Message to Carl: Wow! Big, as in really big, cold, impersonal hospital! Then I got to the front door and my biases and ill-conceived notions began to be shattered one by one. First there was the beautiful Caroline, a stunningly gorgeous Indian woman who has been in the United States since 1978. Her parents arrived here four years earlier after putting her and her two sisters in an orphanage where they would stay until her parents were able to afford bringing them to America. Now she is a highly skilled and extremely personable registered nurse who does intake procedures at St. John’s hospital in Detroit for surgical same day procedures. Bottom line; one hundred per cent for efficiency and quality and two hundred per cent for making an old geezer like me feel comfortable about the morning’s spinal surgery for a ruptured disc that had persisted as a result of a fall on my bicycle in September 2007. I have to go back one step; I love to read and I constantly have a novel at my side lest I waste a spare minute without having the opportunity to occupy my time by its reading. I was instructed to arrive at eight o’clock in the morning for a thirty five minute surgery that was to begin at eleven o’clock. That gives me about two hours and fifty minutes for reading if the experience was going to be a typical contact with the medical providers. I’ll eliminate the mystery right up front. I did not have one moment in time to read my book. Following Caroline came the charming and effusive Dr. Haas, an eighty year old physician who has been retired from private practice since age sixty five. A big man, but cute in his bow tie and sparkly eyes as he told corny jokes non-stop. A regular standup comedian, but he did his job, completing my screening physical examination thoroughly and, competently. Did I mention that he was from Austria and fought against our side in World War Two? He came to the United States after the war and was immediately drafted into the American army where he served three years in Korea during that war. He went to Germany to obtain his medical training because the Veteran’s Bill did not cover former combatants against the U.S. He returned to this country shortly after completing his training and practiced at the Hollywood Clinic on Mack in Grosse Pointe until his retirement. Dr. Haas’ bottom line; one hundred per cent for efficiency and two hundred percent for the aforementioned ‘making it easy for an old guy.’ The pattern is beginning to become clear by now. I was a star. The reception that I was receiving made me feel like a star. I was somebody special and Caroline and Dr. Haas had that wonderful ability to make it so. Whatever adjectives that describe the opposite of cold and impersonal would apply to the two of them and to my continuing venture through the pre-surgical arena, surgery room, recovery room and my private room which was more like a fancy hotel room in New York than a hospital room in Detroit. The attentiveness of the hospital staff and my surgeon were beyond anything that I imagined and I have elected not to delve more deeply into the various persons that I came across. Suffice it to say that these contacts were Caroline/Dr. Haas-like.
Why did I start this writing with the mention of Carl? Carl is a friend of mine, a retired orthopedic surgeon, who has graciously kept track of me and my back conditions for more than ten years on a more or less informal basis. If forced to describe what Carl does, I would say that he is a healer who brings the quality of compassion to his dealings with people big time. He does so in a way that he makes someone like me feel like a star. Carl, sometime in the next week, you will receive a package that will reflect my appreciation for what you have done for me and, hopefully, the discussion above will explain the message conveyed on the contents of that package.
Friday, May 15, 2009
Sunday, May 3, 2009
Pick Me. Pick Me
Dear President Obama: I hereby submit my application so that you may consider appointing me to the Supreme Court of the United States. I know, I know, You may never had heard of me and your first question may be whether or not I have had any experience as a judge (none whatsoever, a big plus rather than a minus.) I will resist telling you that I, too, once had a dog named Bo who was as cute as yours. I don't believe its proper to do such a thing to simply try to ingratiate myself to influence your choosing me. Why you should pick me is, simply put, I have no political affiliation or credentials to weigh down the selection process, but I do have tons of experience in representing the small guy or gal in American life. On more than one occasion I have actively represented persons whose constitutional rights were being damaged by governmental entities and have done so pro bono without any attempt to blow my own horn about it. I know the difference between right and wrong and some of this knowledge was acquired by, what might be said, on the job training. Most of all, I respect the principles enunciated so clearly in the Constitution of the United States. As a lawyer of thirty five years, I have never lost sight of the commitment I made when I took the oath to practice law, i.e., to support and defend the Constitution. I have never donated money to a judge's campaign and on one occasion I have donated money to a Senator's campaign. (I later asked for it back.) If you appoint me, I promise to resign shortly before you end your second term as president so you can appoint someone else. By then I'll be 76 years old. Also, I will work for free. I guarantee that any paycheck that is given to me will be returned unsigned and unopened to the U.S. Treasury. I look forward to discussing my credentials with you privately and while I would not relish public exposure, my stories about my grandchildren will surely be well received throughout the country. Sincerely, Tom Bleakley
Friday, May 1, 2009
Let Me Go Back . . .
