Shocked, Shocked!
Austin, Texas Interstate 35 Southbound near US HWY 183 - A forty-ish blond well-dressed woman driving a late-model KIA Sportage is observed around 7:50 a.m. smoking a joint while traveling about 50 mph. She was using a scissor-like clamp to hold the roach as she inhaled (yes, it appeared she was inhaling). She appropriately signaled her intention to change lanes and safely exited at US HWY 290. Glaucoma? Oh, I forgot, the Legislature is back in session!
Friday, January 17, 2003
"The excess of fat on your American bones will cushion the impact as you sink like a stone." - Crowded House, "Chocolate Cake"
Thursday, January 16, 2003
Yep, I was reading it right. I finally found the story on the BBC. Very strange.
How come we don't take the terror war to Colombia? Looks to me like more people die there from terrorism that anywhere else. They just don't have the right PR firm working for them. I think I could go without gasoline a lot longer than I could go without coffee. I guess if the President and Vice President had experience working in the coffee business our country would be more involved.
How come we don't take the terror war to Colombia? Looks to me like more people die there from terrorism that anywhere else. They just don't have the right PR firm working for them. I think I could go without gasoline a lot longer than I could go without coffee. I guess if the President and Vice President had experience working in the coffee business our country would be more involved.
A Brit Beheads Himself with a Homemade Guillotine
Hmmm...I think I'm reading this right. If you read Dutch, check it and see.
Hmmm...I think I'm reading this right. If you read Dutch, check it and see.
Wednesday, January 15, 2003
They found the vials of bubonic plague. Won't say if they were stolen or misplaced. I read that to mean somebody misplaced them, and the university doesn't want to be any more embarrassed than they already are.
Looks like I'm gonna have to buy a new water heater, and have it installed. That's not cheap. Not a happy fact. Maybe I should have checked into that spam email I got for like 7 days in a row about government grants of $10,000 for doing nothing. $4{}. I want my MTV.
Looks like I'm gonna have to buy a new water heater, and have it installed. That's not cheap. Not a happy fact. Maybe I should have checked into that spam email I got for like 7 days in a row about government grants of $10,000 for doing nothing. $4{}. I want my MTV.
Tuesday, January 14, 2003
I was just reading on a Dutch newspaper website that a couple of people that had broken into an empty house and taken up residence (much as I and others did, explained below in "The Gread Shit Blockage") got the scare of their lives. Somebody driving a bulldozer started knocking down the wall of the house while they were still inside. That'll make a good story for the grandkids.
Monday, January 13, 2003
Lunching on left-over Tex-Mex...weather cold, cloudy, wet...feeling much the same.
It turns out that the airport employee in Paris that was arrested for having explosives in his car wasn't a
terrorist at all. His in-laws set him up.
Going into a meeting at 2:00 pm. I'll need two chairs, one for me and one for my attitude.
It turns out that the airport employee in Paris that was arrested for having explosives in his car wasn't a
terrorist at all. His in-laws set him up.
Going into a meeting at 2:00 pm. I'll need two chairs, one for me and one for my attitude.
The Great Shit Blockage
A very long time ago in a place called Kabouterland there lived a group of about 20 people in the same house on Prinsengracht in Amsterdam. The number of persons living there wasn�t precise, because it varied from one day to the next depending on how many people the occupants brought home with them each night. You see, the occupants were quite young, and well, you know the rest. There was this one emotionally unbalanced American girl from California that came home with someone different every night, but that�s a different story for another time.
This house on Prinsengracht was a �krakenhuis.� And no, that doesn�t mean �crack house.� This was about 15 B.C.E. (Before Crack Entrepreneurs). The word krakenhuis means cracked house. In Amsterdam in those days a group of people would break into unoccupied houses and take up residence, because there was a serious shortage of decent housing available. The group was called The Oranje Vrijstaat about which it�s rumored that they were anarchists of the benevolent kind (not bomb throwers). As you might imagine, running water and electricity had to be �expropriated� from the bourgeoisie. The Oranje Vrijstaat cracked open the electricity box, and behold, there was light. They also connected a clear yellow hose to a water line from somewhere (the occupants remained happily ignorant of the source), and provided water to the house by passing the hose through a partially open window in the kitchen. Well, that�s where the problem really began.
Now, the residents of the house on Prinsengracht in Amsterdam blissfully thought they could just live as if everything were ok. Of course, twenty some odd humans can produce an awfully large amount of shit. To look at them, you could be forgiven for believing that their skinny bodies were the result of not getting very much to eat. But, if the shit they excreted could be used as any indication, then they had no problem getting enough to eat (their mothers would be glad to know). Oh, don�t laugh�this is serious business here. The time came that both of the W.C.s (toilets for you Americans) became completely blocked from an overload of shit. The residents were a frugal group, and preferred to use old newspaper for wiping their asses rather than buy paper made for that purpose. The blockage proved to be the occasion of much speculation about what could be the cause. Naturally, some suspected the newspaper, some suspected that one of the other residents had put something inappropriate in there like a sanitary napkin or something. This unfortunate predicament of the blockage didn�t deter the residents from depositing more and more shit in the toilets though. In fact, it reached a point where the shit piled up so high that you couldn�t sit on the toilet without getting someone else�s shit on your ass. Not to mention the smell. Now, these folks were tolerant (the Dutch are famous for that), but even tolerance has a limit. That�s when the hero of our story stepped in.
Harry Arp resided in the house on Prinsengracht in Amsterdam, and unlike the others, he was a man of action (at least he�s the only one that made an effort to do anything about the problem). Harry decided it was time to take matters into his own hands, literally. With the help of one of the other residents Harry carefully put a plastic bag on his right arm. He and his helper tied it on in several places with twine so that it wouldn�t accidentally slip and expose his arm to everyone�s shit. With the bag covering his arm up above his elbow, Harry courageously dived in, so to speak. He stuck his hand into the accumulated shit, feeling his way to the hole that was clogged. Down, down, he went until he was turning his head to the left to avoid putting his face into the pile. Finally, he pulled his arm out and the shit started flowing (if it can be said to flow) out. His helper asked, �So, was it newspaper?� Harry answered, �It�s just shit, man.� Again, the incredulous helper asked, �But, what was it?� Again, Harry said, �It�s just shit, man.�
A very long time ago in a place called Kabouterland there lived a group of about 20 people in the same house on Prinsengracht in Amsterdam. The number of persons living there wasn�t precise, because it varied from one day to the next depending on how many people the occupants brought home with them each night. You see, the occupants were quite young, and well, you know the rest. There was this one emotionally unbalanced American girl from California that came home with someone different every night, but that�s a different story for another time.
This house on Prinsengracht was a �krakenhuis.� And no, that doesn�t mean �crack house.� This was about 15 B.C.E. (Before Crack Entrepreneurs). The word krakenhuis means cracked house. In Amsterdam in those days a group of people would break into unoccupied houses and take up residence, because there was a serious shortage of decent housing available. The group was called The Oranje Vrijstaat about which it�s rumored that they were anarchists of the benevolent kind (not bomb throwers). As you might imagine, running water and electricity had to be �expropriated� from the bourgeoisie. The Oranje Vrijstaat cracked open the electricity box, and behold, there was light. They also connected a clear yellow hose to a water line from somewhere (the occupants remained happily ignorant of the source), and provided water to the house by passing the hose through a partially open window in the kitchen. Well, that�s where the problem really began.
