Mediterranean Sea

It was unusually warm for this time of year but nobody here was complaining. Maybe it was the results of the hooch or festive mood. They took off their swim trunks, bikinis and jumped overboard into the deep, dark blue Mediterranean Sea. It was a very nice boat, yacht some would say. The sky was cloudless with stars too numerous to count. One had yet to disembark and was moments away from committing a fatal mistake.

He refilled the dog’s water bowl, then promptly dropped his trunks to the deck and jumped into the water. It was a perfectly executed cannonball to the gratifying appreciation of his three compadres. Near that dismount point lay a flat coil of rope, like all tidy seamen would keep. The dog had been barking incessantly since the first jumped into the water. It put its paws on the rail, looked at the four and continued to enthusiastically vocalize its discontent.

“Oh, I hope he doesn’t jump in,” said one of the swimmers.

“Buddy, stay,” said the dog’s owner showing two hands in the stop position. “Stay Buddy, good guy. Stay.” The dog had learned to respond to hand signals from an early age, to the pride of his owner. Buddy would abide, but the barking continued.

The music blared loudly from aboard the 60-foot boat while the frolicking got underway. One couple locked in an amorous embrace while kicking their legs in pleasing symmetry staying afloat. The other two were playing chase, the woman swimming circles around the boat with the man chasing. He’d never catch her unless she took mercy on his below average swimming skills. She would eventually relinquish, much to his relief. But the relief would be short lived. The music stopped and the gravity of their situation was soon to take root.

“Why don’t you go back on board and put on some more music,” said the good swimmer.

“Great idea, what do you want to hear,” replied her male cohort.

“Abba,” the other three responded in resounding unison.

“So it shall be.”

Then the dramatic pause. Cause for alarm was escalated, then fully realized. “How do we get back aboard? Were we supposed to drop that rope ladder or something over the side?” He was a guest on the boat. As he asked the question he thought this may bode catastrophically bad, and hoped to be proven wrong.

The boat offered no rear ramp or stairs for easy reentry from the sea. Was there no getting back aboard? Not just to change the music, but to save their lives. The four huddled up in a serious circle paddling, staying afloat. They tried jettisoning the lightest of the four up out of the water, reach up for a rail, but the rail was too high at eight feet over the water’s surface. The sea was very calm with no more than six-inch waves. Not enough to help in the effort to scale the side. They continued taking turns throwing the lightest person out of the water up toward the rail, but to no avail. With no solid ground or counterforce they were unable to generate enough propulsion. The lightest person consistently fell far shy of the goal. Realizing that this would likely not work, they looked around to assess their options. They were miles out to sea. In the night they could see lights ashore, but the distance dictated that an effort to swim for land would be a death wish. Would staying close to the boat prove any different?

After an hour the four resorted to floating on their backs to conserve energy. The hours passed and, despite the warm air, the cold of the water eventually settled in and they were shivering miserably. They were hoping for another boat but none came and it was hours yet before dawn. The local fishermen would be out soon and could save them, but could they remain aloft long enough? Days could easily pass before the vessel was reported to the authorities. ‘A boat four knots from shore appeared to be unmanned’ would read the report. It could take a day or two before the local coast guard would investigate.

As the sun rose over the Mediterranean there was just the one boat, one hoarsely barking dog and a gentle rolling sea of a beautiful blue.

They started with the megaphone.

“Hello. If you’re on board please come out on deck.” There was no response. The coast guard slowly pulled up alongside, their port side to the empty yacht’s starboard side. They dropped rubber boat fenders over the side to protect from hull on hull contact, the crew lassoed the other boat’s rail, pulled and tied the two tightly together.

The coast guard sailors jumped aboard the seemingly vacant vessel without delay and quickly confirmed its emptiness. Well, empty of humans, anyway. There was a dog lying on its bed. No tail wagging, not happy to see anyone and no eye contact. That told of its mood. The dog was thirsty, but not aggressive. Judging by the condition of the food debris the dog had been alone for about seven days. Dishes from a large meal were in the galley sink. Crackers, cheese and cake were on the table. Dry, but good enough for the dog who’d clearly been nibbling on leftovers. His water bowl empty but he showed no signs of suffering. The four sets of swim trunks and bikinis on deck told the tale.

The coast guard was a model of efficiency conducting a survey of the vessel. Buddy, meanwhile, remained unmoved, aside from accepting water. While he was drinking, one of the coast guard checked his tag. “Buddy. Hey, Buddy, you’ve probably had a terrible few days. What happened here?” But Buddy wasn’t talking. He retreated back to his bed to wait. For what exactly he knew not.

Having conducted their preliminary search they would hook up the boat for a tow back to shore. The crew disembarked the 60-footer and embarked their own. The sailor looked back and called, “Buddy, come.” With a sigh and a long pause, as if reviewing his own circumstances and possibilities, he made his decision. He got up off his cushion and changed boats. For the first time, while stepping aboard, he made eye contact with the one who called his name. In that moment he took a measure of the man who would become his new person. Buddy recognized that his future was uncertain, at least to him, but the sailor was already making plans to annex the sad beast. With plans for a fluffy dog bed and chew toys for his new friend, he freed their port side from the empty yacht’s starboard side.

[Inspired by a news report or urban myth of many years ago regarding an empty boat found floating miles out at sea.]

Uncle Al [1931 - 2018]

Heaven just got a lot louder and more fun on Sunday. My Uncle Al passed away yesterday. He was a boisterous man equipped with the loudest and most memorable laugh one is likely to hear.

This image comes to mind of Uncle Al being granted access through the pearly gates of heaven: He’ll say something ‘off color’ to Jesus in the reception area intending to be funny. While Jesus looks to his Sargent at Arms to decide if this guy is for real or not, Al would already have blown passed him laughing at his own joke and working his way down the reception line. The inhabitants of this rarified air will hear him coming from miles away, or by whatever unit of distance is used in heaven.

