Wasn't Me

WASN’T ME! THE RICKY DID IT TALES

BY Master John

Published by IndependentBook.com, July, 2002

Table of Contents

Oh Boy .........................................................................................................1 No Pet ..........................................................................................................5 Go Fetch ....................................................................................................12 How It Happened .......................................................................................19 Whoops ......................................................................................................24 The End? ...................................................................................................31

Oh Boy

I have a really sick brother! I’ve been worried about him, and all the rest of us, almost my whole life. I used to think it was just me. However, as you will see, we have a big problem. We are even more worried than usual. Therefore,I was just getting ready to show some people all I had written about my brother. That way, perhaps, they would understand and help. As I was looking through my papers, I also found these old notes by our mother. Now I can feel terrified, but not alone. A small help, indeed. I’m Joe, my older sick brother is Ricky. Now, here is our Mom’s note: “I’m pregnant and scared!” I wrote those word's years ago. I wrote them when my first baby, Ricky, was almost 4. You see, I wrote them because, Ricky, my first born, my baby, my

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son, is really sick! I knew it then, and I know it now. I wrote the rest of this then too... To Whom It May Concern: If confession is good for the soul, and talking things out helps, then this is my cry for help! You see, I was married young. I became a mother young and there were a lot of things I didn’t know. Indeed, there are a lot of things I still don’t know. However, I know really sick! There is a lot about all babies to make you sick. The smell of their poop, for one, will make you sick. They pee whenever they feel like it. They spit up gross stuff. They wake up and cry whenever. They can’t play and are generally pretty useless. They change relationships. My husband and I now have to spend most of our time fussing all over him instead of each other, friends or family, like we used too. But I don’t mean any of that stuff.

No, there is something really wrong with my son. It all started the day he was born. I got to hold him briefly right after he was delivered. Then they took him away for clean up and testing. After that everyone in the family gathered around in my room to hold Ricky, the newest member of our family. It seemed like hours until he was handed back to me and I finally got to really

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look at my new son. Now, I had been around new babies some and I knew not to expect much, but he stared right into my eyes and he winked at me. I’m telling you, it wasn’t one of those “reflex” things like everyone tried to explain to me! It was a real wink, like we had a secret, or would have. Well, I was startled, and Ricky laughed. This was not a gurgling, or random sound, but a real laugh. Everyone got quiet and seemed impressed or amazed. But, no one believed my feelings about it, then. Nothing much strange happened for a couple of months. However, I always felt sort on edge and ill at ease around Ricky. That didn’t seem right. But, my folks, the doctor and everyone said that it was just because I was used to being the only “object of affection” for everyone. After all, I was an only child, and my husband adores me. Therefore, it was natural, they assured me, to feel strange and uncomfortable with having to share the time, love and attention of my family and friends with this “interloper”. Anyway, they told me I would grow out of it. The next event started when we were on the floor playing. Ricky was on a baby blanket. I was shaking a rattle and putting it near his hands then snatching it away just before he could grasp it. All at once, with perfect coordination and timing, he grabbed my little finger hard and looked me right in the eyes.

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His look was as serious as his father’s, or my father, is when they are upset. Then he smiled and spoke to me. Just as clearly as anyone he said, ”Don’t worry Mom. Everything will be OK. This will be really fun. We’re going to have a great life.” That was over three years ago. No one believes me. My son hasn’t spoken a word yet to anyone, other than that once to me. My parents and the doctor told us that Ricky may be “delayed”. Delayed nothing, I think he is just biding his time. I just worry about what for... Then again, he’s given me no reason not to believe him. He is my son and all, but as I get older, I find more and more reasons to agree with the people who tell me I shouldn’t believe everything I’m told. Now, I find out, I am going to have another child. They tell me it’s going to be another boy. I’m so scared. Having Ricky sure hasn’t been much fun yet.” Well, that’s what Mom said. I can’t believe she was worried about having me. But, this is about Ricky and the rest is mostly what I’ve had to say over the years.

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No Pet

You’ve really got to watch what you say around my brother. He’s an idiot. Everyone says so. I guess being an idiot’s a bad thing. But, whatever he is, he can sure do some things I can’t. I’m supposed to be the prodigy, whatever that is. There’s still a lot I don’t understand. I’m only six. My brother, Ricky, is old. He’s ten. Dad and Mom say I’ll understand when I’m older. I am not so sure of that. Anyway, I’m really mad at Ricky right now. I’m mad at Mom and Dad too. They’re the ones who told me to be careful what I said around Ricky. Now, they’re saying we can never have a pet, and it’s their fault! It really isn’t fair. Let me tell you about it. It all started out really well. It was a beautiful day. Ricky and I were playing ball in the back yard. This was special, because Ricky wasn’t very good at ball. They say he can’t stay focused, whatever that means. In any case, he seldom played ball