Now, the residents of the house on Prinsengracht in Amsterdam blissfully thought they could just live as if everything were ok. Of course, twenty some odd humans can produce an awfully large amount of shit. To look at them, you could be forgiven for believing that their skinny bodies were the result of not getting very much to eat. But, if the shit they excreted could be used as any indication, then they had no problem getting enough to eat (their mothers would be glad to know). Oh, don�t laugh�this is serious business here. The time came that both of the W.C.s (toilets for you Americans) became completely blocked from an overload of shit. The residents were a frugal group, and preferred to use old newspaper for wiping their asses rather than buy paper made for that purpose. The blockage proved to be the occasion of much speculation about what could be the cause. Naturally, some suspected the newspaper, some suspected that one of the other residents had put something inappropriate in there like a sanitary napkin or something. This unfortunate predicament of the blockage didn�t deter the residents from depositing more and more shit in the toilets though. In fact, it reached a point where the shit piled up so high that you couldn�t sit on the toilet without getting someone else�s shit on your ass. Not to mention the smell. Now, these folks were tolerant (the Dutch are famous for that), but even tolerance has a limit. That�s when the hero of our story stepped in.
Harry Arp resided in the house on Prinsengracht in Amsterdam, and unlike the others, he was a man of action (at least he�s the only one that made an effort to do anything about the problem). Harry decided it was time to take matters into his own hands, literally. With the help of one of the other residents Harry carefully put a plastic bag on his right arm. He and his helper tied it on in several places with twine so that it wouldn�t accidentally slip and expose his arm to everyone�s shit. With the bag covering his arm up above his elbow, Harry courageously dived in, so to speak. He stuck his hand into the accumulated shit, feeling his way to the hole that was clogged. Down, down, he went until he was turning his head to the left to avoid putting his face into the pile. Finally, he pulled his arm out and the shit started flowing (if it can be said to flow) out. His helper asked, �So, was it newspaper?� Harry answered, �It�s just shit, man.� Again, the incredulous helper asked, �But, what was it?� Again, Harry said, �It�s just shit, man.�
The Jump
That last gust of wind had almost done it, and way too soon at that! Here he stood on the ledge of a high-rise looking out over the city, and that gust just about took him down. The fall itself wasn�t the problem, in fact, the fall was the reason he was standing out here. He just didn�t want it to happen at the wrong time. He had heard more times than he could count about how �timing is everything.� They had harped and harped at him about timing for years. For once in his life he was going to get the timing right. No one else was going to ruin it for him this time. Now, it was his show and no one else�s. Not even God�s.
If he hadn�t been so preoccupied with his jumbled thoughts, the view from 30 stories up would have been spectacular. Romantic couples would have paid good money to have the view he had tonight. But his thoughts were spinning and hard to control. In fact, if he had been in his �normal� mind he would have laughed at the irony of comparing himself perched on that thin little ledge to Satan�s temptation of Jesus on the mountain top. His �normal� mind had been missing in action for a long, long time; and he wasn�t Jesus, that was for sure. So, the beautiful city lights spread out below his feet were completely wasted on him. All he could focus on was the crowd below. Oh yeah, they had gathered down there to look up and point at the latest city spectacle as soon as the spotlight first hit him. �Funny how a fire truck and some flashing lights are sure to draw a crowd,� he thought. Some of them were yelling and waving their arms for him to jump, to get it over with. At least that�s what he figured, but he was too far up to hear them. Well, he was going to give them a show all right! But, on his terms.
�Don�t bring out the street cleaners just yet,� he muttered, �they�ll have enough to do in a little bit.� He leaned forward just a tad to get a look at where he would end up. The spectators down below had actually started cheering when they saw him lean out and look down. Cynicism was his strong suit, so he wasn�t really surprised. �I know what you�re here for you bloodsuckers,� he shouted, �just want to see the latest freak show, do ya?� Of course, no one could hear him, not even God. They and He were all too far away. There were cameras everywhere down there. Some using their own lights, and some benefiting from the big spotlight that had drawn the crowd. There were even a few gawkers trying to take photographs with regular 35 mm cameras, or maybe those were binoculars, he couldn�t be sure. Anyway, he sure had their attention! And he was going to keep it for a while too.
He pressed his back against the fa�ace of the building, his arms were spread out with his palms flat against the brick. He took two halting steps to the left, about a foot closer to the window. He had no intention of going back in, he just wanted to play with the mob a little bit. �It�s kind of like foreplay,� he thought, �makes it last longer, and makes the climax better.� The crowd looked especially agitated now, like they were worried he wasn�t going to jump. They were waving their arms, and jumping up and down. Some had cupped their hands around their mouths while they shouted up at him. �Oh, don�t worry you sick ghouls,� he shouted back, �I�m gonna do it!� He lifted his right foot up and held it out over the ledge. The crowd broke into a loud prolonged cheer that he could hear. He laughed out loud as he put his foot back on the ledge. A wave of excitement and goose bumps washed over him from his feet to the crown of his head. He had them eating out of his hand, and he loved it.
�Today is a good day to die,� he thought, remembering the old samurai saying. Of course, the samurai had meant that they had no regrets. They had lived life fully, and if death came today, so be it. But, he regretted plenty, and if death came today, he could at least escape the self-recrimination. �No time like the present,� he said, trying to summon up some courage. It was as simple as taking a step, any two year old could do it. He lifted his food and stepped off the ledge just like casually stepping off his patio. Suddenly, it quit being a game. The sheer terror made him unable to even gulp for breath. Air roared past his ears drowning out any sound. From deep within him a scream involuntarily erupted as if Vesuvius itself had exploded in his gut. His pulse hammered at his temples. The air tore open his eyelids with miniscule particles of spent hydrocarbons, and his eyes filled with tears. Now deaf and blind, he tipped forward as he fell, diving head first toward the street below. His arms and legs flailed, as though through some consciousness of their own they wanted to save themselves.
The day at the office had finally ended. It had been a very busy and trying day. On her way out, she said goodbye to Sally the receptionist. �Bye, Allison,� Sally had said, �see you tomorrow.� Allison went out the office door and down the hall to the elevator. Of all the employees in the office Sally was the one she liked the best. Allison didn�t really know why she liked Sally, she just did. If she had been asked why, she couldn�t have given an objective logical reason. It was one of those inexplicable subjective things, like why some people like okra, and so many others don�t. �Come to think of it,� she said to herself, �not many people like Sally either.� Then her brain made one of those illogical serendipitous connections: Maybe the only people that like Sally are the same ones that like okra. She chuckled at the pure silliness of that thought. While she was enjoying the moment, the elevator door opened. Allison stepped in. No one else was on the elevator, she liked it that way. After an even normal day at the office she preferred to ride the elevator down to the lobby alone. But, after today, well�it was one of those unexpected treasures to be alone in the elevator. To top it off, the elevator didn�t even stop until it reached the lobby. She walked across the lobby, and stepped into the still moving revolving door. Her timing had been right on! She didn�t even have to adjust her stride to step into the pie shaped third of the door that seemed to want her for a passenger. �Wow,� she thought, �I�m on a roll!�
She started walking to the parking garage that daily committed a legalized form of extortion, when she heard what sounded like a crowd of people yelling and shouting. The sound came from up ahead of her, so she followed it to see what was happening. �Probably some Anti-abortion and Pro-abortion groups demonstrating and counter-demonstrating,� she thought. Whatever it was must be just around the next corner. Turning the corner, Allison saw a mass of people about two blocks away packed into the narrow concrete valley formed by the high-rises lining both sides of the street. They were yelling and waving their arms, but at what she couldn�t discern. She slowly walked closer and closer to the scene, feeling that combination of fear and curiosity that made her heart beat faster. She wanted to run away, and run closer, both that the same time. It was like that time she had witnessed a car crash, and had stopped on the highway to help. The blood and smell and groans had repulsed her, but she couldn�t turn away. She had been utterly fascinated with it!
