ROOTERS

It may not be "ROMEO AND JULIET," but this haunting tale is a love story.  Equally puzzling, it's based on truth with most of the intimate details provided by Elvis Presley impersonator, Richie Lopez.

                               *



Washington D.C. is perceived as flat but away from the monuments to our nation’s heritage, the city is hilly with long, deep rocky chasms cut through it.  Atop one of those peaks, prestigious Georgetown University is situated.  Just off campus, looking as if it belongs in San Francisco, a precipitous public staircase descends to M Street.

These dreary stone stairs were so sinister that they were used during on-location filming of “The Exorcist.”

BUILT IN 1895, THE STEPS, ESPECIALLY AROUND HALLOWEEN, BECOME A TRENDY DESTINATION FOR FANS  TO PAY HOMAGE TO THIS FRIGHTENING FILM. 

                                                              One such person, twenty-year old Ariel Mott, a sophomore art major was drawn there. She was wearing a sexy French maid’s uniform with a bustier hidden underneath as she prodded her unenthusiastic boyfriend, in his brown three-piece suit to see it.                                                                                      Along the pecan tree-lined sidewalk, they walked against the gentle rustle of fallen leaves. The tower clock on Healy Hall was tolling at 1:00PM as they reached the crest of Prospect Street.  Martin, her preoccupied dullard stopped and allowed a sea of preteen trick-or-treaters to pass as Ariel coaxed him nearer to her quarry.                                                                      The steps, obscured by a slight rise in the pavement were surrounded by a pair of two-story brick houses.  More giddy children flowed by as she again prodded him closer to the ominous landmark.        

     Ariel pointed up to the ivy-gripped colonial home on the right, “The devil threw his victims through that window.  And they died horrible deaths falling down these stairs.” 

     He extended his antique gold pocket watch fob to check the time, “There must be something strange in you. This isn’t the least bit spooky.”

Martin had an inkling of her sordid past but Ariel's father spared no expense to have her criminal record expunged.  Further, Mr. Mott arranged their introduction in the hope that the sturdy foundation of an influential Democratic family would spur her into responsibility.

Ariel ignored his negativity as she clomped down the formidable steps in spiked heels. Unmoved by pop culture, he remained up top and stared down at Key Bridge and into Arlington Virginia. He was looking forward to dropping Ariel off there, at her parent’s house.  Later that night, she would be reluctantly helping her mother in costume, to host the annual “Democrats for Cancer Research Masquerade Ball and Auction,” (Ariel’s grandmother died of cancer soon after giving birth to her mother. So Ariel’s mom obsessed over making this annual function bigger and better).

Martin, a determined law clerk fixed on the southern horizon as he quantified the pecking order of his crucial phone calls.  He had envisioned Georgia Governor Jimmy Carter as legitimate presidential timber and was volunteering for the campaign, in the hope of riding the candidate’s shirttail to the White House.

Ariel set aside the aesthetics of steps and looked down in the hope of experiencing a flash of vertigo.  The “rush” never happened.  Instead, Ariel glimpsed up at Martin staring into space.  She was tired of being his trophy and resented him being her front of respectability. His all-consuming political aspirations and her general indifference resulted in their two-month relationship never being consummated.  Typically their dates ended early so she was freed-up to go back out. 

Petite and blond, Ariel liked to cruise the bars in Georgetown and had relations with scruffy pick-ups.  Even worse, under the guise of going to a concert, she and four friends had recently piled in a van for a four-day sex, drugs and rock and roll odyssey to Miami.  She didn’t tell Martin that it was a cocaine-run or that three of the friends were males.

Ariel was coming back up as Fillmore Cunnynghame IV dragged his own apathetic companion to the steps. More ordinary than handsome, his shoulder length wavy brown hair was bound by a fire engine red headband. Consistent with his hippie-look, he preferred being called Fillmore after the famous concert venue.                  

Fillmore despite being born on Independence Day was not quite the All-American boy. However, he was a descendant of President Millard Fillmore.  His forefathers left the Whig Party during the Franklin Pierce administration and remained staunchly Republican.

Fillmore’s horny sixteen-year old girlfriend looked young for her age.  He playfully termed his attraction to girls like her as “pedophilia.”  He had a need to dominate and feared rejection from more sophisticated women closer to his own age. 

     
     It was easy to ignore her as she whined, “Let’s go back to your place and get wasted.” 

Such eccentricities resulted in this less than ambitious Renaissance man being expelled from Stanford University.  Twice, his wealthy and prominent father endowed the institution to “overlook” his supplying of narcotics to minors. However, the third occurrence with the added charge of statutory rape, left the chancellor no choice but to drum him out. 

     
Fillmore a former musical prodigy, now attended American University; where he was more apt to be found on the quadrangle tossing his trademark glow-in-the-dark lime green Frisbee than attending class.

Fillmore lingered at the curb as Ariel reached the landing. He was making overt, cheerfully cute comments to the passing adolescent females as he tuned-out his girl.  He stepped past her and noticed Ariel. He responded to her flirtatious gaze with a cautious smile.

     Soon they recognized their shared plight as Martin said, “I’ve got to make some serious calls and you need to get home.”

     Fillmore’s girl tugged his arm and removed her tinted glasses to emphasize her point, “C’mon this sucks. Let’s get high.”

     Ariel's beau said, “You wanted me to see it.  I saw it. C'mon, let's go.”                                                   

Fillmore positioned himself behind him and ogled Ariel.  His girl saw what was going on and resented Ariel arching her back to exaggerate her meager, pushed-up bust.

     Ariel pointed across the street to the Tombs Tavern and broadcasted, “Martin, take me for a drink.” 

Down the half-flight of exterior steps, he reminded Ariel of the significance of the stonewalled saloon.

     At the bar, in a mock English accent he called out, “Publican.”

Ariel rolled her eyes and looked out the basement window at the legs passing along Prospect Street. She pretended to listen to Martin's ramblings as he listed historical figures that had frequented the premises.  In mid yawn, two sets of ankles caught Ariel's eye.  She followed them down the steps and half-smiled as Fillmore and his girl came in.

From a booth, Fillmore positioned himself facing Ariel.  He ordered two drinks but motioned the waitress back after his girlfriend went to the restroom. 

     He handed her five dollars and said, “Don’t let the ‘shades’ fool you.  When that kid gets back, ask her for ID.”

     From across the room, Fillmore and Ariel visually locked as Martin droned, “Washington was known to have bent an elbow here."  He glanced at his watch and said, "Excuse me. I have to make some calls."             
                                                  Martin crossed paths with Fillmore’s returning girlfriend.  A minute later, she was asked to leave when she couldn’t provide identification. 

     Fillmore winked at the server and lamented, “Kiddo, wait outside until I finish.”

     
He went to the jukebox. Tammy Wynette’s, “Stand by Your Man” was playing as Ariel drifted over.  While peering down at the titles, he initiated a banal conversation.

     
     Ariel scoffed, “Trick-or-treating with your kid sister, sweet.”

     
     Fillmore countered, “Who’s the suit?”

     
     “Mommy’s gonna be angry. She’s all alone out there?”

     
     Fillmore blurted out in perfect French, “When you finish dusting, I want to make you explode in wild passion.”

     
     In fluent Italian Ariel retorted, “If you weren’t so crude, I’d think your Alsatian accent was endearing.” 

     
     Hushed in a combination of embarrassment and fascination Fillmore stammered, “W-wow.” 

     
Ariel was intrigued but she didn't want to give the impression that she was common without scaring him off. 

     
     Fillmore said, "Sorry if I came off as crass."
     
A pleasant tête-à-tête ensued and shared interests were discovered.  They were talking about skiing as Martin returned to settle his tab.

     
     “Look I gotta go,” Ariel said.  “Where will you be at 2:00AM?”

     
     Fillmore didn't want to blow off his weekly blues band gig at an after-hours club on Minnesota Avenue said, “I’ll be anywhere you want me to be.”

     
     “Jefferson Memorial parking lot,” she whispered before being whisked away.

     
Fillmore focused on her rear-end as the song, “Elusive Butterfly of Love,” came on.  When she didn’t look back Fillmore became apprehensive.

