Ahhh! That shower felt gooood. Even if it was colder than a Neo-cons heart.
Water service was restored late Saturday afternoon. Our agua calentador (water heater), however, having vacationed from working for a week, now refuses to return to the job. I have a call in to our plumber, but alas, it is Sunday and I have only achieved a message left to his answering machine.
El Hombre Lobo, The WOLFMAN, Benecio del Torro starring as the beast, was everything you could want in a remake of a B Movie classic. A grizzled Anthony Hopkins co-stars and gives his usual most excellent performance portraying Benny's father and the villain of the pic. The film's photography is terrific and had me wondering if a Blue-ray gismo will be my next techno upgrade. Every scene was moody, atmospheric and almost three dimensional. There were no real scares, of course, for we veteran horror buffs, (one indication of a movie's ability to successfully frighten its general audience is that it will generate the sale of toys and games related to it. Remember all the sharks after Jaws and the alien...dolls(?) after Alien and its sequels?) but there were thrills and acting strong enough to have us invested in the characters and storyline. I gave it four Eviscerated Corpses out of a possible five.
Football season will begin in a week and the weird, other-world, but somehow still lifelike feeling that exists when it is not here will fade and be replaced by the knowledge that all is again right in the universe. I can hardly wait.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Water Water Everywhere...
And then, on the fourth day, the Lord said, "Let there be water." Unfortunately, Juan, working down at the aqueduct, said, "Not so fast there Big Fella!"
RTGFKAR became aware that our water had been turned on yesterday in the early eve. His awareness of this happy event was funneled through his socks which had suddenly become wet. Because he is, at the moment, okay all the time, hearing impaired, RTGFKAR was watching television with the volume setting used by SETI when trying to attract an alien response from outer space, consequently, leaving him unable to hear the water pouring from the nearby guest bathroom's spigot. That the spigot had been turned on and, further, that the faucet itself was turned sideways and thus was dumping its water flow onto the counter and then to the floor was a consequence of my having fallen from a roof and broken my back when I was nineteen years old. How so?, you might ask, and just because you might, I'm going to tell you. You see, now that I am older than the dust bunnies under Pyramid beds, I have what is technically known in medical circles as a Bad Back. Because of this bad back business, I list bending and lifting, either separately or together, as things to be avoided whenever possible. As you might or might not know but will for sure in a minute, we have had no water service to our house since Sunday. No tsk tsk so sads are necessary, we can handle it. RTGfKAR and I go down to our nearby quebrada and fill tubs with water for cleaning and toilet flushing. Potable water we get from neighbor and pal Dalys who has a well. It's that toilet flushing thing linked to my back that caused the problem. Being a be prepared former Boy Scout drop out, I had brought a bucket to the bathroom filled with water to use as a flushing aid. To those of you who don't know that a bucket of water dumped into your john will make it flush, I can only say, whoa Dude, sorry. Because a bucket of water is a heavy sort of thing, I decided to not put it on the floor where I would have to bend to pick it up. I decided, instead, to set it in the bathroom sink where I or others could grab it and use it without subsequent back strain. The sink's spigot, its griffo, I think the word is in Spanish, I turned sideways to allow room for the bucket. Unbeknownst (I like that word) to me, I also turned on the cold water faucet as I did so and, hence, enabled the mini water disaster that was to follow.
When RTGFKAR got up from his viewing during a commercial break to forage for a snack, he and his sandals and socks found the water streaming from under the bathroom door. As it was raining at the time he feared it might be water seeping through an exterior wall but was happy, more or less, to find it was only the sink and bucket problem I have herein described. He and I then set about cleaning up the mess, he with a water vac of some kind and me with a mop and pail. It took less than half an hour and it was a task we didn't really mind as it meant, Hooray, our water is back on!
It was shortly after that that Juan said to God not so fast and shut us off anew.
I would be remiss if I didn't also mention that Enrique down at the power plant - to demonstrate his power, I suppose - turned us off as well for the rest of the night. He, though, I also suppose, being a gentler, kinder sort of bloke, lit us back up first thing in the morning.
This saga will continue if it continues.
RTGFKAR became aware that our water had been turned on yesterday in the early eve. His awareness of this happy event was funneled through his socks which had suddenly become wet. Because he is, at the moment, okay all the time, hearing impaired, RTGFKAR was watching television with the volume setting used by SETI when trying to attract an alien response from outer space, consequently, leaving him unable to hear the water pouring from the nearby guest bathroom's spigot. That the spigot had been turned on and, further, that the faucet itself was turned sideways and thus was dumping its water flow onto the counter and then to the floor was a consequence of my having fallen from a roof and broken my back when I was nineteen years old. How so?, you might ask, and just because you might, I'm going to tell you. You see, now that I am older than the dust bunnies under Pyramid beds, I have what is technically known in medical circles as a Bad Back. Because of this bad back business, I list bending and lifting, either separately or together, as things to be avoided whenever possible. As you might or might not know but will for sure in a minute, we have had no water service to our house since Sunday. No tsk tsk so sads are necessary, we can handle it. RTGfKAR and I go down to our nearby quebrada and fill tubs with water for cleaning and toilet flushing. Potable water we get from neighbor and pal Dalys who has a well. It's that toilet flushing thing linked to my back that caused the problem. Being a be prepared former Boy Scout drop out, I had brought a bucket to the bathroom filled with water to use as a flushing aid. To those of you who don't know that a bucket of water dumped into your john will make it flush, I can only say, whoa Dude, sorry. Because a bucket of water is a heavy sort of thing, I decided to not put it on the floor where I would have to bend to pick it up. I decided, instead, to set it in the bathroom sink where I or others could grab it and use it without subsequent back strain. The sink's spigot, its griffo, I think the word is in Spanish, I turned sideways to allow room for the bucket. Unbeknownst (I like that word) to me, I also turned on the cold water faucet as I did so and, hence, enabled the mini water disaster that was to follow.
When RTGFKAR got up from his viewing during a commercial break to forage for a snack, he and his sandals and socks found the water streaming from under the bathroom door. As it was raining at the time he feared it might be water seeping through an exterior wall but was happy, more or less, to find it was only the sink and bucket problem I have herein described. He and I then set about cleaning up the mess, he with a water vac of some kind and me with a mop and pail. It took less than half an hour and it was a task we didn't really mind as it meant, Hooray, our water is back on!
It was shortly after that that Juan said to God not so fast and shut us off anew.
I would be remiss if I didn't also mention that Enrique down at the power plant - to demonstrate his power, I suppose - turned us off as well for the rest of the night. He, though, I also suppose, being a gentler, kinder sort of bloke, lit us back up first thing in the morning.
This saga will continue if it continues.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
RTGFKAR's Tale
Here is a guest shot by RTGFKAR.
The saga of Hospital Chiriquí (OSS-PEE-TAL CHEEROKEE)
About four weeks into my ear problems; let’s borrow the understated term from our friends across the pond and refer to them “the troubles”; a resurgence of those old demons, “Wha?”, Huh?” and “Say again?”, I mean much more so than the expected aural infirmities of old age would allow for, told me that the treatment was not working.
Allow me to recap, or rather, having not broached the subject before, cap.
Having survived a childhood peppered with occasional bouts of earaches so severe I remember crying myself to sleep at night , and made it to adulthood, those memories faded, only occasionally surfacing when the inevitable cold or flu bug visited, their choice of guest quarters for the duration being my ears.
The cases were infrequent enough and those bad memories might have vanished into complete disremembrance, but for the next otic happening four decades into my mortal coildom.
Waking up one morning, I found I had lost the hearing in one ear. The upshot, to skip all the concern and conjecture you can imagine, was a flushing of excess earwax into a kidney-shaped pan held not-quite-tightly enough against my neck to prevent some of said agua-cum-cerumen mixture from dribbling down my neck, my shirt and my pants. A small price to pay to regain one’s hearing. Although there was also the matter of a stiff co-pay to our less-than-stellar insurance company, but that’s a rant of another choler.
When a similar situation arose a year later, experience led me to expect another flushing , preferably holding the kidney pan much tighter! Instead of the pan, though, I got a scan (cat, that is) and that feline prying into my cranium uncovered a cholesteanoma in my inner ear. Not a small hairless domesticated mammal cultivating potatoes in my ear canal, but “a growth”, the doctor said.
I wonder why doctors seem to have no idea where such a phrase leads your thoughts when they casually toss it out? But no, it was not a big Cee-little a-n-c-e-r growth or a tumor growth, I eventually discovered , but a growth of skin. My facial skin apparently forgot that it was supposed to stop growing when it reached my eardrum and so continued merrily on into my inner ear, where it proceeded to start dissolving part of that trinity of bones, the stirrup, the hammer and the sickle, that convey sound to your (or in this case, don’t convey sound to MY) hearing thingamabob.
OK, I know it’s not the hammer and sickle, I was just testing if you were paying attention.
Timpanomastoidectomy (Lets see Doc translate that into Spanish!), which sounds like the percussion section in the Johns Hopkin College marching band, or the final round question in the Lake Havasu Middle School spelling bee, was the procedure I needed to undergo.
Simply drill a hole in my head behind my ear, go in and snip-snip away the nasty growth and, oh yeah, salvage what you can of the remains of those anvil, iliad and oddessy bones with a little superglue, close up and WALLA!, good as new! (I eschew the French spelling of voila because I mean, really, how can you get ‘walla’ out of v-o-I-l-a?).
Quicker than Captain Kirk could say “Make it so!”, it was so. (I know, I know, testing again) What, however was supposed to be a short out-patient procedure (in at seven, out by three) turned into an overnighter when the anesthetic disagreed with me, leaving me groggy and nauseated beyond belief, I thought it went rather well.
Friends who came to give me a ride home said my dazed visage, unshaven and bandage-swathed head made me look like a Hell’s Angel after Altamont.
A couple of weeks of vertigo, lightheadedness and light-wallettedness (don’t get me started on that co-pay business again, this one was largantic!) and I was good as new! Well, OK, 70% good as new hearing in my left ear, but then, what’s a few more “Wha?s” among friends
Good otic hygiene and the use of Debrox for earwax removal and hydrogen peroxide for much cheaper ditto got me through the next two decades and into the third.
Now we’re getting to the more recent part of the cap. A couple of months ago that ole debil “Wha?” rose his ugly head again and drove me to a local ear, nose and throat guy who nodded in Spanish, gazed into my ears , flushed out more wax with a high-pressure fire hose and prescribed antibiotics and eardrops.
My eeriness diminished but did not go entirely away and subsequent visits resulted in more flushings, more antibiotic pills and butt shots. After another week with little improvement and an up-scaling of pain, the next visit to my OT-YGN (otolaryngolgist; Hey, women have OB-GYNs right?) brought the decision that the intra-muscular shots were not strong enough and that I had to go over to Hospital Chiriquí (HC) to get a couple of intravenous shots.
That about does it for the capping (and carping) and brings us up to the present day. Since we had missed lunch, we corrected that omission before heading over to HC where I went in with bro Doc for moral and linguistic support. When we were directed to the admissions office rather than the shots-are-us department, and the woman there began pulling out forms, I suspected there was more than a shot afoot.
Turns out the ‘couple of shots’ was a regimen of drips, drops, drugs and drafts: an intravenous drip, lots of eardrops, pills and shots of drugs and , of course, drafts, courtesy of the backless hospital gown.
Not having expected an overnight visit to beautiful and lovely David (Daveed) and, having none of the necessary accouterments for an ensconsement in HC, I opted to go home, pack some stuff and return. The admission lady said she would be there until five, so I had plenty of time. I left Boquete about 2:30.. Since there is only one route from Boquete to David and since time was important, you can guess that all did not go smoothly.
Just past Dolega, traffic slowed to a crawl and then to a stop, to only intermittently moving in fits and starts. After about 50 minutes of creepy-crawling we reached the hill where the Atlas cervaseria (brewery) was. There were cars sprawled along the verge and a beer truck being towed away. Happy hour had apparently gotten out of hand.
The majority of Panamanians seem to work from 7:00 to 4:00, so the full press of Davidians trying to get home and the mass of suburbanites trying to get out of the city were being alternately routed along the one remaining lane where they had to drive as slowly as possible to rubberneck , or perhaps they were looking for some errant beer bottles.
I did make it to HC before 5:00, and, assured that some actual medications would be administered this day and I would not merely be checked in and put to bed, I checked in. No roach motel jokes, please.
Despite the fact that I had HC health coverage (note: $500 a year as opposed to the $650 a MONTH I was paying Kaiser Permanante in the US!) I had to pay a deposit. I guess to cover damage from the wild parties in the room. One’s reputation precedes one.
My coverage entitled me to a semi-private room, which was private for two days of my stay, since I had no cell-mate, er, room-mate.
Things proceeded quickly and efficiently. After I checked in to the room I was disrobed, begowned, heighted, weighted, blood pressured, deblooded and had a IV connection inserted into my hand and drugs injected, but no IV stuff.
I got ear drops, water and dinner; not bad,: ground beef, carrots, potatoes, yucca soup and pineapple yogurt, but still no IV juice. About 8:00 a nurse came in and unhooked the line I had been hooked up to. “Ahorra?” I asked, “Manana?” She replied, “Mas tarde.” Later.
This place is as quiet as a hospital. The halls are deserted and with my hearing loss there is an eerie silence over everything. Maybe the Earth has traveled through a deadly glowing comet tail and radiation has killed everyone and I am the last person alive on the planet!
Nah! The nurse just came in to hook up my IV and it’s dripping away. “Aunty Bee Ottico”, the nurse said. I wonder if I get Andy and Opie Bee Otticos, too? 9:00 PM it is.
The typical television cop/medical show IV setup looks like a big soft rubber bag with a long tube that goes into the patient’s arm. Mine had that, but between the bag and my arm was a clear plastic cylinder. The nurse would lower the cylinder below the bag, fill it, using about a quarter of the bag’s contents, inject a shot or two into a Y connection in the cylinder ( or the one in my hand) and let it drip merrily away.
Position and height was apparently important, for there was much adjusting of both and at one point the nurse asked me to lie down for the process and lowered the bed. Unlike the movies, where the patient is provided with a wheeled stand to hold the IV, that you can pull and roam around the room and halls, I couldn’t, because it was affixed to the bed frame (although the bed WAS on wheels, maybe I could… no, I’d never get it through the doorway!)
I noticed that lack of mobility one time when I neglected to pee before being hooked up and realized I was hostage to the six foot length of the IV tube. I evaluated my options:
1 remove the IV and go pee.
2 lift the whole apparatus, carry it to the John and go pee
3 Use my water cup and go pee
4 just go pee (Hey, it ain’t my bed!)
5 call the nurse
6 tough it out
I’ll let you decide which option I chose.
Under ‘thinking outside the box” I guess you could include the Catch 22 option too.
“Forty five minutes”, the nurse said it would take. It was more like an hour, given all the adjustments. Subsequent IVs did go faster after I learned to position my hand (and how to control the little plastic valve doohickey) I got a second at midnight and then 6:30AM.
I rarely sleep more than a few hours at a stretch, which might have fit nicely with the schedule here if only the sleepy-bye times and the wakey times coincided with the hospital schedule
About five different nurses visited me overnight , sticking thermometers in my ears, clamping my finger in a small device and clamping my biceps with a hydraulic strap and then listening to them scream with a stethoscope.
Breakfast. Served at 8:00; I would have expected earlier. A cup of warm milk with a tablespoon of what I took to be oatmeal floating on the bottom. I guess oatmeal is really expensive here. Fruit cup, juice (pear) two slices of lunch meat wrapped around a cheese filling and a wedge of eggy/potatoey omelet. And a cuppa, this IS Panama you know.
More clampings squeezings and stickings, I await more dripping. Oh, if you decide to have a stay here, bring shampoo. All they give you is a teeny bar of soap. There is a soap dispenser above the sink, but it hurts when you bang your head on the wall tile!
I wandered about while awaiting my meds. The drugas cart was a few doors down so I anticipated a short wait. My room was number six on the corridor from the nurses’ station with the room beyond mine the last one occupied. The hall extended down to room twelve and than a suite. Another corridor of rooms branched off near the end, which led down to another nurses’ station and more rooms. All were vacant. Doctors in Chirique must be doing a damn good job to be keeping the hospital so empty!
12:15 brought lunch, the biggest meal of the day. Chicken, rice and veggies, a piece of fried chicken, and tomatoes. Also a soup of chunks of potato, yucca and something similar to both. They all tasted the same. Oh, and a couple pieces of chicken in the soup. Pollo day at HC
After lunch another IV drip. My left hand gave out and the drip reduced to a dribble, so they had to open a new pipeline in my right. Inconvenient. I can’t write while being intravenoused, and I keep reaching for things, forgetting about the line.
My main concern now is whether I getta go home or will have to stay over another night. No one seems to know, only the scarce Dr Pazmino. I will have to buttonhole an English-speaking nurse and try to find out. Hmm, let’s see, how do you translate ‘buttonhole’?
Alrighty then. The elusive Dr Pazmino (Paz-mean-yo) ‘he no come to de osspital today”. I did, however, get a commitment from the nurses to call him. Obviously I hope not to have to stay over another night and definitely not a third, since I only brought two pair of clean underwear. What would happen if I had to drive home in dirty underwear and had an accident and had to go to the hospital? Every mother’s worst nightmare. She would turn over in her grave (an interesting concept, since she was cremated).
Alnotrighty then! Dr P showed up, examined my canalii and exclaimed “Mucho mayor!”, either “much better!” , or “I want your vote for mayor!” Even though it meant the former, he explained that the infection was so bad, that to stop the IVs too soon would result in my eventual return to HC. So I need to stay over not only this night, but the next as well! I guess I have to put my faith in modern medical science. Did I mention that I hate hospitals?
The rest of my vacation went about the same; lots of drips and drops. More chicken-heavy repasts and lots of wandering around the hospital for exercise and relief from boredom. Doc and Charly had come and recharged my underwear supply and coins for the coffee machine.
I had expanded my micro-fiefdom to include my roomie’s recliner for TV viewing (mine was a storage rack), his roll-about table for my beverage cart and in general usurping all I surveyed. I returned from a walkabout in the afternoon to find that my room had reverted to, well, a hospital room, my square footage severely restricted.
As I surmised, that afternoon brought another patient to the Ramon Arms wing of the HC resort. He was immobile and asleep the majority of he time, but had seven or eight generations of relatives attending him at all hours and his wife stayed all night, sleeping in my TV chair!
I was surprised to see the good doctor early Thursday morning; he examined me and said I could check out (easier said than done). No more medication, just go home. Were it only so easy!
I started asking nurses how to check out, the equivalent of banging my tin cup on the bars for the jailer to release me. The procedure was to start the ball rolling in the admissions office (shouldn’t there be a demissions office?), who would alert the accounting office, who would check with the nursing staff and consult various oracles. Basically, “We’ll get back to you.”
When I got back to my hood, a nurse informed me that I should go to my room where my meds were waiting. one last IV and eardrops . Apparently Dr P had meant to say no more medication not already scheduled. Well, it gave me something to do while the bureaucratic wheels ground.
When the IV finished, I asked the nurse if she would remove the IV from my arm (the third location, the second having dried up as well), but she would not. First I had to get a note from my mother and then a note from admissions which I couldn’t get until I paid up at the cashier., all of which awaited the proper portents and signs. Apparently they thought I wouldn’t be able to leave without paying if I had the IV needle still stuck in me; diabolical!
By eleven or so all the stars had aligned and I was able to bid adieu to the Chirique Resort and Spa. I still felt like I had balls of cotton stuffed in my head, and puncture scars and several prescriptions, but I had tasted my last of the chicken and yucca soup.
The overall experience wasn’t bad; the nursing care was very good, the rooms clean and modern, the food OK., not that I’d care to repeat it anytime soon. My 30% of the tab was under $500 for the three day stay;. Beats the alternative.
The saga of Hospital Chiriquí (OSS-PEE-TAL CHEEROKEE)
About four weeks into my ear problems; let’s borrow the understated term from our friends across the pond and refer to them “the troubles”; a resurgence of those old demons, “Wha?”, Huh?” and “Say again?”, I mean much more so than the expected aural infirmities of old age would allow for, told me that the treatment was not working.
Allow me to recap, or rather, having not broached the subject before, cap.
Having survived a childhood peppered with occasional bouts of earaches so severe I remember crying myself to sleep at night , and made it to adulthood, those memories faded, only occasionally surfacing when the inevitable cold or flu bug visited, their choice of guest quarters for the duration being my ears.
