Terrible Terrible Terrible

April 25, 2008

I spent the day in an open-air automotive show yesterday at the Carlisle fairgrounds up in Pennsylvania. This is known as “Spring Carlisle,” a bi-annual event whose other part is—predictably—“Fall Carlisle.” I’d never gone, so I wanted to check it out. King Oort, Big J.O. and I rode in my compact wagon with a cooler of cokes in the back, and a bag of pretzels and others snacks I’d picked up at the store ahead of time. The morning drive was through the pretty countryside of that area, just north of the Maryland line.

We parked in a lot just adjacent to the town’s firehouse, walked a short distance to “gate one,” and paid our fee to get in. Thousands of people had descended on Carlisle for the event, the car next to us wearing tags from Nova Scotia. The Canadians who were getting out, stretching their legs after the long drive, told me they came every year, wouldn’t miss it for the world. I bade them good day, wished them lots of fun. This was my first time, and I didn’t know quite what to expect. I’d been to an event up there before, but not the BIG one, the one that I’d heard car people talk about, refer to as though the listener should know immediately the reference. After a while I got the reference, but still didn’t quite know what to make of it.

This is what I make of it now: You enter the gate and start walking, and it is still early day—maybe nine in the morning. At the end of the day you’re still walking, and you haven’t seen the whole thing. And you only stopped for one lousy bowl of chili, which was actually quite good, while King and J.O. chatted and you slowly ate, taking maybe a half-hour break from the walking tour. And then you walked some more, through rows and rows of vendors---selling tools, old car parts, automobilia, signs, more tools, pieces of cars, whole cars, sections of classic cars put up for sale by hopeful sellers. Then I stumbled upon my two-seater Mazda, just having changed hands, the sale in the final stage, with the new buyer calling his insurance company to insure it for the ride home. It was the same car, with the same wheels, same paint, same year. The interior was torn, well-worn, the odometer read 138,000 miles There was a roll-bar and a fire extinguisher attached to it, to give it a more race-car look. Actually, the roll-bar would be a nice addition, as I believe it affords a good deal of protection in case of a rollover accident. I asked the final price, which was $4900. I was immediately satisfied with the day and the trip, for I’d paid only a hundred dollars more for mine, and it had less than half the mileage, looked more or less new—and didn’t have torn seats. I was smug.

With the walking only about half-done, I came across a bargain table of old car radios. I wanted one for the Dodge truck, which didn’t come with one when I bought it. I guess for three hundred bucks, you can’t get a decent truck WITH a radio these days. I picked up three of them, as they only cost a buck apiece. One or all of them will work, and will do just fine in the truck. I am not particular, as long as the thing emits some kind of sound and I can change the station. The other ones I’ll throw into the scrap metal pile.

At one of the indoor exhibition buildings, there were yet more vendors, more automotive stuff to buy, to look into, to ask about. Then there was an artist who’d put some of his paintings around. There were a lot of them, and they were universally awful—the stuff of adolescent fantasies, depicted by someone who hadn’t progressed beyond that stage in talent or in emotional development—his technique raw, undeveloped and unschooled. Actually, there are many adolescent artists who are superb—I went to high school with some of them. This person wasn’t one of those. His works were the equivalent of home-room scribblings torn out of spiral binders and then put up for everyone to see. It was kind of embarrassing, but offered a nice break from the otherwise mundane assortment of car-related stuff, which—truth be told—started to look very much the same after an hour or two of walking. I saw the creator of these works in my mind, putting a brush to yet another terrible canvas, his friends looking on with beer.
“Man—that shit is awesome!” Says one.
Another beer says, “You outta be puttin’ that stuff out for sale, make it so everyone can see ‘em!”
“Yeah!” the first beer says, “you can use my van, put a bunch of em in there, take em around—maybe to car shows an’ stuff.”
The young man was lucky once to have an actual model—a real person to pose for one of the hideous works. When she saw the finished painting, how she looked, was depicted, she took the wet canvas and smashed it over the hopeful artist’s head.
She could have uttered, “You ain’t no Norman Rockwell!” But no one would get the reference, neither she nor the young man wearing the recently-painted canvas—his head poking through like a Jack-in-the box. Instead, she would say, “I seen better pitchers on a box of Cap’n Crunch!”
I took some photographs, put one of them up here. Enjoy.

April 28, 2008

And across the way, in Paris, a young man is receiving his first recognition for his efforts in film. In the Montparnasse neighborhood, a few stories above the busy street, with iron-railings decorating marble-like balconies, a patron of the arts entertains him. She is conversant with the artists, great and lesser known. His work—a documentary—is causing a murmur, his name is being mentioned in the big cafes along the Boulevard Saint Germain, maybe occasionally in the jazz spots near the Rue de Seine, the air inside one impenetrable and unbreathable cloud of smoke. The film has something to do with walruses; there is apparently something more to these animals than anyone had ever suspected, had wanted to know. Everyone had been fine with them, knowing vaguely that the big tusked animals swam around and maybe liked to sleep on rocks. Now, those who have seen his work are talking about walruses like never before. He is American, so this success is unusual, these stirrings in the big city that lays claim to much of the cultural wealth of the world. Cinema-goers sit and chat, watch the evening Parisians pass by, chat some more, think of something observant to say about his work, any work.

The young man looks down from the curtained windows that give way to the balcony, the airy and gauzy coverings easily brushed aside, sees an older man toiling with a Deux Chevaux. One of the wheels is off and he is fighting the machine there in the street, his struggles there in plain view, with the disabled car parked against the curb. He tinkers down there while the young man above, being asked to sit for tea and maybe some biscuits, watches. His patron is a beautiful woman whose path in life has been a single-minded pursuit of the most beautiful and enlightening things imaginable—things that she encourages in others, having the resources and connections to make the most marvelous things happen. He is an oddity, a rough diamond, but with potential. There will never be anything between them, his contribution being only what he can bring to the world of art. She has known many men, has known things that he will never know.

Down in the street the wheel is back on the Deux Chevaux, the car is started and is leaving a blue trail of smoke and noise down the street. The man’s time has passed, he knows it as he wheels the car through the grey and occasional sunshine of an April Paris. Whatever small mark he could have made, should have been made long ago. So he tends the concession at the cinema across town, in the Rue de la Harpe, takes the tickets from the pretty young couples arm in arm, closes the doors as those Paris night-dwellers are going off to fetch a drink and smoke, heads thrown back, leaning easily in their chairs, the brilliance of the city illuminating them, their thoughts, their lives. Sometimes they mention the young American, ask each other if he has anything important to say, nod at each other’s comments, ask for another drink, another smoke. He has his pleasures: Occasionally takes the train out to the end of the line, to a deserted station—maybe Pont de Sevres--sits blinking in the sunshine of a beautiful day, the train ride giving him a break from the city, the noise, the pretty young couples who wander off into the night, arm in arm. Back in his neighborhood, in one of the many small streets near the serious and formidable edifice called the Pantheon, where men are buried who actually did leave their mark, he feeds the wild cats who have come to adopt him as a trusted caregiver, never letting him get too close, but coming around regularly to see what he has for them. The fish, too, are often the beneficiaries of his free time, as he takes some hardened bread from the previous day over to the fountains at the Tuileries to drop into the waiting mouths of the large orange specimens that populate the park. Occasionally he will spend a minute writing down observations of the day. More often he will not.

Today I replaced the brakes on the Dodge pickup. It took five-and-a-half hours and squandered a whole day. And only one side is done—it still remains to replace the brakes on the other side. The half-wit asked about the truck, wanted to know what was going on. I told her about some floor-mats I’d promised to give her, wanted to tell her that I hadn’t forgotten, but that I no longer had the floor mats.
“You know them floor mats what I tolt you about?” I asked. “Well, I looked and looked, and then looked in one more place an finally figured out I didn’t have em no more.” Then I improvised, saying, “I called to my old girlfriend Cherisse, and I said to Cherisse, I says, ‘You know where them floor mats has got to? Cause I swear I been lookin an cain’t find em nowhere.” Then I told the half-wit that Cherisse told me she’d given them to the people who run the Salvation Army.
“An I said, ‘”Why’d you go’n give them floor mats away?” And she says, “Well you didn’t have the car no more, why you gonna keep them floor mats around like that?”
An I says, “But they was MY floor mats!” An she says, “But you didn have the car no more!” And on and on like that. She shared that her grandson—one of eleven—has recently had his second child. The new mother lives at HER mother’s, he lives with his own mother, and the two—by all accounts—are struggling.
“I can’t hardly wait till they have a third child,” I said. Them’s nothing more precious than them precious little chirrens. Yessir—we need more’n more of them little chirrens on account of they gonna take care of us all one day up in the sky.”

Liquid Nails Girl

April 24, 2008

Relics

I was digging around under the new deck yesterday, just moving some dirt around for the fun of it. Besides, this area has to be dug out quite a bit to make way for the patio project down there. A little digging wasn’t going to hurt anything. I scooped up a shovel-full, saw something red down there amidst the mud and muck. I took the thing away from its coating, saw a wild and goofy eye peering at me from the dirt, then a floppy ear. It was a plastic child’s toy, a little dog dating from maybe five years ago. How it found its way underground is a mystery, except that it was in the area where the Bobcat men had been digging, so maybe they’d picked it up from another part of the yard, deposited it there with the big machine. Although I love the floppy-eared dog with his questioning look and eyes that appear forever surprised, I am a little sad that I found him. It would be nice to think of future diggers, history people who look down in the ground for clues to those who came before. Archaeologists, if you want to get fancy about it. They might have had fun with the little dog, maybe a few thousand years in the future, turn it this way and that, wonder at what it could have possibly been used for.

And now I turn my thoughts to those others, the ones who DID come before, who left clues relating to their lives, their passions, their loves and fears and religious thoughts and superstitions. They raised monuments to their religious fervor, enormous cathedrals that you can go inside even today—that’s how well they built them. You can be awed by their passion and look at the day filtered through glass that glows with what looks like hundreds of colors up there at the top of the dark and vaulted ceilings, the work of medieval craftsmen and workers, and you can say to yourself, “I may be a cynical bastard, but heaven help me if at this very moment I don’t believe in God Almighty!”
And then we have the red plastic dog, an offering from our times, not the ultimate in art, but not too bad, either. I don’t mean to diminish our contributions, our furthering of the cycle of art and beauty, but if they—those learned beings of a future time—were to dig down and find just ONE thing from our culture, I would want it to be this dog. That would give them something to think about for a good long time. I feel so strongly about this that I have devoted three photos to the subject.
Ok, so that’s behind us. Later I drove over to the Colosso-Box, my pseudonym of course for Home Depot, a place whose name I even despise saying, am reluctant to bring it up in conversation because then I’d have to say it out loud. Colosso-Box. It is not going to catch on, but as long as you get my drift, that’s the main thing. They’d erected a tent there, and you could hear a man hollering through a megaphone, announcing some kind of contest, doing a play-by-play. You couldn’t really hear what he was saying--that’s just the way it sounded. Most of the parking was taken up by this circus tent, so finding a spot was difficult. When I’d paid for my box of screws and a washer, I asked the woman at the checkout about the event.
“Just go inside,” she said. “It’s open to everyone—and you don’t have to buy nothin’”
“Sounds good to me,” I said.
She added that I would be asked to fill out some information, so that I could be later bombarded by advertisements, but that this filling-out activity would be rewarded by a little ticked that I could exchange for some pizza and a coke. She specified “Coke,” not soda or some other generic term.