“Hey, you hear that laugh, Al’s here,” says one of the locals smiling in anticipation of the good times to come.

“Al’s here, how,” asks another with an incredulous look on his face.

“Oh sure, Judy, his wife, arrived here a year ago. She’d been working diligently to expunge his record.”

During his many raucous years he was somehow lucky enough to woo possibly the only woman who could handle him, my Aunt Judy. They met at an Irish pub in Los Angeles back in the ‘60s. Upon learning that his perfect counterweight lived nearby, his pick up line “You are geographically desirable” won him the opportunity for a date.

Aunt Judy passed away a year ago. It is for certain that Uncle Al’s guardian angel needed every bit of that year for her Public Relations work in heaven to grease the skids, so to speak, vying for Al’s approval into the Promised Land.

This rambunctious rascal of a fella spent the last years being gentle and caring for his lovely wife in her waning years. He went to church almost every day asking the pastor after mass if there were chores he could help with. Heaven is lucky to have him. Not coincidentally, the decibel level on earth just dropped down a notch, sadly.

Peace to my cousins who have had a rough few years with their ailing parents.

Post script:

·       Talking to my cousin Karen over dinner the night before Uncle Al’s funeral service, she recounted the day the doctor told him he had six months to live. When the doctor left the room Uncle Al turned to Karen and said, “I have six more hair cuts.” And, of course, he laughed. She was smiling when recalling this, smiling and loving her dad. Typical sense of humor from Uncle Al.

Dog Heaven

He was groggy while consciousness was slowly restored. He was lying on his back, face peacefully illuminated by full sunlight as if by a spotlight of soft light. His palms were down with fingertips touching cool, soft sand. Something was licking his face. His palms, in this compromised state, automatically clutched and grasped a fistful of sand. There was more licking and he brought his hands to his face, sand dropping along the way. He rolled over to elude the sources of moisture. He got to his knees before he could safely open his eyes away from the licking. Dogs!

As far as his eyes could see there were dogs. These noble four-legged beasts dominated the landscape in such numbers that one could barely seethe landscape. To say they were numerous would be as poorly described as to say that there were very many grains of sand on the beach. What a beautiful way to wake up. He was on a beach, no other people, and a seemingly endless supply of dogs of varying shape, size and age. A couple dogs were leaning against him, putting weight against his counter force, tails wagging energetically vying for attention. Some dogs still licking, another presenting its butt to be scratched, one had a ball in its mouth, a pair of Rottweilers were playing with a Kong chew toy under a flurry of mock growls. He stood and looked around, turned in a circle. Nothing but dogs! Magnificent.

Knowing the effusive product of such beasts he looked down, watching his step. No poop! None, anywhere. Weird, especially when the horizon boasts of nothing but these wonderful, fur-covered poop factories. Curious.

From where he stood on the beach he could see a green pasture in the distance. More dogs, of course. There was a forested area in the other direction, dogs frolicking in the shade. In addition to a cool blue ocean with gently lapping waves there was a large pool, much larger than your typical Olympic-size. Swimming dogs divinely dappled the water’s surface. Dogs from all around were barking and playing. Many were now becoming aware of the arrival of this human and wanted to engage him. They charged under a chorus of barks.

The nearest dogs, growing rambunctious, knocked him down in eagerness for fun roughhousing. They piled on him then rolled off as he got back to his knees. He grabbed a few of them, hugged and wrestled them to the ground. They were so numerous, it was glorious. They all smelled fresh, like they’d recently been given a bath, all of them, with no residual wet dog scent! And none of them perfumed. He dug his fingers into the nearest dog and started to scratch. There were too many beasts all over him, he couldn’t even see which one he was handling. He dug his fingers deep into another dog and delivered a powerful, vigorous scratching. Then the same to a third dog. His fingers emerged clean and fresh, as if these dogs had never even lain in dirt or rolled in grass.

He struggled to his feet and started to run. It was awkward movement with so many canines afoot. They chased him and crowded around hampering his forward motion. He was running, and it was pain free. It was invigorating. ‘How long had it been since my knees had been pain free while running,’ he thought to himself. This made no sense but he didn’t want it to stop, so he ran faster and kept going.

A figure emerged well off in the distance, a football field’s length away, a human figure. A unique glowing aura emanated as if by backlight. He slowed his run upon approach and issued an instinctive, though reluctant, wave.

“Hello, I’m Saint Peter and I’m glad I found you. You’ve been sent to the wrong coordinates.”

“Wait, what? Wrong coordinates? There’s nothing wrong with this place. Did you say Saint Peter,” asked the man making a face of disbelief.

“You’ve had an accident,” he paused. “A car accident. It was bad,” said Saint Peter. This yielded only stunned silence while the man grappled with the unlikeliness of his current circumstances. He continued in a more somber tone. “You’ve lived a good life and heaven awaits.”

The man dropped to his knees. The dogs’ behavior calmed all around him knowing he was in distress. His recollection immediately preceding the beach was that he had been driving a car. A light sandy colored puppy with big feet, too big for her little body, got into his lap. She had two ovals of white fur on her back, one over each of her shoulder blades taking the appearance of wings.

“You’ve been sent to dog heaven. The error has been noted and I’ve been sent here to take you where you’re supposed to be.”

The realization had hit home, deeply. The weeping started in large heaving waves at the thought of the family he’d left behind. Saint Peter knelt and put a comforting hand on the man’s shoulder.

After some time the crying subsided. His mind was exhausted, empty. He sat inert, mechanically stroking the puppy in his lap. All other dogs had receded. He was staring out into the ocean as if with the uncomprehending, unblinking, dead eyes of a goat.

Saint Peter offered another prompt. “Take your puppy and come with me. Your people are waiting to see you. Some have waited a very long time.”

The man got to his feet, carrying his puppy, and followed.

[Inspired by a sign in a veterinarian’s office. If there are no dogs in heaven, when I die, I want to go where they go.]

