THE PROOF IS IN THE PUTTING

June 2, 2013 //
6

The Proof is in the Putting

 

Four months after quitting golf for life, for at least the fifth time, I found myself hosting my cousin, Eddie, on my community’s championship golf course.  I ended up beating him decisively… on one of the eighteen holes.

Golf is an activity that remains mysterious to me.  If I can hit a moving tennis ball or baseball or soccer ball, why is the stationary golf ball so infuriating?  Each swing presents an opportunity for something wonderful to occur, but a fortune could be earned betting on the opposite result.

Eddie is the “patriarch” of the nine cousins in my extended family.  He is sixteen years older than I, eight inches shorter and proof that those metrics mean nothing at all in golf.  Eddie has lived most of his life in Chicago where I have rarely visited – we’ve seen each other sparingly over the years.  The last time I played golf with him I was sixteen.  Eddie did not even remember that event so forgettable in the pantheon of his golf experiences.  We played at a Philadelphia public course that barely qualified as a “real” course.  In fact, in most of the country, particularly in North Carolina where I now live, the course would long since have become a housing development or alpaca ranch.

We had a lovely time during Eddie’s visit.  Meals were delicious, Scrabble victories over his wife, Sherry, were mine.  A long ago defeat at her hands on the ping pong table (she took out my pacifier before we played) was avenged.  We introduced them, or subjected them, depending on your viewpoint, to Carolina barbecue, the Durham Bulls and the local version of a traffic jam, the occasional red light.

It was interesting to discuss family events and personalities with Eddie from our disparate ages and geographical perspectives.  He knew different versions of the same people – a mutual uncle, for instance, whom he knew as young, hopeful and fun to be with and who I knew, a generation later, as burdened and somewhat embittered.  He described his own mother’s deep intelligence while my memories are sadly clouded by her later bouts with illness and anger.  On the other hand, Eddie was able to describe to me the transformation of a contemporary I once met in Chicago and thought of as unstable and troubled; as a middle-aged man, he has built an admirable life for himself.

One subject I cannot discuss comfortably with Eddie is politics.  Somehow, though spawned in the same genetic line, we may as well be from different planets.  All we could finally achieve was a reasonably respectful impasse.  We each conceded several points, namely:  I agreed the President is not all I’d hoped for in 2008 though I still share most of his viewpoints.  Eddie agreed with the President’s dithering on Syria.  Basically, “stay the hell out of there.”  We both agreed that the recent retirement announcement of the shrew from Minnesota is a good thing; me because she is insane and a liar and dangerous; he, as far as I could comprehend, because she is a distraction from the core of Republican values.

Golf, fortunately, is a politics-free zone.  I have enough to worry about without arguing tax policy and the right to choose.  First, we went to the practice range.  Eddie’s shots all went straight and for distances that he had in mind.  Mine were as varied as the menu at a New Jersey diner.

“Feel free to make any suggestions,” I invited.

He observed one shot.

“I’m not going to say much, since it will be confusing,” he started, “but:  keep your left arm straight, cock your wrist at this point in your backswing, don’t put the club so high on take-away, follow-through, and make sure your feet and chest are lined up properly.”

I tried to accession all of that information and hit three consecutive grounders.  I switched to a different club and smacked a few more balls off to the right, then overcompensated with a grip adjustment and blasted several to the left.  Meanwhile, various golfers who know me to be a star of the tennis courts, at least in the dimness of the local constellation, were probably delighted to see me hacking away so futilely.

“Perhaps we should try putting,” I said, noting that we were scheduled to tee-off in fifteen minutes.

“Sure,” said Eddie, before smacking one last perfect shot.

My luck did not change at the practice green.

“I have the yips,” I said.

“I have them too,” said Eddie, with touching empathy.

“Mine are worse than yours,” I said.

“I’ve been known to miss a four-footer,” said Eddie.

“I commonly hit a four-footer so it ends up twelve feet past the hole,” I said.

“You win,” he conceded.

I yanked a ball to the right of the hole.

“I think that hole is cut too small,” I said.

“I’ve never seen anyone slice a putt,” said Eddie.

“Is there anything I can change?” I asked.

I could tell that Eddie was holding back some thoughts; he did not want to overwhelm me with suggestions moments before we went to play with two other experienced golfers.

“Just this,” he said, demonstrating with his putter.  “Put your left thumb here, your right index finger here, square your shoulders like this, bend over the ball like this, be sure your eyes are above the ball, be sure the backswing is exactly as far as the fore-swing, don’t move your head and don’t bend your wrists.”

“Is that all?” I asked.

“Don’t forget to breathe,” he said.

We went to the first tee and met the two friends who filled out our foursome.  Both are accomplished golfers and fine gentlemen.  Still, their participation may have initially struck them as charitable – playing with non-golfer Stuart and his unimposing-looking cousin from out-of-town.

The first hole gave no particular indication, as Dennis hit a par four, Eddie and I both managed fives and Hayes scored a six.  On the second hole, however, as I settled over my tee-shot, one of the men decided to suggest a change to my grip.  “And roll your wrist over,” he added.  “Like a cross-court shot in tennis.”

His effort to relate the suggestion to something I could understand was appreciated, but there are no trees in the middle of a tennis court.  I lost two balls so far into the woods that we did not even bother to look.  I was embarrassed even amidst the easy camaraderie of the golf course.

“What if every hole is like this? I said.

“Don’t worry,” said Eddie.  “I have a lot of extra golf balls.”

“Do you have thirty six?”

“Not that many.”

My play improved from that point.  Perhaps, I was freed from the modest illusion of competence I had gleaned from the successful first hole.  At least I never lost two balls on one hole again.  And on a short hole that required a tee-shot over a lake, I somehow managed a par that beat everyone else.

Eddie, too, was rallying.  I was proud, and a little relieved, to see how his flawless form impressed the men, along with his ability to master a new course.  By the end of the round, Eddie’s 83 had nearly caught Dennis, a renowned local star.  I scored 102, which is nothing to brag about, but was politely lauded by everyone.

“If I could just have you for three weeks,” said Hayes, twenty or thirty modifications to my swing doubtless coming to mind.

Eddie and Sherry departed the next morning and we all look forward to seeing each other again.  In this case, if I can stay away from politics as though it is a sand trap, the course is a pleasure to play.

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Categories family relationships, Golf passion, Sports

SUMMER CAMP

May 26, 2013 //
5

SUMMER CAMP

Adults are often teary-eyed remembering the joys of their childhood summer camps.  They recall campfires and marshmallows, frogging and fishing, crafts and friends.  The singing, the swimming, the painting and ashtray-making all float out of the mists of memory to rekindle pleasure.  They were young and carefree, happy as though those days would last forever.  I was an exception.

To me, Sesame Day Camp represented unmitigated tedium and stress.  There were long waits in gnat-infested grass for mere seconds on the noisy and smoky go-carts.  There was pointless shooting of BB guns and arrows.  There were fruitless swim lessons and long rides to and from camp in counselors’ cars where I was subjected to the moronic music choices of my fellow travelers.  Or, if the radio was not sufficient torture, they sang about beer bottles on the wall.

All I wanted to do in the summer was play ball.  Not tether-ball or the special version of volleyball for the physically delayed called newcomb (one tries to catch the ball and throw it back instead of hitting it).  I wanted to play baseball.  And I wanted to do it with others who were passionate about the sport and capable of performing above a minimum level of skill.  At Sesame, we never played baseball.

One legacy from my time at day camp sets me apart from most of society.   Apparently, despite a level of coordination that was admired in athletics, I missed the developmental milestone that would have rendered me able to tie my shoes prior to camp.  Thus, I was subjected to remedial instruction; I still remember a large, wooden practice shoe.   The method they finally taught me involved double-looping, a technique I have never shaken.   Whenever someone notices how I tie my shoes they shake their head in disbelief.

Another memory from Sesame Day Camp was “bug” juice.  If it was not made with bugs, why did they call it that?  Although I recall heat and humidity worthy of the tropics, I never overcame my literal interpretation to partake in the thrice-daily refreshment ritual.   My fellow campers liked me best when I gave away my drinks.

While one could have the impression from the foregoing that I was a forlorn camper, there were actually several co-sufferers worse off than I.  One was a sickly slip of a boy who everyone called “Powerhouse.”  Teased mercilessly, he sniffed and sniveled and carried himself as though he were invertebrate.  He was even miserable during crafts hour, when I would have expected him to thrive.  He probably ended up as a body-builder.

