Turkish phoned Gunter in the morning.  “Dude, Mitch Hedberg died!  I don’t know what to do!”

    “Shut the fuck up.  He’s not dead.”

    “They said it on Howard Stern.  Artie’s going to do a whole rap on him this weekend or something.  They loved Mitch!”  the phone line silent.  “I’m serious.”  Still silent.  “Are you even listening to me?”

    “I don’t believe you.”  Hedberg was young.  Talked about frotuss and all sorts of funny things and Gunter loved talking about him and quoting him.

    “Violet called and told me that they were talking about it on Stern while she was driving to work!”  Turkish seemed aghast, agitated.  Gunter felt there was no sense in talking. 

    “I gotta go.  I have work to do.”  It was Thursday and his clients would be calling wanting to know the latest.  None in the least to do with Hedberg.

    Gunter had a million things on his mind aside from the tragic death of Hedberg, potentially and almost hopefully from drug overdose.  It would be a shame to think that he died a painful and slow death.  Roasting his own system on a bad heroine OD would be a more soothing thought.

    Turkish was beside himself.  Only months before he saw Hedberg do his standup comedy act at the Improv in Cleveland and adored Hedberg before but even more so after.  Their mother had gotten the family, Violet, Pop and Turkish all up at the front table right in front of Hedberg but assholes in the audience kept telling the punch lines to his jokes and this was really pissing off Turkish and making him embarrassed to be from that same general vicinity.  It was pissing off Mitch too.

      Turkish bought the Hedberg DVDs and CDs and so did Gunter and so did Tarbo, especially after cruising through west Akron aboard the family's Hummer H2 edition listening to Hedberg's CD and huffing on Nitrous balloons.  It was the only right thing to do.  The sky flexed in and out like they were sitting on the inside of a canteen.  They sat parked in the H2 listening to Hedberg's voice undulate with the swaying of the slight breeze in Akron's valley outside of the empty bars watching sunshine shimmer off of full green July Ohio leaves, upwind from the nearby shit plant that smells of socks dipped in mildew, wiped with the shit of a thousand million fat persons who love to bowl buried for 72 years and then brought back to roost under gray November Ohio (practically Canadian) skies like Japanese Kobe Steak, but instead of being 100 dollars a dish it was free to all those with the sense of smell.  Upwind was good and stink free; downwind... not so good.

    Hedberg died almost like some April Fool but alas he did not Fool and the rock and roll comedian was nevermore.  He could not make us feel downright foolish for our empathetic thoughts regarding how an escalator could never be broke, only stairs... "sorry for the convenience...."  It was sad, sad and sad. 

    Turkish continued his mourning on into the evening because when he called Gunter later on he remarked about how so many people seemed to be dying.  "Johnny Cochran.... Shiavo... my friend's girlfriend's mom... somebody's grandma, man.  Lot's of dying."  He was emphatic and serious.

    Gunter tried to reason with Turkish that somebody's grandma was not really the end of the world because grandmas tend to be old and once you reach that grandma stage that usually signals that your next stage is either "great" or "death" but Turkish was too tormented by Mitchenell's death to think too clearly so he ripped into Gunter for taking the death of somebody's grandma too lightly almost forgetting that he and Gunter had lost their own father, Van Shecht in 1993 to cancer.

    In Gunter's mind it always seemed like when people died they were really going to join some club.  It was like getting born all over again.  He wondered if maybe this whole world was one big dream of his and that perhaps he was just to be born into a new life.  Heaven was certainly a dreamy idea and one fun to feel fancy about all day long as you could go and visit your grandparents and all the people you love and all would be well and good again (in slow motion forever no doubt) but Gunter's brain always drifted back to his spring 1997, Easter Sunday dream asleep on a now dead friend's couch, avoiding his family, where his dad showed up and offered him a joint.  Gunter felt nervous and young and stupid about sharing a joint with his old man in the white 1972 Pontiac Catalina that was as large as a 30 foot great lakes fishing boat that he used to be so embarrassed in that he would lay across the back seat and hide in the back laying on his back- his dad leaned across and proffered him a joint.  Van, sensing Gunter's sense of "You're dead, and you're my dad!" said, "Look Gunter.  In The Light..." holding his freckled overflowing red-haired forearm up to Gunter's overflowing blonde forearm...with the sunlight flashing in on the forearms and holding for the several seconds.  The arms parallel.   Gunter looked up at his dad, and his dad was a kid of 17.  "In the Light, We're All The Same Age!" he howled.

