Siesta Interruptus

Make it stop!

Please, someone, make that hideous noise stop!

I wake, startled to learn that I am the originator.

Snoring? Well, sort of. More like the plaintive cry of some dread beast in mortal agony.

I don’t get it. I just don’t get it! How is it possible for such a racket to be produced by the human vocal mechanism? And you want to know what the real kicker is? I was on the beach!

Yeah! Out there on the sand.

With the tanned and beautiful.

The young and nubile.

Snoring away in blissful oblivion!

So, I turn my head to the left, checking on a young family of six, sunning not three feet away. But I did it kind of stealth-like. You know what I’m talking about. Where you kind of let your head roll to one side like you have no control over your neck, hoping that should anyone be observing they’d think you were still asleep?

Like that.

Then I opened one eye just a crack to see if anyone was watching. Sound asleep—the whole lot of them.

So far, so good.

I do the same maneuver to the right adding, for the sake of variety, the one-arm-stretch-over-the-head move. I’m actually quite good at it, even if I do say so myself. To my right were two men and a woman of indeterminate age. To my surprise and utter delight the woman had her head tilted back and was emitting what can only be described as full on “snarks!”

If I have to explain that to you, maybe you should stop reading and visit another blog.

My relief was palpable.

It wasn’t me.

It was her!

I could have shouted for joy.

I could have...

“Hey, mister,” came a childish voice from behind me.

I sat up and turned around to identify the source.

A little kid stood there with beach pail and shovel in his hand.

“Yes?” said I.

The young interloper giggled and said, “Did you know you kind of sound like a goat when you snore?” before running off toward the water’s edge laughing hysterically.

And what could I say?

Plunged instantaneously from the heights of relief to the depths of crushing reality, there was nothing left for me to do but make an escape, and that as quickly as decorum would allow.

Just as I was slipping my feet into my battered but comfortable sandals, the snoring woman sat up, shook her mane of brown hair and fixed me with what I took for a baleful gaze.

“Hey!” said she.

“Hey yourself.”

”Did you know you—“

“Sound like a goat when I snore?” I interrupted. “Yes. I’ve already been told, thank-you very much.”

She laughed. “That’s not what I was going to say, but thanks for the warning.”

“You weren’t?”

“No. I was going to ask if you knew that you look a little like Bruce Willis.”

For a moment I was speechless.

“Uh, well, yeah, I’ve been told that a couple of times; I think it's the shaved head thing,” I finally managed.

With that she flopped over onto her stomach turning her head away from me.

I caught sight of the rude young man playing down by the water and watching me carefully.

I wondered how Bruce would handle this.

I stuck my tongue out at him and walked away, my ego temporarily salvaged.

The Spiderman Incident

"And don't forget the flour. Last time you forgot the flour! Sometimes I think you'd forget your head if it wasn't attached."

The young boy listened only partially to his mother's voice which, when she was in a mood like this, took on the qualities of a fork scraped across a dinner plate. He hated that sound. It wasn’t that he disliked his mother—he, in fact, adored her. It was just that being the only child left at home out of a family of six kids, and the only boy at that, he had few options when it came to avoidance. Truthfully, even when his older sisters had been home he had always been the one singled out to run "errands" for his mother. She called them errands but in reality an “errand” was anything she didn't feel like doing. Anything.

"I didn't hear you, James Edward. What did you say?" she hollered from the screened-in porch.

Ten year-old James, or Jimmy to his friends, hadn't said anything. What she wanted was for him to say something like, "All right, mom." Or, "Yes, mother." Something like that just so she'd know he was listening. 

"All right, mom. I won't forget."

He stood in the street outside their simple house under a summer sun that felt as if it were burning his skin through the long-sleeved shirt she always made him wear whenever he went outside. 

"Now you hurry back. I don't want you dawdling." 

He didn't really know what “dawdling” meant but he supposed it had something to do with him stopping at the pharmacy to look at comic books and eat candy. Jimmy loved candy and he especially loved Cherry-a-Let candy bars...but not as much as he loved comic books. He figured he could probably spend an entire day just looking at comics if Ralph, the pharmacy owner, would let him. And he probably would.

A southwest wind sent a flurry of dust devils racing past the wheels of his cart—okay, wagon, but he preferred to think of it as a cart—that he always pulled behind him when going to the market for his mother. It had become an every day thing lately. Sometimes two times a day and one day last week she had made him go three times. Of course that had been the day he had forgotten to get the flour so that third trip technically didn't count. 

