No, No, Raul

Wilaru interviews a man who has turned a most unlikely condition into a talent that has made him rich. Now, if only he can restrain his darker proclivities.

It was one of my most unusual interviews, and I’ve had so many.

The American Inquisitor has expanded my job description from that merely of a run-of-the-mill free-lance reporter to the coveted position of both reporter and free-lance interviewer. Those talk show hosts and network newswomen have nothing on me.

Has Barbara Walters ever interviewed a lady who was both captured by an alien and given birth to his love child? I think not. Has Geraldo? But then again, he might have. He’s been calling me, you know, Geraldo. Somehow he’s found out about my three part series: “People Who Eat Their Pets — But Don’t Want To — But Can’t Stop.”

Well, he can have my contacts in the pets-as-food cult after I’m done with them.

It was around the time that I reported the story of Adele K. from Minneapolis and her pet pig, Gwendolin, (“She was delicious,” Adele admitted), that my editor assigned me to interview Oliver Numby. After several weeks of calls and letters Mr. Numby finally agreed to meet with me.

The road to Mr. Numby’s home was narrow and thickly lined with sycamores and elms. Occasional breaks in the foliage revealed large estates and occasional horse corrals. This was definitely not the poor side of town.

A few minutes later I reached Numby’s address, 127 Palace Court, and followed the landscaped drive around a small hill to a cozy fourteen room mansion secluded from the view of prying neighbors.

Oliver Numby greeted me before I even rang the bell. Perhaps the backfire from my 1987 Honda had alerted him to my arrival.

Mr. Numby was an imposing figure. Though only about six feet tall, he must have weighed at least three hundred and fifty pounds, but he didn’t have the flabbiness or the sagging stomach one often noticed on people of his size. Numby could best be described as, if not solidly globular, at least, firmly ellipsoid, perhaps ‘egg shaped.’

He was immaculately dressed: white silk shirt, peach ascot, black smoking jacket, deep plum colored slacks, polished black shoes. A diamond ring adorned each hand and a gold Cartier watch enclosed his left wrist.

I felt uncharacteristically out of place in my Penny’s sport coat and K-mart shoes.

“Mr. Numby, David Wilaru,” I said as I extended my hand. “I appreciate your agreeing to meet with me.”

“Think nothing of it, Mr. Wilaru. I have long thought that my special talents were, shall I say, under-appreciated. I must admit, when you first called I did not consider your paper to be the proper forum to correct this unfortunate impression, but the more that I considered it, the more I realized that The American Inquisitor is the appropriate place to, as you might say, ‘set the record straight.’

“But, I’m such a terrible host. Come in, come in. Why don’t we make ourselves comfortable on the patio. Raul has made us a pitcher of Margaritas. You will stay for lunch, won’t you, Mr. Wilaru? I’ve taken the liberty of asking the staff to prepare an extra serving, and, as you know, caviar just doesn’t keep once you open the tin.”

“I would be delighted, Mr. Numby,” I replied politely. Yes, being a world-class investigative reporter is a tough job, but someone’s got to do it.

Numby led me through his beautifully furnished home and out to a marble-surfaced patio sheltered by flowering acacias and dogwoods. In the distance I could just make out the glint off the sea.

Once we were comfortably seated, my hidden tape recorder activated, and the margaritas poured, I gave Mr. Numby a polite salute with my glass to signify that the interview had commenced.

“You were saying, Mr. Numby, that you felt that The Inquisitor was the perfect publication to tell your story. Why is that?”

“Because The Inquisitor speaks to the real people, to the ordinary, hard working, American citizen. That’s where my kinship lies, not with the effete classes, the so called ‘beautiful people’ who have so often snubbed me and denigrated my special abilities. It is the common man, if I may say so, to whom my story must be directed.”

“Mr. Numby, I’m not sure that I would not have categorized you as one of the everyday people. Your dress, this mansion, your . . . .”

