“We Already Had the Grapes”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Based on Mom Klem’s recurring nightmare.]

The Glitch

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Glove Maker

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kryptonite Brownies

NEWS BULLETIN!

Smallville, Kansas.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How does mortality feel, superhero?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Land Cruiser

Orange County, CA, late 1960s.

Part I

Bill arrived early to the military base to report for work, only to be promptly advised that the meeting had been rescheduled for the next day. He was a subcontractor performing highly specialized electrical engineering work with various clearance authorizations. With the morning freed up he stopped at the commissary for a donut and coffee, then decided to take his Land Cruiser off-roading. It was a unique and reliable vehicle befitting of his character.

He had been off-roading through many of the local hills, but there remained another quadrant that he had not yet engaged. It would happen this morning. He enjoyed being alone in the sunny outdoors away from the nuisance that often came with human interaction. Nothing ever bothered him when he was off-roading. At least, not until today’s incident.

He’d been out for 30 minutes when he approached a hill. He could see where he was going, that is, he could see the front of the hill, but wasn’t exactly sure what was beyond it. Not to worry, he thought, there’s been little else he saw that would be a problem for him or his very capable vehicle. For a thrill he went, perhaps, a little faster than he should have. The vehicle went over the top, a lengthy downhill slope with a rock-laden dry river bed at the bottom awaited him. This, he saw very clearly once he was over the top, but there wasn’t enough distance to stop. All he could do was turn the wheel and prevent a head on collision with a large rock outcropping. A destructive collision was avoided, but the toll had been decisively exacted. The vehicle came to rest lodged solidly between two sets of rocks in an access-deficient ravine. There was no driving away from this, he was stuck!

Bill released his seat belt, got out of the vehicle, and drank from his canteen. He stood back with his hands on his hips to assess this troubling development. “Well, shit,” he concluded. The Land Cruiser was almost fully on it side and only two wheels made contact with the ground. The rocks were much larger than could be moved manually, plus this was an awkward area where it would be difficult to get the necessary heavy equipment in place to extricate the vehicle. ‘Oh well,’ thinking to himself. ‘It’s early, yet. I’ll walk back to where I saw that house and ask for help.’

By 10:00 he reached the dwelling and stood at the front door. He straightened his shirt, dusted his pants off and placed his sunglasses in his shirt pocket. He knocked on the door and hoped for the best. A grizzly looking man answered the door, smirked and said, “What?” 

The situation was explained while standing there by the front door. With little other discourse and an absence of pleasantries they took a drive in the man’s Jeep to see the situation and assess the scene of the incident. Standing at the crest of the hill they looked at the Land Cruiser's predicament from 50 feet away and agreed that it appeared solidly wedged.

“Will you help me get the vehicle out,” Bill started off. “We can hook up chains between the two vehicles and pull it loose.”

The other guy was in no mood to be agreeable. “I tell you what. Your car appears good and stuck. Also, you’re trespassing, you’re on my land.”

“Look, I didn’t see a trespassing sign or a fence. I just followed the dirt road. I’m sorry, will you help me out,” Bill offered with a sinking feeling in his stomach.

“I won’t help you with the vehicle. This is my land and I won’t allow a towing service on my land to get the car. But I will help you. The vehicle’s stuck and ain’t going nowhere, might as well be worthless.” After a short pause he continued, “I’ll offer you $100 for it. I’ll even give you a ride back to town.”

The discussion went on for another few minutes and Bill saw this was not going to get fixed to his liking. If you and I were there to witness the close of this discussion we would have seen Bill look him in the eyes and deliver a meaningful and unhurried, “You go to hell.” No deal. He hiked down to the Land Cruiser, transferred the remaining possessions to his backpack and walked away never looking back at his adversary. Two hours and seven miles later he arrived back at the military base where he had started.

