Just Wandering

just trying to fit in

The music coming through the door of the little cantina was different in that it wasn‘t the endless Salsa I‘d been hearing played every moment I had been in the country. It was a Colombian version of …. well folk music. It was the kind people listened to on the country side “fincas” for generations and seemed apropos for the weathered clientele enjoying their late afternoon cervezas and aguardientes .

We had come for a quick primer to the forthcoming evenings festivities planned at my future father in laws house and my wifes brother Tato remarked…..

“ My father would love these guys “            He said this in reference to the three musicians playing two guitars and a rasca while singing a tune that had something to do with needing a black girl who understands love…..

“ Maybe we can hire them for tonight “ his brother Cacou enthused.

So after a couple of quick cervazas and aguardientes of our own Tato went to enquire of the band if they were interested in playing a private gig for the evening.

“ Oh no ….no puedo…we have been hired to play here for the night “

And so Tato motioned towards “he who was obviously Gringo” and then mentioned the fact that….

“ We have American Dollars “

And in the speck of time required to gulp the last gulp of aguardiente these guys had tossed the instruments into their well worn cases and headed for the door with us. The cantinas clientele were miffed and expressed that fact. The cantinas owner was just plain pissed and followed us all out to the 1950s Ford taxi cab the six of us climbed into along with the driver and the three instruments.

“ Los Geniales “ these guys were great and they played all night and imbibed freely of the seemingly endless supply of the evenings refreshments. With great irony the more they imbibed the worse they played…….and the better they sounded.

Later, when the photos were developed, I discovered that I had learned to play the rasca that night ……….

Once on the ground however you’ll find yourself treated to …or victimized by….Arabian efficiency. The plane sat on the tarmac like planes did in other parts of the world years ago and you then disembarked the aircraft and walked to the terminal. We were not permitted to disembark however as Oman having now become a modern nation was anxious to show off its modern amenities . Namely the modern cattle car trailer transformed into a truck towed means of passenger transportation .

The aircraft had shut down its engines and along with it its most appreciated air conditioning system. This was unfortunate as we all sat peering out the windows at a small crew attempting to jump start the trailer towing truck meant to pick us up. This only took about fifty un air conditioned and very stifling minutes before the truck sped towards us at a rate too fast to stop at its designated stopping point. The resulting need to then back up was surely the cause of the trailer jackknifing itself into the side of the aircraft and causing yet another thirty minute delay in our departure from the aircrafts now oven like temperatures.

The disembarkation took an inordinate amount of time but we eventually all found ourselves loaded cattle like onto the cattle trailer when the young lady next to me asked…..

“ Where do you think they are taking us ? “ and she looked unbelieving at my reply.

“ Probably right there .” I answered…. and it was so.

The driver cut the wheel as far as it would go and he only just had enough room to u turn us to the front of the terminal and showing great skill actually stopped in front of the door. He seemed quite proud of himself…..but he’ll likely never understand he’d have looked a lot better had we all been allowed to walk those twenty one seconds across the tarmac.

“ Let me in…I’m one of you .” I said as I held up my pack for them to see.

And so for the next few hours we enjoyed each others company and the comfort of a new Mitsubishi while swapping traveler stories and listening to the radio as the Australian countryside slid by.

 Not all goals are obtainable I guess……… but then, one day I just might….. round the Horn of Africa on a tramp steamer.

Sometimes I must wonder that should we all revert to seeing things through the eyes of a child then perhaps we all might gain some advancement on true wisdom. A clarity of sight that creates a change of complicated problems into simple problems just might create the need for nothing more than simple answers ….. Who convinced us of the folly of ‘‘older and wiser” anyway ? Should that fable “older and wiser ” be true it might not be so impossible to elect a functioning two party government .

It was my great pleasure to be reacquainted today with two young boys who I haven’t seen for three years or more . They are both bright and intelligent and being products of quality parenting they are polite ….and they play the piano.