“Don’t be fooled by appearances, Mr. Wilaru. I am living proof of the greatness of America. In what other country could a man of my humble roots have risen to this level of material comfort? Like perhaps yourself, Mr. Wilaru, I sprang from middle-class origins. Before I realized the value of my special talent, I too wore shoes from the discount bin and $14.97 Wal-Mart shirts made with the slave labor of nine year old Bangladesh children. More than once I ate Spam for lunch. No, Mr. Wilaru, my heritage is in the common soil of America, just like that of your readers.”

I paused for a moment while I visualized my headline: “Millionaire Owes Everything To Greatness Of America”; or, “From Spam To Caviar — Oliver Numby, An American Success Story.”

This would be great. The paper liked to balance pieces about S & M Kiddy Show hosts and sadistic grandmothers with upbeat stories like Numby’s.

“Some of our readers may not have heard the details of your life, Mr. Numby,” I began diplomatically. Hell, I didn’t even know what he did to get so rich. My editor, Leslie Lumbago, had given me a briefing pack but it got mixed up with my entry to the nineteenth round (“You could conceivably have already won three million dollars, unlike all those other suckers who didn’t buy our magazines”) of the Magazine Bonanza Bargain Club Contest.

By now my briefing papers were residing somewhere in the offices of Magazine Prize Central in Kenosha, Wisconsin. Right now, Mr. Numby’s background material was adorned with a stamp for fifteen percent off a two year subscription to Furniture Repair Quarterly. Oh well, maybe losing his bio would be a good thing. I might ask better questions if I didn’t have a clue about how he made his fortune.

“Why don’t we pretend that I don’t know anything at all about you. Just start by telling me your life story. I’ll do my best to ask the kinds of questions I think someone completely ignorant of your accomplishments would ask if he were here. That way, we will create a completely informative interview for my readers. How does that sound?”

“I can see that the Inquisitor sent the right man for the job, Mr. Wilaru. That’s a brilliant suggestion. I will start,” Numby said dramatically, “at the beginning.

“During my formative years, except for my ‘talent,’ I was a happy child. I grew up in the City of Industry in Southern California and had the normal boyhood friends. But, sadly, as I grew older, my special abilities became more pronounced causing me, as you can imagine, no end of psychic trauma.

“For a while I sought to hide my involvement in the ‘incidents,’ but eventually my secret became known. People avoided me. Trips on buses or airplanes were fraught with terror. Social relationships were impossible. I couldn’t hold a job.

“Sooner or later my secret talent would be discovered. Young people can be so cruel. I retreated within myself. It was the low point of my life, until I applied for a job at the Universal Missile Corporation.

“I was to be a trainee in the warhead installation division, and for that I needed a security clearance. That’s when I met the person who turned my life around, the man who, in large part, is responsible for all my success: Mr. X.”

“Mr. X ? Oh, I see, you wish to preserve his privacy. Please don’t worry, I wouldn’t use his name without his permission. How can I contact your friend?”

“I have no idea.”

“Perhaps, if you gave me his real name, I would be able — ”

“Mr. Wilaru, I wish I could help you. The only name I ever knew him by was ‘Mr. X.’ I’ll never forget the first time I met him. I was in the secure testing room at Universal Missile, the one with the bulletproof, one-way mirrors, when he came in. The test administrator glanced toward the door then immediately left without a word. Mr. X was well known to the staff, you see.”

“What did he look like?”

“He wore brown pants, a black wind-breaker, dark glasses, a full beard, mustache and a green baseball cap with an extra long brim. His skin was an undistinguished sort of tan color. He could have been Black, Hispanic, Caucasian or even of Asian descent. His voice was similarly anonymous, a scratchy whisper which revealed nothing. A true professional.”

“A professional — , what?”

“No one knows. He walked the corridors of Universal Missile like a ghost. He saw everything, knew everything. People at my level were never told exactly what he did.

“I remember his first words: ‘Hello young Mr. Numby.’ He said it so softly I wondered if the microphones would even pick him up. ‘I hear you’ve got a special talent.’

