The Stash

It was more cash than he’d ever seen in his life, at least to date. It was also more than he could abscond with and remain inconspicuous. He was presently equipped with only a pair of pockets and a backpack. It was imperative that he decide quickly and correctly.

He’d been hiking with one other in the nearby mountains, foothills as they were so referred by the locals. Trailhead was an hour’s drive from his current residence, a studio apartment, give or take the traffic variable. They had been off the main trail following an obscure path when he excused himself for a nature break. The morning Slurpee on the drive seemed to have unfavorably comingled with his breakfast bowl of Grape Nuts cereal. It was there, behind and partially covered by low-lying bushes and heavy tree canopy, that he saw it. A duffle bag, black, caked with dirt and signs of having absorbed a good deal of weather in its stint at this locale. What gives? There was no lock, the zipper, though rusty, remained intact sealing the contents. An irresistibly curious find. Of course he’d open it.

Bundles of cash! Twenty-dollar bills all banded together as if withdrawn from the bank in an orderly fashion. It was a medium sized duffle, not over stuffed, but absolutely more than he and his pal could handle. What now? Take what he could carry? Tell his cohort? Or just keep this secret and reduce the chance of anybody else finding out about the stash?

He decided to take a little taste for himself. Two bands of bills were removed from the duffle and placed in his backpack. If he was going to keep this secret he couldn’t and wouldn’t tell his pal. They weren’t really friends anyway, he justified in the moment, work acquaintances that liked talking football Monday mornings before the team meeting. These two ended up on today’s hike together merely because the third person, the mutual close friend who bound them together, was a last minute cancellation. He would not share the wealth he decided. ‘Keep it to myself and there’ll be no awkward questions at work. No rumors about the source of the money every time I pull out a $20 to pay for lunch,’ he thought to himself.

Before walking away he also decided he’d never return for the balance of the cash, that’d be too risky. He didn’t know from whence the duffle came, if the bills were marked or if someone would be looking for it. Maybe there’d be a transponder indicating the location of this stash and he wouldn’t want the transponder to lead to his apartment. Heck, ‘marked bills,’ he didn’t even know what that meant, just a term he heard in some movie. He was an office wonk, a guy who rocked a desk 40 hours per week. He wanted nothing to do with anyone who had anything to do with this bag ending up here.

He opened the duffle bag, removed another 16-20 bands and stuffed them deep into his backpack, closed the duffle, rubbed dirt on the zipper thinking it may jumble his fingerprints. He hastily returned to his hiking partner, having forgotten to take his ‘break,’ they hiked on. No mention of the find.

He had been feeling tired and worn-out, his knees and thighs aching for a rest. Understandable since this was a 12-mile hike with a 4,000-foot incline and 9,300-foot peak. He felt now only rejuvenation, plus a sense of being watched. The cash added only four pounds, but the increased volume made it an awkward load that now dug savagely into his shoulders. He liked the pain, though, and stubbornly showed no outward signs of physical discomfort.

They peaked, enjoyed the view, he ate a leisurely lunch of peanut butter and jelly sandwich, soda pop, apple, and several fistfuls of candy. The sugar would fuel his downhill and distract him from the anticipated painful knees, feet and ankles.

They hiked back to the parking lot and drove down the hill. He offered to pay for fuel and lunch including milk shakes! “Thanks for driving today, my treat as a show of appreciation.” At inception he had peeled off a few bills and put them into his pocket for easy access. The two parted ways until Monday morning’s meeting at work.

He was delivered to his car in the public lot. Without taking another look inside his backpack he simply loaded it into the trunk of his car, changed shoes, pulled an unopened cold bottled water from the cooler and drove home. It had been a five-hour hike, a very profitable way to spend a sunny Saturday morning. He didn’t know where he was going to put this load of cash. He didn’t know what he was going to do with it. He knew only that he couldn’t simply roll into the bank for a deposit of $40,000 in cash. He’d have an hour’s drive home to come up with answers and an action plan by which the bills would be concealed and employed.

[to be continued . . .]

-klem

‘How do you like President Trump?’

We’re living in volatile times where calm, reasoned political discourse has become an anomaly. When such a question as above is posed the proverbial trigger warnings should flash in your head. For me, I like our president about as much as I like a sack of snakes. But the more properly worded question is ‘How do you like the policies of the Trump Administration,’ not so much the man himself. Certainly the administration has appeared clumsy, disorganized, cantankerous and factually inept at times. The setting is ripe for a subsequent question, ‘What do you think of Hillary now?’

Look, if I disagree with a politician 90% of the time, the fact that they’d be more proficient at holding a press conference would be no consolation. On the other hand, if I agree with a politician 70% of the time I’ll begrudgingly endure the press conferences that look more akin to a professional wrestling post-match interview.

The reactions of the hordes to Trump are regrettable what with the relentless marching [I concede their admirable gumption] and protests. If a person chooses to be offended at every farcical motion of the Trump Administration then they’re a hysteric. Similarly, if a person agrees with every action of the president then they would seem to be a non-thinking beast simply accepting their team’s talking points. Either way both personifications are operating in absence of reason and judgment.

