Herman Nature

By Joel Bresler

When Herman Rabinowitz's identity was stolen, the thieves were so thorough they practically took the corpus Hermanus along with it. Using the opportunity of falling off the grid to reinvent himself, Herman bought a Harley and became Paco. Along with a group of similarly off-the-grid bikers, he formed the Bedouins, with Paco as their "le

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tuxtails Publishing, LLC
• Release date: May 28, 2024
• ISBN: 9781957211251

Joel Bresler

Joel Bresler was born and spent most of his life to date in and around Cleveland, Ohio. After earning a degree from Skidmore College, he worked briefly in social services before entering into a niche field of business consulting. His first published work, "Letters to be Read in a Heavily British Accent", established him as a humor writer with a unique voice. In the tradition of such heavyweights as P.G. Wodehouse, Evelyn Waugh and Douglas Adams, Bresler holds his own writing to a very high comedic standard. Which is not to imply that he is above throwing in any moderately-decent pun which might find its way from pen to paper. Unfortunately. He can lately be found deep in the desert Southwest, dodging snakes and cactus spines and "dry" heat.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Separated well back from the main road by a field of tall grass stood a house. It was an old and fairly large structure, with elements of barn figuring somewhere in its original design. Moreover, from roof to foundation the edifice had been saturated in a not-quite-pastel shade of pink paint. In a more conspicuous environment, the house would have undoubtedly stuck out like a sore thumb. Here, though, it rarely garnered even a first glance, let alone any disapproving second ones.

The field itself was not the mowable kind, which was unfortunate. Presumably hundreds of insect species made their home among the overgrown weeds and grass stalks, and from there went about making utter nuisances of themselves. One of its citizens was even now lazily working its way into Herman Rabinowitz's right nostril, as if that was the most ordinary thing in the world to do.

Herman, known only as Paco to everyone around him, appeared too preoccupied to have noticed this olfactory intrusion. Or, as was much more likely, his present state of general dissatisfaction had progressed to a degree where things like bugs in noses seemed merely par for the course. For Herman, or, rather, Paco, was confronting his now-daily dilemma of trying to figure out just where a guy can go when he: a) doesn't officially exist; and b) has no desire whatsoever to lead the usual horde of similarly non-existent bikers on yet another pointless motorcycle run.

As daily dilemmas go, this one should have been a veritable walk in the park. After all, people who don't officially exist can do pretty much the same things as the rest of us — walk in the park, for instance — as long as it doesn't require any form of government-issued I.D. capable of withstanding more than the most casual scrutiny. In Paco's case, however, it was never that simple. Whither Paco goest his motorcycle menagerie was sure to follow, rendering any chance of blending unobtrusively into the landscape dead on arrival.

His multi-headed albatross formed the core of a society they called the Bedouins. Collectively, its members arrived with nothing in common save this: at one point or another, each had somehow been deleted off of every computer system in the known universe. In a few instances, this unusual condition came about as the result of some glitch in either software or hardware. Mostly, though, the daggered finger of blame pointed straight at good old-fashioned human error.

In Paco's case, back when he was still only a humble Herman, some unknown hacker from equally unknown parts liberated the persona Rabinowitz while its rightful owner's attention was occupied elsewhere. The discovery came only gradually. By the time he realized he was no longer the guy he'd always thought he'd been, it was too late: Herman Rabinowitz's good name, such as it was, had become the stuff of scrap heaps. Filed away under What Not to Do on the Internet, or, better still, Websites You Had No Business Visiting and Clicking Things on in the First Place, the experience might have been chalked up to education. Expensive education; but a learning opportunity, for all that. Unfortunately for Herman, however, the damage was so complete it seemed simpler just to throw the baby out with the bathwater, so to speak, and start afresh.

The throwing the baby out portion was relatively easy. A few masterly clicks of the mouse, and Herman Rabinowitz ceased to take up space in most of the databases that really mattered. Piece of cake, as such operations go. Where the plan fell apart was during the starting afresh phase. In truth, even describing this step as a phase requires a certain, creative liberty with definition. In even more truth, the plan never got off the ground, phase-wise, leaving Herman Rabinowitz standing around twiddling his thumbs somewhere in off-the-grid limbo.

