Humiliation, Lymph Nodes and Other Forms of Love

By Dr. S.A. Heils-Sparks

Humiliation, Lymph Nodes And Other Forms Of Love is a collection of 33 quirky short stories, masterfully written in different voices. The author spins imaginative yarns about diverse subjects (such as medical malpractice, Mick Jagger taking over the world, skinny-dipping snafus, whorehouse child rearing, girls with multiple personalities, Thomas Jeffersons marijuana habit, faith-healing, coming of age in crazy-making environments, relationship suicide, nuclear holocaust - and a dinner party for Jesus, Marilyn, Ghandi, Freud and Woody Allen!) However, let the reader beware: bedtime will become a challenge and strange cravings occur after every story!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 28, 2008
• ISBN: 9781462833580

Dr. S.A. Heils-Sparks

S.A. Heils-Sparks is a psychotherapist and nursing instructor, and lives in San Francisco. She believes education is the cure for most of the world’s problems. She is politically focused and agrees with environmental experts that women’s rights (especially in Third World countries) are crucial to the survival of the planet. A member of Mensa, she urges smart people everywhere to unite their brain power and resolve humankind’s problems before greedy, delusional men take us all down. Dr. Heils-Sparks previously published The Tough Chick Trilogy, which stimulated great controversy and a cult following.

Book preview

Leroy Vs. The Chicken

Thirteen was going to be difficult for Leroy. He had grown used to the strange goings-on at the house where he and his mother lived: the sweaty piano player shooting craps in the back alley, the many uncles who came to visit his mother, the aunts lounging around in fancy underwear and see-through robes, and his mother lying unconscious with empty vodka bottles in her bed. He had also grown used to the isolated southern town where his mother took him after picking him up at recess that day so long ago. He no longer thought about his father. Leroy had become content with the parameters of his easy existence when everything changed.

Leee-roooyyy! Run! Run! He had never heard the tone of terror (or of any emotion) in his mother’s flat voice before. The picture of a finely dressed, tall black man effortlessly resisting the frenzied punches of a drunk woman emerged as Leroy struggled to the front of the crowd. No! No! His mother kicked and screamed as the towering gentleman extended a polished hand to Leroy. Is that you, son? The handsome man had a warm, deep voice and he smiled at Leroy. Don’t be afraid! Leroy took the hand obediently and walked through the door with the stranger. He knew he would never see his mother again. And he felt nothing.

The first days of Leroy’s upgraded existence passed quickly. However, when he found himself walking into St. Christopher’s Academy on the arm of his white stepmother, he suddenly became very alert. He had always wanted to go to school but his mother had never taken him to enroll. Except for the recess incident, he barely remembered kindergarten. He liked to read but hid the ability from others – he didn’t know why. He loved to daydream about how others lived and stole books for his private enjoyment. He had not known one literate person in the entire town where his mother lived! Now, he was doing what he had fantasized about so often: going to school! He wanted to scream and run.

Sit right here, young man. We have some tests for you to take… An ancient woman with pure white hair placed a booklet in front of him. Let’s read the directions together, shall we? Leroy was transfixed by the sound of her voice and the elegance of her lip movements. He stumbled though each test staring at his proctor and wondering what he should be saying or doing. He hadn’t even thought about what might happen next.

Walk this way, please. He figured the tests were over. He followed the stooped white woman to a classroom door, which she opened. Class, this is Leroy Valentine. Rows of children obviously younger than he stared. You can sit there. The lady pointed to a desk larger than all the others, at the back of the last row. He sat down and remained very still as the lady vanished.

The teacher was a young white woman who looked very tired. Hi, Leroy. There’s always room for one more. Her lips didn’t quite form a smile. Now class, as I was saying…, her voice trailed off to the periphery of Leroy’s awareness as he continued to sit very still. He cautiously glimpsed at the children surrounding him and concluded they were all white. He didn’t move again until the last child was gone at the end of class. Then, he jumped up and ran past the puzzled instructor.

