My daughter just received a major promotion at work, so we took her out for a celebratory dinner. She and my son, who is also quite accomplished, said they were grateful for parents who molded them to be good and successful people. I reminded them that they didn’t always feel that way, especially when sentenced to their rooms.
I think my parents deserve some credit in all this. While my children were reared in a Midwestern suburban area, I grew up in an East Coast inner city. Not all the popular pastimes were productive (or legal), and many of my old friends did not turn out all that well.
But, my parents had a philosophy - Keep ‘im busy. From a very early age, I was required to apply myself to a musical instrument and a sport. Later, a job.
I was started on the accordion, which seemed to be the weapon of choice in our largely Italian neighborhood. A 120-bass key accordion will keep you real busy.
When I got into junior high, I was surprised to find that it was in contention with the banjo for “Most Hated Instrument.” Worse yet, there was no place for one in the school orchestra or band. So, I switched to trumpet. While the three valves and treble-only instrument presented fewer complexities, band practice added to lessons kept me quite occupied.
This was Philadelphia. Forget about it being the cradle of our country. This was the home of American Bandstand and the Philadelphia sound. It wasn’t long before I put my own band together and we were playing teen dances at every hall that had concrete floors and cinderblock walls to reverberate our efforts. I added keyboard and guitar to the repertoire, along with vocals. I could flat out wail Dion. This kept me even busier, but not out of trouble. Playing the hops generated too much temptation.
On the sports side, my father and uncle had both been prizefighters. I was cast as The Great White Hope. Junior boxing employed huge, heavily padded gloves and was fun. Kind of like a pillow fight.
As we reached puberty, the muscles got larger and the gloves got smaller. I had a good body turn and could hit hard enough to break bones. Unfortunately, most of them were mine. Hand strength hadn’t kept pace with muscle and technique.
So, I switched to other contact sports. My father was disappointed, but was tactful about it. Not so Uncle Mike. “What the hell kind of man’s sport is it if you have to wear pads and a helmet? You might as well wear skirts, fer crissake.”
Mike had a body shop in a very tough part of town. In one corner was a speed bag he had lowered for me to work out on. I loved the noises, smells and bustle of the place. Calendars weren’t bad, either.
A couple decades later, there was a big family gathering. I was talking to Mike in the backyard of one of his daughter’s homes. I believe she was the first of us to have a place with a lawn.
Mike was reeling off his old prizefighting stories, when a gentle-looking man in his twenties approached, wearing a pastel suit. Mike didn’t stop talking or even look at him. He turned to me and offered his hand. “Hi, I’m Phillip. Arlene’s husband.”
Arlene was Mike’s youngest. She had run off to India to learn “Eastern ways.” At an Ashram, she met Phillip, who had done likewise. He was a trust fund baby from southern California. When he had reached age, he collected his funds and they bought hotels across the country and converted them to Ashrams.
I shook hands with Phillip and he turned to say hello to Mike. Mike just kept looking at me and talking. Phillip said hello again, but he wasn’t there as far as Mike was concerned. Phillip shrugged at me and walked toward the house.
When he was out of range, Mike looked in that direction. “Sonavabich doesn’t even eat meat, Hank. What kind of human being doesn’t eat meat?”
But, I digress. When my children were young, I gave them choices of musical instruments and sports, but they would definitely have to play. They did, and shined at both through college, as well as academics. When they were old enough, they also had to find jobs.
This not only kept them off the streets, but they learned the lesson that to excel at almost anything requires an investment of work. Or, as a coach of mine used to say, “Train hard, fight easy.”
Sunday, December 31, 2006
Friday, December 29, 2006
The List
I ran into Joanne at my high school reunion this past year. She was teaching psychology at a southern university and was about to retire. She said she would be glad to get away from the pressure cooker of academia. I choked on my scotch at that, which didn’t go over with her real well.
A few days ago, I received a thick letter with her return address on it. It contained a questionnaire and a cover letter that explained she had grown restless in retirement and decided to do a research project. She hoped her old classmates would cooperate.
I read the questionnaire and called her. We did a little catching up before I asked her about the study and why she was using our old class instead of a random test group. Joanne said that something struck her while mingling with the people over that weekend of the reunion. She had it by the tail and just needed to pull it out of the hole. Joanne’s been living in the south too long.
“So, you want to find out why some of us made it and some didn’t.”
There was a pregnant pause. “Why do you say that?”
“Looks like a reverse engineered outline of Harris’ book.”
Another pause. “Is it that obvious? I must be rusty.”
“I wouldn’t worry about it. I used to borrow from the book as a basis of screening potential employees, so that’s probably why it jumped out at me.”
Sydney J. Harris was an extraordinarily keen observer of human nature. If you haven’t read his books or columns, it’s likely you’ve seen a “Winners & Losers” list on some poster, plaque or calendar.
My thinking was that there was a bell shaped curve on which we all fall, with the extremes being pure winners and pure losers (of which there are probably none). Most people are a mixture. It’s the ratio of that mixture that determines your outcomes and determines your place on the curve. In the context of hiring, people on the high side of the curve would produce results and progress, and make money for you. Losers are a cancer to the organization and their negative behavior will undermine its growth. Winners emphasize creating while losers constantly engage in destructive activity.
If you went into the Harris book thinking it simplistically pegged winners as star sports players, wealthy industrialists or other cliché, you were pleasantly surprised. He had much more insight and depth than to settle for that. For instance, you could be a very skillful info tech executive, which would seem to tag you as a winner. But, if you have a malicious side that controls your behavior, and you use your talent to spread a computer virus, you’re definitely a loser. On the other hand, you could easily be in a much less “prestigious” position, and be an accomplished winner.
I didn’t employ all of his points in my interviewing profiling, and borrowed from Bob Hurley and others. But, you may have seen the posters, etc. and recognize something from this list:
When a Winner makes a mistake, he says, “I was wrong.” When a Loser makes a mistake, he says, “It wasn’t my fault.”
The Winner learns from his mistakes, the Loser repeats them.
The Winner makes his point and stops talking. The Loser argues and beats things to death.
The Winner is always part of the solution. The Loser is always part of the problem.
A Winner makes use of criticism. A Loser angrily denies it, often seeing it where it doesn’t even exist.
A Loser believes in Fate. A Winner believes we make our Fate by what we do or fail to do.
The Winner always has a solution or result. The Loser always has an excuse.
A Winner in the end gives more than he takes. A Loser dies clinging to the illusion that winning means taking more than you give.
A Winner lives in the present and has his eyes on better things for the future. A Loser is a prisoner of the past and wallows in old failures, grudges and problems.
A Winner revels in the success and accomplishments of others. A Loser detests them, taking the perverse view that they reflect his own failures.
The Winner says “I must do something.” The Loser says “Something must be done.”
The Winner sees an answer for every problem. The Loser sees a problem for every answer.
The Winner is part of the team. The Loser is apart from the team.
A Winner knows who and what he is and acts and feels accordingly. A Loser depends upon the perceptions of others, and his moods and behaviors are dictated by them.
A Winner has control of himself, and will use that to improve, grow and accomplish. A Loser is a Loser, and therefore has little choice but to act like one in negative ways.
The Winner is like a thermostat. The Loser is like a thermometer.
A Winner sees things as how they relate to the big picture. A Loser sees that everything is about him.
The Winner stands firm on values, but compromises on petty things. The Loser stands firm on petty things, but compromises on values.
The Winner focuses on what is happening or being accomplished. A Loser concerns himself with what others think of him.
The Winner sees reality and successfully navigates it. The Loser fabricates his own reality and is out of step with others.
The Winner interacts with other Winners who leverage the positives. The Loser flocks with other Losers who perpetuate their negative behavior and outcomes.
The Winner enjoys and loves. The Loser broods and hates.
The Winner sees the gain. The Loser sees the pain.
A Winner works and accomplishes with other people. A Loser is constantly in conflict and achieves little.
A Winner speaks of ideas, goals, achievements and events. A Loser talks about people.
The Winner takes action and achieves much. The Loser wishes and accomplishes little.
A few days ago, I received a thick letter with her return address on it. It contained a questionnaire and a cover letter that explained she had grown restless in retirement and decided to do a research project. She hoped her old classmates would cooperate.
I read the questionnaire and called her. We did a little catching up before I asked her about the study and why she was using our old class instead of a random test group. Joanne said that something struck her while mingling with the people over that weekend of the reunion. She had it by the tail and just needed to pull it out of the hole. Joanne’s been living in the south too long.
“So, you want to find out why some of us made it and some didn’t.”
There was a pregnant pause. “Why do you say that?”
“Looks like a reverse engineered outline of Harris’ book.”
Another pause. “Is it that obvious? I must be rusty.”
“I wouldn’t worry about it. I used to borrow from the book as a basis of screening potential employees, so that’s probably why it jumped out at me.”
Sydney J. Harris was an extraordinarily keen observer of human nature. If you haven’t read his books or columns, it’s likely you’ve seen a “Winners & Losers” list on some poster, plaque or calendar.
My thinking was that there was a bell shaped curve on which we all fall, with the extremes being pure winners and pure losers (of which there are probably none). Most people are a mixture. It’s the ratio of that mixture that determines your outcomes and determines your place on the curve. In the context of hiring, people on the high side of the curve would produce results and progress, and make money for you. Losers are a cancer to the organization and their negative behavior will undermine its growth. Winners emphasize creating while losers constantly engage in destructive activity.
If you went into the Harris book thinking it simplistically pegged winners as star sports players, wealthy industrialists or other cliché, you were pleasantly surprised. He had much more insight and depth than to settle for that. For instance, you could be a very skillful info tech executive, which would seem to tag you as a winner. But, if you have a malicious side that controls your behavior, and you use your talent to spread a computer virus, you’re definitely a loser. On the other hand, you could easily be in a much less “prestigious” position, and be an accomplished winner.
I didn’t employ all of his points in my interviewing profiling, and borrowed from Bob Hurley and others. But, you may have seen the posters, etc. and recognize something from this list:
When a Winner makes a mistake, he says, “I was wrong.” When a Loser makes a mistake, he says, “It wasn’t my fault.”
The Winner learns from his mistakes, the Loser repeats them.
The Winner makes his point and stops talking. The Loser argues and beats things to death.
The Winner is always part of the solution. The Loser is always part of the problem.
A Winner makes use of criticism. A Loser angrily denies it, often seeing it where it doesn’t even exist.
A Loser believes in Fate. A Winner believes we make our Fate by what we do or fail to do.
The Winner always has a solution or result. The Loser always has an excuse.
A Winner in the end gives more than he takes. A Loser dies clinging to the illusion that winning means taking more than you give.
A Winner lives in the present and has his eyes on better things for the future. A Loser is a prisoner of the past and wallows in old failures, grudges and problems.
A Winner revels in the success and accomplishments of others. A Loser detests them, taking the perverse view that they reflect his own failures.
The Winner says “I must do something.” The Loser says “Something must be done.”
The Winner sees an answer for every problem. The Loser sees a problem for every answer.
The Winner is part of the team. The Loser is apart from the team.
A Winner knows who and what he is and acts and feels accordingly. A Loser depends upon the perceptions of others, and his moods and behaviors are dictated by them.
A Winner has control of himself, and will use that to improve, grow and accomplish. A Loser is a Loser, and therefore has little choice but to act like one in negative ways.
The Winner is like a thermostat. The Loser is like a thermometer.
A Winner sees things as how they relate to the big picture. A Loser sees that everything is about him.
The Winner stands firm on values, but compromises on petty things. The Loser stands firm on petty things, but compromises on values.
The Winner focuses on what is happening or being accomplished. A Loser concerns himself with what others think of him.
The Winner sees reality and successfully navigates it. The Loser fabricates his own reality and is out of step with others.
The Winner interacts with other Winners who leverage the positives. The Loser flocks with other Losers who perpetuate their negative behavior and outcomes.
The Winner enjoys and loves. The Loser broods and hates.
The Winner sees the gain. The Loser sees the pain.
A Winner works and accomplishes with other people. A Loser is constantly in conflict and achieves little.
A Winner speaks of ideas, goals, achievements and events. A Loser talks about people.
The Winner takes action and achieves much. The Loser wishes and accomplishes little.
Thursday, December 28, 2006
Was that guy really the mayor?
A girlfriend of mine is an executive with an international company. Last week, she showed me a memo from their president and asked for my thoughts on it.
It announced that the corporation was shifting its performance measurement paradigm to (insert an acronym – doesn’t really matter what). I smiled and said it was great marketing. Invent some “new” management tool that is little more than common sense, construct some pitch as to why all others are now obsolete and make this appear to create instant success with little effort or pain, except for a big pricetag. Her president had taken the bait.
Everyone wants the instant success, whether it’s miracle diet pills, no-investment real estate scams or whatever. People want it so badly that they’re willing to overlook the obvious disconnects in the logic. Like, if you can make millions and millions with your real estate system, why are you selling courses for a few hundred bucks? Because I just want to share my success. Right.
Humorist/musician Henry Phillips is a very accomplished guitarist. He always gets questions about his “secret,” from people who hope it’s something short of have having to practice hours on end, day after day. So, he wrote a song about how there should be pills that make you a guitarist. The lyrics are hilarious, tying different color pills to what kind of music you want to play. Great tongue-in-cheek humor.
Everybody has their own benchmarks. This brought Mark to mind, the principal investor in my first business venture. I had already pounded the pavement, business plan in hand, seeing a number of capitalists. I had sat in offices larger than my living room, on chairs that cost more than my car. So, I was totally unprepared to meet Mark.
I flew to the city where he was located, rented a car and followed the directions to an aging warehouse district. Had I misunderstood or taken a wrong turn? I opened the door under the proper address number and entered a small, spartan waiting room. A woman led me down some long hallways into an old warehouse.
In the middle of the empty floor were a battered wooden table & chair, trash can and a two-drawer file cabinet. And, Mark.
After a skein of carefully coifed executive types in Saville Row suits, Mark looked like the guy who came to fix your furnace. He wore jeans and a flannel shirt. I noticed his watch band was repaired with a dirty strip of adhesive tape. This guy had a net worth exceeding $60 million and interests in dozens of companies?
I introduced myself and spread my plans, charts and financial projections on the table, launching into my presentation. Mark listened maybe eight seconds and swept his hand in a dismissive motion. “Tell me about yourself.”
I started reeling off academic degrees, employment history, etc. Again, the hand. “Start at the very beginning and make it a narrative. I don’t want baseball card stats.”
So, I started at the beginning. He stopped me a number of times for elaboration on reasons, feelings and other gut level things, and fast forwarded me past statistics, accomplishments and other hard facts. It took almost two hours.
Then, I reverted to the business plan, but got the hand again. This was getting tiresome. “I don’t invest in numbers and paper. I invest in people.”
“Then we’re done?”
“No, one more thing.” He reached into the trash can and pulled out a basketball. “Shoot me for lunch.”
There was no basket. Just a rusty pipe running across the high ceiling. The object was to shoot the ball over the pipe, through the opening created by the two beams the pipe was strapped to. Mark obviously practiced this a lot and I bought lunch. The first of many lunches I would buy during our association. Mark never carried a wallet. Probably explained why he had $60 million.
Before we left for lunch, I stacked up the paperwork and tried to hand it to him. “Don’t need that.” Probably explained why he needed only a two-drawer cabinet.
Over lunch, I asked him how he would measure how we were doing if he didn’t have the plan to compare against results. “I’ll know. I have my own ways of measuring.”
“Such as?”
“You’ll see.”
Six months after I got the company going, Mark called. “I’ll be in Cincinnati in a month. I want you to introduce me to the president of the largest bank in town, the CEO of the largest company and the mayor.”
By this time, not much about Mark surprised me. I figured this was one of his measurements of progress. Not just if I had established myself enough to set up the meetings, but he would be reading their perceptions of me and my company.
It presented no problems. I knew from the conception that contacts within the power base were a key to success and had networked well. I had already had my knees under the lunch table with each of these men several times.
The meeting with the mayor would be a breakfast at an informal downtown restaurant. I met Mark at his hotel and we walked to it, arriving before the mayor. We chatted a bit, until the mayor arrived.
The mayor was a fairly young man, who looked even younger. The bowtie, pastel shirt and home-cut hairstyle reinforced the youthful image. He came over to the table and introduced himself. Mark looked him up and down and arched an eyebrow at me. I ignored it.
We talked until the waitress arrived. The mayor asked her if she had any sweetened cereals. “Like what?”
“Frosted Flakes, Fruit Loops; something like that.” Mark arched an eyebrow at me. This was getting as old as the hand gesture.
“I’ll check.”
We talked some more and the mayor excused himself to go to the bathroom. When he was out of range, Mark leaned across the table. “Fruit Loops?”
“Hey, what can I say? The guy likes sugar.”
“Level with me. Is this guy really the mayor?”
A few days later, I picked up the phone in my office. “Was that guy really the mayor?” No, “Hello.” No, “This is Mark.” Just, “Was that guy really the mayor?” I would get this phone call on virtually a monthly basis for the next five years. But, this measurement milepost had gone very well, and that’s what counted.
Yes, he really was the mayor. One of the better ones we’ve had, I might add. But that was about twenty years ago, when the best and brightest still ran for public office. Today, he’s a very successful real estate developer, as distanced from the muck and mire of politics as one of them can be. And, he doesn’t sell real estate courses, as far as I know.
Today, I answered the phone in my office. “Was that guy really the mayor?” Mark was calling to offer the greetings of the season. Or maybe to see if I’d change my story. We sold the business a long time ago and I hadn’t heard from him in a few years. It was good to hear his voice and be reminded that there are many ways to measure things.
This was a lesson that was to serve me well in business and other pursuits. The bare statistics don’t always tell the story. And, of course, good people generate good results.
It announced that the corporation was shifting its performance measurement paradigm to (insert an acronym – doesn’t really matter what). I smiled and said it was great marketing. Invent some “new” management tool that is little more than common sense, construct some pitch as to why all others are now obsolete and make this appear to create instant success with little effort or pain, except for a big pricetag. Her president had taken the bait.
Everyone wants the instant success, whether it’s miracle diet pills, no-investment real estate scams or whatever. People want it so badly that they’re willing to overlook the obvious disconnects in the logic. Like, if you can make millions and millions with your real estate system, why are you selling courses for a few hundred bucks? Because I just want to share my success. Right.
Humorist/musician Henry Phillips is a very accomplished guitarist. He always gets questions about his “secret,” from people who hope it’s something short of have having to practice hours on end, day after day. So, he wrote a song about how there should be pills that make you a guitarist. The lyrics are hilarious, tying different color pills to what kind of music you want to play. Great tongue-in-cheek humor.
Everybody has their own benchmarks. This brought Mark to mind, the principal investor in my first business venture. I had already pounded the pavement, business plan in hand, seeing a number of capitalists. I had sat in offices larger than my living room, on chairs that cost more than my car. So, I was totally unprepared to meet Mark.
I flew to the city where he was located, rented a car and followed the directions to an aging warehouse district. Had I misunderstood or taken a wrong turn? I opened the door under the proper address number and entered a small, spartan waiting room. A woman led me down some long hallways into an old warehouse.
In the middle of the empty floor were a battered wooden table & chair, trash can and a two-drawer file cabinet. And, Mark.
After a skein of carefully coifed executive types in Saville Row suits, Mark looked like the guy who came to fix your furnace. He wore jeans and a flannel shirt. I noticed his watch band was repaired with a dirty strip of adhesive tape. This guy had a net worth exceeding $60 million and interests in dozens of companies?
