Klem’s Goals for 2020

I understand success is statistically more frequently attained when written down. So, this is what I’ll be up to in 2020.

1)  Improved exercise regimen. The goal is to keep my stomach and back healthy and strong for infrastructure comfort in the coming decades.

2)  Dermatology visit for my face and scalp. I have sun-related skin issues and must treat them seriously. The benefits of the occasional cryotherapy administered by my general practitioner have plateaued. I will seek expert professional attention. 

3)  Have more fun. This is intended to include a combination of day trips, local ventures or any combination of fun-related bits. Maybe even a play, but hopefully not too many.

4)  Colonoscopy! [Does not count in the ‘Have more fun’ category.] My parents have done well aging gracefully and I will proactively do my part to prolong that legacy. I understand a colonoscopy is an important step in that direction.

5)  Make French toast. I’ve never done it but will in 2020, at least one time, with an option to repeat pending the experience of episode one.

6)  Shed a few possessions. This is not intended to be a disavowing of possessions akin to Christ’s Disciples, but a simple paring down. A simplification of life. This may even be the year I part with my collegiate skateboard, unused for nearly 30 years now. 

7)  Engage political conversation with a different intent. I will not try to convince anyone of anything, such plans only excel at getting people agitated. Instead, approach the conversation with questions to confirm an understanding of the other position and follow their line of reasoning. I may disagree with the position, but I want to understand the reasoning.

8)  Learn to play cribbage. There is no qualifier as to attaining a skill level.

9)  Promote a positive attitude in my interactions with others. The kids are growing up and will be independents before long. It’s important to foster the kind of atmosphere that may be rewarded with their future voluntary visitations. A time will come when they no longer need to visit, but hoping they’ll choose to visit.

10)                 Learn some Italian. The Duolingo App on my iPad will be conveniently deployed for this task. Just a smidgeon of learning. You know, for fun.

-klem

Rabid Red-Nosed Rudolph

Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer was no longer the cheery underdog fawn of fairy tale lore. The one-time youngest of Santa’s nine-reindeer team was all grown up and his demeanor had considerably soured. He’d become, rather, a ruffian.

His nose, still red in his adult years, but was not currently illuminated, as made famous those fabled years ago. On that dark Christmas Eve in harsh winter weather he led Santa’s sleigh and the reindeer team on the annual gift route. But today Rudolph had an upsetting afternoon and had taken vengeance for some perceived wrong.

His nose was dripping with a thick red liquid, likely not the sweet juice of the local lingonberry. With the mangled carcasses of two elves at his feet, elf blood was presumed. Their tiny lifeless bodies face down in the snow, one had been gored through the small of the back. A third elf slowly crawled away into a copse of trees for cover, a wide, red trail coloring the snow behind him. The gift-manufacturing production numbers may be slightly off goal this season for Santa’s factory, pending how many others from the captive elven labor force have fallen in this latest rampage.

Rudolph’s headgear was magnificent compared to that of his more modestly endowed and estranged teammates. He had filled out well, a veritable alpha buck amongst fawns.

The reindeer games were in full action amidst a gently building snowfall. Like usual, all the other reindeer playing and someone had forgotten to ask Rudolph to join them. This recurring trend of jealousies would end today, one way or another, but certainly not amicably.

He emerged from the perimeter of the forest and slowly approached his stunned, and tame, colleagues. Blood could be seen dripping from his antlers onto the snow. A horrific scene with red droplets littering the snow around his every step. He was foaming at the mouth clumping up thickly like robustly agitated dish soap. The reindeer games were stunned to a halt. Nobody moved. The other reindeer couldn’t have been more afraid were it a wolf standing before them. There were too many for Rudolph to touch them all, so to speak, but his rabies-induced rage would not be tempered by reason. The carnage on this pre-Christmas afternoon had only begun.

In the distance voices could be heard in alarm.

“Mr. Claus, where are you going with that rifle,” yelled a bewildered Mrs. Claus seeing her husband dashing out of his workshop toward the meadow with a 30-caliber lever action Winchester rifle in hand. He kept it well oiled and loaded, ready to fulfill any request, especially since Rudolph’s behavior had been lately becoming more erratic. There were lower caliber arms in his arsenal, which he used to ‘motivate’ the workforce, he liked to joke, but today’s uprising was no joke.

“Mrs. Claus, get back in the house and stay there. It’s Rudolph again, he’s snapped and gone deadly this time,” he yelled back, running toward the snowy ascent where his reindeer liked to frolic. The distance was a half-mile, the going would be slow with snow up to his shins. Too slow to intervene, he figured, but he must try.

He could hear in the distance ahead toward the meadow, some kind of skirmish had commenced.

“Dear God, deliver me swiftly and give me one clean shot,” said the not so jolly old Saint Nick under his breath hustling as quickly as an old man could, his bright red great coat with the ostentatious white trim fanning out behind him.

[Inspired by Jakub Rozalski's illustration, Rudolph Uprising. (https://twitter.com/mr_werewolf_art/status/941343537886629888?s=20)]

-Klem 

The Dud

1943 Bonn, Germany

The Pesch family, with father away at war, left Dusseldorf in 1942. The catalyst for the move was their home being destroyed in a nighttime air raid by the Allies. They resurfaced in Bonn, moving south putting distance between them and the front. Willy Pesch was nine years old.