Another victim of juvenile insensitivity was an overweight boy named Tom Divver.  “Moon River” was a popular song at the time and everyone serenaded him “Tom Divver, wider than a mile, his clothes are out of style….”  No one ever thought of a second line, so they just repeated that over and over and over.

Singing was somehow important at Sesame.  The counselors taught us a ditty that I still remember.  On reflection, nearly five decades later, I think the words were intended to be: “Hi-yike-e-yike-us, nobody’s like us, we are the boys of Sesame!”  But we all sang:  “Hi-yike-e-yike-us, nobody likes us….”  I’m still not sure.

My camping career ended when I was about ten, after three summers of abject complaining finally wore down my mother.  I was allowed to stay at home and throw a ball incessantly against a wall and was infinitely happier.  I was confident the camping experience was put to rest forever.  Twenty years later, however, I married into a family that believed firmly in the value of summer camps.  In spite of my scoffing or, perhaps, because of it, my oldest daughter adored summer camp and upgraded from local day camp to six weeks of stunningly expensive overnight camp, as soon as possible.

“Isn’t it muddy and buggy?” I would ask.

“We have so much fun,” Kelly would reply, not actually answering the question.

“Isn’t the food awful?” I would ask.

“I love my counselors,” she would reply.

It was as though we were speaking different languages or acting in a modernist play by Samuel Beckett.

My second daughter, Sarah, was more reticent and attended local day camps for several summers, with minimal enthusiasm.  She was not fond of mucking horse stalls and eating hot dogs for every other meal.  She was not hankering to stay up all night giggling with bunkmates.  Still, when she was ten, encouraged by her sister and mother, she signed up for a summer of overnight camp where Kelly had graduated to being a senior counselor.

Bearing in mind Sarah’s need for sleep and her love of comfortable circumstances, I fretted:    “Are you sure she’s up for this?”

“She will be fine,” said my wife.

“What if she hates living in a cabin?  What if the girls are not nice?” I asked.

“Don’t worry, Kelly will be there,” she said.

I tried to contain my skepticism and I waved good-bye with a fake smile when my wife drove off to deliver the girls to the camp only slightly less distant than Siberia.  The campers were not allowed to call home during the first three weeks and that made me uncomfortable.  I wanted Sarah to have a good time but I still harbored a strong aversion to summer camp.  Imagine my cognitive dissonance several days later when the camp director called my wife to say Sarah was “having a hard time.”

“I’ll go get her,” I volunteered immediately.

“She will be fine,” said my wife.  “It is important for her to work through this.”

“Did you remind the guy to let her have access to Kelly?” I asked.

“Of course, and I’m sure that will calm her down.  She just has to get used to it.”

Several days later, the first letter arrived from Sarah.  In block letters, she wrote:  “This place is awful.  I can’t sleep.  There are mice in the walls, and spider webs.  I want to come home.”

“I will go get her,” I offered again.

“The letter was written five days ago.  By now, I’m sure she is adjusting.  We will see her at parent visitation after the first three weeks.  I have no doubt it will be okay,” said my wife.

The next day, the phone rang again and the caller i.d. indicated it was the camp.  I raced to the phone.  It was Kelly, calling from the director’s office.

“Sarah’s driving me nuts,” said Kelly.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“She only wants to hang by my side.  And I have forty other girls to take care of.”

“Can’t the director help out?” I asked.

“They’ve tried,” said Kelly, sounding more discouraged than I had ever heard her.

“Is there any hope?” I asked, trying to sound sincerely hopeful.

“Doesn’t look like it,” said Kelly.  “She’s miserable.  I think you will have to take her home at visitation day.”

“Okay,” I said, trying to sound disheartened, while squelching the urge to pump my fist.  “I’ll tell mom.”

A week later, on the long ride to visitation my wife was hopeful Sarah would change her mind.  Her optimism was dashed, however, when we arrived, to find Sarah happily greeting us in the parking lot with her bags packed.

“Don’t you want to show us your bunk?” asked my wife.

“No,” said Sarah.

“Are there any friends you need to say ‘good-bye’ to?” I asked.

“Did it already,” said Sarah.  “Let’s go.”

“We want to spend some time with Kelly,” said my wife.

“Okay,” said Sarah, impatiently.

We found Kelly after a few minutes.   She was “in her element,” happily and effectively handling the needs of her forty other campers and their parents.  We gave her some favorite candy and fresh T-shirts and hurriedly said “good-bye.”  Kelly hugged Sarah tightly, but her relief to see her sister go was clear.

I tried, but probably failed, to tamp down my smugness on the ride home.   We were both relieved to have Sarah happy again.  We agreed it would not make sense to argue our views on summer camp again.  We concluded, finally:  “Different strokes for different folks.”

Tags , ,
Categories Coming of Age, Parenting, Sports

HOME REPAIR AND MR. BROWN

May 13, 2013 //
1

HOME REPAIR and MR. BROWN

Observing my father shaped my attitude towards people, business, politics and religion.  He inculcated me with disdain for hypocrisy and those who project a “holier-than thou” attitude.  He taught me to be skeptical and to delve deeper than what appears on the surface.  I appreciate those lessons, whether intended or accidental; however, he taught me absolutely nothing about home repair.

When I was young, changing a light bulb represented the pinnacle of expertise in repairs.  Words like “gasket” and “connection” are recognized as mundane to society at large; in our household, they were mysterious and scary.

The tradition of helplessness in the realm of repairs continued into my adult life.  Regretting my ignorance, and hoping to ingratiate myself with a particular girl, I once enrolled in an adult class in lamp wiring.  I learned enough to know that I never want to wire a lamp.  There was something about “black goes with black” and “green with green,” etc., but the message I received had everything to do with “shocks.”

When I married, my wife brought a varied collection of garageanalia (a newly developed word) including:  a mallet, a sander, a power saw and a vice.  I initially believed this dowry conferred at least a modest level of expertise, but I eventually learned (as the rust and spider webs on the objects hinted), these tools were not so much mastered, as inherited, by her.  We share an inability to fix things though, admittedly, she is more knowledgeable.  If this situation were analogized to height, she would be on the second floor of the Empire State Building and I would be in the basement.

I freely admit my lack of ability in this realm is unfortunate.  The amount of money wasted and opportunities lost as a result are incalculable.  When I once invested in a fixer-upper to rent out, it was maddening to be consigned to pulling weeds outside, while an expensive electrician or plumber ran up bills inside.  I painted several times, but was asked by co-owners, tenants and spouse alike, to desist, lest the subject rooms be ruined forever.

My father’s solution to the money pit of home repair and maintenance was twofold:  first, ignore the situation and hope that no one will notice or care enough to require action; and, second, when finally hiring someone to do the work, negotiate so hard that the person who is willing to take the job is desperate and/or incompetent.  These strategies combined to prevent satisfactory solutions to almost any problem.

Mr. Brown was the usual bête noir in my father’s maintenance struggles.  Whether it was a driveway that needed paving, a toilet that needed sealing, or a patio that needed pointing, Mr. Brown eventually got the call.  He arrived in an ancient truck, a slight, light-skinned African-American man, wearing a pair of paint-spattered overalls.  He walked around the house with my father, like an always-hopeful bird awaiting crumbs from an extraordinarily fastidious diner.  At each project, he would estimate the cost, and listen patiently to my father’s howls of indignation and disbelief.

Because my father and Mr. Brown could not always reach a deal, some projects, like our basement bathroom, were never completed; the room remained in a state of “rough” plumbing without fixtures for fifty years.  Other large projects, like the re-covering of our sun-deck, were completed in such a manner that we never used the area again.  The materials used (concrete!), and the low level of workmanship, suggested strongly that walking on the deck would result in the collapse of the entire structure.

Generally, Mr. Brown was willing to work within my father’s fiscal constraints and was resourceful enough to handle most small jobs with a passable degree of success.  One day, while I watched a ballgame on television in the adjacent room, Mr. Brown labored in a bathroom trying to fix a faucet leak that was staining the kitchen ceiling below.

“Mr. Sanders,” he called to my father downstairs.  “I know what the problem is.  The spigot was installed wrong and it’s dripping backwards inside the wall.”

