“Happy Endings” by Mort Laitner

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

    Fort Lauderdale International Airport, I scanned the sky, focusing on the clouds as my mind imprinted words on these monogrammed pillows:

Viet Cong, B-52s, Hanoi Hilton, the draft, Gulf of Tonkin, Tet Offensive, My Lai Massacre, Green Berets, Agent Orange, PSD and Saigon.

Fifty-year-old memories rushed by my eyes as if filmed in 8MM.

The irony hit me like an iron hammer and a steel sickle.

Fifty years ago, I fought going to Vietnam and now I was voluntarily flying there. The yin and yang of life—I had come full circle and so had our nations.

     So what had I learned?

I first learned about Vietnam in geography class in elementary school, My class studied  this snake or dragon-shaped nation with its water buffalos, bicycle-driven rickshaws, farmers wearing conical hats, rice paddies, pagodas and Buddhist temples.

I never thought I would get to Southeast Asia.

Fifty years ago, at the University of Miami, I studied religion and learned  of the Kama Sutra, Karma, yin-yang, Buddhism, Hinduism and  the Church of  G-d-Save-My-Ass-From-This-Horrible-War also known as the Religion-of-How-to-Avoid-Being-Drafted.

I learned to try to balance (the process of harmonization) my life on that black and white border of the yin-yang circle—between sadness and happiness, love and hate, pleasure and pain, courage and cowardice. But I often invaded or retreated into the territory of the absence of all colors or the combination of all of them.  

Now I stood In a temple perfumed with incense and touched the large toe of a 150 foot long reclining Buddha.

In another temple, I lit incense and prayed into the faces of the Good Buddha and the Evil Buddha— for as a child I learned Karma (not Santa Claus) was the great enforcer—the punisher of all evil doers.

I lit those perfumed memory sticks, the same ones I once used to cover the smell of Mary Jane in my UM dorm room, Quickly they burned in red, orange, blue and yellow flame as a wind pulled their smoke toward the heavens and left ashes of the cremated on the temple floor.

As a child of the Sixties, I read Herman Hesse’s, “Siddhartha”. Eastern religions were all the rage. If you had not read Hesse, “Why were you in college?”

I, like Siddhartha, searched  for self discovery (the meaning of life) and also searched for a courtesan who would teach me the art of love.

Yes, love is an art and not a science.

Fifty years ago, I studied the positions of the Kama Sutra in the form of an artful day-glow poster glued to the wall of my UM dormitory room. The poster proclaimed, “I am a player”.

Now in Vietnam, I went to an ancient Kama Sutra temple, where carved life-sized figures displayed those positions as an educational tool for their followers. Here was a temple I could consider joining.

But Hesse was right—mastering the art of love required the services of a courtesan— not posters, nor books, nor films.

    For 50 years, I studied the war through the cold electronic eyes of Walter Cronkite, the New York Times, Ken Burns and through the warm eyes of returning veterans.

For over a decade, I watched the CBS Nightly News, receiving  snippets of film showing: 

dead and wounded GIs;

incendiary bombs falling out of Boeing’s B-52 Stratofortresses;

explosions in jungles;

American flag-draped coffins returning for state-side funerals;

 and listened to talk of the war ending by Christmas.

I heard on a daily basis the names, ranks and hometowns of our fallen heroes.

I heard the media say all 58,220 names.

I did not hear the names of any of the two million Vietnamese our B-52s cremated.

But I feared war and death and dismemberment.

Newsweek and Time printed unforgettable photos of war and death and dismemberment:  

That screaming naked, Vietnamese girl, covered in flaming napalm, running down her hometown street.

Little did I know or understand when I saw that photograph, that our collective karma looked and smelled like we were destined to taste that young girl’s burnt flesh in one humiliating  meal of defeat.

That split-second photo, when a bullet entered the head of a Viet Cong prisoner from the pistol of a South Vietnamese soldier—the yin and yang of life and death.

That female Kent State student, on her knees, screaming  with her arms raised toward G-d as four of her classmates lay dead on Ohio soil.

On the plane, I studied the wide variety of  movies the airline offered. But they did not offer Apocalypse Now or Platoon or Full Metal Jacket—not even John Wayne’s film Green Beret.

     As the plane touched down in Ho Chi Minh (formerly Saigon) Airport, Staff Sargeant Barry Sadler’s words to The Ballad of The Green Berets silently crossed my lips:

---

“An Unholy Covenant” by Mort Laitner

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Writers are often honored by invitations to interesting events by hosts who want their event memorialized in the written word.

I received such an invitation via email:

You are cordially invited to a blow-your-mind-and-knock-your-socks-off party.

We have read your short stories. We think they are quite descriptive, concise and entertaining.