I remember expressing my amazement to the oldest some three years ago at his ability to play classical music. At the age of six or so he didn’t just play classical music on the piano …he played it well.

“ How did you learn it so quickly ? ” I wanted to know and he seemed perplexed that such a question need be asked…..his thinking, obviously much clearer than mine brought the answer.

“ I just read the music and then play the notes . ” he said ………

A simple solution to a simple problem is at hand for those that “want” to solve the problem. I guess that young man simply…… wanted to solve the problem.

Dom Perignon …. a symbol of class and good taste , a symbol of stature .

 The gentleman who once gifted me a bottle of Dom is certainly a true representative of the descriptive above . However, the person I shared that bottle with is , like myself …. certainly not. The gifter you see … ”Don “ Alfonso, would have enjoyed such a beverage on an occasion with someone close , family or friends in a comfortable atmosphere the likes of his home. And he would likely have drunk it from fine lead glass as it is said lead glass enhances the flavor of fine wines .

Nicholas and I cracked it open at noon as we sat on the curb watching the local kids play soccer on that Colombian barrio street. And we drank it from a jar and a tin cup, oblivious to the fact that we might have enjoyed it more had we poured it into fine Waterford fluted glasses. But our team won and a priceless memory was created regardless.

A week or so later found Nicholas and I visiting “Don” Alfonso again. This time in reward of a favor Alfonso presented something special to Nicholas. Reaching into a full case Alfonso drew out a serial numbered collectors bottle of Chivas Brothers 31 year old Scotch . This is some serious money.

Later on Nicholas was besides himself showing off the prize to my wife’s brother Tato ..

“ Tato… Tato look at what “Don” Alfonso gave me man ! ”

This was a true status symbol …..not just for what it was, but from whom presented it ….. but Tato instantly wanted to know…

“ Are we going to drink it ? “ and he stood caressing the bottle as though it were a part of himself . Nicholas attempted to explain with…

“ Drink it ?…..that’s a collector bottle. That Scotch is 31 years old .”

“ Thirty one years old ???….Madre de Dios…that’s plenty old enough .” and Tato promptly opened the no longer collector bottle. We enjoyed it while sitting on the curb…and I don’t remember any soccer game.

Though this one might be the longest…this is not the first recession I’ve suffered through as an American Blue Collar. The last one was tough but never once was I late with the rent or owe a soul dime….. But I sure went without a lot to be able to make that claim. I remember one solid week where I ate not a single other thing but trout that I caught from the local streams and at that weeks end the deed had to be done . ….The only place I could beg without humiliation was a fifty minute drive south to Mom’s house. As I entered the house the ever cheerful English accent rang out with….

“ Those are old Richard . “ he said, and his lack of interest in an edible caught me somewhat off guard as I fondled the box.

“ Box is still sealed .” I said having already read the directions on the side.

“ Those are really old Richard….they came with us from the old house .”

And as he said it I noticed the lack of a bar code ….. and the offer of a mail order popover rack for $2.00 that would expire on August 31, … of 1969 .  Damn box was 19 years old.

A month later I visited again and walked in to smell meat cooking .

“ Hungry Luv ? “ Mom asked as usual….. “ Sit down, won’t be long “

And so I sat and smelled and salivated over the sound of hot cooking oil like only a truly hungry man can salivate to such a sound . And in no time I witnessed a steak all cut into one inch squares on a plate placed on the floor for Tuppence….the dog…..and two hot dogs were placed before me. I swear that dog knew how to smile.

I still have that un opened box of popovers and it reminds me of a period of time that taught me to be….one truly serious fly fisherman .

“Were they talking to me ? “…

“ Yeh man….they were talking to you “ is what I said….  I never did find out what happened to that young guy in room 103. What I did find out is that though you can’t get “into” the military with flat feet…. you can’t get “out” of the military because of them either.

My Grandfather was deaf resulting from bursting an eardrum from diving off of London’s Southwarke Bridge into the River Thames as a young man. He had enlisted immediately and been sent to France after training and it was some months before anyone noticed his handicap and he was shipped home to spend the rest of the war as a member of the Home Guard.

