One day, I did a job repairing a customer's computer. The customer and his family lived in a very large mobile home park in Orange. The trailers were all crammed together, with tiny carports the only divider between them.
I walked up the spongy steps and in through the open door. He greeted me with a smile, and brought the laptop to the coffee table in the living room, where two boys were doing their school work. One was wearing a shirt, the other was not. He asked them to move, so they moved their sheets of paper to the floor and continued working. I didn't really look at them, as I was occupied with the laptop, getting the necessary tools to work on it.
As I worked, one of the boys, the shirtless one, stood by me and watched me with interest. I was looking down, and as he was at my left, I saw just a flesh-colored blob (I have little to no sight in my left eye). He asked me questions on what I was doing, and I answered them, while unscrewing the many screws that held the bottom of the laptop together. I told him that the computer wasn't working right, and that I was there to replace a part. I showed him the fan, and then looked at him. In fact, both were now watching me, and they looked like they were twins, or pretty close in age.
The boy with no shirt had no arms. On the left side, out of his torso, a single finger protruded. Only the nib though. Part of the shoulder bone could be seen. On his right side, it appeared as if someone had glued a plastic glove to him. All five fingers stuck out, as if offering a handshake. The fingers were opaque, and you could see that there was no bones within. With each movement of his body, the fingers flapped and waved. The thumb was pointed skyward, as if giving the okay, that everything was alright.
My heart sank at seeing this sight. But I still talked to him. His name was Ernesto, he was in 4th grade. He enjoyed school, and he liked math. We had a nice conversation going. Over his shoulder, I could see his father watching us, with a benevolent smile on his face. He seemed proud that his boys were smart. The father calmly told the boys to go back to their schoolwork, as he felt they were bothering me. The boys picked up their pencils, one with his hand, the other with his foot and went back to their work in progress.
As I left, I tried to talk to the father about a hope for the future. A hope that would see the boy with no arms seeing his hands, being able to catch and throw, to craft and to create, to draw, to play music. But the father was not interested in what the Bible had to say. I hoped the boy would learn the truth later, to make his own decision. If not, I hoped Jehovah would extend mercy to this boy, and give him a second chance.
Thursday, June 2, 2011
The Jacuzzi project
When I was a child, my parents had decided they wanted a jacuzzi. So, one day we all piled into our cute, red AMC Gremlin and puttered off on “a trip,” my father said.
We drove two blocks to a huge jacuzzi store, that advertised a “blowout sale!” We entered and oohed and aahed at the huge jacuzzis, sitting on their sides (I guess because they didn't want people sitting in them). A salesman came up to my parents and started his spiel.
Me and my brother, three years younger than I, saw a stack of books on a coffee table next to an ottoman. So, we went over there to amuse ourselves.
The books were catalogs, but they were large, not very thick. They looked like those big National Geographic books with information and panoramic pictures of places like the Serengeti, or the majesty of the Swiss Alps. Of course, I assumed they had information because when I read those, because I only read them for the pictures.
I grabbed one, and with my brother sitting next to me, opened it across our laps. Yes, it was that big, or we were pretty small, I don't remember. The catalog contained pictures of jacuzzis, obviously, in various settings, filled with water and happy, smiling, nude people. Here was one possibly set in Aspen, the snow on the ground, the view of the mountains behind and nude people. Here was one in a rainforest, with huge trees in the background, a monkey swinging from a tree and nude people. Another one in Holland, with a dike behind with the sea and terns flying fuzzily in the distance and nude people. Another one possibly in Malibu with the ocean and the sun setting in the background and tanned nude people.
I don't remember how old I was, but I knew it was before puberty smacked me in the face and made me realize that women were …. special creatures to be misunderstood and who would mystify and befuddle me to this day.
You could tell the man was naked because his back was always to the camera, yet you could see the crack of his buttocks. The woman, if she sat in the jacuzzi, always miraculously had the waterline about an inch below her breasts. (Pretty tall women, I had thought) Or she was shown slinking into or out of the jacuzzi, with legs bent in a demure way to cover up. I had read National Geographic articles about different African tribes, so it was nothing new to me.
My father was discussing a hot tub model with the salesman. My mom was getting bored of the banter, and looked over at us, slowly turning the pages of the catalog. She came over to see what had our rapt attention, looked and shrieked.
My brother and I never set foot in a jacuzzi showroom again. They made us wait in the car.
My father, after trips to showroom after showroom, was getting frustrated at finding that the jacuzzis he wanted were too large for the very small house we lived in. It was even too large for the very small yard that came with the house. So, a light bulb burned steadily over his head as he told his family that he was going to build our very own jacuzzi.
So the project began in the only bathroom we had in the house. We took showers at our grandfather's house (he lived behind us in the duplex we lived in) as my father labored over the jacuzzi. Gone was the standard bathtub, in went the tile. We couldn't see what he was doing. He had the door shut constantly, and when he would come out, he commanded us not to peek behind the plastic curtain he taped up.
