Rustbelt Fables

By Isaac Hallenberg

This is the authors third book, the first being a memoir of sorts and the second was in the genre of erotic fiction. It is a collection of thirteen short stories, all based on or inspired by the fables of Aesop. Although it would be impossible to either add to or detract from Aesops, the fables were starting points for stories mostly based in the mythical town of Rustbelt City. Apparently, as much wisdom is required for life in the American Midwest as in ancient Greece. And, just as in our own lives, there is a moral hidden somewhere in each of the stories. Unlike in the compilers of Aesops stories where the morals are handily given to us, well have to ferret out the meaning for ourselves. Instead of anthills and agoras, the scenes shift from pagan Greece to pool halls and Fitzpatricks tavern. Not so cleverly disguised are locales once dear to my heart in a grimy, industrial city that now exists only in my imagination.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 21, 2008
• ISBN: 9781462806898

Isaac Hallenberg

This is the fifth book published by the author, all through Xlibris Corporation. Although at present he has received scant acclaim for his novels, he has more than made up for the lack by other achievements. Namely, he won the kite flying contest in sixth grade, an award for the highest grade point average for one year in high school, and won first place in a bodybuilding contest in the category of men over seventy years of age. Instead of a career, he had a disparate succession of jobs. He worked in analytical laboratories, in an oil refinery, tended bar in a honky-tonk, operated a metal lathe in a machine shop, toiled on a small farm as a hippie farmer, and for one agonizing year taught chemistry and physics in a high school. In retirement he writes, plays the violin and the guitar, exercises at a gym, and visits grandchildren.

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Copyright © 2008 by Isaac Hallenberg.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Contents

INTRODUCTION

APRIL, THE COUNTRY MOUSE

DESIRE IN A BANANA REPUBLIC

WILD WEST TALE

THE GYPSY AND THE COURTHOUSE CAPER

DRAGON QUEST

SAINT PATRICK AND THE ORANGE MEN

BLOWING HOT AND COLD

A GROWING AWARENESS

PETER SMEDLEY THROWS CAUTION TO THE WIND

THE ANIMALS’ HOMAGE TO ODIN

TRUTHFULNESS MAY BE HAZARDOUS TO YOUR HEALTH

JUNKYARD TWINS

OLAVUS STUDIES THE ANTS

To our children and grandchildren

May all of life’s instructional lessons be harmless and kind.

INTRODUCTION

The dictionary definition of a fable is a fictitious story meant to teach a moral lesson. Talking animals are often the characters in the tales, or the fables may be short stories involving the participation of the gods. The Greek gods that is, for tradition has it that Aesop was a slave in ancient Greece. A second definition is that a fable is a story which is not true: a falsehood. You can decide for yourself which definition applies after reading the following fables suggested from a loose interpretation of Aesop’s originals. Though not exactly an out and out lie, the following fables might be considered to be a stretch of reality as well as a modification of the original intention of Aesop.

When I was a youth, most children were exposed to the fables of Aesop, and it was likely that many homes had a copy of the book which was read to the children in the hope that they might learn moral rectitude. Or at least, develop some common sense when they heard about the punishment suffered by an unfortunate animal at the conclusion to the tale. And in the version that was read to me, the book was not at all shy in stating the intended moral. Risking the possibility of insulting the reader, I feel that it is necessary to start with a little background about fables, and those of Aesop in particular, for the benefit of those who were never exposed. Even though one may think that he or she has no knowledge of the fables of Aesop, expressions from the fables are commonly used by nearly everyone, even when they don’t know the original story. Following is a list of just a few of the sayings.

The boy who cried wolf

Sour grapes

Look before you leap

Kill the goose who lays the golden eggs

Dog in the manger

I have watched more than one cartoon repeat the story of the turtle and the rabbit in their celebrated race and the story of the grasshopper who fiddled away the summer while the ants labored.

