I have now finished rewriting Matthew (Gezundeit!), Mark (Mywords), Revelation (T cornpone)and am ready to start on Luke (Warm). Big Fun. First though, I have to finish a space epic I began yesterday, tentatively entitled "Blood Raiders", for this month's Writer's Group assignment. Also Big Fun.
Weather here in the Palo Alto (Tall Stick) section of Boquete continues to be, in my less than humble opinion, ah, what's the right word?, I know, crappy. We are getting more sunshine of late but it is usually accompanied by wind and that is often accompanied by "bajareque" the lovely Panamanian word for mountain mist which is in itself a lovely term. All that loveliness, though, just obscures the fact that bajareque is effing rain, you know, the stuff that makes you wet...and cold. I try to remind myself that climate conditions have improved greatly from recent weeks, but I know that is like saying this new kick in the shins is better than last month's kick in the groin. It gives me no solace. Still...I'm not complaining, I'm not complaining,...the hell I'm not. But then, somebody has to.
The reason for my sudden disaffection with all things afuera (outside)is clearly Tiger Woods. He made a reappearance on my television screen yesterday playing golf in splendid weather. Never was he pictured grabbing his hat to keep it from blowing off or discovered squinting into sideways rain. This, clearly, is what millions of dollars can do for you; buy good weather. (The shots of the golf course taken from a blimp above show a parched desert with 18 patches of non indigenous green. That green, for those who don't know, is money.)
Okay, I admit it. My complaining is "tongue-in-cheek" - a thing that makes talking coherently impossible - and weather conditions here, compared to where you are, are "not that bad." "Not that bad" though, and paradise can't be used in the same context. Paradise excludes "not that bad." Henceforth I will desist from calling Boquete paradise until the wind becomes a gentle breeze, the rain ceases to fall, the sun shines in a cloudless sky and temperatures hover in the seventies. In other words, when I next play golf.
I'm jonesing real bad.
Friday, February 27, 2009
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Dogs in the Wild
We set up our camp on a mountainside in north western Panama. It was here we hoped to gather data and learn more about the habits of the dog species commonly referred to as the short-legged, stump-tailed, floppy eared Goofus Canineus. The male of the species, the Cocker, we learned, differs only from the female, the Vaginer, in having a less aggressive temperament and a, usually, somewhat smaller size. Apart from these minor differences, gender proved irrelevant to our studies.
After several years of general observation of Goofi and other related species in the area, we focused our attention on a newborn pair of the pack and determined to concentrate solely on them in hopes of achieving a greater in-depth understanding of the type. We named them Rafael and Mathilda.
The first bit of data gathered about the pups - the young of the species are referred to as pups - indicated that the Goofi awaken with the dawn of each new day. In order to capture the full scope of their activities it would be necessary for one of we scientists to arise with them. Team member Doctor D.L.Walton, fully credentialed by the Society for the Prevention of Society, being a so called "morning person" volunteered to witness and record the pups early activities. Here are his initial findings:
"Somewhat before achieving a state of full wakefulness, the pups begin to whine, cry, growl and exhibit other signs of annoyance at the darkness. As the first ray of light slips into their domicile, the pups begin to mock fight in a playful manner which we believe is a defensive preparation for attacks from a competing local species, the infamous Kitty Cat. A grumbling adult of the pup's pack, awakened by their fussing, then arises and leads them from their sheltered sleeping space and off into the surrounding open area where they will deposit their urine and scat in a seemingly random manner. By careful study of this habit though, we have concluded that the placement of the scat is a deliberate effort by the pups to have it stepped upon by careless natives and thus spread over a greater area. Curiously, a canineus pup of another type, a member of the Doofi family, has been adopted by the pack and trails happily after the Goofi, imitating their every move. We have named him Finnegan.
After ridding themselves of waste, the pups go in search of nourishment, which we researchers refer to as "reloading." The adult of the pack is seen to go into a space that is part of the Goofi and Doofi's jungle home and return with bowls of food that have been stored there. The pups wait impatiently outside. Each pup receives his bowl excitedly. They must, however, be kept apart as they eat, because the one we call Rafael will chase the others from their bowls and, to use the most technical of terms, bogart all the food for himself.
After eating, the pups will spend the next hour or so romping around in a form of play we refer to as "annoying the adult." Attempts will be made to attract the adult's attention by doing things such as chewing on objects they shouldn't, disappearing for too long a time, fighting too roughly with each other, digging where they shouldn't, and otherwise trying to elicit from the adult cries of "no, stop, quit that and where the hell are you." This behavior seems common to both the Goofi and the Doofi. When the adult arrives at what we scientists refer to as "wits end" he leaves in search of another to take his place. The pups will then repeat their actions in an attempt to drive this new adult into a state we call "round -the-bend." Fortunately, the pups eventually tire and the adults of the pack are given respite when the pups collapse and nap.
The Canineus Goofi and Doofi have varied and interesting lives throughout the day, all of which will be chronicled at a later date when greater data has been accumulated.
After several years of general observation of Goofi and other related species in the area, we focused our attention on a newborn pair of the pack and determined to concentrate solely on them in hopes of achieving a greater in-depth understanding of the type. We named them Rafael and Mathilda.
The first bit of data gathered about the pups - the young of the species are referred to as pups - indicated that the Goofi awaken with the dawn of each new day. In order to capture the full scope of their activities it would be necessary for one of we scientists to arise with them. Team member Doctor D.L.Walton, fully credentialed by the Society for the Prevention of Society, being a so called "morning person" volunteered to witness and record the pups early activities. Here are his initial findings:
"Somewhat before achieving a state of full wakefulness, the pups begin to whine, cry, growl and exhibit other signs of annoyance at the darkness. As the first ray of light slips into their domicile, the pups begin to mock fight in a playful manner which we believe is a defensive preparation for attacks from a competing local species, the infamous Kitty Cat. A grumbling adult of the pup's pack, awakened by their fussing, then arises and leads them from their sheltered sleeping space and off into the surrounding open area where they will deposit their urine and scat in a seemingly random manner. By careful study of this habit though, we have concluded that the placement of the scat is a deliberate effort by the pups to have it stepped upon by careless natives and thus spread over a greater area. Curiously, a canineus pup of another type, a member of the Doofi family, has been adopted by the pack and trails happily after the Goofi, imitating their every move. We have named him Finnegan.
After ridding themselves of waste, the pups go in search of nourishment, which we researchers refer to as "reloading." The adult of the pack is seen to go into a space that is part of the Goofi and Doofi's jungle home and return with bowls of food that have been stored there. The pups wait impatiently outside. Each pup receives his bowl excitedly. They must, however, be kept apart as they eat, because the one we call Rafael will chase the others from their bowls and, to use the most technical of terms, bogart all the food for himself.
After eating, the pups will spend the next hour or so romping around in a form of play we refer to as "annoying the adult." Attempts will be made to attract the adult's attention by doing things such as chewing on objects they shouldn't, disappearing for too long a time, fighting too roughly with each other, digging where they shouldn't, and otherwise trying to elicit from the adult cries of "no, stop, quit that and where the hell are you." This behavior seems common to both the Goofi and the Doofi. When the adult arrives at what we scientists refer to as "wits end" he leaves in search of another to take his place. The pups will then repeat their actions in an attempt to drive this new adult into a state we call "round -the-bend." Fortunately, the pups eventually tire and the adults of the pack are given respite when the pups collapse and nap.