The trigger for this writing is the first sentence that appears in Paul Krugman's op-ed column in today New York Times. "The 2008 election ended the reign of junk science in our nation’s capital, and the chances of meaningful action on climate change, probably through a cap-and-trade system on emissions, have risen sharply."
I know about junk science. It has been more than twenty years and I am still licking my wounds. At the time, I represented more than 400 children who had been born with a variety of limb deformations. Approximately eighty of these children had both arms missing above the level of the elbow. The remainder had single amputations. All of these children had one thing in common; Their mothers took the drug Bendectin between days 28 and 56 of their respective pregnancies. When trying to prove that a drug can cause birth defects, it is necessary to look at a great deal of indirect evidence. Testing at the microscopic level revealed that Bendectin was capable of damaging the integrity of cells in a manner necessary to implicate the drug in causing birth defects. A substance that causes such cellular damage is labeled a mutagen. Bendectin was labeled a mutagen by the federal government in 1988 and the mutagenic effect was confirmed by a variety of subsequent research projects. In addition, a wide variety of animal research in which Bendectin, or its various components, were administered to pregnant animals and the offspring of these animals were examined in detail. Damage to the cells that ultimately become limbs was observed in multiple animal studies involving multiple animal species and was dose-related, a cardinal sign of a potential effect in the human. Then there were the human studies. One of the drug company's defense expert witnesses characterized the dilemma of human studies in his scientific writings. "Epidemiology is like a brief bikini bathing suit. What it reveals is interesting, but what it covers up is critical." Most of the epidemiology studies conducted on Bendectin defined exposure to the drug as women having taken the drug through 120 days of pregnancy. This group was then compared to a control group of women who had not taken the drug and the presence or absence of children born with various birth defects in both groups was compared. In these studies, it was a mistake to include women as being exposed to the drug when they started receiving the drug only after the critical period of limb development had been completed, i.e. after 56 days of pregnancy. For example, a woman who began Bendectin on the 85th day of pregnancy had done so at a time when the limbs of her baby were not in jeopardy of being damaged. Nevertheless, she would be included in the group of Bendectin exposures. The net result of this mistake was, of course, the conclusion that Bendectin was safe. I hired an eminent epidemiologist who reanalyzed all of the various epidemiology studies by eliminating this time discrepancy. Only cases in which the mothers actually took the drug during critical periods of limb development were considered as being exposed. The result of this reanalysis showed clearly that the likelihood of Bendectin causing limb defects was more than three times greater in a mother receiving Bendectin than those who did not. The reanalysis was labeled as junk science by the defendant drug corporation (because a plaintiffs' lawyer had paid to have it done) and that tag stuck with the federal judges who heard the same evidence in case after case and threw out successful verdicts in cases across America. Bendectin litigation became the poster child of junk science for the right wing's campaign against lawsuits to hold corporate America accountable for the harm its products caused.
The point of this diatribe is to illustrate how the machinations of the drug company and the federal judiciary in this particular very important piece of litigation served as the forerunner of the current status of science involved in larger questions today. Global warming? Junk science. Throw it out. Harmful effects of carbon dioxide? Same. Throw it out. What a breath of fresh air, literally and figuratively, to finally have politicians in place who seem to understand that the country needs to get back to a system of thought where a decision is made after information is presented. Only demagogues decide what an answer is first and then cherry pick evidence to support the ill-founded conclusion. Let me go back . . .