Usually the stories were published in a book with a moral at the end of each short story, but this seems to be almost an insult to a reader’s intelligence. And, what unfolds as the conclusion in many fables, is the opposite of the conclusion in others. The common theme that seems to run through many of the fables is that a quick wit and the ability to think on your feet will stand you in good stead. There are probably few persons who would argue with that. It’s probably best to view fables as simple allegories, which after reading, you are almost forced to come to your own conclusions.

Aesop himself is clouded in the opaqueness of history, but legend has it that he was born a slave or sold into slavery to a Greek philosopher in Ephesus. Legend also says that he was African, and the Aesop name may have been derived from Ethiopian. Though he was pot-bellied and physically unattractive, his cunning and skill at telling his stories eventually won him his freedom. But it also cost him his life, for the story is that he made a trip to Delphi where he was a little too smart for his own good and angered the aristocracy. They threw him off a cliff, but later erected a pyramid in his honor. The city, after having experienced a run of bad luck, thought that their cruel treatment of Aesop may have been the cause of their misfortunes.

As I stand on the now defunct Bank of Rustbelt and look down, I can imagine Aesop being tossed off a cliff by the citizens of Delphi. And all that that he did is insult the populace and return the gold to the wealthy king Croesus. Far below pages of the Rustbelt Clarion swirl on the grimy city sidewalk. In my imagination, if I squint my eyes, I see them as pages of this book pitched off this cliff of limestone blocks by an angry populace.

APRIL, THE

COUNTRY MOUSE

Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam,

Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home.

                                John Howard Payne

Probably everyone has heard the story of the country mouse and the city mouse, but I feel compelled to repeat the story for the benefit of the few who may have missed its telling. There was . . . once upon a time . . . a field mouse who lived in a hole in a pasture on the land that belonged to a local farmer. He was expecting a visit from his city cousin, and in honor of the visit was preparing a feast. Oh, what a feast this is going to be, the rural rodent said to himself, as he prepared acorns and kernels of barley and wild carrot roots. The carrot roots were somewhat wilted and there was nothing but a dash of cold water to drink, but the country mouse had never experienced anything finer as a repast, so he was quite satisfied. The urbane city mouse arrived, chucked his baggage into a corner of the den, and informed the rural rodent of news about family members that lived many miles away from the farm.

When thay sat down to eat, the country mouse could tell that something was wrong. The city cousin only politely nibbled at the meal. Is there something wrong, asked the country mouse? Don’t you feel well? Is there something that I might be able to get for you? The city mouse informed him, that although he didn’t want to appear boorish, this meal involved a definite change in his dietary habits. Perhaps he lived too close to the humans, but he was used to eating much of their food that they had carelessly left unattended or spilled. The city mouse painted a glowing account of his life: crumbs of cake, white bread, and a house heated as if to bring the climate of the tropics to merry old England. The country mouse asked if it would be too much to ask and too soon to reciprocate the visit. It sounds like heaven right here on earth, sighed the rural mouse. They both packed their bags and beat feral feet as fast as they could for the big city.

It was just as the country mouse was told. The first night they slept in a hole in the wall after feasting on scraps left on a counter in the kitchen. It was the first time in a long while since the country mouse went to bed every night on a full stomach. They were eating some delicious scraps when, out of nowhere, his cousin shouted, Run! A very well fed and fury cat bounded toward them, and they barely escaped with their lives. They had to hide in their hole in the wall for the rest of the day, and for a long time the cat sat waiting outside of the hole. They were able to see its large, luminous eye peering into the wall, and its breath . . . which smelled of sardines . . . blew into the hole and frightened the country mouse so that he shook all over. They had to be more careful, for it seemed that the cat stayed awake all night long while the humans were sleeping. They left their abode again, on a trek through the house to look for food, and the country mouse spied a ball of fragrant cheese that the humans had carelessly left in the kitchen. No, shrieked the city mouse. It’s a trap. A trap I tell you. The city mouse explained that through some miracle of science, cheese in an implement like the one that they almost touched, had a nasty habit of breaking a mouse’s neck. Several of the extended family of the city mouse had been removed recently by this very same implement.

