Better Late Than Ever

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Art Kumbalek

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, hard to believe it’s already mid-May, 2021, what the fock. Seems to me like it was only just the other day, or year, or decade, that I was recalling the words of the noted poet from out of St. Louis, Mo., (yes, the same river city that gave us the famously ham-hacked thespian Vincent Price—Dr. Goldfoot and the Bikini Machine, anyone?) Eliot what’s-his-name, who once wrote, “April is the cruellest month.” To which I’ve always said: No shit, Sherlock.

Of late, I’ve found all months to be rather cruel, so I called the office, hoping that someone may actually be there, to leave the message that I would not be able to swing by and drop off my latest essay ’cause the voices told me to stay home and clean my guns instead. “Take your time and then some,” was the reply I received from someone who was actually there.

So, since I don’t have any guns, I figured my day was clear. Now fully vaccinated as I officially am, the focking voices then told me that I’m OK to once again head over by my favorite open-daily 23-hours and 59-minutes restaurant for a relaxing breakfast ala caffeine du jour, seeing as how it’s a tad early for a nice socially distanced cocktail over by the Uptowner tavern cum charm school. Come along if you want but you leave the tip, and wear the goddamn mask, please. Let’s get going.

Bea: Hey there Artie, nice to see you, finally again. What’s your pleasure?

Art: How ’bout a nice cup of the blackest, thickest and cheapest cup of whatever you’re calling plain-old American coffee today. Coffee with a gravitational force of its own, thank you kindly.

Bea: One cup of “Black Hole” coming right up, Artie. So what do you hear, what do you know.

Art: I hear there’s a lot of dough in the private prison racket these days. They could make a movie—Field of Cons. A guy clears his backyard, puts up Century fence all ’round it, gets a Doberman and all of a sudden Al Capone comes waltzing out the unattached garage and says to the guy, “Build a prison and they will come, capisce?”

Bea: Lordy, I almost forgot. Here. I got you a card—for Earth Day. It’s belated, ’cause I haven’t seen you for such a long while.

Art: Jeez louise, since when are you supposed to exchange cards for Earth Day? I tell you, Bea, the greeting card industry has got to be stopped before it’s too late. What’s their industry slogan again—“Deforestation is just another way of saying ‘Thinking of You’”?

Bea: I’m told not one single twig went into the making of this card and envelope, Artie. It’s composed of some kind of all-natural multi-purpose recyclable high-tech product. They also make a brand of walking shoes from the same material.

Art: Oh yeah, I bought a pair of those babies once. Walking home from the store was a religious experience. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. They recycled themselves back to Mother Earth before I even got halfway home.

Bea: You do believe in the value of recycling, don’t you Artie?

Art: Are you kidding, Bea? Cripes, as a would-be essayist, that’s the bread and butter of my beeswax. So who exactly told you this card is made of some all-natural high-tech schmutz?

Bea: The people at the Earth Day convention I went to online the other week.

Art: I went to one of those once years ago when people could get together without a mask and sneeze into each other’s faces with nary a raised eyebrow. I found that some of those people there needed to do more research for their literature, like this pamphlet I got called “Facts You Should Know About Wildlife.” It had this fact and that fact, but they forgot the most important fact.

Bea: Which fact is that, Artie?

Art: “Best served at 350-400 degrees for 45 minutes to an hour or until tender.” No Bea, I will never be able to celebrate any Earth Day until it becomes an official bona-fide holiday, one where you get a paid day-off from work so’s you can go visit relatives and drink their beer all day in the backyard.

Bea: Aren’t you going to open the card, Artie?

Art: Abso-focking-lutely, Bea. Let’s see here… Good lord! Look at this cover.

Bea: It’s a bonobo chimpanzee.

Art: And is this chimp doing what I think he’s doing to the guy wearing a lab coat around his ankles and bent over the examining table?

Bea: Seems to be, Artie.

Art: Serves him right. Monkeys and chimps aren’t meant to be stuck full of electrodes and needles in a laboratory somewheres. They’re meant to wear bellboy outfits and roller skates at the circus or on TV shows so’s to entertain the Homo sapien. Bea, read the note inside you wrote, would you? I recently lost my reading-glasses during the twists and turns of a bar bet.

Bea: “Dear Artie, don’t forget to cultivate your garden in this, the best of all possible worlds. Signed, Bea.”

Art: The best of all possible worlds? Now I’m really depressed. But let me be candid, Bea—without you in it, this world would sure be a lot worse, I kid you not. But I got to run, so thanks for the coffee and for letting me bend your ear there, Bea—utiful. See you next time, now that people can sort of get together again for the time being.

Bea: My pleasure, Artie. Always nice getting talked at by you. Take care.

(Okey-dokey, off to the Uptowner. If I see you there, then you buy me one, and keep your mask on ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.)