Part II

Bill was an engineer. As such his life was logic based and he preferred things in their proper sequence. To be denied a logical request was not entirely the problem. It was easily understood that pulling the Land Cruiser out of the ravine would be a difficult feat. Sure, the grizzled guy possibly lacked the means to bring the extraction mission to fruition. It was the blunt declination disallowing help to access his property and the subsequent rip off attempt that burned most fiercely.

He was a resourceful man. Bill had been working steadily at the base for two years intermittently for various projects and had made a number of trusted contacts there. He didn’t know yet how he was going to retrieve his car. He did know, however, that the two-hour walk back to the base left him thirsty, sun-burned and in bad spirits. When his spirits were bad you didn’t want to be on the opposing side causing that discomforting friction. The walk allowed him much needed time to think on how to proceed. He didn’t know how to get his vehicle but he’d start with a direct approach. Ask for help from his friends and acquaintances at the military base.

He was not a military man. More precisely, he had not held an official position or rank in the armed services, but he did grow up on military bases in a military family in Germany during World War II. In the United States he had extensive interaction winning electronic engineering contracts for the U.S. military. Though he lacked official standing he had acquired certain key skills living out this eclectic background in military environments. He knew how to talk their language, how to instill urgency, and compel these types of men to action. It wasn’t always about getting them to do what they shoulddo. Heck, it’s the military, everything they do costs money, gets people killed and/or wastes resources. His plan was to get them to want to show off what theycoulddo. First stop was to visit his friend who lived on base. Bill wanted one opportunity to explain the circumstances, get honest feedback, recraft as needed, then go into action.

“Well hell, Bill, what do you expect the army to do? Roll a tank over his house then fly your car out of the ditch with a helicopter? This is the army, that doesn’t happen,” bluntly spoke his friend after patiently hearing him out from start to finish.

“You should have seen that son of a bitch. I should have punched him in the mouth. I won’t lose to a man like that. Who do I need to talk to for that helicopter,” he said.

“Bill, you’re not hearing me. Not going to happen. Go back to your pal and collect the $100,” responded his friend knowing full well his remark would rile him up further.

“Just tell me who, I’ll figure out what to say on the way over there,” he said.

“What, the helicopter? Sure, good luck, you’ll need the CO’s approval. Look, you can start with the sergeant for practice. If you can’t get past him then your little airlift dream is dead anyway.” And so it began.

Military personnel are not inclined to say or admit what they cannot do. They have been trained and ingrained to topple every situation. Every question is answered in the affirmative. Bill knew, of course, he had no grounds to make a request for assistance. Maybe he could play an ego, find someone who wanted to show what he could do. The skills he acquired in a lifetime’s worth of military exposure were soon to be deployed to their maximum capacity.

The first officer wielded little more power than permission to speak with the next ranking officer. Keeping his talking points simple and on target Bill spoke his piece, then paused. Silence. Maybe 20 seconds. The officer didn’t want to admit he couldn’t do it, naturally. A brief question and answer then the officer decided it was time to talk to his superior officer. They advanced to the next conversation. 

Thrice more Bill spoke his piece, hitting the talking points and leaving an opening for each subsequent officer to flex his power. Each meeting was cast forward to the next ranking officer picking up additional people in his entourage. He felt like a snowball rolling forward picking up mass with each rotation. Each officer was self-conscious about not wanting to admit in front of an audience that the decision was beyond his immediate parameters of responsibility. Each simply and strategically suggested they talk to the next superior officer. With the accumulating pageantry of a 4^thof July parade all the people from the prior meeting parleyed forward until they were standing before the base’s Commanding Officer. Finally, thought Bill, a decision is bound to be issued here. Only this time he was no longer ’leading the charge,’ as it were. He had met the CO on a prior project, they had met and shook hands, though only in passing.

After hearing out the predicament the CO weighed in, “Look Bill, even if I wanted to help, the helicopter teams have been out all day on training missions.”