"That’s it, said the country mouse. He packed his bags and returned to his hole in the ground, with a crumbly ground floor and a wall of wheat roots. Better the evil that one knows than the unfamiliar evil. That city cousin of mine could make hell itself sound like a paradise," said the country mouse to his girlfriend, who was happy as she could be munching on a stalk of wheat.

April! April Fitzpatrick! You hear me, girl?

It was a sunny, hot day on the Fitzpatrick farm, and Maisie, the mother of the large tribe of Fitzpatricks, was bellowing out of the kitchen window above the sink for her daughter. Leaning on the counter, her arms were as round and hard as most linebackers on a football team. Her face appeared to be flushed, but it was just her natural complexion, matching the flaming color of her hair, which had only a few wisps of white in spite of her age and the strain of having given birth to a tribe of eight children. Under her breath she cursed her husband John, who was called by neighbors and friends . . . in fact, by everyone except his wife Maisie . . . by the nickname of Lucky. And lucky he probably was, for having his homegrown crew of workers, he spent most of his days in the office of the local grain elevator when he should have been working. There were always plenty of other farmers who joined him there for coffee and small talk, especially when the weather was inclement.

The Missus Fitzpatrick gave up on calling the name of her daughter and strode to the kitchen and opened the screen door. She made a mental note that she was going to have to get one of the boys to fix it, for it twisted like a piece of writing paper. On the porch she stood with her fists on her hips, in a defiant pose.

April! Answer me. I’m not going to call you again.

A short girl appeared through the gate of the chicken yard, and was carrying a Buff Orpington hen, which she was stroking in an attempt to calm the chicken. April was a miniature version of her mother; she appeared dumpy in her one piece summer dress, but had the strength of a professional wrestler if necessary. Being born without a ready wit necessitated her use of strength on several occasions. As Maisie told her many times, God gives all of us something : looks, or smarts, or strength, or maybe a facile wit and tongue to go with it.

I’m comin’ Maw, said the young girl.

Don’t forget to shut the gate. I won’t abide having chickens running all over the yard and scratching holes. And the next thing that you know, I’ll have ’em coming in the house.

I wont forget, Maw.

But she had already forgotten. April walked slowly, and not in a straight line either, for she had her eyes clued to the hen instead of where her feet were headed.

And put back that chicken where you found it. Lawd, girl, I don’t know what I’m going to do with you.

April’s main job was to help her mother in the house. Maisie had tried to teach her to collect the eggs and weed the garden, but her mother felt that she couldn’t be trusted unless you were standing next to her to see that the job was done right. Little carrot plants got plucked up right along with the weeds. Mother Fitzpatrick didn’t have the time to spend with seven more kids to keep track of and the washing of clothes and the cooking.

Comm’on April! Shake a leg. They’s all them spuds to peel. In that bucket over in the corner by the stove.

Yes, Maw.

Well, thank goodness, Maisie thought to herself, at least she don’t talk back, and give me no sass. April gave her mother a sort of vacant smile and knelt down on a stool and and started peeling the potatoes while her mother worked on making up a meat loaf for her crew which was soon to show up. In fact, she looked out of the window and there was Lucky sitting on the seat of their rusted old corn field cultivator and smoking his corn cob pipe. That smelly old thing . . . the pipe, that is . . . Maisie thought. I wish he’d throw it out and get a new one. She put the ingredients for the meat loaf into a large mixing bowl, and mixed it with her hands. Her meat loaves were a wonder in that they scarcely contained any meat at all. There was a little bit of hamburger and a little pork sausage and the rest was was oatmeal and soda crackers and bread crumbs, and Lawd, she always said, I’d put in some sawdust, if they was any at hand.

