A boy

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.

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.

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....

First chapter of a tentative novel: The Deaf Detective

CHAPTER ONE

This kind of stuff makes me sweat.

With a penlight in my mouth, I was opening drawers of a desk in a study in a house belonging to a man, whose wife had hired me to investigate. She thought he was fooling around on her, so she wanted me to check for evidence. The house I was in was owned by the husband. The wife didn't know about this house. I found out through my street connections that he lived here sometimes, so I thought it best to start here. The wife had told me she looked through his things at home and found nothing unusual. The case looked like an easy one, with tailing the husband, seeing who he met, taking pictures, all that kind of boring stuff that pays my bills.

The study was nicely furnished. Paintings adorned the walls, which were painted an off-white color. A strip of wallpaper with drawings of books ran just below the ceiling around the room. I guess he wanted to pretend he was in a library. On top of a nice woven area rug were two nice leather-bound chairs facing a dark mahogany desk. A desk calendar sat on top of the desk, with the telephone, stapler, a desk lamp, a cup with pens and pencils, all black in color, stationed around it like an army. The letter opener and scissors were positioned just so, to the east, I realized. Maybe his moment of zen.

His chair, behind the desk, was one of those ergonomic, super-expensive chairs (not leather), with what appeared to be too many levers and knobs to pull and turn. I didn't want to even sit in the thing. It might close up on me like a venus flytrap. I remembered the position it was in, and had moved it aside so that I could try the drawers.

She had told me that he takes “business trips,” once or twice a month, off to New York, or Florida. In actuality, he stayed here, I discovered. I was pretty sure I'd find something to implicate him in his adultery.

I just found out about this address, and maybe I could have staked out the house to see who comes and goes, but this was such a simple little job, I really didn't want to waste my time. It was so obvious that he had a secret, and what better one than a house with a live-in mistress?

The wife had given me all the information she knew about her husband: the bank he used, the clothes he liked to wear (Armani suits and Stacy Adams shoes), the cologne he wore (Stetson, really?), where he likes to golf, where he likes to eat. Sounded like a lot of footwork, so I decided to start small and work my way up to real labor, if it called for it. Was I lazy? I really didn't think so, I was just logically taking things one step at a time. I don't like things too complicated and kept my life that way.

Wiping sweat off my brow, I pulled a knob. Here was a locked drawer. Using my lockpick set, I was able to unlatch it. Opening it, I saw there were a stack of papers and a checkbook. I pulled out the checkbook and opened it up. The checks were from a different bank than the one the wife told me about. For a guy who is bent on keeping secrets, I wondered why he was using carbon copy checks. I flipped through the checks he had written and noticed he had awful handwriting. Was he really a doctor or something? The scribbles were unreadable, but the dollar amounts were not. He must have a passkey to Fort Knox, because he spent a lot of money. Too much money for a guy claiming to be an carpet salesman. Way too much money. One of the names I could make out was for a woman, Martina Smithson. Monthly payments of twenty thousand went to her. This must be the mistress, I assumed.

I folded the checkbook open, so that I could take pictures with my camera phone. I got in close and took some shots of the various written checks. I was going to show the wife how much money he was spending. I'm sure she would be happy with the alimony she might receive.

I felt a vibration in the floor. I heard muffled voices and realized someone or several someones had come home, closing the front door. I couldn't hear what they were talking about. There was a woman in the group. I picked up her voice easier, and she said she was going upstairs to change.

I had come in through the back door and up the stairs. I needed to find another way out. I shook my head at not thinking about a Plan B or an escape route. I went to the window, unlatched it, and tried to pull it up. It wouldn't budge. It had been sealed in with paint. Cursing the contractor hired to do this job, I knew I had to think of something. I couldn't force the window open. It would alert the people below and I don't think they'd be happy to know I was here. Not wanting to be found and perhaps beaten to death, I tried a second window. Same as the first.

The woman was coming up the stairs. I was relieved for a moment, knowing that the woman was going to a bedroom and not the office where I was. That was short, as I heard more steps on the stairs and realized that at least two men were coming up.

There just happened to be a bathroom off this office, so I went to that door and opened it up. It had a sink and a toilet. The window looked big enough for me to squeeze through. I am a skinny guy, and that worked to my advantage on occasion. I just didn't like being in this occasion at the moment. I was still sweating and needed a beach towel, like right now.

I pulled the latch on the window, and gingerly pulled it aside. It emitted a scraping noise, but not too loud, and I got it open. I pushed the screen out and was getting ready to go through, when I realized I left the desk drawer open and the checkbook out on the desktop. Ugh! Okay, relax.

