Never Get Off The Merry-Go-Round! (Pt 4)

What our friends didn’t understand was that Suzie and I felt we had nothing to lose. 

After all, everything we owned fitted into just three suitcases! 

Suzie’s eyes sparkled with excitement at the idea of America. She liked to travel and see new things. That’s why she became a travel agent. That, and to earn enough money to eat as I’ve explained. She had tremendous curiosity about the world and was remarkably free of emotional tethers to places and things. 

Suzie was a wanderer. A true free spirit. A rock-and-roll angel.

“We’re not waiting for our ship to come in, Nicky,” she’d said a few weeks before, when we told Nick and his wife of our decision to leave New Zealand. “We’re going to swim out to it!” 

We talked it over with them. That’s when I first saw the look from our friends. The look that said you’re crazy to go and try animation in America! Making cartoons? You’re barely eking out a living now, how will you survive the mean streets of New York City? 

In his youth Nick had done some O.E. (Overseas Experience) in the States, so he understood its allure. He and Suzie had worked together for years in the travel business too, so he understood her pretty well. He even understood me to some extent. 

Nick was good with people. 

It was animation that he couldn’t understand. He’d watched me work at it obsessively over the years and never seem to get ahead. Which was true, we weren’t very far ahead, as far as money and things of that nature. But we’d seen the world a bit and done a few things, Suzie and I, so I wasn't concerned about how far ahead or behind we were.

It helps tremendously in life to be young and stupid, sometimes. 

Nick turned from me and embraced Suzie. They were special friends, he and her, she having worked for him from the beginning and helped to grow his travel agency in downtown Onehunga.* 

“Keep the home fires burning, sweetie!” laughed Suzie in he musical voice. “Shame. We’ll be back before you know it.” 

She kissed Nick’s cheek, leaving a smear of lipstick, before adding, “I just want to look at America and take in the sights. It ought to be fun!” 

“Keep in touch, Suzie,” said Nick. “The place won’t be the same without you.”

I could easily believe that. 

Suzie laughed again and Nick couldn’t help but join her. 

Suzie’s laughter was like champagne, bubbly and bright and hard to resist.

I tugged her arm.

“C’mon!” I said and we began to run for gate seven.

*Pronounced "Oh-knee-hun-gah." 

Never Get Off The Merry-Go-Round! (Pt 3)

They announced our flight for the third time.

“Time to go, Suzie,” I suggested.  

“Just now,” she answered. Which if you know a South African means in a second or a minute or an hour or a day. If ever. Suzie cared little for punctuality, that must be said, but somehow it only added to her charm. 

“Keep your flaps down, dahling,” she added with a laugh. “Or you’ll take off without the plane!”

“I’m just excited, I guess,” I said.

Excited and a bit afraid. America was a hugely daunting idea. Would we succeed? Could we find work as artists? 

Would we crack the big time?

(Whatever that was.) 

Yes! We had talent and an innate belief in ourselves… and we knew how to work hard. 

What else does one need?

Except of course the most important element of all;

Dumb Luck. 

Suzie was a haute couture clothing designer and, because designing clothing is sketchy income at best, she was also a travel agent. 

I was a film animator. My income as an animator could also be described as sketchy, but that would be exaggerating my income considerably. 

We’d been together a dozen years, through thick and thin as they say yet everything Suzie and I owned was packed into just three suitcases, and was stowed in the belly of a Boeing waiting at gate seven. 

Proving, I suppose, that it really is Art for Art’s sake in this material world. 

“Good luck, mate,” Nick said somberly as he gripped my hand. 

Nick was one of our oldest friends. He was the last to see us off, the others having drifted off or left by way of setting an example when they heard the public address blare out;

“Would Mr and Mrs Rusty Pliers PLEASE REPORT to gate seven IMMEDIATELY!”  

As he shook my hand Nick wore a serious expression, which gave his face an odd look. He wasn’t usually so grave. Looking at him, I was more than ever convinced he believed Suzie and I had made a horrible mistake and were doomed to failure in America. 