I introduced myself and spread my plans, charts and financial projections on the table, launching into my presentation. Mark listened maybe eight seconds and swept his hand in a dismissive motion. “Tell me about yourself.”
I started reeling off academic degrees, employment history, etc. Again, the hand. “Start at the very beginning and make it a narrative. I don’t want baseball card stats.”
So, I started at the beginning. He stopped me a number of times for elaboration on reasons, feelings and other gut level things, and fast forwarded me past statistics, accomplishments and other hard facts. It took almost two hours.
Then, I reverted to the business plan, but got the hand again. This was getting tiresome. “I don’t invest in numbers and paper. I invest in people.”
“Then we’re done?”
“No, one more thing.” He reached into the trash can and pulled out a basketball. “Shoot me for lunch.”
There was no basket. Just a rusty pipe running across the high ceiling. The object was to shoot the ball over the pipe, through the opening created by the two beams the pipe was strapped to. Mark obviously practiced this a lot and I bought lunch. The first of many lunches I would buy during our association. Mark never carried a wallet. Probably explained why he had $60 million.
Before we left for lunch, I stacked up the paperwork and tried to hand it to him. “Don’t need that.” Probably explained why he needed only a two-drawer cabinet.
Over lunch, I asked him how he would measure how we were doing if he didn’t have the plan to compare against results. “I’ll know. I have my own ways of measuring.”
“Such as?”
“You’ll see.”
Six months after I got the company going, Mark called. “I’ll be in Cincinnati in a month. I want you to introduce me to the president of the largest bank in town, the CEO of the largest company and the mayor.”
By this time, not much about Mark surprised me. I figured this was one of his measurements of progress. Not just if I had established myself enough to set up the meetings, but he would be reading their perceptions of me and my company.
It presented no problems. I knew from the conception that contacts within the power base were a key to success and had networked well. I had already had my knees under the lunch table with each of these men several times.
The meeting with the mayor would be a breakfast at an informal downtown restaurant. I met Mark at his hotel and we walked to it, arriving before the mayor. We chatted a bit, until the mayor arrived.
The mayor was a fairly young man, who looked even younger. The bowtie, pastel shirt and home-cut hairstyle reinforced the youthful image. He came over to the table and introduced himself. Mark looked him up and down and arched an eyebrow at me. I ignored it.
We talked until the waitress arrived. The mayor asked her if she had any sweetened cereals. “Like what?”
“Frosted Flakes, Fruit Loops; something like that.” Mark arched an eyebrow at me. This was getting as old as the hand gesture.
“I’ll check.”
We talked some more and the mayor excused himself to go to the bathroom. When he was out of range, Mark leaned across the table. “Fruit Loops?”
“Hey, what can I say? The guy likes sugar.”
“Level with me. Is this guy really the mayor?”
A few days later, I picked up the phone in my office. “Was that guy really the mayor?” No, “Hello.” No, “This is Mark.” Just, “Was that guy really the mayor?” I would get this phone call on virtually a monthly basis for the next five years. But, this measurement milepost had gone very well, and that’s what counted.
Yes, he really was the mayor. One of the better ones we’ve had, I might add. But that was about twenty years ago, when the best and brightest still ran for public office. Today, he’s a very successful real estate developer, as distanced from the muck and mire of politics as one of them can be. And, he doesn’t sell real estate courses, as far as I know.
Today, I answered the phone in my office. “Was that guy really the mayor?” Mark was calling to offer the greetings of the season. Or maybe to see if I’d change my story. We sold the business a long time ago and I hadn’t heard from him in a few years. It was good to hear his voice and be reminded that there are many ways to measure things.
This was a lesson that was to serve me well in business and other pursuits. The bare statistics don’t always tell the story. And, of course, good people generate good results.
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
Santa Gets a Visit
Today, a woman poked her head into my office and asked if I had a minute. Okay, I got a minute.
She sat down in the chair across from my desk and smiled. “I wanted to meet Santa Claus.”
Since I run a nonprofit mental health agency, this was not all that unusual of an opening. Certainly, much preferable to brandishing a weapon, which sometimes happens.
She read my face. “Oh, I’m not a client. I’m a teacher. I’m Kirstin’s teacher, to be precise.”
I recognized the name because I had rehearsed it a couple weeks previous.
“Just before break, she stood up at show & tell and told us about her visit from Santa. I can’t tell you the impact it had on that girl.” But, she did.
Great to hear, as I don’t enjoy playing Santa. My staff loves it.
Every year, we select an indigent family (usually a single-parent family), find out what they need or want, and buy the gifts from our own pockets. Then, at a pre-arranged time, Santa (me) and an elf (one of the staff) make the visit, and make the kids feel special.
The credit for this goes to our staff, a couple women in particular. My role is simply grumbling while they dress me up (adds to their delight), driving a truck full of gifts with about half my vision obscured by the beard and wig, and boosting the spirits of the children. The staff orchestrates all this; I’m just a bit player. The feedback is that these families appreciate gifts from all sources, but the extra Santa effort is really special to them.
It’s one thing to hear that third or fourth hand, but the recount this teacher gave of Kirstin’s presentation and the look on her face made it all worthwhile, and then some.
Many people make contributions of various kinds that are appreciated. But, the recipients especially appreciate extra thought, just like anyone else. Make it and you’ll be glad you did.
She sat down in the chair across from my desk and smiled. “I wanted to meet Santa Claus.”
Since I run a nonprofit mental health agency, this was not all that unusual of an opening. Certainly, much preferable to brandishing a weapon, which sometimes happens.
She read my face. “Oh, I’m not a client. I’m a teacher. I’m Kirstin’s teacher, to be precise.”
I recognized the name because I had rehearsed it a couple weeks previous.
“Just before break, she stood up at show & tell and told us about her visit from Santa. I can’t tell you the impact it had on that girl.” But, she did.
Great to hear, as I don’t enjoy playing Santa. My staff loves it.
Every year, we select an indigent family (usually a single-parent family), find out what they need or want, and buy the gifts from our own pockets. Then, at a pre-arranged time, Santa (me) and an elf (one of the staff) make the visit, and make the kids feel special.
The credit for this goes to our staff, a couple women in particular. My role is simply grumbling while they dress me up (adds to their delight), driving a truck full of gifts with about half my vision obscured by the beard and wig, and boosting the spirits of the children. The staff orchestrates all this; I’m just a bit player. The feedback is that these families appreciate gifts from all sources, but the extra Santa effort is really special to them.
It’s one thing to hear that third or fourth hand, but the recount this teacher gave of Kirstin’s presentation and the look on her face made it all worthwhile, and then some.
Many people make contributions of various kinds that are appreciated. But, the recipients especially appreciate extra thought, just like anyone else. Make it and you’ll be glad you did.
Tuesday, December 26, 2006
Roll Practice
Just got the email that confirmed the beginning of winter kayak roll practice at an indoor pool. I felt a tingle of anticipation. It was followed by giddy emails from fellow paddlers, who exhibited similar signs of excitement.
I looked at the dusty musical instruments sitting in the corner of my den. While recognizing the necessity of practice, I had never really enjoyed it. Music, sports or whatever. It’s a lot of fun to do those things, but practice never felt like doing.
The first season I enrolled for winter roll practice, it felt the same way going in. Braving the frigid night air in the dead of winter to get wet? Sitting in a confined body of water, rolling 40 or 50 times? Couldn’t be fun, could it? With an impending schedule of offshore and whitewater paddling, I sucked it up and signed up.
What a great surprise. From the first session, I could hardly wait for the next and the next. Yes, it was rolling a boat in a pool. But, it was also much more.
In pondering what made this special, I arrived at the conclusion that rolling is the quintessential paddling skill. It’s a line of demarcation that separates the casual from the true believers. This was a gathering of eagles. This was the fellowship, and it embodied all the delights of that.
Roll practice is far more than practice. It is a social event. Sure, we all paddled year-round in the wintry blasts. But, there was little time to tarry and bond in those bitter conditions. This is where we came during the gelid times to keep the pilot light going and maintain the ties that bind.
Practice starts in less than two weeks. I’m counting the days.
I looked at the dusty musical instruments sitting in the corner of my den. While recognizing the necessity of practice, I had never really enjoyed it. Music, sports or whatever. It’s a lot of fun to do those things, but practice never felt like doing.
The first season I enrolled for winter roll practice, it felt the same way going in. Braving the frigid night air in the dead of winter to get wet? Sitting in a confined body of water, rolling 40 or 50 times? Couldn’t be fun, could it? With an impending schedule of offshore and whitewater paddling, I sucked it up and signed up.
What a great surprise. From the first session, I could hardly wait for the next and the next. Yes, it was rolling a boat in a pool. But, it was also much more.
In pondering what made this special, I arrived at the conclusion that rolling is the quintessential paddling skill. It’s a line of demarcation that separates the casual from the true believers. This was a gathering of eagles. This was the fellowship, and it embodied all the delights of that.
Roll practice is far more than practice. It is a social event. Sure, we all paddled year-round in the wintry blasts. But, there was little time to tarry and bond in those bitter conditions. This is where we came during the gelid times to keep the pilot light going and maintain the ties that bind.
Practice starts in less than two weeks. I’m counting the days.
Sunday, December 24, 2006
The Best Present
For the past month or two, I’ve been presented the question, “What do you want for Christmas?” Hard question as I’m at the age where I pretty much have all I need.
But, what do I want? Already have that, too. This month, I’ve received many cards that allude to our friendships, reminding me I already have those gifts, and few things are more precious. Friends from high school, college, work, paddling, volunteer work and other sources. All their contacts produce a warm glow.
What is a friendship? I suppose a clinical definition would revolve around mutual and supportive behavior. The bricks of that are understanding, trust, affection, esteem, honesty, loyalty and similar values. The mortar is communication.
A friend is someone you can trust and relax with. You can be yourself and don’t have to watch your back.
Perhaps the greatest threat to friendships is change. People evolve and obtain different priorities, interests, needs, etc.
Not everyone gives you that warm glow because not all associates are friends or beneficial. There are toxic friends that people acquire to fulfill one unhealthy need or another, allow themselves to be victimized, or because birds of a feather flock together. Toxic people frequently attract each other to gain mutual validation for aberrant behavior. Toxic friends include the controller, judge, promise breaker, betrayer, gossip, user, complainer, leaner, self-centered person, or manipulator. Manipulators often try to generate pity to control. Poor me, I’m always the victim.
Life’s too short. Shun the toxic people and treasure the gems. Nurture those precious relationships with communication and care. You will enjoy and be rewarded many times over.
But, what do I want? Already have that, too. This month, I’ve received many cards that allude to our friendships, reminding me I already have those gifts, and few things are more precious. Friends from high school, college, work, paddling, volunteer work and other sources. All their contacts produce a warm glow.
What is a friendship? I suppose a clinical definition would revolve around mutual and supportive behavior. The bricks of that are understanding, trust, affection, esteem, honesty, loyalty and similar values. The mortar is communication.
A friend is someone you can trust and relax with. You can be yourself and don’t have to watch your back.
Perhaps the greatest threat to friendships is change. People evolve and obtain different priorities, interests, needs, etc.
Not everyone gives you that warm glow because not all associates are friends or beneficial. There are toxic friends that people acquire to fulfill one unhealthy need or another, allow themselves to be victimized, or because birds of a feather flock together. Toxic people frequently attract each other to gain mutual validation for aberrant behavior. Toxic friends include the controller, judge, promise breaker, betrayer, gossip, user, complainer, leaner, self-centered person, or manipulator. Manipulators often try to generate pity to control. Poor me, I’m always the victim.
Life’s too short. Shun the toxic people and treasure the gems. Nurture those precious relationships with communication and care. You will enjoy and be rewarded many times over.
Saturday, November 18, 2006
Driving rules for life
In the 1990s, I did some business in the Pacific Rim. Vietnam, Malaysia, Singapore, etc. were booming and outstripping their infrastructures.
This was apparent on the roads, which were packed with vehicles, and not just the lanes. The white lines between the cars were occupied by scooters and mopeds, which didn't stop the cars from straddling them or darting across to any open space.
I didn't even try to drive there and commented on this to a cab driver. He replied that there are only two rules for driving. Nothing behind you matters. And, make the most of anything in front of you.
Good rules for driving there and not bad guidelines for life.
This was apparent on the roads, which were packed with vehicles, and not just the lanes. The white lines between the cars were occupied by scooters and mopeds, which didn't stop the cars from straddling them or darting across to any open space.
I didn't even try to drive there and commented on this to a cab driver. He replied that there are only two rules for driving. Nothing behind you matters. And, make the most of anything in front of you.
Good rules for driving there and not bad guidelines for life.
Monday, November 06, 2006
Male/female abodes
I stopped by my ex’s to wish her a happy birthday. She said she had something important to discuss with me, which told me two things.
First, from decades of experience in this area, I knew I had some time for contemplation, because this would hold no relevance or interest for me. Secondly, it would be a mobile monologue. A shark can’t stop swimming, because that’s how it breathes. Carol can’t stop cleaning, because that’s how she lives.
So, we’re walking around her house, while she’s wiping, aligning and picking up. My mind is firmly engaged in neutral. In this state, I notice differences from when I lived there. Differences from my current abode. The aberrations could be classified into things that were there, for no apparent good reason, and things that were missing.
Five things that were there:
1. Tupperware, Saran Wrap, etc. - If it’s good, I eat it. Eat it all. I don’t leave half a sandwich, cupcake or pot roast. If it’s worth starting, it’s worth finishing.
2. Fabric softener, bleach, pre-wash, etc. - Either the store brand detergent can get
the job done or it can’t. Not up to me to make up for its shortcomings. And, does
anyone really believe you throw a smelly Kleenex in the dryer and it changes the
rigidity of fabric? It’s not a softener, it’s a territory marker. Guys may be able to
pocket their wedding rings at a bar, but the scent of softener tags him as taken.
3. Photographs – Parents and kids, fine. But, every person you ever met? Or, so
it seemed.
4. Coasters, carpet protectors, headrest shields, etc. – Life’s tough. Pampering the
furniture and floors isn’t going to help it learn to deal with it.
5. Fingernails, eyelashes, and other body parts – Unless you’re Mrs. Potatohead, all
your features should be permanently attached.
Five things that were missing:
1. Tools – Not so much as a screwdriver, pliers or wrench. How does one survive?
2. Bathroom reading material – What does she do in there?
3. Cobwebs – Without spiders, how do you control small insects?
4. Things on the floor – The floor is a large shelf. And no mere shelf. It is
the ultimate shelf. Nothing rolls off and breaks. Nothing gets lost.
5. Duct tape – The bond that holds the universe together. It was not in evidence
on furniture, appliances or anything, much less stacked in rolls on the floor, ready
for action.
Don’t know how she lives.
First, from decades of experience in this area, I knew I had some time for contemplation, because this would hold no relevance or interest for me. Secondly, it would be a mobile monologue. A shark can’t stop swimming, because that’s how it breathes. Carol can’t stop cleaning, because that’s how she lives.
So, we’re walking around her house, while she’s wiping, aligning and picking up. My mind is firmly engaged in neutral. In this state, I notice differences from when I lived there. Differences from my current abode. The aberrations could be classified into things that were there, for no apparent good reason, and things that were missing.
Five things that were there:
1. Tupperware, Saran Wrap, etc. - If it’s good, I eat it. Eat it all. I don’t leave half a sandwich, cupcake or pot roast. If it’s worth starting, it’s worth finishing.
2. Fabric softener, bleach, pre-wash, etc. - Either the store brand detergent can get
the job done or it can’t. Not up to me to make up for its shortcomings. And, does
anyone really believe you throw a smelly Kleenex in the dryer and it changes the
rigidity of fabric? It’s not a softener, it’s a territory marker. Guys may be able to
pocket their wedding rings at a bar, but the scent of softener tags him as taken.
3. Photographs – Parents and kids, fine. But, every person you ever met? Or, so
it seemed.
4. Coasters, carpet protectors, headrest shields, etc. – Life’s tough. Pampering the
furniture and floors isn’t going to help it learn to deal with it.
5. Fingernails, eyelashes, and other body parts – Unless you’re Mrs. Potatohead, all
your features should be permanently attached.
Five things that were missing:
1. Tools – Not so much as a screwdriver, pliers or wrench. How does one survive?
2. Bathroom reading material – What does she do in there?
3. Cobwebs – Without spiders, how do you control small insects?
4. Things on the floor – The floor is a large shelf. And no mere shelf. It is
the ultimate shelf. Nothing rolls off and breaks. Nothing gets lost.
5. Duct tape – The bond that holds the universe together. It was not in evidence
on furniture, appliances or anything, much less stacked in rolls on the floor, ready
for action.
Don’t know how she lives.
Monday, October 16, 2006
40th High School Class Reunion
The prologue to this item is “Appointment in Samarra,” also on this site. You might want to read it first for context.
The plane banked to make our final approach into Philadelphia. This was it. No turning back now. Odd random recollections bobbed up in my mind.
USA Today headline: “Philadelphia Voted City with the Worst Attitude – you gotta problem wit dat?”
David Brenner’s telling Johnny Carson a story on the Tonight Show. He says he runs into a guy in Vegas and can tell he’s from Philly, too. Carson asks how. Brenner shrugs and says you just know. Carson won’t let it slide. Brenner gropes to knead the feeling into words. “Two guys stop at a lunch cart on the sidewalk and order hot dogs. They stand there and eat them. A piano rolls off a balcony fifteen floors above, falls and splatters one of them all over the place. If the other guy keeps eating, you know he’s from Philly.”
News item: A Philadelphia Domino’s Pizza delivery man was questioned by police because it was discovered that he’s moonlighting by delivering corpses to a morgue with the same vehicle. He was released when no statute could be found prohibiting it. Unbelievable. Who would eat Domino’s in Philly when the real deal is available? In another item, entrepreneur Gloria Strunk announces the opening of her ice cream parlor called “Lick This!”
Baseball manager Tommy Lasorda said he was most apprehensive about Phillies fans. “If the game gets rained out, they go down to the airport and boo bad landings.”
News item: A magistrate court was installed in Veterans Stadium to process the high volume of disorderly conduct arrests at Eagles games on the spot. Also, Santa Claus parachutes into the stadium as part of the halftime show of a late season game. He misses his mark and is raucously booed.
Home sweet home.
I pick up the rental car and steel myself for a refresher course in combat driving. Picture the Ben Hur chariot race across eight lanes at 80 mph. Well, 80 or 0, depending upon time of day.
I remind myself of the basic rules. It’s not who has the red light at an intersection, but who can back off the other guy. A siren and flashing lights buy you nothing. If you’re in a funeral procession, you can’t be in more of a hurry than I am. If they didn’t want you driving on medians, sidewalks and shoulders, they shouldn’t have paved them. Traffic laws are more guidelines than requirements. Urban driving is not for the weak-kneed.
I veer onto a hairpin ramp to eyeball the old neighborhood. Endless row houses partitioned by narrow alleys. There’s a boarded up place on a corner that used to be Garabaldi’s Candy Store. I swapped soda bottle deposit pennies for many a Skybar, Pez and Fizzies there. A couple doors down was the old clinic where they did fillings on an assembly line basis, over-drilling in the process. Perhaps the juxtaposition of the two was no coincidence. I run my tongue over a few crowns that later resulted from the subsidized dental work.
I see a couple street kids scraping up a sailcat and can’t help but stop and smile. If you grew up of modest means in the inner city, you know what a sailcat is. If not, and you are somewhat sensitive, skip a paragraph.
When a cat or large sewer rat gets run over in these neighborhoods, animal services does not come around to clean up. The carcass gets flattened repeatedly, the fur worn off and the sun bakes it hard. When it’s sufficiently thin and rigid, you pry it up and play with it like a Frisbee. You take your toys where you can get them.