The cases were infrequent enough and those bad memories might have vanished into complete disremembrance, but for the next otic happening four decades into my mortal coildom.
Waking up one morning, I found I had lost the hearing in one ear. The upshot, to skip all the concern and conjecture you can imagine, was a flushing of excess earwax into a kidney-shaped pan held not-quite-tightly enough against my neck to prevent some of said agua-cum-cerumen mixture from dribbling down my neck, my shirt and my pants. A small price to pay to regain one’s hearing. Although there was also the matter of a stiff co-pay to our less-than-stellar insurance company, but that’s a rant of another choler.
When a similar situation arose a year later, experience led me to expect another flushing , preferably holding the kidney pan much tighter! Instead of the pan, though, I got a scan (cat, that is) and that feline prying into my cranium uncovered a cholesteanoma in my inner ear. Not a small hairless domesticated mammal cultivating potatoes in my ear canal, but “a growth”, the doctor said.
I wonder why doctors seem to have no idea where such a phrase leads your thoughts when they casually toss it out? But no, it was not a big Cee-little a-n-c-e-r growth or a tumor growth, I eventually discovered , but a growth of skin. My facial skin apparently forgot that it was supposed to stop growing when it reached my eardrum and so continued merrily on into my inner ear, where it proceeded to start dissolving part of that trinity of bones, the stirrup, the hammer and the sickle, that convey sound to your (or in this case, don’t convey sound to MY) hearing thingamabob.
OK, I know it’s not the hammer and sickle, I was just testing if you were paying attention.
Timpanomastoidectomy (Lets see Doc translate that into Spanish!), which sounds like the percussion section in the Johns Hopkin College marching band, or the final round question in the Lake Havasu Middle School spelling bee, was the procedure I needed to undergo.
Simply drill a hole in my head behind my ear, go in and snip-snip away the nasty growth and, oh yeah, salvage what you can of the remains of those anvil, iliad and oddessy bones with a little superglue, close up and WALLA!, good as new! (I eschew the French spelling of voila because I mean, really, how can you get ‘walla’ out of v-o-I-l-a?).
Quicker than Captain Kirk could say “Make it so!”, it was so. (I know, I know, testing again) What, however was supposed to be a short out-patient procedure (in at seven, out by three) turned into an overnighter when the anesthetic disagreed with me, leaving me groggy and nauseated beyond belief, I thought it went rather well.
Friends who came to give me a ride home said my dazed visage, unshaven and bandage-swathed head made me look like a Hell’s Angel after Altamont.
A couple of weeks of vertigo, lightheadedness and light-wallettedness (don’t get me started on that co-pay business again, this one was largantic!) and I was good as new! Well, OK, 70% good as new hearing in my left ear, but then, what’s a few more “Wha?s” among friends
Good otic hygiene and the use of Debrox for earwax removal and hydrogen peroxide for much cheaper ditto got me through the next two decades and into the third.
Now we’re getting to the more recent part of the cap. A couple of months ago that ole debil “Wha?” rose his ugly head again and drove me to a local ear, nose and throat guy who nodded in Spanish, gazed into my ears , flushed out more wax with a high-pressure fire hose and prescribed antibiotics and eardrops.
My eeriness diminished but did not go entirely away and subsequent visits resulted in more flushings, more antibiotic pills and butt shots. After another week with little improvement and an up-scaling of pain, the next visit to my OT-YGN (otolaryngolgist; Hey, women have OB-GYNs right?) brought the decision that the intra-muscular shots were not strong enough and that I had to go over to Hospital Chiriquí (HC) to get a couple of intravenous shots.
That about does it for the capping (and carping) and brings us up to the present day. Since we had missed lunch, we corrected that omission before heading over to HC where I went in with bro Doc for moral and linguistic support. When we were directed to the admissions office rather than the shots-are-us department, and the woman there began pulling out forms, I suspected there was more than a shot afoot.
Turns out the ‘couple of shots’ was a regimen of drips, drops, drugs and drafts: an intravenous drip, lots of eardrops, pills and shots of drugs and , of course, drafts, courtesy of the backless hospital gown.
Not having expected an overnight visit to beautiful and lovely David (Daveed) and, having none of the necessary accouterments for an ensconsement in HC, I opted to go home, pack some stuff and return. The admission lady said she would be there until five, so I had plenty of time. I left Boquete about 2:30.. Since there is only one route from Boquete to David and since time was important, you can guess that all did not go smoothly.
Just past Dolega, traffic slowed to a crawl and then to a stop, to only intermittently moving in fits and starts. After about 50 minutes of creepy-crawling we reached the hill where the Atlas cervaseria (brewery) was. There were cars sprawled along the verge and a beer truck being towed away. Happy hour had apparently gotten out of hand.
The majority of Panamanians seem to work from 7:00 to 4:00, so the full press of Davidians trying to get home and the mass of suburbanites trying to get out of the city were being alternately routed along the one remaining lane where they had to drive as slowly as possible to rubberneck , or perhaps they were looking for some errant beer bottles.
I did make it to HC before 5:00, and, assured that some actual medications would be administered this day and I would not merely be checked in and put to bed, I checked in. No roach motel jokes, please.
Despite the fact that I had HC health coverage (note: $500 a year as opposed to the $650 a MONTH I was paying Kaiser Permanante in the US!) I had to pay a deposit. I guess to cover damage from the wild parties in the room. One’s reputation precedes one.
My coverage entitled me to a semi-private room, which was private for two days of my stay, since I had no cell-mate, er, room-mate.
Things proceeded quickly and efficiently. After I checked in to the room I was disrobed, begowned, heighted, weighted, blood pressured, deblooded and had a IV connection inserted into my hand and drugs injected, but no IV stuff.
I got ear drops, water and dinner; not bad,: ground beef, carrots, potatoes, yucca soup and pineapple yogurt, but still no IV juice. About 8:00 a nurse came in and unhooked the line I had been hooked up to. “Ahorra?” I asked, “Manana?” She replied, “Mas tarde.” Later.
This place is as quiet as a hospital. The halls are deserted and with my hearing loss there is an eerie silence over everything. Maybe the Earth has traveled through a deadly glowing comet tail and radiation has killed everyone and I am the last person alive on the planet!
Nah! The nurse just came in to hook up my IV and it’s dripping away. “Aunty Bee Ottico”, the nurse said. I wonder if I get Andy and Opie Bee Otticos, too? 9:00 PM it is.
The typical television cop/medical show IV setup looks like a big soft rubber bag with a long tube that goes into the patient’s arm. Mine had that, but between the bag and my arm was a clear plastic cylinder. The nurse would lower the cylinder below the bag, fill it, using about a quarter of the bag’s contents, inject a shot or two into a Y connection in the cylinder ( or the one in my hand) and let it drip merrily away.
Position and height was apparently important, for there was much adjusting of both and at one point the nurse asked me to lie down for the process and lowered the bed. Unlike the movies, where the patient is provided with a wheeled stand to hold the IV, that you can pull and roam around the room and halls, I couldn’t, because it was affixed to the bed frame (although the bed WAS on wheels, maybe I could… no, I’d never get it through the doorway!)
I noticed that lack of mobility one time when I neglected to pee before being hooked up and realized I was hostage to the six foot length of the IV tube. I evaluated my options:
1 remove the IV and go pee.
2 lift the whole apparatus, carry it to the John and go pee
3 Use my water cup and go pee
4 just go pee (Hey, it ain’t my bed!)
5 call the nurse
6 tough it out
I’ll let you decide which option I chose.
Under ‘thinking outside the box” I guess you could include the Catch 22 option too.
“Forty five minutes”, the nurse said it would take. It was more like an hour, given all the adjustments. Subsequent IVs did go faster after I learned to position my hand (and how to control the little plastic valve doohickey) I got a second at midnight and then 6:30AM.
I rarely sleep more than a few hours at a stretch, which might have fit nicely with the schedule here if only the sleepy-bye times and the wakey times coincided with the hospital schedule
About five different nurses visited me overnight , sticking thermometers in my ears, clamping my finger in a small device and clamping my biceps with a hydraulic strap and then listening to them scream with a stethoscope.
Breakfast. Served at 8:00; I would have expected earlier. A cup of warm milk with a tablespoon of what I took to be oatmeal floating on the bottom. I guess oatmeal is really expensive here. Fruit cup, juice (pear) two slices of lunch meat wrapped around a cheese filling and a wedge of eggy/potatoey omelet. And a cuppa, this IS Panama you know.
More clampings squeezings and stickings, I await more dripping. Oh, if you decide to have a stay here, bring shampoo. All they give you is a teeny bar of soap. There is a soap dispenser above the sink, but it hurts when you bang your head on the wall tile!
I wandered about while awaiting my meds. The drugas cart was a few doors down so I anticipated a short wait. My room was number six on the corridor from the nurses’ station with the room beyond mine the last one occupied. The hall extended down to room twelve and than a suite. Another corridor of rooms branched off near the end, which led down to another nurses’ station and more rooms. All were vacant. Doctors in Chirique must be doing a damn good job to be keeping the hospital so empty!
12:15 brought lunch, the biggest meal of the day. Chicken, rice and veggies, a piece of fried chicken, and tomatoes. Also a soup of chunks of potato, yucca and something similar to both. They all tasted the same. Oh, and a couple pieces of chicken in the soup. Pollo day at HC
After lunch another IV drip. My left hand gave out and the drip reduced to a dribble, so they had to open a new pipeline in my right. Inconvenient. I can’t write while being intravenoused, and I keep reaching for things, forgetting about the line.
My main concern now is whether I getta go home or will have to stay over another night. No one seems to know, only the scarce Dr Pazmino. I will have to buttonhole an English-speaking nurse and try to find out. Hmm, let’s see, how do you translate ‘buttonhole’?
Alrighty then. The elusive Dr Pazmino (Paz-mean-yo) ‘he no come to de osspital today”. I did, however, get a commitment from the nurses to call him. Obviously I hope not to have to stay over another night and definitely not a third, since I only brought two pair of clean underwear. What would happen if I had to drive home in dirty underwear and had an accident and had to go to the hospital? Every mother’s worst nightmare. She would turn over in her grave (an interesting concept, since she was cremated).
Alnotrighty then! Dr P showed up, examined my canalii and exclaimed “Mucho mayor!”, either “much better!” , or “I want your vote for mayor!” Even though it meant the former, he explained that the infection was so bad, that to stop the IVs too soon would result in my eventual return to HC. So I need to stay over not only this night, but the next as well! I guess I have to put my faith in modern medical science. Did I mention that I hate hospitals?
The rest of my vacation went about the same; lots of drips and drops. More chicken-heavy repasts and lots of wandering around the hospital for exercise and relief from boredom. Doc and Charly had come and recharged my underwear supply and coins for the coffee machine.
I had expanded my micro-fiefdom to include my roomie’s recliner for TV viewing (mine was a storage rack), his roll-about table for my beverage cart and in general usurping all I surveyed. I returned from a walkabout in the afternoon to find that my room had reverted to, well, a hospital room, my square footage severely restricted.
As I surmised, that afternoon brought another patient to the Ramon Arms wing of the HC resort. He was immobile and asleep the majority of he time, but had seven or eight generations of relatives attending him at all hours and his wife stayed all night, sleeping in my TV chair!
I was surprised to see the good doctor early Thursday morning; he examined me and said I could check out (easier said than done). No more medication, just go home. Were it only so easy!
I started asking nurses how to check out, the equivalent of banging my tin cup on the bars for the jailer to release me. The procedure was to start the ball rolling in the admissions office (shouldn’t there be a demissions office?), who would alert the accounting office, who would check with the nursing staff and consult various oracles. Basically, “We’ll get back to you.”
When I got back to my hood, a nurse informed me that I should go to my room where my meds were waiting. one last IV and eardrops . Apparently Dr P had meant to say no more medication not already scheduled. Well, it gave me something to do while the bureaucratic wheels ground.
When the IV finished, I asked the nurse if she would remove the IV from my arm (the third location, the second having dried up as well), but she would not. First I had to get a note from my mother and then a note from admissions which I couldn’t get until I paid up at the cashier., all of which awaited the proper portents and signs. Apparently they thought I wouldn’t be able to leave without paying if I had the IV needle still stuck in me; diabolical!
By eleven or so all the stars had aligned and I was able to bid adieu to the Chirique Resort and Spa. I still felt like I had balls of cotton stuffed in my head, and puncture scars and several prescriptions, but I had tasted my last of the chicken and yucca soup.
The overall experience wasn’t bad; the nursing care was very good, the rooms clean and modern, the food OK., not that I’d care to repeat it anytime soon. My 30% of the tab was under $500 for the three day stay;. Beats the alternative.
Monday, August 23, 2010
In a World of Wet
I wasn't going to blog today. I was going to, instead, write a critically acclaimed, best seller. Two circumstances of note, however, diverted me from my good intention.
The first was Old Girl. Some of you know about this neighborhood wandering ancient dog who had made a spot near our front door her resting place when she is not...somewhere else. We feed her, of course, - she is always dreadfully skinny - and we had placed an unused by our dogs doggie-bed in her favorite corner for her napping comfort. A couple of days ago, because that doggie-bed had become tattered and filthy, I bought her a new one. To the left you can see a picture of Old Girl and her new bed on their first day together. Apparently she prefers the bed's stuffing to be outside the bed. Oh man. Dog stuff. Who can figure.
The second event distracting me from making the classics mere comic books beside my opus was rain, yesterday's rain. It fell somewhere in excess of abundance. It fell in such a fearsome torrent that I was compelled to pour a bit of scotch over some ice and retire to the patio to watch the storm. Woowoo Charly joined me after a bit and we both noted, beyond the close up sound of the rainfall, a sort of undercurrent of roar. This we deduced correctly was the Caldera River screaming through the valley far below us. It sounded like an endless convoy of semis or tanks passing by. This morning we are told of bridges out and damage done. Nothing like the flood of a few years ago, but still a mess. an undoubtedly expensive mess. I plan on surveying the damage myself a bit later in the day if, of course, it doesn't rain again before I have a chance. The sky at the moment has on its best poker face. It's unreadable, sort of hazy blue, gray around the edges. Could go either way.
(Up close and personal we are without running water and are told that it may be a few days before service is restored.)
Alrighty then. Now I can get on to writing the book. I've forgotten my original plot, but I'm thinking of an old dog's voyage on a boat full of animals sailing about waiting for the rain to stop. Benji meets Noah in Waterworld. I think it is an idea that will float...so to speak.
The first was Old Girl. Some of you know about this neighborhood wandering ancient dog who had made a spot near our front door her resting place when she is not...somewhere else. We feed her, of course, - she is always dreadfully skinny - and we had placed an unused by our dogs doggie-bed in her favorite corner for her napping comfort. A couple of days ago, because that doggie-bed had become tattered and filthy, I bought her a new one. To the left you can see a picture of Old Girl and her new bed on their first day together. Apparently she prefers the bed's stuffing to be outside the bed. Oh man. Dog stuff. Who can figure.
The second event distracting me from making the classics mere comic books beside my opus was rain, yesterday's rain. It fell somewhere in excess of abundance. It fell in such a fearsome torrent that I was compelled to pour a bit of scotch over some ice and retire to the patio to watch the storm. Woowoo Charly joined me after a bit and we both noted, beyond the close up sound of the rainfall, a sort of undercurrent of roar. This we deduced correctly was the Caldera River screaming through the valley far below us. It sounded like an endless convoy of semis or tanks passing by. This morning we are told of bridges out and damage done. Nothing like the flood of a few years ago, but still a mess. an undoubtedly expensive mess. I plan on surveying the damage myself a bit later in the day if, of course, it doesn't rain again before I have a chance. The sky at the moment has on its best poker face. It's unreadable, sort of hazy blue, gray around the edges. Could go either way.
(Up close and personal we are without running water and are told that it may be a few days before service is restored.)
Alrighty then. Now I can get on to writing the book. I've forgotten my original plot, but I'm thinking of an old dog's voyage on a boat full of animals sailing about waiting for the rain to stop. Benji meets Noah in Waterworld. I think it is an idea that will float...so to speak.
Friday, August 20, 2010
Money and Movies
Alrighty then. I'm curious to see how this plays out: I went to an ATM machine last week and tried to extract some dinero, three hundred balboas (dollars) to be exact. The machine smiled warmly and said in its most consoling voice, "Sorry, I don't have enough on me at the moment to meet your request." I tried another machine further down the street and it too declined my withdrawal. Okay, I figured, the guy who fills these things each day must have gotten tied up in traffic. Not to worry, not to worry.
Well hell yes to worry! A few days later I pulled up my bank statement on the Internet and Lo and Be Freaking Hold, the money had been deducted from my account! Only one thing to do I reasoned reasonably, go to the bank heavily armed and get my money back. I took both the attached to my shoulders arms, neither of which are particularly heavy, but they're the only ones I have, to the bank whose ATM was running the scam and explained my dilemma to the manager, a woman, who appeared to be in her late teens. I had printed out a copy of my bank statement to show the bogus withdrawal and after the far too young manager-ette finished smirking at my overall balance, she did note the withdrawal was from her bank's machine. No big deal she said more or less. We just send this on to Panama City for verification and in a few days your account will be credited with the missing amount. Well, I've heard that song sung before. Panama City is where all things are sent if not to die, at least to linger long. I'll give it until this time next week and then I'll charge back there and threaten to tell the manager's parents the whole thing. Maybe she'll be grounded.
We watched Luna Nuevo (New Moon)the second movie in the Crepusculo (Twilight) series and it was...better than the first, but only because of a scene near the end that takes place somewhere in Italy and introduces some really interesting vampires: old, powerful vampires. Other than that, it was more of the same mooning, angst ridden, jealous, emotionally charged, teenagers wrapped in vampire and were wolves bodies. As a movie I give it two Stars. As a horror movie it gets minus one Bloody Chain Saw.
We also watched Un Sueno Possible, the feel good movie in which Sandra Bullock walks around in tight fitting clothes - my favorite part - and takes in a large homeless black kid as part of her family. Sandra won an Academy Award for her role, a thing I think overly generous as the part didn't require much beyond adapting a slight southern accent, but then, hey, who am I to say even if I am a lot more discerning than those Academy members who vote and she did, in addition to wearing those excellent outfits, have nice hair throughout. I'm sure the Academy voters took this into consideration. I gave the movie three Stars out of a possible five. It failed though as a sports movie so no Bloody Footballs were awarded.
At the video store I was told that Benicio Del Torro's Hombre Lobo (Wolfman) was finally in, but had been rented out that day. This information was immediately awarded three Alrighty Thens as something to look forward to. Tune in next week for the review.
One final note: RTGFKAR returned from Hospital Chiriqui yesterday where he had brought his ears to be treated intra-venously with antibiotics for an infection that had taken hold within them. Being emotionally and physically attached to his ears, RTGFKAR stayed with them for the entire three days of the treatment. This, I think is commendable behavior and as such is in the running for the Academy of Waxy Buildups highest award, The Simonize.
Well hell yes to worry! A few days later I pulled up my bank statement on the Internet and Lo and Be Freaking Hold, the money had been deducted from my account! Only one thing to do I reasoned reasonably, go to the bank heavily armed and get my money back. I took both the attached to my shoulders arms, neither of which are particularly heavy, but they're the only ones I have, to the bank whose ATM was running the scam and explained my dilemma to the manager, a woman, who appeared to be in her late teens. I had printed out a copy of my bank statement to show the bogus withdrawal and after the far too young manager-ette finished smirking at my overall balance, she did note the withdrawal was from her bank's machine. No big deal she said more or less. We just send this on to Panama City for verification and in a few days your account will be credited with the missing amount. Well, I've heard that song sung before. Panama City is where all things are sent if not to die, at least to linger long. I'll give it until this time next week and then I'll charge back there and threaten to tell the manager's parents the whole thing. Maybe she'll be grounded.
We watched Luna Nuevo (New Moon)the second movie in the Crepusculo (Twilight) series and it was...better than the first, but only because of a scene near the end that takes place somewhere in Italy and introduces some really interesting vampires: old, powerful vampires. Other than that, it was more of the same mooning, angst ridden, jealous, emotionally charged, teenagers wrapped in vampire and were wolves bodies. As a movie I give it two Stars. As a horror movie it gets minus one Bloody Chain Saw.
