Gang Boss Arthur Pt 2

I awoke in the field hospital at Shangri-La.

All clean and warm and dry.

My foot throbbed and sort of oozed a bit.

But the pick was gone.

“Bless you,” I said

To the Company doctors,

Feeling very grateful.

They just smiled and took my pulse.

A few days later 

I learned it was Arthur

Who saved my foot,

Not the doctors.

Some of the men from my gang

Came to visit me in Auckland 

At the big hospital

Where I’d been transferred,

And they told me all about it.

“When the doctors at Shangri-La

Saw what a mess your foot was in,” 

Said my workmates,

“They was going to just

Cut the bleedin thing off.

But Arthur laid into them something fierce!  

That got ‘em shifting their bloody asses pronto 

To save you… 

And your bleedin foot!”

My workmates laughed heartily 

At the memory and added,

“They wasn’t ready for a bleedin 

Bastard like our Arthur!”

“Nobody ever is!” I said,

And the men laughed even more.

The men laughed because it was true.

Have you ever noticed how

The truly brave face life 

With laughter in their hearts?

Then, with a rare but temporary sense

Of respect, they added,

“That Arthur! He sure showed them!”

Oh! The contradictions of life!

Now they were proud 

Of the terrible gang boss 

They’d once feared.

Later Arthur visited me 

At the big hospital in Auckland, too.

“You’ll be okay, you little shit!” he snarled.

I was nervous about his visit until 

He laughed and said the Company 

Wanted their pick back.

As we talked I could see for the first time 

That Arthur was actually a human being,

And not just a ferocious gang boss 

Always shouting orders

And wanting things done.

So I asked him 

Why he was so tough 

On me in the beginning,

When I first joined his gang.

“The men had to see 

That I showed no favorites,” he replied.

“And I wanted you to learn,” he added,

“To stand upon your own two feet.”

Then he roared with laughter!

“Two feet!” he laughed.

“A-haw haw haw!”

“Huh?” I said, but then I got it and

I began laughing too.

“Shhhh,” hissed the nurse

Who came running.

“Quiet please! This is a hospital!”

“Oh, shit!” whispered Arthur sheepishly

When he’d caught his breath. 

“Sorry, Sister.”

“Humph!” she answered,

Staring us down like we were naughty children.

Like most healthy men, 

Arthur despised the hospital.

And I think he was a little

Intimidated by the nurse, too.

I know I was.

“Well, take ‘er easy, mate,” whispered Arthur,

Anxious to be gone.

“Wait a minute, Arthur,” I said.

“I’d like to thank you…”

“Forget it!” said Arthur.

Then to change the subject 

He cursed hospitals ferociously

For about ten minutes

Hardly stopping for breath,

Ending with something about the nursing staff, 

And what the whole bloody lot of them 

Could bleedin-well do 

With their blasted hospital!

Then he said goodbye and walked out, 

Followed by the nurse’s stern, 

Yet I thought somehow admiring, gaze.

He’s been dead a long time,

Arthur the gang boss.

Killed in an accident 

A few years later

When a Caterpillar D-9

Ran off its own tracks

And tumbled down an embankment.

Arthur was standing at the bottom

Of the embankment, 

Urinating against a bush.

They say he never knew what hit him.

But I wouldn’t know.

I’d already left by then

To begin my journey as an artist.

Sometimes I wonder where Arthur is now.

I hope he’s happy,

And not squashed too flat

By the bulldozer to enjoy the afterlife.

Because I owe him a lot.

A lot he wouldn’t want, probably.

And instead of sentimental horse shit 

Like saying you’re welcome,

He would probably suggest 

Most strongly that I shove it!

Way up where the sun don’t shine!

So from the year 2016,

Arthur, wherever you are, 

From the bottom of my heart

As I stand upon my own two feet,

I thank you!

I love you.

You big son-of-a-bitch.

Gang Boss Arthur

When I was a young lad in New Zealand,

I began my working life

At the bottom 

Of a road construction ditch.

I was a navvy.

Better known today as a manual laborer.

My job was to shovel the shit 

That had accumulated

Within the ditch.

To shovel it from the bottom

Of the ditch to the top. 

And sometimes for a change

From the top to the bottom.

I was in a work gang

Composed of a dozen or so men.

Our gang and many others

Were way up in the boondocks

North of Auckland,

Cutting scrub, clearing lines,

And of course as always digging ditches,

Getting things ready 

For the big earthmoving machines

Due to start in the summer.

We were miles from civilization,

So far beyond 

The back of beyond

That we lived in our own tent city, 

Which we called Shangri-La,

Complete with canteen, laundry, hospital, etc,

And even a barber shop on Sundays 

When we got a half day off.

Our gang boss was named Arthur.

He was the toughest 

Gang boss there was.

He was feared by all,

For he could be a violent man

When he felt he’d been disrespected,

Or when the men slacked off too much,

Or if he just happened to be feeling that way.

His language was fierce too.

The most ferocious in The Company,

Adding to his reputation 

As one tough son-of-a-bitch gang boss 

Who didn’t take any crap 

From anybody!

A reputation of which Arthur was very proud.

When I first began working 

In the ditches 

I was sixteen-years-old.

I hadn’t spent much time 

In the company of grown men yet,

So I was afraid of Arthur

With his fierce reputation and his swinging fists.

He detected this, 

And seeing the men saw it also,

He treated me with extra hostility,

As if to break my spirit

And bend me to his will.

“Watch out for Arthur.”

The men warned me.

“He’s a mean one.”

“What’s he got against me?” I wondered.

But nobody knew.