The older of the boys catches me looking. “Hey, vaffanculo!” Even obscenity sounds classy in a Romance language.
“Testa di cazzo!” I shoot back reflexively. He grins and waves. We understand each other. Nonetheless, I move on. Strangers on the turf have a street life of about ten minutes, and the pristine rental marks me as one. Urban-based cars have a way of quickly getting dinged into indistinguishable heaps. I bump along, musing that I have retained some turf vocabulary. At least the part south of the waist.
I check into the hotel. The clerk says, “Mr. Dorfman? A Mister (he double-checks a note) No-Neck says he can’t meet you at Alvino’s, but will catch you at the reunion.” A Cape Buffalo in a guyabara shirt at the next station turns toward me. “Hammer? Sonavabitch! I’m rottin’ in line inda lobby of some slapdick hotel, an’ in walks none other than da Hammer.”
I haven’t responded to that name in decades. Before I can, my arms go numb and I feel my feet kicking above the floor. “Bull. Uh, Bull. You want to put me down? I’m having trouble breathing here.”
He drops me and slaps me across the back. His arm is the boom of a jibbing schooner. I try to suck in air. “Yo, Roach! Yingyang! Looky who’s here, inda flesh. Hammer!”
Two hulks of indeterminate species lumber across the lobby. I’m still too addled to dodge, and go down under their combined weight, hearing my bones clack together. Bull piles on and we’re grappling around on the carpet, grunting and laughing. People casually skirt us without so much as a sideways glance.
Home sweet home.
Roach hauls me to my feet with one hairy paw. “Yo. You’re sittin’ with us tonight an’ I don’t want no lip on dat.”
I didn’t require all my faculties to remember that there was no percentage in going up against Roach. But, I had made a commitment. “Lynda already claimed dibs.”
“Dat smut muffin? Fuhgeddaboutit! You’re at our table. Adelle sees you’re here and not with us, she goes apeshit.” I didn’t recall being all that integral to their crowd. Or any other, for that matter. My sixth grade report card observes, “Henry is a leader without any followers.” Not exactly my perspective, but close. At an early age, I chose to be an outrider between the clique villages that dotted the hierarchal landscape.
“Don’t worry. I’m sure I’ll mostly be circulating around.”
“Circulatin’. Ya hearin’ dis shit, Bull? Da hitter’s away for a phone number an’ he comes back talkin’ like some kinda poet or somethin’. Yo, ya ever wind up with dat Fiori skirt?”
“Darlene? No, we went our separate ways after high school.”
“Dat one could give ya a blue steel hard-on a cat couldn’t scratch.”
“I’ll be sure to pass along your regards.”
“Yo, I’m not jokin’ around. Ya don’t come by da table right away an’ Adelle will be all over ya. Badabing, badaboom!”
“And how is the lovely Adelle?”
“She can still get it wet.”
“You’re a bit of a poet yourself, Roach.”
I went up to my room, watched some local news and showered. Then, I dressed. From the emails that had flown back and forth, I determined that our class could be triaged. Those who had generated sufficient “escape velocity” to get out of the neighborhood seemed to ride the momentum to extraordinary levels of achievement. The much larger proportion didn’t. That was divided between those who toiled hard to carve out a respectable existence and those who embraced crime. A “career” outside the law holds no stigma here, as long as you’re not preying on the meek. Taking down “foreign” drug gangs or avaricious enterprises is well within bounds. I elected to dress as a toiler. I had no desire to one-up anyone.
A quick elevator ride and a few steps put me at the portal of the proper ballroom. Okay, into the belly of the beast.
There was the customary nametag table, staffed by two women with hairdos a little smaller than Nebraska and dusted with glitter. “Dorfman. Henry Dorfman.” It’s not “Bond, James Bond,” but that’s the hand I was dealt.
“Hammer? Omigod! It’s me! Anita Stankowicz.” She trotted around the table as fast as her undersized dress would permit and bearhugged me.
“Great to see you Stin…, uh, Anita.”
“That’s okay. You can call me Stinky. Everyone still does.” Might explain why she still had the same last name, too.
“Okay, great to see you, Stinky.” Her nickname was derivative of her surname. But, that probably hadn’t ameliorated the impact on her formative years.
“I didn’t see that the Sooz signed up. I thought, you know, as big-time as he is now, he might want to kinda slide in. Do you know if he’s coming?”
Sooz had been my partner-in-crime in many spectacular pranks. Also, a band and making movies for amateur competitions. He had gone on to make good in Hollywood. “No, I don’t know. Haven’t talked with him in a while.”
“Oh, that’s too bad.” Not really. He and I had fed off each other’s feral creativity and would ratchet up to feverish levels, well beyond the bounds of good judgment. I hate to think what it would’ve led to if we had not taken different paths. “By the way, whatever happened with Darlene?”
“She and I split after high school. I saw her a few years ago. She’s fine.” Again, not really.
“That’s a sin. She was somethin’, that one. You blew it big time, buddy.” Okay, this is shaping up nicely.
I looked at my nametag. “Where’s table two?”
“Right up there, near the front. The bar’s in the corner. You might want to stop there first.” Yes, I might.
I grabbed a scotch and wended my way to the table, avoiding eye contact for now. No one was at the table, which was fine with me. I just as soon ease into a hot tub.
Clumps of people who look vaguely familiar are standing around the room. Thinner hair and longer belts, but I can put names to some. For others, it requires a trademark cue. A face pulls into a lopsided smirk. George Hernandez. A bearded man strikes an angular pose. Pete Ortels. Scattered around the ballroom are a few tees and sweatshirts. Had I overdressed?
Ouch! I looked up to see who had slapped my head. “Oh, hi, Adelle. Roach.”
“You think you can just slip in here and not give me a big hug?” I gave her a big hug.
“That’s better. Now what’s this garbage Bobby tells me about you sitting at the snotty committee table? You too good for us? Bobby says you talk fancy now and all that.”
“Moi?”
“Don’t give me that Miss Piggy shit.”
“Hey, Adelle, lighten up. I don’t know anything about a committee table. Lynda just asked me to sit with her and Bruno, and I said I would. I’ll be circu….uh, moving around.”
“Okay, it’s just we haven’t seen you in so long. I don’t like this hearing you might’ve gone uptown on us.” She put her nose an inch from mine. “Once a hitter, always a hitter. You wanna remember that.”
“I’m committing it to memory.”
“Besides, those mamalukes at our table are already boring the mess outta me. We need you to jack it up. If I have to listen to Marie bitch about her friggin’ hysterectomy one more time…”
“Hell is other people.”
“Huh?”
“That’s what Sartre said.” I could’ve bit my tongue.
“Who the hell is that?”
“Jean-Paul Sartre. Old guy. Talks like Miss Piggy.”
“Don’t know ‘im. You just get your pooper over to our table before I shiv Marie with a butter knife.”
“Will do.”
Roach smirked. “Yeah, c’mon over. Denise was askin’ about ya.”
“That puttana? Zip it, Bobby. The biggest reunion you’d ever see would be her knees, and that ain’t happenin’. Hammer doesn’t want any part of her. Right, Hammer?”
“Yeah, I don’t want any part of her.”
“See?” Adelle stalked off, trailing Roach in her wake. I turned my attention to the DJ. He had just cued up “The Makerina.” Yeah, that fits.
Someone kissed me lightly on the cheek. “Hello, Henry.” An elegant woman gracefully alighted on a chair facing mine and smoothed a rich satin fabric over ballet dancer’s legs. It would come as absolutely no surprise if she was the only one to address me by my given name for the entire evening. You could cut as deeply as you cared, but you would find her to be solid gold all the way through.
“Hello, Allison.” I had obsessed over her in tenth grade. She elected to pair up with an upperclassman who came from one of the few “right families” in the district. But, not before toying with me over a few months. Her beau’s father owned an electronics factory on our turf. The boyfriend had impeccable clothing, manners and diction. I had all but three of those. His name was J. Ramsey Hefflefinger (“the third”), but went by “Hef.” He drove a Triumph TR3 roadster and smoked cherry blend tobacco in a calabash pipe. He was a perfect ass.
“So good to see you.” I don’t know many people who could say that and not appear pretentious. Allison could bring it off without breaking a sweat.
“So good to be seen.” The master of snappy repartee.
Allison beamed. Green eyes and dazzling, ice white teeth. Did someone turn up the thermostat? I struggled not to glimpse her pendant. Or whatever. “I sometimes wonder what becomes of someone like you. What became of you, Henry?”
“Got into the champagne a little early, did we, Allison?”
Unflappable doesn’t begin to describe her. If anything, her smile widened. “No, really. When I think back, you were one of the unique people who touched my life. What became of you? I want to know.”
“Well, after graduation I went to college and majored in time forecasting. You know, projecting what time it’ll be like ten, twelve hours from now. But, the economy was soft when I graduated and I couldn’t find a position in the field. So, I took a job as a maple syrup taster in Saskatuan until something else came up. Now I’m touring with Cats, the musical.”
The smile didn’t waver. “You don’t court favor. You haven’t changed.”
“We’re all who we were in high school.”
“Calvin Trillan.” Damn, she was good. “Are you still with that Darlene girl?” That Darlene girl?
“We went our separate ways after high school.” Might be easier just to write it on my nametag.
“Pity. You were a striking couple.”
“So were Beauty and the Beast.”
“We were a cute couple.”
“You and Hef?”
She bopped me on the head. This was starting to be a trend I could live without. “You and me. Admit it. We had grand times together over the time we dated.”
“All three days of it.”
“Months.”
“Must you step on my best lines?”
“Then stop giving me lines and tell me about yourself.”
“You first. Didn’t I hear you married Hef?”
“Yes, but that didn’t last long. It was more for appearances on his part.”
“Appearances?”
“Don’t act thick. You know what I mean.”
“He was gay? Hef was gay?”
“It was obvious. As obvious as you weren’t.”
“You mean because he didn’t try…”
“No, that’s not the difference. He was just a little, you know, pretty.”
“Huh?”
“His hair, his clothes; everything was just so.”
“As opposed to?”
“He was meticulous about everything.”
“Wait a minute, back up the train.”
“So, once he was promoted to art curator, and they didn’t really care…”
“Are you saying I’m not pretty?”
“In your way.”
“In my way?”
“Yes. Are you going to tell me about yourself or not?”
“Not. I don’t feel pretty.”
“Save me a slow dance.” She waggled a ringless finger. “I’ll make you feel pretty.”
Another time, another place, I might’ve proven a pushover for her. “We’ll see.”
She patted my shoulder and glided off.
My table filled, as did the ballroom. Having been missing in action for so long, I was targeted for many of the inquiries and wasn’t that anxious to hold forth. I preferred to hear about the others.
Dinner service spared me somewhat. Chicken in a pale lavender cream sauce. Can see why the ticket was eighty bucks. Canned green beans and runny mashed potatoes. Maybe they were shooting for cafeteria food nostalgia.
A rather plainly attired woman sat next to me. “Hello, Hammer.”
“Oh, hi. Long time no see.”
“Yes, it has been quite some time.”
“Decades.”
“Yes.”
“Well, it’s good to see you now.”
“You have no idea who I am, do you?”
“None whatsoever.”
“Mary McCullough.”
“Gams McCullough? The girl with the legs for which the team begs.”
“Bingo. But, it’s Sister Teresa, now.” Ooooo, he shanks it into the rough.
“Well, that would explain the ‘bingo.’”
“You haven’t changed.”
Plates were cleared and information seekers were once again in the hunt.
The crosshairs turned back on me, the prodigal son.
Weren’t you the only one to ever get injured playing on the chess team? Hey, it’s a varsity sport.
Whatever happened with Darlene? We went our separate ways after graduation.
Remember when I kicked the snot out of you in fifth grade? Yes, but that was the year of your growth spurt, Jeannie.
You live in Cincinnati? Isn’t that out west, like with buffalos and Indians and all that crap? We call them bison, and the Indians are in Cleveland.
Wasn’t it you who flunked shop because Mr. Pickel couldn’t tell which of the two assigned projects you were turning in? I preferred to work in the abstract.
Whatever happened with you and Darlene? We split after graduation.
Was Sooz voted Mr. Personality, or was that you? No, I was picked Most-Likely-to-Take-a-Life.
What do you do for a living? I’m an interpreter at the International House of Pancakes.
Remember when your band was playing a school dance and you got suspended for making an obscene gesture? I had a sprained finger.
You were the one who got the Philippine exchange student stuck on the frozen flagpole by telling him it was a holiday tradition to lick it, weren’t you? Actually, that was more of a language barrier issue.
What are you doing now? I’m a mole rancher in Clovis, New Mexico.
I thought you were killed in Nam. Outside Da Nang. Feeling better now, though.
I heard you got shot in the… We were retreating.
Whatever happened to Darlene? She’s touring with k. d. lang.
Time for more scotch. And, backing up to a remote wall to figure out why the DJ was spinning disco for a baby-boomer reunion.
Through the mélange of gyrating dancers, a wizened, elderly ferret of a man swam into view. I picked up on the trademark bowtie and elbow patch sport coat, and felt the hairs prickle on my nape. He extended a hand. “Hi, I’m Mr. Brody. I was your class advisor.”
“Ah, Kurtz.”
“Pardon me.” He withdrew his unaccepted hand.
I didn’t answer. I was tracking the path of a carotid artery in his neck.
My nemesis. If John Brody didn’t actually conduct the orchestration of my punishment in differences with the school’s administration, he certainly assumed the mantle of concertmaster. He cut me no slack, whatsoever. In one disciplinary write-up, he referred to me as “a barbarian.” I thought it a bit hyperbolic.
In retrospect, I admit to immaturely being a maverick of the first order, and bringing much upon myself. But, something about me triggered an insecurity in Brady, and he went out of his way to rain down on me.
He peered at my nametag. Recognition registered on his face. “Dorfman.” I was gratified to see him take a step back. I’m sure he’d witnessed many thousands pass through the hallowed halls. But, our clashes were heated enough that I was equally certain he hadn’t forgotten me.
“Live and in person, John.”
“Nice to see you here.”
“Mmm.”
He shifted his weight from foot to foot. “So, what did you do after high school? What did you go onto?”
“Oh, not much. Raised two excellent children. Earned an MBA with honors. Started a few companies that employ hundreds of people. Raised millions for charities. Invited to throw out the first pitch at several major league baseball games. Have dedicated myself to nonprofit social services for the indigent, now. Advise the White House on public health policy. You know, pretty much what you would’ve expected.” Didn’t mind laying the facts on him.
A few long seconds passed. “I always knew that you were gifted. I often said there were no limits to your potential if you would just see fit to adjust your priorities.”
“I’m doubtin’ it.”
He cleared his throat. “Believe what you will. That’s your prerogative.”
“Mr. Brittingham showed me some of your write-ups.” He had nothing to say to that. “I think we’re done here, John.” He nodded and trudged away.
A Laurel & Hardy duo approached me. “Hammer!” The wiry speaker was wearing a windowpane pattern suit that would be loud compared to an AC/DC performance.
“Rat?” (Affectionate diminutive for “The White Rat”). I looked at the larger of the two. “Dumbo?” We shook hands and hugged enthusiastically. Two quality guys. Not exactly major stars in the social galaxy (not unlike me), and I doubt if many classmates had appreciated them.
Rat was perceived as shy and quiet, almost to the point of mute. But, if you bothered to talk with him, he was quite articulate. Probably didn’t work in his favor that he was emaciated and acne-plagued. What most saw was Brillo hair, Coke bottle glasses and mom-picked clothing. Or, to hark back to the argot of the era, “completely whipped.”
Present day, he wore contacts, a stylish do and dressed quite continental (well, on the sliding scale of our hood). I was delighted to hear he owned a travel agency and loved the work. He had blossomed and then some. “What do you do, Hammer?”
“Little of this, little of that. What about you, Dumbo?”
“That would be Dr. Dumbo.” He theatrically slid his thumbs under the lapels of his designer suit.
“No kidding? Fantastic!” Carlos Ramirez had been known as a class clown. Most people never got past the surface. Dumbo had substance.
Rags to riches. After graduation, he clerked in a drug store. Something kicked in. He earned a degree in night school and became a pharmaceutical rep. Then, he doggedly ground it out in med school, and now was an ER doc. It’s overused, but it couldn’t happen to a nicer guy.
“Hey, Hammer, you seen Jackie Rice around? I hear she’s divorced and I’m loaded for majorettes now.” Jackie had been one of the shiniest stars in the social galaxy.
“I think I saw her at one of the tables near the stage. Swinging for the fences now, Carlos?” Somehow, “Dumbo” no longer seemed appropriate.
“A man’s reach should exceed his grasp, or what’s a penis for.”
“She’s lookin’ strong.”
Carlos straightened his tie and ran a wet finger across his eyebrows. “Come to poppa!” He low-fived me and strutted away.
Rat pointed his chin over my shoulder. “Whoa. Bar fritter at twelve o’clock high.”
An Amazonian woman was ordering a cocktail. “Who’s that, Craig Vosburgh in drag?”
“Nah. That’s Mona Blatt.”
“She certainly got uh,…sturdy.”
“Think I got a shot?”
I appraised his diminutive frame. “I wouldn’t work without a net.”
“You haven’t changed.”
“So I’m told.”
“What about Mona?”
“Go for it.”
He did, nearly colliding with a wobbly incoming. “Yo, Hammer!”
“Yo, Rico.” We shook hands. I had to extricate mine.
“Hammer.” It didn’t sound like a question. “Hammer.”
“What?”
“Can I be honest with you? It came out as “honisht.” He was listing heavily to starboard.
“I wish you would.”
“You were one weird dude. I could never get a handle on you.”
“I appreciate the feedback.”
“Can I be really honisht with you?”
“No, and if there’s a God in heaven, you won’t.”
“You didn’t ever give a rat’s ass, didja?”
“Did you want a rat’s ass?”
He was momentarily puzzled. “Hammer. “Hammer.”
“What?”
“Did you ever notish that almosht everyone has a nickname?” It was the way of the turf.
“Your point?”
“I mean a name they weren’t christened with.”
“Thanks for walking me through that one.”
“I never got a nickname.”
“Okay.”
He sank more than half his beverage. “Don’t sheem fair.”
“Look Rico, when your name is Rico Bel Camino, you don’t need a nickname. What you need is a real name.”
He tilted his head back and finished the drink. “Okay, okay. So, what you’re shaying ish that what I need…what I need ish a real name.”
“Lease with an option to buy. You don’t want to get stuck with a lemon.”
“Thash what I mean. I never underschtood a thing you were shaying. I think I’ll go get pretshels and another highball.”
“Couldn’t hurt. And try letting some of the air out of that tongue.”
A couple approached me. American Gothic, except he was towering and had a mountain man beard. Someone’s got the wrong ballroom, I thought. Sorry folks, the Mennonite orgy is down the hall.
He noticed my puzzlement. “It’s us, Michael and Ruthie.”
And so it was. Their story: shortly after graduation, they wed and launched a ministry in central Pennsylvania. A couple decades and numerous children since, they morphed it into a motorcycle ministry, reaching far across the country. In 2003, they transplanted it to Romania. Major stoners, so who would’ve guessed? Not what I would’ve expected, but they had definitely made a mark.
“Ruthie and I were praying you’d be here.”
“Should I ask why?”
“We recalled that your people were from Romania and that you always had a hawg. We wanted to speak with you about giving yourself to Christ and joining our mission.”
