The Futiles Epikles

and other character sketches

by Tom Lichtenberg

Copyright 2010 by Tom Lichtenberg

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only, and may not be resold or given away to other people. Thanks and enjoy!

Parking Lot Cowboy Bouncer 

He sits there on the tailgate of his pickup truck, daring you to park. Got official bank business? You'd better. This here parkin' lot's just fer bankin', he growls. Just fer Western bankin', that is. 
He's got his cowboy hat tilted just so. Is that tobacco he's chewing? Somebody still does that? Day in, day out, this here parkin's just fer bankin'. 
There's other parkin' roun' the corner. Yeah, so why can't the friggin' bank customers park over there? 
This here parkin' lot's re-served. 
If you ain't bankin', they gonna tow yo' ass. 
Damn straight. 
Okay, so I went into the bank and snuck out the side door where the bouncer couldn't see me. Came back twenty minutes later. 
Fine day for bankin', I told him. 
I reckon so, he snarled. 

The Fat Bearded Know-It-All 

He may not be fat, and he may not have a beard, but he sure does know it all. There is at least one of these in every group in every division in every high tech company, and probably in all other industries as well. The fat bearded know-it-all may not be in charge; in fact, he usually isn't. He may not be the highest paid, and he may not be the most respected, but he is usually the most listened to. 
The most listened to, that is, in terms of absolute time. The fat bearded know-it-all typically dominates every discussion. If he doesn't begin it, he ends it, because it's quote orthogonal. If he doesn't end it, he continues it, to make sure his contribution is at least above eighty percent. If that doesn't resolve anything, he takes it "offline", and if he doesn't take it offline, he follows up with a raft of emails. The meeting is never allowed to "rat-hole", unless he is the rat, and it is his hole. 
He is the first to arrive at the meeting. He is early, so he can take the best seat in the room - the "man seat". He has a host of biting comments prepared and marshaled for every occasion. 
The fat bearded know-it-all has solutions before there are problems. He answers every question before it is posed. He anticipates and forestalls all objections. Did you know, he is a chess master, a tour de force cyclist, a video game master who by the way knows the words to every song by Steely Dan. Nothing escapes his attention. He is the man who would want to be king if it were possible in this day and age. 
Let no one else have a say in the matter, and let the matter be closed. If he has done it, it is done. Perceived flaws in his work are merely flaws in your perception. That bug in the software? Purely by design. That question you asked is just the kind of question he never wants to hear again, from anyone. He makes it clear, for the race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong, but all of it belongs to the fat, to the bearded, to the one who knows it all. 

The Twin Hater 

The Twin Hater has any number of phobias and allergies, all of which combine to make each day an adventure. She cannot walk down certain streets. She cannot ride on certain buses She had better not cross the street from north to south until she has already crossed from west to east. If a man in a crowd has a brown hat, she had better go back the other way. If a woman is holding a child by the hand, she had better not look at the child. Anyone who has been in a coffee shop that day cannot be reasoned with. Anyone with tan boots on is just asking for trouble. 
Certain numbers cannot be seen or heard, or even written down. Eighty-eight is bad enough, but eighty-seven is just as bad, and only eighty-nine can bring relief. Most numbers involving an eight had better be avoided. A phone number containing an eight cannot be called. An address with same cannot be approached. She will wait at a bakery as long as it takes until a reasonable ticket number is available. 
On the left hand side of the street, bad things are likely to happen. On the right hand side of the street, it's certainly sensible to take precautions. Last year several pedestrians were injured in the crosswalk. Fewer were injured when jaywalking. She knows which way is what. 
The entire day must begin without events. The first half hour is crucial. The water must be just so, the lather just so, the tea not too hot, the air not too cold. The stairway must be clear of other people. She will wait her turn. The sidewalk can be damp, but there should be no puddles. She should not encounter more than two red lights in a row, but since she can control her pace to some extent, this usually doesn't happen. The tunnel should be noisy and polluted. A bus should roar through each direction. There can be no twins. 
There can never be twins, twins of any kind, but especially identical twins. Especially identical twins wearing the same outfit. Especially old lady identical twins wearing the same plaid outfits and newly coiffed hair. Any kind of twin is enough to ruin the day, but those twins, oh, those horrible twins. On seeing such twins, even if it's just a photo in a magazine ad, she must go home. She cannot work. She cannot shop. She must go home as quickly and directly as possible, and spend the rest of the day hiding under the sheets. 
She can never go on vacation. There might be twins. 