At the end of their little street he glanced behind him to see if she was still watching. She usually watched until he got out of sight. Today, however, the porch was empty. Jimmy thought that a bit strange that she wouldn't watch until he turned the corner like she always did. It actually made him feel kind of funny. In fact he almost turned around right there and went back to check up on her, but in the end he decided to just keep going. 

His route took him past the old Wells Fargo Bank; the city water plant; the hardware store where you could buy hay for horses and corn meal for chickens (along with just about every other thing you could ever imagine needing for rural life); past the diner where they served the best root-beer floats he'd ever tasted; past the pharmacy and then the small grocery store where everybody knew his name, where he lived and everything else there was to know about him. 

Some of them even claimed to know where his dad was, which was a sore subject with him because he hated his dad and hoped to never see him ever again. When he asked his mother what had happened to him three years earlier she just said that he'd, "Run off." Sometimes he wondered what a person did when they ran off. Whatever it was, though, he was pretty sure it wasn't good given the looks on the faces of the adults when they talked about it. And they talked about it. He figured small towns didn't get much news and when something like that happened it could keep people going for a while.

With his cart loaded down with everything on his mother's list—and you can bet he'd checked it twice, just like Santa Claus—he started the long trip home dreading the mile and a half walk through the hot sun. 

Passing the pharmacy Jimmy slowed way down and looked through the window at the magazine rack. Right away he could tell that there were a lot of brand new comic books. Comics he hadn't seen. Looking up the street toward the clock tower that was easily the tallest structure in town he realized that if he spent fifteen minutes looking at comic books he could still get home before his mom started fretting. 

He parked the cart where he could see it through the window and went inside, straight up the aisle to where the candy was tantalizingly arrayed and picked out a candy bar after squeezing and hefting a half-dozen or so. You had to be careful with candy; just because it said it was a certain size on the wrapper didn't necessarily mean it was really that size. He had actually proven this to be true with his old friend Bradley. But Bradley's family had moved away last year and there was no one left to corroborate his story. That was okay because he knew it was true.

Ralph, the pharmacy owner peered down at him from behind the counter smiling as if he were genuinely glad to see him. And he was. In fact he and the boy were good friends and Ralph tried to help Jimmy out wherever he could since he didn’t have a dad looking out for him. Like allowing him to read the comics for free. No one else got to do that. No one!

"So, you gonna squeeze in a few minutes at the rack, Jimmy-boy?" he said, winking conspiratorially.

"I thought I would, if that's okay with you," Jimmy said as he handed over the fifteen cents for the candy, which was highway robbery in his book because he could remember when it had only cost a nickel!

"Got a new Spiderman in just this morning," Ralph said in a loud whisper as if it were a secret that only the two of them were supposed to know.

Jimmy's eyes lit up as he hurried toward the rack and immediately searched for the comic finding it in just a few seconds time. Spiderman. Good ol' Spidey. He wondered what sort of evil he'd save the world from this month. But when he opened the book, the first page was torn almost completely away which meant that a good portion of page one AND page two were missing. How in the world was he supposed to know what the story was about with the critical first two pages gone? He grabbed another one—same thing. And another, and another. They were all the same.

He looked around as if to spot a potential culprit, but besides Ralph, he was the only one in the store. 

Jimmy was just about to go and tell Ralph the bad news when he heard a soft knocking coming from the direction of the big plate-glass window. Turning slowly he saw something that made his heart stand still. It was Leroy Marshall, the meanest kid in his school. He stood with his face pressed against the glass grinning from ear to ear, his long, jet-black hair looking as if it had been dipped in motor oil before being slicked back. And in his hand...the torn pages from all ten Spiderman comic books.

Jimmy got really mad. Madder than he'd ever been. All he wanted to do was to take one of the torn pages and stick it in his pocket for safe keeping while he stuffed the rest down Leroy Marshall's throat, which was probably a bit unlikely since Leroy was two years older, at least a foot taller and quite a bit meaner. 

Later on he would wonder why he did what he did, but in that moment there was no room for logical thought, only action. 

He got up and pushed through the front door which dinged pleasantly to let Ralph know that a customer had entered and shouted, "Give me those pages, you creep!"

"Why don't you come and get them," Leroy shouted as he took off running, laughing loudly as if it were just the funniest thing.