So I went inside, feeling pathetic that I was going to whore myself for the promise of a slice of pizza and a soda. Oh, well—I thought—maybe they won’t be able to read my illegible scribble and the publicity will get sent to someone’s house where they don’t even speak English. One can only hope. I got my ticket and saw immediately that there were many giveaways, things that I could actually use—like those marking pencils that carpenters are always wielding. Even though I’m not a carpenter, I feel that one of these pencils may make me look more competent. So I took one of those, and one of the little battery-powered penlights that can come in handy, except that you never actually keep one where you’ll need it. “I’m going to put this one in a place where I can use it,” I thought. “Maybe the glove-box. Yes, that’s it—the glove-box.” I put it inside my Colosso-Box bag and immediately forgot about it.

The different representatives of the power tools and building materials companies were there, young and attractive, with short and sensible hair for the guys, and the young women wearing the styles that make them appealing and professional and full of energy and enthusiasm. Later they would all go out for drinks, would laugh about their time in the hot tent, would exchange stories about power tools, might hook up briefly with the guy or young woman demonstrating the virtues of “Liquid Nails,” might even wake up next to each other when the following day was still young, and they had to get on a plane or into a car to drive to the next tent-event. Anything could happen after the Colosso-Box event had shut down for the day. Years later, with their bodies older and fuller, the slim pants and skirts of those tent days no longer a possibility, they would sit at desks, take calls about sales efforts and their results, would still go out for drinks with friends in the industry, but would mostly be going home to a neatly-mowed lawn, a garage full of power tools, and a green riding mower to tend to the grounds in their neighborhoods of large and uniform houses. And the man who’d demonstrated the virtue of drywall, the same drywall they’d had for years, no different from the stuff of last year or the year before, he’d look at his wife and kids, who were kind of chubby and mostly sat around and didn’t want to do much, and he’d think back to the tent and the Liquid Nails girl. His night with her no one could take away. Didn’t really remember much of what happened afterwards, but always that night would be with him. He’d earned this, had been to the tent, had survived the indignities of it all, had blossomed and flourished in the world of American business. He was happy now, but maybe not as happy as those tent days.

I got my pizza, which was actually two slices, and was made by the people at Papa John’s. I’d never had theirs before, and I have to admit it was quite good. For a drink I had a choice of diet Coke or water. I chose the water. I ate the pizza on the way home, didn’t linger to socialize or chat with the young and vibrant sales people. In retrospect I could have grabbed the megaphone, hollered this:
“Hey! Everyone listen up! How’s about we close this little power-tool circus, pack everyone into a big car and drive them over to MY PLACE! After all, the cokes are all gone, you can only get diet now—and who drinks that, anyway? So I have a project that—with about a hundred of you—we can knock out today, and I can take the rest of the summer off and maybe work in a trip to France!” The outcome of this unexpected outburst would be no doubt an escort by the power-tool police to the perimeter of the big tent, with the young sales people silently watching me leave with my piece of pizza and water, and later laughing about it over drinks at Fudruckers. I can’t say I blame them.

So it was noted here that a hairy man, a man with opulent hair, a short troll-like fellow, but with a kind nature and also the envy of many women wanting hair like his, this super-abundance, cared for and brushed, and with hair on the side, side-dishes of hair, moustaches, sideburns, a ponytail. This man told me about the cheap boards that could be had at the lumberyard one town over. Or maybe a couple of towns. In any case, you have to drive a few miles. I went there, found that the wood he’d told me about was even less expensive than he’d said, that he’d really just told me more or less a ballpark figure.
“Will you be needing a lot of those boards?” he asked, looking at the rolling cart of sixteen-footers I’d taken to the front of the Colosso-Mart.
I would be needing more, I told him. He asked the price, which was about eleven dollars apiece.
“You can get them at Ritchie Lumber for eight bucks,” he said.
I drove there, this being a little further than the Colosso-Box, but I was looking for an alternative to that place, was tired of the immensity, remembered how I was always pissed-off when I first starting going, then had settled into a maintenance-level rage, that this kept me somewhat on an even keel. I wanted to be pissed-off again, to be dismayed at the horrible customer service, at the employees caged in that place for the time they had to be there, let out at the end of their shifts—wearing their orange aprons like prison uniforms. I was tired of settling into the easy malaise, the gnawing at me, knowing that something wasn’t entirely right about this store taking over the country, its people, making them go there again and again and again. It had to stop.

Now it is time. The end is at hand for the Colosso-Box. This is my own private war, and—for the moment—I am winning. I’m not fighting it for anyone else—just me. The boards cost seven bucks. While I was there, I loaded up the Dodge with a bunch of other lumber, just threw it all in there, stuff I knew I would be needing, would have to have on hand. Then I asked about hardware-the fasteners, long bolts, washers, nuts and that kind of thing. Yes, they had those, too. It was then that I realized just how badly I was being hosed by the Colosso-Box overlords. You see, they charge for every goddamned piece of hardware that you pick out of a bin. You have to get it yourself, take it humbly to the front of the store, ask please may I be overcharged for everything here? Yes, of course you may, the sullen Colosso-Girl says. And you pay, they all pay, by the thousands, hundreds of thousands, and they have circus tent events to celebrate how badly everyone is getting hosed. No, I’m not bitter, I am actually happy to have found the lumberyard where the kindly lumber man asks what is your pleasure, goes to the proper bin, counts out the required quantity, and takes two seconds to treat you like a human being, to boot. I could have cried, hugged the lumber man, his dirty and sweaty tee-shirt wetted with my tears, his body hunched back in a tense recoil. I had to restrain myself.

I have here a paper, yes—a paper somewhere. It contains important calculations. I made the calculations, but now can’t find the paper. It is here somewhere, but that doesn’t matter. What these numbers reveal is convincing enough to start a popular uprising—a revolt. It doesn’t matter; I’ll share them now, but what you do with them is your business. Besides, not everyone has to go to the Colosso-Mart. Thank goodness for that. Here is what the omnipresent orange cube store does: You buy a bolt, they charge for it. Oh, you want a nut to screw onto the bolt? Another charge. Maybe you’d like a flat washer, too—just to round things out? A third charge. At the lumberyard, they charge one price, and ALL THREE THINGS are included. We’ve all been going to the Colosso-Box, never really questioning why we were picking nuts and bolts and washers out of the bins, being charged for them separately. For those of you who are reading this and don’t really know how a standard, threaded bolt is used—here is a quick starter course: It MUST be used with a nut and preferably a washer, too. They all go together. Guess what—for the quantity of bolts and their parts that I needed—about sixteen—it came to thirty dollars less than I would have paid the orange cube people. And that is for a very small deck—about twelve by sixteen feet. The savings for a large project or deck would quickly rise into the hundreds of dollars—given the more than reasonable price of the lumber and the hardware the store sells. So you are waited on by people who have been running the business for fifty-seven years, they seem to appreciate your coming in, and the quality is good. What’s not to like? In all fairness, the lumberyard is not for everyone: You are not going to find light fixtures, plumbing, little wastebaskets for your bathroom, mops, pails and power tools. Also, the parking is kind of tight, and you are surrounded by towering skyscrapers of lumber. But the items that the lumberyard lacks, you can find at other places: Electrical supply stores, plumbing supply, general department stores, and so on. There is also a good chance that those things cost less at the other stores. There is probably a similar lumberyard near where you live. Even if it’s not Ritchie, at least it’s not the Colosso-Box.

Last Summer

Last summer I flew out to Kansas to pick up the little 2-seater I've referred to in these writings. Since I have little to recount that's actually happening now, I'll go back and rehash old times. Here is an account of things related to the trip:

The flight took off around 5:40 Monday morning. My brother took me to the airport, I went inside with my one bag, and found the line for US Airways already starting to snake around past the little people-corral they herd you into. Airline ticket agents were calling out, in an urgent tone, asking the passengers on the early flight please to come to the little machines to check in.

I came forward with my flight information I’d printed out on the computer. This is totally hopeless, I thought; standing in front of the little ATM-like machine, I mentally went through the possibilities of what could go wrong:

--I would hit the wrong button, rendering the machine inoperable
--The machine wouldn’t work to begin with—never did.
--Information would flash on the screen identifying me as a terrorist:
“ARREST PASSENGER” would appear in bright red letters, along with a little siren and flashing beacon—to alert security personnel.

None of this happened. In less than five minutes, I’d managed to coax a ticket and boarding pass out of the machine. I was elated.

At the security checkpoint I was bemused to see that the fast line of passengers was taking off its shoes, hurriedly putting them into little plastic bins, shoving them into the security scanner, where personnel on the other end scarcely looked at the images on their screens. Thanks a lot, Richard Reid—you bastard.

On the flight I didn’t talk to anyone, didn’t want to get into anything, was too tired and fraught with anxiety about the whole trip. I didn’t really understand why exactly I was going all the way out to Kansas for this car. It’s true, I’d wanted a convertible for a long time, had even been looking at the Miatas back when they were too expensive for me. But still. Something didn’t feel right about it. For one thing, the car was way too nice for me, a schlub with no garage, a fairly non-pristine driveway to park it in, and a lifestyle that in no way would preserve the shine and overall appearance of the pretty little car. This worried me. And my friends, the parents of the girl for whom I was once a suitor. They too would no doubt be wondering about my motives, my sudden, inexplicable desire to get my hands on this car, to come out briefly and re-insert myself into their lives. We would all be wondering, in our own way, what was up with all that. It’s a miracle I didn’t have a throbbing headache.


But I was on the plane, too late to turn back now. Also, I had pork barbecue to think about, something that had suddenly taken on more importance than the car itself. This is a thing I’d been introduced to a few years back, when this group had taken me out to a local eatery—an institution of sorts—in a neighboring town. The specialty there was “burnt ends,” absolutely delicious pork in barbecue sauce, with beans and fries. One of these servings is enormous, always impossible for me to finish—and the price is around ten dollars. I love the place. It is in Belton, Missouri—just across the state line from Kansas-- and is called Oden’s.

