Farley Wilywitz

By E.L. Titus

P>Farley Wilywitz is a liaror so believed his friend Richard Faite. Farley phones Richard late one night and claims to have found a Picaso painting in his grandmothers attic. Hard to believe, but events after that night seem to prove that Farley's telling the trutha truth built on betrayal, lies and deception. Richard soon discovers that Farley has been using his identity on his Special Forces I.D. cards very interestingly, and that his best friend Donald Ackie, curator at the Institute of Art in Chicago, is involved in the theft of Farley's treasure.

The story takes an odd turn as Farley's "second" wife, Sweet Thanghaving undergone Virtual Therapymistakes Richard for her husband and offers him her love. Torn between telling the truth and living a lie, Richard struggles to regain his identity while learning to forgive those who have deceived him. Punctuating Richard's turmoil is a misadventure in which Farley enlists him in a million dollar quest.

Spilling over with zany invention and peopled with colorful characters, Farley Wilywitz is a comic tour-de-force with powerful twists of fates.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: May 8, 2000
• ISBN: 9781462097654

E.L. Titus

E.L. Titus is a musician, poet, novelist and also the author of a novella and short-story collection, The So-Called Death of Aunt Faye & Other Stories. You can visit his website at http://NoHeartProductions.BigStep.com.

Book preview

1   

One night when I least expected it, I received a phone call from Farley.

Guess what, Dick?

You tell me, I said.

Well, I thought you should know that Grandma Wilywitz died over the weekend and that I was appointed executor of her estate.

So what? I was sleepy, getting ready for bed. I hadn’t heard from Farley since his return from the Gulf War, the year before, and I can’t say that I was particularly glad to hear from him.

Listen, he went on excitedly, while taking inventory of her attic, I came across a Picasso stashed in an old trunk with love letters and stuff.

You came across what?

A painting by Picasso!

Over the past decade Farley had told me so many whoppers that one more made a splash in my consciousness about the size of a penny tossed into a wishing well.

Wonderful, I replied. "That reminds me that my grandma once thought she’d found in her sewing kit a light bulb autographed in crayon by Thomas Edison, but it turned out that Grandpa was playing an April Fool’s joke on her."

Are you calling me a liar?

Cut me some slack, man. Yawning, I heard the tinkling of ice cubes on the other end of the line. The liar was probably getting sloshed; the last time we’d talked he’d been three-sheets-to-the-wind, boasting that he’d cut down on his drinking—on orders from his doctor—to a fifth of bourbon per day. Unbelievable. Then again, his lying about art instead of his military adventures, or his prodigious alcohol consumption, piqued my interest. I asked seriously: How do you know this painting is a genuine Picasso?

Because. He signed his name in the right-hand corner.

I turned down the comforter and crawled into bed. Anyone could’ve forged his signature.

I’m telling you, Dick—this isn’t a forgery!

Take it easy. The last thing I needed was for him to go ballistic. I was just wondering how your grandma got her hands on a Picasso.

Not everyone needs to know this—

Know what? I prompted, after a pause, during which I distinctly heard Farley spit off to the side, possibly into the kitchen sink.

—Well, the truth is that at one time she was his mistress.

Farley, that’s no way to talk about your grandma!

She wasn’t married then. She was just a young girl attending one of those art schools in Paris. During the Twenties.

I switched the phone to my other ear. Yeah, right. So why would your grandma stash a Picasso in her attic for the past three-quarters of a century?

How should I know? Maybe it was too painful for her to look at day after day.

That’s absurd, man. Picasso was a great artist.

"Yeah, but don’t forget the doofus gave her a souvenir for sleeping with him, then dumped her like so much garbage!"

Have you been drinking? I didn’t wait for him to answer. You know what I think? I think you swiped this painting from some rich oil sheik in the Persian Gulf on your last tour of duty!

Keep your voice down! You never know who might be eavesdropping, he warned.

A loud belch followed which—to me, anyway—indicated that Farley had drunk his daily quota. I glanced at the clock-radio on the nightstand and explained in as few words as possible that it’d been nice talking to him, but I had early classes the next day—and papers to grade before-hand—and would have to call it a night.

Wait!

What now? I said, prolonging the agony.

That’s why I called you, professor.

Why?

Because nobody in Pocatello knows art from chicken shinola. But you’ve been to Europe. You know art when you see it.

Yeah, well…thank you, man.

Calling me professor was a sure sign that Farley was being sincere, or thought he was. And human nature being what it is…I felt flattered. Closing my eyes, I sank into the pillows and heaved a sigh of remorse, big time.

So what do you want from me? I asked.

Have you heard of an auction house in ‘Frisco called Bitterfeld’s?

What about it?

I want you to take the painting to a guy who works there.

The usual agent’s fee is twenty-five per cent.

That much?

Take it or leave it, I said firmly.

Well…okay, he replied. Just don’t try to cheat me.

Opening my eyes, I stared at the Escher print on the opposite wall, which depicted a school of fish transforming into a flock of birds. The image struck me as apropos to our discussion. Americans tried to turn every passion into the Almighty Buck. Farley broke my concentration.

