If not for Del

When I met Del, he was living in my mother's basement apartment and working as a prep cook at Shari’s. A lot of people say I owe a lot to Del. Before he and I met, I'd seen quite a few hardships. There had been some nasty breakups, a few failed real estate investments, and at least one house fire. It was taking me me a while to get out from under my business debt, and the price of gold had dropped drastically. Life was not good, and I have to admit I was a little depressed. Then I met Del.

I was at my mom's house while she was at work at the nursing home. I'd stopped by to take some cash out of the old pantyhose she kept in the rice canister. I was suprised to see Del sitting in my mom's kitchen, having a cup of tea. Later I'd find out that the teabag was actually steeping in coffee. That was one of his charming eccentricities that would never cease to blow my mind.

He said simply, "Hi, I'm Del," when I walked in. I knew my mom had a renter, but I didn't know that she'd let him sit naked at her kitchen table drinking her tea. "Would you like some tea?" Del inquired. Too stunned to say anything else, I said, yes, with lemon and sugar, and some LU Petit Ecolier Biscuits if he had any. That was the beginning of my unique friendship with Del, one that was rife with laughter, tears, sharing, and brutality. It's a friendship I'll never forget.

When Del and I decided to open a sandwich shop together a few weeks later, we faced a lot of derision from the Downtown Business Association. And from my mother. "What the hell do you know about making sandwiches?" she said. "You can't even butter bread." Which was true. But who was she to stand between me and my dream? I wanted to tell her that I wasn't going to listen to any advice from some dried up old professional bedpan changer who kept her cash in the rice bin. But I held my tongue.

As Del was the one with food industry experience, I was confident that I could put the majority of the production in his hands. It was my job to be the big thinker of the team. I bought a top-grain cowhide journal and a ballpoint pen set at the stationery store, and spent my days sweating over the business end of things—the shop's decor (French ice cream parlor, or gay 90s?), menu additions, and franchise opportunities. This freed up Del to open and close the shop, prep the food, and provide unmatched customer service.

We ran a tight ship. Del still worked the early morning shift prepping at Shari's, and was able to procure supplies from the restaurant's walk-in fridge, which really shaved a lot off our food budget. As he knew how busy I was with high-level business concerns, he always had time for the little extras, like cleaning the bathroom tile grout with a toothbrush, or buffing our second hand kitchen appliances with a professional stainless steel sander 'til they shone. Unfortunately, Del's Shari's work schedule made it impossible for him to attend our grand opening cocktail reception, but I saved him a watercress sandwich and a cup of sparkling cider in to-go cups.

Once we got the business off the ground, there was no time to rest. I had a weekly blog to plan, and out-of-state restaurateur conferences to attend. But here's one thing they don't teach you at those conferences: devotion to your business makes you blind to your personal life. I ignored all the signs, and by the time I could see that things were falling apart, it was too late.

I used to think I had the world by a string, and that string was looped comfortingly around the throats of those I loved, binding them ever closer to me. But I was lost in my own sense of loyalty, justice, and business acumen. As they say, you're always the last to know.

After I found some scattered rice grains and the empty pantyhose in the kitchen sink, my mother's bathroom cosmetics drawer cleaned out, and the shop's supply closet bereft of deli paper basket liners, I knew my mother had been providing Del with more than tea for quite some time.

So now I'm in transition. Count me down, but not out. Like a tiny, gentle sea ray peeking out from its ocean-floor hideout after a strenuous escape from a black-tipped shark that continued to circle until late in the afternoon on a Saturday, I'm shaking the sand off my back, and moving onward.

My current job as a host at Shari's keeps me busy and gives me plenty of time to plan for my future. And it's introduced me to Sandra, a real sharp go-getter waitressing in the evenings after her high school track practice. Lately, she's seemed to be seeking my advice on her boyfriend, who hasn't asked her to some formal dance, or forgot or birthday, or something like that. I don't know—usually I tune her out.

But my trust has been bruised, and I've told myself that I'm not going to make the same mistakes again. So I've been giving her small assignments, like sending her out to my car for my cigarettes, or to the mini-mart next door to buy me a diet Coke to see if she brings back the change. Which she does. So far, she hasn't asked why I don't just drink a Coke from the restaurant. I think this is a good sign. And boy, can that girl carry a bus tub.

