Dunch:

While having “Dunch” (the time between lunch and dinner, seems to me I heard this term on “Seinfeld” years ago. which means I’m still not comfortable with dining with an overly abundance of strangers. Truth be told, after 40 + years in the food and beverage biz, I prefer to dine alone as much as possible) with my daughter, she mentioned how she checks my “blog” from time to time and hasn’t seen anything posted lately, hence the following post:

While I have not posted anything in months, I’ve made quite a few notes for possible stories. The one I’m currently looking at says: “Triple-fade-high-top-gumby” a term relayed to me years ago when I asked a coworker about his new hair cut. “It’s a triple-fade-high-top-gumby” and it looked good on him. The next time I had my hair cut by a barber who tended to that task from when Kennedy was President until Bush 2, asked what I wanted today, I answered ….”a triple-high-top-gumby” !! Of course Rudy (the aforementioned barber) didn’t know what I was talking about and I didn’t really want a “triple-fade-high-top-gumby” I just liked the way it sounded out loud, probably why I’ve remembered it this long.

This leads to my main concern in life at the moment…I … don’t …have… a… (gulp)…Barber !!!

As I’ve stated above, after having the same barber for over forty years, what does one do? After Rudy closed up shop I visited him at his home for a year or so, but eventually it became clear that he was no longer up to the task and I’ve been seeking his replacement ever since.

The first possible replacement did a passible job until he attempted to apply shaving cream to my …eyebrows !! The next one was recommended by my (now former) father-in-law, since we were on good terms, I gave the guy a shot. It did not go well.

The barber in question was Italian (as was Rudy) dressed in the traditional garb of a barber from a different era and insisted on giving me the “Gentleman’s Special” instead of the “just a trim” I requested. When he was finished, I knew why I always wondered why my wife’s dads hair always looked the way it did. Something I should have thought of before using his barber.

At this point I wasn’t sure where to turn until I was coerced into going to the tanning salon my wife frequented. When entering the rural shop, I noticed the barber chair off to one side in front of a large mirror and asked the proprietor (a very attractive brunette about my age) if she cut hair, to which she replied “yes”. I tanned and had a haircut, pretty good job and she understood what “just a trim” meant and no attempt to go at my eyebrows with a straight razor.

This arrangement went on for a few months and was unfortunately ended when the tanning salon/barber shop kept getting broken into and no matter what the owner did to discourage the break-ins (alarms that didn’t bring the attention of the police until the thieves were long gone and even tried a guard dog but you guessed it…they stole the dog) Eventually the owner/barber closed the business and moved on to something else in a different part of the state.

Just a foot note to this portion of the story: my x wife was jealous of any female that I worked with, especially if I mentioned the woman’s name more than once a week during our nightly after dinner, in front of the TV chats. We once ran into my boss (a woman) while grocery shopping and because I was nice to my boss (duh) and we exchanged pleasantries, I was having an affair, which I wasn’t and didn’t break my wedding vows for the entirety of our marriage, that is until she asked for a divorce and I moved in with my sister. However, I will be honest and admit that I did think about what it might be like with another woman, but didn’t go farther than that.

The reason I mention this is, it was in the back of my mind that the X had something to do with the break-ins, not that she did them herself but maybe hire someone to do so? Crazy? Perhaps? But when you’ve read and watched true crime books and TV shows, you get an idea what people are capable of and it is scary.

Once again without a barber and wondering where to go next, I heard a radio ad for a new shop in a neighboring town and gave the place a whirl. The shop was in a strip mall where my bank had a branch, so I knew where it was and tried it out, not bad, another barber who understood “just a trim” and both my son and I used “Britney’s Barber Shop” for the next few years.

Britney eventually moved to the next town over, a nice seaside enclave a stones throw from the beach, of course the price went up, but only a buck, so I (my son had graduated High School by then and found his own cutter of hair) continued to frequent the new shop, even after Britney got married and sold the shop to her new assistant Eugenia, thus becoming “Eugenia’s Barber Shop”, the price of the haircut didn’t go up.

The situation changed when I was promoted at work and given a different schedule, 9am – 5:30pm Monday – Friday, which is considered pretty good in the food and beverage world, but I’d always had a day off during the week to get things done such as…hair cuts, Dr’s visits, dentist and so on, now I didn’t. Of course “Eugenia’s” hours were Tuesday – Friday 9 – 5, Saturday 9 – 1. This meant I would have to change my Saturday morning laundry duty to another time if I wished to keep going to the seaside shop. Since I only had my hair cut once a month, this shouldn’t be much of an inconvenience and I continued with Eugenia.

Eventually even once a month of not getting to sleep in on Saturday became a drag. While I still got up at my usual 6am on the weekend, I would putter around for an hour or so and then…get back in bed until at least 9, heaven. Besides, the drive to “Eugenia’s” was 45 minutes one way and of course, Saturday morning was/probably still is prime time haircut time, which meant there was nearly always a wait. This being the case, Eugenia rented out the second chair of her shop to another barber and I seemed to get shulffed off on her more times than not, even when there wasn’t a wait. All in all, it was time to find yet another barber.

The internet provided a gold mine of potential barber shops and hair salons, one of which was ten minutes away, as well as being open until 3 on Saturdays, which meant that I wouldn’t have to alter my Saturday routine, I gave the place a call. First appointment was to be the next Saturday at 2, the voice on the other end tried to talk me into an earlier hour but clean clothes come first.

“Scissors and Scooters” (the barbershop shared a building with a scooter sales and service establishment) was off a main road and easy to find. The “Scissors” part was owned and operated by an older woman (older than my 60) and thought I was in my forties, so we began on a good note. That didn’t last long as “Kathy” proceeded to relate most (if not all) the highlights of her life (which is why I knew she was 70, she mentioned it at least 3 times) while she slooooowly cut my hair, it was the longest hair cut of my life, took nearly 45 minutes and it was “just a trim” which what I received and should’ve taken 15 minutes, tops. Before I could decide whether to find yet another barber, the Pandemic hit and I and everyone else I knew, went haircut-less for the next several months.

I think it June before the Government ban of haircuts was lifted and I made an appointment with Kathy. At the time I was enjoying being on “Reserve” at work (40% pay, benefits plus the $900.00 from unemployment meant I was netting more than I usually grossed, happy times indeed) and didn’t mind (too much) that the price of a haircut went up $10.00 to $25.00. I expected the price to rise but $10.00 was a bit high, consequently, no tip. She explained about all the extra equipment she was obliged to purchase in order to comply with the Covid-haircut-regulations, plexiglass barriers, multiple disposable masks (one mask per customer) etc. This explanation came before the procedure began, making the haircut last nearly an hour, definitely no tip.

I stuck with Kathy for the next year, partly because I didn’t really want to hunt up another barber, basically the sometimes it’s better to stick with the devil you know, sort of situation. And as I said, she was only ten minutes away. During these ten or so visits I learned about Kathy’s Jr. High School trip the Washington D.C. , her time spent in Alaska working as a bartender, then California where she trained to get her barbers certificate and so on and son on. This information did not come gradually over the various hair grooming sessions, she went through the her life story more or less each and every 45 minute visit. Definitely no tip.

The final haircut came in late July of this year, where Kathy told me that she was going on vacation to one of the Dakota’s, I can’t remember which and would be back in the middle of August, since I wouldn’t need another cut until the end of August at the earliest, this was fine with me.

The end of August came and went, I was busy at work and didn’t get around to calling for an appointment until early September. The call went straight to voicemail and a voice other then Kathy’s said “leave a message and I’ll call you back”. Figuring I dialed the wrong number I tried again, same result. I waited a couple of days and made another attempt, receiving the “this number is no longer in service” recording. I was going to drive by “Scissors and Scooters” but decided this was sign that it was time for a new barber, back to the internet with very little success, several of the shops I called had the same “no longer in service” recording and I wondered if this was from being Covid-closed for several months?

By this time it had been two months since my previous haircut and I was getting pretty shaggy, what to do, what to do? That problem was temporarily solved when I went grocery shopping at Walmart and I recalled that they had a barbershop/salon right there and this particular morning, they had no customers, so I gave it a shot. One of the masked attendants directed me to a terminal, where I scrolled through the various options for hair care and selected a basic cut for $18.73 with a five dollar tip. A receipt popped out and I was lead to a chair, seated, aproned and ready for my Walmart haircut. I requested my usual “Just a trim, please” to which my new barber replied “Shorter”? “Is there an alternative”? The young lady barber was not amused by my wittiness and proceeded to give me the shortest haircut since I was 8 and my mom (Rest in piece) bought a haircutting kit that was supposed to save the family “$100.00 a year in barber costs” big money in the mid sixties. Unfortunately mom wasn’t very good at cutting hair and my older brother and I ended up with crewcuts. Dad took us back to Rudy’s and hid the hair cutting kit.

As I said, my hair was the shortest it had been in decades but I did get quite a few compliments at work and it is time for another visit to the barber, I just can’t look at myself in the mirror and see a Walmart haircut looking back, plus they don’t do mustaches, all in all, it’s probably back to the internet, what would we do with out it?

Ashes to Ashes.

Or should I call it “Pieces of my mother” or simply “Mothers Day”? I considered “Memories on Mothers Day” but I didn’t remember last Sunday was mothers day until yesterday. My mom died a few years back, it was in December but I don’t dwell on the date, it doesn’t matter, the only thing that matters is that she is no longer with us and I miss her.

Of course the family got together and shared memories, mostly sickeningly sweet ones about how wonderful she was, glossing over the parts that didn’t make her look so good. Like the time she confessed to me that after our cat “Fluffly” (how original) had a litter of kittens, most of which we couldn’t get rid of, when as if by magic, they were all adopted, seemingly overnight. While the truth was that mom drove them to a wooded area and left them on the side of the road. I’m pretty sure I was the only one she told. Mom also admitted to me when I was in my late teens that when she found out she was pregnant with me, she drank a bottle of castor oil in an attempt to lose the baby (me). I eventually got over it, but geez mom!!

When I’m not dwelling on kittens on the side of the road or mom trying to off me, most memories are pretty good. She was a child of both the depression and WWII, who put it all down on film for my nieces school project, I’ve yet to see it, shame on me.

Mom liked to take in strays, people, not cats, and as far as I know, she didn’t leave any of them on the side of the road. After she divorced my alcoholic dad, there was a new face at every family gathering, usually someone who had no place else to go. And no one left empty handed, not if mom could help it, she always made twice as much food as necessary to feed whoever showed up. Mom was the hostess for all holidays, going so far as to have the family and anyone else who wished to attend at her house for lunch on Sundays, then it changed to Wednesdays because too many of us got jobs that included working Sundays. Then it was Thursdays, then she died. My son was fond of saying “Grandma makes Mother Teresa look like the devil.” and wanted to put it in her obit. I nixed the idea, it may have offended someone and mom would not have liked that…probably.

That said…when mom died, we had her cremated and then it was suggested that we all (kids, grand-kids, etc) keep some of the ashes. Most of us did, I even had a small tin tea box for that purpose, but the more I thought about it the creepier it became. Why would I want a piece of my dead mother in the box on the mantel? Or anyplace else for that matter? I declined the offer and have since wondered what would people do if they decided not to bury or cremate a dead loved one? Should they divvy up the body?

“I always liked her feet, can I get one for old times sake? How about a hand? Knee-cap? fingers, toes? Does anyone want the head”? Maybe 20 years ago, but not since cancer and chemo got to her. An arm? which part, upper or forearm? Heart? Kinda creepy. Liver, spleen, kidneys (when I see or think of the word Kidney, it conjures up “steak and kidney pie” I wonder why?) Definitely not the lungs, she had lung cancer, then again, if it was only one, you could do a comparison display, right lung with cancer, left lung without. There are quite a few choices and even though she was slim and trim, there was still plenty to go around, of course you’d need something bigger than a tin tea box.

The Carrion Inn.

When did the practice of naming winter storms begin? Naming hurricanes seems to have begun a little over 50 years ago, before that they were “the hurricane of ’56” or perhaps “the storm of the century” which I’ve heard the hurricane of ’38 referred to, but snow storms? When I was a kid (which is getting to be a long, long time ago) it was just “there’s a storm coming” and I (along with probably every other kid) started thinking, hoping, maybe even praying that school would be cancelled. We’d listen to the local radio station intently for the closing list, my dad was a school teacher and even though we didn’t live in his school’s district, my brothers, sister and I all attended that school. We’d listen to the radio, watch the snow falling, attempt to eat whatever mom made for breakfast, which was always an adventure, please read earlier blogs for more info on that subject.

Of course as kids we didn’t consider that one snow day = one extra day in June even when my dad would remind us of same, it didn’t matter, a day off from school was a day off from school and I didn’t even have to pretend to be sick, something I considered myself to be pretty good at. By the fifth grade I’d perfected the fake whooping cough. All one needs to do is exhale through ones mouth at an accelerated rate until the hoarse whooping sound comes out, then go find your mom. It’s pretty foolproof, the only drawback is that one can’t use this ruse often or it will end with a Dr.’s visit, there’s no point ditching school if it includes going to the Dr.’s office. It’s not that I didn’t like school, I just liked getting away with something more and the whooping cough scenario was a clear win, kids 1 parents 0 and the crowd roars !!

Fast forward a few decades and I am one the other end of the stick, as my job has designated myself and many others as “essential staff” says so right on my work I.D. , just in case I get pulled over when Big Brother deems driving to be unlawful. This has only happened once, during winter storm “Juno” January 27th, 2015. I know the exact date because I, among many others were encouraged to sleep at work, not because upper management was worried about our driving prowess, more so because they wanted enough people on premise in the morning to run the place. The hourly workers who stayed were enticed to do so by the offer of $10.00 an hour to sleep. Salaried peeps, such as myself received (a couple of weeks after the storm) a lap blanket with the aforementioned name of the storm and the date. Blue blankies for the boys and pink for the girls, I kid you not.

Which brings us to Monday February 1, 2021 and another snow storm, I won’t be getting another blankie for this one because I booked a room at the Carrion Inn (not it’s real name) a five minute ride from work that took me ten because of the storm.

My first impression of the Carrion Inn was “where is it” ? as I sloshed through the wet snow covered roads. It should’ve been across the street from the Red Roof Inn, where I’d stayed for a night a couple of years ago during a similar weather event and will never return for various reasons I’ll discuss at a later date. It should have been across the street but it wasn’t, sort of. That hotel was the American something or other (their sign was partially obscured by snow) so I sloshed a little further, turned around (easier said than done) went back, pulled into the American something hotel and caught a glimpse of another building in back and headed for it. The dark sign read Carrion Inn, I parked my pick-up, grabbed the bag I had packed before leaving for work and sloshed through ankle deep wet snow to the front entrance, which hadn’t been shoveled, slosh, slosh, slosh, finally made it.

Upon opening the glass door, I realized that this was the rear entrance, still should’ve been shoveled though and trudged up the short staircase to the reception desk. It was an odd set up, the customer side of the reception desk was waist high, while the other side seemed to be in a trench, all you could see of the clerk was her head, barely visible as she typed away on her computer, checking me in. After receiving my key card and inquiring whether the restaurant was open, it was, I headed to my room, which was back down the stairs, room 106, looking out to the slush covered parking lot. I closed the curtains, turned up the heat, unpacked my overnight bag, put my “shaving kit” consisting of my toiletries in jammed into a tupper-ware pasta tube in the bathroom and turned on the TV for company.

My stomach started to grumble, I put on my mask and headed up to the restaurant, following the proper covid protocols, which was pretty easy since there was no one else around, except the receptionist’s head behind the plexiglass barrier. I nodded, she ignored or didn’t see me from her borrow. The restaurant was empty, no one at all, I took a seat at the bar and a middle-aged man entered from what I guessed to be the kitchen. He nodded a greeting and I asked for a cocktail, he handed me a menu of basic drinks, gin & tonic, martini, screw driver (I didn’t think anyone drank them any more) I opted for a beer, he handed me another menu, I chose Blue Moon, with a glass. Next was the challenge of the dinner menu. It was apparent that my server didn’t speak English well and was content to let the menu do the talking for him. It was a very limited menu, similar to the one offered in a different hotel I stayed in the previous August during Hurricane … something or other, I can’t recall.

