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.]

Highlight Reel

He groggily regained consciousness and tried to move his arms. He found himself seated in a chair with his arms awkwardly positioned behind his back. They wouldn’t come loose and his wrists wouldn’t budge. They were tightly bound and the pressure of the straps was fierce. That’s when he realized the depth of his trouble. His head moved freely and his eyes were uncovered, but his mouth was gagged bringing him to the verge of panic. He calmed himself with a brief, though, effective breathing exercise he occasionally employed, as needed, to positive affect. His cool reestablished, he continued the assessment.

He was in a kind of containment tub. He didn’t know where he was but he knew the situation to be dire. He was in a confined space, tied down, immobilized and a raging headache from what he correctly assumed had been a blow from a blunt instrument. If he hadn’t been tied he’d be nearly able to reach from one side of the containment area to the other, it was that small. His feet, if they could be extended, would touch the wall in front. The three walls he could see were large sheets of Plexiglas glued together. The top was open with a single lightbulb over his head. It was not an LED, he noticed it to have been an older style bulb.

It would be from this starting point, then, the struggle would begin. His wrists were bound tightly but circulation was good. There was room to move, even if only a little. He pulled to no avail. Whatever material was binding him had virtually no give. He tried twisting his wrists. They could turn rather freely, but that motion did nothing toward attaining the goal of his freedom. He simultaneously pulled and twisted, also to no gain. It did, however, rub off most of the hair from his thin wrists. He took a minute to relax and rethink his predicament. Then, with a violent jolt he re-commenced the effort. This went on for longer than before yielding only a warm trickle into his hands which he rightly figured was his blood. Still no gain. What now?

He attempted to rock back and forth to knock the chair over. He wanted to fall backward in an attempt to break the tub’s perimeter wall, if possible, but the chair was solidly bolted down or otherwise affixed to the ground. He tried rocking sideways, as well, but was unable to get any motion. His hope was to find the resonating frequency while rocking sideways, get in motion and compound the effect of that kinetic energy. It was a little something he saw and remembered from an in-lecture demonstration during a college Physics class. Sadly, no, he was unable to propel the chair into any level of motion. He was stuck. What now? Yell? Bleat out for mercy? Resolve himself to his situation and wait to see what happens next?

The whole incident started late the night before at a restaurant. Maybe it was still late that night, he didn’t know what time it was presently. He’d gotten into what he thought was a playful verbal exchange with two men he didn’t know, something inane about the local ball team. When the meal was over, in the parking lot, he said good bye to his friends. That’s when he gathered it hadn’t been playful to the other two. All he heard was “Hey.” As he turned around he saw just a flash of the flannel shirt he’d seen inside, and then he went dark.

At this point he felt water on his feet. It was curiously warm and simultaneously terrifying. He’d heard the water start. He didn’t turn it on, someone else did, but he would be left to deal with the consequences of it. He didn’t even try to move his feet, he just let the water continue to rise and eventually wash over them entirely. The water level rose very slowly, yet too quickly, and worked its way up to his ankles.

He looked down at the water and could see that he was missing a shoe. The corresponding sock was dangling from the mid sole of his foot, a result of the one-sided struggle. He found this disheveled sock to be distracting. He wanted desperately to reach down and pull it tight. But he held firm and ignored the sock while he assessed the balance of the miserable circumstance in which he found himself. His wallet, he could feel, was still in his rear pocket. Odd, he thought. Was he not robbed? Was this really the result of a silly exchange?

As his personal terror rose he came to a decision. No matter how frightened, if this was to be the end of him he’d spend it thinking of his own personal highlight reel. He wouldn’t waste his dignity of these final moments begging for mercy or forgiveness to a fruitless end. He let the highlights begin.

He was five years old making a strawberry jelly sandwich all by himself. White bread, no peanut butter, just the jelly as his young taste preferences had not yet been stretched. He remembers how good it tasted. The taste, of course, may have been inflated by his own effort, his first self-made meal.

The water rose to his shins and he thought of his first pair of tennis shoes. He was 11. He’d had bad feet as a child, still did at 11, and spent the bulk of his youth rocking dress shoes for every occasion due to the hearty arch support. On this momentous day the doctor relented, said his feet were at least stable at this age and a pair of tennis shoes was OK for him to occasionally wear. He remembered being in the shoe store with his mom and picking them out. It was his grandpa who first noticed the slick new red shoes. “Wow, I bet you can run fast in those!” He loved his grandpa. A silent man with hearing difficulties for so many years, then very talkative after grandma passed away.