There was, of course, a good bit more to the whole thing. Or a good bit less, depending on how you look at it. Either way, the result was the same: Herman Rabinowitz ceased to exist as far as anything with a microchip was concerned.

A lesser Rabinowitz would have gone entirely to pieces right about then, but Herman was no lesser Rabinowitz. Well, okay, he did fall to pieces, but only very briefly. After duly considering the facts, Herman realized that the identity he'd lost had never really done him any favors, and its absence was more lamented than actually missed. The quickish-thinking Herman recognized an opportunity, seized it and, with money which had somehow escaped the notice of his cyber misappropriators, bought a Harley. His rechristening as Paco came shortly thereafter.

Paco became aware of both the insect battering his septum and a low, mildly irritating buzzing tone an infinitesimal instant later. Associating the one with the other, he distractedly slapped the side of his nose, killing the critter and immediately wishing he hadn't. The buzzing did not go away, though, and Paco guessed one of his housemates was playing with the group's drone again. Buying a drone had been someone else's brainchild and, while the Bedouins all loved the idea of having a drone of their own, nobody had yet figured out anything particularly worthwhile to do with it. Crashing seemed to be what the overeager ground pilots accomplished most of the time, which was why their first drone was by now several generations removed from their current one.

Hey, take that thing somewhere else! Paco yelled out a window to unseen Bedouins. I'm trying to think in here! Paco was often trying to think lately, and that was good enough for his comrades to give him a fairly wide berth these days.

Another group hobby the Bedouins had adopted, non-motorcycle related, was archery. At least, it was to be assumed this was not motorcycle-related, no matter what the imagination might conceive in pairing the two. Bedouins with bows could frequently be found sending razor-sharp arrows flying hither and yon, occasionally at formal bullseye targets but usually at anything or nothing at all. One had to be careful where one tread within ballistic range of the pink house, though punctured tires comprised the worst of the inadvertent casualties. One quickly became exceedingly adept at repairing flats 'round those parts.

And then, there were the motorcycles. If there was one instrument that unified the Bedouins as a group, it had two wheels, a decorative frame, and made more noise than a First World War machine gun nest.

Once a person falls off the grid, there are generally two avenues open to them. The vast majority will, if the removal was unintended, attempt to get themselves back onto it. Those of a certain stripe, however, will somehow get hold of a motorcycle — Harleys preferred, among the more discriminating — and ride off into the proverbial sunset. The Harley and Herman Rabinowitz were not, at first crack, ideally suited to one another. Even at second crack the relationship was still a bit wobbly, and in more ways than one. But time, practice and a progressive mutation in riding apparel eventually brought the unlikely consortium to terms each of its constituents was apparently willing to live with. Herman became Paco and — well, that's about all there was to it.

As a conversation starter, Paco's I don't really exist ranked up there with such great opening lines as, Come here often? or the ever-popular, What's your sign? Paco rightly didn't expect much in the way of response whenever he dropped that little factoid, which was why the first enthusiastic, Me, too! caught him completely by surprise. Subsequent Me, too!s made it clear that Paco's condition was not nearly as unique as he'd originally thought, which proved simultaneously disappointing and a cause for a little cautious optimism. On the one hand, it meant he was no longer special. Or at least, not that special. On the other hand, though, officially non-existent people liked officially non-existent company; so the first batch to discover itself formed up as the nucleus of what later become the Bedouins.

It should be noted that the name derived not from any tribes of nomadic Arabs (which, anyway, eschew the plural s), but rather from the belief that being off all the usual societal radar made them Bedouin the rest of us. Once blurted out by Paco in a moment of giddy over-exuberance, the name stuck.

Over time the great rank and file of Bedouins, as they now were, found each other. This was no small feat, considering the qualifications for membership. Either it takes one to know one, or in this case a not-one; or else there really were a lot of deleted people running around loose in the world, and all with a predilection for kick-started transport.