Crisscrossing Romania on a scooter, preaching the Gospel. Yep, that’s me. “Nice of you to think that, but I don’t think it’s my cup of tea.”
To digress a moment, this was not the strangest offer I ever received from a classmate. Our former Philippine exchange student once divulged that the wealthy were always at risk at home and his family maintained a cadre of bodyguards. He offered me a position in security, throwing in my own cottage within the family compound, with “plenty peegs and cheekins.” Hard to turn that down, what with the pigs and chickens and all.
“Please, just hear us out.”
“Trust me on this one.”
Fortunately, a song ended and someone tapped a microphone. I turned to see Brody at the podium with Jeff Alehurst, our class president. I knew that only because that’s how he was introduced. I couldn’t name our class officers if my life depended upon it, then or now.
Brody welcomed everyone and went through the standard reunion boilerplate. Alehurst ladled on some yadda yadda, yadda. I cast an eye toward the bar and wondered if it would be out of bounds to get a refill during the program. Living in the Midwest had skewed my compass. I’d have to eviscerate the bartender to raise an eyebrow here.
Alehurst announced that we would conclude the ceremony with a presentation of commemorative jerseys to members of the old championship football team. Brody took a carton from beneath the podium.
I had already been emailed that I would not receive one. Wayne “Wood” Jankowski, Roach and I had been expunged from the team at the end of the season. In response to some cretins from our rival defacing our stadium, we saw their bet and raised it considerably. It might’ve played well in Beirut today, but was deemed over the top then. More or less defined the concept, “seemed like a good idea at the time.” That was ancient history, but someone had decided to “Pete Rose” us.
The former players received their honorariums. This was our class’s most noteworthy legacy? A boyhood game? Seemed inconsequential in the larger scheme of things. And whom did it truly reflect upon? The entire student body or the few dozen zealots who ran up and down the bleachers in the searing heat of August, in preparation to do battle? We won, you watched. Maybe it was the sour grapes talking. Or, the scotch.
Alehurst concluded the program and wished everyone a pleasant remainder of the evening, urging us to continue to do our esteemed alma mater proud. I somehow managed not to puke.
“Just a minute!” Stephanie Toloczko stood up. She had been the captain of the cheerleaders (may not have a clue about class officers, but I did know my cheerleaders). “There’s one more presentation. Would Hammer, Roach and Wood please come to the head table.”
Stephanie produced three jerseys from a bag and pulled them down over our heads, giving each of us a long mouth kiss. I gave silent thanks for preceding Wood. He was never known for his personal hygiene.
The crowd exploded. Brody took an unusual interest in his shoes. This alone was worth the price of the plane ticket.
Spirits buoyed to a new level. We reveled late into the small hours when the hotel finally kicked us out.
Ollie, Jimbo and Weird Ed approached me about going out to find an all-night bar. Nothing can go wrong here. We locate one, but are a little too loud for them. Fine with me. I’m ready to crash. But, the crew wants to go to the Starlite Diner for old time sake. Ollie gets behind the wheel and starts reading the transmission letters like an eye chart. Ed drags him aside and takes over. Good call.
We order the gristliest fare in all Christendom. Except Ollie, who’s almost catatonic. We have him propped up like “Weekend at Bernie’s.” Finally, we’re ready to leave. But, a couple patrolmen walk in and we have to wait them out.
The next day was deemed the homecoming game (we were never sentimental enough to codify the custom) and I spent the morning trying to rebalance my body chemistry. But, Bull, Yingyang and Roach came banging on the door and dragged me out to Zadorozny’s, a local dive. I don’t think I spent this much time with them in all of high school. Boilermakers and hard-boiled eggs, the breakfast of champions
They’re sucking them down like they’re afraid someone might knock over a glass. I’m struggling to keep up, and full mugs are lining up in front of me. They show no effects. I usually don’t drink much. So when I do, I cook on pretty low heat. But Yingyang’s worse than me. We lead him to the car on unsteady legs, like a newborn colt.
Before the coin toss, Bull says we should go down and introduce ourselves to the players. Reeking of booze? Oh, I like this idea.
But, he and Roach each hook an armpit and we’re hobbling down the bleachers. Roach tells me we should find the linebackers and give them some pointers. Right. I knew better. My son played high school and college sports, and his teammates had about as much interest in my opinions as they did in learning how to determine the sex of clams. “Deese jamooks probably saw our trophies and wanna know how we did it.” Yeah, I’ll bet that’s close.
“I’ll just lay chickie by the gate.” When was the last time I stood lookout?
“You’re backin’ my action. C’mon.” We approached the bench and Roach launched into his tutorial. I watched the kids bite their lips. Kids? We had had maybe six guys on our team over 200 lbs. That would be a punter here.
The coach spots us and comes hustling over to disconnect us from his players. He asks what we’re doing on the field, with more civility than was warranted. Bull proclaims we’re from the last great team, and we’re here for a homecoming.
“What passed as a great team until my era, you mean.” All righty then. Bull’s ears turn red. This has bail bond written all over it.
But, the coach turns it around. “Last great team. Let’s see, you guys class of ‘65? ’66? Around that time? Tough bunch of monkeys, especially on D. I tripped over some of your game films when I cleaned out the office and used them for a motivation session. Who are you guys?”
“I’m Matt Elswick. You probably heard of me as Bull. This is…”
“I don’t know names. I only watched film. What were your numbers? Any of you number ten?”
Bull sagged. This guy hadn’t heard of the legendary Bull Elswick? Inconceivable! Maybe worse, he’d asked about the quarterback. Bull hated quarterbacks. Come to think of it, I hated quarterbacks.
“I was 69.” That’s right. Bull had the coveted number.
“Guard?”
Bull sagged even more. I could barely hear his response. “Tackle.”
“40,” piped up Roach with a proud flourish.
“Defensive back, right?”
It was Roach’s turn to wilt. “Linebacker and fullback.” Fame is fleeting.
Well, if their individual play hadn’t make an impression on the coach… I took my shot anyway. “Number 44.”
“You, I know.”
Roach and Bull rolled their eyes. My chest puffed out. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. You scratched yourself a lot between plays. Jock itch?” Bull and Roach fell against each other, nearly collapsing in laughter.
“I sweated a lot. I was known for being pumped up from whistle to whistle.”
“Yeah, I saw you pumping it.” I suppose my ears turned red.
The coach said he appreciated our visit, but we’d have to vacate the field. Bull and Roach wished him well in the game. I said I hoped he strangled on his lanyard. Always the good sport. We returned to the stands and harshly critiqued every move our younger counterparts made. Hey, who was better than us? Miraculously, they still managed to win.
Sue, Carol, and the Fuller Twins dragged me away from the guys in the stands before they got me in anymore trouble. I had been almost the only guy who would dance the previous evening and they were anxious to preserve the resource. Didn’t stop them from smacking the crap out of me when I expressed a few candid observations and recollections of them.
After a victory (or anything else), this group likes to party. It was off to a small airport in Jersey thats lounge had a band that belted out oldies.
The place was crowded with groups of various stripe, attesting to its desirability. Everyone there seemed to dance in the mode of their respective eras, regardless of the song selection.
An elderly gent entered the room and carefully scoped it out. He was like 64, 66 or 79. He zeroed in on our women and started separating the stragglers from the herd for dances.
This may have been lost on some of my male classmates, but I quickly discerned what was going on. The geezer had evaluated all the tribes in the room and decided that we were his best shot at taking over as alpha male. The nerve! In high school, we often got edged out by upperclassmen. Four decades later, it’s still happening. This aggression could not stand.
I elbowed Ollie, who raised his snout from his onion soup and B&B. I almost fell over the stool. His breath could’ve knocked a buzzard off a shit wagon. My vision defogged and I asked him if he noticed the affront. He suggested I might want to go up a collar size on my shirt. No help here. So, I waded into the fray to win back the distaff side with some serious footwork. Fortunately, Jeff was there to fly wingman and we gradually drove off the pesky interloper. Rick, Denny, Jerry and Jim also helped, but they had to tagteam to maintain the pace.
We were off the runway and rapidly gaining altitude when the band paused to note a birthday in the crowd. What? A measly birthday brings festivities to a screeching holt and the gathering of eagles in their midst goes unheralded? Incredible! I was incensed.
Janet looked at me apprehensively and said, “I know what you’re going to do. I know what you’re going to do.” I might add, that was a great deal more than I knew.
I approached the lead singer and informed her of the momentous oversight. She failed to grasp the enormity of the situation. A brief struggle for possession of the microphone ensued. Obviously, she has control issues. The little vixen took me two out of three falls (with the help of some highly questionable holds), but we still managed to orchestrate a rousing improvisation of “Happy Fortieth Reunion to You.”
That attended to, we returned to the business of dancing and depleting the liquor supply.
The hours burned off and revelers drifted away into the night. And then there were two. Ed and me.
He and I waxed philosophically. Bock beer will do that. The more we drank, the smarter we got. By 1:00 am, we were geniuses. We had both noted that, while many attendees had not known each other very well in high school (class of 1,100 students), old barriers were down and a lot of potent bonding had occurred over the weekend. It was heartwarming. I also contemplated that, if our class’s metaphysical horsepower had boiled down to Ed and me, it didn’t bode well. But, I didn’t say anything.
A brunch was scheduled for the next day, but I had booked an early flight in anticipation of having had my fill. I know my limits. Me and Sartre.
Epilogue. All in all, the reunion turned out to be an unqualified blast. The one negative was that it was sad to encounter a number of people who dwelled in the distant past. Some in high school, some had progressed as far as the service. Yes, I do realize that this was an event hinged on reminiscence. But, you can tell from a repeated mantra of old news that someone pegged their speedometer decades ago. I like to think we keep ascending and that our high notes are yet to come.
The good parts. It was great to see that some of the “squids” turned out extremely well. Calvin Trillan be damned. A petty person would’ve drawn some pleasure from the decline of the arrogant queen bees and BMOCs of the exclusive inner circle of yore. Good thing I’m petty.
The big surprise was that my classmates had, in fact, known me and gleaned fairly good insights. My retrospective had been that I orbited well outside the pall. Might’ve been a little more restrained if I had known I was on the radar screen.
Nah.
The plane banked to make our final approach into Philadelphia. This was it. No turning back now. Odd random recollections bobbed up in my mind.
USA Today headline: “Philadelphia Voted City with the Worst Attitude – you gotta problem wit dat?”
David Brenner’s telling Johnny Carson a story on the Tonight Show. He says he runs into a guy in Vegas and can tell he’s from Philly, too. Carson asks how. Brenner shrugs and says you just know. Carson won’t let it slide. Brenner gropes to knead the feeling into words. “Two guys stop at a lunch cart on the sidewalk and order hot dogs. They stand there and eat them. A piano rolls off a balcony fifteen floors above, falls and splatters one of them all over the place. If the other guy keeps eating, you know he’s from Philly.”
News item: A Philadelphia Domino’s Pizza delivery man was questioned by police because it was discovered that he’s moonlighting by delivering corpses to a morgue with the same vehicle. He was released when no statute could be found prohibiting it. Unbelievable. Who would eat Domino’s in Philly when the real deal is available? In another item, entrepreneur Gloria Strunk announces the opening of her ice cream parlor called “Lick This!”
Baseball manager Tommy Lasorda said he was most apprehensive about Phillies fans. “If the game gets rained out, they go down to the airport and boo bad landings.”
News item: A magistrate court was installed in Veterans Stadium to process the high volume of disorderly conduct arrests at Eagles games on the spot. Also, Santa Claus parachutes into the stadium as part of the halftime show of a late season game. He misses his mark and is raucously booed.
Home sweet home.
I pick up the rental car and steel myself for a refresher course in combat driving. Picture the Ben Hur chariot race across eight lanes at 80 mph. Well, 80 or 0, depending upon time of day.
I remind myself of the basic rules. It’s not who has the red light at an intersection, but who can back off the other guy. A siren and flashing lights buy you nothing. If you’re in a funeral procession, you can’t be in more of a hurry than I am. If they didn’t want you driving on medians, sidewalks and shoulders, they shouldn’t have paved them. Traffic laws are more guidelines than requirements. Urban driving is not for the weak-kneed.
I veer onto a hairpin ramp to eyeball the old neighborhood. Endless row houses partitioned by narrow alleys. There’s a boarded up place on a corner that used to be Garabaldi’s Candy Store. I swapped soda bottle deposit pennies for many a Skybar, Pez and Fizzies there. A couple doors down was the old clinic where they did fillings on an assembly line basis, over-drilling in the process. Perhaps the juxtaposition of the two was no coincidence. I run my tongue over a few crowns that later resulted from the subsidized dental work.
I see a couple street kids scraping up a sailcat and can’t help but stop and smile. If you grew up of modest means in the inner city, you know what a sailcat is. If not, and you are somewhat sensitive, skip a paragraph.
When a cat or large sewer rat gets run over in these neighborhoods, animal services does not come around to clean up. The carcass gets flattened repeatedly, the fur worn off and the sun bakes it hard. When it’s sufficiently thin and rigid, you pry it up and play with it like a Frisbee. You take your toys where you can get them.
The older of the boys catches me looking. “Hey, vaffanculo!” Even obscenity sounds classy in a Romance language.
“Testa di cazzo!” I shoot back reflexively. He grins and waves. We understand each other. Nonetheless, I move on. Strangers on the turf have a street life of about ten minutes, and the pristine rental marks me as one. Urban-based cars have a way of quickly getting dinged into indistinguishable heaps. I bump along, musing that I have retained some turf vocabulary. At least the part south of the waist.
I check into the hotel. The clerk says, “Mr. Dorfman? A Mister (he double-checks a note) No-Neck says he can’t meet you at Alvino’s, but will catch you at the reunion.” A Cape Buffalo in a guyabara shirt at the next station turns toward me. “Hammer? Sonavabitch! I’m rottin’ in line inda lobby of some slapdick hotel, an’ in walks none other than da Hammer.”
I haven’t responded to that name in decades. Before I can, my arms go numb and I feel my feet kicking above the floor. “Bull. Uh, Bull. You want to put me down? I’m having trouble breathing here.”
He drops me and slaps me across the back. His arm is the boom of a jibbing schooner. I try to suck in air. “Yo, Roach! Yingyang! Looky who’s here, inda flesh. Hammer!”
Two hulks of indeterminate species lumber across the lobby. I’m still too addled to dodge, and go down under their combined weight, hearing my bones clack together. Bull piles on and we’re grappling around on the carpet, grunting and laughing. People casually skirt us without so much as a sideways glance.
Home sweet home.
Roach hauls me to my feet with one hairy paw. “Yo. You’re sittin’ with us tonight an’ I don’t want no lip on dat.”
I didn’t require all my faculties to remember that there was no percentage in going up against Roach. But, I had made a commitment. “Lynda already claimed dibs.”
“Dat smut muffin? Fuhgeddaboutit! You’re at our table. Adelle sees you’re here and not with us, she goes apeshit.” I didn’t recall being all that integral to their crowd. Or any other, for that matter. My sixth grade report card observes, “Henry is a leader without any followers.” Not exactly my perspective, but close. At an early age, I chose to be an outrider between the clique villages that dotted the hierarchal landscape.
“Don’t worry. I’m sure I’ll mostly be circulating around.”
“Circulatin’. Ya hearin’ dis shit, Bull? Da hitter’s away for a phone number an’ he comes back talkin’ like some kinda poet or somethin’. Yo, ya ever wind up with dat Fiori skirt?”
“Darlene? No, we went our separate ways after high school.”
“Dat one could give ya a blue steel hard-on a cat couldn’t scratch.”
“I’ll be sure to pass along your regards.”
“Yo, I’m not jokin’ around. Ya don’t come by da table right away an’ Adelle will be all over ya. Badabing, badaboom!”
“And how is the lovely Adelle?”
“She can still get it wet.”
“You’re a bit of a poet yourself, Roach.”
I went up to my room, watched some local news and showered. Then, I dressed. From the emails that had flown back and forth, I determined that our class could be triaged. Those who had generated sufficient “escape velocity” to get out of the neighborhood seemed to ride the momentum to extraordinary levels of achievement. The much larger proportion didn’t. That was divided between those who toiled hard to carve out a respectable existence and those who embraced crime. A “career” outside the law holds no stigma here, as long as you’re not preying on the meek. Taking down “foreign” drug gangs or avaricious enterprises is well within bounds. I elected to dress as a toiler. I had no desire to one-up anyone.
A quick elevator ride and a few steps put me at the portal of the proper ballroom. Okay, into the belly of the beast.
There was the customary nametag table, staffed by two women with hairdos a little smaller than Nebraska and dusted with glitter. “Dorfman. Henry Dorfman.” It’s not “Bond, James Bond,” but that’s the hand I was dealt.
“Hammer? Omigod! It’s me! Anita Stankowicz.” She trotted around the table as fast as her undersized dress would permit and bearhugged me.
“Great to see you Stin…, uh, Anita.”
“That’s okay. You can call me Stinky. Everyone still does.” Might explain why she still had the same last name, too.
“Okay, great to see you, Stinky.” Her nickname was derivative of her surname. But, that probably hadn’t ameliorated the impact on her formative years.
“I didn’t see that the Sooz signed up. I thought, you know, as big-time as he is now, he might want to kinda slide in. Do you know if he’s coming?”
Sooz had been my partner-in-crime in many spectacular pranks. Also, a band and making movies for amateur competitions. He had gone on to make good in Hollywood. “No, I don’t know. Haven’t talked with him in a while.”
“Oh, that’s too bad.” Not really. He and I had fed off each other’s feral creativity and would ratchet up to feverish levels, well beyond the bounds of good judgment. I hate to think what it would’ve led to if we had not taken different paths. “By the way, whatever happened with Darlene?”
“She and I split after high school. I saw her a few years ago. She’s fine.” Again, not really.
“That’s a sin. She was somethin’, that one. You blew it big time, buddy.” Okay, this is shaping up nicely.
I looked at my nametag. “Where’s table two?”
“Right up there, near the front. The bar’s in the corner. You might want to stop there first.” Yes, I might.
I grabbed a scotch and wended my way to the table, avoiding eye contact for now. No one was at the table, which was fine with me. I just as soon ease into a hot tub.
Clumps of people who look vaguely familiar are standing around the room. Thinner hair and longer belts, but I can put names to some. For others, it requires a trademark cue. A face pulls into a lopsided smirk. George Hernandez. A bearded man strikes an angular pose. Pete Ortels. Scattered around the ballroom are a few tees and sweatshirts. Had I overdressed?
Ouch! I looked up to see who had slapped my head. “Oh, hi, Adelle. Roach.”
“You think you can just slip in here and not give me a big hug?” I gave her a big hug.
“That’s better. Now what’s this garbage Bobby tells me about you sitting at the snotty committee table? You too good for us? Bobby says you talk fancy now and all that.”
“Moi?”
“Don’t give me that Miss Piggy shit.”
“Hey, Adelle, lighten up. I don’t know anything about a committee table. Lynda just asked me to sit with her and Bruno, and I said I would. I’ll be circu….uh, moving around.”
“Okay, it’s just we haven’t seen you in so long. I don’t like this hearing you might’ve gone uptown on us.” She put her nose an inch from mine. “Once a hitter, always a hitter. You wanna remember that.”
“I’m committing it to memory.”
“Besides, those mamalukes at our table are already boring the mess outta me. We need you to jack it up. If I have to listen to Marie bitch about her friggin’ hysterectomy one more time…”
“Hell is other people.”
“Huh?”
“That’s what Sartre said.” I could’ve bit my tongue.
“Who the hell is that?”
“Jean-Paul Sartre. Old guy. Talks like Miss Piggy.”