“Can it be fixed?” asked my father from the bottom of the stairs.

“Well,” said Mr. Brown.  “I’m afraid I’ll have to open up the wall to get at it, but it shouldn’t be too bad to patch up.”

“Accchhh,” said my father, possibly skeptical of the diagnosis and/or simplicity of the cure, but absolutely wary of the cost. “Will it take long?”

“Not more than an hour or so,” said Mr. Brown.  “And I’ve got wall cement in the truck so I won’t even charge you for materials.”

My father grumbled assent and returned to reading his newspaper.

From my vantage point I could see Mr. Brown as he worked.  Though I was only about ten, and nearly as ignorant in the ways of adults as of repairs, I sensed he was not as certain as he’d indicated to my father.  There was something about the shrug of his shoulders, the furrow of his brow, and the sighs that only I could hear.

While chipping away at the wall with a chisel, Mr. Brown was accumulating an impressive pile of dust and debris.  Eventually, he exposed the pipes and commenced manipulating them with a wrench.

“Hmmmm,” he said.

“Ummmm,” he added.

“Well, well, well,” he concluded.

I went over to watch; after all, the project seemed more interesting than another Phillies’ defeat.  Mr. Brown did not address me directly.  In fact, we never shared any words during the decade or so that I was acquainted with Mr. Brown.  After a final twist, he put down the wrench and declared aloud:  “That should do it.  I’m going to patch up the hole.”

When he returned with cement and spackling tools I wondered if he was going to turn on the water before restoring the wall.  It appeared not.  I wordlessly willed him to do so.  Instead, he applied himself to enclosing the plumbing with wallboard and caulk and spent an hour sanding and spackling.  I had never seen Mr. Brown work so carefully, like Michaelangelo at the Sistine Chapel.  Finally, he called downstairs:  “Mr. Sanders.  All finished up here.”

My father bounded up and immediately turned on the faucet.

“It’s flooding down here!” shouted my mother from the kitchen.  “Turn it off!”

My father glowered at Mr. Brown.

“Didn’t you test it?” he demanded.

I knew that Mr. Brown had not, and Mr. Brown knew that I knew.  Our eyes met, just for a moment.  I felt loyal to my father but also a tug of sympathy for Mr. Brown.

“Of course,” he finally said to my father, his eyes downcast.  I felt a pit in my stomach.

“He did,” I blurted spontaneously.  “I heard the water.”

My father looked doubtful.  An awkward silence ensued.

“I’ll open it up again,” interjected Mr. Brown, anxiously.  “I’ll adjust it until I get it right.  I won’t charge for any more time.”

“All right,” said my father, satisfied, before returning downstairs.

Mr. Brown and I exchanged one more glance.  I returned to my ballgame, and he resumed working on the faucet.   After several hours of re-configuring and much testing, the leak appeared fixed.  At least, it was several months before the kitchen ceiling resumed dripping.

I derived two lessons from that day.  As to plumbing, my original intuition was correct:  never enclose the repair without verifying its effectiveness; and, as to life:  lying to one’s father is hard for a kid to justify, but in some rare circumstances where no one is hurt, perhaps it is okay to extend a lifeline to a fellow human being.

Tags , ,
Categories Coming of Age, Parenting, Reflections

TIME SHARE DESPAIR

May 6, 2013 //
7

TIME SHARE DESPAIR

 

Not including a visit to a dentist’s office, is there a worse way to spend an hour than to attend a time- share presentation?  Two experiences in early adulthood caused me to pledge to never again endure such an ordeal.  On a recent visit to Charleston, however, when a torrentially rainy Tuesday morning held scant prospect of more enjoyable activities, an opportunity “too good to be true” proved irresistible.  Directly across the street from our hotel, a sodden man held a sign offering $150 cash, guaranteed, to any qualified couple who would spend an hour in the office building behind him, the local branch of “Vacation Inspirations.”

“How bad can one hour be?” I asked.

“$150 will pay for lunch, a museum and a covered carriage ride,” noted my wife.

“Sit there for an hour, have a donut and coffee, and then it will be over,” I agreed.

We crossed the street, entered the building, and approached a cheerful receptionist.

“Are y’all here for the presentation?” she chirped.

“Yes,” I said.

“Well, y’all are in luck!” she enthused, as though the sales pitches did not take place every hour on the hour all day long.  “We’ll get started in about five minutes.  I just need you to fill out a couple of forms, to make sure y’all are qualified.”

“You’re running a background check, in South Carolina?” I asked, feigning shock.  “Isn’t that against some constitutional right?”

“Behave,” warned my wife.

The girl indulged me with an angelic smile.  I took a pencil and began to provide basic information.   As always, in similar situations that held potential for follow-up harassment, I provided a long-expired e-mail address.  I checked boxes for income and assets that I imagined were sufficient to “qualify” us, but not high enough to excite special attention from the company.  When I finished, I handed the card back.

The girl thanked me and advised:  “When the presentation is over, and y’all come back down again, your envelope of cash will be waiting right here on the desk, with your name on it.”   I registered that crucial information, just in case.   She directed us towards a stairway.

Once upstairs, we joined three other couples in a conference room.   We nodded greetings and I wondered if any were serious prospects or if all of us were motivated solely by the cash payment.  There were eight tables available but we all gravitated to the rear, as far from the lectern as possible.  Everyone was trying to limit their engagement with the presentation, I imagined.    After another moment, an improbably bright and enthusiastic young man bounded into the room.  With slicked-back hair, a lavender polo shirt and stylish glasses, he looked every bit like a fraternity rush captain at a large southern university.  He greeted us warmly:

“How y’all doin’ today?   I hope Charleston is to your likin’.  My name is Rhett, just like the fella in Gone With the Wind,  and mah family’s lived he-ah for ten generations.   Hey, folks, I don’t bite!  Since we don’t have a full room at this early hour, how ‘bout y’all come sit closer.”

“We’re okay back here,” said one man, indicating himself and his wife.  The rest of us nodded.

“I’d really appreciate it if you would all take the closer seats,” said Rhett, the folksy accent and affability draining from his still well-lit smile.  “Please move up for my sake, so that I do not have to shout.  I’d also appreciate it,” he continued, “if you will turn off your smart-phones.   I’ll review these while you get re-arranged,” he said, brandishing our qualification sheets.

He paused to scan the room.  “I’ll wait a moment for y’all to get comfortable.”

We collectively recognized that we had to play by house rules.  Our envelopes might be hanging in the balance.  All four couples moved closer and the sound of phones shutting down reverberated.  Satisfied, our presenter, now sounding completely like a speed-talking native of New York or New Jersey, began:

“The first thing I am going to stress is that this is not a time-share.  This is different; this is unique!  We are an exclusive vacation club, and we are inviting you to be members of our club.  We pay wholesale for weeks at wonderful resorts around the world and club members reserve four weeks each year from our selection at deeply discounted prices.”

“Isn’t that like a time share?” asked a woman.  I nodded, since I was also failing to understand much of a distinction, though I had not listened carefully up to that point.

“That’s an excellent question,” said Rhett.  “We buy weeks in bulk so we get the best price and you buy the weeks from us for no mark-up whatsoever.”

This last statement succeeded in gaining my attention.  “How do you make money?” I asked.

“That’s an excellent question,” said Rhett.  “You just pay one, incredibly low, up-front payment.”

“How low is low?” drawled a man.  “Where ah come from, in Mississippi, we like to know what we are gettin’ into.”

“We will get to that,” said Rhett.  “First, I’d like to show you some of the properties.”

He dimmed the lights and a slide show dazzled us with impossibly beautiful young couples frolicking in front of pools, beaches, ski slopes, boats and sunsets.  I surveyed the other couples in the room and could not fail to notice that my wife and I were the youngest by ten years, and we were at least double the age of the people pictured.

“Didn’t that look awesome?” asked Rhett, as he turned back on the lights.

“What’s it cost?” persisted the Mississippian.

“Well, that is something that can vary,” said Rhett calmly.  Sensing  rising discomfort in the room, however, he added:   “Normally, it would cost $8,800…”

A man whistled.

“…but if you sign up today,” Rhett hastened to add, “the cost will be just $4,400.”

“And that’s all?” asked a woman.

“Just some small monthly dues, maybe $150,” said Rhett.  “But I’ll speak to the bosses if you buy today and there could be some discount.”