[At Thanksgiving, I’m thankful for the people I have in this world and those waiting for me in the next.]

Cat Food

She loved cats. The fluffy little beasts more than dominated her life, they wereher life. The widow of 20 years had gotten along in years, as the saying goes, and had outlived everyone closest to her. There were no more remaining family with whom she maintained regular correspondence. To keep interested in a daily existence her every thought and action were directed at the cats. Well, that plus hoarding.

Newspapers as old as 15 years lined the hallways, stacked six feet tall and spilled over in most of the bedrooms. The newspaper subscription had stopped in recent years. The stoppage was the result of a missed payment, not an intentional act. In all the clutter the billing statement had been lost. The newspaper stopped. The cats didn’t seem to mind.

The cats were numerous. In more precise terms there were too many of them. Most didn’t have names, never did. There were a few that were named, but the names had been forgotten to time. The result was that all cats were susceptible to the same overused pronouns and adjectives. At last count, to her best ability two years ago, there were more than 20. The effort was sincere, but the felines were averse to being corralled which hindered the project’s veracity to derive an accurate count yielding only this estimated tally.

During the day the cats were free to come and go as they pleased. Doors and windows were often wide open regardless of temperature or weather. At nighttime, though, for fear of predators, the home was locked up tight. Food was plentiful and unregulated. Several bowls were scattered throughout the house and were always flush, carpeting or linoleum flooring all the same. Scoops of food were added to the bowls throughout the day. The cats lived in a world of plenty despite the immense clutter and odoriferous environment.

Some cats arrived to the home, or were dropped off, without explanation. Others simply showed up. A small number of them were born on site. Where, exactly, the hostess wouldn’t know. But not all was well. She had neglected medical attention. Not just for the cats but for herself. When feeling ‘under the weather’ she preferred, instead of a doctor visit and the intrusive questions, to drink an ice cold ginger ale and take a nap. Feeling slightly under the weather one afternoon she opened a cold can of ginger ale, as was the firmly established protocol, and took a good long sip.

“Oh, that tastes good, my kitty cats,” she said to nobody and all of them. She went around the house closing windows and doors, filling food bowls for any late night snackers. The water situation was safely on autopilot with a fountain in the kitchen that refilled automatically whenever the specified water level threshold had been attained. She put on her bedclothes, got under the covers, took one final long sip of soda, set it on her night stand, and went to bed for the last time. Morning arrived and she remained in bed, unmoved. Expired, in fact!

Day one of this new era was calm. The food bowls were still relatively full. Some of the cats would have preferred the outdoors, but the day turned over well enough. Day two had a number of antsy cats. The bathroom situation was getting crowded and the food was now empty. The meowing was getting agitated and grumpy with no break in the routine. By day five things went decidedly sideways.

One of the cats was sitting on the bed, the bed that contained their unmoving hostess. The body was entirely covered by the bed sheets. The exception was a single hand protruding over the side of the bed. The cat tapped the hand. Friendly at first, as if to say, ‘Good morning, we’re hungry. Please fill our bowls.’ Yielding no result necessitated a second tap followed by a third. The same absence of response. The cat went to phase two with a quick bite to the hand. Again, nothing. So it bit the hand again, very hard this time breaking the skin. No response, but the cat got a taste of the flesh. It bit again just as another cat got playful and the two tumbled to the floor pulling the bed sheets partly off the bed. There was now an audience of several hungry felines. The hostess had become largely uncovered.

It would be nearly two weeks before the postman could no longer ignore the untended mail piling up, so he knocked at the door. Nobody answered. Upon the postman’s return to the post office he advised management, as per protocol. The authorities were contacted and would visit the next day.

[Happy Halloween!]

Afloat

Part I

(Part I was a blog post from 6/18/2009. Part II is a continuation.)

The breeze was cool, almost cold, and constant. But he had stopped being bothered by this more than a week ago.

He lay uncomfortably on his back. He was barefoot, shirtless, unkempt, and his trousers were torn and soiled. His shirt had long ago been removed and employed to block the sun from his face. His lips were badly swollen and cracked. They hurt. He was well beyond thoughts of applying a layer of soothing lip balm in hopes of relief.

He thought only of water and food. He wanted a glass of water, a gallon, really. He had been without drink for five days, maybe six. Food was ample, but frustratingly inaccessible. Numerous tins of meat and fruit lay at his feet. The labels has been torn from several cans and severely dented from violent smashings together in a bootless attempt to defeat the canning process and get to the nourishment inside. The can opener lay on the floor of the vessel in two parts. Broken at first use! Maddening beyond belief.

He didn’t know how far, or near, he was from the nearest landfall. It had been two days since he last had the strength to raise his head and look over the rail of his small vessel. A wooden boat, a row boat, twelve feet in length. He saw nothing but water at his last peek, an endless sea.

Several nights ago a fish jumped out of the sea and landed in the boat. Dumb luck. He ate it hungrily, raw, squirming in his hands until he discarded the head and fins. Last night two more fish landed in the boat. He was too weak and clumsy to handle either of them. They tumbled through his fumbling hands and safely back into the ocean.

Despite the circumstances, the nights were beautiful. With not a light shining for miles around, the stars appeared as bright as street lamps. His shirt was removed nightly from sunscreen duty and, instead, used as a pillow as he let his mind wander amongst the stars. This was his escape from the cageless captivity. He was an astronaut floating weightless in space. He was an ancient Phoenician sailor traveling from one land to the next looking to the stars to confirm his way. A 25th century B.C. laborer building pyramids in the desert of Cairo enjoying the night’s break from labor and heat as he stared at the stars losing himself in his imagination.

An island with fresh water and fruit trees was on the starboard side. It was less than a mile away, but he didn’t know. He hadn’t looked over the side since the island had broken the horizon. The vessel was drifting parallel to the coastline and was getting no closer. Even if he saw it he probably wouldn’t have the strength to swim to it. He had only one oar, the other was lost fighting off the other passengers of the sinking ship. He had been concerned the food would not be enough for everyone.