My Mothers Aunt Daisy lived in a south London borough known as the Elephant and Castle that had a mandatory evacuation. “ Aunt Daise ” refused to leave her home and spent those nights of German bombings in a near by sub way tunnel……hers was the only home still standing on the block at the end of the war and I recall spending some weekends there in the 60’s.

Not every veteran of war is a military veteran…..my Mother became one at seven years old.  It’s so very sad at how many other young children  worldwide can lay similar claim to that.

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“ What the hell happened !!? ” my other brother asked as he came to.

“ Man….I just pinched a loaf so fucken big it hurt so bad I just stood up and passed right out.” …..

And he claims he can’t lose weight…..

It was the day after and every muscle…nose to toes…was hurtin bad. We’ll get to the reason for that shortly but first….. lets start with the start to the day before. That day before started very very early as the mornings destination of Orange Massachusetts was a fair drive away. I was anxious and I fairly bounded down the stairs from my third floor tenement to jump into the 67 Dodge Dart and get going. As I slammed the door shut the side view mirror dropped like a rock to shatter in the road and I sincerely hoped this was not some sort of omen before speeding off, leaving the glass in the road .

The Dodge Darts destination that morning was, after all, the Orange Mass. Parachute Center where I was to perform my first static line jump from 3000 ft. and so had little need of omens. .

After finalizing our classroom training that morning one of the instructors asked….

“ Who wants to jump first ? “ This was pre tandem jump days that are so popular today meaning you were on your own the second the body left the aircraft . And so I earned the respect of the instructors and other eight trainees by blurting out…..

“ Yeah….I do “ and no one suspected the truth. And the truth was that I figured if I watched others leap out of the aircraft first …..I’d be too terrified to go through with it. So in short order we all sat on the floor of the aircraft with our knees under our chins and my piece of floor was next to the open door. I watched the cars on the roads below looking smaller than the little Match Box cars I played with as a child…..and then smaller still.

I turned to the young guy next to me and noticed his pallor to be more than white and so to alleviate his tension I mentioned….

“ Ya know….this is going to be the biggest rush of my life .”     and without turning his head he instantly came back with…..

“ I’m rushin the fuck out now….I ain’t never been on an airplane before . “

Now… static line jump training entails some explicit instructions. As you leave the aircraft you must scream out “ARCH ! “ in order to remind yourself to arch the back making your belly the center of gravity. This causes a horizontal descent and prevents a fatal hanging on the static line that pulls open the chute. Next is the necessity to slowly count one one thousand, two, two thousand, three three thousand. If you make it past four four thousand you need to turn to look to see if you can free a jammed chute before pulling the reserve …. yeah right…. and I was trying to go over all this again in my head when the pilot called back to inform the Jump Master that… “ We’re over the jump zone…gettem ready “. and by this time my tan was a perfect match to that of the kid next to me.

Well I departed that aircraft completely forgetting to scream out “ ARCH ! “ as trained  because my throat was filled with quite a different selection of nouns, verbs and adjectives. Instead I rapidly began my count…. one two three four five six seven and at nine thought …

“ Bitch…why me ?!?!” and in panic I twisted and turned to look at my chute when …..

“WWhhumpp “ The chute opened with the harness crossed over the back of my neck pinning my chin to my chest before I eventually spiraled to the correct position

I learned that day that the human body is actually more intelligent than the brain. The brain, you see , will talk you into doing such a thing….. The body however instinctively knows that hurling itself out of an aircraft at 3000 ft is not a natural act. Therefore it tends to tense up….to the point of every muscle from nose to toes hurtin bad the day after.