“Well, my heart dropped to my shoes, let me tell you. I thought, ‘Oh no, they’ve found out already. I’ve lost another job before I’ve even started.’ For a moment I thought about brazening it out, pretending that he was mistaken, but in an instant I knew that it wouldn’t work.

“‘I understand, sir,’ I said, beaten. ‘If you’ll just lead me through the maze, I’ll pick up my shoes and belt and go home.’

“‘Don’t be in such a hurry, Mr. Numby,’ Mr. X said with a smile. ‘Perhaps we can put your talent to good use. Why don’t you give me a demonstration.’ By that time in my life I had learned a little control, but this was a small room.

“‘Are you sure, Mr. — ”

“Just call me Mr. X,’ he said smoothly.

“‘Are you sure, Mr. X? Those ventilators don’t seem to be operating too well.’

“‘Don’t worry about it son. I’ve been shot for my country. Stabbed for my country. Eaten lunches at Bob’s Big Boy for my country. I can take it.’

“I shrugged and allowed it to happen. He stood there, unmoving, for a moment, then his eyes glazed and he staggered back against the wall. His right hand fumbled a compact gas mask from his jacket pocket, and he struggled to get it over his face.

“I heard him gasping air through the filters, but even they were only partially effective. By this time in my life, I was more or less immune so I merely watched him until the air conditioning recycled the atmosphere and he could breath more or less normally again.

“‘How long have you been able to do that?’ Mr. X asked me breathlessly.

“‘As long as I can remember. My whole life. It’s a curse!’ I answered bitterly.

“‘Not necessarily, young Mr. Numby,” Mr. X grasped. ‘Have you ever thought about using your talents to benefit your country? You might have a very valuable skill there.’

“‘You mean the government could use me?’”

“‘Of course we can. Just think of it, Mr. Numby, biological warfare is now in disfavor, but your, ahhh, abilities, could turn that all around. Nonlethal, organic, nonbacterial, antipersonnel weapons. Why tear gas pales in comparison to what you’ve just demonstrated.’”

“‘Oh, that was nothing. I can do a lot better if I eat Mexican food. Do you know,’ I told him conspiratorially, ‘I once knocked over a horse.’

“‘You didn’t!’“

“‘I did. It’s true. I had eaten Thai food with extra peppers for lunch and then a bean burrito for an afternoon snack. He keeled over right there in the park. When the Ranger woke up, he told the paramedics that he had never encountered anything like it in his entire life. He said it smelled as if you had taken ten pounds of feces from a constipated alligator that had been eating nothing but poisoned rats and placed them in an old tractor tire with a gallon of water from the Love Canal and left it on a mud bank in the Florida Everglades for three weeks in August and then sucked the gas into your lungs though the inflation stem.’

“When he heard that, Mr. X got very excited. ‘Mr. Numby,’ he said ‘I think we may really be on to something here. You set yourself up as a company, and I’ll get you a government research contract.’ And he did. That was the start of my business empire. You have no idea, Mr. Wilaru, of the money in smells.”

“You’re right, Mr. Numby, I don’t suppose I do. Tell me about it.”

“Take romance, for example, Mr. Wilaru. Love may be blind, but it possesses an excellent nose.

“When I was about to establish my consumer products division, I performed a little experiment. I went to a movie theater and found a couple engaged in a passionate embrace. I then released a small quantity of what I call ‘Compound Forty-Seven.’ It results when I have eaten linguini with clam sauce, two kosher olives and a side order of steamed zucchini.

“Within seconds they had disentangled themselves. Within half a minute one hurried off to the bathroom, the other ostensibly to the snack bar. In point of fact, they both left the theater in separate cabs and my detectives report that they never saw each other again.

