Radio Verté presents A Hooga by Corey Zimmerman.
Misery Guts Act 3
On the curb before Frank Wright and Brothers News Dealer, a newsboy in a newsboy cab waiting
for the town to buzz to life, carries the day's headline on the tip of his tongue.
Ford's Promise of Tomorrow.
One millionth Tin Lizzie rolls off assembly line.
The Public Square.
Burrowed buildings of limestone block, red brick, candy-striped awnings, all-American
storefronts at the heart of an all-American town.
At the crest of each façade, etched in granite, the name of the character each structure is
intended to portray.
H.H.
Orndorf.
Randolph.
Churchill.
Emerson.
Hanlon.
And above all, upon a yellow water tower in the distance, in bold white letters, Canton.
1825.
Settler Isaac Swan, believing his new town to be the antipod to Canton, China, names
it rightly so.
Jones Park.
An oval oasis of maple and poplar trees sitting snug in the arms of the town square, where
a brick pathway runs down its center.
Circling about a Liberty Pole, the path approaches an octagonal bandstand, where early rising
folk sit cross-legged, deep in shallow conversation, drawing a fine line between one thing and
another in the twilight of their lives.
And if one were to spin around on their heels and look directly south from its steps, they'd
spot that newsboy in the newsboy cap, waiting for the town to buzz to life.
The stray fleas with its tail between its legs, as the most popular horseless carriage
in America, the Ford Model T, putters east down Elm.
In just past Holly's flower shop, it takes a left at the beer house, where a man in a
top hat advertises,
Budweiser is a friend of mine, as a lone drunkard washes his face in a water trough.
Rumbling and bobbling over the brickwork, the Ford heads north up East Side Square,
for Messers, Day Brothers & Co., Kimball's Hardware, Shatsky & Schlark Clothers, Miss
Willard Milliney's Dress Shop, and the Opera House.
Having not seen a Broadway show come through in some years, a poster in the window displays
the world's greatest photo player, Charlie Chaplin, Six Cents.
Taking a left on Chestnut, the Tin Lizzy heads west, passing Wylsted Meat Market and Anderson's
Grocer, as Anderson the Grocer sweeps the dusty sidewalk before his elaborate window
display, as a streetcar jangles south on its track, past Mason's, Campbell's, Durham
Tobacco, the Bean Dean Company, and just across Elm, where the trolley comes to a brief stop.
The pillar of the community, the First National Bank.
The corner building stands stern and proud, its face aimed directly for the park from
a 45-degree angle, sure to keep the business district in its periphery.
The ledges of its second-story windows, grumpy brows, shading downward peering eyes, scrowling
down its nose upon the humble townsfolk.
The Bank, always on guard, protecting its paper heart behind 10-gauge steel.
A brand new 1915 Page Fleetwood zooms up Elm Street and skids to a stop out front.
The luxurious roomy five-seater, four-door touring body in Rochelleau Blue, straw-colored
wheels and nickel trimmings is a sight to be seen.
Mr. Olsen steps out in a bowler hat and shuts the door with velvet gloves, so to speak.
Meanwhile, the Bank's guard, armed with a.45 caliber revolver on his side, strolls
up with a holler, woo-wee, and a long but quick country drawl.
Was wondering how you'd darn near beat me this morning, Mr. Olsen?
Good morning, Edward," says Mr. Olsen, keys jangling.
Yes, the Fleetwood is second to none, had her brought down from Chicago this weekend.
Edward, tall and lanky, with bushy sideburns, rolling on his heels, hands in his pockets,
elbows locked, field tanned, dusty old top hat inherited from his paw, adding a good
foot of fortune to his 6'6", clicks his cheek, and clicks his heels with a, well,
yep, says Mr. Olsen, and, uh, guess we oughta.
Inside, they toss their hats, and Mr. Olsen locks the door behind them, readying the drawers
before a steady stream of check cashers, steady trickling come Friday when it's all pissed
away at the beer house.
Mr. Olsen makes his way to the vault and spins the dial, electric chandeliers buzz, dull
yellow hue slow to chase away any lingering ghosts, and Edward takes his station by the
door.
How's best?
Asks Mr. Olsen.
Ankle's doing fine, says Edward, hopping out of position to open the heavy drapes, allowing
brilliant blue light to flood in.
Mr. Olsen pulls open the vault door and walks in.
Edward continues in a half shout, raising his wobbly chin to note, up and walking again.