“So,” I said.  “There’s $4,400 up front, and monthly dues, and… that’s it?”

“Just some maintenance,” said Rhett, “maybe five hundred a year or seven hundred a year, depending on when and where you take your weeks.”

One couple was taking notes feverishly.

“Are there discounts for hurricane season?” asked the woman.

“That’s an excellent question,” said Rhett, possibly relieved to not be listing further costs.

I leaned over to my wife.  “What kind of a question would he not consider ‘excellent’?”

A man next to us raised his hand.  “What about availability?  For instance, if I wanted to switch out a week from a resort in North Dakota to one in Paris, would it be easy?”

“That question might not be ‘excellent,’” I whispered.

“Folks, folks,” said Rhett.  “Let me explain it this way. You are paying for vacation insurance.  You will know each year that you will take four weeks of vacation.  Not only will you have access to world class accommodations, but you will get a psychological benefit for free.  Think about it.”

I thought about it.  Not only was I not tempted by Rhett’s presentation, but I was appalled that something so sketchy could be taking place.  It was clear the requirement of turned-off smart-phones was not to promote silence, like at the movies.  If someone could search Vacation Inspirations for just a few minutes on-line, the word “scam” would almost certainly appear.   I was tempted to speak up, lest one of the other couples was tempted.

My wife sensed my rising discomfort and touched my arm. “Don’t stress,” she whispered.  “Just hang on for twenty more minutes, and collect $150.”  I resolved to remain silent.

At that point, Rhett launched into his next talking point:   “And the best thing about belonging to the club is that your ownership is perpetual.  For an extra fee of just $2,000, it can even last for a lifetime.”

“Oh, my” I thought.  I could not contain myself from speaking:  “Isn’t that what perpetual means?  Why would you have to pay more money?”

“Well,” said Rhett, “that depends on your definition of ‘perpetual.’”

“That is my definition of ‘perpetual,’” I said.

Everyone murmured.  Rhett looked frustrated.  “I’m going to call a supervisor.  He can explain it to you.  Just wait a minute.  I will be right back.”

Rhett walked out of the room.

“Shall we run for it?” I asked.

“Let’s go,” said my wife.

We rose from our table, waved at our somewhat bewildered fellow inmates, and hastened down the steps.  On the way, we saw Rhett on a cellphone, agitated.  He looked up just as we passed.  “Hey!” he shouted.

We kept going to the bottom of the stairs and saw four envelopes on the reception desk.  They were not of the same importance as the ring was to Frodo, but they still looked special to us.  We grabbed the one marked “Sanders” and exited to the street.  At that moment, as though to confirm we made the right decision, the sun shined through the overcast.  We counted $150 at the corner and looked forward to enjoying the rest of the day.

Tags ,
Categories Retirement

SIMPLE LIKE THAT

April 29, 2013 //
1

SIMPLE LIKE THAT

A moment’s research discloses that effective tour guides should possess the following characteristics: patience, courtesy, diplomacy, selflessness, tact, organization, caring and sensitivity.  Indeed, in separate tours to Costa Rica and Panama, we enjoyed Anita and Miguel, respectively, who embodied all of those facets.  Imagine our surprise at the initial group meeting in Madrid, ahead of a three-week tour, when the guide, a short, intense man dressed in jeans and wearing a cap, introduced himself, as follows:

“I am Jiao.  I am to take you through Spain though I was expecting to be in my favorite country, Portugal, this week.  But, well, the company told me I have to be here.  So, well, what can I do?  Here I am.”

A woman raised her hand.

“Not now,” said Jaio, thrusting his chin ahead of his face like a bantam rooster and tugging on his suspenders. “I am speaking.”

The assembled thirty or so travelers looked taken aback.  Most probably concluded, as I initially did, that Jiao was simply nervous and a little overwhelmed by logistical and paperwork concerns, hence his abruptness.  He continued:

“You must be on time to the bus each day, well, in fact, be ten minutes early.  Jiao does not want to wait for you.  And, just so you understand, if you are late, you can take a taxi to the next town, because the bus will be gone.  Simple like that.”

Several of us tittered nervously.

“I am serious,” said Jiao.

“Are you going to hand out name tags?” asked a man in the front row.

“Why should you need name tags?” asked Jiao.

“We usually get them to help know everyone,” responded the man’s wife.

“Let me explain to you,” said Jaio, scanning the entire group.  “This is not going to be like every other tour.  Jiao runs his tour in a, well, special way.  The only name you need to know is Jiao.  But, well, I am sure you will learn each other’s names in good time.  Simple like that.”

With that, Jiao handed a pile of papers to one of the guests and indicated with a waving motion of his hand that they were to be distributed, then strode out of the room.

“On the bus by 7:50 tomorrow,” he said over his shoulder, as he disappeared.

Our group appeared to be stunned into silence by our introduction to Jiao.  Most whispered to their spouses or seatmates.  A few introduced themselves to neighbors, but most attendees, many of whom had arrived from far-off places like Australia and Asia, were beset by jet lag.  Concerned about waking up on time, they dispersed towards their hotel rooms.

“That was interesting,” I said to the couple beside us, the only people under forty in the group.

“Is that normal?” asked the husband, in a lilting accent of India.  “We have never taken a tour before.”

“Not in our experience,” said my wife.  “I hope he will relax.”

Alas, her optimism was not rewarded.  Jiao’s behavior remained churlish.  The following morning, as we were to depart for Valencia, he sat unapproachable in a far corner of the breakfast room.  He did not respond when guests said “Good morning.”  His only value at the hotel appeared to be brusque but efficient-looking management of the group’s luggage.  He flicked ashes from a cigarette as he supervised the bellman and the driver wrestling our bags into the belly of the bus.

“Jaio has never lost a bag,” he boasted to no one in particular.  “This group will not ruin my record.”

As we drove, Jiao occasionally activated the loudspeaker from his position in the front seat.  He read facts and figures, in a monotone, from a large binder.  Some of the information was relevant to the passing scenery, such as a town’s population and history; other information seemed random and improvised.  Often, he would compare something about Spain to his preferred country, as in:  “You see the apartment buildings on the left.  Well, they are not much to look at.  In Portugal, they really know how to design.  Simple like that.”

Jiao generally spoke only with the bus driver, in Spanish.  Occasionally, however, he would favor the travelers in the front of the bus with disjointed bits of personal philosophy and history.  “My third wife is waiting for me now, well, at home.  We have been together eight years, since I left the seminary.”

“You were studying for the priesthood?” asked a surprised guest.

“Why not?” said Jiao, defensive.  “I am a man of spirituality.”

“But priests can’t marry,” said another guest.

“Ah, you think you know so much,” Jiao responded.

Another theme of Jiao’s was the purity of his body.  At rest stops, he ostentatiously retreated away from the crowd to the far end of the parking lot with a yoga mat.  One day, while we re-boarded the bus, I could not resist noting the dichotomy of what he referred to as “refreshing his temple” with the cigarettes he invariably consumed immediately afterwards.

“But I am a European man,” he replied, as though that explained everything.

By the end of the first week almost everyone was imitating Jiao.  “Well” was included in every second sentence and declarative sentences were punctuated with “simple like that.”  As we approached each of the ten cities on the tour, Jiao emphasized that “this is my most favorite city in all of Spain.”  Positive statements from Jiao were welcome after several hours of dour monotone or disinterested silence, but his impossible use of the superlative for every town called into question any hint of sincerity.

Soon enough, my fellow travelers exhibited accent-imitating skills as we referred to each passing church as “my most favorite cathedral in all of Spain” and pointed out the window at “my most favorite olive tree” and “my most favorite stop light.”  Boisterous laughter accompanied Jiao’s explanation of Spinoza’s philosophy as seeking “the porpoise of life.”

“Are we going to an aquarium then, mate?” blurted an Australian.  Alert to any perceived lack of respect, Jiao castigated us like an angry seventh grade homeroom teacher:  “You make fun of me.  Well, that is it.  Today I will not speak.  If you want to switch tour guides, just call the company.  Simple like that.  I will give you the phone number.”

Several of the guests called the number and learned that we would have to wait several days for a replacement tour guide.  Meanwhile, Jiao would act on a lame-duck basis.  Even more awkward, he would continue to travel with the tour for several additional days, until we arrived at a town with a train line back to Madrid.