As she drew up to the outer edges of the crowd, she saw that they were pointing and yelling at a man standing on a ledge of one of the high-rises. He looked like he was threatening to jump. He started edging toward a window on his left causing the yelling and jeering to intensify. �They want him to jump,� Allison said incredulously. �Yeah, isn�t it great?� the guy next to her said, �This is better than WWF, man!� She would have sworn the guy next to her was Chris Farley, if she hadn�t known that Farley was already dead from his own demons. The Farley look-alike had the same wild-eyed insane look and the same obese, flabby belly that Farley did. �Jump you yellow-bellied chickenshit!� Farley #2 shouted at the top of his lungs. The man on the ledge lifted his right foot, and the mob began cheering, trying to get him to jump. He put his foot back down, and paused as if changing his mind. Then almost casually he stepped off the ledge, and began his hideous descent. Allison�s hand flew up to her mouth. �Oh, my God�Oh, no�no�no,� she said as she started to shake uncontrollably. She bent over, hands still at her mouth, wailing and violently shaking. She fainted on the spot.
Falling past the 5th floor, he rolled another quarter turn, then in a moment of triumph, landed perfectly on the air bag. The boxes underneath the bag collapsed on themselves, cushioning his fall even more. It had been exquisitely performed! The stunt team surged to the air bag. After a moment they gave the thumbs up sign; the crowd and crew broke into a grand cheer. The director gave a sigh of relief, and yelled, �Cut!�
That last gust of wind had almost done it, and way too soon at that! Here he stood on the ledge of a high-rise looking out over the city, and that gust just about took him down. The fall itself wasn�t the problem, in fact, the fall was the reason he was standing out here. He just didn�t want it to happen at the wrong time. He had heard more times than he could count about how �timing is everything.� They had harped and harped at him about timing for years. For once in his life he was going to get the timing right. No one else was going to ruin it for him this time. Now, it was his show and no one else�s. Not even God�s.
If he hadn�t been so preoccupied with his jumbled thoughts, the view from 30 stories up would have been spectacular. Romantic couples would have paid good money to have the view he had tonight. But his thoughts were spinning and hard to control. In fact, if he had been in his �normal� mind he would have laughed at the irony of comparing himself perched on that thin little ledge to Satan�s temptation of Jesus on the mountain top. His �normal� mind had been missing in action for a long, long time; and he wasn�t Jesus, that was for sure. So, the beautiful city lights spread out below his feet were completely wasted on him. All he could focus on was the crowd below. Oh yeah, they had gathered down there to look up and point at the latest city spectacle as soon as the spotlight first hit him. �Funny how a fire truck and some flashing lights are sure to draw a crowd,� he thought. Some of them were yelling and waving their arms for him to jump, to get it over with. At least that�s what he figured, but he was too far up to hear them. Well, he was going to give them a show all right! But, on his terms.
�Don�t bring out the street cleaners just yet,� he muttered, �they�ll have enough to do in a little bit.� He leaned forward just a tad to get a look at where he would end up. The spectators down below had actually started cheering when they saw him lean out and look down. Cynicism was his strong suit, so he wasn�t really surprised. �I know what you�re here for you bloodsuckers,� he shouted, �just want to see the latest freak show, do ya?� Of course, no one could hear him, not even God. They and He were all too far away. There were cameras everywhere down there. Some using their own lights, and some benefiting from the big spotlight that had drawn the crowd. There were even a few gawkers trying to take photographs with regular 35 mm cameras, or maybe those were binoculars, he couldn�t be sure. Anyway, he sure had their attention! And he was going to keep it for a while too.
He pressed his back against the fa�ace of the building, his arms were spread out with his palms flat against the brick. He took two halting steps to the left, about a foot closer to the window. He had no intention of going back in, he just wanted to play with the mob a little bit. �It�s kind of like foreplay,� he thought, �makes it last longer, and makes the climax better.� The crowd looked especially agitated now, like they were worried he wasn�t going to jump. They were waving their arms, and jumping up and down. Some had cupped their hands around their mouths while they shouted up at him. �Oh, don�t worry you sick ghouls,� he shouted back, �I�m gonna do it!� He lifted his right foot up and held it out over the ledge. The crowd broke into a loud prolonged cheer that he could hear. He laughed out loud as he put his foot back on the ledge. A wave of excitement and goose bumps washed over him from his feet to the crown of his head. He had them eating out of his hand, and he loved it.
�Today is a good day to die,� he thought, remembering the old samurai saying. Of course, the samurai had meant that they had no regrets. They had lived life fully, and if death came today, so be it. But, he regretted plenty, and if death came today, he could at least escape the self-recrimination. �No time like the present,� he said, trying to summon up some courage. It was as simple as taking a step, any two year old could do it. He lifted his food and stepped off the ledge just like casually stepping off his patio. Suddenly, it quit being a game. The sheer terror made him unable to even gulp for breath. Air roared past his ears drowning out any sound. From deep within him a scream involuntarily erupted as if Vesuvius itself had exploded in his gut. His pulse hammered at his temples. The air tore open his eyelids with miniscule particles of spent hydrocarbons, and his eyes filled with tears. Now deaf and blind, he tipped forward as he fell, diving head first toward the street below. His arms and legs flailed, as though through some consciousness of their own they wanted to save themselves.