“Don’t know ‘im. You just get your pooper over to our table before I shiv Marie with a butter knife.”
“Will do.”
Roach smirked. “Yeah, c’mon over. Denise was askin’ about ya.”
“That puttana? Zip it, Bobby. The biggest reunion you’d ever see would be her knees, and that ain’t happenin’. Hammer doesn’t want any part of her. Right, Hammer?”
“Yeah, I don’t want any part of her.”
“See?” Adelle stalked off, trailing Roach in her wake. I turned my attention to the DJ. He had just cued up “The Makerina.” Yeah, that fits.
Someone kissed me lightly on the cheek. “Hello, Henry.” An elegant woman gracefully alighted on a chair facing mine and smoothed a rich satin fabric over ballet dancer’s legs. It would come as absolutely no surprise if she was the only one to address me by my given name for the entire evening. You could cut as deeply as you cared, but you would find her to be solid gold all the way through.
“Hello, Allison.” I had obsessed over her in tenth grade. She elected to pair up with an upperclassman who came from one of the few “right families” in the district. But, not before toying with me over a few months. Her beau’s father owned an electronics factory on our turf. The boyfriend had impeccable clothing, manners and diction. I had all but three of those. His name was J. Ramsey Hefflefinger (“the third”), but went by “Hef.” He drove a Triumph TR3 roadster and smoked cherry blend tobacco in a calabash pipe. He was a perfect ass.
“So good to see you.” I don’t know many people who could say that and not appear pretentious. Allison could bring it off without breaking a sweat.
“So good to be seen.” The master of snappy repartee.
Allison beamed. Green eyes and dazzling, ice white teeth. Did someone turn up the thermostat? I struggled not to glimpse her pendant. Or whatever. “I sometimes wonder what becomes of someone like you. What became of you, Henry?”
“Got into the champagne a little early, did we, Allison?”
Unflappable doesn’t begin to describe her. If anything, her smile widened. “No, really. When I think back, you were one of the unique people who touched my life. What became of you? I want to know.”
“Well, after graduation I went to college and majored in time forecasting. You know, projecting what time it’ll be like ten, twelve hours from now. But, the economy was soft when I graduated and I couldn’t find a position in the field. So, I took a job as a maple syrup taster in Saskatuan until something else came up. Now I’m touring with Cats, the musical.”
The smile didn’t waver. “You don’t court favor. You haven’t changed.”
“We’re all who we were in high school.”
“Calvin Trillan.” Damn, she was good. “Are you still with that Darlene girl?” That Darlene girl?
“We went our separate ways after high school.” Might be easier just to write it on my nametag.
“Pity. You were a striking couple.”
“So were Beauty and the Beast.”
“We were a cute couple.”
“You and Hef?”
She bopped me on the head. This was starting to be a trend I could live without. “You and me. Admit it. We had grand times together over the time we dated.”
“All three days of it.”
“Months.”
“Must you step on my best lines?”
“Then stop giving me lines and tell me about yourself.”
“You first. Didn’t I hear you married Hef?”
“Yes, but that didn’t last long. It was more for appearances on his part.”
“Appearances?”
“Don’t act thick. You know what I mean.”
“He was gay? Hef was gay?”
“It was obvious. As obvious as you weren’t.”
“You mean because he didn’t try…”
“No, that’s not the difference. He was just a little, you know, pretty.”
“Huh?”
“His hair, his clothes; everything was just so.”
“As opposed to?”
“He was meticulous about everything.”
“Wait a minute, back up the train.”
“So, once he was promoted to art curator, and they didn’t really care…”
“Are you saying I’m not pretty?”
“In your way.”
“In my way?”
“Yes. Are you going to tell me about yourself or not?”
“Not. I don’t feel pretty.”
“Save me a slow dance.” She waggled a ringless finger. “I’ll make you feel pretty.”
Another time, another place, I might’ve proven a pushover for her. “We’ll see.”
She patted my shoulder and glided off.
My table filled, as did the ballroom. Having been missing in action for so long, I was targeted for many of the inquiries and wasn’t that anxious to hold forth. I preferred to hear about the others.
Dinner service spared me somewhat. Chicken in a pale lavender cream sauce. Can see why the ticket was eighty bucks. Canned green beans and runny mashed potatoes. Maybe they were shooting for cafeteria food nostalgia.
A rather plainly attired woman sat next to me. “Hello, Hammer.”
“Oh, hi. Long time no see.”
“Yes, it has been quite some time.”
“Decades.”
“Yes.”
“Well, it’s good to see you now.”
“You have no idea who I am, do you?”
“None whatsoever.”
“Mary McCullough.”
“Gams McCullough? The girl with the legs for which the team begs.”
“Bingo. But, it’s Sister Teresa, now.” Ooooo, he shanks it into the rough.
“Well, that would explain the ‘bingo.’”
“You haven’t changed.”
Plates were cleared and information seekers were once again in the hunt.
The crosshairs turned back on me, the prodigal son.
Weren’t you the only one to ever get injured playing on the chess team? Hey, it’s a varsity sport.
Whatever happened with Darlene? We went our separate ways after graduation.
Remember when I kicked the snot out of you in fifth grade? Yes, but that was the year of your growth spurt, Jeannie.
You live in Cincinnati? Isn’t that out west, like with buffalos and Indians and all that crap? We call them bison, and the Indians are in Cleveland.
Wasn’t it you who flunked shop because Mr. Pickel couldn’t tell which of the two assigned projects you were turning in? I preferred to work in the abstract.
Whatever happened with you and Darlene? We split after graduation.
Was Sooz voted Mr. Personality, or was that you? No, I was picked Most-Likely-to-Take-a-Life.
What do you do for a living? I’m an interpreter at the International House of Pancakes.
Remember when your band was playing a school dance and you got suspended for making an obscene gesture? I had a sprained finger.
You were the one who got the Philippine exchange student stuck on the frozen flagpole by telling him it was a holiday tradition to lick it, weren’t you? Actually, that was more of a language barrier issue.
What are you doing now? I’m a mole rancher in Clovis, New Mexico.
I thought you were killed in Nam. Outside Da Nang. Feeling better now, though.
I heard you got shot in the… We were retreating.
Whatever happened to Darlene? She’s touring with k. d. lang.
Time for more scotch. And, backing up to a remote wall to figure out why the DJ was spinning disco for a baby-boomer reunion.
Through the mélange of gyrating dancers, a wizened, elderly ferret of a man swam into view. I picked up on the trademark bowtie and elbow patch sport coat, and felt the hairs prickle on my nape. He extended a hand. “Hi, I’m Mr. Brody. I was your class advisor.”
“Ah, Kurtz.”
“Pardon me.” He withdrew his unaccepted hand.
I didn’t answer. I was tracking the path of a carotid artery in his neck.
My nemesis. If John Brody didn’t actually conduct the orchestration of my punishment in differences with the school’s administration, he certainly assumed the mantle of concertmaster. He cut me no slack, whatsoever. In one disciplinary write-up, he referred to me as “a barbarian.” I thought it a bit hyperbolic.
In retrospect, I admit to immaturely being a maverick of the first order, and bringing much upon myself. But, something about me triggered an insecurity in Brady, and he went out of his way to rain down on me.
He peered at my nametag. Recognition registered on his face. “Dorfman.” I was gratified to see him take a step back. I’m sure he’d witnessed many thousands pass through the hallowed halls. But, our clashes were heated enough that I was equally certain he hadn’t forgotten me.
“Live and in person, John.”
“Nice to see you here.”
“Mmm.”
He shifted his weight from foot to foot. “So, what did you do after high school? What did you go onto?”
“Oh, not much. Raised two excellent children. Earned an MBA with honors. Started a few companies that employ hundreds of people. Raised millions for charities. Invited to throw out the first pitch at several major league baseball games. Have dedicated myself to nonprofit social services for the indigent, now. Advise the White House on public health policy. You know, pretty much what you would’ve expected.” Didn’t mind laying the facts on him.
A few long seconds passed. “I always knew that you were gifted. I often said there were no limits to your potential if you would just see fit to adjust your priorities.”
“I’m doubtin’ it.”
He cleared his throat. “Believe what you will. That’s your prerogative.”
“Mr. Brittingham showed me some of your write-ups.” He had nothing to say to that. “I think we’re done here, John.” He nodded and trudged away.
A Laurel & Hardy duo approached me. “Hammer!” The wiry speaker was wearing a windowpane pattern suit that would be loud compared to an AC/DC performance.
“Rat?” (Affectionate diminutive for “The White Rat”). I looked at the larger of the two. “Dumbo?” We shook hands and hugged enthusiastically. Two quality guys. Not exactly major stars in the social galaxy (not unlike me), and I doubt if many classmates had appreciated them.
Rat was perceived as shy and quiet, almost to the point of mute. But, if you bothered to talk with him, he was quite articulate. Probably didn’t work in his favor that he was emaciated and acne-plagued. What most saw was Brillo hair, Coke bottle glasses and mom-picked clothing. Or, to hark back to the argot of the era, “completely whipped.”
Present day, he wore contacts, a stylish do and dressed quite continental (well, on the sliding scale of our hood). I was delighted to hear he owned a travel agency and loved the work. He had blossomed and then some. “What do you do, Hammer?”
“Little of this, little of that. What about you, Dumbo?”
“That would be Dr. Dumbo.” He theatrically slid his thumbs under the lapels of his designer suit.
“No kidding? Fantastic!” Carlos Ramirez had been known as a class clown. Most people never got past the surface. Dumbo had substance.
Rags to riches. After graduation, he clerked in a drug store. Something kicked in. He earned a degree in night school and became a pharmaceutical rep. Then, he doggedly ground it out in med school, and now was an ER doc. It’s overused, but it couldn’t happen to a nicer guy.
“Hey, Hammer, you seen Jackie Rice around? I hear she’s divorced and I’m loaded for majorettes now.” Jackie had been one of the shiniest stars in the social galaxy.
“I think I saw her at one of the tables near the stage. Swinging for the fences now, Carlos?” Somehow, “Dumbo” no longer seemed appropriate.
“A man’s reach should exceed his grasp, or what’s a penis for.”
“She’s lookin’ strong.”
Carlos straightened his tie and ran a wet finger across his eyebrows. “Come to poppa!” He low-fived me and strutted away.
Rat pointed his chin over my shoulder. “Whoa. Bar fritter at twelve o’clock high.”
An Amazonian woman was ordering a cocktail. “Who’s that, Craig Vosburgh in drag?”
“Nah. That’s Mona Blatt.”
“She certainly got uh,…sturdy.”
“Think I got a shot?”
I appraised his diminutive frame. “I wouldn’t work without a net.”
“You haven’t changed.”
“So I’m told.”
“What about Mona?”
“Go for it.”
He did, nearly colliding with a wobbly incoming. “Yo, Hammer!”
“Yo, Rico.” We shook hands. I had to extricate mine.
“Hammer.” It didn’t sound like a question. “Hammer.”
“What?”
“Can I be honest with you? It came out as “honisht.” He was listing heavily to starboard.
“I wish you would.”
“You were one weird dude. I could never get a handle on you.”
“I appreciate the feedback.”
“Can I be really honisht with you?”
“No, and if there’s a God in heaven, you won’t.”
“You didn’t ever give a rat’s ass, didja?”
“Did you want a rat’s ass?”
He was momentarily puzzled. “Hammer. “Hammer.”
“What?”
“Did you ever notish that almosht everyone has a nickname?” It was the way of the turf.
“Your point?”
“I mean a name they weren’t christened with.”
“Thanks for walking me through that one.”
“I never got a nickname.”
“Okay.”
He sank more than half his beverage. “Don’t sheem fair.”
“Look Rico, when your name is Rico Bel Camino, you don’t need a nickname. What you need is a real name.”
He tilted his head back and finished the drink. “Okay, okay. So, what you’re shaying ish that what I need…what I need ish a real name.”
“Lease with an option to buy. You don’t want to get stuck with a lemon.”
“Thash what I mean. I never underschtood a thing you were shaying. I think I’ll go get pretshels and another highball.”
“Couldn’t hurt. And try letting some of the air out of that tongue.”
A couple approached me. American Gothic, except he was towering and had a mountain man beard. Someone’s got the wrong ballroom, I thought. Sorry folks, the Mennonite orgy is down the hall.
He noticed my puzzlement. “It’s us, Michael and Ruthie.”
And so it was. Their story: shortly after graduation, they wed and launched a ministry in central Pennsylvania. A couple decades and numerous children since, they morphed it into a motorcycle ministry, reaching far across the country. In 2003, they transplanted it to Romania. Major stoners, so who would’ve guessed? Not what I would’ve expected, but they had definitely made a mark.
“Ruthie and I were praying you’d be here.”
“Should I ask why?”
“We recalled that your people were from Romania and that you always had a hawg. We wanted to speak with you about giving yourself to Christ and joining our mission.”
Crisscrossing Romania on a scooter, preaching the Gospel. Yep, that’s me. “Nice of you to think that, but I don’t think it’s my cup of tea.”
To digress a moment, this was not the strangest offer I ever received from a classmate. Our former Philippine exchange student once divulged that the wealthy were always at risk at home and his family maintained a cadre of bodyguards. He offered me a position in security, throwing in my own cottage within the family compound, with “plenty peegs and cheekins.” Hard to turn that down, what with the pigs and chickens and all.
“Please, just hear us out.”
“Trust me on this one.”
Fortunately, a song ended and someone tapped a microphone. I turned to see Brody at the podium with Jeff Alehurst, our class president. I knew that only because that’s how he was introduced. I couldn’t name our class officers if my life depended upon it, then or now.
Brody welcomed everyone and went through the standard reunion boilerplate. Alehurst ladled on some yadda yadda, yadda. I cast an eye toward the bar and wondered if it would be out of bounds to get a refill during the program. Living in the Midwest had skewed my compass. I’d have to eviscerate the bartender to raise an eyebrow here.
Alehurst announced that we would conclude the ceremony with a presentation of commemorative jerseys to members of the old championship football team. Brody took a carton from beneath the podium.
I had already been emailed that I would not receive one. Wayne “Wood” Jankowski, Roach and I had been expunged from the team at the end of the season. In response to some cretins from our rival defacing our stadium, we saw their bet and raised it considerably. It might’ve played well in Beirut today, but was deemed over the top then. More or less defined the concept, “seemed like a good idea at the time.” That was ancient history, but someone had decided to “Pete Rose” us.
The former players received their honorariums. This was our class’s most noteworthy legacy? A boyhood game? Seemed inconsequential in the larger scheme of things. And whom did it truly reflect upon? The entire student body or the few dozen zealots who ran up and down the bleachers in the searing heat of August, in preparation to do battle? We won, you watched. Maybe it was the sour grapes talking. Or, the scotch.
Alehurst concluded the program and wished everyone a pleasant remainder of the evening, urging us to continue to do our esteemed alma mater proud. I somehow managed not to puke.
“Just a minute!” Stephanie Toloczko stood up. She had been the captain of the cheerleaders (may not have a clue about class officers, but I did know my cheerleaders). “There’s one more presentation. Would Hammer, Roach and Wood please come to the head table.”
Stephanie produced three jerseys from a bag and pulled them down over our heads, giving each of us a long mouth kiss. I gave silent thanks for preceding Wood. He was never known for his personal hygiene.
The crowd exploded. Brody took an unusual interest in his shoes. This alone was worth the price of the plane ticket.
Spirits buoyed to a new level. We reveled late into the small hours when the hotel finally kicked us out.
Ollie, Jimbo and Weird Ed approached me about going out to find an all-night bar. Nothing can go wrong here. We locate one, but are a little too loud for them. Fine with me. I’m ready to crash. But, the crew wants to go to the Starlite Diner for old time sake. Ollie gets behind the wheel and starts reading the transmission letters like an eye chart. Ed drags him aside and takes over. Good call.
We order the gristliest fare in all Christendom. Except Ollie, who’s almost catatonic. We have him propped up like “Weekend at Bernie’s.” Finally, we’re ready to leave. But, a couple patrolmen walk in and we have to wait them out.
The next day was deemed the homecoming game (we were never sentimental enough to codify the custom) and I spent the morning trying to rebalance my body chemistry. But, Bull, Yingyang and Roach came banging on the door and dragged me out to Zadorozny’s, a local dive. I don’t think I spent this much time with them in all of high school. Boilermakers and hard-boiled eggs, the breakfast of champions
They’re sucking them down like they’re afraid someone might knock over a glass. I’m struggling to keep up, and full mugs are lining up in front of me. They show no effects. I usually don’t drink much. So when I do, I cook on pretty low heat. But Yingyang’s worse than me. We lead him to the car on unsteady legs, like a newborn colt.
Before the coin toss, Bull says we should go down and introduce ourselves to the players. Reeking of booze? Oh, I like this idea.
But, he and Roach each hook an armpit and we’re hobbling down the bleachers. Roach tells me we should find the linebackers and give them some pointers. Right. I knew better. My son played high school and college sports, and his teammates had about as much interest in my opinions as they did in learning how to determine the sex of clams. “Deese jamooks probably saw our trophies and wanna know how we did it.” Yeah, I’ll bet that’s close.
“I’ll just lay chickie by the gate.” When was the last time I stood lookout?
“You’re backin’ my action. C’mon.” We approached the bench and Roach launched into his tutorial. I watched the kids bite their lips. Kids? We had had maybe six guys on our team over 200 lbs. That would be a punter here.
The coach spots us and comes hustling over to disconnect us from his players. He asks what we’re doing on the field, with more civility than was warranted. Bull proclaims we’re from the last great team, and we’re here for a homecoming.
“What passed as a great team until my era, you mean.” All righty then. Bull’s ears turn red. This has bail bond written all over it.
But, the coach turns it around. “Last great team. Let’s see, you guys class of ‘65? ’66? Around that time? Tough bunch of monkeys, especially on D. I tripped over some of your game films when I cleaned out the office and used them for a motivation session. Who are you guys?”
“I’m Matt Elswick. You probably heard of me as Bull. This is…”
“I don’t know names. I only watched film. What were your numbers? Any of you number ten?”
Bull sagged. This guy hadn’t heard of the legendary Bull Elswick? Inconceivable! Maybe worse, he’d asked about the quarterback. Bull hated quarterbacks. Come to think of it, I hated quarterbacks.
“I was 69.” That’s right. Bull had the coveted number.
“Guard?”
Bull sagged even more. I could barely hear his response. “Tackle.”
“40,” piped up Roach with a proud flourish.
“Defensive back, right?”
It was Roach’s turn to wilt. “Linebacker and fullback.” Fame is fleeting.
Well, if their individual play hadn’t make an impression on the coach… I took my shot anyway. “Number 44.”
“You, I know.”
Roach and Bull rolled their eyes. My chest puffed out. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. You scratched yourself a lot between plays. Jock itch?” Bull and Roach fell against each other, nearly collapsing in laughter.
“I sweated a lot. I was known for being pumped up from whistle to whistle.”
“Yeah, I saw you pumping it.” I suppose my ears turned red.
The coach said he appreciated our visit, but we’d have to vacate the field. Bull and Roach wished him well in the game. I said I hoped he strangled on his lanyard. Always the good sport. We returned to the stands and harshly critiqued every move our younger counterparts made. Hey, who was better than us? Miraculously, they still managed to win.
Sue, Carol, and the Fuller Twins dragged me away from the guys in the stands before they got me in anymore trouble. I had been almost the only guy who would dance the previous evening and they were anxious to preserve the resource. Didn’t stop them from smacking the crap out of me when I expressed a few candid observations and recollections of them.