The Futile Epikles 

The Epikles lives for the chance to do good deeds. He prowls for the opportunity. He lies in wait for unsuspecting victims of his magnanimity. His favorite phrase is "can I help you?" People looking at a map in public are the most susceptible to his aid. Before they have a chance to get their bearings, he appears before them pronouncing his phrase, and he is never at a loss for the information they require. He seems to know where everything is located. As always, he is "glad to help".  
The Epikles spends his free time wandering around doing any good deed he can muster. Any good deed, no matter how small, rewards him with infinite satisfaction. In line at the supermarket, he will insist that someone with fewer items go ahead of him. Spotting someone at the bus stop without an umbrella, he will inform her of the likelihood of rain. If he is at a train station, he will look around for people who seem to need to know the time, and he will tell them precisely what it is.  
His acts are inspired by genuine goodness. There is no doubt about his inner qualities. Other people may find him a little odd, a little too forthcoming, a tad too friendly, perhaps. After all, they do not know this knight in shining armor who is popping up out of nowhere to rescue them from nothing. His good deeds do in fact go unpunished, for they are not quite good enough to merit that result. He is dismissed with a half-hearted 'thank you', and, convinced his helper is now all right, he hustles off towards the next horizon. 

The Nay Sayer 

The Nay Sayer will never agree with you about anything. He always knows better. It does not matter what you have said, the answer is "no, not this one, that one".  
You may have suggested a Vietnamese restaurant in town - you have proposed the wrong one. The Other Vietnamese restaurant is more authentic, the food is tastier, the decor more agreeable, and the prices more reasonable.  
You may have mentioned that Mr. X seems to be doing a good job - the answer is no, Mr. X is lacking in such and such qualities and it is Mr. Y who is doing the good job. 
You may have thought that A was a pretty good movie - there are at least seventeen major flaws in it that he can readily identify, and you should really see B, it was a much better film. 
The weather may seem to be perfectly miserable, cold, windy and wet, but no, no, saith the Nay Sayer, this is exactly the kind of weather he prefers, which is why he moved to San Francisco in the first place. Any other kind of weather is for bad-tempered people who do not deserve to live. 
There is no subject the Nay Sayer is not familiar with. You may taunt him with suggestions that Polish Lap Dancing has it all over the Serbian variety, and he will regale you with quite graphic descriptions that should surely change your mind.  
You cannot get the better of the Nay Sayer. Even if you tell him that you did see movie B, as he suggested, and it really was much better than movie A, you find he will have changed his mind, and now movie A is the genuine masterpiece, whereas B is purely trash. 
At length you will surrender to the infinite wisdom of the Nay Sayer. He talks louder and longer than anyone else, with great effect. After several lunches with this man, you will find you have lost your appetite for commenting on anything ever again. 