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with me. Mom was setting the picnic table with all kind of great “go withs”. Dad was manning the grill. Actually, Dad was showing off his “professional chef” burger flipping techniques for our edification and amusement. As usual, he missed, and a beautiful, juicy burger made a greasy splat on the deck. Unlike usual, the neighbor's dog proved true to his name, “Flash”. Out of nowhere, Flash appeared. He snagged the burger off of the deck on the fly and ended up in a relaxed huddle under our shade tree scarfing it down. Shaking his head and laughing, Dad said to Mom, “It’s a dog’s life, for sure. Everyone should have such a rough life.” Mom joined Dad in laughter. Very funny. If they’d known then...... Well. Instead of throwing the ball back to me, Ricky had stopped and was looking thoughtful. That should have been enough to have made me run and stay at Grandma’s. But, nooo, I wasn’t thinking. Ricky dropped the ball and stood there watching the dog, and Dad, and Mom, and me. Now, Ricky doesn’t talk much. With his normal brevity of expression he looked at Dad, then again at Flash, and stated in no uncertain terms,” Everyone have dog’s life.” Ricky makes stuff. Now Mom says it’s pretty natural for boys to collect junk and “create” with it. But, I don’t think Ricky’s stuff is natural. At least, it sure isn’t like anything I ever figure out to make. The parents humor him anyway. Therefore, it was not unusual that for the next few days all he seemed to do was follow Flash around or build in the back yard. Dad has 6

talked about building Ricky a shed, or turning over part of the garage to him for his workshop. So far, Mom has vetoed the idea on the basis of not wanting him to have access to too many chemicals and the household electric. This means I was often Ricky’s gopher. Off on neighborhood trash hunts for old batteries, ammonia, vinegar, or who knows what. It wasn’t a very big structure, this time. Ricky had managed to pack a lot of stuff into it though. From what I could see there were some old radios, an old computer or calculator or two, some heating units out of old toasters, some radiator like thing from a refrigerator, and lots of batteries. As he hooked up the last of the batteries, he very carefully aimed the toaster coils so they pointed toward the neighbors big satellite dish TV antenna. He then threw a small switch on the side. I could hear a faint hum, right on the edge of being a buzz sound. Ricky wandered off. That night, as we were coming in from play I noticed a faint, almost purple glow coming from his creation. I mentioned it to Ricky. He just shrugged and went inside, so I did too. This went on for about a week. The only time Ricky went near it was once when he made me find some more batteries and help him change them. For some reason, I remember that week very well. I think it was because it was the same week I had these weird dreams about Flash and being tied up outside and having to eat out of bowls on the ground. I think Ricky was having bad dreams too, because we both would go climb in bed with Mom and Dad almost every night. Now, I often don’t really understand what parents talk about. However, one night, while I huddled, pretending to sleep, on the outside of 7

the bed I heard Mom slap Dads hand and giggle. Then she said something like, “I think you’re getting kinky in your old age,” whatever that means. Dad whispered something to her. She giggled again and said it might be fun, she’d been having some really sensuous dreams, but don’t buy the whips and chains, yet. Strange talk, and why did they laugh, and kiss so long after that? Who can figure parents? Three things happened the next day that caught my attention. First, I found Ricky out by his creation crying. I tried to console him but he just kept sobbing about dog’s life dreams not coming true. Whatever that meant. Eventually, however, he clicked the machine off, kicked it, and came inside with me. Second, when Dad got home, he was acting “frisky” from what I overheard Mom saying. However, I did hear Dad tell her that both places he had gone to were sold out of the things he’d been looking for. Then they started talking about belts and rope and putting us to bed early. Parents, who can figure. The third strange occurrence was when Dad was reading the nightly paper. Now he often yells out things he believes will be of interest to Mom or us. Tonight he yelled to Mom, “It’s not just us!” Mom replied, ”What’s not?” Dad’s strange reply is what got my attention. He said, as if in some secret code, “Passion and bondage.”

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“What do you mean?” Mom queried. “It says here, in the paper, that all over the country bondage equipment is sold out and orders with suppliers are up 1000% in a week,” he replied. Mom replied, ”Maybe we’ll have to go next door and borrow the collar and leash from Flash.” At that, they both laughed and gave each other a strange kind of distant, mushy look. It was kind of like those TV couples do before they start kissing and stuff. I didn’t have much time to think about it because they both decided it was time for Ricky and me to get ready to go to bed. That was the same night we had the great water fight in the bathroom. Ricky and I were in the tub when Dad snuck up on Mom and put a big pile of soap bubbles on her blouse and began rubbing them in. She, laughing, said ”Not in front of the kids.” At the same time she picked up a big glob of bubbles and crammed them onto the front of Dad’s pants. Then, laughing, we were all in it. Water was splashed. Soap bubbles were every where. We were wet, silly and giggly. I went to sleep very contented and relaxed that night. After that, things went back to like they used to be. In a day or so, I was out in the yard. I played around with Ricky’s “invention”, clicked the switch a few times, shook it a bit. Nothing happened. Boring. I noticed that night it was glowing kind of bluish again. Maybe I’d left the switch on. Neither Ricky nor I slept well that night and we both were back in with Mom and Dad before morning.