Now there's no doubting amongst no one, Edward is a people person, to say the very least.
Still, city life suits Edward as awkwardly as his trousers hang on his hips, starched,
rising high tied to the ankle.
Edward is a good guard, assuming so to say the least, seeing his job has chiefly amounted
to that of doorman, fingers crossed.
You see, not long after moving to town, Edward got his footing as a clerk at Anderson's Grocer,
quick to show off his skills, adding and subtracting on his fingers.
Edward is a farm boy at heart and heart, specializing in muck, dirt, and animal deitris, but has
a mastery of cornfield math, a particular gift inherited from his pop, or so he claims.
But when that darn number clunker, as he calls it, showed up on the counter at Anderson's
one day, its keys confounding his knuckle joints, not to speak of his thinker, as his
ticker sped up, his mouth dried and bittered with the taste of panic, he came to the realization
that his finger counting services were numbered.
So it came time for the greenhorn slicker to move along and find employment elsewhere,
and what better place than the House of Numbers, the first national bank.
Edward counts nine times out of ten, rushing off his darn feet.
He darn beats Mr. Olsen to the door each morning, but today by God, he's determined it's a
country drawl.
Refusing to clutch his tenth finger in his fist, it curls into a stubborn hook.
Sure Edward is favored enough, and rightly so, as he adds and subtracts each customer
as they come and go, remembering each patron counting the letters in their names, and greeting
them so by number rather than name, and so on.
Nonetheless, it is essential to note that Edward's wife, Bess, is somewhat of a local
celebritant herself, known for her award-winning meatloaf.
A good couple years before Edward and Bess moved off the farm, Bess inherited a meatloaf
recipe from her great-aunt Louisa.
Rather, she found it in a music box after she croaked.
You see, Louisa suffered from rheumatoid arthritis, a godforsaken disease attacking the joints
in a hellish manner.
And to make things worse, the nightmare condition produced sweat-drenched dreams of being maimed
and killed.
And night after night, Aunt Louisa was said to be slaughtered by a stranger with an 8-inch
cane knife, unless she helped herself to a hefty serving of her special meatloaf before
bed.
And upon discovering the recipe in the music box, Bess baked herself up a steaming batch
before Louisa was even cold in the ground.
That's the day Edward got his feet wet as a taste tester, and that batch of meatloaf,
well, it right out knocked his size 13s right out from under him.
And Edward spent the afternoon lying about the prairie grass, babbling on about leprechauns
and such, and he's never been the same since.
It wasn't but one year into taste testing when Edward caught word of a steamy meatloaf
competition down south at the Illinois State Fair.
And after a good nudging, he convinced Bess to throw together some bacon, red and yellow
peppers, garlic powder, thyme, parsley, some taters, sourdough breadcrumbs, saltine crackers,
grated cheese, Worcestershire sauce, which he cannot pronounce, a cup of ketchup, at
least one egg, and a dash of salt and pepper, using only 75-25 ground beef, and cooking
it up precisely according to Aunt Louisa's recipe to the tea, secret ingredient in all.
The judges put on their bibs, loosened their trousers, and went to town on those thick
slices of meat leaning against generous heapings of mashed potatoes.
The results ranged from too moist to too dry, and from too heavily seasoned to too bland
on the opposite end of the meatloaf specter.
Some loaves were thick with topping, while others had little to no topping at all.
Downright ludicrous, if you ask Bess.
Overall it was a good selection of various meatloaf styles, resulting in plates lit clean
and happy swollen guts before the judges shared comments with unexplainable laughter that
kicked one back in his chair and carefully made notes on score sheets ranging from one
wrong to five right, and they were quickly unanimous in their votes.
Auntie's meatloaf was to take home the top prize.
My Auntie Louisa always made it when we were younger, Bess told to Canton Register, and
when my husband Edward proposed I enter, when we learned of the contest and all, well, I
was a bit hesitant to be honest, and if it wasn't for my poor Edward spending his Saturdays
with a swollen gut, I wouldn't be here today.
And of course, I must thank my Aunt Louisa, when she was going through her bowel starthritis,
she said the only thing that during made her feel good was a hefty serving of meatloaf,
but now that she's done passed on, gotta bless her soul, I want her special meatloaf
to bring the same joy to others as it did to us children, a tribute to her I suppose.
The secret ingredient to Auntie's meatloaf, cannabis sativa, a rather skunky weed found
growing in the ditch down on the farm.
