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.]

Cat Food

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Happy Halloween!]

Afloat

Part I

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Part II

tap . . . tap . . . 

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

tap . . . 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We Already Had the Grapes”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Based on Mom Klem’s recurring nightmare.]