    Gunter awoke a second later feeling light.  As though he was visited by the Arch Angel Gabriel himself.  He was happy.  He felt as though he knew it all.  He would never feel alone again.  Pot.  Life.  Death.  Revealed. 

    There would be no reunions of that sort in heaven.  You want to see Grandma?  Grandma might just prefer to be that Hotty-Self she once was for good and forever.  Watch it!  If Heaven is what you want, just think about what everybody's asking for.  We might all get it.  Disclosure under the Parthenon could yield an orgy that might leave you yearning to wake up in this world again under a brand new alias.

    And what about them aliens?  If time travel is at all probable then what are the odds of them being able to pick you up and plant you as many times as they want or until such time that you are no longer a nuisance?

    Gunter thought about these things, and screamed under his skin.  The tonality of life often caught him off guard because he was rarely really paying too close of attention to anything in particular.

Months. Seemingly years past by Gunter. His mind was focused like a laser beam that burned into a metal wall as the wall slowly crept from right to left. Gunter had one thing on his mind since Wine Mistress became pregnant and that was to make as much money as he could.

It didn’t interfere with his happiness either. It became, sickeningly enough, Gunter’s source of happiness. On Fridays at the office he told the happy-faced women that he was depressed that it was Friday and wished that Saturday was Monday and that he could be driving right back into the office on the next morning so he could make some more money. They laughed at his boyish face and his boyish charm and his boyish wit and his ever so boyish grin. Gunter was 29 and his young wife was 30 and they were going to have a boyish man of their own in April called Otto Van Shecht. The Van after Gunter’s late father, Van Shecht, of course.

Tarbo had since packed his belongings and vamoosed it up to his Pittsburgh suburb to reside with his folks and get his life together. To understand the meaning of life because he felt life was passing him by. Drinking alone at the Blue Anchor was not fun without Wine Mistress and Gunter. Jackson and Game Mistress could not attend to his every fleeting whim to be wasted, although the heat of the South Florida sun does make you very, very thirsty.

This was not for Tarbo. The sunshine and the money that comes from being a stockbroker was not all it was cracked up to be. Happiness. Oh yes, happiness was now the simple ideal that Tarbo favored above all else which included family and many more friends who were not married who could engage in the shenanigans that Tarbo was still in the hunt for.

However, upon Tarbo’s return to his familiar Pittsburgh suburb he encountered gross, horrid and one would almost admit: tragic pains not in the head nor the foot but in the gut. It wrenched his seething soul so awfully that he required several days respite at a country hospital in the friendly state of North Carolina.

The friendliness of North Carolinians is world renowned and after living in South Florida for over five years people from just about everywhere in the country can make you feel like a total asshole (except the Northeast- not to include Vermont, New Hampshire and Maine and all the nice people of that region). The North Carolinians did not fail in this regard as their southern hospitality only made Tarbo feel worse about his situation as he suffered with what was perceived to be a gall bladder infection of the severest kind. As Christmas approached he was overcome by pneumonia and this new onslaught disallowed the doctors from separating him from one of his cherished organs. And it was a good thing, too, as he found out later that he was passing a stone and he had only polyps left and the pain subsided but Tarbo, our lover of all things Hemmingway, would not be permitted to imbibe the fluids of fancy for some six months.

Meanwhile, Gunter’s clients had gotten to know Gunter too well and began giving Gunter what they termed “Jewish Compliments” which Gunter didn’t take to kindly to because they referred to Gunter’s additional girth that he had obtained partly as a result of sitting behind a large stained wooden desk for the better part of four years and from his constant consumption of various forms of alcohol blended nicely with a putrid lack of enthusiasm for any form of recreation.