Footsteps were heard clumping down the short hall. The office was at the very end of the hallway from the stairs, the bedrooms and the other bathroom were on the sides. I heard one door close. The woman had gone into her room. The men were chatting. Their voices were garbled and I couldn't make out what they were saying. They sounded happy though. I smelled a cigar and it seemed one of them were smoking, likely the husband. I ran to the desk, and threw the checkbook in and closed it quietly. Putting the chair back where I found it, I went to the bathroom and closed the door behind me.

The office door opened and I heard the men, finally. One of them was talking to the other about a trip they needed to take.

“We need to take care of business in Barbados, and soon. It's getting out of control, you know.”

“Yeah, I know, I know,” said the other man. “I just hate having to go down and take care of stuff myself, that's why I hire people to do that. Why do I have to go through this?”

“You're the boss. Besides, I could do it, but I'm only the accountant.”

“I could change your job description, you know.”

That was the last I heard as I wriggled through the window. I put it on my mental list to figure that out later. Maybe an expenses-paid trip to Barbados?

I was out the window, and doing a handstand on the eave of the house. There is never a graceful way to exit out of a small window. My left foot was pedaling air, while my right was trying to unhook itself from the sill of the window. Finally it came free and I fell down with a thud and almost slipped off the roof.

That alerted the party inside. I heard a “Hey! What the...” and the bathroom door open. I didn't wait around to see who said that. Looking down, I could see the grass and thought I could jump down to it easily. So, I sat on the edge of the roof and launched myself off.

I landed on one leg awkwardly, and felt a sharp pain go up my leg. But I couldn't think about that now, I had to take off. So, I limped away, not turning around.

Somebody called to me, but the wind was whistling and I didn't look back. They can't really identify someone from the back anyhow, I hoped.

My car was parked two or three blocks down, so I hurried as fast as I could, slowing to listen for cars, and guns.

I arrived at my office about an hour later. As I was getting out of my car, I saw my friend, Dane, approaching. He waved a greeting.

“What up?” he signed. Dane Fellows could hear just fine. He had learned American Sign Language a few years ago, so he signed to me when he could. I knew sign language too, but only signed when I really had to. I knew I needed to be more fluent in sign as it was the first language I learned as a child. I guess I was too proud of the fact that I could hear just enough to survive in the world of telephones and most verbal communications. Dane was a huge black man, bald with an earring in one ear. His t-shirt was tight, not doing a good job of hiding the bulk of his chest and biceps. He was a good right hand man to have when things got ugly. He had on shorts today and Vans shoes. It was his normal mode of dress in the summer.

He saw I was limping. He pointed, “Your leg? Happen what?” He signed again.

“Ah, I was jumping out of a window,” I told him.

His face lit up. His smile beamed and he leered. I wish my teeth were that white.

“Wow. Almost caught by husband? Wife loving?” He laughed, doing the sign for “fornicate”, each hand in a “V”, the left coming down repeatedly on the upward facing right hand.

“No, not for that,” I replied, shaking my head. I told him what my current job was and what I had found and heard.

“Understand, okay.” He nodded as he signed. I asked him where he had been, as he had been gone a week. He related that he had gone to Mississippi to visit his girls, who were living with his ex-wife. His twin daughters had their birthday recently, and he had gone to see them. I asked him if it was pleasant this time, as it usually wasn't. He did “so-so” with his hand. I didn't press further, but took that to mean that it wasn't that bad.

I had an ex-wife too, but no kids. This kind of made me sad, but relieved at the same time. Kids who deal with parents who are divorced have it hard. Loyalties are tested, impressions are made. Some grow up hating men, or women, in general, because they see what happened with the parents, or they hear what one parent says about the other. Some can't formulate good relationships, because they see their situation as normal, that it's okay to divorce when things get hard.

I wanted to get married again, but hadn't found a woman with the right disposition or the right attitude. Here in California, I found them to be a bit more selfish, more materialistic. I figured I would have to go to Iowa or someplace in the sticks to find one that wasn't touched by the world's madness. I wasn't ready to do that, as there's no money in Iowa or the sticks, and I needed the money.

Dane and I walked into my office, to find it already occupied.

Sometimes work can be a headache....

Most people are accident prone. Some are wont to go falling down the stairs because they trip over themselves, or they get their hands or fingers caught in car doors or other things that swing shut. Me? I have a tendency to bang my head, and it's not from listening to Quiet Riot either.