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They both commented on still being tired and kind of laughed. I guess they weren’t sleeping well either because they had Ricky and me on the outside of the bed instead of between then, and they kept squirming and giggling. That night Dad mentioned an article from the news again. Something about sales of large dog collars and leashes selling out at stores all across the country. The sales seemed to be far in excess to the numbers of new large dog's people could be getting. Also the Military Surplus stores, Police supply stores, and Adult stores all were reporting record sales on handcuffs, and that “bondage” stuff. I finally had to ask Dad what “bondage” was. He said it was stuff to tie things up or wrap things with. Mom laughed. I didn’t see what the big deal was. Didn’t seem funny either. It was then that Ricky came in crying and yelling. “Brother, play with my Dog life machine. Turn on. No work anyway.” I knew what he meant, but not why he was upset or cared. I mean he’d said it didn’t work and kicked it himself. Mom and Dad, of course, didn’t understand any of it. To shut Ricky up, I finally lead everyone outside to his contraption. It was glowing faintly blue in the dim evening sunlight. I tried to explain what I thought and then Mom and Dad got very serious and quiet. The next thing I knew they had taken the batteries out of the machine and locked it away somewhere, “for safe keeping”. That’s a parent way of saying you don’t get to play with it again, ever. They did a lot of soft talking after that. I tried to hear, but most of it didn’t make much sense. Stuff about affecting brain waves, world wide, temporary, they hoped, human behavior 10

changes. They kept going over all that we each had to do, in being so careful what Ricky saw and heard. They felt every slip was a potential disaster. I wasn’t really worried until they said: ”And NO PETS!” They are even talking about putting a fence around the yard so the neighbor's animals can’t come in. We were going to go to the Zoo and now Mom said we can’t unless she can find a sitter for Ricky. Any one want a brother?

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Go Fetch

My brother’s an idiot. No, he really is an idiot. I even heard my folks say so. He’s one of those smart idiots. What they call an idiot-savant or something. He does really dumb stuff, and really smart stuff, sometimes at the same time. Like, there was this one time when he heard our Mom and Dad “discussing” stuff. Well, my Dad said her ideas were, “as clear as mud.” This sent Ricky.... Ricky? He’s my brother. He’s 12, almost a teenager, whatever that means or implies. Being “almost a teenager” seems to be important, since everyone talks about it so much, and in such strange tones of voice. I’m Joe, the little, or some still tease and say “baby”, brother. I am only 8, but precocious, they say. Whatever, that means. Anyway, as I was saying, this innocent, if barbed, remark by Dad sent Ricky scurrying off for his chemistry set. This time there weren’t any explosions, blinding flashes, or noxious stinks.

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This time, when it all came out, it was one picture window, one glass top table, two antique, cut glass bowls, a jar of strawberry jelly, a jar of peanut butter, a loaf of bread, and a big wet hole in the back yard. Well, to be perfectly honest, I might have shared some of the bread, peanut butter, and jelly with Ricky. But, the rest was all his. You see our big front room picture window had become sort of a piece of stained glass in streaky shades of dark brown. “Translucent”, is I think the word Mom used... Dad said a bad word, but I guess he meant “poop smeared” looking. At least that’s what it looked like to me. The table, and the bowls had various shaped holes cut or dissolved in them, like Swiss cheese. The new mud hole in the back yard was surrounded by various colored slabs of sliced mud. Some were colored but, that word again, “translucent.” One big slice, or slab, was not mud, but something so clear that the government people who came and took it away had trouble finding the edges and kept running into it. They kept mumbling about an index of refraction less than air, diamond, or glass, or something. For me, it was all just a pain because I am the one who always has to console Ricky. This time I found him crying behind the shed. I thought he was afraid of being punished. I guess this is what makes him an idiot. In his diminutive and frugal use of words he proclaimed through the tears and snot, “only little parts of mud clear, Dad’s wrong.” Now, as I saw it, Dad was seldom wrong, and it was always a treat when one of us could show him up. Who's to figure? I do know it took Dad

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most of the summer to get grass to grow where the hole had been. Something was said about chemical imbalances and soil leaching. For my part, I know that, even though the ground stayed soft and muddy for a long time, we couldn’t find any worms near there at all. But, all that is just to give you an idea of Ricky and me. What I really wanted to tell you about was adult and government bureaucracy and injustice, and playing catch. I really enjoy playing catch. Dad seldom has the time. Mom and Ricky never seem very interested and aren’t real good at ball anyway. And we don’t have a dog... But, that is another story. Well, one day I was outside throwing my ball against the side of the garage and catching it, at least some of the time, on the rebound. A bit bored, but OK, and it was a nice day out. I threw a hard one, without much control, and it hit right at the base of the wall and shot high into the air. I ran backwards to snatch it out of the air on its way down and tripped, hard over Ricky and into an isolated rose bush outfielder. As I was sprawled there trying to decide if my butt, or my pride were hurt, or if I had enough new scratches from the bush, to warrant punching Ricky, or crying to Mom, Ricky calmly says, “Ouch, just have ball come to you.” He then wandered off. That ended my ball playing for the day. Next morning I go out to play and all of my balls have vanished. I mean really vanished. I had left them lying around all over the yard as usual. That’s not really carelessness as I am so often accused. It is so I could occasionally find one wherever I was, without parents help. Gone. They weren’t in the outdoor toy bin. That’s where things end up, on mow the lawn days, or, if company is coming over. 14