So then, what do I think of the Trump Administration? I mostly agree with their policies, yet I definitely want our highest official to stop with the Executive Orders. Conservatives didn’t like it when President Obama pushed out Executive Orders like coasters at a pub during happy hour, and it’s entirely understandable President Trump would get similar push back from opposing forces.

As far as I’m concerned, there is almost nothing the government can provide for me that is made better if it is expedited. Stop with the Executive Orders and let this stuff take the long way through the House and Senate. Sure, I know, Trump owns all three branches of government why not push everything through? I prefer a more complete vetting before the president’s instructions go live. It’s important for the American people to see both political teams work together to find common ground and lay down bipartisan work. Executive Orders disallow this opportunity and foster a bountiful amount of resentment. The congressional process is necessary to let these bills see the light of day. I don’t want anyone to be able to hide their bilge behind the unilateral act of our president. Make the elected officials stand up and explain what they stand for.

We need to be able to agree or disagree without each Trump challenge being praised as if it were a gallant act of defiance. Reasonable adults should be able to disagree without prancing around for high fives and validation. Let’s strive to be those reasonable adults and discuss our positions without the self-important gesticulating. And Mr. President, put down the Twitter, sir!

A Particular Fellow

He was particular on a number of fronts, this fellow, though not necessarily peculiar. Allow me, please, to enumerate the ways based on my vast experience with the man in question.

He strictly forbade himself from beginning to read a new novel on the same day he had finished the previous tome. That’s right, finish reading a novel on Tuesday, next novel starts no sooner than Wednesday. Rule applied only to novels, however, biographies and non-fiction books, for some unknown particular reason, were not similarly regulated.

Emails with blank Subject lines were worthy of his vast and highly capable derision.

His finger nails were deemed well overdue for a crisp trimming if they made contact with the keyboard when keying on his laptop. On an iPad he’d go nuts with the clacking of his finger nails on its glass screen.

Cleanliness was an area ripe for his attention. After pumping a tank of fuel at the gas station he would be desperately eager to wash his hands. The catalyst was the handling of the fuel nozzle having been preceded by countless unwashed patrons’ hands.

When it came to food related cleanliness his tendencies were housed in some semblance of practicality. For example, he became quietly enraged when food-handling plastic-gloved employees wore their gloves when conducting non-food tasks such as money handling, only to return to the food tasks while donning those same, now tainted, gloves. ‘What,’ he would say loudly in his head,’ is the purpose of the gloves? To keep your own hands clean or to keep the food clean from germ transfer from that other task?’

Let’s talk eating, if I may. The sounds of another’s mastication drove the silly fellow quietly bonkers. The sounding of a carrot being bitten in half was of no concern to his unique sensibilities, but the further decimation soundings of the orange root into smithereens were enough to conjure images of Expressionist Edward Munch’s 19^th century painting The Scream. Of course it’s also possible this particular fellow was dabbling in self-satisfying and inane hyperbole. An apple was fully capable of generating the same reaction. The initial cracking, if you will, was entirely viewed as above board. It was the secondary chewing that nudged him over the edge. A cupcake, on the other hand, possessed nearly no neutral regard, it was all deleterious to his hearing instruments. Chewing gum, however, despite the name which you’d think may be problematic for him was incapable of generating a reaction. A different story entirely, though, should the chewing be done with the mouth agape. Dining experiences being conducted in a noisy environment became a source of favored anticipation as it easily drowned out a table’s worth of cacophony leaving him in peace.

Pie was preferred delivered and consumed in a bowl. The corresponding dining instrument should be a spoon, of course, so as to hug the contours of the bowl and reduce the odds of missing out on the deliciousness contained in a loose ort. He was visibly enthusiastic for suppers that could be consumed with a spoon, also in a bowl. No, not soups, though he delighted in their consumption, too, but they bore a much lower thrill level than a traditional entrée. Turkey pot pies or shepherd pies placed him in the proverbial bonus due to the bowl-based serving style. Then again, this guy had a thing for pie.

When eating donuts his considerable hankering was to consume the pastry with the frosted side down. That’s right, the frosted side by all means is deserving of landing directly onto the taste-bud laden tongue rather than waiting for the diluted chance happening through the chewing process. Deliver the frosted side promptly and without delay, get the taste buds engaged. Although, he preferred to conduct this ‘upside downing’ operation alone should somebody notice and he become obligated to explain the reasoning.

Based on the information provided above I submit that ‘peculiar’ as a descriptor is harsher than necessary, sounding almost sinister. ‘Particular,’ though, more cleanly claims his absurd idiosyncrasies. We’re talking about a fellow, after all, with a problematic self-imposed highly regulated book protocol and what seems to be ridiculous eating hang-ups. Peculiar? I think not. Goofy? Particularly so.

