On The Run

February 2, 2008

Last night I was in bed extra early, after spending the day slogging through the rain, driving to a job, dropping things off, running endless errands. I was starting to feel under the weather, knew that I had to be in good shape for the next day’s market activities, so finally—at around ten o’clock—I rolled over and went to sleep. I awoke at precisely two-thirty to what sounded like a freight train outside my window. I knew it wasn’t that, since I sleep upstairs, and besides, the train tracks are a few miles away. But it sure was loud, a great chugging and thrashing sound coming from the sky. I went back to sleep, thinking that there was possibly some errant aircraft hovering around, and since it seemed to be going on for some time the thing was in no imminent danger of crashing into the house.

About a half-hour later I awoke again. This time the noise was even louder, and there was a beacon of light playing over the room. Now I knew: There was a police helicopter above the neighborhood, searching for someone, a fugitive—some unknown person out there in the night, and quite possibly near my house, judging by the area the helicopter seemed to be focusing on. My front porch light didn’t work, since I’d neglected to change the bulb the last time it burned out—maybe a week or so ago. But the back porch light was ok. I went downstairs to turn it on, to look outside while the noisy bird circled in the sky, lighting up the trees adjacent to my yard. I peered outside, didn’t see anything, so I went back upstairs and once again to bed. If I was lucky, I could get a couple more hours of sleep, before arising at four-thirty. The terrific churning and chugging continued unabated, while I tried to rejoin my former slumber—now more and more elusive. My bedside light was still on, and—before I turned it off—I glanced at the cats. One of them was on the dresser, the other at the foot of the bed. They’d both sat bolt upright, their ears pricked forward as if they’d just heard a noise. Since I knew that they were loath to abandon their slumber, except for the most important of reasons (namely food), I was not in the least reassured to see their apparent concern. It was at this point that I felt that I could really do without their company.
“Thanks a lot, you bastards,” I thought.

I went back downstairs, the police aircraft still circling the neighborhood, glanced out at the darkened front porch, then the back porch—where I’d left the light burning. Nothing there. I knew from experience that calling the police information line at the local precinct—just about one mile away, would yield frustrating results. Only once did they tell me what was going on; the other two times this had happened, the information officer kept mum, felt that this was official police business and no concern of frightened residents who might like to know what danger lurked near their homes. On those occasions I was mostly being nosy, but still. On this night, however, I would be venturing outside, going back and forth to the car, loading things, leaving the front door open, not really able to see what was happening out in the dark—not knowing who or what the police had been looking for. I didn’t like the idea.

So when I finally awoke, after an uneasy hour of additional sleep, I called 911. I really agonized over this decision, didn’t want to be too girlie or afraid or just plain obnoxious—a victim of my fears and paranoid preoccupations. I explained my concern to the operator, told her I’d be leaving my house, that I didn’t know if they’d caught the person they were looking for, and could they please send a patrol car to just kind of sit across the street while I got my car loaded and was on my way?
“So you want an officer to accompany you to your car?”
This didn’t sound so good, put that way.
“Well, I think it would be all right if he just parked across the street, you know—kind of kept an eye on things.”
“When do you want to leave?”
“In about ten minutes,” I said.
As I was pulling on my boots, throwing on a few layers of warm clothes, the door received a knock and the bell rang. I welcomed the young officer, who appeared to be a senior in high school.
“Everything all right?” he asked.
“Yes, everything’s ok here, just a little worried that maybe you didn’t catch whoever you were looking for. You know—the helicopter and all. And here I am, leaving in the dark.”
Both literally and figuratively, I might have added.
“Oh, that—I guess you heard the commotion a little while ago.”
Yes, I’d heard it, seen the aircraft, the police cars slowly snaking through the neighborhood, with their searchlights playing over the sleeping houses.
“Yes.”
“There was some activity two streets down,” he explained. “Then some guy took off with a shotgun.”
“Good to know,” I said.
“Take your time; we’ll be parked right there at the end of your driveway. This your car here?”
Yes, I was proud to say that the gleaming white Chevrolet was mine, didn’t need to explain that never in a million years would a car that nice be in my possession, but that my little banged-up station wagon was in the shop, getting repaired after being hit.
“Yes, that’s my car.”
I threw the boxes into the back of the car, thankful that the police had arrived, had not accused me of being a pansy or sissy or cast aspersions on my manhood, had actually offered a brief explanation of what had happened on this noisy night—when more than ever I just wanted to get a full, restful sleep. The officer stayed there, his car parked at the end of the driveway, until I fired up the gleaming Chevy and backed out. I was home free.

