Philip Charles Weiand (the fourth)

Philip Charles Weiand the Fourth is the end of the line. there will be no philip charles weiand the fifth. I know this for two reasons: first, phil is not excited about the idea of reproduction in general, and his various sperm cells are likely so stoned that they can barely be induced to leave the comfort of their “bedroom”, if you will…. second, were phil to actually overcome these hurdles, any offspring would likely bear names such as “moon unit”, to use an already-invented example…..
this is because phil’s favorite pastime is pissing his mother off. it is phil’s full-time job; his life’s calling. this has been the case ever since phil was very young, according to all the oral history accounts I managed to obtain on the subject. these I have condensed and streamlined, and will impart to you forthwith…….hmmm…where to begin?
Chapter One…… “from bungled beginnings”
obviously, there were several philip charles weiands before phil. the first two, I don’t know about, but #3 was a professional racecar driver. he made a lasting impression on the industry by inventing something called the “weiand manifold”, aka the “high weiand”(appropriately enough!), and he began a little company that built these doo-hickeys: “Weiand Automotive” of Los Angeles, California, where mr. weiand #3 resided.
as is sometimes the case in the high-risk occupations, philip III survived a terrible auto accident, but paid a dear price for his career-choice: he became a paraplegic. this is how he came to be a fifty-something wheelchair-bound bachelor/company executive/owner, with a twenty-something secretary named Joan.
Joan was an orphan from arkansas. she had not had the advantages of a loving childhood spent in material comfort, nor did she enjoy a deep inner life of the mind, but Joan was shrewd, hardworking, and driven. she was determined to claw her way into a successful lifestyle, whether along “legitimate” lines or otherwise, and one thing Joan did have was willpower. she remains a lady who gets exactly what she wants, regardless of cost to herself or others. that is how she became mrs. philip charles weiand III, wheelchair and all, a couple years after beginning her secretarial career.
this arrangement suited her just fine, for Joan was not the “touchy-feely-emotional” type—she probably did fine on her own in the sex-life department, her favorite motto being “if you want something done right, you gotta do it yourself.” joan did not form deep emotional bonds with those around her; it likely reflects her upbringing.
the true benefit Joan enjoyed from her marriage was one of power: philip III depended on her totally, and soon she was the silent president of his company, running it behind the scenes. as it turned out, Joan’s shrewd coldness made her the perfect businesswoman—far better as company president than her husband ever had been. in fact, after Phil the Third’s early(timely?) death, Joan rescued Weiand Automotive from the brink of bankruptcy where it had been teetering and made herself a millionaire, as well as finally seizing official recognition of her position as Queen Shit, Boss of Bosses, and Person to be Generally Feared by all employees, who now officially belonged to Her. just as her dearly-departed husband had, not to mention her six-year-old adopted son.
apparently, Mr. Weiand’s accident had left him not just shootin blanks but unable to draw the gun entirely. or maybe joan just didn’t want to have to deal with the messy logistical issues which would surely surround trying to copulate with an aging paraplegic-it does bring to mind some amusing, if unsavory pictures. but for whatever reason, at least one of the members of that unlikely marriage wanted to reproduce. enter baby Phil.
phil was the unexpected result of a summer fling between 14-year-old Terry and 15-year-old Bill in a small southern-california town somewhere near LA. terry got sent off into hiding to finish out her pregnancy without bringing shame upon her family, and bill got a serious ass-kicking by everyone involved—it didn’t teach him much. now bill lives up in a tiny town in the mountains of northern california, puttin his green thumb to use and sporting the latest motorcycle-club fashions on his Harley, reminiscing fondly about Sweet Terry the One That Got Away(much to the chagrin of Barbara, his housemate)over a little wine and a little more smoke. I always liked bill. (interestingly enough, Terry now works at a beer factory. she doesn’t drink.)
soon after baby Phil was adopted, joan and phil the third’s version of marital bliss(one can only assume) began to sour. the details are hazy, but when phil was about four years old, his adoptive father suffered a major stroke, rendering him basically a vegetable. a couple of times, phil told me stories of time that he remembers spending with “dad”. little phil and family went to a Jack-in-the-Box one time and ordered food—burgers and fries for phil and joan, and ice cream for dad, who could not eat solid foods anymore. joan being the distant person she was, it was up to five-year-old phil to feed his father with a plastic spoon. phil had to put a bib on his dad—“open up, now…here it comes….good job, daddy, oops, don’t spit it out….” a confusing position for a kindergartener to be in, to be sure, but less disturbing than phil’s other major memory of life with his father.
one evening, joan became disgusted with her wheelchairbound vegetabular “mate” and “snapped”. she screamed and howled as her frightened son cowered beneath the table, attacking her defenseless husband so violently that he flew from his wheelchair and bumped his head on a cabinet door, whereupon, joan started pummeling him. now, this sounds so horrible, one almost hopes it is a malicious drunken lie, but having met joan many times, I would have to say I believe her to be fully capable of this, and possibly more. in fact, if ever a person I met was capable of poisoning family members, it would be Joan. her husband did kick the bucket at quite the opportune moment, financially speaking, after that equally-well-timed stroke he had suffered a few years earlier. and she sure does have some “complexes” reminiscent of “Out, Damn Spot!” but that is purely speculation.
phil remembers his father’s funeral, when he was six. he didn’t cry, couldn’t feel anything, and knew even then that he hadn’t really known the man that all the grown-ups had gathered to say their tearful last farewells to. three years later, phil the fourth was already a daily consumer of hard liquor.