Outside, several Hispanic boys ranging in age from ten to fourteen had gathered together under a tree on the edge of the schoolyard. They were taking turns flipping a pocketknife into the dirt, each trying to outdo the other’s knife-flipping style. Leroy felt drawn to their antics, so he watched them silently from behind a bush.

What you want, Dude? The boys’ postures were relaxed yet hinted at a quick potential for aggression.

Nuttin’! Leroy’s huge eyes widened further.

Can you throw a knife, amigo?

Uh… sure! The obese cook at his mother’s house had taught him how to throw.

Well, then! Why don’t ya show us?

Leroy took the blade offered by the boy with the red scarf around his head. Assuming the pose of a javelin thrower, Leroy flipped the knife with a triple spin. His audience applauded. Not bad, amigo! Where’d ya learn that?

Oh… I been ‘round! Only Leroy was surprised by his bravado.

Yeah? Well, what else can you do?

Leroy knew his answer would be very important. Unsure what would impress, he blurted, I can do anything you can do!

Oh, yeah?! Can you shoot a gun?

Su’ I can! Ev’body can shoots a gun!

Yeah, but can ya’ shoot like a man?

I reckon! I shots a man in d’leg once!

Oh, yeah?! What for?

He was tryin’ ta skip withou’ payin’! That was my job ta make ‘em pay!

Pay for what?

Pussy! What else?!

The boys laughed hysterically. Pussy! You a pimp?

Na! I was the ‘Look Out’ at the house! It was my job!

Amigo! You talkin’ ‘bout a ‘ho house?

Su’! Where else would ya pay fo’ pussy?

You sayin’ you worked in a ‘ho house?

Yeah! That’s what I’m sayin’!

They laughed even harder. You been wit’ ‘ho’s?

Sure! I been wit’ ‘ho’s! Lots of ‘em!

Ok, man! If you say so! I give you credit for ‘magination! The laughter tone dropped a decibel as the scarf-swathed boy assumed a macho pose. What about… killin’ animals? You eve’ killed a animal?

Yeah, sure! I used ta go huntin’ wit’ a frien’ and we shots all kin’a animals!

That’s cool! Hunting’s cool! But a real man kills only what he’s gonna eat!

One of the younger boys stepped forward. You know what I say? I say a real man only eats what he kills!

Yeah! The older boy’s scarf moved up and down with his eyebrows. A real man only eats what he kills… Yeah!

I’m getting’ hungry! Leroy imitated their macho posturing. What ‘bout you?

His audience was silent for a few seconds. Sure, man! I’m hungry! What you got in mind?

Let’s kill somethin’!

Like what?

Anythin’ good ta eat! It’s your call!

Hmmm… The leader knew his response was very important. I got it! Chickens! I know where we can kill chickens!

I love chickens! Leroy rubbed his stomach. Got a gun?

Well… no! But I don’t need one! That’s why I haven’t got one! All I need is my knife! He pretended to clean under his fingernails with his pocketknife. How ‘bout you, amigo? Can you kill a chicken wit’ a knife?

Just show me a chicken!

Come wit’ us, amigo!

Leroy followed their swaggering frames to a customized pick-up truck – it was very low and had small tires with huge plate-like rims. He jumped into the bed with all but the two biggest boys, who sat in the cab. You got a driver’s license, man? The Chicanos laughed in response as the driver spun gravel with the truck’s wheels.

The city’s crowded busyness and stench of auto exhausts gave way to fresh, green countryside as the howling group bounced along 8-East, making obscene gestures to passing motorists. Pulling onto a side road, they stopped at a run-down farm. Chickens scurried in front of the truck.

Here we are, amigo! Plenty of chickens!

I’ll get the big one! The boy with the red scarf ran with outstretched arms after an hysterical bird. All of his cousins began chasing squawking chickens, too.