I know about junk science. It has been more than twenty years and I am still licking my wounds. At the time, I represented more than 400 children who had been born with a variety of limb deformations. Approximately eighty of these children had both arms missing above the level of the elbow. The remainder had single amputations. All of these children had one thing in common; Their mothers took the drug Bendectin between days 28 and 56 of their respective pregnancies. When trying to prove that a drug can cause birth defects, it is necessary to look at a great deal of indirect evidence. Testing at the microscopic level revealed that Bendectin was capable of damaging the integrity of cells in a manner necessary to implicate the drug in causing birth defects. A substance that causes such cellular damage is labeled a mutagen. Bendectin was labeled a mutagen by the federal government in 1988 and the mutagenic effect was confirmed by a variety of subsequent research projects. In addition, a wide variety of animal research in which Bendectin, or its various components, were administered to pregnant animals and the offspring of these animals were examined in detail. Damage to the cells that ultimately become limbs was observed in multiple animal studies involving multiple animal species and was dose-related, a cardinal sign of a potential effect in the human. Then there were the human studies. One of the drug company's defense expert witnesses characterized the dilemma of human studies in his scientific writings. "Epidemiology is like a brief bikini bathing suit. What it reveals is interesting, but what it covers up is critical." Most of the epidemiology studies conducted on Bendectin defined exposure to the drug as women having taken the drug through 120 days of pregnancy. This group was then compared to a control group of women who had not taken the drug and the presence or absence of children born with various birth defects in both groups was compared. In these studies, it was a mistake to include women as being exposed to the drug when they started receiving the drug only after the critical period of limb development had been completed, i.e. after 56 days of pregnancy. For example, a woman who began Bendectin on the 85th day of pregnancy had done so at a time when the limbs of her baby were not in jeopardy of being damaged. Nevertheless, she would be included in the group of Bendectin exposures. The net result of this mistake was, of course, the conclusion that Bendectin was safe. I hired an eminent epidemiologist who reanalyzed all of the various epidemiology studies by eliminating this time discrepancy. Only cases in which the mothers actually took the drug during critical periods of limb development were considered as being exposed. The result of this reanalysis showed clearly that the likelihood of Bendectin causing limb defects was more than three times greater in a mother receiving Bendectin than those who did not. The reanalysis was labeled as junk science by the defendant drug corporation (because a plaintiffs' lawyer had paid to have it done) and that tag stuck with the federal judges who heard the same evidence in case after case and threw out successful verdicts in cases across America. Bendectin litigation became the poster child of junk science for the right wing's campaign against lawsuits to hold corporate America accountable for the harm its products caused.
The point of this diatribe is to illustrate how the machinations of the drug company and the federal judiciary in this particular very important piece of litigation served as the forerunner of the current status of science involved in larger questions today. Global warming? Junk science. Throw it out. Harmful effects of carbon dioxide? Same. Throw it out. What a breath of fresh air, literally and figuratively, to finally have politicians in place who seem to understand that the country needs to get back to a system of thought where a decision is made after information is presented. Only demagogues decide what an answer is first and then cherry pick evidence to support the ill-founded conclusion. Let me go back . . .
Friday, April 24, 2009
Bucko and Bush: An Interview With the Former President
Q. Mr. President (I said to George W. Bush), I am going to be asking you several questions about the interrogation policies you established during your presidency. If at any time you do not understand my question, or would like it repeated, I would request that you let me know and I will gladly rephrase or repeat it. Okay?
A. Okay Bucko. You don't mind if I call you Bucko do you? I like to give people nick names to develop a spirit of camaraderie. Also, I meet so many people that it is hard to remember their names, so I just pick a nick name and try to remember the nickname based on something I can see in the person. At first, I was going to call you Baldy, but that might have been rude. I remember the time . . .
Q. Mr. President, let me interrupt.
A. You lawyers are so damn serious. You don't want to hear about the nickname I came up with for Cheney?
Q. Sir, I would like to ask a question about the interrogation policies established by your administration. . .
A. Fire away Bucko. By the way, do you want me to tell you how I came up with the nick name Bucko?
Q. I expect you'll tell me anyway.
A. I looked into your eyes. I know you're a lawyer. Deep in those eyes I can see that you are interested in money, big bucks. That's how I did it, Bucko. Now can we get started? I've got to go for a bike ride in a few minutes.
Q. While you were president, you stated publicly that "America does not torture." What did you mean by that in light of the fact that waterboarding and other tactics were approved by your administration as a means of interrogation tactics?
A. I looked through all those memos everybody is in such an uproar about. I didn't find the word 'torture' appearing anyplace. Did you?
Q. Mr. President, calling a pig a dog doesn't make it a dog.
A. What's your point? You didn't find the word 'torture' anywhere and you try to change the subject rather than answer my question. You lawyers are all alike.
Q. With all due respect, Mr. President, I don't believe you have answered my question.
A. You don't get it, do you Bucko? I am the president. If I say something that's the way it is. If I say we don't torture, we don't torture. Period. Now let me tell you why Cheney's nickname is 'Whacko' . . .