Forever forward the family was understandably nervous whenever the air raid sirens rang out throughout the night. You could never be certain if your town was the target or if the 300 bomb-laden aircraft were merely flying through to unload at another destination. The rumbling drone of the bombers overhead. The endless defensive offering of the anti-aircraft flak into the night sky in a futile effort to slake the effect of yet another air assault. They combined for an awful discordant aural experience of growing up in World War II Germany. 

The family ran to the neighborhood bomb shelter. The air raids had been ongoing for months, a sure sign the war was not progressing as well as recent news reports claimed. Hours passed. The drone of aircraft and ack-ack of the anti-aircraft guns ceased. 

Returning from the bomb shelter, their home, thankfully, was undamaged. This had become an all too real concern after Dusseldorf. It was past midnight, the little ones were sleepy and went directly to bed. First light in the morning, however, brought much excitement.

Willy was always an early riser. Even more so after an air raid, which had become uncomfortably frequent, sometimes twice monthly. He and a neighbor friend were the first to find it. The thing was big, scary and beautiful, an unexploded bomb immediately outside the yard’s perimeter wall! A dud. The bomb was five feet tall and weighed 500 pounds.

As is usual after air raids the demolition crew would be en route. They were deployed to the affected areas to search through rubble for survivors and deactivate unexploded ordnance. A surprisingly high percentage of bombs were duds, more than five percent did not detonate. One such dud was within 100 feet from the Pesch house. The two boys were, naturally, very impressed with the device. They were standing arms length from it, admiring it as if it were a new bicycle. That’s when Willy’s mom came out looking for her oldest child, and found him admiring the bomb.

Willy was very smart and mechanically inclined, even at nine. His desk and storage chest under the bed looked like contents one might accumulate after a sweep of unattended bits and parts from a laboratory, an electronic research laboratory to be more precise. He would read books and magazines on electronics, when he could find them, to learn how to use the pieces he’d managed to compile. When the world around you is being regularly bombed and destroyed it was not difficult to obtain loose wires, motors in varying stages of disrepair from different kinds of machines that had been partially blown up or crushed due to a structure’s collapse. Even sometimes he and his pals could successfully get their hands on a small amount of gunpowder to blow up an already blown up shed or burned out automobile. With that thought coursing through his head admiring the bomb he heard his mother calling to him. She was calling to him with no more alarm in her voice than if she saw him standing before a mud puddle and wanting him to step away. Concern for such things had been blunted by years of war.

“Willy, please come inside until the soldiers have removed the bomb.” Backing away, after a few moments of hesitation, without taking his eyes off it, he reluctantly complied.

He spent the next two hours, until the demolition crew came to dismantle it and haul it away, telling his mom about the electronic projects he had in mind and how the parts from the bomb would be especially useful. Of course, she said, “No,” it’d be nuts to otherwise imagine a nine year old boy with parts from a real bomb, even a dud. Explosive components remained, it was only the detonation portion that had malfunctioned.

She said no, but she listened with feigned disinterest, but she did listen, as if he was discussing the culinary arts and the wonderful dishes he could create if he only had the proper array of tools or proper ingredients.

The demolition crew arrived and Willy went to watch from the window. It was a chilly morning but he opened the window to catch what he could of the crew’s work. He saw, then, his mother approach the demolition crew.

“Missus, do not come any closer. It’s dangerous here. Go back in the house,” he called to her from 50 feet away.

This was no way to have a conversation from such distance. So she approached closer until one of the soldiers put out both hands impelling her to stop and much more loudly calling out, “Lady, stop. You see there’s a bomb here. It may explode, yet. Go inside until we’re done.”

Willy’s mom had it in mind to try to convince the demolition crew that they should let her boy have the detonation device. Not the bomb, of course, not the explosive, just the detonation portion. “My son likes playing with electrical wiring and such clever things,” she explained.

She stopped but was not done making her case. Could she convince the crew to allow her boy to have a piece of the bomb, he won’t hurt himself, she thought. Willy was a good boy, mommy’s favorite, although she could not say so aloud on account of hurting the feelings of the other three children. 

“Will you let my son have that? He’s very smart and knows how handle such things,” she said.

“Lady, this is a bomb,” he countered, scrunching up his face confused by the inanity of the question.

“I know, yes, he found it this morning with a friend. Can he have the detonation piece after you make it safe, please?”

“Look, no, we need to bring all unexploded ordnance back to base, intact. We need these for research and to put them back into the war effort,” replied the soldier.

“It’s just the one, you can’t spare that one part, without the explosive,” she asked feebly and sweetly.

“Missus, no, go back to your home and close the door until it’s safe.”

“Can I send my son out to watch you, then? You can give him some of the wire,” she said hopefully walking back to the house.

“No, we can’t do that. We’ll let the neighborhood know when it’s safe again,” hoping this bizarre query was now concluded.

Willy had been at the window listening to the entire exchange. He loved his momma. He beamed at her, smiling largely when she came back into the house. She didn’t know that he’d overheard. He loved and admired his mother. The war years had been exceedingly difficult on her, as one would imagine, worrying about the safety of four young ones, providing food and shelter in an increasingly more dangerous and depleted world.

[Inspired by one of Opa’s anecdotes growing up in World War II Germany. His mother, after an air raid, purportedly tried to convince the demolition crew to allow her son to have a portion of an unexploded bomb.]