Watch this! Leroy picked up a brick fragment lying on the ground. With perfect ‘dunk-ball’ action, he pelted the largest bird on the head. The chicken obligingly fell over, stunned. Grabbing the paralyzed bird by the neck, Leroy flung the feathered body to a sudden, neck-breaking stop. Let’s cook ‘em up!

His audience stared. Do you know how to cook a chicken?

Sure! I seen ol’ Gus cook chickens lots ‘a times! Jus’ get me a pot o’ wate’!

The boys looked to their leader. He nodded, then walked decisively to the back of the dilapidated farmhouse. The sound of shattering glass sent a tremor through the onlookers and signaled entrance into the kitchen. Soon, he emerged – strutting like a little rooster, holding a bucket half-filled with water. Start the fire!

The Chicanos gathered wood expertly, as though accustomed to building fires. Soon, the water was boiling the color out of the unbled, ungutted fowl. Leroy felt queasy as he watched the pink, nubby skin turn yellowish-gray.

How long we cook it, amigo?

"Oh, it takes a good while. Cook it a long time!"

Leroy avoided looking at the decomposing carcass while he demonstrated one knife trick after another to his amazed friends. Finally, one of the smaller boys stuck a stick into the bubbling bucket and started to lift the bird. It quickly fell apart and plunged back into the greasy broth. I thin’ it’s ready, amigo!

Leroy knew he had to follow through. "Now that’s the way I like it! That’s the way men in the wild eat their game! He scooped out a melting leg with a stick. Holding it suspended over his open mouth, he felt slimy broth run down the sides of his face. After licking at the broth with a long tongue, he plunged the meat into his mouth. It tasted unbelievably putrid. Umm! Good! He choked down the mouthful. Oh! Damn! I jus’ realized – my mama will get real mad if I ruin my appetite fo’ suppe’, so’s… even though this chicken is delicious, I shouldn’t eat any mo’ of it!"

Amigo! You got to eat the chicken! After all, you killed ‘im!

That’s right, amigo! You killed ‘em so you got to eat ‘em! Right, Hombre?

Sure… sure! Okay! You’re right! A man gots to do what he’s gots to do! Leroy began gulping down the fowl, pausing occasionally to give a nauseated smile and take a deep breath.

As the last lump of greasy flesh slid down his throat, the leader slapped him on the back. "Good job, amigo! You’re a real man! The others cheered and took turns slapping him in congratulations. We’ll even drive you back! Yeah, amigo! We’ll even drive you back! An’ we don’t do that often!" Their laughter signaled the end of his trial by ordeal.

Riding back to town, gnats stung his sticky, wind-whipped face. His nausea had settled some and he knew that everything was going to be very, very easy from now on. And he knew he’d never eat chicken again.

Feigning Testosterone

Sometimes Rita caught a glimpse into the sadness of her searching. A brief break-through in her denial system would allow some unwanted insight into her despair. Since she could remember, she told herself she could be like a man. Her two-toned schema presented few alternatives – she perceived only the options of being like a man or being victimized. So, Rita searched tirelessly for the right combination of masculine skills and attitudes to adopt. She believed when she could behave like a man, she would be happy. It never occurred to her that men weren’t happy.

Even as a child, Rita knew men had the good script. She obsessed about how they got it and what she could do to wrangle it from them. She knew it was not a matter of sharing power with men, for men could not share their power. She knew relationship between the sexes was marked by the need for dominance – one sex or the other had to do the controlling, to be on top. She, therefore, wanted to be the one on top!

Her mother tried – once – to show her the feminine ropes. That summer day, for no apparent reason, Mom called her in from playing War! with the neighborhood boys to take a bubble bath. She had laid out a new blue dress and a lovely necklace and bracelet set on the bed. Rita had never worn jewelry before. After Mom tied her hair back with a bow, Rita looked softly pretty. Finishing with a spray of cologne, Mom instructed, I want you to go outside and sit on one of the lawn chairs – not on the grass! And I want you to spread your skirt out so it looks real full. And whenever the boys look at you, smile real pretty! Then, see if you don’t like the responses you get better than you like being a tomboy!

