This episode of The Greenbelt takes a look at March Madness. Plus, a bonus book review of an upcoming novel that's getting a lot of buzz from booksellers.

*This novel is due to be published May, 2017

I could hear a true crime podcast being played from another room in my house. I couldn't get the specifics, but understood it was about a long ago, unsolved murder. I thought about that as I was reading 'Broken River,' a novel about a nearly forgotten double murder in a little house by the edge of the forest. Of course it's difficult to sell a house with that kind of baggage, so it becomes a teenage party house, a drug den, a place for hobos to crash, a den for squirrels. Years later a little family from New York City is looking for a fresh start. The mother is a novelist, the father an artist, and neither is that put off by the history of the house. In fact, they're quite curious -- especially their 12 year old girl. Meanwhile, the internet has not at all forgotten about the cold case murder. Clues are still being posted, and one new clue hits a nerve with the killers, who'd thought they were free and clear of their mess. Will they again have to pay a visit to the little house by the edge of the forest? 

I would recommend 'Broken River' to anyone looking for a terrific mystery/thriller, or just a gritty novel that gets you into the heads of a motley crew of characters. I'm sure happy that someone put this book into my hands.         

In this episode of 'The Greenbelt,' there is No Doubt who Andy's favorite band is. Also, a bonus short story about a man who is kindly asked not to sing at a birthday party.

Rockin’ Bob at the Birthday Party

Bob Romaine felt himself to be a lucky guy. It was the second year in a row that he’d been invited to a birthday party at the Cutter home. Mr. Cutter was Bob’s boss, and it was always good to be close to the boss. 

At the party’s apex, the guests began gathering around the large dining room table in anticipation of singing the birthday song to the Cutter’s five year old son. But just before the singing commenced, Mr. Cutter tugged Bob away from the table and the other guests. “Oh Bob,” said Mr. Cutter, “I remember you telling me all about the exploits of your college band. What were you called again?”

“Yes sir, we were ‘Rockin’ Bob and the Bestie Boys.’ Those were the days all right. My gosh those days…”

“Of course,” said Mr. Cutter, “of course. Rockin’ Bob and the Bestie Boys. Well, Rockin’ Bob, I don’t mean to insult you because I know you were in a band, a real band. But the thing is, this year we’d rather you didn’t sing the Happy Birthday song along with the rest of us. Is that okay with you, Bob? Are you horribly insulted?”

“Certainly, Mr. Cutter, I won’t sing. It’s not a problem. But I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“See Bob, the thing is, Mrs. Cutter is very particular about the Happy Birthday song. She -- well, we really -- thought your voice sounded a bit off at last year’s party. It just didn’t blend in as well as we’d hoped. Although we like you, Bob, as a person, we just don’t appreciate your singing ability. Is that just an awful thing to say to somebody?”

“But sir, the child is only five years old. Do you think it really matters?”

“It matters to us, Bob. It certainly matters to us.”

Mrs. Cutter tapped on the side of her glass with a spoon and made an announcement to the gathered revelers. “Before we begin to sing to young Chauncey, could we have all the non-singers retreat into the kitchen. Once again, all the non-singers please retreat to the kitchen. Thank you!”

Bob made his way into the spacious kitchen. He was joined by two others. They were children, a boy and a girl. “So you can’t sing either,” he said to the girl. 

“It’s not fair,” she said. “I practiced months for this.”

“You practiced singing Happy Birthday just for this party?” Bob inquired. “Are you kidding me?” 

“Mother said to me, ‘Arabella, if you practice every day, Mrs. Cutter will let you sing.’ So I practice my guts out, sing a few bars for the lady, and I get banished to the kitchen. What gives?”

“So what’s your story?” Bob asked of the little boy. “What’s your name?”

“Stokley,” the boy replied.

“So how’d you end up in the kitchen, Stokley?”

“You don’t understand,” mumbled Stokley. “I coulda’ had class, I coulda’ been a contender. I could have been somebody, instead of a bum, which is what I am.”

Bob angered. “Listen to me, Stokley, you are not a bum, understand? You are not a bum. Hey, wait a second, were you just doing Marlon Brando from On the Waterfront?”

“So what if I was?”

“Nothing,” said Bob, “nothing. It’s just that you’re, like, two years old. How do you know Brando?”

“I’m not two, I’m ten!” answered Stokley. “And I’m more into drama than voice. That’s why I’m not that put out.”

“Still.”

The three non-singers listened grumpily as the others belted out Happy Birthday. “We should just leave,” said Bob to Arabella and Stokley. “I’m so insulted. This is mortifying.”

“I’m not leaving,” said Stokley. “Mrs. Cutter said we can still have cake and ice cream even though we weren’t allowed to sing. Don’t you want cake and ice cream?”

“I don’t care about cake and ice cream,” replied Bob, fuming.

“Well that’s a bad attitude,” said Stokley.

“What about you Arabella?” asked Bob. “Aren’t you at least miffed.”

“Indeed I am miffed,” she said. “But I can’t leave without mother -- and she’s still out there singing. But I won‘t let this break me. I still have a long career ahead of me.”

“Jeez, these people,” said Bob.

So Bob stayed on for cake and ice cream and decided to storm out right after that. But everybody else left after cake and ice cream so it wasn’t much of a protest. He walked home. 

Once inside his tiny apartment, Bob roused his bulldog, Robert, from a deep slumber. “Hey Robert, tell you what, I’ll give you a cookie if you let me sing Happy Birthday to you. How about that?”

Robert wondered if it was indeed his birthday. 

“I know it’s not your birthday, buddy,” said Bob, “but I’ve just got to sing to somebody.”

