.

Lucky

“Just keep telling me the winners,” he said.
“And we’ll get that place in the country.
Then you won’t have to bend so low to fit in.”
He rustled the newspaper in front of his lucky
pet’s nose. “Take a look…Black Tie looks good
in the first, but don’t let me cloud your vision.
You just tell me. You know the odds, you’ve
never been wrong...” He leaned back to wait.
Holes punched in the wall illegally let in more
light and air, traffic rush, flies. He waited.
As soon as there was a reply, he could call
his bookie. He scratched his hands. “No more
city…just meadows and sky...” The answer
would take them there. Then it came.
Effortlessly, the giraffe clapped its hoof
against the floor. Once, twice, three times.