healthy life

hairy paw on the counter. “Benny!” sang a chorus of baritones who were perched along the counter like birds on a telephone wire. “Norm!” sang an off-key tenor. “Well, speak of the devil,” said Dolly from the far end of the counter. “Somebody has seen behind my façade of childlike innocence,” protested Benny. Dolly, not her real name, wiggled a seasoned hourglass shape over to her new customer. She handed him a menu and planted her palms on her hips, a gesture designed to exhibit ten long audaciously-red fingernails. He handed the menu right back to her and winked. “Make it a barrel of oats, three bushels of corn, a sack of potatoes, a small truckload of your best quality sorghum, and a bale of hay. And to wash it all down, a six-pack of Bud Light.” “Benny’s on a diet,” observed a chorus member. “For dessert,” Benny went on, “let’s have an apple pie to go and a world-class waitress to enjoy it with when she gets off work. And when does she get off work? I’m glad you asked that questi...

excommunication by the Amish, he had hiked to the nearest town, where he dumped the shoo-fly pie into the first trash can he could find, bought a new set of non-black clothes, and changed his name to Benny. He then wandered the streets, looking for food and companionship. He found them in a corner café, where he met a kindly minister of the Gospel, who introduced himself as Reverend Barnabas and invited him to sit down and share an apple pie. Within thirteen minutes, Benny had embraced the tenets of foursquare Christianity and had promised to give his life to the ministry of the Church in exchange for room and board and a small allowance. It happened that Reverend Barnabas, who was nearing sixty, had a young wife whom he had saved from the life of the street. Lucy spent several evenings a week in the church sanctuary communing with God, openly petitioning Him to relieve her of her childless state. Listening from behind a pew one evening, Benny learned of her plight and came forth to...

Your typical Amishman distrusts the American way of life. Your typical Amishman is a kindly, gentle person and when he finds himself under enemy attack he loves nothing better than to turn the other cheek. Your typical Amishman”—here Benny caught sight of the tab floating in a pool of water near his former milk shake—“much like the rest of us, occasionally needs to purge himself of nasty fluids.” And at this he left for the men’s room. Bright rescued the tab from drowning and went to the register and paid. Benny returned. Checking for eyewitnesses and finding none, he swept a scattering of small coins from the top of an unattended table and then sauntered over to his former booth and distributed them among the empty plates and cups. After completing this exchange, he joined his boss at the door. “I got the tip,” he announced, lighting a Nico cigar. § Dennis Bright, Benny Good, and Nico were back in Bright’s office, where Bright and Good continued their discussion while Nico describe...

Hinduism and Buddhism—though he can’t seem to remember the difference—and who for the following hour will answer questions from puzzled believers who are eager to know why their ministers, priests, rabbis, and mullahs make strange sounds.” Bright leaned forward. “Benny, you can do it!” he said with sudden enthusiasm. “You got the gift!” Benny shook his head slowly and sadly. “I don’t think we’ve found the right tree to put it under.” Bright frowned. His fork began to make quick, furtive forays into his salad, separating the shrimp from the non-shrimp. He captured the shrimp and guided them, two by two, into his mouth. “What do you know about religion, Benny?” “I was brought up Amish.” § This time Benny was telling the whole truth. Approximately forty-three years ago, while old Eli Good was attending an evening worship service, an unknown person or persons had left a tiny infant in the back seat of his black buggy. Instead of seeking help with this active bundle of joy, as both the ...

“Because I took this course called ‘World Religions,’” Benny reminded him. Bright had a quizzical look on his face. “So we’re back to World Religions?” “These things go in cycles. Did you ever notice, Dennis—may I call you by your Christian name? no?—did you ever notice, Mr. Bright, that these things tend to go in cycles? The correct answer is Yes.” “Yes,” said Mr. Bright. “An excellent answer. And have you ever wondered why these things go in cycles?” “Listen, Benny, I haven’t got all day.” The waitress came and distributed food. She removed a greasy tab from her apron pocket and placed it midway between her two customers. She left. The two customers eyed the tab warily. Benny chose this moment to resume their conversation. “These things go in cycles because the universe itself goes in cycles. If I remember correctly, that was the main point of the course. The professor explained that the universe, vast though it is, occupies a limited amount of space. So if it wishes to move arou...