Therefore, we are requesting your attendance at our party, if you agree to write a short story

for us in exchange for your admission.

Casual attire.

Party starts at the bewitching hour of midnight.

RSVP within the next seven days.

TheSocietyforJusticeandRevenge.net

So began my journey to a shot-gun shack located on the outskirts of Little Haiti.

A journey to a building covered in strands of blinking red, blue and black Christmas lights.

Beneath the lights, large flakes of peeling paint tried to detached themselves from the lumber as if the boards were toxic.  

The shack’s red brick chimney poked through the roof allowing hickory-scented smoke to perfume the air.

As I examined the lawn. I saw it almost devoid of greenery except for a few patches of weeds.

A white picket fence—with every tenth picket painted black— surrounded the property.  (I counted.)

I opened the gate with its rusted hinges that screeched as if it were an Addams Family door bell announcing the presence of each new guest.

When I climbed on the porch, a shapely, shoeless and sockless middle-age blonde approached. Her eyes twinkled like the lights on the roof.  She dressed in a black leotard that clung to her body as if it were painted on. She knocked my socks off. 

As she handed me a drink, she said in a sultry Lauren Bacall voice, “Hi. My name is Fefe. I have never seen you here before. You must be the writer?”

As I undressed her with my eyes, I replied, “Yup. I am a first timer. Mort the writer. Glad to make your acquaintance Fefe.”

“Mort you’re a lucky man. Tonight, we are having a really interesting show. Look inside at the three characters seated around the table. It’s going to be one weird night.”

I sipped the pineapple rum-flavored concoction, listened to the beat of an African drum. and fantasized about an orgy of possibilities.

Fefe vanished into the house—having already succeeded in heightening my sense of excitement and passion. 

I wondered, “Had Fefe dosed or is it spiked my drink with acid. The invitation said a mind-blowing party.

I peered though the torn and rusted screen door and observed one Latino male, one elderly white woman  and one black woman seated around the kitchen table.

 A fireplace heated the entire room. Coals, ashes and a cauldron filled the fireplace.

As I walked into the kitchen, flickering candles caused shadows to dance across the walls.

My ears throbbed to the beat of the drums.

My nose loved the smell of the burning wood.

This room was toxic.

The Hispanic male, I guessed to be a Santero, a priest of Santeria, was dressed in white: pants, shirt and shoes, and a multicolored bead necklace.

I observed resting in front of him a collection of hazerei: a parade of pills, a Baggie filled with human hair and some roots.

Next to the Santero, sat an elderly white lady with braided grey hair. She wore a black dress and a silver inverted pentacle medallion around her neck.

In front of her was a six inch cloth doll stuck with pins and needles: one in each eye, two on the top of the head and one between its legs. 

Next to the older white lady sat a heavy set black lady wearing a  blue, green, white and red dress—the colors of the Haitian flag. On her head she wore a Cap of Liberty embroidered with the words, “Voodoo Queen.” 

In front of her rested two glasses: one filled with jimsom weed, sulfur and honey, the other with acid rain.

I watched the voodoo queen rise from her chair, call for silence and recite her incantation:

By the powers invested in my  soul, I call for the final ingredients to be cast into this curative stew. This man who has insulted our people, our gender, our environment, our nations must pay the price for such behavior. We must purify his soul of all chemicals and foreign bodies. He must be healed. All who agree say, ‘Amen!’

A chorus of “Amens” filled the room.

She rose and walked toward the cauldron and poured the jimsom weed, sulfur and honey into the boiling brew. Then she sprinkled acid rain into the pot.

“As I pour these ingredients into this broth, we pray for the exorcism of the zombie that inhabits his body. We sprinkle acid rain into this holy pot so it causes his precious hair to split and fall out.

 All who agree with say, ‘Amen'”.

All in the room yelled “Amen.”

As the queen returned to her seat,the Santaro rose to his feet, picked up the pills and a dye, the Baggie filled with human hair and the roots.

“As I  toss a pill or liquid into the cauldron, I will say its name and you will respond by saying, ‘On him it must be contraindicated.'”

“Propecia!”

“On him it must be contraindicated.”

“Viagra!”

“On him it must be contraindicated.”

“Just For Men!”

“On him it must be contraindicated.”

The Santero then shook the bag of hair into the pot and dumped the Orris roots on top of the hair. He watched as the hair and roots slowly sank into the brew.

“May he lose interest in all women based on his abuse, neglect and maltreatment of the fairer sex.”

The crowd roared their approval.

As the Santero sat back down, the elderly white lady slowly stood up, picked up her doll and headed to the cauldron. She raised the red headed voodoo doll, with pins strategically stuck in its body over the boiling brew and said,

“Let cruelty, pain

and evil ways

follow this villain

through all his days.

