Life on the Edge

By Robert Russell Marquardt

Who can explain the human condition? And who can explain why some seem to live
on the edge, while others are content with a more complacent life?

All of nature is in constant conflict and as humans we are to one degree or another driven by our volatile egos as we respond to the pressures of situations that surround us. There is no end to our complexity as thinking creatures as our subconscious encounters our logic and we are left with our fragile rationale to sort out lifes issues. Some dont even think things through, seemingly relishing acting impulsively. Often reasoning and inner feelings seem to lead in opposite directions.

The stories and expressions in this book are examples of the human persona of self and some unusual characters we all seem to notice and talk aboutand maybe envy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Apr 28, 2014
• ISBN: 9781496905444

Book preview

© 2014 Robert Russell Marquardt. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 04/24/2014

ISBN: 978-1-4969-0545-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4969-0544-4 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014907228

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Three Days in Heaven

Day Two

Day Three

Day 4

Best Friends

Destiny

Wilbur Winkler is dead

A Close Encounter

There’s a New Doc in Town

Mutual Affection

36-24-36

My First Time

Need a Lift?

Just another day

One Hour

Hitler, Freud, and Jesus

Six Word Stories

At the Gym

The Wisdom of Chief Longfeather

About the Author

Cover art by:

Loretta Musgrave

Scottsdale, Arizona

Loretta learned to draw sitting in the pens of her family’s ranch/farm where was given the care of any injured animals. She sold these drawings to local ranchers. At age seven she won a state art competition which included a small amount of money. Delighted, she began her career in art.

Packing a Bachelor of Fine Art/specialty in Painting degree into three years, including studies in Mexico City, her talents were rewarded with Arizona State University’s Moore award for Excellence. With her new husband she wandered small town Arizona painting thirty foot signs on buildings and portraits of the wife of the local Mayors and friends, Loretta learned the marketing skills needed to create a lifelong career in art. For many years she served as Vice President of Arizona Cowboy Artists.

Currently, Loretta exhibits with the Fine Art EXPO on North Scottsdale Road, Cowboy Classics with the National Livestock Shows. Loretta has been also selected as the Maricopa County Supreme Court Portrait Artist: a lifetime appointment.

Preconceived ideas about the hereafter are challenged by the writer as he gives the reader a vivid glimpse of eternity and a picture of an existence different than ours. Taken from a narrative poem by the author, it has been rewritten in the following story form. The original poem is interwoven into the beginning of the tale.

Three Days in Heaven

I never really expected to go to heaven—that was for good people. And God knows I haven’t been good. It was a surprise to find myself transported to the heavenly portals, and the sense of change was eerie, unlike what I had ever imagined about such a place or feeling. There I was, looking at a small hand-painted sign that was loosely tied to a wobbly cedar post with a shoelace that simply said: Heaven—what did you expect?

A lone wooden gate dangling by one rusty hinge gave the appearance it hadn’t been used for some time. No one was around and it crossed my mind that if this truly was heaven, maybe heaven was deserted. Ok, so maybe I didn’t really expect God to be there to greet me when I arrived, but no one?

It seemed like I waited for hours, when suddenly this stubby fat guy surprised me with a shout, reeking of garlic breath; and I thought . . . now what’s that all about?

Well, you’re here at last he said, with a sheepish grin. And then I saw some tobacco juice dripping from his chin.

"Ah . . . look . . . who are you?" I asked in a most disdaining voice.

I am Heaven’s gateman, he replied, to let you have a choice

"A choice?" I said, "What do mean by that?"

"You must choose to want to stay" he replied, just before he spat. His hair was uncombed and he obviously hadn’t shaved for days. Missing laces in his soiled high-top tennis shoes; oversized below-the-knees shorts with some baler twine for a belt; and a tobacco-stained sleeveless sweatshirt led me to conclude: He’s got to be a derelict loose from some institution.

I better humor this guy, I thought, and then I saw him warmly smile.

You see that fancy throne? he said, pointing. ". . . It’s God’s. He likes to rule in style"

"That’s God’s Throne? I exclaimed, Why, it’s just a La-Z-Boy!"

He replied: And you see that Mini-Hummer? That’s his favorite toy

You’re putting me on, aren’t you? I said, Is this some kind of joke? Then he calmly motioned for me to follow him as he sipped upon a Coke.

The only thing I knew for sure at the moment is that I was in a strange place and although this person who greeted me reminded me of a homeless soul I had seen rummaging through a dumpster in an alley in Malibu, he didn’t seem like a bad sort. I followed him out of curiosity and we walked into this cluttered house that could really use a maid and when he said it belonged to God, it’s then I was dismayed.