There were six offerings on the printer paper menu, three featuring “Shrimps”. After careful consideration, I chose the chicken sandwich, with fries, because pretty much everything came with fries, even the “Shrimps” dishes. The attendant pulled out a tray of lettuce and tomato, I nodded, he showed me a bottle of mayo, again I nodded and he headed to the kitchen. I sipped my beer while waiting for dinner. It took awhile because the phone rang a couple of times with people looking for room service, I think, it was hard to tell from the limited bits of conversation I received from this end of the line. The man behind the bar did get someone to order a screw driver, mostly by reading the drink menu several times before taking the order, two orders of wings and two screw drivers, no “Shrimps”.

The Blue Moon was nearly gone when my chicken sandwich and fries arrived. I ordered another beer, paid and headed back to my room. I’d left the TV on, not thinking it was going to take as long as it did to bring back dinner, which I placed next to the TV, got out of my work clothes, into sweats and a T-shirt, sat on one of the double beds and opened the box holding dinner. Uninspiring is the least offensive way I can think to describe what I was looking at, a white bread bun that was crumbing at the edges, inside was a chicken “Pattie” with some mayo, 1/2 a piece of lettuce and a small slice of tomato, the fries were warm. I dug in reluctantly while watching a Joan Crawford, Clark Gable movie on TCM that involved escaping from an island prison with the usual collection of sorry looking prisoners, with one exception, Ian Hunter playing a Christ like character. “Strange Cargo” is an interesting film all in all, even has Peter Lorre playing “Monsieur Pig” !! I highly recommend it.

By the time the movie ended I had given up on my “chicken” sandwich, didn’t finish my second beer, poured it down the drain, brushed my teeth, washed my face and went to bed after calling for a 5:30 wake up. As usual, I fell asleep fairly quickly, as usual it didn’t last long, although this time it was because of a tapping sound, as if someone were knocking at a door. Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap, no one answered, tap-tap-tap-tap, no one answered, then it stopped. Maybe someone did answer after all ? Then it started again. Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap. Was someone having a blizzard party? Was this the secret knock to be let in? Tap-tap-tap-tap ? Whatever it was, it lasted pretty much the entire night, between the tapping sound and the wind, I didn’t get much sleep and was up way before the wake-up call. After doing a short stretching regime in the limited space of the hotel room, I shaved and showered, got dressed and brought my bag to my pick-up, started the engine to warm her up and headed back to the lobby. As I was walking through the parking lot I heard the tap-tap-tap-tap sound, it was coming from a loose piece of siding flapping against the building every time the wind blew and the wind blew a lot last night. Tap-tap-tap-tap….I’d have to find a different hotel next time, maybe the one in between the Carrion and Red Roof would do, hopefully I won’t have to find out any time soon.

2020, end of the year special report:

As this most “unprecedented” year comes to a close, I have to admit, that, unlike many other people, I’ve had one of the best years in recent memory !! Not to downplay what others have been going through, but who can complain about two months off paid (not only paid, but more than I usually get for working, heck, if I was paid as much for working as I was getting for not working, I wouldn’t mind working, not as much anyway) during the summer. My son returned to the area after two years away at school and another working his first job in another state. His new, close to home job was as an assistant pro at a local private golf course, with a new boss who encouraged him to play golf with me, on their course, for free, whenever I got the chance, which with June and July off, I had plenty of chances.

We played many other courses as well, almost all on days when it was hot and humid, just the way we like it and we walk, no carts. Brought a lot of water, with at least two bottles frozen, there is no drinking water on the course and we only saw one beverage cart all summer, neither are supposed to be allowed in these “unprecedented” times, no ball washers either. Somehow, we managed to adapt. I even managed to play decent golf, the practice facilities at the private course helped, as did a 10 second putting tip from my son. I was living a dream, hopefully this is what retirement was going to be like and hopefully I could get there sooner than my financial consultant suggested during our most recent meeting.

Reconnecting with my son and golf were not the only benefits of these “unprecedented” times. I don’t particularly like to be touched (barring obvious exceptions) especially by members of my sex, what is up with that? I’ll hug my best friend at his or my wedding, after that a hand shake will do and now even that is no longer allowed. Social distancing, where have you been all my life??

The “stay home, stay safe” mandate is no hardship what-so-ever, especially now that I’m in my 60’s, had it been 40 years ago when my friends and I were hanging out in one bar or another on a regular basis, stay home, stay safe wouldn’t have been an option. On the other hand, I do miss the monthly steak dinners at the local fire house, not because of the atmosphere (100 guys in a room that becomes so loud that you have to practically scream at the person next to you to be heard) I do miss seeing the group of guys that occupy the section of table with me. I’ve known all of them since High School, some longer and it has become the only time and place that we see each other on any kind of regular basis, which is mostly on me, as I no longer seek out the company of my fellow humans for various reasons, mostly having to do with working in the food and beverage business for most of the past forty years. Not that I don’t like people, it’s that after 8 or 9 or 10 hours of having dozens, scores, sometimes hundreds of people up your ass about one thing or another, I’m done with humans, until the next shift. My apartment has become what my daughter likes to call a “people free zone” 99.5 percent of the time. Consequently, “stay home, stay safe” is pretty much heaven.

Another advantage of these times is the wearing of masks. Back in March, mask wearing was mandated at work, having a large collection of bandanas, I opted for this method, not only because of the aforementioned collection but as a wearer of eye glasses, the bandana didn’t fog them over, besides, it provided many jokes regarding the robbing of stage coaches and such. Unfortunately, when I returned to work in August, these were no longer allowed, fortunately, the masks provided by the company didn’t fog my glasses either. And just between you and me…most people look better in a face mask. Another win-win situation, it was a very good year !!

One pester + one bother = an annoy ?

Interior. night.

Announcers booth: three suited men sit together.

Good evening ladies and gentlemen, this is Bart Tadshaw

I’m Buck Jones

and I’m Ronny Tomo with Thursday night football.

Bart: Sorry Ronny, this is Sunday night football.

Buck: Wrong again, it’s Monday night Football fella’s. Didn’t you listen to the annoying song?

Ronny: Will somebody please tell me what day it is ??

Buck: It’s Monday night and we’re the new broadcast team, so sit back, relax and enjoy tonight’s game between the St. Louis Rams..

Bart: Aren’t they the L.A. Rams this year?

Ronny: I thought the Chargers were in L.A. now?

Buck: They’re both in L.A. And tonight they’ll be playing the Oakland Raiders.

Bart: Didn’t they move to Vegas?

Ronny: Didn’t who move to Vegas?

Bart: The Raiders?

Buck: That’s not until next year.

Bart: Isn’t it next year yet?

Buck: We’ll be right back after this.

Fast forward to the first set of downs:

Int. Night.

Announcers booth.

Buck: The Quarterback takes the snap, fakes the hand off, drops back to pass and is clearly pestered by the charging linebacker as the pass sails by the receiver.

Ronny: That wasn’t a pester, it was more of a bother. The lineman’s swipe at the ball was a pester.

Bart: But the linebacker had a pester and a bother, which by rule is definitely an annoy.

Buck: What rule book are you referring to?

Bart produces a red book, opens it.

Bart: On page 14 of “Useless stats designed to give sports announcers more to talk about” “One pester and one bother equals an annoy. It’s right after baseball’s “exit velocity to barrel impact angle equals jibberish”

Ronny: Let me see that.

Bart hands the book to Ronny.

Buck: Shouldn’t we pay attention to the game?

Bart: It’s just another replay and a close-up of the coach picking his nose.

Ronny: (reading the red book) Here’s one from golf. “Strokes gained from not screaming “hit the fucking ball” whenever playing with Jason “All” Day.

Buck: Guys, the Chargers just scored a touchdown.

Ronny & Bart: Don’t worry about it, they’ll be at least 5 replays, and a pester.

Buck: That was clearly an annoy.

Ronny: Pester.

Bart: Bother.

Buck: Annoy.

THE END.

Ever had one of those days?

Everyone has had “one of those days” I am no different. My “one of those days” was a Tuesday, my day off, it was Fall and I was on my way to cut some fire wood for “Gwendolyn” the name I had given our fireplace. Actually, it was my (now X) wife who first used that name to describe our fireplace, she did so because she felt I was spending too much time building and tending to the fire in the fireplace. She was that kind of woman, jealous of everybody and apparently, everything. She was even jealous that I played golf once a week (during the warmer months) with her DAD. She eventually referred to him as “your golfing buddy” instead of dad. Speaking of her dad, it was on his property that I usually went to cut firewood, which is where I was headed this cool Tuesday morning.

The property itself was not where her dad lived, it was 35 acres of forest land about five miles from our house. There was a house adjacent to the property and for whatever reason, “my golfing buddy” had right-of-way through their driveway, to the forest land beyond, which seemed kind of odd. I’d let the occupants of the house whose driveway I was about to invade know that my battered Chevy S-10 pick-up was headed their way. It was not the last time I would be communicating with Kovacks, who were renting the house from whoever owned it. While I know who owns the house, I’m not allowed to mention them because of the sort of out of court, sort of settlement, sort of.

I arrived at the property and made my way up the gravel drive to the two rut “road” beyond. It was colder than usual the night before and there was still some frost on the ground, which made the two rut road just slippery enough to be more than annoying. The 4 cylinder, 4 speed, one wheel drive truck made it’s way to a clearing where I parked, got out and retrieved my chain saw from the bed. There were plenty of standing dead trees for me to play Paul Bunyan with so I began the process, which to me seems quite a bit like doing laundry.

Laundry vs Firewood gathering:

Laundry: Determine which clothes are suitable for washing. This means, did I wear this more than once? Does it reek? Can I get away with wearing it one more time? Firewood: is it seasoned enough to cut up and bring home? Has it been on the ground too long? Is it already rotting? Once it is determined what pieces of laundry or pieces of wood are to be washed or cut up, we move to step two, placing the dirty laundry in the baskets, light colours in one basket, dark colours in another. With wood, it’s a bit less complicated but much heavier. Cut the tree up in manageable pieces, haul to the pick-up and place in the bed. Laundry, take the baskets to the A) laundry room B) launder-mat or C) your mothers house. Load laundry into washing machine (two or more if you are at the launder-mat) pour in detergent, choose the setting you want, start the machine. When the clothes are clean, place into the dryer, set the time and start. When all is washed and dried, return to the place you began and put away the laundry. Firewood, drive back home with the manageable pieces of wood, unload, place wood on saw-horsey thing and cut into fireplace size logs, spit logs with a maul, stack logs. I’ve done my share of laundry as well as cut firewood and on a normal day, this is how it works, unfortunately, this wasn’t a “normal” day, it was “one of those days” and cutting the wood and placing it into the truck should’ve been the beginning of my journey home, this was not to be the case and I would not be getting home for quite some time.

What I didn’t realize at the time was that I parked on frozen ground, that was no longer frozen when I loaded the wood and, you guessed it…the truck’s tires sunk into the muddy surface. Of course I should’ve taken the wood out of the truck and driven out of the mud, but I figured (wrongly) that I could just drive out of the mud, which (of course) didn’t happen. No matter how many times I shifted back and forth from first to reverse, no forward progress, only downward, deeper into the mud. Now it was time to take the wood out of the truck, too late, too deep, too stupid, so stupid that I actually attempted to push the truck out while in first gear, hoping that if this did work, I could get to the cab quick enough to stop the truck from crashing into the trees twenty feet in front of me. Since the truck didn’t budge, no matter how much I attempted to give my self a hernia, no matter how much I became covered in mud (a lot) no matter how many pieces of non firewood and rocks I jammed in the ever increasing hole the tires were making, the truck would not budge. Not only that but the next time I got behind the wheel and gave it one last college try…you guessed it (or did you?) I blew the clutch. Not only did I blow the clutch, I blew the clutch that was just installed a month ago when the original clutch blew!!

To sum up: I…A) was covered in mud. B) had a stuck truck in the middle of the woods, with no clutch. C) had to find a tow truck driver who would be brave (stupid) enough to attempt getting my stuck truck to the dealership where I could pay for clutch number three. Surprisingly I accomplished C and that’s where the fun really began, sort of.

First order of post-blown-clutch business was to secure my chainsaw, gas tank and other items in the cab of the truck. Next was to find a phone, this being the mid ’90’s, cellphones were nearly nonexistent and bigger than the walkie-talkies we had as kids, it seemed prudent to ask the occupants of the house with the driveway that I used to begin today’s adventure for the use of theirs. I also pocketed a few quarters from the pick-ups stash in the ashtray, just in case they weren’t home. They weren’t. Luckily, “my golfing buddy’s” forest land was not that far off the beaten path, only a mile or so to a main road, where there was a small motel and other business’s and hopefully a pay phone.

Hitch-hiking seemed out of the question for a couple of reasons, one, this was not a well traveled road and two, I was still covered in mud, although it was becoming dried mud, I wouldn’t pick up me, so why would anyone else? Consequently, after knocking on the door of the empty house, with no cars in the drive, I schlepped down the drive to the narrow country road, where I turned right with the hope that this would all be done before dark. It wasn’t.

There was a pay phone, where I first called the Dealership where I’ve purchased most of my vehicles for the past ten years, mostly because a good friend of mine ran the service department. He answered on the first ring, I gave him a quick summation of my day so far, hoping he wouldn’t laugh too much, surprisingly, he didn’t. My good buddy said he’d send a tow truck and I gave him my location, said “thank you” several times hung up and called my partner-in-this-thing-called-life wife, hoping she wouldn’t laugh too much, she did. Much too much. I hung up after saying I didn’t know when I’d be home and the obligatory “I love you”. She nearly responded in kind without more laughter, nearly.

I trudged to the nearby convenience store, bought a soda and a Slim Jim and waited on a bench outside for the tow truck. During the twenty minutes it took for the tow truck to arrive, I garnered several concerned looks from the patrons of the store, along with a couple people leaving the sidewalk where my bench was located, stepping into the parking lot then back to the sidewalk, successfully avoiding any closeness to mud-man. I hadn’t had the opportunity to look in a mirror since my logging mishap and wondered how bad I actually looked? I contemplated getting a room at the small motel and taking a shower, but dismissed that idea, mostly because I had no clean clothes to change into and the tow truck was pulling into the parking lot of said motel.

The look on the drivers face as I approached his truck was much the same reaction that I (mud-man) was getting from the other recent onlookers. The driver was about my age (mid thirties at the time) had dark hair and a beard, and began looking around his cab for something to protect the upholstery from yours truly, AKA mud-man. We introduced ourselves, his name was Tom and he didn’t seem interested in shaking hands, which was fine with mud-man. I got in the truck, gave Tom directions and we drove the mile or so to the house whose driveway we would be using. When we arrived at the destination and I directed him to proceed up the driveway, through the back yard and into the woods he gave me a look that clearly said “you’re kidding?”. Then to leave no doubt, he vocalized my reading of his face and said “you’re kidding?” I put on my best “have sympathy for mud-man face and replied “it’s not that bad, really.” As it turned out, “not that bad” would’ve been a major improvement.

Mud-man and his sidekick Tow-Truck-Tom made it up the drive, through the back yard, into the woods and found my truck easily enough. Tom hooked it up to the tow truck and off we went, then for some unknown reason, Tom thought it would be a good idea to bypass the driveway and head down the other side of the house with the idea of going through the front yard. When I attempted to dissuade T.T.T. from this option, he responded with “No sweat” and headed into the abyss, almost literally.

The abyss of which Mud-man speaks was the edge of a somewhat sloping lawn bordering a field with a smattering of saplings. Unfortunately, the sloping part of the lawn didn’t take kindly to T.T.T.’s plan and the tow truck along with my attached my pick-up slid sideways onto the edge of the field and more mud. Stuck again. Attempt after attempt of T.T.T. didn’t budge his truck, even after detaching my pick-up all the progress was down further into the mud. It was Deja Vu all over again.