-klem

Fireman’s Descent

Alhambra, CA

Fall 2012

His Christian name was Emmett. A good guy, this one. His momma lived in her home of six decades in Alhambra with full-time live-in help. He cared deeply about his momma and something needed amending at home, the task in need of mending pertained to bees. An inchoate beehive had burgeoned forth under the second floor eave overlooking the patio. What if mom were to get stung, he worried? So, with an important impetus as this he made a special trip to spend time with her, enjoy a light lunch of soup and engage in the obligatory conversation one must make with an aging parent before getting down to it. But get down to it he would, and did.

His friend from next door, Tim, saw Emmett’s car parked out front and dropped by for a hello. Having exchanged pleasantries the two boys went to the garage for the extended ladder and the recently purchased bee spray. With Tim holding the ladder at ground level from the patio Emmett began his ascent.

He was not afraid of the bees, he was also not overtly agile, so he was deliberate with each move. Having attained adequate altitude and proximity to the hive he drew up the chemical spray and was poised for his assault. One final deep breath, he held it and pull the trigger. That’s the last thing he remembered until awakening in a hospital bed.

“Good thing you’re not allergic to bees because you’d be dead. More than 30 stings,” his doctor said without so much as a courtesy chuckle to lighten the mood.

What exactly transpired during the black out, you’ll ask. To answer that we’ll start with Tim’s account.

Emmett was immediately enveloped in a cloud of angry bees. Then the amazing thing, he did a fireman’s descent from the second floor. As his blackout commenced, he dropped the bee spray, placed both hands on the outside rails of the ladder, did the same with his feet and performed an immaculate ladder descent that would have made any veteran firefighter proud.

His body, under the influence of stress-induced auto pilot, he ran inside, went upstairs to the shower, brushing bees out of his hair and shedding clothes along the way. Still getting stung but with decreased frequency. The bees’ counter-attack finally, and thankfully, petered out as the shower concluded. Without a change of clothes, still on autopilot, he shook out spent bee carcasses from his trousers, shirt and, yes, even his grungers, and put his clothes back on.

Tim’s dad, also next door, arrived at the front door as Emmett, still in a bee-sting induced stupor, came downstairs.

“Emmett, are you OK,” he asked with eyes wide open with concern.

“I’m fine,” responded Em calmly as he promptly passed out, collapsed into his neighbor’s arms who caught him, then issued a full dose of barf demolishing his neighbor’s trousers and shirt. The ambulance had by now pulled up in front of the house, paramedics hustled in to assist and drove Emmett to the hospital.

Emmett has, since the incident, developed an allergic reaction to bees. Bee-related emergencies have arisen twice since the fireman’s’ descent. On the bright side, the budding beehive was defeated.

[Based on a real life experience of my pal.]

Dicknose

He was outside on the patio on this cool, crisp night wearing his leisure house clothes. This was his usual summer routine when the day has progressed to his satisfaction, evening time to read and unwind after contending with the bothersome necessities of the day. The phone rang and cut through the ambient noise of the television from the other room. His wife answered and became flustered with the caller.

“There’s nobody here by that name,” she said. Pause.

“No. I’m hanging up now,” without hanging up. Pause.

“No.“ Pause.

“No,” sounding more irritated. Pause.

“Dicknose,” she said in a questioning tone into the telephone embarrassed at herself for having spoken the harsh word out loud.

Having overheard the phone call from the patio through the open rear sliding glass door, he turned around to see his wife as she continued her confused battle of wits with an unknown opponent. “Certainly not. There’s nobody here by such a name. I’m hanging up now,” again without hanging up.

They made eye contact, Dicknose and his wife. He raised his hand as if hailing a cab.

“What? Are you Dicknose,” speaking to her husband surprising herself at having again been flustered into speaking the vulgarity. She handed the phone past the sliding rear screen door. He received the phone and she immediately went back to what she’d been doing as if the annoying caller had already been forgotten. For him, her husband, the call had been a very long time coming. Years. Somehow it finally arrived on this otherwise unextraordinary night. In so arriving his evening read had been terminally ruined. There’d be no going back now. His entire existence was possibly to be upturned, but he would engage and try to beat back the unwanted, though entirely expected, intrusion.

“What,” he entered the fray gruffly.

“Hello and thanks for taking my call. I don’t think your wife was excited to hear from me. Haven’t you told her,” asked the caller.

“Why are you calling? It’s been a long time. It’s done. Over,” hoping to attain a forcible closure yet expecting it to be a fruitless effort.

“I want it,” was the response.

“You cannot,” he returned.

“I do. I will,” returning the volley.

“You won’t,” was the volley returned.

“I need it, I must,” continued the caller.

“Don’t be daft, it’s no more,” juked Dicknose.

“Dicknose,” sternly.

“What."

“You know how it’s always pleased me when you respond to that name.”

“Hang up the phone and disappear,” he wished.

“I’ll hang up the phone and be at your house in five minutes. Make sure it’s in your hand when I arrive. Let’s make this quick. You’ve never been good at holding my attention.” They both hung up and went into action.

“Who was that,” asked his wife with more curiosity than concern.

“Smokey,” walking through the kitchen to hang up the phone and not stopping to explain further. He didn’t want to be rude, but there was no explaining this without wearing a heavy dose of crudity forever forward.

