Behold the little god of half-assedness
Officially nameless, Charleston’s “Alone Park” was once part of neighboring New Town Cemetery. “Once” because In 1973 two-hundred square feet of graveyard property was accidentally left out when chainlink replaced New Town’s original fencing. Upon discovering the error, the city council refused to cough up another cent for link-fencing, but it didn’t want an inch of their property left unconquered, either.
The solution was inspired by the little god of half-assedness–the deity of governments, great and small. Ever since its founding in 1897, the Charleston city council has been keenly devoted to the little god of half-assedness. Council members come and go, but the gospel remains the same.
Since there were no graves in that part of the cemetery, someone hit on the idea of turning it into a small park; another someone remembered an old wood bench stored in the cemetery tool shed (how long and why it was there were mysteries); yet another someone removed a young Cherry Tree in the graveyard and planted it beside the bench because a final someone (the mayor’s nine-year-old daughter) complained that the space didn’t look “parky” enough. A trash receptacle was added for a final touch.
Little has changed at Alone Park since it “opened.” Save for the immediate theft of the trash receptacle (never replaced) and substantial growth of the Cherry, It remains two-hundred square feet of crabgrass surrounding the same bench, now extravagantly stained by decades of birdshit and graffiti. When people think about it at all, they mistake it for a bus stop. And it wouldn’t be much of a subject if it wasn’t enchanted.
Yes, Alone Park is magic. It got that way from being a part of the cemetery, which has always been magic because the land it is on has been magic since shortly after the formation of the Earth; yet somehow, the little god of half-assedness, though not magical, has a way of swaying the spells. Regardless, there are fewer magical places on Earth than there are instances of unconditional love performed by anyone who is not a parent, child, spouse or pet, but there are some.
In the religious sense, bad prayers are the bounced checks of the soul, forwarded to Hell for collection. But Alone Park is neither holy, nor human, nor artificial nor does it come with strings attached. You don’t have to believe in something even more unlikely than Alone Park itself for it to want to help you; but its magic is small, perhaps even slightly half-assed.
Caught in a Mirror Ball
An extraordinarily bitter yet bright woman named Wendy Gray had been mysteriously attracted to Alone Park on a raw November Saturday morning better suited for indoor ruminations of hate and anger. Intelligent, imaginative people, even those who have bad attitudes (such as Wendy), are much more susceptible to magic than dopes are. It has something to do with the basic dope’s smoothness of brain–’tis the crinkles from which we think. Regardless, a strange insistence entered Wendy’s dreams during the night and, unlike a dream, grew stronger upon waking. Impossible to shake off, Wendy experienced an overwhelming need to go to the little park across the road from her apartment and wait. And something else told her that bringing a newspaper along might be a good idea. The urge would not let go and grew into a command; Wendy eventually found herself dressing to go out after breakfast.
In a triumph for the little god of half-assedness, there’s a sign in front of the cemetery tool shed (the same one in which the bench was stored) that claims it is the original “Caretaker’s Cottage.” The building has never been anything other than a tool shed, but that’s what the sign says. Regardless, it is an enchanted tool shed (by association) that stands about a hundred yards uphill from Alone Park.
A moment after Wendy arrived at the park (the cleanliness of the bench made it clear what the newspaper was for), the Cottage door opened, and out stepped a tall young woman wearing a knit trapper cap, down vest, flannel shirt, carpenter jeans, and bright yellow “Wellies” that worked a “Duckies” motif.
The woman was Gwen Cooper, the volunteer Weekend Caretaker at New Town Cemetery. Whatever your personal criteria for a “perfect 10” is, in the female sense, please apply it to Gwen–but let’s try not to get pervy about it. By doing so you will eliminate the further abuse of tired adjectives that describe an overall state of healthy goodlookingness. Gwen was carrying a waterproof seat cushion, the type people take to ballgames.
And although it may be a touch beige to suggest that attitude is what sets beings with nearly identical molecular structures apart, some might suggest it goes a long way to explain the differences between Wendy Gray and Gwen Cooper. But that sort of thinking cheapens the experience. Regardless, other than gender, high intelligence and the name Gwendelyn, Wendy (roughly two and a half times Gwen’s age and a foot shorter) was hearing just one more “Hey, turn that frown upside down” away from committing a felony, while Gwen led a less perturbed existence.
“Hey-hey Wendy,” a smiling Gwen said upon arriving at Alone Park. She placed the cushion on the bench and sat next to Wendy.
Enchanted persons, even bright ones, are slightly out of step with time, and a bit slow to react. But Wendy’s wits gathered enough for her to regard Gwen with suspicion, “Do I know you?”
“Not yet, but I know someone who does, and for the longest time,” she said and took one of Wendy’s hands in her. A static charge passed between them, and Wendy’s mind vacated her body. Gwen let go of Wendy’s hand and softly thunked her between the eyes with her forefinger, like checking a melon. No reaction. Complete enchantment. She gently closed Wendy’s eyes because they creeped her out.