After a victory (or anything else), this group likes to party. It was off to a small airport in Jersey thats lounge had a band that belted out oldies.
The place was crowded with groups of various stripe, attesting to its desirability. Everyone there seemed to dance in the mode of their respective eras, regardless of the song selection.
An elderly gent entered the room and carefully scoped it out. He was like 64, 66 or 79. He zeroed in on our women and started separating the stragglers from the herd for dances.
This may have been lost on some of my male classmates, but I quickly discerned what was going on. The geezer had evaluated all the tribes in the room and decided that we were his best shot at taking over as alpha male. The nerve! In high school, we often got edged out by upperclassmen. Four decades later, it’s still happening. This aggression could not stand.
I elbowed Ollie, who raised his snout from his onion soup and B&B. I almost fell over the stool. His breath could’ve knocked a buzzard off a shit wagon. My vision defogged and I asked him if he noticed the affront. He suggested I might want to go up a collar size on my shirt. No help here. So, I waded into the fray to win back the distaff side with some serious footwork. Fortunately, Jeff was there to fly wingman and we gradually drove off the pesky interloper. Rick, Denny, Jerry and Jim also helped, but they had to tagteam to maintain the pace.
We were off the runway and rapidly gaining altitude when the band paused to note a birthday in the crowd. What? A measly birthday brings festivities to a screeching holt and the gathering of eagles in their midst goes unheralded? Incredible! I was incensed.
Janet looked at me apprehensively and said, “I know what you’re going to do. I know what you’re going to do.” I might add, that was a great deal more than I knew.
I approached the lead singer and informed her of the momentous oversight. She failed to grasp the enormity of the situation. A brief struggle for possession of the microphone ensued. Obviously, she has control issues. The little vixen took me two out of three falls (with the help of some highly questionable holds), but we still managed to orchestrate a rousing improvisation of “Happy Fortieth Reunion to You.”
That attended to, we returned to the business of dancing and depleting the liquor supply.
The hours burned off and revelers drifted away into the night. And then there were two. Ed and me.
He and I waxed philosophically. Bock beer will do that. The more we drank, the smarter we got. By 1:00 am, we were geniuses. We had both noted that, while many attendees had not known each other very well in high school (class of 1,100 students), old barriers were down and a lot of potent bonding had occurred over the weekend. It was heartwarming. I also contemplated that, if our class’s metaphysical horsepower had boiled down to Ed and me, it didn’t bode well. But, I didn’t say anything.
A brunch was scheduled for the next day, but I had booked an early flight in anticipation of having had my fill. I know my limits. Me and Sartre.
Epilogue. All in all, the reunion turned out to be an unqualified blast. The one negative was that it was sad to encounter a number of people who dwelled in the distant past. Some in high school, some had progressed as far as the service. Yes, I do realize that this was an event hinged on reminiscence. But, you can tell from a repeated mantra of old news that someone pegged their speedometer decades ago. I like to think we keep ascending and that our high notes are yet to come.
The good parts. It was great to see that some of the “squids” turned out extremely well. Calvin Trillan be damned. A petty person would’ve drawn some pleasure from the decline of the arrogant queen bees and BMOCs of the exclusive inner circle of yore. Good thing I’m petty.
The big surprise was that my classmates had, in fact, known me and gleaned fairly good insights. My retrospective had been that I orbited well outside the pall. Might’ve been a little more restrained if I had known I was on the radar screen.
Nah.
Monday, October 09, 2006
BPD
As we approach a high school reunion, everyone is gleefully exchanging old stories, events in their currents lives and other happy gems. Everyone except Robin. Robin emailed me that she’s not going and advises me to do the same.
She goes on to say that she sent a check in for the last reunion and the committee returned it with a note that said she should stay the hell away. At the previous reunion, she added, everyone had behaved meanly.
I thought I recognized the rant pattern (I see it in my profession), but checked with the reunion chairwoman. Robin could not have received the returned check and note from the committee because reservations went to an outside firm. Since Robin did not attend the prior reunion, any stories she was telling were fabrications of her imagination. Besides, if the people were so mean, why would she even want to sign up for another event and be with them? That wouldn’t make any sense, so something was obviously very wrong. This and the pattern of Robin’s rant fit the symptoms of Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD), a serious mental illness.
If you are close to someone with BPD, there are websites for dealing with it. If it is someone not close to you, the best course may be to avoid that person. How do you recognize a BPD?
They view others with polarity, either totally good or evil. And, this perception can flicker back and forth.
They feel wronged, ignored or abandoned at the slightest provocation, or imagined one. They are often distrustful, anxious or irritable.
They have unpredictable rages that often make no sense and are often abusive. Refuse to engage them in pointing out the truth as facts mean nothing to them. They twist words and events, or construct their own realities. They often don’t recall things as others do, or will attempt to blame the skewed version on others. BPDs can find each other and use their counterparts for validation of their aberrant perceptions and behavior. They also project their own dysfunction onto others, usually the focus of their rage.
They need to be the center of attention and will go to lengths to attain that, even if it means acting provocative or badly. It will still never be enough attention and they will become angered.
They act impulsively. Many gamble, abuse drugs, overspend, overeat or are promiscuous.
They are manipulative and frequently lie. They are denigrating of the point of view of others.
Their moods flip. And, their viewpoints may depend upon who they’re with.
Unfortunately, BPD gets little publicity, so relatively few know what to do when someone close to them exhibits the symptoms. BPDs seldom seek treatment on their own because in their minds, their many interpersonal conflicts are the doing and fault of others. But, it is treatable. If it received more exposure, there would be more treatment.
She goes on to say that she sent a check in for the last reunion and the committee returned it with a note that said she should stay the hell away. At the previous reunion, she added, everyone had behaved meanly.
I thought I recognized the rant pattern (I see it in my profession), but checked with the reunion chairwoman. Robin could not have received the returned check and note from the committee because reservations went to an outside firm. Since Robin did not attend the prior reunion, any stories she was telling were fabrications of her imagination. Besides, if the people were so mean, why would she even want to sign up for another event and be with them? That wouldn’t make any sense, so something was obviously very wrong. This and the pattern of Robin’s rant fit the symptoms of Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD), a serious mental illness.
If you are close to someone with BPD, there are websites for dealing with it. If it is someone not close to you, the best course may be to avoid that person. How do you recognize a BPD?
They view others with polarity, either totally good or evil. And, this perception can flicker back and forth.
They feel wronged, ignored or abandoned at the slightest provocation, or imagined one. They are often distrustful, anxious or irritable.
They have unpredictable rages that often make no sense and are often abusive. Refuse to engage them in pointing out the truth as facts mean nothing to them. They twist words and events, or construct their own realities. They often don’t recall things as others do, or will attempt to blame the skewed version on others. BPDs can find each other and use their counterparts for validation of their aberrant perceptions and behavior. They also project their own dysfunction onto others, usually the focus of their rage.
They need to be the center of attention and will go to lengths to attain that, even if it means acting provocative or badly. It will still never be enough attention and they will become angered.
They act impulsively. Many gamble, abuse drugs, overspend, overeat or are promiscuous.
They are manipulative and frequently lie. They are denigrating of the point of view of others.
Their moods flip. And, their viewpoints may depend upon who they’re with.
Unfortunately, BPD gets little publicity, so relatively few know what to do when someone close to them exhibits the symptoms. BPDs seldom seek treatment on their own because in their minds, their many interpersonal conflicts are the doing and fault of others. But, it is treatable. If it received more exposure, there would be more treatment.
Thursday, October 05, 2006
Locality Overreaching
I thought we were done with this. Who started it, anyway?
Maybe it was Chevrolet with the 1953 Bel Air. The pedestrian Powerglide emblematic of one of LA’s swankiest enclaves? I don’t think so.
Other overreachers include the Pontiac Bonneville, Chevy Monte Carlo and Dodge Monaco. Princess Grace leaving the palace in a Dodge or Chevy? Unlikely.
Perhaps the most brazen example was the Pontiac Parisienne. I just don’t see Pierre loading up the trunk of this lumbering Detroit Iron with Chateau Lafitte.
I thought we were well past that, but in rolls Kia, the Korean-based manufacturer of price point vehicles. Note the Sorento, Sedona and Rio.
One would assume the Sorento alludes to Sorrento, Italy, the elegant tourist destination hard by the Gulf of Naples. Not a place one counts pennies.
And the “affordable” Sedona minivan exemplary of the retreat for reclusive Hollywood celebrities? I doubt you will find the word (affordable) in any Sedona guidebook. The last time I was there, the manager of the Bed & Breakfast where I bivouacked was preparing for her monthly two-hour trek to a Phoenix Kmart to do her shopping.
As far as the Rio is concerned, I did a grueling drive from NYC to DC in one. It was no carnival.
I thought we were past locality hyperbole. If a car is a Peoria, just call it a Peoria.
Maybe it was Chevrolet with the 1953 Bel Air. The pedestrian Powerglide emblematic of one of LA’s swankiest enclaves? I don’t think so.
Other overreachers include the Pontiac Bonneville, Chevy Monte Carlo and Dodge Monaco. Princess Grace leaving the palace in a Dodge or Chevy? Unlikely.
Perhaps the most brazen example was the Pontiac Parisienne. I just don’t see Pierre loading up the trunk of this lumbering Detroit Iron with Chateau Lafitte.
I thought we were well past that, but in rolls Kia, the Korean-based manufacturer of price point vehicles. Note the Sorento, Sedona and Rio.
One would assume the Sorento alludes to Sorrento, Italy, the elegant tourist destination hard by the Gulf of Naples. Not a place one counts pennies.
And the “affordable” Sedona minivan exemplary of the retreat for reclusive Hollywood celebrities? I doubt you will find the word (affordable) in any Sedona guidebook. The last time I was there, the manager of the Bed & Breakfast where I bivouacked was preparing for her monthly two-hour trek to a Phoenix Kmart to do her shopping.
As far as the Rio is concerned, I did a grueling drive from NYC to DC in one. It was no carnival.
I thought we were past locality hyperbole. If a car is a Peoria, just call it a Peoria.
Thursday, September 28, 2006
Source Credibility
Years back, I bought a company and wanted to do some management training and planning with our offices scattered across the Midwest. To reward the branch managers (or minimize excuses for not attending), I selected a desirable sight in Florida to escape the frigid weather.
The first day was going mediocre at best. I encouraged a give & take atmosphere, and fought hard to maintain a neutral visage in the face of disagreement or complaint. As they grew more confident that I sincerely wanted them to speak up, I detected an underlying problem.
Respect. Source credibility, to be precise. I could preach all I wanted about the way things should be, but I wasn’t in the field. They were where the rubber meets the road. I wasn’t.
I had bought the company, not worked my way up. They didn’t know me. They knew my reputation for succeeding, but hadn’t personally witnessed me do anything of note, for the most part, and didn’t know what I was capable of.
Unless I pulled a rabbit out of my hat, this training and strategizing was sure to fall on deaf ears. I didn’t have any rabbits.
At the end of the day, I had vans take them to a good restaurant. Then, I whisked them to a trendy chic bar. Very “Miami Vice” (the TV show was hot at the time). I told them the tab was mine. They warmed to me perceptibly.
But, that only buys you so much. I knew it would evaporate by morning.
We leaned on the acrylic bar and swilled pastel-colored drinks while Jan Hammer blared in the background. I tried to work in snippets of business sagacity, but their attention was elsewhere.
Their gazes led to a spectacular redhead sharing the rail with us. Her parents should’ve received the Nobel Prize for architecture.
We watched a few guys make their passes and go down in flames. My crew kept elbowing Sean Andrews, a Brad Pitt type who ran our Dayton operation, and tilting their heads toward the woman.
Okay, I get it. Andrews is the stud goose and they want him to take the shot, bringing vicarious glory to the team. He snugged up his tie and brushed the lank hair back from his forehead. I knew he was going in for the kill.
Andrews cranked up his smile to the full 500 watts and leaned in. I couldn’t hear the opening gambit, but saw her press her hands to her temples in anguish. When she did so, I also saw something else of significance to me. Maybe I did have a rabbit, after all.
She shook her head in the negative, but Andrews pressed the attack. Good for him. A key rule of selling is to never accept the first “no.” He kept firing, but she impaled him with a withering stare. Andrews broke off the attack and slunk back to base. Comforting hands found his shoulders.
“Okay boys, take a lesson.” I downed the remainder of my drink and tried not to cough. Would’ve spoiled the effect. I edged over to the woman, catching their gapes of disbelief in the mirror behind the bar.
The “oh crap” look crept across her features. I get a lot of that. “I know you’ve been hit on by half the bar with boring pickup lines. But, I have a proposition that I know will intrigue you.”
“Oh really. And what might that be? And, I’m already kicking myself for asking.”
“I have a unique and unusual talent that will truly amaze you. Truly. If I do, you let me buy you a drink. If I don’t, I walk.”
“You’re about to walk anyway, but just for kicks and grins, what is this so-called talent? And, it had better not be obscene. I know the bouncer.”
“Not in the least. I have memorized and can sing the alma mater of every high school in the United States of America. Name one and I’ll sing for you.”
“Really.”
“Really.”
“Every one.”
“Every single one.”
“That isn’t very interesting, but it’s definitely unusual. Why would you do that?”
“I’ll throw in the explanation with the serenade. Do we have a deal?”
She pondered it. “Okay, slick. You’re on.”
“You have to name a school before I sing.” She did and I did.
She was, in fact, amazed. I bought her a drink and chatted long enough to establish creds with my gang (amazing them). I don’t recall the reason I divulged for allegedly memorizing the songs, but it doesn’t matter. Whatever it was, I made it up on the spot.
I spoke on many topics with her, with the notable exception of how I knew the alma mater of the school she named. You see, when she had previously put her fingers to her temples, I noticed the distinctive class ring of my own high school. She didn’t need to know that, and neither did my protégés.
The next day went infinitely better. My coup had mushroomed to epic proportions by the time breakfast dishes were cleared.
Now, you might say, what the hell did that have to do with source credibility? And I might respond, you don’t know guys very well, do you?
The first day was going mediocre at best. I encouraged a give & take atmosphere, and fought hard to maintain a neutral visage in the face of disagreement or complaint. As they grew more confident that I sincerely wanted them to speak up, I detected an underlying problem.
Respect. Source credibility, to be precise. I could preach all I wanted about the way things should be, but I wasn’t in the field. They were where the rubber meets the road. I wasn’t.
I had bought the company, not worked my way up. They didn’t know me. They knew my reputation for succeeding, but hadn’t personally witnessed me do anything of note, for the most part, and didn’t know what I was capable of.
Unless I pulled a rabbit out of my hat, this training and strategizing was sure to fall on deaf ears. I didn’t have any rabbits.
At the end of the day, I had vans take them to a good restaurant. Then, I whisked them to a trendy chic bar. Very “Miami Vice” (the TV show was hot at the time). I told them the tab was mine. They warmed to me perceptibly.
But, that only buys you so much. I knew it would evaporate by morning.
We leaned on the acrylic bar and swilled pastel-colored drinks while Jan Hammer blared in the background. I tried to work in snippets of business sagacity, but their attention was elsewhere.
Their gazes led to a spectacular redhead sharing the rail with us. Her parents should’ve received the Nobel Prize for architecture.
We watched a few guys make their passes and go down in flames. My crew kept elbowing Sean Andrews, a Brad Pitt type who ran our Dayton operation, and tilting their heads toward the woman.
Okay, I get it. Andrews is the stud goose and they want him to take the shot, bringing vicarious glory to the team. He snugged up his tie and brushed the lank hair back from his forehead. I knew he was going in for the kill.
Andrews cranked up his smile to the full 500 watts and leaned in. I couldn’t hear the opening gambit, but saw her press her hands to her temples in anguish. When she did so, I also saw something else of significance to me. Maybe I did have a rabbit, after all.
She shook her head in the negative, but Andrews pressed the attack. Good for him. A key rule of selling is to never accept the first “no.” He kept firing, but she impaled him with a withering stare. Andrews broke off the attack and slunk back to base. Comforting hands found his shoulders.
“Okay boys, take a lesson.” I downed the remainder of my drink and tried not to cough. Would’ve spoiled the effect. I edged over to the woman, catching their gapes of disbelief in the mirror behind the bar.
The “oh crap” look crept across her features. I get a lot of that. “I know you’ve been hit on by half the bar with boring pickup lines. But, I have a proposition that I know will intrigue you.”
“Oh really. And what might that be? And, I’m already kicking myself for asking.”
“I have a unique and unusual talent that will truly amaze you. Truly. If I do, you let me buy you a drink. If I don’t, I walk.”
“You’re about to walk anyway, but just for kicks and grins, what is this so-called talent? And, it had better not be obscene. I know the bouncer.”
“Not in the least. I have memorized and can sing the alma mater of every high school in the United States of America. Name one and I’ll sing for you.”
“Really.”
“Really.”
“Every one.”
“Every single one.”
“That isn’t very interesting, but it’s definitely unusual. Why would you do that?”
“I’ll throw in the explanation with the serenade. Do we have a deal?”
She pondered it. “Okay, slick. You’re on.”
“You have to name a school before I sing.” She did and I did.
She was, in fact, amazed. I bought her a drink and chatted long enough to establish creds with my gang (amazing them). I don’t recall the reason I divulged for allegedly memorizing the songs, but it doesn’t matter. Whatever it was, I made it up on the spot.
I spoke on many topics with her, with the notable exception of how I knew the alma mater of the school she named. You see, when she had previously put her fingers to her temples, I noticed the distinctive class ring of my own high school. She didn’t need to know that, and neither did my protégés.
The next day went infinitely better. My coup had mushroomed to epic proportions by the time breakfast dishes were cleared.
Now, you might say, what the hell did that have to do with source credibility? And I might respond, you don’t know guys very well, do you?
Monday, September 25, 2006
Appointment in Samarra
I’m writing this in anticipation of my upcoming fortieth high school reunion. I’ll follow up with a post-event report.
I didn’t see this coming, but I got caught up in an uncharacteristic wave of nostalgia that seems to be emerging as I approach middle age. I define middle age as five years older than I am at any given time. It is a surprise to me that I’d consider the reunion worth the trouble of a 500-mile trek. In the aftermath, it’s always asked, how do these things happen?
In this case, the origin was an email from Lynda, one of my high school classmates. They were talking about organizing a reunion. It was already months past our graduation date anniversary; what’s the hurry? They said it wouldn’t be a party without me, so I had to come. If memory serves, they eked out any number of parties in high school without my presence. They must be record bored if they thought they needed me.
Each polite decline elicited a more determined effort. They would schedule the event around my calendar. Okay, I’ll go. I hadn’t been back to Philly in a few years and was suffering cheesesteak withdrawal. I’m not alluding to the ersatz, bland pretenders you find on every other chain menu. I mean the finely crafted collages of flavors and grease that play upon your taste buds like Ramsey Lewis works the ivories.
Decades ago, I had gone to our tenth. It was scheduled the same week I would be in Philadelphia on business, so why not? Also, two months after my wife’s reunion, through which I had suffered three days of designer logo shirts, pressed khakis, and polished Volvos. Not my style. Quid pro quo was in order.
That was not a sentimental journey. There were 1,100 in my graduation class, counting what were termed vocational arts students (the dawn of the age of euphemisms), and I spent most of that reunion running into people and inquiring, “Did we ever know each other?”
I asked Carol what she thought of the scruffy crowd. She pulled her chair closer to mine and shuddered. “These people look like they’re from West Side Story.”
“These people thought “West Side Story” was a comedy.” I smiled to myself. Mission accomplished.