14 years. That’s how long it’d been since they’d crossed paths. There had been five of them for that occasion, or skirmish, if you will. They got together in the woods, the general vicinity of the initial incident two summers prior that brought them together. They all knew each other. Or, more precisely, knew of each other. Nobody had another’s phone number, address or been to each other’s home, but they had enough acquaintances in common that they’d be able to track each other down if such a need arose. That’s what happened here, the calling to the woods.

He was contacted by a friend of a friend, “Hey, do you know [so and so]? I saw him running full court hoops last weekend at the high school basketball courts. You know, there’s pick up games Saturday afternoons. Anyway, he said to hand this to you. I think he knows we shoot pool Thursday nights.”

Dicknose thought it curious, but also thought it’d be a kind of celebratory get together. Some festivities after apparently getting over that highly dramatic first venture. Heck, he arrived in tennis shoes, a Hawaiian shirt, a hibachi barbecue, a six-pack of craft beers and sausages, for the hibachi. It wasn’t long before two guys got in a knife fight, another fired off a few rounds from a concealed pistol. In the confusion that ensued Dicknose made away with the envelope and an opened package of sausages. He assumed he’d eventually be tracked by someone. He didn’t know for what reason, but he knew it wasn’t over. Then came the phone call this evening. The hairs on the back of his neck knew. And they were correct.

Smokey did not lie. It was five minutes almost exactly. The envelope was, at this point, on the desk, retrieved only minutes before.

The doorbell rang. The porch lights were purposely not on. He opened the door.

“Dicknose,” said one.

“Smokey,” said the other.

No further greetings were exchanged. An awkward pause ensued, eye contact was not broken. A bulging envelope was handed out the door, door closed. And it was over. For now. Dicknose heard the car engine start and drove away with the radio blaring.

He had a hunch it would one day come to this, so he had kept the envelope always handy, though hidden. But what happens next?

Paddleboat Battalion

Early 1860s, somewhere in the Confederate States of America

It was late afternoon. The fighting was winding down at this point with intermittent gunshots from some ‘clean up’ skirmishing on the perimeter. The carnage was horrific. Not just in the traditional battlefield sense, but more of a combination of war and traveling circus kind of way. The battlefield was spent with the dead of both armies. There was also the unexpected, the paddleboats.

The paddleboats, just by unforeseen chance, had become implements of war late in a defensive action. Very colorful paddleboats, some fit for solo paddlers others equipped to handle two. But too late and poorly deployed. In the aftermath of today’s melee they were scattered along the river’s shoreline, askew, upended many of them, laden with wounded or dead soldiers and riddled with grape shot and minie balls. Grape shot, of course, being a cluster of iron balls wrapped with canvas in a bundle and shot from a cannon. Minie balls were muzzle-loaded iron balls shot from a rifle. Some paddleboats remained afloat but no longer in use as their passengers were all dead, or wounded and dying. They floated down river wherever the slow moving current would eventually decide to deposit them. The battle was done. The paddleboat battalion, their ill-thought tour of duty, concluded.

Human bodies were destroyed and splayed out across the open field over four hundred yards by another two hundred yards. One army dominated the other on this sad bloodstained afternoon, sun still blazing, but descending from its apex. The losing army needed reinforcements, of which there were many, but separated by that lazy, slow rolling river just beyond the battlefield. With the losing army hunkered down along the river’s edge waiting for the reinforcing troops, the victors approached from higher ground and shot at will. A turkey shoot, so they said to each other standing proud, pointing and shooting. Oh sure, many of them were being shot dead in return, but they had the numbers and would clearly win the day.

Across the river were the late-coming, but finally here, reinforcements. But the river! There was no easy crossing and it was easily more than 200 feet across, and too deep to traverse on foot. The soldiers couldn’t swim it because they were bogged down with much heavy gear. There hadn’t been time enough to seek out a way to traverse it nor build a bridge across. But, as wondrous as the odds might be, a traveling carnival had been caught up in the preamble to this brewing war. The people associated with the carnival had scattered long ago as the armies engaged. What they left behind was mostly unusable junk, tents and portable booths. The soldiers approached the river, could see the war in progress, their comrades in distress and sought to get across to do their part. 

A very dedicated corporal was the first to take up the initiative. He saw a paddleboat up river, sat down and got underway, paddling furiously, fueled by rage and adrenaline. He was so exhausted when he finally crossed that he stumbled ashore with wobbly legs only to get popped in the heat of the ‘turkey shoot’ as he disembarked the paddleboat. Meanwhile other soldiers, having seen what was perceived as smart action, engaged paddleboats themselves and were making their own journeys across the river, one by one and two by two. This strange visual of the rainbow colored army had only a minor affect on the actual fighting. The victors were distracted by the colorful, slow moving watercrafts poorly working their way across the river. This then brought some very untimely, and understandable, laughing. The victors watching a makeshift navy of 50 or so paddleboats making unimpressive and inefficient trajectories as they set out on their mission to cross the river. The soldiers who had been hunkered down along the shoreline were briefly rejuvenated at seeing the reinforcements, they loaded their rifles with minie balls and successfully fired upon the soon-to-be victors, temporarily preoccupied with hands on knees laughing at the amusing scene setting up before them.