A. Okay Bucko. You don't mind if I call you Bucko do you? I like to give people nick names to develop a spirit of camaraderie. Also, I meet so many people that it is hard to remember their names, so I just pick a nick name and try to remember the nickname based on something I can see in the person. At first, I was going to call you Baldy, but that might have been rude. I remember the time . . .
Q. Mr. President, let me interrupt.
A. You lawyers are so damn serious. You don't want to hear about the nickname I came up with for Cheney?
Q. Sir, I would like to ask a question about the interrogation policies established by your administration. . .
A. Fire away Bucko. By the way, do you want me to tell you how I came up with the nick name Bucko?
Q. I expect you'll tell me anyway.
A. I looked into your eyes. I know you're a lawyer. Deep in those eyes I can see that you are interested in money, big bucks. That's how I did it, Bucko. Now can we get started? I've got to go for a bike ride in a few minutes.
Q. While you were president, you stated publicly that "America does not torture." What did you mean by that in light of the fact that waterboarding and other tactics were approved by your administration as a means of interrogation tactics?
A. I looked through all those memos everybody is in such an uproar about. I didn't find the word 'torture' appearing anyplace. Did you?
Q. Mr. President, calling a pig a dog doesn't make it a dog.
A. What's your point? You didn't find the word 'torture' anywhere and you try to change the subject rather than answer my question. You lawyers are all alike.
Q. With all due respect, Mr. President, I don't believe you have answered my question.
A. You don't get it, do you Bucko? I am the president. If I say something that's the way it is. If I say we don't torture, we don't torture. Period. Now let me tell you why Cheney's nickname is 'Whacko' . . .
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Get the Bastards!
As a basic proposition, our U.S. Constitution stands as a document telling us quite clearly what can and cannot be done to people in the name of government. Men a whole lot smarter and wiser than present day politicians brought their collective judgment to bear on the creation of this document. The ideas that spewed forth from this historical effort stand as beacon lights to the concept of freedom. As an example, the tempered reasoning behind the separation of power which created the executive, legislative and judicial branches of government as a system of checks and balances was the understanding that, if left unchecked, power would be misused. An American short hand of sorts has evolved that describes this concept; we are a nation of laws, not men. Decade after decade, generation after generation, examples of power grabs by individuals in basic violation of this concept come to mind; Watergate as an example. It is with this backdrop that I set forth the opening lines of an editorial appearing in today's New York Times.
"To read the four newly released memos on prisoner interrogation written by George W. Bush’s Justice Department is to take a journey into depravity." The editorial goes on to describe with excruciating particularity the various acts and techniques of human torture that Bush and his minions justified as a necessary part of the conduct of America as it purportedly sought to protect freedom throughout the world. Bush did not stop there. His administration blatantly violated the fundamental constitutional rights of American citizens by listening in on the private conversations of millions; a classic case of throwing the baby out with the bath water.
President Obama has signaled that the persons responsible for these crimes will not be held accountable. This is wrong, plain and simple. To fail to prosecute the people who promoted these despicable acts is to relegate the conduct to the world of political activity. It is to send the message to the American people that while the Bush administration did this, ours won't do such things because we can be trusted, we are the good guys, etc. etc. Accountability is the key word. In a society that sends poor and homeless people to prison for lengthy sentences because of drug seeking behaviors, we cannot simply stand aside and let conduct detrimental to the very essence of our existence go unpunished. These were not simply acts of bad judgment that can be wished away with a promise to do better this time. To allow these atrocities to go unpunished guarantees that there will be a next time. Get the bastards!
"To read the four newly released memos on prisoner interrogation written by George W. Bush’s Justice Department is to take a journey into depravity." The editorial goes on to describe with excruciating particularity the various acts and techniques of human torture that Bush and his minions justified as a necessary part of the conduct of America as it purportedly sought to protect freedom throughout the world. Bush did not stop there. His administration blatantly violated the fundamental constitutional rights of American citizens by listening in on the private conversations of millions; a classic case of throwing the baby out with the bath water.
President Obama has signaled that the persons responsible for these crimes will not be held accountable. This is wrong, plain and simple. To fail to prosecute the people who promoted these despicable acts is to relegate the conduct to the world of political activity. It is to send the message to the American people that while the Bush administration did this, ours won't do such things because we can be trusted, we are the good guys, etc. etc. Accountability is the key word. In a society that sends poor and homeless people to prison for lengthy sentences because of drug seeking behaviors, we cannot simply stand aside and let conduct detrimental to the very essence of our existence go unpunished. These were not simply acts of bad judgment that can be wished away with a promise to do better this time. To allow these atrocities to go unpunished guarantees that there will be a next time. Get the bastards!
