The Third Personality: A Novel (30)

LAURINBURG, North Carolina - You didn't call him "Hammie" Boggs, Jr., anymore. Nossir.

You now called him The Hamster. Rock star.

His recently-released recording of his own creation, writing and arranging (okay - his mom helped a little), abbreviatedly if affectionately entitled, simply, "Bunsen Burner," was climbing up the charts in Charlotte and the Raleigh-Durham area and moving up quickly elsewhere around the state, as well; South Carolina, too.

The Hamster had a friggin' regional smash hit on his hands!

The 17-year-old, who was about to slam his Kansas cassette into the (loud) stereo tape player in his 1981 Ford Granada (the blunted image of this old, rectangular used car didn't match his new deserved glory, but, hell, you had to be patient about buying Porsches at his age), then sat down in his front seat, and confidently placed the wrap-arounds over his eyes, and atop his ears.

Alrighty, then. The Kansas tape was an oldie-goldie, sure, but what the piss - it spoke to The Hamster!

Rock-and-Roll!:

"...Car-ry on, my way-ward s-on-n…
There'll-be-peace when you are do-ne;
Lay your wea-ry head to r-es-st..:
DON'T-YOU-CRY NO MORE!"

"Oooh!!" the young Boggs grunted out in emphasis, as Kansas' lead guitarist leaped into his now famous, heavily-syncopated guitar solo which distinguished "Carry On Wayward Son" from most of the lesser (and, yeh, so what - newer) drivel.

You just didn't tell The Hamster he behind in the times.

One of Matilda III's recent litter of kittens then playfully marched out in front of the Hamstermobile. Ham Junior silently adored most of the cats. He felt drawn to all three Matildas, each of whom had become a mother, most of whose litters were inevitably given away, scattered throughout the neighborhood.

Still, some ran away or whatever, his parents once remarked.

(Whatever "whatever" meant.)

Hamster honked his horn at the kitten. It jumped back, and stared up over the hood at him before it, too, dashed off with some of its tiny (and energetically silly) brothers and sisters.

Cute little shits, The Hamster thought - but really stupid.

* * * * *

There was no such thing as an interesting road into or out of Laurinburg, Ham Junior'd decided, as he shot out of town due east on Highway 74 - which for some 10 miles or so pretended to be an expressway before it dropped back into its very ordinary two-lane Carolina country road stature. Highway 74 was, nevertheless, the one major east-west thoroughfare passing through Scotland County.

Turn west, and you paralleled the South Carolina state line toward Charlotte - probably the proudest, and most reproachfully anti-liberal conservative city in America. (That "Bunsen Burner" had become popular there was a constant source of wonder to Ham. Its lyrics hardly mirrored ol' time religion or "family values.")

Or turn east (as Ham'd just done), and you were aimed toward North Carolina's largest civilian coastal community, Wilmington, which was just above Myrtle Beach, S.C., on the eastern seaboard.

Wilmington: home of ritzy Wrightsville Beach; the Battleship North Carolina Memorial; Cape Fear; the state's most scenic ferry ride (traversing Cape Fear River from Fort Fisher Park to Southport); and, for suds and surf, the rock-and-roll-hootchikoo Carolina Beach - which was where The Hamster and his new band, Kuddel Zen Kissis, was scheduled to play. This very evening.

Yet while Ham Junior was the star of his group, he was not its leader. That job belonged to his mother, Mary-Madonna Boggs, who these days was lookin' pret-ty-good - particularly in the sunglasses she'd taken to wearing on stage.

Particularly good for somebody's … mama.

Anyway, that's what the rest of the group had told Hamster.

By the time Ham Junior reached and then crossed the overpass at north- and south-bound Interstate 95, another of his favorite oldies was already blasting away inside the Hamstermobile.

"Kyrie," by Mr. Mister:

"…Kyri-e E-lei-son, down the road that I must travel -
Kyri-e E-lei-son, through the darkness of the ni-ight;
Kyri-e E-lei-son, where I'm goin', will you follow?,
Kyri-e Elei-son, on a highway in the light…"

(...Kyrie Eleison. Latin, for "God, have mercy on my soul.")

In unison, Mr. Mister then throatily sang: "…Oh-oh-oh..!"

And Ham sang right along with them, at the top of his lungs.

The verse repeated. The lead guitar went, scra-ak!

Meanwhile, over Ham's shoulder, back on I-95: a few vehicles were heading as far north as Aroostook County, Maine, while some others were bound for as far south as the Seaquarium exit, Miami.

From the underpass at I-95 and Highway 74 - the midpoint - reaching either far-flung destination was about a two-day drive.

Over the next 48 hours in his life, however, Hamilton Boggs, Jr. was heading only for heartbreak.