T.T.T.’s next plan was to take the tow cable, wrap it around a nearby tree and the winch would pull the truck free. It sounded reasonable to me, then again, almost anything would’ve as Mud-man began to get cold. The tree looked stout enough, the cable attached, the winch began to pull, the tow truck started to budge and, and….the tree was pulled out by the roots and loudly toppled to the ground. By this time the occupants of the house had returned and were watching through their windows. I was surprised they didn’t invite friends and neighbors, serve drinks, maybe sell popcorn.

Undeterred by this minor set-back, T.T.T. disconnected the cable from the fallen tree, got more slack, walked to a much bigger tree, wrapped the cable around the tree about five feet from the ground, trudged back to his truck and started the winch. The winch pulled, the cable tightened, the tow truck began to budge and, and…the tree snapped in half, the upper part,of which, with many branches, crashed very loudly to the ground. The people in the house didn’t know if they were witnessing a sit-com episode or Candid Camera. Neither did I. Luckily, the end was nearer than I had any right to expect.

T.T.T. radioed to headquarters for a bigger tow truck, which arrived about half an hour later. It was the biggest tow truck I had ever seen up close, it was the kind that towed tractor trailers, maybe even pulled rockets to the launch pad, it was that big !! After a good laugh at our expense, the new driver and his Monster truck easily pulled both of the stuck trucks out of the mud. T.T.T. and his truck towed me to the dealership, where, even though it was after 9pm by the time we arrived, my good buddy was waiting for me with a loaner car. I’d never loved anyone more, that is until I got home and my partner-in-this-thing-called-life-wife handed me a gin and tonic and I knew I was truly in love 🙂

The End…of this story anyway. Stay tuned.

Theres a horse in my back yard !!

During the Winter of 2020 my parents and I lived in New York City, which is how I ended up living with my grandfather, who I was never to address as grandfather, grandpa, granddad or grand-anything. He was to be addressed by his Christian name of George, which, I was told, would be the first of many rules in his apartment. I wasn’t told why I would no longer be living with my parents, as if at eleven I wasn’t aware of what was going on in the world and specifically NYC. Both of my parents worked in the medical field, my dad was an EMT and mom a nurse. Which is how they met and which is why they couldn’t leave the city. It was strongly indicated by all the “adults” involved (aunts, uncles, great aunts, great uncles etc) that it would be best that I lived with “don’t-call-me- grand-anything” until this all blew over, whenever that may be. “Don’t-call-me grand-anything lived in the country (sort of) So, I moved into the his 2 bedroom (sort of), bath and 3/4 (sort of) apartment and discovered that there was a horse in the back yard (sort of).

“Don’t call me grand-anything’s” apartment was in a semi-rural part of Connecticut. Semi-rural because we were 2 miles from the center of “Northwick” the largest town in the area, as well as being 5 and 10 miles, respectively, from the two (nearest) Native American Casino’s. There was also a large wooded area behind the 80 year old apartment building and a small dairy farm about a mile away on the other side of the main road, which was fifty feet from the front door, that “don’t-call-me-grand-anything” rarely used, opting for the kitchen door, that led to a small landing and a set of stairs to the sidewalk below our second floor dwelling. I was sitting on the top step of those stairs in late March when a movement caught my eye. As I looked through the trees to my left, I thought I saw a horse, a light brown and tan horse behind the neighbors house. Why would there be a horse in the woods behind the neighbors house?

When I think of horses, large barns, open fields and of course, cowboys come to mind. Densely wooded areas behind an old residential house do not conjure up the image of a noble steed training for the Kentucky Derby, or a cowboy putting his new horse through it’s paces to round up strays or any other horse-like experience for that matter. These same neighbors also raised chickens and their coop (which looked as if it had been fashioned by someone who found some mismatched pieces of plywood, some nails, decided to build something with them, ended up with a dwelling that only suited chickens, so they bought some chickens to go with it) was only a few feet from the evergreen trees that separated the properties.

The day after spotting the horse, I asked “Don’t-call-me-grand-anything” about it. “One week there was no horse, the next week there was.” My all-to-quick reply was “Big Duh” !! I winced once the words left my mouth, waiting for some sort of chastising, which didn’t come, instead “Don’t-call-me-grand-anything” gave me a strange look and said “I guess that wasn’t much of an answer.” I was about to say “Big Duh” again but thought better of it.

I interrupt this compelling and completely fictional story for a related and true horse/kid story:

When I was eleven, it was brought to the attention of our family that a friend of my parents were selling one of their young horses. They lived on a small farm, had horses, cows, chickens, pigs, dogs, cats, you name it. My family of six had a nice four bedroom, 2 bath Cape Cod house with a pool on about a quarter acre, no room for a horse and even at eleven, I was pretty sure that the local zoning rules wouldn’t allow one anyway.

My sister and I were the horse fanciers in the family and of course we began arguing about the name immediately. She wanted to call him “Poetry in motion” while I favored “Efrem Zimbalist Horse” after the actor whose claim to fame was starring in a 60′ – 70’s TV show titled “The F.B.I.”. I was not a fan of either the show or the actor, at eleven I just thought the name sounded cool. Needles to say, we never acquired that or any other horse, although under the “assumption” that we would be getting one, I allowed my parents to put the house up for sale. One may wonder why an eleven year old’s parents need me to “allow” them to sell our house, well, a couple of years earlier, my dad was hell bent to sell our house. I, on the other hand liked where we were living, so my best friend Benny and I put a curse on the house. We made up a chant, had a candle, walked around the house three times, chanting our chant and it (or something) worked. The house didn’t sell and my parents took it off the market. Now, with the dangling horse/carrot waving in front of me, I acquiesced and took the curse off. The house sold and we moved into an apartment. That was nearly 50 years ago and I still haven’t forgiven my (thankfully) late father.

I’ll be getting back to the fiction but compelling eleven year old boy/horse story when I think up more fictional material. Until that time….

No new “horse in the back yard” material, I’ve been working on my daughters Xmas present request, which was for me to give her EVERYTHING I’ve ever written. She asked this of me back in the summer, I had to mull this over for a while, I’m great at mulling, I once mulled over a poem for five or six years, not every minute of every day but the poem rarely left me, or should I say the inspiration for the potential poem was rarely far away.

It was while I was mulling this request (which I obviously haven’t and probably won’t ever complete) it dawned on me that I could definitely gather most of the poems I’ve written over the years. I had begun this project more than once in the past fifteen years or so and I was pretty certain that I could find this treasure trove of potential Pulitzer Prize winning poetry, after I mulled it over for awhile.

The project is nearly complete, I’ve amassed nearly 70 works of art (?) and am further mulling whether to bring this collection to a printer or go the less expensive route and put it together in some sort of scrap book/three ring binder presentation. I have until the 20th of February (her birthday) to deliver. While I’m mulling, here is a sample, it’s called Dakota Dreams and is the aforementioned five years of mulling poem. Hope you like it, if not, it’s your loss 🙂

Dakota Dreams

Whenever I’m in New York City

I take long walks

looking for the Dakota

The building in which John Lennon

spent the final years of his eventful

life in uneventful peace.

The building outside of which

he was murdered.

I have dreamt of finding the Dakota

in these dreams I would cry

or hears John’s voice saying

“all you need is love” or

“give peace a chance” or Yoko

would see me crying and say

“you loved him too”

and invite me in for tea.

When I finally did happen across

the Dakota, I stopped and waited

but nothing happened. Only the cool

breeze across my face and the

realization that the Dakota is just

a building, John Lennon was just a man

and I was just another poet in

New York City.

Sorry about the double spacing, couldn’t figure out how to change to single, every time I hit “enter” the program wants to begin another paragraph, not very user friendly, or it could just be me?

Back to “There’s a horse in my backyard”.

During our “stay home, stay safe” time together, don’t-call-me-grand-anything and I got along ok, he checked that I was keeping up with my on-line classes, went to the local rec area to walk the track every other day and prepared some basic but decent food for us to eat, usually something that we could eat for two or three days, with a salad or some fruit added to make it appear as if we weren’t eating leftovers, which didn’t bother me, as long as it tasted good. With once a week take-out or delivery, just to break up the monotony, of which we had plenty. Then there was the horse, which became more difficult to spot as the leaves on the trees began to blossom, consequently I had to get closer to the border of the two properties to make sure he/she was still there. I fantasized that we were both sent to Connecticut to get away from “the end of the world” if you believed the talking heads on TV, which don’t-call-me-grand-anything did not. “don’t believe anything you read and only half of what you see.” was one of his mottoes. I’d never seen him watch any news, not once, so I wasn’t sure which “talking heads” he was referring to?

Don’t-call-me-grand-anything didn’t seem to be bothered by the “stay home, stay safe” mandate at all, explaining “I’ve always been somewhat of a loaner, and after 40 plus years in the food and beverage biz, I have very little craving for the company of my fellow humans.” While I was fairly certain that I was not grouped in with these “fellow humans” I sometimes wondered. Then something happened.

Don’t-call-me-grand-anything’s daily routine went like this: get up between 7 and 8 (“I spent the final 15 years in the food and beverage biz getting up before dawn, never again.”) put fresh water in the tea kettle, place it on the stove, turn on the gas, wait for the water to boil and make tea. Black tea only, brand names didn’t matter he once explained to me. “As long as it’s Black tea, no orange pekoe, no herbal, just Black tea, period.” He’d make his tea, toast wheat bread for two, add some fresh fruit and a bowl of cereal for me. After breakfast don’t-call-me-grand-anything would take his second cup of tea into the guest bedroom/office where I slept and did my computer school work. He would turn on the computer, check his email, reply to any that needed replying to, then turn the computer over to me for my classes. One day in early May this routine changed, don’t-call-me-grand-anything spent more time than usual typing that morning, then gave me an extra break from my school work to check his email. The next day it was two extra breaks and on the weekend he must have checked his messages and wrote replies five or six times a day. When I asked him about this new activity, he simply said, “I have a new pen-pal” and left it at that. I wondered.

The weekend of constant emails was followed by a week of later than usual phone calls, which was unusual for don’t-call-me-grand-anything, actually other than the calls from my parents and other relatives checking on me, the land-line rarely rang at all, with the exception of four or five unwanted calls from unrecognized numbers that went to voice mail, where messages were never left. While don’t-call-me-grand-anything had a cellphone, he rarely used it and only had one because his daughter, my aunt, gave him one on her plan after not being able to find him while he was travelling a couple years before. He did take it with us when we had to go anywhere and of course I had mine, which I seemed to be using less as time passed. I still texted my friends from school occasionally but it was the same-old, same-old and eventually dissolved into helping with homework assignments and not much else.

Don’t-call-me-grand-anything didn’t text “I’ve sent one text, it was to your aunt, it read “call me” and she did. I quit while I was ahead”. I never heard his cellphone ring, I don’t think the ringer was ever turned on, the only time I saw him “use” it was when he plugged it into the charger about once a week. “I’ve lived most of my life without one, why should I change? Just because everyone else uses one is not a good enough reason, at least not good enough for me.” Was his reply when I asked him about the cellphone. He was the first person I remember who didn’t use one constantly or at least regularly and one of the last.

One thing don’t-call-me-grand-anything did have was a large collection of books, mostly fiction with a few biographies thrown in. He encouraged me to read and while I wasn’t a big reader at the time, I did enjoy the Louis L’Amour westerns and war stories, as well as James Herriot’s country vet stories. When I finished a book, we’d discuss it over dinner casually, not as if it was an assignment and I had to give a report, just two people chatting about something they both read. After dinner, we’d clean up, watch some TV and off I’d go to bed. That’s when the land-line would ring…and I’d listen at the door.

I couldn’t hear much, just murmurs, mumbles and half whispers as if don’t-call-me-grand-anything didn’t want me to hear what was being said, of course this made me want to hear what was being said more than ever. I could tell there was a different tone to don’t-call-me-grand-anything’s voice, more upbeat, with a tinge of happiness mixed in. I’d heard the same tone when dad talked to mom on the phone, so I figured that there was a girl on the other end of the conversation. Or, in don’t-call-me-grand-anything’s case a woman, probably his age, which I wasn’t too sure of but figured he was at least in his 60’s. Do men in their 60’s still have girlfriends? I’d been told by my parents and others several times that I was too young for a girlfriend. Even though I’d seen enough on TV to know what the deal was, I figured 11 probably was too young to be interested in girls, 13 seemed to be a good jumping off point and I decided to wait till then. On the other hand I needed to figure out how to hear don’t-call-me-grand-anything’s conversations with whoever he was chatting with.

One night while watching TV with don’t-call-me-grand-anything, a character in the mystery show we were watching couldn’t hear a conversation through a wall, went to her kitchen, got a drinking glass from a cabinet, placed the open end against the wall, placed an ear against the closed end of the glass and smiled. I assumed this meant she could hear what was being said, which proved true when later on the lady relayed what she’d heard to the cops. I decided to try this out that evening when the mystery woman called.

After brushing my teeth and washing my face I went to the spare bedroom/office, unrolled by 6″ piece of foam bedding (which was very comfortable) put on the sheets, placed the blanket and pillows on the bed and pretended to go to sleep. The phone rang about 10 minutes later, I got out of bed, took the glass from it’s hiding place and pressed it against the door and listened. I probably had the same kind of smile that the old lady in the movie had as this little innovation worked like a charm. I could hear don’t-call-me-grand-anything as if he were right next to me and not behind a closed door. Of course I could only hear his side of the conversation but it was better than nothing and I could make up what was being said on the other side. Unfortunately since don’t-call-me-grand-anything’s part of the conversation was somewhat limited I had a lot to imagine.

don’t-call-me-grand-anything: “I’ve never been in a T.V studio but I did take a couple of broadcasting classes in college.”

While this could’ve been preceded by: “I’m now a famous actress and would like you to come to the studio and watch me perform”. Seemed unlikely but a kid can dream can’t he? There was a long silence followed by:

“Producer” ? This could’ve been preceded by “I’m now a Hollywood producer and want you to star in our latest feature film.” Again, this seemed unlikely, highly unlikely. Another somewhat long silence, then a longish “Uh-ha” in what I considered a skeptical tone. Cynical may have been a better choice and as a New Yorker, it was a word I’ve become familiar with.

don’t-call-me-grand-anything was quiet for a time with the occasional chuckle, another “Uh-ah” and some noises that could have been giggling, although I didn’t think adults giggled and it definitely sounded weird coming from the adjacent room. I listened for a few more minutes before putting the glass aside and going back to bed. Hopefully tomorrow don’t-call-me-grand-anything’s part of the conversation would be more revealing than an occasional “Uh-ah”. The lady on the other end of the line must’ve talked a lot, lonely? Maybe tomorrow night would be don’t-call-me-grand-anything’s turn to tell his story, whatever that may be?

Wednesday was clean the bathrooms day and as I’ve mentioned, don’t-call-me-grand-anything’s apartment had 1 and 3/4 quarters bathrooms. The 3/4 bath was no bigger than a NYC closet and this 3/4 bath had once been a closet in the spare bedroom/office and it was small, could’ve come from a boat or an RV but it did have a toilet, sink and shower and it was MINE, all MINE. I’d never had my own bathroom before, unless you’re rich, growing up in a NYC apartment usually meant one bathroom, one and a 1/2 if you were lucky. We weren’t.

Cleaning the bathroom wasn’t a big deal, I’d had chores when living at home and it’s not as if don’t-call-me-grand-anything dressed me in rags and started calling me “cinderfella”. Of course he made sure I wasn’t mixing chemicals and coming up with mustard gas, which turned out to be pretty simple since don’t-call-and-anything only cleaned with bleach diluted in hot water or all purpose cleaner with bleach. There was a bottle of Ammonia for “killing the ants when they show up in May”, which they didn’t this year, “maybe they skip a few years, like locusts” was all don’t-call-me-grand-anything had to say on the matter, other than to remind me that bleach and Ammonia were never to be stored together, not even the same room.