Saturday, April 11, 2009
The Sons-In-Law/Obama Connection
He gets things done. Period. After thinking about the initial days of Obama's presidency, I can conjure up several words that describe his approach; whirlwind, omnipresent, organized, ambitious, to name but a few. Take his recently completed foreign trip as an example. He visited six countries, held 25 meetings, conducted eight variations of press conferences and participated in two town halls in two separate countries. He attended three summits and several receptions, gave two speeches, laid a wreath, walked across a bridge, took several tours of spots of local interest and made a quick stop in Iraq. He did all this in about eight days, a schedule so vigorous it makes me tired to think about it. Obama functions in a manner which is strikingly familiar to me. I am blessed with the presence of three sons-in-law in my life. Each of these fine men is in the age range, demographically speaking, of Obama and each keeps up an impressive and rigorous "get'er done" schedule that is apparently typical of this age group. They do it seamlessly, effectively and efficiently without seeking attention. Their respective activities are beyond the scope of this writing, yet suffice it to say that they are each in their own way organized and effective. However, the most important characteristic they share with Obama is how they function as fathers. For those of you who have heard me prattle on and on about my grandchildren, you already know that I have eight of the most beautiful, gifted, intelligent, smart, and versatile grand kids on the planet (If you haven't heard the stories, don't get me started). These men love their kids, spend time with them, in ways that are truly impressive. There are some who wonder why I like Obama so much. the reason is simple. He's like my sons-in-law. He's a good, make that great, father.
p.s. to my daughters. The above commentary is meant in no way to dilute or minimize the wonderful jobs you do as the mothers of your children. Love, Dad
p.s. to my daughters. The above commentary is meant in no way to dilute or minimize the wonderful jobs you do as the mothers of your children. Love, Dad
SHORT STORY
Just The Way He Said It
“I was born at an early age . . .”
Tifton paused and the audience cackled. It was the oldest and worst joke in his arsenal, but the audience loved it. Given his longstanding reputation, he could get away with saying things that lesser comedians would never consider. Audiences revered him, adored him and he never failed to give them an hour or two of relief from the daily grind. He made them smile, laugh, forget, remember and sometimes, cry.
It wasn’t always this way, Culpepper thought. Before he started writing for Tifton, the comedian was a has been. Actually, a never-was, Culpepper mused. The duo had been together now approaching twenty years and it had been a long and successful ride up the ladder of fame and fortune. Tifton could tell a joke, Culpepper would give him that. Most of that time, Culpepper had written every word that Tifton spoke in public. Until recently, Culpepper thought . For more than fifteen years, the team had been at the top of their game, playing all the best places, getting the best gigs. But the past three years had been painful. Tifton had come to believe all the junk that had been written about him and, in the process, had forgotten about the brains of the outfit; Leroy H. Culpepper, man of many talents who preferred staying out of the limelight for his own reasons. Culpepper’s mouth went dry and he tasted the bitterness of resentment as he tried to moisten his lips and thought about the recent past.
Everything took a turn for the worse when Tifton started telling some of his own jokes in his standup routine. At first, audiences tolerated the bad jokes so Tifton increased his input. Culpepper reckoned that now a full one-third of Tifton’s standard presentation was the comic’s own stuff. His jokes were terrible, Culpepper thought. Just terrible. What made it worse was that Tifton wouldn’t talk about the changes or give him a clue as to why he was doing what he was doing; abandoning the approach that had been so successful for the two of them. He tried to talk with him, reason with him, about the material, but his pleas fell on deaf ears. Just last week, they had a bitter argument. Tifton stood and glared at him after reading what a critic had to say about the previous evening’s performance. He held up the headline, “Is Tifton Losing His Touch?” and blamed Culpepper for the poor showing.
“I’m not a ventriloquist. I can’t put words in your mouth. If you choose to ignore me and what I’ve written for you, you’ll have to pay the consequences.” Tifton wouldn’t listen. Since then, the boo birds in the audiences had been active and Tifton was getting testy. If Culpepper couldn’t convince Tifton to stop telling his own terrible jokes, their lavish life style was in jeopardy. Comedy had provided a good living for both of them, but the old show business adage was that you were only as good as your last performance.