“Is it worth it?” asked a guest over dinner.

“He’ll be even more miserable for four or five days,” said another traveler.

“We are enjoying the sights in spite of him,” I noted.

“And he is good with the bags – that’s important with so many loadings and un-loadings,” said a woman from Malaysia.

Simultaneously, several of us blurted:  “Well, I have never lost a bag, simple like that.”  We laughed.  Jiao’s defects were helping us come together as a group.  We decided to stick it out with Jiao.

At the mid-way point of the trip, as fate would have it, we arrived with several other guests in the lobby of our small hotel one morning to overhear Jiao shouting maniacally at the staff.  One of our group’s suitcases was apparently loaded by a bell-hop onto a different tour bus already headed north to San Sebastian.  That day, we were headed south to Seville.  Jiao slammed his fist on the front desk.  We admired his passion and truly felt a tug of sympathy for Jiao.  After all, besides his belief that Portugal is a better country to visit than Spain, there was nothing he was so proud of as his perfect luggage record.  We wondered which of the thirty of us was to be without a suitcase.

Still red-faced and muttering, Jiao studied his check-list and approached the knot of us gaping from the other side of the lobby.

“Uh-oh,” I said to my wife.  “He’s looking at us.”

“Mrs. Sanders,” he said.  “I am sorry to say that your bag has been, well, misplaced.”

“Well,” I said, unable to catch myself.  “Can’t we just call the other bus and get it back.”

“It is a different company,” said Jiao, “and I do not have their phone number.”

“Can’t the hotel reach them?” asked my wife.

“That is what I was just asking these, how do you say, idiotes,” said Jiao, indicating the front desk.  “They do not have the information.”

During the ensuing days, we received daily updates from Jiao on what came to be known in the group as “luggage-gate.”  First, he told us it would be delivered in one day, “simple like that.”  Next, he said that would not be possible because that would cost 500 Euros (about $650).  Next, he told us to buy new toothpaste and hairbrushes, etc. since it might take another day.  By the third day, he told my wife to buy herself a new outfit “on him.”

“Jiao,” I said.  “You should not have to pay out of your own pocket,” I said.  “Wasn’t it the hotel’s fault?”

“They deny it,” he said.  “They are not honorable like Jiao.”

“Has the bag definitely been located?”

“Yes, for sure!” he said.  “I think so.”

Finally, on the fourth day without luggage, we arrived at a hotel to find my wife’s bag waiting for us.  Jaio’s persistent hourly calling throughout the previous two days had finally paid off.  He reached into his pocket and promptly reimbursed us 100 Euros we had spent on clothes and toiletries.  We were relieved and appreciative for a moment until Jiao blew the good feeling all at once, announcing to everyone:  “Well, my amazing effort has returned my record to perfection.  I hope you will all remember the struggles I suffered when you think about the gratuity at the end of the trip.  Simple like that.”

The final days of the trip passed quickly.  The group had become more cohesive and enjoyed taking in the sights together.  Jiao was less of a factor, speaking infrequently to avoid derision and staying aloof at all the stops.  He made a final embarrassing appeal as we arrived back at Madrid:  “My friends,” he began.  “This tour had some, well, good things and some bad.  But I hope you enjoyed the beauty of Spain and know that you are the most favorite group I have ever led.  I invite you all to become my Facebook friends so that Jiao and you can continue to travel through life together.”

“If this is his most favorite group,” the man across the aisle said, “his others must have all ended in fist fights.”

Upon arrival at the final hotel, we were handed surveys to complete.  Nearly everyone stated their intention to savage Jiao, to make sure he never led another tour.  We left a generous tip for the driver but almost nothing for Jiao.  I agreed that a self-centered, narcissistic, egotistical, insincere and hypocritical person should not be a tour guide, and my numerical ratings reflected that; however, I could not resist noting truthfully in the “comments” section that Jiao was “unique.”

At breakfast the next morning, before heading to the airport, I was shocked to see Jiao approaching my table.   He appeared distressed, with tears running down his face.  My adrenaline spiked as I feared he would attack and I raised my arms in defense. I imagined that my review had cost him his job.  Instead of hitting me, Jiao grabbed me in a bear hug.

“What’s happening?” I blurted.

“You wrote the nicest thing anyone has ever written about me,” said Jiao.  “I thank you from the bottom of my heart.”

“You read the reviews?” I asked.  “Aren’t they sent confidentially to the company?”

“I always read my reviews,” said Jiao, still regarding me with affection.  “No one ever acknowledged that I am unique.  You are now a friend for life, simple like that.  I will always stay in touch.”

I gradually extracted myself from Jiao’s arms. I did not know what to say, but I was happy to have given him an expired e-mail address.

“Best of luck,” I said.

“You, too, my friend,” said Jiao, worshipful.

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Categories Modern Society, Spain travel

A SPLINTER

April 22, 2013 //
4

A SPLINTER

 

The suspect in this personal tragedy is the iris plant adjacent to our front entrance.  I was weeding around the front garden when I ran my hand along its stalk to experience its verdant life and came away with a splinter both microscopically invisible and intensely painful.  A dilemma arose, namely:  how to extract something one cannot see from a location as sensitive as the soft pad of one’s index finger?

Initially, one tries a clean sewing needle.  That succeeds in drawing blood and making me ponder what it is like in the bowels of the gulag or similar torture chambers.  I actually learn something – not to minimize the suffering of torture victims but, after several minutes of excruciating rooting around in my soft tissue with the end of a needle, I become somewhat inured to the intensity of the pain.

Having created an impressive puddle of blood on my own finger, it was not clear that the offending splinter was gone.  I could only hope that the area would heal unencumbered by the original cause of its swelling and soreness.

During the clotting and healing phase, I learn something else – the index finger on one’s dominant hand is really important!  Almost every surface I touch involves the right index finger.  Brushing teeth and, especially, flossing is index finger –intensive; likewise, gripping the steering wheel, inserting keys, opening cans, etc.  And don’t even think about playing tennis!

Among the frustrations of suffering this injury, so small yet so dynamic, is how avoidable it is.  I regularly remind myself not to engage in garden-related activities with bare hands.  Besides the possibility of splinters, there are a slew of hazards, including insects, poison ivy and thorns that are easily avoided by the mere use of gloves.  Yet, at least once a season, laziness, inattention or vanity conspires to remind me of this obvious fact.  Among the reasons I have stupidly failed to wear gloves include, but are not limited to, the following:

 

  1. I’m just weeding for a few minutes so why should I go to the garage for gloves;
  2. I may not find the gloves easily in the garage because I’m not so good at putting them back in the same place each time;
  3. The area I am gardening does not appear to have any hazards;
  4. Though I am notoriously unable to recognize poison ivy, my cursory glance at the area in question does not reveal any;
  5. An activity as benign as straightening a small area of a garden cannot possibly result in pain and suffering; and
  6. The only gloves I can locate appear really dorky and/or are pink, and even though I am secure in my manhood, they do not help my image in the neighborhood.

After my bloodletting, I apply a band-aid and hope for the best.  The next day, my finger is throbbing around the mound that now surrounds the excavation site.  I ask myself:  is it throbbing because there is still a splinter or because I dug into my finger with a needle?

My wife warns:  “You have to be sure the splinter is out.  Otherwise, it will never heal.”

I want to say something unpleasant, like “Thank you, Captain Obvious,” but I can’t, because she is right.  She offers to wield the needle again.

“There must be another way,” I say.

“Let’s look it up,” she says.

Sure enough, the computer search reveals reams of articles in the realm of splinter-extraction.  Among the inventive ideas are to wrap the area in a compress of baking soda.

“That’s better than a needle,” I note, though I am skeptical.  “How is that supposed to work?”

“Baking soda swells the surface, then you cover the area with sticky tape, and pull it off fast.  If the splinter has risen to the top, it will come out with the tape.”

“Sounds slightly plausible,” I admit.

After a day of wearing baking soda I examine the area and the mound of soreness persists.  We apply tape and rip it off several times.  No splinter is apparent.

“Let’s try a tweezers,” says my wife.

This sets off a round of searching in the bathroom, since tweezers are in the category of Phillips screwdrivers and non-dairy creamers; things you know you acquired at some point but cannot actually locate when needed.  As the search lengthens, I ask:

“What else can we try?”

