Butchers and Bakers

I believe it was in November when the thing occurred. No, strike that, I'm quite sure it was October as I seriously considered taking to the neighborhoods come Halloween night, dressed, as it were, like a racing greyhound dog. You see, the greyhound dog part is what I'm getting at. I've always been a horse man myself, putting out a bet here and a bet there since I was an awfully young chap. After a spell, you get to looking at these things with a knowledgeable eye. One picks up on how a horse looks, or even how the owner looks the day of the race. I recall once having to change a bet after catching the owner of a horse shrug his shoulders about something or other. No winning man shrugs his shoulders in conversation.

So there I was, talking to a good friend of mine over a cup of coffee, or a cup of joe as some of my American friends call it, when this good friend of mine Benson begins going on and on about this racing of dogs thing that apparently is a rather large deal here in the United States. Benson went on to say, "They only use greyhounds, which are incredibly fast dogs, like cheetahs, but without all of the problems of being a feline, and they race them about the track like horses do." I didn't know what to say, I was dumbfounded firstly and then went headlong into being thoroughly appalled. Who had ever heard of such a thing? I mean to say, it is entirely possible that some such sport has been going on in jolly old England for a good spell, but certainly not to my knowledge. I pictured these poor groaning beasts attempting to make their way around the track with those proud, snooty jockey fellows in all of their glory with pressed silk shirts and flashy hats and real glass racing goggles and whatnot, riding atop them. Horrific to say the least! This was certainly akin to the cockfighting that I had heard of in my younger years wherein some member of the dregs of humanity take two roosters or chickens or something of that nature, and puts them in a sort of battle to the death in a ring surrounded by thugs and bookies and thug bookies and those sorts, all betting on the duck or bird or whatever it is that they think will escape with their feathery life in tact. Absolutely horrid thing, this business.

"So the next dog racing is coming up in a few nights, would you like to accompany me down to the track?" Benson asked. I imagine my face must have turned a shade of green, or at least a sea foam hue, when Benson said, "Are you alright mate?" I said that I was feeling a bit on the queasy side and informed Benson that I would have to pass on the dog racing bit, but thank you very much. After a quick "Have it your way." Benson began on with a totally different subject, spiders.

You see, Benson is one of these blokes that is an absolute grain of wheat blowing in the wind, this way and that as the wind blows. He has these monomanias, as I call them, wherein he will absolutely latch on to a topic like a starved tick, and talk about the item until one might think his jaws incapable of going on, and yet, miraculously, they do. They absolutely do! He gets one of these obsessions or monomanias and before you know it, is a card carrying member of the group.

I remember quite clearly that not too very long ago, Benson was very big into depression glass. I had no idea what the stuff was at the time but, as it sounded like it might make one withdrawn and sad, I really wasn't too very keen on hearing about it. Well as it turns out, it's this spiffy kind of glass that was made a while back and much of what I saw was fashioned into various kinds of fauna in every color of God's own rainbow.

I'll have to admit, however, that it did not help the old cause when the first piece of depression glass I fixed the peepers upon was a jar made to look like a sad puppy. I inwardly thought that it was awfully bizarre that a group of glassmakers would get together and start making a bunch of sad animals and call it depression glass. Then I thought of how odd it was that there was ever a market for it in the past, much less now! Well once Benson showed me a pink chicken, which looked, not really sad, not particularly happy, but possibly only mildly content, I had to ask, "Benson, why on earth does this bird not look sad or even fatigued if this is supposed to be depression glass? Just over there you have that little pup doing a bang up job on the sad bit now don't you? I think you've been taken on this purchase Benson. This carver must be second rate!" It took Benson a few moments to compute what I was getting at, but once he came 'round, he did so with a hearty bang. The laughing that ensued was deep and seemingly endless. Once the mirth subsided old Benson tipped me off to the true information behind this collectible product. Come to find out, it had everything to do with the glassware being made during the years of The Great Depression and not a spot about sad animals.

I believe Benson had acquired what some would call a complete slew of depression glass. There were cobalt blue deep dish lambs and pink covered plate sleeping cats and green butter dish hens which all added up to looking like a formidable army poised in readiness all about his flat. One received the feeling that numerous translucent beasts of the field were eyeing you, if not sizing you up, waiting to hear if you were either for them or against them. Then, without notice, for some unknown reason, the fire of that monomania flickered out.

So Benson left the topic of the dog racing and picked up his latest monomania, spiders, and did not stop for some time. I believe he went on for a solid 15 minutes about the jumping spider - Sitticus palustris (if memory serves,) and it's keen eyesight as well as it's ability to spot it's prey from some distance and jump on top of the poor thing with stunning precision. This description began to remind me of a cousin who was not as distant as I would like him to be, with very similar tendencies. I, the prey item, could be a hundred yards away and Timmy, as we would call him, could spot me, hunt me down, and bleed my billfold for all that it was worth, and then a bit more. What was worse than the begging, however, was the boy's speech. Now when I say speech, what I mean is grammar, vocabulary and all the rest rolled up together like a damned burrito. Timmy, you see, was what one might call a butcher of the English language, if one felt like being so kind. Allowing my ears to wade through such muck was quite worse than the parting with bills bit, which always followed. As a matter of fact, if I could find a way to get this jumping spider of a relative onto a payment plan in order to keep him from attacking me for funds whenever I was within a rifleman's range of him, that would have been top notch in my plan book.

A day can become absolutely dreary once you are introduced to a mass of poorly constructed sentences peppered with ill chosen and horrifically spoken words. You see, fellows like Timmy the jumping spider do not navigate the waters of language but paddle from here to there on whatever detritus floats by. Like I said, a butcher that boy is, which says nothing poor about our good meat butcher Mr. William Younghusband, mind you. A fine fellow who knows his trade incredibly well and whom I would recommend to even the most discerning of meat purchasers, whether they were buying beef or bird.

After Benson filled my head with more facts and figures on jumping spiders than anyone should ever really need, unless they were either an entomologist specializing in jumping spiders, or they were someone possibly courting an entomologist specializing in jumping spiders and wanted to look incredibly well versed to their possible potential mate, he then began on the topic of tarantulas. Now, I don't know about you, but when I sit down for a relaxing cup of coffee and a chat, that chat should be of something equally relaxing. Spiders of all sorts, whether they jump or are completely unable to jump, do not fall into the, talk which relaxes me category. Even so, I acquiesced and he filled me in on the distinct and not so distinct differences between New World and Old World tarantulas.

I felt like giving old Benson a few minutes to talk as lately, he had been a bit down about his new neighbor. This new neighbor fellow was apparently from Cambodia or Cameroon or some such exotic place, and had been giving Benson a real hard time. It seems that everything Benson did irritated this Kiri fellow to no end. Now Kiri is this chap's first name, which he insisted everyone use. I am told that Kiri means mountain or mountain peak in Cambodian or Cameroonese or whatever, and if that's the case, his folks were spot on with this name as the fellow scuffs the tallest of door frames with his noggin each and every time he attempts passage through them. It is because of this sad fact that I've always felt bad for dear Kiri as he could never wear a decent hat without roughing it up first night out.

Kiri's objections were apparently ever-present in the world of Benson. If Benson played a bit of music, Kiri would declare it much too loud. If Benson had a few friends over, Kiri would state that the group was too very large. If Benson leaves for work earlier than normal, Kiri questioned him as to why, the list was simply unending. Poor old Benson tried to invite him over a few times to smooth out the edges, but to no avail. He had gone to even combing the papers for other flats to rent just to get away from Kiri. In short, Benson was beside his old self. This Kiri fellow was the thorn in Benson's side, hat, shoe, sock and goodness knows what else!

Benson eventually finished his bit on the tarantulas, looked at his wristwatch, and informed me that he had to be leaving if he was going to get to baking tonight. Baking was not a monomania of Benson's but a long time hobby. He was very good at it and the cakes and tortes and whatnot that this fellow could produce from his little stove were nothing less than magical. "Ah yes." I said. "I too have an appointment I simply can not miss." This was not entirely true as Mr. Hinckley of The Bow Tie Club wasn't exactly expecting me at his shop. It was true, however, that if I did not get 'round to The Bow Tie Club, I would have certainly missed the treat. So Benson and I parted ways for the moment, he towards his night of baking and I towards my favorite club.

Now, if I haven't told you, The Bow Tie Club was, at it's inception, a shop that sold the best bow ties that money could buy. Mr. Hinckley, who was the proprietor, was the kind of fellow who would allow nothing but the best pass through his establishment. The product was top notch and the service was even better. Before accidentally stumbling into The Bow Tie Club, I really had no idea just how important a good bow tie was. I remember those days of simple naivete. I will have you know that since becoming a bow tie man, my journeys and adventures have become ten times more thrilling and twenty times more dangerous. This is a clear and true fact. Looking back on my pre-bow-tie days I almost get sad for that fellow who was me, living the much more dull and dreary life, comparatively speaking.

Over the years regulars began frequenting The Bow Tie Club so much, that Mr. Hinckley installed a small bar, some handsome little tables, and a stock of his favorite pipe tobaccos. If you were a member, the drinks and tobaccos were on the house. I have always thought that this was the perfect place for them. If you weren't a member and you had even an ounce of style within your blood and knew a good bow tie when you saw one, you would soon be shamed into becoming a member. It was the perfect spot to, tie one on while tying one on, if you will.

John Jacob Belsome was the first one to greet me as I walked through those hallowed doors of The Club. "KES! If it isn't old Karl Eric Stanwell in the flesh! You are just in time K fellow, as our dear Mr. H. here has just broken open a fresh bag of the newest English blend from G.L. Pease. It's going to knock your socks clear off, friend." To this I volleyed, "Don't mind if I do." and produced with something like a magician's hand, my current pipe in rotation, a lovely billiard shaped pipe by the brand name Ardor, made in Italy by a certain Rovera family. I am not much at prestidigitation, however, I do what I can to keep things lively. The Rovera family of Italy make absolutely incredible pipes of which I am more than fond. This one in particular was getting to be an all time favorite very quickly.