Culpepper was sitting backstage listening to Tifton’s routine. It made him sick to his stomach. He couldn’t listen any more. He went back to Tifton’s dressing room and sat down, put his head in his hands. What was he going to do?
“Shine, Mister?”
He opened his eyes. A kid was standing in front of him, smilly smirk on his face, shoe cleaning kit in hand.
“How did you get in here? This area is off limits.”
“I know. But would you like a shine anyway? First time is free. I like repeat business.”
Just the way he said it made Culpepper laugh. He looked at the kid and nodded.
“Go ahead.”
He watched the kid work for a minute. “Why did you come in here?”
“I was hoping to see Mr. Tifton. Maybe get some pointers. I’m going to be a famous comedian too . . . just like him.”
“I don’t want to disappoint you, kid, but Tifton doesn’t like kids. Hates’em in fact.”
“Mr Tifton will like me.”
Culpepper laughed again. What is it you like about him?”
The kid looked up with his silly smirk. “His jokes are terrible, but he tells them so good. Just like me. My Mum says I could read the phone book and people would laugh.”
Culpepper didn’t like the direction this conversation was taking. He asked a question knowing that maybe he didn’t want to hear the answer
“Why do you say his jokes are terrible?”
The kid stood straight out of his shining posture.
“Hmmm . Let me see. How about these? You can tune a piano, and you can tune a guitar, but you can’t tuna fish.”
Culpepper laughed heartily. He couldn’t help it. It was one of his favorite jokes and he’d written it for Tifton more than ten years ago.
“Where did you hear that?”
“Never heard it. Got an old joke book of Mr. Tifton’s that I’ve memorized.” He reached into the back pocket of his jeans and pulled an old dog-eared copy of a joke book Culpepper had ghost written for Tifton several years back. “My Dad got this for me for my birthday a couple of years ago. As they say in that commercial, I don’t leave home without it.”
Culpepper laughed again. He could do something with this kid. He could envision him on stage telling jokes that he would write for him. People would laugh. He felt a flicker of hope in his chest. Maybe everything would work out.
Tifton walked into the room.
“What’s this kid doing here? Get him the hell out.”
“He’s my guest. He’s shining my shoes. Let him be.”
“I said get him out of here. Now.”
The kid stood and started to sing.
“A peanut sat on the rail road track
His heart was all aflutter.
A train came speeding down the track.
Toot, toot! Peanut butter.”
Culpepper and Tifton looked at each other. Then they looked at the kid, then back at each other. Culpepper looked at the kid again.
“Got any more?”
The smirk. “Sure do. The guy says to the doctor, Doc, my memory is slipping. I can’t seem to remember anything. The doctor asked him how long he had this problem? The guy says, What problem?” The kid looked at the two men, waited for a laugh. Nothing came so he continued, “There are three kinds of people, those who can count and those who can’t,” and “The teacher asked me to help my sister with her homework. I told him that I can’t because I can’t be a brother and assist her too!”
Culpepper loved this. He had written all this stuff years ago and memories came flooding back. He looked again at Tifton and noticed the thinnest of smiles appear. The kid was getting to him.
“Mr. Tifton. Would you like a shine as soon as I am finished with him? First time is free. I like repeat business.”
Just the way he said it made Tifton laugh.
“I was born at an early age . . .”
Tifton paused and the audience cackled. It was the oldest and worst joke in his arsenal, but the audience loved it. Given his longstanding reputation, he could get away with saying things that lesser comedians would never consider. Audiences revered him, adored him and he never failed to give them an hour or two of relief from the daily grind. He made them smile, laugh, forget, remember and sometimes, cry.
It wasn’t always this way, Culpepper thought. Before he started writing for Tifton, the comedian was a has been. Actually, a never-was, Culpepper mused. The duo had been together now approaching twenty years and it had been a long and successful ride up the ladder of fame and fortune. Tifton could tell a joke, Culpepper would give him that. Most of that time, Culpepper had written every word that Tifton spoke in public. Until recently, Culpepper thought . For more than fifteen years, the team had been at the top of their game, playing all the best places, getting the best gigs. But the past three years had been painful. Tifton had come to believe all the junk that had been written about him and, in the process, had forgotten about the brains of the outfit; Leroy H. Culpepper, man of many talents who preferred staying out of the limelight for his own reasons. Culpepper’s mouth went dry and he tasted the bitterness of resentment as he tried to moisten his lips and thought about the recent past.