     He slugged down the rest of his drink, mulled whether or not to show up and murmured in French, “Enchanted!”

                              *

At 2:05AM, Fillmore’s insecurities vanished as Ariel’s fire engine red MG Midget rumbled up to his car.

     
     The crisp autumn air produced smoke in Fillmore’s breath as he asked, “Where to?”  

     “Here,” she said.  “Up for a walk?” 

Fillmore fought off the urge to say that she looked dynamite in jeans.  Instead he offered his raggedy army jacket with the name DOVE stenciled above the right breast pocket.  She smiled and shook her head. He lit up a joint and handed it to her as they set off.  Their solitary stroll along the Tidal Basin was romantically highlighted by the city’s reflection in the water.  They looped back to the Memorial and sat on the top step.  Jefferson’s statue was seemingly eavesdropping as their superficial chat turned personal.

     
     At the risk of rejection Fillmore confessed, “I don’t know what I want to be when I grow up.”

     
     “Everybody handles ambition differently.  I bet when something worthy comes along, you’ll jump at it.  Besides, I don’t know what I want either.”  Ariel added, “If it’s okay, I’ll take your jacket now.” 

     
     He covered her shoulders as she imitated Gilda Radner from “Saturday Night Live,” “Yuh know; it’s always somethin’.”  In her normal voice she said, “I’ve done things I’m not proud of.”  

She shivered while sharing details from her arrests.  Fillmore responded in kind and told her why he was kicked out of Stanford. 

     “It’s freezing out here,” he said in a bubbly segue. “Wanna come back to the Alamo?”

     “Alamo?”

     “Yeah, that’s what we call my house.”

     “Why?”

     “My two friends and I picked up a couple of teeny-boppers...”

     He cut himself off and she said, “It's okay.  That was then.  Tell me about the Alamo.”

     “You sure?”

     “Go for it.”

     “Well...these girls didn’t like the look of one of my friends. So to get rid of him, I sent him on a bogus trip to the liquor store...and we went to my parent’s house.  Things got a little frisky, clothes came off and we were “orgying” when the police pounded on the front door.  That weasel friend of mine dimed us out. Luckily, Hastings stalled them.”

     “Hastings?”

     He sighed, “Our butler.”

     Ariel laughed, “Orgies, butlers, go on.”

     “Sure?”

     “I can handle it.”

     “Hastings held them off long enough for us to dress, flush the ‘ludes’ and get the girls out the back door. The house doesn’t look anything like the Alamo but that’s how it got the name.”                                                              



                  *



At 3:30AM they entered his enormous, ivy covered Tudor in Chevy Chase, Maryland.  Undetected, they advanced to his bedroom.  Fillmore adjusted the dimmer switch to a low setting, flicked on the TV and offered her a chair. He went into his deep walk-in closet and emerged with a cigar box and his phosphorescent green Frisbee.                                                                      Fillmore sat on the floor in front of her and used the underside of the disk to sift out seeds and twigs before rolling a tight joint.

     “I’ve smoked weed 511 consecutive days,” he said.

     Ariel slid down to his level, “I’m probably just as bad but I don’t keep track.”  She peered into the closet, “You play?”

     Uncertain what she meant he said, “Heh?”

     “The oboe silly.” 

     
     He was amazed that she identified it by its case, “I was the cellist in my high school’s marching band but switched to the oboe.”

     
     Ariel smirked, “Very funny.”

     
     Fillmore responded to his own disparagement by calling himself an asshole and said, “You play?”

     Ariel listed three other instruments and said, “But my first love is the flute.”

     He bolted into the closet and came out with his flute, “There’s nobody home besides Hastings, wanna play duets?” 

Before he got his oboe, she was playing “Caro Nome” from Verdi’s “Rigoletto.” 

     Fillmore called out from his closet, “I have the sheet music to Prokofiev’s ‘For the Love of Three Oranges.’”                                                                                     

Instead of answering, she played it. He was overcome with excitement and struggled to insert his double reed, until joining in.

Twenty minutes later they had finished the first stanza of Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy” when Ariel noticed the opening credits of a black and white movie on the TV.   

     “Oh boy,” she exclaimed, “‘Casablanca.’ Second to the 'Exorcist,' it's my favorite. Let’s watch.” 

     He stared at her, “Were you sent from heaven?”         

He pushed an over-sized beanbag chair to the foot of his bed. Fillmore plumped it up and Ariel made herself cozy. He placed a white throw-pillow that looked like a Rohrer 714 Quaalude behind her head and snuggled beside her. Cheek to cheek, he placed his hand over her’s.  Fully clothed, they were asleep before the French police apprehended Peter Lorre.

                         *

For the next three days, they were limited to phone calls until meeting at J. Paul’s for lunch. At window seats, they ate, drank and chatted as the bustling Wisconsin Avenue foot traffic went by.

     “This morning was the first time I ever went to a gynecologist,” Ariel mentioned. 

     Fillmore was caught off guard, “Really!”

     She looked into his eyes, “I broke-up with that guy.” 

Fillmore’s raised eyebrow was his only response. 

     Ariel stroked his face, “We never slept together.”  She lost eye contact and continued, “But, I've been ‘with’ other guys while seeing him.”  

Fillmore was uneasy as he scooted his seat closer. He kissed her cheek and lifted her chin up.  He feared the worst and hugged Ariel as a steady flow of tears rolled down her face. 

     “W-what did the doctor say?”

     Ariel said, “Oh shit!  I’m so, so sorry. I’m fine. Really."  In a whisper she added, "I wanted to be certain I was ‘clean’ for you.  I was afraid you’d think I was...”

     Relieved, he interrupted by quoting her, “That was then...”

They embraced, had their first meaningful kiss and left.                                                                              Lovingly, he escorted her back to campus. 

     
     “I can skip anthropology today,” Ariel chirped. “Come back to my place." In French she continued, “Make me explode in passion.”

     
     “You go to class,” Fillmore laughed.  “Let’s at least have a first date.  How about tonight?”

                               *

That evening, just past the Watergate Hotel on New Hampshire Avenue, they entered an elegant cosmopolitan restaurant...under-dressed.

     Greeted like royalty, Raymond the maitre d’ took Fillmore aside and groaned, “Mr. Cunnynghame kindly indulge me by allowing me to select for you a jacket and tie.”

     Properly befitted in an over-sized sports jacket and mismatched tie Ariel giggled, “Don’t you look spiffy.”

They were ushered to a two-top in the center of the dining room as their flower-child aura was frowned upon by the pompous clientele. Upon being seated, Fillmore handed a twenty-dollar bill to the appreciative Raymond. 

Fillmore spoke about his background over perfect vodka martinis.  They were sharing raw oysters as he revealed his mother’s history of nervous disorders.   

     “Teddy always instructed me to call her breakdowns, ‘vacations.’”

     “Who’s Teddy?” 

     “Oops, Teddy’s my father, Mr. Republican. Everyone calls him that because with that brush mustache and funky glasses, he resembles Teddy Roosevelt.  But he’s a Fillmore.  He hates that name.  He usually calls me Fill, which I hate, but when he calls me Filly, I know I’m in trouble.”

     “My dad calls me Missy when I’m in deep shit.”

During their Caesar Salad, Fillmore spoke of Teddy’s ferocious demeanor and the aggressive tactics that made him successful. 

     “The biggest turn-off is,” Fillmore explained as the terrapin soup arrived, “he expects me to be the same way.”                   

A complementary bottle of Mums Extra Dry was poured after the chateaubriand ala béarnaise was served.

     The flickering light of the candles danced in Ariel’s blithe green eyes as Fillmore said, “I know it’s sudden but I have a surprise for you.  I hope you say yes.”

     Ariel set down a creamy stalk of her asparagus in hollandaise sauce and said, “Whatever it is...yes.”

     “Teddy rented two condos in Tahoe. Come skiing with me.” 

     “Definitely,” she declared.                                   

     "Teddy met me there twice in my Stanford days."

Ariel nodded as he spoke about the flight, the area’s pristine beauty and accommodations. Equally smitten, they decided against dessert. 

     Raymond returned his Carte Blanche Card and referred to the generous tip, “Even with the same name, no one could ever confuse you with your father.”