Besides myself, and JJB, there was of course Mr. H. and about a dozen others there at The Bow Tie Club. Most of the occupants had a pipe in hand and were conversing with the others on this or that, often going in and out of discussions on tobacco blends or pipe carvers or companies. I ordered a scotch on the rocks as I normally do at these little gatherings and began to, shoot the breeze, as they say.

I brought up the fact that my good friend Benson had asked me to the dog races and asked JJB what he thought of races in general and possibly dog races more specifically. What was said next completely took me off guard...

"Oh I go to the dogs all the time." he said. "You do?!" I questioned. "Then maybe you can explain a bit about it to me." John Jacob went on to say that each of the dogs in the race wore a little jacket of sorts with number on it and that's how you knew which dog you were betting on. I was puzzled. "How on earth," I began "do these dogs manage to run a track length with one of these little blighters, these jockeys, on their backs? It's got to be nothing less than grueling for the poor things." JJB let out a, not entirely small, chuckle that I did not particularly find kind, and explained that there were no jockeys in these dog races. "Well don't go running around and telling everyone that!" I told him. "There's bound to be repercussions to the tune of lawsuits brought about by some jockey union somewhere. Keep it down will you?" "Right." John Jacob said, this time in almost a whisper. He must have known I was serious.

"So you've been attending these dog races have you?" I asked JJB. "Sure thing. Loads of fun too. Do you know they sell beer and pretzels and hot dogs there?" John Jacob's eyes had an undeniable gleam in them which accompanied a small smile. This told me he delighted in these specific aspects of the event. "I did not!" I honestly said. "Say, the next race is tomorrow night, you should go." he said. My mind was made up. I was going to talk to Benson as soon as possible and arrange to duck back in to the invitation to the dog racing. I relaxed for a bit longer with my Ardor pipe puffing on the newest G.L. Pease English blend and my scotch warming my soul. Once time had seen these two luxuries to a current close, I bid JJB a hearty farewell, and did the same to some number of other kindred spirits at the club. Before leaving I put in an order for an absolutely smashing new tie that Mr. H. recommended. He is a god among men, that Mr. Hinckley.

It may come as no surprise that my next stop would be good ole Benson's flat. I might even pick up some fresh baked goods if my timing was right. Upon arriving Benson greeted me at the door with a bit of a hurried, frazzled look on his face. "Come in, come in, I'll be right with you." "What gives Benson? What's the matter? Is it anything I can help with?" I asked. "I'm afraid not Karl, not unless you're a born spider hunter, and I'm wagering you are all but that very thing." I was beginning to see the whole picture here. "So what you're telling me is that you've got a spider on the loose? You've got an eight legged member of your army gone AWOL?" "Karl, I'm afraid you've got the front and back, top and bottom of it in the shell of a nut." "Good heavens!" I exclaimed. "Good gracious!" I exclaimed. "Good..." "Enough with the goods already mate, help me look or else start a new topic!" Benson was an even keeled fellow most of the time, but I could see he was getting right upset. "And what's more is that in a last dash effort to reconcile differences with neighbor Kiri, I've asked him over to try out some of my baking. He'll be here any moment!"

"Well old friend, I just wanted to pop in and see if I could snake back into the dog racing bit with you coming up shortly." "Sure, sure, you're on." said Benson. "I'll help you look for the beast until Kiri gets here, then it might be best if I made myself scarce and you did your best with the pastries or muffins or whatever it is your cooking." "Well if you're going to help look, just know that the item in question is large, brown, furry, and has eight legs." "Right." I said. "I'm on task, on the job as a spider hunter. Here we go." I began a line of questioning not unlike Mr. Sherlock Holmes might have used. If I were a spider, where would I hide? Then I realized, why would he hide? He might just be out for a stroll. Aha! This got me to comb all the hallways and passageways within the flat while looking into the open places, which was, as far as I could tell, the exact opposite of what Benson was doing. He was in corners, lifting pillows, moving bookcases and the like.

Then, I heard it. It was as clear as a bell, but more dull like a knock. As a matter of fact, it was a knock. It was Kiri no doubt at the door ready to be served some special baking delight by Benson. Benson looked at me and I at him. We both were waiting to see what the other might say about the predicament. Finally, I began. "Just act naturally, the spider probably won't even show up the entire time he is here." "I'm afraid that's going to have to be the line." Benson shot back. "Well then, I'll be seeing you come race time if not sooner. Good luck with Kiri and the baking."

I let Benson see his guest in, we shook hands and said a few words when Kiri sniffed the air. "Oh my goodness, what is it that you're cooking Benson? It reminds me of home somehow." "Well it's a special pastry I've made that I think you'll really enjoy. It's actually about ready to come out of the oven." As Benson pulled the baking sheet out of the oven, I had an gut feeling that I should pause my exit and I'm glad I did. What came next no one could've bet on.

Benson let out an "Oh my God!" which was followed up by Kiri running over to the oven and saying "Oh my God!" This led me to mutter, "Oh my God!" under my breath as the phrase was apparently incredibly contagious.

Then Kiri belted out "It's wonderful Benson! How did you know?!" Benson turned to me, eyes half opened, white as the best sheets I own, and in a voice that told me he was near to fainting, said, "How did I know?" In front of Benson I saw the baking sheet topped with two ceramic bowls with some kind of pastry covering the tops of each. In the dead center of one of those pastries was a large brown blot of a thing. It took me only seconds to realize what this was. It was Benson's missing spider, baked to a crisp, curled up on top of one of the pastries.

Kiri went on to say that Benson must be a great man of the world to know that back in Kiri's home they ate spider just like this all the time. I have greatly misjudged you Benson. You are Kiri's good friend and have gone out of your way to make me feel at home here. I am in your debt. Now let us sit and eat this marvelous food you have prepared for us." Kiri's speech left both Benson and I in a kind of short trance which one goes into headlong when amazement overpowers all other senses. Slowly, the blood came back into Benson's face. I said my farewells and escaped while things were still on the up and up hoping they would stay that way.

The next night was dog racing night. I popped by Benson's flat at a prearranged time so that we could set off to the track together. He informed me that the mishap with the spider was the best thing that had happened to him in a very long time and that Kiri was now his good friend. He went on to say that he would now most likely not have to move at all and that things were all on the up and up, thanks to the sacrificial spider.

Once at track, Benson explained the ins and outs of the betting and racing to me. It was all similar to horse racing, but there were certainly a few things that were unique to the sport. I carefully eyed the dogs prerace each time. Since they allow bets all the up until just before the race, I decided to put money on any four legger that had the nerve, the guts, and the initiative to relieve itself in any way just before the race. I imagine this would make the beast lighter and full of newfound energy. I was mostly right and came out ahead of the game at the end of the night.

Benson, unfortunately did not do as well. He placed his bets based on the odds, but also on the names of the dogs and owners. The name of a dog or owner that stuck out always trumped odds, therefore, most of Benson's bets had nothing whatsoever to do with the calculated odds at all. A dog named Spider was chosen one race. On another race, an owners last name was somewhat similar (in Benson's mind that is) to Arachnid. On another, a dog named Terrance made him think of Tarantula, and the list went on and on like the writings of a mad man until the races, and in Benson's case, the betting money, was no more.

I have learned from all of this that the divinities can step in and make a thing right if they see fit. I've also learned that the seats nearest the snack bar at the dog races are superb.

© 2006 Olie Sylvester

Nuts and Bolts

Nuts and Bolts

One night, an acquaintance of mine, a darling girl named Miss Austin, decided to have a nice little sup with yours truly at a local bistro. It was a nice quiet, dimly lit spot with a decent menu. We were having a fine time from the start and conversation meandered delightfully from the history of bowling to the etymology of numerous words. It is always of interest to me what type of beverages others enjoy at various times of the day. For example, when someone struts from the bar brandishing a Bloody Mary in the evening hours it's simply fascinating. It's like watching one of these sidewalk artists, I believe that's what they call themselves, making some large piece of artwork on the sidewalk in every color of chalk one can imagine. It makes absolutely no sense in the world. An art that is worth making is worth keeping. A drink that is worth consuming is worth downing at the proper time of day.

It was during our little get together at this bistro that I saw the perpetrator in question. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see, from our little table, some large and obnoxious looking drink being delivered to a nearby table. I had seen this travesty before in these parts. I believe they called the potion "Planter's Punch." While I'm not entirely sure about the Planter part of the equation, the punch became quite obvious to me, at another's cost mind you, in a short amount of time.

The woman at the table to my right, who happened to be of a small build, short dark hair, and somewhat studious looking started out sipping the stuff. I noticed that the sips grew in length until the lady was unabashedly swilling the mix. And punch it did. The concoction put a heavy spell over this woman that one could detect from a city block away. The chap she accompanied ended up having to heave the dear up on shoulder to transport her back to their vehicle. The fellow was obviously embarassed about the entire situation, and I can not say that I blame him too much. One sets out to have a nice night out with a good friend or significant other (I could not tell from their painfully boring conversation which was the case), and out of nowhere, said friend allows themselves to get absolutely bolted from the hand of Zeus, allowing you to pick up the staggering pieces. Get to know your drinks. This is a rule to live by, and this dear girl was certainly out of class that fateful day.