* * * * *

"How're you doin', kiddo," Mary-Madonna inquired, peering pointedly into her son's eyes from over the top of her sunglasses. "This place fruity enough for you?"

Ham had just wiggled under his guitar strap and plopped his guitar atop of his belly (yeh, so he was fat; it wasn't obscene). He smiled, then nodded at his mom, who was poised behind her portable electric keyboard. He then surveyed the other five guys in the band, who were occupied with getting ready, as well. Soon - in less than 15 minutes, in fact - it would be show time.

Ham then checked out the club's layout and scanned the folks who were standing near the stage. Many of the young males - and even some of the young females - were decked out in homemade Star Trek uniforms and makeup. The club, located south of Fishermans Pier (no possessive apostrophe) on coastal Highway 421 in Carolina Beach, was named Fishermans Worf - a pun that enjoined that pier with an ongoing Star Trek supporting character and the world-famous bayside locale in San Francisco - which itself was home to the futuristic Star Fleet Command.

Pretty good pun. Fun idea. Really nutty club.

"Hey - Ham!" whispered the lead guitarist, an 18-year-old named Bobby. Ham glanced back, and saw Bobby grinning as he adjusted his microphone for height. Bobby nodded out at the floor.

"Check out the babe there in the Klingon outfit."

Ham followed Bobby's eyes … and nodded appreciatively at the sight of some cleavage brazenly exposed between one girl's warrior-like breast plates. Mary-Madonna caught this exchange and raised an eyebrow. She then sighed to herself. The sunglasses were as much a device for "'scoping things out" as they were an onstage affectation.

Many playing musicians (Mary-Madonna didn't happen to be one of them) took to wearing tinted glasses onstage for psychological reasons: they allowed the wearer to hide behind them, as an antidote for stage fright or to mask a weak, self-conscious persona.

Criminals wore them for the same reason. In an era when so many kids falsely believed they had to act with "no fear," maybe the worst social lapse they could make - or believed they could make, certainly - was to show fear in their eyes (!).

Mary-Madonna shook her head over this. The 1990s had barely gotten underway, and already everything seemed hopeless to them.

Never mind that her own dreams the last few years had turned scary, strange. Luckily, she forgot most of them upon awakening.

But Mary-Madonna wasn't on hand to monitor or judge Hammie's activities. He was a good kid who had never gotten in serious trouble over the years. On invitation, she joined his band, she realized, because she so missed having her own musical outlets.

The other boys nicknamed her Mama Partridge. That was okay.

Her big, unusual arrangements kicked ass. And she knew it.

"Guys," she called out softly to the band, pointing. "The clock."

It was nearly 9 p.m.

The onstage announcer, who had tried (and mostly failed) to look like Mr. Spock, walked out in front of the group, and tapped his finger twice on Ham Junior's lead microphone: tink, tink.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" he then began loudly. "You've heard them on the radio - and now, here they are, from Laurinburg - Kuddel Zen Kissis, featuring The Hamster - Hamilton…Boggs…Ju-u-nior!" He then held up the spread-fingers Vulcan peace sign and patronizingly gushed, "Live long and prosper!" over the din of the partisan Star Trek crowd, and hurriedly exited the stage.

For just an instant, then, every member of the band felt naked, as it seemed every eye there was focused on them.

Standing toward the back of the club, keenly interested in what was taking place, were two individuals. Each had notepads.

Neither wore makeup or Star Trek uniforms.

One was a grim-looking young man, a reporter from Charlotte.

The other was a 29-year-old time traveler, who appeared to be ready, in her lettered fashion, to rock �n roll.

The band wasn't named after her but rather after a forgotten spontaneous exchange she'd made less than a year earlier (a varying measurement depending on one's point-of-view) with a once-naughty child who was now, no surprise, the featured star of Kuddel Zen Kissis.

That exchange, which had taken place a decade before - in Hamilton Junior's time line - was on a recording in Tawker Hunt's Hill Country Holostudio just south of downtown Austin, Texas: 95 years into The Hamster's future - in the year 2075.

Which, of course, was, at the time, also Tawker Hunt's time of origin.

Spoken near Laurinburg in 1980 (just outside a soon-to-be-defunct, if atypical, local church) - that exchange, that spontaneous choice of words by Tawker Hunt, went precisely like this:

TAWKER HUNT
(To Hammie Boggs, Jr.)
Hear me quickly, little one, before you join your parents.

HAMMIE BOGGS, JR.
(Loudly, to his parents waiting by their truck)
- Just a minute, Mommy!