“A synthetic version of that very same Compound Forty-Seven has become the basis of a highly successful product which we market under the trade name, Rape-No-More. We package it in a small aerosol container which a woman can carry in her purse. It is similar to the tear gas canisters women used to buy and it is employed in a similar way except that instead of dousing her attacker, the intended victim sprays Compound Forty-Seven on herself.”

“And this works?”

“Absolutely. We’ve only had one failure. Unfortunately, as the result of a prison fight, the attacker had recently undergone a nose-ectomy and was not as completely deterred as one would like. Generally, the beasts run screaming for the hills. The victim then goes home, takes three or four showers and lives in the Motel 6 for a week.”

“What other uses have you found for your special talent?”

“Well, of course, crowd control is the major one. The Republic Of Korea is one of our biggest customers. They have almost completely abandoned tear gas in favor of our ‘Go Home & Stay There’ line of aerosol dispersants.”

“And they’ve found this product more effective than tear gas?”

“Oh, night and day, Mr. Wilaru, night and day. Put yourself in the role of a radical student activist. You know that if you demonstrate you will be tear gassed. But you are tough. You can take it. The girls will see pictures of you bravely picking up the billowing canisters and throwing them back at the police lines. Then they will nurse you back to health. Not much of a deterrent is it?

“But, what if you know that you will be doused with something that smells like rotting pig shit; that you will smell like a decayed yak for the next week? No woman is going to come over to keep you company. Eight by ten glossies of you throwing up on your shoes are not the stuff of which legends are made. Knowing all that, are you going to go out and riot, or are you going to stay home and work on building an improved car bomb?”

“When you put it like that, the choice does seem obvious.”

“Experience in the field bears out our analysis. Organizationally strict governments . . .”

“Fascist dictators,” I mumbled, inaudibly to myself.

“. . . from around the world are lining up for Go Home & Stay There.”

“Really?”

“We’ve had to put the entire continent of South America on backorder!”

“My goodness, that is a successful product!”

“And not our only one, I might add.”

“Tell me more.”

“Of course the military uses are classified, but let me say that my first interest is always the protection of America.”

“In that regard, have any of your, ah, formulas, proven lethal?”

Numby paled and a stricken expression flashed across his face. “It is not my intention to permanently harm anyone,” he said quietly. “I have licensed portions of my technology to the military. What they do with them, I cannot say. I will admit that I have been approached by, certain interests, to evolve a terminal formula, on purely humanitarian grounds.”

“Humanitarian grounds?”

“As you may know, the gas chamber was invented as a humanitarian alternative to the electric chair. But death by cyanide gas is not instantaneous. It has been suggested that a sufficiently concentrated odor could almost instantly shock the body into unconsciousness. It might even be possible that a combination of a concentrated formulation of our ‘All Fall Down’ product line with cyanide would provide a much more humane form of execution.”

“Worthy of further study, at least,” I commented approvingly, “but tell me, Mr. Numby, how do you come up with these incredible inventions? Is it just trial and error?”

“Oh no, no, Mr. Wilaru. This is a very scientific process. You see, I keep detailed notes of exactly what I have eaten, in what quantity, the time of day, the seasonings, everything. Then the ‘product’ is charted on a gas chromatograph and its components and their concentration correlated with the menu which produced it. Over the years I have built up a detailed database of what foods and which spices will produce what results. Of course, one never gives up experimenting.”

“And your latest experiment?”

“Why just today, you will notice that my lunch consisted of a margarita, three Ritz crackers with Beluga caviar, a BLT with mayonnaise, and a cup of chocolate mousse. I have never before attempted this exact combination. Who knows what wonders will result.”

“I see,” I said a bit nervously. “How long will this process take?”

“Any time now, I should say.”

“No kidding. Say, look at the time! I think I have all I need Mr. Numby. I want to . . . .” I paused in mid-sentence. Oliver Numby looked as if he had lost his last friend.

“No need to say any more, Mr. Wilaru,” he said quietly. “I understand.”

“Uh, say, before I go, would you mind giving me a tour of your lovely house?”

“Really? Are you sure you have the time?”

