The Mystery of the Missing Don Rickles Videos

One evening while my mother and I were sitting quietly, watching re-runs of "Chico and the Man" on TV Land, there came a knock upon the door. We were both startled, as neither of us had left the house in weeks, and we were most definitely not expecting visitors of any kind-especially gentlemen callers.

My mother was hoping it might be Staci, even though I've told her over and over that Staci isn't coming to visit until the mad Chicago winds die down and all the ice melts from around her Jetta.

Then Mom decided that it was probably Darby and hoped he wouldn't be "smashed out of his tree and flying off at the mouth about the Smiths versus Morrissey as a solo artist" like last time.

Well, after we ran through a list of people we hoped it might be, as well as people we hoped it wouldn't be, the rapping at the door became two-fisted banging, the fellow outside bellowing, "Don't make me bust this door down! Or I swear I'll rip you apart with my bare hands once I get inside!"

I smiled from ear to ear, for I knew it was Jim. When I told her this, my mother fainted from joy.

He had a cross look on his face. "Look, Stimpy, I got that Lulu Whippy on her bike out here waiting to take me back to Fairhope. Do you still have all my Don Rickles videos? Because *** ******* is supposed to be coming over tomorrow night."

When I said I'd never had his Don Rickles videos, Jim flew into a terrible rage! "Don't you lie to me! I distinctly remember letting you borrow them one night when you were all about Vanessa (the girl)."

Incredulous, I reminded Jim that I hadn't spoken to Vanessa in almost nine years!

"You mean to tell me you've had my Don Rickles videos for close to a decade, and never thought I might need them back? I've got a big night planned! This is *** ****** we're talking about, not the Town Whore!"

My mother was coming to her senses and murmuring, "How does it end? Ask Jim how that book of his is going to end! I can't wait until he's finished! I have to know, now." Then she caught a glimpse of Jim in the doorway, and slumped back over.

I just had to shrug. I had no idea where his videos were. I had no idea where Vanessa (the girl) was. Or even where Vanessa (the cat) might be.

Suddenly, as if every synapse in his head went off at once, Jim snapped his fingers and clasped my shoulder. "I'm sorry, Stimpy, I just remembered," he said, then turned on his heel, shouting, "Lulu, you take me to Summit Street right now. And we're not leaving there until Mary Mullins gives me back those videos Lynne Wiggins borrowed from me."

When my mother woke up, she thought it had all been a dream. But she insisted that in the dream, Jim had told her the ending to his book, which you can read below.

CHAPTER XXXVIII

Sonny and Nick took the reward money in one lump sum and divided it equally once they got to the old cave down by the Fly Creek cafe. They got a lot of offers to tell their tale of horror and near-death—offers from TV, newspapers, slick New York magazines. But they couldn’t be swayed, not for fame or more fortune.

Just as they counted the last bill, Martin Lanaux burst through the entrance of the cave waving his ball cap.

“Hey, fellas! Listen, I gotta tell y'all somethin!” he croaked, pulling his cap down on his head and biting his fingers. “It’s about that money y'all have in those bags there!”

The Poet of Tolstoy Park Sonny Brewer

Nick looked at Sonny, who was scowling at Martin. “Martin, now, if you’ve come in here to tell us this money rightfully belongs to Miss ***** *** *****, save yer breath. She sent ******* by here already with some cock & bull—”

“Oh, Sonny,” Martin said, taking off his cap and twisting it in his hands. “It’s nothing like that. But it ain’t good news, no doubt about it.”

Sonny touched Nick with his elbow. “Look at ole Martin, just a-squawkin and a-squirmin,” he laughed. “He’s got the nerves of a cat in a room fulla rockin chairs! Haw haw!”

Martin threw down his cap and waved his arms in the air. “Ah shoot, you two! Just never mind! You’ll find out soon enough!” he said. Then he bent over to pick up his hat. “You’ll wish you’da listened to me.”

“Bah!” Sonny shouted as Martin fled the old cave. “Come on, Nick—let’s go git some pork chops and eggs at the Waffle House!”

But Nick wouldn’t leave the cave. And he’s still there, staring at his money and rubbing his chin.

THE END

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