On the way out of the door, the fellow turned a sharp corner and the dear who was now impersonating a sack of drunken potatoes, found her legs being slung into the wall with a good bit of force. Now the chap didn't mean to do it of course, it was simply a consequence of the odd circumstances in which he landed. Unbeknownst to the now overly dressed passenger transport, one of his darling's shoes popped right off and went scooting under a table when he accidently bumped her slumbering tootsies into the wall. If he did notice the drop, he was playing a good dumb as he kept moving. This could be due to the fact that the smallish woman, who was now in some pleasant stupor judging from her massive grin and closed eyes, was not as miniscule as her company. He looked to be doing a good bit of struggling to keep the ship right from table to car. All in all, the chap did well except for the shoe, but it could've been much worse.

"Know thy beverage." I offered up to my table partner as we witnessed the scene. As this drink now piqued my interest, I asked our waiter a bit about it. He told me that Planter's Punch is a local drink that really isn't seen much outside of the surrounding areas. Imagine that! A potion that has no desire or need to venture far from home. A local delight. This woman must not have been a local. We humans get to know our surrounding sweets. Like the cashew apple for example. It is that part of the cashew fruit between the plant and the nut. It is a local sweet in parts of Africa and now India since the plant's exportation. As a local love, it is taken in quickly and greedily by the native folk, throwing out any prospects of sharing the treat with the rest of the world. The cashew nut sees it's distribution, but due to the instability of the cashew apple during transit, it will remain a locals only snack, possibly forever.

This prospect of the cashew apple staying put is fine with me, so long as my wonderful cashew nut keeps arriving from my secret source who sends me the difficult to find, very crunchy Viet Nam variety of cashew via post every month. "Do you like cashews?" I asked my lovely company. "Of course you silly goof!" she answered. This was an entirely fair statement as I can not imagine someone in the world turning down a cashew. If she would've said, "Goodness no, those are dreadful things!" I would have had to find a way to excuse myself. That is clear. Luckily, the delightful banter kept up.

Nearly half an hour found its way elsewhere until I realized that the heaver had not come back for the shoe. I explained this to Miss Austin, who agreed that we should take the thing with us and somehow seek out its owner. Suddenly, I had plans for the next day, that is, plans apart from enjoying my pipes, reading a spell, and considering which bow tie I would have to order next from The Bow Tie Club. If there are three things that a fellow can not have enough of, it is pipes, cashews and bow ties. If only they would make a bow tie with little cashews on it. I suddenly imagined it. The bow tie would have to be a light blue to show the tan cashews quite nicely. Now I had two things to do the next day. Work on the missing shoe mystery, and speak to someone of importance at The Bow Tie Club about my cashew idea. I have no doubt that the success of the cashew bow tie would be crystal clear once they heard my volumes of backing evidence.

At nine o'clock sharp, Miss Austin came calling and I knew what was on her mind. The shoe. I had no idea how we were going to look for the little drunk woman the next morning after she had shown her lack of beverage savoir-faire. I could not wait to see what kinds of plans Miss Austin had laid. I answered the door and she was holding the shoe delicately with both hands as if not wanting to injure the animal. "We had better get to work." I said. She agreed and soon we decided to stroll about and see if anyone we came across resembled our Cinderella. I wondered what we might say to her if we did spot her. Certainly the chances were not good as she was most likely a tourist passing through, and no matter tourist or not, she would most likely still be in a semi-coma at this time of the morning. Still, we progressed. A nice walk in the morning gave me time with a pipe anyway, so it was a truly win-win scenario. I would be bringing my Peterson Kildare with us and some Mac Baren Navy Flake tobacco.

Once we were out of doors and my pipe was going good, Miss Austin handed me the little black high heel shoe as if she wanted me to do something with it--inspect it or something. I acted as if I knew precisely what it was she was asking and went to viewing it, close up at numerous angles. No doubt this show was impressing, not just to her, but to anyone walking past. We talked about the odds of finding the woman and somehow got 'round to talking about twins seperated at birth being reunited by accident years later and finding out they both liked peanut butter and both married a man named Ralph, or some such craziness. I made a mental note that this was not the first time Miss Austin hopped on the discussion of twins. It was a real hot topic for her for some reason. I began thinking about it, and I'm sure she had brought the subject up a dozen or so times previously.

Just as I was about to confront Miss Austin with this newly uncovered information, we rounded a corner and the dear slipped on something in the sidewalk. Her action of slipping scared the Hoover out of me, as my mind immediately thought she was falling into one of these manholes with the suspicous looking covers. The poor girl took a real dip and my superb reflexes were such that I caught her by the elbow with one hand, kept her blue and tan skirt from touching the ground, and did not even disturb the contents of my pipe. This completely instinctual action was no doubt the modern day equivalent to saving a cave woman from a marauding mammoth. I felt on top of my game. So much so, that I immediately and with some temper, decided to seek out the wrong-doer in this situation. What made the dear stumble?

I skimmed the area for hints, and not unlike a seasoned detective, found the culprit with amazing speed. It was, if I am using the right term, a bolt. It was a large bolt. This was the kind of bolt that one might use for holding together steel beams in the infrastructure of a large building. It was heavy duty, for sure. I'm not sure if I have ever been so enraged by an innanimate object in my entire life. The only time that I may have been more angry at a nonliving thing, was when the plastic container, the one I had bought at nothing close to a bargain, which was made to hold nothing in the world but deviled eggs, made an imperfect seal and caused my deviled eggs, which I had lovingly crafted for the annual pipe club barbecue, to lose their moisture and turn into something likened to hard rubber while in the refrigerator overnight. Why on earth would you not test out your product for problems prior to shipping them to folks like myself who are obviously in the market for quality items? I was not looking for a cheap way to store deviled eggs. I was looking for the correct way to store deviled eggs when I happened upon that substandard overpriced piece of rubbish. More than not, one gets no more than what is paid for, however, in this case I could certanly make a case otherwise.

This bolt was hideous. It represented all of the people in the world who thought that it might be a fine idea to throw their spare bolts out of their car door window and onto the sidewalk giving no care whatsoever to the citizens traveling there. It also represented substandard deviled egg containers. I had a serious hold on the item now. My clinched fist held on tight as if the bolt might make a break for it. In my absolute fit of rage I threw the thing away from poor Miss Austin, who was now courteously saying, "I'm fine, I'm fine," even though I knew that at least her pride was bruised along with her ankle.

Throwing bolts, I have learned, is not something someone ought to do without thinking. I imagine that if one is out in the middle of nowhere and there is an offending bolt around, it might be alright to chuck it, but you really should be in a forest or gun range kind of setting if you are going to do something as silly and careless as that. My instinct simply wanted the bolt as far away from my dear friend as possible. What I did not realize was that away from Miss Austin was also into traffic. The sound of shattering glass was startling. The sound of a very large man's voice saying mostly incomprehensible expletives at me was also startling. He apparently saw my pitch and it was his refurbished 1940s truck's windshield that acted as catcher for my throw.

I had no idea, until that moment, how quickly a large man in overalls could leap out of an antique truck and be upon me, if such a large man wanted to do so. Now, a new kind of instinct kicked in. I have no doubt that it was the old British blood. We are, you know, quite known for keeping our gentlemanly ways about us until the last moment when they must be cast off in the name of justice. This was the Psych 101 textbook case of fight or flight, and fight it was going to be! I could hear the patriotic war songs of my youth in my ears, I could see the Union Jack in the distance, reassuring my bravado and with pipe firmly clenched in teeth, no man ever put up such a noble fight with a single high heel shoe in the history of mankind. It was as if the high heel shoe was suddenly a part of me, an extension of my armor, an extension of my self. I was suddenly master of the high heel and somehow knew how to use it with effectiveness as well as panache. Within moments, my Goliath was on the ground, his now unmanned antique truck still idling and beginning to cause a traffic backlog. I looked wide eyed at Miss Austin who was now nearly as pale and almost as surprised as I was. Her words of wisdom were, "Karl, my God, the shoe, oh, ohhh." To this I retorted, "My place!" Together we dashed and squealed the way school children do, (actually, the way little girl school children do, as their shrieks I believe might be higher), when they truly believe that a monster is pursuing them even though a few moments later they find it is only the drunken janitor.

Our incredibly high pitched yelping did not stop until we were near my house. I think we both felt it necessary to be quiet at this point to keep the questioning at a minimum. Once inside, we panted open mouthed for a good fifteen minutes until a more normal breathing rhythm took over. Our eyes fell upon the weapon together. The heel was missing. Our paranoia got the better of us as we decided that it would be most prudent to incinerate the article immediately. Never had my esteemed Colibri lighter been used to light up anything but fine tobacco. Today was the exception. Nothing seemed to calm our nerves no matter how hard we tried. Then I remembered that my latest tin of special order Vietnamese cashews had just arrived. Together, we sampled a good amount of the heavenly treats and to our relief, the Vietnamese cashews had an incredible calming effect. After just a few minutes of masticating the crunchy wonders, we were able to carry on post heel in a normal, civil and right minded way.

© 2005 Olie Sylvester

Pandas and Pretzels

Pandas and Pretzels

I like holidays as much as the next chap, but some call for more preparation than others. For example, Independance Day may call for me to practice my scowl and locate a good pair of earplugs while locating my largest Union Jack for display, but all in all, these are relatively simple tasks. Now don't go getting me wrong, I love Americans with their wild cowboy ways, I'm just not so sure that they should have gone off not paying taxes and severed themselves from their great Mother. And where is the tea? It's been a good spell since that whole Boston Tea Party fiasco, can you not get back to your daily tea once more? At any rate, loss of tea aside, preparing for Independance Day is all relatively simple when compared to something like Christmas, which involves purchasing the right gift for the right person, finding appropriate wrapping items, deciding which parties deserve my attention, locating my many and varied recipes for Santa Hot Toddies and Yule Yummers, the list seems entirely unending.

Saint Valentine's Day is one such complex time and this past year was even more complicated than usual. You see, there is always some dear girl awaiting a meaningful and sincere card coupled with a gift of chocolates or roses from yours truly, and depending on how lengthy the list is, I do my best not to dissapoint.