Her husband, Lucky, came to the kitchen door. He respectfully removed his hat and hung it on a nail, and then behind him trooped the remaining six boys of all sizes and a shoeless young girl with freckles.

Look at ya, Maisie said, though she didn’t look at or single out any one of the tribe in particular. Your feet are dirty as hell. How many times do I have to tell ya . . .?

They sat down at the long table, which was a modified picnic table that had been brought indoors. They sat there relatively quiet until Missus Fitzpatrick and April put the food on the table, and then there was a lot of squabbling and a rush to see who could get the most on their plate. Nobody said a prayer or a blessing over the food. They had given up on that a long time ago. Not that they had become infidels or irreligious or anything. Every child had to go to their first communion and be confirmed. After that was Christmas and Easter and an occasional midnight mass. The Fitzpatricks were a family whose interest was right now in the present, and they had little thought or interest in the hereafter.

The mother and April sat down last and then they filled their plates and dug in, not paying much attention to how much noise anyone was making.

Santo was here again, Maw. I saw him talkin’ to April, said Jimmy, who everybody called Sonny. He grinned mischievously, and was happy to tell on his sister, who was just looking down at her plate, saying nothing to deny what her brother said. Her face was turning red, making her cheeks a match to her hair color.

Paw looked up from his plate, and looked at Maw instead of April.

You boys, just shut up about April. Can’t you see how upset you made her. And April, I’ll talk to you later, after we eat.

After the supper was finished, Maisie shooed the other kids out into the yard to finish their chores. They had to milk the cows, get them into their stanchions for the night, and put down clean straw for bedding. There was plenty of other things to do before it got dark, and Paw went out and supervised to make sure that everything was done right. But first . . . without anything verbal being said . . . Paw saw that he and his wife had something to talk about. They had already gone over the facts of life as they called it, with April. But knowing something and doing something could be a lot different, as both of the Fitzpatrick adults knew from experience. While they talked, April bent over the sink and washed the dishes, and they continued on just as if she wasn’t there and couldn’t hear what they said about her.

I’m too young to be a grandmother, Maw said.

That Santo’s a dumb cluck. Even his father, Black Joe, says so, said Paw.

When April heard her parents talk about Santo, she stopped washing the dishes, and turned to look at them. They scraped their chairs on the wood floor, stood up, and went to the porch outside to talk. Lucky took out his corn cob pipe, filled it with Sir Walter Raleigh tobacco, and struck a match on a rough patch of paint on the house. He took his time staring out onto space and puffed smoke from his pipe with a thoughtful look on his face as if he was thinking deeply.

Well? said Maisie.

I’m going to have a talk with Mister Gaglieri. Ask him if he’d keep a tighter rein on that son of his. That Santo of his just runs around to the neighbors farms where they’s girls. Pays no mind to our boys, and doesn’t seem to even want to have anything to do with them.

He sure is hormoned up, said Maisie.

I’m goin’ to have a talk. Everything’ll be alright. You worry too much about every little thing.

Yeah! Well, it’s a little thing I’m worryin’ about, said Missus Fitzpatrick. Big things end up coming from those little things. Remember? Paw Fitzpatrick lifted his hat and scratched his head and appeared to be listening to her.

She left her husband and went back in the house, and he went to the barn to supervise the evening chores. Her Maw went over the same old ground with April that she’d been over before. April listened as impassively as always, so it was hard to tell if she was taking the warnings to heart. April couldn’t understand why they were so excited about Santo. He was so kind and gentle and spoke to her like she was a special kind of a person. She felt warm and strange, like the hens must feel, she thought, when she blew on their feathers and their feathers fluffed up.

*   *   *

Lucky Fitzpatrick and Black Joe Giglieri stood in Joe’s barn and pretended to be studying the new Hampshire sow that Mister Giglieri had just bought. It was Lucky’s lame excuse for visiting his neighbor. Neighbors in the country didn’t visit each other for no reason at all, so Lucky pretended that the visit was just to see the pig, and Black Joe pretended too. He suspected that it had to do with one of the children. What else could it be? For a time, both men stared at the sow, and neither wanted to look directly at the other.