America, the hard place where we’d end up like every artist that ever was or ever will be ends up… to lie upon a filthy mattress in some slummy hovel, too weak from hunger to rise, and stare with bitter irony at the unrecognized masterpieces painted in my own blood hanging on the damp walls all around— and with my last painful breath receive the cruel enlightenment to reflect back upon my life and wonder; 

“Where did I go wrong?”

To be continued...

Never Get Off The Merry-Go-Round! (Pt 2)

   Our flight was announced over the public address system. 

Don’t worry, it being an international flight, we had plenty of time.

“I love you, dad,” I said as I hugged him goodbye. 

Funny how hard it is to say sometimes.

“God bless you son,” said my dad.

“Thanks, dad,” I said, feeling uncomfortable as I always did whenever my dad granted god’s blessings upon me.

As if my dad could tell god whom to bless. 

“I’ll pray for you every night,” he added.

“Okay Dad,” I said. “If you want to.”

My father and I had never agreed about religion.

He had a very strong dose of it. 

I did not.

“Prayer works even when the person you pray for doesn’t believe,” he said good-naturedly for the ten-thousandth time. “God has a plan for you Rusty, even if you don’t realize it.”

“Okay, Dad,” I said, feeling uncomfortable as I always did whenever he started telling me that god had a plan for me. 

I like to make my own plans.

“Take care of yourself, son,” said my dad, changing the subject. “I know you’ll be fine.” He knew enough to stop pushing the god thing after a few minutes. We must have argued about god since I was eight-years-old. He never stopped trying, but search my heart as I may I just couldn’t feel it like he did. He smiled and looked me in the eye as he’d done since I could remember, so I knew something was coming. 

“Here,” he said softly. “I want you to have this. You never know what might happen…” 

He placed a golden ring in my hand. 

“This was your mother’s wedding ring,” he said. “I gave it to her over 35 years ago. I’m sure she’d be happy to think you have it now. It’s pure gold, if you ever need to er, hock it or something…”

I didn’t remember seeing the ring before. I was young when my mother died. I didn’t remember much about her at all.

“Thanks dad,” I said. “I’ll keep it safe and carry it for luck.”

“There’s an inscription inside,” said my dad quietly.

I lifted the ring to the light and read it.

“Rosella and Johnnie,” I read aloud. “Three, fifteen, fifty-two.”

“The day we were married,” said my dad.

“I know,” I replied. By a remarkable coincidence, I was born a year later, on the exact same date.

At least, that’s what they tell me. 

I was very young at the time, so I’ll have to take their word for it.

I hugged my father again and it felt good.

Sure, we disagreed about things sometimes, things big and little, but there was plenty of love and respect to make up for it.

Goodbye we said, good luck, and we hugged again.

Then he excused himself and left with my stepmother.

After waving them goodbye, the rest of us retired to the bar.

We enjoyed a drink and a laugh as our friends wished us bon voyage and happy landings. 

One by one we bid our friends adieu.

They’d still be here tomorrow.

Not us.

We’d be on the other side of the world.

To be continued...

Never Get Off The Merry-Go-Round!

Auckland, NZ, 1987 

“Goodbye,” I said softly, hugging my stepmother.

“Take care Rusty,” she said. “Good luck.” 

I’d never lived under the same roof as my stepmother, my dad married her when I’d already left home, but we were friendly enough.

“Thanks, Jenny,” I answered. “See you in a few years.” 

That’s what I believed, that I’d return to New Zealand after a few years away. We’d done it before a couple of times, my wife Suzie and I. We’d gone off for awhile to Africa in the seventies and Australia in the eighties, but always we’d come back.

If you’ve lived there you’ll know… New Zealand is a difficult place to stay away from. 

Nevertheless most Kiwis in those days went out to see the world. They probably still do. New Zealand being a small country made of islands in the South Pacific ocean, you have to go overseas to go anywhere. 