When is my birthday anyway, Robert thought as Bob broke into the song. If I start howling and moaning will he be insulted? I’ll just hold my tongue and hope he soon stops. 

After Bob finished singing, he regarded Robert. “See, that wasn’t so bad, was it?”

Well…

“Or did you just stay for the cookie?”

Well…

Robert thought about it after devouring the cookie. Hey, Bob, that was no night at the opera to be sure. That said, I’ve heard worse. You should hear that terrier down the hall. I mean what a yap on that little beast.

Bob cheered up as he gazed upon Robert’s crumb-encrusted mug. “Happy birthday, my best buddy and bestest friend, happy birthday to you…”

The end.

Back in The Greenbelt, by unpopular demand.. it's Andy the Petulant Squirrel!

bonus baby pic

This week's Greenbelt takes a look at Pluto. Once a planet and now, who knows? Anyway, Pluto's sick of it all.

The 14er

Bonus baby picture!

Introducing 'The Greenbelt,' a weekly comic to kick off your weekend. And yes, 'Andy the Petulant Squirrel' will make appearances. In fact, he insists.

Pete shares a story about the self-proclaimed 'Cleanest Guy in Town' crossing paths with a pregnant woman with an acute sense of smell

The Cleanest Guy in Town

Keswick and June often spent early evenings sitting on their front porch. Folks passed by at their leisure, waving a greeting to the couple over their white picket fence. One neighbor, Wallabee, caught their attention. It wasn’t just his tall stature and dapper appearance that caused them to take pause. It was Wallabee’s jolly whistling and the song he sang that always ended with the line “I’m the cleanest guy in town!”

“How do you like that Wallabee?” said Keswick to June. “Always bragging that he’s the cleanest guy in town. Where does he get off?”

“He must be joking,” June replied.

“Whatever do you mean?” said Keswick. “Look at those duds. Look at his hat. That get up must cost a thousand dollars easy. But he doesn’t have to go on bragging.”

June just laughed. “No, he really must be joking. I mean, that guy stinks to high heaven. He reeks.”

“Reeks? But how can you tell? We’re clear across the yard.”

“Honey,” replied June, “I’m six months pregnant. I can literally smell a stale cigarette butt from a country mile. For instance, I know you have a piece of licorice in your right front pocket as we speak.”

“My gosh, I do!” said Keswick. “That’s amazing. I was saving it for later.”

The next evening, they heard Wallabee’s merry whistling as he strutted down the lane. When he caught sight of Keswick and June he heartily sang out his signature line, “Skiddily-diddly-doodily I’m the cleanest guy in town!” At that, Keswick charged from his porch to confront Wallabee. Poor Wallabee was startled by Keswick’s aggressiveness, but stood his ground, erect. 

“Say, Wallabee, what’s the big idea saying you’re cleanest guy in town? Are you trying to crack wise?”

“No sir,” replied Wallabee. “No sir. You see, in all my years I’ve washed behind my ears. That’s why I’m…the cleanest guy in town.”

“I’m not buyin’ it,” said Keswick. “Something smells fishy.”

“What’s there not to buy?” said Wallabee. “Can’t you see with your own eyes? Just look at me. Impeccable, stylish, one of a kindish. That’s me --  Wallabee!” 

Keswick was unmoved. “Open your coat, Wallabee. I think I smell a rat.” 

“You smell no such thing, sir.”

Keswick advanced and tore open Wallabee’s coat. He sniffed as hard as he could, then retched and gagged. Composing himself, he said to Wallabee, “Jeez, you stink, man! What the hell?”

“I stink? No I do not. Why that’s an affront, sir.”

“It’s no affront, Wallabee, it’s a fact. You stink.”

“But if my ears need soap, I scrub like a dope. That’s why I’m…the cleanest guy in town.”

“Wallabee,” said Keswick, “is it possible, just possible, that your ears are all that you clean?”

“Now why would I need to clean anything else? If my ears are spotless I could even go topless. That’s why I’m…”

“No you’re not, Wallabee, no you’re not. You’re dirty and you’re stinky and I have no other choice than to make a citizen’s arrest.”

Keswick grabbed Wallabee and began pulling him into his yard. “Unhand me, sir, unhand me!” shouted Wallabee. Keswick called for June’s help and they were soon able to pull Wallabee up to their porch. “June, we’re gonna wash this dirty man. That’s all there is to it.”

“What country are we living in when you can just grab a man off the street and wash him?” questioned Wallabee.

“I’m afraid it’s our civic duty,” replied Keswick. “I do believe the country will thank us.”

“Well,” said Wallabee, “if it’s your civic duty then I guess I’ll have to abide.”

“I’ll fetch the wash tub,” said June. 

Keswick and June tried their best not to breath in the smell as they stripped Wallabee of his clothing. “Hey,” said Wallabee, “what about my dignity?”

“We’ll give you your dignity back after we’ve properly scrubbed the filth from your body,” Keswick replied.

“I sure hope so,” said Wallabee, covering himself the best he could. “A man needs his dignity.”

“Indeed he does,” said Keswick. “Indeed he does.”

In time, June returned to the toweled Wallabee with clothing fresh from the dryer. Wallabee quickly dressed, then checked himself in front of the mirror. “Well, Wallabee, how does it feel to really be the cleanest guy in town?” asked Keswick.

“I must say it feels just dandy. I’ve been cleaned from my head to my toes, and looky here, I smell just like a rose.”


Wallabee trotted out the front door singing, “Dippity-dopity-doopity I’m the cleanest guy in town…”

The end.