This year produced one such lovely who stood head and shoulders above the rest. Not that she was amazonian, her stature was more of an average height. What I'm getting at is that her ways and demeanor were exemplary. Her meaningful stride was coupled with a firm chin that cut the air ahead, the way a smart ship might. Her choice of words were sparse and to the point, as if the best ones had been hand selected, thumped, squeezed and then carefully offered up as if they were beautiful blue plumbs from the grocer. Her economy of speech whenever I was near might have given some the idea that she was cold or pompous, or possibly, that she despised not only all of the bones in my entire body, but all the other things that come with a fine British specimen such as myself, like a fine writing pen, or bow tie for example. This fanciful thought of Beatrice hating rather than adoring me is the silliest of notions. A notion, however, that may happen into existence only from the untrained ear of the most naive of souls. This is a notion whose validity is as far from the truth as I am from one of those dispicable disposable writing pens, you know the kind. Beatrice was a young woman who indeed deserved a slice of my attention. Oh, to woo a lovely woman. I have to confess that this is a thing that I am particularly good at.

I first crossed B's path when at the local delicatessen. I was about to order a smart ham and provologne on marbled rye with light mayo, brown mustard and a dash of oregano when she piped up with her order of a chicken salad on a croissant. How trite, I thought. Then, she says, "...oh, and hold the lettuce." Of all things to say, hold the lettuce! Why in the world would you hold the lettuce on such a sandwich? There is no wisdom there! I decided in an instant that some guidance was needed for this poor wayward dear. "You'll want that lettuce." I said. She gave me a questioning look followed up by nothing less than a question. "Really?" she said. I explained, "The lack of a crunchy consistency in that sandwich will leave you less than impressed. If the staff here decided to add almonds or celery to this brand of chicken salad, you may scrape by, but not at this deli." I sensed that she was thoroughly impressed, but simultaneously, not wanting to show it. The counter help looked at her, and then me, and then her again awaiting a response. "My order stands." she said. And then, in a most coy way, she allowed the counter help to call out her order by her first name as a cute introduction. Suddenly, the angelic name "Beatrice." was called out, serving a double duty as introduction as well as signifying the completion of her order. On her way past me, I said, "Karl E. Stanwell, a pleasure." She made a barely audible "hmmf" sound, turned on her heel and left, but not before "accidentally" dropping her address written on a napkin on the floor in front of me. This was the beginning of our relationship, and while we have had no other meetings or conversations to date, her playing it cooly was a blatant testimonial to her interests in yours truly.

So, what to give a lovely lady who occupies such a special place in my life? After much deliberation, over the course of three pipes, half of a morning, and a scotch, I made my decision. A poem would be my vehicle of choice to deliver the notions of love and caring to this darling girl on this Saint Valentine's Day. Even the name Beatrice brought to mind many lovely things and a good number of them even fancied themselves into rhyming with one another. I was sure that a poem written most eloquently by myself, would do the trick and make the day a special one. The event would be a moment that she would certainly hold dear in the banks of her most beloved memories for years to come. I speculate that at some point, she will most likely look over at her future husband, shake her head with something like disgust with a dash of shame, and remember my glorious words. She would probably then recite them in her head from memory and consider, what if? It is precisely these moments that I aim for. My job then, in situations such as this, is really one which is geared to the future more than anything else. With that in mind, I dipped my quill, approached the page and began to work.

The words began flowing like the sweetest of nectars. Beatrice would no doubt be overcome with feelings of adoration when experiencing the prose. It was difficult to remember that a lovely girl such as Beatrice is a fragile creature, and if I were to put the gusto to this one, it could have caused a fainting spell, or worse. Therefore, it was very important for me to weigh and measure each word and line so that the balance of the poem was just right for her constitution. This, I found, was much more difficult than I imagined as my abilities in the area of writing poetry are very strong. In this instance, I was but the rider on a great stallion attempting to pull back the reigns on a powerful force, and let me admit to you right this moment, it was not a simple thing.

About midway through this great work, I came to a very special place wherein I was making some amazing comparisons to her graceful ways and a panda's climbing abilities. While I don't expect the average layperson to understand just how ingenious this particular path was shaping up to be, let me assure one and all that it was beginning to form into a multifaceted gem of a section, and quite possibly some of the best writing I had ever set to page.

Something was missing though. Something scientific. A bit on the real science behind the panda. This would have certainly rounded the thing out in a fine way. This called, I thought, for a pipe. As always, the selection of a pipe is one of the most difficult parts of any one of my days. Each pipe is an absolute beauty and each has its own story and character. With so many choices in such a fine collection, what is one to do? At one time, I had a regular rotation to turn to, but really, we're not robots doling out measures of this or that, so why force the free form of the pleasure of pipe smoking to such rigors? It is an art handed down to us by the Gods no doubt, or at least, The Nephilim, therefore, it is our instinct, our intuition that must guide us in these most important and lofty matters.

Clearing the mind and waving the hand, my gaze fell upon the Bjarne six panel beauty sitting near a can of G.L. Pease Blackpoint, a fine English blend tobacco. They would prove a fine coupling as they had so often in the past. It is difficult to find a pipe as lovely as a Bjarne. It was not long ago that Bjarne Nielson, the founder of the esteemed Bjarne Pipe Company himself, graced the doors of our pipe club bringing with him the fruits of his labors all the way from Denmark. It was that night that this six panel beauty whispered in my ear and I had nothing to do but obey.

The dense smoke from this fine English blend sat heavy in the air, not wanting to stray far from its pipe. The slow process of taking in a pipe correctly, has a way of clearing the mind and setting a right head between the ears for thinking. The name came from the ether as I waited for it to do so. Dr. Clemence. This was the name of the fellow who had done so much work with the pandas at the big zoo that I read about not four months back. If there was more insight to be gained on the breed, the gleaning of such insight could surely be done from conversations with this man. Rifling through old articles that I keep for interests sake, I located the exact one I was thinking of. One never knows when they will need reference on recently viewed items such as this.

The Foxberg Zoo, which was the largest zoo for many miles and was a right decent place, was the spot this chap had worked with the pandas in question. Within something like minutes, I was ear to ear, with the lovely folks at the zoo. I explained that I was in dire need of the Doctor's assistance, which moved everything along at a good clip. This was not entirely false, mind you, I simply know from past experience that the things which I deem incredibly important, like a good handkerchief on hand at all times, can often be seen as silly, or even eccentric by the thoughtless. Therefore, it's important to understand who one is speaking with, and know what points and pieces are to be left, shall we say, confidential.

With Dr. Clemence's phone number clearly written on a small square of Cranes Crest, natural white, eighty pound cardstock paper, in a lovely emerald green ink given to me by a certain Miss Austin some time back, I decided that nearly half of the job was done, and as such, I needed a much deserved hiatus. To the cupboard for a splash or two I went, and while enjoying my beverages, I thought about how delighted Dr. Clemence would be. Here he was, a science man, a man of hard figures and rational thought. And to his boredom I would bring an absolute boquet of interest, a feast of romantic words. No doubt, my including him in on this journey would certainly be one of his professional highlights. "What is more than love?" He would probably ask between explaining the daily migratory aspects of the pandas. "Oh to be a romantic like you." he would most likely confess after pausing mid translation of a difficult pandacentric term. It is only fair to help folks like this out who can not quite see the lush forest of life for all the trees of daily work, just in front of their nose. That, however, is who I am. Karl Eric Stanwell exists to give.

In a matter of moments I had the honorable Dr. Clemence on the phone. I don't exactly recall how the chap did it, but before I knew what was happening, he had already given me a brief synopsis of his al ma mater as well as his varied professional accomplishments. Very quick he is, I thought. Soon he meandered around to asking me how his years of expertise could assist. "Well, there's this girl." I waited for what seemed an eternity for a response. Nothing. I continued. "The dear is expecting something fabulous from yours truly and after much thought, I came to the conclusion of a poem. Your help is required where pandas are concerned." I said. Again, I allowed a pause for an interjection of some sort, but not a one came out of hiding. I explained what kind of scientific information I required and how it related to warming the dear's little heart. "That's about the length of it." I explained. "I have a pen and paper at the ready for your words of panda wisdom." I reassured the Doctor. It was this very title that he decided he wished to talk about next.

"Do you realize that I am a Doctor? Do you know what is involved in getting a PhD? Do you realize that I am a professional in the field and that numerous areas of current scientific research depend on me and my decades of experience to further the specific science to which I am tethered to?" Apparently, it was the good Doctor's turn to pause. I thought about his questions and answered, "To answer your questions in turn, yes, vaguely and sure. That is to say, of course I know you are a Doctor good Sir, I have been calling you such since we met moments ago. I once knew a bloke who was going out for one of those PhD bills and the best I can say is that it seemed like a good amount of running about for a handful of know it alls. In the end my fellow ended up half crazed and craving nothing but cheap coffee and cheap beer. Incredibly sad. I wouldn't recommend it based on what I've seen." I'm afraid my answers were confused for a slight on his person.

Just before hanging up in my ear, an action that is near unforgiveable, he squeezed in, "The very idea that I would use my decades of expertise (I got the feeling he was fond of these three words) to help you write a love poem is absurd! Sir, have your mind checked as quickly as possible!" Then sounded the click, which was louder than I remember a hang up click sounding. Then again, it had been a good many years since Uncle Frenchy's old girlfriend took me to task and then clicked me out after I happened to offer her, as any good friend would have done, some wardrobe tips and secrets for women who insist to wear clothing geared towards a younger crowd.