     
Sober, with three-quarters of their champagne in hand, they left arm in arm, falling in love. 

In her apartment, they drank the Mums during a prolonged petting session.  Fillmore shimmied her jeans down and was taken by the monarch butterfly print of her panties.

In the morning, he became enthralled by Ariel’s omnipresent sculptures, watercolors and oil paintings of large breasted women. 

By the end of the week, Fillmore moved in.  They avoided outside influences and spent most of their time unpacking, re-arranging and making love. Fillmore’s streak of smoking marijuana ended and without making a specific pact, they abstained from hard drugs.  

                               *

At Squaw Valley, Fillmore and Ariel were on the slopes two hours after their plane landed.  They were going strong into dusk until Ariel hit an icy patch and plowed into a stout sapling, badly bruising her lower back.

     
The next day Teddy arrived and stayed in the adjacent unit. He was personable towards Ariel but disapproved.  Alone in Teddy’s condo, Fillmore endured a filibuster-like dissertation which merely condemned her for being the child of Democrats.

     
     Fillmore responded, “And your point is?”

     
     “I hired a private investigator,” Teddy boasted.  “Sealed records or not; when you pay for the best, you get results. It seems your ‘friend’ has a criminal history.”     

     
     “Big shit, so do I.  Besides, I already know.  She told me.”

     
     Teddy blasted, “Filly, are you aware she got picked-up by some wastrel at the Smithsonian. And in the exit alcove of the furthest, darkest corner of the space exhibit...”

     
     “Yeah, yeah she went down on him.”

     
     “But in the Smithsonian for God’s sake.”

     
     “So what.”

     
     “Did she also mention that they were discovered by a guard?  And to buy his silence, she ‘serviced’ him as well! Until the whole kit and caboodle were caught and arrested.”

     
Ariel broke the tension by knocking on the door.

     
     Fillmore put his arm around her waist, “I know everything I need to know and she knows more about me than you ever will.” 

     
Teddy was disappointed.  He wanted the trip to reinvigorate their turbulent relationship. 

     
     So when Fillmore cited Ariel’s injury and declined the offer to ski together Teddy croaked, “C’mon where’s your pioneer spirit?  Hell, she’s not even limping.”

     
     Ariel huffed, “It’s always something.”

     
     Fillmore sensed that Teddy was insulted, “Look, we're going to Truckee and Virginia City. We may stay a night in Reno.”

     
     Teddy removed his rimless Prince-Nez glasses, squeezed the bridge of his nose and relented, “Well then bully for you.  Before mother got ill, we had our last good time at the MGM.”  Emotionally, he added, “If you stay over, go there and make sure they know who you are.”

                               *

Away from the heart of the city, Reno’s MGM Grand was the classiest casino in town.  Fillmore registered without fanfare and was assigned a basic room. Unencumbered by luggage, a boisterous commotion led them away from the elevators. In a cavernous space beyond the casino, they discovered a betting parlor. In this “sports book,” the walls displayed gigantic racetrack tote boards as well as “lines” (odds) for pro and college ballgames. 

     
A football game was being played on the movie theater sized TV as Ariel and Fillmore scanned the room. Suddenly, there was an outburst as the throng of bettors reacted to a controversial referee call.

     Naive Fillmore asked a chubby man in a stained dress shirt, “What’s up?” 

     “That fumble was a bad call.”

     Fillmore had little interest in sports but asked, “Why's there football on Thursday?”

     “It’s Idaho State, at Hawaii.”

     Ariel chimed in, “All these rooters are from Idaho?” 

     Fillmore smiled, "Rooters.  That's sweet..." 

     Before he finished his compliment the man yakked, "Now Hawaii won't cover, I'm screwed on the 'over' and it's impossible to 'middle' my bet!" 

     Fillmore tuned him out and asked, “How come those little TV’s aren't on?” 

     The man muffled a burp, “This is the only game today.  On Saturday, there will be a different game on all ten of those babies.”  He pointed above the betting windows that resembled the ticket booths at Union Station and added, “Up there, they’ll post all the updates until they become finals.”

     “I can’t believe all these people give a shit about this crumby game,” Fillmore mentioned.

     “There’s nothing like the electricity of a sports book.”

     “I’m sorry,” Fillmore said, “I don’t follow.”

     “Nearly all these people have a financial interest in the game. Trust me, you can’t get this kind of excitement anywhere else.  And if you think this atmosphere is something, come back on Sunday. Ten times this many come for the NFL.  Hell, you can’t even move in here during the Super Bowl, the Kentucky Derby or a championship fight.”                                                                      Fascinated, Fillmore was about to thank him as a buxom, scantily clad cocktail waitress handed the man a beer. At the same time, Ariel admired the girl's long neck, well-toned back and large breasts and thought she's make an excellent sculpturing subject. 

     The pudgy man, leered at the girl’s bosom, handed her a five-dollar casino chip and said, “Get these kids whatever they want.”  He then asked, “You guys are twenty-one?  Right?”                                                                                They lied by eight months and nodded. 

     The man sucked his cup dry and crowed, “Betcha she’ll be back in a minute.  It’s worth five bucks just to look at them titties.” Disturbed by his own callousness he turned to Ariel, “Pardon my language.”                                                     

Ariel didn't react but made a mental note that she liked looking at titties too.

     The man wiped his mouth with his sleeve, “If they had a sports book in Modesto, I’d never leave town.”  He motioned around the room, “’Cause legally or not, people will find a place to bet sports.”                                                                                                                                The barmaid returned. The lecher anticipated her arrival and had another “nickel” chip ready.  

     While gaping at her chest he said, “When it comes to sports books, there's big'erns and good'erns.  And the MGM is a good'ern.”  While she wiggled away, he elbowed Fillmore's ribs as he fixed on her rear-end and said, “Remember this Bub, around here money talks and bullshit walks...very nicely.”

                   * 

                     
                                                            They went to the room, showered, napped and lounged around before coming down for a midnight snack. Ariel wanted an omelet but all the restaurants were closed till 6:00AM. She settled for two bites from a vending machine chicken salad sandwich.                                                                                           Underage and not possessing the high roller mentality of his father, Fillmore was intimidated from entering the casino.  Instead, they opted for a grand tour of the city in a taxi.  The cab dropped them off on Virginia Street, under Reno’s famous sign.                                

PRIOR TO ATLANTIC CITY LEGALIZING GAMBLING, RENO WAS THE WORLD'S SECOND BIGGEST VENUE IN THE WORLD. 

                                                            They drank and gallivanted through quaint storefront casinos.  At the Cal-Neva Club, they stopped to watch people play slot machines.       
Ariel whispered, "Let's get some nickels."                  

Their brazen jaunt into underage gambling netted them each a two-dollar loss. 

     
Later, they were attracted by seedy looking Harold’s Club.  They lost a few more dollars before realizing the rundown Victorian-styled sawdust-joint was being renovated. Lured by the modern brightness, they entered the refurbished side of the casino, where the table games were. 

The new side had a similar antique motif but was clean, upbeat and had Ragtime music piped in.  A blackjack dealer was standing dead and encouraged them to play. Fillmore was hesitant as he approached Corrine, a brunet in her early twenties.  He was bashful and declined but accepted a quick lesson.  Fillmore fixated on her open shirt and ample cleavage.  Ariel appreciated the sway of her unbridled breasts too, but as a freedom of expression. 

     Fillmore waited for her tutorial to end and softly said, “Do you know where we can score some weed?”

     Corinne replied, “Sure, I go on break in ten minutes.”

     
They followed her through Lincoln Alley and shared a joint behind Harrah’s.  An hour later, Corinne took them to a tiny apartment crammed with young people and they bought a “lid.” 

Made to feel so at ease, they hung out.  While a guitarist sang “Alice’s Restaurant,” Fillmore began telling stories of his world travels. Ariel remained enraptured even though she knew them.

Most of their reefer was gone as Fillmore finished his tale of smoking Nepali “shit” with the Sherpas in Katmandu. 

     Someone said, "Let's go for munchies.” 

Thirteen of them trudged through snow flurries to Landrum’s Landmark Diner, the self-proclaimed, “world’s smallest diner.” 