The Canineus Goofi and Doofi have varied and interesting lives throughout the day, all of which will be chronicled at a later date when greater data has been accumulated.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Fast Food Funky
I had a Subway Sandwich for dinner last night. Boquete's first fast food franchise is Subway and that makes me - I was going to say "a happy camper" but that's so cliche I just can't do it - Not that I don't use cliches; I use them all the time when I'm talking, (I need to work on that as well) but when writing I ought to be more careful, so instead of a happy camper I'm going with - an ebullient, which can mean "overflowing with enthusiasm," tent pitcher, although I don't really know what camping has to do with it in the first place. (Punctuation sticklers feel free to be hands on with this paragraph if hands on is not an over used cliche.) I love Subway sandwiches; the in-house baked bread, the chilled cold cuts, the fresh veggies - and here I was going to say accouterments but I don't know how to spell it - choices, the servers with their surgical white rubber gloves. It's all good I tell ya and I say that with the certain knowledge that both "it's all good" and "I tell ya" are cliches no longer in common use, so I am at liberty to revive them. And in addition to these wonders, you can, apparently, eat Subway sandwiches, lose three or four hundred pounds and get filthy rich - wait! Filthy rich won't do. Let's go with - disgustingly well heeled - no! Well heeled won't work either - fat banked. (Yeah that's good; lose body fat, gain bank fat) making commercials like that guy Jarod. This is such an appealing way to make money that I am considering putting on the necessary weight to apply for the job. However, to do that I would probably have to stay away from Subway sandwiches. These are the dilemmas we jubilados have to face.
There are days when the monkeymind can not be restrained without a whip and a chair.
RTGFKAR and I made another foray into lovely and talented David yesterday. This time to put in motion the process of obtaining RTGF's driver's license and series two of Finnegan the pup's inoculations. Only the latter went as planned. There were delays, crossed signals, waits and money changing hands to accomplish RTGFKAR passing his driver's test without ever leaving his chair. The certificate of such is now headed for Panama City where it will be approved and stamped - always the stamp in Latin America - and then sent back to David, after which, and this is just wonderful, RTGFKAR will be allowed to take his written test for which he has already paid someone to accompany him and provide the correct answers. After that, quien sabe? which is Spanish for who knows? and by using it I cleverly dodge the use of who knows? in English which is a possible cliche.
You may think I have now abandoned the theme of fast food restaurants but you would be wrongo Burger Breath. At one point in the day we were left with but a mere half hour to lunch; not time enough to even attract the attention of a waiter in many Panamanian restaurants. But lo! There on the horizon were the Golden Arches. A zip through the Drive-in where it is entertaining to speak Spanish into a speaker that returns your request in what sounds like Farsi spoken under water and we were on our way chicken McNuggets, fries and soda pops in hand. (In order to achieve the poundage necessary to qualify for Subway commercials, additional visits to Micky D's might be necessary.)
Now, you think, he will move off to another topic, but alas, Thick Shake Belly Rumble, you would again be wrong. There is more.
We had a third goal on our agenda ayer, which is Spanish for yesterday because I didn't want to say yesterday again, but now I have gone and done it anyway. That goal was to bring back KFC for Woowoo Charly. A couple of David trips ago I had forgotten to do that very thing. There was Big Trouble on the home front on that occasion and, as you know, Big Fun is my cliche of choice on an everyday basis. As we motored into Dolega, a town roughly half way home, it occurred to me I was remiss again. We had departed David in a New...Haven hurry, dog and people being - of course I was going to say "over it", but the monkeymind is still alert - distraught by the difficulty of the day and thus KFC was not on our minds. Well, maybe the dog's, but I can't be certain. What to do, what to do? Carry on I decided, and I'll think of something. When, after several stops, we arrived back at Casa Dragon Something - I forget what RTGFKAR named it - I had in my possession a nice pollo burrito, a Subway sandwich and a small box containing earrings and a necklace. These turned out to be adequate substitutions for KFC.
Alrighty then. It is late morning and I am now officially ravenous. "Hey Babe. Do we have any cheesecake?"
Watch out Jarod, I'm after your job.
There are days when the monkeymind can not be restrained without a whip and a chair.
RTGFKAR and I made another foray into lovely and talented David yesterday. This time to put in motion the process of obtaining RTGF's driver's license and series two of Finnegan the pup's inoculations. Only the latter went as planned. There were delays, crossed signals, waits and money changing hands to accomplish RTGFKAR passing his driver's test without ever leaving his chair. The certificate of such is now headed for Panama City where it will be approved and stamped - always the stamp in Latin America - and then sent back to David, after which, and this is just wonderful, RTGFKAR will be allowed to take his written test for which he has already paid someone to accompany him and provide the correct answers. After that, quien sabe? which is Spanish for who knows? and by using it I cleverly dodge the use of who knows? in English which is a possible cliche.
You may think I have now abandoned the theme of fast food restaurants but you would be wrongo Burger Breath. At one point in the day we were left with but a mere half hour to lunch; not time enough to even attract the attention of a waiter in many Panamanian restaurants. But lo! There on the horizon were the Golden Arches. A zip through the Drive-in where it is entertaining to speak Spanish into a speaker that returns your request in what sounds like Farsi spoken under water and we were on our way chicken McNuggets, fries and soda pops in hand. (In order to achieve the poundage necessary to qualify for Subway commercials, additional visits to Micky D's might be necessary.)
Now, you think, he will move off to another topic, but alas, Thick Shake Belly Rumble, you would again be wrong. There is more.
We had a third goal on our agenda ayer, which is Spanish for yesterday because I didn't want to say yesterday again, but now I have gone and done it anyway. That goal was to bring back KFC for Woowoo Charly. A couple of David trips ago I had forgotten to do that very thing. There was Big Trouble on the home front on that occasion and, as you know, Big Fun is my cliche of choice on an everyday basis. As we motored into Dolega, a town roughly half way home, it occurred to me I was remiss again. We had departed David in a New...Haven hurry, dog and people being - of course I was going to say "over it", but the monkeymind is still alert - distraught by the difficulty of the day and thus KFC was not on our minds. Well, maybe the dog's, but I can't be certain. What to do, what to do? Carry on I decided, and I'll think of something. When, after several stops, we arrived back at Casa Dragon Something - I forget what RTGFKAR named it - I had in my possession a nice pollo burrito, a Subway sandwich and a small box containing earrings and a necklace. These turned out to be adequate substitutions for KFC.
Alrighty then. It is late morning and I am now officially ravenous. "Hey Babe. Do we have any cheesecake?"
Watch out Jarod, I'm after your job.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
More dog stuff...mostly
If Alex Rodriguez, who reportedly earns 27 million dollars per year, wished to be included on the Forbes magazine's 400 richest men in America list, he would have to have ten times as much at the end of a year as he does now. Just thought I'd mention it.
I wasn't going to blog around the block this morning; didn't feel like it. And yet, here I am. Don't know what that's all about.