Many paddleboats lost a soldier from sharpshooters. The remaining paddling combatant in the two-seated paddleboat would be unable to project enough energy for the needed force, as a result the vessel ended up down river rather than across it. Down river they went despite the paddling, a continuous volley of rifles followed as long as necessary. 

As the paddleboat reserves were emptied, the bulk of the reinforcement stranded across the river, the victors finished off what remained of the losing forces, plus the paddleboat battalion still trying to join in. Not a good decision. Paddleboats, as strongly evidenced here, were proven no vessel of choice by which to enter war. The colorful carnival rides littered the shoreline. Broken, bullet riddled and blood soaked.

[Regrettably inspired by a ridiculous thought while reading about Civil War reenactors and the horrors of those battlefields.]

Watermelon

He entered the house in a hustle, went directly to the family room and turned on the tv. As he waited for the picture to kick on he set his satchel on the floor, took off his suit jacket and draped it over the back of a chair. The tv was now fired up and he turned to the channel for the ballgame.

It was baseball, early October for a playoff game and his team was playing. He didn’t watch much regular season baseball because with 162 regular season games there was absolutely no urgency to any of them. But today, playoffs, and a mid-day game. He managed to finagle his way out of a late morning meeting and leave the office under the guise of a work appointment. With a lack of probing questions, he left, traveled directly home to watch the game where it was in the early innings and was close.

That first commercial break he dashed off to change into sweatpants and t-shirt. That second commercial break found him rummaging around the refrigerator for lunch. That’s when he saw the unexpected treasure. A watermelon! All chilled off in the frigid air of the fridge. He had been thinking of a sandwich, but he’d gladly upgrade to watermelon, at least for one slice before getting into a lunch entrée.

He set out a plate, grabbed a good knife, removed the beautiful green gourd from the fridge to the countertop. He cut off the nub, a big piece, reduced that down to bitable chunks, covered the cut melon with plastic wrap and returned it to the fridge. He delightfully resumed watching the game as his team was getting runners on base and scoring runs with a clever batch of hits and smart base running. His team was winning and they’d closed out their half inning having scored several runs. Elated at the gaming action he went back for a second slice of watermelon. 

On it went late into the game. With his team ahead the adrenaline was flowing and he quickly progressed through the watermelon. The kitchen garbage was loaded with spent watermelon rind. His chin sticky with melon juice, as was the back of his hand which had been deftly and frequently deployed to stem the flow of dribble mid-consumption. He had forsaken his lunch entrée entirely and found himself in the 9^thinning, game still close, the enemy team had rallied and it was clutch time. His team must hold on or their season would end in defeat. Suspense built. With the game hanging in the balance the phone rang. His bride! He loved this one more than baseball itself. He smiled and took the call.

“Hi, I thought you might be home watching the game,” she said, the reciprocating smile could be heard in her voice.

“Yes, we’re winning but it’s close,” he responded attaching himself with the inclusive pronoun.

“Good, then I’ll be quick. Timmy and Mary are coming for dinner tonight. You don’t need to do anything, they’re bringing lasagna, cake and drinks. It’ll be a fun evening. Oh, I bought a watermelon for tonight. Don’t eat it before then. See you in a little bit,” and she hung up.

The watermelon! The conundrum here was thick. The game was on the line and he didn’t dare miss any of it. But he loved his sweet pea and didn’t want to disappoint her. It was imperative he replace the watermelon carcass, there was nothing left, he’d consumed the entire thing. His self-restraint had been so lacking that he’d even slurped up the residual juice from the cutting plate. He needed to leave immediately, drive to the store, brave the unpleasantly busy confines of the grocery store, hunt down a new, ripe replacement watermelon and place it in the refrigerator just like its predecessor. But the game! No, he must go now, cannot watch the game further, there wasn’t time for both.

The clock ticked. Soon, with further delay he’d surely not have enough time to return from the watermelon replacement-mission unnoticed. His mind was blank, even more blank than usual. The crowd on tv roared, the game was no longer going well, the other team scored and the game was tied. Make a decision.

[Inspired by a high school classmate who admitted to have once eaten an entire watermelon in one sitting.]

Free Diving

It was so peaceful. He was free diving in warm, clear tropical water. The fish were abundant, visibility outstanding and he dove down deeper to peruse the shells on the ocean’s sandy bottom. The depth was 30 feet, manageable, but he had to be careful not to lapse out from lack of oxygen. This was a fun sport, but was not a forgiving one.

He grabbed a beautiful, vacated abalone shell and began a modest rate of ascent. His flippers were propelling him, but not so fast as to dangerously put himself at risk of decompression sickness while ascending. As the pressure of the water above him decreased on his approach to the surface he slowly allowed a small trickle of air bubbles to escape his lips, a habit picked up from scuba diving, a slow exhale during ascent. He looked down taking a moment to hover in the water as if floating in air. A stingray fluttered about in the sand and a crab with a sideways saunter. The bright sun was shining diffusely through the water. With his face turned up directly toward the sky, eyes closed, he breached the water’s surface and took a deep, delicious breath of air. He opened his eyes.

‘What the heck is going on? Where am I,’ wondered the free diver. He was not in the tropics. He wasn’t in the ocean or some warm tropical sea. He was wearing jeans, a t-shirt and had awakened in the cab of his car. A car accident! He was regaining consciousness from having passed out from a car crash.