My annual , and sometimes bi annual, trek to drop the wife at the at the airport occurred today and it was the smoothest good bye yet. That’s because she now flies to Colombia on some small time airline out of Ft. Lauderdale with just one straight, no turn, one hundred and sixty two mile run right into the airport. She used to fly out of MIA…Miami International… I can drive you there with my eyes closed which seems to be normal driving procedure over there , but it’s the coming back part ……

You see , once you depart the parking garage at MIA you are confronted with four choices of exit. Each one is both numbered and color coded along with some mythical destination printed beneath. And I have over the years taken each and every offered choice multiple times and each and every time that choice has proven to be the wrong one. This forces the issue and ultimately the need to seek out some indifferent Cuban Accent to send me in another wrong direction. Pulling up to a toll one year I said to the wife…..

“ This sonofabitch tells me to just take a left and I’ll just wig right out .”

“Just take a left “ …….he said.

“ Just take a left ! Take a left….then what Manuel ?!…then What !! “        My ire being more than evident.

He blinked at me in a Cuban accent for a moment and then responded with.

“ Then take a right Mang . “

Well I showed him….I took a right and then a left and we cruised home with no further glitch .

ah...Singapore

“ You like buy fake watch ? “      was an interesting question to ask someone wearing a real one I thought.

“ No ploblem ….… make you shirt haffower .”

Make me shirt haffower ?…..well I figured this had to be worth the price of admission and so followed the old guy down some alleys to his place of business. Once there I was immediately shown some cotton fabrics while some Asian lovelies swarmed over me with tape measures. During the promised and fairly accurate half hour wait I peeked behind some curtains to witness a dozen or so Chinese ladies all busy sewing alligators on the breasts of soon to be Izod shirts.

I still purchase Izod shirts….. and I think of that place every time I put one on.

This was not just a different job….it was my very first day working in another country, Australia. While seemingly similar to the United States, Australia really isn’t similar to the United States at all and after a nerve wracking drive to work on the wrong side of the road I met other differences…..

“ What are you marking the heights on guys ?” I asked and the thick Aussie accent replied with…..

“ Every 87 mil until we hit the top of the windows. “

This will be tough I thought wondering what the hell a mil was as I stood there with inches and feet on my non metric ruler. But it got sorted out and I was put to the test and given a wall all by myself for the morning while the boss went to a meeting. After the morning break one of the guys came and looked at my efforts and never said a word and shortly after some one else did the same. By the third guy I got nervous and started checking over my work. By the time the whole crew had looked I was convinced … these guys were impressed and I was feeling pretty good.

Just before noon , Nick, my five foot Italian boss rounded the corner and instantly gagged back a choke. He held his heart and dropped to his knees in a teary and angry tirade of Italian language and performed a convincing imitation of epilepsy. Once in a while a word of English would spew forth mentioning something about “ the marks…the marks “

I’ll explain that here in the United States bricks have what’s known as bar marks or scorch marks from the kiln and are always indicative of the back side of the brick and I mumbled that fact……and Nick explained….

“ Butta fuckina heah….everybody luvsa those marks. “ and so it would appear my first wall in Australia was built inside out.

Later, a sudden and rare wind storm toppled another buildings wall onto my inside out wall negating the need to dismantle it. Nick submitted a bill to the insurance for three times the brick I laid and he figured I had brought him luck and so was given a second chance. I worked for Nick for some time and put that second chance to good use.

It was 2 p.m. and I was standing in front of the juice stand on the corner directly across the street accompanied by my sister in law. We were enjoying the orange/ mango beverages freshly squeezed moments before from the large bins of fresh fruit behind the counter when she seethed …….

“Este Hijo de Puta” said she in an animated description of her belief that her hubby was a “son of bitch“. He had failed to arrive to meet us earlier in the day as planned and was in deep shit because she was pissed . I personally didn’t mind lacking his company as I stood enjoying the colorful Colombian street scene atmosphere…. but it had embarrassed her.

Suddenly across the street and directly below the dance hall veranda a Police Officer barged through the crowded throng and latched hold of some one from behind and a struggle immediately ensued. The culprit swung wildly and broke free to begin his flee to freedom when ..…..

