Mostly Anecdotal

On a recent visit my son parked his car behind my wife’s, and so, unless we wanted to do a butterfly we’d have to take my car to the movie. My car is more comfortable than my wife’s, but I use the space behind the drivers seat as a temporary trash bin.

“You parked behind Gail’s car,” I said.

“And,” he said.

“Well, unless you want to do a butterfly we’ll have to take my car to the movie,” I said.

The butterfly is the name we gave to a frequent maneuver on the British comedy Butterflies. The car someone wants to take is always the one blocked in by the other cars. In the show it is usually Adam’s and Russel’s job to perform the maneuver. The maneuver is what rights the situation. The butterfly, is the alpha and omega of driveway management.

That’ll teach you to throw trash back there,” he said.

I grabbed a garbage bag and while handing it to him said, “Why should I care, I don’t sit back there.

He reached as if to take the bag, smiled, and then let it fall to the floor.

Jon was excited, sitting on the seat next to him was his copy of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. Jon had read every Potter book, he had even memorized the last line of The Half Blood Prince, the sixth book.

His hand closed automatically around the fake Horcrux, but in spite of everything, in spite of the dark and twisting path he saw stretching ahead for himself, in spite of the final meeting with Voldemort he knew must come, whether in a month, in a year, or in ten, he felt his heart lift at the thought that there was still one last golden day of peace left to enjoy with Ron and Hermione.

He took his book, went inside, and sat down in his favorite chair. He was ready to begin reading when Mary, his wife said, “Dinner’s on the table.” He’d waited two years for this moment, and a few minutes more or less was fine with him.

Dinner was a pizza his wife had picked up on her way home from work. Mushrooms, pineapple, Canadian bacon, and double the cheese were waiting for him when he sat down. He was hungry, and was on his second piece when his wife finished, walked over and picked up his book and started reading.

“Hey,” he said, “don’t get interested in that I’m reading it first.” Frankly, he was a little surprised she’d picked it up. She’d watched the movies and had even read the first book, but she was not what you’d call a reader.

“Don’t worry,” she said, “this won’t take long and she flipped to the last chapter and started reading.”

Jon choked on his pizza, “what the hell,” he sputtered. She didn’t answer and continued to read. “You’re reading the ending,” he said. She ignored him.

A minute later she said “huh” and set the book down. “Don’t worry,” she said, “I won’t tell you how it ends.”

“You’ve spoiled it,” he said. “You won’t enjoy it now when you read it,” he said.

“I’m not going to read it,” she said, “I just wanted to know how it ended.”

Sometimes Jon wondered how it had gone so wrong, when they were dating she said she liked to read, it was only later that he learned she meant magazines, and not the New Yorker, or the Atlantic, well you know. “Fiction is boring,” she’d said. It was a major disappointment that he couldn’t share such an important part of his life.

I’ll see you later she said, I’m going to the gym to exercise and then Susie and I are stopping by the mall I’ll be home about 10:00 will you please TiVo CSI Miami she said, I’d like to watch it when I get home. Jon promised he would, but the more he thought about it the angrier he became. The last fucking page, how could she read just the last page of a book, any book. Didn’t she know the journey is the reward?

He sat in his chair and began to read. If the wind hadn’t picked up and he’d not heard the wind chimes he probably would have failed to notice that it was time for her program.

She arrived home just after ten, and said, “I hope you remembered to record my program.” He said he had. She grabbed an iced tea, turned on the TV, and settled into her favorite chair. She found the program in the list of recorded programs, and it started to play. “What the hell, did you watch this,” she said. “It’s near the end.” She hit rewind, but it went back only a few seconds, it was then she noticed the program length was only two minutes. “You screwed this up,” she said. “I can’t even count on you to record a program for me, and I really wanted to watch it,” she said.

“It’s there,” he said. “Right, the last two minutes,” she said. “That should suit you just fine,” he said. “I figured you’d just want to know how it ended and if you watch it you will. You know what they say, “all’s well that ends well.”

I prefer to sleep through the night. I don’t always get what I want—nature calls, the phone rings, usually a wrong number, the dog barks at the cat, the cat hisses at the dog. The alarm goes off, but that’s expected even if you’d rather sleep. Thursday night was different, a new goblin deigned to spoil my sleep, a beeping sound. A sound that took some time to work out because it was dark. The power was out, so why was there beeping? It was definitely coming from inside the house.

Zeus had been doing his thing emptying the heavens in our yard, a much needed shower, and Thor was speaking in a deep rumbling voice, who knew that the Greek and Norse gods worked together. I mistook Thor’s voice for my wife’s snoring. Yes she does, my wife snores. Anyway it was the beeping not the snoring that woke me. It woke her too.

(more…)

A tomato tumbled out of my shopping cart, and as I reached for it another followed. They don’t bounce, proof that they are ripe. Two tomatoes on the ground and I’m struggling to avoid losing more. A passerby says, “Gravity it’s everywhere.” I don’t look up, my tomatoes not yet secure. “I know,” I said, repeating the message of the bumper sticker on my car, “It’s the law.” The tomatoes don’t look bruised, and they don’t say anything. They arrive home the same time I do. I wash them off and cut them in fourths or eighths; it all depends on the size. I apply salt and pepper and eat the suckers enjoying how the taste explodes in my mouth and the fact that they’re only 35 calories each. It’s tomato season and I’m in love.