My panda idea was dead in the water. Like a half finished castle, I was forced to walk away from all that could have been. I was not the real victim here, however. Consider Beatrice. One of the best things in her entire life would be kept from her, and only I knew of it. I may not have been able to deliver the ultimate word weave of love and compassion, but I would be able to send the next best thing. I have a certain kind of indescribable insight where the opposite sex is concerned. I can climb into their heads, take a good look around, find what desires are present, and work with those items. It is truly a gift.

Nothing, but nothing speaks volumes of real compassion like a tin of quality pretzels. With note enclosed, the gift was sent in perfect time to arrive on the special day. I have no doubt that it was just the thing to do since, as I suspected, the dear girl was so receptive to the token that it left her completely and utterly speachless. I never did hear from Beatrice. I suspect she decided it best to play it as coy as humanly possible with a catch as large as KES.

copyright Olie Sylvester 2005

Stamps and Spectacles

Stamps and Spectacles

It isn't often that I have questionable judgment when clothing and accouterments are concerned. As a matter of fact, I'm sure that with even the smallest of strolls in a shopping area, I could produce any number of clothing critiques about my fellow humans. Nearly all of them need help in one area or another. And then, there is Karl E. Stanwell. I stand alone when it comes to a sensible style and knowledge of what to, and what not to wear. At least this is the case most of the time.

I am glad that the folks who put together my vehicle did not outfit the thing with one of those talking mirrors like one sees in these movies with witches and dragons and such. I don't think I could bear the remarks or chuckles that I would undoubtedly receive each time I took a peek in the rearview mirror on a sunny day. You see, I saw a pair of sunglasses sitting on a shelf in a fine eyeglass shop while out shopping one day. They looked absolutely splendid. And while the salesperson claimed that this splendidness remained, even while perched on my face, I am not sure that this was entirely the truth.

An item in a store can look any number of ways sitting there by itself, but put it on your head and everything changes, once your oddly shaped mug is situated in back of the thing. This, I did not realize until it was too late. These sunglasses look like something that a car racing personality should be sporting. They look fast, even when I am standing completely still. I, on the other hand, look nearly immobile at any part of any given day. Even so, I like them and will continue to wear them every chance I get. But I am not alone...

Some individuals I've observed, wear driving gloves even though the most serious driving they do is to the grocery store and back. Others wear high end running shoes when their physiques outwardly tells a story of serious lack of any kind of athletic activity aside from lifting far too many sandwiches to the vicinity of the mouth. I cannot concern myself with these persons. At least not all of the time. There are simply too many lost souls to help, and as perfect as I may be, I am but one man with my own troubles. One such trouble happens to be related to my sporty sunglasses.

You see, my eyesight is not the best and may even be considered to be in the technical category, 'some of the worst.' Any sunglasses I wear, therefore, must be of the prescripted variety, as is the case with my smart specs. While running down to the local post, I happened across the path of an old acquaintance named Leo.

Years back, we worked near each other and often went to the same café every day at lunch time and henceforth, got to talking here and there, now and then. Leo was an alright chap but none too refined. That's not to say he was a carnival worker or bill collector. He was not of the lowest variety or anything like that. Leo was leaving and I was walking in. I was in absolutely desperate need of some stamps. The antique tobacco tin in which I kept my stamps was down to three. I could easily plow through three stamps in a single afternoon. My nerves were affected the same way a farmhand might shudder when low on plug tobacco.

It seemed Leo had grow the beginnings of a beard which I thought looked horrendous, although my comment was, "Leo, look at that beard, who's looking chippy?" He smiled and ran through the normal list of things one might say when running into someone they know, but do not share much in common. I waited patiently. When he was done I noticed his head sway from side to side before he said, "Look at those shades!" I grinned as if to say thank you without saying thank you. Then he belts out a curious, "Let's take a look."

I was completely unready for this. I have an area around my person which reaches out about two feet in all directions. This is my personal space. Not a soul has the go ahead to breach it without my saying so. Leo did not receive this notice. Before I knew what was going on, my sunglasses were off of my head and on his. I got out the words, "...but they are..." in hopes of saying, "...but they are prescription sunglasses and you will not see well at all in them so trying them on is really a useless action so if you don't mind, just leave them where they are and admire from afar."

Leo opened his eyes and it hit him. I knew that looking through the wrong prescription glasses was shocking, I didn't however, realize that it was reality-altering. He obviously was not expecting the switch, thinking he was putting on regular sunglasses. He let out a "Whoa, whoa, whoa!" as he rocked back on his heels. I thought that the effect was so incredible, that this could certainly somehow be incorporated into some kind of warfare. Leo's arms swung back and forth in a circular motion, and then, the unthinkable happened. One of his hands connected with a passerby in a most unfortunate way.

When things such as this happen, the world is suddenly thrown into slow motion so that one can see the horrible thing play out moment by moment. It was his left hand that did the injustice. The man was in complete righting mode. When you are about to fall backward, your hands look to latch on to something in order to steady the rest of your body. It just so happened that the first object within the path of Leo's left hand was a complete stranger's upper female torso. The grip that naturally ensued was not unlike a starving monkey to a chance coconut.

The following bout that occurred was quick, one-sided, and embarrassing for all within viewing distance. Leo was the bear cub who had stumbled into the path of the great Mother bear on a bad day, and just as in nature, lessons had to be learned. The difference here, is that any time I had the chance to see the great Mother bear put the cub back in its place during one of those nature shows, I felt bad for the tyke. I did not feel bad for Leo. That is, until the last blow which so deftly landed between his eyes. The pain of the knock alone would have been something to recover from for at least a week's time. The added pain thrown into the mix when glasses have been positioned between fist and face, was significant. Now I felt bad. At first for Leo, and then, after seeing the remnants of my snappy sun spectacles in various areas of the post office common area, for myself.

The offended virago, after finishing off poor Leo, calmly put her letters, which she still was holding in her non-punching hand, into the outgoing slot, and then departed. The groans that Leo was shoveling out were not going to end anytime soon. As I too was in need of comforting, I decided the best thing to do would be to procure my stamps and reassess the situation.

After I purchased no less than 100 very sensible looking stamps, I returned to the common area where Leo and the shards of what used to be my sunglasses still lay, all of which were still on the floor. As my constitution was in a state of suffering equal to or greater than Leo's, it was clear that triage deemed my hot-footing it back to the house for a stiff refresher or three. I quickly acquired Leo's proper address and began home.

The problem I had now, however, was that, without my prescription glasses, I was as blind as a blindfolded eyeless pig. My squinting and stumbling home no doubt established some very questionable ideas about my company with the local folks which I would, in the following weeks, amend by taking numerous brisk walks with a look of sensibility firmly in place for one and all to see.

If it weren't enough to lose the use of my sporty sunglasses for far too long, salt was administered freely and liberally to the wound when I realized that I would be using one of my smart stamps for such a task as to mail a bill of compensation to poor ole Leo. If nothing else, this has taught me to extend my personal space to a solid and sensible three feet.

- copyright Olie Sylvester 2005

Pups and Pipes

Pups and Pipes

It was the middle of the night during one of the winter months when the horrible thing was made apparent to me. I awoke from some dream about a man with butterfly wings trying to make a collect call on a pay phone, when I noticed the temperature. It was cold. Very cold. Then again, I was inside a nearly ancient apartment house which was apparently built back before the idea of insulation was thought to be a keen one. Every owner since the first, has for whatever reason, chosen to blatantly scoff at the notion of adding the much needed blanket of insulation to this aging body of thinning structure.

As frigid as it was, Mother Nature was, not too softly, beckoning me out of my slumber, out of my bed and into the lavatory. As I am a fairly good listener and even excellent when figures as prestigious as Mother Nature are concerned, I arose like some blooming winter blossom, only slightly less picturesque, and began stumbling, the best I knew how after twenty some years of practice, to the loo. About three quarters of the way to my decided destination, I became inconvenienced, if not downright wounded, when I stepped on something much harder than I cared to, given a choice. It was a rough, hard, angular something that I had planted my foot upon. After an, "Ow!" and a delightful little dance (that I'm sure would have made my boyhood bestfriend's mother proud as punch to witness, as she was a Ladies Highland Dance teacher and knew a good step when she saw one), I made it to the water closet's entrance where I turned on the light.

I thought that surely this was some sort of toy that the kids left out prior to turning in for the night, but a moment later when I remembered that I did not have any children, nor did I even have a wife at this point, I was truly puzzled. Then, the soft light from the lovely low wattage incandescents gave sight. It took the old bean a good thirty seconds or so to decipher the shape out of context, but it was, to my horror, a pipe. It was not just any pipe, but one of my favorites, a special edition Peterson's Christmas pipe. This pipe was made in Dublin, Ireland by one of the greatest pipe companies of all time. Is it not enough for a country to bring to the world the wonders of Guinness? No, it is not. They, as a country, must also be so absolutely amazing as to produce a line of pipes that are true quality workers from stem to bowl. And here, before me, is one of their fallen sons, which I was ultimately responsible for its safe keeping, its polishing, but most of all is continued smoking, until I meet my maker, who, if he has good stuff to him, as I've heard he does, will meet me with a Guinness and a Peterson special 'Heaven edition.'

This pipe, now on the floor before me, was once a fine smoker with a near perfect draw, a lovely shape and marvelous graining. Before tonight, the only damage done to the beauty were the miniscule teeth marks that I personally bestowed upon my lovely limited edition companion. Now, however, the black stem which was once a smooth curving and elegant line, was now a twisted and gash ridden reminder of what it once was. Not to be outdone, the shank and bowl were in similarly horrific shape causing me to consider where the nearest box of tissues might lay in wait, for surely any moment now, I would find my eyes showing what my heart felt-a deep, deep sadness.