“Actually, sir,” sheepishly interjected one officer, “one team’s training was canceled due to a scheduling snafu. It was a recent development. They’re probably still ready and fueled.”

“You know, sir,” started another. “This car retrieval mission could be billed as a training mission. A convenient replacement for this morning’s canceled exercise. There are a number of soldiers in need of a final training run to qualify for certification. Sir, with your authorization I can prepare the paperwork for your signature. Besides, I’ve worked with Bill and he’s a top notch engineer.”

“Of course he’s top notch, otherwise we wouldn’t have hired him. What the hell, if you guys are bent on doing all the work then do it.” The CO paused for a long while and everyone was too surprised at his apparent approval to say anything. They all stood there in silence waiting to see what happened next. “Now, if we’re done here you’re dismissed. I understand the mess hall is serving my favorite for dinner tonight and it’s time to eat. Sloppy joes,” said the CO cavalierly heading out the door and never looking back.

Not twenty minutes later, Bill and the grip of officers were with the helicopter crew. While the officers were issuing orders the enlisted men were running about trying to comply with the orders coming from all directions, one order often conflicting with another. The crew knew what to do, they needed only to be provided orders and left alone, but that was not the military way. Once up in the air they’d be free of the officers’ confusion and they could make their own decisions. This was a good crew and competence would be readily at hand once they were airborne.

Bill calmly boarded the helicopter as the rotors began to spin. He grabbed a helmet off the wall and provided directions to the copilot as the pilot completed the pre-flight checklist. He sat back enjoying the illusion of having a personal helicopter crew under his command.

Once a week the grizzled guy enjoyed what he considered deluxe dining, sloppy joes. At least that’s what he called it. He took his week’s left overs, tossed it all into a pan and warmed it, toasted two hamburger buns, and loaded them up, then added ketchup. He ate this special meal on his sparse porch proudly overlooking his barren land. Today he was eagerly awaiting sufficient time to pass whereby he might claim that slick abandoned Land Cruiser. Well, abandoned was wishful thinking, but really, it was land locked on his property.

He’d spent the entirety of his adult years as a bachelor. Living within these narrow confines handily serviced by a rudimentary set of skills he long ago discarded social graces, good manners and culinary etiquette. He took a gigantic bite of his first sloppy joe then flooded his mouth’s contents with a generous swig of lukewarm lemonade. He was enjoying himself in the delight and recognition that this was the good life. His taste buds were in their full glory with this meal. Just then an odd image started to take shape in the sky from the west. A helicopter, a big one. With the military base nearby these big birds did occasionally dot the skies, though not usually this close. In fact, it appeared to be coming closer.

As three soldiers geared up to descend 50 feet to the Land Cruiser, Bill’s persuasive talents finally met their match as he attempted to be the fourth to descend.

“Sir, these men have the situation under control. Please remain seated,” said the copilot. He watched as the soldiers dropped out of the helicopter.

Before long the three were back aboard, the helicopter slowly ascended and the vehicle emerged after some jostling. Looking back in the excitement of victory, he didn’t recall much of the brief flight back to base. The triumphant exuberance was overwhelming. The vehicle bounced lightly upon return to the base helipad, two soldiers descended to disconnect the load. At final touch down Bill offered effusive thanks to the crew. With the nose of the engine still roaring it’s likely his exact wording was errant of precision, but the message of thanks was clear.

It was late evening and it’d been a long day. The car keys had been in his pocket since the morning’s incident. He inserted the key into the ignition and it started right up. He hadn’t eaten since this morning’s commissary visit, but he wasn’t really hungry for a big meal. He’d decided to stop for donuts and coffee on the drive home.

[Based on Opa’s real life events.]

Cache of Ammo

My daughter and I went for a walk to the market, right down the street. We had a package to mail at the pharmacy / post office culminating with a stop at the grocery store to check out the super cereal price wars that seem to be underway.