TAWKER HUNT
What just happened here, young Mr. Boggs - you'll get over it,
and grow some. What matters is that you come to realize the
lesson here is karmic in nature: being �The Christ' doesn't matter,
and it never did matter - not to you. It never mattered nearly so
much as your inevitably learning to give, and to receive,
plain old cuddles and kisses.

HAMMIE BOGGS, JR.
What?

TAWKER HUNT
Cuddles and kisses … Give me your hand.

What pleased Tawker Hunt so now, as she waited eagerly at the back of the Carolina Beach club for the show to begin, was that the Hammie of ten years ago never forgot her words: i.e., that, figuratively speaking, "cuddles and kisses" were all that ultimately mattered - not being the reincarnation of Jesus Christ.

That kid, now an almost fully-grown young male, had turned out to be a romantic at heart.

Behind his gaping expression, he'd actually listened to her.

Kuddel Zen Kissis!

The reporter from Charlotte, meanwhile, presently standing alone with his notepad at the other end of the club, jotted down some personal observations - chief among them: Kuddel Zen Kissis was a really lame and wimpy name for someone's rock �n roll band.

As the group opened its show with a Mary-Madonna arrangement she'd recently completed just for this gig - a clever and solely a-cappella rendition of the "Star Trek: The Next Generation" main theme (inducing most of those listening to appreciatively titter in response, and then clap) - Ham Junior, who'd had little to do (in the opening bars of this particular chart, anyway), thought he spotted someone familiar in the back of the club.

He had.

Tawker Hunt winked, smiled, and wiggled her fingers back at The Hamster.

* * * * *

"Mama!" Ham whispered under his breath at the end of their performance, while the audience applauded. "She's here!"

"Who's here?" Mary-Madonna whispered back. Bobby and the others, in the meantime, re-adjusted their instruments' tunings. Bobby also casually spoke to the crowd.

"You know - the woman who - you know - named us."

Mary-Madonna blinked. "We were both born - and named - in South Carolina. Me, by my parents. You, by me and your father."

"No," Hammie groaned a bit too loudly. "The woman who named our band!"

His mother stared at him.

"I have no idea who that may be, your Hamsterness, because you never told it was anybody but you," Mary-Madonna said.

"Well, sure, it was me. But I don't think like that. I was inspired by that woman outside our church - who's here tonight!" Ham said. "Who said life was simply about cuddling and kissing."

"Outside our church," Mary-Madonna recalled. "Her? From ten years ago? You remember what she looked like..? Ham, we'll talk about it later. Right now, get a grip. We've got a show to do."

Ham Junior frowned at his mother, and turned around.

He noticed then that his phantom Mystery Woman was gone.

Mary-Madonna had changed a lot since she and Hamilton Senior had separated. For starters - where she'd previously thought of herself as largely an extension of her husband (she could thank her upbringing in the Deep South for that!), she'd never focused, as a result, on developing her own identity - whatever that was.

Yes, she loved music; and she'd always been very good at it. But what surprised her most since separating from Ham Senior was just how much natural assertiveness, how much flamboyant moxie, had been buried under all of that Good Supportive Woman exterior.

After recognizing her marriage was in jeopardy, she realized The Little Lady inside had to go. It hadn't helped her marriage.

So, when she'd flat told her husband to clean up his self-pitying broken-man act - or get out of his family's lives - the only one more flabbergasted by those words than Mary-Madonna was Ham Senior, who angrily retreated to Indiana - where he possibly resurrected his Quaker past. They hadn't communicated much since then, so her husband might even have found someone else. May-be.

In any event - Mary-Madonna was growing and changing every day now it seemed to her, and life was filled with possibilities.

She then snapped out of her reverie, and re-focused. Ham was presently schmoozing with the crowd as part of their act. Having jumped off-stage, he now stood next to some tables, and was about to do another song: this one written by him alone, "Aries Woman."

(...Get a grip, yourself, Ham's mother smiled to herself.)

Then Mary-Madonna counted off the intro aloud: "…One, two, three, four," and the opening licks to the unctuous little tune were pounded out by the band. Then Ham sang, from floor level:

"…Aries woman, you're a demon, you're Medusa minus snakes; you're a sorceress of wine and lust, and overrated sex.."

(Ridiculous, precocious lyrics, his mother mused. But like her, Hammie was growing, evolving into some person he was inside.)

"…Aries woman, you're a ram, and like your zodiac above," The Hamster warbled, "…you are horny and insipid - an a-nath-e-ma to lo-ove…"

Bobby and Mary-Madonna then sang together: "Bad news..!"

Anathema. Honestly.

At the group's first break, Ham Junior was toweling himself off when the 20-something reporter from Charlotte approached him.