The Name Disapprover 

The Name Disapprover frowns at every new baby's name. There is something wrong with each and every one of them. Whenever he hears that someone is pregnant, he is immediately concerned that there will be a tragic mistake. The child's life will become pure hell due to the unthinkable name its parents bestowed upon it. 
There once was a girl named Misty Dawn. Is it any accident she became a stripper? What will become of Aska? How can you name a girl anything that begins with the sound "ass"? What were they thinking when they named the boy Trevor? Will he not suffer predictable traumas at the all-boys British prep school he is now destined to attend? 
No, no, no, the Disapprover declares, you cannot invent a brand new name for the child! What will the other children think when they meet a boy named Linrod? Bisbee? And Montana is not a girl, it is a cold and desolate state! Oh, the shame of it all. The Name Disapprover is quite upset about the fates of these cruelly marked children. It does not occur to him that since all of their peers will also have stupid names, their own won't matter a bit.  
The Disapprover lives in a Golden Era, when everyone was Bob or Bill or Jane or Sue. The Disapprover would be happiest if everyone was named after him. 

The One Eyed Jack 

If you are standing, or sitting, very still, preferably in a place where you are trapped and cannot leave, waiting in line perhaps, or waiting for a plane, or just waiting for something somewhere you wouldn't usually be, and you are not looking around, and you are not suspecting that anything will happen, and you only want to go away from wherever it is you are, and do anything other than whatever it is you are doing, and you sigh, very deeply, and feel sorry for yourself, he will come. 
At first it will seem a welcome diversion. He is not too creepy at first. He is probably blond, and everyone knows that blonds are less likely to be creepy. Somehow people sense these things. He may even have a mustache, but it's so faint you don't even notice it. Later you wonder if it was even there. His voice is soft, and he has a tricky smile. You think it's a smile. Later you wonder if it was. 
The topic of conversation is familiar. It is all about the waiting. He, too, was waiting for something somewhere he wouldn't usually be, and sighing and feeling sorry for himself, but misery loves company. He might even say that out loud. Before you know it, you have moved along to topics more of interest to him, such as himself, his life, his likes, dislikes, pet peeves and secret pleasures. Already you know too much about him. Already you wish you had done something other than whatever it was you did that made him think he could sidle up next to you and monopolize your attention and get in your face and start yammering away about all sorts of idiotic notions you had no idea real people actually had. 
Such as. He has seen unidentified flying objects. He was in the Air Force stationed in Greece and therefore he knows some things he's not at liberty to divulge, and yet divulge he does. Unceasingly. There are secret weapons systems designed to suck the intestines out of cattle. He has seen too much. Republicans cause cancer, but you knew that, didn't you? Custodians of secret wisdom have passed down for generations the fact that Pope Urbane the Eleventh was yes indeed a woman. Ancient Babylonians invented jell-o. He is letting you in on things. He sizes you up to see if you can be trusted. You understand you are now not at liberty to divulge. Dire consequences. That sort of thing. He has seen even more than too much.  
Time will lose its meaning. Eternity is something of which you now have first-hand knowledge. The weather may change and day turn into night, but nothing will ever erase the memory of the one eyed Jack, and the lifetime you spent being near him. 

The Sultan 

We first met at a downtown business luncheon, featuring as guest speaker a famous United States Senator. We sat around a big table and moments after introducing himself (as Reuben McSomethingOrOther), he informed me that he had both a wife and a mistress and they all slept together in one big bed. 
He was the manager of a discount store, he said, and both his wife and his mistress were also on the payroll. None of them did any work whatsoever, he declared, and the owner of the store had no idea. None whatsoever. The owner of the store was actually sitting at the same table and still had no idea. He was rather out of touch, a shabby and disgraceful old man. 
Reuben (his real name was Alan McSomethingOrOther, but he preferred Reuben - it seemed to have more status in his Scottish-fetish view of things) was a large fellow, blond and bearded, jolly and verbose. In his early thirties, he had as yet made nothing of himself, nor did he care to, not as long as he had both a wife and a mistress, and they all slept together in the same big bed. Did I mention, he asked, that the wife is a blond and the mistress Chinese? He was very much pleased with himself. 
I saw them all once, in their office, reading the Sunday papers, playing footsie, doing absolutely no work, not that there was ever much work to be done in that place. The boring, useless sale items arrived only once a week on a truck, and only needed unpacking and piling on tables and shelves. He, and they, all lived in a studio apartment that was just around the corner, very tidy and convenient. 
Some weeks later I saw the wife again. This time she was loading up a van with suitcases and boxes. I asked if she needed some help. She just glared at me. I was someone who knew, someone who had seen. She was on her way back to SoCal. The mistress left the very next day, going home to Seattle, I think it was. I never actually knew what had happened. I think I could guess. 
Reuben was never the same after that. He even changed his name, back to plain old Alan McSomethingOrOther again. We never saw another female on his arm, let alone a pair. He was not so friendly anymore, not so jolly or verbose. He had had his time in the sun, and was fading away, rapidly. But to us, he was always the Sultan, and would always remain the infamous Sultan of Twat. 