Everything took a turn for the worse when Tifton started telling some of his own jokes in his standup routine. At first, audiences tolerated the bad jokes so Tifton increased his input. Culpepper reckoned that now a full one-third of Tifton’s standard presentation was the comic’s own stuff. His jokes were terrible, Culpepper thought. Just terrible. What made it worse was that Tifton wouldn’t talk about the changes or give him a clue as to why he was doing what he was doing; abandoning the approach that had been so successful for the two of them. He tried to talk with him, reason with him, about the material, but his pleas fell on deaf ears. Just last week, they had a bitter argument. Tifton stood and glared at him after reading what a critic had to say about the previous evening’s performance. He held up the headline, “Is Tifton Losing His Touch?” and blamed Culpepper for the poor showing.
“I’m not a ventriloquist. I can’t put words in your mouth. If you choose to ignore me and what I’ve written for you, you’ll have to pay the consequences.” Tifton wouldn’t listen. Since then, the boo birds in the audiences had been active and Tifton was getting testy. If Culpepper couldn’t convince Tifton to stop telling his own terrible jokes, their lavish life style was in jeopardy. Comedy had provided a good living for both of them, but the old show business adage was that you were only as good as your last performance.
Culpepper was sitting backstage listening to Tifton’s routine. It made him sick to his stomach. He couldn’t listen any more. He went back to Tifton’s dressing room and sat down, put his head in his hands. What was he going to do?
“Shine, Mister?”
He opened his eyes. A kid was standing in front of him, smilly smirk on his face, shoe cleaning kit in hand.
“How did you get in here? This area is off limits.”
“I know. But would you like a shine anyway? First time is free. I like repeat business.”
Just the way he said it made Culpepper laugh. He looked at the kid and nodded.
“Go ahead.”
He watched the kid work for a minute. “Why did you come in here?”
“I was hoping to see Mr. Tifton. Maybe get some pointers. I’m going to be a famous comedian too . . . just like him.”
“I don’t want to disappoint you, kid, but Tifton doesn’t like kids. Hates’em in fact.”
“Mr Tifton will like me.”
Culpepper laughed again. What is it you like about him?”
The kid looked up with his silly smirk. “His jokes are terrible, but he tells them so good. Just like me. My Mum says I could read the phone book and people would laugh.”
Culpepper didn’t like the direction this conversation was taking. He asked a question knowing that maybe he didn’t want to hear the answer
“Why do you say his jokes are terrible?”
The kid stood straight out of his shining posture.
“Hmmm . Let me see. How about these? You can tune a piano, and you can tune a guitar, but you can’t tuna fish.”
Culpepper laughed heartily. He couldn’t help it. It was one of his favorite jokes and he’d written it for Tifton more than ten years ago.
“Where did you hear that?”
“Never heard it. Got an old joke book of Mr. Tifton’s that I’ve memorized.” He reached into the back pocket of his jeans and pulled an old dog-eared copy of a joke book Culpepper had ghost written for Tifton several years back. “My Dad got this for me for my birthday a couple of years ago. As they say in that commercial, I don’t leave home without it.”
Culpepper laughed again. He could do something with this kid. He could envision him on stage telling jokes that he would write for him. People would laugh. He felt a flicker of hope in his chest. Maybe everything would work out.
Tifton walked into the room.
“What’s this kid doing here? Get him the hell out.”
“He’s my guest. He’s shining my shoes. Let him be.”
“I said get him out of here. Now.”
The kid stood and started to sing.
“A peanut sat on the rail road track
His heart was all aflutter.
A train came speeding down the track.
Toot, toot! Peanut butter.”
Culpepper and Tifton looked at each other. Then they looked at the kid, then back at each other. Culpepper looked at the kid again.
“Got any more?”
The smirk. “Sure do. The guy says to the doctor, Doc, my memory is slipping. I can’t seem to remember anything. The doctor asked him how long he had this problem? The guy says, What problem?” The kid looked at the two men, waited for a laugh. Nothing came so he continued, “There are three kinds of people, those who can count and those who can’t,” and “The teacher asked me to help my sister with her homework. I told him that I can’t because I can’t be a brother and assist her too!”
Culpepper loved this. He had written all this stuff years ago and memories came flooding back. He looked again at Tifton and noticed the thinnest of smiles appear. The kid was getting to him.
“Mr. Tifton. Would you like a shine as soon as I am finished with him? First time is free. I like repeat business.”
Just the way he said it made Tifton laugh.
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