It was not until I descended southwards to the catacomb of cobwebs, dusty board games and sport uniforms of my youth, that I came across my new friend, Jerry the Minotaur.
I found Jerry burrowing around in my basement one excruciatingly frigid below- zero February evening. I was startled, all right even a little unnerved. I mean, hell, when one heads down to the basement to hunt around for something: a really tall, hairy, naked stooping minotaur is sort of the last thing you expect to find.
It had been a while since I’d had a conversation with something other than a human being; my last interaction that of a baseball toss with a neighborhood puppy, accompanied by talk of life, love and tricks on how to shop in malls without weeping and frightening humans. So...
I welcomed him into my human fold.
He explained how he came in, to get out of the cold. He’d arrived in my town to make a fresh start (sent into exile by his wife, and told never to return). He confided in me, told of how disappointed he’d been when all other minotaur-type folk were just plain nasty and condescending when requests for crashing on couches were made, and of how he then came across my inviting home, how he’d made my dungeon of piled-up comic books and half finished grade nine science projects, in and around the thousands of stored-up cans of Chef Boyardee Beef Ravioli: a threadbare but opulent Minotaur headquarters. Also, he’d needed an address where the government office could send his welfare check.
I remember affectionately, the night I discovered him, me in my moth-eaten- cowboy-and-dinosaur-flannel pajamas, flashlight in one hand, Courvosier highball in the other, drawn into the subterranean level by gurgling and eerie chomping noises. His fangs biting down on meaty and cheap cold canned pasta, all he could manage to say with his full mouth was, “Don’t shoot! My name is Jerry. I’m a Minotaur. Do you have anything to drink?”
His 8 foot tall frame was, at first, threatening, but seeing him cower behind the streaming candlelight that illuminated his horns, (now twisting inward), made his demeanor not unlike that of the Cowardly Lion: clearly there was nothing to be afraid of. I shared this comparative insight with him: he responded that he didn’t have this ‘Wizard of Oz’ piece of cinema of which I spoke, but connected to the devilish flying- spider-monkeys-equipped-with-strict-orders-from-wicked-witches(tf#1) as well as magical red ruby slipons, the latter being remarkably commonplace in the village from whence he came.
This odd fellow (who’s political allegiances, at this point, were unknown) had apparently just lost his way, wandered off his labyrinth, forced the rotting cellar door and had been camping here until he could figure out just what to do with himself.
Sad, there was no 1 - 8 0 0 - M-I-N-O-T-A-U-R distress line for Jerry to rely on in desperate times such as these. All this, I soon learned from Jer’s emotional confession. He said he felt, “tres cozy comfy dans mon basement” and that my home somehow spoke to him.
“Look, you can drop the French act”, I told him, as there was no need to impress. But, I must say, I did appreciate the conversation. I’d been pretty much a shut-in the last few months, what with almost all my concentration given to building, in the attic, my Hand-Puppet Petting Zoo, the constructing of an espresso machine made entirely from Popsicle Pete creamsicle sticks, Elmer’s Glue and parts from an antiquated Underwood Typewriter, while compiling a close to Guinness level collection of assorted types of Chef Boyardee canned goods known to man.
My projects consumed me.
But, I took Jerry in, probably to escape my near-pulverizing self-absorption and ballistic isolation.
Good old Jerry was an anomaly, and not altogether unfashionable, but I have to admit, finding suitable-form-fitting-duds-for-monsters-at-the-local-mall can be just plain draining. Minotaurs’ feet (news to me) are much more like hoofs. This gets to be a real challenge for The Foot Locker salespeople, who, used to offering up the standard fare, “My, those’ll look super sweet out there on the field, I’ll just wrap ‘em up for you”, now face a brand new set of concerns: “So, what kind of support cushioning does a hoof need?” and “Uh…just how many…toes am I working with here?”
We were quite a pair: out on our nightly strolls, him whimpering away while squeezing my arm, holding on for dear life, his fear of humans at an astonishing level, coupled with unhelpful narcolepsy and Tourrets Syndrome, his A.D.D. and disturbing bouts of seasonal depression ringing in at an all time high, all meant I had my hands full. Damn full.
Much of each day was soon dedicated to visiting various doctors in town, filling out applications in waiting rooms for my new friend, who’d never learned how to read, write or play instruments, his gargantuan amount of hair disenabling him to position a bow accurately or pucker properly on any wind instrument; this, I sensed was one of the many reasons for Jerry’s depression.
I thought if I could only introduce him around, maybe set him up with understanding and sympathetic lady minotaurs in the neighborhood, but alas, none were to be found.
