-Eugene Baldwin's – The Genehouse Chronicles

October 30, 2015

Dear Mr. Baldwin,

This is to inform you that your pending neck surgery has been denied. You are over 65, Mr. B., the cutoff age that ushers in your Obamacare Death Panel review. Review we have, and well, it’s not looking good for you, sir.

Henceforth, there will be no further organ replacements, surgeries, life-extending medical procedures, sex or (and/or) mental therapy, nose jobs or bobs or Steve Jobs, belly button inversion, ear anything, throat (deep), breast enhancement, breast reduction, chicken breast, or penis pumps, for seniors like you. See the attachment for a full list of banned procedures.

The Obamacare Death Panel has investigated senior health care around the world and has concluded that India’s system, of sending the old to the edge of the village and laying them down on the road to die, is the most practical solution. Congratulations, Mr. Baldwin. You are an Indian!

And what a perfect time to lie on the side of the road outside Godfrey! The morning frost dissolves into a shimmering, lacy curtain, there are no insects to eat you, the leaves will cascade and braid their way into a blanket over you (watch out for crazed, Germanic leaf burners), high school girls in Spandex leggings will stand on the corners, waiting for the school bus, and taunt you and throw their butts (cigarettes, you randy Mr. Baldwin) at you. But enough of temptation!

Why, your new house is right on Route 3! You only have to step down your hill, turn left, pass by Stanka Lane and settle down!

What are you doing for the rest of your life? Reading your junk mail (yes, you get delivery until the mailman determines that you are a corpse), and your Alton Telegraph and St. Louis Post Dispatch will be thrown down on your leaf pile. Newspaper makes for great insulation and toilet paper!

Your Obamacare Death Panel is nothing if not humane, Mr. B. Our research scientists have developed a device to turn ditch water and pee into pure spring water. Godfrey garbage trucks will stop by and give you any food you desire that has passed its eat-by date. Plus! With a nod to the Indian system, you get a bowl of nuts!

Speaking of dates, we’ll be dumping—er, dropping off Ms. Samantha Wozenkowsky-Smithjones, 73, at your location! What you two codgers do is your business. What happens on the road shoulder stays on the road shoulder!

Neck surgery? You don’t need no stinkin’ neck surgery! You are going camping, Mr. B.!

So good luck, Godspeed, aloha, ta-ta, see ya wouldn’t want to be ya, so long old sport, farewell, see you on the other side, when life hands you leaves make leaf cozies!

Your friend,

Brittany Spears Mint

Director Seniors: Adios Lazy Shriveled Atrophying Asses (SALSAA) Division
The Obamacare Death Panel

October 29, 2015

This morning, I got a call from Washington University Medical School. Would I, for compensation, agree to have my neck surgery filmed live? Heck, I’d kiss Carly Fiorina for compensation—but not live, and no tongues.

Live from Barnes Hospital . . . it’s Eugene Baldwin in a backless gown! There will be a three camera setup: from the top, to the side, and one Go Pro camera mounted on a special cup over my boys, to see the operation from the front view, the “boys’ view.”

Jennifer Lawrence will be in St. Louis at that time, to study how to be a surgical nurse for an upcoming film. So! Yes! J-Law in scrubs three sizes too small, will be observing my operation! I suggested that she mount and hand operate the Go Pro camera, and the head of surgery said she would send Jen that request.

So what’s to worry? The camera crew will film two alternative endings: “Success,” and “Oops.” In the latter, I’ll play a man who died on the table, with J-Law holding my cup. I suggested a third ending, where I climb out of my body and hover over the room and make spooky noises, but the staff nixed that—too negative.

This will be my second film, as I was in a movie made by old school mate Curt Madison, shot in Alaska. I played a radio announcer doing the weather. I wasn’t onscreen, but hey: show business!

Thrill to my neck being slit open from the front, my vocal chords moved, and my esophagus shoved out of the way. Munch your popcorn as Paul Santiago (who looks like Seth Rogen) cuts and snips bone spurs RIGHT OVER MY SPINAL CHORD! Laugh out loud when Paul removes my middle, crushed disk and replaces it with cadaver bones! Ooh and ah, as Paul puts a titanium plate over three disks and screws them tight! I haven’t been screwed in quite a while! And shiver your timbers, as J-Law, as I’m losing blood, rips off her scrubs to stem the flow!

Rated PG 13: blood, no guts, dead people, bosomy J-Law bending low over my prone body, nurses laughing at me, and mild violence!

I have to join SAG, AFTRA and AQUAVITA, in order to appear. Brought to you by Coke, the Koch Brothers, (Big Ass) Coal, “Cops,” Betty Crocker, the new movie “Crackpots,” and Kraft Mac and Cheese!