The water was at his knees. At 13 years old he crisply remembered and reveled in that bases loaded triple hit off the league’s best pitcher. His pitch velocity was so fast the batter could hear the ball sizzling on its approach to home plate akin to the hot plate served up with a fajita platter at your local Mexican restaurant. But on this evening the bat and ball made solid contact. Rounding first base he saw the right fielder still chasing after the ball. He came in to a stand up triple and nonchalantly adjusted the batting helmet on his head. The crowd was cheering, his teammates were yelling to him and the exhilaration was almost overpowering.

As the water rose over the belly button his mind wandered to the college years. He occasionally visited home on weekends then drove back to university late on Sunday night. A late Sunday departure allowed him to have dinner at his grandparents’. This had been family routine with Sunday visits going back to his earliest memories. This specific recall went to the first time his grandma sent him back to college with enough homemade pasta sauce and meatballs to feed himself and six of his pals back at college. He felt like a king inviting his friends to dinner at his apartment and feeding them on the exquisite delights of his grandma’s delicious homemade cooking. Fun times, the camaraderie and carefree conversations of their bountiful youth.

The water level increased to his chest while the highlight reel advanced to his first job out of college. He bought a car when he was hired. It was a new blue two-door sports car, and showed up for work his first day in a big office building feeling unstoppable and invincible. It felt like life was just starting. Or, at least, all the good stuff that life had to offer was before him.

The water was at his chin and he fought the mounting desperation. He thought of that sunny late Friday afternoon when his would-be girlfriend passed her phone number to him for the first time. She wrote it on a yellow post-it note, folded it in half and handed it to him across the aisle in the office. The best 30 seconds of his life culminating that exact moment when both their hands were on the note and they made eye contact. The image playing out in his mind strong enough, even under these circumstances, to bring him a moment of shear delight. The memory forced a smile onto his face.

He closed his eyes and turned his head facing directly up instinctively moving his nostrils to the highest point. He took a long breath and held it as water topped over his nose.

Racecar Driver

He drove for a profession and he excelled. A racecar driver, in fact, was he, the best as it pertained to league scoring. His peers feared him on the track due to his undeniable skills and consistently victorious strategies in clutch situations. Instincts had been honed from thousands of hours developing his craft. This was his living, a livelihood that provided abundantly. Away from the racecar, though, his driving was atrocious.

The driving proficiency was strictly relegated to the racetrack. He didn’t deny it, he knew it to be the truth. On the racetrack, driving 200 or more miles per hour, often twelve inches or less from his competitors, left him in a peace of mind akin to petting one’s dog or taking a walk on a moss-riddled forested trail. A drive to the local mall or across town to a favored restaurant would render him a nervous, tenuous, second-guessing wreck of a timid driver. Public roads populated by civilians were unsettling to him. If given a choice, he’d rather shave dry with a rusty razor than willingly sit behind the wheel for a three-mile drive on surface streets. Such was the severity of his mental trepidation.

On the racetrack with velocity vastly higher than civilian speeds it was safer, he reasoned. Yes, speeds are higher, but everyone’s a professional. Also, they’re all going in the same direction, there’s no cross traffic, street signals, pedestrians or cyclists, and everyone’s paying attention. Nobody on their cell phone, no texting. The racetrack, it was safer than a petting zoo, he furthered. 55 MPH on a freeway mixed in with sedans, pickups, minivans and SUVs made him panic. Uncertainty welled up for him at the thought of so many vehicles possibly not maintained to perform at their peak.

So awful was his lack of skill on public roads that his wife was the predominant personal driver. It was not to spare him from his non-race driving discomfort that she finally relented. She insisted upon being the designated driver for the betterment of the household. The role was assumed so that she no longer had to bear witness this ridiculously tentative and nerve-wracking driving. It ruined her mood and compromised her calm demeanor. She hated driving with him at the helm and it was not a topic of family humor, it was a serious matter. Serious, yet he relinquished the reigns of the family’s automobile without argument, discussion or so much as a raised eyebrow. The transition was peacefully made with no more formality than passing a salt dispenser across the table at dinner time.

Their eldest child, a daughter, came of driving age and made him proud from her first moment. In her younger years she’d become so accustomed to her father in the passenger seat that she instinctively took the car keys. He was thankful he’d raised a daughter considerate enough to take action without the need of an embarrassing question or forcing admittance of his deficiency. So many years had, by now, passed that his passenger-seat status was no longer a mental defeat to him. It had become a neutral activity similar to the recurring task of mowing the lawn. It was now the natural order of things.