     
Fillmore and Ariel gravitated to Corinne.  She left her jacket open during the walk as she called blackjack dealing; exciting.  Ariel peeked at Corinne’s jiggling chest and recalled as a sixteen year old, her arrest for skinny-dipping on acid in the Reflecting Pool of the Capitol. 

     Ariel asked, “You don’t mind exposing yourself?” 

     “I’m not showing anything. It’s harmless. Tonight I made $85.00 in tokes, (tips).  On the weekends I do much better.  Buttoned up, I’d make half. You see, we keep our own tokes. In all the other casinos, dealers pool the tips.  Plus, they have strict dress codes so girls gotta wear bras."                                      

     Ariel said, "Interesting," as she imagined blackjack as their ticket out of Washington.

     Somebody in the group remarked, “Hey, even if Landrum’s is empty, there won’t be enough seats for all of us.” 

     A debate started and Bob’s Big Boy seemed to be their new destination until Fillmore took control, "How about I take everyone to the MGM."

                               *

At 6:10AM, low-key early risers were stunned by Fillmore’s unkempt horde entering the MGM’s lobby.  They advanced to the long buffet line jammed by conventioneers.  

Twenty minutes later at the head of the line, Dorothea, a wrinkled sixty-plus hostess with unflattering, long jet black hair refused to seat them.  Fillmore stopped his mob from profaning her and without raising his voice rationalized with the shrew. 

     
     She didn't give in so he told his followers, “Sit!” 

A security force led by two men in suits converged on the narrow aisle to the cash register being blocked by protesters. 

The security supervisor Earl Pembry, a balding, hooked nose drill sergeant-type, rudely questioned Fillmore.  The other man's nameplate read; Winston C. Hill, Restaurant Manager. 

     Pembry wasted a lot of time until asking, “You an MGM guest?”

     Fillmore smiled, “Yes.”

     Pembry extended his hand, “Key and ID!”

     Before complying he said, “You treat all paying customers this way?”

     Mr. Hill stepped forward and in a calm Jamaican accent interjected, "Hello.  My name is Hill.  Please, may I know yours."

     

     “I'm Fillmore Cunnynghame.”

     
     Hill recognized the name, handed back his credentials and announced, “Dorothea escort these nice people to their seats and let’s get the queue moving.”

     
     She referred to the most remote, closed corner of the dining room and cracked, “Stick ‘em in ‘K’ zone?”

     
     Hill forced a smile, “No, they’ll be more comfortable with everyone else in ‘D.’”  He turned to Fillmore, gave him his business card and shook his hand, “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you sir.  You’re more youthful than I imagined.”  He reiterated his regrets over the mix-up and added, “Breakfast is on me and you can expect full ‘F and B’ for the duration of your stay.”

     
     Fillmore didn’t know or care that F and B meant; food and beverage as he winked at Ariel, “It’s always something.”  Fillmore shook Hill's hand again and said, “Sir, does your middle initial stand for Church?”

     “Why yes,” he smiled.  “Few people are clever enough to figure that out.”

     “Mr. Winston Church Hill, like your namesake, I appreciate your diplomacy...” He pointed at Dorothea and Pembry, “...and it might be a good idea to remind Morticia and Colonel Klink how to speak to people. Also, it was very nice to treat us to breakfast, but I don’t want something for nothing...I just want respect.”

     “I understand,” Hill nodded. 

     Fillmore said to Ariel, “They fucked up.  Free shit at this point is like a Band-Aid on cancer.”

                          *

Months later on a grim mid-March afternoon, the aimless duo hiked Rock Creek Park. They trudged up from a deep ravine and entered the Washington Zoo.  Like the city’s landscape, its gradual slopes give it a flat appearance. Under closer scrutiny, despite the concrete and the barred enclosures, many areas include natural peaks and valleys.

                                                              Fillmore was staring into the tapir enclosure as Ariel turned from a blustery gust to light a joint.  The warmth of the holidays was long forgotten and the new bi-centennial spirit thrust upon them a greater need for independence.  However, without a creative surge to break away, they remained wedged between the comfort zone of their parents’ resources and their own fulfillment.                                                                                         Their stifled lives were agitated by the infighting between the families. The Mott’s despised Fillmore’s lazy nature and vilified him; while Teddy constantly reminded Fillmore that he was being hoodwinked by a “tramp.”  Equally wrong, both parties managed to drag politics into the equation further polarizing the situation.

                                                          Ariel’s head was hung low as they wound down a twisty wooded path towards the bald eagle.  Blended in with barren trees, a few drops of rain fell as they stopped to snuggle and look up at the noble creature. 

     The majestic bird was flapping its wings as Fillmore groaned, “It's time for us to fly away.” 

     They were ambling past the pachyderms as Ariel joked, “Considering equal access, you’d think the Democrats would have built their own jackass cage by now."
                                                            Fillmore didn’t react.  A stinging drizzle hustled them to the small mammal house. In semi-darkness, the meerkats watched the couple watch them. Another wave of insecurity hit Fillmore.  He wanted to kiss Ariel but she turned away and sobbed.

     “Don’t worry I’ll sort out this bullshit...I swear I’ll make you happy.”

     
     “No,” Ariel whimpered, “it’s not that. I love you. I’d live in a shack with you.”  She burst into tears, “Something is wrong with my back.  I'm getting shooting pains where I fell.”

     He grabbed her hand and bellowed, “I’m taking you to a doctor.” 
                                                              In a tight embrace, they marched up Connecticut Avenue. Inside his car, the showers ended.  The sun came out. Ariel felt warmer and claimed her subsiding pain had vanished. 

     She didn't remind him of her fear of doctors and insisted, “Let’s go check out the cherry blossoms.”    

                                                              In silence, Fillmore kept fiddling with the car radio as they cruised through the business district behind the White House. The last minute of the Beatles,’ “Nowhere Man” was followed by a commercial for the International Croupiers School. They had never discussed the possibility of becoming casino dealers but the idea crossed their mind at the same time. 

     
     Ariel smiled, “Let’s check it out.”

     
     Fillmore said, "Cool.  And it's only a few blocks away."                                                                          
On the congested street, they counted down the addresses and like kismet, a parking spot opened up in front.  They rushed up to the sixth floor and impetuously signed up for craps, blackjack, roulette and baccarat.  
     
     The registrar handed back his Carte Blanche Card, “PIF’s are our favorite students.” 

     Ariel shrugged, "What do you mean?"

     The man whispered, “Those who Pay In Full get advanced job placement.”                                                                                                                            Into July, Fillmore and Ariel attended every day and didn't need to apply themselves to excel.  They gravitated toward craps but her back pain flared-up while dealing it, so she pretended to prefer blackjack.     
                                                                The School’s director nicknamed them his "Bohemian, power couple" and advised against Reno because Las Vegas had more opportunities that would suit their sophisticated tastes.                                                                                              On their last day, Fillmore showed clean-shaven and in his first haircut in two years.  

     The director led them into the break room and said, "We don't usually do this but congratulations on completing your training.  And!  A slightly belated, happy twenty-first birthday to you both."                                                                      Students gathered around a table with a tray of Twinkies cut into twenty-one pieces.

     A girl said, "Ariel, blow out the candle and make a wish."

     She hesitated and Fillmore said, "Don't tell us what it is or it won't come true."

     The director said, "Go on.  Your birthday was July eleventh that's seven-eleven.  That's good luck in this racket."

     Ariel said, "I've never considered myself lucky..."

     The girl said, "Cancerians are a perfect love match.  They are devoted to each other and live in domestic tranquility."

     "Yes I'm very fortunate to find this guy," she said as she blew out the candle.                                                                                                                          Later, the director proudly announced that he had placed them at the Las Vegas Golden Nugget Casino.

                         *

Ariel’s parents didn't approve of the move and threatened to disinherit her. They thought their resources were so ingrained that she'd never risk losing it.                                        

At the Alamo, Teddy said he was flabbergasted by Fillmore’s shortsightedness and cancelled his credit card. 

     The morning after they left, Teddy confided in Hastings, “I was the same way.  I fought my father tooth and nail but eventually I sowed my wild oats and came around.  Let Filly try it his way. Once that spoiled whore gets a taste of blue-collar life, I guarantee she’ll show her true colors.”