Not being in the yard, or the toy bin, usually means the worst. Ricky had them. You can’t trust anything to Ricky. You never know what will happen to them, or if you will ever see them again, if he gets them. Ricky has a stash of some of his “treasures”, toys and “tools” in a corner of the garage. Sure enough, there they were, piled on the floor with a pair of Moms gardening gloves. Straddling the pile was Ricky. He was calmly painting all my balls, and Mom’s gloves from a jar full of some sort of fuzzy looking green stuff. It looked similar to that paint my Dad likes on cars. Pearlized, I think they call it. Only this was more so, fuzzy. Fortunately, the stuff seemed to be clear on the balls and gloves. Now, I had explained a million times to Ricky to leave my stuff alone. Therefore, I felt righteous indignation as I kicked over his jar of paint stuff and grabbed up my balls, and Moms gloves and went outside. Ricky just said, “Ball comes back.” I went to my ball diamond, the side of the garage. I nodded knowingly to the outfield, the infamous rose bush. Then, since I didn’t have a real ball glove, I slid one of Mom’s brown cloth gardening gloves over my hand, and pitched the perfect pitch. The wall hit it hard back slightly to my left. I threw out my hand and dived for it. It was a perfect catch into my “mitt”. I was duly impressed with myself, as the crowd went wild. I don’t normally catch those hits. To follow up on this success, I threw one of my easy ones. A slow ball that bounced low and rolled off to my right. With a surge of confidence and triumph I plunged my glove to the side of the mound... In horror I watched the ball roll right on by me. 15

Shaken by this failure in front of a crowd, I envisioned to be in the thousands, I began to practice and experiment. The slow balls, I was no better with than ever. Without my mitt, the gardening glove, I was no better with any ball than ever. However, with the mitt on, I couldn’t miss a fast ball, even if I threw it off into the field away from the wall. I mean it, I could throw it toward my rose bush outfielder and it would come soaring back to my glove for an easy snag. Well, this was really neat. I was almost happy enough to thank Ricky, but I restrained myself. For a couple of days I had ball games that would rival, and be the envy of any pro. I could even hit the ball with my bat and it would rocket out over the bush and soon return to my triumphant gloved grasp. Now I did lose a ball or so, if they went slowly. One bounced into Dad’s car through the open window. The neighbor's dog walked off with one and ate it, I think. But, all in all, this was pretty neat. Then, the weekend was over and Dad drove off for work in the car. I waved good-bye to him and continued to pitch another perfect game. A few minutes later I had my hand out to grab a hard line drive out of the air for another out, when a second ball smacked me on the back of the hand, hard. I couldn’t see where it had come from. Sometimes, when a ball goes into a neighbor's lawn they throw them back. I didn’t see any neighbor outside just then, but I had the big game to win, so I didn’t worry about it much. It was only a few minutes later when I heard the phone ring. Mom came out and got Ricky and me into her car. She said Dad had had car trouble and we had to go get him.

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It was not to far from home, just off of the freeway that Dad takes to the office, where we pulled into a car repair place. The police were there too. My Dad’s car was up on a lift and there was a big hole so you could look right through the gas tank and floor into the place for your feet behind the front seat. The police were asking him if he had heard any shots or explosions. Dad kept saying over and over that he was just speeding up to pull onto the freeway when he heard this thump and then the car started to slow down and he quick pulled off the road. It was when he saw the gas gauge reading empty that he got out and noticed the huge hole. No one thought much, right then, when Ricky walked by and muttered, “Ball hole,” and kept on looking around the garage. In all fairness it might have been partly my fault. While Dad’s car was being fixed we had more visits from the police and the FBI worried about terrorist activities, or something. I did ask them to play catch with me. At first they were impressed and I was showing off that I never missed a catch, no matter how hard they threw. Then one of the policemen really got into the play and flung one that went wild. It was heading right for the neighbor's side window. I could see the fright and concerns on the officers face, the bulges of laughter waiting to erupt from the Fed's and other who stood around. Unthinking, I spun and crouched down, holding out my infamous mitt, and yelled to the crowd,”Don’t worry!” Like magic the ball turned and flew to my waiting grasp.

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Well, I guess you have it figured out by now. Instead of the praise and adoration I anticipated, when the shock left their faces, soon, so did my balls and Mom’s gloves. I never got them back. I could never get Ricky interested in making any more of his special paint. You can bet I am a lot more careful now about sharing what my brother does. I don’t let on about any of it to the police or Fed's now. I guess neither does Ricky. He wouldn’t make them any more paint either, and I guess they couldn’t figure out how it works. As for me? Want to come play catch?