I began to lose sleep, awakened all too often in the dead of night by Jerry’s rearranging of kitchen utensils and rehearsing The Box Step to Perry Como records, all without staring at his feet, something I’d taught him for when he did meet a suitable female counterpart. On more than one occasion, I found my enormous shaggy bachelor buddy setting a romantic table for two. I did not have the heart to awaken him from his somnambulant Hallmark moment.
What could I offer a minotaur, really? I had enough trouble looking after myself. It became apparent that I must send Jerry away.
We stood outside my home as snow began to gently fall. He drew my frail body close and hugged me, whispered, words tender, yet undecipherable.
I wiped his spittle from my shoulder, gave him a wink and offered an expression that I’d hoped he would take with him, “You, kind sir, are a fabulous original monster, with gifts-a-plenty. Don’t let anyone make you feel small out there in this strange maze of a world. I’ll say a prayer for you. Watch out for Labyrinths and sketchy telemarketers. And you keep that oversized head up kid, you’ll be okay.”
It was important that I hold back the tears that were welling up.
As he shuffled away with the backpack I’d stuffed affectionately with multiple cans of Mini Ravioli, fresh socks, a hotplate, hockey helmet, a utility belt filled with pepper spray, Old Spice Cologne, rubber pirate prop sword, as well as crude directions to the center of the earth scribbled on a cocktail napkin, a tremulous sadness welled up in me, one that reminded me all too painfully of the many separations I had experienced over the years with my own kind.
I took a bath, my nightly medications, moisturized generously, turned up my electric blanket and tucked myself into bed.
Something awakened me later that night, rustling sounds coming from the basement. Was it Jerry, already retreating from the harsh, dissatisfying, unfulfilling world? I hoped it wasn’t a burglar. “Please God, don’t let this be a burglar”, I said aloud. Should I get my rifle from underneath the bed? I slipped into my velvet maroon robe and corduroy slippers then descended slowly downstairs.
I flicked on the light and there rummaging through my boyhood trophies and baby clothes was a Cyclops, nibbling on my full scale Lego jungle gym set. He gave off a stench not unlike cheap mall-bought perfume coupled with that musty ugly-ass-aroma of past-its-prime-sour-cream found in an eroding near-empty refrigerator.
He smiled at me, a molarless grin, and spoke with a lisp and some hesitation. “I heard you, um, helped people, who were, well, ‘in need’. I’ve fallen on tough times. My name is Carl.”
“Why,” I wondered, “had my home become some sort of rehab retreat for creatures on their last legs, those seeking redemption, recovery and a warm bed for the night?” I did my best not to stare right into his eye, as even in my tired state, I remained aware that probably everybody can’t help but stare at a Cyclops and make him feel uncomfortable. Life lessons learned from Sesame Street: “It’s not easy being green”. Certainly I always held that proverb close, but I now knew that having one eye is not only terribly inconvenient, but, makes it damn near impossible to fit in at pretty much every social engagement, the poor bastard.
What was it about me that drew such beings here? Was there some secret symbol that guided them to my door? Had my address made the list of Top Ten Government hideouts, part of some Monster Witness Relocation Protection Program?
Feeling apart from pretty much everything, at arms length, distanced from my fellow man for a good chunk of my life, I felt the sensitive side rising, the warmest part of my heart, which still beat, reaching out to Carl.
But this was going to be a lot of work.
I put on some hot chocolate, buttered some toast and tucked Carl into a Maytag box beside the furnace that I’d made cozy with a down-filled duvet, flannel pillow case and then went back upstairs.
I got into bed and got out my diary and began to scribble down impressions from the last few days. I promised myself that - beginning tomorrow - I would work out, watch fewer late night horror shows, cut down on my medications and avoid the basement completely.
TimFoolery#1: none of this, of course, has anything to do with that bizarre unendurable regurgatative rehashed nonsense about sexy sorceresses that gets dragged out in front of hungry theatre-goers, called, WICKED.
Timber Masterson is a writer/actor/TV host-type-fellow who resides in Toronto. His book TimFoolery: Tales of a Third Rate Junkie is now complete and in the hands of a big-time agent/publisher person.
He is co-producer of a new once-a-month literary interactive gathering called Word Substance Spatula at Toronto's Drake Hotel. While finishing his book, Tim's been contributing his imaginative talents (and stories) to Über, Yankee Pot Roast, Fresh Yarn, Jack Magazine, GirlsWithInsurance, Numb, Capital, an advice column for Rosco Magazine and other publications.
Contact him at www.Timbermedia.com and check out www.Wordsubstancespatula.com as he'll be booking authors for upcoming literary nights.