The weeks wore on since my agreement to attend the fortieth. Lynda shot me an occasional email to keep me on the hook. She said they were having a little difficulty finding enough people with an interest in helping with the reunion. Bruno, another classmate, emailed me that the theme should be, “We didn’t give a damn about each other then; why the hell would we now?”
I’ve never been one to sit by idly, so I put together a class web board to generate a little communication and excitement. One by one, they straggled on. But, not one message was posted.
I decided to prime the pump with a trivia quiz on the site about the school, teachers, etc. that would evoke some warm memories. I even offered a prize. The winning response by default (it was the only post) was, “Who gives a rat’s ass?” All right! The tone was set.
Weeks passed and still no invitation. Finally, an email went out with the date. Waiting until the last minute, they could only find a hall open on a Friday night. That would deter out-of-town attendees, but Lynda assured me that many of the people I would want to see lived in the city, and weren’t permitted to leave it anyway. I didn’t ask why.
At last, a glimmer of enthusiasm. The committee decided the members of the championship football team should be presented commemorative jerseys. We were asked for our sizes. That’s more like it. A week later, a few of us received a follow-up email, saying we wouldn’t receive the honor because of when we had been “expunged” from the team.
The week before the “big game,” some of the rank seepage that comprised our rival had defaced our stadium. It was widely known who did it, but trite phrases like “innocent until proven guilty” and “lack of evidence” were bandied about, and justice was forsaken.
This aggression could not stand.
A small band of right-minded patriots rose to the occasion and exacted our due. Justice was served. For some reason, the authorities knew precisely whom to come see about it. They severely overreacted to our little prank. Probably because they substituted pejorative terms for “prank,” like “federal offense.” You say tomato, I say tomahto.
This was outrageous. No jersey? I was being Pete-Rosed! It’s been forty years for crying out loud. What’s the statute of limitations?
I’m not one to look back and dwell on stale laurels, thinking my finest achievements are yet to come. I didn’t care that much about the jersey, but this just sucked. However, I wasn’t going to let it dampen my spirit.
Then Lynda emailed. “You wouldn’t be bringing Darlene by any chance?”
Ouch. Another sore spot. At my tenth reunion, almost everyone I had introduced Carol to seemed to greet her, turn to me and inquire, “What happened with Darlene?” Carol just loved that. I heard about it for many years to come. I think it may have even come up at our divorce hearing. Nice of Lynda to remind me of this.
Carol is a very pretty and charming woman, and they didn’t mean to slight her. But my classmates had always been fascinated and puzzled by Darlene going with me. She was beautiful, talented and led her class academically. They wrote it off to the fact that she attended another school and didn’t know me like they did. I wasn’t quite the polished gentleman you see today.
I told Lynda that I didn’t know anyone I would inflict this on and would be coming stag. I had re-connected with Darlene a few years back, but that’s another story.
Lynda emailed that the only reason guys come to a reunion stag is to try to nail the girls that wouldn’t have anything to do with them back in the old days. I was aghast. I told her that was groundless, unwarranted and unjust. I wondered how she knew.
Another group email went out, assuring us that invitations would soon be in the mail. It’s three weeks away. What’s the rush?
But I noticed something in her message to buoy the spirits. The email address of Nick “No Nose” Del Vecchio.
“Hey, Nose,” I emailed, “what’s shaking?”
“You lousy bastard. Every time I’m in Seaside Heights I think of you. The second I see you, I’m gonna ram my hand up your butt, grab your tonsils and yank you inside out. I hate you with the white-hot heat of a thousand suns.”
“If you meet me at Alvino’s before the reunion, I’ll buy you a grappa.”
“Deal!” He always had a low resistance to free booze. Things were looking up.
He sent a follow-up message. “Hey, whatever happened to that Darlene broad?” Great.
The message icon re-appeared. Sue “Beach Bunny” Lesnak had cadged my address from Lynda’s group email. “You need gas money to get here?”
Ouch. The ugly past came swimming up in my mind. I had doubled with her and John Gutkowski one summer day for a jaunt down to the shore. My car was set up for drag racing and could barely wring eight miles from a gallon of gas. I needed to fill up as soon as we go there, which I hadn’t factored into the game plan.
We spent an idyllic day romping on the beach, but stomachs began to growl. I took Gut aside and asked him how much money he had on him. Not much, as usual. We decided to leave before the subject of food arose.
On the drive home, the girls started politely alluding to being hungry, but Gut and I claimed to still being stuffed from the small bag of peanuts we had all split at the beach. Or, I simply feigned that the roar of the lake pipes had obscured their pleas. We dropped off Sue, then Darlene. I pointed my hot rod Chevy toward McDonald’s and burned rubber.
Gut and I pooled our coins, calculated the maximum amount of bulk we could buy and placed the order. We sat in my car (McDonald’s had no “dining area” in those days) and greedily gorged ourselves. Saved.
Not quite. A long white Caddy pulled into the space beside us. It wasn’t a Cadillac neighborhood and Darlene’s mother had the only white one I knew of. We looked over and there were Darlene and Sue glaring at us. Wordlessly, they flounced up to the window and obtained victuals. I would hear about that for a while. In fact, I was hearing about it now, forty years later.
“One little thing, BB, get over it.”
“One thing? That’s close! What about Parfait’s party?”
“Are you going to spend the reunion bringing up every stupid thing Gut and I ever did in high school?”
“Did you ever do any other kind of thing?” No snappy comeback for that.
“Really look forward to seeing you again, BB.” Right.
Another email, from Bruce Immordino. Ah, an up note.
“Believe it or not, I work at the high school in administration.”
“That’s great, Dino. At least they have Kevlar vests now.”
“I thought about you last spring. We suspended a kid for cutting and he said he must have the record. I told him he wasn’t even close.”
I must digress here. I viewed public schools much like any other public utility. Say, the water works. When I feel a need for water, I turn on the tap. When I don’t feel a need, it’s my prerogative not to turn it on. None of the school officials could ever grasp the flawless logic of the analogy and harassed me endlessly about my attendance record, or lack thereof. Nice of Dino to remind me.
Would there be no end to the picking at the scabs on my psyche?
Dino popped up on the screen again. “Are you bringing Darlene to the reunion?” No, there wouldn’t.
We all have our Appointment in Samarra when the final reconcilement will take place. Mine seems to be coming a little early.
I didn’t see this coming, but I got caught up in an uncharacteristic wave of nostalgia that seems to be emerging as I approach middle age. I define middle age as five years older than I am at any given time. It is a surprise to me that I’d consider the reunion worth the trouble of a 500-mile trek. In the aftermath, it’s always asked, how do these things happen?
In this case, the origin was an email from Lynda, one of my high school classmates. They were talking about organizing a reunion. It was already months past our graduation date anniversary; what’s the hurry? They said it wouldn’t be a party without me, so I had to come. If memory serves, they eked out any number of parties in high school without my presence. They must be record bored if they thought they needed me.
Each polite decline elicited a more determined effort. They would schedule the event around my calendar. Okay, I’ll go. I hadn’t been back to Philly in a few years and was suffering cheesesteak withdrawal. I’m not alluding to the ersatz, bland pretenders you find on every other chain menu. I mean the finely crafted collages of flavors and grease that play upon your taste buds like Ramsey Lewis works the ivories.
Decades ago, I had gone to our tenth. It was scheduled the same week I would be in Philadelphia on business, so why not? Also, two months after my wife’s reunion, through which I had suffered three days of designer logo shirts, pressed khakis, and polished Volvos. Not my style. Quid pro quo was in order.
That was not a sentimental journey. There were 1,100 in my graduation class, counting what were termed vocational arts students (the dawn of the age of euphemisms), and I spent most of that reunion running into people and inquiring, “Did we ever know each other?”
I asked Carol what she thought of the scruffy crowd. She pulled her chair closer to mine and shuddered. “These people look like they’re from West Side Story.”
“These people thought “West Side Story” was a comedy.” I smiled to myself. Mission accomplished.
The weeks wore on since my agreement to attend the fortieth. Lynda shot me an occasional email to keep me on the hook. She said they were having a little difficulty finding enough people with an interest in helping with the reunion. Bruno, another classmate, emailed me that the theme should be, “We didn’t give a damn about each other then; why the hell would we now?”
I’ve never been one to sit by idly, so I put together a class web board to generate a little communication and excitement. One by one, they straggled on. But, not one message was posted.
I decided to prime the pump with a trivia quiz on the site about the school, teachers, etc. that would evoke some warm memories. I even offered a prize. The winning response by default (it was the only post) was, “Who gives a rat’s ass?” All right! The tone was set.
Weeks passed and still no invitation. Finally, an email went out with the date. Waiting until the last minute, they could only find a hall open on a Friday night. That would deter out-of-town attendees, but Lynda assured me that many of the people I would want to see lived in the city, and weren’t permitted to leave it anyway. I didn’t ask why.
At last, a glimmer of enthusiasm. The committee decided the members of the championship football team should be presented commemorative jerseys. We were asked for our sizes. That’s more like it. A week later, a few of us received a follow-up email, saying we wouldn’t receive the honor because of when we had been “expunged” from the team.
The week before the “big game,” some of the rank seepage that comprised our rival had defaced our stadium. It was widely known who did it, but trite phrases like “innocent until proven guilty” and “lack of evidence” were bandied about, and justice was forsaken.
This aggression could not stand.
A small band of right-minded patriots rose to the occasion and exacted our due. Justice was served. For some reason, the authorities knew precisely whom to come see about it. They severely overreacted to our little prank. Probably because they substituted pejorative terms for “prank,” like “federal offense.” You say tomato, I say tomahto.
This was outrageous. No jersey? I was being Pete-Rosed! It’s been forty years for crying out loud. What’s the statute of limitations?
I’m not one to look back and dwell on stale laurels, thinking my finest achievements are yet to come. I didn’t care that much about the jersey, but this just sucked. However, I wasn’t going to let it dampen my spirit.
Then Lynda emailed. “You wouldn’t be bringing Darlene by any chance?”
Ouch. Another sore spot. At my tenth reunion, almost everyone I had introduced Carol to seemed to greet her, turn to me and inquire, “What happened with Darlene?” Carol just loved that. I heard about it for many years to come. I think it may have even come up at our divorce hearing. Nice of Lynda to remind me of this.
Carol is a very pretty and charming woman, and they didn’t mean to slight her. But my classmates had always been fascinated and puzzled by Darlene going with me. She was beautiful, talented and led her class academically. They wrote it off to the fact that she attended another school and didn’t know me like they did. I wasn’t quite the polished gentleman you see today.
I told Lynda that I didn’t know anyone I would inflict this on and would be coming stag. I had re-connected with Darlene a few years back, but that’s another story.
Lynda emailed that the only reason guys come to a reunion stag is to try to nail the girls that wouldn’t have anything to do with them back in the old days. I was aghast. I told her that was groundless, unwarranted and unjust. I wondered how she knew.
Another group email went out, assuring us that invitations would soon be in the mail. It’s three weeks away. What’s the rush?
But I noticed something in her message to buoy the spirits. The email address of Nick “No Nose” Del Vecchio.
“Hey, Nose,” I emailed, “what’s shaking?”
“You lousy bastard. Every time I’m in Seaside Heights I think of you. The second I see you, I’m gonna ram my hand up your butt, grab your tonsils and yank you inside out. I hate you with the white-hot heat of a thousand suns.”
“If you meet me at Alvino’s before the reunion, I’ll buy you a grappa.”
“Deal!” He always had a low resistance to free booze. Things were looking up.
He sent a follow-up message. “Hey, whatever happened to that Darlene broad?” Great.
The message icon re-appeared. Sue “Beach Bunny” Lesnak had cadged my address from Lynda’s group email. “You need gas money to get here?”
Ouch. The ugly past came swimming up in my mind. I had doubled with her and John Gutkowski one summer day for a jaunt down to the shore. My car was set up for drag racing and could barely wring eight miles from a gallon of gas. I needed to fill up as soon as we go there, which I hadn’t factored into the game plan.
We spent an idyllic day romping on the beach, but stomachs began to growl. I took Gut aside and asked him how much money he had on him. Not much, as usual. We decided to leave before the subject of food arose.
On the drive home, the girls started politely alluding to being hungry, but Gut and I claimed to still being stuffed from the small bag of peanuts we had all split at the beach. Or, I simply feigned that the roar of the lake pipes had obscured their pleas. We dropped off Sue, then Darlene. I pointed my hot rod Chevy toward McDonald’s and burned rubber.
Gut and I pooled our coins, calculated the maximum amount of bulk we could buy and placed the order. We sat in my car (McDonald’s had no “dining area” in those days) and greedily gorged ourselves. Saved.
Not quite. A long white Caddy pulled into the space beside us. It wasn’t a Cadillac neighborhood and Darlene’s mother had the only white one I knew of. We looked over and there were Darlene and Sue glaring at us. Wordlessly, they flounced up to the window and obtained victuals. I would hear about that for a while. In fact, I was hearing about it now, forty years later.
“One little thing, BB, get over it.”
“One thing? That’s close! What about Parfait’s party?”
“Are you going to spend the reunion bringing up every stupid thing Gut and I ever did in high school?”
“Did you ever do any other kind of thing?” No snappy comeback for that.
“Really look forward to seeing you again, BB.” Right.
Another email, from Bruce Immordino. Ah, an up note.
“Believe it or not, I work at the high school in administration.”
“That’s great, Dino. At least they have Kevlar vests now.”
“I thought about you last spring. We suspended a kid for cutting and he said he must have the record. I told him he wasn’t even close.”
I must digress here. I viewed public schools much like any other public utility. Say, the water works. When I feel a need for water, I turn on the tap. When I don’t feel a need, it’s my prerogative not to turn it on. None of the school officials could ever grasp the flawless logic of the analogy and harassed me endlessly about my attendance record, or lack thereof. Nice of Dino to remind me.
Would there be no end to the picking at the scabs on my psyche?
Dino popped up on the screen again. “Are you bringing Darlene to the reunion?” No, there wouldn’t.
We all have our Appointment in Samarra when the final reconcilement will take place. Mine seems to be coming a little early.
Warning
A few years ago, I received a pamphlet from the Ohio Dept. of Natural Resources, apparently mailed to all boat registrants. It concerned Lake Erie water snakes. I live a couple hundred miles from Lake Erie, so they employed no selectivity in the mailing. When it comes to taxpayer money, expense is no object.
The pamphlet contained a warning about the snakes’ tendency to slither into fishing boats. They are attracted by organic debris that results from people cleaning fish in their jon boats and similar craft. The warning said that if you find a snake on the bottom of your boat, do not shoot at it.
Do not fire a gun toward the bottom of my boat? Who am I, Elmer Fudd? The sad part is that you know they wouldn’t be publishing that unless someone had done it.
A couple of my favorite actual warning labels include those on a garden pet repellent and an electric massage chair. The bag of dried fox and wildcat urine (to scare away destructive pets) bears in bold red print, “Not for human consumption!” Who sits around the picnic table and says, “Hey Shania, pass me the dried urine for my fries.”
The label on the massage chair states, “Do not use without clothing.” Okay. Then, “Do not force body parts into backrest when rollers are in motion.” What?! Well that cuts the value in half.
I moderate a few chat boards on the web. Most of the participants are relatively lucid, but there’s a few…
One this week displayed a cranial density that would rival Vermont marble. It occurs to me that people, not products, should come with warning labels. To wit:
WARNING: This person has scored under 90 on the Wexler IQ Test. Conversation with said person can result in frustration, anger or befuddlement. Side effects can include screaming, crying and/or violence. Consult your psychiatrist before engaging.
The pamphlet contained a warning about the snakes’ tendency to slither into fishing boats. They are attracted by organic debris that results from people cleaning fish in their jon boats and similar craft. The warning said that if you find a snake on the bottom of your boat, do not shoot at it.
Do not fire a gun toward the bottom of my boat? Who am I, Elmer Fudd? The sad part is that you know they wouldn’t be publishing that unless someone had done it.
A couple of my favorite actual warning labels include those on a garden pet repellent and an electric massage chair. The bag of dried fox and wildcat urine (to scare away destructive pets) bears in bold red print, “Not for human consumption!” Who sits around the picnic table and says, “Hey Shania, pass me the dried urine for my fries.”
The label on the massage chair states, “Do not use without clothing.” Okay. Then, “Do not force body parts into backrest when rollers are in motion.” What?! Well that cuts the value in half.
I moderate a few chat boards on the web. Most of the participants are relatively lucid, but there’s a few…
One this week displayed a cranial density that would rival Vermont marble. It occurs to me that people, not products, should come with warning labels. To wit:
WARNING: This person has scored under 90 on the Wexler IQ Test. Conversation with said person can result in frustration, anger or befuddlement. Side effects can include screaming, crying and/or violence. Consult your psychiatrist before engaging.
Monday, September 18, 2006
Now we're cooking
When Stacy (our paddling group’s “den mother”) couldn’t make the Hiwassee trip last spring, I stepped into the breach and prepared the Saturday night feast; a magnificent Boeff a la Capitan. I still have some in the fridge if you desire a sampling, and the container is only slightly bulged. It’s hard to destroy your own creation.
My fellow kayakers were surprised that I was skilled in the culinary arts (or maybe just that I had mastered fire). There’s a story behind it (or why have a blog?).
I enjoy learning diverse disciplines, but the derivation of this was when I got married. My bride was employed by a bank and had to work Saturdays. I worked for a Fortune 500 company and didn’t. In fact, the sum total of my responsibilities was shifting budget from other departments to ours, shifting blame from ours to other departments, and wearing wingtip shoes.
My Saturday routine had been hanging with the guys. My new wife felt that phase should conclude since their sole interests were playing ball, scouring the bars for promiscuous women and marinating their brains in beer, and I was better than that. Better is such a relative term.
We rented an apartment, so it’s not like I had yard work to consume my weekends. My first solitary Saturday, I got up and started on my to-do list. I got out of bed, walked to the couch, and took a nap.
I woke up, sat up and contemplated my next chore. That would be feeding me. I ambled into the kitchen and opened a cabinet. Nothing. Nothing except some cookbooks Carol had received as shower presents. An idea began to germinate.
I would pore through these tomes, bookmark some of the most succulent dishes and prepare them. My wife would return from a hard day at the office to an elegant multi-course meal. Oh what a good boy am I.
Not exactly. Carol’s preferences in food ran toward the bland, at least by my standards. Not a big problem when we had dined together a couple times a week at a restaurant. But now, she was in control of the menu. Maybe I could at least preserve Saturday nights.
I excitedly compiled my shopping list, hied it for the store and cooked up a storm.
Needless to say, she was pleasantly surprised. At least by the sumptuous meal. Less pleasantly by the havoc wreaked upon her kitchen. I had not deigned to master the art of pot scrubbing.
Ensuing Saturdays produced even grander efforts. And, all the cues weren’t coming from the books. When I was a child, my mother had made a decision to have her own source of income, her own car, etc., which meant her own job. Not par for the course back then. She’d deposit me with the next door neighbor when she went off to ply her trade.
Isabel DiFlavia was an elderly Italian immigrant who lived with her son and daughter-in-law. In the finest tradition, she awoke before dawn and began cooking and baking continuously until dusk, just in case the 101st Airborne dropped by. If not, she fed the neighborhood. She would sit me on a stool in the kitchen and provide a running narrative as she prepared all manner of exotic dishes.
I didn’t consciously internalize any of this. But now, in my mid-20s, in the heat of the kitchen, the lessons bubbled up from the depths of my mind.