                                                              Ariel's folks remained confident that she was bluffing. 

     A month later, Mr. Mott said to his wife, “We have the consolation of knowing that indolent ne'er-do-well won’t poison our family name by marrying her.” 

                         *

The epitome of soul mates, Fillmore and Ariel were already dealing at the Golden Nugget for six years when I was hired in August 1982.  They were unmarried but monogamous. They had the same breaks at work, doted on one another and liked holding hands.  They placed no boundaries and seemed friendly to everyone even the upper managers.  I never dealt with Fillmore but I appreciated his company, enjoyed his worldliness and peaceful disposition.             

My first day on the job, I was an emergency replacement for somebody who had gotten arrested on his break.  A fellow dealer that day was twenty-seven year old, Christopher Dean.  He hailed from Lusk, Wyoming and had been a rising star in pro rodeo circuit until a spinal injury ended his career.                                 

A stereotypical cowboy, “Rowdy” Christopher Dean, as he was known had short-cropped black hair, sunken cheeks and a thick mustache.  His appearance was accented by a dent-like scar along the outer orbital bone of his right eye, compliments of an enraged Brahma bull.  I soon learned, he was semi-literate, an alcoholic, addicted to painkillers and sometimes “hyped-up” on speed.  His ill-advised lifestyle resulted in monstrously aggressive and irrational behavior.                              

I saw Christopher Dean at his worst in my first hour on the job. He got irate when our supervisor called him, “Chris.”  

     He threatened that floorman while telling him off and finished with, “If you can’t handle Rowdy, my name’s Christopher!”

     Our superior squeaked, “Sorry, I knew that.”                  

Later, I was the stickman and a player made a bet for the dealers and himself. The bet won.

     I directed the third base dealer, “Pay this gentleman seven dollars and he’s up to win again.” 

     Rowdy was annoyed that I didn’t automatically take another tip from the player’s winnings and barked from second base, “Dummy, give him six and we’re up.”                                                                                                                Petty “shake-down” tactics like that are common.  But I had been trapped for six months in the “toilet” up the street (The Vegas Club) and was afraid of losing my job, on day one.  

     So without knowing who was who, I stuck to procedure and repeated myself, “Give this gentleman seven dollars.”

     
Richie Lopez, the third base dealer hesitated because of Rowdy’s menacing reputation.  I thwacked the craps stick in front of the player and Richie paid the seven dollars.  To pacify my new coworkers, I employed my best “soft-hustle,” and easily got the player to give us another bet...legally.                    

Richie, a Chicagoan nodded to acknowledge my professionalism. I smiled back and noticed that he wore his hair in a pompadour. Later, I found out that he supplemented his income as an Elvis impersonator.

     
     Later while waiting to clock-out, Rowdy in a floppy black Stetson, stuck his right index finger an inch from my face and blasted, “Where the fuck do you get off?  Don’t ever fuck with my money.”  He looked for support from the dealers on line and roared, “Don’t fuck with our money. Right!” 

     The crowd was silent until his two redneck toadies grunted, “Yeah.”

     
     “Even if it hit,” I said, “split fifty ways that eight bucks is pennies.  Look it’s my first day, don’t be such a ‘hard-on.’”

     
     “HARD-ON! C’mon outside. This hard-on is gonna kick your ass.” 

     
In the alley off Carson Avenue encircled by spectators, I awaited certain annihilation. While Rowdy laughed, his phantom punches snapped close to my face as he danced to block my way.

     Through the mosaic of voices I heard someone shout, “Hit ‘em.”

     Another screamed, “Somebody stop them.”

     I muttered, “Look. I’m no fighter.”                            

Rowdy lost his grin as he fixed on my face and cocked his fist. From behind a much smaller dealer with wavy brown hair grabbed his wrist.

     He was about my age and said, “CHRISTINE! Stop it.”

A profane exchange followed but Rowdy backed down.  Every chance my hero got, as if salting an open wound, he called him CHRISTINE.  Rowdy threatened me again before skulking away. 

     
     He took some parting shots until my savior hollered, “Mess with him again CHRISTINE and it'll be the worst day of your life.”

     
     I read this fellow’s badge and said, “Thanks Fillmore.”

     
     “He’s a real head-case.  Rumor has it, there’s a hunting knife strapped to his calf.  Avoid him.  If he gives you more shit, let me know.  And if you’re alone with him,” Fillmore chuckled, “just call him Christine.”

     
     “Christine?” I asked.  “You have a Svengali hold on him?”

     
     He smiled at my movie reference, “That's Christopher Dean.  If you call him Chris, you get CHRIS DEAN.  He peaked in high school and lives in a macho fantasy world.  Plus, he’s a mental-midget.”                 
A few times, I had drinks with Fillmore.  But I didn't fit in with his “jet-set" clique. 

                               *

On a tired street, in a residential neighborhood, Fillmore and Ariel rented a modest house on the outskirts of town.  Their simple, happy and loving lives became complicated when Ariel's back pain became more frequent and severe. 

     
A month after I started at the Nugget, Ariel was dealing roulette.  She and her best friend Ellie Buckwalter had the same break. They always washed up first before sitting down. 

     
     Ariel went straight into the toilet four breaks in a row so Ellie asked through the stall door, “You okay?”

     
     “The last few days I’ve been spotting and it’s getting worse.”

     
     At the sink, Ellie motioned towards her crotch, “Have you seen a doctor?”

     
     “No. I’ve only seen a gyno once, years ago.”

                                                                
They discussed the uncharted territory of pregnancy, the possibility of an extra heavy menstrual flow and miscarriages. 

     On their way back to duty, Ellie realized that nothing had been resolved, “You should see a doctor to be on the safe side.”

At the same time, Fillmore had been noticing an increased moodiness in Ariel and a sharper temper.

A week later Ariel’s bleeding intensified, the pain spread and her lovely face lost its healthy glow.  Towards the end of a shift, Ariel hobbled to the rest room.

     
     Ariel sat on the toilet and was tending her problem when Ellie whispered, “What can I do for you?”

     
     “I’m okay.  See you later.”

     
     Ellie said, “No.”

     
     The girls bickered until Ariel claimed, “It’s from a skiing accident.” 

Ellie left and ran to tell Fillmore. From his dealer position, a few minutes later, he watched Ariel uneasily cross the busy casino. 

     
     An hour later, on the way to their car he said, “You’re walking funny.”    

     
     She said, “I tweaked something. Maybe it’s a Charlie-horse.”

     He was dissatisfied with her explanation, "I've been watching you.  You're losing weight, look sad and all the color in your face is gone."
     
     "It's b-because..."
     
     He interrupted, "You're in pain.  I spoke to Ellie and I called her gynecologist.  He's doing us a solid by seeing you tomorrow at 8:00AM."

                               *

In Dr. Randolph McGill's empty waiting room, Ariel completed a fifty-four question New Patient Survey.  Twice she asked for Fillmore’s help as he read Entrepreneurial Magazine.  

The examination was a half hour.  Fillmore was absorbed in rereading an article so the nurse tapped his shoulder to get his attention.  

Inside he found Ariel slumped in a wheelchair as he was greeted by McGill’s firm handshake.

     
     “I’m afraid Miss Mott's condition is dire,” he stated.  “She must be hospitalized immediately.  Go now and I’ll phone ahead for a direct admission.  I’ll meet you there and do an ultrasound.”

     
Fillmore wheeled her into the elevator. 

     
     On the way down Ariel contorted her body to see him and bawled, “I’m so sorry.”

     
Hours later, a disconsolate, lonely figure sat in a darkened telephone booth and called Washington. Hoarsely, Fillmore apprised Teddy of the situation.

     
     Irritated, Fillmore snarled, “A radical hysterectomy...yes we got a goddamned second opinion...look I gotta go...I’ll call you.”

     
     Teddy snapped, “I’ll be there tomorrow..  And I’m bringing Hastings.” 

Over wrought by nervousness, Fillmore nearly hyperventilated while making his next call.

     
     Barely audible through his tears, he told Ariel’s mother, “She has ovarian cancer.  If it spread, she has a month or two...”

Mrs. Mott’s unladylike, damning verbal abuse was so loud that Fillmore held the receiver away from his ear.

