FROM SOME PLACE - HAPPENINGS HAPPEN

Shirley skipped dinner last night, fixed herself a grilled cheese sandwich, some chips and a glass of milk and took them upstairs on a small wooden tray. Tired, she slipped off her clothes, put on warm, cuddly p.j.s and settled in bed, ready to nibble her snack, watch a bit of t.v. She remembers clearly trying every channel and finally yelling loudly to the walls, ‘Garbage, garbage, cruddy garbage,’ and clicking off the set. As she tried to decide which book to read, there was a whoosh, a loud noise and whamo, something came from nowhere and slammed into her face, hard, and fell on the floor. It was a smelly, rotten cabbage.

‘Grace, honest, Shirley swears this is true. It really happened. She can’t figure it out and doesn’t know how Mr. Tate, the editor of the dying Galveston Gazette, found out about it and is coming over soon to find out if this really happened or if Shirley needs a shrink.’ Grace surely wonders if it is I who need the shrink. She ta tas me and drives away.

I go back to Shirley’s house expecting to vouch for her integrity and good mental health and let him know she wants no publicity at all. What she does need is an explanation. A strange looking man is at the door. Actually he is a dwarf with a handle bar mustache that still shows signs of red but is now grey and too long. His eye brows are non-existent. Shirley and I try to act nonchalant but most likely don’t pull it off too well.

‘Come in Mr. Tate. Come in and see my rotting cabbage. Then I can throw it out. It’s stinking up the whole kitchen. ‘ The heap is gone. Only one miserable looking leaf remains. There is, in its former place, a bowl, one Shirley says isn’t hers. It is almost overflowing with odiferous raw eggs, onion skins and what looks like chopped up banana peels. ‘See, see, Mr. Tate. No windows, doors are open. We three are alone in this house. Search if you like. You haven’t told me yet if you were able to trace the caller who told you about my problem.’ The red tinged mustache shivers a little as he gently shakes his head No.

‘May I examine the bowl and its contents, Mrs. McCafferty? It is Mrs. McCafferty, isn’t it?’ ‘Look all you like, just get this garbage out of here.’ ‘Will you please move it closer to the edge, I can’t quite reach it.’ Wordlessly, Shirley slides it to him. ‘Aha See those tiny green dots, Ladies? They are important. I have to hurry back to the Gazette to see if what I suspect is so. I’ll be back around 2.’ We back out of thekitchen and close the door tight. ‘Maybe I should call the police’. I tell her that would be a waste of time. They know nothing about these things. ‘Get the phone book and look up Ghost Busters.’ Come on, Sharon, that was a dumb movie a long time ago. There aren’t any Ghost Busters.’ ‘Look, you’ll see at least five.’

Shirley doesn’t have enough time to look. ‘Hey, Tate’s back. Didn’t you hear the knock?’ Waiting to be let in is a six foot duplicate of Tate, grey mustache with red remnants, no eyebrows. He smiles broadly and his mustache shimmies. ‘Where is the smaller Mr. Tate, Mr. Tate, Sir?’‘He’s back where he came from, Ireland, where the Leprachauns live. What a magician he is! I’m not bad myself. Where is that smelly cabbage leaf?” We take him to the kitchen and gape. There is no cabbage leaf, no foul bowl of garbage. Everything is pristine lover-ly.

Shirley and I turn to Tate wanting answers. There is no tall Mr. Tate and there are no answers. And, for sure, neither Shirley nor I will ever visit Ireland.