The Pre-Bereaver 

The Pre-Bereaver is sad before it happens. He knows it will all end badly. He's seen this kind of thing before. He understands. One cannot be too careful. 
No ounce of prevention can avert it. No pound of cure will relieve. These things happen. They are bound to. 
The Pre-Bereaver has a special day each week he sets aside for mourning. It takes time to savor each loss, every failure, the end. 
Do not ask what is the matter. It's nothing, really, he will say. He is never completely out of pain. 
Large attempts are doomed. Small affairs are best put off. The time is not propitious. 
He consults his little gray notebook. Every awful event is duly noted. He sighs. It was meant to be. 
At the airport his flight is delayed and then canceled. He misses his train. The buses hardly ever run when he waits. His car is in the shop. No wonder, then, he never arrives. 
At the store, they just ran out. The special on the menu is nothing he likes. He prefers crab. They only have salmon. 
The clothes won't fit, and then they'll shrink, but it's just as well, because he would've looked terrible in them. He's never been photogenic. 
You will know him when you see him. At the office party, he's the one in the corner, consulting his watch. 
His wife will never leave him. He needs her too badly. 
His sons never call. Their girlfriends don't know they have a father. 
The greatest tragedy - he fell in love when he was very young, and since then, nothing else has ever come close. He adores his wife, and she is the only recipient of his smiles. 

The Hobbits 

They liked to be crammed together in the very smallest room. The more of them there are, and the tinier the room is, the happier they are. It’s even better if there isn’t a window. They are talking all the time, and try to never leave the room. When one goes out, the others talk even louder to make up for him. They know each and every detail about each other. Nothing can be hidden. Since they also control every little thing about the company, they know everything about everybody else as well. 
You don't even know they exist, down there on the ground floor, behind the receptionist. You thought that was the shipping room. Cleverly disguised. The heart of operations beats concealed from prying eyes. Peel back the door, and there they are, like termites in a stump. They look up with beady glistening eyes. Fresh meat! A new guy. They tell you all about your password (it's not secure enough), your cubicle (don't get too cozy, we'll be moving you again soon), your bicycle in the basement (did you find that thing in a dumpster or what?). 
Standing there and nodding, you get a glimpse behind the scenes. A moving map along the wall shows all activity, everybody everywhere and everything they do. It shifts and moves, a tapestry of life, in this case, GPS devices. They know exactly where you are. 
It's superficial data, but they can mine and sort. They see tendencies, exceptions, unusual patterns in the night. A red spot twinkles on the wall. One notices, jots it down. Another winks and tells you they're on top of it, no worries. The noise is deafening, a clatter of keys and songs and voices, always voices, chattering. 
Close the lid and walk away. Better not to think too much. Tomorrow they will still be there, and even when they tear the building down someday, they'll be the last ones out, clinging to the wreckage, scampering like roaches among the ruins and the bricks. 