     
     She mentioned the importance of hosting her Democrats for Cancer Research fundraiser before lashing out, “I’ll be there at the end of next week to straighten everything out.”

                              *

Late the next afternoon Fillmore met with Dr. McGill.  He was shown the results of Ariel’s blood work and the evidence that the cancer had metastasized into her lymph nodes and now her liver.

     
     “Our worst fears have been realized. Other than keeping her comfortable,” McGill said, “there is little else we can do.” 

     
Fillmore was at Ariel's side as Teddy marched into her hospital room.  He displayed a level of dormant, sweet compassion that his son never dreamed existed.

     
     “Ariel sweetheart,” he cooed. “We’re going to take you home. You’d like that better, wouldn’t you?”  

Ariel peered up at his square head and boxer’s build, felt safe and nodded. 
     
     Teddy raised his index finger skyward and said to Fillmore, "Believe you can and you're halfway there."  He ran out and from the corridor proclaimed, “We shall respond with action to lick this diabolical disease.”

Fillmore stared at the floor.  His tyrant had become a lunatic. He shook his head.

                               *

Fillmore’s rapport with his Golden Nugget upper management golfing buddies netted him an open-ended leave of absence.  Steadfastly at the patient’s side, he combined a strict diet regimen with holistic medicine but Ariel still deteriorated. 

On the fifth day, Fillmore's desperation brought a parade of quacks.  Of the six, the only credible one was an acupuncturist.  The procedure lessened her pain but it was no remedy. 

Later, Fillmore became frustrated by his folly after an herbal enema was administered.  The last “contestant” proposed boiling Ariel’s blood and she was ushered out immediately.

     
Teddy located an experimental drug in Canada that was reported to have had success against cancer. 

     Before leaving to make travel arrangements he chirped, “They make it from ground apricot pits, it’s called Laetrile. While the FDA sits on their ass, we’ll take action.”

Ariel was asleep for the night.

     Hastings referred to her difficult day and suggested, “Fill, go to work for one night. The change of scenery will do you good. I’ll never leave her. She’ll be fine.”                                                        


                  *                                      



Fillmore's first break was with Richie Lopez.  He vented his problems and paraphrased Teddy by calling her malady, a demon.

     Lopez said, "Maybe you should bring in a priest."

     Fillmore remained civil, “She’s not dead yet.  Besides we’re not religious.  We’re not even Catholic. She’s Presbyterian, I’m Episcopalian.”

     Richie looked around and leaned closer, “Father Malcolm is an exorcist.  If Lucifer has planted his satanic seed, only Malcolm can drive out the maleficence!”

     Fillmore gushed, “I want to meet your Father Malcolm.”               
"I'll be right back, " Lopez said as he ran to a pay phone.                                                                 Fillmore was visualizing Ariel’s amusement as Teddy returned home from his travel preparations.  But he was furious that Fillmore had abandoned his post. 

Later that same night, a man in a floor-length, brown, hooded robe with his face shrouded by darkness, comically entered the Golden Nugget.  My eye focused on the common rope he used as a sash as Richie Lopez spoke with him.  On Fillmore's next break, he was introduced to Father Malcolm.  The two men left the casino and went behind Stoney's Pawn Shop. 

Fillmore lit a joint and offered it to the “clergyman.”  Malcolm pulled away his head covering and took two short pokes and a deep drag.  While taking turns smoking, Fillmore detailed Ariel’s affliction.

     Father Malcolm’s deep-set eyes squinted as he took another meaningful hit and gasped, “For three-hundred dollars cash...in advance, I can eliminate her accursed possession.”

     Fillmore’s scheming mind was racing, “Yeah, yeah fine three-hundred.  But let me ask you this.  Are you a real priest?”

     In an even temper Malcolm responded, “You can have complete faith in me to perform the ritual. I was ordained in 1972.”

     “No, no what I meant was, in addition to your ‘service,’ can you legally perform a marriage ceremony?”

     Malcolm smiled, “Get me the couple, a license, ring and a witness...no extra charge.”

                         *

Toward the end of that same shift, Teddy stormed into the Nugget. 

     Richie Lopez got my attention, “Check it out, a Teddy Roosevelt impersonator.  Even if he can sing, that’s gotta be a tough gig.”

     Before we realized who he was, Teddy confronted Fillmore on a live game, “You deserted your post! We’re leaving!”

     “Is Ariel okay?”

     “Yes she’s fine Filly. Let’s go.”

     “I can’t walk off. I’m on working.”

     Teddy gestured at the craps table and spewed, “Here’s the deal Fillmore...”

     Floorman, Antony Francis came to the rescue with exaggerated sarcasm, “Begging your pardon Mr. President...”

     Fillmore interrupted, “It's okay. He’s my father.”        

     Antony said, "Need a private moment?  I can get someone..."

     He walked to the end of the pit as Fillmore said, "No thanks."

     “For God’s sake man, you could be anything you want,” Teddy blared as the craps game continued.  “It kills me to see you as a common laborer...”

     
     “You’re not just insulting me,” Fillmore interjected as he paid some bets.  He stood up straight, motioned to the gawking onlookers and added, “You’re disturbing the action and minimizing my friends.”

     
     Teddy was unmoved, “You are to end this inane charade.  Your gamboling days are over!  When this ordeal is done, you are to accompany me back to Washington.  I will create a position at the firm that best suits your...er...unique nature.”

     
     Fillmore paid more bets and hissed, “Don’t you ever call Ariel an ordeal!  Look, I appreciate everything you’ve done.  Hopefully, you’ll bring back a miracle from Canada. But right now, I’m not leaving.  And you can bet I never come back to D.C.”

                                            *

The next day, Teddy flew into British Columbia and took a commuter flight to Kamloops.  He picked up the “prescription” and spent the evening at a hotel, in Vancouver's Gastown district.  

Fillmore continued his vigil next to sleeping Ariel. In the kitchen, Hastings prepared for late arriving guests.

                  *



     During that night Richie Lopez asked me, “You goin' to Fillmore’s party after work?”

     
     “I wasn’t invited.”

     
     “It’ll be okay.  Come with me.”

     
Richie followed me home after our shift.  He used my foyer as a dressing room and was in full Elvis regalia when I came down.  I couldn’t help but laugh seeing his white sequined outfit complete with blue suede shoes.  
     
At 2:30AM, we stopped at a liquor store for beer. The clerk and the one customer were all smiles as Richie did some of his schtick.

     
North on Decatur Boulevard, we followed the directions to a street of older, well-spaced ranchers.  A crowd out front and the loud music attracted us to #669.  From the driveway’s cracked pavement, we took a step up onto a small, rickety, wooden porch.  I thought it was funny how the stereo’s booming bass rattled the house number as we entered. 

     
Inside, familiar faces stopped what they were doing to congregate around the “King.”

     
     Lopez acknowledged his regal reception and crowed, “Thank you, thank you very much.” 

     
On my own, I toured the museum-like ambiance of Ariel's studio. I took pleasure in her tasteful artwork that was dominated by large breasted women.  Out back, I saw the casino shift boss in the pool and the hot tub filled to capacity. 

     
Off the kitchen, at the door to the master bedroom, craps dealer Lester “Boo-Koo” Jefferson acted as a bouncer and screened prospective entrants.  The door swung open long enough for me to see Fillmore wailing away on his saxophone with his blues band buddies.  Before the door closed, I also glimpsed the once delicate butterfly. Withered and sickly, Ariel sat up in bed, in white satin pajamas. 

     
I popped open one of Richie’s Old Style beers and was admiring Ariel’s oil painted self-portrait as the band exited the bedroom. 

     
     Boo-Koo called out, “Ellie, Ellie Buckwalter.”

     
Ellie stood out from the casual gathering in an elegant fire engine red cocktail dress and matching pumps.  She entered the inner sanctum with a guitar case.  I was drawn nearer to the closed door and struggled over the din to hear her beautiful rendition of, “Amazing Grace,” ala Joan Baez. 

     
     Twenty minutes later, Boo-Koo announced, “Where’s my main man Elvis?” 

I knew he was out front.  I found him chatting with Father Malcolm and led them to the bedroom. They went in. Boo-Koo kept me out. 