The question now was, who? Had some heartless thief who couldn't possibly have an ounce of self worth, broken into my humble and frigid abode and taken to gnawing on one of my prized possessions when he saw nothing around him that he personally thought would match the interior of his own lair? This could have been the case, and I might have ceased considering any other scenario, being somewhat half out of my gourd since the tragic event, but then, stage left, enters the other resident. Maggie.

Maggie was s stocky, to put it very mildly, muscle-bound snow white American Bulldog. She was, without a doubt, the toughest female I had ever known. Her solid and wide head was taking turns looking at the remnants of the Peterson, and then back to me, her flatmate and food provider. At this moment, her guilt could not have been more crystal clear if she had produced a written confession and adorned it with paw print. It was obvious to me now, there had been no burglar, no thief in the night, only my dear monstrous, muscular Maggie.

The size of the impression one would have to dig in order to give a pup like this a final resting place would take three or four athletic men about six good solid hours, with good shovels no less. And there I stood, non-athletic, weary, sad and in possession of not one shovel, but only a rusty and very old hoe. Murder, it seemed to me that moment, was out of the question. How then, was I to go on? I imagined the answer was cleverly hidden at the bottom of a Guinness at the local pub. It was but up to me to find the correct one. With remaining pipes secured, I left Maggie and went curbward. I set my feet to the task of getting me to my local tap and soon, although never soon enough, there I sat, belly to bar.
The speed at which Ned, the bartender, caused a pint of the dark and lovely to appear was nothing short of miraculous. It would now be a short wait to allow the refresher to set up. Once the beverage of the most noble was ready for me, I enjoyed from first to last drop. I believe it was pint number three when the answer hit. The effects of a few Guinness have always had a more than magical effect on me, and this moment was no exception. A stark beam of gnosis directly from Sophia herself hit me square on. The clarity Said-knock lent, was amazing. I knew immediately what had to be done.

As luck would have it, I noticed a fine looking shovel on the way in which was perched just outside my favorite tankhouse, apparently awaiting more landscaping work to be done in the patio area. After a few brief words of explanation to Ned, he allowed me to borrow it for a spell, and so I was off to my dwelling place once more in order to set all that was wrong, right again.

Once home, I headed straight for the courtyard. This was a shared outdoor spot which is taken care of and enjoyed by myself, as well as a few other tenants. As my directive was from on high, I could not imagine any objections to my plans from anyone at all. I found a good spot just under some hanging honeysuckle and began to dig. The muscles needed for digging a decent hole are apparently the same ones which I had previously kept in a hibernated state, knowing they would most likely never be used. Before this night, they were not unlike that massive canister of pepper that has been sitting at the back of my cupboard for years, awaiting usefulness.

The exact amount of time which passed, I could not be sure of, but finally, the hole showed itself completely. A fitting bed and final resting place, I thought, for what once was a dear friend. I returned indoors, located Maggie, took her by the collar, knelt down and kissed her massive head. I explained to her that I forgave her and completely understood the urge of wanting to learn the fine art of pipe smoking alone. Together we wrapped our dear departed friend in the finest handkerchief that man and dog could find. We cried and said our farewells and tucked our pipe friend in for his endless night of sleep.

As a pet owner, this experience was a great lesson. Listen to the needs and wants of your animal closely, especially when the pleasures of pipe smoking are concerned.

- copyright Olie Sylvester 2005

Women and Insects

Women and Insects

I remember the ring. It was the most ominous ring a telephone could muster in the middle of a perfectly good and normal day. I hesitated picking up the business end of the tele, but after some deliberation, committed, and as I do in things I commit to, I followed through and put receiver to ear. "Ahoy!" said I. I often rotate my greeting between "Halloo!" and "Ahoy!" as these were two of the left behind greetings once used (Alexander Graham Bell used "Ahoy, Ahoy!" or "Hoy, hoy!" while Thomas Edison used "Hello") when eventually "Hello?" as boring as it is, somehow won out. I like to, in my own small way, give a nod to these forgotten heroes of yore.

So, "Ahoy!" said I. "Karl, hurry!" Within a split second, my incredible mind deciphered who it was on the other end. It could have been any number of three or even four women whom I knew at the time, yet there I was, quick as a whip with the answer. "Sarah, what is it?" Sarah, who was a good friend even though her ways could be categorized as, eccentric, was nearly in hysterics as she went on to explain that her kitchen was currently occupied by an insect of some sort that she needed assistance with getting out of doors. As hard as I tried to hold back the oncoming laughter at the thought of such a small thing getting to her very core, my struggle was in vain and my mouth produced the smallest of chuckles. It did not pass by her. "This is serious!" she stated, and then went on to plead my company post haste.

A damsel in distress, even if said distress seems trivial to the rougher, tougher more cunning sex, is still a damsel in distress. It was clear that my duty was before me, so like the chivalrous character that I have always been, I ended our telephonic correspondence quickly and made for the door.

Sarah's apartment was not far away and it was only moments later that I arrived in slightly less than top form after running a few feet. It seems I am not the track runner that I once imagined I could be one day if only I trained similarly to a track runner. The door to the Sarah's apartment flung open and Sarah grabbed my stylishly coated forearm a bit more haphazardly than I would have cared for, and off we went, more via Sarah's locomotion than mine, to the kitchen in question. Not a word came from her lips, only a motion from her arm. She pointed downward to the floor where sat some sort of tannish brown shiny beetle looking thing. The bug didn't move and I imagined it was either resting after its long journey or trying desperately to become invisible. Either way, it was perfect time to spring into action.

I explained to Sarah my plan. I would step on the thing and clean it up and that would be that. Sarah was horrified. "Absolutely not!" said she. "The thing hasn't done any wrong, just move it, get it out of my kitchen!" This time, I didn't even try to hold back. I chuckled and chuckled noticeably. "I'm serious Karl! Just move it out! Don't kill the poor thing." Sarah said. At this point I had to remind myself that women are a very different breed than men. I explained to her that moving the thing would be too much trouble and that getting rid of it from the face of the earth would ensure that it would not be back again. I had made up my mind. I'm a take charge kind of fellow and once a thing is in my head, you can't extract it with the best pliers on the market.

I grabbed the nearest cutting board I could find, reasoning that its weight and flatness would be the murder weapon of choice. I got down on my knees to get the best angle possible, pulled the cutting board up over my head while keeping my eye on the target (something one learns playing cricket), started my come-down swing like a pro bug smasher, but then stopped at the last moment when something, more than peculiar caught my eye. The beetle cocked its head and looked at me.

Now I can't say if it was coincidence or not, but I feel the ole chap was, in his own buggy way, pleading with me. Immediately Sarah let out a "Thank Jimminy!" and while I don't know who Jimminy is, I assume he's one of these many and multi faceted gods from the Empire's far reaches, It was a reminder that the Union Jack was on top of the world, and so I smiled. Then I got back to business. A man might be able to end a bug's life if it is staring away into the distance and you can imagine it might be plotting your demise, but when the soul turns to you and without words makes a case for its life's work, what is to be done but save it?

I eyed the playing field and said, "Cup!" To this, Sarah said, "Cup?" I repeated, "Cup!" to this Sarah said, "What are you saying?!" It was time to get stern as a man sometimes has to when women, especially ones in the throws of hysterics, are concerned. "Sarah, listen to me. I need a cup of some sort immediately." To this Sarah said, "Oh, a cup, right." She produced a fine transparent acrylic tumbler that looked like it could hold about a half pint of Guinness. This was about a fourth of the sum that I could use at the moment, however, it would have to wait.

Expertly, quietly, deftly I crouched with the cup and placed it over the bug. "There!" I said with a sigh. "There what?" said Sarah. I thought it would be obvious, but again, I had to remind myself that this was not one of my brethren I was speaking with , but a woman. This meant an explanation of my meticulous and near genius workings would have to show itself. "Now we wait for him to pass out." "Pass out? What do you mean pass out?" said Sarah. Supposing she wasn't following me due to a regional dialect, I am from finer places of course, I said, "Passing out is akin to blacking out." I said. "You can't make a bug pass out!" she said. Chuckle released, I said, "Darling girl, let's leave the technicalities of the workings of the bodies of man and insect to the professional." To this Sarah said, "What professional?" I thought about it, and I didn't know, so I simply said, "Well, let's leave it up to me then, c'mon let's have a drink."

After drinks and talks we took in a movie at the local movie house. After the show we had a wonderful supper at Vincent's, a very quaint Italian restaurant over on 2nd street. After supper we came back to Sarah's and the bug was still there and still in tip top shape. He was holding out much longer than I had anticipated. The following exercise took some time, a little over two hours, but the fact is I accomplished the task. I took to scooting the cup, centimeters at a time across the kitchen floor being careful not to cause harm to the current inhabitant. Once I made it all the way to the side entrance to the stairway, I worked it through the open door and down each of the 32 steps until finally we hit green grass, which at this point in the night was looking rather bluish gray and fuzzy from the lighting and from fatigue.

At last, I lifted the cup and the bug was free. He was free to do as he wished whether that meant fly or buzz or do whatever bug of his sort do. He decided to sit. Regardless, proud as punch I was that my manly ways were the ticket, the key to solving this complex situation. What would Sarah have done without me? Goodness knows. Thank heavens for me, I thought.

Just then, a passerby saw me getting up from my previously kneeling pose and asked what in the devil I was up to. I explained the whole thing in summarized form. I'd like to say that he held back a chuckle. This however, was not the case. He nearly fell over with laughter. "That's not a bug you twit! That's a locust shell! It's a shedding!" I had never seen, except for in the movies, a man walk so far and remain laughing the entire time. I followed his shape all the way down the street as it staggered to and fro with seemingly unending mirth. Finally this giggle geyser, after numerous minutes, faded completely away.