Quelle surprise

I’m so glad you could come. It’s a lovely little party—quite a surprise. My favorite champagne flowing all evening! The cheeses! And all my favorite friends, old and new. I say “favorite,” because obviously the ones who made it here are the ones who really care. When you’ve been in the business as long as I have, you find out who your friends really are, and who your favorites really are, and sometimes you find your friends are not your favorites. Sometimes they’re someone else’s favorites. But c’est la vie. That’s what I always have said. And isn’t it true. Isn’t it true.

I have to admit I was expecting some type of surprise party like this. All week long, Inge has been acting quite coy, and when she was turning down the sheets last night, I noticed that she’d forgotten to bring up the tray with my nightcap. Oh, that Inge. That’s when I knew for sure something was going on. Too bad about her forgetting that tray, or she wouldn’t be stuck at the the Dearborns’ in Kennebunkport for the rest of the summer! But again, c’est la vie.

Speaking of surprises, I see Meredith couldn’t make it tonight, either. But, as you probably know, she has a little surprise of her own to tend to! As far as I’m concerned, Meredith looks much too young to be a grandmother. Of course, both Meredith and I were such little sun-worshippers in our heyday, but she absolutely refused to wear her tennis visor on the court, which is why, if you get a close look, you can really see the damage. But her daughter is such a sweet girl, don’t you think so, Adele? Didn’t your son date her last winter?

You know, looking back at the follies of my youth, you’d think I’d have some regrets, some things I’d like to do over. And I say, without qualifications, “None.” I wouldn’t change one thing. I mean, look at this place. Really, take a good look. Chuck and Gilda, remember when you told me that it was a waste of money to buy this house? Remember? You said that it was too soon after Robert and I split, and that I was being impulsive. Well, look at what I’ve made of it. I’ll bet there’s not a day goes by you don’t wish you’d snagged it first. What with that fishing cabin you live in now. Some may call it quaint, but I’ll call it what it is, and it’s a fishing cabin.

And Tabitha, don’t you stand there with your mouth hanging open. Though it doesn’t surprise me if it’s involuntary. What, couldn’t afford to go to the city for the work? Had to resort to that hack in Dover?

I have an absolutely fantastic idea. Let’s all retire to the patio. Hans, would you please cart out the rest of the champagne and cheeses? It’s time to take a little dip in the water. And yes, Adele, I mean you.

Dear Mr. Spielberg

I recently saw one of your “Star Wars” movies on TV. I liked it! Then I found out there were other “Star Wars” movies, too. I could not find these on TV, so I went to a “video rental store,” but they were going to charge me $4.75. Each! So I went to the library and watched your “Star Wars” movies on the Internet Computers in the library’s big Computer Room. I could only watch 2-minute pieces of your movies, because the Internet didn’t have the whole ones. And the other Computer Room users got upset at me for having the volume so high, so I had to turn it off and could not hear the actors talking or the big spaceships exploding. But I think I got the gist.

These “Star Wars” movies seem to have something special. I cannot put my finger on it. But I have been thinking about the characters—the young man and his shiny robot friends, the cute lady in the nightgown, and the big dog-man that drives the spaceships—and I have come up with an idea that I think will certainly float your boat.

What if, instead of a bunch of “just Star Wars movies,” you somehow tied all the movies together into one big story? You could make some more movies with the same characters, using the same actors, if they’re available, and say to people, “By the way, all these movies are like chapters in a book!” That would get people’s attention, I’ll bet. If you did it right, it would be like the “Rocky” or “The Terminator” movies, or like “The Lavender Hill Mob,” if they had made more than one.

I’ve often been told I am a “creative type,” and that I come up with some “darn creative ideas.” How about if I wrote the stories for you? You obviously put a lot of work into these movies, and I think you’re due for a well-deserved break. You could assign me a team of Hollywood screenwriters who would take notes and give me ideas on what the actors should say. I don’t need a very large team, but we will need access to a big conference table so we can roll out large sheets of butcher paper that we can “brainstorm” on. If my screenwriting team knows any big-name actors, that’s even better, because I’ve read that actors are creative, too, and have good ideas, and that they like to talk about these ideas at fine restaurants and exclusive Hollywood parties.

