A Sardine on Vacation, Episode 9
Modern Tragedy

"I can't believe you used that word," said Father Grindgrad.

How'd you miss it?

"I don't necessarily check every word in a column.”

!!??

"Why should I? As long as the columnists think I'm checking them."

I guess I taught you a lesson. Although when you think about it, there are much more offensive words for "sexual intercourse."

"What are you talking about?"

About using "getting laid."

"Screw that! I'm talking about 'tropism.' I only care whether you know the difference between 'lie,' 'lay,' and 'laid.'"

Didn't you see the title of the column?

"I thought it said--or was going to say--'trauma.'"

Maybe you're working too hard. Do you want to go for a drink? I know a nice place near here.

"Not the Attic?"

You've been there?

"Not recently."

When the Father and Sardine entered the Attic, Wal-terr greeted them.

"Yo Sard, Frank's been asking for you."

Isn't Joe T. working tonight? Does he have a hot date?

"He's sitting over there."

The Sardine introduced Wal-terr to Grindgrad. I had warned the Father on the way over that Wal-terr might be working, in which case, we would run a tab and not put money on the bar. Not that the bartender was the thief. Wal-terr liked to give free drinks to customers and it was understood among his friends that such an operation would be noticed by paying customers unless a tab was kept. It was also understood that the bartender's tip would increase for each free drink. Other stuff about him the Father would find out in a future column.

The Father ordered a brandy; the Sardine, a peach schnapps.

"Since your 'hairpieces' column," said Grindgrad, "I've wanted to ask you what the 'T' stood for in your friend's name."

Tragedy!

"I was thinking it might've been 'tropism.'"

The Sardine laughed and pointed to the other side of the bar. Three men sat in a booth.

See those guys. Joe Gillespie, that's his real name, is sitting on the side facing the front entrance. Do you recognize those other two?

"No."

A couple of great men in their own time. Good friends of Joe's. See how they're hanging on Joe's every word. They came into the bar about a year ago. Joe was bartend- ing. Started telling him their problems.

"Aren't those two dressed a little funny to be in public?"

The black guy came in complaining about his wife. He couldn't trust her, she was seeing some guy. Well, he wasn't sure she was seeing someone. His best friend, Jacko, or something like that, had given him evidence of her doing him dirty.

"Wait, the story sounds familiar."

The guy's a top mercenary working for the Republic of Venice. Not home much. Admittedly, he's overjealous. He lost his head and killed her.

Father Grindgrad was shocked. What was this guy walking the streets? Did Joe call the cops on him?

Hold on, that's not really important.

"Not important! Wait a minute, Venice isn’t a republic. it's part of…."

All because of a handkerchief….

"That's…."

The other one's Greek, in the gown, he starts talking. If Joe thought the black guy had troubles….

Here he was a happily married guy, a mayor, only the place he lives in the midst of drought. People want him to do something. Word is the drought's a punishment for an unspeakable act. Some seer comes to his office and implies he's the cause. Why? He killed his father and married his mother.

Grindgrad nearly choked on his brandy.

Anyway, this guy has killed in his time and married a widow, but he was sure it couldn't be himself. Then some shepherd tells him it was the truth and the Greek blinded himself in some sort of mortification.

"That's why he's bobbing his head around so much."

Now Joe's listening to this and doesn't want to be outdone. He thinks he's had his share of tragedies. Like that very evening he was talking to those two guys. Pure suffering from a small cut on his middle finger when he was slicing limes setting up the bar. While he was working and some of the lemon or lime juice got into the cut…oooh, ouch, ouch, oooh! He squeezed the finger to show them (Joe hadn't realized the Greek couldn't see). This little thing would hurt for days.

"It's not exactly like marrying his mother."

Joe didn't stop there. All night he talked about the pizza he had heated up in a microwave burnt the roof of his mouth. How a French fry with ketchup dropped on his couch the day before he was going to scotchguard it. Or how his automatic cardoor opener wouldn't work from more than twenty-five feet away.

Well, he had showed these jokers in the strange duds something or two about the plight of modern man. Before you think you've got tragedies in your life, you better talk to Joe Gillespie. You want to see someone who has suffered all the modern life has to throw at you….

"They were impressed?"

Joe wasn't done that night. He's still not done. Two, three times a week. When he's working or not. Tonight they're buying Joe dinner.

The Sardine's essays, articles, and stories have appeared around the Internet in the last few years at 3 A.M., Facets, Eclectica magazine, Fiction Funhouse, The Fiction Warehouse, 5_trope, and several film journals. Who and what he is probably will be revealed at various points through the articles appearing at this site. If you want to reach him, his address is popesixtus@aol.com.