We also watched Un Sueno Possible, the feel good movie in which Sandra Bullock walks around in tight fitting clothes - my favorite part - and takes in a large homeless black kid as part of her family. Sandra won an Academy Award for her role, a thing I think overly generous as the part didn't require much beyond adapting a slight southern accent, but then, hey, who am I to say even if I am a lot more discerning than those Academy members who vote and she did, in addition to wearing those excellent outfits, have nice hair throughout. I'm sure the Academy voters took this into consideration. I gave the movie three Stars out of a possible five. It failed though as a sports movie so no Bloody Footballs were awarded.
At the video store I was told that Benicio Del Torro's Hombre Lobo (Wolfman) was finally in, but had been rented out that day. This information was immediately awarded three Alrighty Thens as something to look forward to. Tune in next week for the review.
One final note: RTGFKAR returned from Hospital Chiriqui yesterday where he had brought his ears to be treated intra-venously with antibiotics for an infection that had taken hold within them. Being emotionally and physically attached to his ears, RTGFKAR stayed with them for the entire three days of the treatment. This, I think is commendable behavior and as such is in the running for the Academy of Waxy Buildups highest award, The Simonize.
Monday, August 16, 2010
Monday Blithering
My take on a too often aired commercial.
Are you?
Yes I am in about fifteen years. I'm here to tell you that you need to have plan to see that your financial future will be safe and secure.
Alrighty then, Old Self. Here's my plan: You tell me who wins the Kentucky Derby, the World Series, The Super Bowl and, oh, I don't know, say, the Indianapolis 500, in each of the next fifteen years and I guarantee my financial future will be a dandy! Of course it wouldn't hurt to know which stocks to invest in as well, so go ahead and throw those in for good measure.
I hate commercials; all but the funny ones, that is. And even those, I only like once. (I'm not a violent person so someone else please shoot that woman from Progressive who says, "Happens to me all the time.")
The Denver Broncos didn't look too bad last night if you forget those parts of the game that include blocking, tackling, running, throwing, kicking and catching. I fear it's going to be a long year for we Denver fans, all six of us.
That's it. I have nothing else to say except don't ground your club in a sand bunker.
Hasta.
Are you?
Yes I am in about fifteen years. I'm here to tell you that you need to have plan to see that your financial future will be safe and secure.
Alrighty then, Old Self. Here's my plan: You tell me who wins the Kentucky Derby, the World Series, The Super Bowl and, oh, I don't know, say, the Indianapolis 500, in each of the next fifteen years and I guarantee my financial future will be a dandy! Of course it wouldn't hurt to know which stocks to invest in as well, so go ahead and throw those in for good measure.
I hate commercials; all but the funny ones, that is. And even those, I only like once. (I'm not a violent person so someone else please shoot that woman from Progressive who says, "Happens to me all the time.")
The Denver Broncos didn't look too bad last night if you forget those parts of the game that include blocking, tackling, running, throwing, kicking and catching. I fear it's going to be a long year for we Denver fans, all six of us.
That's it. I have nothing else to say except don't ground your club in a sand bunker.
Hasta.
Friday, August 13, 2010
Good Old Days Football
I woke up with this thought: Monsoon. Soon Hell! It's here already!
I watched a little preseason football last night and my mind drifted back to my own gridiron days. The top team in the league back then was the Nutley Neanderthals, nicknamed The Low Brows, and going into our game with them, we, the Livingston Pithecanthropus Erectus Dysfunction were hampered in our preparations by tropical storms that forced us to practice indoors where darkness and low cave ceilings prevented us from using the forward pass. Our Hairyback, Grorg, had developed a strong right arm by dragging his strapping girlfriend about and he could throw the old pigskin a mile. Of course, the pig was still in its skin in those days but they didn't squeal much. It was better, after all, then being dinner. I was Grorg's favorite receiver that year as I had developed exceptional speed running away whenever trouble appeared. I was also blessed with good hands as our head cheerleader, Rump, could attest to. I could catch anything thrown my way and together with Grorg we formed a formidable duo. Not being able to practice, though, was really cramping our style and our chances of upsetting the Neanderthals seemed less and less likely with every bolt of lightning and clap of thunder. Their hunched over bodies gave them great leverage against the running game while our ability to stand upright and see over them was perfectly suited for the passing game. We had to be able to throw the pig successfully or we had no chance.
Do I really want to go on with this?
Nah.
Today is Viernes El Trece here in Panama which is very similar to Friday the Thirteenth wherever you may be reading this. On Woowoo Charly's home planet it is Blingatho Florgan, but it means the same thing. Even there, the date is rumored to be unlucky but Charly says that's a lot of borgelblatz. To be safe though, I recommend carrying lucky things with you throughout the day; things like horseshoes and Irishmen. These have been known to be useful against luck gone bad but not against chicken gone bad. Stay away from the chicken.
I have to go now. I've been shot with a tranquilizer dart and I'm feeling very sleeeeeee.
I watched a little preseason football last night and my mind drifted back to my own gridiron days. The top team in the league back then was the Nutley Neanderthals, nicknamed The Low Brows, and going into our game with them, we, the Livingston Pithecanthropus Erectus Dysfunction were hampered in our preparations by tropical storms that forced us to practice indoors where darkness and low cave ceilings prevented us from using the forward pass. Our Hairyback, Grorg, had developed a strong right arm by dragging his strapping girlfriend about and he could throw the old pigskin a mile. Of course, the pig was still in its skin in those days but they didn't squeal much. It was better, after all, then being dinner. I was Grorg's favorite receiver that year as I had developed exceptional speed running away whenever trouble appeared. I was also blessed with good hands as our head cheerleader, Rump, could attest to. I could catch anything thrown my way and together with Grorg we formed a formidable duo. Not being able to practice, though, was really cramping our style and our chances of upsetting the Neanderthals seemed less and less likely with every bolt of lightning and clap of thunder. Their hunched over bodies gave them great leverage against the running game while our ability to stand upright and see over them was perfectly suited for the passing game. We had to be able to throw the pig successfully or we had no chance.
Do I really want to go on with this?
Nah.
Today is Viernes El Trece here in Panama which is very similar to Friday the Thirteenth wherever you may be reading this. On Woowoo Charly's home planet it is Blingatho Florgan, but it means the same thing. Even there, the date is rumored to be unlucky but Charly says that's a lot of borgelblatz. To be safe though, I recommend carrying lucky things with you throughout the day; things like horseshoes and Irishmen. These have been known to be useful against luck gone bad but not against chicken gone bad. Stay away from the chicken.
I have to go now. I've been shot with a tranquilizer dart and I'm feeling very sleeeeeee.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
New and Movies
I often arrive here at the keyboard with my Monkeymind numbed by news. It is my morning habit to wake up and warm up by perusing Yahoo and other Internet info sources before moving on to write. This morning I learned that police in Buffalo, NY, during a routine traffic stop, arrested a man for having a live cat in the trunk of his car marinating in oil and peppers. How horrible can it get? I mean everyone knows that cat is best served with dill. On the brighter side, I also learned that Ramadan began yesterday and the Red Sox have a player named Saltalamacchia. Ramadan and Saltalamacchia are fun names to say aloud. Sal-tah-la-mock-ee-ah! Sounds like the answer to the question, what do you do to improve the taste of Mockia?
Alrighty then, off and running. Okay, inching along one word at a time.
We rented and watched two movies yesterday. Now as everyone knows except Shirley in Bayonne who writes in to say, "Tell me something I don't know" I've never met a movie I didn't like. These two, however, were close to qualifying. Woowoo Charly begs to differ regarding the first, but I don't allow differing here on the blog, so I just told her to quit begging. The movie was ostensibly about the Army's experiments with "remote viewing" and mentally messing with goats. It was played half seriously, half comically and neither half really worked in this reviewer's humble opinion. No wait! Make that exalted opinion! It's my blog; I can make my opinions exalted if I want to. The second movie had Denzell Washington trekking across a post apocalypse landscape to deliver a mysterious book to a mysterious place. The book turned out to be The Bible as memorized by Denzell and the place was Alcatraz. There were some decent special effects driven, unbelievable fight scenes - I can't remember the last believable fight I saw in a movie - but the flick was mostly predictable. The message at movie's end, and this was indeed a message movie, was that Christianity was now saved and would flourish again. Both Woowoo and I wondered what part religion played in the apocalypse to begin with and was it now starting all over again, but hey, that's just us whackos noting that "my God is better than your God" thinking hasn't worked out well for mankind so far.
Last night we watched "Star Trek" the movie that was a prequel to the television series. We had first seen this flick on a plane a year ago. It was a treat to now view it on a larger screen. On my rating scale of No Fun, Some Fun, Fun, and Big Fun, this one got the Big designation.
Alrighty then, off and running. Okay, inching along one word at a time.
We rented and watched two movies yesterday. Now as everyone knows except Shirley in Bayonne who writes in to say, "Tell me something I don't know" I've never met a movie I didn't like. These two, however, were close to qualifying. Woowoo Charly begs to differ regarding the first, but I don't allow differing here on the blog, so I just told her to quit begging. The movie was ostensibly about the Army's experiments with "remote viewing" and mentally messing with goats. It was played half seriously, half comically and neither half really worked in this reviewer's humble opinion. No wait! Make that exalted opinion! It's my blog; I can make my opinions exalted if I want to. The second movie had Denzell Washington trekking across a post apocalypse landscape to deliver a mysterious book to a mysterious place. The book turned out to be The Bible as memorized by Denzell and the place was Alcatraz. There were some decent special effects driven, unbelievable fight scenes - I can't remember the last believable fight I saw in a movie - but the flick was mostly predictable. The message at movie's end, and this was indeed a message movie, was that Christianity was now saved and would flourish again. Both Woowoo and I wondered what part religion played in the apocalypse to begin with and was it now starting all over again, but hey, that's just us whackos noting that "my God is better than your God" thinking hasn't worked out well for mankind so far.
Last night we watched "Star Trek" the movie that was a prequel to the television series. We had first seen this flick on a plane a year ago. It was a treat to now view it on a larger screen. On my rating scale of No Fun, Some Fun, Fun, and Big Fun, this one got the Big designation.
Monday, August 09, 2010
Blase Blogging
Alrighty then, there's a story - the dragon whimsy that precedes this blog - that could use a rewrite or two...okay, twelve, that I'll get to going forward (Bam!) in a bit and post the revised version when it is uh, like, uh, you know, revised.
There was an NFL football game of sorts last night and that's a good thing. (All football games of the preseason variety should have the disclaimer "of sorts" attached to them.) I didn't get to see it as it wasn't aired by my satellite provider, Sky TV, whose home office is hidden somewhere in a remote village deep in the heart of Venezuela and whose enormous staff of one, a guy named Fred, doesn't really like football. Well, not American football anyway. No matter, it's preseason and who really cares.
I did call Fred's cousin in Panama City and schedule the "NFL Package" so that I will get all the Denver Bronco games I care to see. I added that "I care to see" part because the team is plagued with injuries to key players and their season may already be in the, Press 1 for toilet. Press 2. for dumper, Press 3 for tank. Fred's cousin was a pleasant woman whom I finally reached after going through several of those press this for that choices all given in Spanish spoken so rapidly I had to call three or four times and listen intently to determine what the hell I was getting to choose. I finally got a Press 2 for English that got me to Fred's cousin, Maria, who spoke flawless American. At the end of our conversation I complimented her on her language skills while wishing my Spanish was better and asked if she was American or Panamanian. She replied, "Neither, I'm from Mexico." So, there you have that.
Why am I telling you this, you ask? Beats me. I don't have anything clever to write about this morning so I'm just covering the mundane. (The MUNDANE should be a section in every newspaper for people tired of bad news.) Here's some more: The sun is making what I hope is more than a cameo appearance this morning after last night's seventy five feet of new rainfall. Okay, I'm exaggerating, it was only seventy four. What's curious is that we woke up to no water from our taps. I'm sure both this plethora of and lack of water is the result of global climate change caused by evil global climate changers like the New York Yankees and others whose bodies are possessed by demons. Usually, when we lose our water supply, it is fixed in an hour or two so I'm keeping my fingers crossed because crossed fingers are really useful in restoring public services.
In other morning news of no note, we had two humming birds flying around our great room this morning causing our Cockers to plead loudly for the birds to come down to floor level so they, the dogs, can dine on them. We have large glass doors that open on to this high ceiling room and birds like to fly in and check us out from time to time. Birds have short memories though, and it often takes them awhile to find their way back out. In the interim we have to lock the dogs in our bedroom else the noise achieves decibel levels rivaling head-banger rock concerts. At least I think so. I've never actually been to a head-banger rock concert, but I've heard that Streisand can get really loud.
Woowoo Charly just announced that the water is back on.
Life is good.
There was an NFL football game of sorts last night and that's a good thing. (All football games of the preseason variety should have the disclaimer "of sorts" attached to them.) I didn't get to see it as it wasn't aired by my satellite provider, Sky TV, whose home office is hidden somewhere in a remote village deep in the heart of Venezuela and whose enormous staff of one, a guy named Fred, doesn't really like football. Well, not American football anyway. No matter, it's preseason and who really cares.
I did call Fred's cousin in Panama City and schedule the "NFL Package" so that I will get all the Denver Bronco games I care to see. I added that "I care to see" part because the team is plagued with injuries to key players and their season may already be in the, Press 1 for toilet. Press 2. for dumper, Press 3 for tank. Fred's cousin was a pleasant woman whom I finally reached after going through several of those press this for that choices all given in Spanish spoken so rapidly I had to call three or four times and listen intently to determine what the hell I was getting to choose. I finally got a Press 2 for English that got me to Fred's cousin, Maria, who spoke flawless American. At the end of our conversation I complimented her on her language skills while wishing my Spanish was better and asked if she was American or Panamanian. She replied, "Neither, I'm from Mexico." So, there you have that.
Why am I telling you this, you ask? Beats me. I don't have anything clever to write about this morning so I'm just covering the mundane. (The MUNDANE should be a section in every newspaper for people tired of bad news.) Here's some more: The sun is making what I hope is more than a cameo appearance this morning after last night's seventy five feet of new rainfall. Okay, I'm exaggerating, it was only seventy four. What's curious is that we woke up to no water from our taps. I'm sure both this plethora of and lack of water is the result of global climate change caused by evil global climate changers like the New York Yankees and others whose bodies are possessed by demons. Usually, when we lose our water supply, it is fixed in an hour or two so I'm keeping my fingers crossed because crossed fingers are really useful in restoring public services.
In other morning news of no note, we had two humming birds flying around our great room this morning causing our Cockers to plead loudly for the birds to come down to floor level so they, the dogs, can dine on them. We have large glass doors that open on to this high ceiling room and birds like to fly in and check us out from time to time. Birds have short memories though, and it often takes them awhile to find their way back out. In the interim we have to lock the dogs in our bedroom else the noise achieves decibel levels rivaling head-banger rock concerts. At least I think so. I've never actually been to a head-banger rock concert, but I've heard that Streisand can get really loud.
Woowoo Charly just announced that the water is back on.
Life is good.
Saturday, August 07, 2010
Dragon Tale Concluded
Unlike mathematics or science where all you have to be is smart and study a lot to get the correct result, creative writing requires a dip into the spookier, less accessed parts of the subconscious where stories and such lie hidden. I mean anyone can find out the square root of 24,612 right? Or explain how software works and why wainscoting is a funny word, but uncovering a decent ending for an indecent plot, for instance, can require hours of internal exploration, dream interpretation and being abducted by aliens to be successful. The square root of any number will always be the same, but a story's end must be unique. That said, all I'm lacking now to finish my uncalled for dragon story - I didn't ask for it, did you? - is that alien abduction part. I've done the internal research and dreamed my head off for a couple of days without a fruitful result. I'm left with nothing left to do but sit here, write this, and watch the skies. Where are those UFOs when you need them?
Dragons can match angels for majesty when they soar through the air. On the ground though, not so much. They have a lot of weight forward and aft to balance and sticking their wings out like a wire walker's pole requires an airport runway's unobstructed width to do successfully. Flying was not an option either as the jungle's canopy was too dense to see through. Nope, if Fearful and Laughsalot wanted to pursue Lord Snarly Flatulence, they'd have to do it on foot.
Laughsalot was not in favor of that. He felt the outcome of catching an armed Flatulence would not be one that left them laughing, but rather, one that left them in stitches...real stitches. His pleas to just forget the whole thing fell on deaf ears; enormous, sticky-up, pointy, but, none-the-less, deaf ears.
Fearful, however, was adamant. Flatulence had taken a pot shot at her pal Livingston and needed to be taught a lesson. She wasn't sure what she had in mind on that score - something along the lines of a second degree scorching that would leave him peeling for weeks seemed about right - but she knew that once she had him in her clutches squirming and pleading for mercy, she'd probably let him off with just singed hair and missing eye brows. Fearful was a softy at heart.
The trail left by Snarly Flatulence snaked its way through the jungle back to a bar cleverly named, Trail's End, from whence Snarly had begun his fateful day. He had arrived there safely ahead of his pursuers and was now loudly decrying the fact that dragons were allowed to roam about bothering innocent citizens. On most occasions and in most bars, when a patron is bitching about dragons or other fanciful creatures, the bartender will immediately cut him off and show him the door. Especially, if like Flatulence, the customer is a lousy tipper. The Lord, however, had been frightened sober and the bartender at the Trails's End figured he wasn't drunk but merely crazy, a condition that didn't necessarily warrant being Eighty Sixed.
As Snarly babbled on and downed one drink after another, the bar's patrons, mostly bass fishermen in from a day on the lake, began to take more and more notice. These were men looking for excitement and a tale to tell. Playing a bit with a whacko quite suited their mood. "What did this dragon look like," one of them asked, and "where did you see it?" Snarly, now approaching inebriation anew, his favorite state of being, was about to elaborate when the roof of the single storied building that housed the bar was suddenly lifted and the Lord was snatched from his stool, hoisted into the sky and flown out of sight.
It had taken some time for Fearful and Laughsalot to make their way to the Trail's End, what with Fearful lumbering along, wedging herself through the trees. This bit of time had given Fearful an opportunity to calm herself and Laughsalot a chance to convince her that hurting Flatulence would only bring unpleasant repercussions; the kind that most likely meant more men with guns. What really needed to happen, he reasoned, for the good of all, was for the Lord to just disappear to somewhere else. Anywhere else, actually, would do.
It was not surprising then, to anyone apart from Flatulence himself, that a short while later Laughsalot's chuckles amped up into actual belly laughs as Fearful flew away with old Snarly in her talons. He knew he would never see the likes of the Lord again because Fearful could cover great distances in a very short time. And he was right. Although Fearful returned from her journey in a couple of days, Lord Snarly Flatulence was never seen again in Livingston Laughsalot's part of the world.
Back at the Trail's End, the bass fisherman all told the same story, something about saucers, green men, red eyes and a beam that sucked up old Snarly. Nobody, of course, believed a word of it.
So...if you have ever wondered how those UFO sightings come to be...now you know.
The End.
Dragons can match angels for majesty when they soar through the air. On the ground though, not so much. They have a lot of weight forward and aft to balance and sticking their wings out like a wire walker's pole requires an airport runway's unobstructed width to do successfully. Flying was not an option either as the jungle's canopy was too dense to see through. Nope, if Fearful and Laughsalot wanted to pursue Lord Snarly Flatulence, they'd have to do it on foot.
Laughsalot was not in favor of that. He felt the outcome of catching an armed Flatulence would not be one that left them laughing, but rather, one that left them in stitches...real stitches. His pleas to just forget the whole thing fell on deaf ears; enormous, sticky-up, pointy, but, none-the-less, deaf ears.
Fearful, however, was adamant. Flatulence had taken a pot shot at her pal Livingston and needed to be taught a lesson. She wasn't sure what she had in mind on that score - something along the lines of a second degree scorching that would leave him peeling for weeks seemed about right - but she knew that once she had him in her clutches squirming and pleading for mercy, she'd probably let him off with just singed hair and missing eye brows. Fearful was a softy at heart.
The trail left by Snarly Flatulence snaked its way through the jungle back to a bar cleverly named, Trail's End, from whence Snarly had begun his fateful day. He had arrived there safely ahead of his pursuers and was now loudly decrying the fact that dragons were allowed to roam about bothering innocent citizens. On most occasions and in most bars, when a patron is bitching about dragons or other fanciful creatures, the bartender will immediately cut him off and show him the door. Especially, if like Flatulence, the customer is a lousy tipper. The Lord, however, had been frightened sober and the bartender at the Trails's End figured he wasn't drunk but merely crazy, a condition that didn't necessarily warrant being Eighty Sixed.