At the airport I was met out front, right on time, by Mel and Dottie, piloting the beautiful new Honda—a symbol of the upper middle class lifestyle they so enjoyed, and of which I am so envious. It is not so much all the material luxury that such a lifestyle can provide, but the insouciance about money, the lack of preoccupation about every little expense, the security of living out a retirement earned by a life well-lived, with a purpose, using the brains that we were all born with, but that some squander and waste, while others carve out a secure place for themselves, knowing that where they have arrived is all due to their own diligence and hard work. Mel and Dottie had pioneered a dance technique that perfected the country two-step in confined spaces. Wildly popular on riverboat cruises, Dottie had been dubbed the “Memphis Queen” from 1973-1975—an honor bestowed on the fastest feet on the Mississippi. Mel, a talented caricature artist, would delight tourists with his retrospective sketches of them in old-style riverboat garb.

We went out to eat later with their neighbors down the street—Marcus and Henriette Fleurluenthler. Marcus, entertaining as ever, told me that he believed cars should not be washed. They’d arrived in an enormous pickup truck, the bright red paint sparkling clean, with not a hint of dirt anywhere. It is one of the magnificent contradictions in this fantasy-world I’d stepped into: The retirees, comfortable with themselves and their lifestyle, could say anything. Words didn’t really mean much—not any more. All of the main activities of life, the ones that had led them to this place in Kansas, had already been accomplished. What sense in talking about washing cars? You just do it, or pay someone to do it for you. It’s a non-issue, something that just happens, no need to overthink it. I paid the check when it came, grateful to my hosts for putting me up at the house, for taking me around and generally entertaining me. But there was more to this act: I wanted to be accepted as a peer, as a solid piece of their social fabric, not as the more usual frayed and tattered edge. I’ve come to Kansas, I wanted to say, and I’m ready to pay my own way. Surprised, they seemed genuinely to enjoy the gesture. I should add that the place—one that they all frequent—is by no means an emporium of haute cuisine. Burgers, fries, the Monday night special—these were all big attractions there, but they did serve beer as well. My burger was actually quite good, and I was able to polish off all of it and the better part of my waffle-cut potatoes as well.

Marcus was retired from his career as a builder of specialized mining equipment; his company’s machines were known for extracting more ore per hour than any others. His competitors often groused about the high-output of the cleverly named “EXTRACTORE,” a machine that was bigger than a medium-sized house. At the time that he left the company, his legacy was certain: Had it not been for Marcus, the EXTRACTORE would not have come to be. Hanging on a wall in his den is a plaque to that effect. Superimposed over an image of the gaping jaws of the machine, are these words:

Certainly not an actor
But our benefactor
Marcus its creator
Gave us the EXTRACTORE!!

The company’s president fancied himself something of a poet, and often would amuse and delight his employees with his clever wordplay.


The next day we hit the Starbucks, just Marcus and Mel and I. I was able to meet the fabulous Monica, object of Marcus’ fantasies, and she spent a scant minute or two chatting as she cleared dishes from a nearby table. Her world is youth, vigor, maybe college classes at the local institution, putting gas in the car, making plans with her boyfriend, other friends to hit the concerts that surely make their way to Kansas City. All of eternity lay before her, the endless green fields of youth, the never-ending sunshine of health and beauty, hours and weeks and months spent just enjoying life and the sense that all things will be forever new and fresh and green.

The three of us sat at the table, the oldsters with the years to show on our faces, our experiences coloring everything we now beheld. Some of us deal with it a little better. I—forever older before I was even old—have not done so well with it, look longingly back at the stuff that youth was supposed to be made of, am pissed-off that I missed out on big parts of it. I want to get some of it back, make a mad grab with a little sports car with a convertible top, put it in high gear and go back in time. Sad, that humanity is full of elation, beauty, the conquest of higher pursuits. And it’s also full of this. I sipped my vanilla latte grande.

Mel and I took out the car later in the day. This was a brilliant, late-summer afternoon, the perfect weather for a ride in a convertible. I drove, and was not too aggressive with the gearbox or getting the engine revs up. Not aware of the car’s superior handling characteristics, I kept the driving to a fairly conservative pace. I am used to piloting slow and sluggish junkers and pedestrian family sedans, conveyances that make no pretense at being anything other than utilitarian. Get the groceries, pick up the kids, run errands, stop by the post office—that kind of thing. I was in a true sports car now, but didn’t yet realize it. That would come later. I mainly liked the way it looked, didn’t understand its performance attributes.

We went to Oden’s, where the barbecue was even better than I’d remembered. The servings being enormous, I took some of mine away to eat on the trip back home. A couple of women in the next booth were enjoying their meal, and Dottie knew one of them from the place where her mother had stayed. They exchanged pleasantries, and at the meal’s end Mel surreptitiously paid their tab. I’m sure they were very surprised and pleased when the news came that their bill had been taken care of.

Shortly after returning home, I exited the car from the garage, drove off in the rain and headed for Maryland. The drive, depending on the route, and the number of switchbacks and detours, is usually around eleven hundred miles.

Following is a brief account of the trip home:

On the way out to the big highway I tried on my new role as a sports car driver, pushing the engine revs a little higher with each shift, hitting the gas a few times between downshifts to sync up the engine speed with the transmission’s, and enjoying the responsiveness of the car—something I hadn’t quite been aware of before.

On the 435, traffic stopped a few miles before the turnoff for the interstate, a backup that lasted maybe twenty minutes or so. Nothing obvious was in the way when things started going again—other than a few large trucks on the roadside that looked to have interesting loads. The weather was mostly grey, with intermittent rain, and the hour looked much later than it was—being only around four in the afternoon. The rain would continue most of the drive, letting up the next day when I awoke in Ohio and finally put the top down.

When I stopped for the night, I was maybe two-hundred miles or so from the West Virginia state line, but too tired to go on. I’d taken a couple of caffeine tablets along the way, at two different times, but they weren’t making me much of a better driver. I thought it best to stop. As I fueled up at a deserted all-night rest area, I asked the young woman inside about local accommodations.

“If you go back to the next exit, there’s tons of hotels there,” she said. “You can go down this little road here and find a hotel, but I’m not too sure about the area,” she added. She pointed in the direction of the little hotel and said, “I live in that area.”

I took her advice and drove back on the interstate to the motel oasis, brightly lit signs signaling rooms for rent from about the height where helicopters hover. I chose a Holiday Inn, wanting to be parked in a safe spot for the night—and there seemed to be no shortage of bright lights here. At two in the morning, the girl behind the desk was in no hurry; the computer screens in front of her—two of them—were thwarting her efforts to rent me a room. She finally got it figured out, gave me a discounted rate offered to Triple A members, and took my credit card. When I got upstairs I didn’t even turn on the tv—a first for me. I brushed my teeth, turned back the bed, and went to sleep. The caffeine tablets had not completely worn off, however—making my slumber a bit jumpy. They should put some kind of warning on these things: “If you plan to go to bed, don’t take these.” Next time I’ll know.

The next morning I awoke around eight, the wake-up call coming from the telephone next to me. There was also an alarm clock, so after the phone rang, I set the alarm for another half-hour and went back to sleep. When I’d showered and gotten cleaned up, I went downstairs to see what kind of breakfast the Holiday Inn had for me. It was a far cry from the offerings in the British version, but I sat down to some deviled eggs, Froot Loops, orange juice, and bacon. As I ate, I listened to some kind of interview taking place behind me. At another table, a good-looking young man was talking to two women who were interested in his qualifications for some position or other. It seemed that maybe they could have reserved a room or business suite for this purpose, but perhaps their company didn’t have that kind of money to throw around. In any case, the young man, earnest and well-spoken, seemed to be interested in being considered for the position, and left them with assurances that he could update his curriculum vitae should they need more information. As he passed, I wanted to stick out my foot, and as he lay sprawled and bewildered on the floor, issue this advice in his ear:

“Run from this place. Get as far from these two women as you can. Make your life on a little farm, with maybe some goats. Eat some cheese. Content yourself with the simple things, find your own way—happiness will come.” Instead, I ate more Froot Loops and watched a cable news program on the television.

Outside the day was beautiful, heating up, turning into a typical late-summer day. I put the car’s top down, wanting to enjoy the main feature I’d bought the thing for. With the insides exposed to the outside air, I felt more inclined to get the engine revs up, to be more liberal with the gas pedal. On the highway the tachometer read an engine speed that—in my own car—would have probably blown up the motor many miles ago. The car ran smoothly and strong, with no hint of being overtaxed.

With a little more of Ohio remaining to be covered, I exited the interstate where the warning signs indicated there would be work ahead. I didn’t want to sit in traffic, watching the scenery crawl by at the rate of a few inches every minute. On U.S. 40 the landscape was an interesting combination of sections of old roadway and abandoned farmhouses and old motels. I stopped at the first farmhouse and took some photos, posing the car this way and that. A little roadside stand stood off to the side of the main road some few hundred feet. I believe that the small section of abandoned roadway that faced the stand was once an original section of the National Road. I could be wrong, but that’s what it looked like to me. It had bricks for paving in places—something that old road builders used at one time.

Further up the road I stopped to buy a drink and a hat. I wanted a visor, like the kind on baseball caps. Although I had many of these hats at home, I didn’t bring any with me. Inside the little gas-stop and convenience store, the clerk was telling a bald customer that she thought men who rode Harleys were sexy. The man indulged her, his day most likely devoted to work, owing to the sight of worn boots, frayed jeans, and a truck outside that was waiting for him to get back to it. He’d carved out a few minutes for some smokes and a drink, and didn’t really have much time for chit-chat.

“I have a little convertible car,” I piped up, hoping to win some points with the store clerk. She sized up the skinny man before her, holding an iced tea and a bright red OHIO baseball cap.

“Oh?” she couldn’t have sounded less interested, but offered, by way of consolation, that these little cars were “cute.”

“Yes, it’s right over there,” I pointed—hoping to keep things going a little bit.

She couldn’t see it, for the simple reason that the tiny automobile was totally obscured by a tremendous pickup with mud-spattered fenders. Even the family minivan, which hadn’t been there before, looked enormous next to the car.
“Will that be all?” she asked. She was actually quite friendly, telling me that she’d just bought a car for her son, even though she seemed quite young herself. Just after buying her son a car, she said her own car blew up, but now she didn’t want a car for herself. If she did get a car for herself, she said, it would be a 1964-1/2 Mustang. I’m not sure what sets that model year apart from the others, these cars all looking pretty much the same to me. I thought it best to be going.

I backed the car out of its space, sandwiched between the enormous pickup and the minivan. The big draw at this little stop appeared to be the sandwich shop just next door, but attached to the convenience store. It was a Subway or something like that. Hungry people were filling up the parking lot.