I've been told that one should always be suspicious of merchandise being sold from someone's garage or the trunk of their car. The stuff is probably hot. I don't know how this relates to veterinary services, but yesterday we had Raffi and Matti, our Cocker Spaniel pups, spayed/neutered in a neighbor's garage. Doctor Dan Evers, a U.S. vet, comes to Panama on a regular basis and sets up shop in his two car and then some garage. He brings with him to Panama more equipment and veterinary support paraphernalia than we have seen in any Panamanian vet's office to date. Woowoo Charly and I got to assist in the two operations - more or less, mostly we watched - and observe close up what happens. Matti turned out to be a bit of a problem. After she was anesthetized, a portion of her underside was shaved and disinfected. Dr. Dan then made a neat incision there about two inches long. After that he began probing about inside the incision. He probed and then he probed some more. "What are you looking for?" I asked, because it seemed like a reasonable question. "The uterus" he replied. "She is so small it is difficult to find." He then began removing stuff gently from her insides, "intestines and ligaments", until he had a pile of these gooey things about the size of a fist mounded outside the incision. The word that came to my mind as it often does when seeing something unexpected was "Yikes!" Dr. Dan eventually located the uterus which was a very tiny thing indeed. He clamped it and cut it and sewed it and then stuffed the other stuff back inside the dog. After that, he quickly and neatly sewed three layers of stitches.
While Raffi was being, ah, attended to, I left to rescue our car which we had abandoned on the side of our servidumbre because the way was blocked by a dump truck there to aid in the road's repair. It was nearing five in the afternoon and past Panamanian worker's quitting time, so I guessed the route would now be unimpeded and I was right. I didn't really care that I was missing Raffi's testicle demise. Matti's ordeal had been enough for me.
Both dogs were "out of it" for quite awhile after we returned home, but they had a quiet night and seem okay, but of course subdued, this morning. We have had to put one of those goofy collars on Raffi to keep him from bothering his stitches.
Our third pup, the Golden, got a check up by Dr. Dan and was declared perfect. He's depressed this morning because the other dogs don't want to wrestle with him.
Somewhere along the day's way, we learned that one of the brothers of our friend Dalys had died. We didn't know the brother but we extend our condolences to Dalys, her immediate family and her two brothers, Alberto and Rolando that we do know. Lo siento senores.
I wasn't going to blog around the block this morning; didn't feel like it. And yet, here I am. Don't know what that's all about.
I've been told that one should always be suspicious of merchandise being sold from someone's garage or the trunk of their car. The stuff is probably hot. I don't know how this relates to veterinary services, but yesterday we had Raffi and Matti, our Cocker Spaniel pups, spayed/neutered in a neighbor's garage. Doctor Dan Evers, a U.S. vet, comes to Panama on a regular basis and sets up shop in his two car and then some garage. He brings with him to Panama more equipment and veterinary support paraphernalia than we have seen in any Panamanian vet's office to date. Woowoo Charly and I got to assist in the two operations - more or less, mostly we watched - and observe close up what happens. Matti turned out to be a bit of a problem. After she was anesthetized, a portion of her underside was shaved and disinfected. Dr. Dan then made a neat incision there about two inches long. After that he began probing about inside the incision. He probed and then he probed some more. "What are you looking for?" I asked, because it seemed like a reasonable question. "The uterus" he replied. "She is so small it is difficult to find." He then began removing stuff gently from her insides, "intestines and ligaments", until he had a pile of these gooey things about the size of a fist mounded outside the incision. The word that came to my mind as it often does when seeing something unexpected was "Yikes!" Dr. Dan eventually located the uterus which was a very tiny thing indeed. He clamped it and cut it and sewed it and then stuffed the other stuff back inside the dog. After that, he quickly and neatly sewed three layers of stitches.
While Raffi was being, ah, attended to, I left to rescue our car which we had abandoned on the side of our servidumbre because the way was blocked by a dump truck there to aid in the road's repair. It was nearing five in the afternoon and past Panamanian worker's quitting time, so I guessed the route would now be unimpeded and I was right. I didn't really care that I was missing Raffi's testicle demise. Matti's ordeal had been enough for me.
Both dogs were "out of it" for quite awhile after we returned home, but they had a quiet night and seem okay, but of course subdued, this morning. We have had to put one of those goofy collars on Raffi to keep him from bothering his stitches.
Our third pup, the Golden, got a check up by Dr. Dan and was declared perfect. He's depressed this morning because the other dogs don't want to wrestle with him.
Somewhere along the day's way, we learned that one of the brothers of our friend Dalys had died. We didn't know the brother but we extend our condolences to Dalys, her immediate family and her two brothers, Alberto and Rolando that we do know. Lo siento senores.
Friday, February 13, 2009
Noir You Ready?
Here's my "noir" story. Not really my bag, but fun to write anyway.
Pony Tale
By Doc Walton
The sign on the door reads “Peter Malone, Private Investigator.”
Big deal.
I was half drunk, wearing a slept in suit and down to my last sawbuck when she appeared in my doorway like the sun bursting through a cloud. I mean this dame could light up a room better than a 100 watt.
“Hello Pete” she said, “long time no see.”
I eased my chair back a little, clasped my hands behind my head and causally put my feet up on the desk. I was stalling for time, trying to picture where I’d seen her before.
“You don’t remember me do you?” she asked, not really looking for an answer. “I’m Sally Swan, Katie’s little sister.”
It hit me like a sledge. The Brat. The one that followed us around like a lost puppy. See Katie and I had had a thing a couple years back that threatened to get serious. Well, at least on my part. I was this close to popping the question when she tossed me out like last year’s shoes. I apparently didn’t fit her image of “Mr. Right.” Mr. Right, it turned out, was handsome, rich and connected. I couldn’t come up with one out of three. A month after she dumped me she hit the jackpot and was riding polo ponies
“Hello Brat,” I said. “You’ve grown some since I last saw you. Why don’t you pull up a chair and tell me what I can do you for.”
She snaked across the room to my desk with the kind of walk you’d stop everything just to watch. She had more curves than a Gran Prix race course and they all moved…well, you know how they moved, like a slinky on a stairway only without the hiss. She pulled the one other chair in the office around to the side of my desk so there’d be nothing between us. She was close enough I could smell her perfume. It was fragrant and flagrant, nothing subtle about it. Mixed nicely, I thought, with the bourbon stench drifting off my own self.
“So,” I ventured the moment she looked comfortable which was right away. “what brings you knocking on old Pete’s door?” I threw in the “old” as a reminder to myself I had ten years on her, maybe more.
Something troubled passed behind her eyes and she looked a little uncertain for the first time since she entered the room.
“Maybe you ought to offer a lady a drink before we get down to business, she said. “All you…you gumshoes, right?, you keep a bottle handy, doncha?”
I slid the desk drawer open and grabbed the bourbon and a couple of paper cups. I was looking at the Brat while I did so thinking she was what, nineteen, twenty, twenty-one? I poured a short one for her and long one for myself. I said “cheers” and threw mine back. She took a small sip and then went all soft eyed.
“Pete,” she said in a smaller, quieter voice, “Katie’s dead.”
I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this. The booze in my gut went suddenly sour and my chest got tight as a navy knot. There was pain there, a new kind, something I’d never felt before.
“What happened?” I managed to ask with “Katie’s gone, Katie’s gone” screaming like a fresh wound in my head.
“I don’t know… really” the Brat, I mean Sally, said in small voice, something just a notch above a whisper.
She was nearing tears and losing her composure fast. Another man might have reached for her hand at that moment. I reached for the hooch. Poured us both a couple of fingers. This time she gulped, I sipped.
