A Quickie with Horace

“Have you ever seen Mr. Scimedi put cash in his pocket?”

“Who?”

“Horace Scimedi.”

Oh. That was his name. The answer was obviously “yes” but I felt unsure what we were actually trying to accomplish. “Who are you guys, again?”

Agent Stanely Danver and Mathie Theresplanti of the Warring Commision, a new branch of the Secret Service. Obviously they were trying to get Horace for tax evasion or the way he may or may not hire students before they were ready.

I didn’t feel very comfortable answering their questions. Not that I am one of those hypocrites who live in a bad neighborhood and never helped the police. Nah, Horace had great coffee and I didn’t care where it came from.

“Mr. Goroundus?”

… “hold on, I’m thinking.”

They seemed to be very intimidated by my truck which was a late model Chevy. I chose the intimidator packages with the 22 inch reinflatable tires and rims. There was a dark tint over the upper part of the windshield though we lived on a foggy beach. The back part of the truck was long enough to carry many bodies. And my dog hadn’t eaten. Not even a treat.

The tall one leaned in and said, “This could go very well for you.”

I didn’t understand.

He said they gave free houses and a monthly allowance for anyone who might help their country.

“You guys recruiters for the military?”

The short one whispered, “Think bigger.”

“Space Force?”

Then the short one grimaced like they were confused, “Think security.”

I couldn’t think without my coffee and asked them if they wanted to go inside the Cafe Majoro instead of standing outside like some kind of homeless people. So I decided to whisper: “They'll even let you use the bathrooms for free.”

I could tell the tall one woke up angry and had too much carrot juice. He sort of hopped around every three questions because too many carrots can change the texture of the skin and gravity makes it a thick gravy for the bladder. The short one was more focused.

“Mister Goroundus…”

“Tom. “ I put out the hand so we could shake on the name change.

“Tom, how would you like to see all of your dead heroes in the same magical museum environment at the same time?”

They whispered that they had the security papers to make that happen. I had no idea what resurrection studies had to do with Horace… err.. Mr. Scimedi.

Then I laughed, “You saying his coffee wakes up the dead? That’s funny.”

They didn’t laugh. This was very very serious because people had been trying to revive their loved ones without going religious for many years.

When I took a deep breath of the morning dew, my dog followed, and took a large gulp. We were both breathing the virgin air of our ancestors and starting to get just a little bit hungry.

Before continuing with the messing of Horace, I wanted some sort of guarantee that they knew who they were resurrecting. “Who’s the target?”

If them dumb bastards dared to bring back my aunt Martha -- I was going to have a fit. She was the world’s most evangelical tax payer, and always made us feel guilty if we didn’t tip the Auditors before Christmas. Aunt Martha was like the white sheep of the family, always trying to sacrifice herself for a good cause and bring the rest of us down? No, probably up to her level. It was very annoying and we all started to hate Christmas.

They promised they weren’t messing with my Aunt Martha and then they tried to slip two ticket to the San Francisco Giants home game. They weren’t even good tickets and I could tell these federal officers were new to negotiations. Their weapons looked so shiny that I didn’t even think they practiced at the gun range very often.

“How about this… Why don’t I just go ask Horace if he can help you(z)?”

**

Now the funny thing about standing over a grave at Forest Lawn cemetery near Los Angeles? You would think that everyone is all organized by rows and columns, that the people who mow the grass never sort of pick up the headstones and forget the order in which they come in.

“Hurry…”

Horace had one rule, the coffee had to be fresh or it wouldn’t work. The officers from the Warring Commission had to get that grave open with a backhoe, reach down and wrap what was the left of the coffin with a hoist strap and have the bucket engineers and the plasma torches standing by. It wasn't going to work if they tried government style efficiency because Horace only sold “pour overs” and his coffee never sat, even for a minute, before he had to serve it.

We were going after the body and spirit of Howard Hughes. Something about new super golden dome to protect the Americas. I didn’t know that Howard Hughes had invented the spring loaded mouse trap, (along with the safety parts of a helicopter, missile guidance systems from the actress Headi Lamar and the original shape of Cheese-Its. ) The man was a certifiable genius.

They brought this clank rectangular box thing up which was very popular in the last century. Some people wanted to get all organic and get buried in a pine box, other people are into safety sealing and go for the aluminum or the titanium. It all ends up in the same place and the end of its work life.

We stepped back and Horace put a clothespin over his nose and stepped forward, hot water kettle in one hand and a funnel loaded with his resurrection bean, carefully measured. Horace says the last thing you want to do is wake the dead with super strength coffee. His resurrection formula is for the slightly dead, then there’s the mostly dead. (Just think of defrost cycles needed before the oven). It’s all about avoiding the rubbery parts of a personality they don’t have time to thaw from one state to the next.

All the working crew had long crowbars and began to energetically pry at the last remains of Howard Hughes. All except me and Mia who wanted to avoid certain smells and enjoy the sun rising over the tops of the San Gabriel mountains.

WAZOOOM!

God, it was terrible, like a septic truck crashed on the freeway. The officers all bent over and we looked at Horace who was still standing there with his coffee. “You guys ready?”

We learned later that the man lost his olfactory while getting his hair cut in Spain. Apparently they clipped way too close to his ear and severed the electrical signal which makes things have any real odor. The clothes pin was about keeping tradition because people in the Food Sciences are suppose to have great noses.

“Tommy… you ready?”

Horace grinned like I never seen him raise the dead.

Fuck, this one time, my mom got the glimoplstoma right before she was going to give me all her stuff in a will. Horace’s coffee woke her right up and she donated her estate to a cat charity. Oh well. She died happy.

Horace looked away as the hot boiling water went throught the madagascar wood funnel onto the the Resurrection Roast which was tightly ground, more like an espresso. We watched and waited while it dripped… one one thousand… tow one thousand… three…

A dead guy with half a face popped out of the box except it didn’t look anything like the former leader of RKO pictures. There was no goatee, no sign of fighting the decaying of afterlife. In fact I didn’t think at one sight that it looked like Howard Hughes at all.

The agents came forward to help him down and Horace came walking over to me so we could view. Were they just going to ask him questions or… ?

“I don’t think that’s Howard Hughes.’ whispered my bud.

“Bro…I’m so out of that one. “

We were about to take a sip of the hot bean when we realized it wasn’t the regular stuff that Horace served us at the cafe and we both dumped it to the side and the grass grew real fast and became various equatorial plants.

The dead guy started hitting people all over the head like they were bongo drums. We all watched as he made a mighty drum solo on Agent Meriweather’s brow until ten guards tackled the corpse.

I asked Horace to excuse me for a second as I ran over and tried to read the old toe tag. “Nah. This one says Jefferey Porcaro. Who’se that?”

They didn’t care but put him it cuffs. Since it was nearly 2,000 years since the resurrection of the Messiah (dated birth at -6, or -4 depends on the expert) we had to act fast and get up all the graves next to Jeff Porcaro who was obviously not Howard Hughes by his drumming.

Over the next few hours, Horace made his mighty brew and poured just a few drops onto every corpse and they came to life and looked totally different than their graven image.

I checked the toe tags of each one, “after”, because the Warring Commision was completely dedicated to uncovering every stone and dead person to get what they wanted. These guys must have dug up at least 12 different old rockers.

.

..

I turn to my kid and point at “Uncle” Horace. That’s why we got to go to the fair and listen to bands that haven’t had a hit in twenty years. “You get it?”

She does.

It’s important to do the right thing and dead people don’t like to get new jobs.