     
At the same time, "Rowdy" Christopher Dean's rusted-out pick-up rolled onto Fillmore’s front lawn. The truck was still moving as his two drunken henchmen jumped out. At the doorway to the house, a couple was necking.  Rowdy burst up the one step and slammed the amorous man against the wall. The jolt popped-out the upper nail in the house number’s nine, it flopped upside down. 

     
Boo-Koo told Fillmore about the party-crashers and left to intercept them.  The bedroom door was left ajar for a few seconds.  My eye panned past the elite circle of friends to Ariel.  I stared at the details of her bony, anemic face. A sick-tray with a circular mirror bearing six neat lines of cocaine straddled her torso. Suddenly, there was a disturbance behind me and before I could react, an elbow “cold-cocked” my temple. 

     
     Instinctively, I blocked the doorway as I heard Rowdy exclaim, “Look at all that coke!”

A melee broke out until the three pariahs were outnumbered. The scuffle seemed over but Rowdy broke free of Boo-Koo’s grip and slipped down.  From his knees, he grabbed the bottom of Fillmore’s shirt and brandished a Bowie knife from his pant leg. Our sopping wet shift boss lurched forward and deftly disarmed Rowdy.  

     Fillmore remarked, "It's the Alamo, all over again."

Richie started singing “Jailhouse Rock” as the evil threesome were led out.

                         *

The party was getting back up to speed as Fillmore scooped cocaine from a brandy snifter with a baby food spoon.  He introduced Father Malcolm to Ariel.  She didn’t know why he was invited but she knew it was queer that a “man of the cloth” would help himself to four lines during Richie’s mini-concert.    

The noise gently phased out as the room mysteriously blackened. A recording of “Tubular Bells” came on and eerily echoed throughout the house.  The music’s theme was developing as the bedroom light switch was flickered. Ariel sat up as her friends advanced on her through the strobe-effect.  Some men began picking up the legs of the bed and dropping them as others rattled furniture and made mock screams.

     The craziness stopped and Fillmore said, “Ariel, Father Malcolm is here to exorcise the cancer from you.”

     Ariel weakly cracked, “I wish I could puke-up pea soup or turn my head all the way around.”                                             
The laughter offended Malcolm, "Decorum.  Please." 

     Fillmore cried, “Forget the holy water, let’s all do a few more lines.”                                                                                                                              Ariel wasn’t strong enough to snort any more cocaine.  Malcolm's solemn expression eased as he did another line.
                                                          Father Malcolm began chanting in Latin and praying in English.  Soon, Fillmore asked him to stop as the ceremony's novelty wore thin. He was removing the drug paraphernalia from the bed as he cued Boo-Koo to fade the lights to darkness.                          

The “exorcism,” never spooked Ariel but this half-minute of murky stillness did.  Agonizingly slow, the creaking door opened. A quiet couple stood still, silhouetted in the doorjamb.  The indiscernible man was holding a lit jasmine scented candle and Ellie carried the Rohrer 714 throw pillow with a small box perched on top. The light gradually returned as Fillmore took the box.  

     On one knee, witnessed by the austere gallery, Fillmore showed Ariel the wedding ring and began his proposal, "You are always on my mind.  And my thoughts of you are happy.  Come to me, hold me, never leave me.  I want to spend my life with you and walk besides you.  All I want, is to be with you now, and forever." 

Ariel was unable to speak and everyone wept.

     Fillmore continued and finished with, "Will you marry me?"

Through her pained face, a faint, long-forgotten sparkle came Ariel's eye as she managed a smile and nodded.  

     Father Malcolm said, "I now pronounce you man and wife.  You may kiss the bride."

A short shower of rice was followed by Ariel’s feeble bouquet toss, which was dropped on the floor in front of the other girls.  

Ellie came out of the room.  Through bittersweet tears, she told the remaining guests the news of the nuptials and asked us to leave.

                               *

Two upbeat days later, it was arranged that Hastings would pick-up the Mott’s at the airport.  However, Ariel didn’t wake up that morning. 

     
Fillmore, like a zombie, stood alone as his “in-laws” deplaned. Ariel’s mother, unaware of her daughter’s death, strode past him.  Mr. Mott called her back. Shallow greetings were exchanged.  Cotton-mouthed, Fillmore shared the news. Mrs. Mott’s obscene tantrum was heard throughout the terminal. 

     
On the way to the funeral home, Mrs. Mott’s aimed her eternal spring of verbal abuse at the back of Fillmore's head.  Later, Teddy’s unexpected and unappreciated presence inside the mortuary intensified her scorn.         

Before the Mott's saw Ariel's body, the two sides quarreled on whether to bury Ariel in her family’s Virginia plot or Teddy’s in Maryland. 

     She arrogantly said, “This is none of your business, sir.”

     Teddy did't dignify her statement, stared at his son and growled, “Filly.”

     
     Fillmore said, “You’re both wrong.  She’s staying here.”

     Mrs. Mott snapped.  “This affair doesn’t qualify as a common-law marriage.  Young man, you have no say here!”

     Teddy reiterated in a higher inflection, “Filly!”
                                                        Fillmore raised his left hand and displayed his wedding band. Spontaneously, Mr. Mott lunged at him but Teddy interceded.

     
     “You made the sanctity of marriage into a sham and mockery,” Mrs. Mott seethed. “You will seek an annulment.”

Politely, Fillmore refused. 

     
     The Mott’s privately conferred as Teddy snapped, “Typical bleeding heart liberals.”

     
     Mr. Mott sneered, “He's more demented than the Teddy Roosevelt character from ‘Arsenic and Old Lace.’”

ACTOR JOHN ALEXANDER (1897-1982) ENJOYED A LONG, ESTEEMED CAREER (1915-1962) ON STAGE, IN FILMS AND ON TV.  HE'S BEST KNOWN FOR HIS 1944 ROLE IN, "ARSENIC AND OLD LACE,"  AS  CARY GRANT'S OLDER, INSANE BROTHER, TEDDY ROOSEVELT BREWSTER.  ALEXANDER ALSO APPEARED IN THE SAME ROLE ON BROADWAY. 

A loud partisan argument broke out and the funeral director came out of his office to end their senseless political debate.

                               *

 

Disgusted, Mrs. Mott rummaged through Ariel’s personal effects. 

     She was appalled at her daughter’s informal wardrobe and barked at her husband, “My baby has nothing to wear.  She needs a proper dress to be buried in.”

     
     Fillmore tried to be helpful, “Her favorite color was fire engine red.”

     
     Mrs. Mott cursed Fillmore and venomously spat, “She is NOT going to be buried in red!”  
     
In a reflective pause, she couldn't recall her daughter’s color preference.  Her mind clawed at the past and all she could remember was Ariel’s party dress when she turned six.       

     Mrs. Mott proclaimed, “She’ll wear sky blue!”

     
     From the kitchen Teddy responded, “Let’s compromise, his red; your blue and we’ll throw in white shoes.”  

     
     Before he could expand on its patriotic significance, he drew unanimous dirty looks and was told by everyone, “Shut up!”

                                *  

Hours before the funeral, Fillmore appeared at the mortuary carrying a brown paper bag.  He viewed Ariel’s body and asked the cosmetician to put her bustier on, under her dress. 

     The man said, “No one will see it.”

     “Yeah...but she,” his voice cracked, “would've liked it.”                                                  
"I have strict instructions from her mother..." 

His reluctance disappeared when Fillmore handed him a fifty-dollar bill, fire engine red nail polish and said, "Don't forget, I'm her husband."                                                                                                                       He lingered long enough to see his wishes carried through.

                              *

     Teddy got out of the limousine after the funeral and suggested, “Come back to Washington with me...no strings attached.” 

     Fillmore draped his arm over Teddy’s shoulder and said, “No thanks.  I’ll be staying close to Ariel.”                     