It didn’t take long to clean my small bathroom and I usually asked don’t-call-me-grand-anything if he needed help cleaning his bathroom, he usually declined the offer, but not today. Today he seemed to be moving a little slower, with the occasional “ouch” and grimace thrown in. When I asked him what was up he answered “as my grandmother was all too fond of saying “don’t get old, you won’t like it”. I thought about this for a moment then replied “does that mean it’s better to die young?” “That’s exactly what I used to say to her. Then again, I know what she meant all the same.” As he got off his knees after cleaning behind the toilet. “I should hire a cleaning company but I don’t want someone I don’t know going through my place. Uncle Neddy has probably deemed such activity as unessential until phase three.” Uncle Neddy” is what don’t-call-me-grand-anything called the governor. He came up with the title while we were watching “The Ghost and Mrs. Muir” in which one of the characters wrote children’s stories under that name. Pretty good movie, when don’t-call-me-grand-anything wasn’t describing what was going to happen next, something I made him promise not to do, he agreed.

One Wednesday afternoon don’t-call-me-grand-anything decided we should clean up the storage room, separate the the items into what stays and what goes to the dump. While doing this I came across a small cardboard box with a faded label that read “Acme optic company”. I opened it and nearly screamed, there was an eyeball inside, a blue eyeball. When don’t-call-me-grand-anything saw the look on my face, he laughed. “Don’t worry, I’m not a serial killer who keeps the eyes of his victims as souvenirs.” “Is it a spare? do you have a glass eye?” I asked. Don’t-call-me-grand-anything shook his head and said “I’ll tell you the story if you promise not to tell your parents.” I promised.

“A friend of mine and I got a job cleaning out the basement of a building that was once the offices of an eye doctor. While doing so I came across a large box filled with many small boxes inside. In the small boxes were glass eyes, we kept the glass eyes and brought the rest of the junk to the dump. Later that night, my buddy and I went to our local hangout for a few beers, at closing time we decided to drive around town and placed various boxes in random peoples mailboxes, laughing all the way.” He said with a big smile on his face. “Then what happened?” I asked with an even bigger smile on my face. Don’t-call-me-grand-anything let out a little giggle “While I can’t say for sure, there was an article in the paper a couple of days later about people calling the police complaining of finding eyeballs in there mail boxes.” “Did they ever catch you?” “No, but my buddy and I did say ‘Keep your eye on the ball’ , the eyes have it, ‘eye-eye’ among other ‘eye’ expressions quite often for the next few weeks.”

We also came across an equipment/bat bag containing three baseball gloves, two bats, one metal, one wooden, some softballs and an old score book. “Were you a baseball player?” I asked while sliding the over-sized glove on my left hand. “I played little league when I was a kid and softball in my 20’s and 30’s.” “Were you any good?” Don’t-call-me-grand-anything was silent for a minute, seemingly looking through me to a place that probably no longer existed. I waited. Finally don’t-call-me-grand-anything refocused and said “I was pretty good but was lucky to have played with quite a few guys who were really good, a couple of which were some of the best players in the area.” “Did you win like every game you played?” I blurted out. “I don’t think any ball player ever won every game he played in in any sport, not even Bill Russell. But we won more than we lost, although probably like nearly everyone who ever played any sport, I thought we should have won more.” I had noticed a small trophy on a book shelf in the entry hall area of the apartment and asked him about it. “That was from the first championship team I played on. All the wives and girlfriends chipped in to buy them for the players.” He stopped and stared off again, probably revisiting that time and place or perhaps he was having one of those “senior moments” I’ve heard people whispering about behind the backs of the people supposedly having one.

In an attempt to break the silence I asked “What position did you play?” This seemed to do the trick and Don’t-call-me-grand-anything snapped to attention and began his reminiscences. “Started out as an outfielder, ended as a pitcher and played every other position at one time or another in between.” “Were you a good pitcher? Did you strike out a lot of batters?” He chuckled. “Slow pitch softball pitchers don’t strike out many batters on a regular basis, unless he’s playing against some pretty awful players. Luckily, I had some of the best defensive players behind me, we didn’t give up many runs, not when all the parts were working properly, which they usually were.” “Do you still see any of the guys you played with?” Don’t-call-me-grand-anything looked at me “From time to time, although with the current ‘stay home, stay safe’ situation it’s become less and less, although I have to admit that it has been leaning that way for many years now.” Don’t-call-me-grand-anything said this in a matter of fact way, as if it didn’t matter any more whether he saw his old friends or anyone else for that matter, which reminded me of a conversation that I overheard my parents having about don-call-me-grand-anything and how most of the family consider him a recluse and an eccentric, how it would be good for him if I came to stay.

When I told don’t-call-me-grand-anything about this conversation, he chuckled joylessly then said “A recluse? Maybe, but one needs to be rich if one is to be considered “eccentric”. In my younger days I was considered weird, which I guess is eccentric without the money.” We finished organizing the storeroom with little more to say, other than “keeping or saving” on my part and a brief “yes or no” on his. In another attempt to break the silence, I asked about his late night phone calls, to which he replied “these walls are thinner than I thought.” “Not really, I had to put a glass against the door to be able to hear and even that wasn’t mush help.” I thought I was being funny but while the look on Don’t-call-me-grand-anything’s face was funny, it wasn’t that kind of funny, until it was and he let out a laugh and kept on laughing, so I joined in, both laughing until tears came. Don’t-call-me-grand-anything certainly was different than any adult I’d ever met, I guess you could say weird and I dreamily wondered if there was any way I could get him enough money to be eccentric.

The Summer was rapidly coming to an end and it was deemed “safe” to return to New York. My parents called to say they missed me as much as I missed them, if they only knew how much better it was to have a horse in your back yard, rather than a brick wall.

My parents decided to take a mini-vacation and come pick me up, they got a room at a nearby hotel that had an indoor pool and I was to stay with them there for two nights before returning to NYC. Don’t-call-me-grand-anything had dinner with us at the hotel on my final night in Connecticut and he insisted on paying over the protests of my parents. Before he left, he shook my hand and said “Keep in touch” I replied “you too…George” we both laughed the same kind of laugh we shared after I told him of my ease dropping. People stopped and stared, then George left, still laughing through his face mask.

Since returning to the Big Apple, I’ve sent George an email almost every night before I go to be and he replies, most of the time.

One Hell of a case..or “The Devil made me do it”

(I suppose this departure from my growing up with stewed tomatoes stories deserves an explanation, here goes: About twenty years ago I began this detective story and did not finish, this is my attempt to do so.)

“I read your story and knew if anyone would believe me…” As soon as she said that my worst fears about “blogging” Anne’s ghost story had been realized. Those fears being that every nut-job, every little old lady that hears something go bump in the night, every dressed in black-wack with a Ouiji board would be knocking on my (our) door.

Although Danielle Webster was no old lady and didn’t dress in black but after a hearing her story she was definitely in the run for nut-job of the month ( & year & decade for that matter)

Just in case you haven’t read of my (our) previous exploits…My name is Mike Beir, small town private eye, who until recently lived and worked quietly, that all changed when I met the person who would become my partner/lover/housemate Anne Stein. As I alluded to earlier, Anne and I met when she hired me to find out who was haunting one of her apartment houses (she has two). If that sounds strange, you ain’t seen nothing yet.

Part One: As I look back at my desk calendar it all began on May 13th, a Friday. While I’d never been much of a triscadecaphobic, I’ve been reconsidering that attitude ever since. Most of New England had been experiencing a rather bizarre little heat wave. Temps had been over ninety for the third day in a row. Records were being set for humidity levels and as the golf attired, 40-ish Ms. Webster stepped into my private office, my personal record for trying not to laugh during an interview far surpassed it’s previous level.

Ms. Webster was nearly my height (5’9 1/2″) large boned, yet not heavy. Long blonde hair pulled back into a pony tail, which may have been dyed and brown eyes. The eyes took in the surroundings and she asked for a glass of water from the cooler. After downing two little paper cups of H2O I offered her a chair. A knock on my private door preceded Anne’s entrance, Anne sat on my nap couch, while Ms. Webster took a chair. “I hope you don’t mind if my assistant takes notes” “Of course not and my situation will most likely require both of your services…and perhaps more” “And what sort of situation would that be”?

“First I’d like to preface this interview by saying that I am an attorney, currently working for a New York law firm..” “Is that city or state”? Anne interrupted, adding “For my notes”. “City and I’d rather not mention the firms name, partly because I’m on extended leave following my divorce from one of the senior partners”…”and the other partly” I interjected. “I was getting to that” she said with a school-marmish look that implied that I’d be clapping erasers after school for a week if I did it again. Ms. Webster cleared her throat and continued. “And partly because…well to be quite honest, what I’m about to tell you defies belief”. (I hate when former potential clients say things like that)

The rooms air quality which because of the unusually warm weather wasn’t all that great to begin with suddenly (and I mean SUDDENLY) took on a stifling effect. I wondered if it was just me, then I exchanged a quick look with Anne, whose face was red and moist. Getting up from the desk chair I urged Ms. Webster to continue while I turned on the AC. “It won’t help” Stated Ms. Webster, adding “it probably won’t even work”. Of course I ignored this comment and proceeded to click on the central AC. Only there was no “click” and no AC. “It worked yesterday” I said behind a furrowed brow and suspicious side-ways glances in both directions. “Maybe the Super is working on it” Anne added none to convincingly. I returned to my desk, called the Super and was told that the AC was malfunctioning and would be back up ASAP. I hung up, mopped sweat from my face and asked Ms. Webster to continue, while mentally preparing myself for whatever nonsense I was about to hear. What would it be? Visitors from outer space? Vampires. werewolves, zombies? What the hell, I could use a good laugh.

“As I’ve said, after my divorce I decided to take a long vacation. I’d been putting in 80 to 100 hour weeks for a decade and have enough money to take the next ten years off if I wanted, maybe longer” Her last sentence restored my full attention, nonsense it may be but if she could pay, I could make sense of her non.

“After viewing many websites, I decided to begin my Odyssey, if you will, in Death Valley. There’s an Inn & golf course, and although I went to college on a golf scholarship, my schedule hadn’t permitted more than 3 or 4 rounds a year, if that”. (My God, how can people live like that !!) I booked a suite for two weeks and off I went.”

Ms. Webster seemed overly hesitant to continue. I mentioned this and suggested that perhaps she would like to take the weekend to think over her options before hiring a P.I. Actually, even before she mentioned golf, I was thinking of taking the afternoon off and playing a round. One good thing about Anne’s “blogging” of my cases is that enough people actually read the “blog” to attract advertisers, who actually pay us money (sadly not enough to quit having to deal with clients and retire) just enough to be able to afford the fancy-schmancy course that opened recently in a near-by town ($95.00, cart extra).

“No. Once I decide on a course of action, I pursue it to it’s conclusion.” Ms. Webster took a deep breath and continued.

“I’d been enjoying the quiet of Death Valley for the first several days , I swam in the naturally heated pool, played golf every day, availed myself of the Inn’s Spa facilities. It was exactly what I’d been looking for, rest, relaxation, decent food and solitude. As you might be able to guess, there isn’t that much to do in Death Valley, which suited me just fine. That is until the beginning of the second week”. My mind was beginning to wonder, I’d never been much for friends and family inviting me over to hear about their vacations. The way this was going I wouldn’t be surprised if she whipped out her phone, swiped at it for 5 minutes, finally finding the proper set of photos that no one wants to see.

“It was a Tuesday afternoon and I was enjoying a cocktail on the terrace when a bright red 1950’s T-bird convertible pulled up to the Inn. There were two men in the front, both dressed in black suits, red shirts, no ties, no one in the back. The car was met bu the valets, who must have summoned help because two other hotel employees and the manager nearly ran to greet the new arrivals. I supposed it was some sort of celebrity and not being a wide-eyed, giggling teenager I paid them no more attention and went back to the book I was reading. It wasn’t until they passed by on their way to the lobby that I took a second look. The driver looked vaguely familiar, tall, thin, short brown hair, mustache & goatee, reminded me of Denis Leary. The other man I immediately recognized as Jay Stone!!

I guess this is where I was supposed to say something like “THE Jay Stone?” But the name meant nothing to me, although it meant something to Anne because she DID say “THE Jay Stone?” Anne then looked at me as if I should be beaming with recognition but all I could do was shrug. This in turn produced Anne’s patented “look”, which meant she thought I was being obtuse (an obtuse ass, was what I was thinking) In case the shrug wasn’t enough to show my ignorance I added “sorry” with another shrug for good measure.

The two female members of our sweaty little threesome exchanged an exasperated look and silently decided Anne would be the one to enlighten me as to who “THE Jay Stone” was.

“Jay Stone started out as a radio show host at a station somewhere in New England if I remember correctly” “W*** in New Cannon” Advised our hopefully potentially NOT a client. “I used to listen to him, at first that is. Where he was once funny, witty and charming be became sarcastic, rude and almost cruel. Apparently it worked because he became syndicated, eventually covering most of the country.” (Sounded like Howard Stern, someone I actually listened to briefly 20 or so years ago, eventually it became boring, I mean, how long can one listen to the same old blah-blah-blah? Aren’t people supposed to grow, mature with at least the potential of becoming adult-like? Ut-oh, am I actually thinking of myself as an adult? Should I re-release my inner 12 year old and listen to Howard again? On second thought, I’ll watch 10 minutes of a Jerry Lewis movie and be glad I grew up, sort of)

“Just when he seemed ready to take on the big boys of radio talk shows, he quit and of all things, goes into politics”. Anne continued. First running for and winning a seat in the House, where he served two terms. Again his star was rising, to the point where the Democratic nominee for President asked him to be his running mate. Then at what was supposed to be his acceptance speech, Stone not only stunned everyone by refusing the offer but ended the night and his political career by comparing career politicians to career criminals”. Now I remembered the guy and said so adding. “So, THE Jay Stone shows up in Death Valley in a red T-Bird, I’m guessing there’s more to it than that” And of course there was.

“Yes, of course. What your colleague, may I call you Anne?” Of course Anne consented, whereas Ms. Webster said “and call me Dannie” She even spelled it for Anne. Me? I wasn’t sure if I was included in this new found familiarity. “What Anne and you also Mr. Beir (I wasn’t) don’t know is that I went to High School with Jay. We were in the Theatre group together and even had an intense if brief love affair…” “Love affair or adolescent back seat humbling”?” I just had to ask, not that it had anything to do with the case (whatever the case may be) I just felt like being obnoxious, I mean just- gathering-the-facts-mam.

“No Mr. Beir, it was strictly an affair of the heart and I’m afraid I broke his.” She said it earnestly and with a touch of sadness, I envisioned her starting to cry, Anne would hug her and we’d all sing Kumbaya. Fortunately that didn’t happen as “Dannie” kept it together and continued. “It didn’t work out, I won’t get into details. I went off to college, he didn’t. We’d bump into each other from time to time, even went on a couple of dates in our twenties, but it wasn’t there for me any longer. It was different for Jay, I was the love of his life and (small sniff) I broke his heart again”. This was followed by a bigger sniff , still no tears as she went on. “Which is why I fell somewhat guilty, no, not guilty, responsible for what happened.” “OK.” I said, hoping she’d Get. To. The. Point. “I’ll bite, what exactly happened and what would you like us to do?”

“It seems he sold his soul to the devil for ten years of unlimited success in any and all endeavors, after which he has to play golf dawn til dusk for eternity”. Being a relatively normal person (all evidence to the contrary) I assumed this was a joke, perhaps Anne and “Dannie” were old friends and decided to begin a new tradition: Friday the 13th fools day !! And was I to be the first fool? I replied accordingly.

“10 years of success then golf for eternity, where do I sign up?” I half expected, hoped, prayed the two of them would admit to the joke and we’d all go to an air conditioned lunch. No such luck.

“I had the same reaction, at first. Now I’m not so sure.” Continued “Dannie” looking distressed, maybe even disturbed. As I saw it, there were three options: 1) I could waste time listening to more B.S. 2) I could run screaming from the room (a perfectly acceptable reaction under the circumstances, don’t you think?) 3) get “Dannie” out of the room and talk to Anne about options 1 & 2.