Anything else on your mind, asked the senior Giglieri?

There is, actually, said Lucky. You been paying much attention to your boy Santo?

You know, I’ve got other things to do besides keeping track of kids all day long.

He’s been comin’ over to our place, and not to see the boys, either. He’s been snoopin’ around April.

Black Joe hunched up his shoulders and wheeled around to put his big, rugged face right up close to John Fitzpatrick. Giglieri didn’t like at all the way that the conversation was heading. It seemed that Lucky Fitzpatrick was in the process of attributing all the blame to Santo.

I suppose that it’s all Santo’s fault. Why don’t you pay attention to your daughter once in a while?

With Black Joe’s face so close in front of his, Lucky saw that the story that was going around at the Basement Bar was true. A piece off of Joe’s ear was missing, and supposedly it was bitten off in a fight. Lucky valued both of his ears, so he felt that he had said what he had come to say. Enough is enough, he thought, and was going to say no more.

I’ll tell you what Fitzpatrick, you take care of your daughter and I’ll take care of my son. Slow or not, your daughter April has got to start looking out for herself.

Things cooled down between the two men, and by the time that Lucky was ready to go, they were slapping each other on the back and laughing at some other neighbor who had done so many stupid things that maybe he had chosen the wrong occupation when he went into farming. When he left, Lucky climbed over the fence between their fields, and walked back through a field of corn so that he could check for weeds. It seemed to him that those lazy boys needed to get out in the field and do some hoeing. He went over his conversation with his neighbor in his mind, and figured that he was back where he started before the visit. Black Joe hadn’t really promised to pen up that boy of his or keep him from visiting.

Instead of checking on his crew of children, he went to the back door that led into the kitchen. There was always a pot of coffee simmering on the stove, and maybe Maw still had a few pieces of her pumpkin bread left.

How did it go? Maisie asked, when Lucky slammed the screen door.

Good, was all he said, as he rooted around in the bread box, looking for left over pumpkin bread.

Whatta you mean, good? Did he promise to keep that good-for-nothing Santo home where he belongs?

Don’t worry, said Lucky. I don’t think he’ll give us any more trouble.

*   *   *

They were in a quiet place in the barn, up in the loft with the hay. Santo saw that April’s brothers had left. The boys, with the oldest, Sonny, in charge, did a half-assed job on the work that their father gave them to do, grabbed their fishing poles and headed for the creek. It was what Maisie called doing a job with a lick and a promise. Santo knew that the boys woudn’t want April tagging along, so she was probably wandering around the farm, as usual entranced by all of the wonders of nature. Santo wasn’t known for his wit either, but he had at least one advantage over April. He knew what he wanted and wasn’t easily deterred from it. He found April in the barn. She was sitting on a hay bale, and next to her sat the yellow-orange hen that she was so fond of.

What are ya doin’ here Santo, April asked?

I wanted to see ya. Been thinkin’ about ya.

Maw said not to talk to you, Santo.

Santo smiled at her. His brain was frantically truing to think of something to say that would get her mind off of what her mother had told her. While he was thinking, he smiled widely, and showed rows of pearly white teeth, perfectly formed. His dark, good looks melted April’s resolve, and she forgot in a trice all of the warnings that her mother had given her.

Com’on up in the hay loft, he said. I can show you somethin’. Bet you haven’t seen what I got.

No. I’m sittin’ here watchin’ this old hen. Can’t go the loft right now. Got to watch the old hen.

Don’t be silly, girl. I’m not goin’ to eat ya, for Christ’s sake. Bring along your hen if ya got to.

April was torn between duty and curiosity. She gathered up her hen and put a leary eye up the wooden ladder to the loft. Quick as a monkey, Santo grabbed the chicken by a leg in one hand, and with the other hand, went up the wooden slats to the hay loft. The hen flapped its wings, let out a horrible squawk, and some its feathers floated slowly down to the floor of the barn.