“The police” she went on, “the police say it was an accident. I don’t believe that. They say a horse in Carl’s string…Carl’s her husband…got startled or something, and broke through its stall door. They say it trampled her, Pete. They say they found the horse loose in the paddock outside the stable. It was frightened they said, and there was blood on its hooves. I… I just don’t believe them…It can’t be. You know Katie, Pete. She loved horses. Had a way with them. Katie was too...too…smart about them for this to happen like they said.”
I did know Katie. Horses and riding were her favorite things in life. I figured that’s why she’d left me for the polo putz in the first place. The police were probably right though. I mean it sounded open and shut to me, but this was Katie, my Katie…well almost anyway, and I felt closure, huh, closure, what a stupid word, might be good for both Sally and me.
“Listen Brat, er uh, Sally” I said. I’ll look into this. If something happened different from the police report, I’ll find out what it is. No promises, but you can count on me for that much.”
For a moment she looked reassured.
And then, because it was me…and because of the suit and the sawbuck and all that, I said, “Have you got any money?”
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
I started with the usual unreliable source, our local news-rag. I’d missed the story first time around. I usually scan the dailies to keep up and all that, but lately I’d had a couple Ray Milland episodes. You know “Lost Weekends.” The news reports told essentially the same story as Sally only with more words. “Society Dame Dies Ugly” was pretty much the gist. One quote though, from a day laborer hired to swab out the stalls, gave me an idea. I got an old bud, Jim Hannifin, on the horn and next morning with a work ticket in hand from Jim’s labor hall, I was on my way to Rocky Top Stables where Carl Bland boarded his string of ponies.
First thing I learned when I got there was polo ponies ain’t ponies, they’re horses. Second thing…manure smells like shit.
The day was a shovel, sweep, mop routine that took me from one end of the stable’s stalls to the other and then back again. I was playing open and friendly as I worked and saying hello to everybody that passed by, mostly trainers, grooms, owners and few rental horse riders. The trainers were all business, but the grooms didn’t mind passing a piece of day with a temp looking for gossip.
“Hey,” I said to each one, “isn’t this the place where that lady got killed by a horse a couple weeks back?”
“Yeah, crying shame that” was the response I got from most of them. Along about mid-afternoon though, when I was leaning on my shovel and wondering how it was possible for a horse to dump out more than it took in, a guy came strolling by I hadn’t seen before. His brow was all wrinkled up and his eyes had that peculiar inward stare a person gets when he’s thinking about something else and barely watching where he’s going.
“Excuse me Buddy” I said as I grabbed his arm to slow his progress. “You wouldn’t happen to have a smoke on ya, would ya?”
The guy’s eyes came back front and center and he looked at me a moment, kind of getting himself together.
“Huh?…yeah… sure,” he said, reaching into a shirt pocket, “but you can’t smoke in here, you hafta go outside.”
I gave him my “isn’t this the place where” spiel as he handed me an Old Gold and his eyes did a whole new thing. They jumped left and right a couple a times before getting still. The guy stopped completely, spun into a quick one eighty and then turned back to me again. Confident then I suppose, that no one else was listening, he said, “Yeah it is… and I was there.”
“No kidding?” I said, all perky with interest “That must have been something. Did you really see it happen?”
“Not the whole thing. I came in this end of the stable just as the horse went out
the other. It was first thing in the morning and it was just getting light. The stable was still kind of dark, but I saw the girl right away. She was lying there real still and there was blood all over the place. The thing is…the thing that bothers me…I mean I can’t be sure, I only got a quick glimpse…and it was dark…but when the horse ran through the doorway and into the light at the other end?... I think I saw someone riding it. You know, hunched over real low like a jockey.”
Guy got nervous after that. Realized he was sounding off to a total stranger. “Just seeing things I guess,” he said with a forced little chuckle. “Too much bracer in the morning cuppa joe” He gave me a little wave, turned, and shuffled off in a flat hurry like a man who just remembered he had something to do.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
I put in a couple more days moving manure, but learned nothing further. I wasn’t sure where to go after that, so I called my bosom bud Moynihan down at the fourth precinct. Moyny and I used to run the streets together as kids. He got real straight as we grew up while I just got bent. By the time I got my act together I was pushing thirty and it was too late to get a real badge. Moyny had his gold shield by then. I told him what I’d heard at the stable.
“Ah, you know Petey me lad” he said in his completely affected Irish brogue. The man was fourth generation Mick, but he wouldn’t give it up. “The whole shebang reeks o’ the fish if ye be askin me, but it taint me case, so don’t ye be askin. I’ll not be steppin’ on me fellow coppers toes.”
“The woman killed was Katie, Moyny, my Katie. I have to ask.”
“I’m thinking I can tell ye this much, Petey me boy. Where there be room for a horse to go ‘round, a horse WILL go ‘round. You might think about seein this for your own self.”
I hung up and dialed Hannifin. First light I was back in the stable.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
It was just me and the ponies about an hour later and I quickly turned one of the more skittery nags around in its stall. I shut the door at one end and parked my self in the middle of the aisle between the horse and the other end. I had a rope tied to the stall door and I used it to yank the door open suddenly and loudly. The horse bolted out and charged at me like it was cavalry trained. It was on me so fast I hadn’t time to move even if I wanted to. And truthfully...? I wanted to real bad. Then it was gone. By me and gone in a whoosh of air and an ear shattering clatter of hoof beats. I exhaled…long and loud. Accidental trampling, I thought… not likely.
I’d already asked my self who stood to gain by Katie’s death and come up with a big fat nobody. Her husband had enough dough that Katie’s insurance payoff would be little more than chump change to him To rule out another broad, I tailed Bland twenty-four seven for the next ten days. Man was a monk. I was stumped, clueless, leadless and at the end of the Brat’s per diem. I was reaching for the desk hooch when the phone rang.
“Petey, me Bucko,” - it was Moynihan - “and how will ye be doin this fine day?”
“Not good Moyny” I said. “I’m dead ended. I got nothing solid on Katie’s death and I know damn well it wasn’t an accident. I’m stumped Moyny, and it’s driving me straight to the drink.”
“Aye tis a short drive, that one” he said. “I’ve been thinking of ye Laddie. Thinking you might be wanting to talk to a fella name of Kegler, Max Kegler. Owns a string in the same stable as Bland. One of me lads here at the precinct’s working a horse doping angle and he says auld Maxie’s torn up same as you over Katie’s sudden passin.”
I had seen Max Kegler at the stable, but he’d never deigned to talk to me, a lowly shit shoveler. When I approached him there this time, I was flashing a badge and acting important. The man could not have cared less. He was as hang-dogged and downcast as
anybody I’d ever seen. Answered my questions in grunts and nods and when I’d finished moved off like a man on his way to a funeral, maybe his own. It didn’t take a shrink to see what was wrong with Maxie. The man was hurting. The man was grieving and carrying a heavy torch.
It was time to talk to Bland. I had enough now that I thought I could run a bluff and maybe get him to open up, get him to say something incriminating. I doused a couple of barn lights and folded myself into the shadows of an empty stall and waited. I knew Bland’s usual routine and it had him coming my way in less than ten. My plan was to jump him, pull him into the stall and apply some muscle.
Bad plan.
First part worked all right though. I grabbed him by the lapels as he walked by, spun him into the stall and pinned him to the back wall. I got up in his face and spit words through my teeth. “You killed my Katie, you Bastard. Ran her down like a dog in the street. Give me one reason I shouldn’t break your neck right now.”