Paco enjoyed a satisfying run of what he gloatingly called The Life. Being off the grid had a decidedly liberating effect, as far as actual responsibility was concerned. Instead of the normal nine-to-five, there were road trips to destinations near and far; and aside from the occasional, awkward encounter with real biker clubs, the sailing was generally pretty smooth. The Bedouins even rode in a few parades, crepe paper streamers trailing colorfully behind them. The icing on the cake for Paco was his universal acceptance as the group's leader, an honor perpetually denied the former Herman Rabinowitz. All in all, he reasoned, there were worse ways to get through the day.

The pink house became part of the folklore when one of the founding Bedouins said she'd inherited it. Or rather, would have inherited it, had there been any record of her existence. The house ultimately wound up theirs in the end thanks largely to the principle that possession is nine points of the law. It hadn't hurt that there were no other relatives or, indeed, anyone else, clamoring in competition for ownership. Dubbed the Pink Palace, the house served as headquarters and living quarters, sleeping an impossible number of Bedouins in configurations Paco tried very hard not to think about. Its location afforded a welcome privacy, since being off the radar wasn't the same thing as being invisible. Or quiet. Especially not quiet.

There intruded on Paco's Pink Palace paradise an inescapable But… Not to be confused with any of the smaller, escapable buts, the one Paco couldn't get away from no matter how hard he might try was the sheer twenty-four/seven-ness being off the grid entailed. As an off-the-grid hobbyist — picking and choosing his moments more-or-less recreationally —— he would probably have enjoyed a pretty grand time of it. Day in, day out, without a break, official non-existence had become incredibly tiresome. Paco couldn't explain exactly why that was; it just was.

There were, of course, a few things he could unreservedly put his finger on. The whole motorcycle business, for instance. As a concept, it was perfect: the romantic road rebel roaming the land on a machine just slightly smaller than an Abrams tank. The reality, however, was quite different. If other motorists weren't trying to kill you, there were potholes, construction barrels and hazards of every shape and description. Worse, there was the effect a constantly vibrating, twelve-hundred-plus-cc engine beneath one's torso had on every bone and bodily organ. Seven or eight hours tooling around in frappe mode did harsh things to a person. Specifically, bouncing bladders and kidneys badly wanted to be heard from, and often. Bikers never had to make restroom stops in movies and television; but as an Easy Rider, that was virtually the only thing Paco ever thought about.

The other Bedouins seemed not to notice or, if they did, none thought to complain. This was either admirable or confirmation that there was something seriously wrong about them, depending on one's mood at the time. Paco's opinion tended to skew toward seriously wrong the more time he spent among his oddly-assorted flock, regardless of what sort of mood he was in.

A blaring roar of shouts, cheers and laughter erupted from the grounds of the Pink Palace. Paco, in his role as house master, marched quickly to the nearest window to investigate.

What the hell is going on out there? he asked impatiently. He needed to ask it a few more times, even more impatiently, before being informed that several Bedouin archers had been attempting to shoot down the drone, with the consequence that a number of Bedouin bystanders were nearly impaled as the razor-sharp arrows, having once gone up, invariably came back down again. Paco wasn't even phased.

Well, wear your helmets if you're going to do that.

Paco closed the window in the interest of safety and wondered what the best way to remove a mangled bug carcass from the lining of one of his sinuses might be. He went off in search of a Q-tip, ideally one not previously used, and a pair of tweezers, assuming that either or both would prove useful at some stage of the process.

CHAPTER TWO

Back in the days when everyone innocently took for granted that surfing the internet was safe and completely anonymous, the timid were apt to become a little bolder and the bold, being that way already, were apt to become just that much more so. No matter where a person fell along the boldness scale, there was a spirit of exploration, an irresistible itch, you might say, to examine things in online privacy they'd never be caught dead with in the presence of witnesses. It never dawned on anyone during those blissful times that, like staring into the abyss, the internet would be staring right back at them. With technology changing almost as rapidly as the weather in Cleveland, it wasn't long before the internet occasionally started staring back with a devilish grin splashed evilly across its face.