What’s really exciting about this idea is that we can bring in some new characters to freshen things up. I don’t mean to say that people are tired of your current characters. I think they’re swell, really I do. But one thing I don’t get is that everyone is wearing cotton fabrics. Why don’t they have body armor? They’re in a lot of wars and fights, and they don’t have much protection against the evil white robots, who are obviously well-built and rather invulnerable.

I say, bring in some new, armored “warrior” characters who teach the other characters some new fighting moves and how to make shields and helmets out of metal. The armor should be very shiny, like polished chrome, and maybe have lion figures in relief on the chest plates. If there are any girl warriors, you could put them in chrome brassieres and some sort of thigh guards. They should also have silver boots, and you can give them helmets, but they should have long hair that hangs down from beneath the helmet.

This outfit is not only realistic for a space warrior character, but should save you on the cost of costume materials. Girl warriors don’t need as much armor as the men, because they don’t get hurt as often if they are fighting against men, because the men feel bad about hurting a woman. However, this may be a problem if some of the evil white robots are girl robots. We all know how ugly girl fights can get. You’ll have to let me know if you meant the robots to be both girl and boy robots, or just boys.

Another thing I think is missing is funny characters. Sometimes the friendly robots in your movies are funny, but that’s not the kind of funny I mean. You could have an old man who tells it like it is, or a sidekick who always gets in trouble, or maybe a character with a funny accent. Some of the best movies and TV shows have funny characters. Because people love to laugh!

I think I’ll head back down to the library to see if I can find more of your movie pieces on the Internet Computers. I want to keep these ideas flowing! You know, I’m giddy just thinking about the possibilities. This could be a very big.

Pets

The other day I was reading an article about dust mites. The article talked about their eight fuzzy legs, scaly, eyeless faces, and cute little mouth-like appendage. They sound adorable, and I want one! I read that there are thousands of these in every home, but I’ve never seen any.

When I was in first grade, I had a friend whose mother had a pet iguana. It would hang from the curtains and barf up flies. One day it went behind the clothes dryer and died.

I had a friend in college with a pet monkey. He said his brother saved it from a research lab. It had to wear a diaper all the time, and he made it wear a beanie. I say “made,” because he had to tape the beanie on, or the monkey would keep taking it off. The monkey often looked thin, so sometimes I’d bring the monkey leftover sandwiches from the deli where I worked. I’d mark them “for monkey,” and leave them in my friend’s fridge. But the monkey never gained weight; his diaper just hung around his hips in a very sad way. Then I found out my friend was eating the sandwiches. Which made me very angry.

I felt bad for that monkey. Except he used to throw things and knock items off the coffee table. Also, he’d interrupt our conversations with irritating noises like, “I’m not a monkey! My name is Dr. Blake! My family will come looking for me!” Then we’d put him back in his box.

Clairvoyant

No, please. Don’t try to help me out. I’ve done this for years, and my skills require concentration.

I see a man. He’s around 25 or 35. He’s tallish. His hair is brown. On his left wrist is a watch—this is important—it’s a digital watch, not analog. Make sure you write that down.

There’s a magazine. It’s on a chair—no, a bench. It’s a bench seat…on a bus. The magazine is on a bus seat. Someone left it there. Someone who was riding the bus that morning. They may have been riding the bus to work, or to the drugstore.

The man with the brown hair picks up the magazine. Let’s pause here. Do you see that what this means is that the brown-haired man was on the bus? You do? Okay. Just checking. We need to be on the same page here.

The floor of the bus is dirty, but not dirtier than bus floors normally are. Could you note that? That they're not unusually dirty? Thanks. The bus seats are vinyl, with vinyl piping. Some of them have gum under them. Don’t ask me which ones. There is a lot of gum, and I will get squeamish and lose my concentration if you ask me to pinpoint which seats have the most gum stuck to them.

Is it really that important? Okay, well, the ones just before and just after the side door, the fourth one back on the right, the last 3 on the right before the back bench, and the last 2 on the left before the back bench.

You know, I don’t really understand how this is important to your investigation, but let me think...

Well, mostly Bubblicious Gonzo Grape, and Dentyne Ice.

Wait! I think you may have something there after all. There is gum stuck between two pages of the magazine. And it’s not a magazine. It’s a Little Nickel flyer. The gum is stuck between an ad for self-cleaning gutters and an estate sale annoucement. The estate sale lists furniture, sporting equipment, and a waterbed. There are baby items, a burl coffee table, and a non-operating hot tub, which you have to haul away yourself.