I bent down to look at the thing, and sure enough, it now looked like a shell instead of a bug in it's entirety. I picked the thing up carefully with pointer finger and thumb. As I brought it to my eye for closer examination the street light shown down on it just right so that I could see its comparatively massive jaws draw back and sink its hooked looking beak into the soft flesh of my thumb. "Yyyyyyaaaaaahhhhhh!" I cried out and shook the thing loose. In doing so, I'm afraid I flung the blighter straight into the window of the bottom apartment where it stayed, in it's new, lifeless form.

Just then Sarah came to the door, she had left me to free the bug way back at step one, which I was now very glad of since it kept her clear of seeing all the goings on of the past half hour or so. "Is there something wrong?" Said Sarah. I answered, "Absolutely not, tip top shape," as I hid my thumb behind my back. "I'll see you later then." I said. "Alright." she called out, and shut the door.

But I could not go, at least not in that state. My remorse for what had just happened was overwhelming. I climbed the steps slowly and asked Sarah if I could stay a bit longer. I explained that either the salad at the eatery or the picture show had caused me to feel blue and her shoulder was immediately offered. Eventually, I felt good enough to make it back home and to bed.

The next day James Higgle Bakersmith, the local man of the cloth, assured me, in confidence of course, that the creature was in a better place and that my actions, even though should not be repeated, were useful in speeding the good soul off to a bounty of untouched leaves and various other items which bugs adore, in the sky. This speech, which was not shorter than three quarters of an hour, did me well and restored my constitution just enough to go down to the local tap for
one of the best games of darts I or any man, could ever play.

- copyright Olie Sylvester 2005

Recompense and Lighting

If there is one thing in this world that you can point to and say, "Karl Stanwell detests that thing right there, no doubt about it!", you should, I hope, be pointing at a fluorescent lamp. The honorable Mr. Edison did us all a good turn when he brought to us, the incandescent light. It is warm and glowing and mimics the sun and all that is right in the world, so long as you buy the right kind and don't go around trying to blind your family and friends with these new white scorchers. A soft, warm incandescent light is a good thing. But just as the grass is always greener, we've decided (back in the late 1800's) to go tinkering again and make worse something so good and so right.

Germany as well as the United States each had their paws in the soup and if I knew more about the topic, I would no doubt find other guilty countries. Eventually, with the help of numerous scientists and folks who were very intrigued with finding alternative lighting even if said lighting was absolutely preposterous, a patent was handed down. It was U.S. Patent No. 2,259,040 to be precise, although there were other patents before and after that had to do with the success of the
damnable thing. As I hear it, the first fluorescent lamp was sold in 1938, and ever since, we, and by we I mean they and by they I mean the weaker minded of the group from about the late 1930s onward, simply could not get enough of the disaster. There are not many places one can go and not be shown down upon by one of these lifeless dreadful excuses for illumination. As horrible as the things are, they are nearly omnipresent. The pipe. Now there is a fine invention. The first record of an Englishman smoking a tobacco pipe was in the 1500's. We've had a good spell to become accustomed to these lovely and giving friends who serve us every day. Sweetening the air and calming the soul. They allow us to consider our breathing, to slow down, and to contemplate. But how many of these wonderful inventions do you imagine I run into versus the fluorescent lamp? To tell you the truth of the tale would but send me into a tortured fit. Suffice it to say, the odds, not unlike my neighbors, are sad and ugly ones.

Imagine my surprise when upon accepting a position at Kingly and Jones that my office came outfitted with these useless appliances. I immediately called for new lighting, after all, how in the name of Mac Baren's Navy Flake fine tobacco is a proper gentleman supposed to work with substandard conditions such as these? As I said, I called, however, not a soul answered said call. It was time, I reckoned, to do what was right, take up the slack, heave the burden onto my own back, and steer the herd to water. In other words, I went out and bought decent lighting instruments myself. Once the space was outfitted correctly with the suitable amount of soft glow, work could then commence.

The reaction was immediate and rippling. Word, as it were, got out. My office was something to behold. You see, when one goes about drinking barely potable water for their entire life, and then receives a spot of Guinness, the world is revealed in all of her glory. Lady Godiva rides past you again and again, winking each time. Alas, the taste is not the life, and as with those fellows who feel they are not good enough for the good life which is already theirs, they go back to their caves with their horrible lighting and lists of excuses as to why they will not take up the torch and make their lives a soft, subtle and meaningful one.

I am sure that my superior lamp-workings did more than just momentarily illuminate the hearts of a few coworkers. I am convinced that this outward display of an ounce of the good life has planted at least one seed of jealousy within the company. Not one week ago, a fellow twice my age and weight had business with me. He too worked for the company and so heard if not saw the glowing warmth of my office prior to this meeting. I am sure that the sight or knowledge of it and it's lovely state did something to that cold heart of his. It may have sparked a memory of a time when he cared about the things around him and they way the sun felt on his skin. It may have coaxed thoughts of those bygone days of his when it mattered which trousers he put on or what wine he bought.

The reaction to my chamber was swift and immediate. The barbarian walked in and did the unthinkable. He, and here I'm using the pronoun as if the fellow is human although the jury is certainly out, turned the light switch on. If I were standing in a pitch black room, I might have said, "Ah, thank you. I had no idea where that was, nor how to find it. You sir, are my saviour this moment!" But you see, my office, already had light. As a matter of fact, it had good, balanced, considered light. Then in walks the unannounced executioner of ambience and buries his ax directly in the middle of my quiet environ. Leaving in it's place, a stark, sterile, emergency room kind of space in the moment of a split second. I stared at him. He was talking, I'm sure of that, but nothing was audible. The sheer shock and horror of the situation had me standing stunned, not unlike the time I had made the break on my first round of pool for the night at my favorite bar in town when the waitress, no doubt gathering all the nerve her mother and father ever equipped her with, said to me, "We're out of Guinness." Like I said, I was stunned, and unbelievably so.

Eventually the man left, getting the idea that I had either became suddenly frozen or entirely stiff, unmoving and disinterested in the ill arranged words that were falling from his mouth. A duel then. Not to kill, but to cause the hand that did the dirty work of switch flipping enough pain and problems to end it's chubby career as being useful. Her name is Recompense and she is like the soft glow of morning or a low watt incandescent light, she is angelic.

- copyright Olie Sylvester 2005

Rafting and Porkchops

Rafting and Porkchops

The sound of a fork hitting a plate after it has been dropped from a distance of approximately five and three quarter inches (nearly fourteen and a half centimeters) from the hand that previously wielded it, oh so naturally, can be a startling thing. When the fork is one with some weight to it, as you will find is customary at some of the finer eateries, and when the plate is similarly substantial, which again, is the standard at the better joints, the experience is magnified to a level that is not unlike having someone expertly and suddenly make the peacock's piercing call Of "NOW-WAAYAH!" into your left ear. This ridiculously powerful fowl's foul sound, which I am told by a good friend named Archer Martin, who holds a PhD in something or other, is so loud that it regularly causes otherwise genteel folks to curse like seasoned sailors while at the same time, throws any infant within a three mile radius into jags of hysterical crying.

Archer one day went on to tell me that the daft bird's screech has a "...fundamental at about 700 Hz, with a wavelength of about 40 cm or 15 inches, with heavy overtones going up well over 10Khz, and having a wavelength of about 3 cm or 1 inch." In short, what I'm sure he was getting at, was that it is absolutely ear splitting. The restaraunt had been quiet. This I did not notice until I dropped my nearly burdensome fork. At this moment I was sure that my ears were in some way, damaged. Who knows what notes I would be missing next time I went to the symphony? The fork dropping action was not out of the thin blue air, mind you. It was brought on by a misplaced impetus. Obviously misplaced as if it had been thrown into my world five minutes earlier when the world and all of its brothers were deep in loud discussion, no one would have noticed. The culprit, in this case, was a phrase, which, even now, in the comfort of my home, as safe as the Bank of England, when I think of it being said aloud makes my hair stand on end. The phrase was, "white water rafting." Once allowed out of mouth and into air, this phrase rocked my psyche and nearly brought on a fainting spell.

The problem with these three words was this, I have experienced this sometimes death cheating, so-called pastime. Our guide‹guide in this instance meaning fellow paid to smell of cheap beer prior to 10 in the a.m. sits in the back of the boat, and when you get to a particularly nasty part of the river, tips the vessel over in order to watch its human contents go every which way into any number of dangers in the immediate surroundings. Our guide, supposedly named Neil (which I have my doubts about to this day since his parents would have certainly named him something of a denser tone, like Bubba or Cleatus) had a habit of saying "See ya!" each time, just as he threw us into the arms of fate. There was something about this practice that was particularly annoying.

Eventually, I got sick of my life flashing before my eyes every time I got dumped out of the boat and thrown into a boulder or whirlpool or any number of death traps that they line those rivers with. I imagine the boat makers, who must have spent a lot of time and energy making a good raft that wouldn't tip over or sink easily, would have taken this yahoo to task for using their product in such an antithetical way. I seriously considered ringing them up and letting them in on Neil's misuse. But as I played out the scenario in my mind, I saw Neil, pleasantly tanked on cheap brew, basking in the knowledge that his antics were successfully bringing folks to within an inch of their perfectly happy lives. Post phone call I imagine he might have even stepped up his tipping practices. If I am one thing, that thing is sensitive to my fellow man, and imagining Neil increasing the number of humans he caused to be flung ever so near Death's door, (I believe I made it to Death's mailbox once, and Death's carport twice) well, I simply could not make the call and do that misdeed to my brothers and sisters.

So there I was, a moment after hearing the words, "white water rafting" and consequently, a moment after those words caused me to make a horrible sound with dropped fork onto plate. Every man woman and child in the establishment took a moment out of their day to stare directly at me. If only the fork would have been a nice lightweight little skimmer and the plate would've been made of some paper product, then I would have been spared this torment. Like any good man worth his weight, I offered up an apology loud enough to grace the ears of the diner farthest away. No sense in leaving anyone out.

