Weather Foul

Boston Globe Weds February 25 1998

Sam Gash is hunting for a job like his name, for the Irish love martyrs, for 'immediate, unconditional, and unrestricted access" to the sacred bingo."I'm pro wrestling," he said. "Help Wanted."

"It is not the first time that he has made such proposals. He does it on purpose to get attention," said 500 women.

Imagine a laboratory in a converted cathedral. Imagine this staging. Shown are the routes of three powerful players: Doris Fisher, Sam Gash, Ming the Merciless. Students prep the checkpoints: a Barbados hospital, a straw hat and a matching straw handbag. Imagine a Madison Avenue giant, forced to abandon his "dark, savage and cruel" bingo nights, struggling in a market basket. "In the laboratory of the heart," said Doris, "we test his will to comply."

Doris Fisher is a sacred horoscope, the queen of a flooded palace. Lately she has preferred to watch. The advanced calculus of the eye, this is life, expectancy. Trying to imagine what shape her "super storms" will take. Trying to push past the one-liners to the crossword, to run unassisted in the right direction, or directions.

The players take positions. Ming the Merciless extends a long string into a straw handbag. The queen stroked his wispy sideburns. A giant bull put itself in the "disgraceful position": vulnerable, low-lying. Doris plowed Sam Gash, gingerly. "We have to test it. We have to verify it. We have to force it to submit to inspections," she said. Widening, Sam Gash bore heavy responsibility. Shrugging, shrugging, negotiating the sure beat, the widening of the eye.

Look behind: a private investigator checked the passage. Ming plunged his goatee in a wet chalet. Doris Fisher is struggling to push 36 snowbirds into a straw handbag. Ming extends a foot into the playroom. Shuffleboard, cards, crisis, crisis, summit, bingo!

Ming the Merciless was treated to caffeine, cannabis, and Potluck Supper--then wind-whipped, lambasted, and forced to abandon his vehicle. Cruel, evangelical Doris urged Sam Gash to rush an antidote. Sam gingerly doctored a regional hot spot.

The Lake roiled. On an island, an American Traveler tilted, sought the right direction. Sam Gash plunged into the mainstream. High tide wet his shaved head.

Lagging, Doris wants the spur. She was struggling to imagine the shape of havoc, men and women coming halfway around the world, hustling, crowing and stewing on a wet, disgraceful Globe. Trying to imagine a Bible of water, of fire, she urged the elements to language. Knowing she was likely to die of it. A slow-acting poison overpowered her schedule. Her bodyguard was down.

Stricken, she huddled around a central word. She changed her private name. A dark domestic fire, the sun-seeking eye was opening. Her research space was opening. Her private sector was on display.

Windmills beat in her head. Release. Released.

We pray to St. Cloud for water.

Winds over 200 miles per hour broke the stand-off. Sam Gash, stewing in a straw hat, was shredded by the tornado that ripped through Doris Fisher. His high profile humiliated, he quit, saying he would rather stroke a character in a comic strip. "I guess the bad weather came," Doris said, as snowbirds crowed in her trailer. "Maybe it's a let-down, but, you know, mission accomplished."

"You can't plan for twisters," Ming said, shrugging. "It seems to me that the clear winner in this round is Doris."