This saddened Gunter to always listen to the smiling fat clients tell him how boyish his face was, “You must be doing well because YOUR FACE IS MUCH FULLER. You look bigger.”

“I haven’t gained any weight since the last time I saw you.”

“It must be the pleats in your pants then.”

“I can’t believe you’re telling me that I’m fat.”

“It’s okay Gunter. It’s a Jewish compliment.”

“That’s what you say…. What if I said that about you?”

“Let’s not get personal Gunter.”

So Gunter did what most people do who’s back is against the wall in the weight gain category as it seemed to pile up endlessly. Gunter recalled the doctor he saw when he was about to get married and he thought he was coming down with something and when he was weighed he was at two-hundred and eight pounds and she said that he needed to something because she knew many people who had become obese because they didn’t do anything. That was three years prior and Gunter had switched doctors even though he had never met his new doctor and neither had Wine Mistress for that matter who had been to the new doctor’s office about 30 times, at least, to Gunter’s recollection for this and for that and for the seemingly endless litany of ailments that his wife seemed to encounter, suppress and endure so Gunter bought a scale so he and Wine Mistress could track their weights. They charted their weights on the first day and Wine Mistress was 126 and 4 months pregnant and Gunter weighed in at 220, zero months pregnant. But his exercise regiment had taken a hiatus for 10 years.

Two months later Gunter was obsessed with two things. One, still money at the office and obsessed to the point that he had put his rapidly appreciated home on the market and secondly with his appreciated weight that he had managed to acquire through ten years of almost endless gluttony: eating whatever whenever and drinking almost constantly. Wine Mistress gained 8 pounds and Gunter lost 15. He was halfway back to his old QB weight.

Even after he lost the first fifteen they continued to tell him that he was heavy. “You still look heavy Gunter.”

“I’ve got documented proof that I’ve lost some weight. I go to a gym almost every night and sweat my ass off because of what you keep saying.”

“It must be the pleats in your pants.”

“What if I told you, that your medication must be playing tricks on you.”

“Oh, no Gunter. You might’ve even gained weight since the last time I saw you.”

“No.”

“Must be the pleats in your pants.”

Chapter 7: Introduction to the new life, with a gun.


Months passed since the Frotuss party. It’s amazing how much people can change from one event to the next. During the Frotuss party Gunter was wild and unforgiving. He would stop at nothing to feel a buzz. He employed the use of Jaco’s II Drive Thru due to the fact that they sold “whippets” which were nitrous oxide containers that were supposedly used for making cakes. Gunter, and anyone else who had been to this North Akron haven knew otherwise and Gunter wasn’t about to let this fact get lost on Tarbo. He took Tarbo through on their way back from Kent visiting Ray’s place and The Loft. They came back to Akron via route 59.
Jaco’s was only too willing to oblige: “You dudes still do the whippet thing?”
“Yeah!!” The guy working was only too happy to be asked.
“Cool. Could I get a case, a cracker and 2 balloons, dude?”
“No problem. I’ll give you different colored balloons so you know what’s what.”
“Thanks dude. I haven’t been to Akron for the longest time. Glad to see nothings changed.”
“Never does dude. Enjoy.” Gunter tipped him five bucks and left.
On their way down the steep hill into the valley otherwise known as Memorial Parkway Gunter began huffing on his double balloon which he had managed to uncork and blow 2 into his balloon. Tarbo was dumbfounded and couldn’t understand what was going on. Even before they began making their way down the hill Gunter had already tested Tarbo to see if he was up to the test of huffing on the NO2, but Tarbo was unable to grasp the concept that Gunter spent years perfecting so he drove slow in the pewter colored Hummer H2 down the hill filling his lungs with the toxic substance of wonder, his mind bending inward and outward with every breath and laughing himself insane to the funny jokes of Mitch Hedberg the comedian who was in the CD player. The giant moon roof was wide, wide, wide open. So was Gunter’s brain as he parked in the valley at the bottom of the hill at one of the bars that was not quite open for the evening. Gunter taught Tarbo how to be a complete maniac and knew he’d never forget that moment; clouds floating in and out of the roof, 3-D, almost raining on them. It was like Gunter was a junior in High School tripping all over again for the 5th or 6th time.