The brown-haired man walks to the back of the bus with the flyer. He is despondent. He must miss his son’s birthday the coming weekend, for reasons I can’t see. His son is 7, and has a disease. Or a limp. Or he limps because of a disease. The man peruses the flyer. He’d really like to send his son a nice, used football for his birthday.

But this is terrible! He misses the estate sale ad with the sporting equipment listing because it’s stuck to the ad for self-cleaning gutters. How will he find a used football now? Who will help him gain his crippled son’s love?

You people really have to get to work and track this guy down, or there’s going to be a very disappointed little boy out there.

My hobbies

As an amateur zoo train enthusiast, I’m always happy to share insights into my hobby. But sometimes I end up answering the same questions over and again. While I understand the recent explosive interest in amateur zoo train engineermanship, the newbies are kind of getting on my nerves. I mean, “Do zoo trains always run on tracks?” Come on, people! If it’s not on a track, it’s not a train. I know you’ve probably seen those gas-powered wheeled trains in two-bit parks like the old Expo ’74 site in Spokane. But those are for the losers who think it’s all about the striped cap. What the hell do they know? Nothing.

When I was at the Expo ’74 site at the end of April, I had the misfortune of catching the dirty, smelly tail-end of an Earth Day celebration. A celebration for the earth? As far as I’m concerned, Earth Day doesn’t need that kind of visibility. In the same way as when on Mother’s Day, a worn, unamused matron snaps to her whining child’s question, “Why isn’t there a kids’ day?”, “Because every day is kids’ day,” Earth Day doesn’t require a designated square on my desk calendar. It’s the earth. It gets every goddamned day it wants.

There was a sno-cone vendor at the venue, and though my teeth were already sore from the corndog I’d had for lunch, I decided a little something sweet was in order. A big mistake. Waiting in the sno-cone line, I got smacked in the back of the head by a big, vinyl “world globe” ball kicked by a hippie. You’d think that kicking an inflated replica of the globe would be against a hippie’s ethics, but apparently this kind of hypocrisy was lost on him.

You also might think that because it was earth day, initiating a physical altercation would in violation of the spirit of the occasion. But if anything, it was a necessary comment on his anti-earth behavior. I kicked that hippie’s ass. I kicked, and I kicked again. I boxed him until he bled from his ears. I dug my heel into his instep. And then I took his money and bought myself a blue raspberry sno-cone.

Why I walk

I really have to get going in a few minutes, but I think I have a little time to answer any questions you may have.

Some of you—many of you, in fact—have asked me why I walk.

Why I walk. Now, this is something that is both easy and difficult to answer. I’ll start with the easy. Actually, no, I’ll start with the difficult.

A long time ago, when I was very young, we—my family and I—lived in a very nice neighborhood in a small town not too far from here. It was safe, well-lit, and filled with old people. Now, I don’t have a problem with old people. My parents are pretty old, as a matter of fact, and they give me no problems at all! Ha ha!

But really, old people are fine. They’re the salt of the earth, and I look up to them as the elderly that they are. They give good advice, although they can be a bit quick to judge. And I like their sense of style. Often when I see one of those old-timers with his plaid shorts hitched up and belted above his belly roll, I come up behind him and say, “Hey Pops! Nice chicken legs!” And we both have a good laugh about it, and I help him up.

Where was I? Well, this neighborhood had one resident that was a little problematic for us kids. Mrs. Kleff. She was either a widow or an old maid. Or an orphan. But whatever her marital status, she was mean. She once threw a rock at my sister and chipped her tooth. It’s true that my sister had thrown a garden gnome at Mrs. Kleff, but Mrs. Kleff didn’t have any teeth to speak of, and therefore was a low risk for dental injuries. My sister had to wear a homemade cap on her tooth for three months before my parents could afford to send her to a dentist for a real cap. And after that long, Wrigley’s gum does not come off easy.

Well, one summer’s day my brother went into Mrs. Kleff’s yard to drink from her hose. I think you know where this is going. What is wrong with old people, anyway? Have they forgotten what it's like to be young? Do they not understand the dangers of standing hose water? Are they so bitter about their dried-up youth that they see violence as their only option?