“You’re forgetting, Dennis, that I am an educated man. I know a thing or two about wisdom and enlightenment and Nirvana. I once took a course in World Religions.” This was true, up to a point. At one time early in his adult life, when he was between employment opportunities, Benny had enrolled in an institution of higher learning, where he had signed up for an evening class in World Religions. He had stayed the course until the first machine-graded exam, after which he concluded that he could do a better job of improving his mind than any community college in the State of Arkansas. So he returned to the trucking life, borrowing books from libraries and book stores and supermarkets and devouring them during those moments when he wasn’t driving or eating or entertaining waitresses and waifs. Bright took a quick peek at his watch. “And that’s idea number one?” he asked, referring to Benny’s offer to do the news. “That’s idea number one. Would you like a sample?” “We’re going with numbe...

that he had found happiness in his chosen profession. There were times when he missed Lucy, of course, but in his view the bliss of married life was overestimated by a small but vocal minority of the American public. Besides, he enjoyed the camaraderie of the other truckers and the truck stop waitresses more than made up for the slight hole he felt in what may or may not have been a heart. As for the long hours he spent in the cab, they were not always solitary. There was of course the radio, with the country music and the talk shows that provide a trucker’s main source of entertainment. But there were also the occasional waifs who would accept his invitation to use his cab as a temporary home away from home. The single drawback to this life was the fear faced by all male truckers, the fear that month after month of bouncing across America in a sitting position might lead to impotence. This fear had played some part in his decision to start a new chapter in his life, a larger part b...

Benny paused long enough to unwrap a cigar and plant one end between his teeth. The other end began to describe circles in the air as he plunged into virgin territory. “Here’s how we do it. I call numbers at random, ask them if they can define the word ‘begonia,’ send them scampering to their dictionaries, arouse their curiosity about the wonders of nature, suggest that they call several of their closest friends and start an indoor gardening club, invite this expanding network of plant-lovers down to the station, show them around the premises, take them over to meet our sponsor, and in no time at all ‘Benny’s Begonias’ is the talk of Kirkland and the bottom line is decorated with the color black and the Kingdom of God has been reconstituted on a capitalist basis.” “Numbers do not like being called at random,” observed Bright. He was busy scribbling on his writing pad. “You scored a point, Dennis.” Benny gestured toward the pad with his unlit cigar. “What’s the score by now?” Bright ...

glint in his eye also bore an uncanny similarity to that of that former king of porn, though others took equal pleasure in protesting that Benny was cut from somewhat nobler cloth. “I had five call-ins today,” said Benny in an attempt to shift the conversation in a more promising direction. “Two were from your regular listener,” Bright pointed out. “She’s very knowledgeable about plants,” countered Benny. “Why shouldn’t she be? She runs a nursery.” “Actually, she’s retired from the business. The stress got to her. Probably from watching the plants grow.” Dennis Bright smiled in spite of himself. But then he remembered his responsibilities as the KKKS program director and recovered his dignity. “One was from Shannon,” he pointed out. “She asks very intelligent questions.” “That’s because you tell her what to ask.” “It’s not just what she asks; it’s how she asks it. Her phrasing is impeccable.” “Her phrasing may be great, or whatever, but the woman doesn’t know a tulip from a cactus....