On Puente St., the final stretch to the shopping center, the south side of the street is lined with a white fence running parallel to the sidewalk all the way down the street. We were talking, enjoying the mildest of sprinkles, when we observed a tan duffel bag on the other side of the fence, the side with the tall weeds and untended native growth.

“Hey, think we should see what’s in that duffel bag,” I asked.

“Yeah,” was all the encouragement I needed.

“OK, you stay here,” removing the backpack containing the package to mail and a reusable shopping bag to be employed at the market.

I walked around the fence, about 30 feet back from whence we had just come. Maybe this is the bag of cash I’ve day dreamed of finding through much of my adult life. The weeds were tall and I purposely chose my steps to topple the bulkiest to minimize my interaction with the unwanted growth. There it is, the duffel bag at my feet.

I notice immediately that it had been a recent acquisition, observation based on the manufacturer’s tag still attached. I also note that the bag had probably been there at least overnight, an observation based on the numerous rabbit turds on top of the bag. [What gives, I thought, a rabbit bothered to crest the bag for a bowel movement?] Regardless, I reach for the zipper of the main compartment and pull. This will require more than one point of contact, the other hand will be needed to provide the necessary counter force of holding the bag in place. With that I feel the heft of the bag and hear the contents clatter. With some degree of sadness I realize, based on the sound, this is not the aforementioned bag of cash. I also find reassurance that the noise renders the possibility of this being a sack of snakes to near nil. The zipper pulled, the flap released, I pull it open to reveal contents I do not immediately recognize which activates the caution alarm in my brain. This is so far outside the realm of expectation that it just did not register. Rather than reaching inside I shift the weight of the bag to move the contents. They appear to be ammunition magazines! Not magazines, the written word publications, but actual firearms hardware, about 10 of them plus additional paraphernalia! Some of the magazines are rectangular shaped, others are of the curved variety. No weapons were observed, but at this point my curiosity had been extinguished.

“I think we need to call the police,” I utter before returning to the pedestrian side of the fence and call 911.

“What’s your emergency,” asked the operator.

“I’m in San Dimas and I’d like to speak with the San Dimas Sheriff, please.”

“This is the San Dimas Sheriff. What’s your emergency.”

“I found a duffle bag of what appears to be ammunition. It’s possible it’s just for paint ball guns, but I don’t think so.”

The operator is furnished with our coordinates and advised that we’d remain on site. Within minutes a police car arrived with two officers.

One officer walked to the bag while the other remained with us. My contact information and ID were requested and provided.

“Did you touch anything,” asked the officer by the bag.

“Just the zipper.”

“I was hoping it was a bag of cash,” I told the officer nearest us yielding absolutely no reaction.

The officer opened the bag. Finding the contents of interest he then opened the other pockets. He quickly looked around the hillside and scoured the immediate vicinity for any additional firearms hardware. Finding nothing, he zipped the bag, tossed it over the fence toward the car. 

“I guess it’s not paint ball gear,” I mentioned to the second officer again yielding no response.

The first officer returned to where we were and he was looking very serious. I thought he going to frisk me, search my backpack and arrest me. I didn’t like the look he was bearing down with.

“Put the bag in the trunk,” he said to his partner, “we have another hot call to get to.” With that they left.

My daughter and I continued our walk down the street. Our lucky finds were not yet done for the day. At the grocery store we came across a sale on Kellogg’s brand cereal and they had the rare find of Chocolate Frosted Flakes! Can’t wait for breakfast tomorrow.

[An actual event that occurred on 5/26/2018.]

Coyote Conjurer

She was magnificent with her long, flowing, strawberry-blond hair and eyes as blue as a cloudless spring day. When her ire had been sufficiently raised because of a wrong waged by humanity unto nature, her hair would become seemingly aflame with her sensibilities bent by the observed infraction. It was in such moments on the cusp of enragement that she would conjure and command her pack of coyotes. With two fingers she rubbed the top of her right ear, at the very top where a cluster of empowering freckles lay, the pack would be summoned and unleashed.