I had to hand it to the guy. He stayed cool, real cool. Looked at me a second and then said, “I know you. You’re the low class PI Katie dumped to marry me. What is this, sore loser payback? Aren’t you a little late?”
I ignored that though there was some truth to that sore loser part. If I got nothing here on Katie’s murder, I might still consider taking away a little satisfaction on that score.
I had a nice tight grip on Bland’s lapels and I tugged him upwards a little for emphasis. I said, “I’ve got a guy saw you do it, saw you ride right over her. Wouldn’t talk to the police…too afraid of you. He’ll talk now though, he’s more afraid of me.”
Nothing. Bland’s expression never changed.
My hands and arms were getting tired but I took one last shot. “And I know why you did it,” I said. “Katie was going to drop you for Kegler just like she dropped me for you. That’s it pretty boy, that’s it, isn’t it?”
What happened next happened real fast and most of it I experienced through the haze of a crippling pain. Bland went berserk. I’d heard an adrenalized man can perform feats of strength far beyond the norm, but I hadn’t seen it until now. I had 20 pounds on this creep, but he spun me around like rag doll. He slammed my back into a hay trough and I thought it was broken. He let go of me then and I slumped to the ground like a punctured balloon. I squinted up at him through the pain and saw a man defining rage. His eyes had gone wild and his whole body looked tight enough to snap apart. I knew I was in real trouble.
“That’s right” he said in a voice half snarl, half hiss. “I killed her and the bitch deserved it. I saved her from a crap life with a punk like you, gave her everything and what do I get in return? Nothing, not a goddamn thing. It’s all about what she wants and you know what that is? Kegler. Kegler for Christ’s sake! That sorry sap can’t train a decent pony, he takes my woman? No way I’m letting that happen.”
I was pulling myself to my feet in small increments as he dropped his rant on me. I was almost upright when his expression changed and he got all spooky calm again. He reached into a jacket pocket and pulled out a hypo with something piss colored in it. “Horse doper impaled on own needle” he said, squirting a little of the liquid into the air. “Should make a great story.”
I was trying to bob and weave as he started towards me, but none of my parts were working properly. I knew I couldn’t elude the jab in my present condition and I suddenly began too wonder what was in the needle and how bad it was going to hurt. My eyes were fixed on it as Bland got one step closer and then another, before stopping abruptly no more than a couple inches from me. His face was close and I saw his eyes go weird wide then drop fast to look at his own chest. Blood was spurting from holes in his shirt where the tines of a pitchfork had appeared and disappeared in what seemed an instant. He looked back at me for just a second then dropped like a sack of manure to the stall floor. Standing just beyond him, still as death itself, stood a dull eyed Max Kegler.
Kegler stared at me for a long moment asking something from me with those vapid orbs, forgiveness perhaps, or maybe thanks. I had nothing. I just stared back. Suddenly, like he’d forgotten something, he looked down and a flash of anger brought life back into his eyes. He grabbed the pitchfork with both hands and drove it straight down, hard. It stuck there, neatly protruding from Bland’s back. We looked again at each other and I saw the same unbearable sadness creep back to his face that I’d seen there earlier in the day. There was nothing I could do. Kegler just stood where he was, still as a statue, shoulders slumped, eyes gone dead again.
After a minute, I moved slowly, quietly, carefully, around him. And then I walked away.
Pony Tale
By Doc Walton
The sign on the door reads “Peter Malone, Private Investigator.”
Big deal.
I was half drunk, wearing a slept in suit and down to my last sawbuck when she appeared in my doorway like the sun bursting through a cloud. I mean this dame could light up a room better than a 100 watt.
“Hello Pete” she said, “long time no see.”
I eased my chair back a little, clasped my hands behind my head and causally put my feet up on the desk. I was stalling for time, trying to picture where I’d seen her before.
“You don’t remember me do you?” she asked, not really looking for an answer. “I’m Sally Swan, Katie’s little sister.”
It hit me like a sledge. The Brat. The one that followed us around like a lost puppy. See Katie and I had had a thing a couple years back that threatened to get serious. Well, at least on my part. I was this close to popping the question when she tossed me out like last year’s shoes. I apparently didn’t fit her image of “Mr. Right.” Mr. Right, it turned out, was handsome, rich and connected. I couldn’t come up with one out of three. A month after she dumped me she hit the jackpot and was riding polo ponies
“Hello Brat,” I said. “You’ve grown some since I last saw you. Why don’t you pull up a chair and tell me what I can do you for.”
She snaked across the room to my desk with the kind of walk you’d stop everything just to watch. She had more curves than a Gran Prix race course and they all moved…well, you know how they moved, like a slinky on a stairway only without the hiss. She pulled the one other chair in the office around to the side of my desk so there’d be nothing between us. She was close enough I could smell her perfume. It was fragrant and flagrant, nothing subtle about it. Mixed nicely, I thought, with the bourbon stench drifting off my own self.
“So,” I ventured the moment she looked comfortable which was right away. “what brings you knocking on old Pete’s door?” I threw in the “old” as a reminder to myself I had ten years on her, maybe more.
Something troubled passed behind her eyes and she looked a little uncertain for the first time since she entered the room.
“Maybe you ought to offer a lady a drink before we get down to business, she said. “All you…you gumshoes, right?, you keep a bottle handy, doncha?”
I slid the desk drawer open and grabbed the bourbon and a couple of paper cups. I was looking at the Brat while I did so thinking she was what, nineteen, twenty, twenty-one? I poured a short one for her and long one for myself. I said “cheers” and threw mine back. She took a small sip and then went all soft eyed.
“Pete,” she said in a smaller, quieter voice, “Katie’s dead.”
I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this. The booze in my gut went suddenly sour and my chest got tight as a navy knot. There was pain there, a new kind, something I’d never felt before.
“What happened?” I managed to ask with “Katie’s gone, Katie’s gone” screaming like a fresh wound in my head.
“I don’t know… really” the Brat, I mean Sally, said in small voice, something just a notch above a whisper.
She was nearing tears and losing her composure fast. Another man might have reached for her hand at that moment. I reached for the hooch. Poured us both a couple of fingers. This time she gulped, I sipped.
“The police” she went on, “the police say it was an accident. I don’t believe that. They say a horse in Carl’s string…Carl’s her husband…got startled or something, and broke through its stall door. They say it trampled her, Pete. They say they found the horse loose in the paddock outside the stable. It was frightened they said, and there was blood on its hooves. I… I just don’t believe them…It can’t be. You know Katie, Pete. She loved horses. Had a way with them. Katie was too...too…smart about them for this to happen like they said.”
I did know Katie. Horses and riding were her favorite things in life. I figured that’s why she’d left me for the polo putz in the first place. The police were probably right though. I mean it sounded open and shut to me, but this was Katie, my Katie…well almost anyway, and I felt closure, huh, closure, what a stupid word, might be good for both Sally and me.
“Listen Brat, er uh, Sally” I said. I’ll look into this. If something happened different from the police report, I’ll find out what it is. No promises, but you can count on me for that much.”
For a moment she looked reassured.
And then, because it was me…and because of the suit and the sawbuck and all that, I said, “Have you got any money?”