Rita followed the puzzling instructions – an exaggerated smile met the glances of her playmates. After a few minutes, she (indeed) got responses!

What are ya’ lookin’ like that fo’? Ya’ look weird!

Rita immediately doubled her fists. I do not! I jus’ look like a real girl, that’s all!

Well, ya’ can’t play King o’ the Mountain lookin’ like that!

Yeah! Real girls can’t play King o’ the Mountain !

Anger flared beneath the ruffles, just as it had beneath the denim. Real girls can, too, play King o’ the Mountain !

They cannot! They’d get hurt an’ start cryin’!

She jumped from the chair and ran to the hay mound, leaving a trail of cologne behind her. We’ll see who gets hurt and starts cryin’! She climbed to the top before the boys could react. I AM KING O’ THE MOUNTAIN!

NO YOU’RE NOT! They responded in unison. As a boy reached for her bare leg, a white ballet flat struck him square in the face. Her shoes, knees and fists met each would-be conqueror with incredible agility. And she remained enthroned.

DEATH TO ALL INFERIORS! She repeated a line she had heard on TV.

RITA! MY GOD! Mom stood frozen, unable to believe what she saw: Rita – ribbon unraveled and hair awry, covered in hay – holding her skirt high, exposing her panties and kicking the boys who reached for her. GET IN THE HOUSE WHERE YOU BELONG… WHERE YOU’LL BE SAFE!

Rita walked slowly, covered with shame and dreading her mother’s hysteria. She didn’t understand what was wrong about the way she played with the boys but knew she must have done something horribly aberrant.

As an adult, Rita came to view her attempts at relating to men as ‘controlled experimentation’. When in doubt as to how to handle a situation, she would ask herself What would a man do in this situation? and then (sometimes crudely but always with the utmost sincerity) behave as she imagined her male counterpart would. She had more raw courage than many men. And she was a lot smarter than most. That combination intimidated all potential suitors except the very brave and the very unperceptive. (For nothing emasculates like a cunning rogue with ovaries!)

Her controlled experiments were sometimes glorious. (Like the time she had a one-night stand with a man much too gorgeous for her, then refused to see him again. He became obsessed, sending flowers daily to her workplace and home AND leaving messages begging for a date! Her friends and coworkers were amazed and envious.) Sometimes, they turned out disastrously. (Like the time she woke up in a trashy hotel in North Carolina, after having too much chemical fun. She had apparently married a man too young to legally contract in any state but a few, select southern ones – North Carolina being the closest. That one cost her $500 and several sleepless nights to undo.) Most of the time, however, the experiments were inconclusive – too many variables were present for her to maintain control over them all or to interpret the outcomes with certainty. (Like the times lovers didn’t call and didn’t seem to notice that she didn’t call them, either, or that she was dating a new guy every night.) Yet, she would plunge into one intense experience after another, immersing herself in the strange brew of novelty (never sure whether the taste was zesty or putrid)!

Whenever any recognition of her struggle confronted her, Rita became depressed. And her depressions could last for weeks. She had learned to pull herself out of such blackness by throwing herself into activity. (Such shifting between frenzied activity and periodic lassitude is characteristic of manic-depression, but she never enjoyed the euphoria of mania.) One might assume her experiments were the result of this activity but such activity actually followed the experimentation! In other words, after she’d pull herself out of an abyss with a rip-roaring, hormone-capitulating, self-affirming escapade, then she’d invest all of her energy into keeping the momentum going. Finally, all ATP spent, she’d crash like a coke-head on the downslide and lapse into depression again. Her adventures, therefore, usually started low-key.