It was a calm gentle rolling sea that kept him afloat.

Part II

tap . . . tap . . . 

With that he’d been roused from the starvation-induced unconsciousness to mere delirium. He opened his eyes for the first time in he didn’t remember how long. He was lying on his back, face to the sun. Another bright day. Feeling around with his hands, he found the shirt and covered his face.

tap . . . 

There it was again, a bump on the side of the boat. He started to remember. He was in a boat, a small boat, alone. There had been a wreck and he ended up in a life raft. Ill equipped, yet alive he remained. He got to an elbow and, exhausted, put a hand on the rail of the boat. He took a moment to rest, then pulled himself to the edge and looked over the side. A coconut floating on the surface of the ocean, how curious.

He grabbed the coconut and pulled it aboard. He admired it as someone might do with a completed Rubik’s cube. He sat back on the floor of the boat in the several inches of water. He seemed not to notice, so warn out was his brain. Turning the coconut over in both hands he harkened back to better times. For his birthday he had sometimes occasioned to purchase a coconut from the local grocery store and prepare it for consumption.

Step one, put coconut in refrigerator for one day. On a lazy afternoon he’d retrieve the coconut, go to the garage, grab the needed tools and retreat to the back patio. 

Step two, drill a hole in the coconut large enough to insert a straw. Drink the cold coconut milk. This tasty draught easily fulfilled immediate gratification.

Step three, hammer and chisel to break the nut, then extract the delicious coconut meat free of shell and unpleasant fibrous debris.

Step four, rinse and eat. Oh, the joy.

Then something clicked in his brain. If there’s a coconut floating around out here, then land is near! He leaned back on his elbow, gripped the rail and through foggy, failing eyes he saw . . . no land, only a vast blue ocean. Looking the other way, there it was! A tall green mountain protruding from the ocean. ‘Land ho,’ he said in his head as he was too weak to speak it. So close to land, if he can only get there. He fell back on the bottom of the boat and hit his head on the wood seat. This would serve as his life-saving impetus.

He put his hand to the back of his head and saw blood on his fingers. Anger was sparked and he shouted, “Come on, get up!” As if obeying a command, he stood and assessed how far he must traverse to regain solid ground. It was no more than 100 yards. He could make that, he thought, even in this ragged state.

A gentle wave rolled under the boat and easily spilled him out into the water. He was a natural swimmer. In better days his strokes were graceful and powerful. Today, though, he struggled just to keep his head above water. As he tread water he rightly figured he wouldn’t have the strength to pull himself back up into the boat. If he was to save himself he would have to swim for shore. His body went momentarily into automatic and his first dozen strokes were good. But it didn’t last. He sank, floundered then burgeoned forth for a lungful of air and kept going toward shore. The water was getting shallower and he could see coral below. He was flopping around unsteadily but still afloat. He kept going until his body was entirely empty of energy. He sank, hit a sandy bottom and his head was still above water! He’d made it. He’d walk and stumble ashore from here. His body was mostly numb but his legs would not stop. He felt mostly sand underneath, there were some rocks then there was a painful prick on the sole of his foot. He was brought to his knees, kept moving forward and the waves helped push him toward the beach.

He lay down face in the sand and enjoyed the sensation of sand in his hands. He regained himself and crawled further into the hot sand. He rested only minutes before his ears heard a trickling stream of fresh water. The thirst! With his face submerged in the stream he drank his fill, took a deep breath then drank more.

He sat on a log and looked at his painful foot. He rinsed the sand off and could see it was already very inflamed. There were two pinpricks, one with a purple needle still sticking out. Sea urchin! The needle was removed with his fingers. The second, however, was broken off and stuck deep in his foot. He knew the urchin quills to be poisonous, he’d heard the stories. He tried to dig it out and failed. After resting he tried again to no avail. Chest pain and difficulty breathing had already taken effect, sure signs that the sea urchin poison was hard at work. He had saved himself from dying at sea only so that he may die here on an island, a deserted island. It no longer mattered where he was. He wouldn’t be here much longer.

“We Already Had the Grapes”

She was the sweetest thing, this mother of five and grandmother of seven. Her offspring had long ago departed to make their own way in life. She and her husband had raised them well and the good memories easily overpowered memories of their kids’ occasional stubborn resistance in their younger growing years. She was proud of her family and happy with life. But this early Saturday afternoon would have her flummoxed beyond the limits of any recent recollection. Eight people arrived at her home expecting a homemade meal. The reluctant hostess found the arrivals entirely unexpected.

“Hello, hi, great to see you again. Thanks for inviting us for supper. We brought a bottle of wine,” said the lead guesthanding over the bottle before blowing past her and entering the house.

“Oh, hi,” she said accepting the bottle and backing away as the others also walked past her saying their hellos. She was wearing slippers and house clothes, not her preferred outfit to receive guests. In her immediate panic of how to entertain the unexpected guests and prepare supper, she was thankful she’d been out earlier that afternoon and had done her makeup. At least that prospective horror of lacking makeup had been averted. But what now?

It started that previous Sunday, six days earlier. She had been talking to friends at the Italian club and asked them to dinner at her home ‘next Saturday.’ The intent was 13 days hence from the proffered invitation. Clarification was not forthcoming and, due to a misunderstanding, here they were seven days early.

The dinner party advanced quickly and they seated themselves in the dining room. Plates were not out, of course, we’re talking seven days early, but glasses, napkins and utensils had already been placed. Yes, some preliminary groundwork had been carried out this far in advance. Meanwhile, a record played the hostess’ favorite music, Italian folk music she’d grown up with from her parents, both born in the old country.

She needed time to think. She’d bought a batch of grapes at the market yesterday. She took them out of the refrigerator, washed them, cut them into smaller individual-sized batches, put them in a bowl and passed them around the table. Continuing to stall for time she then went back to the kitchen for the dining hardware. She brought out plates and told everyone to “Please take a plate and pass these around,” then grabbed the bowl of grapes off the table and went back to the kitchen. She was lost at this point. What next? Clearly Italian food was expected so she put a big pot of water on the stove and turned on the burner. The talking in the other room was dying down and the guests were getting restless.