The day at the office had finally ended. It had been a very busy and trying day. On her way out, she said goodbye to Sally the receptionist. �Bye, Allison,� Sally had said, �see you tomorrow.� Allison went out the office door and down the hall to the elevator. Of all the employees in the office Sally was the one she liked the best. Allison didn�t really know why she liked Sally, she just did. If she had been asked why, she couldn�t have given an objective logical reason. It was one of those inexplicable subjective things, like why some people like okra, and so many others don�t. �Come to think of it,� she said to herself, �not many people like Sally either.� Then her brain made one of those illogical serendipitous connections: Maybe the only people that like Sally are the same ones that like okra. She chuckled at the pure silliness of that thought. While she was enjoying the moment, the elevator door opened. Allison stepped in. No one else was on the elevator, she liked it that way. After an even normal day at the office she preferred to ride the elevator down to the lobby alone. But, after today, well�it was one of those unexpected treasures to be alone in the elevator. To top it off, the elevator didn�t even stop until it reached the lobby. She walked across the lobby, and stepped into the still moving revolving door. Her timing had been right on! She didn�t even have to adjust her stride to step into the pie shaped third of the door that seemed to want her for a passenger. �Wow,� she thought, �I�m on a roll!�
She started walking to the parking garage that daily committed a legalized form of extortion, when she heard what sounded like a crowd of people yelling and shouting. The sound came from up ahead of her, so she followed it to see what was happening. �Probably some Anti-abortion and Pro-abortion groups demonstrating and counter-demonstrating,� she thought. Whatever it was must be just around the next corner. Turning the corner, Allison saw a mass of people about two blocks away packed into the narrow concrete valley formed by the high-rises lining both sides of the street. They were yelling and waving their arms, but at what she couldn�t discern. She slowly walked closer and closer to the scene, feeling that combination of fear and curiosity that made her heart beat faster. She wanted to run away, and run closer, both that the same time. It was like that time she had witnessed a car crash, and had stopped on the highway to help. The blood and smell and groans had repulsed her, but she couldn�t turn away. She had been utterly fascinated with it!
As she drew up to the outer edges of the crowd, she saw that they were pointing and yelling at a man standing on a ledge of one of the high-rises. He looked like he was threatening to jump. He started edging toward a window on his left causing the yelling and jeering to intensify. �They want him to jump,� Allison said incredulously. �Yeah, isn�t it great?� the guy next to her said, �This is better than WWF, man!� She would have sworn the guy next to her was Chris Farley, if she hadn�t known that Farley was already dead from his own demons. The Farley look-alike had the same wild-eyed insane look and the same obese, flabby belly that Farley did. �Jump you yellow-bellied chickenshit!� Farley #2 shouted at the top of his lungs. The man on the ledge lifted his right foot, and the mob began cheering, trying to get him to jump. He put his foot back down, and paused as if changing his mind. Then almost casually he stepped off the ledge, and began his hideous descent. Allison�s hand flew up to her mouth. �Oh, my God�Oh, no�no�no,� she said as she started to shake uncontrollably. She bent over, hands still at her mouth, wailing and violently shaking. She fainted on the spot.
Falling past the 5th floor, he rolled another quarter turn, then in a moment of triumph, landed perfectly on the air bag. The boxes underneath the bag collapsed on themselves, cushioning his fall even more. It had been exquisitely performed! The stunt team surged to the air bag. After a moment they gave the thumbs up sign; the crowd and crew broke into a grand cheer. The director gave a sigh of relief, and yelled, �Cut!�
LIFE AS WE KNOW IT
A short story about gall stones, fast food, and the universe
His bile duct had become clogged with gall stones. He had no idea this had happened; he just thought all of a sudden he had digestive trouble. He had never had this kind of trouble before, even when he was hungover. But now, antacids and Maalox accompanied him everywhere. Yesterday he had eaten a full jar of pickled pig feet while watching television. Today he planned to have fried chicken for lunch; never mind that his stomach had begun to hurt after that breakfast of bacon and eggs, he was an adult and could eat whatever and whenever he wanted.
The clock finally rolled around to noon marking the hour that he could leave for the Chicken Shack. As he drove the few blocks necessary his mind raced with anger and fear as he thought over the run-in he had just had with his supervisor. His stomach was starting to ache even more when he pulled into the Chicken Shack drive-thru lane.
�Welcome to the Chicken Shack, can I help you?�
�Yeah, I want a three piece dinner with a side of corn on the cob.�
�That�s a three piece dinner with a corn, anything to drink, sir?�
Before he could answer he belched and had to wait for the burning feeling to subside in his upper chest.
�Sir, anything to drink?� she asked again.
�Uh, yeah, coffee black with lots of sugar.�
�Yes sir, that will be a total of $4.79, pull around please.�
He pulled up in line and waited behind two other cars ahead of him. He carried his billfold in his back pocket on the left side. As he struggled with trying to extricate his money while not removing the seat belt, he jerked in pain as he pulled one of the large muscles in his back. �Damn!� he said as he struggled with the billfold still not getting it out of his pocket. Finally, he pressed the release on his seat belt and freed himself. His frustration grew ever larger as he thought of how his boss had really messed him around, causing him to yank even harder on his billfold and to rip his slacks. A woman in a bright red Suburu behind him honked, adding to his distress. He looked ahead of him and saw that he had held up the line. Feeling a little embarrassed, he decided to use offense as the best defense. He rolled down the window of his �83 Chevrolet with the broken tail light and yelled behind him, �Just hold on a minute, bitch, I�ll move when I can.� She honked again, made an obscene gesture, and mouthed the word �asshole.� As he turned back to put his car in gear, he felt the sharp pain in his back from his strained muscle.
The young lady at the drive-thru window opened the window reluctantly and said, �That�s $5.23, sir.�
�Wait a minute, you told me it was $4.79.�
�No sir, I didn�t. That was Felicia.�
�Well, OK, Felicia told me it was $4.79.�
�You had two spicy Red Rooster Specials and a plain Chicken Coop Plate with a jalapeno, right?�
�No, I had a three piece dinner with a corn on the cob and black coffee.�
Her expression went as blank as though he had spoken to her in a dead language. She stared at the order board like it was the first time she had seen it.
�Uh, I don�t see that here,� she replied with a surly look and a challenging tone in her voice.
�Well, I don�t want the Red thing or the Coop Plate either one. I�ll take the jalapeno though.�
�Sorry, no changes after you speak to Mikey.�
�Who?�
�Mikey Chicken, where you ordered,� she said as she nodded her head in the direction of the royal blue plastic chicken that housed the microphone and speaker for drive-thru customers.
�Look, I just want my three piece dinner, to hell with Mikey Chicken.�
�I said there ain�t no three piece on here,� she said pointing to the order board. She had a defiant look on her face.
�Let me talk to the manager.�
She shut the window with a bang, and disappeared.
The woman in the red Suburu honked again. He turned to look back at her before he remembered his newly sore back. Pain gripped him in mid-turn. His face turned red with anger, and he felt like breaking something. While he was sitting in his car, breathing his car�s exhaust fumes, and imagining vicious things to do to Mikey Chicken, the drive-thru window flung open.
�Sir, I�m Trent, the manager, you wanted to see me?�
�Hi Trent, I�m Rick, the lady here says my order is missing.�
�No sir, it�s right here, two Red Roosters and a Chicken Coop with a jalapeno.�
�No, I ordered a three piece dinner.�
�Lisa here said no one ordered a three piece.�
�Well, I did, and I want it now!�
�OK, sir, it will be a few minutes. Will you pull over there, please?� he said pointing to an area of the parking lot.
�Yeah, all right.�
He pulled over and turned off his engine. He could see the drive-thru window easily from this vantage point. He kept looking over there to be sure they weren�t forgetting him. After a few minutes, he closed his eyes and tried to relax, but he kept seeing his supervisor and the replay of the dressing down he had gotten.