But. Months had passed since then. Gunter hadn’t actually took in LSD since forever and the Wine Mistress was now with child. Life was all too real. No LSD trip was needed to give life that harsh edge that it always seemed to lack. Making money and paying the bills was enough for Gunter’s liking. He’d finally been able to travel to see Klaus and Heidi and visit friends in Arizona, but a kid was a whole new challenge and a whole new concept.
Songs are written about the wind taking your troubles away, but, hurricanes are another sort. They bring their own basket of worry. Frances came to south Florida and knocked the power out of Gunter’s and Wine Mistress’s place for six days. Tarbo had left his keys with Gunter and went to visit his parents in Pennsylvania. That was good because they needed some place to stay because they were evacuated because they lived by the water. But going back to either place was tough. Gunter worried quietly that he might lose his child to the heat. They were desperate times. Quietly desperate. The heat reached up to 90 every day and every body Gunter knew had their own equal troubles. He realized then and there why the people of South Florida were mostly brash and cocky. They were a resilient sort who were ready for such hardships to come along ever so often. It was in the 90s at night and nobody complained really. They commiserated. It took weeks for some but Gunter thanked God that it only took his house six days to get electricity returned. A cave man may live forever under such conditions but Wine Mistress was a small woman. Tough, yes, but small and Gunter sweated all the time but she had days off from teaching school and was home all alone all day long with the dog while Gunter traded stocks in the A/C at work just trying to make his way for the two of them, calling her every half hour trying to get her to come into the office to just hang out for awhile. She wouldn’t. She did chores around the house like some Iron Laura Ingalls Wilder. It made Gunter sick. She’d drive around all day looking for a grocery to have ice on hand to stuff in one of the coolers. It was six days but it seemed like hell and it was taking longer. The days wore you out quickly. But they made it. And even after a few weeks after electricity was restored Gunter worried intensely every time Wine Mistress said she didn’t feel well. He loved her more the more she hurt and it made him sick.
First, right after the storm Gunter was rear ended at an intersection where the traffic lights were out. The black Cherokee hit him from behind. Gunter got out of the way up a block then looked back and the car that hit him was gone. The result was Gunter was going to have to pay for his own deductible. Second, their cars were robbed in their driveway because they forgot to lock them. Gunter lost all his Cds. Wine Mistress lost her teacher’s ID and her test-timer, and it was the second time Gunter had had his change stolen from the ashtray. Worse than having 300 Cds taken was having his briefcase rifled through by a crackhead who didn’t take any of his 3 checkbooks, but did manage to take his bag of frotuss that he had actually found on the street down walking back from the pool several weeks earlier. Easy come. Easy go. The officer knew who did it. Gunter said nothing of the Frotuss, but he still wanted to pick the crackhead(s) up like a fake-pro wrestler and slam them down. The frotuss and alcohol lost all importance to Gunter. He was thinking about being a father now. Forget about everything else. He thought about his own selfless father who had given his life to Gunter. And more.




Chapter 1: One Toke over the line

Gunter had just gotten done gripping hard on the steering wheel. Ava Maria was playing on NPR in his wife's car as he drove home from the very nearby gas station. It was beautiful. He drove home from the gas station. At the gas station he stood in line in his pajamas and a ten year old corduroy shirt waiting for the black man in front of him to get done doing whatever it was that he was doing. Gunter looked at the black man, who was the only other man in the line, and standing in front of Gunter and he said, “Can you believe they sell folded up knives here at the checkout line for 2 dollars and ninety-nine cents a piece?” Gunter was staring at the knives and the fake swiss-armies in a little plastic crazy-container. Gunter was nearly beside himself. “You could kill somebody right outside the door with these things!”… Gunter… aghast….
“Yeah,” the guy smiled, laughing at Gunter’s paranoia with his dreadlocks and mustache.