It's too bad Bess was rushed off her feet like that.
Goddamn potholes, says Mr. Olsen, closing the vault door behind him, but leaving it
unlocked.
Hell, I'm considering paving the streets with my own damn money.
Do that and heck, Mr. Olsen, Bess might even have you over for meatloaf, says Edward,
rocking anxiously on his feet, fingers counting as they do.
The Lord knows I could use a good meal.
Roxy burnt my omelet again.
I offered to hire hell, but hell, I'm starting to think she's trying to tell me something,
Edward.
Woman, mysterious creatures, says Edward, house Friday, asks Mr. Olsen.
Sir, meatloaf, says Mr. Olsen, making his way to unlock the front door.
I'll have her get right to it, sir, says Edward, as a young brunette enters, cradling
a Fontana Milano handbag that matches the tone of her long neck and slender wrists.
You don't have to do that, Edward, I'm just joshing you.
Good morning, Rose.
Morning, number four, says Edward, as Rose rolls her eyes.
Good morning, Mr. Olsen, you have an appointment with the mayor at nine, says Rose.
Hell, Rose, it's 8.58, says Mr. Olsen, looking at his father's gold pocket watch.
And here I thought you were on my good books.
Mr. President.
A full baritone booms from behind, and Mr. Olsen spins around on his heels in feigned
surprise for the mayor.
The mayor, yet another short, squatty man, red in face, suit beyond his means.
He wears a larger-than-life mustache, bulbous nose, and a comb over atop a pair of round
shoulders.
With a vigorous handshake, Mayor, nice to see you.
How's Mabel?
Oh, finer than frog hair, says the mayor, asking, and how's that darling of mine?
Burnt my almond again, I tell you.
Bo-dacious, break open that checkbook, Mr. President, and hire Roxy some help already.
You damn flumadiddle.
Hell, I wouldn't let Mabel within ten feet of a flame.
Did you get a chance to read the register this morning?
Asks Mr. Olsen.
I did, I did.
For strong coffee, I might add.
One long drawn-out hour later, exiting Mr. Olsen's office, beads of sweat collect on
the mayor's brow as he dabs at them with a silk handkerchief monogrammed with his initials.
F.U.
Frank Underwood won his seat through an extensive network of friends and family who helped him
commit voter fraud.
Hired as well through ill-gotten gains, has a gambling and alcohol addiction, married
Betty Snyder in 1898, with whom he has three children, two boys suffering an inherited
obesity and a daughter none too much to look her.
And hell, he's been trying to auction her off at lodge meetings to men three, four times
her age.
A longtime member of the Knights of Columbus, a divine hatred for Truman, and is madly in
love with Ms. Roxy Olsen.
Hogwash The icicle's gonna get an egg to the face,
says the mayor in a hogtail.
I told Roxy just as much this morning over eggs, says Mr. Olsen.
If I had my druthers, I'd give that scoundrel a piece of my mind.
Anyhow, say hello to Roxy for me, the mayor says, pausing to rub his chin.
Still, my wife could sure use a zing to her name, and in an off-Scottish accent, in a
Spanish roll of the tongue.
Roxy!
Coffee a bit strong this morning?
asks Mr. Olsen.
And the mayor leans in close.
Brandy!
Thought my office smelled mighty sweet.
Mighty early, Mayor.
Mighty early, says Mr. Olsen.
Care to swap jobs for a day?
asks the mayor.
I suppose.
You've got a meeting in five at the board of directors, says Mr. Olsen, and all their
interests will be in attendance.
In that case, says the mayor, I'll return to my brandy.
Wise decision, Mayor.
Single malt, says the mayor.
Want it in hand to poke her off that Randolph.
Scoundrel, I tell ya.
Anyhow, I'll drop in on my old darling.
I'm sure she'd love to see Mabel.
We can make a dinner of it, says Mr. Olsen, growing somewhat weary of the man.
Take care now, and watch that loose brick on your way out.
The mayor steps out onto the sidewalk in full baritone and carols.
You're the flower of my heart, sweet Roxy.
He pauses to fire up a finely rolled Gordo, just as an old Jeffrey Rambler rumbles up.
And he heeds mindless, head in a cloud of smoke, straight for the loose brick.
I trust that you will find your love still mine, sweet-
Ouch, son of a-
Rolling his ankle on the brick.
And limping away.
Mabel.
What kind of name is Mabel, anyhow?