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How It Happened

Why is the world such a mess? I think I know. It all started about 20 years ago with our biker, furnace repair man, Ned, and my idiot brother, Ricky. My brother is what they call an idiot-savant. Now, I think the term is derogatory and demeaning. I’d rather say he was a limited genus. Perhaps, very limited. All right, he can’t read or write. He often can’t speak much. However, he can make the most wondrous “inventions” out of junk parts of things he finds lying around. Dad had turned over a portion of the garage to Ricky's' work. Dad had even installed its own circuits, circutbreakers and ground fault interruption circuits for Ricky's workshop. You see, most of his creations seemed to turn on and do something. However, we could seldom figure out what they did, except that they’d blow circuit breakers and run the electric bill up. Way up. As I started to tell you, it was summer. One of those awful hot, muggy, no breeze, scorchers you get in the Midwest. Of course, our only 19

bulky room air conditioner had decided to break down for the umpteenth time. Mom had had enough. She heatedly “convinced” Dad that it was time for central AC. The smooth salesman had come and convinced them that a heat pump was the only way to go. Today, as I look back, that was the start of it all, installation day. The “highly trained, professional, installation staff”, pulled up about 11:30 a.m. in an old, rusty, plain white, dirty van. Out of the van climbed one of the most gigantic men I have ever seen. He seemed overweight in a solid, behemoth sort of way. His skimpy muscle tee shirt gave credence to the possibility that he had paid by the yard for the tattoos that covered almost every portion of his massive exposed skin. He informed us his name was “Ned”, and where did we want the new equipment installed? With his normal brevity of words, my brother commented as Ned walked by us into the house, “Harley.” Due to the size of Neds’ upper arms he managed to have a tattoo displaying in full colorful glory a complete Harley chopper, with the Harley logo below it. Ned smiled at Ricky. Neds smile lit up the hallway and my brother. Ricky, normally shy and reserved around strangers, was instantly entranced and bonded. For the rest of the day Ricky was Ned’s pupil, servant, stooge, disciple. By the way, I’m Joe. I’m 30 now. Ricky was physically 14 when this was happening. I was 10. I’ve had a lot of time to reflect upon this and I am sure it was when Ned explained the heat pump than the deterioration of the world's condition was assured. Installation day progressed. Single handily, Ned removed the old furnace and carried in the new. He had placed the heat exchanger unit on 20

a leveled slab outside, ran the tubing and electrical. A lot of work. After all these years I am still about as impressed as I was as a small boy. It was about 3 and Ned was taking a break. His first. Mom had gotten him a glass of ice tea. We had popsicles and we sat with Ned under a tree. Ned, of course, understood that Ricky didn’t respond, act or think like a normal kid. It didn’t matter. Ned could talk and explain enough for both of them. Easily. Ned was explaining the functioning of the heat exchanger to Ricky. I just happened to be there. They both ignored me. His explanation was something like, “When it is really hot like today, there are still some traces of Old Man Winter around. When it is really cold and snowy outside, there are still some traces of these hot, Dog Days of Summer around. That unit over there is called a heat exchanger. It hunts down those traces of winter and takes them inside to cool you house on days like today. In winter, it kind of finds this summer heat and brings some of it inside to warm you up. Pretty cool isn’t it?!” With a very uncharacteristic long speech Ricky asked, “Better it finds winter, better it cools?” “Exactly right!” Ned exclaimed, beaming. Ricky was there with us for the rest of the day, but he wasn’t. If you know what I mean. Like he was preoccupied, or off in his own little world. I didn’t give much thought to it at the time. It was just Ricky, you know? Anyway, around 6 Ned finished up and drafts of cool air began to bless our

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humble home. Accepting a healthy check for the company and a nice tip for himself Ned ascended into The Van. Just as he was about to pull out of the drive Ricky ran up to the van window and said to Ned, “I find better winter/summer you come too?” “Sure Kid, any time you say,” Ned replied. “Just call me.” He handed Ricky a card with a phone number on it, waved and drove off. Who can understand parents? They had just paid a fortune for the new AC and the house was really comfortable for the first time this summer. So Dad grills outside and we have a “picnic” in our backyard. How do you figure? However, blessings happen and bath and bed time came. I actually got to sleep under a sheet again without sweating all over. I still remember the luxury of it. Perhaps it was the bliss that let me sleep in longer than Ricky for once. When I go up and out, he was in his corner of the garage, His “workshop”, or His “lab”. As usual, I had no idea what he was constructing. I asked him and he told me, “Bring winter here. Cool.” “Yeah, cool,” I replied and left. A few days, many blown circuit breakers and a lot of construction later, Ricky took me to the garage. Under a big metal cabinet, with my old metal saucer sled sticking out of it and some big wires going into it from some sort of a “control panel”, was a puddle of cold water. Ricky beamed and said, “Found many winters and summers. Call Ned.” With that explanation he left for the phone.