He heard the sound of a car approaching and heard a car door open. He realized too late that it was the woman in the Suburu. He opened his eyes just in time to see a large Orange Drink whistle through his open window and smack him on the left temple. The impact caused the lid to come off of the drink, and Orange Drink splattered all over him and the interior of his car. Little did he know that the woman in the Suburu had been a pitcher on her high school softball team, and she had just thrown a strike. She sped off before he could get the Orange Drink out of his eyes to get her license plate number.
He was wiping the drink off of his face with an old wadded-up Kleenex he had found in the floorboard when Trent walked up to his car.
�Here you go sir, a three piece dinner. That�s $4.24.�
�They told me $4.79 at first.�
�No, it�s just $4.24.�
He had four ones and a quarter, so he handed Trent the money and drove off without waiting for his penny.
He decided to park on a nearby residential street, and just eat his dinner quietly in the
shade of a very large live oak tree. He looked in the sack and saw that there was no coffee, no corn, no sugar, no fork, no spoon, not even any napkins. There was just the three piece dinner box. He felt completely defeated, steamrolled was more like it. He didn�t have any desire to go back to the Chicken Shack, ever; so he just decided to eat what he had. He opened the box and saw three wings and two Styrofoam cups, one for mashed potatoes and one for slaw. The fight was gone from him, even the feeling of rage had left him. He just felt completely demoralized. He wanted to cry, but couldn�t bear for anyone to see him do that. He took the lid off of the mashed potatoes, and began to eat them the way someone would eat an ice cream cone. The wings were especially greasy and would probably just make his stomach worse.
He had worked in this neighborhood for six years, but he couldn�t say he knew it well. Without knowing it he had parked in front of a gang member�s house, and just as he stuck his tongue in the slaw, a car from the rival gang drove by and began firing an AK47 assault rifle that they had acquired during one of their burglaries. The bullets ripped through his car, shattering glass and making a terrible noise as they pierced the car�s exterior. Several bullets entered his head, while many more tore into his chest and stomach area. Cole slaw and chicken wings sprayed throughout the car. He fell over in the seat in a pool of blood, slaw and Orange Drink.
He had been listening to a talk radio station. The day�s topic was astronomy with a guest from the local university�s astronomy department. As he breathed his last breath he heard the host ask the guest, �Do you believe that life as we know it exists anywhere else in the universe?� Rick�s last thought was �God, I sure hope not!�
Only twelve people and a seeing-eye dog attended his funeral. The preacher had uttered some nice words about Rick, even though he had never met him. Rick had never attended church, but his co-workers didn�t know that, and no one else could be found to take care of the arrangements. His ex-wife and daughter had refused to come, citing an appointment with their hairdresser as an excuse. His work associates had pitched in to come up with the money for the funeral. That�s probably why the latch on his casket hadn�t held when the pall bearers that were hired on the street corner had dropped it. As his casket reached the bottom of the burial spot, the seeing-eye dog hiked his leg and peed on the casket.
A short story about gall stones, fast food, and the universe
His bile duct had become clogged with gall stones. He had no idea this had happened; he just thought all of a sudden he had digestive trouble. He had never had this kind of trouble before, even when he was hungover. But now, antacids and Maalox accompanied him everywhere. Yesterday he had eaten a full jar of pickled pig feet while watching television. Today he planned to have fried chicken for lunch; never mind that his stomach had begun to hurt after that breakfast of bacon and eggs, he was an adult and could eat whatever and whenever he wanted.
The clock finally rolled around to noon marking the hour that he could leave for the Chicken Shack. As he drove the few blocks necessary his mind raced with anger and fear as he thought over the run-in he had just had with his supervisor. His stomach was starting to ache even more when he pulled into the Chicken Shack drive-thru lane.
�Welcome to the Chicken Shack, can I help you?�
�Yeah, I want a three piece dinner with a side of corn on the cob.�
�That�s a three piece dinner with a corn, anything to drink, sir?�
Before he could answer he belched and had to wait for the burning feeling to subside in his upper chest.
�Sir, anything to drink?� she asked again.
�Uh, yeah, coffee black with lots of sugar.�
�Yes sir, that will be a total of $4.79, pull around please.�
He pulled up in line and waited behind two other cars ahead of him. He carried his billfold in his back pocket on the left side. As he struggled with trying to extricate his money while not removing the seat belt, he jerked in pain as he pulled one of the large muscles in his back. �Damn!� he said as he struggled with the billfold still not getting it out of his pocket. Finally, he pressed the release on his seat belt and freed himself. His frustration grew ever larger as he thought of how his boss had really messed him around, causing him to yank even harder on his billfold and to rip his slacks. A woman in a bright red Suburu behind him honked, adding to his distress. He looked ahead of him and saw that he had held up the line. Feeling a little embarrassed, he decided to use offense as the best defense. He rolled down the window of his �83 Chevrolet with the broken tail light and yelled behind him, �Just hold on a minute, bitch, I�ll move when I can.� She honked again, made an obscene gesture, and mouthed the word �asshole.� As he turned back to put his car in gear, he felt the sharp pain in his back from his strained muscle.
The young lady at the drive-thru window opened the window reluctantly and said, �That�s $5.23, sir.�
�Wait a minute, you told me it was $4.79.�
�No sir, I didn�t. That was Felicia.�
�Well, OK, Felicia told me it was $4.79.�
�You had two spicy Red Rooster Specials and a plain Chicken Coop Plate with a jalapeno, right?�
�No, I had a three piece dinner with a corn on the cob and black coffee.�
Her expression went as blank as though he had spoken to her in a dead language. She stared at the order board like it was the first time she had seen it.
�Uh, I don�t see that here,� she replied with a surly look and a challenging tone in her voice.
�Well, I don�t want the Red thing or the Coop Plate either one. I�ll take the jalapeno though.�
�Sorry, no changes after you speak to Mikey.�
�Who?�
�Mikey Chicken, where you ordered,� she said as she nodded her head in the direction of the royal blue plastic chicken that housed the microphone and speaker for drive-thru customers.
�Look, I just want my three piece dinner, to hell with Mikey Chicken.�
�I said there ain�t no three piece on here,� she said pointing to the order board. She had a defiant look on her face.
�Let me talk to the manager.�
She shut the window with a bang, and disappeared.
The woman in the red Suburu honked again. He turned to look back at her before he remembered his newly sore back. Pain gripped him in mid-turn. His face turned red with anger, and he felt like breaking something. While he was sitting in his car, breathing his car�s exhaust fumes, and imagining vicious things to do to Mikey Chicken, the drive-thru window flung open.
�Sir, I�m Trent, the manager, you wanted to see me?�
�Hi Trent, I�m Rick, the lady here says my order is missing.�
�No sir, it�s right here, two Red Roosters and a Chicken Coop with a jalapeno.�
�No, I ordered a three piece dinner.�
�Lisa here said no one ordered a three piece.�
�Well, I did, and I want it now!�
�OK, sir, it will be a few minutes. Will you pull over there, please?� he said pointing to an area of the parking lot.
�Yeah, all right.�
He pulled over and turned off his engine. He could see the drive-thru window easily from this vantage point. He kept looking over there to be sure they weren�t forgetting him. After a few minutes, he closed his eyes and tried to relax, but he kept seeing his supervisor and the replay of the dressing down he had gotten.