“Ms. Webster, would you mind stepping into the outer office while Anne and I have a word?” “Not at all” She replied causally, too casually. Although I noticed her giving Anne a pleading look as Anne showed her to the door. Once “Dannie” was out, I jumped up and locked the door. “What did you do that for?” A needlessly perplexed Anne asked. “To keep the crazy people out and the (relatively) sane people in.” “SSHH, she might hear you.” “So, what? It can’t be the first time, not if she goes around telling other people what we just heard. I’d be surprised if the guys in the rubber trucks with butterfly nets aren’t on their way now.” Anne turned and gave me the look of all looks, before saying. “She obviously needs our help.” “She needs help but not from us.” Then it dawned one me. “You’re not telling me that you..(pause for effect)…believe her?”.

Anne moved away from the door and walked to the window. “I’m not saying I do and I’m not saying I don’t. But why would someone like Jay Stone, or anyone for that matter say something like that? Especially to an old flame?” “Let’s see..(pause for effect) ..because he’s crazy too?” Anne turned to face me, the look in her eyes told me that she wanted to share something that she thought was important and probably upset me. “Do you want to know what I think?” “I don’t suppose there’s anyway to stop you from telling me?” “No, there isn’t”

We both sat on the nap couch and I waited. Anne took a deep breath. “You managed to get your friend off for murder, a murder you knew he was guilty of…” …”and by doing so I sold my soul to the devil. Is that what you mean? What is my sentence, do take on every lunatic that walks in?” “Maybe it’s not a sentence, maybe it’s your trial by fire, your chance for salvation. Don’t you want to take on the devil, see if you can best him?” (pause for effect) “No!” This I didn’t have to think about. “Ah, darling, what if we lose?” I couldn’t believe I was talking about this as if it were all true. (never underestimate the power of love) ( What Mike really means is the power of good sex, regularly. I do kagel exercises, something that I recommend a woman do if she wants to get her man to do almost anything) (What do you mean “almost”? Doing battle with the devil pretty much qualifies as ANYTHING) So this is how I got myself into this mess.

PART TWO:

Anne asked Dannie to rejoin us in my private office. We all took our previous seats in the increasingly warm room. “I assume you’ve decided to take the case?” Said our brand new client with a look on her face that was either self-satisfied or the forerunner of and eye-rolling, head twirling, pea soup spitting fit. When none of this came to pass I nodded. “With some reservations but before we discuss the terms of our employment I would like three references. People we can contact ASAP. No offense…” “None taken. If someone walked into my office with this story I’ed feel the same way. Will the deputy mayor of New York, the Lt. Governor and an ADA do?” I said they would, she borrowed a pen and a piece of paper and wrote down the names. “I didn’t put down the phone numbers because you’d want to look them up anyway, it’s what I’d do.”

Anne took the names and retreated to the outer office to make the calls. This left Ms. Webster and I alone in what was becoming my super heated office. “Now that we’ve decided to take the case, what exactly would you like us to do? Are we supposed to get Mr. Stone’s soul back? Does the Devil have a refund policy? I don’t wish to sound any more skeptical than I already am, but my knowledge of the Devil is mostly from the movies. Another thing? How did you find out about this deal? Did he just blurt it out? Do you think he was trying to impress you to get you to go to bed with him? I’ve met a woman or two who would’ve been susceptible to that kind of line, are you one of them?”

This last comment brought a smile to the placid face of my (our) new (yikes) client. “No Mr. Beir, as a matter of fact Jay is, as far as I know, unaware that I know of his plight. It was his driver who enlightened me.” At this point she opened her brief case , took out a business card and handed it to me. It was reddish in color with black print and read: “Devlin S. Cratch. Travel Agent “Devil-May-Care” Travel, it had a New Orleans address and phone number.

“Devil-May-Care” travel, that’s cute, do you use the same guys? Or should I say “Disciples?” Before Ms. Webster could answer Anne walked in. “Everyone has nothing but nice things to say about Dannie.” “They do? I blurted out. “Are you sure you’re a lawyer?” Ms. Webster and I exchange glares and even though I didn’t look, I was pretty sure that Anne was staring daggers at me also. “Mr. Beir…” “Please call me Mike, being called “Mr.” it tends to reinforce the myth that I am an adult.” “That Mr. Beir is a reality that you obviously need to have reinforced …” “Listen lady, I may be a lot of things but I don’t go around telling complete strangers that my boy friend in in league with the friggin devil.” “Would the two of you just shut up!” Interrupted Anne. “We’re not going to get any where by bitching at each-other.” “Anne has a good point.” I said while leaning back in my chair. “So, let’s get down to it. What exactly would you like us to do?”

“Specifically, Mr. Beir, I would like one of you to follow Jay & his constant companion, keep and eye on them, know where they are at all times. I’ve been doing that for some weeks now but it’s time I pursued another course of action.” “Such as?” I asked. “I have a friend, an expert in the occult who I’ve contacted and we’re going to find out if there is some sort of loop-hole in Jay’s contract. See if we can get him out of it.” As dumb as all that just sounded, it was the first thing that Ms. Webster said that made (at least in this situation) sense. If one has a contract that one wants to get out of, one goes to a lawyer. “Is that your area of expertise. contract law?” Asked Anne. “As a matter of fact, it is.” Replied Ms. Webster.

At least we had some sort of plan. It was decided that Anne and I work the case for one month, my usual fee is $500.00 a day plus expenses. Since this was going to involve both of us I asked for double, up front, hoping she’d balk. She didn’t and wrote a check for $20,000.00, that I hoped would bounce. (it didn’t) I had her sign a standard (non-demonic) contract and the game, as Sherlock Holmes would say…was afoot !!

After exchanging vital communication device information, Dannie went on her merry way and I once again wondered if all this was going to end up on one of those practical joke “reality” shows? Our little office fridge was calling and I opened the door, took out 2 fosters larger beers (the 12oz bottle, not the 26oz oil can) handed one to Anne and sat down. “What is our first move” Asked Anne as she popped the top of her bottle, took a swallow and sat down next to me on the nap couch. “It looks like I’m going golfing.” During our exchange of digits, Dannie had given us the location of Jay and his buddy Dev. They were staying at a local Inn that had been “updated” to include a lavish Spa, another attraction was the Donald Ross (like) golf course, that is where I was headed, as soon as I finished my beer. “And my role , while you golf?” “Follow up on our other lead.” “Devil-May-Care” Travel I presume?” Chuckled Anne, as if the ridiculousness of the situation was finally hitting her. (Nope) “Even as crazy as this case sounds, we need to take it seriously so we don’t get blindsided while not paying attention to details.” I didn’t chuckle after saying this. “so, you’re saying you believe Dannie”? “I’m not going to wear a garlic necklace while golfing… ” …”That’s Vampires” interrupted Anne in all seriousness. “Whatever.” She gave me the look. “What I mean is, while I don’t necessarily believe this devil…theory. It has to be some sort of con, I don’t know what kind yet, but we’ll find out.

Anne thought this over for a moment, before slowly saying “The easiest way to let the devil into your life is to not believe in him, not put up any defenses.” “So, I’ll go buy us s crosses, silver of course, blessed by a priest to hang around our necks…” ..”That’s Werewolves.” Said Anne, adding “And I have a silver cross.” “Maybe you should start wearing it?” I left without telling her that I was going home to look for my baptismal pin, a sliver cross…and pin it on (just in case).

I drove the short distance to my (our) 1/2 a house to change into my golf attire, pick up my clubs and the cross (just in case). I dug through the cedar chest where various keepsakes from my past were stored. There was my ball gloves, spikes and uniforms from my softball playing days, a shoe box containing obits of people I admired as a kid, Randolf Scott, Charlie Conerly, Audie Murphy, John Lennon and of course my grandparents and dad. Of all the people who’ve died on me the only one I truly miss is my grand father. The immigrant child, the man of God, a true gentleman from all I’ve been told. I wonder what he would’ve thought of his little Misha going to do battle with the devil? (or whatever the hell (pun intended) it was all about.)

Before leaving the house (1/2 a house) I called the pro shop to say I’d be joining the Jay Stone group and was told that they’d be back to the first tee in about half an hour. The young lady on the phone (Tabitha) took my information before sheepishly asking “Is Mr. Stone raising money for a charity?” Ah-ha!! I thought, it is a scam, raising money for a nonexistent cause, I knew it. “Why do you ask?” “Well, he’s played golf from sun up till sunset for three straight days, I thought it was some sort of marathon, you read about them online some times. And he dresses kinda weird, even for a golfer.” “Has he or anyone else asked for contributions from you or anyone else that you know of?” “No, it’s nothing like that, he just plays golf with his buddy Dev and another player or two, only Jay & Dev play all day, don’t even stop for lunch.” “They play all day without anything to eat?” “They eat when the cart-girl finds them and that’s another thing, since day one, they’ve requested, almost demanded one particular food be on the cart at all times.” “Is that unusual?” “Not exactly, we have members with dietary restrictions, low fat, low sodium, a vegan or two but this one was odd and not all that difficult to find.” She hesitated, I pressed. “So, what is it?” Tabitha looked around warily, then almost whispered “Devil Dogs.” “Devil Dogs?” I repeated. “You know, the dessert cakes and he likes them to be cold.”

I paid Tabitha the $120.00 greens fee and headed for the first tee. The starter told me that Mr. Stone’s group was just about to tee-off and motioned in his direction. Jay wasn’t hard to spot, dressed in in red and black (just as Ms. Webster mentioned) his shirt was a geometrical designed black and red (the kind that can make you nauseous if you stare at it long enough) black knickers, red knee socks & shoes, topped by a black tam-o-shanty with a red Pom-Pom. The entire package resembled Payne Stewart on acid. (or maybe I’d been drugged and was currently hallucinating?)

I approached the first hole, a par 4 and asked Jay if he minded if I joined him. We introduced ourselves and Jay answered that he didn’t mind if I played with him as long as I didn’t mind that he wasn’t very good. I came back with the “it’s just a game” B.S. And it just a game, unless you suck and don’t belong on a golf course and haven’t figured that out yet. I tee’d off first and hit a decent drive. Then it was Stone’s turn and as he was teeing up his ball I took a look at his clubs. They reminded me of the set my dad, the man who introduced me to the game used. They were old fashioned but not old, as if someone found a crate of 1950’s golf clubs in an abandoned warehouse. The woods were actually wood and what i assumed was the sand wedge did’t have S.W. on it or any degree of loft indicated, it was labeled “the Dynamiter”.

I returned my attention back to Stone, his ball was tee’d up high, very high, then he stood over the ball so long I thought he had narcolepsy and had fallen asleep.. Finally he started his back swing and just as his club came down a strong gust of wind came from the left and pushed his ball way right into the trees. Usually when a golfer hits a shot that poorly, he’ll swear or slam his club or tee up another ball after claiming a “mulligan” (which means they are cheating) but Stone just picked up his tee, put his driver back in the bag and asked if I’d seen where his ball ended up. I directed him t it and we drove (in separate carts) to where the ball entered the woods and began looking.

I found it, he was playing a brand name ball with the “Devil-may-care-travel” logo on it. Stone took a drop and hit it again and again and again. You get the idea and it lasted for 18 long, long holes. The kind of day I usually lose interest and I did. As we walked off the 18th green I tallied up my score: 44 on the front, 45 on the back, not bad, considering it was the first time I’d played the course and just…considering what may or not be going on. Stone’s score? He told me not to bother keeping his, so I didn’t, but if I was to make a guess, 130, at least. It wasn’t that the guy had a bad swing, it was at least as good as mine, probably better. He didn’t have “happy feet” nor did he move his head much, back-swing was ok, follow-through was good, the guy just couldn’t hit it straight, even two foot putts were an adventure.

Stone didn’t have much to say on the course, other than “nice shot” or “good putt” when appropriate, as did I, although he had more of an opportunity to do so. Not talking much while playing with someone I’m paired with at the first tee is usually fine with me, unless I’m working and golfing simultaneously. Which up until this point, was never.

We did have a brief conversation while walking off the 18th green. I asked if he was playing the next day, to which he replied “Dawn til dusk”. “Would you mind if I joined you?” “Suit yourself”. was his reply. I added “I’ve always wanted to see what it’s like to play all day.” Then he looked me in the eye for the first time and said “It’s hell.” He stepped into his cart and drove to the parking lot. As he reached the lot, a Red ’57 T-Bird pulled up to him, an attendant put his clubs in the trunk, Stone tipped the kid, got in the passengers side and the drove off. I hustled my gear into my car and headed after them. The T-bird couldn’t have been going more than 10 mph because I caught up to them before we’d reached the main road.

The T-Bird took a left onto Rt. 28 and I followed, both of us doing about 40 in a 50 mph zone. We trundled along for half an hour in the direction of Harwichton, what passed for the “big city” in the area, the place of my birth. I had a feeling that we were headed to the recently restored (by the local tribe that owned the local casino) Towne Inn.

Built in the 1920’s as a getaway for the rich and famous (I kid you not) it has hosted George Bernard Shaw on more than one occasion, Frank Sinarta, among others stayed there while trooping through the area on bond drives during WWII. Boasting another Donald Ross type golf course and other world class amenities, the Inn fell on hard times in the 50’s and 60’s, eventually being reduced to not much more than a flop house by the ’70’s. The golf course was sold to the city (which, thank God they maintain and operate quite nicely) and the run-down three story brick structure wound up not only being restored to it’s former splendor, a seaweed wrapping, mudbathing, body waxing, yoga-ing world class Spa was added. As well as the inevitable sprouting of “the Villas”. i.e. high class condo’s.

The T-Bird puled into the long simulated (fake) cobblestone drive, which briefly wound it’s way through leafy (I’m not much of a Botanist, Evergreen trees are green, Birch are white and Xmas trees have lights on them, that’s pretty much all I know about trees) old growth trees, stopping at the over-sized double door entrance of the Inn. I did the same. Attendants in Beefeater bottle clad clown suits approached each vehicle. Jay had his door opened and closed for him (he got out in between) but the driver waved the palace footman and drove off. Although I would’ve liked to know where the T-Bird went and what it’s occupant did, if our clients story was to be believed (still a big IF) he’d be back. Plus, I wanted to stay with Jay.

As the Old-English Attendant approached my Malibu the look of disappointment was evident and after studying the Rolls’, Benzes, vintage Vets and assorted other expensive and classic cars in the lot, I could see why. In my defense, I drive a car that blends into the crowd, not stand out from same. I took the offered valet ticket, tipped $5.00 and entered the hotel.

The lobby was large with high ceilings, 20 feet, maybe more. The centerpiece was an equally large birdcage designed to resemble the Inn itself. The thing was larger than my (our) bathroom and actually had two white birds flapping around inside. Doves, I think but for all I know, they could’ve been albino pigeons. I approached the desk and asked the attractive, grey suited young lady if there was a room available for the night? After giving a thoughtfully quizzical look, she went to work on the computer keypad. Within seconds quizzical went to hopeful with a smile attached and I was told that two rooms were available for the evening and she went on to describe them.

“The one I recommend is room 42, it’s what we call the “Frank Sinatra” suite, in honor of his visits during the 40’s. the accommodations include a king-sized canopy bed, whirlpool in the bath, a fireplace in the living area off the bedroom with a balcony overlooking the golf course. It also includes the use of the exercise facilities, pool, sauna, steam-room and breakfast. I hesitated to ask “how much”, not that I was afraid that I couldn’t afford it (one night anyway) what I wanted was to avoid looking like someone who couldn’t afford it. Lacking anything else to say, I asked about the other option, once again I received a look of disappointment. “That would be room 56, it has two twin beds, private bath with a shower, no tub….and”…then she leaned in and whispered, “it’s over the kitchen, we usually save it for older children or domestics.”

The pressure was on, servants quarters or the Sinatra Suite? The young lady looked at me, I looked at her, then a middle-aged woman dressed in a short fur coat (in May?) “designer” jeans and cowboy boots, called to another of the “associates”, went into a spiel about car trouble and asked if they had anything decent for the night? It was now or never, so I blurted out “let’s go with Sinatra, I always liked Dean better but we aren’t in Stubenville, are we?” From the look on my “associates” face, it was clear that she had no idea what I was talking about, or didn’t care (probably both) and click-ity-clacked some more keys on the computer and asked me how long I’d be staying with them. I decided on two nights. “That’ll be $350.00 per night ++ for a total of $700.00 ++(YIKES!! I was right, I could only afford one night, maybe one and a 1/2. I didn’t even ask what the ++ was for, I figured it was covered by the ++ expenses part of the contract) How would you like to pay?” I handed for my Amex card, she gave me a brief rundown of the hotels facilities, how I could charge just about anything to my room and asked if I needed assistance with my luggage? I keep a small carry-on bag with the essentials for such occasions in the trunk of my car. Since I reside in New England, the clothing part of my essentials changes seasonally. they also get rotated for freshness, nothing worse than opening a grip and having the contents smell as if they should’ve been left in mothballs.