"Hi there, Hamster," the reporter smiled, extending his free right hand (his left held his notepad and pen). "Peter Wedgie. Charlotte Observer."

Ham was surprised. New to the celebrity musician game, he hadn't expected media coverage yet. "Hi," he said. "Ham Boggs."

He'd never heard of Peter Wedgie before.

Admittedly, though, The Hamster didn't read much.

"Ham Boggs Junior," corrected the reporter, shaking hands.

"Yeh," nodded Ham, now becoming vaguely cautious. "Junior."

"This hit song of yours - "(Why Not Just Try) Washing Your Hair in a Bunsen Burner,"" the reporter recited. "Could you tell me something about it? We're running a piece about you and your group tomorrow."

As if out of nowhere, then, a photographer abruptly appeared from behind the reporter, and flashed off several rapid shots.

"Tomorrow?" Ham asked, astonished. Then he paused. "When are you going to find time to write it..?" Ham didn't know much about daily deadlines, but the reporter's had to be pretty soon.

(His deadline was 11:30 p.m., in fact. The paper was holding the story until Wedgie got quotes from Ham, which he'd phone in.)

Wedgie quickly realized his story's urgency wouldn't make much sense to Ham.

"Listen. We got a call from our east office, which put me in contact with someone from your church," he said. "We talked."

Ham swallowed dryly. "You know that church folded."

"Yeh," shrugged Wedgie. "Churches come. Churches go."

"I was a kid," Ham said, not knowing how to respond further.

The reporter nodded, "I know, I know." He then looked away. "Look, I'm not the Pope. I just need a few quotes to fill out my story…" He paused again. "So. Tell me about "Bunsen Burner." Where'd you get the idea to write it? And - were you serious?"

Ham's shoulders eased a little. "It's about this guy who's about to break up with his girlfriend, an emotionally-dead girl, who's an actress - but not a very good one, because she doesn't even know how to feel sadness..! Beyond that, the song's a joke; I got the idea watching a really old horror movie, "The Hypnotic Eye," where this hypnotized woman sets her hair on fire using a gas stove."

"Oh," Wedgie blurted. "I saw that one; in black and white, right? This evil hypnotist boinks girls, then gets rid of them."

Ham nodded, then continued. While he talked, the reporter scribbled down notes on his notepad, in some kind of shorthand.

The reporter laughed as he listened. Ham openly rambled on.

* * * * *

"Mr. Spock," or whoever he was, marched back onstage before the second set: "…And here they are, with their hit single - "Why Not Just Try Washing Your Hair in a Bunsen Burner" - Kuddel Zen Kissis!, with …T he Ham-ster!" Then the announcer darted off the stage once again - as Ham, Mary-Madonna, Bobby, et al, broke into the opening strains of their best-known song.

Ham didn't realize it - but quietly one of his biggest fans reappeared briefly in the back of the club; to watch, and listen.

She even sang along for a time. She knew all of his lyrics.

Sixteen bars into The Song, the electric instruments halted (Mary-Madonna's arrangement idea), and gave way to Ham singing by himself - with only the drummer riffing out the four/four rhythm as a bridge between instrumental accompaniments.

To the soft, steady, chkt-chkt-chkt-chkt of a muted high hat behind him, Ham sang: "…What it is I'm tryin' to tell ya' … is your acting's pretty bad..," he crooned, all but eating his mic. Then he roared: "...Cause it doesn't take much effort to be sa-ad!!"

"No!" yelled out the rest of the band members together, as they all returned to playing their instruments.

"…It's ea-sy as kicking dach-shunds," Ham then sang, "…Ea-sy as squish-ing flies… It's not so hard to cry-y-y!" On his last note, Ham's voice jumped an octave - while the rest of the band, in unison well behind him, all sang, "…Why not just try-y…"

Then Mary-Madonna's vocal stylings grabbed hold, and Kuddel Zen Kissis, as performers, began harmonizing like The Beach Boys:

"…Wash-ing your hair, in a Bun-sen bur-r-ner,
Build flames around those ear-rs,
Then rinse them down with tears,
You'll find it won't hurt…"

Then in one voice everyone in the band - including several of those seated in the club (to include the familiar woman fan in the back, who was actually standing now and bobbing her shoulders while she clapped the beats) - sang out the single last lyric in the song's chorus. Loudly:

"…Much!!" they yelped together. And a lot of them laughed.

After a few bars, The Hamster was ready to begin the second verse to his clearly crowd-pleasing hit song.

Later, outside in the parking lot, the two people who'd been taking notes - Peter Wedgie, from the Charlotte Observer, and Tawker Hunt, from an entirely different century - waited to complete their respective pre-planned tasks for the evening.

