Easy Rider

Mark has not been feeling well. That, however, did not deter him from going shopping on Friday. First to Trader Joe's, and then over to the Jewel store in Evanston. After schlepping around Trader Joe's, Mark was not feeling up to walking all around the Jewel. It is the weirdest Jewel I have ever been in. They built it on a narrow lot between rail road tracks and Chicago Street. So the store is very long, nearly a block long, yet only about fifty feet wide. Mark took one look at the place and announced that he couldn't do it. He couldn't walk that far while he felt so ill.

"Why don't you use one of those electric handicap carts?" I asked.

"Oh no, that wouldn't be right. Those are for people who have trouble getting around."

 "What the hell did you just tell me? You said that you couldn't make it through this store feeling the way you do."

I went over to where the electric handicap carts were, picked one out, and delivered it to Mark.

"Here, now get on the goddamned cart."

So Mark got on the goddamned cart and after fiddling with the controls for a moment, shot off into the store ahead of me.

"Ahhh... How do you stop this thing." were the last words I heard as he disappeared down the cereal aisle. When I caught up with him, he was wedged into a corner next to the deli.

"Just take your hands off the controls when you want to stop."

It turns out that Mark is just as horrible at driving a shopping cart as he is driving the car. Once again Mark shot off down an aisle, knocking into a Jewel employee who was standing up on a step stool. Again he couldn't figure out how to turn around or how to stop. As other shoppers scattered and I aimed my camera towards Mark, I heard him threaten me with death if any photos of him riding the handicap cart were posted on Facebook. I thought about that for a moment as Mark again tore off down towards the meat department. And that is why the picture above is a photoshopped version of last Friday afternoon.

More, Lunch With Mom

Gador and Mom

Visited Mom Wednesday. It was a good visit because she didn't mention her feet or roll down her socks to show me her swollen ankles. I assume that means they weren't bothering her much that day. Other than that, it was pretty much the same as always. Fed Mom some lunch, fed the birds outside the kitchen window, fed the squirrels too. Emptied Mom's kitchen garbage can, then went out to the street and fetched her garbage bin from the curb. Mostly I do all these things because I really don't have a lot to talk about and it kills time. I live a very boring life and Mom spends her days shut up in her house, so not much happens over the course of a week. I'll always ask her, "Who came to visit you this week?" Sadly, she can't quite remember. Sorry brothers and sisters, she does remember you being there, but she's never sure if it was yesterday or a month ago. I can tell when my sister Carolyn has been there though. I ask Mom to show me her hands. If Mom's nails have been done, I know Carolyn has been there in the last week. So on Wednesday I looked at her fingers, the nail job looked pretty fresh. I'll assume that Carolyn had come out to visit. One thing that Mom does remember, is what time I leave so that I don't get caught in rush hour traffic. I tell her that I have to go and she looks up at the clock, "Oh, right. This is the time you always leave me." Luckily for me, it is hard to make me feel guilty. Anyway, this time Mom had a trick up her sleeve to keep me there longer. Five minutes before I usually tell her that I have to go, Mom put her Hoveround® into gear and zipped away and down the hall. I assumed she had to go to the bathroom so I waited... and I waited... and I waited. Thirty minutes later I figured I had better go check on her. I stuck my head into her bedroom door to see what the holdup was. That was a mistake. Now I have a vision of my mom pulling her panties up while sitting in her Hoveround® while facing the bedroom door, burned into my brain. So Mom got me to stay an extra thirty minutes, but she has scarred me for life.

It's All About the Balls

I bowled on a league last night for the first time in about five years. The first time since throwing away my ball and bag, announcing that I would never bowl again. About two thirds of the way into the first game I came to realize just why I had stopped. My arm seemed to have a mind of its own, I was tripping over my feet, and I couldn't get over the feeling that everybody in the bowling alley was watching me miss easy spares. If it weren't for the fact I had just spent two hundred dollars on a new ball, I would have thrown it all in again. But then one of my team mates bought me a beer and things started to smooth out a bit. The second game was more respectable and I had another beer. By the third game and the third beer, the old swagger came back. Not that I think that I'm a good bowler, but after three beers all the distractions and self doubt faded away. It all came back to me, how to bowl. Well, how I bowl. Alcohol is the secret. Not too much, not too little. It seems the sweet spot is one drink per game and I realize I should start that first drink before the first game starts. That is, if I don't want to embarrass myself. My mom and dad bowled into their seventies. I'm sixty seven. My goal is to bowl longer than Mom and Dad did. If ruining my liver is what it takes to do that, so be it.