The first time her coyotes appeared it was accidental. Or, at least, she didn’t know at that time she had such powers. Three kids, adolescents in their mid-teens, hiking in a National Park had strayed from the trail. Signs were abundantly posted specifically warning people to stay on the trails to minimize humanity’s deteriorating effects. It was during this off-trail frolic she saw the boys and said aloud to her hiking partner, “They shouldn’t be over there. They need to stick to the trail in this area.” She had been rubbing the top of her right ear when she spoke. That’s when the coyotes made their impeccably timed appearance.

It was a pack of seven stunningly beautiful animals, five adults and two pups. They made their approach quickly and without warning. The chase ended almost as fast as it started when the adolescents ran back to the trail near where the blonde-haired conjurer stood. The largest coyote was only a few feet away staring at the three delinquents issuing intimidating growls. The other four adult coyotes remained behind howling, the pups’ efforts yielded only high-pitched yelps. The situation under control, the lead coyote slowly approached the conjurer, offered a low bow, then made a chuffing sound as if to say to her, “Hello, my friend, it’s good to see you.” The coyotes then turned all at once and ran away.

“Miss, those coyotes were dangerous, weren’t you scared,” asked one boy.

“They looked like they were waiting for you to give them orders,” said another of the reprimanded youths.

“I wasn’t scared, I didn’t do anything wrong. They just wanted you to stay on the trail. Stop being dorks,” she responded and kept moving.

A few months later she was on a date when it happened again. The young man, doing an amusingly poor job of trying to woo, had suggested a picnic at a local park [that was a good idea] but then proceeded to regale her with talk about his favorite baseball team [that was a silly idea]. The park was beautiful, as was the coyote-conjuring young lady. The park boasted of numerous No Smoking signs posted throughout. One of the park patrons, however, did not abide by the rule, had sparked up a cigarette and was defiling the grounds with his smoke and ash. With her date blabbing on about baseball he didn’t notice that her attention had turned to this other developing situation. Recalling the hiking incident she reached for her right ear and rubbed it with her thumb and forefinger. She tapped her prospective boyfriend to gain his attention and pointed toward the smoker. There was the pack of coyotes, her pack, running toward the offending smoker. They chased him and nipped his heels tumbling him to the ground. The lead coyote appeared to growl directly into the man’s face, then at the cigarette until the smoker put it out by mashing it with his hand. With the mission complete the pack approached the conjuring beauty. Her date suggested that they should get out of there and do so quickly. “Shhh,” she calmly said to him holding out the palm of her hand issuing the unspoken command of stop, a request to which he acquiesced with no delay. The main coyote approached her, bowed and made chuffing noises to her while standing just beyond her blanket. She smiled at the coyote while the others stayed back howling, then they ran off from whence they had come. Her image swelled in his eyes. Thankfully for her, he was inspired to change the topic of conversation from baseball. 

She came to understand clearly that these were her coyotes! She treasured these mighty beasts and would not call on them unnecessarily. They would not be conjured for playful scenarios like cuddling up with the pack to watch movies, for example, no. Having become convinced of humanity’s deteriorating affect on the environment, she decided to use the coyote pack to combat what infractions she could.

Some weeks later, she was enjoying a walk in the chic downtown area near her condominium. She saw an adult taking a walk with his family when he threw a candy wrapper to the ground. Broad daylight with a garbage bin only feet away! She rubbed her right ear and there they were. The largest ran headlong into the litterer’s rear end knocking him head first into the ground. With the lead coyote growling at him while he sat slumped on the ground, one of the coyote pups came up with the discarded wrapper and dropped it near him. The pup trotted to the litterbug’s baby stroller, licked the fingers of the giggling baby and scampered off. The main coyote stared at him, then at the litter, until the litterbug retrieved his garbage. Mission accomplished, the leader chuffed to the conjurer while the remainder of the pack howled. With that, they ran off. She continued her walk passed the litterbug, turned and said, “You need to set a better example for your little baby.”