I’d eaten my leftover barbecue at a little convenience store last night. This is the place where I’d bought some of the caffeine pills and a drink and some chips. At that point I’d planned to just continue straight on through—stopping only for gas and for one last time when I arrived home. I’m glad I didn’t follow this plan. I should note that the tea I bought came in a bottle and was unsweetened. This brand was widely available back home, but horribly sugared, owing no doubt to the taste of most tea-buyers who drink the stuff out of a bottle. I was glad to find this version, although often I buy the one that is sweetened as well. My only complaint is that it was not offered with lemon.

As I drove through this part of Ohio, approaching the easternmost part of the state, I stopped from time to time to look at old machines, some of them in hopeless disrepair, some being picked apart to use anything valuable from their innards—victims of salvage operators who, buzzard like, dismantled and cut the things open with torches, wrenches, jacks and the like. I usually posed the still-sparkling sports car in front of these jumbled backdrops to take a quick photo. Likewise, at a local used-car lot, the specimens on the open air display looking to be one step away from the junkyard, I asked the proprietor if it would be ok to take a quick photo in his lot. His response was quick:

“I don’t care,” he said. He’d been standing near the corner of his office, idly watching the day unfold, the late-summer Ohio sunshine harsh on the dented and well-used offerings parked in neat rows. “Easy Financing,” the sign read. On the sign itself was a depiction of a Mustang from the mid-sixties—painted by a local artist, no doubt. Possibly this was the elusive 1964-1/2 Mustang the young woman who found Harley riders sexy had been seeking out. I took my pictures and left, noticing the man had disappeared from his spot next to the building.

I continued on, finally getting close to the Maryland line. At this point it started raining. Not much at first, just a little. I thought I could continue driving, since I didn’t appear to be getting too wet. Finally I gave in and pulled off the interstate, stopping at the on-ramp to get back on. I got out of the car to fool with the top and get it closed again. It was at this point that I discovered that the little pull-tab on the zipper—the thing you pull to open and close the top, had broken off. I’d closed and opened the top exactly two times: Once before I started the trip, and the other time back in Ohio, to enjoy the sunshine on the remaining part of the journey. After my second try—in Ohio—the little pull tab had decided it had had enough. This was crazy, being asked to zip first one way, then the other. It wanted to put an end to all this indecisiveness, and it did it the only way it knew how. I have to admit, it was pretty effective; in place of the zipper’s tab was a sharp metallic nub, about as friendly as a razor or a shard of glass. The zipper still worked fine, however, and I managed to get the top closed quickly—and without shredding my fingers.

Further down the road, with less than a hundred and fifty miles to go, the weather turned serious. I’d mentally psyched myself up to just continue driving, with no further stops. Now that was impossible, with visibility on the high-speed road limited to about five feet in front of the car. The rain was coming in sheets, the car’s top doing a perfunctory but not thorough job of keeping the insides dry. Small drips came from the same place on both sides, and—hit just right—puddles could come splashing through the side window. It’s my view that these little cars were never really meant to be driven in the rain, that the top is there more or less as an emergency measure, much like the car’s tire-changing tools: Just something to get you back home and to a nice dry garage, where the car could be wiped down and soothed and dried and babied. The people at Mazda didn’t really expect that someone like me would be buying one of their cars. I can’t say I blame them.

I stopped on the roadside, not wanting to venture any further for the time being. Cars pulled off behind me, offering a buffer if someone were to go out of control and start using the breakdown lane as part of the regular roadway. Up ahead was a horse trailer and other cars stopped as well. The traffic still moving along was proceeding at maybe ten to twenty miles per hour. I expected that the rain would move quickly, I would be in the clear if I just waited, so that’s what I did. After about ten minutes I turned back onto the road again. It was still raining, but not as hard. Up ahead two cars had spun out, landing on the grassy area off to the side of the highway. No one appeared to be hurt, and the accident didn’t look too serious.

The next towns came and went: Hancock, Hagerstown, then Frederick. After Frederick, it’s not too far to my house. I drove through the adjoining town—Ellicott City—deciding to rejoin old Route 40 for the last few miles. I often do this, as I think it is more direct and maybe a little faster than staying on I-70 until the end. At least there’s more to look at, with the endless stream of donut shops, muffler stores, and chicken take-out places providing a colorful backdrop. Finally I was home, the little car parked safely in the driveway behind the old pickup truck. I’d made it.

Ryobi

This was supposed to make life much easier, having a riding mower at each house. Then it would no longer be necessary to transport mine back and forth, each time having to get the gas-hogging pickup truck out of the driveway with the little tractor loaded in back. I would simply show up, turn the key, and off I go. So I parked my larger mower there, let it rest under some trees, since their shed space was taken up with plastic chairs and tables and the like. The elderly French couple liked to entertain out back when the weather was nice, so these little sheds stored a good many things related to that. There was no room for my mower, which I really had no problem with: It was used to being outside.

When I showed up for the first cutting of the season, I went to start the little tractor. Immediately I found a dead bird—a large specimen—recently killed and residing right there on the footrest. It was the victim of a cat, no doubt. I poked it aside with a stick, then went to start the machine. It fired up, then sputtered to a stop, out of gas. I poured some into the tank, discovered that the top had been eaten off by squirrels. There was a good-size hole in the top of the tank, but it would still hold gas. I decided not to fill it up all the way. The rest of the cutting was uneventful, but I explained to the wife that I would be bringing over my smaller machine, that it would fit into one of the sheds. I would be taking mine back home, where the squirrels weren’t so hungry. They had their corn-feeder out back, after all.
“Oh! Les ecureuils!” She exclaimed, “Ils mangent tout!”
“Oui, ils ont fait un trou dans le reservoir a essence,” I said.
I explained that the squirrels had eaten a hole in the gas tank, that it was up top, where the gas couldn’t leak out. She replied that the little animals ate practically everything around there, that they would wait for me with my bread truck, come running when they saw me with the long loaves, would retreat when they saw that I’d left. I thought back to the episode where they’d made off with an entire baguette---on a day when I’d had to leave the bread at the front door.

Earlier in the week my trusty saw had given up at last. A good-quality tool, I had abused it horribly, had completed many projects with it, and it had done fine over the course of about ten years. Now it could no longer muster enough energy to actually turn the blade; it simply stopped in mid-cut, unwilling to go on. It was without regret that I went to the store to buy a new one. At the Colosso-Box, they had them on sale, precisely the saw I was looking for—a Ryobi model with an additional five extra blades included for free. The whole package cost around thirty-five bucks, and came in an attractive cardboard box. I may keep the box around for a while just to look at, then set it out with the recycling. It’s a pretty nice box.

Back home I started fastening the new pine deck boards to the deck supports, making a platform that you can actually walk on. I put the new saw to use, found its operation smooth and accurate, and vowed to treat it better than the old one—at least for a little while. It remains to buy an additional eight boards or so for the deck floor, which will complete that part of the project. Then on to the railing and perhaps a trellis or pergola to act as a kind of covering to block the extreme sun that the house receives. At the Colosso-Box, a long-bearded man asked about the boards I was buying, wanted to know if I would be needing lots of them. Yes, I would need more, I said. I told him the price of these boards, which was just under eleven dollars apiece for sixteen-foot lengths. He then told me that the same boards could be had over in Glen Burnie for eight bucks each. I thanked him, said that I would surely look into these cheaper boards. Even with the price of gas, it may be less expensive to drive over for some of the remaining lumber I’ll need to buy. Besides, I don’t like being so dependent on the Colosso-Box.

Doctor Pete's Conclusions

And then the scientists arrived. Strange things had been happening in the area, things that couldn’t be chalked up to pure chance. People were falling down, getting run over, stepping into moving traffic, running in the street with their arms flapping up and down, and other inexplicable behaviors of a similar nature. The three men of higher learning appeared in their white lab coats, knocked at the door. They’d determined, through complicated data analyses and long equations, that the source of this tremendous stupidity was most likely coming from this one house. They had to investigate.

They identified themselves as Doctor Mike, Doctor Pete, and Doctor Wilbur. They’d tried introducing themselves using the more usual surnames, but this caused immediate confusion within the household, owing to the difficulty of pronouncing some of the names, and a certain commotion amongst its inhabitants ensued. Some water was spilled, and someone forgot to take a pot off the stove, resulting in some burned rice. When the scientists told those residents that they could simply use their first names, things got more or less back to normal. They got all the house people to come along by telling them they were doing a study on a new kind of breakfast cereal, and that they would be needed for the entire day. The residents came willingly, as they’d been promised all the cereal they could eat.

At the grounds of the mental hospital, the lawns were lush and the green expanses neatly mowed.
“We’ll be testing the cereals in that building,” Doctor Wilbur said, pointing to a large brick structure with bars on the windows. “Since there’s so many of you, we’ve reserved the gymnasium.” The idea was to get them all together and observe them during some controlled tests. Their normal interactions would be observed, and some additional tests would be administered. At the end, the scientists would find out just how stupid the whole bunch really was, and if they were most likely the cause of all the strange happenings. Things got off to a bad start, as some of the younger ones, and a few of the grownups could not be counted on to follow directions. As soon as they stepped off the special bus, the group dispersed, with about fifteen adults and children wandering about the green and lush fields. Finally, they were all rounded up, except for one adult—who was found stuck in a hedge and trying without success to extricate himself. He was a little scratched and scuffed here and there, but not much worse than before he’d gone in the hedge. When he was finally pulled out, he cried a little at his bad luck, said he’d never seen such a hedge, and what was this place, anyway? The scientists reassured him, said he’d soon join the others, and there would be plenty of cereal for everyone.
“Is the cereal good?” The hedge-man asked.
Now it was Doctor Pete who spoke up: “The cereal is very good here,” he said.

Back in the gymnasium, they were all together at last, but no greater order or discipline was to be seen within the group. Some of them had managed to get into the kitchen, which was just adjacent to the gymnasium, and had opened packages of ice-cream bars. First the grownups ate the bars, one after the other, and—when the younger ones started to make some noise—more ice cream was distributed to them as well. One of the smaller children got trapped inside a trash can, and another was high up on a rope, unable to get back down. One had crawled into a heating vent and could be heard crying plaintively. When the scientists managed—with great effort—to finally get the group more or less stabilized and together, their testing began.

The tests were to take the entire day, with brief pauses in between to give everyone a break. Instead, Doctors Mike, Pete, and Wilbur found the results they were looking for after only one hour of testing.
Doctor Wilbur peered over his slim spectacles: “No sense in going on,” he said. “I think the evidence is conclusive.
“How can this be?” Doctor Mike was incredulous. “I’ve…I’ve never seen anything like it. These results can’t be accurate!”
Doctor Pete heaved a sigh. “You’ve seen them now for an hour—or maybe a little less. You observed their behavior on the bus, their language. You were there when we got that one unstuck from the hedge. Please tell me you are not doubting these conclusions.”