“No problem. It’s such a beautiful day, why should I be in a hurry to go back to work?”

Numby’s face brightened immediately and he signaled the houseboy to clean up the table. As Raul approached, I noticed a certain diffidence in his manner, a stiffness in his gait.

“I’ll be with you in a moment, Mr. Wilaru,” Numby announced as he turned to his servant. “Raul, after you clean the table, wash the dishes and put them away. Then check with Cook and make sure she has everything she needs for my dinner party tomorrow.”

“Yes sir.”

“If she needs anything, go to the market and get it and make sure that you don’t scratch the car this time!’

“Yes sir, but that wasn’t my fault, sir. Someone must have done it while I was in the store.”

“So you said. Just see that it doesn’t happen again. And I’m checking the mileage. No joy riding to visit with your border-hopping friends.”

“No sir.”

“And be careful with that crystal! The way you’re jiggling it you’re going to break it. Do you know how much those glasses cost!”

“I’ll be careful, sir.”

“You’re going to break it! Here, give it to me before you drop it.”

“No, sir, it’s fine, I have — ”

In spite of Raul’s protestations, Numby reached over and made a grab for the goblet. Raul resisted for a moment, then let go. The glass flew out of Numby’s hand and shattered on the marble tiles with a resounding crash.

“Now look what you’ve done!”

“It wasn’t my fault, sir. You grabbed it — ”

“You’re blaming me? You butterfingered oaf! How dare you! I can see that I shall have to give you another lesson in manners.”

“No, please sir, not that! Please, sir, I apologize, please . . . .”

Numby’s face hardened into a cruel mask. Raul held his breath and began to tremble.

“You know that won’t do you any good, Raul,” Numby said softly.

Raul clamped his lips together, and the two stood there, transfixed for perhaps thirty seconds, then Raul made a little gasp, and a horrified expression contorted his face. Involuntarily, he took a deep breath, screamed briefly, and collapsed to the floor. Numby glared down at him for a moment, then returned to where I was standing at the patio doors.

“I must apologize for that distasteful scene, Mr. Wilaru,” Numby said politely. “It is so difficult to get good help. I don’t know why I keep that boy on. I’m just too sentimental, I guess.”

“What happened to him? Will he be all right?”

“When Raul gets upset, he tends to faint. He’s a rather delicate person, very sensitive. Perhaps that’s why I can’t bring myself to fire him. A good-hearted boy, after all. If I let him go, where else would he find such an understanding employer? There, look, he’s getting up. His spells never last long.

“Raul, don’t grab the edge of the table like that! Do you want to tip it over and break the rest of the dishes? . . . . There, you see, he’s fine. You can tell by the way he’s rolled over and gotten onto his hands and knees that he’s recovering nicely. In a few minutes I’m sure his mind will be as clear as a bell.

“Now, I think I promised you a tour. Where shall we start? I do hope you will write a good story about me. You won’t disappoint me, will you, Mr. Wilaru?”

Who, me? Perish the thought.

Of course, I wrote a terrific story about Oliver Numby. Local boy makes good; rags to riches; triumph of the American Way. I even got a by-line. But shortly after my interview appeared, The Inquisitor received a copy of an article from an anonymous source, our favorite kind, that Oliver Numby would not find so enjoyable. I reproduce it below.

Man Charged With Assault By Smell

In a case that is expected to make legal history, millionaire, Oliver Numby, has been sued by his former houseboy, Raul Ramirez, for allegedly assaulting the young man with bad smells.

Ramirez, who had worked for Mr. Numby for three years, quit last week shortly before bringing this unusual action. In his civil suit Mr. Ramirez has alleged that on more than fifty occasions over the last three years Mr. Numby has ‘punished’ him for alleged defects in his work performance by releasing noxious odors. Mr. Ramirez claims that the smells were so horrifying that on numerous occasions the stench caused him to lose consciousness.