“I will, sorry,” he said, embarrassed by his behavior.

There was also the drone incident in her neighborhood, a drone-free zone. She didn’t know who was controlling the drone, but it was up there buzzing around where it should not have been. She rubbed her ear, then waited. Within a minute the drone seemed to have lost control and fell to the ground. She heard a screech and crunch, and assumed it had been run over by a car. The coyote pack’s howling that followed was beautiful with the deeper vocals of the leader.

Then there was the foil balloon incident. A party at the local park was being arranged. One of the party planners had committed a foul causing immeasurable rage, a pair of foil balloon bouquets were on display. It was early, the partying had not yet commenced, and only a few people were present setting up the festivities. The coyote conjurer had been walking her dog, a rowdy huskie shepherd mix, when she saw the offending balloons, five in each bouquet. The balloons are problematic because they are occasionally swallowed by unsuspecting ocean-based animals which may result in their death. Plus the balloons sometimes get caught in electrical lines potentially causing damage, but that is a human inconvenience and is, therefore, tolerable. Well, these foil balloons would enjoy no such opportunities at mayhem. Her hand went to the right ear and her pack of coyotes was on the scene. She was on slightly higher ground yielding a good visual as to what transpired. The balloons were numerous, but when you have five adult coyotes under your command the powers you wield are great. Their attack was swift and elegant like a well timed ballet. All five were active in this mission leaping at, and popping, the foil balloons. The coyotes popped the balloons but refrained from tearing them to pieces to minimize the clean up effort. They didn’t touch the other types of balloons, nor cause damage to the cakes or refreshments. The four howled with the leader running ahead to bow in the conjurer’s direction before issuing a powerful, frightful to anyone else, howl. The coyotes then departed as rapidly as they had arrived.

Her conjuring was always to the betterment of nature and the environment. The targets were always well deserved and only those who had initiated wrongdoing, never any collateral damage. Her enragement continues today as a conscientious force for good in the world.

[Inspired by the cover of a graphic novel where a character had a team of polar bears under his command.]
-klem

Ice Rink

They were not the sharpest tools in the shed, as the saying goes. The three cocky, gregarious boys were not of ill intent, simply naïve and had been left alone for too long without supervision. It was winter in the northeastern United States at a very expensive private university. Beers had been flowing freely and their better judgment had been extinguished for the night. That’s when one of the boys said, “Hey, let’s drag the yard hose in here, turn it on and make an ice rink.” They were drinking and playing poker in the basement of their fraternity at the time and, sadly, the other two offered no resistance. The window was opened, the hose was pulled in to its full length and the faucet opened.

From his earliest days the youth remembered fondly how his father would make an ice rink in their back yard every winter. He would lay out a large plastic tarpaulin on top of two or three lengths of interconnected garden hoses shaping a large oval in the grass. Growing up in Massachusetts provided plenty of winter precipitation as well as the freezing temperatures needed to form the required abundance of ice. The annual ice rink marked a festive time for his siblings and neighbors. It was this memory deep on a Friday night with beers in his belly that sparked the seemingly bright idea to build an indoor ice rink in the basement of the fraternity house.

It was plenty cold outside, freezing in fact, but with only one window open there was very little chance of ice rink formulation. The other two, having identified this shortfall, assisted by opening the remaining windows and the double doors. The basement was large enough to host a winter ball with sufficient room left over for a full bar and two foosball tables. This was a big place. The keg of beer was far from empty, the night was cold with temperatures dropping and the hose continued at maximum flow.

The boys were not dumb, as it pertains to one’s intelligence quotient, just not thinking this through. They knew enough to stay out of the water to avoid accidental electrocution, but other than that, they were pleasantly clueless. Their attention reverted back to the poker game. One of the boys eventually lost the last of his chips, or coins or whatever they were using, he tossed his cards into the water on the floor, cursed belligerently to his chums and slumped upstairs to find his bed. He was quickly asleep without even a thought of brushing his teeth.