When he was done, he proudly showed us his handiwork. The jacuzzi was deep, maybe three feet. It looked cavernous to me, young as I was. You had to step down into it, using the seat as a stair. It had jets to bubble the water and look like a jacuzzi. The tile was in various shades of brown, half an inch by an inch in size. Yes, it was a lot of tile, almost like a mosaic. I looked at all that brown and thought he should have made a picture of something at the bottom of the jacuzzi, to look at. My mother marveled, my young brother was scared (he thought he was going to trip, fall in and break his neck; I hoped he would), and I was still wondering how to take a shower in that thing.
I don't think the jacuzzi was ever used. It took forever for the thing to fill up with water. At least, I never used it as a jacuzzi, because whenever I took a bath, everyone else in the house seemed to bang on the door within 5 minutes of my getting in, yelling at me to get out.
My parents probably used it, after my brother and I had gone to bed. They may have filled it up with hot water, got in and relaxed, letting the trouble and trauma of raising two hellish boys melt away. I think that's what they did.
If anyone stayed with us, it was always a source of entertainment. My father would never tell them about the jacuzzi. They would go into the bathroom, disrobe and pull the curtain expecting a normal bathtub and instead look down on the Grand Canyon of jacuzzis. Then they would enrobe, come out and ask, “How do you turn the shower on?” This made my father proud as he excitedly showed them how the thing worked.
I eventually liked the jacuzzi, as the shower head was one of those pulsating ones, that you could remove. I had to stand on the seat to remove it, but it was alright.
When we moved away from the house, the tenants-to-be looked at the Grand Canyon and told my father they weren't interested in it. So he labored to put the bathroom as it were, with a boring bathtub. The various shades of brown with flecks of gold tile was gone, the custom jacuzzi never to be seen or built again.
Thus began my father's work in tile and the end of this story.
We drove two blocks to a huge jacuzzi store, that advertised a “blowout sale!” We entered and oohed and aahed at the huge jacuzzis, sitting on their sides (I guess because they didn't want people sitting in them). A salesman came up to my parents and started his spiel.
Me and my brother, three years younger than I, saw a stack of books on a coffee table next to an ottoman. So, we went over there to amuse ourselves.
The books were catalogs, but they were large, not very thick. They looked like those big National Geographic books with information and panoramic pictures of places like the Serengeti, or the majesty of the Swiss Alps. Of course, I assumed they had information because when I read those, because I only read them for the pictures.
I grabbed one, and with my brother sitting next to me, opened it across our laps. Yes, it was that big, or we were pretty small, I don't remember. The catalog contained pictures of jacuzzis, obviously, in various settings, filled with water and happy, smiling, nude people. Here was one possibly set in Aspen, the snow on the ground, the view of the mountains behind and nude people. Here was one in a rainforest, with huge trees in the background, a monkey swinging from a tree and nude people. Another one in Holland, with a dike behind with the sea and terns flying fuzzily in the distance and nude people. Another one possibly in Malibu with the ocean and the sun setting in the background and tanned nude people.
I don't remember how old I was, but I knew it was before puberty smacked me in the face and made me realize that women were …. special creatures to be misunderstood and who would mystify and befuddle me to this day.
You could tell the man was naked because his back was always to the camera, yet you could see the crack of his buttocks. The woman, if she sat in the jacuzzi, always miraculously had the waterline about an inch below her breasts. (Pretty tall women, I had thought) Or she was shown slinking into or out of the jacuzzi, with legs bent in a demure way to cover up. I had read National Geographic articles about different African tribes, so it was nothing new to me.
My father was discussing a hot tub model with the salesman. My mom was getting bored of the banter, and looked over at us, slowly turning the pages of the catalog. She came over to see what had our rapt attention, looked and shrieked.
My brother and I never set foot in a jacuzzi showroom again. They made us wait in the car.
My father, after trips to showroom after showroom, was getting frustrated at finding that the jacuzzis he wanted were too large for the very small house we lived in. It was even too large for the very small yard that came with the house. So, a light bulb burned steadily over his head as he told his family that he was going to build our very own jacuzzi.
So the project began in the only bathroom we had in the house. We took showers at our grandfather's house (he lived behind us in the duplex we lived in) as my father labored over the jacuzzi. Gone was the standard bathtub, in went the tile. We couldn't see what he was doing. He had the door shut constantly, and when he would come out, he commanded us not to peek behind the plastic curtain he taped up.
When he was done, he proudly showed us his handiwork. The jacuzzi was deep, maybe three feet. It looked cavernous to me, young as I was. You had to step down into it, using the seat as a stair. It had jets to bubble the water and look like a jacuzzi. The tile was in various shades of brown, half an inch by an inch in size. Yes, it was a lot of tile, almost like a mosaic. I looked at all that brown and thought he should have made a picture of something at the bottom of the jacuzzi, to look at. My mother marveled, my young brother was scared (he thought he was going to trip, fall in and break his neck; I hoped he would), and I was still wondering how to take a shower in that thing.