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True to his word, later that day Ned arrived. I am not sure what all happened after that except that soon my Dad was out with them in the workshop and everything got very hush hush. Now I can’t complain. From then on my family and me have never wanted for anything. We buy what we want. We come and go as we want. We live where we want. “R. & N. Consulting and Investment Strategies” has become the largest in the world. “Ned’s Beer & Bike Hangouts”, have become the fasted growing franchise chain ever. “Hot and Cold Research and Predictions” is known by all as the premier company to consult if you want to know anything about the past, or the “probable” future. What really is starting to bother me, is to have all of destiny decided by the whims and wishes of a biker, furnace repair man and my idiot brother, who just happened to invent, or discover, and have a monopoly on time travel.....

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Whoops

Hi, it’s been awhile. Remember, the last times we met here? I’d been telling you about my brother Ricky, and Ned, our central air conditioner installation man, the invention of time travel, and other adventures and mishaps. Well, now there is more. It seems, on the surface, hard to believe that my idiot brother and the air conditioner installation man could cause a government cover up. I’ve been so concerned about repercussions, that it is only now that I’ve felt I could share this with you. Remember the New York garbage collectors strike a couple of years ago? When they showed on TV the trash piled up everywhere? Well, it was one of those ordinary evenings approaching bed time. Must have been about 10 P.M. when Ned called. Things have changed a bit since last we talked. Ned is now a real force to be reckoned with. He is no longer our massive, expert, air conditioner installation person. Now he has transformed himself into the wealthy, prominent founder and CEO of an empire. Ned’s Bike and Beer Hangouts are everywhere! Ned is also cofounder of the most accurate consulting firm in history, R & N Consulting.

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I am now president of R & N. My dad stepped down so he and my mom could travel and play all the time, instead of just most of the time. Anyway, Ned wanted me to meet him and the family at #1. #1 is the first and still Ned’s favorite of his “Hangouts”. I told him I’d be right down. Arriving, Ned shooed me into the back room where I greeted Ricky and the folks. Ned had drinks and food for each of us. Ned was very meticulous and tidy. It was a trait he says he picked up from Ricky. Who would have figured? We each had our assigned places around the big conference table made from a sheet of thick glass on top of 4 Harley choppers. This was, since almost the beginning, our unofficial board room. Ned told us that a few nights ago some senator had staggered out of “Hangout #74” in Washington and allegedly slipped and fallen on a discarded beer can while trying to get into his limo. He blamed the Hangout. He was now attempting to sue the manager and each employee at #74, including Ned himself, and the hangout corporation. In addition, he was starting a bill in Congress to make any restaurant, bar or club involved in interstate commerce responsible for any and all trash and litter from their establishment..... Regardless of who threw it away... Apparently, the theory was that all containers would have an additional individual code added to their bar code that would be linked to their place of final sale and distribution. Then, if some item ended up as litter, or harming some poor citizen, the business would be responsible for repairs, clean up, damages, what ever.... Pretty obvious what political party that congressman belonged to...

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Ned’s attorney had told him it was very unlikely the suit would win. He had also pointed out that it generally took years to get a bill though congress. However, it was the injustice of it all that had Ned boiling. The time and money it would cost him, regardless of the outcome, for something that wasn’t his fault. Personally, I was at a loss for suggestions. So were the folks. However, some things never change, and with his normal brevity of words, Ricky said, “That’s not right. Trashy people should keep trash.” This was a long statement for Ricky and we all agreed with him, then went on with our discussing and pondering. A few minutes later Ricky said, “Don’t worry. I can fix problem.” He then got up and left. Mom, going out with him. I was not comforted by his proclamation. I had seen enough of the unusual way Ricky handled problems to know that the world and life as we knew it were at stake... It was just a few days until Ricky called. In fear and trepidation I went over to his place. He was in his “lab”. It actually looked a lot like the one in our garage that Dad had made him as a boy, only lots bigger. My heart calmed a bit when I saw Ricky was watching TV with pizza and a cola instead of working. We exchanged the normal brotherly greetings, then I asked him how the work was going.. He said, “Slow. Very Slow. Wait on test materials. Taking long time. Don’t know what to do.” With that he casually waved me toward a contraption across the room. It looked like a variation on his time machine theme. Since he didn't

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get up, I figured he just wanted someone to hang with for a bit. Once the cola and pizza were gone and the show over I left. I was feeling cautiously optimistic that he was stumped and was giving up the project. I didn’t give a second thought as I drove off to the line of full garbage trucks heading toward Ricky's' drive. Yesterday, Ricky called and said he was having everyone over. We all got there about the same time. In the middle of his large circular drive was a mountain of trash. I noted the air shimmering around it about the time the awful odor got to me. Ricky, or someone, had pulled some lawn and other assorted chairs around the machine I had seen before. It was just inside the garage style door into Ricky's lab. There was a table with some snacks and a cooler of drinks near by. None of us touched them. I don’t think any of us felt inclined, in the presence of so much stinky filth to open our mouths or breath any more than necessary. As if he was addressing a class, Ricky stood by his machine and addressed us: “I make machine, give everyone all their litter back! This is just the test. Only New York trash, mostly, I think.” With that he held up a crushed beer can, winked at Ned, and threw it out onto the mountain of trash. “Invite you all for small test model. Big machine almost ready though.” With that he pushed the cursor on the machines display screen to “INITIATE” and clicked. There was a hum, perhaps some other small noises, then a whooshing sound as the pile of smelly litter began to rapidly vanish. Well,