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
I started with the usual unreliable source, our local news-rag. I’d missed the story first time around. I usually scan the dailies to keep up and all that, but lately I’d had a couple Ray Milland episodes. You know “Lost Weekends.” The news reports told essentially the same story as Sally only with more words. “Society Dame Dies Ugly” was pretty much the gist. One quote though, from a day laborer hired to swab out the stalls, gave me an idea. I got an old bud, Jim Hannifin, on the horn and next morning with a work ticket in hand from Jim’s labor hall, I was on my way to Rocky Top Stables where Carl Bland boarded his string of ponies.
First thing I learned when I got there was polo ponies ain’t ponies, they’re horses. Second thing…manure smells like shit.
The day was a shovel, sweep, mop routine that took me from one end of the stable’s stalls to the other and then back again. I was playing open and friendly as I worked and saying hello to everybody that passed by, mostly trainers, grooms, owners and few rental horse riders. The trainers were all business, but the grooms didn’t mind passing a piece of day with a temp looking for gossip.
“Hey,” I said to each one, “isn’t this the place where that lady got killed by a horse a couple weeks back?”
“Yeah, crying shame that” was the response I got from most of them. Along about mid-afternoon though, when I was leaning on my shovel and wondering how it was possible for a horse to dump out more than it took in, a guy came strolling by I hadn’t seen before. His brow was all wrinkled up and his eyes had that peculiar inward stare a person gets when he’s thinking about something else and barely watching where he’s going.
“Excuse me Buddy” I said as I grabbed his arm to slow his progress. “You wouldn’t happen to have a smoke on ya, would ya?”
The guy’s eyes came back front and center and he looked at me a moment, kind of getting himself together.
“Huh?…yeah… sure,” he said, reaching into a shirt pocket, “but you can’t smoke in here, you hafta go outside.”
I gave him my “isn’t this the place where” spiel as he handed me an Old Gold and his eyes did a whole new thing. They jumped left and right a couple a times before getting still. The guy stopped completely, spun into a quick one eighty and then turned back to me again. Confident then I suppose, that no one else was listening, he said, “Yeah it is… and I was there.”
“No kidding?” I said, all perky with interest “That must have been something. Did you really see it happen?”
“Not the whole thing. I came in this end of the stable just as the horse went out
the other. It was first thing in the morning and it was just getting light. The stable was still kind of dark, but I saw the girl right away. She was lying there real still and there was blood all over the place. The thing is…the thing that bothers me…I mean I can’t be sure, I only got a quick glimpse…and it was dark…but when the horse ran through the doorway and into the light at the other end?... I think I saw someone riding it. You know, hunched over real low like a jockey.”
Guy got nervous after that. Realized he was sounding off to a total stranger. “Just seeing things I guess,” he said with a forced little chuckle. “Too much bracer in the morning cuppa joe” He gave me a little wave, turned, and shuffled off in a flat hurry like a man who just remembered he had something to do.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
I put in a couple more days moving manure, but learned nothing further. I wasn’t sure where to go after that, so I called my bosom bud Moynihan down at the fourth precinct. Moyny and I used to run the streets together as kids. He got real straight as we grew up while I just got bent. By the time I got my act together I was pushing thirty and it was too late to get a real badge. Moyny had his gold shield by then. I told him what I’d heard at the stable.
“Ah, you know Petey me lad” he said in his completely affected Irish brogue. The man was fourth generation Mick, but he wouldn’t give it up. “The whole shebang reeks o’ the fish if ye be askin me, but it taint me case, so don’t ye be askin. I’ll not be steppin’ on me fellow coppers toes.”
“The woman killed was Katie, Moyny, my Katie. I have to ask.”
“I’m thinking I can tell ye this much, Petey me boy. Where there be room for a horse to go ‘round, a horse WILL go ‘round. You might think about seein this for your own self.”
I hung up and dialed Hannifin. First light I was back in the stable.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
It was just me and the ponies about an hour later and I quickly turned one of the more skittery nags around in its stall. I shut the door at one end and parked my self in the middle of the aisle between the horse and the other end. I had a rope tied to the stall door and I used it to yank the door open suddenly and loudly. The horse bolted out and charged at me like it was cavalry trained. It was on me so fast I hadn’t time to move even if I wanted to. And truthfully...? I wanted to real bad. Then it was gone. By me and gone in a whoosh of air and an ear shattering clatter of hoof beats. I exhaled…long and loud. Accidental trampling, I thought… not likely.
I’d already asked my self who stood to gain by Katie’s death and come up with a big fat nobody. Her husband had enough dough that Katie’s insurance payoff would be little more than chump change to him To rule out another broad, I tailed Bland twenty-four seven for the next ten days. Man was a monk. I was stumped, clueless, leadless and at the end of the Brat’s per diem. I was reaching for the desk hooch when the phone rang.
“Petey, me Bucko,” - it was Moynihan - “and how will ye be doin this fine day?”
“Not good Moyny” I said. “I’m dead ended. I got nothing solid on Katie’s death and I know damn well it wasn’t an accident. I’m stumped Moyny, and it’s driving me straight to the drink.”
“Aye tis a short drive, that one” he said. “I’ve been thinking of ye Laddie. Thinking you might be wanting to talk to a fella name of Kegler, Max Kegler. Owns a string in the same stable as Bland. One of me lads here at the precinct’s working a horse doping angle and he says auld Maxie’s torn up same as you over Katie’s sudden passin.”
I had seen Max Kegler at the stable, but he’d never deigned to talk to me, a lowly shit shoveler. When I approached him there this time, I was flashing a badge and acting important. The man could not have cared less. He was as hang-dogged and downcast as
anybody I’d ever seen. Answered my questions in grunts and nods and when I’d finished moved off like a man on his way to a funeral, maybe his own. It didn’t take a shrink to see what was wrong with Maxie. The man was hurting. The man was grieving and carrying a heavy torch.
It was time to talk to Bland. I had enough now that I thought I could run a bluff and maybe get him to open up, get him to say something incriminating. I doused a couple of barn lights and folded myself into the shadows of an empty stall and waited. I knew Bland’s usual routine and it had him coming my way in less than ten. My plan was to jump him, pull him into the stall and apply some muscle.
Bad plan.
First part worked all right though. I grabbed him by the lapels as he walked by, spun him into the stall and pinned him to the back wall. I got up in his face and spit words through my teeth. “You killed my Katie, you Bastard. Ran her down like a dog in the street. Give me one reason I shouldn’t break your neck right now.”
I had to hand it to the guy. He stayed cool, real cool. Looked at me a second and then said, “I know you. You’re the low class PI Katie dumped to marry me. What is this, sore loser payback? Aren’t you a little late?”
I ignored that though there was some truth to that sore loser part. If I got nothing here on Katie’s murder, I might still consider taking away a little satisfaction on that score.
I had a nice tight grip on Bland’s lapels and I tugged him upwards a little for emphasis. I said, “I’ve got a guy saw you do it, saw you ride right over her. Wouldn’t talk to the police…too afraid of you. He’ll talk now though, he’s more afraid of me.”
Nothing. Bland’s expression never changed.
My hands and arms were getting tired but I took one last shot. “And I know why you did it,” I said. “Katie was going to drop you for Kegler just like she dropped me for you. That’s it pretty boy, that’s it, isn’t it?”