She opened the bottle of wine and brought it to the dining room, then mingled with the guests, all the while trying to think of how to feed everyone. Do I admit this is the wrong evening? No, I can’t do that, someone’s feelings may get hurt. Instead, the conversation continued with talk of the Italian club events and fun stories of their colleagues in the club. She eventually excused herself and returned to the kitchen where indecision reigned. She grabbed two boxes of pasta from the cupboard, put them on the counter and thought, ‘Do I really cook for all these people? Or do I tell them it’s a mistake and just buy pizzas?’

“What’s going on in there,” called one of the guests from the dining room.

Panic was solidly established. She brought the bowl of grapes back out and quickly retreated to the kitchen.

“We already had the grapes,” came a voice loudly from the dining room. What to do? The water was boiling with two unopened boxes of spaghetti on the kitchen counter and the phone book was open to the Yellow Pages, P for pizza. She stood staring straight ahead at nothing with the phone in hand. What to do next?

[Based on Mom Klem’s recurring nightmare.]

The Glitch

There had been a glitch in the payroll system and the result had a major affect on his take home pay. He was not a numbers savant by any means, quite to the contrary. His numbers literacy was well below average for his age. Once a conversation or written word breached a context exceeding 100 [i.e., 100 dollars, 100 hamburgers, 100 pairs of socks] you might as well be speaking a foreign language. Large numbers were as indigestible to him as were petroglyphs. He knew there was meaning trying to be conveyed, but he’d leave it to those who had mastered the ciphers to relay the meaning down to him.

He had recently graduated from university with a Humanities Major. Following the natural progression of life he secured his first post-college job, a low-level mailroom position at a large faceless corporation. There were well over 5,000 employees at this one location and the mailroom had nearly 200 of them. The starting pay was $24,000 per year. Not a lot of money, but a fair wage for the low stress job, and he was happy to have it. He was still living with his parents and had plans of moving out shortly after his paychecks starting arriving. That’s also when the glitch surfaced, although he didn’t notice.

He approached his first week of work respectfully over dressed for the mailroom. He wore a pair of well-worn khaki trousers, an ill-fitting but clean collared shirt, a tie passed down from his older brother, and loafers. All of it had been accumulated over the years from JcPenny or various large retail outlets of similar ilk, and mostly from the Clearance racks. 

He had no concept as to what a two-week paycheck would look like for a $24,000 annual salary. So when his first check cleared just over $6,000 he was very pleased, though not surprised. Pretty good for full-time work in the mailroom. The paycheck system had glitched in his favor by a factor of ten. On paper his salary was correctly stated at $24,000, but the actual pay system was automated and virtually nobody would notice the error.

In his company introduction he and his fellow new employees were briefed on such things as Codes of Conduct, Benefits enrollment, key cards and photos for identification badges. Among other things, they were all instructed on the importance of signing up for the 401K retirement plan and advised of the matching contribution. He didn’t understand that line of conversation any more than he understood how Play-Doh can smell so good yet taste so bad, but he was told it was good to sign up for the 401K so he obliged. He also took heed of the advice to sign up for automatic bank deposits. This simplified payday by never having to go to the bank for a deposit and, important for the continuity of this narrative, he never had a paycheck readily available should someone become curious about his take home pay.

After two months of his erroneously bloated paychecks he was ready to move out on his own. Everyone was a little surprised when he ended up in a high-rise studio apartment with an ocean view. It was costly rent. ‘Wow, this won’t end well,’ thought those who knew him and his eager disavowal of numbers comprehension. Those who knew him quite understood that he didn’t know how to budget and thought he’d quickly blow through his salary and collapse back at home with his parents. But the months passed and he continued his high-scale living. Friends and acquaintances were slightly confused at his longevity at the fancy apartment, but would not confront him for explanation. They would compliment his present circumstances then wait for the inevitable financial collapse.

Having tackled his main objective, moving out of his parents’ abode and establishing his own domicile, he took to replacing the hand-me-down office garb. He was not much into fashion, but thought suits rather than trousers and blue blazers would cut a more impressive figure. He did what all youngsters fresh out of college and into their first jobs did, he went to Nordstrom Rack and purchased several suits, collared shirts, ties and shoes. Nothing fancy, just fancier than the Clearance racks to which he’d been accustomed. Given the sizable paychecks these acquisitions were easily absorbed. Still, he couldn’t come close to spending it all.

As time passed he thought he was ready to upgrade his car. His totally functional 15-year old four-door economical vehicle had run its course and would be replaced. He ended up with a snazzy hybrid BMW with a moon roof. He had seen one regularly recurring on his route to work and, since he had too much money that he didn’t know what to do with, he picked one up. Payments were easily covered including his insurance costs. He figured that gainful employment is great and life is easy, still blissfully unaware of his benevolent glitch.

In truth, life is not easy. It is heavily laden with challenges, trials and abundant opportunity for missteps. Determination, attentiveness and retaining one’s wits in tense circumstances are typically required to mold life into something resembling success. Another way would be to have your paycheck metastasized by a factor of ten, if it could so be arranged.

His taxes were due and, again, he did what everyone does when their taxes are due after taking their first professional position. He asked his parents, “What do I about the tax forms?” “You have that tax office down the street, right? That franchise? Go see them, they’ll know what to do,” suggested his father. So he did. And they did. He was advised many things, few of which he understood due to the size of the numbers being discussed. He was told that he ‘didn’t have any tax deductions.’ The tax professional, sensing that he was working with a practical numbers illiterate, broke down his advise into more basic terms, ‘When you buy a house, you’ll have a deduction and your taxes will go down?’