What the scientists had discovered was this: That all of the members of the house-clan put together had not even the intelligence of one person’s brain—and not a very high-performing brain at that. If you added together the intelligence from the different members of the clan, used a complicated “cumulative intelligence” equation, and looked at that number, it did not compare favorably to one stupid person’s brain.

“I still don’t see how they manage,” said Doctor Mike. “I mean, simple tasks—like opening and closing the fridge, selecting a piece of cheese, taking off a bottle top—these should all be beyond their abilities.” Doctor Wilbur pointed out that in fact some of these simple tasks were beyond their abilities. The other doctor was silent then, nodding in reluctant agreement, still not wanting to believe the evidence before him.

“Listen,” Doctor Pete spoke up, “There is before us, at this very moment, evidence that suggests that these individuals may be responsible—either directly or indirectly—for the MSEs that have been reported in their general area. The abbreviation MSE had been agreed upon in the previous year of happenings to designate a phenomenon they’d dubbed “Mass Stupidity Episodes.”
Doctor Mike was still in a state of bewilderment, but mustered this: “Indirectly? How’s that?”
“Bear with me for a moment, please. I beg your indulgence—but this may explain these episodes,” Doctor Pete continued. “In the field of physics, there is a general acceptance of a theoretical phenomenon that suggests that light—which normally cannot be swayed from its path—will in fact be affected by a tremendous force, something they refer to as a ‘black hole.’” The other two doctors were listening, taking in Doctor Pete’s words. “Now—if you were to find a tremendous concentration of stupidity-- in an extremely localized fashion, it could very well influence the ordinary reason and stability that for the most part prevails.” He paused for a moment, drew a breath to buy some time and to formulate his concluding words. “In other words, gentleman: If light were able to be bent from its path by some infinitely strong force, so must it be that reason and sanity can be warped from its normal path by a terrific concentration of numb-minded behaviors, that these behaviors may in fact affect that general area and have a spreading effect that extends beyond what even we may be able to calculate.” He pointed to the group, some of the members huddled under tables, others sitting on top of other ones, said finally, “These individuals, collectively, represent a black hole of stupidity.”
Doctors Mike and Wilbur were silently nodding their heads, taking in their colleague’s conclusions. For the moment, there was only quiet, interrupted ocasionally by some of the test group’s munching on cereals. The doctors had discovered—gratefully—that the promise of more cereal had a fairly good calming effect on the group.

“So this unprecedented concentration of stupidity may spread out into the general population, creating a warping of reason?” This was Doctor Wilbur.
“Precisely,” replied his colleague, his arms folded before him, his expression one of satisfaction. Behind him some cereal spilled, and the younger members of the group scrambled to eat up the fallen morsels—even though there was an abundance of the food in good, clean boxes. A smaller subject had again gotten stuck halfway into a heating vent. It was the same member as before.

“I’ve got a headache,” Doctor Mike said finally. “I can’t bear any more of this. Can we get this group transported back to where they’re from, just get them away from here?” He was holding the sides of his head, trying to block out the noise from the heating vent, the crunching of the cereal.
“Yes, agreed,” said Doctor Pete. I can still make it to the golf course since our day was shortened here. A pity to waste such a nice day.” He glanced over at the group, saw that one of them was pushing the other farther into the heating vent.

On the bus ride back to the house, the group was not overly rambunctious, trying only once to escape through the bus’s back door while it was moving at high speed. The members were mostly drowsy, with bits of cereal stuck to their chins and lips, some of them moving pudgy hands to their faces to scrape off the residual food, scavenge for leftovers there. When they got to their house, they recognized the place, spilled out of the bus in a jumble, tripping over each other, then running in all directions, even out into the street, where some of the members started jumping up and down.

The driver closed the bus doors, stepped on the accelerator, the smooth and quiet bus heading back to the hospital.

Over at the house I spoke to the Half-Wit. “Maybe your grandkids shouldn’t be using my new sidewalk as a skating rink,” I said, pointing to the scarred and beat-up surface. I put a lot of time and effort into that.”
She was chewing contentedly, looked at the little urchins. “Oh, them’s don’t come ‘round all that much,” she said. She pointed to the shiny white car, the one she was always turning the hose on. “See how shiny and smooth? Feel how’s that’s got real smooth.”

Letters

Due to the wide appeal of these writings, one can well understand that I receive plenty of responses and thoughts from the readers out there. These two I've included from many I could have chosen. I think they balance each other quite nicely. As an aside, apropos of nothing, the local library was promoting safety, as libraries often do. I think the specific cause they were flogging was how to safely rid your attic of scary bats at Halloween--or how to go down into the root cellar without getting bitten by a spider. It all seemed very nineteenth century. In any case, to the point: The good people at the library spelled safety like this:
SAFTEY. I thought for a fleeting moment that I was in one of those Homer Simpson television cartoons that the car repair duo is always talking about.

Dear Sir,

I am so glad to have before me your incalculably eloquent writings. Scarcely a day passes where I don’t refer to some wisdomly morsel I have plucked from your great bouts of insight. Father says I musn’t read of your tales, that they are monstrous, full of hate and borne of a vile and vindictive nature. He says that they bespeak a weakness both of mind and spirit, that they are the frustrated scribblings of one impoverished in the basic principles of humanity; that I should read instead the pamphlets from Miss Primpson’s finishing school. I love papa of course more than the world, but honestly he can be so impossible at times! It makes me flush crimson! I don’t think you’re impoverished or frustrated at all, at least not very much. Just the other day, when we were with the horses, I spoke of your thoughts on animals and farming in general, and father became nearly apoplectic! He was off in a flash, stirring Blackie to frightful speeds, leaping the far fence (which I have never seen him do before). When he returned, we daren’t speak, for fear of arousing his ire anew. Gladly, mama had corn that evening, which always soothes papa’s sore feelings—and later we all had games in the parlour as usual.

So it is a forbidden pleasure, one that I undertake against father’s wishes—in order to read these things. I will beg of you to be discreet, and if there is at least one redeeming thing that you can include, anything at all (that I can point out to papa), I am sure he would be swayed in his thinking.

Faithfully Yours,

Violette Auberge
Savannah

Another reader is not so kind:

Your suck mister! This is worst off than anything ever Ive never read before.
When don’t you not get out of this, go off out of it. Forver. Sicko don’t go stop stop these weren’t ever. Get a job loser you have to menye cats get a dog your not a man but a sicko loser.

Lawrence Frothmire, III
Jakeysville, Pennsylvania

Taco Tarp Triple

When King showed up, we got his big diesel pickup hooked to the Dodge with some tow-straps, and he dragged the truck easily onto the hard driveway. I noticed something odd, however: The right rear wheel was dragging, not turning at all as the truck rolled forward. I explained this to King, who took a look and quickly diagnosed the problem as a stuck parking brake cable. In about ten minutes he had the area exposed and disabled a part that was causing the mischief. We looked at the brakes while he was in there, and found that they were almost completely worn out. I told him I would buy all new brake parts and install them when I got around to it, which will probably not be any time soon. At least I will now be able to use the truck to make runs to the Colosso-Box and not worry about the parking brake freezing up again. Later we all went out to dinner—King and his wife and I. We ate at Pedro’s Taco Tarp, a place that I enjoy over in Ellicott City. Up on top is a neon likeness of Pedro, holding a six-shooter, and spinning lightning-fast, so that you can hardly make out what the thing is. With the sign’s tremendous speed comes a frightening whirring, as if the thing were to suddenly come undone at any moment. Shots ring out from the six-shooter, and the words come down from the roof: “Hey, amigo! At Pedro’s, our tacos will make your head spin!” More shots ring out, and the intense humming from the sign seems to become even more urgent. As a result, many children enter that place visibly upset and even crying. Inside, however, it is relatively quiet, and the meals are placed on little blue placemats, imitating miniature tarps. If you want to bring one with you, it’s only a dollar extra. For those customers who order the Taco Tarp Triple, the tarp is free.

“Hey, asshole! Get out of the road!” I was exulting in my newfound vision, having stopped just short of the curb to admire some trash and litter that would have been horribly fogged with my old glasses. Every cigarette butt, discarded lighter, rubber band, band-aid and Big-Bite box was outlined in super-sharp detail—all of the colors true and vibrant. The man was steering a delivery van—a likeness of an onion bagel on the side—around the corner, and wanted to complete his turn. I looked up, expressed surprise and pleasure at the new arrival on my own personal visual landscape.
“Sorry, bagel man!” I shouted. “I’ll move along now!” Blowing him a kiss, I added: “I love you!”
“Get lost, faggot!” yelled the bagel courier as he gunned the gas, making the truck screech around the corner.

April 13, 2008

At the market I was amazed anew at the dazzling colors that surrounded me. Yellow peppers, green ones, red ones, too. “So this is where I work,” I thought to myself. “No wonder people like coming to this place.” I asked my helper about the yellow peppers:
“Do they taste different, I mean different from the green peppers?”
She nodded, “Sweeter,” she said. She liked yellow peppers.
I’d asked her about her language, which consisted mostly of Chinese words. I wanted to know a simple greeting, how to say “How’re you doing?” That kind of thing. She responded that no one says that in Chinese, that no one cares how anyone is doing. Although there is a huge gap in understanding between us, I have gathered this much about her language: There is not a lot of small-talk, nothing that doesn’t have to do with the matter at hand, or so it seems to me. If you go into a business and want to buy green peppers, you had better limit the conversation to green peppers, their price, their general condition, and move on. It might strike some of us as abrupt or impolite, but it is just a customary way of interacting—nothing personal, don’t you know. I wonder how the King of Togo, with his winding and richly-detailed stories, would respond to such a way of interacting. As far as I know, his country’s Beef-Sticks currently have no market in the far east.

In the little convertible, my new eyes continued to amaze me. I kept the speed at around sixty miles per hour, the better to prolong the driving experience, and keep the cost of fuel down as well. At lower speeds, the car is actually miserly with its gasoline consumption. Overhead, with nothing but a perfectly fluffed-up sky with patches of blue and little clouds, everything seemed to say: “This is why you have the little car—for days like this.” The thought didn’t seem too profound, but with the warm spring air and the first blooms’ fragrance washing over the open interior, the pale blue sky and wispy clouds my only ceiling way above, I felt naturally superior to the closed-in SUVs, the enormous sedans fortified against the day, the dark windows shutting out any hint of the outdoors. Actually, I feel superior to them anyway; I don’t need the convertible for that.

