Frank Basilowicz

Frank Basilowicz believed in migraines even less than he believed in karate. He was willing to admit he was old fashioned, maybe even a hard ass, but he staunchly refused to validate the fripperings of the woman, who so closely resembled a greyhound that had endured several hours in a dunk tank, and a good romp with a hyperactive little league team armed with firecrackers. Frank’s daddy had fought in the war, the good one, and now he was expected to swallow that this precious dear had managed to get herself allergic to light AND sound, but only sometimes. He had words with her, and he’ll be the first to admit they more or less turned into words with her whole gender, and for good measure moved on to words with her whole generation.

Some men of his age came home and poured a drink, and some had silly hobbies to tinker with in basement work rooms their wives knew not to go near, but Frank coached baseball. He could remember a time in this country when overzealousness was called a virtue. America ran on intent, used its young men like coal to stoke blazing fires of conquest, and the only place he still saw it was in these young people. He had taught them to live and die every second of the day. They had mastered outrage and consternation their peers wouldn’t learn until late in life. They were getting ahead because of Frank, they wouldn’t be surprised when the reality of the world came knocking. “It is a mountain in the mist,” he told those nail chewing little bastards. “I’m here to tell you all about the mountain, because you’ve heard mighty ‘nuff about the mist.” He didn’t even care if they won.

Frank marched dutifully up the stairs to the big office, to have the big meeting, with the big boss. Frank remembered this office from before. It was like Ernest Hemingway's den, there were dead things everywhere, trophies to remind us how fine it was to take a trophy. A miasma of smoke hung in the air, clung to the light. And behind a monolith of a desk, a downright Precambrian desk, was the big boss who wanted to hear a dirty joke, see a sales report, and be left alone until something was on fire. It was a smaller place now, light and airy, with a portrait of an authentic Shoshone moccasin, fine with beads and once belonging to Chief Washakie. He sat stiffly upright, knowing what was coming. The big boss asked after his health. Frank didn't answer but turned unflexing at the waist, like a board ran up his spine, to appraise this new art. He looked up and down, turned back slowly and said "That's a picture of a shoe." Afterwards Frank bought his team a brick of firecrackers.