His apartment lease came due and he wanted to buy a house to fulfill the tax preparer’s instructions. He met with a real estate agent, one had left a flyer on the front door of his apartment. In their initial phone call he said that he was earning $26,000, having received a raise by this time. The real estate agent thought maybe she heard wrong. “I’d be happy to see what we can do. Please bring your most recent paycheck so we can get you preapproved for a home loan. Let’s see how much home we can afford,” she said thinking that this initial meeting would not go far. After all, nobody’s buying a house on $26,000 per year.

“Well, I’ve got some great news for you,” she told him shortly after that first meeting. “You qualify for a home loan up to $1.3 million dollars,” said the real estate agent. “Let’s go home shopping.” They did, and he bought a beautiful home right on the beach. He ended up with a $12,000 monthly mortgage on a 10-year home loan with a fixed rate of 3.5%. The numbers were well beyond his capacity for comprehension, but he was handed a pair of house keys and they worked.

By this time people at work had already been talking about him behind his back.

“Have you seen what he drives? And doesn’t he have an apartment right there on the beach,” asked one work cohort.

“You’re a little off. He doesn’t have that apartment anymore, he just bought a home on the beach! How does he afford that,” asking perplexed. “I bet his family is loaded. He must have family money.”

That’s what his work colleagues thought. Certainly nobody was thinking about a glitch in the paycheck system. This wrong assumption was a convenient turn for him. It would be enough for his work acquaintances to not push him for further detail, this could have run the risk of exposing the glitch.

His family, however, knew there was no family money. Heck, they barely had enough to pay for the small three-bedroom two-bath house 20 miles outside the city.

“Wow, first the fancy car, now this home on the beach. What kind of work are you doing over there,” asked his brother.

“I work in the mailroom. I sort it and deliver it to the various other departments and people who work there,” he answered truthfully.

Everyone thought he was just being modest. He works in the mailroom? More like some kind of management or department head that oversees the mailroom, I bet. Well, good for him, they thought. And they meant it. They were happy for his good fortune, they just didn’t understand how a person this meek-willed could make it so big.

The next year the accountant asked him about his investments. Hearing that he had none, took the initiative to suggest a few index mutual funds. “It’s important that you make investments and grow your wealth. Any money left over at the end of the month, put it in your mutual funds.” His investment portfolio was started in this way, followed by an annual review and suggestions to which he blithely complied so he wouldn’t have to think any more on it.

He enjoyed an otherwise modest living despite his regal take home pay. His breakfasts were simple, a bowl of cereal and a waffle popped in the toaster, or sometimes, two waffles without cereal. He packed his lunches every day including a sandwich, apple and sometimes a yogurt. When feeling particularly cantankerous he’d add a fun-size Hershey’s Crackle candy bar or two. He also made his own suppers. Again, simple meals, often involving a single cooking session with its consumption spread out over several days. Weekly he’d purchase a package of chicken breasts, cook up the entire batch then eat it all week. One evening he’d dine on chicken breast with pasta. The next it’d be coupled with macaroni and cheese, another night it’d be rice pilaf and carrots from a frozen bag. The final chicken breast might culminate in a gutsy coupling with pancakes and a salted maple syrup drizzle. His culinary skills were not classically trained, but he’d proven to be serviceable at feeding himself.

He was economical in most behavior. His driving force was not wealth accumulation, it was simply an aversion to confusion and indecision. He didn’t know what he liked or what constituted good taste. That uncertainty was mitigated by reducing purchases to necessities. The fewer purchases made, the fewer opportunities for confusion and indecision. His home was too large for him but why pass up the ocean view if you don’t have to, he reasoned in justifying the purchase of the house. The furnishing of it, though, was a different matter. He needed a bedroom, kitchen, living room and bathroom. This left more than half of the house to go fallow. The furnishing of those few rooms was done by means of a few Ikea visits. Why buy fancy paintings and artwork to fill the space when a few mass produced prints from a large retail chain would more than fulfill his needs, he reckoned. 

This went on for five years. At each annual review the salary was correctly stated on paper for Human Resources to see and note. But the pay system continued to glitch in his favor. Despite his lack of ambition, with a raise of 4% every year, plus a one-time Cost of Living Adjustment, he was by then making $36,000 despite having never been promoted. Of course, with the glitch multiplying his salary ten times he was being paid as if his salary were nearly $360,000.

His knowledge of numbers remained deep in the trough compared to his peers. But, for a person who was now paying a mortgage and would receive annual investment statements, he gained a barely perceptible concept of numbers and money. Even though barely perceptible he started to think something wasn’t correct. ‘In three months my take-home pay amounts to more than my stated annual salary,’ he figured out, but not daring to say it out loud. He didn’t know numbers, but he was no imbecile.

He concluded beyond a doubt that there was an error and he was living well above the means by which he was salaried. Initially he was happy for his good fortune. Happiness similar to buying eight cans of soup at the grocery store but being charged only for seven due to cashier error. This contentment didn’t last long. He felt dirty. The more he thought about it, the more awful he felt. ‘What if I’m found out?’ was really his overriding concern, not his moral compass. So he developed a 12-month escape plan. He would minimize all expenses while increasing his mortgage payments. He wanted to pay off the home within a year. He had little understanding of what or how, but he was more than halfway through his 10-year mortgage. His index fund investing had done well and he could liquidate some of that if needed to pay off the balance of the mortgage. Then he would leave the company. He would use a portion of the investment income, and employment at his next job, to cover future property taxes.

He planned to leave months before he would qualify for the company pension. He thought sticking around to qualify for this, in addition to the engorged bankroll he’d inappropriately already been paid, would add insult to injury. Plus, he wanted a clean break. He didn’t want anyone down the line looking at a list of the largest pension recipients within the company to find his name at the top of the list, some guy who worked in the mailroom for several years. Yes, leave at a clean break, get a new job and start fresh. But first, a few more months living large on a mailroom salary.

Glove Maker

He was a glove maker. His designs and finished products were gorgeous and unanimously well received. It was profitable work. And it was awful. His problem? He didn’t like gloves.