How do you know if it’s a good tomato? simple, it leaves a stain on your shirt.

We Americans teach our sons that when our daughters say no, they mean no. Now if we could teach them that when the nice gentleman residing on Blueberry Hill says no he too means no.

No soliciting reads the new sign on my front door, or it will as soon as I finish it. I’m not buying: your product, your religion, your bullshit. If you are here to give me money or take my money, fuck off. If you are here for a bit of conversation look elsewhere, I’m not interested. I have a bat and a gun and a dog. If you’d like an unpleasant encounter stay on my porch and keep knocking. I see you’re getting ready to leave, good. Don’t attach that flier to my door, if you must leave something there is a garbage can at the side of the house, deposit it there.

I’ve had forty plus years of visits from door to door salesman, and it’s turned me into a part time curmudgeon. But, the day the fellows from First Line Security came to my door it was righteous anger. When someone comes to the front door, someone I have no intention of inviting inside; I step out on the front porch to talk to them. It keeps the pets from wandering off, and I’m loath to just close the door although I know I’ll be inviting them to leave in very short order.

“Hi, I like to ask you some questions about your property,” he said.

“I don’t think so,” I said, “I’m not interested in whatever you’re selling.”

“Oh, I’m not selling anything,” he said.

I know it’s trite, but if I had a dollar for every time I’ve heard that lame line . . .

“I don’t believe you, but whatever it is you want from me I’m not buying,” I said.

“Look I need you to answer a couple of questions about your property,” he said.

My patience is limited, and I’m at my limit.

“I’ve already told you I won’t be answering your questions,” I said.

“We want to pay you to place a sign on your property, we’ll pay you monthly,” he said.

“I don’t want a sign on my property,” I said, “and this conversation is now over.”

“I just want to ask you a couple of questions,” he insists.

“Listen I’m not answering your questions and I’d like you to leave,” I said.

“You’d like me to leave?” he said.

“Yes I’d like you to leave,” I said.

“But I have a couple of questions I need to ask you,” he said.

“You’re trespassing,” I said, “I’m ordering you to leave my property. Don’t say another word, turnaround and walk in that direction.”

I pointed the way.

“And fuck you,” I added.

He mumbled a fuck you in return, but left.

A nice story you say, typical you say, but hey we’ve all met that asshole and we’ve all had difficulty getting him to leave, that’s the price of living in suburbia. Yes, but you’ve only heard the first half of the story.

Three hours later I hear a knock on the door. I open the door, and there he is again, no wait, It’s not him, but another asshole in a blue shirt with “First Line” embroidered above his left breast. Okay, it’s probably not embroidered, but there it is as if it’s been embroidered.

“One of your buddies has already been here,” I said, “and I’m still not interested.”

“I know,” he said.

“You know that someone from your company has been here and that I’m not interested,” I said.

“Yes,” he said, “that’s why I’m here.”

“That’s why you’re here?” I said.

“Yes,” he said, “it didn’t go well.”

His tone was condescending, the message I got was that I’d been rude to his cohort and he was here to straighten things out.

“I have a couple of questions I need to ask you about your property,” he said.

I know that sales people are instructed to never take the first no. In the sixties, it was Napoleon Hill that spouted this ‘wisdom’ and I’m sure there are modern day equivalents that spout the same bullshit today. I didn’t like it then, and I don’t like it now.

“I didn’t answer your buddy’s question and I’m sure as hell not answering yours,” I said.

He stood there, having taken half a step toward me.

“You’re trespassing on my property. I’m asking you to leave now,” I said.

He was glaring now.

“I just need to ask you a couple of questions,” he said.

“Get the fuck out of here,” I said.

I was getting quite shrill and decidedly surly. He stood his ground.

“Do I have to call the police,” I said.

He said nothing nor did he show any intention of leaving.

I didn’t know the number for the police so I took out my cell phone and dialed 911. After verifying my address and in response to the question about the emergency. I said, “There is a man standing here on my porch; he’s some sort of a salesman. I’ve asked him to leave and he won’t, and frankly I’m feeling a little threatened by him.”

He continued to glare.

“Would you like me to send the police,” she said.

I started to say yes, but at that moment he started to leave. “I don’t think the police will be necessary, it looks like he’s leaving,” I said.

“Okay,” she said. “If you’re sure you don’t need the police.”

“He’s in his car now,” I said.

“Okay,” she said, “If he returns don’t open your door and call us immediately.”

The following day, I saw the first salesman, oops advertising director, knocking on a neighbor’s door up the street. I can’t verify that it belongs to the asshole, but a car I hadn’t seen before was parked a few doors from mine. I could see that the plate was personalized, but it was too far away to read it. So I walked towards it until I could make out the details, and there it was an explanation for the pushy arrogance exhibited by these two twenty-somethings. The plate read, 2COOL4U. They’re not cool, they have a lot to learn, and they ought to start with no means no.