Jimmy hesitated, but only for a second and then was in full pursuit, the cart full of groceries and his promise to his mother temporarily forgotten. He surprised himself, and Leroy, by running him down in the space of two blocks, leaping on his back and immediately beginning to yank on his long hair as if pulling on the reins of a wild stallion.

“Ow! Ow, my hair. Le’go my hair, you little punk!” Leroy screamed in a voice drifting perilously and incrementally into a soprano range.

“Give me those pages!” Jimmy hollered in reply. “You should’n’a took those pages, Leroy!”

Jimmy rode him all the way to the ground where Leroy finally relinquished his grip on the precious pages in order to concentrate on beating the stuffing out of Jimmy, which he accomplished in short order.

“And that’s for pulling my hair, lambchop!” he said while delivering a final stinging slap to the back of Jimmy’s head before stalking off, the pages left lying scattered and forgotten on the ground.

Jimmy thought about asking Leroy what he found particularly insulting about the term, “lambchop” that would cause him to employ its usage so regularly, but decided that’d be pushing his luck. As it was he’d gotten off with only a knot on the back of his head, a slightly puffy lip and scraped knees—injuries that were well worth the effort if it meant having the Spiderman pages back.

Crawling in a rough semi-circle he gathered up the ones that hadn’t blown completely away, smoothing out the wrinkles before beginning the walk back toward the pharmacy. It was right about then that he discovered to his utter shock and dismay, that page one and two were not, in fact, related to the current story, but contained advertisements for two new comic books “coming soon.”

He started to get really mad, but decided in the end that the whole thing had been worth it just to hear Leroy Marshall scream like a girl.

Coyote Brothers

Classic cars of all shapes, colors and vintage lined the street outside of St. Arbuck’s along with hundreds of appreciative strollers drinking in the lines and shapes of automotive history.

The Beach Boys cover band across the way pounded out the hits as onions, sweet relish and chilidogs saturated the air with the scent of nostalgia.

We were in an east San Diego county city, known for its small town flavor, that was hosting the first of a summer series of classic car shows.

Inside St. Arbuck’s a sixty-something man wearing a Hawaii shirt and beige Ivy Hat, was tuning his guitar on a low stage in front of a small sound system.

It was a very nice guitar—custom by the looks of it.

With most of the action out on the street, the customers inside were few and far between, my wife and I, along with our friend, comprising more than half.

He didn’t seem to mind though, launching enthusiastically into a quite good version of Elvis’s, “In The Ghetto,” “The Impossible Dream,” and other songs from the sixties.

I have to hand it to him, in spite of his age, the guy could sing. And his guitar skills were remarkable!

Between songs he kept up an easy banter with the, um, crowd, i.e. the three of us (the other two people were with him) and explained that he was going to do a few songs he had written. Before each, he gave a brief context from which he had derived the inspiration for writing the song, all quite interesting.

And the songs were good.

Very good.

That is, until his final song.

Even now as I write this I’m not sure if he was serious or massively pulling our collective legs, but he—with a totally serious face—talked about his love of...wait for it...coyotes. He loved them so much, in fact, that he had composed a special song in their, well, honor.

Strumming his guitar lightly, in a rhythm reminiscent of classic songs from the old west (think “Cool Water” by Sons Of The Pioneers. If you don’t know who they are, forget it!) he invited us to “sing along” when he got to a certain point.

Shooting him a puzzled look, he explained that we’d have no trouble, “Knowing when that was.”

So he starts singing.

It wasn't a bad melody, and the rhythmic chord progression was pleasing to the ear.

It was when he got to the chorus that things got a little weird. The words went something like, “So sing with me, coyote brothers; sumpn’ sumpn’ sumpn’ and the world will see a forest symphony.”

You’ll probably think I’m stretching literary license to the absolute limits, but I swear I’m not making this next part up: At that point in the song, he began to howl; his two friends howled, one of whom had joined him on stage; the baristas howled; my WIFE AND OUR FRIEND howled!

Me? I stared, mouth agape with, “Seriously?” forming on my lips.

A new batch of customers walked in, thus doubling the attendance.

The chorus came around again.

They howled as well.

I felt as if I were losing my mind.

My wife kept poking me in the ribs and giving me the look that said, “You’re just an old party pooper.” Now that I think about it, I’ve never known what that means, exactly. How does one go about “pooping” a party? I mean is it, God forbid, to be taken literally?

