New Year's Wishes from Rusty Pliers

Hello Everybody.

It’s me, Sam Ewing.

I’m the writer Rusty Pliers.

I’m writing this poem 

(Which does’t rhyme)

To simply say,

From Rusty and myself;

Thank You!

Thank you for reading Rusty Pliers this year!

We’ve come a long way together,

Or does it just feel like that?

Looking ahead to the coming year,

A cliche I found impossible to avoid

Even after three double martinis,

You might like to know that

Rusty has some good things cooking for 2016.

For instance, Rusty’s blog 

Will continue to post once a week. 

We think that’s enough Rusty for most folks. 

If you need more, let me know,

But I freely admit that 

At my age two or three times a week 

Is getting harder and harder to do.

[Pause for snickering?]

From time to time the blog will feature 

Rusty’s return to America in the 1980s 

And his subsequent career in big league animation.

I worked for Walt Disney, have I mentioned it?

Ha! Ha! Of course I have!

About a million times.

I like to brag about it. 

And in case that bores you,

Although I cannot imagine how,

There’ll also be the usual 

Shit you’ve come to expect

From the blog of Rusty Pliers!

“Oh yeah? I’ve slept in a garage, 

But that doesn’t make me an automobile!”

As my dad used to say.

I never knew quite what dad meant 

And he never explained it. 

But I threw that bit in

About him not being an automobile

To add depth and pathos to this poem,

Which sorely needs it right about here.

And to quash any rumors that I never knew who he was.

My father I mean.

Pathos?

I never knew him either.

Ha! Ha!

Funny, eh?

Touching too.

I’m touching myself right now.

If we get lucky 

And find a brilliant editor 

Dumb enough to work on spec 

(Like the rest of us do),

This coming year should see the launch of a few of Rusty’s books.

Order yours today!

Including a heartwarming masterpiece about a boy transplanted from California and growing up in New Zealand, currently entitled Hold the Beetroot.

There will also be collection of short stories.

And my first volume of Zen Poems.

I repeat, order yours today!

Maybe we can finally monetize this thing!

But I personally doubt it.

At the rate we’re going

I think the best we can hope for

Is that Rusty will finally get popular

Years after I’m dead.

Until then it’ll have to remain

What it’s always been;

Art for Art’s sake.

Rusty has plans to perform 

In person more often this year, too.

He wants to make new fans 

And connect with old ones.

He loves to wear the patch!

While consuming a few libations…

Before he falls off the stage.

Rusty has vowed that his performances

Will be 20% funnier this year.

Which shouldn't be too difficult,

Judging by last year

And a few of his odder readings.

But Rusty never promised,

While performing this act of his, 

To wear trousers, or refrain 

From so-called dangerous fire effects!

That’s a matter for the courts to decide.

Until then, why don’t you come out 

And see what happens

When Rusty reads?

There will also be a lot of creative nonsense posted to the internet

For a laugh and to build Rusty’s readership.

After all, frankly speaking,

That is our aim.

To have a laugh

And build Rusty’s readership.

We want to reach out 

And touch people

In a meaningful way.

But I’ve already mentioned the touching,

Haven’t I?

You might be surprised 

To have learned 

That we work pretty hard around here,

Me and the people who bring Rusty to life.

I know I was.

Yes! We’ve got stuff of all kinds in the works!

So please stay tuned 

To Rusty Pliers the Writer.

You won’t be disappointed.

I once had that whispered to me

By a beautiful Las Vegas hooker

In the bar of Caesar’s Palace,

And guess what?

She/he was right!

But that’s another story.

Sounds like a Rusty kind of story,

It being about Las Vegas.

It has a good moral too;

“Expect the unexpected.”

Aha! That Rusty!

He was born with a gift of laughter!

And a mighty thirst for the truth!

If it’s answers you seek,

He’s got the questions!

It doesn’t hurt that he’s a good kisser, either!

So I’ve been told.

You can find Rusty 

On Instagram, Twitter, Facebook, etc.

Please have a look

During your coffee break.

Or while you’re on the john.

But not while you drive, okay?

Because we love you.

It’s for you that we do 

All the crap I just mentioned.

That, and because we love nonsense

Of almost any kind around here.

So let me remind you please 

To enjoy your Rusty responsibly!

In order that I might sleep soundly at night,

And not be worried by what Rusty’s fans

Get up to on the roads

Or in the john 

Or elsewhere in this wicked world.

I beg of you be careful.

Rusty would not even exist without you.

Or he’d exist in my mind only,

Which would be a sad state of affairs,

And a sorry prison for Rusty Pliers.

Anyway, to end this non-rhyming poem

Where I began it, 

At the cliche-ridden bottom of 

The heart of Rusty Pliers,

I’ll say again;

Thanks for reading Rusty Pliers!

We love you!

Have a freakin 

Awesome 

New Year! 

And Good Luck 

For 2016!