“ BANG “ …..quick as a bunny the officer pulled his revolver and amidst the crowd put a bullet in the back of the fleeing mans leg. Instantly the crowd on the sidewalk surrounded the scene all in fear that they might miss something worth seeing while I huddled low in fear of more gun fire. The cries of pain from the captured man did little to diminish the instant carnival atmosphere as every one seemed well entertained. The DJ up above, not to be outdone by the commotion below, increased the volume of his Salsa music. But this was better than dancing and no one was heading back to the floor.

Suddenly my sister in law wailed out…..

“ There he is !!….that son of a bitch !!” …. and there he was. On the veranda directly above the wounded man was my brother in law Nicholas looking down at the scene below. One hand firmly wrapped around a large rum and coke in contradiction of the other hand firmly wrapped around the rail in order to assist in his failing ability to perform his imitation of a standing man.

So there we were amidst the crowd on a Colombian street. Ninety people all jabbering away at the same time, the man on the side walk crying , the cop bellowing “Cajate ! Cajate !” ambulances wailing, Salsa music reverberating and above it all could be heard my sister in law…..

“ Nicholas !!….you son of a bitch…you better come down from there ! “

I was a smoker then and so I flicked my ash into the tall chrome airport ash tray while awaiting a flight in an airport in India. Instantly a large flock of disturbed gnat like insects erupted from it to converge upon my head. This brought great laughter and the opening to conversation with a wonderful elderly English couple sitting nearby who were also attempting to escape the sub continent.

Later, upon returning from “excusing herself” the elderly lady leaned in close and with her beautiful British accent whispered some sage advice….

“ Oooh Luv…wattever you do….don’t go to the toilet.”…….

But….I’ve got to go to the toilet is what I thought. And so, though armed with the advice offered by one older and wiser I did eventually have to “excuse” myself.

The old lady was friggin right…I shouldn’t have gone to the toilet. My arrival at the men’s room taught me something instantly…..people steal toilet paper. This does however encourage a small business entrepreneurial spirit to flourish, sans tax and one would think the Republican party originated in Bombay. For in the men’s room , in lieu of toilet paper, I discovered an old lady selling pages from a magazine for Rupee’s .

So…this begs the question…..

“ Have you ever tried to wipe your ass with the cover of a National Geographic magazine ? “

Well , having experience , I’ll tell ya…it ain’t happening effectively. Ya gotta make a scraper out of it and hope for the best.

The coming election sort of reminds me somehow …of sitting in an airport….somewhere in India.

In short order the PIA flight was taxiing out to the runway and moments later the pilot had lifted off to bring us into the quickest, most vertical climb to 20,000 feet I ever experienced. The consequences of such an abrupt and near vertical ascent were that all the food storage cabinets in the galley sprung open sending endless amounts of their contents down the aisles.

Hobbies meant an interest in something I explained…. and they read books that were rarely forgotten in between all the interesting things they watched on the four available TV channels. I also added that those four channels rarely failed to produce something of interest to watch…..and they spoke to each other.

Today all this went through my mind while I watched a young woman in the lunch room at work. She was practicing the art of needlepoint and her efforts were beautiful. She had picked up a needlepoint kit at a local thrift shop for all of twenty cents and gave it a go. Being a life long hobbyist I was thrilled with her joy at her own efforts as her time has produced something to be enjoyed by her and others for some time to come…..and I would deem that twenty cents spent as priceless.

That young woman is succeeding in her efforts to learn needle point just as well as she is succeeding in other goals in her life . Those successes are priceless, and lifelong , and need cost no more than those twenty cents…..

The heavy $ hundreds invested in the Xbox ?….barely a memory and at the bottom of a landfill inside of two years ….

So in answer to the wife’s question of “What did people do ?”….

“ Well Hon….they lived.”

And that young woman may not be rich……….

But  she sure seems to be a success to me

My Shorter Half....

“ Did you hear that shit?” my brother asked…. ”Millions…you oughta think about marrying that girl”

And I must confess that the noun did in fact force my pointy little ears erect and so had to respond with….