With a jaunty, “One more time,” he launched into the chorus again.

“So, sing with me, coyote brothers...”

This time around the patrons and employees hoisted their lattes and bellowed as if it were an Irish drinking song, only without the fighting—unless, of course, me "fighting" to keep a straight face counts!

The howling was nothing short of...inspirational.

And, yet, I remained silent and the guy still hadn’t cracked a smile, which led me to conclude that it was not, in fact a gag, but something near and dear to his heart.

“And the world will see a forest symphony...”

And I thought Ocean Beach was quirky!

Killer Ending

So, my brother-in-law dropped me off at the airport yesterday morning to fly back to San Diego.

I got out of his car and started to walk across the pedestrian bridge that leads to the terminal (an odd choice of terms if you ask me for a place so fraught with terror for many) and I suddenly realized that I didn't have my phone.

So I thought, "Ok, I'll just call him...oh, wait...I don't have my phone. Duh!"

It was right about then I remembered a device from antiquity known as the "pay phone," and set out in search of one thinking, "I'll just call him on a pay...oh, wait...I don't have any change."

So I bought a useless pack of gum—I don't chew gum and haven't for quite some time—for the express purpose of having two quarters in my possession so I could place the call.

I found a pay phone.

It didn't work.

I found another one.

It didn't work either.

I found another one.

It worked.

It worked so well it ate my precious quarters and wouldn't allow me to make the call!!!!

(And, yes, I DID, in fact, just use FOUR exclamation points!)

Here’s a few more for good measure!!!!!!!!

A little notice appeared on the pay phone’s digital screen thanking me for using Century Link. Whadda ya’ know about that? Polite crooks!

So, I found another pay phone purely by chance that accepted credit cards and started to call him when I thought, "Oh, wait...I don't know his number!"

By now I was nearly in panic mode, thinking ridiculous thoughts like taking a taxi back home in order to retrieve my phone, when I realized that I could call my wife in San Diego and have her call my brother-in-law and have him bring the phone back.

So, I called her and said, "Hey, I think I..." and she cut me off with, "Yes. He knows and is trying to find you."

As I was just about to ask her to call him and tell him I'd meet him at the passenger pickup area, he tapped my on my shoulder and handed my phone to me.

I could've kissed him!

I'm telling you right now that when you are leaving town for several days and realize you are without your cell phone, it messes you up! I'm talking the big leagues of messed up! Helplessness assails your senses leaving you reeling with insecurity and isolation.

And, no, I'm not overstating the case!

Phone firmly in hand, I called my wife back to inform her that all was well and that I was headed for my gate.

Passed through security in five—that's FIVE minutes, people—and walked about a mile and a half.

Got to the gate area and couldn't find my flight!

Upon checking the departures screen—which, for the record, one should absolutely do upon arrival at the airport—I learned, to my utter dismay and consternation, that my flight was not, in fact, leaving from the C gates, but from the B GATES!!

No idea how to get to the B gates!

I asked an oh, so helpful TSA agent how to get there and he told me—barely hiding a smirk—that I had to go back the mile and a half I'd just walked, and then go a little further and I'd find them, "No problem."

Right.

So I walked. 

And walked some more.

And...well...you get the picture.

Needless to say that by the time I got to my gate I was in a full sweat and ready to do substantial bodily harm to anybody foolish enough to give me any more trouble. Fortunately, I had a low number and was able to board in the first boarding group; got a great seat—on the aisle—with no one in the middle seat.

It was a full flight but after everyone was on the plane, the seat was still empty.

And then, HE came down the aisle.

All 5'6" and 350 lbs of him.

There were two seats left on the flight: The one next to me and another right across the aisle...both middle seats.

A woman was right behind him.

She did NOT weigh 350 and I really started hoping in earnest that she'd sit in the middle seat in our row.

The man looked them both over, and, for reasons known only to the gods of flying, chose to sit...you guessed it...by me. 

There was no, “Hey, do you mind if I squeeze in there?” or, “Excuse me, but that looks like the only seat.” Noooooo...he just stepped over me without a word before I could even get up to allow him—ALL of him—to pass, brushing his quite enormous bottom against my face in the process, an experience that I am quite sure will leave me emotionally scarred for what’s left of my life!

Now, when I say, "sit," I use the term only in the most liberal of definitions. Mainly, what he did was sprawl! I had to spend the entire flight turned sideways in my seat with my back to the rude interloper to keep from being crushed!