Well, that about does it for my poem.

Time to put my work away.

I’m buying this round bartender,

Make mine a Harvey Wallbanger.

And please ask the boys in the backroom

What they’re having.

The drinks are on me!

(If you’ll accept my credit card.)

Bottoms up!

Er, excuse me miss.

You look familiar. 

Didn’t we once meet in Las Vegas?

Thanks for reading Rusty.

I love you.

Brief Interruption

“Ding dong.”

“There’s the bloody doorbell,”  I muttered to myself. “Hell!”

I tapped command S on the keyboard and got up to see who was at the door.

“Hi,” said a young man when I opened it. “Ah, yeah. Hi. I was admiring your garden. Well, really my wife was admiring it… and she asked me to to ask you…what was that tree over there in the corner? The big pink one?”

“Oh,” I said, stepping outside. I was wearing my usual winter writing attire. Worn-out hoodie, faded T-shirt, flannel pajama bottoms and fuzzy slippers. The slippers were a Christmas gift from my wife, who I still believe loves me in spite of the slippers. They are truly hideous, but they are warm and comfy. I like to be warm and comfy when I write, or at least my feet do. 

I politely looked to where he was pointing, although I knew without looking which tree he meant. “That’s a Tabebuia tree,” I said.

“A what?” he asked. 

“A Tabebuia tree,” I repeated. He doesn’t look like a gardener, I thought to myself. Not that they have a definite look. Anyone can be a gardener. All around the world, anywhere you go, people tend to gardens. From paupers to kings. But he doesn’t seem to fit the mould. He’s in his mid-thirties, wearing a Yankees baseball cap (backwards), closely trimmed beard, sunglasses and sports clothes.

“Let me write it down for you,“ I offered. 

“Thanks,” he said. Over his shoulder I saw an Audi parked at the curb, with a large dog half hanging out the passenger window, its attention unwavering from its master in the Yankees cap. 

“Sure, no problem,” I replied. “Would you like to see the rest of the garden?”

“Uh, no, not really. I’m late for the links. Golf’s my thing, and I’ve got to drop my dog off at the vet first. Dixie’s her name.”

“Dixie’s your dog’s name?” I asked.

“No,” he answered. 

“Dixie’s your vet’s name, then?” I asked.

“No,” he answered.

“Your wife’s?” I wondered.

“Right,” he answered. “She’s into gardening and wondered what that tree was.”

“The vet?” I asked.

“No,” he answered.

“Your dog?” I asked.

“No.”

“Your wife?” I said.

“Right,” he laughed.

Then I remembered it was Saturday. Probably his day off, and here he was wasting it talking with me. How nice to be a writer, I mused, and work whenever I wanted to, and not work whenever I didn’t want to. 

I hardly realize what day it is anymore. 

Ha! Ha! Some people have been saying that about me for years!

“Yeah,” I agreed. “My wife too. 

“Your wife’s name is Dixie too?” he asked incredulously.

“No!” I laughed. “My wife’s name is Saucy Boy. She’s very proud of her garden and enjoys working in it too, like Dixie does.” 

That was true, her nickname is Saucy Boy and she is an avid gardener. Our garden had even won ‘Yard of the Month’ in the neighborhood more than once, and, like today, complete strangers sometimes knocked on the door to ask what was this plant or that shrub in the front yard.

“Your wife’s name is Saucy Boy?” he asked.

“Uh-huh,” I nodded. “She got that name because she’s saucy, not because she’s a boy.”

Yes, I thought, my wife is saucy. And she loves to work in the garden. It’s one of her favorite things to do. She is curious about life and nature, and takes delight in beauty. I like to work in the garden, too. We have a very nice suburban tropical garden, with many palm trees and some interesting bamboos. The private garden in the back is colorful and cozy and contemplative. 

Over the years my wife and I together have made our garden what it is, achieving more as a team than we ever could as individuals. Sharing the joy of work and the satisfaction of a job well done. And maybe sometimes, as happens when you’re married, disagreeing about what to plant where or when to water it or even why the heck one bothers trying to get along with you in the first place in this blasted Florida heat and humidity!

“Be right back,” I said. I left him there and went to fetch a pencil and paper.

He turned towards the Audi. “Just be a minute girl!” he called to the dog. 

I presume he called to the dog. He’d be pretty stupid if he’d called that out to the car, now wouldn’t he?

“Here ya go,” I said when I returned. I handed him a piece of paper with the name of the tree written on it.

“Well …nice garden,” he said. “Thanks for the info. Dixie’ll love it! See ya.” 

We shook hands, then he turned and walked down the path, pausing to glance at the Tabebuia tree.

His dog was happy at his return, excitedly welcoming him into the car. 

I watched him start his car and drive it to the end of the cul-de-sac, turn around and drive past the house. I like cars and sometimes watching them is a pleasure. As he passed me he waved his thanks. 

I waved back, closed the front door and started towards my office.