At this point my nerves were shot. My waitress, Veronica was alert and knowledgeable about these things and answered the call. Within moments I was finishing the scotch and soda that she brought as remedy. This lovely beverage reinstated my will and stiffened my spine just enough to lean over with pardon at the ready, and inform my fellow diners who uttered those horrific words to the ugly truth behind them. The looks I received from that table might have been taken for disinterest by the untrained eye, but I am sure that the deed I had done by pulling the faux visage of fun and joy from the true face of impending horror, was very, very welcomed. By this time, my good deed coupled with my now second glass of rejuvenation via lifesaver Veronica, had me in fine form and ready for the world at large, once again. It's hard to believe that my lunch date and I were only on our salad. Ah, the world and all of its unending loveliness! To think that pork chops were yet to come gave a fellow the warmest of feelings.

©2005 Olie Sylvester

The Home Store

The Home Store

The epiphany came to me slowly over the course of weeks the same way one becomes not too quickly aware that the rest of the world despises one. No one goes up to the hated and says, "You know, we've all been thinking, and by all I mean, well, all, that you are of no worth whatsoever." That would save a lot of time, but I am of the opinion that folks are just not very interested in saving time anymore. Instead, the ill regarded go about thinking they are fine and dandy until bit by bit, hints build up to a sort of grand solution like in those Sherlock Holmes stories by the great Sir Arthur Conan Doyle that ultimately spells out what everyone thinks of them. Unfortunately, as far as I can tell, the ugly things keep running about making life difficult for the rest of us, quieter, gentler types.

So this epiphany of mine came to a boil in a parking lot. A fellow was walking in front of my car heading into one of these large home stores, where you buy lumber or pesticides or doors or plants or plumbing or just about anything you can think of that you could use in, out or around a hovel, when out loud I said, "Dejá vu." I said this because it seemed, I had seen this man in this spot almost exactly before. He had the same, poofy on top haircut, which was trimmed conservatively in the back, but left fluffy and cottonesque on top. Very perplexing. He also had some spectacles which I thought were much too heavy and black and had much too much lens to them to be of any use except when worn by a comedian on stage playing the part of a chap like this. All in all, green shorts and yellow shirt included, this chap was a sight for sore eyes.

Then it hit me, this was no dejá vu. I had seen this fellow before. He may have been wearing some other colored shorts and some other colored shirt, but the hair and the glasses, I have no doubt that those startling two items in tandem, I have seen before, more than once. As a matter of fact, it was in this parking lot, and he was going into the same very store, and I was right here, in this car, awaiting for him to cross. I remember his crossing each time did not take long. The fellow practically sped across the lane and dashed into the home store. He was eager. It just so happens that I drive through this parking lot around the same time each day after work, to, somewhat illegally, avoid an extra lengthy stop light. It seems I've been catching this fellow on his routine of getting into the home store as absolutely quickly as possible.

It all had the feeling of something wrong. Something was rotten in Sweden, or was it Germany? Well, somewhere in some country something had gone sour and I was going to find out what kind of ill was afoot. I don't care who you are or even if you don't know how to set a dinner table properly or know which fork to eat your salad with, you don't repeated go running into the same store on a regular basis unless there is something up. I had my suspicions. These large super selling places were owned by corporations who did their best to keep you coming back. Obviously, they were doing it very well where this chap was concerned. Too well, I thought. Exposure of truth, which is really what I am all about to my very core, was necessary. Very inconspicuously, I parked my car.

You see, what I saw in this man was something that hit home as, not two years earlier, I was in his very position. When I, Karl E. Stanwell, first found the funding to acquire Stanwell House, that is what I call my lovely little shack, I went by one of these massive home stores to see what one might need to be a proper home owner. I've seen fellows on pharmaceuticals rush back to their source less than I was frequenting the joint. I never wanted to stop going back and looking through the aisles to see all of those things that I absolutely needed for the well being of my home. Work, however, picked up considerably and inadvertently saved me. After I had been absent from the home store for a week, the need to return had gone. I was, as it were, cured. I'm afraid this fellow I've seen breaking short distance running records from parking lot to entrance, is in the throes of the glamour and cannot shake the thing. I must assist.

The paint section. This would be my first stop. It was clear to me that if the air inside the home store was filled with gasses and particles that affected one's mind, that a mask would be in order. I calmly and slowly got out of my car, looked around the parking lot to see if there lurked anyone suspicious, then began for the entrance. Just before entering I feigned a coughing spell in order to cover my mouth and nose with my Harris Tweed coated forearm to keep out any mind altering chemicals until I could reach the paint section. I had to do a good bit of coughing mixed with acting to pull this off as they had moved the paint section to the far end of the store. This I found blatantly curious.

Once in the paint section I secured a white cloth mask and put it on immediately. I felt somewhat safe until, a few steps more I saw the polycarbonate and rubber device with self sealing gaskets. Here, I thought, was a mask. Quickly, or at least, as quick as anyone without a pocket knife could, I produced the device and changed out my substandard piece of cloth donned with rubber band, for this new, serious, purple and black fortress for the face. Now I was ready to observe.

I paced the ends of the aisles looking first up at the ceilings for signs of gas putter-outers and then down each lane for the poor soul I had seen running in earlier. It seems they conceal these fume makers incredibly well, but then again, they probably have a team of professionals working on these things around the grandfather, if you get my drift. It was not until I happened across the drywall and bagged concrete section that I found him. He was still, and staring like an audience victim looking into the eyes of a great mesmerizer, and by mesmerizer I mean those fellows that could put one into a trance, rather than The Great Mesmer himself. Franz Anton Mesmer (born May 23, 1734) was a unique kind of physician with a background in the medical field. His branching off and use of new techniques for curing the ills of many with magnetism caused great speculation. As time is want to do, the memory of this incredible man was contorted not unlike a good many circus performers I saw when I was a child, to the point that his name became synonymous with putting a fellow in a trance like state, off handedly nowadays put, Mesmerizing.

I must have stood at the end of the aisle for a good three minutes, watching this poor tortured man staring up at the sheets of drywall. It was like some sort of western cowboy standoff shootout, only without guns and a bit more awkward as one fellow was overly occupied with drywall than his opponent's deadly stare. When I realized that all of this contemplation of western standoffs had, to my surprise, separated my feet into a shootout kind of stance and lifted my hands up and out until they were floating a good 20 centimeters away from my corduroy pockets, I quickly went back to a sort of regular shopper kind of look, at least, as regular as one can look in a home store with a purple and black chemical mask clinched to his noggin while wearing his Harris Tweed and corduroys.

Just then, I did the daring thing. I walked straight up to fellow. It did wonders too. My approach somehow snapped him out of it, and I was ecstatic. I imagined I would have to do some real work to bring him down to a regular state prior to explaining to him what a mess he was up against. But here the fellow turned to me and widened his eyes significantly. All this walking about with a mask on had gotten the face to sweat and the front see through shield of my mask had begun to fog considerably. I began to speak to him and as I did, it fogged even more. I had gotten out, "Sir, I know you are probably not completely with us at the moment, but there is something you must know," before my vision was completely impaired. I could not see the man in front of me, nor the drywall, nor the bags of concrete, nor anything!

I had to come up with something, and fast. As I am known in many circles for being quick on my feet, I did what came natural, I changed course to a similarly ingenious path. "Sir, follow me please." I said. I then grasped for the fellow's arm knowing how sometimes folks in his state of being are not always completely aware of what is going on around them. Finding the arm, I called upon my far above average memory to lead us out of this den of iniquity. I felt some considerable resistance, and even a few swats from the chap, but in the end, it would be for his own good. His voice sounded with high pitched, almost womanly protestation as we rounded a corner that I recalled from earlier and slammed into some sort of display. From the sound of the items falling, I discerned that it was a battery display that had gotten the better of us. I am incredibly adept at hearing a thing and figuring out what the deuce it is, even without the help of my keen vision.

I knew that there was no stopping now. As blind as I was, I had to go on. I knew that certainly soon, some sort of security would be upon us, and goodness knows what lengths they would go to in order to keep fellows as cunning as me, away from their home necessity junkies. Thanks to my quick feet and incredible intuition, we were finally out of doors. I started in with, "Like I was saying old friend..." when I pulled the blinding, not to mention now steaming, hot mask off of my drenched face to see that what else but some woman, standing there in front of me. No poofy topped hair, no green shorts, no yellow shirt, and certainly no overwhelmingly large black framed glasses!

Not only was she standing in front of me with a raised fist and audible accusations, but she also had her arm firmly within my grip. These home store fellows were keener than I thought. She was a very handsome looking woman with the kind of outfit that accentuates as it reveals if you follow. This was their way. A smoke and mirrors kind of trick. The jig was up and they replaced my fellow with no doubt one of their own security
specialists. Immediately, seeing her for what she was, only in plain clothes, I said, "You! I know what you are, and to be frank about it, you madam, disgust me!" This was apparently the cue she was waiting for to give me a sock in the right eye.

About a half hour later, I came to. I was not so elegantly propped up in a hard wooden chair in the corner of an old police house. Only one of my eyes had complete function, the other would take its time coming back around to its previous size and color. I still had the purple and black chemical mask around my neck, which was now fashionably matching my abused peeper, and when the attendant saw that I was awake to the world, he began to ask me a series of questions.

Well, only the weak in the head would not know to cover the truth in this situation. Who knew where the home store conglomerate's power began and ended? It was best to play the fool, spend a spell in the hoosegow and resume my investigations at a later date. This, my friend, is exactly what I did. And while I have not completely cracked the case to date. Things are surfacing , and a silly little notion like a restraining order will hamper further investigations not at all.

copyright Olie Sylvester 2005