“It says here that immersion in a potato helps to extract a splinter.”

“Are you serious?” I ask.

“Yes, something about the starch softening the skin.  A tweezers works more easily after that.”

“Anything else?”

“Yes,” she says.  “The next idea is a razor blade.”

“Whoa, that’s not good.  Let’s try harder to find the tweezers.”

Finally, we locate tweezers and a magnifying glass and squeeze around the area with them.  This is more pleasant than root canal without anasthesia, I imagine, but less pleasant than almost anything else.  With no pried-loose pricker apparent, and my wound turning an angry red again, I try optimism as a default position:

“I bet we got it out with the needle on the first try.  The soreness is just from the extraction.  Let’s give it a couple of days.”

My hopes are eventually vindicated, though it takes closer to a week for all the soreness to disappear.  Will I ever weed or garden without gloves again?  Certainly not in the immediate future, particularly with the specter of a razor blade participating in the “cure.”  However, human nature being what it is….

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Categories Organic Gardening

KNACK FOR KNICK-KNACKS

April 15, 2013 //
5

A KNACK FOR KNICK-KNACKS

Our new neighbor, Irene, is a delightful person, but a troubling influence.  Irene does not play golf, tennis or bridge.  Her sport is shopping and her new partner is my wife, Katie.  The two embark on expeditions like hunters on safari, but with less drama.  The prey, after all, is stationary.  Today’s need is to reinvigorate our master bathroom.

“What’s wrong with our bathroom?” I ask.  “It has all the necessary plumbing.”

“It lacks pizzazz,” says Irene.

“We need a magazine-holder,” says Katie.

“What’s wrong with the usual spot on top of the trash can?” I ask, knowing my question will not merit a response.

“We also need a nice mirror, a new soap dish, and some fresh decorative towels.”

“But we don’t even use those towels.  They can’t be any fresher.”

“A brighter tone will bring out the walls and trim,” says Irene, indulging my ignorance like a patient kindergarten teacher.

I look around and try to picture the walls “brought out.”  They look okay as they are, I think.  Clearly, I lack the vision that is ingrained in Irene, a vision so admired by my wife.  Considering how beautifully Irene’s home is decorated, I acknowledge she is one of those individuals with a gift for making space undeniably more appealing.  Knowing the final result will be positive, I can only protest the anticipated expenditures half-heartedly, like trying to hold back a tsunami with bare hands.

“Does our credit card have a high enough limit?” I ask.

“I took two, just in case,” responds Katie.

“Don’t worry,” says Irene.  “There is a great sale.  You will save money today.”

Ah, the coup de grace of wifely shopping arithmetic.   If the original price is $150, and its sale price is $90, by purchasing the object, one “makes” $60.  Buying three such objects “makes” $180, and so on.

“Should I expect you for dinner?” I ask.

“Oh, don’t worry about us.  We’ll get something to eat while we’re out,” says Katie.

“You’ll love your new bathroom,” adds Irene, kindly trying to reassure me.

“But I’ve never wanted an emotional relationship with my bathroom,” I think to myself.

Katie smiles confidently as she and Irene depart.

Six hours later, they enter through the garage, laden with boxes.

“Wait until you see what we have for the dining room,” announces Katie in greeting.

“Dining room?” I ask.  “I thought this was a bathroom event.”

“We did that, too,” says Irene.

“We did great,” says Katie.  “We found wall sconces.  The room will be dressed up.  One sconce will go on each side of the window.”

“We can hang them right now,” says Irene.

“Aren’t sconces light fixtures?  Don’t we need an electrician?” I ask.

“You will be happy,” says Katie.  “These sconces hold candles.  No electricity is involved.”

“Wow,” I say, impressed.  “We’re using technology that was in its heyday hundreds of years ago.”

“We knew that would appeal to you,” says Irene.

Two boxes yield metal forms that complement our chandelier.  They are surprisingly light, unencumbered by wiring.

“Shall I get a ruler and a pencil?” I ask.

“For what?” asks Irene.

“You know, to eyeball where to put them.”

Irene has an expression skirting the line between dismissive and amused.  She reaches into her jacket pocket and brings out a contraption resembling an Altoids box.  “This is a laser measuring instrument.  It will show us exactly where they should hang.”

Handling the instrument like a surgeon, she continues, patient, but firm:  “there is no ‘good enough’ in home furnishing.”

Only minutes later, we are bathed in flickering light in our newly “finished” dining room.

“So romantic,” I say.  Both women examine my expression for sincerity.  “I’m serious.  It looks nice.”

And indeed it does.  Even a long-time veteran of “good enough” home décor appreciates a job well done, and simply, and, of course, at half-price!

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Categories Modern Society

STELLA

April 8, 2013 //
1

STELLA

 

A green-eyed beauty lay beside me.  She nibbles idly on my ear while I stroke her exposed chest.   Please, dear reader, in pursuit of salacious gossip, do not reach the wrong conclusion.  My marriage is secure.   Due to their anatomy, I suppose, ears are particularly important to cocker spaniels.

Nearly a decade after swearing off dogs for life, a cascade of circumstances has brought a new puppy into our household.  As recently as a month ago, we marveled at our dog-obsessed neighbors and friends and expressed relief at not being similarly tied down.  Dog ownership, we felt, is a self-imposed troika of emotional, economic and physical obligation.  A dog offers companionship, we acknowledged, and the illusion that a dog’s super-human displays of loyalty and affection are somehow meaningful.  In reality, we felt, those prized moments of connection and love merely reflect the fact that a dog’s owner is his food source, his life-blood.  A dog greets you at the door because he feared you would never come home again, and he would starve without you.

Stella is testing that cynical view.  She was declared an “angel” during her initial nine-hour car-ride.  She whined less than I did about traffic and slept contentedly between sessions of cuddling.  Her first night at home, however, showed how close the dichotomy between angel and devil can be.  Literature is full of such realizations, yet, we rarely experience them so acutely in life.  Stella whined piteously most of the night, a shrill keening completely out of proportion to her tiny six-pound body.

Now that two weeks have passed, a routine is emerging.  We know that she urinates twice, not once, each time she “goes.”  We know that she defecates, like clock-work, fifteen minutes after eating. (I should be so lucky!)  We know that she enjoys occupying laps indefinitely and that shoe laces are great for chewing.

My previous dog experiences have been baleful.  When I was a small child, we had Bagel the beagle, for about six months, before he ate a string and died on the operating table.  Family lore preceding me is littered with unsuccessful dog tales, a litany of the lost and ill, vicious and smelly.  We turned to cats before I was ten and never looked back.  We prized their independence and discrimination.  Our cats offered attention and intimacy only to the immediate family.  We believed them, therefore, to be a higher order of pet.

When my children were younger, a several-years-long campaign resulted in our acquisition of Max, a handsome wheaten terrier.  “All the neighbors have dogs,” truthfully plead the children.  “We’ll walk him and brush him,” they said.  Their intentions may have been pure, but the reality is that we parents did almost all the dog-care.

Max turned out to be overly excitable, scratching the hard-wood floors of our home at the sight of a squirrel or bird outside.  He grew to be forty pounds of pure, empty-headed muscle, pulling on his leash as though separating my shoulder were the desired outcome.  The children professed to love Max, but kept their distance, having seen him lunge, teeth-bared, at the door, when we departed for work and school each morning.

We had Max evaluated by a canine psychiatrist.  I tried to imagine how he communicated with the patient.  Did he ask about dreams or, perhaps, a difficult childhood?  For $225, he suggested several specific commands and techniques to calm Max’s anxieties.   We used them diligently for several weeks but the threatening behavior continued.

“We’re afraid we may have to give him away,” we said to our veterinarian, after describing Max’s tantrums.

“Not with that temper,” she said.  “He’s dangerous, especially with small children.  If that continues, you have to put him down.  You probably should not have him in your house now.”

“What is the chance he will improve?” we asked.

“Not good,” she said.  “It’s up to you, but I’d be very concerned about keeping him around.”

We did not deliberate long before choosing, sadly, to end our relationship with Max.   He had risen to the status of a “factor” in our household but, with his defects, had not attained “member of the family” indispensability.  Thus ended our relationship with dogs — until two weeks ago.

So, what sort of conversations do I have with Stella?  I do most of the talking, such as:

“Is it so difficult to determine where the peanut butter ends and my finger begins?”