Gwen removed her phone from her jacket and selected a special app that would exist only while Wendy was “away.” The app was a spinning mirror ball, which appeared on schedule. After opening it, Gwen watched the mirror ball spin like a connection swirl.
1977th Heaven
Actual time travel is immoral. Consider this: if you go back to a certain moment in the past, not only have the persons and places you contact return as they were, the entire Universe takes a step back. It raises good things as well as all the pain and the shame and violence at the time. And since there are much more evil actions taking place in the world at every moment, Magical Beings, like the Eternal Earth Spirit (not to be confused with the little god) who has been far below the land that the cemetery was founded on since before the days of oceans and various Ice Ages and melt offs (and has been named Keeper by Gwen–who also thought up “Alone Park” and “the little god of half-assedness”), refuse to engage in the practice, although it is uncertain if any of them can actually do such.
But sending a mind back to a time known to that person, with utter clarity, and an absolute sense of thereness, for a few minutes, in a “time bubble” while the rest of the past is on pause is possible for that kind of entity. But there is only one major rule that cannot be altered–the traveler may never enter a time when she didn’t exist.
Gwen was slightly disappointed that she’d been born in 1994, thus could not accompany Wendy (who debuted at the end of 1953) to a little time bubble in the brave year of 1977. So she had to be content watching the scene on her phone.
The turning mirror ball on her screen resolved itself and Gwen saw her beloved, a Ghost named John Mallory, who died at thirty-two in 1978 due to a stupid accident. Technically speaking John was not yet dead in 1977, but he was traveling back to that year as a Ghost from the future, to a point when he was alive again, if only for a moment. John was seated on a bench at what appeared to be a booth in a diner. Nothing fancy, the kind in which plastic menus are already on the table and the ketchup bottle is always at half mast (with nasty vulcanized bits on the cap and the menus), and where it is best to make certain that no comedian has loosened the salt and sugar container lids before use. John knew Gwen was watching and he gave her the thumbs up.
Above the bench across from John, another mirror ball was turning, “connecting” the mind of Wendy Gray to 1977. The recreation of 1977 was entirely in the time bubble that Keeper had formed. Only a small piece of the paused greater when was visible as a shimmering veil of silver, bordering the scene.
Before leaving the Cottage–Gwen for Alone Park, and Mallory’s Ghost to 1977, Gwen had taken stock of the outfit John was clad in. White bell bottoms, orange Puma sneakers, a “tuxedo tee-shirt” and a set of rainbow suspenders similar to what Robin Williams sported in Mork and Mindy. Keeper always “dresses” otherwise wispy, ethereal John in clothing he had owned in life only.
“Nanu, nanu,” Gwen had whispered, with a dopey grin on her face. Although John died shortly before the series first aired, thus his suspender selection was coincidental, he got the gist of her comment anyway. Gwen always got that dopey grin on her face when she encountered what, in John’s mind, was high fashion.
“We slayed back then,” he said, pleased with himself, his hair –perfect–as that of Barry Gibb and/or the Werewolf seen drinking pina coladas at Trader Vic’s.
“You certainly knew how to slay the ozone,” she said. “Does the hair move when you turn your head naturally, or do ya gotta give it a shove?” Gwen added with a sarcastic twitch of her head.
The trip down the recent visit to Memory Lane ended when Wendy’s mind, and form, finally uploaded at her side of the table.
The concept of “disbelief” is usually inaccurately presented. Smart people who see a Creature From the Black Lagoon shambling toward them on the beach, with obvious bad intent, will disregard everything their parents taught them about there being no such thing as a Creature From the Black Lagoon and run. Smart people do not examine the impossible until they are safe. People who refuse to believe their eyes wind up as Creature From the Black Lagoon shit. It’s all part of the preternatural disorder of things.
And although roughly forty-five years were extracted from “Then” Wendy’s face, she was indeed the same person as the insensate being seated beside Gwen on the bench. Twenty-three-year-old Wendy was just as small and immaculate as she was in the present. The major difference was the 1977 version wore her long dark brown hair parted in the middle, and the modern day Wendy sported a close cropped, spiky silver style that went well with her face. And despite being sent back decades in but a moment (although sent back, Wendy retained her “future” memories), the instant she saw who was seated across from her in the booth she leapt onto the table and began pummeling John with a furious flurry of well flung fists.
Gwen began laughing out loud. She and John were of Team Alone Park, a project to make the world a slightly better place–and while discussing the “Wendy Project” with John earlier in the Cottage, Gwen predicted this sort of reaction due to what John had told her had transpired between him and Wendy in 1977. He had broken up with her–like a coward–by phone and not in person. He held the opinion that Wendy, though notoriously quick tempered, would be temporarily confused by her sudden transformation, which would give him a chance to explain.
“You fuckery-fucked-fucker!” or something similar accompanied each and every blow Wendy delivered to John’s arms as he protected his face.
“Don’t touch the hair! Watch the hair!” Gwen said to the phone, stomping her feet up and down, laughing like a child.