My Saturday routine began to gel. A number of recipes required wine. But seldom more than a cup or so. I didn’t waste the rest. Creative cooking should be emotional. Music augmented the art and was synergistic with the wine. Four Tops for Italian. Chuck Berry for French. Santana for Mexican. I boogied around the kitchen. Carol asked how marinara sauce got on the ceiling. Did anyone ask Michelangelo how paint got on the floor of the chapel?
This tradition went about a year before Carol called a meeting. She said she appreciated the thought, but the cleanup of the debris from my creative process took longer than it would’ve taken her to make and straighten up after a dinner she made. I should skip the wine and post-creativity nap, and add a tidying mode.
I can’t work like this. I can’t. I won’t.
It would’ve appeared petty to curtail the tradition over that. So, I bought a house and used the chores as an excuse to abate the cooking. A little expensive, but perception is everything. I would’ve bought the Hearst Castle to avoid cleaning up after lasagna.
So that was that. But once in great while, the muse stirs me, I take spatula in hand, fire up a Stones CD and cook my brains out.
My fellow kayakers were surprised that I was skilled in the culinary arts (or maybe just that I had mastered fire). There’s a story behind it (or why have a blog?).
I enjoy learning diverse disciplines, but the derivation of this was when I got married. My bride was employed by a bank and had to work Saturdays. I worked for a Fortune 500 company and didn’t. In fact, the sum total of my responsibilities was shifting budget from other departments to ours, shifting blame from ours to other departments, and wearing wingtip shoes.
My Saturday routine had been hanging with the guys. My new wife felt that phase should conclude since their sole interests were playing ball, scouring the bars for promiscuous women and marinating their brains in beer, and I was better than that. Better is such a relative term.
We rented an apartment, so it’s not like I had yard work to consume my weekends. My first solitary Saturday, I got up and started on my to-do list. I got out of bed, walked to the couch, and took a nap.
I woke up, sat up and contemplated my next chore. That would be feeding me. I ambled into the kitchen and opened a cabinet. Nothing. Nothing except some cookbooks Carol had received as shower presents. An idea began to germinate.
I would pore through these tomes, bookmark some of the most succulent dishes and prepare them. My wife would return from a hard day at the office to an elegant multi-course meal. Oh what a good boy am I.
Not exactly. Carol’s preferences in food ran toward the bland, at least by my standards. Not a big problem when we had dined together a couple times a week at a restaurant. But now, she was in control of the menu. Maybe I could at least preserve Saturday nights.
I excitedly compiled my shopping list, hied it for the store and cooked up a storm.
Needless to say, she was pleasantly surprised. At least by the sumptuous meal. Less pleasantly by the havoc wreaked upon her kitchen. I had not deigned to master the art of pot scrubbing.
Ensuing Saturdays produced even grander efforts. And, all the cues weren’t coming from the books. When I was a child, my mother had made a decision to have her own source of income, her own car, etc., which meant her own job. Not par for the course back then. She’d deposit me with the next door neighbor when she went off to ply her trade.
Isabel DiFlavia was an elderly Italian immigrant who lived with her son and daughter-in-law. In the finest tradition, she awoke before dawn and began cooking and baking continuously until dusk, just in case the 101st Airborne dropped by. If not, she fed the neighborhood. She would sit me on a stool in the kitchen and provide a running narrative as she prepared all manner of exotic dishes.
I didn’t consciously internalize any of this. But now, in my mid-20s, in the heat of the kitchen, the lessons bubbled up from the depths of my mind.
My Saturday routine began to gel. A number of recipes required wine. But seldom more than a cup or so. I didn’t waste the rest. Creative cooking should be emotional. Music augmented the art and was synergistic with the wine. Four Tops for Italian. Chuck Berry for French. Santana for Mexican. I boogied around the kitchen. Carol asked how marinara sauce got on the ceiling. Did anyone ask Michelangelo how paint got on the floor of the chapel?
This tradition went about a year before Carol called a meeting. She said she appreciated the thought, but the cleanup of the debris from my creative process took longer than it would’ve taken her to make and straighten up after a dinner she made. I should skip the wine and post-creativity nap, and add a tidying mode.
I can’t work like this. I can’t. I won’t.
It would’ve appeared petty to curtail the tradition over that. So, I bought a house and used the chores as an excuse to abate the cooking. A little expensive, but perception is everything. I would’ve bought the Hearst Castle to avoid cleaning up after lasagna.
So that was that. But once in great while, the muse stirs me, I take spatula in hand, fire up a Stones CD and cook my brains out.
Saturday, September 16, 2006
I journey into darkest DC
One score and some years ago, our fathers brought forth in this county a new committee, conceived in optimism, and dedicated to the proposition that it could persuade Washington DC to support the business community here. Kind of like a snake seeking relief at a mongoose convention.
I was recruited to serve on the committee and make the pilgrimage east to represent our region. Yes, the mind does boggle.
A chartered jet whisked us to the capital and a limo to the office of one of Ohio’s duly elected Representatives. Bill was to be our guide and accompany us to appointments with various officials. But first, a tour of the building, with Congress being the centerpiece.
Wow.
It registered with me. I would be standing within the same walls that echoed some of the most momentous speeches and debates in history. Perhaps one would be raging today! Would it be a milestone in civil rights? A watershed of foreign policy? An economic coup? I would soon know.
Tingling with anticipation, I was the first to hop onto the elevator. I went to push the button that would loft us to the floor of action, but a hand pushed mine aside. “What floor, sir?” a uniformed attendant inquired. I was taken aback. It was an automated elevator. “What floor, sir?” Bill told him, as I was still dumbstruck. The man expertly pushed the button in our behalf.
We alit and made for the hallowed chamber. I sidled up to Bill and asked what gives.
He cleared his throat. “Kind of a hangover from the old days. No one wants to be the one who eliminates the positions.”
We entered at the top of the great hall. I didn’t expect to see throngs of powdered-wigged colonials. On the other hand, I didn’t anticipate seeing a half dozen pages napping on the carpeted aisle steps. One suited gentleman stood at the podium, reading from a voluminous manuscript about railroad subsidy in a perfect monotone.
I grabbed Bill by the elbow. “Where is everyone?”
“Well, we all have this piped into our offices.” I could barely imagine staying awake through this in person, let alone coming through some tinny speaker. I stared at Bill. “And, every office gets a copy of the Congressional Record.”
“And they read all this?”
“”Well, aides go through it and highlight the more significant parts. We all show up for the votes.” I didn’t say anything. “Well, most do.”
Next stop was the rotunda under the Capitol Dome. The apex of the dome is 300 feet above the floor and is dizzying (for me) to look up at.
Bill gave a summarized history of the construction. Someone asked if we could go to the top. I froze. I abhor heights. I don’t even like widths.
Bill said that, at one time, the public was allowed to ascend, but it was now closed to them. I felt orifices unpucker.
Bill continued. The regulation had changed to you could go up there only if accompanied by a Representative or Senator.
Uh oh.
Bill continued. Unfortunately, not many of them can make the climb.
Thank Christ!
Bill continued. But, we were fortunate enough to have one of the very few Representatives who could. Fortunate. Did we want to go? Everyone leaped at the chance. Save for one.
But, I was swept along in the tide and quickly found myself at the entry door. Well, at least I’d have the trip up to steel myself for the view. Wrong!
“Steel” was the operative word, because that’s what the steps appeared to be. I expected some kind of enclosed, carpeted stairway. What looked like scaffolding spiraled upward, winding around the outside of the inner dome. The steps were spare and the structure completely open. The first couple steps reminded me I had bought new leather-soled shoes for the trip.
There was no looking down or sideways. I riveted my eyes on the objective and slid my hands along the skinny pipe rail, never surrendering my grip. I hoped my sweat wasn’t dripping on the guy below me. It was cold.
We emerged at the top of the inner dome. The “safety fence” appeared to have been made from George Washington’s wooden dentures and came up to my knees. Or so it seemed.
Our group eagerly leaned over to peer down into the rotunda. I plastered myself against the wall, a good two feet or so from the precipice.
“Hey, Henry, you’ve got to see this,” exclaimed Paul. I shook my head, but not too much. Didn’t want to lose my balance. He tugged on my sleeve. “C’mon.”
“Just let go and I will.” I leaned by millimeters. The floor was a black & white checkerboard pattern, and created an optical illusion that seemed to be sucking me downward. I snapped back, banging my head on the arching wall. Pain was the least of my problems now.
C’mon, c’mon! How long can you look at a floor? Mercifully, Bill finally spoke. Bill, my man!
“Would you like to go – that’s right, Bill, we would like to go down right this second – outside?”
What?!!! Was he completely insane?
Given the narrow balcony, I had little choice but to go with the flow. We stepped through a narrow doorway and a howling torrent of wind of about 200 mph, by my reckoning, tried to launch us into oblivion. I would’ve pressed myself closer against the dome, but a layer of paint was in the way.
“Henry, you’re missing a spectacular view.” I made my decision right there. If Paul grabbed me again, he had to go over the side.
With so many sights, this could not possibly be a brief dalliance. Did Bill point out the Washington Monument six times or was I just paranoid?
The steep, shingle-sized steps downward made me wonder why I had been so anxious to begin the descent. Once on terra firma, I sucked in a deep breath. Perhaps my first in the past ninety minutes.
From there, it was a skein of meetings about our issues. One pre-fab smile after another. I will certainly take this under advisement. I will surely look into that. I will give this my full attention. Yadda yadda yadda.
One bureaucrat broke ranks and acknowledged my growing skepticism. “I assure you, I have a real interest in this matter.”
“I’m not here for interest. I want commitment.”
“Same thing. That’s what I said.”
I shook my head. “It’s like n a bacon and egg breakfast. The chicken showed an interest, but the pig made a commitment.” He frowned, but I knew he’d use that in his next speech.
Epilogue. I followed up vociferously, but received little more than platitudes for my efforts.
I did publish an account of the trip in the newspaper, which elicited an irate phone call from a Congressman. “You’re misleading and inciting people with that stuff about the elevator operator. That’s peanuts. There’s only sixteen of them.”
“Paid with taxpayer money, Tom. If there’s only one of them, it’s one too many.”
But, that’s the way they think.
I was recruited to serve on the committee and make the pilgrimage east to represent our region. Yes, the mind does boggle.
A chartered jet whisked us to the capital and a limo to the office of one of Ohio’s duly elected Representatives. Bill was to be our guide and accompany us to appointments with various officials. But first, a tour of the building, with Congress being the centerpiece.
Wow.
It registered with me. I would be standing within the same walls that echoed some of the most momentous speeches and debates in history. Perhaps one would be raging today! Would it be a milestone in civil rights? A watershed of foreign policy? An economic coup? I would soon know.
Tingling with anticipation, I was the first to hop onto the elevator. I went to push the button that would loft us to the floor of action, but a hand pushed mine aside. “What floor, sir?” a uniformed attendant inquired. I was taken aback. It was an automated elevator. “What floor, sir?” Bill told him, as I was still dumbstruck. The man expertly pushed the button in our behalf.
We alit and made for the hallowed chamber. I sidled up to Bill and asked what gives.
He cleared his throat. “Kind of a hangover from the old days. No one wants to be the one who eliminates the positions.”
We entered at the top of the great hall. I didn’t expect to see throngs of powdered-wigged colonials. On the other hand, I didn’t anticipate seeing a half dozen pages napping on the carpeted aisle steps. One suited gentleman stood at the podium, reading from a voluminous manuscript about railroad subsidy in a perfect monotone.
I grabbed Bill by the elbow. “Where is everyone?”
“Well, we all have this piped into our offices.” I could barely imagine staying awake through this in person, let alone coming through some tinny speaker. I stared at Bill. “And, every office gets a copy of the Congressional Record.”
“And they read all this?”
“”Well, aides go through it and highlight the more significant parts. We all show up for the votes.” I didn’t say anything. “Well, most do.”
Next stop was the rotunda under the Capitol Dome. The apex of the dome is 300 feet above the floor and is dizzying (for me) to look up at.
Bill gave a summarized history of the construction. Someone asked if we could go to the top. I froze. I abhor heights. I don’t even like widths.
Bill said that, at one time, the public was allowed to ascend, but it was now closed to them. I felt orifices unpucker.
Bill continued. The regulation had changed to you could go up there only if accompanied by a Representative or Senator.
Uh oh.
Bill continued. Unfortunately, not many of them can make the climb.
Thank Christ!
Bill continued. But, we were fortunate enough to have one of the very few Representatives who could. Fortunate. Did we want to go? Everyone leaped at the chance. Save for one.
But, I was swept along in the tide and quickly found myself at the entry door. Well, at least I’d have the trip up to steel myself for the view. Wrong!
“Steel” was the operative word, because that’s what the steps appeared to be. I expected some kind of enclosed, carpeted stairway. What looked like scaffolding spiraled upward, winding around the outside of the inner dome. The steps were spare and the structure completely open. The first couple steps reminded me I had bought new leather-soled shoes for the trip.
There was no looking down or sideways. I riveted my eyes on the objective and slid my hands along the skinny pipe rail, never surrendering my grip. I hoped my sweat wasn’t dripping on the guy below me. It was cold.
We emerged at the top of the inner dome. The “safety fence” appeared to have been made from George Washington’s wooden dentures and came up to my knees. Or so it seemed.
Our group eagerly leaned over to peer down into the rotunda. I plastered myself against the wall, a good two feet or so from the precipice.
“Hey, Henry, you’ve got to see this,” exclaimed Paul. I shook my head, but not too much. Didn’t want to lose my balance. He tugged on my sleeve. “C’mon.”
“Just let go and I will.” I leaned by millimeters. The floor was a black & white checkerboard pattern, and created an optical illusion that seemed to be sucking me downward. I snapped back, banging my head on the arching wall. Pain was the least of my problems now.
C’mon, c’mon! How long can you look at a floor? Mercifully, Bill finally spoke. Bill, my man!
“Would you like to go – that’s right, Bill, we would like to go down right this second – outside?”
What?!!! Was he completely insane?
Given the narrow balcony, I had little choice but to go with the flow. We stepped through a narrow doorway and a howling torrent of wind of about 200 mph, by my reckoning, tried to launch us into oblivion. I would’ve pressed myself closer against the dome, but a layer of paint was in the way.
“Henry, you’re missing a spectacular view.” I made my decision right there. If Paul grabbed me again, he had to go over the side.
With so many sights, this could not possibly be a brief dalliance. Did Bill point out the Washington Monument six times or was I just paranoid?
The steep, shingle-sized steps downward made me wonder why I had been so anxious to begin the descent. Once on terra firma, I sucked in a deep breath. Perhaps my first in the past ninety minutes.
From there, it was a skein of meetings about our issues. One pre-fab smile after another. I will certainly take this under advisement. I will surely look into that. I will give this my full attention. Yadda yadda yadda.
One bureaucrat broke ranks and acknowledged my growing skepticism. “I assure you, I have a real interest in this matter.”
“I’m not here for interest. I want commitment.”
“Same thing. That’s what I said.”
I shook my head. “It’s like n a bacon and egg breakfast. The chicken showed an interest, but the pig made a commitment.” He frowned, but I knew he’d use that in his next speech.
Epilogue. I followed up vociferously, but received little more than platitudes for my efforts.
I did publish an account of the trip in the newspaper, which elicited an irate phone call from a Congressman. “You’re misleading and inciting people with that stuff about the elevator operator. That’s peanuts. There’s only sixteen of them.”
“Paid with taxpayer money, Tom. If there’s only one of them, it’s one too many.”
But, that’s the way they think.
A Moo-ving Story
My daughter had unearthed a treasure trove of ancient photos while cleaning out the attic. She was enjoying (far too much) silly shots of her "old man" in his feckless youth. One was a group of bleary-eyed, twenty-somethings around a campfire, grinning and toasting the photographer with beer cans aloft. Aluminium rental canoes in the background reflected the setting sun.
She picked me out and asked why I had a bandage over one eye. After a couple decades of preaching responsible behavior to her, I wasn't about to confess the indiscretions of a reckless youth. "Just a bump on the head, hon. Just a bump on the head."
She wandered off and I smiled as the memories flooded back. We had just graduated college and still had much more education than sense. In celebration, we planned a "float trip" on the Hocking River, which flows through the Hocking Hills of central Ohio. It wasn't long after launch that the inevitable splash fights and capsizing broke out. Two canoes conspired in a tactic to draw my attention to one side and miss the covert attack from the other. It was especially effective. This affront could not stand.
I commanded my partner to put some back into her paddle so we could race ahead, lie in ambush and exact the vengence that was our due. A few hundred yards downstream, we encountered a sharp left turn behind a boulder. A perfect place to spring the trap. I was about to instruct her to maintain silence when she let out a shriek. She was pointing at a half-submerged object in the shallows near the bow. A severed cow's head. Perfect!
I slipped out of the canoe, found a handhold on the prize and waded out into the channel to listen for the unsuspecting prey. I heard paddle splashes nearing the turn and ducked under the water. Running through a rock bed, the river was clear enough for me to discern the silver hull swinging with the turn. As the bow drew next to me, I thrust the cow head upward and emitted a blood-chilling screech.
Imagine my surprise when the bow occupant was an elderly woman who returned my screech, dropped her paddle and started to slump over backwards. I dropped the head and grabbed for her with both hands. I had to release one hand to fend off the paddle her husband was swatting me with (hence, the bandage in the photo). As I recall, it was a wooden beavertail and quite nice.
Profuse apologies were offered and icily declined. Our group, having paused for a bathroom break upstream, caught up with us at this point and observed the animated yelling and paddle brandishing. They weren't certain what had transpired, but they were obviously quite sure they enjoyed my predicament.
Happy to say I went on to develop a much greater sense of paddling safety and courtesy, and that stands as the dumbest thing I ever did on the water.
She picked me out and asked why I had a bandage over one eye. After a couple decades of preaching responsible behavior to her, I wasn't about to confess the indiscretions of a reckless youth. "Just a bump on the head, hon. Just a bump on the head."
She wandered off and I smiled as the memories flooded back. We had just graduated college and still had much more education than sense. In celebration, we planned a "float trip" on the Hocking River, which flows through the Hocking Hills of central Ohio. It wasn't long after launch that the inevitable splash fights and capsizing broke out. Two canoes conspired in a tactic to draw my attention to one side and miss the covert attack from the other. It was especially effective. This affront could not stand.
I commanded my partner to put some back into her paddle so we could race ahead, lie in ambush and exact the vengence that was our due. A few hundred yards downstream, we encountered a sharp left turn behind a boulder. A perfect place to spring the trap. I was about to instruct her to maintain silence when she let out a shriek. She was pointing at a half-submerged object in the shallows near the bow. A severed cow's head. Perfect!
I slipped out of the canoe, found a handhold on the prize and waded out into the channel to listen for the unsuspecting prey. I heard paddle splashes nearing the turn and ducked under the water. Running through a rock bed, the river was clear enough for me to discern the silver hull swinging with the turn. As the bow drew next to me, I thrust the cow head upward and emitted a blood-chilling screech.
Imagine my surprise when the bow occupant was an elderly woman who returned my screech, dropped her paddle and started to slump over backwards. I dropped the head and grabbed for her with both hands. I had to release one hand to fend off the paddle her husband was swatting me with (hence, the bandage in the photo). As I recall, it was a wooden beavertail and quite nice.
Profuse apologies were offered and icily declined. Our group, having paused for a bathroom break upstream, caught up with us at this point and observed the animated yelling and paddle brandishing. They weren't certain what had transpired, but they were obviously quite sure they enjoyed my predicament.
Happy to say I went on to develop a much greater sense of paddling safety and courtesy, and that stands as the dumbest thing I ever did on the water.
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