So I stayed out of Arthur’s way

As much as I could,

And shoveled the shit

As best as I was able.

A philosophy I still practice today.

Then one day, 

While shoveling shit 

From the bottom of a ditch

Way out in the middle of nowhere,

I was struck in the foot with a pickaxe.

The man in the ditch next to me

Slipped and lost control  

Just as he swung with all his might,

And into my foot his pickaxe went!

It bled terribly and hurt like hell!

The pick had stuck in my foot

And wouldn’t come out,

Much to the amusement of my workmates

Standing in the ditch with me,

Who didn’t immediately comprehend

The severity of the situation.

I didn’t either, 

And seeing the others were laughing

I laughed too and pointed at my foot, saying,

“Somebody take a picture!”

And other foolish nonsense

As my boot filled with blood.

Not Arthur, though.

He understood right away!

He jumped into the ditch,

Pushing the other workers aside,

And hoisted me out.

Then without attempting to remove the pick from my foot

He applied a tourniquet above my ankle

With the sweaty bandana from round his neck,

After ordering one of the men 

To fetch his goddamned truck and be quick about it

So he could get me to the hospital.

That’s when I passed out.

Five Zen Monday

Fresh Zen

My zen is fresh today.

There’s nothing wrong with yesterday’s zen.

It’s still good.

But that was yesterday.

This is today.

Zen is like food.

You need it everyday.

Even if today you are sated,

And everything’s just ducky,

There is still tomorrow.

That’s the beauty of it!

One needs fresh zen everyday

To nourish you for life’s journey.

See you tomorrow.

The Zen of Crows

A murder of crows landed in the large oak tree 

That overhangs my home.

That’s what you call a gathering of these large black birds.

A murder.

Who thought up that name, I wonder?

It is very zen!

Anyway, from beneath the tree 

I watched and listened,

While I drank some tea.

The crows were very noisy and active.

I might even call it confused or chaotic.

They seemed to be without zen.

I put down my tea,

And I clapped my hands 

As I arose from my seat shouting.

“Where’s your zen?” I shouted.

The crows took flight

And circled overhead. 

Then as if by mutual consent

As one they flew away to the north

Making a beautiful pattern against the clear blue sky.

“Aha,” I said to myself.

“There’s the zen.”

Underwater Zen

I went swimming in the rain today.

Not something one usually does in Florida.

Usually when it rains in Florida,

It pours!

With plenty of lightning too.

Hence no swimming in the rain.

But today was different.

Maybe it’s global warming,

But today it rained with no lightning.

The pool looked inviting,

So in I went!

But before that I stripped down

And I stood in the rain

Getting wet.

Enjoying the experience.

Naked in the rain.

“You could stand to lose a few pounds,” said my zen.

“Really?” I answered.

Screw you 

I thought.

Then I jumped in.

Underwater in the pool

I could hear the rain pattering

Above me at the water’s surface.

As I held my breath

I could hear my blood in my ears,

Pounding through my veins.

But in my distraction with these noises

I couldn’t hear my zen.

When I came up for air,

As one must inevitably do,

I saw flashes in the sky.

Uh-oh.

“C’mon,” said my zen.

“You’d better get out of the pool.

There’s a storm coming.”

Then I heard the thunder.

“Thank you,” I said, taking the towel

My zen offered as I stepped from the pool.

The next lightning flash was brighter,

The thunder louder, closer.

“Sorry,” I added while drying off,

“About the screw you.”

Smart Zen

My zen doesn’t think.

It knows.

Creative Director Zen

“Hey!” I said to Trooper

During a recent video-shoot.

(Trooper is the Rusty Pliers Brand Creative Director.

He is responsible for every aspect of Rusty’s look

From book covers to business cards to posters

To web design to google pages to Rusty’s clothes and hairdo

And even what brand of gin 

Rusty passes out holding…)

He’s the real genius behind the patch.

“Hell!” as Rusty would say,

“Trooper thought up the blasted patch!”

Which is such perfect Rusty because 

It should be the truth but it’s a lie.

(I do need the patch.)

Only Rusty would’ve used more curse words.

It’s true about everything else. 

All I do is write the stuff, 

And show up to be

Videoed or photographed.

“In these videos you’re making lately

I’m always looking like an angry old drunk,”

I said to Trooper.

“I’m supposed to look

Like a wise zen master,

Ain’t I?” I asked.

“What are you doing wrong?” I wondered.

I glared at Trooper

While I sipped my third G&T of the morning

And guess what?

I experienced a zen moment.

Hmmm. 

I really was

The Angry,

Old, 

Drunk.

Trooper’s video 

Had shown me 

To myself.

Oh! How terrible  

Is Enlightenment

When it comes!

“Sorry man,” said Trooper.

“Let’s try a few more takes.”

Trooper is very patient with the talent, as he calls me.

I like that about him.

“Maybe we can catch the feeling you’re looking for,”

He suggested. “Before we lose the light.

If not I’ll try to fake it later in the studio.”

I like that about Trooper too.

“Okay! Let’s try another take!

“You ready, Rusty?

“Maybe you could put the drink down 

“And we’ll try one without it.”

“Anything you say, Trooper,” I answered.

At that moment 

I was very thankful

For Trooper and his strong zen.

His strong loving patient zen.

Just who the heck 

Is the zen master around here, anyway?

Me?

Or

Trooper?

“Remember Rusty,” he said bending down behind the video camera,

“Try not to curse too much.

Don’t look into the camera.

Keep it fresh!”

“And be …

In the moment.”

Aha, I thought!

That’s the zen of it!

Trooper, you magnificent bastard!

Thank you 

For showing me

Where my zen was.