Peace was on the horizon because it was nearly race season. He’d have pole position locked up soon driving one of the multi-hundred thousand dollar racecars at his disposal. Confidence impeccably resumed and on full display, his opponents grudgingly jealous of his cool professionalism. This was a less tense time of year for the family. His wife or daughter doing the driving, all pretending publicly that he was saving himself for the racetrack. His family, meanwhile, baffled how his transition to public roads was such an utter failure. 

A mental block, that’s all. The basketball player who can’t shoot free throws. The professional singer who stutters off stage when not commandingly singing in front of an audience of thousands. Regardless, racing season starts next weekend and peace will be temporarily restored. 

Tragic Load

His mouth was full and it would prove to be his downfall. He was 15 years old and had ridden his bicycle to the local diner for an early Saturday afternoon burger. A treat he occasionally granted himself after conducting lawn mowing duties for his neighborhood customers. He was generally regarded as a well behaved boy. His eating habits, however, were rugged. 

His appetite was healthy, not repulsive, aggressive nor excessive. The haste with which he consumed his meals, though, was troubling, even to his enablers. He ate with the haste one would assume is learned from growing up in jail or the combative facilities of a shared dining hall in a juvenile delinquents detention center. But this fellow had no such background. He came from good people. The kind of people that let their children know their number one goal was to grow up and become good people. Being smart, innovate, or industrious were also commendable qualities, but be a good person. To be clear, this young fellow was already in compliance with those wishes, but the art of eating was an area of blatant failure.

He knew savor only as a word in the dictionary, it had no intersection with his life experience. Even when instructed to take remedial action as it pertains to culinary etiquette he seemed helplessly incapable of amending this poor behavior. Simply unable, much as one could not prevent closing their eyes while sneezing.

The diner was crowded on this weekend afternoon. He was lucky to get a seat at the window and the red and white checkered countertop was freshly wiped down. He was able to stare across the street and watch his bicycle where he left it on the steps of a church. His meal arrived and his appetite was equal to the challenge. He piled all the vegetable dressings and condiments onto his burger then plied his fries with ketchup. With his typical lack of restraint he commenced the meal’s consumption with alarming zest.

As the second bite of burger was shoved into his mouth, it was still loaded with an abundance of debris from the first bite plus the fries he also managed to stuff into his crowded pie hole. The boy’s mouth was full. A disgusting vision to behold if you could not find some way to avert your eyes. The boy, watching his mode of transport as noted, spied a pair of local ruffians nosing around his bicycle across the street, then get on it and ride away. He was watching his bicycle be stolen!

He jumped from his seat and tried to yell. With the prodigious amounts of food stuffed in his gullet his yells were stifled. It was a tight fit mashing that burger around in there. Tight like an overstuffed pillow struggling into a custom fitted pillow case. The thickly coagulated mass of burger detritus impeded his ability of speech more thoroughly than had he been gagged with a pair of wet gym socks. People thought he was choking. He pointed out the window trying to explain about his bicycle, but the intent was lost on the other diners. Being well mannered he knew he couldn’t spit out the food from his mouth, how uncouth, how impolite. What a rude spectacle this would make of himself. He couldn’t run out of the diner chasing the thieves because he had not yet paid his bill. Folks might think he was making for a free meal. He had effectively trapped himself with the quick consecutive engorging bites of his delicious charbroiled burger.

His wild pantomiming, farcical gesticulating and incoherent vocalizations alarmed the other diners. The manager rapidly approached hoping to restore calm but the vision of the tragic load in the boy’s mouth was too strong. So completely was the desperate, violent struggle of mastication conveyed to the man that he was immediately overcome with an irrevocable revulsion that sent him reeling back from whence he came. One hand powerfully covering his mouth, the other wildly waving kitchen staff out of the way in his emergency retreat looking for clear ground in case he were to blow. The load with which the boy had drastically encumbered himself was undaunted like a reigning victorious entity unto itself.

He watched the youths take his bicycle and they were now out of sight. He sat back down and stopped yelling. This put the other diners at ease to some extent, although they continued to watch him to see what might happen next. He still could not speak due to the amount of cud he was working. A swig of milk shake did not help to dilute the thick stew. It was lost. He would finish his lunch, pay his bill then walk home.

After such an experience most people would reflect back and conclude that they needed to rethink the pace at which they ate. This boy did the same. The conclusion most people would draw compared to that of our young man, though, were wildly divergent. Most people would decide they needed to slow down their eating pace allowing for more civil consumption, but not the boy. He decided that if he’d only eaten even more quickly he could have been out there to defend against his bicycle’s abduction. More quickly, he thought, more quickly! The horror! There would be no saving this one.

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.]