Wedgie, standing at a pay phone while someone back at the newsroom in Charlotte hurriedly approved his collect call, then studied his notes as he prepared to dictate the new insert to his story, which he'd all but completed (short a few holes) earlier that day, just outside the lazy town of Laurinburg.

"…Second page, fourth graph," Wedgie began dictating while someone at the other end typed his words onto a computer screen. "Quote: I was a kid." Period, end quote, end graph. Then move two graphs down. Begin a new insert. Quote …"

In the meantime, standing just outside the stage door behind Fishermans Worf, Tawker Hunt dropped her (slightly glowing) notepad into her purse (a necessary sociological affectation for this time period), and waited for Hamilton Boggs, Jr. to appear.

She smiled to herself. (Tawker Hunt: rock �n roll groupie.)

The doors then opened. And out stepped The Hamster.

As per Chaucerian-styled English instructions (written for his-eyes-only on a folded cocktail napkin), Ham Junior was alone.

"I keep my promises," Tawker explained with a grin while Ham gawked back at her in awe. "Oh - by the way - I liked the name of the band. Thanks."

"I started to think you were somebody I just made up!" Ham blurted. "But, you are real! And you came back, like you said!"

Tawker nodded warmly.

"But - why?" Ham then asked. "Nothing bad's going on now."

Tawker shrugged, smiled and then touched the teenager's arm. (...My goodness, she thought to herself, he's grown so much lately!) "This is another of those significant times in your life - and as I'd suggested previously, I'd be here to give you a boost when I thought you might need one," she said. "You do. So, I wanted you to know that the genuine down times are few and far between - and that the spaces, the times, between them can, and ought to be, wonderful, glorious … That's all. Can you remember that?"

Ham Junior, whose blank expression now reflected that of his seven-year-old childhood self, nodded; as he had the last time he encountered this mysterious woman - who, a vague, buried part of the teenager now realized, had not aged a great deal. If at all.

"Well, good," Tawker smiled. "That's the long and the short of it, then. I enjoyed your performance. Our business is done."

"Who are you?" Ham asked.

Tawker briefly glanced off to the side as if in thought, and then looked back at The Hamster. "I'm in show business like you, in a manner of speaking," she said. "And in show business, they always insist it's better to show, than to tell … So - watch."

Ham stared at the woman as she closed her eyes …t hen opened them again. And for just a fraction of a second, Ham thought he had seen her face and body … fluctuate, sort of, but for a better description of it, while her eyes briefly had been closed.

When Tawker next spoke, the tenor of her voice seemed to him ever so slightly more "distant," as well.

"I've just shifted from a Full Physical Manifestation, to a Partial," Tawker announced.

"I don't understand," shrugged Ham Junior.

"Oh - and, my name's Hunt," Tawker added, rolling her eyes, as if she'd meant to tell him that before. "Tawker Hunt."

"Talker..? Hunt?" Ham repeated.

"Yes," she nodded. "Now, reach for my hand; and step back."

Ham Junior tentatively extended his hand toward hers - and touched…nothing. ...What!? Ham cringed, almost tumbling forward.

His hand had just passed through hers! he suddenly realized, quickly correcting his balance. It was as if her image was just that: a three-dimensional image! Shocked, frozen - Ham gasped.

He also jumped back a step.

Tawker's image then began to break apart, as if into little puzzle pieces - which, in turn, then, dissipated in the air.

There was also a passing moment, too, in which a soft white light flashed into the teenager's mind … and disappeared.

In a matter of only seconds - Tawker Hunt was gone.

Ham was all alone. In the back alley of Fishermans Worf.

A gentle gust of circular wind then wisped nearby, picked up a candy wrapper in its wake, fluttered it into Ham's stomach - and then broke gently apart as the wrapper drifted to the ground.

Ham's eyes grew as wide as quarters, and his body stiffened.

"Mom!!" he shrieked.

* * * * *

By the time Ham Junior and Mary-Madonna pulled into their driveway in the Hamstermobile (the remaining band members had packed up all of the gear and taken it back to Laurinburg in their vehicles), a lengthy silence was abruptly broken as Mary-Madonna suddenly, without warning, reached across from the passenger seat and pushed twice - powerfully - on Ham's car horn.

"Mom! - what are you doing!?" Ham blurted angrily, braking.

Although it was early morning and still dark outside, they watched through the headlights as most of Matilda III's litter of kittens dashed for cover, terrified.

"Hammie," his mother sternly cautioned. "You've got to pay more attention. One of these days you'll kill one of them."

In the stillness, Ham lowered his head, then, and sighed.

"Dopey kittens," he muttered under his breath, as he began to advance the car much more slowly into the open carport.

After pulling in and stopping, Ham turned off the ignition, and remained still.