My destination was the Friday sale out in the country, something I haven’t been to in a while. Up there were tools and machines and the regular assortment of mowers and branch-shredders, tractors and broken pumps, rakes and shovels. I had a natural inclination to buy everything, but was limited by my vehicle. Instead, I bought one small bottle-jack, cost: one dollar. And then three-and-a-half boxes of high-end flooring tiles left over from someone’s job. These tiles can get pretty costly, running about thirty dollars a box for these good-quality examples. I carried away my three unopened boxes and the additional half-box for two dollars. They weighed down the car a good bit, but mostly fit okay. I’ll use them for the bathroom or maybe some other area of the house. It is enough to cover one small room. When I went inside to retrieve them after paying, the sale was of course still going on. A big-bellied man was using the stack of boxes for a foot-rest, leaning lazily against a piece of junk. When I told him that I was taking his foot-rest away, he heaved a sigh and groan as if he’d been asked to lift a washing machine high over his head (which he was probably capable of doing) and carry it across a soggy spring pasture. As I carried my purchases outside, straining under the weight, two interested workmen, contractors who were used to using such materials, asked about my tiles. Two bucks, I told them, and their amazement made my satisfaction complete. Even if I never use them, that alone was worth two bucks.

Saturday, after the market, I fired up the Dodge and drove to the north part of town to pick up a new furnace for the house. This is a gas-fired boiler that will replace the antique oil-burner that now resides over there. I use the word “furnace” to refer to the unit, since most people can relate to that, knowing in general that its function is to heat the house. More technically, however, it is a boiler, using gas flame to heat water within its tubes and send the heated water through the radiators throughout the house. The concept is pretty simple, and its efficiency should be greater than the old dinosaur that now has to be destroyed and carted away. The model I picked up is not quite new, having been used for two years to heat an old Victorian in an interesting neighborhood made up of medium and very large homes. The man who sold me the unit bought his house two years ago, had to install the heating system, but now is converting to another kind of heat. He wants to control the temperature from room to room, instead of heating the whole house at once. It actually makes a good deal of sense.

I backed the truck up the driveway beside his old house, watched as a long-haired black and white cat watched my progress, and parked just a foot or so from the boiler. I was not looking forward to lifting this thing into the truck, but we managed to get it up high enough to shove it onto the tailgate and then secure it back there with a tie-down strap I’d brought along. His house was bought from HUD, probably for around fifteen-thousand dollars, and needed to be completely rehabbed to make it livable. He showed me around, pointed out the work he’d done, and I have to say I was impressed. For a do-it-yourselfer, who’d had some help from professionals, he’d turned out pretty nice work. He also had fairly good taste in the way he’d gone about redoing the house. Although his house and mine are a little different in size, they both present basically the same problems and issues that need to be addressed.

April 14, 2008

J.O. came over this morning and, after much speculation, pointing and discussion, we heaved the gas-fired boiler off the back of the truck and onto a wheeled dolly I’d made for the occasion. Once unloaded, it was a simple matter of rolling the massively heavy thing into the basement. There it will wait its turn at heating the house. I’ve started to disconnect the old oil-fired furnace, will either haul it away myself or see if someone else maybe wants it. It is so old that its only appeal may be as a source of scrap metal.

Later on I tidied up some of the new deck’s beginnings, trimming the odd piece of wood here and there, getting it ready for its new surface of deck boards. Earlier we’d driven the Dodge over to the Colosso-Board and picked up some of the sixteen-footers to start putting the floor down. The area directly underneath the deck will be dug out to allow for easier access into the basement, and perhaps the addition of a shaded patio down there. I’ll have to see what kind of mood I’m in after the digging is done. As I fooled with miscellaneous and not very goal-directed activities, I noticed a brilliant red cardinal in the cherry tree out front—one of two that I planted years ago. These trees are a favorite of the birds, and they frequent them often, plucking the odd bug out of the branches or waiting for the harvest of sweet cherries that they love. The blooms are a festive white, and the scarlet bird seemed to be posing in this brilliant springtime tableau. I snapped a shot of the blossoms, but was too slow to capture the Virginia state bird. He’ll be back, I’m sure.

Pretty Eddy's

Over at Pretty Eddy’s, the puddles were forming small lagoons in the lanes between the junked cars. You pay a dollar to get into this place, which offsets—I imagine—the pilferage that must surely go on, as customers rummage through the dead automobiles and trucks, scavenging for a part that doesn’t necessarily have to be new. Just so long as it fits, and works a bit longer, everything should be okay. I walked through the main avenue, down to the rest of the yard, where they kept the vans and trucks. I was headed to the area where I could find a few miscellaneous things for my precious Dodge pickup. Having spent a pittance on the truck itself, I was now determined not to be excessive about further expenditures where it was concerned. A spare tire would be nice, maybe a jack and tools to change it with, some other miscellaneous things and a radio to fill in the space in the dashboard. These things were all there, waiting to be removed. A woman came out from the left side of the main avenue of dead cars, waving a pen and pencil-holder. She didn’t look like the kind of woman you’d see there, and she said this as I passed: “You can never have too many pens and pencils!” She was enthusiastic and happy about her find, probably having just discovered it in someone’s car. Not really expecting this, but wanting to be polite and observe somewhat normal etiquette there in the salvage yard, I replied, “Madam, the pen is mightier than the sword.” I didn’t really say that, but wished I had. What I really said was, “Oof, where? Oh lord now you’ve gone and done it.”

So I wheeled away a spare tire complete with a steel rim, both in brand-new condition—or almost. Also a radio and a heater control, although the one in the truck was fine, just a little cracked on one side. To my salvage yard shopping cart I added a shiny new jack from a late-model truck and a tire iron to remove the lug nuts with. It was a good haul, and this place charges very little for these items. While out there rummaging about, I came across a man of about my age, from Colombia but speaking excellent English. He was after a part on a Dodge van, so I helped with its removal, the whole piece being not too difficult to extract, but needing really the hands of two people. In return, he helped identify a very good tire and rim and a jack for my truck, which of course I’d told him all about. It’s what you do out there in the mud and the muck, with the puddles receding in the afternoon sun, and the woman with her pens and pencils popping out from a row of cars.

Both trucks are now stuck in the mud. The one truck is awaiting its purchaser, who recently came by to deposit more money towards its price. I’d wheeled the old Mercury down to the bottom of the driveway and out onto the dirt area where the Bobcat men had been working. It will stay there for a while, until someone pulls it out. Now the Dodge is also stuck, having been parked on the dirt, then having some heavy rains make the area too soft to drive out of. For the moment I have given up, will simply wait until the weather dries things out and makes it possible to get the Dodge unstuck, at the very least. It would be nice to make a run to the lumberyard to fetch some materials for the deck, as J.O. and I have recently put up most of its supporting structure. It now remains to finish up a few odds and ends and start fastening the deck boards down. I don’t have any deck boards, however.

Later I drove over to Sancho’s Vision Tarp to pick up my glasses. Sancho was still out front, with his enormous pink sombrero, and inside was a young woman helping a customer who was peppering her with a thousand questions about his glasses.
“Will the lenses be clear?”
“Yes, we sell clear lenses.”
“Will they make me see better?” he asked.
“If it’s a stronger prescription, your vision should be improved,” said the young woman.
“Do you have another style of frame? This one doesn’t look right.”
And on and on like this, with the woman telling the customer that he could choose from any of the frames on the walls. He went immediately to the women’s frames, picked one out, held it to his face and put it on, turning this way and that in front of the mirror. He looked at the store clerk, asked, “Is Sancho here? I saw a man with a pink sombrero out front.”

I told the store-woman that I’d been called this morning, was there to pick up my glasses.
When I put them on, it was like the brilliance of a theatre’s cinema screen suddenly coming to life in a darkened movie-house. The detail and sharp edges of everything came into focus, the colors looked more pure, more real than life, everything was imbued with an unimagined and forgotten brilliance and vigor. Everyone looked happier.
“God, what an idiot I’ve been!” I cursed to myself, “Walking around with those hideously fogged-up glasses, with an outdated prescription.” I did a little more mental self-flagellation, then headed out to the parking lot, where the mid-April sky surely had little wisps of clouds I couldn’t see before, where the different shades out over the end-of-day horizon were like an award-winning photograph.
“I CAN SEE! I CAN SEE!” I cried, my arms outstretched in the parking lot, with Sancho’s Vision Tarp sign a few feet away. A donut truck slowed, honked its horn for me to get out of the way. A small child with a box of candied popcorn silently drifted by with his mother, every crumb and kernel visible in the greatest of detail. His expression was commited to nothing, no thoughts could you discern there in his eyes. But mechanically, like a robot, his hand fed the sugared snack into his mouth like a coal-tender of old keeping the furnace stoked.

“This is just great,” I thought.

To celebrate my new eyes, I went home and sketched some ideas for bathroom and kitchen installations. Included in the kitchen is the unique and innovative “Cabinet of Burgers,” which will make having a burger at any time much more practical. It works on the same principle as your refrigerator’s ice dispenser. In the bathroom, I would like to see a “Wall of Faucets.” It just seems like a nice idea. I think these two features will set the house apart from all the others out there. As a bonus, I no longer have to take off my glasses for up-close work, so making this sketch was easy and fun.

Grymbart Brings Tidings to his Eme

And so it is last we learned that the fox has well-earned the wrath of all the woodland creatures, and most of all the King, and there was rejoicing at that time--a celebration of the sentence soon to be meted out to the crafty and wily fox.

With the feasting and celebrating on the wane, and thoughts turning to Reynard and his fate, his nephew Grymbart hasted much, sparing no hedge or dead-fallen tree in his path to come to his eme Reynart. He came upon his uncle the fox as the wily animal was coming home just then, having found two young birds trying their wings for their first flight. The birds did not fare so well, dropping instead to the ground and making a dinner for the fox and his family.

His nephew Grymbart was all besweated, hasting to catch the breaths he lost during his rapid flight, gulping in the clean forest air. At last he spoke: “Reynard, things go badly for you! The King has heard the complaints from the forest beasts concerning your most recent crimes, and he has heard also how you killed Corbant the Rook’s wife, slonking her in great, greedy gulps, whilst he grieved the accursed scene from a tree. And now the king’s wrath is beyond believing, is such that the bear and the wolf durst not even say a word to him, even though they more so than many others were wronged by you—and in more terrible and hurtful ways.”