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you may have figured it out. Especially, if you are one of the “test cases” who mysteriously ended up with a house full of garbage, filth and litter. As nearly as we can determine, Ricky had managed to combine the time machine with a matter transplacer. He had then added a molecular, genetic, and fingerprint analyzer. All of that he had tied into the international world wide web personal data bases, including the government only ones. With all the information, the machine would scan a piece of litter an often gather enough information to trace it to its last handler. Apparently, in many cases, litter as old as about 40 years could be processed and returned. Going one step further the machine was judgmental. Litter which couldn’t be traced was divvied up and passed out by proportionate shares. The biggest litterers getting the biggest shares. The machine was somehow programmed to distinguish among legitimate dump sites and random litter. At the moment it was aimed at the pile in the yard. As the pile of trash vanished Ricky tried to persuade us to stay for the food he had put out. Now, with the trash gone much of the odor was too. However, the machine certainly wouldn’t take away anything living. I don’t think I will ever get out of my mind and nightmares the sight of a cloud of pissed off, hungry flies looking for their next meal. There were rats too, but they just slinked off to wherever it is they go around an open manicured property. But the flies. Well, we all just said good bye to Ricky and headed home. This evening, Ned called to see if I had read the newspaper. I told him I hadn’t. He suggested that I should as there were several articles of

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interest. As I scanned the paper there was the headline of the Union denying any involvement or knowledge of collection problems. They vowed that with approved overtime their members would have the place as clean as ever in no time. The government denied that it was the work of terrorists, foreign governments, dissidents, or environmentalists. There was an article about a certain senator withdrawing a littering bill he was just proposing. Reportedly, that followed vandals somehow invading his New York home and burying it in almost a ton of garbage. In a separate but related article it was reported that a beer can that was being held in the police evidence room had mysteriously disappeared. Charges were being dropped against a national chain of bars, Ned’s Beer and Bike Hangouts, due to missing evidence. There was also an article about a new experimental satellite being developed for launching shortly after the first of the year. Reportedly, “R & N Consulting” had placed a secret device on board. An unidentified source, just giving the name, “Ricky”, had told reporters it was going to change the face of the earth and Man’s care of it. That lead to a side bar article on a proposed “Environmental Garbage Day” which was to begin this coming Saturday. Could this “secret device” be Ricky’s full size equipment? I wonder how much litter I have spread around over the years.... What if it all comes down on top of my house... Oh, sorry, the telephone is ringing. Got to run. Bye for now. P.S.: That was Ned. I must run to his house. I am always having to run somewhere. Ricky has just called him. Ricky told him he is bringing a

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new TV over to Ned house. He said it would show any show ever aired, on demand. I should never have mentioned those lost episodes...

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The End?

He’s gone. Ricky is not dead. I don’t believe he is. Ricky has just vanished. Again, Ned had a hand in it, sort of. Ricky, now with the appearance of a mature adult, had finally noticed the fairer sex. He and his first love have vanished. Ricky and Ned were on a trip when it started. I guess it was at Ned’s Bike and Beer Hangout # 409. Ned’s is the largest chain of bars the world has seen. One of his recent policies is that when Ned is in the bar drinks are free for all. Needless to say this makes Ned quite popular. It also means that he has a lot of followers, or groupies, or freeloaders, or semi drunks around wherever he goes. #409 happens to be in Clewiston, Florida near the inlet to Lake Ockachobe, where the bass fishing places start their runs. As usual, everyone told Ned not to build there. It wasn’t populated enough. The community couldn’t support his type of place. I think that is why Ned has such a big staff of MBA’s and such, just so he can show them all wrong. Well, with # 409, every time they forecast doom, Ned made the place

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larger. It finally ended up with a bike repair shop, swimming pool, several dance floors, hotel rooms, game room with multiple pool tables all meandering off from the central massive cavern of the bar area. What Ned apparently realized was that the increase of shark activity, crime, pollution, and over crowding would have people seeking the sun and Florida life style inland. Clewiston was booming, faster than the sugar cane was burning. Now, that brings us to what Ricky was doing with Ned. He doesn’t normally travel much. We discourage it. When Ricky sees things he gets ideas. For Ricky, ideas turn into inventions. Ricky’s inventions change the world in unpredictable ways. If it hadn’t been for one of his early inventions, a time machine, it would have been impossible to keep him safe and with the family. Even as it is, it’s been hard without altering the course of the world too dramatically. This trip was apparently necessary. While Ned was supervising the construction of the bar he had met some of the executives of the sugar company. Now for decades Sugar, and fruit, have ruled much of inland Florida, where the Indian reservations didn’t. Sugar was battling its normal fights against artificial sweeteners, employee race relations, housing authorities, and now increasing property values due to the influx of northern snowbirds wishing to locate in the area with their money. This was causing increased pressure for taxation of the cane field property or the sale of the land. Ned said that for a fee.... he would have his research staff find a solution to the problem. Hence Ricky was with Ned at # 409 on one of those February evenings that make Florida so perfect for the escapees from the North.