Dishing With Mom

I like having people over for dinner. I like the drinks, the conversation, and the meal. Usually Mark makes a pretty good meal and I buy some decent liquor which will automatically mean conversation. Depending upon the amount of liquor consumed, that conversation can be interesting or it might veer off into something nutty. But all that aside, what has to be done no matter what, is the cleanup. If the company is good I leave the cleanup for later. If it has already gone off the deep end, I'll stay in the kitchen and do the job right away. What I do not like, is help in that job. Every time, well meaning guests will come into the kitchen and ask if there is anything they can do. The answer is always, "No, I'm fine. Thank you." Seriously, I do not want help cleaning up the kitchen. Too many times things get lost, put away forever in a place that I would never think of looking. I have a place for everything, and everything in our kitchen has a place. In addition to where things go, I have a specific order in which I load the dishwasher. I like the plates loaded just so, the glasses have to be in the same exact place every time, and I also have a system for where the flatware is placed. The forks, the knives, spoons, they all have to be in the correct pocket. So stupid, I know.

I never thought much about why I like everything placed exactly in the same place every time. I simply thought I was being conscientious by loading the dishwasher in a specific order, and putting the dirty dishes in the correct spot. But I now know that it is hereditary. Last week I brought Mom lunch and when I set the table, Mom was shocked to find that I used dining room silverware.

"Well, it was in the kitchen drawer with all the other forks and knives." I explained to her.

"No, that is not where those belong."

So I put the offending silverware away and pulled out Mom's crappy flatware. It made her happy. Later, after lunch, I cleared the table and rinsed the dishes out in the sink. Looking at all the dirty dishes, I opened up the dishwasher and told Mom that I would load them in there for her. Well, you would have thought I was going to stuff a puppy in there. It seems that Mom likes her dishwasher loaded up in a very particular way and I am not capable enough to do the job.

Chapter Two

Dennis hove in sight presently -- the very man, of all men, whose ridicule he had been dreading. Dennis' gait was a bit wobbly -- proof enough that his heart was light and his anticipations high. He was sipping a beer.

"Hi- yi ! You're up a stump, ain't you!"

No answer. Alan surveyed his last touch with the eye of an artist, then he gave his brush another gentle sweep and surveyed the result. Dennis ranged up alongside of him. Alan's mouth watered for the beer, but he stuck to his work. Dennis said:

"Hello, old chap, you got to work, hey?"

Alan wheeled suddenly and said:

"Why, it's you, Dennis! I warn't noticing."

"Say -- I'm going to the Granville Anvil, I am. Don't you wish you could? But of course you'd druther work -- wouldn't you? Course you would!"

Alan contemplated him a bit, and said:

"What do you call work?"

"Why, ain't that work?"

Alan resumed slapping stain on the fence, and answered carelessly:

"Well, maybe it is, and maybe it ain't. All I know, is, it suits me."

"Oh come now, you don't mean to let on that you like it?"

The brush continued to move.

"Like it? Well, I don't see why I oughtn't to like it. Does a man get a chance to paint stain on a fence every day?"

That put the thing in a new light. Dennis stopped sipping his beer. Alan swept his brush daintily back and forth -- stepped back to note the effect -- added a touch here and there -- criticised the effect again -- Dennis watching every move and getting more and more interested, more and more absorbed. Presently he said:

"Say, Alan, let me slap a little stain on that fence."

Alan considered, was about to consent; but he altered his mind:

"No -- no -- I reckon it wouldn't hardly do, Dennis. You see, Mark is awful particular about this fence -- he would have a shit fit. Yes, he's awful particular about this fence; it's got to be done very careful; I reckon there ain't one man in a thousand, maybe two thousand, that can do it the way it's got to be done."

"No -- is that so? Oh come, now -- lemme just try. Only just a little -- I'd let you , if you was me, Alan."

"Dennis, I'd like to, honest injun; but Mark -- well, Croatian Steve wanted to do it, but Mark wouldn't let him; Frank the plumber wanted to do it, and he wouldn't let Frank. Now don't you see how I'm fixed? If you was to tackle this fence and anything was to happen to it -- "

"Oh, shucks, I'll be just as careful. Now lemme try. Say -- I'll give you what's left of my beer."

"Well, here -- No, Dennis, now don't. I'm afeard -- "

"I'll give you the whole bottle of beer!"

"Make it that beer and the one you have in your back pocket."

Alan gave up the brush with reluctance in his face, but alacrity in his heart. And while Dennis worked and sweated in the sun, the retired artist lay back in the lawn chair in the shade close by, dangled his legs, drank his beers, and planned the slaughter of more innocents....      

"ALAN!!!"

...."Huh, what?"

"Wake up Alan."

"Oh, Mark. Sorry, I kind of dozed off there."

"Get back to staining that fence. It's got to be done before winter, and I know you. If I don't keep on you, it'll never get done.'

"Damn, I just had the strangest dream. You were in it, and Dennis was in it, But it couldn't have been just a dream, could it?"

Apologies, to Sam Clemens