“Must every leaf on the lawn be tasted?”

“How is it possible that you, who are so physically small, can upset the entire routine and living space of our household?”

Her response is to cock her head and raise one of her conspicuously visible eye-brows.  They are an amazing feature – bushy caramel-colored brush strokes on a cocoa-brown canvas.

“What?” she seems to ask.  “Am I not adorable enough to merit total attention?”

So far, I admit, the answer is “yes.”  Stella is charming, worming her affections into the skeptical soil of our souls.   She is excited to meet everyone in the neighborhood, but I’m sure I detect a special twinkle in her eye when she sees me.  Oh, yes, she is definitely discriminating.  Meanwhile, it’s time to walk her for the fifth time today in the hopes that she will finally be exhausted, and sleep through some reasonable portion of the night.

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Categories Pets

DIANE

April 1, 2013 //
2

DIANE

 

Diane was not just any housekeeper.  She worked for us for years; she happily babysat for our kids; she brought her kids’ hand-me-downs to us.  It would be an exaggeration, and a cliché, to say Diane was “a member of the family.”  But her Bronx-inflected greeting every Monday morning was part of our household routine, followed by her guiding of our vacuum and her wrestling with our laundry. Therefore, it was particularly shocking when a wad of several thousand dollars hidden transparently in a bedroom drawer disappeared, the same week Diane quit via phone message.

We left return messages for several days before Diane finally picked up.

“What happened?” asked my wife.

“Oh,” said Diane.  “I broke my leg in a skiing accident, so I won’t be working anymore.”

That response was not credible.  If Diane had said she injured a shoulder while bowling, or twisted a knee food-shopping, such things would have sounded improbable, but within the realm of possibility.  As to her skiing, it would be more plausible for me to say I was injured driving the lunar module.

Diane was not an athlete.  She was an overweight forty-something woman whose condition made her look much older.  Our already simmering level of suspicion boiled over.

“Is there anything else you want to tell us, Diane?” asked my wife.

Silence.

“Diane?”

“I can’t work for you anymore,” she said.

“Really?  After five years, that’s all you are going to say?”

“Un-hunh,” said Diane.  “My leg is in a full cast.”

The final embellishment sent us to the phone book in search of a private detective.  We had never looked in that section of the directory before but there were a surprising number of entries.  Most offered divorce-related services known as “infidelity surveillance.”  Several touted “low fees” and one offered “free advice.”

“Which one do we pick?” I asked.

“Free advice is a good place to start,” said my wife.

“You should probably call,” I said.

“Why should I call?  You’re a lawyer,” said my wife.

“But you are better at this sort of thing,” I said, reflexively adopting my default position of learned helplessness.  “Plus, he’s probably used to dealing with women, you know, checking up on their husbands.”

Like Diane, I’d embellished too far.

“That’s it,” said my wife.  “You’re handling this.”

I took the phone with husbandly resignation and dialed.  Though the address was local, the call was to an 800 number to assure, the ad promised, it would not show on our phone bill.  I expected someone who sounded like Humphrey Bogart to answer but, instead, a cheery female voice said:  “Detection services, how may I help you?”

“Um, I think I need to have a woman followed and photographed.”

“Is it your wife?”

“Oh, no.”

“Is she someone else’s wife?”

“Yes, she is, but, um, but that’s not why I’m calling.”

“Okay.  Why do you need to have her followed?”

“Our housekeeper has, we think, taken some cash from us and she says she can’t work because her leg is broken.  We suspect it may not really be broken because she’s not really the skiing type.”

“How much are you missing?”

“I’m embarrassed to say it is about $4,000.  It was in my bureau.”

“That’s a lot of cash to have lying around.  What sort of business are you in?”

“Is that relevant?” I asked.

“Not really,” said the woman.  “I just asked out of professional curiosity.”

“That’s good,” I said.  “I mean, there’s nothing improper about my business, but it is good you are curious, I guess.”

I was starting to feel uncomfortable.  Why did we keep so much cash around?  Some of my clients paid with cash; we simply liked to use it instead of credit cards.  Still, the sock drawer was not a good idea.  I resolved at that moment to buy a safe.  After all, if Diane had just taken $100 here and there, throughout the years, we would never have noticed.

Meanwhile, I described Diane, provided her address to the detective, and agreed to pay $250 for a day’s stake-out and photographs.  It only took two days for her to call back.

“The subject definitely does not have a broken leg,” reported the detective.

“Terrific,” I said.

“She shops a lot.”

“I’m not surprised,” I said.  “She just came into a lot of cash.”

“That’s not all,” said the detective.  “She changes outfits throughout the day and wears several wigs.”

“Hunh?”

“It looks like she is doing surveillance on her husband.  She follows him around town.”

“That’s interesting,” I said.  “It’s all news to me, so what do I do now?”

“You can charge her with theft.  Just call the police, and they will confront her with the pictures I took.”

The concept of Diane tailing her husband in a series of wigs was laughable.  But the idea of her on-going buying binge with my cash was not.  When I called, the police were businesslike, but also intrigued with my cache of cash.

“What line of work are you in?” asked the officer over the telephone.

“Some of my clients pay with cash,” I said, resigned.  “We’ve just been too busy to get to the bank.”

“Nice problem,” he said.  “Do you keep a gun?  A lot of divorce lawyers keep guns.”

“No,” I said.  “I do not have a gun.  I am a real estate lawyer; it hasn’t gotten that bad, yet.”

“Okay,” he said, sounding skeptical.  “We will have a talk with your housekeeper and see what she has to say.”

The next day, a young officer appeared at my door.  He handed me a thick envelope.

“Here’s your $4,000,” he said.

“Wow, how did you get it back?” I asked, impressed and relieved.

“We sat down with the perpetrator and told her what jail would be like.  We told her if she gave the money back right away, we’d consult with you, but perhaps you wouldn’t prosecute.  It didn’t take long.”

“She still had $4,000 right there?” I asked.  “She’s been on a shopping spree.”  It occurred to me with a sinking feeling that we might have underestimated how much Diane had found in the drawer.

“She had it, alright,” he said.  “Are you willing to drop the matter?”

“Did she say anything else?”

“Just that her life’s been crazy lately, and she thinks her husband is cheating on her.  So she bought new outfits and wigs.  I’m not sure if that’s so she could follow him around undetected or if that’s so she could impress him.”

While I pondered both improbable possibilities, he continued:  “I don’t think just a new outfit or hair style is gonna do the trick.  She’s no beauty.  But, hey, you never know.  Some guys, y’know, have different tastes.  So, are you satisfied?”

“Oh, yes, officer.  Thank you so much.  We won’t prosecute her.  This is definitely a lesson learned, perhaps several.  Great work.”

“Excellent,” he said.  Before he left, he handed me an envelope addressed to the Policeman’s Benevolent Association.  “I’m sure you’ll remember what we did.”

I thought about poor Diane, and how desperate she must have been to have done something so awful.  For a moment, I felt sympathy for her.  But then I pictured her promptly retrieving $4,000 and wondered how much more I may have contributed to her throughout the years.  I was careless and she was a crook — a regrettable combination.

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Categories Modern Society

KNOW-NOTHINGS

March 27, 2013 //
0

KNOW-NOTHINGS

 

Pity the poor stock broker.  Like a cleric, he must pretend to know answers to the unknowable.  And he must do this for commercial gain.  His livelihood does not depend upon maintaining a congregation that is programmed to believe.  Rather, he must constantly convince new investors to become followers, while tending to a flock that inevitably becomes skeptical.

I used to tend towards atheism in replying to the question of belief in God.  Ironically, it is through experiences with stock brokers that I have moderated to agnosticism.  After all, stock brokers have shown me that absolutely no one knows anything.  I am certain there are exceptions among them, but I have never experienced anything except complete incompetence.  Nonetheless, my first-ever stock broker eventually showed me that it is possible for redeemable human characteristics to shine through even the thickest money-losing fog.

My “professionally guided” investment career began one evening in the 1986 when I wandered into a storefront Dean Witter office seeking advice.  Manning the front desk was Vinnie Santangelo, a dark-haired fellow several years older than I.  I introduced myself.

“Stuie,” he said, coming around the desk to shake my hand.  “Can I call you Stuie?”