Mary-Madonna sat silently with him.

"We gave a terrific show tonight, kiddo," she soon said.

Ham nodded, paused - and then frowned. "I saw what I saw," he said, switching subjects. "I didn't make any of that up."

Mary-Madonna gazed into her lap. "Put yourself in my place, and I tell you that story," she began. "A bizarre woman from the past shows up, meets you alone after our show and then disappears smack in your face; isn't that your story? ow would you react?"

Ham glared at her. "Mom," he said firmly, "if you'd told me you'd been taken aboard some spaceship by aliens, I'd believe you."

"I guess that would make you pretty gullible," she snapped.

For reasons she didn't understand, Mary-Madonna then cringed at her son's words. She even found herself beginning to shudder.

...............................................(Her dreams…)

Then she glared back at Ham - matching his intensity.

"I asked you to drop this subject earlier. I meant it," she said flatly. "For years I put up with this kind of … speculative interpretation of ordinary events … from your father. I won't go through it again with you now. I won't. So get real, Hamilton."

"I saw what I saw, Mom! I resent you implying I didn't!"

"I'm sorry about that, I truly am. But the subject's over."

"Yeh, well. I'm sorry you hated life with Dad so much that you just stopped listening to anyone," Ham hissed. "I truly am."

As had happened during their lengthy drive home in the dark, a churning silence then settled in between mother and son.

Mary-Madonna sat back. She placed her hand over her son's.

"I love you, Hamilton," she whispered lovingly, "and as much as I intend this as a compliment - you are your father's son."

* * * * *

It was past noon later in the day when Mary-Madonna finally awakened from a deep, dreamless sleep. The first things she did upon climbing out of bed (after lolling her toes under the covers for a few minutes) was to throw on her bathrobe and head straight for the front door - where, as expected, the Saturday edition of The Charlotte Observer awaited her. She picked it up, closed the front door, peeled the clear plastic cover off of the folded-in-half paper, and then unrolled it. After scanning the headlines on 1-A (America was having difficulties with a dictator from Iraq named Hussein; and the U.S. economy was headed toward a serious downturn), Mary-Madonna then inserted her fingers section by section until she reached the Entertainment/Living pages, which she then separated from the rest and lifted out.

She'd never seen the bottom halves of any of the pages before pulling out Living, including page one of the first section, which remained folded over along with the rest of the paper.

The story she'd been looking for, in fact - a review of the band by the Observer reporter who Hammie had been speaking with the night before - began on the bottom of the front page.

Only it wasn't exactly an entertainment review.

A still-logy Hamster was guzzling a large glass of orange juice out in the kitchen when he heard his mother's outburst.

"Oh - my God! Hammie, come out here! C'mon! - you've got to read this!" his mother cried out from the living room.

"Were we good, or bad?" Ham raspingly called back, depositing his empty juice glass in the dishwasher.

"It's not about us," his mother responded. "Just come out here. You'll never guess who's the subject of a news story!"

When Ham sat down next to his mother on the family couch, it was nearly 1 p.m. He glanced at the headline of the article his mother was reading. It read:

UNLIKELY "SPIRIT" SEEKS LEADERSHIP OF FLORIDA PSYCHICS

He frowned. "Where's our story?" Ham Junior asked groggily.

"I haven't found it yet,"" responded Mary-Madonna cheerfully. "But you've got to read this story first," she said as she handed her son the first page of the B section, State & Region.

Under the headline, across the first five columns of the six-columns-wide paper appeared this Associated Press story:

CASSADAGA, Fla. (AP) - Members of this Central Florida spiritualist community have filed suit against one of their own, a woman who claims to "channel" the discarnate personality of the late Rev. Jim Jones, whose "spirit" allegedly seeks election next month as camp president.
This is the same Jim Jones, his medium says, who once led a mass suicide in Jonestown, Guyana in 1978 - where Jones, 900 cult followers and California Rep. Leo Ryan and four of his entourage visiting Jones' isolated jungle enclave were found dead.
Yet Petunia Marston, out of whose mouth the so-called "spirit of Rev. Jones" supposedly speaks while Marston is "in deep trance," defends the spoken wishes of her "entity." She says Jones' spirit seeks to atone "for past incarnate failings" by being elected the community leader and that "he's no threat" to the Southern Cassadaga Spiritualist Camp Meeting Association.
The association is Cassadaga's governing body, and next month has scheduled elections for a new president. Board members fear "imminent endangerment" if the "purported spirit of Jones" is elected, the lawsuit states.
"While in the Hereafter, (Jones) was forgiven for all of his earthly sins by God," Marston says. "He now wants to lead our community past the pitfalls of pride. Judging from the size of our congregations lately, he's popular at Cassadaga. And pride, he insists, is rampant here."
But the governing board - all ordained ministers, certified mediums and trustees for the association - accuses Marston of "willful opportunism," and asks the courts to force her to "cease and desist" - and move.
The association, which has about 300 stockholders, owns approximately 35 acres of land, which include a church, a meeting hall and houses built by about 50 members who live and work in Cassadaga. The organization also runs a bookstore and a hotel, and supports a variety of the camp's spiritualist programs.
A camp association trustee, speaking on condition that her name not be made public, says, "We certified (Marston) as a psychic five years ago, and then welcomed her into our community. Now she's abused our trust. Her "entity" doesn't seek to become association president so much, we think, as Mrs. Marston herself does. She's using the spirit of an infamous departed personality as her foil. She's a disgrace, a fraud. We seek to sever all ties."
Marston insists she's honest and completely unconscious while in a trance state. She says she only hears about what her assortment of discarnate entities say second-hand, from those who hear them speak. "The Rev. Jones is one of about 20 entities who speak through me," she says.
Still, it begs the question: Can an "entity" even legally hold private office? How about public office?
"I could almost guarantee there are no laws on the books to forbid it," says Marston. "(Jones) is probably the first discarnate candidate to ever run for office."

Ham Junior stopped reading the article at that point and glanced over at his mother, who was still browsing through the five editorial insert sections of the now-unfolded newspaper.

"I never knew Mrs. Marston's name was Petunia," he said.

His mother grinned. "Neither did anyone else, except your father - who broke his promise to Mrs. Marston by telling me."

"Petunia is a pig's name," Ham said. "Where's my story?"

Mary-Madonna looked at her son. "You mean our story, don't you … your Hamsterness?"

Ham nodded. "Sure. Whatever, Mom." He casually picked up the A section, flattened it on his lap and scanned down the page.

A short time later he groaned. "Oh, no!" he said.

Mary-Madonna winced. "What - you found our story?"

Ham had. In the lower right-hand corner of the front page, a four-tiered, two-column headline read:

"REBORN CHRIST"
TURNED ROTUND
POP SINGER SEEKS
NEW CONVERTS

Beneath that was the writer's byline, followed then by his story:

by PETER WEDGIE
Staff Writer
LAURINBURG - The child who only a decade ago was humiliated in front of his local congregation as the failed focal point of a New Age church has again resurfaced, this time as a teenage rock singer whose new band boasts a regional hit record.
Hamilton Boggs, Jr., 17 - whose stage name is "The Hamster" - is lead singer for Kuddel Zen Kissis, a group that performed at Wilmington's Carolina Beach Friday. The live musical show was punctuated by one of Boggs' own compositions, "(Why Not Just Try) Washing Your Hair in a Bunsen Burner" - a "joke" song, he says, about a boy who wants his ex-girlfriend to "set her hair on fire" so she'll finally "feel sad" about their failed relationship.
Yet his recording of "Bunsen Burner," by which it's known on Charlotte music radio, is a fast-rising hit ranked number 6, and number 8, on two Charlotte stations, and in the Top 20 across the Carolinas.
Ten years ago, however, Hamilton Boggs, Jr. was the would-be "savior" of a local church outside Laurinburg run by his parents, Hamilton Boggs Sr., who was its pastor, and Mary-Madonna Boggs, who was its music director, and who now plays in her teenage son's band. Boggs Jr., then 7, was promoted as "The Christ Reborn" - the supposed modern-day reincarnation of Jesus Christ.
Yet according to a former church member here, Agatha Mlicki, Hamilton Junior was "often spoiled, misguided, selfish, and severely self-absorbed" as a child. And his church, The Church of the Living Christ, was "hostile toward mainstream Christianity," Mlicki said. "When the boy tried to take over as Christ, in 1980, the church collapsed."
"I was a kid then," Boggs Junior said Friday, between sets.

Ham Junior didn't need to read any more. He knew the rest of the story - and he knew he had been betrayed.

He silently dropped the A section on the couch, got up, and walked in a slump toward his bedroom.

"Hammie? It can't be all that bad..!" his mother called out to him as she picked up the story to read for herself. "…Wait!"

Hamilton Boggs, Jr. quietly closed his bedroom door behind him, however - and did not appear again until the next day.

* * * * *

Sunday morning, Mary-Madonna awoke to find her son seated at the kitchen table blankly scooping out the last spoonfuls of a half-gallon of intensely sweet (but fat-free) praline and caramel ribbon ice cream from its cylindrical hard paper carton.

He was reading the Sunday comic pages from The Charlotte Observer. He had creamy vanilla-like smudges around his lips.

