"Kokopelli's Klatch" (c)

is an action adventure yarn
about a greying ladies'
sewing circle investment club
that is losing money in the
wheat futures market
because of a break in the
weather.
Shall we call it grasping for
straws when they blame a
pre-Columbian petroglyph,
and travel out west to take
care of business?
Heavily armed in their new
Ford Excursion, they roll out.







KOKOPELLI'S KLATCH (c)


the ongoing series by

Andrew Beergnat




From the nearby woods, where the honey locust trees and
their thorns seemed to lord over the distressed switch grasses
and drying mulch from downed pines, mainly an affect of the
horntail wasps and resourceful carpenter ants. Like a dry,
short of milk cereal bowl, the place was hotly damp and
suffocatingly humid. One would step through the hills of
verdure which, make no mistake, plied one with a festering
amount of chiggers. Up to the marsh's edge and onto a
mown and thoroughly dead backyard, one would meander to
the rear of the carport, adjusting to the light differences of a
quirting sun and shaded, screened enclosure, and closely
listening to those voices that would accumulate into reason,
into a gush of braggadocio.

"I'd offer lemonade, as well, ladies, but the young man I
'dated' last night got mad when I teased his emotions in bed
and he went to the kitchen and shook up all the cans of
Country Time."

Myrtle brought out a tray of three chilled cans of tea - one
for herself and Nitro and the other for Mildred. They have
all lived in this suburb of Cincinnati for as long as they've
been married housewives, which has been since the
Eisenhower administration. Two were now widowed.

"No tip?" asked Mildred.

"Oh, yeah, cause in bed this youngster hit the numbers with
me even better than when you got this group into the IT
sector in "91."

"Wonderfully true, Myrtle dear," Mildred countered. "It
was you who got us out of sewing day work and quilting and
onto the Street."

"Bravo to all of us, right Nitro?" asked Myrtle doddering
over to her chaise longue.

Nitro hoisted her can, acknowledging her contribution as the
fiercest of money market tacticians.

The group was scattered about the carport's picnic table,
each senior lady facing in her own direction, whether lying
along one of the benches or getting her chaise longue to the
perfect angle for observing the proceedings, as was their
president, Myrtle, who was wearing a mesmirizing lilac
scent that seemed to entrance with her fidgeting and
posturing. Finally crossing her white varicosed legs, she
exclaimed that all the officers were present except the
treasurer, Brenda Mae, who had gone off in the club's Ford
Excursion to fill all of their prescriptions at the local
Wal-Mart.

This meeting's agenda was twofold. The bottom line of their
growing wealth and the prospects of, for the first time,
buying new homes in a snazzy gated community that would
have everyone's vote.

"Timing ... money ... timing," muttered Nitro, who was
echoed by Myrtle.

Mildred, who was lying on the bench thinking about the
caraway type discomfort points that seemed to be
multiplying with her dentures, had them out and examining
them, and suddenly wanting to talk, slammed them back in
her mouth.

"Brenda Mae has taken the baton from you with Olympic
beauty, Nitro."

She shifted her teeth and began again.

"The handoff from your money market position to her
purchase of the wheat futures is beginning to look ... eh...
profitable."

The compliment due from Nitro's lips was instead a silent
thought. "Sloppy."

Empty amber pill bottles assaulted the pharmacy counter in
a careless dance from a re-used shopping bag. There were in
all twenty scripts to be filled between all the club, and so
Brenda Mae doled out the insurance cards and left for other
parts of the store, in that it would take at least an hour
before she'd be called on the P.A.

Nervous and a little claustrophobic, even in the huge
expanse of the store, she crept down the row of shampoos
and veered into the plant department past the floor palms
and ficus, and scanned the signs, going down the main aisle.
The search was on for office supplies. Each section actually
represented a substitution for what used to be a store in a
strip mall near the suburbs, but was now a consolidating
singularity - a shopkeep's blue smock destiny that somehow
allowed for the convenience of one stop shopping.

The rules of the road applied to these consumers, so she was
thinking, allowing her to scoot down the right side and avoid
collisions while reading the placards.

Ahh ... she arrived and began grabbing pens and a ream of
paper, and realizing she was without a cart, limited her
reach, though got the essentials.

She now wanted office software that would be in the
computer department, that was showing its shingle down a
narrow carpetted walkway that passed the Consumer
Electronics department where an entire wall presented the
full selection of televisions, VCRs and DVD players, and
thank God, the playing channel was the same.

The pleasant little sign began to grow as Brenda neared it in
her creped heels, when these words kept coming from the
bank of electronics, these words that were at first easily
ignored, then were part of her realm, then caused her to stop
and turn and weak kneed stumble to the 'big screen' with the
finest reception.

The Ken doll anchor was describing a stalled low pressure
airmass over the western United States that was moving to
the grain belt slow but sure. It was what was termed a
'drought buster'. NOAA predicted a slow moving, flood
producing front covering the country like an automated
soaker. The answer to farmers' prayers, and he turned to the
Barbie anchor to inform her that it was the work of his little
nephew, Kokopelli.

"I did notice a hump in your back," Barbie said. "I didn't
want to say anything." And she started pointing her finger
and giggling.

Everyone was laughing and snorting, but it didn't make sense
to Brenda, who was standing there with her right arm
carrying a purse, a ream of paper and several bubble
packages of pens, and her left hand was holding onto the big
screen's cabinet. It had gotten to the western edge of the
grain belt but these pundits were already affecting
commodity prices.

Two guys in their thirties, wearing conservatively printed
Arrow shirts, were the sales force ready to greet inquiring
customers.

"I couldn't sit at home and watch more ... TV ... so I got
naked, tied 'myself' with Stren and went frolicking in my
backyard."

"Just too many stations. Sorry I had to pawn one of your
DVD players to bail you out."

"That's ok." He looked up. "Can I help you, Maam?"

Brenda was staring at their name tags, without eye contact.

"Who is Kokopelli? What were those people on TV talking
about?"

"Oh that. Cable, Maam. A station outta Phoenix. Must I
say more?"





To be continued



'Kokopelli's Klatch' (c)
copyright 2000
Canoga Park