As Snarly babbled on and downed one drink after another, the bar's patrons, mostly bass fishermen in from a day on the lake, began to take more and more notice. These were men looking for excitement and a tale to tell. Playing a bit with a whacko quite suited their mood. "What did this dragon look like," one of them asked, and "where did you see it?" Snarly, now approaching inebriation anew, his favorite state of being, was about to elaborate when the roof of the single storied building that housed the bar was suddenly lifted and the Lord was snatched from his stool, hoisted into the sky and flown out of sight.
It had taken some time for Fearful and Laughsalot to make their way to the Trail's End, what with Fearful lumbering along, wedging herself through the trees. This bit of time had given Fearful an opportunity to calm herself and Laughsalot a chance to convince her that hurting Flatulence would only bring unpleasant repercussions; the kind that most likely meant more men with guns. What really needed to happen, he reasoned, for the good of all, was for the Lord to just disappear to somewhere else. Anywhere else, actually, would do.
It was not surprising then, to anyone apart from Flatulence himself, that a short while later Laughsalot's chuckles amped up into actual belly laughs as Fearful flew away with old Snarly in her talons. He knew he would never see the likes of the Lord again because Fearful could cover great distances in a very short time. And he was right. Although Fearful returned from her journey in a couple of days, Lord Snarly Flatulence was never seen again in Livingston Laughsalot's part of the world.
Back at the Trail's End, the bass fisherman all told the same story, something about saucers, green men, red eyes and a beam that sucked up old Snarly. Nobody, of course, believed a word of it.
So...if you have ever wondered how those UFO sightings come to be...now you know.
The End.
Friday, August 06, 2010
This, That and the Other Thing
Sleep was stuck on me so tightly this morning I couldn't wipe it off with WD-40. It has taken the careful consumption of caffeine in just the right dosage to scare off the drowse and leave me able to function; that is, if plowing through emails, Facebook, (There it is Bonnie, the Oxfordian comma) and assorted Yahoo news before confronting the blank page in front of me, can be defined as functioning.
A quick rant: There was a small company back in the Sixties (note I didn't say back in the day) that made a small fortune, very small, manufacturing Nerf bricks to throw at television screens on Monday night when Howard Cosell was saying something asinine. If I hear one more talking head of the news and sports variety say "going forward" I may have to re-implement the concept using real bricks.
Another random thought: (Of course maybe all thoughts are random. I mean we don't preselect them from a list of thoughts, they just pop up one at a time.) I noticed yesterday that I am almost seventy but still talk baby talk to my dogs. "My boys and girls are sleepy-deepy, time for beddy bye." Please just shoot me now and save me further embarrassment.
I found a couple of old friends, a man and wife, on Facebook yesterday which is the sort of thing that falls into my "Big Fun" category. They, like anyone who knew me in those long ago days, are surprised, I'm sure, to know that A. I'm still alive, B. I'm not incarcerated in either a hoosegow or a funny farm, C. that I've managed to make my way through life in an orderly fashion after a rough start and D. What is D anyway? Let me think. Okay, I have all my hair and I'm only eight to ten pounds heavier than I was then. (Okay that "orderly fashion" thing might be a bit of an exaggeration and to be honest about the weight I have to mention that I just recently lost twenty pounds and, of course my hair is somewhat thinner and...
Rant Number two: Let's talk about that weight thing for a minute. Here's what pisses me off. ("Pisses me off" is a tried and true phrase of long duration I find acceptable to use unlike "moving forward" which, I hope, lacks staying power.) Sure I put on twenty pounds while lying about eating
whatever came within arm's reach during my rehab from pneumonia, but when the time came, that is, after full recovery, I set about dilligentamente (that's diligently for you non Spanish speakers to whom (or is it to who, Bonnie?) I should mention that I only use because it is the longest Spanish word I know) to rid myself of the unsightly pounds. A diet change for both food and drink plus exercise, just as so often advertised, did the trick...until now. I have been at the same weight for roughly a month and I don't understand what has gone wrong. I mean, if you live on a diet in which you burn off more calories than you consume shouldn't you continue to lose weight until you don't have anymore and you just slide into the cosmos all whisper and spirit? Why should a diet thing work for months and then suddenly stop? It's not fair I tell ya, It's not fair at all.
I blame Bush.
(Going forward, I will conclude my dragon story on the morrow.)
BAM!
Son of bitch! Those bricks really hurt!
A quick rant: There was a small company back in the Sixties (note I didn't say back in the day) that made a small fortune, very small, manufacturing Nerf bricks to throw at television screens on Monday night when Howard Cosell was saying something asinine. If I hear one more talking head of the news and sports variety say "going forward" I may have to re-implement the concept using real bricks.
Another random thought: (Of course maybe all thoughts are random. I mean we don't preselect them from a list of thoughts, they just pop up one at a time.) I noticed yesterday that I am almost seventy but still talk baby talk to my dogs. "My boys and girls are sleepy-deepy, time for beddy bye." Please just shoot me now and save me further embarrassment.
I found a couple of old friends, a man and wife, on Facebook yesterday which is the sort of thing that falls into my "Big Fun" category. They, like anyone who knew me in those long ago days, are surprised, I'm sure, to know that A. I'm still alive, B. I'm not incarcerated in either a hoosegow or a funny farm, C. that I've managed to make my way through life in an orderly fashion after a rough start and D. What is D anyway? Let me think. Okay, I have all my hair and I'm only eight to ten pounds heavier than I was then. (Okay that "orderly fashion" thing might be a bit of an exaggeration and to be honest about the weight I have to mention that I just recently lost twenty pounds and, of course my hair is somewhat thinner and...
Rant Number two: Let's talk about that weight thing for a minute. Here's what pisses me off. ("Pisses me off" is a tried and true phrase of long duration I find acceptable to use unlike "moving forward" which, I hope, lacks staying power.) Sure I put on twenty pounds while lying about eating
whatever came within arm's reach during my rehab from pneumonia, but when the time came, that is, after full recovery, I set about dilligentamente (that's diligently for you non Spanish speakers to whom (or is it to who, Bonnie?) I should mention that I only use because it is the longest Spanish word I know) to rid myself of the unsightly pounds. A diet change for both food and drink plus exercise, just as so often advertised, did the trick...until now. I have been at the same weight for roughly a month and I don't understand what has gone wrong. I mean, if you live on a diet in which you burn off more calories than you consume shouldn't you continue to lose weight until you don't have anymore and you just slide into the cosmos all whisper and spirit? Why should a diet thing work for months and then suddenly stop? It's not fair I tell ya, It's not fair at all.
I blame Bush.
(Going forward, I will conclude my dragon story on the morrow.)
BAM!
Son of bitch! Those bricks really hurt!
Thursday, August 05, 2010
I'm trying to end this, but It's taking more time than I thought
"Old men like old whiskey, old women like desserts." I said that. Yesterday. You can quote me.
(If you just got here, go back to the post entitled Just Passing Time to find the story's start.)
Everyone who pays attention to such things knows that dragons are the most sensitive and least aggressive creatures of all the cold blooded species; the Bush family from Texas, of course, being lodged solidly at the other end of that reptile scale. Having somehow taken only half the evolutionary journey from dinosaur to bird, dragons have spent the countless eons and ages until this one soaring through the skies and peering from high places at the small wonders that occurred below. It wasn't until mankind took flight themselves in their marvelous, but deadly creations that dragons realized there was about them now a creature who could conceivably threaten their very existence. Prior to mankind's airborne prowess there had been little conflict between the two species apart from the occasional scrap with foolhardy, iron clad, sword wielding idiots. These never went well for the humans but you wouldn't know that to hear them tell it. Even before the dreadful moment when the first dragon was shot from the air, the gentle creatures had become more reclusive and nocturnal and so limiting their presence to human eyes that they had become mostly the stuff of legend. Only in the densest rural and uninhabited of earth's private places were you likely to encounter any of these great beasts or, as in the case of Laughsalot, actually befriend one. Facebook searches for dragons always proved futile.
Fearful was not really so. That was merely the name Laughsalot had given her, having mistaking her natural dragon reticence for shyness. Fearful's actual name, that is, the one given by her parents, was Klaxglygen which, roughly translated to English would be Eats Tubas, a moniker seeming so unlikely to be correct that we will just ignore it and go with Fearful. Fearful was, in fact, very brave, her friendship with Laughsalot the proof. Seeing him rush towards her now - a testament to his own bravery - had her dragon adrenals on power load and she was ready for a fight. Using her long curved talons she snatched Laughsalot to her breast and held him struggling there. She was trying to tell him to be calm, be cool, and chill out, she had everything under control, but to old Laughsalot it all just sounded like a NASCAR pile up close up. His intent had been to shoo Fearful away and he had no plan B. Alrighty then, he thought realizing he was unhurt and finally relaxing, let's just see what happens next.
Fearful had no Plan B either but that was of little matter. Her A Plan was good enough. Using her laser accurate spit fire technique, she scorched an area of about fifty yards all around to better see her adversary and there he was, just beyond the burn area, fleeing into the jungle. That is, if by fleeing I mean falling, rising, falling, rising, cursing and like that. His cider flasks, a sort of hard canvas affair, were afire and the Lord was swatting at them as he ran, trying to douse the flames and, well, to him, save the day. His efforts were to no avail though, as the heat, reaching the volatile liquid sent it exploding into a burst of white fire and Flatulence was forced to abandon them. It goes without saying at this point that he was truly and, given his rank, royally, pissed.
(If you just got here, go back to the post entitled Just Passing Time to find the story's start.)
Everyone who pays attention to such things knows that dragons are the most sensitive and least aggressive creatures of all the cold blooded species; the Bush family from Texas, of course, being lodged solidly at the other end of that reptile scale. Having somehow taken only half the evolutionary journey from dinosaur to bird, dragons have spent the countless eons and ages until this one soaring through the skies and peering from high places at the small wonders that occurred below. It wasn't until mankind took flight themselves in their marvelous, but deadly creations that dragons realized there was about them now a creature who could conceivably threaten their very existence. Prior to mankind's airborne prowess there had been little conflict between the two species apart from the occasional scrap with foolhardy, iron clad, sword wielding idiots. These never went well for the humans but you wouldn't know that to hear them tell it. Even before the dreadful moment when the first dragon was shot from the air, the gentle creatures had become more reclusive and nocturnal and so limiting their presence to human eyes that they had become mostly the stuff of legend. Only in the densest rural and uninhabited of earth's private places were you likely to encounter any of these great beasts or, as in the case of Laughsalot, actually befriend one. Facebook searches for dragons always proved futile.
Fearful was not really so. That was merely the name Laughsalot had given her, having mistaking her natural dragon reticence for shyness. Fearful's actual name, that is, the one given by her parents, was Klaxglygen which, roughly translated to English would be Eats Tubas, a moniker seeming so unlikely to be correct that we will just ignore it and go with Fearful. Fearful was, in fact, very brave, her friendship with Laughsalot the proof. Seeing him rush towards her now - a testament to his own bravery - had her dragon adrenals on power load and she was ready for a fight. Using her long curved talons she snatched Laughsalot to her breast and held him struggling there. She was trying to tell him to be calm, be cool, and chill out, she had everything under control, but to old Laughsalot it all just sounded like a NASCAR pile up close up. His intent had been to shoo Fearful away and he had no plan B. Alrighty then, he thought realizing he was unhurt and finally relaxing, let's just see what happens next.
Fearful had no Plan B either but that was of little matter. Her A Plan was good enough. Using her laser accurate spit fire technique, she scorched an area of about fifty yards all around to better see her adversary and there he was, just beyond the burn area, fleeing into the jungle. That is, if by fleeing I mean falling, rising, falling, rising, cursing and like that. His cider flasks, a sort of hard canvas affair, were afire and the Lord was swatting at them as he ran, trying to douse the flames and, well, to him, save the day. His efforts were to no avail though, as the heat, reaching the volatile liquid sent it exploding into a burst of white fire and Flatulence was forced to abandon them. It goes without saying at this point that he was truly and, given his rank, royally, pissed.
Monday, August 02, 2010
Dragon Tale Continued Pt. 3
I am truly a sight sitting at the computer these days. My butt is precariously perched on a large blue exercise ball and I'm wearing some sort of harness that keeps my shoulders pulled back. I'm also sporting, in true fashionista style, a whiplash collar wrapped snugly about my neck. All this is an effort to minimize the upper back pain that sitting seems to cause or, at least, aggravate. Ah well, I'm sure there are other wordsmiths who do their thing standing up.
Now, where was I? Fearful the dragon hiding in the bush, a drunken Snarly taking up the hunt, Laughsalot following the hide-and-seek clues. Okay, that's where I was, but what the hell was I thinking?
Livingston Laughsalot, being a playful and cheery sort of chap, skipped lightly through the brush alternately singing and whistling "Hi ho, hi ho, it's off in search I go," a catchy diddy that a dwarf hidden behind a mushroom of enormous proportions would put to memory and pass on to the next dwarf generation where it would be enhanced and elaborated upon and passed further along the generational trail until one day it found its way to the sound track of an animated Disney film whose artists co-opted from the fairy world on a regular basis and called it inspiration. Livingston felt it only fair to Fearful that he announce when he was drawing near. He knew the sound of his voice would heighten her anticipation and add to her enjoyment of the moment when she would spring from cover and cry "Gotcha!" Of course gotcha in dragon sounded something like the world's loudest beer burp, but Livingston had grown used to that and didn't mind. Pushing a broad leafed fern charred at the edges out of his way and noting that it was still warm to the touch, Livingston expected Fearful's leap at any moment. What he didn't expect was the clap of a gunshot nearby. Ducking instinctively, he paused for just a second and then, fearing for Fearful, he sprinted as best he could through the dense growth, hopefully, he thought, to the rescue.
Lord Snarly Flatulence, was, quite thankfully, a terrible shot when sober and only marginally better when drunk; his hand being somewhat steadier in the latter condition. Not being particular about what he shot, he being a lord and thus exempt from both prosecution and conscience, he was not above firing at any movement in the bush with identification of the target a post shot consideration. It was, in fact, his preferred method of hunting. Had he, on this occasion, realized he had just put one over the head of Laughsalot, he would have been distraught at his inaccuracy. He and Livingston were not the best of friends. Seeing the movement of the brush, he realized he had missed whatever was out there and, fueled by rage and additional hits of cider to straighten his aim, he darted after his prey; darted being, in his case, a synonym for staggering with intent.
Now, where was I? Fearful the dragon hiding in the bush, a drunken Snarly taking up the hunt, Laughsalot following the hide-and-seek clues. Okay, that's where I was, but what the hell was I thinking?
Livingston Laughsalot, being a playful and cheery sort of chap, skipped lightly through the brush alternately singing and whistling "Hi ho, hi ho, it's off in search I go," a catchy diddy that a dwarf hidden behind a mushroom of enormous proportions would put to memory and pass on to the next dwarf generation where it would be enhanced and elaborated upon and passed further along the generational trail until one day it found its way to the sound track of an animated Disney film whose artists co-opted from the fairy world on a regular basis and called it inspiration. Livingston felt it only fair to Fearful that he announce when he was drawing near. He knew the sound of his voice would heighten her anticipation and add to her enjoyment of the moment when she would spring from cover and cry "Gotcha!" Of course gotcha in dragon sounded something like the world's loudest beer burp, but Livingston had grown used to that and didn't mind. Pushing a broad leafed fern charred at the edges out of his way and noting that it was still warm to the touch, Livingston expected Fearful's leap at any moment. What he didn't expect was the clap of a gunshot nearby. Ducking instinctively, he paused for just a second and then, fearing for Fearful, he sprinted as best he could through the dense growth, hopefully, he thought, to the rescue.
Lord Snarly Flatulence, was, quite thankfully, a terrible shot when sober and only marginally better when drunk; his hand being somewhat steadier in the latter condition. Not being particular about what he shot, he being a lord and thus exempt from both prosecution and conscience, he was not above firing at any movement in the bush with identification of the target a post shot consideration. It was, in fact, his preferred method of hunting. Had he, on this occasion, realized he had just put one over the head of Laughsalot, he would have been distraught at his inaccuracy. He and Livingston were not the best of friends. Seeing the movement of the brush, he realized he had missed whatever was out there and, fueled by rage and additional hits of cider to straighten his aim, he darted after his prey; darted being, in his case, a synonym for staggering with intent.
Friday, July 30, 2010
Dragon Tale Continued
If you haven't already done so, you have to read yesterday's post before this one.
Lord Snarly Flatulence staggered through the underbrush in something less than a good mood. He was drunk, of course, as he always was at this hour of the day, the hour preceding noon, and he carried with him the two things he considered essential to his daily endeavors, hard cider and really hard cider. Oh, and he also had a gun.
The path from the pub to Snarly's abode was often difficult to traverse as the jungle tried to eradicate it with new growth on a daily basis. This devious plot of nature to trip him up and twist him round combined with Snarly's inebriation, was causing his mood to go from less than good to black and bloody bad. What he most wanted in all he world at that moment was to shoot something, anything, so he could watch it suffer and die. This he knew from previous experience would raise his spirits to the I'm so happy I could kick a dog or beat a wench plateau which, truth be known, was about as high as his spirits ever went. After taking a swig of his really hard cider and washing it down with the lesser, Snarly weaved a step or two into the bush, stumbled and fell. Face down in the greenery, cursing and spitting something crawly from his mouth, Lord Flatulence' puffy and pimpled nose caught the scent of something he knew at once. It was the spoor of dragon he smelled and it was strong. There was surely, he thought, a dragon nearby.
(I would like to write more of this today, because I'm feeling it. But...I have a terrible back ache and I'm feeling that too. Don't you just hate it when that happens?)
Lord Snarly Flatulence staggered through the underbrush in something less than a good mood. He was drunk, of course, as he always was at this hour of the day, the hour preceding noon, and he carried with him the two things he considered essential to his daily endeavors, hard cider and really hard cider. Oh, and he also had a gun.
The path from the pub to Snarly's abode was often difficult to traverse as the jungle tried to eradicate it with new growth on a daily basis. This devious plot of nature to trip him up and twist him round combined with Snarly's inebriation, was causing his mood to go from less than good to black and bloody bad. What he most wanted in all he world at that moment was to shoot something, anything, so he could watch it suffer and die. This he knew from previous experience would raise his spirits to the I'm so happy I could kick a dog or beat a wench plateau which, truth be known, was about as high as his spirits ever went. After taking a swig of his really hard cider and washing it down with the lesser, Snarly weaved a step or two into the bush, stumbled and fell. Face down in the greenery, cursing and spitting something crawly from his mouth, Lord Flatulence' puffy and pimpled nose caught the scent of something he knew at once. It was the spoor of dragon he smelled and it was strong. There was surely, he thought, a dragon nearby.
(I would like to write more of this today, because I'm feeling it. But...I have a terrible back ache and I'm feeling that too. Don't you just hate it when that happens?)
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Just Passing Time
So that story "Artist at Work" really sucks, eh? I agree. It's not too bad for a half, (how in the world can the word half be pronounced like it is?) but I really rushed to conclusion. Thing is, I wasn't that invested in the idea at the start and I just wanted to get it over with. Ah well, live and learn or learn and live, whichever.
I'm just back from getting my third cup of inspiration. I like the way the steam wafts from the blackness. Trouble is, the inspired ideas carried in the cup are disappearing in that soft smoke before they get to my brain. Do you think drinking faster would mean thinking faster? I hope not. The caffeine carrier is too hot to give that a go.
Let's see I've covered every issue known to man that starts with the letter F, food, family, films, friends, furry faces, folitics and the rainy feather, so I guess I will have to move on to something else. Pick a letter any letter, how about........W? Okay, let me see...I've got it! Wainscotting! What the hell is that anyway and did I spell it correctly?
(I'm not just killing time, I'm beating it to death with a dictionary.)
The greyness of the morning sky perfectly matched the hair but not the mood of our hero Sir Livingston Laughsalot, a misnomer if ever there were one. Livingston was more of a chuckle and grin guy than a belly belter outer who eschewed changing his name to Sir Chucklesalot only because of the clown implications inherent in the way that sounds. Livingston, on this day, was in search of dragons to mess around with because the whole dragon SLAYING thing gives him the willies and if you've ever had the willies, you know why Livingston gives them a wide berth.