Scared? I’m not scared just because my neck is connected to my brain and skull and nerves and my boys. As Brian sang from the cross, “Always look on the bright side of life.”

Ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille—I mean, Dr. Santiago. Remember, my left side is my good side. Could you lop off that turkey neck while you’re at it? Oh, and . . .

October 9, 2015

You know you’re in trouble when two doctors, a nurse and an intern clad in catcher’s paraphernalia stand behind your prone body and cluck their tongues as they look at a live x-ray of your back and talk needle insertion points.

“Do you think a three inch will do?” “No, better make it five.” I’m okay with three! “Did the patient say something?”

“Okay, look at all that damage. If we insert there, it might work. I don’t like to go too high up—the spinal chord, you know.” What? What about my spinal chord? “Okay, his back is numb. See, if I prick here—” Ahhhhh!

You know you’re in trouble when the doctors state what you already know: you have an unlimited capacity for anesthetic and no amount will work.

“Okay, Gene, we fish that needle into your spine and inject fluid. And then we tilt your procedure table down, which is why we bound your feet and anchored them because you’ll dangle upside down, the bound feet will keep you from falling, and don’t forget to keep that chin up!” I thought the needle was in. “Well, it was, but it didn’t fit because your spine is quite rigid. So we’re going in in a higher spot.” Nooooo!

“The dye might cause an allergic reaction.” Nooooo!” So keep that chin tilted up to prevent a violent headache.” Nooooo! Why are you people wearing catcher’s gear? “This is the latest in x-ray protection—you’re getting nuked, Gene.” Continue reading →

October 11, 2015

Today I: took my first walk from New Genehouse; kicked an acorn cap, the wind raising it up like a Frisbee and sailing it; stood on the river’s edge and watched sailboats headed south across Alton Lake; visited with Stevie, she of Stevie’s Landing fish joint.

Then a miracle occurred. Walking Man, of whom I have written a short story and two columns, the old man who walks the twenty-four miles to and from Grafton each and every day, his lips pursed, his body gracile, his stare downward, came east along the River Road Trail . . . and he was not alone. A comely young woman, a brunette in spandex was matching him stride for stride, gesturing with her hands . . . and he was smiling, the corners of his mouth stretched to his ear lobes. And he saw me and blushed so red I thought his face might spontaneously combust: he was busted.

And pigs flew.

Jesus Christ appeared to me and we had a long chat about the implosion of the Republican Party and how Mike Huckabee gave morons a bad name. He said two of the disciples had been gay, but he wouldn’t name names. I told him I knew all along that the apostle Paul was gay; JC agreed.

I bought Mr. Christ a couple of Schlafly’s Pumpkin Ales, and to be sociable, he turned some spring water into red wine. We toasted JC’s favorite relative, Auntie Christ. We talked books. JC is currently reading John Cleese’s autobiography; I’m immersed in Euripides’ “Medea.”

Then the mayor of Godfrey walked in to the bar and had Jesus arrested for making wine without a license.

So I started back for New Genehouse. I passed my old rental place, now devoid of annoying trees. I have six annoying trees in my front yard, one of them favored by a pileated woodpecker, another harboring the ghost of Ayn Rand reading from the purple-prosed “Atlas Shrugged.”

While opening boxes from my move, I discovered a long forgotten tab of LSD hidden away in a little cloth pouch. I used to be a big fan of LSD. I put the tab on the escape key of my computer, for emergency’s sake. And there it rests. I might have dropped it this afternoon, but there was the Jesusy thing and the Ayn Rand recital and that’s without drugs.

So I settled for a Mr. Goodbar, felt the melt of chocolate and crunch of peanuts, net weight 1.75 OZ on my allergistic throat, and drank a forty ounce, unsweetened iced tea. Talk about drugs.

And I stared at the stubble of the harvested corn field across the highway, the far woods melting into watercolors, Walking Man smiling, the pileated woodpecker knocking on Heaven’s door.

Home.

September 30, 2015

It was a Wednesday fall afternoon in 1989. A crowd cheered as I deplaned. The head cheerleader was Jack, a dapper, elderly gentleman whose condo overlooking the Ohio River would be my guest home. A local theater was producing my play, “Moonlight Daring Us to Go Insane,” and they brought me in to watch the final dress rehearsals and the Friday opening.

Jack whisked me to the condo where an even larger crowd was already ensconced and drinking “Jack’s Punch.” This was a killer concoction of bourbon and other ingredients. I nursed one Jack’s Punch, as the rehearsal was in a couple of hours, and I was acutely aware of my celebrity. A young couple from down the hall (“Craig” and “Nan”) would wine and dine me on Thursday.