Com’on, he said. Don’t be such a sissy. Com’on up.

April climbed the ladder, and both of them sat down in the hay.

Tickle, tickle, he said. He reached for her and she giggled.

They probably made a lot more noise than they thought that they were making. The boys were gone, but May, who was the baby of the family, happened to walk into the barn. She heard strange noises coming from the loft, and of course, she thought that the noises were coming from robbers. Paw had always talked of such, she thought. There was a hen clucking up there, and she remembered that robbers and vagrants and such always went straight for the chicken coop and stole off with a meal of chicken.

Who’s up there? May asked, in a rather small and timid voice.

But it was enough that the noises stopped, and May was surprised to see Santo’s face peering down over the ledge. She didn’t see anybody else up there with him.

Watcha doin’ up there, Santo?

Oh, nothin’, Santo said. His words were belied by a guilty look on his face.

May stood and looked and thought for a while what to think about what she was seeing.

Maw said you’re not to come here any more, Santo.

If you don’t tell, I’ll give you somethin’, May. I’ll give you some candy.

Where’s the candy, Santo?

I don’t have it with me right now. I’ll get it later.

May thought about it, and came to the conclusion that it was better to tell Maw about Santo than to wait for candy that might never materialize. May headed for the house as fast as her legs would take her, and faster than Santo was able to get down from the loft and stop her.

Santo! Don’t go, April called down from the loft. But he was already on the run. The screen door from the kitchen burst open, and Maisie charged out with a broom in her hand. It was the only weapon that she could think of on such a fast notice. She was followed by May, who was always happy to tell on her sister.

Santo, you bastard, Maisie screamed, as she ran into the corn brandishing her broom. Santo was much too fleet of foot for the big lady, for after a few hundred yards she had to stop and catch her breath. Santo was already over the fence and back in his own property.

Your father will hear about this, screamed Maisie.

It was all Santo could do to keep from laughing now that he was safe on the Gaglieri farm. The old Fitzpatrick had given up the chase, but was shaking her broom and hurling every obsenity that she could think of at all of the Gaglieris. She threatened to horsewhip him, even if the Fitzpatricks had gone from horses to tractors a long time ago, and there weren’t any whips hanging in the barn at present.

By supper time, Lucky Fitzpatrick returned from his business at the grain elevator. He was whistling and was in a jolly mood. The mood soon turned sour. He saw the boys walking up the railroad tracks about a mile away, and one of them was carrying a stringer of fish. They probably left before their chores were finished, he thought to himself. He was about to go check on their work, when Maisie came out on the porch. She stood with ther arms spread out and a fist on each hip. He knew that this meant trouble, but he walked up to meet the trouble boldly. Might as well deal with it as soon as possible and get it over with.

When Lucky walked into the kitchen, April was sitting on a chair in the corner, and she was bawling her eyes out.

Tell your father what you’ve done. Go on. Tell him.

This made April sob even louder, so that it turned into the wail of a banshee. Usually Maisie had her way, but this was one of the few times that Lucky asserted his authority. He went to April and put an arm over her shoulder.

Go into the parlor, girl, and lay down on the couch for a while. Dry your eyes, now. And quit that caterwaulin’. Everything’s goin’ to be alright. Maw’ll tell me all about it.

Before the boys came in the yard, Lucky and Maizy had one of those conversations where not many words were said, but a lot of things were understood anyway. The boys cleaned their fish on a wood bench by the pitcher pump in the yard, then they washed up, Paw brought April to the table, and they all sat down to eat.

What’s wrong with April? asked Frank, who was the most talkative of the boys, and probably the dumbest.

Just you never mind. You kids just eat your supper. If you wait long enough, durn near everything is made clear.

And it probably was.

*   *   *

The unwelcome swain was no longer seen around the Fitzpatrick farm, but the boys