At the Vatican, the pope was sound asleep, having four hours earlier mumbled the simple benediction he had learned as a child. In New York City, the anchors at the major networks were preparing to sign off after reading the news of the most ingenious and entertaining samples of human depravity that had appeared in the last twenty-four hours. In Las Vegas, thousands of American parents were busy initiating their offspring into the deepest mysteries of the nation’s folklore. At a race track in Southern California, eight sleek thoroughbreds were pounding the turf and coming down the home stretch as the spectators either clutched their tickets in anxiously sweating hands or, resigned to their temporary fate, began to destroy those tokens of hope. And in the Kansas metropolis of Kirkland, not its real name, two men were preparing for a meeting that would launch a chain of events that was destined to have profound consequences both for America and for the largest and most powerful ecclesi...

“But-” “You don’t need it. There’s plenty of light out here. You’ll see.” Harry crossed the room under his own strength. Then they stepped away from the door and the wall blocked his light. The terrible, terrifying darkness wrapped itself around him, trying to suck the life out of his lungs, suffocating him… He tried to run, get back to his light, but Gladys dragged him onward till the cold wind off San Francisco Bay slapped him in the face. And then they were outside. Out into the nightmare of the midnight woods. Out into the smells of prey-scent and fear. Out where the shadows stretched dark tentacles toward him. “You said there were lights!” Harry shrieked. “You said we could see the city!” “You can!” Gladys dug her fingers into Harry’s palm and pulled. “You just have to get high enough!” “I don’t want to ‘get high enough’!” Harry finally managed to yank free of Gladys’ grip. The sudden release sent her reeling backward, arms flailing. She landed hard on her butt, one high heeled...

His wife, Harry decided, had a voice that belonged on a banshee. It certainly shrieked along his nerves. “Go without me.” Harry took what satisfaction he could out of the image of Marin County society’s own Gladys Morgenlicht moaning above someone’s rooftop and pulled the hurricane lamp a bit closer on the night stand. Damn, he wished the lights could come back on. This close the lamp light seared his eyes right through his closed lids, but he didn’t care. It was a warm, beautiful, light pain. “Harry.” Gladys put a lifetime of annoyance into his name. “You go. I’m not hungry.” “Stop talking stupid. I know – Ow!” Gladys stepped into the doorway, one hand on a hip, the other now shielding her eyes from the lamp light. Somehow she’d saved her favorite little black dress - a Versace, if Harry remembered correctly – along with a pair of stiletto heels that gave her a ballerina lift. The clingy little thing still showed off her figure. She’d kept her weight up these past few months. Unlik...

"Look after her, Mr. Hastings. My poor Emily. They're a lot of sharks--all of them. Oh, I know what I'm talking about. There isn't one of them that's not hard up and trying to get money out of her. I've protected her as much as I could. Now I'm out of the way, they'll impose upon her." "Of course, Miss Howard," I said, "I'll do everything I can, but I'm sure you're excited and overwrought." She interrupted me by slowly shaking her forefinger. "Young man, trust me. I've lived in the world rather longer than you have. All I ask you is to keep your eyes open. You'll see what I mean." The throb of the motor came through the open window, and Miss Howard rose and moved to the door. John's voice sounded outside. With her hand on the handle, she turned her head over her shoulder, and beckoned to me. "Above all, Mr. Hastings, watch that devil--her husband!" There was no time for more. Mi...

The intense interest aroused in the public by what was known at the time as "The Styles Case" has now somewhat subsided. Nevertheless, in view of the world-wide notoriety which attended it, I have been asked, both by my friend Poirot and the family themselves, to write an account of the whole story. This, we trust, will effectually silence the sensational rumours which still persist.  I will therefore briefly set down the circumstances which led to my being connected with the affair.  I had been invalided home from the Front; and, after spending some months in a rather depressing Convalescent Home, was given a month's sick leave. Having no near relations or friends, I was trying to make up my mind what to do, when I ran across John Cavendish. I had seen very little of him for some years. Indeed, I had never known him particularly well. He was a good fifteen years my senior, for one thing, though he hardly looked his forty-five years. As a boy, though, I had often stay...