What happened next happened real fast and most of it I experienced through the haze of a crippling pain. Bland went berserk. I’d heard an adrenalized man can perform feats of strength far beyond the norm, but I hadn’t seen it until now. I had 20 pounds on this creep, but he spun me around like rag doll. He slammed my back into a hay trough and I thought it was broken. He let go of me then and I slumped to the ground like a punctured balloon. I squinted up at him through the pain and saw a man defining rage. His eyes had gone wild and his whole body looked tight enough to snap apart. I knew I was in real trouble.
“That’s right” he said in a voice half snarl, half hiss. “I killed her and the bitch deserved it. I saved her from a crap life with a punk like you, gave her everything and what do I get in return? Nothing, not a goddamn thing. It’s all about what she wants and you know what that is? Kegler. Kegler for Christ’s sake! That sorry sap can’t train a decent pony, he takes my woman? No way I’m letting that happen.”
I was pulling myself to my feet in small increments as he dropped his rant on me. I was almost upright when his expression changed and he got all spooky calm again. He reached into a jacket pocket and pulled out a hypo with something piss colored in it. “Horse doper impaled on own needle” he said, squirting a little of the liquid into the air. “Should make a great story.”
I was trying to bob and weave as he started towards me, but none of my parts were working properly. I knew I couldn’t elude the jab in my present condition and I suddenly began too wonder what was in the needle and how bad it was going to hurt. My eyes were fixed on it as Bland got one step closer and then another, before stopping abruptly no more than a couple inches from me. His face was close and I saw his eyes go weird wide then drop fast to look at his own chest. Blood was spurting from holes in his shirt where the tines of a pitchfork had appeared and disappeared in what seemed an instant. He looked back at me for just a second then dropped like a sack of manure to the stall floor. Standing just beyond him, still as death itself, stood a dull eyed Max Kegler.
Kegler stared at me for a long moment asking something from me with those vapid orbs, forgiveness perhaps, or maybe thanks. I had nothing. I just stared back. Suddenly, like he’d forgotten something, he looked down and a flash of anger brought life back into his eyes. He grabbed the pitchfork with both hands and drove it straight down, hard. It stuck there, neatly protruding from Bland’s back. We looked again at each other and I saw the same unbearable sadness creep back to his face that I’d seen there earlier in the day. There was nothing I could do. Kegler just stood where he was, still as a statue, shoulders slumped, eyes gone dead again.
After a minute, I moved slowly, quietly, carefully, around him. And then I walked away.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Testifying to Congress
The best combination of (2) flavors, by far, no debate, is red wine and dark chocolate. (You may disagree if you have nothing against being wrong.)
Alrighty then.
I recently testified before a congressional committee that I have never knowingly used steroids. That I have put on 20 pounds and upped my writing average far beyond my standards of five years ago are merely coincidental. Should, however, the "Clear" and the "Cream" ever become legal, I would not be adverse to giving them a try. The good folks at Balco say these are tools that will aid me in my attempts to go long. They say with proper application of the "Juice," a novel is not out of the question.
I also swore at my deposition that I don't carry illegal weapons when I go clubbing. Despite my celebrity status I have never felt in danger while in public. Of course I rarely travel without my bodyguards, RTGFKAR The Rotund, and noted sorceress, Woowoo Charly. Even when I choose to wear my most expensive jewelry, I feel safe with these companions in tow. A person would have to be crazy to make a grab for my Timex when these two toughies are around. On the home front I have the protection of three vicious attack puppies, so I have no worries there either.
I made it a point, when the subject came up, to note on my own behalf that I have never been arrested for domestic (or foreign) violence. I don't have any domestics, but if I did, I would treat them real nice.
I did admit, however, to testing positive for marijuana on a couple of occasions, but not during the writing season. The congressmen at the hearing were undisturbed by this revelation and were further relieved when I told them, "At no time did I ever not inhale." They apparently worry about waste.
I also swore that if I ever retired from the game I would, in fact, retire, and not make repeated comebacks that annoy the shit out of people who want to watch ESPN for real sports news. I also promised that if I did stray from the straight and narrow path that has earned me... hundreds, I would not make some lame apology, swear I now had Jesus in my corner and hope to be forgiven by my fans and, more importantly, keep my endorsements. I would take my medicine and go quietly away.
After my hearing was over, one of the Congressmen, I think he was a Republican, shook his fist at me and said "If everybody was like you, you Jerk, we Congresspeople would also have to keep our noses clean. Get out of here and don't ever come back you...you Commie!"
Alrighty then.
I recently testified before a congressional committee that I have never knowingly used steroids. That I have put on 20 pounds and upped my writing average far beyond my standards of five years ago are merely coincidental. Should, however, the "Clear" and the "Cream" ever become legal, I would not be adverse to giving them a try. The good folks at Balco say these are tools that will aid me in my attempts to go long. They say with proper application of the "Juice," a novel is not out of the question.
I also swore at my deposition that I don't carry illegal weapons when I go clubbing. Despite my celebrity status I have never felt in danger while in public. Of course I rarely travel without my bodyguards, RTGFKAR The Rotund, and noted sorceress, Woowoo Charly. Even when I choose to wear my most expensive jewelry, I feel safe with these companions in tow. A person would have to be crazy to make a grab for my Timex when these two toughies are around. On the home front I have the protection of three vicious attack puppies, so I have no worries there either.
I made it a point, when the subject came up, to note on my own behalf that I have never been arrested for domestic (or foreign) violence. I don't have any domestics, but if I did, I would treat them real nice.
I did admit, however, to testing positive for marijuana on a couple of occasions, but not during the writing season. The congressmen at the hearing were undisturbed by this revelation and were further relieved when I told them, "At no time did I ever not inhale." They apparently worry about waste.
I also swore that if I ever retired from the game I would, in fact, retire, and not make repeated comebacks that annoy the shit out of people who want to watch ESPN for real sports news. I also promised that if I did stray from the straight and narrow path that has earned me... hundreds, I would not make some lame apology, swear I now had Jesus in my corner and hope to be forgiven by my fans and, more importantly, keep my endorsements. I would take my medicine and go quietly away.
After my hearing was over, one of the Congressmen, I think he was a Republican, shook his fist at me and said "If everybody was like you, you Jerk, we Congresspeople would also have to keep our noses clean. Get out of here and don't ever come back you...you Commie!"
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Tormenta II The Sequel
Alrighty then.
That was interesting. If by interesting I mean something akin to watching mice nibble off your toes. "Surely this can't continue" was the comment most expressed after day two, but by day four the sarcastic, "Oh look, it's raining" leaped to the fore. Following those snappy epithets, RTGFKAR and I were oft heard loudly clicking our fingers and saying "Lights on now!" to a not laughable no avail. Electricity, we determined then, was a very useful thing to have. (Whatever it is.) Compounding the problem,(I almost said "issue) were the two words that appeared as if by magic on our cell phones that read: no service; a condition that meant we would not be able to report our lack of lights, computers, television and good humor. We could, if we dared to brave the high winds, sideways falling rain and rapidly deteriorating servidumbre, climb into our car and motor to Union Fenosa to make our report. We, however, dared not, as the memory of the last time we had chosen that option was still in mind. On that occasion, the honcho in charge at U. F. had scribbled a phone number on the back of our bill for us to call. No, we would just have to ride out the storm visualizing someone out there on the job splicing wires, raising downed power poles, throwing switches and sacrificing those less and less handy virgins to the electricity gods in hopes of bringing light back into our lives. It took five days.