“I guess,” I said, without enthusiasm.  Only people aiming to become familiar too quickly or to annoy had previously called me that.

“Have I got investments for you?” he asked.

I waited for him to continue.

“Do you believe I do?” he asked.

“Yes?” I answered, assuming he was asking rhetorically, but now less certain.

“Definitely, Stuie,” he answered.  “I have incredible opportunities for you.  I can turn your mountain into a mole hill, or your mole hill into a mountain!”  He looked confused for a moment.  “I always mix that up.”

I wondered if the use of that metaphor was his own or something suggested by Dean Witter.  Probably, I should have found an excuse to leave immediately, but Vinnie’s quirkiness was somehow intriguing.

“Sit down right here,” he said, placing me in a chair.

Vinnie piled the desk in front of me with glossy brochures.

“These are funds,” Vinnie explained, indicating the literature.  “You get the benefit of people with lots of wisdom.”

“What’s in the funds?” I asked.

“Stocks, bonds, all sorts of stuff,” he said.

“Can I start with a couple thousand dollars?  I’ve only been working a few months.”

“Sure,” said Vinnie.  “I’ve been working for five years, but I only have a couple thousand dollars, too.”

I appreciated Vinnie’s honesty but his admission did not indicate investing prowess.

“How long have you been a stock broker?” I asked.

“Investment counselor,” he responded, with mock gravity.

“Yes, investment counselor,” I corrected.

“Actually,” he looked at his watch, “about eight hours.”

“Um,” I said.

“I was assistant manager at Silver’s Gym.  Before that, I was an athletic trainer.   Stuie, you wouldn’t believe what some of the girls there will do after hours.”  He made an insinuating gesture towards his crotch.  Then he winked at me, the first person to do so in my adult existence.

I sensed strongly that Vinnie was not going to make me rich.  Yet, his openness was refreshing.  He had none of the guile I had been accustomed to in law school or in my first months of practice.  Perhaps, there were areas of life where Vinnie could teach me things.

“This stuff,” he said, indicating the brochures, “is boring.  We should go out and get a drink.  I’ll show you the life of a young financial analyst.”

“You were promoted from counselor?”

“Whatever,” he shrugged.

The life of a financial “whatever,” I soon realized, involved attending happy hours at somewhat sleazy bars with Vinnie’s co-workers and crashing Dean Witter in-house presentations.  “Just wear a suit and act like you belong; you can eat all the free food.”  There, between mouthfuls, I learned that the prime expectation for a stock broker is to sell company products.  Yes, independent funds could be sold, also, but the highest commissions were earned by pushing Dean Witter funds, regardless of how appropriate they might be for the customer.

Without fail, Vinnie would nudge me at some point during such meetings and point at a waitress or one of his few, female co-workers.  “Not bad, eh?” he’d say, in a salacious tone.

I should assure the reader that Vinnie’s attitude towards women was not something I embraced.  Yet, I was significantly younger than my brothers, so I had not learned anything from them in this arena.  My father was not of an age or temperament to impart wisdom about girls.  And my friends at college and law school were even more sheltered than I was.  Thus, from a purely sociological viewpoint, Vinnie was helpful to me.

Besides gorging on Dean Witter food and placing my modest nest-egg in underperforming investments, our friendship consisted of occasional terrible golf and lunches at a local Italian restaurant, where Vinnie provided examples of flirting technique.

“Come here, honey,” he would say to a matronly waitress twenty years older.  “You look so lovely today.”  Amazingly, to me, most women enjoyed his banter.  As soon as they were out of earshot, Vinnie would whisper something awful and profane:  “I’d do her in a minute, but I’d keep my eyes closed.”

“Vinnie, I could never talk to a woman like that.  You’re leering at her.”

“What’s that mean, Stuie?  Is that bad?”

“Well, it’s not respectful.  Would you want a guy to look at your sister like she’s a piece of meat?”

“They love it,” he proclaimed.  “You should try it.”

I could never imitate Vinnie’s carefree aggression, but I did learn how far a simple smile can go, accompanied by a compliment, however insincere.

“There is no way I could treat a girl as just another notch for my belt, like you do,” I scolded.

“You’ll learn, Stuie,” he said.

Vinnie shared his deeply felt philosophy:  “Women are made for being chased.  They wanna be pursued!  It’s their thing!  It’s us guys who can’t ever get pinned down.  You and I are just gonna disagree on this one.”

I was shocked, therefore, when Vinnie called one day to say:  “Stuie, I went to a teeth cleaning and found the love of my life.”

“The dentist?” I asked, waiting for a punch line.

“The hygienist,” he said.  “I’m totally in love — for real.”

I did not know what to say.  My exemplar of male chauvinism was smitten.  My instructor in cavalier behavior had turned to mush.  The Italian stallion was broken.  Suddenly, my infant bar-hopping phase was over as quickly as it had begun.  We still had lunch together, but our only evening activities were double dates.  In less than a year, Vinnie married the lovely Gina Mangano and settled delightedly into domesticity.  I met my wife one year later and moved to another town.  We shared occasional dinners as a foursome and celebrated together the anniversary of meeting our wives which, coincidentally, was October 10.

What was still unresolved was the reason I had met Vinnie in the first place.  He was my stock broker.  My business was successful and my account growing.  However, it was not growing as quickly as the overall market, and I did not know what to do.  Vinnie’s fund choices were mediocre and his ventures into individual stocks were worse.  A rare profitable pick was RJ Reynolds, a stock Vinnie added to my account despite my stated desire not to own cigarette stocks.

“Money’s money,” Vinnie said.  “We could just buy chocolate or toy companies, if you want, and lose money.”

“We’ve done that,” I reminded him.

One day, Vinnie called to suggest we sell my 200 shares, which had increased in value by $2,000.

“They aren’t going to run any higher,” he assured me, affecting an authoritative tone.  I agreed to sell and enjoy a rare profit.

The next day, the business world was shaken by news that RJ Reynolds was merging with Nabisco.  The stock nearly doubled.  The ill-timed sale cost me thousands of dollars.  I knew Vinnie did not have pre-knowledge of the deal (though the idea that his Dean Witter manager was accumulating shares for the company account did cross my mind) but I was still disappointed.

“We should not have a friend as our stock broker,” said my wife.

“I know, I know,” I said.  “But how can I fire Vinnie?”

The conversation was repeated several times over the ensuing months, and I struggled with how to find the words to fire Vinnie whenever I thought about my account.  The issue was like a ball and chain.   I felt nearly ready to explain my move to Vinnie, however painful it would be, when the telephone brought another shock.  Between sobs, Gina told me that, after enjoying a typically wonderful Italian dinner, Vinnie had developed a headache.  When it did not go away for two days he went to the hospital.  There, the doctor told him it was a migraine, prescribed medicine, and sent Vinnie home.  Two hours later, Vinnie suffered a brain aneurysm.

“He will live,” she said.  “But it’s really bad.”

Over the next six months, Vinnie recovered the ability to speak and to walk, with a cane.  However, his vision was impaired.   As a tribute to his personality, Vinnie was surrounded by family and friends.  When we called or visited, it seemed like a party was going on.   I never talked about business.  My account seemed trivial under the circumstances.

“Are you angry about this?” I asked once, amazed by his apparent carefree attitude.

“It’s nothing, Stuie” he said.  “You just gotta go with whatever life offers.”

Later, I asked my wife:  “Could I ever be as optimistic as Vinnie if something like that happened to me?”

“You’re not even that optimistic now,” she said.

One day, the office administrator called, and said:  “I’m so sorry, but you will have to move your account to another manager.   Vinnie is going on total disability.”

My conscience was torn.  Moving the account was my desired outcome, and I also avoided telling Vinnie it was my idea.  Yet, my two-pronged relief resulted from my friend’s personal tragedy.

“I feel awful, but I also feel a little lucky about the account” I confided at home.

“Yes, it’s not the way you wanted this to go.”

“That’s for sure.  I hope I don’t have a curse for thinking such a terrible thought.”

Perhaps, my superstition became prophetic.  In the ensuing decades, I have never befriended my stock broker.  Each time I fire one, it becomes easier and more of a relief.  Unfortunately, Vinnie’s poor investment choices were merely a prelude.  Subsequent performances by my stock brokers have rendered Vinnie’s level of mediocrity the best I’ve ever experienced.

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