The Spouse Complainer 

The catalog is extensive. He puts it on display like a coffee-table book. Guests will be subjected to it, and you can't beat the price. Included in the index, alphabetically of course, is every flaw, every mistake, every single thing that's wrong with her. With DSM diagnostic references attached. 
Her childhood led up to this. Her parents were involved. It was years in the making, way over budget, and intended, all along, to ruin his life. Until the day he met her, everything was roses, and things were still okay, for awhile. And then the real her. 
She's the kind of person, he will tell you, when she leaves the room, who thinks it's all about her. She doesn't know anything about boundaries. Saying things to other people that are really none of their business. Telling them his secrets. Saying bad things about him behind his back.  
Not only that, she can't even cook a decent pot of rice. 
She has no empathy. 
She's lacking something essentially human. 
You wonder how she did on the Voight-Kampff test, but you don't say anything. You wonder if it's rude to squirm. 
She's not fit to be a mother, or a wife, or a friend, or a teacher, or an employee, or a cowherd, well, maybe a cowherd.  
Have you heard her try to sing? 
Yes dear, he says, as she asks for help in the kitchen. She's useless in there, he informs you as he departs. He is the one who has to do everything. You look at your own spouse and mouth the words, can we leave now?  
You wonder if it's rude to scream. 

The Born Loser 

The Born Loser has no fear of failure. He embraces it. He lives for it. Behold the Magic of Failure. Were it not for mistakes, he advises, how would you ever get anything right? He has a point, we all agree, but why try to fail, why aim to lose? It's the way, he replies. 
The way is gained by daily loss, loss upon loss until at last comes rest. Lao Tzu said this, very long ago. The Born Loser takes it to heart. Every day, to fail at something, he decides. This is my goal. But what can I lose today? 
It's all right, he says, you can make the same mistakes over and over and they still count. It's all good, he declares. 
You can forget everything your lovers tell you. That way it's always fresh when they repeat the same old stories.  
When you've never been somewhere before, how do you expect to get there? It seems impossible! The Born Loser is convinced he will never arrive. 
He prefers the questions that cannot have answers. What was there before The Beginning? Where is Everywhere? If God created everything, what created God? Or, tell me again why everything needs creating. He doesn't see the point. 
A watched pot never boils, he's told. Never? He's alarmed. 
He has plans for a business venture. There are certain to be no customers. He will not be able to afford the rent. The storefront will remain empty. Not a sign outside. Not an item within. "It's the new economy", he explains. 
He is always in love. She never knows who he is. Literally. Safer that way, and guaranteed to fail. You gotta like those odds. 
It's like riding a bicycle. Down a hill. Without any brakes. Right into a stone wall.  
The Born Loser will tell you all his hopes and dreams, if you let him, but don't be discouraged. He hasn't got a chance. He can never win. It would spoil all the fun. 

The Terrible Gardener 

Nothing she plants ever grows, but you will always find her out there, in the garden. She dug up the old stuff that used to bloom, ridiculous roses with colors and smells, tulips of every shade, azaleas, impatiens and sage. They had the habit of having been planted by someone else, and so they had to go. 
She has made a path through her weeds, a path made of rocks with sharp edges that wobble. No one ever uses this path. Instead, they tiptoe and crush the surrounding ivy. 
There are trees in the yard, all sickly and small. They don't really belong in this climate. 
She has pots full of plants that started out nicely - but grew only until she bought them. In the nursery they thrived and looked forward to futures of sunlight and water and growth. Once home they began to shrivel and droop. She talks to them lovingly each night. 
Here and there are projects abandoned, a vineyard, a shrubbery, a greenhouse. All lie fallow from behind the gray walls and are mercifully hidden from traffic. 
The children pass by and peer through the hedges. Doesn't anything ever do well in that place? Oh yes, things with thorns and with poisonous berries, things the deer hate and the gophers don't dig. Dandelions especially call the yard home, and ivy, and tree-choking vines. 
She has specialty gloves and specialty tools. She especially loves the wet weather. She can dig and get muddy, and wallow in roots, and generally wreak devastation. 