A bellhop was called and given my valet ticket to retrieve my bag. Another employee escorted me the elevator and onto Mr. Sinatra’s one time digs for a day. After the room showing guide, who happened to be a comely young lady, showed off the accommodations I tipped her $10.00 (too much?) and she left.

While taking in the $350.00 a night opulence of the suite, I wondered how much of it was left from the forties? Very little would be my guess, other than the fireplace, which looked original, maybe the double hung sash windows, which I could probably figure out pretty quickly if I attempted to open one, but the AC was on, so why bother? Everything else had been replaced, repainted, replastered, refurnished, refurbished. I bet myself the booze tasted the same and opened the mini-bar to make sure. I was correct.

A knock at the door announced the arrival of my bag. It cost me another sawbuck (when in Sinatra land tip like Sinatra, although from the look on the bellhop’s face, you’d have thought it was a buck. He stood in the doorway as if I’d be intimidated into giving him more money. His hopes were dashed when I said goodnight, closed the door in his face, went to make another T&T and had to call room service for a lime or two.

While sitting in a wing-back chair that Sinatra probably never sat in, I called Anne on a phone that Sinarta definitely never used. She answered on the third ring. I told her where I was and described the surroundings. “It sounds like all you need is a hot babe to help you enjoy your stay.” She said in that low sultry voice that I like. “I was hoping that Frankie had a groupie or two stashed under the bed, but no such luck”. I quipped. “If he did they’d be older than your mother.” Was her equally quippy reply. “Good point. How long will it take to throw some clothes into a bag and get over here. You should see the size of this bed.” (sometimes I think that that is Mike’s main focus after the work day is done) (what do you mean sometimes?) She asked how much this was running our client, I told her. “For that kind of money, Dannie deserves two detectives on the scene, so to speak. I’ll be there in under an hour.”

I was going to get in the whirlpool but it was definitely big enough for two, I decided to wait til Anne arrived so we could break it in together (so to speak). Besides, since I was on a case and intended to charge our client for this room and any other reasonable expenses, a little detecting (very little) was in order.

Reluctantly leaving Sinatra land, I causalled my way down to the lobby and headed to the “Prince of Wales” bar. Located across from the bird cage, the knotty pine paneled , Horse and Hound paintinged room was quite narrow and ran along most of the width of the front of the building. The configuration of the green plush carpeted hall-like room was obligatorily broken into small sitting areas. Each contained a heavy wooden coffee table with a sofa and two or three chairs surrounding it. Two were in front of fireplaces, one on each end of the room. French doors in the middle of the room led to a terrace for seasonal seating and smoking. There was a man and woman smoking long narrow cigarettes at one end of the terrace, they were both very tall, very thin and dressed as if they had just stepped off the runway of a fashion show. Possibly a “Ken and Barbie play tennis in New England” exhibition.

I stepped back inside and sat in one of the empty stools at the bar, there were four total. This satisfied three of my needs. 1) it was as far as I could get from the two groups of ladies enjoying what looked like English tea, as evidenced by the tea cups and finger sandwiches on their coffee tables. (I ain’t a detective for nothing) 2) I could pump the not unattractive bartender for possible information and lastly but not leastly, I could get another drink.

Positioning myself on the stool closest to the window, I ordered a perfect So. Co. Manhattan, rocks, twist. The bartender who’s name tag read R.J. smiled approvingly, took a half turn to the right, stopped, turned back to me and announced “we just got in the 100 proof So.Co. if you prefer?” That could be interesting (dangerous) especially since I hadn’t eaten since a hot dog from the cart girl on the 11th hole. And as we all know from High School Health Ed. class that drinking on an empty stomach allows the allows the simple sugar (alcohol) into your blood system that much quicker, thus getting drunker faster. This lesson had less than the desired effect on yours truly. I still recall thinking “if that’s the case, why wouldn’t one drink on an empty stomach?” It would make it quicker and cheaper. First, you wouldn’t have to spend money on food and second, it would take less booze, so you’d end up saving money on both ends. It made perfect sense to me at the time, but now that I’m a older and wiser, I said only if she filled the snack basket first.

While sipping my 100 proof So. Co. cocktail I took the opportunity to start a conversation with R.J.. The late afternoon cocktail crowd was gone, the tea parties had thinned and before the “let’s meet in the bar” types hadn’t as yet arrived, so other than the occasional straggler, it was pretty much just me and R.J. who was looking better with each sip of So. Co. Not that her looks were an issue: thirty-something, Mediterranean (?), thick dark hair, big, dark eyes, small nose that seemed to twitch occasionally. (more likely the booze was twitching me)

R.J. was dressed in black and whites, multi-colored bow-tie, all the staff I observed wore different colored bow-ties. (except solid black or solid white) and black three button vests. As we chatted R.J. was obliged to ply her trade. From my vantage point I could easily see the behind the bar setup. The space was very tight, everything that was needed to run a bar was seemingly packed wherever it would fit, for the first time since i was 6 or 7 the term “willy-nilly” came to mind. The three reach-in fridges were placed in such away that the doors opened into the backs of one-another. To do the job required either unnecessary footwork or a lot of bending. Fortunately (for me) R.J. chose the latter.

It was while i was enjoying the view that I roached the subject of jay Stone. “nice looking guy in the clown suit?” Although I was pretty sure who she was talking about, just for effect I said “clown suit”? somewhat confusedly. R.J. straightened up, turned to face me and said. “I suppose I shouldn’t talk like that about one of the guests, but the guy wears different combinations of black and red every day. Weird stuff, stripes with plaid, knickers with cowboy hats and boots, black farmer jeans under a red tux jacket. And you know something? She looked around cautiously before continuing. No one can figure out where it comes from or where it goes. The guy shows up at the desk in one of his clown suit, says he has a reservation. Barb, the desk clerk looks at the computer screen, nothing, no Stones at all. But the guy insists, so just to humor him, she checks again and there it is J. Stone booked into one of the smaller rooms above the kitchen.” “The servants quarters.” I say all knowingly. “Right, youd’ve thought a guy with as much money as he was supposed to have would be in the Sinatra Suite.” “Maybe he’s cheap?” I interjected. “He definitely doesn’t spend it on luggage.” “He didn’t bring much?” “The guy didn’t bring any. Told barb that it would arrive later, lost in transit was how he put it.” These things happen.” “Sure they do, but not as much as an overnight bag has arrived, but the guy has a different clown suit every morning and then another at night.” “How long has he been here?” “This will be his fourth night.” “And still no luggage?” “Not one piece.” “Maybe he had to buy new clothes?” she shook her head. “Comes in every night empty handed and the maids who clean his room haven’t found a single shopping bag, the gift shop hasn’t sold him anything, no deliveries, his closet is empty in the morning but he comes down for dinner in new clothes every night, he’s due any time now.”

People were beginning to flock into the hotel in general and the bar area in particular. Twos, threes, fours, fives, mostly dressed for an elegant dinner, their big night out, or maybe a wedding? Their were a couple of young to middle-aged men in what we used to refer to as the “yuppy uni”; blue blazer, tan pants, white button down shirt, stripped tie. While I was sipping my drink and making up stories for the different groups, I spotted Anne’s car drive by the window heading for the parking lot. A few minutes later, Anne, followed by a bellhop, entered the bar. “I thought I’d find you here.” She said mischievously. I slid off my stool and approached my partner in this thing called life and her footman, fished out the room key from among the golf tee’s out of my pocket, gave it and yet another sawbuck to a bell person and asked him to take Anne’s bag to the Sinatra Suite. The words must’ve come out a tad slushier than I thought because Annee gave me the “look”. “Been doing a little drinking?”Anne asked as we heading for the waiting bar-stools. “It seemed to be the proper thing to do, considering my surroundings and all.” (I’m such a wit) (half wit by now, if I know my Mike)

R.J. approached us and asked what Anne would like to drink. I was hoping she’d ask for an Amstel lite, because the beer fridge was in a particularly good bend and twist spot behind the bar. “Amstel, please.” Replied Anne. (Yes!) (Mike, Mike, Mike, will you ever grow up?) (Hopefully not). R.J. seemed to be a seasoned veteran of the bend and twist and well aware of it’s effect on patrons like … me. Anne and I were facing each other which meant that R.J. was bending out of her site. That is until I didn’t respond to whatever Anne was saying, which in turn made Anne follow my gaze, which in turn produced another of Anne’s “looks”. R.J. returned to us with the Amstel and a frosted glass, placing them in from of Anne. “Thank you” said Anne, “You’re welcome.” R.J. dutifully replied, then added “would you care for another?” In my direction. “Yes, please.”

As R.J. moved away, Anne leaned in close to my face. “Does she have to bend and twist to make your drink?” “No, only to get something out of the fridge or work the little dish machine.” “Darn, so why didn’t you order a beer?” “The whole reaching into the fridge scenario didn’t come to my attention until after I’d ordered and I couldn’t switch from So.Co to beer, now could I?” Anne mulled this over for a moment. “I suppose that would be a tad obvious, although I can’t imagine she’s unaware of her performance. So, what have you been doing, wadding up dollar bills and throwing the on the floor?” “Fives.” We both laughed. “You’re damned lucky I trust you, detective Beir.” “You’re lucky I’m in love with you, Anne of Green Gables.” “Green Gables? How many drinks have you had? Speaking of being in love with me (which to Mike means we have good sex on a regular basis) why don’t we take these to that fancy room of yours and see what comes up?” “Excellent idea.” I paid the bill, plus another ten dollar tip and we headed for the elevator. “Just so you don’t pretend I’m your little friend behind the bar, we’ll leave the lights on.” Now that Anne had my full attention, the doors opened and our red and black clad quarry stepped out.

This evening Mr. Stone’s attire consisted of a fire engine red tuxedo cut jacket over a black dress shirt with red buttons (no reference to the is intended or should be inferred) and bow tie, black tuxedo trousers with a red stripe (no reference to the beer is intended etc…) along the seam. Red and black cowboots completed the ensemble.

Instead of making his way to the reportedly 4 star restaurant, which is what I expected, Stone headed to the main entrance. Anne and I exchanged a look, after which she offered to drive if necessary. “Good idea, I’ll bring your beer.” I received another “Anne look” for my efforts to promote safe driving.

When we got to the door, the red T-Bird with the devilish looking driver was waiting at the bottom of the stone stairs, a footman holding the passenger door open. Stone dutifully tipped for said service before sitting, the door closed behind him. The middle-aged man looked at the tip, rolled his eyes and put the bill (at least I think it was a bill) into his pocket. The T-Bird headed for the main gate. Anne had the foresight to forego the valet and we dog trotted to the car, Anne somewhat faster than I, due to my “don’t let the beer foam over the top” gait that I was attempting with moderate success.

There was one vehicle between us and the T-Bird when it reached the main road, taking a left and cruising along at it’s usual 35 mph. We followed through three green lighted intersections before they took a left at the fourth light, which turned red before we could get to it. Not that it mattered, they were heading toward the sight of a formerly abandoned textile mill that had recently been turned into (guess what?)…a Native American run…Casino!!

Figuring the T-Bird and it’s infamous occupants wouldn’t be hard to spot, we dutifully waited our turn down Wampum Way (I kid you not). The now four lane entrance road took us past Pat’s Pizza Palace, heartily still up and running despite the upheaval around it. The Italian eatery had existed in the same spot under different owners and management since the twenties. Always had the rep of serving good pizza, grinders (subs, hoagies, whichever you prefer) pasta and garlic bread, lot’s of garlic. Mill employees had kept it busy back in the day but even then it was pretty dead after 7pm. Fast forward ( a little) to my senior year in High School, when it became known that a sort of cousin (long story) of my best friend Pete’s named Leslie waited tables at Pat’s and if we ordered food (and paid for it, with tip) she would fill our amber plastic soda cups with beer. Needless to say Pete and I with a member or two of our small clique took advantage of Leslie’s generosity from time to time.

The curiosity to see the old mill complex had always been satisfied by relatively long distance looks while pulling into or going out of Pat’s parking lot. So as Anne drove through the over-landscaped, over-lighted entry way, it was closer to Dorothy gazing at the Emerald city than the usual factory-turned-apartment complex/office building. The massive parking area was filled to bursting with vehicles of all ages and descriptions, as well as several tour buses. We spotted the T-Bird at the valet parking lot and followed. Although the sign read full, the T-Bird stopped and it’s occupants disembarked. Stone wandered toward the entrance while the driver “Dev” chatted with the attendants.

When Anne and I attempted to follow, our progress was halted by a massive uniformed security guard. “Valet’s full. you’ll have to use general parking.” I leaned across Anne and said “We’re with Mr. Stone’s party.” “Who’s Mr. Stone?” Replied the gruff yet polite quasi-cop. “The gentlemen in the red and black tux that just got out of the T-Bird.” Anne chimed in. “Just a minute.” He walked to where “Dev” was still hanging with the help. While the pair had a brief conversation, I thought “Dev” and I made eye contact. It was only for a second, then he nodded to the guard, who in turn motioned to another attendant, who in turn opened our door (one at a time), we departed and this new tax write off received only a fin. What can I say, the cash was running out, then again, casino’s must have an abundance of ATMs.

As we passed the now nearly jolly green clad giant he tipped his hat. “You should’ve mentioned Mr. Cratch in the first place.”We’re friends of his guest, just met Mr. Cratch. Is he some sort of high roller?” “The highest, he’s here almost every night, always brings a friend or two, which is what threw me off.” “How so?” Asked Anne. “You’re the first ones I’ve seen not dressed in red and black.” Anne and I exchanged a glance that one would think we’d exchange after hearing that comment. “Have a good time and don’t lose your house … or sell your soul.” And yes, my skin was crawling as Anne (mine too) and I walked warily toward the entrance of the former mill cum casino.

The lobby area was rustically and tastefully decorated with lots of wood, there was definitely one less small forest in the world. We strolled by the center-piece of the two story room, a series of waterfalls filling a good sized pond. Fish of various sizes and colors swam about nervously, as if they knew they didn’t belong. I knew how they felt.

As we entered the equally rustic and tasteful gaming area, my first impression was the non-stop slot machine noise and smoke, quite a bit of smoke. One could make a good living with a kiosk, selling surgical masks or small gas masks. Then again, I’m pretty sure that the security people would diligently discourage mask wearing customers. (Anfita beware)

For the most part gambling is not my thing. I buy a lottery ticket once in awhile, usually when the jackpot is over $100,000,000.00 (I could live on less, but if one is going to dream, dream big) and some buddies and I get together to play nickle, dime, quarter poker three or four times a year. Standing or sitting while placing quarters into a slot machine or trying to guess whether my cards beat the dealers cards or watching a little ball bounce around a wheel or, or or whatever, holds my attention for an hour, tops. Being in a auditorium sized room filled with people, noise & smoke is not my idea of a good time. Open space, fresh air, and relative quiet is what I seek and value most,especially on my own time, which this was not.

Being who I (we) am (are) , doing what I (we) do, sometimes we (beat you) find ourselves in places we (mostly you) would not usually or voluntarily go. The noise and crowds had an unexpected affect on the alcohol in my blood system. The third or fourth drink euphoria changed to sharpened senses and a sort of slow motion detective autopilot. As silly as this case seemed, it was my job to figure out what the hell (perhaps literally) was going on.

To make a long, noisy , boring story short, quiet and hopefully not too boring, the evening went something like this: We not so discreetly followed Stone from one section of the pipe dreamers paradise to another. He won at roulette, he won at Black Jack, he won at dice, he couldn’t lose, managing to look disinterested the entire time.