Dragons, Livingston knew, were fun creatures at heart and a lot friendlier than Saints This-and-Thats who were all about running them through with their swords or, failing that, blasting them with their heat seeking missiles which was a clear violation of the weapons accords signed by them and seared by the dragons back in oh-twelve, gave them credit for. They would, in fact, play just about any game you could come up with if it involved flying, frying and scaring the crap out of passersby. What you needed to do, Livingston learned one day when he was too frightened to move, was exactly what he was doing then, stand your ground. If you did that and you displayed no weapons, the dragon would begin to make little feints and short runs like a puppy urging another to play. After that it was just a short jump to teaching the big green winged ladies and lads how to perform small tricks like play dead, barrel rolls and light my cigar from a hundred yards. Any dragon worth his salt could shoot a lick of flame thin as a pencil and they were not above showing off this talent if you encouraged them. Of course they could scorch an entire house if they wanted to, but in truth, they were pacifists and only fought in self defense. What they couldn't do was fly along while flaming so forget all those pictures where they are portrayed doing exactly that. I mean, come on, think about it. The fire would blow right back in their faces. The other thing you will never see happening is somebody riding on one. The dragon would shake them off easy as you would flick a bug from your arm with a fingernail. Take a close look at all the ridges on their backs and you can see they are not constructed for passengers. Besides that the down stroke of their wings is so strong it creates a vacuum that would suck any would be rider right off into space.
Livingston was in luck. One of his favorites, a dragon he had dubbed Fearful, because she was so shy at first, swooped out of the grey and landed before him. Fearful made an exaggerated dragon bow and, when seeing Laughsalot chuckle, knew the game was on. She tucked in her wings and scurried quickly into the nearby jungle. Flying is not allowed in drogon hide-and-seek unless you are playing with another dragon.
Livingston counted to the mandatory one hundred and then set off in pursuit of his pal. You would think that finding something as large as a dragon would be easy, but think about it, when was the last time you saw one? They have a way of walking lightly - perhaps using their wings to lift their great weight onto their toes without actually flying - and then folding themselves neatly into the jungle flora. To be fair, and to make their discovery a possibility, they leave behind small scorch marks on this branch and that and, of course, their distinct dragon scent lingers awhile in their wake. On this day though, while Fearful crouched in eager anticipation of springing out and startling Laughsalot into giggles, another entity prowled the jungle green and this one was not in search of fun.
Alrighty then. There you have that.
I'm just back from getting my third cup of inspiration. I like the way the steam wafts from the blackness. Trouble is, the inspired ideas carried in the cup are disappearing in that soft smoke before they get to my brain. Do you think drinking faster would mean thinking faster? I hope not. The caffeine carrier is too hot to give that a go.
Let's see I've covered every issue known to man that starts with the letter F, food, family, films, friends, furry faces, folitics and the rainy feather, so I guess I will have to move on to something else. Pick a letter any letter, how about........W? Okay, let me see...I've got it! Wainscotting! What the hell is that anyway and did I spell it correctly?
(I'm not just killing time, I'm beating it to death with a dictionary.)
The greyness of the morning sky perfectly matched the hair but not the mood of our hero Sir Livingston Laughsalot, a misnomer if ever there were one. Livingston was more of a chuckle and grin guy than a belly belter outer who eschewed changing his name to Sir Chucklesalot only because of the clown implications inherent in the way that sounds. Livingston, on this day, was in search of dragons to mess around with because the whole dragon SLAYING thing gives him the willies and if you've ever had the willies, you know why Livingston gives them a wide berth.
Dragons, Livingston knew, were fun creatures at heart and a lot friendlier than Saints This-and-Thats who were all about running them through with their swords or, failing that, blasting them with their heat seeking missiles which was a clear violation of the weapons accords signed by them and seared by the dragons back in oh-twelve, gave them credit for. They would, in fact, play just about any game you could come up with if it involved flying, frying and scaring the crap out of passersby. What you needed to do, Livingston learned one day when he was too frightened to move, was exactly what he was doing then, stand your ground. If you did that and you displayed no weapons, the dragon would begin to make little feints and short runs like a puppy urging another to play. After that it was just a short jump to teaching the big green winged ladies and lads how to perform small tricks like play dead, barrel rolls and light my cigar from a hundred yards. Any dragon worth his salt could shoot a lick of flame thin as a pencil and they were not above showing off this talent if you encouraged them. Of course they could scorch an entire house if they wanted to, but in truth, they were pacifists and only fought in self defense. What they couldn't do was fly along while flaming so forget all those pictures where they are portrayed doing exactly that. I mean, come on, think about it. The fire would blow right back in their faces. The other thing you will never see happening is somebody riding on one. The dragon would shake them off easy as you would flick a bug from your arm with a fingernail. Take a close look at all the ridges on their backs and you can see they are not constructed for passengers. Besides that the down stroke of their wings is so strong it creates a vacuum that would suck any would be rider right off into space.
Livingston was in luck. One of his favorites, a dragon he had dubbed Fearful, because she was so shy at first, swooped out of the grey and landed before him. Fearful made an exaggerated dragon bow and, when seeing Laughsalot chuckle, knew the game was on. She tucked in her wings and scurried quickly into the nearby jungle. Flying is not allowed in drogon hide-and-seek unless you are playing with another dragon.
Livingston counted to the mandatory one hundred and then set off in pursuit of his pal. You would think that finding something as large as a dragon would be easy, but think about it, when was the last time you saw one? They have a way of walking lightly - perhaps using their wings to lift their great weight onto their toes without actually flying - and then folding themselves neatly into the jungle flora. To be fair, and to make their discovery a possibility, they leave behind small scorch marks on this branch and that and, of course, their distinct dragon scent lingers awhile in their wake. On this day though, while Fearful crouched in eager anticipation of springing out and startling Laughsalot into giggles, another entity prowled the jungle green and this one was not in search of fun.
Alrighty then. There you have that.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Middle Class Woes
I don't usually post other people's stuff here, but I found the following particularly notable.
The Middle Class in America Is Radically Shrinking. Here Are the Stats to Prove it
Posted Jul 15, 2010 02:25pm EDT by Michael Snyder in Recession
From The Business Insider
Editor's note: Michael Snyder is editor of theeconomiccollapseblog.com
The 22 statistics detailed here prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that the middle class is being systematically wiped out of existence in America.
The rich are getting richer and the poor are getting poorer at a staggering rate. Once upon a time, the United States had the largest and most prosperous middle class in the history of the world, but now that is changing at a blinding pace.
So why are we witnessing such fundamental changes? Well, the globalism and "free trade" that our politicians and business leaders insisted would be so good for us have had some rather nasty side effects. It turns out that they didn't tell us that the "global economy" would mean that middle class American workers would eventually have to directly compete for jobs with people on the other side of the world where there is no minimum wage and very few regulations. The big global corporations have greatly benefited by exploiting third world labor pools over the last several decades, but middle class American workers have increasingly found things to be very tough.
Here are the statistics to prove it:
• 83 percent of all U.S. stocks are in the hands of 1 percent of the people.
• 61 percent of Americans "always or usually" live paycheck to paycheck, which was up from 49 percent in 2008 and 43 percent in 2007.
• 66 percent of the income growth between 2001 and 2007 went to the top 1% of all Americans.
• 36 percent of Americans say that they don't contribute anything to retirement savings.
• A staggering 43 percent of Americans have less than $10,000 saved up for retirement.
• 24 percent of American workers say that they have postponed their planned retirement age in the past year.
• Over 1.4 million Americans filed for personal bankruptcy in 2009, which represented a 32 percent increase over 2008.
• Only the top 5 percent of U.S. households have earned enough additional income to match the rise in housing costs since 1975.
• For the first time in U.S. history, banks own a greater share of residential housing net worth in the United States than all individual Americans put together.
• In 1950, the ratio of the average executive's paycheck to the average worker's paycheck was about 30 to 1. Since the year 2000, that ratio has exploded to between 300 to 500 to one.
• As of 2007, the bottom 80 percent of American households held about 7% of the liquid financial assets.
• The bottom 50 percent of income earners in the United States now collectively own less than 1 percent of the nation’s wealth.
• Average Wall Street bonuses for 2009 were up 17 percent when compared with 2008.
• In the United States, the average federal worker now earns 60% MORE than the average worker in the private sector.
• The top 1 percent of U.S. households own nearly twice as much of America's corporate wealth as they did just 15 years ago.
• In America today, the average time needed to find a job has risen to a record 35.2 weeks.
• More than 40 percent of Americans who actually are employed are now working in service jobs, which are often very low paying.
• or the first time in U.S. history, more than 40 million Americans are on food stamps, and the U.S. Department of Agriculture projects that number will go up to 43 million Americans in 2011.
• This is what American workers now must compete against: in China a garment worker makes approximately 86 cents an hour and in Cambodia a garment worker makes approximately 22 cents an hour.
• Approximately 21 percent of all children in the United States are living below the poverty line in 2010 - the highest rate in 20 years.
• Despite the financial crisis, the number of millionaires in the United States rose a whopping 16 percent to 7.8 million in 2009.
• The top 10 percent of Americans now earn around 50 percent of our national income.
Giant Sucking Sound
The reality is that no matter how smart, how strong, how educated or how hard working American workers are, they just cannot compete with people who are desperate to put in 10 to 12 hour days at less than a dollar an hour on the other side of the world. After all, what corporation in their right mind is going to pay an American worker 10 times more (plus benefits) to do the same job? The world is fundamentally changing. Wealth and power are rapidly becoming concentrated at the top and the big global corporations are making massive amounts of money. Meanwhile, the American middle class is being systematically wiped out of existence as U.S. workers are slowly being merged into the new "global" labor pool.
What do most Americans have to offer in the marketplace other than their labor? Not much. The truth is that most Americans are absolutely dependent on someone else giving them a job. But today, U.S. workers are "less attractive" than ever. Compared to the rest of the world, American workers are extremely expensive, and the government keeps passing more rules and regulations seemingly on a monthly basis that makes it even more difficult to conduct business in the United States.
So corporations are moving operations out of the U.S. at breathtaking speed. Since the U.S. government does not penalize them for doing so, there really is no incentive for them to stay.
What has developed is a situation where the people at the top are doing quite well, while most Americans are finding it increasingly difficult to make it. There are now about six unemployed Americans for every new job opening in the United States, and the number of "chronically unemployed" is absolutely soaring. There simply are not nearly enough jobs for everyone.
Many of those who are able to get jobs are finding that they are making less money than they used to. In fact, an increasingly large percentage of Americans are working at low wage retail and service jobs.
But you can't raise a family on what you make flipping burgers at McDonald's or on what you bring in from greeting customers down at the local Wal-Mart.
The Middle Class in America Is Radically Shrinking. Here Are the Stats to Prove it
Posted Jul 15, 2010 02:25pm EDT by Michael Snyder in Recession
From The Business Insider
Editor's note: Michael Snyder is editor of theeconomiccollapseblog.com
The 22 statistics detailed here prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that the middle class is being systematically wiped out of existence in America.
The rich are getting richer and the poor are getting poorer at a staggering rate. Once upon a time, the United States had the largest and most prosperous middle class in the history of the world, but now that is changing at a blinding pace.
So why are we witnessing such fundamental changes? Well, the globalism and "free trade" that our politicians and business leaders insisted would be so good for us have had some rather nasty side effects. It turns out that they didn't tell us that the "global economy" would mean that middle class American workers would eventually have to directly compete for jobs with people on the other side of the world where there is no minimum wage and very few regulations. The big global corporations have greatly benefited by exploiting third world labor pools over the last several decades, but middle class American workers have increasingly found things to be very tough.
Here are the statistics to prove it:
• 83 percent of all U.S. stocks are in the hands of 1 percent of the people.
• 61 percent of Americans "always or usually" live paycheck to paycheck, which was up from 49 percent in 2008 and 43 percent in 2007.
• 66 percent of the income growth between 2001 and 2007 went to the top 1% of all Americans.
• 36 percent of Americans say that they don't contribute anything to retirement savings.
• A staggering 43 percent of Americans have less than $10,000 saved up for retirement.
• 24 percent of American workers say that they have postponed their planned retirement age in the past year.
• Over 1.4 million Americans filed for personal bankruptcy in 2009, which represented a 32 percent increase over 2008.
• Only the top 5 percent of U.S. households have earned enough additional income to match the rise in housing costs since 1975.
• For the first time in U.S. history, banks own a greater share of residential housing net worth in the United States than all individual Americans put together.
• In 1950, the ratio of the average executive's paycheck to the average worker's paycheck was about 30 to 1. Since the year 2000, that ratio has exploded to between 300 to 500 to one.
• As of 2007, the bottom 80 percent of American households held about 7% of the liquid financial assets.
• The bottom 50 percent of income earners in the United States now collectively own less than 1 percent of the nation’s wealth.
• Average Wall Street bonuses for 2009 were up 17 percent when compared with 2008.
• In the United States, the average federal worker now earns 60% MORE than the average worker in the private sector.
• The top 1 percent of U.S. households own nearly twice as much of America's corporate wealth as they did just 15 years ago.
• In America today, the average time needed to find a job has risen to a record 35.2 weeks.
• More than 40 percent of Americans who actually are employed are now working in service jobs, which are often very low paying.
• or the first time in U.S. history, more than 40 million Americans are on food stamps, and the U.S. Department of Agriculture projects that number will go up to 43 million Americans in 2011.
• This is what American workers now must compete against: in China a garment worker makes approximately 86 cents an hour and in Cambodia a garment worker makes approximately 22 cents an hour.
• Approximately 21 percent of all children in the United States are living below the poverty line in 2010 - the highest rate in 20 years.
• Despite the financial crisis, the number of millionaires in the United States rose a whopping 16 percent to 7.8 million in 2009.
• The top 10 percent of Americans now earn around 50 percent of our national income.
Giant Sucking Sound
The reality is that no matter how smart, how strong, how educated or how hard working American workers are, they just cannot compete with people who are desperate to put in 10 to 12 hour days at less than a dollar an hour on the other side of the world. After all, what corporation in their right mind is going to pay an American worker 10 times more (plus benefits) to do the same job? The world is fundamentally changing. Wealth and power are rapidly becoming concentrated at the top and the big global corporations are making massive amounts of money. Meanwhile, the American middle class is being systematically wiped out of existence as U.S. workers are slowly being merged into the new "global" labor pool.
What do most Americans have to offer in the marketplace other than their labor? Not much. The truth is that most Americans are absolutely dependent on someone else giving them a job. But today, U.S. workers are "less attractive" than ever. Compared to the rest of the world, American workers are extremely expensive, and the government keeps passing more rules and regulations seemingly on a monthly basis that makes it even more difficult to conduct business in the United States.
So corporations are moving operations out of the U.S. at breathtaking speed. Since the U.S. government does not penalize them for doing so, there really is no incentive for them to stay.
What has developed is a situation where the people at the top are doing quite well, while most Americans are finding it increasingly difficult to make it. There are now about six unemployed Americans for every new job opening in the United States, and the number of "chronically unemployed" is absolutely soaring. There simply are not nearly enough jobs for everyone.
Many of those who are able to get jobs are finding that they are making less money than they used to. In fact, an increasingly large percentage of Americans are working at low wage retail and service jobs.
But you can't raise a family on what you make flipping burgers at McDonald's or on what you bring in from greeting customers down at the local Wal-Mart.
Monday, July 26, 2010
Artist at Work
Brother-in law Bill Reef and I were supposed to write this together, but he lost interest and dropped out after initiating the project. I took the bones of the story and ran with it because, what-the-hell, somebody had to do it.
Artist at Work
By Doc Walton
Harvey is dressed kind of nice, tan summer suit, soft yellow tie. He’s a little jumpy inside because he thinks he’s near a close, but he doesn’t show it because, well, he’s an artist, a con artist and he’s good at this.
“An investment now could bring you a double or triple return in a couple of years,” he says to the guy across the table.
That guy is a fit looking middle-aged man wearing a thin leather jacket that fits like a glove and probably cost him a fortune. He’s idly stirring an un-sipped cup of coffee while he ponders what the artist has told him.
“I don’t know,” he says, “it sounds good but…”
Harvey interrupts. “Look, Mark,” he says, thinking, man, what a perfect name, “I wouldn’t tell this to just anybody. It’s, you know, inside stuff, but I consider you a friend. We hit it off at the club and I figured you being a sports car nut like me, this might be something you’d take a flyer on. I mean, we’re not talking a lot of money.”
Mark the mark squirms a little in his seat and says he’s interested, he really is. Just doesn’t want to get crosswise with the SEC.
“Not to worry,” Harvey tells him, “nothing there to worry about. This is all legal. We’re just in on it early. We both know this area needs a track. I’ve talked to people from NASCAR and SCCA and they all say, how does it go, ‘build it and they will come’?”
The mark picks up his coffee, takes a sip, makes a face, reaches for the sugar.
“What you’re telling me,” he says. “is that I can get in on the ownership of a race track.”
Harvey the artist thinks, gotcha, says “You bet. Just a small percentage, of course. The developers want a local presence to present to the public, but they are not going to give up too much. Besides, I know you’re not made of money. He pauses a moment, picks up his own cup, thinks, he needs one more incentive, says, “Still, if you can swing it, the perks will be terrific… annual dividends, special events, owner’s box, the whole shooting match.”
“I’m interested,” the mark says. “I really am. I just have to think about it awhile. Can you draw up some papers for me? Something I can use to help me make up my mind.” He says this while standing and reaching for his wallet.
“No problem,” says the artist pulling out a money clip, picking up the check and waving off the mark. “I’ll get Legal to draw something up if you’re serious about this, but we’ll need an answer in a hurry. Things are going to happen fast, and if you don’t want in, I have other people I need to talk to.” Always good to let the mark think there are others in line.
The mark leaves and Harvey the artist returns to his booth. He orders more coffee and a two slices of dark toast. A woman gets up from a seat at the counter and joins him. She’s somewhere in her mid- to late-thirties but hot. Taller than average, plush red hair, deep green eyes and a sculpted chin line. When she walks to Harvey’s booth, every male eye in the diner watches her do it, and that tells you all you need to know about her figure. She’s no stranger to the artist. He looks up surprised and says, “Hello, Mo, long time no see and all that. What brings you to town? I thought you were settled down in Arizona.”
Her name is Maureen, but if you know her at all, it’s Mo. She takes a seat opposite the con man.
“I was,” she answers, “but it got a little warm there, so I thought I’d come north for awhile. Find some cooler air.”
A waitress approaches, and Mo orders Earl Grey.
She turns back to the artist and says, “What about you Harvey… it is still Harvey, right? What are you playing at these days?”
The artist says, “Yeah it’s still Harvey for now, but I prefer Harv. Don’t want to be confused with the big bunny.”
Mo laughs, gets the reference. The artist is pleased.
He says, “I’m a consultant actually. I put people with money to invest on to,” he pauses and chuckles, “uh… special situations.”
Mo looks at him and repeats “special situations,” but says nothing further.
Harvey’s toast and coffee and Mo’s Earl Grey arrive, and they spend a few seconds shuffling things around on the table. The artist is chewing on a piece of toast when Mo leans in and says, “So, is the mark going to bite or what?”
The artist damn near chokes. “What makes you think…?” he starts. “Why would you…?” And then, pulling himself together, “Is it that obvious?”
“Relax,” Mo tells him. “It’s a takes-one-to-know-one kind of thing. I’m sure you look downright earnest and genuine to most people.”
The artist thinks, I didn’t know she was this together, gets an idea. “Walk with me.” he says, “It’s a little too close in here.”
They leave the diner and neither speaks as they stroll toward the nearby Civic Center. It’s a late spring morning, warming rapidly, and they stop at a park bench facing Denver’s largest public library. The artist remains silent and Mo gets antsy. She breaks the ice.
“Okay,” she says, “the hot guy in the leather jacket, red silk shirt, sharing your booth back there…he’s the mark right?”
The artist nods. He’s got an odd look on his face like a man making a decision, but not quite there yet. He’s wary but seeing possibilities.
“C’mon Harv, give,” Mo urges.
“All right” the artist says, making up his mind. “Here’s the deal. The guy’s name is Mark Pierce. He’s a forty-four year old divorcee who owns three restaurants, lives in a Cherry Creek townhouse and drives a burgundy colored Porsche 911. The Porsche thing is important because he acts like he’s still in his thirties and fancies himself a driver.”