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This bar had parking for over 500 bikes, and almost as many cars. It wasn’t unusual to see many beautiful and distinctive motorcycles. However, apparently what brought Ned and Ricky to the parking lot was the arrival of a Chopper Limo. No, I’m not kidding. The front of this creation was a decked out, super souped up, full dress Harley tricycle. Instead of a second seat there was a hitch plate similar to that used in the bed of a truck to pull a fifth wheel camper. Behind was basically a long framework holding 4 rows of 2 seats each going back to two more wheels on the rear. This trailer extension had a 19” color TV, dvd, VCR, CD, am, fm (of course with the satellite system so you could keep your same station wherever you traveled), a game console at the front with hookups for each seat, a CB for each pair of seats. Between the wheels at the rear was a streamlined cowling containing both a food warmer and a cooler. There was an enclosed tube track between seats, with access doors, where items could be shipped forward to any seats including the drivers. Of course there was the normal array of lights, including a tiny goose necked reading lamp for each passenger, and colored courtesy lights on their foot peg foot rests. I don’t know what Ned was doing. Perhaps, he was trying to buy it. Perhaps persuading the builder to make him a fleet for him to use at each bar for passenger rides to their lodging. Ricky, I guess, was, as usual, just standing there looking ill at ease and out of place. Then he saw her. She got out of one of the rear seats of the bike limo dressed very conservative, looking uncomfortable, ill at ease, and carrying a book, a notebook, and a notebook computer. Now this was almost identical to Ricky’s normal accouterments. Ricky was drawn like a bug at night to a light.

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Introductions were done. Ned introduced Ricky. Massive Dan, the owner of the bike limo, introduced his sister May. Massive Dan explained that May didn’t talk much but was very smart in her own way. She, it came out, had done the engineering and structural diagrams, wiring diagrams and all for the bike, which was named The Transporter. Everyone went inside. Some time later Ned remembers noting that Ricky and May, although seated together at a table, each had their pads of paper out and was doing their own thing. They each had food and drink, untouched before them. Ned really likes Ricky. Ricky could be the son Ned never had, or his younger brother. Ned had given up on the idea of “getting Ricky laid,” years ago. However, in the spirit of things, he went over and suggested that the two of them at least swap note pads and see what the other was working on. Of course, his suggestion was at the same time he was doing the swapping for them. Ned, had done it again, unwittingly. Ned remembers glancing back and seeing that both Ricky and May were blushing, looking more uncomfortable than ever, and staring off into space. The next flash of awareness of the couple, or his next conscious observation of them, was to note that the two of them had their heads together over one pad of paper. They each were trying to write as fast as they could and perhaps even talking. What really caught Ned by surprise, was the next time he caught sight of them. Ricky and May were dancing, slow dancing, then fast dancing. Both were smiling and happy looking. Massive Dan said he’d never seen May act like that. Ned was sure Ricky

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never had. Neither of them knew the youngsters could dance. For that matter, I didn’t know Ricky could dance either. Apparently, it was only a few minutes before Ned called me, that he noticed Ricky and Mays were gone. Both Ned and Massive Dan were protective, perhaps over protective. They went on a search. They weren’t inside. They weren’t outside under the stars and the moon. They weren’t on the walkway up the embankment to overlook the channel to the lake. They were walking back toward the bar debating where to look next when it happened. All of the lights around the marina, condo and bar area sort of flashed and flickered. Ned knew at once what that meant. Wherever Ricky went he set up a lab/shop. Ever since Dad had given him a corner of the garage this had been Ricky's security and grounding place between our world and wherever it was his mind actually lived. Ned had bought a huge condo on the channel and they were staying there. Ricky's' lab was there, in his room. They dashed to the condo. Inside, Ned and Massive Dan saw some of the kid's notebooks and such on the couch. The door to Ricky’s bedroom was ajar. They knocked. No response. They entered. On the floor was a circle of clear lamp cord wire about four feet in diameter.. About every six inches along the wire was a small clear plastic box with some printed circuit boards in it. There was a red button on the floor connected by the same wire to the circle of wire and the wall outlet. The carpet was still smoldering and there was a black burned ring under the outline of the wire, and another on the ceiling immediately above the wire ring. The two weren’t there. Beside the wire circle was a piece of yellow lined notepad paper with a heart smiley face drawn on it. Below it was scrawled, “We’ll be back. R and M”.

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They aren’t yet. We don’t even know if they left in time, space or dimension, or some combo of them all. I miss Ricky. But, you know, I think I told you that I worried after Ricky built that first time machine, about the future of the world being in the hands of my idiot brother and the air conditioner man. I think I am more worried now. To think that the future may be decided by my love sick, idiot brother and his idiot girlfriend, is really scary.

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