Driving to work in the morning had become an increasingly tense task that escalated into a mental block. The thickness of traffic and distance were by no means problematic, it was only four miles of lightly traveled surface streets. Regardless, the tension mounted as the distance closed, like a countdown to one’s own execution. He experienced a brief bout of convulsing shivers every morning as he parked the car at the shop and turned off the engine. Wait for it, here it comes . . . there, the shivers would arrive like clockwork seconds after the ignition was turned off. He would pause momentarily allowing the shivers to come and go, then he’d exit the vehicle and enter the workshop.

The next eight hours, subtracting lunch and an afternoon break, were a daily battle of endurance. As motivation to step out of the car he’d say to himself, “Complete that new design and I’ll leave 30 minutes early.” But he would consistently find himself unable to placate this war of attrition and redeem the early departure. He’d finish the design, satisfying the requirement, then be incapable of leaving due to his own shortcoming, his work ethic. Another reluctantly award-winning design would pop into his head immediately upon completion of its predecessor. The compulsion had to be fed, and so he did, to the detriment of his mental well being.

When it is stated that he didn’t like gloves, it was more of a revulsion. He preferred his fingers to be free, not constricted by these wonderfully chic fashion accessories. He even once designed a series of gloves with no fingers, that is, gloves with five holes through which the fingers would be inserted. The hope was that the fingerless design might break his spell of aversion. Curiously, he hated the fingerless variety even more than regular gloves. The wild adulation and industry awards for the silly fingerless gloves were no consolation. Despite their lack of practicality they were so elegant and comfortable that they outsold the traditional variety of gloves. Yet, he couldn’t stop with the glove making any more than he could resist grabbing a mint from the bin at the cash register of his favorite sushi joint. 

He would have preferred a life of manual labor. The physical demands of laying asphalt or work as a mason would be a more peaceful and fulfilling existence. Laboring everyday in a stubbornly gloveless performance developing an initially painful, though impressive, collection of blisters only to watch them be smoothed out and deadened into calluses over time. But he couldn’t make the transition to such an existence. Like a compulsion there would be no end to the glove making. He acknowledged his unique talent. It needed this outlet and he was its conduit. He reasoned that such a talent came for a higher power and the squandering of it would be a waste for which he did not want to be held to account.

The industry speaking requests, of which there were many over the years, were categorically, though politely, declined. His colleagues and competitors mistakenly thought him to be humble because of it. The numerous interview requests were simply ignored. It was mistakenly thought he didn’t want to give away the secret to his success. In truth, if possible, he would have gladly given away that secret. This unwelcome gift that allowed him to bring beauty and happiness to humanity weighed on him like a 50-pound sack of sand sitting on his shoulders. He despised it, even more strongly than being cut off by another driver at a highway merge who refuses to abide by the rules of the road. Still, he remained respectful of the ill beholden gift such that he could not abandon its fruits. So he continued the constructive and profitable self-torment.

If he could only give it away, he could slip forward into the life of a contractor. But no, his morning drive to work concluded, he’d arrived at work and parked in his designated spot. The onset of the convulsions would soon envelop him. They could not be suppressed any more than he could resist trying to sooth a dog frightened by a barrage of 4^thof July fireworks. He’d tried to resist each and failed both. He’d wait for the convulsions to run their course then enter the workshop. “If I can finish this design I’ll leave 30 minutes early,” he said aloud pocketing the car keys and disembarking. There were beautiful glove designs awaiting his attention.

Kryptonite Brownies

NEWS BULLETIN!

Smallville, Kansas.

Legend maintains that Superman has been a near perfect person his whole life. Other than a few, brief moody episodes he’s always been portrayed as a humble superhero with concerns for the average peoples’ safety. Rumors had periodically surfaced over the years about a different kind of Superman. Rumors of a troubled, conceited adolescent where he didn’t get along well with his human classmates.

It’s been years since the Man of Steel has actively fought crime and the colorful characters who were his adversaries. Much has been documented about his beginnings here on earth and his aging father, Jor-el, sending Superman away from the destruction of his own planet, Krypton. Superman, as we came to find out, was not impervious to the ravages of time here on earth. He has grown old, now in his 90s, and appears frail with arthritis and other age-related issues.

Bearing super strength and the ability to fly from a very early age would seem to be an immense burden and responsibility for anyone.  It is said that he sometimes abused those powers. He had purportedly dominated youth basketball leagues as a child by dunking on his diminutive ten-year old competitors. Many of the parents saw this as sullying the spirit of good sportsmanship. The kids, however, are said to have enjoyed the spectacle. Rumors had also circulated about youthful transgressions about his chasing off bullies, and then simply taking over where the bully had left off. He also allegedly employed his x-ray vision during high school to embarrass disliked teachers or to tease unsuspecting girls. Such talk has typically been quickly discarded due to a lack of credible substantiation. Well, no longer.

Clark Kent [aka Superman] had a friend in college, a fellow Journalism major, who recently passed away. He had diligently maintained diary entries dating back to high school. The points of interest pick up when he met a classmate at Kansas State named Clark Kent. They spent their college years as friends and neighbors. The daughter of Superman’s deceased classmate had discovered the diaries and sold portions pertaining to Kent.