February 3, 2008

Calm has settled over the neighborhood again, no helicopters last night, no one roaming the impenetrable shadows with a shotgun. Thing are back to normal. I listened to the radio show hosted by the two goofs who talk about cars—which is hosted by NPR. I mentioned this once to my friend who is an automotive and mechanical expert, saying that—when I had a chance—I tuned in the show.
“I can’t stand those guys,” he said.
I had to admit that I didn’t like them either. I listen to them for precisely that reason: Because I so hate their advice, their callers, their constant snorting and eruptions of laughter at their own lame jokes. I seek them out because they are so annoying, a kind of train-wreck of a radio show. Yes, he agreed, their advice is terrible. So this has given me a clue, some insight into my own motives, the things that keep me going. The prospect of hearing something terrible, something so inane and uninformed, keeps me tuning in. Also the callers, with their Subarus and Volvos, so satisfied with themselves, wanting to know should they trade in the Volvo for an all-wheel-drive Porsche for their weekend outings in Tahoe? And by the way, my heated seats don’t work, and my poor butt gets sooo cold when I drive it first thing in the morning. Whatever should I do? So my hatred of the loathsome show is multi-dimensional. I know that I will be complete as a person when, one Sunday at twelve o’clock, I don’t reach for the radio and tune in the horrible, horrible program. On that day I’ll snort, erupt in laughter, then chuckle in a cackling, crazy way—my final salute to the brothers who have plagued the airwaves for so many years. In all fairness, I recognize that the show is not intended as a forum for car-advice; it is more weighted towards the entertainment factor, with the clueless callers phoning in with mostly soft-pitch questions, and the so-called experts riffing on their hapless victims with their fifth-grade humor, then laughing at their own cleverness. They appear to have an audience, god bless them.

With warm weather on this February day, I wandered over next door to see what might be done. I removed some of the shingles on the front porch, readying the area for the installation of the remaining floorboards. I got to one last stubborn shingle, gave up on it, and moved downstairs to the basement. I jabbed at the rotted and bug-eaten wood, saw it come apart in great chunks, yielding easily to my pokings with the wrecking bar. I made as if to saw at it with my powerful reciprocating saw, learned at once that this was not necessary, that the saw simply shredded the wood into powder and flakes. It was like cutting into hundred year-old newspapers that had been drying in the attic over the years. I put the saw away. The wood caved in and fell down with my blows from the iron bar, showering me with feather-light splinters, spraying debris over the basement floor. I brought the metal trashcan indoors, started to clean up some of the mess, to make the area a little safer to work in. I remember the day when I bought the metal trash can. I’d wanted one for some time, had seen that the candy shop had loads of them outside, thought that they looked neat—kind of old-fashioned. I said to myself, “I want a trashcan just like that.” So I went to the colosso-box building supply store, picked one out. It was a proud day for me, loading the plastic bags into my new trash can, setting the gleaming metal thing out by the road—its lid snug and tight over the top. The future looked bright.
I remember my dismay upon returning home from work: There, by the side of the road, was the lid of my new trashcan, smashed flat. The can itself was dented, as if a car had hit it. Certainly someone had run over the lid—there was no question of that. My elation turned to bitterness and angst, those things that result when the bubble of hubris is suddenly and cruelly burst. I beat on the lid, hammering it this way and that, but it never quite fit again. Now when I pass by the candy shop, I always look to see if they still have their trashcans. They always do, all nice and straight, not a dent in the lot. I wonder if the new owner will continue with the old-timey metal cans, will welcome them as I would.

With the dried wood flakes and dust came a fit of sneezing. Even though I wore a dust mask, and even had a bandanna over my nose and mouth underneath the mask, somehow the extreme dust affected me. Or it may have just been time for an allergy attack. Anyway, most of the rotted piece of wood was gone, and that was enough for one day. Tomorrow I’ll finish the job, will fetch a new piece of lumber at the colosso-box building supply, will see how far I can get in the project.