I began to think that this couldn’t be heaven after all. Either this was a dream… or maybe this was God, a sadistic prankster who enjoys playing various roles to entertain himself.

Are you going to take me to God? I impatiently said with a touch of sarcasm, ". . . or is he indisposed?"

With a raised eyebrow, he replied:

"A comedian, huh? C’mon, he’s been looking forward to meeting you . . . and won’t feel that you’ve imposed" Then I heard someone plucking a guitar, but the notes were woefully sour, and the rhythm was atrocious—I couldn’t take this for an hour.

A short, rotund older man in his pajamas was sitting in a wicker rocker and strumming a guitar with a colorful but tattered blanket wrapped loosely around his shoulders, crudely straining to sing the song: I’ve Got The World on a String. I politely listened and after a few minutes, he startled me by flinging his blanket aside and leaping to his feet with his arms outstretched as though he was performing on a stage and started crooning the song: My Way. I thought: this guy wouldn’t even sound good at a karaoke bar. His face got as red as a beet, but he managed to finish the entire song and then offered in a high-pitched voice:

Hey, don’t be bashful… do you want to sing along?

He sat down and placed the guitar on his lap and was forcibly attempting to hold his fingers on the correct strings and frets when he blurted out: Dagnabit! I just can’t get the hang of this thing. I’ll never be able to play that F-chord! I could only watch in amazement and tried to keep from laughing.

Looking around the room, he said:

"Kind of homey, isn’t it? . . . if you don’t mind that damn ticking clock."

Then he seemed embarrassed when his toe poked out his sock.

The décor of the room was revolting. God is evidently not an interior decorator, I concluded, as attested to by the thick black shag carpet, dark purple zebra-stripes on canary yellow walls with a different color and style of curtain on each window.

Still humming the melody to My Way, he got up excitedly and walked over to a piece of blue masking tape marking a throwing line on the carpet and threw a dart at a large sketch of the devil tacked to a dartboard hanging on the wall, but it hit with its feather side first and fell to the floor. One of these days I’m gonna get that son-of-a-gun… grumbling as he walked away dejectedly. A lot of dog hair was on the carpet and in the middle of the room a tiny Chihuahua was curled up against a huge St. Bernard, both sound asleep, although I wondered how they could possibly sleep through this commotion.

"Are you really God? I blurted, I mean, look at this grungy place"

It’s all I’ve got he said, And I don’t complain. I just need some comfort space

Having concluded that God, if this was God, was more ordinary than I’d been led to believe, I suddenly found myself filled with boldness.

Do you know who I am? I said, I’ve been a sinner all my life

Then he matter-of-factly replied:

"Ah, yes . . . this place is filled with a lot like you . . . those purified by strife"

But I thought for sure I’d go to hell I said, ". . . I didn’t even go to church"

He answered: "Hey, I’d like to think I know what I’m doing . . . and I wouldn’t leave you in the lurch. So you’re not perfect said He, but what do you think I’m for?"

But I didn’t even believe in you I said, Why don’t you just show me to the door?

You could show a little appreciation he said, I can ship your ass out of here in a split second, you know. You made it here because you were genuine most of the time.

"That’s how you decide who comes here?" I inquired.

Got a better idea? he quipped.

I thought you had to be a really righteous person to go to heaven I said.

That’s what righteousness is, isn’t it? he responded, I could tell you wanted to do what was right according to your conscience—that’s what counted with me.

I felt a little ashamed and said: Sorry, I guess I got a little out of line.

"Forget it. Look, it’s not gonna be what you expected… take a look around . . . there are no churches here."

Where are all the religious folk? I quizzed, ". . . the ones who lived in fear?"

Oh, they’re in another place he said as he yawned, and I liked the sound of that.

And then he looked hilarious as he tipped his derby hat.

He was scratching himself a lot and could tell that I noticed.

Fleas he said, The dogs bring ’em in—especially that big fella over there. He’s a lotta fun, though—pulls me in my wagon—geez, he’s as strong as a bull. ‘C’mere boy’ he said, giving a shrill whistle startling the St. Bernard, who sat up on his haunches and started scratching his neck with a hind leg.

He doesn’t mind too well, though, he said disappointingly, but he’s nice to have around. Except he eats like a horse and I gotta keep cleaning up after him, if y’ know what I mean.

"Where is this other place?" I asked.

With a grin he said:

I can’t tell you that now—you haven’t decided to stay yet

Well, then, prove to me that you are God I insisted, You just seem like an old man.

His eyes lowered as though I had hurt his feelings, and then he slowly unbuttoned his shirt to reveal a large colorful tattoo of a Superman logo in the middle of his chest and an obviously handmade gaudy necklace forming the word God in sparkling lighted letters hanging from his neck with an attached