Dreaming Again

October 2016: We spent a weekend this fall hiking in Bishop. The scenic forested hikes and talk of possible wild animal sightings seem to have prompted the following dream:

Dream: I emerged from a rustic hotel, stepped outside into a sunny day and took several steps into the parking lot as my eyeballs adjusted to the brightness of the morning. Just then I spotted a momma bear 40 feet away. Luckily she wasn’t interested in me, she was watching her bear cub, and it was getting dangerously close to a pair of hotel patrons. I wanted to call out warning them to back away, but I didn’t want to rile up momma bear with my wailing, so I turned to return to the safety of my hotel room. But now I noticed two juvenile bears, not exactly cubs, between me and the hotel room door. One bear was sitting on the ground eating something and was, thankfully, ignoring me. Then there was the second juvenile bear, this one was walking upright wearing pajama pants! It, too, was ignoring me, walking away. Digesting the confusion of the pajama bottom-wearing bear I took a few steps in the direction of the hotel’s door. I turned back to check on momma bear’s status, am I going to make it to the safety of the room? Sadly, no, she was upon me with a vicious snarling mouth. I awakened while she was in mid-leap nearly upon me before her abuse could commence.

November 2016: We spent a long weekend in Death Valley last month hiking its interesting terrain in the absence of the peak summer heat. When we travel I share a bed with my son. It was under these circumstances the following dream transpired.

Dream: My son and I were enjoying the afternoon walking on a sidewalk in a tree-shaded residential neighborhood. A dog arrived on the scene, not vicious, but was vigorously sniffing at my feet. So vigorous, in fact, was the dog’s snuffling that I had to stop walking so as to avoid kicking the noble beast’s snout. I noticed then that I wasn’t just stopped, my feet were effectively anchored to the sidewalk. Were my feet frozen to the ground?

At this point I woke up to find that my slumbering son was lying diagonally in bed and his feet had jammed my feet firmly into the tightly bound bed sheets. My feet in real life, to match the dream, were actually immovable. They were stuck between his feet and the tucked in bed sheets to such effect that my dreaming self had to stop his own feet from moving. It was with much chuckling I recounted this dream to the family during breakfast. By then my feet had regained the ability to move.

Fake News

Since the election of President Trump there have been media articles raging about fake news websites. My initial thought was that this might be a revolt against the considerable number of Hillary puff pieces emanating from the New York Times and its ilk leading up to the election. After a brief bit of spelunking I find those were not the target of rage. There is discussion at Facebook of possibly banning articles that are deemed to be from fake news sites. Google is also discussing disallowing its ad services from fake news sites. The concern is that if war were to be waged against fake news, then there would be a group of people deciding and enforcing what news is fake and what is real. Who would be these deciders and what of their qualifications?

I vote against this prospective censorship and banning of websites. In a light-hearted example, let’s say a sports writer thinks the Cleveland Browns have a chance of reaching the playoffs next season [this season is already shot for this perennially damaged sports franchise]. As far as I’m concerned that’s not real news and such silly opinions would be worthy of ridicule. But just because I disagree with it doesn’t mean it should be banned from a public that is willing to consume it. Certainly we can all agree that the Browns footballers playing well enough to reach the playoffs is a comical idea, but there really is a serious issue at stake.

The greater issue is that if censorship comes to fruition, a news article or opinion piece putting forth a challenging idea might be deemed inedible for public consumption. If a journalist challenges global warming or is perceived to slight a favored demographic, for example, these articles might be deemed to have run afoul of an enforcer’s threshold of fake news. Ignorance prevails every time only a single side of an issue is put forth with the other perspective being suppressed. Such suppression would be a significant barrier to fostering an educated informed populace.

Of course fake news is problematic, so is dumbed down journalism written to navigate within the barriers of approved talking points. The truth is there are dubious websites, they are deserving of their freedom and our derision. Just as importantly, serious people should consider sources before ingesting their news. So let's be serious.

klem

Dreaming

I’ve lately been enjoying a number of silly dreams, too silly, in fact, to keep to myself so I share two of them here from a recent vacation. To set the stage, when we travel I share a bed with our son, Wife Klem shares a bed with our daughter.

Night #1

In my dream I’m walking through the streets of a foreign city at night. I know it’s a foreign city because in Spanish I’m asking pedestrians and passersby ‘Donde esta me chaqueta?’ [‘Where is my jacket’]. Why I’m speaking in Spanish in my dream I know not. [I’m not a Spanish speaker although I have made an effort over the years to learn the language to some minor effect. Clearly my subconscious has been paying attention.] None of the pedestrians knows the whereabouts of my jacket. They walk briskly past me not even slowing down to acknowledge me. It’s a chilly night in the dream and my jacket would increase my comfort level. I woke up in the middle of the night to find that my son, with whom I’d been sharing a bed, has rolled over and taken all the covers. In my dream I’m looking for my jacket, but in real life my slumbering self is cold and merely wants a blanket.

Night #2

The second dream, though far less detailed, carries the same them. I’m a spectator in an ice rink watching an amateur hockey game. Sure is chilly in an ice rink and I had forgotten to layer on the clothing. I woke up to, again, find that my son had rolled over and taken the bed covers with him.

Hopefully Sigmund Freud or one of his ilk does not find any more embarrassing meaning hidden deeply within these subconscious thoughts.