Herman Rabinowitz was not a particularly timid soul. He wasn't really bold, either, or at least not in any constructive way, though his behavior had, at times, bordered on the outrageous. This was especially true at college, which was why it was generally considered a good thing that cell phones with cameras hadn't been invented yet. The few areas where temerity might impose, Herman usually avoided with artful misdirection. Which was why, when personal computing suddenly became all the rage, Herman found himself in a quandary.

Herman was, at first, very shy about computers, and the world wide web especially. Unlike many of his contemporaries, he could not overlook the fact that there had to be someone at the other end of all those internet searches. Someone he couldn't see, but who could see him and anyone else typing their inquiries on a multitude of search engines. Herman severely limited his time online, and ditto his searches to topics he would not be embarrassed to discuss with his rabbi's wife. Admittedly, his rabbi's wife was something of a free spirit, but he could substitute any other rabbi's wife with an equal degree of confidence.

He failed, however, to take into account the potential for addiction which the web possessed in overwhelming abundance. His forays into cyberspace gradually became longer and longer. His specific missions there were frequently driven off-topic by things Herman wasn't really all that interested in, until these diversions eventually overtook his original reasons for being online. Pretty soon Herman forgot about that invisible guy at the other end of the internet. That guy, though, had clearly not forgotten about Herman.

Herman began to notice links popping up where they never had before. Also, clicking on websites for one thing occasionally opened up onto something entirely unexpected, often with pictures of women displayed in various stages of undress. As distractions go, these were pretty darned formidable ones. Similar images popped up like magic, unbidden, as did advertisements for dubious pharmaceuticals and a few other things they weren't allowed to show on network television. Credit card numbers crossed the ether. Other numerical identifiers proving requisite minimum age accompanied the credit card information. The eyes at the other end of the internet were as far from Herman's mind as they were from the reach of effective law enforcement.

It will surprise no one, then, to learn that Herman Rabinowitz's identity did not remain his exclusive provenance for very long. How often it was stolen and by whom was anybody's guess. By the time all the ersatz Hermans finally ran out of Rabinowitz resources, there wasn't enough of him left online to bury.

Following a brief, momentary freak-out, Herman shrugged off the whole affair, abandoned his digital corpse by the wayside, scrounged up enough missed capital to buy an old but well maintained Harley-Davidson, and began introducing himself as Paco.

This arrangement had proved perfectly satisfactory until the day an oddly affected computer geek had, unknowingly, reunited Paco with an old school chum. His friend had fallen off the grid, too — the result of medical records typo by his doctor. But somehow the guy still managed to live in a real house, drive a real car that didn't discombobulate every cell in his body, and receive a steady income. The only logical conclusion Paco could draw from his friend's example was that he — Paco — was obviously doing something wrong.

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We're seriously overdue for a rally.

Paco was unmoved. So would the next rally be, if he could help it.

The natives are getting restless, and the last thing anyone wants is a bunch of bored Bedouins running around with bows and arrows. With particular emphasis on the arrows.

Paco had to concede the point. Another rally. Yes, I suppose we'd better get the Bedouins back on their bikes, if only in the interest of health and safety. So, against which unsuspecting locale can we launch a battalion of motorcycles without making me severely regret going along with the idea?

Paco was addressing a small council, of sorts, comprised of a handful of Bedouins whose effect on his acid reflux was not as severe as most. The rally advocate was called Earl prior to his removal from databases everywhere. He was still called Earl, which may or may not have meant anything.

I dunno. A park? A small town in the mountains? Some place near water?

"How about some place in water?"

A swimming party, you mean?

"No. I was thinking of something else. Forget it. Small towns are out. You remember the last time we tried that? We rode in on a Hell's Angels convention and very nearly didn't ride back out again. The cops went after us, after the outlaws were far enough away. On the whole, not one of our better outings."

Earl crossed small