Mo says, “Okay…and your play is?”
The artist looks at her hard then, real hard. “Who wants to know” he says.
Mo laughs. “Don’t get your panties in a bunch” she says. “You know I’m not a cop, and I won’t steal your play. It’s just professional interest. Besides, I’m not doing anything at the moment…thought maybe I could help. Relieve the boredom so to speak. You don’t have to tell me anything if you don’t want to. But…if that’s the case, why am I here?”
The artist thinks, she’s perfect. She can make this happen. He looks around to be certain they’re alone and then carefully and deliberately outlines his plan. “A few weeks ago there was an article in the Post about the possibility of a new race track –
cars, not horses – being built east of the old airport here in Denver. It takes a lot of money to build a race track… a lot of money. Investors large and small have to be found. The small-timers, like Mark, are my targets. They are way out of their element in a deal like this, because they don’t know how to follow their money. See how it gets used. For them it’s all about ego, you know, being an owner and a player.”
“I get that” Mo says. “What I don’t get is your angle.”
“It’s easy, Mo. I’m the Marketing Director. I handle the PR and the media, and I drum up excitement for the project. I find investors and I act as the liaison between those investors and the developers.”
“Who are the developers?”
The artist gives Mo another one of his hard looks, then breaks into a smile. “That’s just it, Kiddo,” he says. “There are none. The whole thing is simply a plausible rumor that I’m making look like a reality. I’m the one who put the notice in the paper to begin with. Now I make up a development corporation, call it Speer Speedway or something like that, and then,” the artist pauses and smiles again, because he likes this punch line, “and then… I deposit the checks.”
“Niiiccce,” says Mo, dragging out the word, “very nice indeed. And you’re telling me this because?”
Harvey thinks, I’m all in. Too late to change my mind. “Well, because you asked,” he says, “and it occurs to me that there will come a time when investor wants to meet developer. Who better, I’m thinking, than a beautiful, intelligent woman who looks like money in the bank? Someone who can be a perfect distraction. Can you be that distraction, Mo? Can you be a designated executive from, say, National Speedway, Inc.?”
Mo takes less than a second to consider. She likes the set-up. “For the right price, Harv” she says, “I’ll be the Queen of Sheba. Question is, what’s the right price?”
The con takes a long look at his potential partner like he’s pondering the question. What he’s really thinking is, she’s gorgeous. Fills out her blouse like a bra model and has the kind of legs most men would die to follow to hosiery’s end. She’ll be a distraction all right. I’ll have to keep my own mind on business.
“Let’s talk money later” he says. “There’ll be plenty to go around.”
On cue his cell rings and he puts it to his ear. “Great,” he says, “great. I’ll talk to my people and see how much they are willing to part with. Back at you no later than…Thursday, okay?”
He snaps the phone cover shut and laughs. “Mo,” he says, “this is cake. That was Mark. He wants in and has a couple of buddies chomping at the bit for a piece of the action as well. This, I think, calls for a celebration. What do you say to lunch? Lodo maybe, some place nice?”
Mo smiles, says, “You name it Harv. Your town, your call. I’m over at the Hilton, room 112, first floor up the escalator above the coffee shop. Do you want to pick me up or meet me?”
Lower downtown Denver has evolved with an influx of money and smart developers from a rough area of warehouses, decaying factories, bad-assed bars and homeless people into one of the cities hottest attractions. Upscale franchise shops, boutiques, trendy restaurants and a beautiful stadium for Denver’s major league baseball team have transformed the area.
Mo and the artist are seated under a large umbrella that reads “Cinzano” in bright colors at a restaurant named Pintos. They order wine before looking at their menus. Mo is dressed in pleated slacks and a silk blouse. There are pearls at her throat. She’s wearing a skosh more makeup than she had that morning. The overall effect is understated elegance.
Harvey sits mesmerized and has to force himself not to stare. He’s a fast talking artist at a loss for words. He covers his discomfort by tossing the conversational ball to his new partner. “So tell me, Mo, what have you been doing since that day I saw you at Turf Paradise?”
Mo doesn’t hesitate. She figures a job interview is in order. “Well,” she begins, “you already know my husband Tony and I owned a small copying, printing and mailing business. We actually did okay on the legit side, but the real money was in fake ID’s, passports, licenses, social security cards, what-have-you. You did a little business with us so you know what I’m talking. You also know from seeing us at the Turf club, we liked to play the ponies.”
Mo pauses a moment as a darker part of her memory comes to mind and she looks away briefly toward the old clock tower that still stands across the mall from the restaurant. When she looks back at the con man, her eyes are moist, but she carries on.
“What you probably don’t know, Harv, is that my husband died in a car accident two years ago.”
He says he didn’t and he’s sorry, but she talks right over him.
“I was still grieving and kind of a mess when a month later a couple of muscle heads show up carrying Tony’s markers. Like I needed that. It turns out that Tony, damn his sweet black heart, had been betting heavily and losing. He had taken out loans to cover those losses so I wouldn’t know. And now, when I’m thinking it can’t get worse, here come these low-lifes to collect.”
Mo sips wine, gathers her thoughts.
“Anyway, they want 50 large and I can’t come up with anything near that. In lieu of the money, the creeps tell me they will take my shop, the lease, the equipment, everything. To be fair they tell me, and so it’s all legal, they will pay me about half what it’s worth. Real sweethearts these guys. I’m also told this is a one time offer, take it or leave it. The consequences of leave it they don’t spell out, and I wasn’t up for asking. I agree to the deal because I have to. I mean, what else can I do?”
Harvey refills her wine glass, says nothing.
“As you can imagine, at first I was intimidated and scared. Later though, after I’d thought about it, I got royally pissed. I’d worked too hard to let some cheap hoods take advantage of me when I was down.”
The artist nods, says, “Do tell.”
“What I did was, I went to the company that owns and manages the property with a proposal that they give me a long term lease on my shop. I told them I had contracted to become a Fed Ex outlet and retail distribution center. The packet of materials I presented them had letters of introduction, commitment guarantees and revenue projections, all of which, of course, I had made with our equipment. With Fed Ex as a partner, I told them, I was willing to pay double the current rent for the space and I threw in a revenue sharing percentage as a kicker. The management people jumped all over the deal.”
The artist sits back, admiring the story as much as the story teller. “Go on.”
Mo takes a couple more sips of vino. Stalls, let’s Harvey wait for it. She knows she’s got his attention.
“Telling them I was cash poor at the moment, I ask for some up front money to do some necessary remodeling. I say to they could spread the amount over the first two years of the new lease with ten percent interest. I also tell them I had co-signers to secure the note. Of course, I had to bat my eyelashes a little and play the flirtatious widow here and there, but I had the money in my hands before the week was out.”
The artist applauds softly and says, “Beautiful! So you take the money, pay off the heavies and walk away. I love it.”
Mo gives the artist a patient smile and says, “Not even close. I go back to the shop and create a new lease leaving out the increased rent, the revenue sharing and the loan agreement. When the creeps come back, I give them a quitclaim deed for the shop and have them sign the phony lease, which I said I would deliver to the mall owners so they could remain incognito, and then, the best part, they give me 50k instead of the other way around! And, get this Harv, they give it to me in cash!”
The artist is truly impressed. He thinks, she’s good, she’s really good, says, “So you put the faux signature page with the new contract and send it back to the mall people.”
“Exactly. It won’t hold up, but I figure it will keep them all busy for awhile with accountants and attorneys while I do a Houdini and disappear. And that’s exactly how it played out. I cashed the mall owner’s check, emptied the store’s and my personal checking accounts, left my car in long term parking and flew to Atlanta. I got a new driver’s license with a bogus birth certificate I’d printed, rented a car and drove to Miami. I’ve been there until now, playing the horses and doing the beach.”
The artist is touched. This is too beautiful. He reaches across the table and lightly clutches Mo’s forearm. “And how” he asks, “did that make you feel?”
Mo gives him her broadest smile yet. “Liberated,” she says, “goddamn liberated!”
The oath catches Harvey completely by surprise. He bursts out laughing so loud he has to stifle it with his napkin.
After lunch they walk the downtown mall and window shop, making small talk, getting acquainted. During the meal they had settled easily on a sixty-forty split, it was Harvey’s con after all. Mo asks him where he’s staying.
“I’m over at the Cambridge,” he says. “It wreaks respectability.”
Then she asks him why he’s meeting a guy in a downtown coffee shop when the guy owns three restaurants.
The con man laughs, says, “You don’t miss much. Mark was downtown to pay speeding tickets. The coffee shop was convenient for us both. But what about you? Why were you there?”
“Couple reasons” Mo says. “First, hotels charge too much for average food. Second, too many people coming and going. Some of them are looking for other people.”
“You think someone’s looking for you?” he asks.
“Could be. Some of these hard cases have real long memories. I’d be difficult to recognize though.”
“Why? I knew you right off.”
“Sure,” Mo says. “But I was two feet from you. When I left Scottsdale, I had long brownish-blonde hair and was ten or twelve pounds lighter. Only people who knew me pretty well would make me now.”
The artist seems satisfied with that and they part shortly after, Harvey saying he’ll be in touch.
True to his word he calls less than three hours later.
“We’re on, meeting Mark at his restaurant, Romeo’s, at nine. I want to pick you up at eight though, so we can work out details. Okay by you?”
Mo says she’ll be ready.
At eight sharp they’re in the car fine tuning her character. She’s going to be a lobbyist for the developer, whose identity must remain undisclosed for the moment. She and Harvey had met at the developer’s office and had worked in tandem since then. Mo’s job is to liaise between the developer and the various city and state government offices with the intention of expediting the project, securing support and possibly obtaining public funding to augment that of private investors. Private investors though, will be at the heart of the venture, and if Harv and Mo can scare up enough of them, there will be more feathers in their caps…so to speak. Harv is working, for now, on a consultant basis, but if ultimately hired for the PR position, he will report to Mo. They agree this tweak in the cover story will give Mo a patina of power, enhancing her credibility.
When they arrive at the restaurant, Mark is walking around directing his staff and talking with patrons here and there. He stops long enough to say hello to the con man and be introduced to Mo before he has his hostess show them to a booth along the back wall of the restaurant. There they order drinks and don’t say much as they sip and look around the room. Mo’s mind is on Mark Pierce. She has felt some kind of a small, physical jolt at his appearance and is drawn to him in a way she has not felt since meeting her now-deceased husband. She can’t put her finger on what it is. I mean, she thinks, he’s balding and kind of burly, so why am I so anxious to see him again?
They have just finished their cocktails when Mark reappears and tells them to go ahead and order, he’ll join them later. He has sampled all the entries in the kitchen and isn’t hungry but promises to be back for coffee and dessert so they can talk. “Whatever you like,” he tells them, “it’s on the house.” He gives Mo a long once-over as he says this and then leaves to make the rounds of other tables.
While they are eating and making idle conversation, Mo gets that curious, but often unerring feeling that she is being watched. She begins to glance around the room suspecting, and let’s face it hoping, her gaze will find Mark looking her way. He is not, however, anywhere in evidence. The room’s other diners all seem busy with their drinks and meals, oblivious to her presence. She is about to return to her own scaloppini and Harv’s droning on about one racecar or another when her eyes alight on two men across the room in a small booth. When she looks directly at them, they turn away and busy themselves shuffling food around on their plates and talking, Mo thinks, self consciously. She can’t quite make them out, their table sits in a shadow, but she knows they were staring at her. Periodically over the next ten minutes while a waiter clears their table, Mo glances at the men and several times finds them hastily averting their eyes from hers. She is just about to mention this to Harv when Mark returns to the table and the two men are momentarily forgotten. When, after a bit, she looks their way again, the men are gone.
“So,” Mark says, “what can I bring you, more coffee, a liqueur, dessert?”
They settle on Grand Marniers and Mark joins them at the table, scooting in on Mo’s side of the booth. His thigh lightly touches hers as he does so and Mo feels a trickle of something vaguely electric race up her spine. She takes a sip from her snifter to cover her slight blush.
“Okay,” Mark says, “tell me everything I need to know to make this thing happen.”
Harvey and Mo launch into their cover story and then just wing plausible answers to Mark’s follow up questions. They promise to have all the necessary paperwork in Mark’s hands in a week to ten days. After that it will be up to Mark to seal the deal, meaning a check will be required. Harvey suggests an initial hundred thousand dollars as a reasonable show of interest and when Mark doesn’t flinch, adds that he doesn’t know for sure how much ownership the developers are willing to part with, but promises to find out if Mark decides he would like a bigger bite.
At the door to the restaurant, they shake hands and Harvey walks off to deal with the car retrieval. Mark clings to Mo’s hand a moment and asks her if she and Harvey are a couple or just a working duo. Maureen gives him a throaty little chuckle and looks him in the eyes. “Just colleagues” she says. “Why do you ask?”
“Because tomorrow,” he answers, “I’m driving to my Vail restaurant and it’s a beautiful drive and I hate going alone and I thought you might find it fun to…”
Mo cuts him off with a big smile and says, “I’m there. What time?”
Out at the curb the valet pulls up with Harvey’s car and hands him the keys. Harvey beeps for Mo just as Mark releases her hand and says, “Your hotel…nine o’clock.”
A moment later, Harvey eases the car from the front of the restaurant and out into the night’s traffic. A dark sedan with two men inside slips from the curb a half block away and tucks in behind him. It remains there at a three car interval until Harvey drops Mo at her hotel. It cruises past then, and disappears into the night.
Mo is dressed and ready and has a day bag packed when Mark picks her up the next morning. She’s told Harvey she wanted the day to herself, and he agreed saying things were moving kind of fast and some down-time might be good for both of them.
The morning is warm and sunny and Mark is driving with the top down. He likes to drive fast and he accelerates into curves just hard enough to feel the tug of the g-forces pushing them into their seat’s upright. Mo finds it exhilarating watching Mark’s confident hands on the wheel as he deftly maneuvers through curve after mountain curve. She finds herself blushing when she realizes early on that she’s wondering how those hands would feel on her own ample curves.
At one point the radar detector mounted on the dash beeps, and Mark slows until a state patrol car passes on the other side of the divided highway. They make it to Vail in under two hours. He pulls into the parking garage at Lions Head, and they walk toward the gondola loading area.
Within a couple of minutes, he points to his right. “That’s my joint.”
The restaurant sits back behind a wide deck on which there are an assortment of tables, chairs and market umbrellas. Vail Valley Vittles has, the sign in the front window proclaims, the “award-winning burgers and bratwurst.”
“Nice thing about this time of year is that we can sit outside,” Mark says. “Gets too cold for most people during the ski season, although we bring in a few fire pits and surround them with some of the chairs. I’ll show you the inside, and then I’ll get one of my gals to bring us some food.”
Mo positions herself so she is shaded by the big umbrella, and so she can watch the broad walkway where tourists stroll.
In the fashion of two people wildly attracted to each other, the day becomes a magical journey of discovery. He wants to know all there is of her and she of him. They eat, they talk and she watches him work with his staff.
He says he keeps a studio apartment in the lodge above the restaurant. In the late afternoon with the sun glowing crimson through the drapes, he takes her to bed. And the magic continues.
On the drive back to Denver there is more talk, and this time there is some honesty.
After a lingering kiss and promises for the morrow, Mo goes into the hotel and up to her room. Before she can find the light switch, a hand closes over her mouth and strong arms drag her into the room. She struggles, but to no avail.
“If you scream,” a voice says, “he will break your jaw and knock you out…understand?”
Mo nods and the hand slides slowly, tentatively from her mouth. She is led to one of the room’s two cushy chairs and told to sit. Across from her, in the other chair, a razor thin, elderly man in a dark suit flicks on a table lamp and stares at her, saying nothing.
Mo is the first to talk. “Who are you and what do you want?” she asks, although thinking she already knows.
“My name is unimportant,” the thin man says. “But for the record and because a person should know the name of the last face they will ever see, it’s Emilio. “What is important is that you owe some people money…lots of money.”
The other man, a big man, has moved a desk chair close to Mo and now sits on it blocking any avenue of escape she might consider.
“How do you figure?” she says.
“The thin man says one word, “Scottsdale.” And Mo knows she’s been made.
“Okay,” she says stalling, her mind whirling, looking for an option. “Give me a number.”
“A number she wants,” the thin man says, looking at his partner, “a number.” He turns back to Mo. “And like that you give me the money and I go away. Is that how you see it?”
“Would work for me,” Mo says, “if I had any money.”
“Let me tell you how this is going to play out, Miss I Think I Can Fuck With The Big Boys And Get Away With It. You are going to pay in one of two ways. First, if you really have no money, I make an example of you for all the other piss-ants who think they can screw with my clients…and me. You will, of course, beg me to die before it is over and, eventually, when I feel like it, you will. The second way, because I am a reasonable man, is that you pay double what you owe and then I punish you anyway. This way, though, you get to live.”
Mo has an idea. “There is no way I can pay you right now,” she says, “so you’ll probably want to kill me… but… if you give me a little time…I’m not asking for much… I know how to get the money and a lot more… more than I took.”
The thin man leans back, puts his hand out to his crony and says, “Cigarette.” The big man pulls a pack from a shirt packet, gives him one and lights it. The thin man inhales deeply, looks at Mo. “Really” he says skeptically. “Make me a believer.”
“Okay,” Mo begins, “you know I’m good at a running a con. I mean I fooled your people.”
Emilio looks hard at her. “Watch your mouth. And they’re not my people. They just hired me to get their money back…and deal with you.”
She ignores the threat. “Look, I can handle complex details and I can see them through. I’m working an angle right now that could make me walk-away rich. I’m talking A LOT of money; you get me…A LOT. If you let me go through with the con, I’ll put you in for half. How does that sound?”
The thin man snorts. It’s meant to be a laugh. “I’m going to listen to your…con. Hear what you have to say. After that, if I think you are playing me… your painful death will begin soon and take longer. If I believe you…which seems unlikely… and we go with your game…I will decide how much you get to keep, not you. Are we clear on that?”
Mo nods.
“Tell me then,” Emilio says smirking, “about your big it’s going to make me and my clients rich deal.”
Mo tells all, Harvey’s whole plan. She tells it though, as if it were hers. Harvey is never mentioned. When she’s finished, she looks nervously at the thin man who rises, says nothing, and walks to the door. The big man opens it for him and the thin man walks through. He turns and with no expression looks one last time at this clever redhead. “You will be watched…every moment,” he says to her, “from now until there is money in my hands.” The door closes and he walks away.
The next morning Mo joins Harvey in the same café where they first met and teamed up. She tells him what happened the night before.
Harvey says, “I’ve heard of this guy Emilio. He’s a local enforcer for hire, supposedly connected to the north side hoods. His reputation is he’s a slice and dice freak. Likes to carve up people before he kills them. He supposedly has a kid brother, Ernesto, who is mentally challenged but does whatever Emilio tells him… including beating people to death with his bare hands. He could be the big guy.
“These are not people to screw with, Mo. You better have a really good out.”
“That’s the problem.” Mo says. “I don’t. I would run if I thought I could get away, but I doubt I would get far. Somehow they managed to trace me to here.
“I think the only thing I can do now is go ahead with the con and give my share away. You can back out now, if you want to. I’m sure this is more than you bargained for.”
“I don’t think the con would work without me,” the artist says. “Besides, it’s my con, and we’re too close to the money to quit now. You say Emilio doesn’t know about me, so I can work angles while you’re being watched. I’m arranging for all the bogus paperwork right now and after that, well, the ball will be in Mark’s court. If he and his buddies post the money, you can buy your way free and I’ll make like smoke and vanish. Maybe after that we can meet somewhere down the road, and I’ll find you another money maker.”
Mo, thinking hard about something else, says, “Thanks, but my conning days will be over. If I get out of this in one piece, I’m going to be June Fucking Cleaver.”
What she’s thinking about is Mark…the mark. What Harvey doesn’t know and she can’t tell, is that the con is off. Mark knows all. Harvey is screwed and she’s royally fucked, most likely dead. “Look,” she says, “I have no choice but to be in this all the way. You can and should run not walk to the nearest exit. You said yourself these guys are worse than bad news. C’mon, screw the money Harvey, it’s not worth it.”
Harvey reaches across the table and takes her hands in his. She looks up at him and he holds her eyes with his own. “You told me once you felt ‘liberated’ when you pulled off the con that got you out from under your dead husband’s debts. Well that con is back now and it’s biting you in the ass. That’s how it goes sometimes.