We’ll be farting through silk if this painting turns out to be worth what I think it’s worth.

Which is what? I asked.

A cool million, sweetheart…cash or cashier’s check. Farley’s impression of Bogart was lame. I held back a guffaw.

Cool. Just don’t forget that I’m entitled to a twenty-five per cent commission. I’m trusting you to keep your word, man.

I always do, he lied. "And you’ve got to promise me that you’ll take the painting to this guy at Bitterfeld’s."

I promise, I said. Farley knew he could trust me because in the past I’d never lied to him. Oh, and one more thing, I added, I need a per diem expense account up front.

No can do! he protested. We got all of our money invested in a shopping center in Boise that’s going belly-up.

What about your in-laws’ silver mine?

"Lishen— Farley’s voice thickened—I told you, I can’t afford it. I got a family to feed, billsh to pay. Medical bills, eshpecially."

I couldn’t wait to hear this one. What’s wrong?

My wife’s undergoing laser surgery at the Mayo Clinic.

"Is she that fat?"

Farley chortled like Woody Woodpecker. Well, my hunch is that she’s got tubular blockage on account of the twins, who were born the day I came home from the war.

What?…Hey, man, I said impatiently, "you never told me that you had children. Not once, ever!"

So what? The doctors didn’t even know my wife was pregnant until Sam popped out—that’s how fat she’s gotten since I married her!

That’s so bogus! I switched the phone to my other ear, and in my agitation it slipped out of my hands and bounced off the bed. I kicked off the covers and retrieved it from the floor.

Dick…Are you still there?

I’m here, Farley.

I’ll put the painting in tomorrow’s mail. You should get it by the weekend.

Fine. We’ll talk then. I turned off the phone and set it on the night-stand. Of course I didn’t believe for a second that the liar had found a painting by Picasso in his grandmother’s attic. Or that he was married with a fat wife and two kids—though the latter wouldn’t have surprised me. Why did I listen? Partly because his tales were entertaining, even addictive. But mostly because I had doubts about myself that I wanted to escape by believing in heroes.

2   

I remember the first lie that Farley told me. We were in 6th grade, at recess. He was hanging upside-down from the monkey bars, while I climbed to the top of the jungle gym adjacent to him. He called out:

Guess what, Dick?

You tell me, I said.

My Uncle Roy opens beer bottles with his two front teeth!

He should be careful they don’t break off.

Well, they’ve broken off four times already…but they keep growing back, like beaver teeth.

Yeah, right. Throughout junior high and high school Farley’s tales usually would concern a third party, like his Uncle Roy. Then Farley joined the Marine Corps on the day I left home for college and, suddenly, his stories began to feature himself. At the end of the semester of my freshman year I received a letter in which he claimed that a runaway tank, during combat maneuvers at boot camp, crept up on his flank and sideswiped him while he was saving a buddy’s life from enemy fire. He said he was writing from his hospital bed at the Veteran’s Hospital in San Diego, convalescing from a broken back.

One of my lower vertebrae, he wrote, is as flat as a hockey puck. But don’t worry, the doctors expect me to bounce back to normal after surgery. It’s a good thing I was man enough to take it. He added as a postscript: My attorney advises me to sue the Corps for violating my civil rights. But I’m willing to let the matter drop if Special Forces cuts me a deal, so I can continue doing my patriotic duty.

I recalled Dr. Samuel Johnson’s aphorism, Patriotism is the last refuge of a scoundrel, and promptly deposited Farley’s letter in the recycle box. A few months later I received a follow-up letter from Farley on his attorney’s stationary, claiming that he’d gone ahead with the lawsuit. He claimed that the Marine Corps, wanting to avoid a public scandal, had agreed to settle out of court for $100,000, with the stipulation that Farley would be given a permanent position in Special Forces. I flushed this letter down the toilet!

Over the next three years I received a number of postcards from Farley, depicting exotic scenes from newsworthy places: Beirut, Grenada, East Timor, Belfast. He claimed to be on Top Secret assignments for Special Forces, but all of the cards were postmarked Pocatello, Idaho—as if he’d waited to mail them until he’d gotten home—and I certainly didn’t believe that he was involved with any forces beyond those of his unscrupulous fancy.

After graduating magna cum laude with a Bachelor’s degree in sociology, I spent the following year tramping through Europe. While spending the winter on the island of Crete, I came across an out-of-date article in Newsweek which reported that over the past few years Special Forces had been deployed to a number of newsworthy places, including Beirut, Grenada, etc. Two weeks later I received a letter from my mother, which included a photo-clipping from the Social Page of the local newspaper, showing Farley and his bride—a rather homely young woman—dressed in formal wedding attire. The blurb below their picture read: "In a hero’s wedding at the VFW Hall on Saturday, Corporal Farley Wilywitz, of the

U.S. Marine Corps, married Sheila Ann Weston, the daughter of a deacon in the Church of Jesus Christ of the Latter Day Saints. The newlyweds are spending their honeymoon at DisneyWorld, Florida, before they return home to their ranch in Idaho."