On the bleak, rainy Thursday after the Challenger Spacecraft exploded, she was feeling burned-out and empty again. A rare, free evening presented the prospect of being alone – an intolerable condition that Thursday. So she found herself ordering a Rusty Nail at Cleopatra’s – the place one goes when one doesn’t know where to go or what to do. There, a sprinkling of lost souls were drinking.

‘ot tea with cream, please!

She turned to face the young, British voice placing the unusual order. Shiny black hair stood straight up on his pale head, against all gravitational force. Small gold earrings lined his right lobe. His black jacket had a fringe of leather hanging from each arm like a string of icicles. And a smiling display of off-white teeth responded to her gaze.

‘i, Love! ‘ow ya doin’ ?

Before she could respond, a second cockney voice joined in. Monty, ‘o’s de lovely bird? Curly brown hair with a violent yellow streak up the left side presented a soft contrast to Monty’s black spike. Blue eyes looked intensely into hers. A shy smile teased her. This Brit wore blue denim down to his brown boots. He was more her type.

Go ‘way, wanker! I saw ‘er first!

All three of them laughed self-consciously and settled in for serious flirtation. More tea and Rusty Nails were ordered. Their conversation was inane but served as the vehicle for sexual messages flying between them. An hour and a half whizzed by and the bar filled with noisy survivors as the unlikely trio drank, laughed and wondered exactly what was going to happen and to whom.

The impetus to make The Move came when a third Brit intruded abruptly. Let’s go, wankers! We can’t spend the ‘ole friggin’ night ‘ere! His face looked peculiar – thin, bony, like some sort of spaced-out bird.

She smiled at him but he turned his back to her, either too stoned or too rude to acknowledge her friendliness. She realized this cockney goon was about to steal her sustenance! Leaning toward her prey, she whispered, I have some kind bud at home! Want to come to my place and party a little?

Two amazed young men nodded acceptance when they regained control of their neck muscles.

Great! Then get rid of your seedy friend and meet me outside in exactly five minutes!

Six long minutes later, her new playmates appeared on the sidewalk in front of the bar. They looked excited and a bit scared, rubbing their hands together while looking around. Both were talking at the same time. She stepped out of the shadows and slipped her arms around their waists, positioning her body between them. Let’s party!, she said in her most sultry voice. Nervous laughter lingered behind as the cozy threesome marched in unison toward life’s best adventure: sexual danger.

At her place, the clear processing of events halted when the marijuana was broken out. Amazing music, incredibly funny repartee, and brilliant insights were enjoyed. Two hours flew by without perception. Then the realization hit that the night was waxing old and time was not on her side. She looked at the young men sitting on her futon and assessed the situation quickly. Just look at those cupcakes! Her initial thoughts were self-congratulatory. Not bad for an old, drunk chick! Then strategy became her focus. They’re both so cute! And they both want you – they’ve made that very clear! You’ve always wanted to try it with two men! And how often will you find this situation – you find them equally attractive, equally sexy?! And you trust them both! Why not go for it?! The idea that had been brewing all night finally took form. You know, she started slowly, I am a very direct person!

Sensing something exciting was coming next, her trophies turned and stared at each other. You ‘ear what she said, wanker? She’s very direct! Spike raised his eyebrows and slapped Curly’s leg, in male-ritual communication.

Yes, she continued, I am very direct! I don’t believe in playing games!

She doesn’t believe in playing games! He repeated her words and his gestures, obviously trying to communicate more than was being said.

I find you very appealing! She paused for effect. Both of you! Curly and Spike sat transfixed, a look of terror on the face of the first and a frightened smile glued to the now-quiet mouth of the second. Let’s be totally honest, shall we? I would like to have sex with each of you. I think it’s pretty obvious that each of you would like to have sex with me. Have you ever had a fantasy about having sex with more than one person?

Pretending incomprehension, both started talking at once while looking at each other nervously. "Yes, yes… oh,