He heard the sound of a car approaching and heard a car door open. He realized too late that it was the woman in the Suburu. He opened his eyes just in time to see a large Orange Drink whistle through his open window and smack him on the left temple. The impact caused the lid to come off of the drink, and Orange Drink splattered all over him and the interior of his car. Little did he know that the woman in the Suburu had been a pitcher on her high school softball team, and she had just thrown a strike. She sped off before he could get the Orange Drink out of his eyes to get her license plate number.
He was wiping the drink off of his face with an old wadded-up Kleenex he had found in the floorboard when Trent walked up to his car.
�Here you go sir, a three piece dinner. That�s $4.24.�
�They told me $4.79 at first.�
�No, it�s just $4.24.�
He had four ones and a quarter, so he handed Trent the money and drove off without waiting for his penny.
He decided to park on a nearby residential street, and just eat his dinner quietly in the
shade of a very large live oak tree. He looked in the sack and saw that there was no coffee, no corn, no sugar, no fork, no spoon, not even any napkins. There was just the three piece dinner box. He felt completely defeated, steamrolled was more like it. He didn�t have any desire to go back to the Chicken Shack, ever; so he just decided to eat what he had. He opened the box and saw three wings and two Styrofoam cups, one for mashed potatoes and one for slaw. The fight was gone from him, even the feeling of rage had left him. He just felt completely demoralized. He wanted to cry, but couldn�t bear for anyone to see him do that. He took the lid off of the mashed potatoes, and began to eat them the way someone would eat an ice cream cone. The wings were especially greasy and would probably just make his stomach worse.
He had worked in this neighborhood for six years, but he couldn�t say he knew it well. Without knowing it he had parked in front of a gang member�s house, and just as he stuck his tongue in the slaw, a car from the rival gang drove by and began firing an AK47 assault rifle that they had acquired during one of their burglaries. The bullets ripped through his car, shattering glass and making a terrible noise as they pierced the car�s exterior. Several bullets entered his head, while many more tore into his chest and stomach area. Cole slaw and chicken wings sprayed throughout the car. He fell over in the seat in a pool of blood, slaw and Orange Drink.
He had been listening to a talk radio station. The day�s topic was astronomy with a guest from the local university�s astronomy department. As he breathed his last breath he heard the host ask the guest, �Do you believe that life as we know it exists anywhere else in the universe?� Rick�s last thought was �God, I sure hope not!�
Only twelve people and a seeing-eye dog attended his funeral. The preacher had uttered some nice words about Rick, even though he had never met him. Rick had never attended church, but his co-workers didn�t know that, and no one else could be found to take care of the arrangements. His ex-wife and daughter had refused to come, citing an appointment with their hairdresser as an excuse. His work associates had pitched in to come up with the money for the funeral. That�s probably why the latch on his casket hadn�t held when the pall bearers that were hired on the street corner had dropped it. As his casket reached the bottom of the burial spot, the seeing-eye dog hiked his leg and peed on the casket.
Sunday, January 12, 2003
Times Square
Jazzled and frangled electric humanity
Jumping quantumly through the crossroads
Of the world multicultural electrons scream
In silence of red and green rolling news
Ricochets off moving targets
Blind to the sweaty sound of voices
Hare Rama, Hare Krishna, Hare NBC
Digitized TV screen giant where
Smells whirl in Celtic knot fashion
Melding Spanish in the corner deli
At the meat counter selling kosher water
With newspapers and lottery tickets to boot
Wheelchairs, crutches and Rolex
Knock-offs hawking for precious, precious
Space, space, space.
Jazzled and frangled electric humanity
Jumping quantumly through the crossroads
Of the world multicultural electrons scream
In silence of red and green rolling news
Ricochets off moving targets
Blind to the sweaty sound of voices
Hare Rama, Hare Krishna, Hare NBC
Digitized TV screen giant where
Smells whirl in Celtic knot fashion
Melding Spanish in the corner deli
At the meat counter selling kosher water
With newspapers and lottery tickets to boot
Wheelchairs, crutches and Rolex
Knock-offs hawking for precious, precious
Space, space, space.
The Unrounded Pebble
I am not a rounded pebble
I have not spent eons endlessly
Crashing against others of my kind
I have not broken down
To a smooth unblemished face
I have not journeyed
From the mountaintop to the valley
Under the heavy hand of ice and wind
I have not traveled the riverbeds
Grinding off my sharp edges
Rather I was born of woman
With uneven edges and facets that can cut,
My corners defy the daily pounding that would
Crumble me into the sameness
And smallness of gravel
I stand bent but defiant
Before the managers of image
Challenging and doubting
Unrounded
I am not a rounded pebble
I have not spent eons endlessly
Crashing against others of my kind
I have not broken down
To a smooth unblemished face
I have not journeyed
From the mountaintop to the valley
Under the heavy hand of ice and wind
I have not traveled the riverbeds
Grinding off my sharp edges
Rather I was born of woman
With uneven edges and facets that can cut,
My corners defy the daily pounding that would
Crumble me into the sameness
And smallness of gravel
I stand bent but defiant
Before the managers of image
Challenging and doubting
Unrounded
The Well
Thirsting from birth I sought The Well
Legion are wells that appear in the desert
Only to be found out mirages.
An oasis beckoned but its well
Lacked water, sucking
From me the little I had.
Another appeared quickly with a
Reservoir so shallow it sustains
Only those with shallow thirst.
My thirst deepened and drinking
From the depths found only
Arid terrain, mirage-no solace.
Not seeking was I found
Not by chance Rebecca claimed me
And has my refuge forever been and shall be
She overflows with water
From unfathomable underground
Lakes filling me, slaking my thirst.
Thirsting from birth I sought The Well
Legion are wells that appear in the desert
Only to be found out mirages.
An oasis beckoned but its well
Lacked water, sucking
From me the little I had.
Another appeared quickly with a
Reservoir so shallow it sustains
Only those with shallow thirst.
My thirst deepened and drinking
From the depths found only
Arid terrain, mirage-no solace.
Not seeking was I found
Not by chance Rebecca claimed me
And has my refuge forever been and shall be
She overflows with water
From unfathomable underground
Lakes filling me, slaking my thirst.
We Like Luycks
Any moment has the potential for the unexpected. You wouldn�t expect that a group of bad smelling, free spirited youngsters hanging out on Dam Square would be inclined to accept the offer of a job, but they�ll sometimes surprise you. Exactly that happened one late summer day, when a personnel agency arrived and began passing out multi-lingual flyers advertising a chance to make some money for a week�s work. Quite a few of the free spirited youngsters showed up at the agency for a job assignment.
A little background about this work force is in order. Some few days prior to the unexpected event of the free spirits choosing to go to work, there had been riots in Amsterdam for about four or five nights in a row. It seems some disturbance took place on Dam Square, police were summoned, and a police officer had drawn his pistol from its holster. The pistol had accidentally fired and wounded someone in the foot. Now, for the Americans reading this, a little explanation is required. You see, unlike in America, in the Netherlands the police are not to draw their weapon unless it is the most dire of circumstances. The Dutch don�t define dire circumstance as a routine disturbance either. So, this incident provoked outrage in Amsterdam, whereupon riots ensued. Word of street battles with police flashed around the youth subculture of Europe attracting radical �student� activists. The result was that a small but powerful core of the individuals hired to work at Luycks were Communists and Anarchists. They were veterans of the Barricades in Paris of �68, and they were primed for action.