***

On my return from Europe, I enrolled in graduate courses at the University of Southern California. For my doctorate I wrote a massive dissertation on the tension between tradition and novelty in popular culture. Soon afterwards I was hired to teach sociology at San Francisco State University, the youngest member of the faculty. I married, fathered a son, survived an acrimonious divorce soon afterwards, and published a book of essays lambasting the American scene from art to sex to politics.

My book was a small success. I’d fully expected to be trashed by the critics—not least of all because I’d titled the collection Kitsch ‘n the Kitchen—and was pleasantly surprised when the book was reviewed favorably in the San Francisco Chronicle. Witty and brisk reading…a delightful blend of satire and scholarship which provokes thought, as well as laughter, wrote the reviewer. Sales were surprisingly good for a first book, but Success is a fickle bitch and my esteem among my colleagues suffered as my material fortunes rose.

In the faculty lounge between classes I would sometimes overhear Dr. Smythe, the chair of the sociology department—who’d once spoken highly of my critical gifts—criticizing my essays for pandering to the public’s taste for vulgarity. He had me pegged for a piker and claimed that I didn’t walk the walk or talk the talk of a proper sociologist. To add insult to injury, a sizable portion of my book royalties went into my attorney’s pocket, in payment for waging a bitter custody battle with my ex-wife.

Not long after my divorce, my father died unexpectedly of a massive coronary. To my surprise Farley showed up at the funeral in full-dress uniform! His scrawny chest was pinned with medals, including one for cryptography—so he claimed—and he wore his beret at a rakish angle that appeared as natural as tofu on brown rice. Throughout the service he kept his posture abnormally rigid, as if at one time or another his back had been broken. As my father’s coffin was lowered into his grave, he asked if he could toss in a shovel-full of dirt. I was more than a little surprised that he considered himself to be like one of the family, but told him to go ahead. Afterwards, he stifled a cry, spit off to the side and went through Impressive, but I wasn’t convinced that Farley was a member of Special Forces. For all I knew he might’ve rented the uniform at a costume shop!

***

Six months later I spent Christmas with my mother in St. Louis, where—in order to be close to her oldest sister—she’d been living since the death of my father. We were sitting at the breakfast table, reminiscing about dear old Dad, when the telephone rang. Mom said absently: Well, I wonder who that could be so early on Christmas morning?

Oh, I said, it’s probably Farley.

And it was!

My mother handed me the phone. Hey, man…How’d you get Mom’s phone number?

Piece of cake, replied Farley, with a redneck twang.

I heard you got married.

"Yep! Got me a fat wife whose family owns a ten-thousand acre ranch outside Pocatello, with a silver mine on the property."

You lucky bastard, I said with a chuckle. My mother wrinkled her eyebrows and frowned distastefully at my language. I waved for her to stop eavesdropping.

I wish I was so lucky, Farley continued. But I’m on duty again.

On duty?

Keep it a secret!

Keep what a secret?

We’re shipping out for Panama.

What on earth for?

To catch the Swamp Rat.

"Who’s we?" I asked, in confusion.

Special Forces.

What about your broken back from boot camp?

I live with the pain the best I can, Dick.

In all the years that I’d known the liar whenever I tried to catch him in a lie he would weasel out of my grasp by tossing off a blithe one-liner. Switching the phone from one ear to the other, I asked: So what’s this about a Swamp Rat?

I can’t tell you any more—it’s Top Secret.

My mother got up from the table and began brewing a fresh pot of coffee. Well, good luck, I said, prompting Farley to reply:

Listen, we go back a long ways, right?

So what?

Well, if I don’t make it home from one of these assignments…can I ask you to do me a big favor?

I’m not marrying your fat wife, I said firmly.

"No, I want you to write my obituary for the Pocatello Times."

I held back a snicker. "It’s a moot point, man."

What do you mean?

Let’s say—hypothetically—that you were mortally wounded in the line of duty. Chances are—I would bet—that you’d be resurrected!

The fact is that since grammar school I’d figured that Farley would recognize at some point that I was poking fun at him and would stop bugging me. No such luck. In the following weeks I read in the newspaper that General Noriega, the de facto dictator of Panama, was under investigation for drug-smuggling, money-laundering, the torture of political opponents, anti-American sentiment and—to put it bluntly—was at the top of the CIA’s Top Forty Hits list. Then one evening after a frustrating day teaching the principles of statistical analysis to an inattentive class, I came home and watched the invasion of Panama on CNN. I rarely watch TV and found the coverage tedious. But my ears pricked up when the safari-jacketed reporter referred to General Noriega as the Swamp Rat. He said it would be only a matter of days before Special Forces would discover the Rat’s whereabouts. I surprised myself by wondering how Farley would describe the invasion when I next spoke to him. Which came sooner than expected—two weeks later, in fact—a few days after Noriega was captured in his underwear in the middle-class suburbs of Panama City. I congratulated Farley on the completion of a successful manhunt.

Piece of cake! he boasted. I had the General’s pecker in my pocket the whole time.

I thought for sure that I heard Farley spit off to the side.