This is not to hint that Superman was a troublemaker, just that despite his squeaky clean image, it has been suggested that the image had been embellished to mask his unflattering behavior. The main discovery made known in the diaries is the speckled path of his growing up, his maturing as a person. More specifically, the single culminating incident that seemed to have changed him for good, once and for all. The incident as recounted in the diary:

Over the course of a week, several instances had occurred and riled up a number of the male neighbors in our apartment building. There had already been tension when Clark pushed it too far. The boys were avid weight lifters and took pride in their developing physiques. Clark, meanwhile, had a naturally muscular build even through he never worked out. He could eat anything and as much as he wanted, yet his body would be nourished and continue to flourish in an impossible way for anyone else, or at least any normal person. The curiosity of his metabolism had run its course, and months into the school year it had became an annoyance. Then Clark rubbed it in their faces to a point of argumentation and animosity. For a week Clark ate only cake and cookies and extravagantly lounged around in the apartment’s common area. The weight lifters would return form the gym session and there’s Clark in the apartment lobby eating a sleeve of Oreos, drinking soda and watching cartoons. Clark seemed to take great pleasure in this tormenting. In the heat of this tension the boys planned an assault. A small package of kryptonite was attained by one of the boys’ uncles. Kryptonite, apparently, is a very soft metal that can be cut into tiny shavings with the right tools. The boys, knowing Clark was engulfed in this mood of shameless pageantry, intended to exploit it. 

Thursday evening some female residents of the apartment building had girlfriends visiting. They were flirting with the weight lifters in the lobby and having a good time when Clark, who was also present in the lobby watching tv, started doing one-handed push-ups. I was in the apartment lobby and was a convenient witness to the whole episode. After ten minutes the one handed push-ups became too much, creepy really, and the girls departed. The weight lifters were disappointed and verbally let Clark know of their displeasure.

The next night, Friday, I was in the lobby watching Miami Vice. I watched every Friday, it was a great program and I didn’t have a tv in my room. That’s when the weight lifters showed up with a keg of beer and a tray of brownies. I was later to find out the brownies were liberally laced with kryptonite shavings. Chocolate chips and a thick layer of frosting helped mask the kryptonite. The soft metal shavings are edible, as it turn out, and have the texture of coconut. Also, much like crayons, it is non-toxic if eaten, at least to humans. If one were to assume or be told the brownies contained coconut, it’d be totally believable. In retrospect, it would seem kryptonite isn’t really metal, much in the same way that head cheese isn’t really cheese. Regardless, it was consumed by all. The kryptonite in no way made one want to refrain from indulging in the deliciousness, unless you didn’t like coconut. I consumed two brownie squares and thought they were delicious. I experienced mild intestinal discomfort which I later attributed to the kryptonite. 

The keg was in the lobby with the tray of brownies sliced into small squares. As Clark walked by the lobby with a box of cinnamon graham crackers he was offered a cup of beer.

“Hey, super boy, we’ve had a rough go lately. Truce,” suggested the ringleader.

“You dicks are certainly enjoying a brief window of decency,” accepting the cup.

The weight lifters were also eating the brownies. I don’t recall them eating multiple squares apiece, but they convincingly conveyed the edibility sufficiently to Clark. He grabbed two brownie squares without asking. From that point on the whole group really seemed to be on good terms. As the evening advanced Miami Vice concluded and we turned the channel to a baseball game. Casual chit chat during the ball game, other friends and neighbors dropping by for a beer and brownie. Clark’s mission appeared clear to me, ‘The more I eat and drink, the less there is for them.’ Two hours later with the keg drained, Clark grabbed the last two brownies, everyone exchanged peaceful enough good byes and he went to his room for the night. It was late the next morning when the gravity of the prior evening’s incident became evident. 

Clark and I had neighboring apartment units. I heard him through his wall and he seemed to be having difficulty of some kind. I heard what I assumed was furniture crashing to the floor and a loud moan. He lived by himself so I knew it was Clark. I went to his door, knocked, identified myself, and was told to come in because “Something’s wrong,” he said. That’s when the weight lifters came from around the corner, as if they had staked this out, and raced into the room before I could close the door. They pushed me aside and duct taped him in his enfeebled state. That’s how it began. Then a single eyebrow was shaved clean off. In his fright, a new experience to Clark, he was compliant, not that he could have countered anyway. The pretty curl on his forehead was cut and he was given a Mohawk haircut. Through this he struggled, as reflected in the poor quality of the haircut. The final indignity was when his t-shirt was cut off his torso, he was stripped down to his underpants, then manhandled down the hallway and put in the back of a pickup truck. He was unceremoniously dropped off a mile away in front of the crowded university center. The duct tape had been cut off his hands by then, he was lifted and disgorged by the curb. He got to his feet and started to run, but with his strength lacking the effort quickly deteriorated to a slow jog. Upon his return to the apartment complex his assailants, greeted him at the entrance.

“How does mortality feel, superhero?”

Clark retired to his apartment where he stayed for four days. It took that long for the Kryptonite to vacate his body. During that time he emerged only to go to class. His curtains were drawn shut and he wouldn’t open the door. He shaved his head to rid himself of the Mohawk, but I don’t recall whether he trimmed off the second eyebrow or just left the one. He wore a baseball cap down low over his forehead during this time. As he later told me, his initial thoughts were of anger and revenge. Then he settled on contemplation. He had come to the realization that he’d befouled the responsibility of the powers bestowed within him. He’d behaved like a jerk and needed to do better. As the weeks dripped by the healing process slowly progressed. His adversaries would occasionally offer a ‘Hey’ in passing which Clark sometimes returned.

Meanwhile, the tenants from the larger adjacent apartment complex were encroaching into the allotted parking spaces for our apartment. After a physical altercation broke out between the tenants of the two complexes, it was decided that a tug-of-war competition would take place. The winning complex would be awarded the parking spaces in question. The day of the competition it was visually apparent that the adjacent complex had the muscular advantage. As the boys from our apartment walked to the locale for the tug-of-war, somberly to expectant defeat, it was Clark who broke the silence.

“You have room for one more,” he asked.

The boys exchanged looks at each other, one voluntarily offered, “He can have my spot.”

Clark Kent’s squad won the tug-of-war competition that afternoon. No further mention of the prior assault would arise. His intentions were righted. The rest is legendary.

Superman retired from crime fighting in his late 50s after a mounting number of recurring and nagging injuries. He and his wife of 57 years, Lois Lane Kent, have lived in the same house for over four decades since Lois’ early retirement from the Daily Planet.

[Inspired by an amalgamated collage of college-based memories.]