Several of them had the good fortune (if you can call it that) to receive Luycks as their assignment. Luycks was a venerable Dutch company that produced foodstuffs like mustard, ketchup, and peanut butter. Now, if you had held the position of director at the Luycks factory, you would not assign a bunch of irresponsible, unmotivated, unhygienic individuals to any work that could really affect your product. Likewise, you wouldn�t let them anywhere near the peanut butter. They would steal and/or eat more peanut butter than they would produce. So, those responsible for the operation of the plant put this motley crew (no, not the band) to work in the pickle packing part of the plant. Most people probably don�t give much thought to how pickles come to be pickles. Well, let me tell you, it�s not pleasant! If you find the smell of hot vinegar pleasant, you might enjoy this kind of work, but these �workers� were like most other people, they didn�t.
The plant had a conveyor belt that moved the jars of wanna be pickles through the plant. After the gherkins, vinegar, and water were inserted in jars they passed through a large pasteurizer. They emerged from the pasteurizer quite warm and passed along single file, so someone could look at them for quality. After passing the inspector the went on to two stations at the end of the line. The people working there would stack the jars into boxes on a pallet. When the pallet reached about ten layers of jars, a forklift would come and take the soon to be pickles to a storage area where they could complete the process of becoming pickles. Now, these radicalized �students� were among the workers at the end of the line. The Communists and Anarchists all knew each other, so when the week began they all worked at the same station together. The other workers who didn�t know each other wound up working the other station. Naturally the pickles came to the end of the line faster than the workers put them into boxes. So, periodically the management would have to stop the line. Management did not at all like to stop the line, so one of the foremen would come over to instruct and exhort the workers to work faster. After a while, the workers figured out that if every once in a while a row of pickle jars (about 12 or 13 jars) didn�t quit make it from the conveyor to the box, but instead fell to the concrete floor below and broke, they stood a better chance of keeping up.
It became obvious to the management that they needed to break up the Communists and Anarchists, so they moved some of the workers to other places. Now, these workers came from many countries. For example, there was an American, an Egyptian, an Israeli (yes, this was just shortly after the famous six day war), some Italians, and some French. Communication was pretty limited among these workers, so hand signals became the preferred means of interacting. One of the Communist/Anarchists joined the American, the Egyptian, and the Israeli. He would pick up a jar of newly minted pickles, hold it out for the other three to see, and then smash it to the floor to break. He would do this with regularity. Every once in a while, he would unscrew one of the jars and spit into it, and seal the lid back. He probably fancied himself to be striking a blow for the downtrodden proletariat, but all he was really doing was clogging the drain in the floor. So, periodically the group would sacrifice 12 to 13 jars of pickles to keep up with the conveyor, and one of them would hurl a jar to the floor. You can imagine that soon, the workers were standing ankle deep in warm vinegar. They stood in the vinegar for most of the 8.5 hours they would work each day.
After a couple of days they began to fantasize about leaving the job early with a little less money than they had planned on. Many of them were just about to take that route when one of them came back from the office with the sad story that if you didn�t work your full week, you wouldn�t get any pay. By the time the learned this sad fact, they had all put in too much time to make it worthwhile to quit. You see they had all signed contracts (written in Dutch which none of them could read) which stated they had to work the entire week. Oh, the plight of an undocumented worker!
At the end of the week, each worker got a piece of paper which he carried back to the personnel agency, and exchanged for cash. The pay was 100 guilders, about 38 or 39 dollars. No wonder none of them signed up for a second week.
Any moment has the potential for the unexpected. You wouldn�t expect that a group of bad smelling, free spirited youngsters hanging out on Dam Square would be inclined to accept the offer of a job, but they�ll sometimes surprise you. Exactly that happened one late summer day, when a personnel agency arrived and began passing out multi-lingual flyers advertising a chance to make some money for a week�s work. Quite a few of the free spirited youngsters showed up at the agency for a job assignment.
A little background about this work force is in order. Some few days prior to the unexpected event of the free spirits choosing to go to work, there had been riots in Amsterdam for about four or five nights in a row. It seems some disturbance took place on Dam Square, police were summoned, and a police officer had drawn his pistol from its holster. The pistol had accidentally fired and wounded someone in the foot. Now, for the Americans reading this, a little explanation is required. You see, unlike in America, in the Netherlands the police are not to draw their weapon unless it is the most dire of circumstances. The Dutch don�t define dire circumstance as a routine disturbance either. So, this incident provoked outrage in Amsterdam, whereupon riots ensued. Word of street battles with police flashed around the youth subculture of Europe attracting radical �student� activists. The result was that a small but powerful core of the individuals hired to work at Luycks were Communists and Anarchists. They were veterans of the Barricades in Paris of �68, and they were primed for action.
Several of them had the good fortune (if you can call it that) to receive Luycks as their assignment. Luycks was a venerable Dutch company that produced foodstuffs like mustard, ketchup, and peanut butter. Now, if you had held the position of director at the Luycks factory, you would not assign a bunch of irresponsible, unmotivated, unhygienic individuals to any work that could really affect your product. Likewise, you wouldn�t let them anywhere near the peanut butter. They would steal and/or eat more peanut butter than they would produce. So, those responsible for the operation of the plant put this motley crew (no, not the band) to work in the pickle packing part of the plant. Most people probably don�t give much thought to how pickles come to be pickles. Well, let me tell you, it�s not pleasant! If you find the smell of hot vinegar pleasant, you might enjoy this kind of work, but these �workers� were like most other people, they didn�t.
The plant had a conveyor belt that moved the jars of wanna be pickles through the plant. After the gherkins, vinegar, and water were inserted in jars they passed through a large pasteurizer. They emerged from the pasteurizer quite warm and passed along single file, so someone could look at them for quality. After passing the inspector the went on to two stations at the end of the line. The people working there would stack the jars into boxes on a pallet. When the pallet reached about ten layers of jars, a forklift would come and take the soon to be pickles to a storage area where they could complete the process of becoming pickles. Now, these radicalized �students� were among the workers at the end of the line. The Communists and Anarchists all knew each other, so when the week began they all worked at the same station together. The other workers who didn�t know each other wound up working the other station. Naturally the pickles came to the end of the line faster than the workers put them into boxes. So, periodically the management would have to stop the line. Management did not at all like to stop the line, so one of the foremen would come over to instruct and exhort the workers to work faster. After a while, the workers figured out that if every once in a while a row of pickle jars (about 12 or 13 jars) didn�t quit make it from the conveyor to the box, but instead fell to the concrete floor below and broke, they stood a better chance of keeping up.