His elbows didn't just occupy the armrests of the middle seat...they intruded into HALF the space of MY seat!

Lest you get the wrong idea, it wasn't his size that was the issue, for I've flown with people far larger than he with no problem whatsoever. I once flew from Las Vegas to Florida in the window seat with a man and his wife as seatmates, each of whom were north of 400. Had a great time.

The problem with this man was the way he exercised complete and utter disregard for me and the other poor unfortunate in the window seat who, to the best of my knowledge, didn't survive the flight but was assimilated into the molecules of the fuselage.

I may or may not have made that last part up.

I looked with naked longing at the row across the aisle where the three occupants were chatting amiably; sprightly laughter echoing throughout the cabin, each with plenty of room; enjoying themselves immensely.

It shames me to admit it, but I began to hate my seatmate! I mean, I was hanging so far out into the aisle that the flight attendants had to excuse themselves to get around me.

And then...he went to sleep! I’m fighting for survival, and he goes to sleep! Noisily.           

Mercifully, after what seemed an eternity of days the flight ended and I thought my suffering was over...sadly, he had one more rude surprise left for me. As soon as the plane docked at the gate, he sprang up out of his seat and bulled his way past me—big bottom and all—without so much as a, "Beg your pardon," and stood in the aisle blocking my exit.

Now, those of you who know me know that I am often easily frustrated, and when frustrated have been known to yell, punch things, throw things, act in an inappropriate manner. However, I controlled myself and simply decided to let the situation play itself out.

I looked across the aisle...they were still laughing! Ha, ha, ha...laughing, and carrying on as if they didn't have a care in the world.

I began to hate them too...but only for a few minutes. Eventually, I figured, "Hey, I'm going to be in San Diego for three days. It's worth it."

And then, instead of "walking" up the jetway, he sort of, well, moseyed. You know what I'm talking about: That slower-than-molasses-in-winter-I've-got-the-rest-of-my-life-to-be-in-front of you walk? 

Like that.

I don't have a killer ending to this story...because, I didn't kill him. 

So, I've got that going for me.

Which is nice.

And, how was your day?

The Modern Family

St. Arbuck’s is busy and typically noisy on this late Friday morning in mid-June. It’s a wonder I ever get anything done within that environment, but I do. It’s as if the ambient noise provides a cocoon within which I am freed up creatively.

I know, it makes no sense.

Not sure how this is going to go today, as I’m a bit fried from lack of sleep protracted over several nights complicated by depleted creatively due to the intensity of effort on the novel...you’re really excited to keep reading, right?

(Insert appropriate smiley-faced emoticon)

A family of four entered—mom, dad, teen son and preteen daughter—and sat in close proximity to my table.

And then they ordered.

And then they got their drinks.

And then they sat back down.

And then they pulled out their iPhones.

And...well...then that was pretty much it.

All four of them sat there pecking away on their virtual keyboards in silence except for the occasional giggle from the son and daughter resulting from something witty they had said to each other via text.

The dad leaned over to the mom to show her something on his screen; she smiled, showed him something on her iPhone, but neither said a word.

This went on for a good thirty minutes.

I wasn’t making any kind of judgment on what I was seeing; I just found the scene to be amusing and utterly fascinating.

Suddenly all four of them erupted into laughter—the mom had sent them a mass text containing a humorous picture.

The dad’s phone vibrated, he answered the call and stepped outside to talk.

A minute or two later, the mom did the same thing while the kids now sat there by themselves.

About ten minutes later, the daughter looked up from her phone, glanced around and seemed to notice for the first time that mom and dad were gone.

“Hey, where did mom and dad go?” she asked her brother.

He grudgingly roused himself from his reverie, looked around the room and shrugged his shoulders before going back to whatever it was that he had been doing.

The last I saw of them, the dad was pacing on the sidewalk in front of St. Arbuck’s, one hand holding his phone and the other gesturing broadly while carrying on a very serious conversation; the mom standing outside just to the right of the entrance, shoulder pressing the phone to her left ear while chatting amiably and worrying a hangnail on one of her fingers; the kids standing together directly in front of the door, phones held in both hands, heads bowed, eyes focused on their respective screens oblivious of arriving customers having to step around them to gain entrance.

I smiled, shook my head in wonder and went back to surveying the ebb and flow of life unfolding before me.

The modern family.

Interesting.