During our evening of spying, Anne filled me in on what she found out about “Devil-May-Care” travel. It was an authentic travel agency, based in New Orleans, having been there since before (God knows when) records were kept of such businesses. The Better Business Bureau did not have a file on “Devil-May-Care” other than to say they were not a member, had never replied to any B.B.B inquiries. As to any complaints filed against Devil-May-Care? Such information, if any, was not available to the public. Makes one wonder what B.B.B.’s function is?

My detective brain began to formulate a plan. Send Anne to New Orleans to check out D-M-C (that’s short for Devil-May-Care, getting tired of typing the entire thing out) while I kept any eye on Stone and Driver Dev. I laid it on Anne. She thought it was great. “The partying capitol of the world. Are you kidding? Of course I’ll go!!” “Ut-oh” was my reply. “And you’re not going alone.” If you’ve ever been to “Nor’lins” you know why, if not, I’ll tell you.

Part 3: New Orleans.

New Orleans is the equivalent of an adult amusement park. Sea World has fish, Disney World-Land has Mickey & Epcot, Universal Land has rides through fake movies. New Orleans has Booze!! Lots of it. The place is an alcoholics dream come true. Bourbon St. is aptly named, although the surrounding should be Vodka St. Gin Drive, Beer St., Scotch Ave. etc. instead of whatever they are named now. The area doesn’t so much as encourage visitors to imbibe, it gives you almost no alternative (of course you could just say no, but one doesn’t go to N.O. to say no. At least I and pretty much everyone else I saw there didn’t). Where any other city I’ve ever been in won’t allow you to take a mixed drink with you out the door of their bars, taverns and night clubs, in New Orleans they either have an abundance of plastic cups waiting to pour your cocktail into so you can take them out on the street. Either that or they just serve everything in plastic, cutting out the middle man. They want you to drink as you wander from bar to bar. Hell, they even sell booze from booths on the sidewalks. (just in case you run out before you make it to the next stop on Whiskey Way)

So, if you are a functioning alcoholic, this is the vacation spot for you, where every night is Saturday night, except Friday and Saturday when it’s like New Years Eve in most any other city. Come visit Alcoholic Land, we have 3 day (doable) 5 day (dangerous) and 7 day (followed by 30 days in rehab) packages starting at $299.00 (alcohol and bail money not included).

Of course this is not the sort of advertisement the local Chamber of Commerce encourages and having been to N.O. twice, there are other attractions such as the many excellent restaurants but once one starts pounding down Southern Comfort one is apt to forget that the deciding battle of the War of 1812 was fought just outside of the city. Aptly named the “The battle of new Orleans” , the conflict was fought after the peace treaty to end the war had been signed. Of course the 19th century text message hadn’t reached General Jackson nor the British commander General Pakenham in time to prevent the battle from taking place. And while Hollywood would have us believe that Pirate Jean Lafitte had something other than a relatively small role in the American Victory, the truth according to the Tour Guide was a little different.

In preparation for the upcoming assault, the British had used native grasses to weave crude flotation devices, which they would use in the predawn attack to ford the moat like canal in front of the American ramparts, overwhelming the defenders and winning easily. Unfortunately (for the British) these flotation devices were left behind and instead of carrying on the assault without them, the commander sent troops to retrieve the hay bales. This delayed the battle long enough for the sun to rise. The subsequent British charge across several hundred yards of open field occurred in broad day light and did not go well. U.S. riflemen simply mowed down their attackers before they could get anywhere near the U.S. battlements. The final score: USA 2, British 0, now get the fuck out and stay out, we’ll be in touch in about 100 years, where once again, we will show you how much better at war we are, fortunately (for the British) we’d be on the same side. Enough History by Beir.

When our casino caper finally ended at 3am (Anne and I played slots for most of he evening/morning, she ended up nearly $50.00 ahead (it would’ve been 100.00 if I didn’t have to keep giving Mike my quarters) I lost and lost and lost some more. Thank God for an expense account. We then followed Stone and Dev back to the Inn, where Stone was dropped at the door and Devlin S. Cratch drove off the parts unknown, probably back to the casino to look for more converts.

Since I was supposed to play golf with Stone first thing in the morning and I knew his room number, I didn’t think it necessary to watch his door. On the other hand, if he did for whatever reason skip before dawn, which wasn’t that far away, they could be on there way to anywhere with a couple hours head start. I decided that Anne (what !) should take the first watch while I got a couple of hours sleep. (you can sleep while I golf) (you bet I will, after the hot tub, by myself)

When the alarm went off seemingly seconds after I laid my head on the pillow, I took a quick shower (no shave, Anne likes a little scruff and later I was hoping to…) (Mike, Mike, Mike, keep your head on the case, you know I like sex as much as you do 🙂 Anyway…I dressed in the red golf shirt and black shorts that Anne thoughtfully brought from home (gotta blend in, he-he) I took the elevator to the lobby and found Anne sitting in one of the overstuffed chairs reading a paperback with a pot of (decaf) tea on the table in front of her. “Good book?” I asked as cheerfully as I dared. “Miss Marple and the Tuesday Murder Club.” “I have, I’ve read all of the Marple short stories and a couple of the novels, I like the short stories best, the novels seem to be not much more than another short story with a hundred and fifty pages of filler.” “Is that why you wanted to become a detective?” Asked a yawning Anne, as she placed a bookmark in between a couple of the pages and with heavy-lidded eyes listened to me reminisce about my youth.

“Somewhat, it may have started in High School, second year English class I was fortunate enough to have a teacher that didn’t make us read “Fuck Finn” or “Tom Sawyer”, instead the class was assigned “Tarzan” (here’s a trivia question for you: in the original novel, what did Tarzan do to the person who killed Tarzan’s adopted Ape mother? Answer…he killed and ate him) and various Sherlock Holmes short stories. I felt as if I’d won the lottery.” Anne smiled and with my assistance struggled out of the chair. We hugged briefly before she headed for the elevator and I took up the vigil.

While I waited for Stone to appear, it dawned on me that Julie Babcock would be the ideal person to accompany Anne to N.O. First of all she didn’t drink, second, Julie had been an instructor in self defense at the Police Academy where I’d graduated (barely) she possessed various belts and degrees in various disciplines, all designed to kick someone’s ass. Julie was also a lay minister in the Baptist Church and she was 6′ and 180 lbs the last time I’d seen her. If there was a better person equipped to take on the Devil or whatever we were up against, I couldn’t think of one. I sent Anne a text briefly outlining the trip to N.O. told her to look up Julie’s number and see if she was free to join in the fun.

It was still dark out when I decided to step outside and idling at the curb was the red T-Bird. Not seeing anyone around or in the car for that matter, I took the opportunity to check the registration. It was in the glove box, the car was owned by “Devil-may-care” travel out of New Orleans. After returning the papers I closed the glove box when a noise came from behind. “It sure is a beauty, hope you don’t mind me taking a peek?” I said to no one in particular, half expecting to see Stone or Cratch to be right behind me. I turned around bracing myself for a flying fist or a gun and found myself looking at a middle-aged man dressed like a waiter. The pudgy, mustashio’d face looking into mine was smiling. “Hey Mike”. Grumbled the voice inside the face after exhaling cigarette smoke.

My first reaction was to say “how’re you doing” before clicking into blow-off mode when something popped in the lumpy grey matter that passes for my brain. “Kenny?” The cracked tooth grin (I’d witnessed Kenny opening many beer bottles with his teeth in our misspent youth) widened on the middle-aged face. “I thought you were high hattin me” he coughed/spoke as we shook hands (a bizarre custom, which we all know began hundreds of years ago as a way of seeing if the person you were confronting has a weapon. So each of the confronted offers the empty right hand while concealing a club, knife, gun in the hidden left hand) “Gimme a break Kenny, it’s gotta be at least 10 years.”

Kenny Killkenny was three years ahead of me in High School. The class athlete/stud about campus who once had a try out with the local Yankee’s minor league team but was supposedly passed on after a pot induced display of behind the back catches and unnecessary dives all over the outfield, followed by mostly pop ups to the infield. I hung out with his younger brother through most of Junior High and High School and the three of us were on the same city league hardball team for my single season foray into playing the game the way it was meant to be played. (after 15 games of dodging 75 mph fast balls I decided the kinder, large, slower moving softball was more to my liking)

“Your brothers wedding.” Said Kenny as his still powerful grip squeezed my hand a little longer than I cared for. Kenny always had the bully mentality. Had to be the toughest kid on the block, ran the fastest, threw the ball hardest and could punch someone’s lights out faster than anyone I’d ever seen in or outside of a boxing ring.

Kil (whose nickname may or may not be a shortened version of his last name) finally let go of my hand and I asked him how long he’d been working at the Inn. “About six months, breakfast four days a week, plus a wedding or banquet a couple times a month.” He replied somewhat shamefacedly, adding “it ain’t bad, flirt with the fat broads, snarl at the cooks when they give me shit and count the tips.” “Yeah, I tended bar some after I left the cops, but it got to the point where I had the fake smile plastered on my face so often it almost stuck. So I went back to being a dick.” “You always were a dick, badge or not.” I laughed, Kil laughed, then an uncomfortable silence followed.

“I’ve been reading about you.” (Ut-oh) and you know what you need?” “No, what?” I said dreading the answer. “A side kick.” “What about Anne?” “I mean someone to get you out of trouble, not into it. Muscle, someone to get information, go where you can’t, get their hands dirty, an operative.” “I suppose you have someone in mind?” Again we both laughed. I didn’t want to upset or insult Ken, so I framed my answers as delicately as possible. “What about this place? You seem like you’ve found a nice spot for yourself.” “Like I said, it’s only breakfast, I’m out by 11 most days.”

I told Ken I’d keep it in mind just as Dev and Stone came out of the Inn. Stone was dressed in his usual black and red, this time a black Raiders hat, red shirt, black cargo shorts that cam down way past his knees, a red belt red knee socks and black chuck Taylors. Dev was dressed in all black proper golf attire, hat, shirt and long pants and boat shoes. As Stone got into the passengers seat, Dev turned to me and said “I understand you’r joining us for a round or two today?” “As a matter of fact I am, is that’s ok with you?” “The more the merrier.” Was his reply, adding “I’ll see if I can dig up an appropriate fourth.” With the emphasis on “dig”. “We’ll meet you at the course.” Dev said as he got in the car and drove away. I wondered who he was going to “dig” up?

Dev drove a tad faster than usual and we arrived at the same course we’d played the day before. We parked, got our clubs out and I headed to the pro shop to pay. “”No need, it’s all taken care of, just head to the carts.” Said Dev with a wry smile. We did so and behind the wheel of one of the carts was an attractive brunette woman in her 40’s, dressed in a red tank top and black short shorts. Her face looked vaguely familiar, once I stopped ogling her fairly large breasts and focused on her face. I strapped my bag onto the cart, sat down and was about to introduce myself when she said “Hi Mike, it’s been a long time.” I looked at her (face) a little closer and blurted out “Peggy?” “The one and only.” She practically purred.

Peggy Capaletti was a Jr. High/High School classmate of mine that I hadn’t even thought about in years. Unlike when I was 13, 14, 15, 16 and couldn’t think of much of anything else. “Yes, it has been a long time. What brings you here?” “Dev contacted me and asked me to join him today, I had no idea you’d be here.” Why didn’t I believe her? Well for one thing, when in school she acted as if she barely knew I existed and two, I seemed to recall seeing her name in the “Deceased” section in our annual Alumni news letter a few years back. I mentioned this to which she replied “Obviously, the reports of my death were premature.” While placing her right hand on my inner thigh. “Shall we play a round?” She whispered in my ear. “Of golf?” I replied, gulping in between the “of” and “golf”. “We’ll see.” Adding “Hang on.” as she stepped on the gas pedal, turned the wheel sharply to the left and I did have to “hang on” hopefully not for dear life.

Peggy teed off first, hitting a nice drive down the middle of the fairway, I followed with an equally good drive, then Dev, likewise and finally Stone, who dribbled one off the tee about fifty yards. It was another hot day, even at this time of the morning, getting hotter as the sun rose. The three of us Peggy, Dev and I played along nicely, while Stone managed to butcher every hole, the expression on his face never changing from one of complete disinterest. “Just another day in paradise, right Jay?” Commented Peggy at one point. “Depends on your definition of paradise.” Muttered Stone. Dev didn’t say much, just the casual “good shot” or “nice putt.” Peggy, on the other hand was constantly chattering about High School and why didn’t I ask her out back then, implying that I could’ve gotten lucky if I had and winking as if that possibility was still on the table. Going as far as rubbing an ice cube on her upper chest, letting the droplets run down, out of site into her tank top. I pretended not to notice the effect this was having on a certain part of her breasts (you better not be noticing, Mike) I pretned even harder when she declared “I can’t wait to get home, take my clothes off and jump in the pool.” Adding after a slight pause “Care to join me?” I considered following this line of the investigation for a moment, then thought of Anne and declined (good boy).

After the first 18 holes Peggy headed to the club house after kissing me on the cheek a little longer than necessary “See you soon.” She added as if it were a certainty and not a question. As i watched her walk away, another attractive Brunette from my past approached me and asked if she could join the group. Brenda and I had worked together at a restaurant shortly after my cop career ended. We’d even had an affair of sorts for a short time before she up and married the mush older owner of the place and retired to the lap of luxury that she clearly thought she deserved. When she offered to continue our fling after marriage, I politely declined, somewhat because of my high moral fiber, mostly because every employee at the restaurant was aware that Brenda’s other half carried a handgun and bragged that he wasn’t afraid to use it. I didn’t care to find out if this was bluster or not.

The second 18 went pretty much the same as the first, the only difference was that the equally endowed Brenda wasn’t wearing a bra under her red and black striped tank top. When this round was done, Brenda also asked me to accompany her home, going as far as stating “I can call our mutual friend Peggy and all jump into the pool together.” Again, I declined. As Dev, Stone and I walked to the parking lot as dusk, Dev turned to me and said “Blondes tomorrow?” Got in the red T-Bird and drove away. While I am a steadfast Brunette guy, I’m sure Dev could come up with a Blonde or two that I lusted after at one time or another. Hell, I wouldn’t be all that surprised if a certain Ms. Monroe was sitting next to me in the morning.

It was a dark and stormy night. (every author wants to write that line at least once) I was on night watch when Dev and Stone, the latter dressed in his usually unusual black and red outfit, exited the elevator and headed toward the main door. It was opened from the outside just as they neared it. Not sure how that happened, I don’t recall it being an automatic door when I arrived. Timer to save money on a night porter? I was about to follow, planning on calling Anne from my truck, when Dev stopped, turned and drifted my way, pulling out a card when he came to rest in front of me. The guy seemed to hover, didn’t make a sound when he walked, nary a creek. The place was carpeted but it was old and nearly everyone experienced a crack or creek walking across the lobby. Not this guy. I didn’t notice it before, maybe it was the carpeting or maybe I’ll have to pay more attention to whatever is going on.

The card read “Northminster Resort Hotel and Country Club” it boasted 36 holes of championship golf and other activities. The address and phone number were listed. I’d hear of the place, it was a couple states up from here, four to five hours drive, depending on traffic. “In case you want to get a couple hours sleep, this is where we’ll be.” Said Mr. S. Cratch as he walked away. Throwing “At least until it rains again.” over his shoulder as the big wooden doors closed behind him.

Big decision: do I wake up Anne before the alarm clock does or should I wait until she gets up, maybe takes a quick shower? On the other hand, she is a a tree-hugger of sorts and probably wouldn’t want to take two showers…(just like Mike, trying to rationalize waking me up for sex. I always say, give it a shot, if I don’t want to, you’ll be the second to know)

After I woke Anne and explained the situation “And you believe they’ll actually be there?” She said while doing the morning bed stretch and accompanying yawn. “Yes, otherwise I would’ve followed them. They’re obviously not hiding from us, so why not tell where they’re going next?” I was saying this while taking off my clothes and slipping under the sheets. “Planning on getting a little sleep before we head out?” Asked Anne with a familiar look in her eyes. “Eventually.” I replied, sliding closer to her, moving into the back spoon position. “MMM…what’ve you got back there?” “Cupids arrow.” “Is it aiming straight to my heart?” “Eventually.” Was my answer.