The air bags had deployed leaving visibility only through the driver’s side window. Before fully regaining himself he thought momentarily that this is what it might look like for an astronaut awakening from a deep sleep, the darkened cab with only the one partially exposed window mimicked what he figured to be comparable to a space capsule. Nope, just a car accident. Sirens could be heard in the distance. He hoped there’d be no additional cars colliding with his vehicle now immobilized in the middle of the intersection.

The seriousness of the situation was taking root. He had been listening to sports talk radio and it was still on, now competing audibly with the wounded bleating of the car’s engine. In the face of this new development he lost interest in the commentary about last night’s playoff basketball game and turned off the radio. The engine was still running and sounded odd, plus there was a smell of burnt rubber and chemicals. He turned off the car. He wanted to get out but was concerned about his safety from oncoming traffic. He tried looking out the window, but the deployed air bags obstructed the view. He decided to chance it, open the door and take a look. This initial effort was negated by a compromised element of the door or its latching device. At this point he sat back and wondered if he was hurt in any way. A quick review revealed no breaks, no sharp pains, only a little blood on his right knee from scraping on the keys hanging in the ignition. His head was in a fog, but his early assessment was that he was OK.

A second effort to open the door, boosted with a shoulder bump, proved successful. Looking around, there were no cars coming, many had remained at their traffic stops. He grabbed his phone off the floor, keys and sunglasses, stepped out of the vehicle and took a quick look around. The car had been pushed 90-degrees to the left, the other car had hopped the curb and run into a traffic pole knocking it down.

‘Well shoot, this is a crummy start to the day. Let’s get out of traffic, sit on the curb over there and see what happens next,’ so went his mental dialogue. He walked to the curb, sat down and looked at the other car. The driver’s door was open and the driver was on the phone. Eye contact had not yet been made.

[The car accident sequence is based on a recent occurrence.]

Passenger

July 18, 2019

The air had grown fetid over the four hours. Not yet rancid, but in his currently enfeebled state he thought he would not be able to tell when that threshold had been crossed. There were odors swirling around him, none of them good. He’d been breathing through his nostrils with only occasional lungfuls pulled in orally. He somehow thought the nostril breathing would reduce the amount of ambient spoilage that would enter his body. This was, luckily, a good sinus day for him, his nose was dominating the task at hand.

He was on a commercial airliner. The plane was full, 177 passengers plus crew. He was boxed in on both sides and his seat would not recline due to proximity to the Emergency Exit. As a youngster he had been inclined to claustrophobia but it’d been years since a related incident had been sparked off. The confines were tight and his freedom of motion was rigorously restricted. Then, he thought, maybe it wasn’t claustrophobia, maybe the recent meal was not sitting well. Certainlyit wasn’t sitting well, but was it sitting well enough? He couldn’t be sure, but this was truly an unpleasant time for a bellyache. A mild perspiration broke out on his forehead.

Just then a second wind of sorts. The flight attendant came around offering drinks. A cool cup of water, sans ice, was tendered and consumed. He was mid-flight with two hours remaining. The water did slake his mental anguish for the time being scoring a temporary triumph. Could the victory be prolonged? 

He had eaten four Eggo waffles as his in-flight meal. They had been toasted six hours earlier, placed in a Ziploc bag then secured in his backpack. The pair of napkins packaged with the waffles failed to stave off their soggification. The waffles, removed from the bag, were moist and had the compromised structural integrity of cooked spaghetti. He had to eat something, hours still before non-flight food options would become available. How could he be angry with Eggos, he thought to himself rhetorically. He couldn’t be, so he had eaten four of them. Delicious, at least at the point of consumption, then they sat in his belly like dirty dish rags. That’s when his tummy tumbled.

He had the forethought to remove his shoes before takeoff. He stretched his stockinged feet and dragged them across the tiny stretch of carpeting before him. Working to convince himself he was napping in the comforts of home with his feet on the couch. This came to a positive result, but fleeting. 

Humid and warm remained the air. He heard coughing and sneezing from some of his fellow passengers. He didn’t want to breath in the expellations of others. Nostril breathing was reinforced. He felt sticky, especially with his shirt sticking to his body at pinch points. He was waning. With his struggle hanging in the balance he closed his eyes and thought pleasant thoughts. Baseball. Reading on the patio. Snorkeling in the ocean yesterday on the now deceased vacation.

Christ, two more hours until landing. How much could be endured? The guy across the aisle in his bare feet. The lady in front of him enjoying her recline further encroaching into his diminished personal space. And then, a beacon of hope, another refreshment cart. A cup of orange juice. Pulled in two swift gulps. Courage coursed through him.

He put down the book, leaned his head back on the headrest. He needed a distraction from the attrition of this psychological combat. Removing a notebook from his backpack and a pen, he would write. Of course, beat back the tribulation with a more powerful mental task. With pen in hand he wrote of these current flight related troubles and concerns. What is his strategy to emerge victoriously from this rugged episode? He had been lost in a swamp of weakness but presently found himself summoning strength. His confidence cresting, his writing became inspired and the stream of consciousness came issuing forth in a strong flow onto the page.

[This documents a difficult mid-flight experience on the return leg of a recent vacation.]

Dogfight

The two-engine fighter plane was returning home after a fruitful scouting mission. It’d been a long night of flying. The pilot’s orders had been to put some eyeballs on a particular stretch of terrain for an anticipated battle. He was in good spirits, always was on the return end a successful run, even on something relatively simple as this one. But wait, what was that way ahead on the horizon?