"Good morning, sweetie," his mother offered softly, evenly. "I thought you might like to know - the other guys in the band called to say they read that article yesterday, and were really bummed-out, too. They want you to call. Also, our attorney is looking into grounds for libel. We could sue the newspaper …"

Mary-Madonna paused in mid-sentence - and stared at Ham. "Did you eat that entire carton this morning?" she said.

She'd bought two cartons of ice cream yesterday, along with a pile of other groceries, after Ham had retreated to his room.

Ham glanced up at his mother.

He now looked less like a teenager - more like an infant.

He blinked as he licked his large spoon.

"Well?" Mary-Madonna asked again.

Hammie then nodded absently, and casually stood up.

"I think I'm going to go for a drive," he said finally.

"A drive?" his mother replied. "Where? A drive to where?"

Hammie shrugged. "Don't know," he said.

Mary-Madonna didn't know quite how, but it appeared her son had put on a few pounds since yesterday.

She felt uneasy. "Are you … okay?" she croaked.

Hammie smiled soullessly. "Sure," he said. Then he turned and headed for the kitchen door.

"But. When will you be back?" she cried out after him.

There was no response. The kitchen door was already closing behind him. Hammie Boggs was outside.

Mary-Madonna wandered into the kitchen convinced she would find something she didn't want to find. She opened the fridge door, and peeked inside. Its contents had been moved around, as if someone had been searching for something buried in the back … (The latest peanut butter had been opened, and several slices of bread were missing…) She then noticed a wide vacated hole - where the blueberry pie she'd been defrosting had been sitting.

Moving up to the freezer, then, Mary-Madonna was astonished to discover the second half-gallon of ice cream was also missing!

She slammed the upper door, and turned her attention to the garbage can - where the respective purple and vanilla-smeared missing containers were found, along with several other discarded wrappers and boxes!

In fact, Mary-Madonna suddenly realized - every dessert in the house had been eaten that morning!

Hammie sat in the front seat of his car - which would never again be known to anybody as the Hamstermobile - and stared into nothingness. He burped, and then wiped his lips with his sleeve.

He wanted to run away someplace. And just hide.

He wanted to - become invisible.

He was ruined. Forever.

He was. A wuss.

He turned over the ignition key and immediately heard a loud "thwonk!!ing" sound - just as the engine turned over and started.

...The sound: It was as if someone had taken their fist, and punched his Ford Granada's long hood - from the inside.

An unsettling thought then hit Ham. He quickly shifted the car into reverse, and backed up into the driveway about 20 yards.

He then stopped - and stared at a horrifying scene in front of his car.

Lying on the driveway, at about the point where his hood had been sitting in the open carport, was one of the kittens. It was lying on the pavement, with its back facing (and parallel to) his Granada's front bumper.

Frozen in a state of suspended breathlessness, Ham Junior watched helplessly from behind his steering wheel as the kitten labored to take a breath. Then its stomach collapsed.

As the kitten struggled for another breath, its stomach rose most of the way up - and again fell.

Its stomach did not rise again.

The kitten was still. Very still.

Ham's face contorted into twisted panic. He flipped off the ignition; then threw open, and leaped out from behind, his door.

He raced over to the downed kitten, terrified of what he'd find. Some of the other kittens in the litter were now becoming curious and tentatively wandered over to the scene. One eased up slowly to its fallen sibling, and looked on fearfully.

Dashing over to look at the motionless kitten from the same angle as its sibling, Ham discovered part of its lower belly and genitalia were missing. In their place was a wide scissored gash that exposed bright, moist innards and organs. Attracting gnats.

His kitten was dead.

Ham had somehow killed it when he turned his engine on!

He's never seen anything die before!!

Ham abruptly swiveled in place in a rage, and harshly glared at the nearby kittens, who were beginning to gather … and cower.

"Get out!!" Ham screamed at them. The cats all dashed away for cover, to safety. "Get out!!" he repeated in a shrill cry.

Then Ham turned back toward the kitten's body, as Mary-Madonna now rushed through the front door of the house toward the scene.

Ham hectically ran back to his car's front seat, reached under the dashboard and steering column, and popped open the hood. Then, racing back up to the engine well and gazing inside, he found bloody cat bits and fur had sprayed all over (and stuck onto) the underside of the hood.

The cat had apparently fallen asleep inside the engine's fan shroud, the plastic cover that surrounds the large cooling fan. When he'd turned on his engine the fan blade sliced into his cat.

Ham suddenly regurgitated an enormous, hose-like serving of undigested partially hydrogenated fats and sugary, praline-esque sweets: which sprayed downward toward - but missed - the body of his decaying kitten.

Most of it, anyway.

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