After our tryst, we showered, packed and headed to the front desk to check out. It was still raining and was supposed to for the next several hours, at least according to the Weather Channel, which was playing on the lobby TV as we walked past. Since the Weather Channel is the most trusted source of weather information in the USA (it says so on their bottom of the screen scrawl so it must be true, right?) I figured there was a 50/50 chance that that was what may actually happen. We checked out and headed for the parking lot, the double wooden doors did not open automatically, which I mentioned to the door man, asking about the late night timer situation, saving on manpower and such. The guy looked at me as if I had two heads and said that no such contraption existed, at least not that he knew of and he’d been working the door since the renovation. As we walked to our vehicles, we decided to takes Anne’s car for the gas mileage, drop mine at home, pack some clean clothes, put my clubs in the trunk and got in, Anne behind the wheel. “So, what was all that about the automatic doors?” Asked Anne as she punched the Hotel’s address in the cars GPS. I explained, adding my impression of Dev’s hovering. “Now that you mention it, I had the same impression a time or two. What does it mean?” “It means we may be in way over our heads.” I replied as I clutched my baptismal crucifix.

It rained nearly the entire ride to the hotel, stopping about half an hour before we arrived. We pulled into the cracked pavement of the resorts large partially populated parking lot, where we spotted the red T-Bird parked near the entrance of the one time go-to destination that had fallen on hard times as other more opulent resorts opened in the area in recent times. Anne parked, we retrieved our luggage from the trunk and headed to the hotel entrance. No door man was stationed to greet us and the doors didn’t open automatically, so we pushed our way into the lobby and headed to the front desk. The weary looking middle-aged woman behind the desk looked up from her computer screen and asked us if we had a reservation. I took a chance and said “Yes, should be under the name Beir.” “I don’t recall seeing that name when I checked today’s arrival list.” she replied as she tapped the keys on her computer. “Here it is, Beir reservation for two, in the Honeymoon suite. congratulations, just married?” Anne took the lead. “Actually it’s our anniversary, we met two years ago today, I thought it would be fun to stay in a Honeymoon suite, it’ll be my first time.” “Mine too.” I chimed in, not sure why, go with the flow, I suppose. We checked in, another middle-aged person, this time a man dressed in beige trousers and matching vest over a lighter shade of beige shirt and tie took our bags and led us to the elevator.

The Honeymoon suite lived up to it’s name, round bed, (big) whirlpool tub, separate shower (big enough for two or three or four…two is just enough Mike) there was also a sunken living room with erotic paintings on the walls, a large screen TV, leather furniture, french windows leading to a deck, pretty much everything you’d want. We unpacked and went out on the deck, it overlooked a couple holes of one of the golf courses and guess who was driving by in their cart waving up at us? Dev and Stone, actually only Dev was waving, Stone just sat there in his usual red and black outfit, his usual bored look on his usual face. Even though we were thirty or forty yards away, Dev and I seemed to make eye contact and a thought popped into my head, “let’s get this over with.” Not sure what that meant, not at first anyway, not until Anne blurted out “Let’s get this over with”.

“What?” I said to Anne as she gazed at the pairs cart as it drove toward the green. “What, what?” She replied. “You said, “let’s get this over with. Why did you say that? Get what over with?” “I’m not sure. I was watching Dev and Stone and I thought to myself, “let’s get this over with.” “You talked of me going to New Orleans to research “Devil may care” travel, but why bother? We have the case right here, don’t we? How long are we going to following these guys around, play golf, screw our brains out and move to another resort and repeat?” I was thinking that that sounded pretty good to me…”I know what you’re thinking”. Said Anne, interrupting my thinking. “I was thinking that it would be perfect if you could play along with me.” “What makes you think that I can’t?” she replied. “You play golf?” I asked. “As a matter of fact, I went to college on a golf scholarship.” “We’ve been together for two years, why haven’t you mentioned it before?” Anne moved away from the edge of the deck and headed into the suite, I followed. She sank into a leather easy chair, I took the couch.

“I read an article when I was a freshman in High School. I was a how to get into college with minimal cost. For women, the article stated, one of the easiest and surest pathways was through golf scholarships. Since the implementation of Title 9, all colleges that offer any sports has to have as many womens scholarships as mens. The article went on to say that womens golf had the most unfilled scholarships of any sport. So, I took up golf, got pretty good at it, made the High School team and was offered four free rides, I picked one that had a good accounting program and played my way through college, so to speak.” “Are you any good?” I asked. “I was a three my senior year.” A three? I’ve never cracked ten, we were definitely going to play a round in the very near future.

(Please excuse the lack of my words on your computer or tablet or Smart Phone or whatever…I’ve been searching for notebook number 2 of “The Devil Made me do it” in vain. I did however find the other five Mike and Anne stories and notes for three more, but alas, not note book # 2 :-(. Consequently, I’ve come up with an alternative ending and took Anne’s advice… “let’s get this over with”. Here goes.)

THE FINAL SOLUTION:

I decided to call Anne’s bluff (I don’t bluff) and took her to the driving range to see what she’s got. We rented her a set of clubs and headed to the practice tee. Anne went through a series of stretching exercises, picked out a short iron, dropped a few balls on the grass and hit the first shot to the on hundred yard flag. Actually, the ball hit the flag on a bounce, stopping about 3 feet away (If it was more than 2 1/2 I’ll eat my bra). Anne proceeded to hit several more shots, all close to the 100 yard flag. She picked out a longer iron and hit several more shots, this time close to the 150 yard flag. This went on for about 45 minutes, each club selection garnering similar results, the driver being the most impressive. 250 – 270 yards down the middle, then she hit a few fades (left to right for a right-hander) and as many draws (right to left for a right-hander). Then we moved to the chipping and putting area, more of the same. I was convinced, she could play…better than me and I told her as much.

“I’m glad you agree, because if we are going to play the Devil and one of his disciples, I need someone better than you as my partner.” I could tell by the look in her eyes that she was dead serious. “You’re plan is to challenge Dev to a golf match to get back Stone’s soul? Is that what you’re proposing?” “Yes.” Was her reply. “We’d better call Dannie, I think our fee just went up.” “Good idea, maybe she knows a scratch?” (golfer)

We returned to our suite, called Dannie and apprised her of our plan. She did indeed know a scratch, herself. Apparently she read a similar article about golf scholarships and went the same route as Anne (maybe if I’d gone to college for more than one semester, I’d be a single digit handicapper myself. (not unless college came with a new swing Mike, I’ve seen you play).

We met Dev and Stone for dinner and presented our challenge. Dev’s reaction was a tad discomforting. He grinned from ear-to-ear before laughing so loudly that all other sound stopped, our fellow diners all turned our way just as a strong wind blew through the room. Once again I wondered what the hell I’d gotten myself into, then Anne squeezed my hand and I amended the I to we.

The rules for The Match were set over dessert. It would be a better ball format, meaning that each player for each team of two would play their own ball until it went in the hole and whichever player cards the fewest number of strokes, that is the score for the team. Low score wins the hole, if there is a tie, then the hole is half-ed. The team that wins the most holes wins the match. There was to be no “Devilish” intervention and the club’s head pro (who happened to be sitting at the next table) agreed to officiate. The Match was to commence in three days, giving Anne and Dannie time to play a practice round and Dev to pick a partner, a female non-pro was decided upon, I wondered who that would be?

The morning of The Match both Anne and Dannie seemed confident in their ability to defeat Dev and company. As we approached the practice tee, I noticed another female golfer off to one side hitting balls, rather well truth be told. While Dannie and Anne were doing their stretching, I wondered over to where the other lady was practicing. As I got closer and the tallish, blonde woman, subtly dressed in a longish black skort and red blouse came into focus, I recognized her. “Excuse me, aren’t you Kimberly Abernathy?” The lady, who was going to her bag for another club, stopped and looked my way. “As a matter of fact, I am. Who are you?” “Mike Beir. I believe you’re to be playing a couple of friends of mine in a little bit.” “Tell them good luck, they may need it, I get to play without any devilish interruptions, first time in years. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to finish warming up.”

I rejoined the girls as they were about to start hitting balls. “Is that our other opponent?” Asked Anne. “Yes, Kimberly Abernathy. Heard of her?” I replied. “That name if familiar. Wasn’t she a big deal for 8 or 10 years before basically disappearing from the scene? I wonder what happened?” Both Dannie and Mike give Anne “the look” at which Anne chuckled. “Right, Duh!”

First tee: Par four 375 yards, slight Dog-leg right, tree-lined fairway, many trees on this course, not much water, several elevation changes. Although relatively short at 6100 yards, it was not an easy course to walk, or row to hoe, as we were about to find out. (not to worry, I won’t detail every shot of every hole, I want to get this over with as much as both of my readers 🙂

The four players and I were waiting at the first tee for Gabe, the aforementioned Head Pro/Rules official. Anne and Dannie decided to wear white, all white, head to toe, Shorts and a golf shirt for Anne, pants and shirt for Dannie, white golf hats donning both heads. Dev was dressed in all black, pants, shirt, shoes and smallish, black straw hat. Ms. Abernathy was still dressed in the subtle red and black. Gabe finally showed up dressed in mostly white, long pants, shirt, white shoes with black stripes, even his hair and goatee were mostly white. Gabe looked older than he did last night, must’ve been the light. He had a small satchel over one shoulder, which he placed on the bench next to the first tee. “Sorry I’m late, had to get a new horn” which he produced from the sack, seemingly as a way to justify his tardiness, then quickly returned the somewhat larger version of an air horn than I’d seen before, to his bag. During this exchange, there was an audible intake of breath from Dev, who had a different look in his eyes, the usual smugness gone, if only for an instant.

Gabe, without benefit of any written material to source if necessary, formally introduced everyone, we all shook hands, except for Dev and Gabe, who curtly nodded “I’d like to say it’s nice to see you Gabe.” Said a grinning Dev. “Always a please to hear, Louie.” Replied Gabe. (Louie?) I couldn’t resist getting into this conversation (where Angels fear to tread, that’s my Mike. Obviously, Anne, obviously) “You two have met before?” I asked. “Once or twice, although not on a golf course.” Replied Gabe, who, without further delay stated the format to be played, flipped a coin to determine which team tees off first (Dannie & Anne won the toss) and we were off.

The girls won the first hole when Dannie drained a 30 foot putt. The match was back and forth for the front nine, with no more than a one hole advantage on either side. It was obvious that Ms. Abernathy was enjoying playing the game without any “devilish interruptions” as she deftly maneuvered the tree lined front nine. I wondered why Dev didn’t choose someone other than himself to be her partner, not that Dev was a slouch but it was Abernathy providing most of the teams shots, with Dev mostly talking with his caddy, a 40 something attractive woman, dressed in black & red, who resembled another seemingly (at the time) unattainable love interest from out of the past. She was driving the cart with Dev and Abernathy’s clubs, I was behind the wheel of another cart transporting the girls clubs. I had intended to walk but if one team gets to have their clubs driven around the course, why not both? And as I said, it was a pretty hilly New England course.

The 18th tee saw the girls with a one hole advantage, Dev and Abernathy need to win the hole to extend the match. Anne teed off first on the downhill 555 yard par 5, her shot split the fairway, Dannie’s did the same. Dev hit his tee shot into the high rough to the right of the fairway, Abernathy’s was down the middle and the longest of the group. Both Anne and Dannie laid up with their second shots, Dev hit his second even deeper into the rough but on the left as it skittered across the fairway, this would probably take him out of the hole. It was up to Abernathy. There was a small pond in front of the green, Abernathy decided to go for it and pulled out her driver for the 250 yard shot. Driver off the deck, going for broke Abernathy caught it cleanly and the ball headed for the green. Unfortunately (for them) it seemed to go into the pond, definitely (PLEASE!!) in the hazard area. Gabe headed in that direction, disappearing from view as he walked down slight grade leading to the pond and green beyond. I thought this to be odd as he had been keeping a pretty close eye on Dev, watching virtually all of his shots. This fact was not lost on Dev, as he quickly moved his ball off of a tree rout and was about to hit it when Gabe stepped from behind a nearby tree. “I knew you couldn’t play a straight game, not even once.” “So you caught me, so what?” “You know what.” Replied Gabe as he reached into his satchel, produced the large air horn and was about to push the plunger when I drove up, checking on the delay, as Dev was away. “What’s up guys?” Gabe depressed the plunger, a REALLY LOUD non-air horn like sound blasted from the horn and……

Anne and I both popped up in our bed, in our house, in the wee hours of the morning. “Holey Moley, I just had the weirdest dream.” Anne blurts out as she turns on the bedside lamp. “Must be something you ate.” Says Mike as he leans over to give Anne a kiss on the cheek, his baptismal crucifix tapping her shoulder. “When did you start wearing a crucifix?” “Pretty early on in your dream, don’t you remember?”

FINI.

Special thanks to…me !! And anyone else out there in cyberville who has endured the writing process with me.

Up Next ??? No more detective stories…for awhile anyway 😉

30-30

I turned 60 last week and I suppose getting here is better than not, but it still feels as if the clock is running out, much more so than turning 40 or 50 (duh) and much, much more so because it seems as if I just turned 50. Where did those ten years go? Divorced at 49 nine after 20 years and one day of marriage. Since then it’s been a revolving door of cyber dating where seemingly everyone lies about something on their profile (I claim to be 5′ 10″ although I’m really 5’9 & 1/2 ” so it’s a relatively small lie, right?) Tall women lie about their height, claiming to be shorter, short women lie about being taller. Heavy women claim to be a “few extra pounds” and none of them understand the meaning of the word “few” (consisting of or amounting to a small amount) there-fore 20, 30, 40 or 50 pounds is definitely not a “few”. Then there are the married women looking for a guy on the side, who (of course) don’t mention this in their profile, unless it’s one of those sites that’s all about cheating on one’s spouse. While that is not my style, I have “dated” a married woman , who forgot to mention the married part until after the third or fourth “date”. These “dates” consisted of meeting, eating and finding a hotel room for after dinner entertainment, followed by her leaving before 3 am to go home to “let the dog out” or “feed the cat”, but in reality, it was to get home before her husband, who worked nights. I suppose I should’ve figured it out but ignorance is truly bliss and even when she uttered the words “I’ve got a secret” I didn’t wish to admit the obvious. The “relationship” lasted a couple of years, finally ending when she (and her husband) moved a little further away than she cared to drive for our “dates” at my place. I assumed she’d found someone closer to her new home and moved on, as did I.

That was several years ago and I’ve had many first dates (stopped counting at 50) since, a few (consisting or amounting to a small amount) seconds and even a couple (two) longer term relationships that eventually petered out for no particular reason. Now, at 60 I am blissfully unencumbered by romantic involvement, although I’ve been contemplating re-entering the world of cyber-dating, just to see if there are any new faces, perhaps a wealthy woman who like to date a middle-aged guy of, shall we say….55?

Thirsty-Firsties:

Air travel is supposed to be one of the most stressful times we will spend on our vacations or business trips. Unless you are in first class or own a plane, preferably a jet. While lamenting the fact that I no longer fly first class (mostly because I’m no longer married to a frequent flyer) and somewhat because after having flown first class to Vegas, San Fran (returning to the east coast from S.F. was the best, a nonstop 3 + hour flight in the lap of luxury. I nearly had to be pried from my recliner while pleading with them to just let me continue on to Germany and back, PLEASE!!) Portland Or. , L.A. New Orleans, Phoenix, Denver, etc. etc. other than Jackson Hole, Wyoming (boyhood thing) or a European “river cruise” (only if I can fly to Europe first class) I really don’t wish to go anywhere any more. In case I haven’t mentioned it, I’ve spent nearly 40 years in the Food & Beverage industry (a field of employ I wouldn’t recommend to anyone) which means I’ve had dozens of people (often hundreds) up my ass every working day. Consequently, I crave peace and quiet on nonworking days more and more as time goes by and spending any of that time travelling is way down on my list. A good book, soft music, a good old movie, watching or playing (with company of my choosing) golf ( I know, boring) and of course, writing is (mostly) all the remedies I need. An occasional alcoholic beverage or two helps.