“You can’t walk a straight line out. Once a con is in motion, you’ve got to play it as far as you can. When it’s good, you take the money and walk. When it’s bad, you keep playing it, looking for another angle. So you’re right, you are in all the way, Mo. But so am I. That leaves us only one thing to do and that’s to do this…together.”
Mo thinks, Oh crap, if he only knew, says, “Thanks Harvey, you’re a good guy.”
She spends the rest of the day lying on her hotel bed staring at the ceiling. When she gets up, she does so abruptly. She telephones Mark and arranges to see him that night. She showers, dresses and walks out to the lobby to await her date. She doesn’t care about the big man she sees rise from a lobby sofa and move to the adjoining glassed-in dining room where he continues to glance in her direction from time to time. She doesn’t care, because she has an idea.
When Mark picks her up, she instructs him to “just drive around awhile.” She tells him what happened after she left him the night before. Mark is stunned and wants to interrupt, but Mo shushes him until she gets all the way through the encounter with Emilio.
When she finishes, he drives a couple of blocks further and finally speaks. His thought is simple and clear. “Either we leave the country or we go to the police.”
Mo gives him a sad smile and explains, “Both are just temporary solutions, Mark. They will find me no matter where I go… and the police? The police have nothing. They can bring Emilio and his brother in for questioning, but they have nothing to hold them on…just yet”
“Then what are we going to do, Mo? I can’t let them hurt you.”
Mo lets the question hang there for a moment while she gathers her thoughts and decides where to start. “Just keep driving and listen to me, Mark. I have an idea that I think will work if we all play our parts right.” She pauses then. “The first thing is,” she continues, “the con has to continue.” She goes on talking and while Mark listens fascinated, amazed by his new love’s mind, she outlines her entire plan.
This time when she finishes there are no more questions. Mark drives straight to his condo and they tumble into bed. When death seems a real and imminent possibility, physical love is the strongest expression of life.
Across town Harvey the artist has ideas of his own. He lies fully dressed on his king-size bed, hands behind his head giving additional support to the bed’s fat pillows. He thinks, is she playing me? Is this guy Emilio really threatening her? Why does she want me out? Could it be the mark? She seemed all google-eyed with him at Romeo’s. Maybe she wasn’t acting. Is she playing it straight or playing an angle? He finally comes to a conclusion. He reaches for his phone to make a call, but before he can, it rings. When he hangs up the receiver, everything has changed.
When she returns to the Hilton lobby, Ernesto is startled when Mo smacks down the newspaper he was using to cover his face. She makes it short. “Tell your brother we need to talk.” She stares at him a minute, making sure he understands. He nods and she goes up to her room. Five minutes later the phone rings.
The voice on the phone says one word, “Speak.”
Mo tells it, “The deal is done. The mark is ready to hand over 100k for his earnest money. Thing is, he won’t give it to me. I told him I would bring the project’s principle developer, someone with clout enough to accept the money. That’s got to be you. And get this next part, the mark’s bringing cash because he says these are funds he doesn’t want anyone to know he has. Oh, and PLEASE, don’t bring your brother. He doesn’t fit the profile for this kind of meeting. I’ve booked a small conference room at my hotel so this looks like a legit happening. We are going to meet at three o’clock tomorrow afternoon. You have to be there and play your part, so listen up.”
When she is done, Emilio says, “All right, I got it. But be careful. Don’t fuck this up.” Mo’s phone goes dead.
Her next move is to get Harvey and Mark together. Mark knows both sides of the story. Harvey doesn’t. When he learns he’s been burned, he is reluctant to face Mark. But Mo tells him it will be okay, that Mark understands. And under the existing circumstances, this looks like their only play.
At three o’clock on the next day afternoon while conference rooms are emptying all over the city to send their occupants home or to happy hour, one remains in use. Mo and Mark sit in it silently, nervously waiting for a thin, elderly, but very dangerous man to join them. On the table rests an ordinary brown briefcase. Its contents though, are far from ordinary. It contains one thousand, hundred dollar bills.
When the thin man arrives, introductions are made, bogus but very convincing. Dressed in a dark suit, dark shirt and tie, Emilio presents a surprisingly professional appearance. Mo introduces Mark as the investor. She has provided Emilio with just enough background information so he would think he's going to come off like a legitimate developer to Mark. The killer says little but avoids any hoodlum attitude or slang.
Papers are signed and hands are shaken. At this moment Mark’s phone rings. He answers, listens for a moment and then tells the others, “It’s one of my maitre de’s. I’ve got to take this.” He moves to the door and opens it.
Mo turns to the thin man and says, “Are we done, Emilio? That’s a lot of money you have there. Twice what I took off your clients. Even with the vig, I imagine you get a hefty percentage. Thirty percent? Forty? What’s your little brother get?”
Emilio says, “There are things my brother doesn’t have to know and this is one of them. He is, as you may have noticed, a little slow. But that is neither here nor there. You said there are other investors. I want their money too. This…con, as you call it, is over when I tell you it’s over.”
Mark steps aside. “And you can tell her it’s over right now,” Harvey the artist says as he enters to the room. He is holding a gun on Ernesto who walks in front of him. “You are all under arrest. This room has been wired. The big boy here and I have been listening to everything you’ve said. It’s also on tape.”
He looks first at Mo and then at the thin man. “But before you freak out, I want you to listen. I’ve got a proposition to make. First though, you better calm this lug nut down before I have to…”
What happens next happens very fast. It is not part of Mo’s plan. Ernesto takes two quick steps forward and grabs his brother by the throat. He’s enraged. “I don’t need to know,” he growls, “because I’m slow?”
Emilio is startled and reacts instinctively. What he does, he doesn’t mean. He doesn’t want to hurt his brother, but he has reacted too quickly to stop himself. He has shoved the long, sharp blade that rests inside his sleeve deep into Ernesto’s side. It slips smoothly between his ribs. Ernesto feels it and his rage grows. He digs his thumbs deeper into Emilio’s throat. Emilio knows sudden fear and his knife sinks twice more, through ribs into lung and heart. Ernesto’s eyes go dim then blank, but before he falls, he gives one last twist to Emilio’s throat. The crack can be heard throughout the room. Their bodies fall entwined across the conference table, tipping it, and crashing loudly to the floor.
Mark reaches for Mo, holds her and asks if she is okay. She says she’s never seen violence like that before. It wasn’t supposed to happen. Not part of the plan. Mark pulls her closer. They’re not aware of much but each other for a moment or two. They finally part at the sound of a door slamming far down a hallway.
Mo says, “Where’s Harvey?”
Mark says, “Where’s the money?”
The plan had been simple. Harvey was going to be a dirty cop. He was going to take the money and threaten the brothers with exposure if they tried to blow the whistle. The room really had been bugged and there really was a tape. Afterwards, Mark would get his money back.
They all knew the con was dead, but Mark had agreed to give Harvey a cool ten g’s for playing his part. It wouldn’t be what the artist had set out for, but all things considered, not a bad payday.
They knew Ernesto would be hanging around near his brother, probably in the hotel lobby again, and he would have to be compromised. He was though, truthfully slow, and getting the drop on him was not difficult.
There was a bit more, of course, than that to Mo’s plan. Should it all go awry, the real cops would be called in. The money was marked.
Holding Mark’s hand, Mo says, “I guess now we have to blow the whistle on Harvey. Bummer. He was a straight up guy…until now.”
“You know what?” Mark says. “If it wasn’t for Harvey, we wouldn’t be together. And when we told him you’d screwed up his con, he didn’t get pissed, he just went right along with the new plan. I think the police are going to be more than thrilled just to have these two creeps out of the picture. I say to hell with the money. Let Harvey keep it. He earned it and I’ve got lots more.”
On a Trailways bus heading east, Harvey picks at a box of KFC and smiles to himself. He knew it would work out in the end. It always does. Harvey is not just a con man, he’s an artist.
Artist at Work
By Doc Walton
Harvey is dressed kind of nice, tan summer suit, soft yellow tie. He’s a little jumpy inside because he thinks he’s near a close, but he doesn’t show it because, well, he’s an artist, a con artist and he’s good at this.
“An investment now could bring you a double or triple return in a couple of years,” he says to the guy across the table.
That guy is a fit looking middle-aged man wearing a thin leather jacket that fits like a glove and probably cost him a fortune. He’s idly stirring an un-sipped cup of coffee while he ponders what the artist has told him.
“I don’t know,” he says, “it sounds good but…”
Harvey interrupts. “Look, Mark,” he says, thinking, man, what a perfect name, “I wouldn’t tell this to just anybody. It’s, you know, inside stuff, but I consider you a friend. We hit it off at the club and I figured you being a sports car nut like me, this might be something you’d take a flyer on. I mean, we’re not talking a lot of money.”
Mark the mark squirms a little in his seat and says he’s interested, he really is. Just doesn’t want to get crosswise with the SEC.
“Not to worry,” Harvey tells him, “nothing there to worry about. This is all legal. We’re just in on it early. We both know this area needs a track. I’ve talked to people from NASCAR and SCCA and they all say, how does it go, ‘build it and they will come’?”
The mark picks up his coffee, takes a sip, makes a face, reaches for the sugar.
“What you’re telling me,” he says. “is that I can get in on the ownership of a race track.”
Harvey the artist thinks, gotcha, says “You bet. Just a small percentage, of course. The developers want a local presence to present to the public, but they are not going to give up too much. Besides, I know you’re not made of money. He pauses a moment, picks up his own cup, thinks, he needs one more incentive, says, “Still, if you can swing it, the perks will be terrific… annual dividends, special events, owner’s box, the whole shooting match.”
“I’m interested,” the mark says. “I really am. I just have to think about it awhile. Can you draw up some papers for me? Something I can use to help me make up my mind.” He says this while standing and reaching for his wallet.
“No problem,” says the artist pulling out a money clip, picking up the check and waving off the mark. “I’ll get Legal to draw something up if you’re serious about this, but we’ll need an answer in a hurry. Things are going to happen fast, and if you don’t want in, I have other people I need to talk to.” Always good to let the mark think there are others in line.
The mark leaves and Harvey the artist returns to his booth. He orders more coffee and a two slices of dark toast. A woman gets up from a seat at the counter and joins him. She’s somewhere in her mid- to late-thirties but hot. Taller than average, plush red hair, deep green eyes and a sculpted chin line. When she walks to Harvey’s booth, every male eye in the diner watches her do it, and that tells you all you need to know about her figure. She’s no stranger to the artist. He looks up surprised and says, “Hello, Mo, long time no see and all that. What brings you to town? I thought you were settled down in Arizona.”
Her name is Maureen, but if you know her at all, it’s Mo. She takes a seat opposite the con man.
“I was,” she answers, “but it got a little warm there, so I thought I’d come north for awhile. Find some cooler air.”
A waitress approaches, and Mo orders Earl Grey.
She turns back to the artist and says, “What about you Harvey… it is still Harvey, right? What are you playing at these days?”
The artist says, “Yeah it’s still Harvey for now, but I prefer Harv. Don’t want to be confused with the big bunny.”
Mo laughs, gets the reference. The artist is pleased.
He says, “I’m a consultant actually. I put people with money to invest on to,” he pauses and chuckles, “uh… special situations.”
Mo looks at him and repeats “special situations,” but says nothing further.
Harvey’s toast and coffee and Mo’s Earl Grey arrive, and they spend a few seconds shuffling things around on the table. The artist is chewing on a piece of toast when Mo leans in and says, “So, is the mark going to bite or what?”
The artist damn near chokes. “What makes you think…?” he starts. “Why would you…?” And then, pulling himself together, “Is it that obvious?”
“Relax,” Mo tells him. “It’s a takes-one-to-know-one kind of thing. I’m sure you look downright earnest and genuine to most people.”
The artist thinks, I didn’t know she was this together, gets an idea. “Walk with me.” he says, “It’s a little too close in here.”
They leave the diner and neither speaks as they stroll toward the nearby Civic Center. It’s a late spring morning, warming rapidly, and they stop at a park bench facing Denver’s largest public library. The artist remains silent and Mo gets antsy. She breaks the ice.
“Okay,” she says, “the hot guy in the leather jacket, red silk shirt, sharing your booth back there…he’s the mark right?”
The artist nods. He’s got an odd look on his face like a man making a decision, but not quite there yet. He’s wary but seeing possibilities.
“C’mon Harv, give,” Mo urges.
“All right” the artist says, making up his mind. “Here’s the deal. The guy’s name is Mark Pierce. He’s a forty-four year old divorcee who owns three restaurants, lives in a Cherry Creek townhouse and drives a burgundy colored Porsche 911. The Porsche thing is important because he acts like he’s still in his thirties and fancies himself a driver.”
Mo says, “Okay…and your play is?”
The artist looks at her hard then, real hard. “Who wants to know” he says.
Mo laughs. “Don’t get your panties in a bunch” she says. “You know I’m not a cop, and I won’t steal your play. It’s just professional interest. Besides, I’m not doing anything at the moment…thought maybe I could help. Relieve the boredom so to speak. You don’t have to tell me anything if you don’t want to. But…if that’s the case, why am I here?”
The artist thinks, she’s perfect. She can make this happen. He looks around to be certain they’re alone and then carefully and deliberately outlines his plan. “A few weeks ago there was an article in the Post about the possibility of a new race track –
cars, not horses – being built east of the old airport here in Denver. It takes a lot of money to build a race track… a lot of money. Investors large and small have to be found. The small-timers, like Mark, are my targets. They are way out of their element in a deal like this, because they don’t know how to follow their money. See how it gets used. For them it’s all about ego, you know, being an owner and a player.”
“I get that” Mo says. “What I don’t get is your angle.”
“It’s easy, Mo. I’m the Marketing Director. I handle the PR and the media, and I drum up excitement for the project. I find investors and I act as the liaison between those investors and the developers.”
“Who are the developers?”
The artist gives Mo another one of his hard looks, then breaks into a smile. “That’s just it, Kiddo,” he says. “There are none. The whole thing is simply a plausible rumor that I’m making look like a reality. I’m the one who put the notice in the paper to begin with. Now I make up a development corporation, call it Speer Speedway or something like that, and then,” the artist pauses and smiles again, because he likes this punch line, “and then… I deposit the checks.”
“Niiiccce,” says Mo, dragging out the word, “very nice indeed. And you’re telling me this because?”
Harvey thinks, I’m all in. Too late to change my mind. “Well, because you asked,” he says, “and it occurs to me that there will come a time when investor wants to meet developer. Who better, I’m thinking, than a beautiful, intelligent woman who looks like money in the bank? Someone who can be a perfect distraction. Can you be that distraction, Mo? Can you be a designated executive from, say, National Speedway, Inc.?”
Mo takes less than a second to consider. She likes the set-up. “For the right price, Harv” she says, “I’ll be the Queen of Sheba. Question is, what’s the right price?”
The con takes a long look at his potential partner like he’s pondering the question. What he’s really thinking is, she’s gorgeous. Fills out her blouse like a bra model and has the kind of legs most men would die to follow to hosiery’s end. She’ll be a distraction all right. I’ll have to keep my own mind on business.
“Let’s talk money later” he says. “There’ll be plenty to go around.”
On cue his cell rings and he puts it to his ear. “Great,” he says, “great. I’ll talk to my people and see how much they are willing to part with. Back at you no later than…Thursday, okay?”
He snaps the phone cover shut and laughs. “Mo,” he says, “this is cake. That was Mark. He wants in and has a couple of buddies chomping at the bit for a piece of the action as well. This, I think, calls for a celebration. What do you say to lunch? Lodo maybe, some place nice?”
Mo smiles, says, “You name it Harv. Your town, your call. I’m over at the Hilton, room 112, first floor up the escalator above the coffee shop. Do you want to pick me up or meet me?”
Lower downtown Denver has evolved with an influx of money and smart developers from a rough area of warehouses, decaying factories, bad-assed bars and homeless people into one of the cities hottest attractions. Upscale franchise shops, boutiques, trendy restaurants and a beautiful stadium for Denver’s major league baseball team have transformed the area.
Mo and the artist are seated under a large umbrella that reads “Cinzano” in bright colors at a restaurant named Pintos. They order wine before looking at their menus. Mo is dressed in pleated slacks and a silk blouse. There are pearls at her throat. She’s wearing a skosh more makeup than she had that morning. The overall effect is understated elegance.
Harvey sits mesmerized and has to force himself not to stare. He’s a fast talking artist at a loss for words. He covers his discomfort by tossing the conversational ball to his new partner. “So tell me, Mo, what have you been doing since that day I saw you at Turf Paradise?”
Mo doesn’t hesitate. She figures a job interview is in order. “Well,” she begins, “you already know my husband Tony and I owned a small copying, printing and mailing business. We actually did okay on the legit side, but the real money was in fake ID’s, passports, licenses, social security cards, what-have-you. You did a little business with us so you know what I’m talking. You also know from seeing us at the Turf club, we liked to play the ponies.”
Mo pauses a moment as a darker part of her memory comes to mind and she looks away briefly toward the old clock tower that still stands across the mall from the restaurant. When she looks back at the con man, her eyes are moist, but she carries on.
“What you probably don’t know, Harv, is that my husband died in a car accident two years ago.”
He says he didn’t and he’s sorry, but she talks right over him.
“I was still grieving and kind of a mess when a month later a couple of muscle heads show up carrying Tony’s markers. Like I needed that. It turns out that Tony, damn his sweet black heart, had been betting heavily and losing. He had taken out loans to cover those losses so I wouldn’t know. And now, when I’m thinking it can’t get worse, here come these low-lifes to collect.”
Mo sips wine, gathers her thoughts.
“Anyway, they want 50 large and I can’t come up with anything near that. In lieu of the money, the creeps tell me they will take my shop, the lease, the equipment, everything. To be fair they tell me, and so it’s all legal, they will pay me about half what it’s worth. Real sweethearts these guys. I’m also told this is a one time offer, take it or leave it. The consequences of leave it they don’t spell out, and I wasn’t up for asking. I agree to the deal because I have to. I mean, what else can I do?”
Harvey refills her wine glass, says nothing.
“As you can imagine, at first I was intimidated and scared. Later though, after I’d thought about it, I got royally pissed. I’d worked too hard to let some cheap hoods take advantage of me when I was down.”
The artist nods, says, “Do tell.”
“What I did was, I went to the company that owns and manages the property with a proposal that they give me a long term lease on my shop. I told them I had contracted to become a Fed Ex outlet and retail distribution center. The packet of materials I presented them had letters of introduction, commitment guarantees and revenue projections, all of which, of course, I had made with our equipment. With Fed Ex as a partner, I told them, I was willing to pay double the current rent for the space and I threw in a revenue sharing percentage as a kicker. The management people jumped all over the deal.”
The artist sits back, admiring the story as much as the story teller. “Go on.”
Mo takes a couple more sips of vino. Stalls, let’s Harvey wait for it. She knows she’s got his attention.
“Telling them I was cash poor at the moment, I ask for some up front money to do some necessary remodeling. I say to they could spread the amount over the first two years of the new lease with ten percent interest. I also tell them I had co-signers to secure the note. Of course, I had to bat my eyelashes a little and play the flirtatious widow here and there, but I had the money in my hands before the week was out.”
The artist applauds softly and says, “Beautiful! So you take the money, pay off the heavies and walk away. I love it.”
Mo gives the artist a patient smile and says, “Not even close. I go back to the shop and create a new lease leaving out the increased rent, the revenue sharing and the loan agreement. When the creeps come back, I give them a quitclaim deed for the shop and have them sign the phony lease, which I said I would deliver to the mall owners so they could remain incognito, and then, the best part, they give me 50k instead of the other way around! And, get this Harv, they give it to me in cash!”
The artist is truly impressed. He thinks, she’s good, she’s really good, says, “So you put the faux signature page with the new contract and send it back to the mall people.”
“Exactly. It won’t hold up, but I figure it will keep them all busy for awhile with accountants and attorneys while I do a Houdini and disappear. And that’s exactly how it played out. I cashed the mall owner’s check, emptied the store’s and my personal checking accounts, left my car in long term parking and flew to Atlanta. I got a new driver’s license with a bogus birth certificate I’d printed, rented a car and drove to Miami. I’ve been there until now, playing the horses and doing the beach.”
The artist is touched. This is too beautiful. He reaches across the table and lightly clutches Mo’s forearm. “And how” he asks, “did that make you feel?”