Reynard paused at the doorway of his house, wanting more than anything to enter and enjoy the birds that had been so generously deposited on the ground before him.
“So, listen, eme mine,” Grymbart continued. “Wrathful is the king and joyous are those who celebrate and enjoin his wrath and would help him avenge and mete out a harsh and biting punishment.” He paused, caught his breath. “You know, we had a hoe-down to celebrate coming to get you.”
“Oh?” said the fox, not caring much one way or the other.
“Yes. The king and all those who live in the forest and call these parts their home will be coming. There will be wagons, guns, cannons, bombardments from things thrown. There will also be tents, canopies, covers and hasty-made roofs to keep the weather off the heads of those who would journey for your life—or death—and might need a safe place to sleep for the night.
“Tents?” said the fox.
“Yes, tents,” said his nephew. “And canopies, too. Anyway, you can expect a great commotion uncommon to the tranquil forest—an interruption of its silence and a trampling of its floor—what with the wagons and all.”
“Grateful am I for these tidings, dear nephew,” replied the fox. “But carry ye not a sore burden of care and thought for your uncle, so mis-thought of and whose death the King would wroth. Mostly I am hungry, would enjoy these fallen birds and would hasten you on your way.” He added: “Your uncle can take care of himself. Much noise and clanging and banging may the King and those others create in my honor, but rise above it I will, will be exalted higher than the highest of them, for their lives depend on me, my cunning, my wiliness and willingness and willing wiliness is more than they are capable of in thought or action. For that they need me, your eme.”

And now a passage directly from the text I am reading, for these words speak well of the fox, as they are the fox’s own, and give the reader a better side of this woodland creature, without the feelings and thoughts of another, who---many hundreds of lifetimes later—might want to impart his own without his even knowing:


“DEAR Nephew, let all these things pass, and come here in and see
what I shall give you; a good pair of fat pigeons. I love no meat better.
They ben good to digest. They may almost be swolowen in all whole;
the bones ben half blood; I eat them with that other. I feel myself other
while encumbered in my stomach, therefore eat I gladly light meat. My
wife Ermelyne shall receive us friendly, but tell her nothing of this
thing for she should take it over heavily. She is tender of heart; she
might for fear fall in some sickness; a little thing goeth sore to her
heart. And to-morrow early I will go with you to the Court, and if I may
come to speech and may be heard, I shall so answer that I shall touch
[103] some nigh ynowh. Nephew, will not ye stand by me as a friend
ought to do to another?”
“Yes truly, dear Eme,” said Grymbart, “and all my good is at your
commandment.”
“God thank you, Nephew,” said the Fox. “That is well said: If I may
live, I shall quite it you.”
“Eme,” said Grymbart, “ye may well come tofore all the lords and
excuse you. There shall none arrest you ne hold as long as ye be in your
words. The Queen and the Leopard have gotten that.”
Then said the Fox, “Therefor I am glthem an hair; I shall well save myself.”

The two then enter into the fox’s house, where his wife Ermelyne is waiting.

King of Togo (Formerly French Togoland)

The other day we all gathered in a drab office in the government building, the room serving as a kind of conference and multi-purpose space. Accustomed to the layered opulence of the private law firms, this place presented as especially dingy. No artwork adorned the walls, chairs were huddled around a conference table that looked to have been plucked from a garbage scow, or possibly purchased on the cheap at a distress sale. One sad-looking plaque resided in an obscure corner, where no one would ever look at it, even if they wanted to—which no one did.

Our party included legal counsel from overseas—The UK, France, Italy and the Netherlands. Also present were expensive lawyers from the United States and one man in brightly-colored traditional dress who identified himself as the King of Togo. His was a much welcome and colorful contrast to the steely-blue and grey and pinstriped suits that brushed a uniform coat across the men in the room. The King laughed often, showing brilliant teeth in uniform and perfectly-white rows. When he said something, he laughed, and he never hesitated to say something, whether it was relevant or not. To emphasize his mirth, in case we missed the point, he would bring a huge fist crashing down on the old conference table, making the bottles of water shiver and tremble with the great impact. Everyone loved the King of Togo.

These different nations were represented in the drab government office in the middle of the nation’s capital because they had an interest in a company called Beefstick Global International, PLC, a diverse company that made—among other things—sticks of dried beef that could be found just about anywhere: In gas stations, convenience stores, and were often supplied to small or medium mercenary armies. A recent advertising slogan regarding these dried snacks went like this: “Our Sticks Are Hard To Beat!”
“I thought of that one!” The king laughed; “That was me!” He thumped the table with his fist, nearly toppling a bottle of Evian.
The American attorneys snickered, kicked each other under the table, made fake punches and shuffled some papers. The French counselor looked sour, not understanding the reference, and asked for explanation from the representative who’d journeyed from Italy. He was no better for understanding, and the three of them—the Italian, the man from the Netherlands, and the Frenchman exchanged words in broken bits of English, finally settling into the cheap chairs and waiting for the day’s events to unfold.

Before starting the camera, I’d quaffed a bottle of vegetable juice earlier in the morning. It seemed to be the only thing that appealed to me in the deli’s cooler at the nearby breakfast stop. A woman from Albuquerque had been there as well, ordering her breakfast to take back to the fancy hotel nearby. She didn’t have enough money, and the deli people only accepted cash. She was short a dollar or two, and I offered to make up the difference, this being a situation I’ve found myself in before. She was grateful, ready to accept my offer, but the counter people—having recognized her from previous vacation breakfasts—decided to let her slide, allowed her to pay later. We talked of New Mexico and dryness and the desert before I took my sandwich and vegetable juice and left for work.

Back in the conference room the silence was complete. Only the softly spoken words of the government attorney and the eloquent testimony of the man seated before the camera interrupted the quietude. Then there was my stomach. The vegetable juice had caused a rebellion down there in the tubes and passageways and air canals that make up a good deal of a person’s innards. Long, gurgling and whining sounds emanated from deep within me, making for an interesting counterpoint to the men’s words. A freight train could have passed through the room and made less noise than my stomach.
“Hah Hah Hah!” Laughed the King of Togo. “Listen to the little man—he make big noise like jungle rain!” His fist crashed down on the old table. The king spoke perfect English, but sometimes played up his tribal connections with a bit of affected speech. Besides, it just sounded funnier. He was also fluent in French, his country being a former colony of France, but he never let on to the sour-faced French counselor that he could understand every word he said. I could feel my ears turning red, then the rest of my face. I stared down, looked at the empty bottle of juice on the floor. I dared not look up, but imagined the tight expression of the French counselor and the feigned punches of the Americans as they shoved each other in their seats.

At lunch I ran across to the CVS on New York Avenue, asked a person who was restocking shelves for a product that might help with gas, quiet my stomach perhaps.
She led me to bottles of tablets that instructed the afflicted person to swallow them BEFORE eating the problem food. “Too late for that,” I thought, but decided to take them to the counter anyway. As I waited in the line of DC workers and businesspeople, I read carefully the label attached to this product. Among the ingredients, which were remarkably few, was just about every kind of fish known to mankind. Cod, haddock, shad, lake trout, ocean trout, regular trout and so on were all represented. This would have made for an interesting—if not lethal—intervention, being horribly allergic to fish. In an effort to silence my rambunctious innards, I would have instead gone into convulsions, then extreme itchiness, then would suffer from not being able to breathe so well. I’m not sure even the King of Togo could put a positive spin on this, although I’m sure he’d try.
“I’ll just let the veggie juice wear off,” I said to myself.

Back at the conference room—after lunch--the King was becoming restless, finally announcing that he’d like to make a speech.
“This is not accepted protocol,” said the man from the Department of Justice. “There is no provision for that, I’m afraid.”
The French counselor, discerning that the man from Togo wanted to speak, was inclined to let him have his say.
“That man want to have something to talk, let him say that,” said the Frenchman.
Then there was some consultation and much excited talking between the different parties, with the final decision being that the King would be allowed to make a brief speech.

The leader of Togo arose, gathered his bright and ceremonial wraps about him, and began to talk, first adjusting his gold-rimmed glasses and laughing, but not punching the table.
“This is ME!” He thundered. Then he punched the table. We all waited quietly, wanted to hear what he had to say.
“For long we have made the Beef-Stick. First it was my family with our beloved and dear animals, those noble beasts that you other Americans call “critters.” They were not just critters to us, they were loved and will be loved for as long as Togo is sovereign and her beaches are white.” We all nodded, waiting to hear where the King was headed with this.
“Our children loved the Beef-Stick, and treasured are the memories of them with these snacks. Children can be talkative, and soon others knew of this thing that we enjoyed with our children and our critters. The people from the other world, beyond our white beaches, received news from sailing ships that carried things to them and back to us. But not Beef-Sticks, this we would not put on the sailing ships. This was ours.”
“I thought this was going to be brief,” one of the American attorneys said to his colleague, hoping not to be heard.
“Silence!” boomed the man from Togo. “My story just begins.”

“These sticks,” he continued, “were sold first in my land, its voyages taking it never beyond the sunny and white beaches, but finding always a home with the simple people and their critters. And then a messenger came, a man with a request: He had with me an audience, told of the affection those other-worlders had for the beef-stick; for the children had talked to visitors, had given also gifts including these sticks and—in some cases—soap. Those travelers from afar spoke all aglow of the beef snacks, spoke not so much of the soap, though it was good soap and cleansed as a good soap should. This man, who spoke before me the King, said that my nation and its people could enjoy riches and comfort if only we would allow this our treasured snack to be put on ships and sent to those other-world lands which some of our elders have read of in the old books.”

Now it was the representative from Italy who asked, wonderingly: “The old books?”
Sour still was the expression from the French counselor. The man from the Netherlands, who understood English perfectly and also wrote it quite well, took it all in.
“Soap,” he explained to the others; “You make like this,” and he mimicked washing his hands. This did not help matters much.

The Togonese drew a breath, continued:
“It has long been now that success was visited upon us, and our peoples have prospered. And we have entered that world called business, and now are considered citizens of that place. With the passing of time we have learned that others have made beef-sticks; maybe those other sticks happening before ours, or maybe afterwards, but basically the same kind of thing,” he paused, yawned, took a sip of Evian. No one dared speak, fearing his crashing fist on the table. We’d all had enough of that.

“Those peoples from the other-worlds, some of them here with us today, would make a new request from the king, much like that man who spoke before his throne in a time that seems like another life, when our people were simpler and not encumbered by business and thoughts that extended beyond the white beaches. This request is simple, and already those who have interest in the tiny nation of Togo and its most excellent snack feel that much benefit can be derived from the acquiescing of this request. Mostly, it has to do with joining forces with the other-worlders, using their resources and surely greater powers to further the journeys of the Beef-Stick, something that we long ago would never have entertained.” He paused, slid his gold-rimmed glasses off his nose, and wiped at his eyes in a tired way.
“Things have changed,” said the King. “We are taxed most definitely beyond our energies, our resources, to make enough of these to keep up with demand, to put them on the sailing ships and make sure they get to where they’re going. It all seems too much, too much.” He put down his glasses on the worn and marred table, seemed as if to rest.