“Jesus Christ! Holdup for a second–hold–hold on will you!” John said.
Wendy eased off because she saw the ketchup bottle. John had a good idea what that might lead to and grabbed it in the nick of time.
“Aren’t you at all curious about what’s going on–it’s not a dream, you know?” he asked, somehow able to push Wendy back into her seat without enraging her further.
“Of course I know Prince of Assholes,” Wendy hissed. “The thing that Chicky-poo calls Keeper told me all about it on my way over from the future–that’s what took so long.”
(Meanwhile…at Alone Park:)
“‘Chicky poo’?” Gwen said, with a sharp tilt of her head, holding the phone close to her face.
(We now return to 1977:)
“Do you think Keeper sent you back just to attack me?” John said. He’d been dead a long time, but for the bubble he was as physical as he had been and discovered he did not miss being slapped and punched.
“Didn’t say shit–just made me believe and know–the kicking the shit out of you theory is what I’m sticking with unless you can convince me otherwise,” she said, sliding the sugar dispenser to her side of the table, but at least exhibiting a cooler attitude for the first time since her arrival. “But I swear to God if this is some sort of half-assed apology for dumping me–just to make yourself feel better, this,” Wendy added, with a nod at the dispenser, “will be in you–as quickly and uncomfortably as possible.”
John smiled weakly. “Technically speaking, I’ve yet to ‘dump you’ as you put it…”
“Great!” Wendy said sarcastically. “Consider your ass dumped. Forget crawling back. I’ll screw with a Pig first.” She eyed the sugar dispenser even more dangerously. “If you think that makes up for anything, your ass will be much sweeter, soon.”
“Did you hear that I died in ‘78?”
“I heard about that in ‘90 or so,” she said. “My reaction lay somewhere between bittersweet and doing the hokey pokey on your grave. Anyway, so what? You seem to be doing all right now–you and Chicky-poo back on the bench.”
(Meanwhile…back at Alone Park)
“You’re just one Chicky-poo away from walking around with a penis on your head,” Gwen said to the enchanted Wendy, extracting a Sharpie from her vest pocket.
(We return to 1977)
As it had been true when they were a couple from 1976 to late ‘77, John found Wendy’s attitude tiresome.
“All right, have it your way,” he said, quietly. He had been hoping to accomplish a little more than just the intent of the mission, but forgiveness was clearly impossible. “But before whatever your bad self has planned with that thing transpires, you should know that a lot of effort has been made on your part–including the blatant disregard of the most fundamental laws of the universe. You can go on hating me until the end of time, far as I care–but try to remember that there are some good things about existence that you overlook because it is easier to be a bitch–Sally.”
Those were two magic words that appeared at the end of John’s dialogue–”bitch” which can move mountains (and sugar dispensers), and the truly magic name that deleted bitch and sent a shock through Wendy’s system. When John spoke “Sally” a seed was planted in Wendy’s mind–an “anti-tumour,” that would slowly grow and eventually result in a small good thing; the intent of the mission concocted by the powerful mind of Keeper
At “Sally,” 1977 closed and Wendy awoke on the bench in a new timeline. She had no idea that her life had been altered–for she had no memory of Keeper, John or Gwen. In her mind she had been in a daydream that blew off when she looked down and saw Sally holding one of those waterproof cushions people take to ballgames. Someone had written “Chicky-poo?” in marker on it.
Sally is a Toy Poodle, very bright and much inclined to bring stuff she finds lying about to Wendy. For five years Sally was a Toy Poodle because she had died of parvovirus which could have been prevented with a booster shot at the Vet’s, which Wendy kept blowing off because making Sally get out of the car at the clinic was a drag. The seed sown in the return of 1977 had bloomed in time, forty-three years after it had been planted, forty years before Sally had been born. The second chance moved Wendy to take Sally to the vet in time. This caused two separate histories, but since Sally is a good girl whose reappearance in the Book of Life harmed no one, the old line in which she had died in 2021 withered and was replaced by the new.
And for a second, seeing the cushion gave Wendy a glimpse of something much greater than her power to imagine–not a visual glimpse, but something of the soul. And for a heartbeat, she thought about an old boyfriend, and for the first time ever, she remembered him with tenderness.
Epilogue
Gwen was half-way up the hill by the time Wendy returned to her body.
She entered the Cottage and selected another app on her phone that appeared only when she was alone with John at New Town–she always assumed that Keeper took this precaution to prevent her from *butt dialing Mr. Mallory while at her day job (*remember what I said about getting pervy).
Keeper had clothed him in bright blue cowboy boots, flared blue jeans whose belt featured an immense buckle, a quilted western shirt and a white Stetson; one mustache away from Burt Reynolds in Smokey and the Bandit.
The usual dopey grin appeared on Gwen’s face. “Urban cowpie,” she whispered.
“Say what you want,” John laughed, “but it looks like we have a happy ending courtesy of the Alone Park Team.”
“Don’t forget the little god of half-assedness.”
“And the little god of half assedness.”