Mo gives him her broadest smile yet. “Liberated,” she says, “goddamn liberated!”
The oath catches Harvey completely by surprise. He bursts out laughing so loud he has to stifle it with his napkin.
After lunch they walk the downtown mall and window shop, making small talk, getting acquainted. During the meal they had settled easily on a sixty-forty split, it was Harvey’s con after all. Mo asks him where he’s staying.
“I’m over at the Cambridge,” he says. “It wreaks respectability.”
Then she asks him why he’s meeting a guy in a downtown coffee shop when the guy owns three restaurants.
The con man laughs, says, “You don’t miss much. Mark was downtown to pay speeding tickets. The coffee shop was convenient for us both. But what about you? Why were you there?”
“Couple reasons” Mo says. “First, hotels charge too much for average food. Second, too many people coming and going. Some of them are looking for other people.”
“You think someone’s looking for you?” he asks.
“Could be. Some of these hard cases have real long memories. I’d be difficult to recognize though.”
“Why? I knew you right off.”
“Sure,” Mo says. “But I was two feet from you. When I left Scottsdale, I had long brownish-blonde hair and was ten or twelve pounds lighter. Only people who knew me pretty well would make me now.”
The artist seems satisfied with that and they part shortly after, Harvey saying he’ll be in touch.
True to his word he calls less than three hours later.
“We’re on, meeting Mark at his restaurant, Romeo’s, at nine. I want to pick you up at eight though, so we can work out details. Okay by you?”
Mo says she’ll be ready.
At eight sharp they’re in the car fine tuning her character. She’s going to be a lobbyist for the developer, whose identity must remain undisclosed for the moment. She and Harvey had met at the developer’s office and had worked in tandem since then. Mo’s job is to liaise between the developer and the various city and state government offices with the intention of expediting the project, securing support and possibly obtaining public funding to augment that of private investors. Private investors though, will be at the heart of the venture, and if Harv and Mo can scare up enough of them, there will be more feathers in their caps…so to speak. Harv is working, for now, on a consultant basis, but if ultimately hired for the PR position, he will report to Mo. They agree this tweak in the cover story will give Mo a patina of power, enhancing her credibility.
When they arrive at the restaurant, Mark is walking around directing his staff and talking with patrons here and there. He stops long enough to say hello to the con man and be introduced to Mo before he has his hostess show them to a booth along the back wall of the restaurant. There they order drinks and don’t say much as they sip and look around the room. Mo’s mind is on Mark Pierce. She has felt some kind of a small, physical jolt at his appearance and is drawn to him in a way she has not felt since meeting her now-deceased husband. She can’t put her finger on what it is. I mean, she thinks, he’s balding and kind of burly, so why am I so anxious to see him again?
They have just finished their cocktails when Mark reappears and tells them to go ahead and order, he’ll join them later. He has sampled all the entries in the kitchen and isn’t hungry but promises to be back for coffee and dessert so they can talk. “Whatever you like,” he tells them, “it’s on the house.” He gives Mo a long once-over as he says this and then leaves to make the rounds of other tables.
While they are eating and making idle conversation, Mo gets that curious, but often unerring feeling that she is being watched. She begins to glance around the room suspecting, and let’s face it hoping, her gaze will find Mark looking her way. He is not, however, anywhere in evidence. The room’s other diners all seem busy with their drinks and meals, oblivious to her presence. She is about to return to her own scaloppini and Harv’s droning on about one racecar or another when her eyes alight on two men across the room in a small booth. When she looks directly at them, they turn away and busy themselves shuffling food around on their plates and talking, Mo thinks, self consciously. She can’t quite make them out, their table sits in a shadow, but she knows they were staring at her. Periodically over the next ten minutes while a waiter clears their table, Mo glances at the men and several times finds them hastily averting their eyes from hers. She is just about to mention this to Harv when Mark returns to the table and the two men are momentarily forgotten. When, after a bit, she looks their way again, the men are gone.
“So,” Mark says, “what can I bring you, more coffee, a liqueur, dessert?”
They settle on Grand Marniers and Mark joins them at the table, scooting in on Mo’s side of the booth. His thigh lightly touches hers as he does so and Mo feels a trickle of something vaguely electric race up her spine. She takes a sip from her snifter to cover her slight blush.
“Okay,” Mark says, “tell me everything I need to know to make this thing happen.”
Harvey and Mo launch into their cover story and then just wing plausible answers to Mark’s follow up questions. They promise to have all the necessary paperwork in Mark’s hands in a week to ten days. After that it will be up to Mark to seal the deal, meaning a check will be required. Harvey suggests an initial hundred thousand dollars as a reasonable show of interest and when Mark doesn’t flinch, adds that he doesn’t know for sure how much ownership the developers are willing to part with, but promises to find out if Mark decides he would like a bigger bite.
At the door to the restaurant, they shake hands and Harvey walks off to deal with the car retrieval. Mark clings to Mo’s hand a moment and asks her if she and Harvey are a couple or just a working duo. Maureen gives him a throaty little chuckle and looks him in the eyes. “Just colleagues” she says. “Why do you ask?”
“Because tomorrow,” he answers, “I’m driving to my Vail restaurant and it’s a beautiful drive and I hate going alone and I thought you might find it fun to…”
Mo cuts him off with a big smile and says, “I’m there. What time?”
Out at the curb the valet pulls up with Harvey’s car and hands him the keys. Harvey beeps for Mo just as Mark releases her hand and says, “Your hotel…nine o’clock.”
A moment later, Harvey eases the car from the front of the restaurant and out into the night’s traffic. A dark sedan with two men inside slips from the curb a half block away and tucks in behind him. It remains there at a three car interval until Harvey drops Mo at her hotel. It cruises past then, and disappears into the night.
Mo is dressed and ready and has a day bag packed when Mark picks her up the next morning. She’s told Harvey she wanted the day to herself, and he agreed saying things were moving kind of fast and some down-time might be good for both of them.
The morning is warm and sunny and Mark is driving with the top down. He likes to drive fast and he accelerates into curves just hard enough to feel the tug of the g-forces pushing them into their seat’s upright. Mo finds it exhilarating watching Mark’s confident hands on the wheel as he deftly maneuvers through curve after mountain curve. She finds herself blushing when she realizes early on that she’s wondering how those hands would feel on her own ample curves.
At one point the radar detector mounted on the dash beeps, and Mark slows until a state patrol car passes on the other side of the divided highway. They make it to Vail in under two hours. He pulls into the parking garage at Lions Head, and they walk toward the gondola loading area.
Within a couple of minutes, he points to his right. “That’s my joint.”
The restaurant sits back behind a wide deck on which there are an assortment of tables, chairs and market umbrellas. Vail Valley Vittles has, the sign in the front window proclaims, the “award-winning burgers and bratwurst.”
“Nice thing about this time of year is that we can sit outside,” Mark says. “Gets too cold for most people during the ski season, although we bring in a few fire pits and surround them with some of the chairs. I’ll show you the inside, and then I’ll get one of my gals to bring us some food.”
Mo positions herself so she is shaded by the big umbrella, and so she can watch the broad walkway where tourists stroll.
In the fashion of two people wildly attracted to each other, the day becomes a magical journey of discovery. He wants to know all there is of her and she of him. They eat, they talk and she watches him work with his staff.
He says he keeps a studio apartment in the lodge above the restaurant. In the late afternoon with the sun glowing crimson through the drapes, he takes her to bed. And the magic continues.
On the drive back to Denver there is more talk, and this time there is some honesty.
After a lingering kiss and promises for the morrow, Mo goes into the hotel and up to her room. Before she can find the light switch, a hand closes over her mouth and strong arms drag her into the room. She struggles, but to no avail.
“If you scream,” a voice says, “he will break your jaw and knock you out…understand?”
Mo nods and the hand slides slowly, tentatively from her mouth. She is led to one of the room’s two cushy chairs and told to sit. Across from her, in the other chair, a razor thin, elderly man in a dark suit flicks on a table lamp and stares at her, saying nothing.
Mo is the first to talk. “Who are you and what do you want?” she asks, although thinking she already knows.
“My name is unimportant,” the thin man says. “But for the record and because a person should know the name of the last face they will ever see, it’s Emilio. “What is important is that you owe some people money…lots of money.”
The other man, a big man, has moved a desk chair close to Mo and now sits on it blocking any avenue of escape she might consider.
“How do you figure?” she says.
“The thin man says one word, “Scottsdale.” And Mo knows she’s been made.
“Okay,” she says stalling, her mind whirling, looking for an option. “Give me a number.”
“A number she wants,” the thin man says, looking at his partner, “a number.” He turns back to Mo. “And like that you give me the money and I go away. Is that how you see it?”
“Would work for me,” Mo says, “if I had any money.”
“Let me tell you how this is going to play out, Miss I Think I Can Fuck With The Big Boys And Get Away With It. You are going to pay in one of two ways. First, if you really have no money, I make an example of you for all the other piss-ants who think they can screw with my clients…and me. You will, of course, beg me to die before it is over and, eventually, when I feel like it, you will. The second way, because I am a reasonable man, is that you pay double what you owe and then I punish you anyway. This way, though, you get to live.”
Mo has an idea. “There is no way I can pay you right now,” she says, “so you’ll probably want to kill me… but… if you give me a little time…I’m not asking for much… I know how to get the money and a lot more… more than I took.”
The thin man leans back, puts his hand out to his crony and says, “Cigarette.” The big man pulls a pack from a shirt packet, gives him one and lights it. The thin man inhales deeply, looks at Mo. “Really” he says skeptically. “Make me a believer.”
“Okay,” Mo begins, “you know I’m good at a running a con. I mean I fooled your people.”
Emilio looks hard at her. “Watch your mouth. And they’re not my people. They just hired me to get their money back…and deal with you.”
She ignores the threat. “Look, I can handle complex details and I can see them through. I’m working an angle right now that could make me walk-away rich. I’m talking A LOT of money; you get me…A LOT. If you let me go through with the con, I’ll put you in for half. How does that sound?”
The thin man snorts. It’s meant to be a laugh. “I’m going to listen to your…con. Hear what you have to say. After that, if I think you are playing me… your painful death will begin soon and take longer. If I believe you…which seems unlikely… and we go with your game…I will decide how much you get to keep, not you. Are we clear on that?”
Mo nods.
“Tell me then,” Emilio says smirking, “about your big it’s going to make me and my clients rich deal.”
Mo tells all, Harvey’s whole plan. She tells it though, as if it were hers. Harvey is never mentioned. When she’s finished, she looks nervously at the thin man who rises, says nothing, and walks to the door. The big man opens it for him and the thin man walks through. He turns and with no expression looks one last time at this clever redhead. “You will be watched…every moment,” he says to her, “from now until there is money in my hands.” The door closes and he walks away.
The next morning Mo joins Harvey in the same café where they first met and teamed up. She tells him what happened the night before.
Harvey says, “I’ve heard of this guy Emilio. He’s a local enforcer for hire, supposedly connected to the north side hoods. His reputation is he’s a slice and dice freak. Likes to carve up people before he kills them. He supposedly has a kid brother, Ernesto, who is mentally challenged but does whatever Emilio tells him… including beating people to death with his bare hands. He could be the big guy.
“These are not people to screw with, Mo. You better have a really good out.”
“That’s the problem.” Mo says. “I don’t. I would run if I thought I could get away, but I doubt I would get far. Somehow they managed to trace me to here.
“I think the only thing I can do now is go ahead with the con and give my share away. You can back out now, if you want to. I’m sure this is more than you bargained for.”
“I don’t think the con would work without me,” the artist says. “Besides, it’s my con, and we’re too close to the money to quit now. You say Emilio doesn’t know about me, so I can work angles while you’re being watched. I’m arranging for all the bogus paperwork right now and after that, well, the ball will be in Mark’s court. If he and his buddies post the money, you can buy your way free and I’ll make like smoke and vanish. Maybe after that we can meet somewhere down the road, and I’ll find you another money maker.”
Mo, thinking hard about something else, says, “Thanks, but my conning days will be over. If I get out of this in one piece, I’m going to be June Fucking Cleaver.”
What she’s thinking about is Mark…the mark. What Harvey doesn’t know and she can’t tell, is that the con is off. Mark knows all. Harvey is screwed and she’s royally fucked, most likely dead. “Look,” she says, “I have no choice but to be in this all the way. You can and should run not walk to the nearest exit. You said yourself these guys are worse than bad news. C’mon, screw the money Harvey, it’s not worth it.”
Harvey reaches across the table and takes her hands in his. She looks up at him and he holds her eyes with his own. “You told me once you felt ‘liberated’ when you pulled off the con that got you out from under your dead husband’s debts. Well that con is back now and it’s biting you in the ass. That’s how it goes sometimes.
“You can’t walk a straight line out. Once a con is in motion, you’ve got to play it as far as you can. When it’s good, you take the money and walk. When it’s bad, you keep playing it, looking for another angle. So you’re right, you are in all the way, Mo. But so am I. That leaves us only one thing to do and that’s to do this…together.”
Mo thinks, Oh crap, if he only knew, says, “Thanks Harvey, you’re a good guy.”
She spends the rest of the day lying on her hotel bed staring at the ceiling. When she gets up, she does so abruptly. She telephones Mark and arranges to see him that night. She showers, dresses and walks out to the lobby to await her date. She doesn’t care about the big man she sees rise from a lobby sofa and move to the adjoining glassed-in dining room where he continues to glance in her direction from time to time. She doesn’t care, because she has an idea.
When Mark picks her up, she instructs him to “just drive around awhile.” She tells him what happened after she left him the night before. Mark is stunned and wants to interrupt, but Mo shushes him until she gets all the way through the encounter with Emilio.
When she finishes, he drives a couple of blocks further and finally speaks. His thought is simple and clear. “Either we leave the country or we go to the police.”
Mo gives him a sad smile and explains, “Both are just temporary solutions, Mark. They will find me no matter where I go… and the police? The police have nothing. They can bring Emilio and his brother in for questioning, but they have nothing to hold them on…just yet”
“Then what are we going to do, Mo? I can’t let them hurt you.”
Mo lets the question hang there for a moment while she gathers her thoughts and decides where to start. “Just keep driving and listen to me, Mark. I have an idea that I think will work if we all play our parts right.” She pauses then. “The first thing is,” she continues, “the con has to continue.” She goes on talking and while Mark listens fascinated, amazed by his new love’s mind, she outlines her entire plan.
This time when she finishes there are no more questions. Mark drives straight to his condo and they tumble into bed. When death seems a real and imminent possibility, physical love is the strongest expression of life.
Across town Harvey the artist has ideas of his own. He lies fully dressed on his king-size bed, hands behind his head giving additional support to the bed’s fat pillows. He thinks, is she playing me? Is this guy Emilio really threatening her? Why does she want me out? Could it be the mark? She seemed all google-eyed with him at Romeo’s. Maybe she wasn’t acting. Is she playing it straight or playing an angle? He finally comes to a conclusion. He reaches for his phone to make a call, but before he can, it rings. When he hangs up the receiver, everything has changed.
When she returns to the Hilton lobby, Ernesto is startled when Mo smacks down the newspaper he was using to cover his face. She makes it short. “Tell your brother we need to talk.” She stares at him a minute, making sure he understands. He nods and she goes up to her room. Five minutes later the phone rings.
The voice on the phone says one word, “Speak.”
Mo tells it, “The deal is done. The mark is ready to hand over 100k for his earnest money. Thing is, he won’t give it to me. I told him I would bring the project’s principle developer, someone with clout enough to accept the money. That’s got to be you. And get this next part, the mark’s bringing cash because he says these are funds he doesn’t want anyone to know he has. Oh, and PLEASE, don’t bring your brother. He doesn’t fit the profile for this kind of meeting. I’ve booked a small conference room at my hotel so this looks like a legit happening. We are going to meet at three o’clock tomorrow afternoon. You have to be there and play your part, so listen up.”
When she is done, Emilio says, “All right, I got it. But be careful. Don’t fuck this up.” Mo’s phone goes dead.
Her next move is to get Harvey and Mark together. Mark knows both sides of the story. Harvey doesn’t. When he learns he’s been burned, he is reluctant to face Mark. But Mo tells him it will be okay, that Mark understands. And under the existing circumstances, this looks like their only play.
At three o’clock on the next day afternoon while conference rooms are emptying all over the city to send their occupants home or to happy hour, one remains in use. Mo and Mark sit in it silently, nervously waiting for a thin, elderly, but very dangerous man to join them. On the table rests an ordinary brown briefcase. Its contents though, are far from ordinary. It contains one thousand, hundred dollar bills.
When the thin man arrives, introductions are made, bogus but very convincing. Dressed in a dark suit, dark shirt and tie, Emilio presents a surprisingly professional appearance. Mo introduces Mark as the investor. She has provided Emilio with just enough background information so he would think he's going to come off like a legitimate developer to Mark. The killer says little but avoids any hoodlum attitude or slang.
Papers are signed and hands are shaken. At this moment Mark’s phone rings. He answers, listens for a moment and then tells the others, “It’s one of my maitre de’s. I’ve got to take this.” He moves to the door and opens it.
Mo turns to the thin man and says, “Are we done, Emilio? That’s a lot of money you have there. Twice what I took off your clients. Even with the vig, I imagine you get a hefty percentage. Thirty percent? Forty? What’s your little brother get?”
Emilio says, “There are things my brother doesn’t have to know and this is one of them. He is, as you may have noticed, a little slow. But that is neither here nor there. You said there are other investors. I want their money too. This…con, as you call it, is over when I tell you it’s over.”
Mark steps aside. “And you can tell her it’s over right now,” Harvey the artist says as he enters to the room. He is holding a gun on Ernesto who walks in front of him. “You are all under arrest. This room has been wired. The big boy here and I have been listening to everything you’ve said. It’s also on tape.”
He looks first at Mo and then at the thin man. “But before you freak out, I want you to listen. I’ve got a proposition to make. First though, you better calm this lug nut down before I have to…”
What happens next happens very fast. It is not part of Mo’s plan. Ernesto takes two quick steps forward and grabs his brother by the throat. He’s enraged. “I don’t need to know,” he growls, “because I’m slow?”
Emilio is startled and reacts instinctively. What he does, he doesn’t mean. He doesn’t want to hurt his brother, but he has reacted too quickly to stop himself. He has shoved the long, sharp blade that rests inside his sleeve deep into Ernesto’s side. It slips smoothly between his ribs. Ernesto feels it and his rage grows. He digs his thumbs deeper into Emilio’s throat. Emilio knows sudden fear and his knife sinks twice more, through ribs into lung and heart. Ernesto’s eyes go dim then blank, but before he falls, he gives one last twist to Emilio’s throat. The crack can be heard throughout the room. Their bodies fall entwined across the conference table, tipping it, and crashing loudly to the floor.
Mark reaches for Mo, holds her and asks if she is okay. She says she’s never seen violence like that before. It wasn’t supposed to happen. Not part of the plan. Mark pulls her closer. They’re not aware of much but each other for a moment or two. They finally part at the sound of a door slamming far down a hallway.
Mo says, “Where’s Harvey?”
Mark says, “Where’s the money?”
The plan had been simple. Harvey was going to be a dirty cop. He was going to take the money and threaten the brothers with exposure if they tried to blow the whistle. The room really had been bugged and there really was a tape. Afterwards, Mark would get his money back.
They all knew the con was dead, but Mark had agreed to give Harvey a cool ten g’s for playing his part. It wouldn’t be what the artist had set out for, but all things considered, not a bad payday.
They knew Ernesto would be hanging around near his brother, probably in the hotel lobby again, and he would have to be compromised. He was though, truthfully slow, and getting the drop on him was not difficult.
There was a bit more, of course, than that to Mo’s plan. Should it all go awry, the real cops would be called in. The money was marked.
Holding Mark’s hand, Mo says, “I guess now we have to blow the whistle on Harvey. Bummer. He was a straight up guy…until now.”
“You know what?” Mark says. “If it wasn’t for Harvey, we wouldn’t be together. And when we told him you’d screwed up his con, he didn’t get pissed, he just went right along with the new plan. I think the police are going to be more than thrilled just to have these two creeps out of the picture. I say to hell with the money. Let Harvey keep it. He earned it and I’ve got lots more.”
On a Trailways bus heading east, Harvey picks at a box of KFC and smiles to himself. He knew it would work out in the end. It always does. Harvey is not just a con man, he’s an artist.
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