     They stepped onto the porch as Teddy said, "Who are they?"                                                                        Two men in dark suits and sunglasses got out of a black sedan. They identified themselves as Metro detectives and served Fillmore a search warrant. An anonymous tip from either Rowdy, a disgruntled neighbor or the Mott’s, yielded enough drugs for a charge of: Possession with intent to distribute.                                                                                                    Teddy had been unaware of the party before the wedding. He also didn’t believe Fillmore’s claim that it was the first time in six years that they had used anything stronger than marijuana.  Whatever credibility Teddy may have ceded to his son over time, had evaporated.  He seethed over the perception that his goodwill had been exploited to subsidize drug dealers.  So Teddy never considered using his legal wherewithal and resources to quash the authority’s case. 

     Teddy said to Hastings, “I’ve played the fool for the last time.  A night in the ‘pokey’ will do the boy a world of good.”

     Hastings said, “Sir, I strongly beg to differ.”

     “Yes, come to think of it, I’ve never been much of a disciplinarian, thirty days ought to...”

     Hastings interrupted with an unprecedented exacting tact, “He hates you, sir.”

     “Rubbish!”

     “Believe me, he doesn’t want to. Even if he isn’t harmed ‘inside,’ you’ll legitimize his hatred.  Please don't go through with this childish power ploy.”

     Teddy blustered, “See here...”

     Hastings cut him off again, “Not thirty nights. Not one night. Not even one more hour.  You're being spiteful.  Realize that half of him is you!  And the other half is the woman you cherish. Neither of you is best served by being pulled further apart.  Bail him out this one last time and be assured that mutual benefits will be reaped.”

                          *

The car was still driving back from the lock-up.  At home in the unlit living room, the three physically and mentally exhausted men stared off in different directions until the phone rang. Hastings arose slowly. 

     Fillmore reacted to the old butler’s difficulty, discarded the Rohrer 714 pillow from his lap and announced, “I’ll get it.”  He said, “Uh-huh” twice and shrugged, “Dad, it’s a Dr. Fitchner. From Mulwray House?” 

     Teddy said, “Yes.”  He listened and softly said, “Thank you and good night.” He hung up and groaned, “Your mother has passed away.”

                          *

Inside the chapel of the Chevy Chase Mortuary, Fillmore stood far away from his father. Prior to the service, he stared at a gawky man bouncing on the balls of his feet toward the coffin.  The man’s bobbing head brought to mind the Charles Gounod tune, “Funeral March of a Marionet.”  Fillmore played it in his mind as Teddy’s associates and upscale clients began filing in.  The gangling man was offering kind words to Teddy as a group gathered in front of Fillmore. They spoke loud enough for him to hear.

     “Teddy bribed the coroner,” a short man said.  “The cause of death will read: PNEUMONIA.  But it was really pneumonia brought on by acute alcoholism.”

     “Yeah,” another man said, “since she ‘O.D.ed,’ she’s been in and out the loony bin a hundred times.”

     A third man jested, “You mean the ‘spa.’”

The room became more cluttered but Fillmore heard a few more isolated words like; slut, drunkard, pill-popper and psycho-bitch.  

Teddy stood dignified and alone at the head of the casket.  Fillmore saw his drained face and realized the ceaseless burden he’d always been to him. Teddy had been enduring his own misery yet he dropped everything to support and protect him.                                                                                                  Fillmore, blinded by the cataract-effect of his own tears lurched forward.  A stranger to nearly everyone, Fillmore stunned the mourners and Teddy too, by passing the line of sympathizers and disturbing a woman’s condolences.   

Heartily, he hugged his father until Teddy began to thaw. They paused and probed each other’s face.  They re-embraced and openly wept.  Hastings’ eyes watered as he witnessed their first degree of affection for one another in his twenty-one years of employment.

                               *

Teddy got Fillmore’s drug charges reduced to a low-grade misdemeanor.  A heavy fine was paid and he was put on probation.  But his Sheriff’s Card (Las Vegas casino work permit) was revoked. 

To occupy himself, Fillmore, armed with notebooks and the “Wall Street Journal,” began hanging out in casinos.  Fillmore didn’t gamble, he just liked being around the action while chronicling the amenities of various sports books. 

Fillmore telephoned Teddy when his rent was due.

     
     “I sincerely hope you aren’t asking me to finance another illegal fiasco,” Teddy kidded.

     
     “I do have a plan and I think you’ll like it.”

     “You’re coming to work for me?”

     “No.  But I do have a solid business proposal.”                                                                                Fillmore described his vision for a Vegas-style sports book bar in Washington. Teddy liked the idea of cable TV showing many events but he was fascinated by the gimmick of an all-female staff.

     “The waitresses and bartenders will all be knock-outs.  They'll dress in super tight tee shirts and black satin hot-pants.”

     “I’m not sure about that. Sounds common...er...cheap.”

     “Don't confuse this with a nudie bar or a whorehouse.  It'll be relatively wholesome and cater to an upper-crust clientele.  Look, no matter where guys are, they’ll gamble.  Our angle is, giving them a place to view their betting interest while being served by beautiful girls.  I’m telling you, we’ll pack ‘em in.”

     “How about a patriotic theme? Dress 'em like Uncle Sam.”

     “Stay focused.  Look, I’m calling the place ‘Ariel’s ROOTERS.’ And the two O’s in the name will be centered on every girl’s chest."

     “I like it. Bully for you. But why Rooters?”

     “That’s what Ariel called sports bettors.  She said it once but I’ll never forget how cute it sounded.” 

     More chitchat followed and Fillmore remembered, “You once made me an offer.  I’d like to know if it still stands.”

     Teddy detected his somber tone, “Son, what’s on your mind?”

     “If I do come back east...when it’s all over, I’d like all of us, including Ariel...to be together with mom.”

     “Are you seriously considering disinterring Ariel’s body?  That’s not for the squeamish.  You must consider the Mott’s feelings.”

     “I think they’ll be flexible. It’ll bring her closer to them.”

     Teddy quipped, “Flexible? You mean liberal.”  He added,  “You know, for quite some time, you've been all I had. So putting this all together with you, would give me a lot of joy Filly...I mean Fill...I mean partner!”

     “Thanks dad.  I'll mail you a rough sketch of the logo I drew.”

FILLMORE REGRETTED THAT ARIEL COULDN'T DESIGN HER OWN LOGO.  EVENTUALLY THE JOB WAS CONTRACTED TO A PROFESSIONAL WHO MADE THEIR TRADEMARK FAMOUS.

    “One more thing,” Teddy grimly concluded. “Don’t ever for one second consider exhuming my body.”

                        *

In the flat part of Washington, north of Pennsylvania Avenue on 10th Street near Ford’s Theater, a new sign bearing the name “Ariel’s ROOTERS” had been hung.  

The two fire engine red O’s in the gigantic block lettered ROOTERS were intentionally shaded to subliminally suggest large firm breasts. The other letters were sky blue with the over-sized “T” spanning the entire word.  At the left edge of the “T,” there was a red neon rendition of Ariel’s signature first name.  The apostrophe and a spectacular shooting star dotting the “i” were white.

                        *

Fillmore bickered with Teddy throughout the eighteen-month project.

Hastings was hired as a consultant after he suggested bringing Ariel's artwork in, to enhance the decor.  

Hastings also eased the daily strain by serving as a buffer and arbitrator during personalities clashes. Such objectivity and dedication merited him a generous minority share of the enterprise.

On June 11^th, one month before the grand opening that coincided with her birthday, “Ariel’s ROOTERS” had a combination soft opening and press conference.

In his office, Fillmore tapped on his fluorescent green Frisbee to the tune of Bizet’s “Toreador Song,” as he awaited his prompt to address the media.  He made that selection for his grand entrance because of its majestic quality and peerless rhythm.  He was certain the piece would remain with the journalist’s long after the celebration. 

Much to Fillmore’s chagrin, when he burst through the door, the triple forte ending to John Philip Souza’s, “Stars and Stripes Forever” was playing.  Unable to voice his displeasure, he was led by two stunning girls to the uplifted rostrum.  Fillmore fought through the glare, adjusted the microphone and scanned the crowd. He found Teddy smirking and deduced that the soundman had been bribed.

     The fiery red neon reflecting off Teddy’s Prince-Nez glasses made Fillmore think of Ariel’s angelic voice saying, “It’s always something.”  

Comforted by that notion, he softened.  He and Teddy exchanged cordial smiles as this concession plus countless more would result in a multi-million dollar international franchise that simply became known as ROOTERS.