Mr. Ramirez’s attorney, Ralph Gouge, is quoted as saying: “Numby is well known to have the ability to produce putrefying bodily odors, a talent which he has used against my client with horrifying effect. I just hope that Mr. Ramirez is not scarred for life. I feel confident that after the jury has heard, and smelled, all the evidence, that they will award substantial relief.”

Mr. Ramirez’s complaint asks for damages for pain, suffering, and intentional infliction of emotional distress in the amount of $3,000,000.

When contacted for his response to this charge, Mr. Numby refused to comment, other than to say that an occasional bad smell is just part of life and that a man can’t be held accountable for every little bout of indigestion.

One reporter who called Mr. Numby for a comment claimed that Mr. Numby also asserted that “Raul is a lying little ingrate,” but Mr. Numby later denied he had made the statement and expressed confidence that the jury would clear him of any wrong doing.

Leslie Lumbago suggested that I might get quite a good story out of the trial.

“Probably true,” I told her, “but I will be out of town that month.”

“How can you say that when we don’t know when the trial will start?”

“Trust me,” I told her. “When Oliver Numby gives his evidence, I will be someplace else entirely.”

— David Wilaru — Dwilaru@gmail.com

All 50 of David Wilaru’s columns are collected in The Wilaru Chronicles available at: www.Amazon.com/dp/B01AGTD0Q0

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*David G. Wilaru, A Brief Biography

David Wilaru’s early employment was in the creative paperwork allocation and re-allocation sector but he always knew that his true calling was to be a Wordsmith.

After his divorce from his wife, Sharon, whom Mr. Wilaru once described as: “…as frigid as a penguin in a KitchenAid,” he pursued his dream of a writing career with a stint drafting product manuals for Godzilla Brothers, Inc., penning the user manuals for such cutting-edge Godzilla Brothers’ products as the Delilah Magic Hedge Trimmer, the Trident Electric Fork and Wordbuster, the world’s first solar powered fountain pen.

After leaving Godzilla Brother following his unfortunate involvement with Dr. Werner Buick’s Thirty Day Plan and overcome with ennui, Mr. Wilaru founded SCRAP, The Surrender Company Representing All People, a project that, unfortunately, led to his brief confinement in the Feldman-Margolis Memorial Psychiatric Ward where he edited the patient newsletter, Four Soft Walls.

After his release from the Feldman-Margolis Center, Mr. Wilaru accepted a position as a slogan writer with the 1001 Adult Greeting Cards For All Occasions Company of East Los Angeles, Inc. where he diligently honed his creative talents. Thereafter, Mr. Wilaru went on to hold a senior public relations position with the Silicon City medical appliances company, BodySpares, Inc. where he directed the marketing effort for the Mirage Artificial Pancreas 690 RG.

After BodySpares’ unfortunate difficulties with the SEC, Mr. Wilaru joined the start-up, Xcitement, Inc., where he designed the marketing campaign for the Xcitement Confidential Adviser (popularly known as “The Brain Box”) and single-handedly coined the slogan “Get Sane At Warp Speed.” After Xcitement’s sudden bankruptcy, Mr. Wilaru took over as the head of Marketing and Public Relations for Memories-R-Us, Inc. where he directed the advertising strategy for The Dog Box and other Memories-R-Us products.

It was during this high-tech marketing period that, in his spare time, Mr. Wilaru wrote his first paperback novel, the moderately successful Grip Melman, Garbage Detective: The Case Of The Hostess In The Can. After the unfortunate litigation generated by the book’s Second-Printing Party, Mr. Wilaru obtained a position as a free-lance writer and later as a staff reporter for The American Inquisitor Weekly News Magazine, a post which he still holds today.

A self-described obsessive-compulsive Wordsmith, Mr. Wilaru regularly writes about subjects of topical interest including Gay Marriage, Hollywood Culture, the rapid growth of Amnesiaiology, the Patriot Act, Middle East Developments, and his specialty, UFO Babies, together with other matters of broad general appeal.