The Greeter 

Sitting on the steps of the factory outlet store, the old man smokes a cigarette and studies the parking lot in front of him. It just goes on and on. He wonders how in the hell he got here. He knows he is old because his knees hurt a lot. The sun is out, the day is cold and the glare in his eyes makes him feel like going back in, but it's only the job in there. The work. He's a greeter. 
He stands by the door and says “hello” to anyone who comes in, and "welcome to Less4Less". His name tag would introduce him, but nobody notices. Even if they did, they'd have a hard time pronouncing it. It looks like there are way too many letters in that name. Where he comes from, they don't know. He says hello as they walk by ignoring him. He wonders how in the hell he got there. Of course he remembers the airplane, and the airports, and the trains and the bus from the hills past the desert and back to the lake a billion and seventy-one miles from here. It was cold and sunny that day too. His grandson brought him over, and just plopped him here, right in the middle of might-as-well-be-anywhere. From there to here, the differences are too great to even talk about. The language is the least of it. The cars don't even smell the same. He won't say that he is homesick. He won't say that he is lonely. 
One of these days, he's going to make a friend. Someone will notice him and he will smile and say an even nicer hello than usual. That person, who will remind him of his cousin, perhaps, that person will return his smile, extend their hand, shake his hand, and offer him a greeting in a language he will understand, and on that day, and at that time, he will be happy again for a moment. 

The Finder 

I have a knack for these things. If I don't find dead bodies by accident, I find them on purpose. I can tell where the bones are. 
It's not like I have visions or anything like that. It's not a "knowing" like a psychic claims to have. There are no psychics. Don't be ridiculous. 
No, really. I've been accused of that kind of thing. Sometimes people get suspicious because wherever I go, there's another one, but it's not like that. 
There haven't been that many. I tend to exaggerate. 
Maybe it's because I want attention. I never got enough of that. Never could. Like a boy crying wolf I'm on the cellphone. Hey, I found another one. 
Police departments know my name. Now I have this tracking device I lug around. Just to put them at ease. They know I had nothing to do with it, but, like I said, just in case. 
One Saturday I was driving around the hills. I like driving around the hills, okay? And I pull over to the side of the road to take a piss. I climb down the slope a bit, hide behind some bushes. What do you know? Dead body. 
No, I didn't pee on the guy. 
He was naked, no bruises, no wounds, no nothing. Later the cops said he'd been there for at least twenty-four hours, and since I got my ankle thing, they knew it wasn't me. 
Another time I was just taking out the trash. Really. Hauling my garbage out to the dumpster in the back behind my complex. Open the lid. Body. 
That one was pretty disgusting. 
You'd think it'd happen more often. I mean, what are the odds? People are pretty particular about where they die, it seems. Or wherever they get dumped. People who get killed get dumped way out of the way a lot of times. Those are the kind of places I like to go, so that's a reason why I find them. Most people don't go way out of the way. They've got better things to do. 
Not me. 
Maybe I go looking for them. I tell myself I don't but maybe I am lying. When I was four I found my cat dead under the porch. It was interesting. How'd he get there? How'd he die? 
Since then I keep my eyes peeled. 
Never let a day go by without finding something dead. 
It heightens the senses. Makes you think twice about life. 
One day I'm standing by the overpass. Suddenly this bus comes plunging down. Bam. 
There's ones that get hurt and ones that die. I was in a plane crash once so I know what that is like. 
There are lots of dead people where I'm from. We got fields just full of them. 
Those don't count. Anyone can find them just by showing up. I'm talking about the ones that haven't been properly disposed of yet. 
I think it's seventeen or eighteen now. I found one once and she was still alive. She'd been tied up, left for dead in the middle of freaking nowhere. Saved her life I guess. 
I keep thinking maybe I will find another one like that someday. 
Makes it all worthwhile. 
No, it doesn't bother me. 
I'm a finder. 
People get lost sometimes. They're out there and no one knows. 
I think about the ones I haven't found yet. 
They're out there somewhere, and they're waiting.