The other two filled their cups of beer and went upstairs desiring good natured mischief, if they’d be lucky enough to find it. They could not, so they retired to their beds with cups of beer sitting atop wood desks, condensation slowly dripping down onto their desktops. Like modern day troglodytes they had neglected the basic deployment of coasters. The slumber was restless due to their bellies being fouled with too much hooch. It would be many years before they would make the connection of unsatisfying sleep and large quantities of beer. Regardless, they did bed down to a night as quiet as a mouse on Christmas Eve. To clarify, the fraternity house was by no means quiet, but quiet for these three due to the level of inebriation attained resulting in the closure of key senses.

It was early in the morning when an elder statesmen of the fraternity went to the basement to check on the clothes washer availability. He wasn’t going to do laundry, not an upperclassman, but he wanted to check if the machine was available so that a pledge could be assigned to do it for him. He observed the opened windows and doors and the water icing up on the floor. Not yet skatable, but the desired depth had been attained. He had the inclination to at least turn off the hose and close the nearest window. Remedial action was in desperate need, but he was preoccupied with a bowl of cereal in his hands and laundry to have done. Any fix-it plan implementation would have to wait for another with more gumption. “Pledge! Pledge,” he called out loudly heading back out. From upstairs came the sound of a hustling pair of feet eager to please, a pledge had been rousted.

A number of boys residing at the fraternity house had been gone for the weekend, but by Monday morning it was full of occupants. A proper assessment of the situation was identified and explained by one boy who’d had a physics class. He was aware that ice in the basement was problematic, “Hey guys, this is a major issue because ice expands. This is not safe for the house or its foundation.” But he was an underclassman and his comment was quickly discarded because the alternative, an indoor ice rink, was much more fun than the task of eliminating it. So it was decided. “The ice rink stays, but when it melts in the spring, never again. Besides, this is a brick house, dip shit,” debasing his more intelligent adversary, “It will contain the ice.” Dip shit, of course, was entirely correct and knew with certainty that he was entirely correct. More importantly, he understood the fraternal organization’s hierarchy and his knowledge-based statement was outranked by the organization’s seniority-based structure. He absorbed his verbal abuse and offered no further challenge. With the weather getting colder and no warm temperatures stretching weeks into the future, the water in the basement continued to freeze. 

The first foundation cracks appeared the subsequent weekend. The occupants didn’t notice, though, because they were busy with their newly founded indoor three-on-three hockey league. It wasn’t long before the basement doors wouldn’t close properly due to the structure’s shifting. From there a number of windows would not close flush leaving very cold gaps and some whistling breezes on windy days. Many of the boys knew something had gone wrong and suspected the ice rink was the cause when large cracks became visible in the brick exterior along the basement. They held no power positions and held their tongues. Others, still, were blithely convinced they had simply partied harder and louder than prior years and wore the worsening condition as a badge of honor.

The landlord was finally alerted when the gas bill more than tripled in one month. A licensed contractor was called to assess and repair the assumed gas leak. What he found, however, would not be fixed by the replacing of a pipe, valve or conduit. He saw the ice rink. He was a professional and was decades removed from being amused by the sophomoric antics of these derelicts. The cracks were, by this time, considerable throughout the foundation and basement. The house was condemned by local authorities and an insurance claim was filed by the landlord. The insurance company quickly subrogated against the fraternity and they were quickly held responsible for the damages.

After the initial shame and scolding wore off, the incident was eventually filed away in the annals of fraternal lore. The three boys from the opening sequence would eventually all be voted into the United States Congress. Much like their ice rink idea, most of their well-intended congressional actions ended in waste and destruction adversely affecting others, but they would remain unscathed and blameless.

[Inspired by an anecdote told to me by a work associate in the mid ‘90s.]