New Zealanders even had a phrase for it; 

“Getting your O.E.” 

Overseas Experience. 

Now we stood in the Departures Lounge of Auckland International Airport, embracing family and friends before we boarded our plane to go and do it again. 

America this time. 

New York City, where we had chums upon whose couch we could crash. 

I watched Suzie hug my father goodbye. She’d lost her father tragically when she was very young, and I think she loved my dad all the more for it. 

But it wasn’t all lovey-dovey between them, not in the beginning. When I first started going out with Suzie my father was disappointed I’d taken up with a girl so much younger, and while I was still legally married, too. 

He’s quite religious and he hoped that I would return to my first wife and the baby and do the right thing (as he saw it). But I was past all that before I’d even met Suzie. He blamed her anyway, as if she were some Bathsheba who with her sensuous charms was luring me away from the straight and narrow.

“My dad’s religious and sometimes he’s got some crazy ideas,” I said to Suzie when he refused to have anything to do with her. 

“The stupid old fart,” I added with a laugh. 

“Shame,“ she said. Which if you know a South African means almost anything. It could be shame you got fired from your job, shame you won a million in the lottery, shame the baby looks so cute. 

“Oh well, that’s his problem,” she added, and immediately forgot about my dad and his problem. She laughed and said nothing more. She was wise that way and besides, Suzie was never very good at being angry or holding a grudge. 

Turns out my father wasn’t very good at it either, because within a few months his heart softened. All it took was a chance meeting in Albert Park. He and Suzie met by accident in the botanical garden and I suppose, surrounded by all that beauty and believe me the gardens of New Zealand are extremely beautiful, they inadvertently shared a smile or a gesture that said life was too short to stay angry with each other.

I imagine that’s what happened. I know them both pretty well and I can visualize it that way. Suzie has very expressive eyes that have a way of inviting you in… 

I wasn’t there. I was in Milford Sound on a video shoot. 

My father, caught by his good manners, invited Suzie to tea in the cafe a few steps away by the fern garden. 

“We talked and talked,” said Suzie to me on the telephone that night. “Why didn’t you tell me your dad was such a sweetie?”

“Sweetie?” I asked. “My dad?”

She must have got the wrong dad, I figured. 

But no, it was really him. He called me that night also. 

“Why didn’t you tell me about her, son?” he asked me. “She’s terrific!

To be continued...

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.

Letter to Santa Pt 4

So I went to New York, Santa, to became an artist.

My world enlarged and opened up.

For an artist must first of all be an observer of life!

Christmas in the city was fun with all the lights and music and shoppers.

But I still didn’t believe in you.

Besides, which one would I believe in? 

You were on every corner!

I suppose most boys and girls outgrow Santa Claus for a portion of their lives… but most of us come back, don’t we, Santa?

Many Christmases came and went.

I worked hard in the city and did well, as they say.

For years I was a carefree bachelor.

Because I didn’t want to fall in love.

I was afraid to.

Then one Christmas I met a girl at the office party.

She was kind and had a great sense of humor. 

She also had nice legs.

I couldn’t help myself. I fell in love and guess what? 

She fell in love too.

We fell in love with each other.

That was my lucky year because guess what again?

She was the boss’s daughter.

We got married and travelled the world on our honeymoon. 

At Daddy’s expense.

Her father said take your time my son and enjoy, then come back and be a better artist than ever.

He loved his daughter very much.

It was easy to see why.

We saw in our travels that the world was a beautiful place, but not always a fair one.

And I filled my artist’s eye with the wonders of the world.

Boy! I must have drawn Barbara at least a million times while we were on our honeymoon! Posing on a rumpled hotel bed, her shapely limbs silhouetted against the sheets, her smile natural yet alluring…

That’s the name of my wife. Barbara. She’s on your Nice list for sure.

She was way more fun to draw than a salamander or a horse!