He and his fellow pilots had received ample classroom training. During down time, visual training was conducted showing images of enemy aircraft and enemy naval vessels. You damn sure wanted to distinguish between friend and foe before they did. The airplane on the horizon, its silhouette indicated an enemy bogie. It was flying in a straight path, clearly unaware there was another aircraft in the quadrant, especially enemy aircraft. He checked his equipment, ammunition levels, positioned himself for an advantageous approach then clicked off the safety for the 20 mm wing-mounted cannons and .50 caliber machine guns. With that, the game began.

He swooped in aggressively and delivered the initial blast from his six .50 caliber machine guns with armor piercing rounds. The completely unsuspecting enemy pilot weathered the strafing before going into evasive action. Bullet holes festooned the portside wing and the aircraft was responding poorly to the pilot’s yoke movements. As he quickly perused the vast array of indicators and devices on the cockpit’s control panel looking for a hint as to what was wrong, the cabin began to fill with smoke. At this point the aggressor made a second approach, let loose with the cannons and delivered a clean hit.

The plane tumbled out of the sky like a badly folded paper airplane. The pilot looked back over his shoulder to catch a glimpse of his fallen prey, witness the downing and watch for a parachute.

As he looked back he saw a bicyclist tumble off the bike path and lose control of his 10-speed bicycle. Books and a backpack spilled out onto an adjacent patch of grass while the cyclist was awkwardly splayed out on the ground. The downed cyclist confusedly looked ahead at the other cyclist, our fighter pilot. Why, the victor wasn’t a pilot at all, merely a dude on a bicycle late at night causing trouble for another student cyclist.

“What the hell,” yelled the downed cyclist. But the aggressor rode on without response, his bike’s chain faintly sounding off as he pedaled away. It was nearly midnight and he had to return to home base, the dormitories. He had an early class tomorrow and must hit the rack.

-klem

[Inspired by a second hand account told to me by a close friend circa 1986 about a mild mannered acquaintance in the dormitories. He supposedly, the acquaintance, had a few beers one night, felt like some excitement, went for a late night bicycle ride and played fighter pilot with an unsuspecting cyclist. I do not condone unjustified violence, of course, but this fellow, he was of slight dimensions and the alleged behavior was entirely unbefitting of him. That contrast made it much more fun.]

The Orange

Bonn, Germany 1946

The ruins and destruction, remains from the recently ended world war, dominated the landscape. Two differences since the war’s end; the streets were now passable without risk of being picked off by gunfire, even friendly fire, and rubble was sometimes piled into the pertinent lot, but piled rather than left where it had fallen from enemy ordnance. While the terror of nighttime air raids had ended, scarcity continued to rule. Food rations were still in force and would be for several more years, unless you were unlucky enough to be in East Germany where rations would continue for another decade.

Many people, neighbors and friends, had disappeared during the war years, often without telling anyone where they were going. They were lost to the war or fled seeking some unknown sanctuary. In many instances nobody knew, maybe they got out to another country, it was known only that they had not resurfaced since the close of aggression. Visitors from outside the country trickled in to visit family and friends who they hadn’t seen for years.

Little Margot and her family had guests from Canada. Adults only, the guests. Despite the recently attained peace this was not yet a place to bring children. Margot and her little friends, however, were captives by birth. The ruins of war, it was what they knew, what they grew up with, it was home.

The guests brought gifts that were largely unavailable in post-war Germany. They brought new linens and clothes, real chocolates and fresh fruit! Yes, actual fruit, not preservatives or jams. These items were available in post-war Germany, though mostly through the thriving black market, not through regular channels of the ration cards. The ration cards simply authorized the purchase of specific items, citizens still needed money to buy them. The guests had handed a special gift to the kids, an orange, and then were promptly sent outside to play leaving the adults to their boring adult conversation. They talked about the relief with the end of fighting, the difficulties and tragedies endured during the war years, runaway inflation of the old valueless Reichsmark, the forthcoming new currency, something named the Deutsche Mark, and a rebuilding project called the Marshall Plan.

The youngest child didn’t know what such a thing was, the orange orb. An actual orange, not some manufactured facsimile or jellied compote. A rare treat these days and it traveled well because of its protective, hearty skin. The older kids knew and thought it unnecessary to instruct the youngest as to what unique treasure he had been entrusted. The youngest had seen pictures of this type of fruit, but never seen one live and could not place any certainty as to what it was or what to do with it. Is it something to eat or a ball? As the kids ran outside to play, having completed their greeting obligation, the fruit had been handed down from the oldest child to the youngest while the three older kids kicked a ball in the street. While they played, the youngest was tasked to stand aside and hold what he eventually surmised was a ball.

The orange ball was heavier than it seemed necessary, given its size. Watching the older kids playing and having fun made the youngest feel left out. He wanted to join in their game but was deemed too small, the bigger kids thought, leaving him with the orange.Having become frustrated he dropped it to the ground and kicked it as hard as he could. He wanted to show his older cohorts how strong he was and that they were wrong to exclude him from their fun. To the boy’s amazement it broke apart into tiny pieces being scattered into the street. The older ones seeing the decimation jumped to action to avoid wasting the delicious orange. They ran over, practically threw themselves to the ground, picking up pieces of fruit that lay in the street and eating it. They laughed at his error, they all smiled not even caring to wipe off the dirt before popping it into their mouths. They weren’t angry at the youngest, he didn’t know.