I'm sorry. Can you give me a moment?

Thanks. I also told you that I'd give you the easy answer to why I walk. And that is, I'm doing this for the children.

Thanks to all my sponsors, and to the lady back there who gave me a water jug for my journey. The container is kind of dented, though. Could one of you get me a fresh bottle of water? I like the kind with a bit of flavoring, but not too much. I suppose you could call me a purist!

Thanks again, and now, I really have to get going.

Your hidden pineapple

We used to be so close. We spent Thanksgivings together. I let you borrow my car during the bus strike that summer. You loaned me your Red Rose Tea Wade figurines to complete my independent film.

I may never know what happened. Your silence baffles me. Today I was walking to work, and saw a top headline at the newsstand: “Tax plan requires more thought.” Doesn’t that say it all?

Besides repeating that headline, what I’d say to you—if you’d only listen—is that the mulch you used on the garden last fall is like the groundcover that is smothering our relationship. Or the other way around.

When I met you, it was as if I had found a treasure that I’d lost long before. And every day I’ve tried to recover that treasure. I take my spade and I dig, and I dig. But uncover nothing. Not even your hidden pineapple. Because it’s hidden.

Your mother made a pass at my boyfriend

I think weddings are fun. There's free food, and a table covered with presents that you can shake to guess what's in them, and there's always some very ugly, formally-attired kid whom everyone thinks is so cute when they spill their juice on the bride's train.

I like to bring a small, cordless drill with me to weddings so I can stand by the bowls of jordan almonds and put holes in them. Then I string them together with dental floss (mint-flavored), tie a knot, and then when someone tries to take one jordan almond, they get a whole string! Or sometimes I just make a really long necklace and wear them home.

By the way, after your wedding last weekend, my boyfriend and I got in a big fight about your mom putting her hand on his knee. I was going to tell you about it right then, but then you got in the limo, and you were gone. I called you that evening, but you didn't answer. Were you in the bathroom?

It really wasn't a big deal. I mean, sometimes I touch his knee under the table when we go to Olive Garden, and once in a while I tap his patella with a spoon to see if he'll kick the person across from him; it's a little game we play.

But even your dad looked surprised when she crouched next to my boyfriend while he was ordering drinks at the cash bar and started massaging his kneecap. And then when we got home and I was rubbing his legs with salve, like I do every night, I noticed the fingernail marks. That's when the fight started.

Certain stains are easy to get out of a rental tux, but not so much leather sofa cushions. I considered sending you the bill, but that's not how I roll.

You know, your mom is really too old to pull off a French manicure. It kind of makes her look like a cheap whore. But your dad probably already knows that.

Out of a jam

Wow! Was that ever close. The hair on my right calf is a little singed, but otherwise, I'm fine. Are you doing okay? You should have seen the look on your face! Like you stuck your face in a flour cannister. Not that your head is small enough to actually fit into a flour cannister. Now that I look at it, though, you have a pretty big head. I'd be surprised if you could get an ear in any container smaller than one of those half-whiskey-barrels they sell at hardware stores this time of year. I've often thought, when I saw one of those whiskey barrels, "That's a lot of booze!" and I ask the guy working out there in front where they sell the whiskey barrels and wheel barrows, "Hey! You got any of these that actually come with whiskey in them? Ha ha!" And he just kind of smiles, and backs away from my finger as I poke him in the chest.

Now that I look at you again, it's actually starting to turn red and swell a bit. You should really get that checked out.

Calming words

Things took a turn for the worse last night. My right arm fell asleep, and would not wake up. I made a plaster of spit and coffee grounds. I sat and watched the morning news shows. Then the show where the lady sits and gets fit. I went to the basement and got an old metal folding chair that has "O'Dea High School" stencilled on the back, brought it upstairs, and did the exercises with her.

There's one exercise where she fills up a dutch oven with hot water, and raises and lowers it over her head. Then she lies down on a weight-lifting bench, and stretches her arms to the floor to pick up the pot that way. She put the pot on the floor first.

I had a dutch oven, but I didn't have any hot water. So I put a ferret in the pot, and lifted that. I had to strap the lid down with duct tape.

My arm's a bit better. This morning, the bus driver said, "Bad arm's no problem! That'll get fixed up soon enough!" It's still a little sore, though.