I don't think the jacuzzi was ever used. It took forever for the thing to fill up with water. At least, I never used it as a jacuzzi, because whenever I took a bath, everyone else in the house seemed to bang on the door within 5 minutes of my getting in, yelling at me to get out.
My parents probably used it, after my brother and I had gone to bed. They may have filled it up with hot water, got in and relaxed, letting the trouble and trauma of raising two hellish boys melt away. I think that's what they did.
If anyone stayed with us, it was always a source of entertainment. My father would never tell them about the jacuzzi. They would go into the bathroom, disrobe and pull the curtain expecting a normal bathtub and instead look down on the Grand Canyon of jacuzzis. Then they would enrobe, come out and ask, “How do you turn the shower on?” This made my father proud as he excitedly showed them how the thing worked.
I eventually liked the jacuzzi, as the shower head was one of those pulsating ones, that you could remove. I had to stand on the seat to remove it, but it was alright.
When we moved away from the house, the tenants-to-be looked at the Grand Canyon and told my father they weren't interested in it. So he labored to put the bathroom as it were, with a boring bathtub. The various shades of brown with flecks of gold tile was gone, the custom jacuzzi never to be seen or built again.
Thus began my father's work in tile and the end of this story.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Coffee anyone?
Recently, driving through Santa Ana, California, I developed a thirst for coffee. At an intersection, I saw a coffee place that had a French name "Le Paris", and figured I'd give this a try.
As I entered the open doors (onto a lobby with a fountain) and turned the corner, I noticed it was dark. Along the sides and back were computer monitors with men sitting there, surfing the internet. Interesting, I thought. Since there was no hostess available, I picked a seat at a table and waited.
I looked for a menu on the wall, but there was none. No list of coffees, nor prices. Then a beautiful Asian girl approached me, wearing a tight black dress. She asked me what I wanted, so I said, "May I have a menu?" She said, "No, we don't have a menu." I said, "Well, what do you serve?" She looked at me credulously and said, "Coffee..?"
"Oh, okay, well, do you have hot coffee?" I asked. She pouted a bit, looked away (I think she rolled her eyes), then faced me again and nodded. I said, "Can I have a cup of hot coffee with cream and sugar?"
"Okay, would you like that strong or light?" At a loss to determine what she meant by strong or light, I asked her what was the difference. She looked up, gathering some brain cells in a moment of epiphany and gave me her answer: "Well, one is stronger and the other is... uh.... lighter..."
"I'll take the light, then. With cream and sugar." I said after her as she stomped away, her six inch stilettos tapping the floor as she walked briskly to the back.
She returned later with a wide cup of coffee that was black and set it down. Then she twirled and click-clacked away before I could ask her anything else. I don't think she even smiled.
I began stirring the coffee and all of the cream and sugar had settled at the bottom of the cup, so after 30 seconds of vigorous stirring, the coffee turned beige. It still tasted horrible, and I realized that they serve espresso and iced coffee (judging by what the other customers were drinking). I finished my coffee hastily, getting no further service and no smiles from any of the other servers that worked there.
As I was walking out, I saw that I was the only American in the place. At each table were Vietnamese men, discussing matters in their language or French. Some viewed me warily, as if I was an alien. I doubt I'll be going back, unless I want to be served by surly women in tight dresses....
As I entered the open doors (onto a lobby with a fountain) and turned the corner, I noticed it was dark. Along the sides and back were computer monitors with men sitting there, surfing the internet. Interesting, I thought. Since there was no hostess available, I picked a seat at a table and waited.
I looked for a menu on the wall, but there was none. No list of coffees, nor prices. Then a beautiful Asian girl approached me, wearing a tight black dress. She asked me what I wanted, so I said, "May I have a menu?" She said, "No, we don't have a menu." I said, "Well, what do you serve?" She looked at me credulously and said, "Coffee..?"
"Oh, okay, well, do you have hot coffee?" I asked. She pouted a bit, looked away (I think she rolled her eyes), then faced me again and nodded. I said, "Can I have a cup of hot coffee with cream and sugar?"
"Okay, would you like that strong or light?" At a loss to determine what she meant by strong or light, I asked her what was the difference. She looked up, gathering some brain cells in a moment of epiphany and gave me her answer: "Well, one is stronger and the other is... uh.... lighter..."
"I'll take the light, then. With cream and sugar." I said after her as she stomped away, her six inch stilettos tapping the floor as she walked briskly to the back.
She returned later with a wide cup of coffee that was black and set it down. Then she twirled and click-clacked away before I could ask her anything else. I don't think she even smiled.
I began stirring the coffee and all of the cream and sugar had settled at the bottom of the cup, so after 30 seconds of vigorous stirring, the coffee turned beige. It still tasted horrible, and I realized that they serve espresso and iced coffee (judging by what the other customers were drinking). I finished my coffee hastily, getting no further service and no smiles from any of the other servers that worked there.
As I was walking out, I saw that I was the only American in the place. At each table were Vietnamese men, discussing matters in their language or French. Some viewed me warily, as if I was an alien. I doubt I'll be going back, unless I want to be served by surly women in tight dresses....
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