Hoping that maybe the speech was finished, the lead attorney from the Department of Justice ventured: “Yes, I think we understand the issues at hand, sir—uh, I mean, umm, Your Highness.” Things had strayed a good bit from the normal routine there in the government’s drab conference room. I was mostly thankful that my stomach rumblings were now relegated to a more secondary issue, and didn’t seem to be occupying anyone’s thoughts at the moment.

The brightly-colored King of Togo smiled beamingly at the representative of the United States, put his glasses back on and patted the grey-suited man on the back.
“Good, good,” he said. “Our people are simple still, but now must contend with matters that hurt to think about. So it is with these thoughts that we enter into agreements with the other-worlders, although their dress and customs may be strange. But we speak the same language, the language of the Beef-Stick.” And with that, he withdrew a long thin beef snack from the folds of his gaily-colored robes, tore off the hard plastic wrap and bit off a chunk with his dazzling white teeth.”

“Bravo!” Yelled the Italian, recognizing the product they’d gathered to discuss. The Frenchman, seeing that maybe this was the end of the speech, offered polite applause, his hands making a solitary clapping there in the shabby room offered by the government of the United States. The Americans slapped each other and the man from the Netherlands offered to make a speech himself.

The United States’ representative spoke up quickly: “Yes, yes—this is fine, these speeches,” he paused, hoping to stop another one from being made. “But it’s my job, as representative of the American people, to make sure that your product, these Beef-Sticks, will not become too expensive for the average American to enjoy, or otherwise suffer undue price increases. Surely you understand our position,” he looked around at the gathered representatives of the different nations. Yes, they nodded, they all knew why they were there, knew the strange laws governing trade within the borders of the huge country they knew as America. They had gotten on planes and boats to come here, had been advised by their own counselors as to what they could expect.

“Bravo! Bravo! Long live the Beef-Stick!” shouted the Italian. The Frenchman again offered polite applause, and the man from the Netherlands made some notes on his legal pad. The Americans were silent for the moment, one of them having found that he could play Donkey Kong on his wireless device that now engrossed him. His colleague was staring vacantly at the sad plaque on the wall that commemorated some dreadful achievement. It was so small and impossible to read, that there remained only to look stupidly at its dull glow and tiny inscription.

It was time to disband for the day, and all agreed that their time in the government’s conference room had been productive. The King made no further reference to my stomach or jungle rains, but slapped me on the back, offered me a Beef-Stick.
“Hah hah hah! You take this, little man! And when it is time you come to Togo we make a feast to put some meat on your bones!” Then he described the feast that would await me:
“Coconuts with wild boar! Fresh mango and rice! New-killed chicken with pomegranate a la provencale, figs and dates like you wouldn’t believe!” And, he added, “Beef-Sticks!” He gathered his colorful garb around him, led the members of this diverse party out of the room. They’d all agreed to meet later at TGI Friday’s and the King wanted to visit also some evening entertainment of a decidedly adult nature.

Interruption

This narrative is analogous to things that are actually happening, although—due to confidentiality--I’ve had to change the facts considerably and mask the parties involved. The embellishments further confuse and obscure the issues. Since I’ve been thus engaged, I’m sure you’ll understand that little progress has been made on the house. The steps look nice, however.

I took the new Dodge truck over to Oort’s shop, puttered about, fooled with the dashboard, and put things to right again. The windshield washer, which was full of fluid, was not spraying. We discovered a bad connection at the washer bottle, and now it works as it should. For whatever reason, this was a high priority for me: I like a clean windshield.

Dirt-Man

Out front it was brisk, the day was dimming in the sky, and the server was making the rounds with some pieces of breaded onion and a dipping sauce.
“I’ll have some of that,” I said to the accommodating young hostess.
She offered me some from the tray, then came back with a hot coffee and cream, said that someone else had maybe ordered two of them, then wanted one, and would I like the other one? I told her I would, poured the cream into the good coffee, warmed myself there in front of the Australian Steak Barn, while large people shuffled past, some limping from their tremendous weight—all of them wanting to get at the steaks in the steak barn.

At the Steak Barn the slogans were simple, if nonsensical: “Right! Our steaks are better’n eatin’ dirt, mate!” In my view the food was much better than dirt; I ordered the ribs, thinking that maybe this was not such a strong choice, but the meal was absolutely delicious. While waiting for the rest of my party, I’d thumbed through the pages of a book on French cottages and farmhouses. They were trying to sell it—along with a pile of other books—at the Friday sale. When I came along they offered me the whole lot for a buck. I took the books I wanted and left the rest. One of the books that stayed behind had to do with piloting boats in harbors. It was very old, talked about how many lights the boat should have, and where they should be positioned. Then there were drawings of boats, showing where the lights were and also describing how to park the boat and get it maneuvered in the busy waterways. I felt a cavernous sadness for the poor souls who—a thousand years ago—had to sit down with this book, look at the tiny print and try to read the horrible stuff.

So the wait was not so bad; I was outside, yes, enjoying the end of the day. The server would ply me with chicken and onions from time to time, and would ask how the coffee was. Her youth and energy were infectious: I stirred a little in my seat, maybe thumbed my cottage book a little more vigorously. When I saw a stray dollar on the ground, I swept it up greedily.
“This wait is not so bad,” I thought. “Even if it is long.”

Later we heard a band play, had not far to drive. I expected the music to be terrible, but was surprised when it turned out to be quite good. They sang and thumped out tunes to a mostly empty room, peopled mainly by those of the band’s acquaintance. I made booming voice noises to show my appreciation. They sounded like this:
“Whoomp! Whoomp! Whoomp!”
Others yelled things to show how much they enjoyed the songs, the band’s efforts. There was little else to do. Someone sounded like Curly of the Three Stooges. I had a coke, served in a small plastic cup—the kind you might see plenty of at a church picnic, because they are so cheap. At least it was a coke.

Then, forty years before this outing of dinner and music, the dirt man was stuck in his Dodge pickup. Spinning the rear wheels at the site, the early stages of digging just begun, he cursed there behind the wheel, tried reversing the stick-shift transmission, but it dug in deeper to the moist springtime ground.
“Fuck it!” he yelled. “Darryl, get that fucking cat over here with a cable!” He yelled into his radio. The yellow behemoth was striking at thin trees, the willowy things yielding with little resistance. Some larger ones came crashing down while another crawler shoved them into a massive pile to be picked up later by the wood people—the ones who could use the cleared logs for boards or pulp them into paper. The two crawlers worked in concert, the one making a mess, the other one sweeping it up. Everywhere the steel tracks that propelled the things over any terrain dug into the fresh earth, made corrugated ridges that dried that way if the site was left undisturbed for a few days—hardened washboards that a young boy would follow with his feet, walking where a forty-ton tractor had made a path, climbing on the logs it had felled, then standing in wonder in front of the silent machine.

Darryl turned the blade of the ponderous machine towards the Dodge, made the engine heave a sigh of exertion to show that he was hurrying to the site foreman’s aid. He could throttle it up all he wanted, but it didn’t really matter: These massive crawlers would never give anyone the impression they were in a hurry. Pure torque, delivered at ultra-low speeds, was their specialty. Climbing over things or simply knocking them down, or making their own road was what they did best. Pulling a stuck Dodge pickup out of the mud was not a typical job, was somewhat beneath the big Cat’s mission in life.

The Cat pulled up to the front of the Dodge with a strong steel cable hanging from a hook on the top of the blade. Darryl hopped down out of the open cab, the steel cage up there protecting him from toppling trees or a possible rollover. He wrapped the end of the cable around the truck’s front bumper, then climbed back onto the machine and throttled up the engine. Slowly he backed away, while the steel bumper strained, then bent with the force of the crawler against the sucking mud that held the truck fast. This job was insignificant to the big machine, it felt not the least resistance to its efforts. It would simply rip the front bumper off the truck, leave the Dodge stuck in the mud, and go on its way. Finally the muck gave up its victim, allowed the truck to roll free, the wheels skating over the uneven and ragged terrain as if it were a rag-doll. When the tractor had pulled the truck clear, Darryl let the diesel idle down to murmuring puffs of smoke lazily huffing out of the stack. He pulled forward a little to allow the cable some slack, got down again and unhooked the truck from the leash that had so ignominiously dragged it through the mud. The front bumper was bent, but still intact.

In a little time there would be a dinner party, a get-together in the new house—right there where the Dodge had been stuck, where the dirt-man, the site foreman had yelled “Fuck it!” There would be one of those little chandeliers and a pair of French doors that looked out on what remained of the trees. The new homeowners had opted for a deck, a place where they could sit and barbecue maybe, or just look through the French doors and leave it at that. The new paint would still smell new, the house would groan a little on the firm new footing that held it fast, that was just a little while ago the ridged dirt and toppled trees and yelling workers and churning machines tilling the soil for the planting of this new crop. Everyone would sit down, wait for the food, declare it absolutely delicious, toast the hosts and their new place in the midst of the new houses, their happy reflections glowing from the panes of the French doors.

And then, maybe a lifetime later, with the kids grown and off to school and then work, with letters maybe from time to time, and then the calls becoming less frequent, the house where the dirt-man had cursed with his stuck Dodge would finally settle into a rhythm of foreverness, like it had always been there, had never known a time when it wasn’t there. It would look different, with a new room added to make a young family more comfortable, and a pool out back, and two barking dogs to welcome the new owners home. Trees had grown to a goodly size—not as big as the ones that were there from the old times, but big nonetheless.

And the old Dodge would sit outside the dirt excavating firm, the huge machines held silently inside a fortress of fences and strong gates. The pickup was an outcast, no longer welcome inside the compound. The dirt-man who’d used it was given another truck, a newer model. He was close to retiring anyway; the years had taken their toll on him: First the old cable-operated machines that were sheer torture to operate, then the hydraulic machines, then the stress of overseeing jobs where every day presented more opportunities for things to go wrong, and not one of the problems was a cheap or easy fix. He would take his medicines, follow the doctor’s advice, reduce his fat intake and watch the ulcer that so plagued him.

The truck said “Best Offer,” printed on a FOR SALE sign. I walked inside the polished and orderly offices of the dirt-moving firm, feeling a kinship with that place. I talked to one of the owners of the big operation, said I needed a truck like that—just like that one. Something that might start up on a weekend to make a trip to the dump or fetch building materials. I didn’t explain that my old Mercury was no longer a viable option. He didn’t want to hear it. Business was not so good, what with money being tight and the builders in a slump. He wanted to put the big machines to work, start moving some dirt.

“Three-hundred dollars,” I said, knowing that I was walking a thin line between what the truck might reasonably fetch and being unreasonably cheap.

I went to the ATM, withdrew the cash, asked the owner to please hold the truck—two weeks at the most, I said. Ok—after that he would start charging storage. With two weeks gone, I made the trip over there with my brother, got the tags transferred from the old Mercury, drove the dirt-man’s truck home in the rain.