Video Meliora, proboque; Deteriora sequor

Fiction for a Tuesday Eve

Before Albert Arnold Gore blamed every odd natural thing on global warming, some blamed the same on men walking on the moon. Ern said things were never the same after we monkeyed with the moon.

We were sitting in a wood-panelled breakfast joint, the kind frequented by truckers and smokers, when he mentioned his long deceased brothers & sisters. Gus & Ed were opposites; Ed was a hard-driving drinker who’d regularly get tossed from his brother-in-law’s bar. He & Ern'd just take their business elsewhere.

Every New Year’s Eve Ed looked for the biggest rock he could find and heave it up towards some window, usually that of a cousin's house since just about everybody in the neighbor was related back then, back in the 1940s & '50s. The next morning, hung-over, he’d be found faithfully installing a new one. There was something oddly inspiring in that - the miscreant willing to pay for his sins.

Ed and Gus alternated playing Santa Clause most years, a sort of St. Nick equivalent of “good cop, bad cop”. Gus made the kids get down on their knees and pray – ‘you too Ern!’ he said one year and Ern probably needed it. Gus had whiskey on his breath but was the jolly sort. I wondered if the kids even noticed the difference between Santas, so mindless in the anticipation of what they would receive. Ern didn't say.