“ I heard that shit…and I am thinking about it . “ Now I can’t tell a lie….the original plan was to hang in there till I was 40 and then score some exotic mail away bride from Thailand or something. As sound a plan as that may have been I was sidetracked at the tender age of 35 . It worked out for the best I guess even if the families millions did turn out to be in Pesos….or fact be known, the equivalent of about a car payment.

I need to say though, she’s the best for having allowed me to continue my chosen life of non ambition…her only concern is that there is enough funds to cover her annual trek to Colombia with little need or demand for more than that. Thus relieving me of the burden of supplying her with fine homes and cars , we have been happy in our mutual lack of need….besides…ain’t nothing more lovable than a Spic Chick that needs a green card

“ I solved that problem long ago “ bellowed the louder one “ I always put a strip of duct tape on the side….can spot it from a mile away.”

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“We are extremely sorry for any inconvenience and will be making every endeavor to locate your bag. We will contact you as soon as we know. “…..

Three hours later some Russian guy possessing some form of official I.D. and a couple of words of English came to say…….

“I’m tink..havink you lukkache “ …..and he did indeed havink my lukkache. As soon as he left the airline called again to remind me once more how sorry they were and that they were still diligently seeking my bag….

“ Well….keep trying. “ I said .

This little scenario played itself out four times a day for two days until the last call . With some barely disguised exasperation the polite lady asked…..

“ Sir….. do you have your luggage ?” forcing my hand I had to fess up…

“ Well….yeah, guess I do. “

If money is what makes you richer then today I have become a richer man. I received a check today from a more than unexpected source and though the act of actually cashing it is what will increase my wealth…I think I shan’t. I believe I shall instead, indulge myself a good book and use that check as a bookmark…….

After a year and a half of Century Link demanding money they had already received I was taken aback to find today’s mail contained a check from Century Link. I didn’t get much of an explanation as to why it was sent so I’m thinking perhaps it’s a form of bribe in order that I don’t bad mouth them as much as I do. Now…I’m thinking that their thinking is sort of on the right track. What’s not on the right track is the amount of the “alleged” bribe. That’s because I have in my possession a check….with my misspelled name on it…. for ten cents. That’s 10% of a dollar…a dime…diez centavos. My father remembers when that was worth a cup of coffee….I myself remember it being worth a phone call. Now its worth a little story on a blog. Considering the man hours required to figure out the amount to send and top it off with the price a soon to be defunct postal service charges to deliver I’m thinking exact book keeping must be very important to someone. Hopefully that un cashed ten cent check will drive someone nuts.

Theory holds that should you do something often enough you may well become good at it and I believe in most cases that may be so. But I’ve also come to believe that the more times you do it…..the greater the odds that one day you’ll stuff it up….

I like to set the coffee maker up on auto pilot the night before, for instance, giving instant access to the mornings cup upon waking. Having done this every night for ions I’d say I’ve become pretty darn good at it . I’ve gotten a lot better too and in fact there is probably only three times a year now that I stuff it up….like last night. Its not that I don’t put the right amount of coffee in…or water. Its far less complex than that.

Once in a while I’ll suddenly wake right up out of a sleep…alert in the knowledge that something is very very different . And what is different is the sound a coffee maker makes at the end of its brew time and there is no pot in itd proper place. And so I quickly but gently arise so as not to alert the wife to what I know I’m about to witness…… A parade of coffee has marched itself in numerous directions over the counter top to commit suicide by flinging itself off the edge and to the floor below . In every direction it goes it leaves in its wake a thick trail of coffee grounds and seemingly always with a directional preponderance to areas most difficult to clean…… down the side of stove and refrigerator as instances. A trail of coffee grounds stuck to cabinet sides everywhere in their quest to follow their offspring

Regardless of how well I clean up the mess the wife notices what’s happened the instant she enters the kitchen and I’m forced to tolerate a seemingly endless list of Spanish nouns and verbs that of course allude to the fact that I might be a gringo.