February 5.2008

My bout of sneezing from the other day was not just an allergy attack; rather it presaged something more dire. I awoke the next day with congestion, not able to breathe much at all through my nose—which is the proper place to be breathing. Then this developed into a full-blown case of the flu. Mostly I stayed in bed then, eating Crispix cereal from the box, watching a cable tv offering of the Ghost and Mister Chicken with the inimitable Don Knotts, and generally lazing about in discomfort and achiness. The cats followed my cue, none too eager to rouse themselves if the situation didn’t warrant it. Big Grey lay on the dresser, belly-up with all four paws in the air. The small grizzled cat flopped over on her side at the foot of the bed, dead to the world. It was refreshing to see such unabashed and unrepentant laziness. No deadlines for them, no hulking house-sized project to try to complete sometime in this lifetime. Just the occasional checking on the food bowl to see if there was still enough to eat. To her credit, the grizzled one actually sat up for a while to watch some of the Ghost and Mister Chicken.

When I felt a little better I drove down to the big store to buy some comfort food—a terrible assortment of corned beef hash in the can and tater tots with onions in them. I also bought some healthier selections, like fresh oranges that were only eight for two bucks, and some yoghurt as well. Of course I cooked up way too many of the tater tots back home, thinking that—since I hadn’t eaten much of anything for the past two days—I could surely find space for lots of these onion-flavored delicacies. I was wrong. After polishing off almost the whole can of hash, I ate maybe five or six of the tots, then put the leftovers from the past week or so into a bowl and headed out to the maple tree. This is the garbage disposal that never fails me. At night, the raccoons know to make this one of their first stops if they’re looking for a handout. Maybe other nocturnal critters as well, but I have not seen any evidence of rats so far. On this night the coons would have some leftover hash, quite a few tater tots, roasted and salted in-shell peanuts, and a few potato chips. They might actually leave the peanuts for the squirrels, who seem to enjoy them. These peanuts were extra-big, not the smaller ones that I like. When they are big like that, they lose something, a delicate je ne sais quoi that enhances the peanut-eating experience for me. I don’t think the critters will mind if they’re big or not. This space under the maple tree—this repository for discarded food---when I return the next day, it is as clean as if there had never been any food there at all. The nighttime nibblers do a thorough job of it.

I am back in my old car, having returned the rental yesterday, as my first symptoms of flu started to kick in. The car repair people told me that they’d fixed the old station wagon the first day, had only been waiting for approval to do the supplemental repairs. I’d been driving the big Chevy rental for well over a week. Although the ride was nice and quiet and smooth, I won’t miss the big car. For one thing, it was too damned big, used a lot of gas, and—worst of all—wasn’t a station wagon. I have to admit, however, that the trunk was HUGE, probably one of the biggest modern-era car trunks I’ve ever seen. It could fit many of the things my little station wagon could, but with one problem: When the farthest items were pushed to the very front of the trunk, you couldn’t get to them without crawling in there. It was that big.

I’d wanted to get a haircut last week, learned on the phone that my barber died in December. He’d run the same barber shop up in Carroll County since 1967, when he’d moved from another location where he’d been working to strike out on his own. He’d also traveled practically the whole world, going to many different countries for missionary and other religious work. He would show interested customers the photographs of these trips, have interesting anecdotes about his worldly experiences, and always offering the following: Pointing to the front door of the shop, he would say, “Every dollar of those trips walked through that door.”

He’d been plagued by a good many ailments, having had bypass surgery and some other procedures that left him in a good deal of pain. But he mostly kept at his work in the shop, sharing his duties there with his partner—also an excellent barber. When I spoke to his wife, she told me that he’d been diagnosed with lung cancer, had only lived a few weeks after this diagnoses and that she most of all looked forward to joining him in heaven. He’d never smoked, she added.

When I go to the shop I notice that the men there mostly don’t need haircuts, have little left up top to actually trim or pay much attention to. Everyone seems complicit in this, with Al or Marv fussing over the few strands that are still left, and the customers content to have a little attention paid to them, or just to pass the time of day, in a comfortable old barbershop where the rush of modernity and hell-bent commuters literally pass them by out on the two-lane road. I’m party to this as well; yes, I like the haircuts, but I could get my hair cut anywhere. I could walk into the local Frazzle-Dazzle, have an anonymous shear-wielding employee brandish dangerous looking things around my head, or go to the comfort of Al’s old shop, which hasn’t changed over the years, to hear his familiar, “Heidi-Ho!” a standard greeting to anyone coming through the door of the tiny, two-chair shop. If you were to bring along a friend, someone who didn’t necessarily want a haircut, but was just killing time while you got a clip, he would make sure that they were entertained, that he gave them some kind of diversion to help pass the time. He felt that anyone who came into the shop was his guest, and that he should welcome them as any good host would. Good-bye, Al. I’ll miss you.