Reverse the torment

he creates

to turn on him

a crueler fate.”

(Found in Pinterest)

She dropped the doll and as the doll floated on the surface of the concoction it burst into flame.

And all in the room chanted:

“Let cruelty, pain

and evil ways

follow this villain

through all his days.

Reverse the torment

he creates

to turn on him

a crueler fate.”

At this point the room started to spin. I lost my balance and fell upon a couch.

I woke up the next morning to the crowing of a rooster. I lay upon on that couch in an empty shot-gun shack.

As I repeatedly heard cock-a-doodle-doo, I stared at my sockless feet and tried to focus my blown mind on where to begin my story.

 

Please share. I need the fame.

To those of you who are planning a “knock-your- socks-off—blow-your-mind party (c).”

Remember I must be given a credit on the invitation and my royalty fee must be paid before the event.

Remember you can buy all of our books, A Hebraic Obsession, The Greatest Gift and The

Hanukkah Bunny on Barnes and Noble and Amazon.

The movie “The Stairs” is available  for $15.00 through this website.

Finally, I am looking for a fan to beat out Joe Erby’s praise which he gave to my last story.

Hahahahahaha 🎇🍻🎉😁😀

Count them six hahas and all that mishegas. Thanks Joe.

Favorite reader comment:

Mort, you out did yourself.—Toby

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Safeword” By Mort Laitner

Part ten of the Boris and Natasha White House Chronicles

Author: Due to the violent nature of this vignette, I must warn all faint-of-heart readers not to read this story.

Narrator: A few days after the Stormy Daniels story broke. Donald invited Natasha to visit him in his White House  bedroom. It was around midnight and Natasha slipped into  her lucky pink baby dolls.

An hour later Natasha crawled back into bed with Boris.

Boris: Give me a full report on what happened. Give me all the details.

Natasha: Vhen I valked into the bedroom, Donald vas laying totally naked on the bed. Covering the bed vere satin sheets with the presidential seal imprinted on the them. His ass covered the center of the presidential seal.

Boris: Funny and ironic to think what that says about his respect for his job and the size of his ass.

 Natasha: Not only  that, the lamp on the nightstand had a shade emblazed with the presidential seal. Next to the lamp was his Boise sound system  which was playing Stormy by the Classics IV.

Boris: I remember that song. “You vere my sunshine, baby vhenever you smiled.

Oh stormy, oh stormy bring back that summer day.”

Natasha: Unlike you Boris, he knew all the vords, he belted them out and he knows how to sing.

On the nightstand he had a picture  of Stormy Daniels in all her glory. Donald’s little soldier vas standing at attention as he looked at the photo.

Boris: Stormy is one hot chick. I googled her vhen the story broke. She does some pretty, pretty vild things. How about that photo of them standing next to each with Donald smirking,

That face says it all: I’m boiking porn star Stormy Daniels. The man has no shame.

Natasha: The 8 x10 picture vas housed in a plastic photo frame. You guessed it with the presidential seal on it.  It looked like the cover of one of her porn film jackets. Next to the photo were crisp stacks of hundred dollar bills. The stacks vere vrapped in rubber bands; high enough that it could have equaled $130,000.That vas the amount of hush money she received for keeping quiet about her affair with the Donald. She got the cash right before the presidential election. 

Boris: I bet that vas the most she ever made for doing the nasty. But this story teaches one of life’s greatest adages.

Natasha: Which one is that?

Boris: Timing is everything.

Natasha: Next to the cash and the photo vas a rolled up Mad Magazine. The one with Hillary Clinton on the cover.

Now is when the story gets weird. Donald told me he wanted to be spanked vith the cash and the Mad Magazine until his bottom was red.

Boris:  Did he ask you to say anything vhile you spanked him.

Natasha: Vhen I flayed away with the cash I had  to scream “Donald!  I’m worth $130,000. That’s chump change to you—small potatoes!”

And with the rolled up Mad Magazine as I swung away I had to yell,” Donald your so much better than Bill. You beat my ass real good.”

Boris: Did he have a safevord in case you put to much power into your swing?

Natasha: Yup. You will never guess it. 

Boris: Beetlejuice or pineapple.

Natasha: Wrong. His safevord vas “Mueller.”

Boris: Damn it! I should have guessed that.

Natasha: After about five minutes he screamed “Mueller” and I stopped.

He said “Thanks”, I feel like tweeting, Why don’t you to go back to your room.

Boris: Very interesting. I did not know Mad Magazine ever put Hillary on its cover.

 

 

 

Still looking for a comic book artist to draw up my stories. Compensation to be discussed.