Back in New York, I worked hard at my art and my marriage and my friendships, and life flowed along nicely.

The love Barbara and I shared for each other deepened and matured.

I put out a successful book of Barbara drawings.

You might remember delivering a bunch of them because it sold like hotcakes that Christmas.

Barbara was a bit embarrassed, most of them being nude studies.

But I thought they were pretty good drawings, and nothing to be embarrassed about.

So Barbara talked to my aunt Sissy on the phone about it. Aunt Sissy said the right thing again and we all felt better about publishing nude drawings of Barbara in coffee-table art books.

Art for art’s sake, I always say.

Then came a second volume of Barbara studies, called The Honeymoon Series. 

After that Barbara told me to find another subject.

So today I draw rare axolotls for museums and zoos around the world.

I still draw Barbara too, but I don’t publish those drawings.

Barbara and I had children and taught them to face life with bravery, honesty, and humor.

To treat it all as a bit of a joke and enjoy a good laugh.

As parents we taught our children all kinds of things.

And sometimes they taught us.

When he was sixteen I taught our eldest boy to make the occasional gin and tonic for my wife and I. 

We figured he could start to learn about alcohol that way.

Like I learned from my stepmother, only different.

Because children, as you know Santa, learn all the time from everything they see and hear.

He was very proud of his status as our personal bartender and Danny loved to please.

That’s our eldest son’s name. Danny.

Look for him towards the top of your Nice list.

“Lime or lemon in your G&Ts?” he used to ask.

“Doesn’t matter, son,” I answered. “Either one will be fine.”

“Dad,” he said one day as he handed me a drink, “I think I’m gay.”

“Really?” I said. We talked about it awhile. I never told my children about Boris or the art teacher, not because I was ashamed because I wasn’t, but because I didn’t want to make a big deal about it or change the natural course of my children’s own sexuality with the knowledge of it. Sometimes too much knowledge can be a bad thing to a young heart, like when I overheard aunt Tootsie and the milkman call my father a drunkard that day in the kitchen, so I didn’t tell my son about Boris or the art teacher then either. 

Instead I said, “Doesn’t matter son. Either way is fine. Just remember to respect yourself and when in love… always follow your heart.”

“Thanks, Dad,” said my son Danny and we hugged and something beautiful fell into place.

Well! I really got it off my chest, didn’t I Santa?

Rusty’s life story.

(You’d be surprised how much I left out!)

But I wanted to get in touch again.

And wasn’t sure if that was the real you on Facebook or not.

It looked like you, but I couldn’t be sure.

So I decided to write you a letter.

Didn’t know it would be such a long letter. 

Sorry, but you being Santa, I figure you’ll forgive me.

You wonder why I write, after all these years?

I’ll tell you. 

Because I have grandchildren now.

And they want to believe in Santa Claus.

And funny, but what they want, I want.

Because their laughter means the world to me!

We have an axolotl too, named Shakespeare.

But I don’t think he believes in anything.

I hope Santa you continue to share your gift of generosity and good cheer among people the world over. All the world’s people, please, whoever they are, because if one of us is hurting, all of us are hurting. 

That’s what you teach us, isn’t it?

That it’s better to give than to receive?

That we’re all human beings together, sharing our journey through the natural world towards eternity. That we should try to love and understand each other.

Yes even Boris and my cruel stepmother.

Whose spiritual pain must have been immense.

They’re gone now. Crossed off your Naughty list years and years ago. Dead in a car crash on La Brea down by the In-N-Out Burger. My father was behind the wheel. The car they were in was struck and exploded in flames.

Ironically hit by a drunk driver.

On Christmas Eve.

Life’s funny, isn’t it Santa?

Well, that about brings us full circle.

Say hi to Mrs Claus and the elves for me.

And please remember; 

I’ve been a good boy again this year.

Sincerely,

Rusty

PS. If you’d care to prove your existence by slipping a new iPad under the tree… I’ll leave out some milk and cookies.