[Based on Aunt Margot’s real life events growing up in World War II Germany.]

Milkshake

The milkshake was excruciatingly delicious. Truly excruciating, this banana chocolate chip milkshake. The delectability of the bold flavor combination was regarded as irresistible by this goofball. The margin for error, however, had proven to be so tight that its successful construction must court precision. This guy, a self-proclaimed shake aficionado, had been burned so extensively over the years in the vast range in quality of the banana chocolate chip shake that it was not uncommon to find him ensconced in a self-relegated flavor sabbatical. During such periods he’d simply go with the safe choice of chocolate when circumstances necessitated a shake order. This protocol helped in regaining confidence in the shake-making industry.

The success rate for a banana chocolate chip milkshake was tenuous due to the tortuous specifications. The crucial ingredients came down to method of construction, implementation of proper utensils and dedication to one’s craft. The shake seemed easy enough. Take a vanilla milkshake [or use banana ice cream], add a banana and chocolate chips, grind it all up, add straw or spoon, hand over for consumption. But no, there existed a regrettable abundance of eating establishments that had insufficiently pondered these bare minimums. This one, though, this current shake in his hand would bump up that success rate.

In one ill fated past sequence the banana chocolate chip shake had been prepared with banana flavored liquid. True, banana flavoring as if they were building an Italian style banana flavored soda. No thanks! Do not mix soda flavoring into a shake as the two are entirely non-contiguous. No such overlap was ever to be acceptable. The presented shake, in that sad scene, had neither banana ice cream nor actual banana segments. His rage did flow thick when it became clear to him what kind of ill begotten swill had been passed off as a representation of the venerated shake. Not possible, he thought. A second pull of the straw yielded the same implausible reaction. ‘It can’t be. Is that banana soda flavoring I taste? Is there no actual banana in there?’ That sealed a sad afternoon of milkshaking.

Another banana chocolate chip milkshake conundrum came in the form of the straw logjam. The shake in question had been prepared with standard sized chocolate chips. These, of course, had no chance of securing safe passage through a regulation-sized straw. This resulted in a banana milkshake with a bottom loaded with the chips. Now look, the guy hadn’t a gripe with banana milkshakes nor a mouthful of chocolate chips, but he’d ordered neither. He had, in fact, ordered both. The taste buds were to enjoy a simultaneous ingestion of the two, not one followed sequentially by the other. His order was for both flavors to dominate jointly with each dose. Shake drinking ended when the chocolate chips, predictably, log jammed the straw. The straw was unable to carry out its mission, much like a vacuum that engages the corner of a throw rug bringing the actual vacuuming to a close due to a clogged nozzle.

There were other shakes that, on the surface, appeared to have been prepared with a formidable amount of forethought. One such shake contained an appropriately enlarged shake-sized straw! But dammit, the shake had been rushed and the banana had not been properly blended. He knew there was good stuff contained in the cup, visible confirmation affirmed it, but it could not get beyond the banana logjam in the straw. The banana chunks were sucked partially into the straw where they became entrenched. Stuck, much like someone trying to remove their pantaloons without first removing their shoes. The pants weren’t coming off over the shoes any more than a banana chunk would flow through a straw. Suck and suck on the straw, as he’d been induced to do, but the milkshake trickle coming through the logjam announced infuriating failure. 

This particular, shake, though, the one in his hand at present, had everything working. The straw was absolutely correct, it was the authentically cavernous shake straw. Beyond any modicum of doubt the merchant nailed the straw. Additionally, the chocolate chips were of the mini variety. This made flow through the shake straw a smooth operation. Plus, the chips had been blended in with the shake rather than left whole. The miniaturized chip shards did flow entirely unhindered! The banana had been whole at the onset, not the minor league move of using banana flavoring. The whole banana had been subjected to the blender. Despite the busy day, the shake maker hit the blender for a second round. They knew the banana clogging potential and was committed to beating back that capacity to enhance the shake-consuming experience. Today there was a professional at the helm who was fully aware of the limitations with which they contended, and maneuvered admirably!

The masterful concoction was handed over with a knowing head nod. It conveyed the confidence of a poker player who knew the value of the unturned card on the table. Without the whipped cream and yes to the cherry, the confection was passed forward. The excruciation was set to commence. He knew it. He engaged willingly and aggressively.

Three deep sips in rapid succession. Each sip was a viscous victory unto itself. Brain freeze would certainly be arriving soon. With valiant determination he removed the straw from his mouth, took a deep breath hoping the brief respite would hold off the encroaching freeze. He could feel its approach, it was right there ready to strike, but his willpower broke. He again raised the cup, took in the straw and engorged. Ah, yes, delicious! One more too-big sip, and here it came beyond any question. He had time only to place the cup on the table, swallow the shake before he crumpled to the ground in a pain-riddled heap. He clutched his imploding forehead rubbing it in a shambolic effort to sooth the brain freeze. Banana chocolate chip, so good, this one, and not even half way done. He courageously writhed on the floor in excruciating delight.

[Based on my sordid experiences and often futile search for the finest in banana chocolate chip milkshakes.]