A very inebriated Jack drove us to the rehearsal. The theater was housed in an old, columned courthouse high atop four flights of stately limestone steps. Instead of parking, Jack turned his old Buick sedan onto the steps and drove all the way to the top, the wheels going thumpity-thump. In theater, we call this “foreshadowing,”

The rehearsal went well. I was in bed by midnight. I woke up to pee (the guest bath was off the dining room), and I saw a fresh bottle of bourbon on the table. There was a note that read, in effect, my place is your place, feel free to bring home company. Oh boy.

The next night, after the final dress rehearsal, Craig and Nan took me to a nice restaurant. We went to back to their condo, and we got stoned and drank wine and listened to The Beatles on a stereo. Craig fell asleep by ten. He wished us a good night and went off to bed.

Nan lay on the wood floor and stared at the ceiling. And then she started to cry. I mean, she bawled. I didn’t even know her last name. All I could think was get back to Jack’s.

The floodgates opened. She and Craig were in a bad marriage; she was unloved. She began slowly crawling in my direction. If you know me, you know I was terrified. Then was straddling me on her couch and kissing me violently. When she started taking off her shirt, I took hold of her arms and suggested we take a walk along the river.

We walked down the hallway past Jack’s condo. Nan had to pee. I said she could use my guest bathroom. She saw the bourbon bottle on the table, unscrewed the lid and took several swigs, all the while putting a finger to her luscious lips and shushing herself. She put down the bottle, opened the bathroom door, pulled her jeans and panties down and crashed onto the toilet seat. She peed and smiled at me. And passed out, falling to one side and clunking her head on the tile floor.

Have you ever dressed a dead body? I have. It took me an eternity to pull her undies up on her corpse hips and then the jeans. I couldn’t button them, the zipper was caught, and my hands shook. In my panic, I forgot her name.

I fireman-carried her back to her condo and set her on the hall floor. Had the door been locked, I was not going to knock. But it opened. I deposited her on the living room floor, closed the front door and ran for it.

Nan didn’t make an appearance the next day or attend the opening. She bumped her head last night, Craig said, she wasn’t feeling well. If he knew anything, he sure didn’t show it. The play went on without a hitch, and I was Chicago-bound the next morning.

That night, my phone rang. It was Nan. She said she was going to confess to Craig that she and I had “done it;” she just knew she was pregnant. I told her we didn’t do it, and explained how her pants got unbuttoned. She thanked me for being a gentleman and asked if I had any advice for her.

Years later, I was artist-in-residence at a north side Chicago school. I overheard a teacher in the lounge talking about her hometown of Evansville, Indiana. I told her the story minus the names. Oh my god, you were the playwright, she said. I was a teenager then; I was at Jack’s party. I loved your play. Remember Craig and Nan? I used to babysit for them.

Advice to guest artists: Keep your pants up, your shirt on, flirt not; beware of Jack’s Punch.

September 29, 2015

My pop died last week. He was only sixty-two. How did he? His chest exploded. The way it was explained to me.

He really died weeks ago, of a broke heart. Even says it on the funeral home card: “Cause of death was a broken heart.” And the whole family and friends knew it. The minister knew it.

That is Pop’s little white dog inside the screen door there. My little dog, now.

Did you know my brother was kilt, while back? He was at a bar with his girlfriend, and they walked outside and my brother saw a guy beating up on a gal. And he walked over there and said stop. And the guy called out, and three other guys came out of the shadows, and they beat my brother to death.

No one called the cops, tried to stop it. They let those drunk cowards beat my brother to death.

My pop, he camped out at the police station and protested quite a few days. The killers, they each got out on one hundred thousand dollars bond. The charge was manslaughter, see, not murder. Think about those words: “Man.” “Slaughter.”

And like I said, Pop, he began to die right there. It just took a few weeks. It just waited for him to set up a memorial to his son, in his house. It just took lit candles and him brooding in candlelight and thinking about how he had lost everything, his son. About how violent men bear no burdens, unburden in spilled blood.

And then he passed. The death certificate said, the coroner said massive heart attack. It was man attack.

I heard about your trees. I cannot abide the wanton killing of anything, like it all belongs to us, for us to do as we please. Cutting trees, cutting down young men, it is all murder. I am sorry for your trees.

I been off work for a week. My boss said, “Kat Susie, you take a week and gather yourself.” Course, I am not getting paid.

Why are we so violent? Do you know? I walk this road like you, and I think about the answer, about how to gather myself.

The flowers, the birds know the answer. But they do not talk. They be. Nature’s violence is a dance about survival. Man’s violence is from evil thoughts, for their own sake.

I have lost my pops and my brother in three weeks. I got a dog out of the deal.