It became obvious to the management that they needed to break up the Communists and Anarchists, so they moved some of the workers to other places. Now, these workers came from many countries. For example, there was an American, an Egyptian, an Israeli (yes, this was just shortly after the famous six day war), some Italians, and some French. Communication was pretty limited among these workers, so hand signals became the preferred means of interacting. One of the Communist/Anarchists joined the American, the Egyptian, and the Israeli. He would pick up a jar of newly minted pickles, hold it out for the other three to see, and then smash it to the floor to break. He would do this with regularity. Every once in a while, he would unscrew one of the jars and spit into it, and seal the lid back. He probably fancied himself to be striking a blow for the downtrodden proletariat, but all he was really doing was clogging the drain in the floor. So, periodically the group would sacrifice 12 to 13 jars of pickles to keep up with the conveyor, and one of them would hurl a jar to the floor. You can imagine that soon, the workers were standing ankle deep in warm vinegar. They stood in the vinegar for most of the 8.5 hours they would work each day.
After a couple of days they began to fantasize about leaving the job early with a little less money than they had planned on. Many of them were just about to take that route when one of them came back from the office with the sad story that if you didn�t work your full week, you wouldn�t get any pay. By the time the learned this sad fact, they had all put in too much time to make it worthwhile to quit. You see they had all signed contracts (written in Dutch which none of them could read) which stated they had to work the entire week. Oh, the plight of an undocumented worker!
At the end of the week, each worker got a piece of paper which he carried back to the personnel agency, and exchanged for cash. The pay was 100 guilders, about 38 or 39 dollars. No wonder none of them signed up for a second week.
The Mattress Caper
In the days near the time of the Great Shit Blockage it happened that someone
passed on some information to Harry (the hero of our story)about some
mattresses being available for the taking. The only thing required would be
to carry them back to the house on Prinsengracht in Amsterdam. Now, you must
realize that these Krakenhuizen weren't furnished. So, whatever the residents
could scrounge up would be their decor (if decor isn't too fancy a word). It
seems that Harry was living in a room with a young girl from Germany, but they
lacked anything to cushion their dreaming (and whatever else they did while
reclining). In the room sort of next to Harry was a young American guy named
Mark. Mark had been sleeping in a sleeping bag on the floor, and was excited
to hear about the prospect of scoring a free mattress.
It turns out that the free mattresses were aboard a garbage barge in one of
the canals maybe a kilometer or kilometer and a half from the house on
Prinsengracht in Amsterdam. Harry and Mark set out with joyous hearts to
"bring home the bacon" so to speak. They arrived at the location, and as luck
would have it, there were two mattresses available in and amongst the garbage.
The two young men scurried down to the barge to claim their mattresses. One
thing of note: neither of the two fellows was a very big person, so when it
came time to manhandle the double mattresses...well, you can imagine. They
struggled mightily to get their treasure up to street level, but then they had
the daunting task ahead of them to transport their booty back to the house.
Of course, these to guys weren't living in a krakenhuis because the had lots
of money, so they had no vehicle to assist with hauling the mattresses. They
didn't want to take them one at a time, because to leave one of them behind
was to risk it not being there when they returned. They decided to stand the
mattresses on their sides with a little space between them. Then, the two guys
would stand single file in the space, and lift the mattresses with one hand
gripping one mattress and the other hand gripping the second one. Remember,
that neither of the two fellows was very big, so when they lifted the
mattresses, the had to hold them almost above their heads to get them off of
the ground.
They set off for home. Now, picture if you can, two mattresses with two pairs
of feet barely visible below them, and no heads visible above them making
their way down the city sidewalks of Amsterdam. Actually, it probably wasn't
that unusual for Amsterdam. Anyway, these two boys soon became winded. In
fact, it reached a point that they could move the mattresses no more than 5 or
10 meters without stopping to rest. Pick them up, walk ten steps, put them
down, catch the breath, pick them up...Suffice it say, the trip home took a
long time, and a spent lot of energy.
Arriving at the doorway didn't complete the trip. You must realize that when
these picturesque houses were built on the quaint canals they tended to build
up and not out. That means, they had some stairs to climb. This particular
house had no floor at street level, the "first" floor was really a floor above
the street. These two young men, resided on the "second" floor, so they
really had to haul the mattresses up to the third floor. By the way, the
Dutch made every effort to conserve space, so the stairways were quite narrow.
Imagine now, if you can, the two exhausted youngsters trying to wrestle the
mattresses up the stairs.
They succeeded! And believe me, they slept well that night. It wasn't even
until the next day that they wondered if there might be lice in the
mattresses.
In the days near the time of the Great Shit Blockage it happened that someone
passed on some information to Harry (the hero of our story)about some
mattresses being available for the taking. The only thing required would be
to carry them back to the house on Prinsengracht in Amsterdam. Now, you must
realize that these Krakenhuizen weren't furnished. So, whatever the residents
could scrounge up would be their decor (if decor isn't too fancy a word). It
seems that Harry was living in a room with a young girl from Germany, but they
lacked anything to cushion their dreaming (and whatever else they did while
reclining). In the room sort of next to Harry was a young American guy named
Mark. Mark had been sleeping in a sleeping bag on the floor, and was excited
to hear about the prospect of scoring a free mattress.
It turns out that the free mattresses were aboard a garbage barge in one of
the canals maybe a kilometer or kilometer and a half from the house on
Prinsengracht in Amsterdam. Harry and Mark set out with joyous hearts to
"bring home the bacon" so to speak. They arrived at the location, and as luck
would have it, there were two mattresses available in and amongst the garbage.
The two young men scurried down to the barge to claim their mattresses. One
thing of note: neither of the two fellows was a very big person, so when it
came time to manhandle the double mattresses...well, you can imagine. They
struggled mightily to get their treasure up to street level, but then they had
the daunting task ahead of them to transport their booty back to the house.
Of course, these to guys weren't living in a krakenhuis because the had lots
of money, so they had no vehicle to assist with hauling the mattresses. They
didn't want to take them one at a time, because to leave one of them behind
was to risk it not being there when they returned. They decided to stand the
mattresses on their sides with a little space between them. Then, the two guys
would stand single file in the space, and lift the mattresses with one hand
gripping one mattress and the other hand gripping the second one. Remember,
that neither of the two fellows was very big, so when they lifted the
mattresses, the had to hold them almost above their heads to get them off of
the ground.
They set off for home. Now, picture if you can, two mattresses with two pairs
of feet barely visible below them, and no heads visible above them making
their way down the city sidewalks of Amsterdam. Actually, it probably wasn't
that unusual for Amsterdam. Anyway, these two boys soon became winded. In
fact, it reached a point that they could move the mattresses no more than 5 or
10 meters without stopping to rest. Pick them up, walk ten steps, put them
down, catch the breath, pick them up...Suffice it say, the trip home took a
long time, and a spent lot of energy.
Arriving at the doorway didn't complete the trip. You must realize that when
these picturesque houses were built on the quaint canals they tended to build
up and not out. That means, they had some stairs to climb. This particular
house had no floor at street level, the "first" floor was really a floor above
the street. These two young men, resided on the "second" floor, so they
really had to haul the mattresses up to the third floor. By the way, the
Dutch made every effort to conserve space, so the stairways were quite narrow.
Imagine now, if you can, the two exhausted youngsters trying to wrestle the
mattresses up the stairs.
They succeeded! And believe me, they slept well that night. It wasn't even
until the next day that they wondered if there might be lice in the
mattresses.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