I could say we made the best of it, but I'm not sure what best implies. Using the time to invent, create or compose something to cheer all mankind, perhaps. We didn't do that. We read and played scrabble by day and slept fitfully by night; night being defined as dark, mas o menos six o,clock. We also contributed to the world's economic stimulus effort by thrilling the manufacturer and employees of a paper towel company by using roll after roll of their product to clean up the messes left by three puppies reluctant as we to brave the wind and rain. The environment, I lament, no doubt suffers from the loss of the rain forest needed for the production of the absorbent towels.
Yesterday brought storm's end. Still powerless and phone-less, RTGFKAR and I, saying "Let's do it" while stopped and evaluating our chances of driving on the servidumbre over a culvert where the sides of the road had collapsed into the water leaving a barely wide enough path to traverse - we hoped - set forth on a mission to tell someone about our lack of life's finer things, like, oh, contact with the outer world comes to mind. We made it safely across the culvert, renewed breathing and then achieved all of our goals. We purchased a generator in David, I got my license renewed - a thing that had taken weeks of trying - reported and later had our power restored, picked up our bar stools that had been ordered months before, eaten pizza and brought home KFC for Woowoo Charly.
Life is good again. Good being partially, but not insignificantly, defined as puppies peeing outside.
That was interesting. If by interesting I mean something akin to watching mice nibble off your toes. "Surely this can't continue" was the comment most expressed after day two, but by day four the sarcastic, "Oh look, it's raining" leaped to the fore. Following those snappy epithets, RTGFKAR and I were oft heard loudly clicking our fingers and saying "Lights on now!" to a not laughable no avail. Electricity, we determined then, was a very useful thing to have. (Whatever it is.) Compounding the problem,(I almost said "issue) were the two words that appeared as if by magic on our cell phones that read: no service; a condition that meant we would not be able to report our lack of lights, computers, television and good humor. We could, if we dared to brave the high winds, sideways falling rain and rapidly deteriorating servidumbre, climb into our car and motor to Union Fenosa to make our report. We, however, dared not, as the memory of the last time we had chosen that option was still in mind. On that occasion, the honcho in charge at U. F. had scribbled a phone number on the back of our bill for us to call. No, we would just have to ride out the storm visualizing someone out there on the job splicing wires, raising downed power poles, throwing switches and sacrificing those less and less handy virgins to the electricity gods in hopes of bringing light back into our lives. It took five days.
I could say we made the best of it, but I'm not sure what best implies. Using the time to invent, create or compose something to cheer all mankind, perhaps. We didn't do that. We read and played scrabble by day and slept fitfully by night; night being defined as dark, mas o menos six o,clock. We also contributed to the world's economic stimulus effort by thrilling the manufacturer and employees of a paper towel company by using roll after roll of their product to clean up the messes left by three puppies reluctant as we to brave the wind and rain. The environment, I lament, no doubt suffers from the loss of the rain forest needed for the production of the absorbent towels.
Yesterday brought storm's end. Still powerless and phone-less, RTGFKAR and I, saying "Let's do it" while stopped and evaluating our chances of driving on the servidumbre over a culvert where the sides of the road had collapsed into the water leaving a barely wide enough path to traverse - we hoped - set forth on a mission to tell someone about our lack of life's finer things, like, oh, contact with the outer world comes to mind. We made it safely across the culvert, renewed breathing and then achieved all of our goals. We purchased a generator in David, I got my license renewed - a thing that had taken weeks of trying - reported and later had our power restored, picked up our bar stools that had been ordered months before, eaten pizza and brought home KFC for Woowoo Charly.
Life is good again. Good being partially, but not insignificantly, defined as puppies peeing outside.
Monday, February 02, 2009
Killer Cockers?
Police in Boquete, Panama are reporting a death by mutilation of a squeaky toy at the Hoff/Wal residence. The innocent toy, a large mouselike replica was last seen in good condition catching a few rays on the Hoff/Wal lawn late Sunday afternoon, the first of February. Nine-one-one calls reporting squeaks for help were logged early Monday morning.
"It was horrible" a Hoff/Wall neighbor said to this reporter shortly after the event occurred. "You could hear the poor thing squeaking helplessly above the snarls and growls of the beasts that got it. I'm going to have nightmares because of this, I just know it."
When police arrived on the scene they found a headless, disemboweled and eviscerated toy corpse, its parts scattered about the Hoff/Wal property. "I've never seen anything like it" the Chief Inspector said. "The internal squeaker was completely removed from the body and chewed almost beyond recognition. The head, well, for now let's just say it's missing. I don't want to speculate as to where it might be."
The residents of the Hoff/Wal property were interviewed but denied any knowledge of the crime. "We were watching the Super Bowl at the time it happened" one of them, a so called Woowoo Charly, said to investigators and this reporter; a story to which the other house members concurred. "Besides that," Woowoo continued, "we are the ones that brought the rodent into our home. Why would we want to see it harmed?" As each crime scene resident provided an alibi for the others, they were permitted to remain at large pending further investigations into a possible conspiracy.
Two Cocker Spaniel puppies found at the scene were taken into custody for questioning, but later released to their owners as there was insufficient evidence to hold them. Although they were bright eyed and tail wagging, the pups were uncooperative and refused to speak when ordered to do so. Police were not ruling out their possible involvement in the crime. A third dog, a Golden Retriever puppy, was questioned and also permitted to leave as not having sufficiently developed teeth to have taken part in the heinous death of the mouse toy. Both the residents and the Golden were cautioned not to leave town. Though the police do not believe they were the perpetrators of the crime, charges of aiding and abetting could be filed if they were in any way involved with the helpless rodent's demise.
The case remains unsolved and Boquetanians fear further attacks on their toys may be forthcoming. A citywide alert has been issued.
"It was horrible" a Hoff/Wall neighbor said to this reporter shortly after the event occurred. "You could hear the poor thing squeaking helplessly above the snarls and growls of the beasts that got it. I'm going to have nightmares because of this, I just know it."
When police arrived on the scene they found a headless, disemboweled and eviscerated toy corpse, its parts scattered about the Hoff/Wal property. "I've never seen anything like it" the Chief Inspector said. "The internal squeaker was completely removed from the body and chewed almost beyond recognition. The head, well, for now let's just say it's missing. I don't want to speculate as to where it might be."
The residents of the Hoff/Wal property were interviewed but denied any knowledge of the crime. "We were watching the Super Bowl at the time it happened" one of them, a so called Woowoo Charly, said to investigators and this reporter; a story to which the other house members concurred. "Besides that," Woowoo continued, "we are the ones that brought the rodent into our home. Why would we want to see it harmed?" As each crime scene resident provided an alibi for the others, they were permitted to remain at large pending further investigations into a possible conspiracy.
Two Cocker Spaniel puppies found at the scene were taken into custody for questioning, but later released to their owners as there was insufficient evidence to hold them. Although they were bright eyed and tail wagging, the pups were uncooperative and refused to speak when ordered to do so. Police were not ruling out their possible involvement in the crime. A third dog, a Golden Retriever puppy, was questioned and also permitted to leave as not having sufficiently developed teeth to have taken part in the heinous death of the mouse toy. Both the residents and the Golden were cautioned not to leave town. Though the police do not believe they were the perpetrators of the crime, charges of aiding and abetting could be filed if they were in any way involved with the helpless rodent's demise.
The case remains unsolved and Boquetanians fear further attacks on their toys may be forthcoming. A citywide alert has been issued.
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