I was at a job site performing a service on an ATM. (one of the many things I do during my waking hours) It was a drive up ATM. When you open it up, the top part flips up like a hood. The terminal, that controls the ATM (resets, shuts it down, etc.) swings out of the hood and basically points straight down at the ground.

Next I opened the safe and was in the processing of clearing a jam from the machine. It never fails that people will stick “non-monetary” things into an ATM. I guess they, as a kid, always put their peanut butter sandwich into the VCR, or tried to insert a floppy diskette into a CD drive, and never really learned the lesson that “you can't do that.” After extracting what looked like a grocery list, I examined the rest of the machine.

I had to squat down to see the underside of the machine, looking for other things that have jammed, maybe some real money or a nice check. Finding no treasure, I stood up not realizing that the terminal was directly above my head. So, my crown found a nice sharp corner of the terminal to smack. Reeling in pain and rubbing my head furiously, I danced around the ATM like an Indian praying for rain. I'm sure the public, looking to use this particular ATM, saw me and considered me a security risk and stayed away.

I pulled my fingers away and noticed that, yes, I was bleeding. Not gushing as much as the typical teenager who gets killed off in a Rob Zombie movie, but it was bleeding. Then I started to black out. I looked at the open safe and thought to myself, “This would be hilarious. Me passed out with the safe open. People trampling my unconscious body in an effort to get free money. Kind of a like a reverse bailout.” Then I thought, “Well, it would be bad for the bank and I'd end up sitting by the roadside holding a sign that said, 'DO NOT GIVE ME MONEY, I WILL LOSE IT (instead give me something solid, such as your unfinished taco salad).'” I forced myself to focus, and though I still felt blood seeping through my hair, I managed to finish what I had started to do, got the safe door shut, locked and everything working again.

I had a nice mountain on my head and a couple of days of pain. But I survived. My friends have begged me to get a helmet, a hard hat even, but I'm too proud and really, not much of a story being safe.

Slick

I was in a suburb of Los Angeles that will remain unnamed. If I called it out, I might have a mob outside my mobile home with pitchforks and torches. Yes, I do live in a trailer park, I am white, but I do keep it neat most of the time. Anyway, I was eating at a fast food restaurant, when a big man came in, dressed in a white shirt, jeans and cowboy boots. He had a ID badge hanging around his neck. He swaggered up to the woman behind the counter, and instead of ordering, started asking her questions about the drains.

“I'm from the city, and it's been reported that your grease drains are draining to the ocean. Need a way to stop that from happening. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you? Well, can I come back there and look at your drains?” (All in one breath)

The employee said, “I know we have grease traps, not drains. What are you talking about?”

“Well, if I can come back there, I can show you.”

Incredulous, she replied, “Well, you'll have to talk to the owner about that.”

“But, but, there will be a huge fine. In fact, if you give me $100, I'll make sure no one knows about it.”

“There's no problem with our grease traps, as we have someone come by and clean them out. As for our drains, we haven't seen any clogs or odors or anything. I'm not gonna give you anything. Do you have a number I can call to verify who you are?”

Ignoring her, he blustered, “Well, I was outside and I noticed something with your outlet pipe, so I need to look at that too. It'll be $100 to inspect it.”

I'm sitting there drinking my coffee, listening to this exchange. In an effort to intimidate the woman, he then got on his cellphone and started talking about putting in a report. But, she wrote down the owner's number and handed it to him.

“Call the owner and set it up with him. I don't have that responsibility. Who are you with again?” She squinted trying to read his badge, but he turned around and kept talking on his phone. Finally, the man left in a hurry.

Definitely a small time con man and least likely to succeed.

Summertime

This happened in July 2006:

Well, the summer is here.

I went to Barbecues Galore to see if I could get one of those electric grills you could use inside the house to do some grilling.

The salesperson was VERY unhelpful (translated: he didn't know jack), but he said, "Take a look around". I did find an electric grill but it was for outside use only, with a long heavy cord. It was kind of steep, almost $180. So I looked around some more and then thought I should get one of those propane grills. There was one for $49.99, but it was a really basic unit, all metal and pretty small. It looked just like the one my grandfather complained about, so I kept looking.

The Weber Q grills caught my eye. The smallest one (Q100/120) could hold ten 1/4lb. hamburger patties or 16 hot dogs. Perfect for a single guy like me. What kind of sold me on it was that it's completely portable, you can take it anywhere. So, I decided to get that and a rolling cart. The top of the line (300) is huge and has two burners but it was around $300. I opted for the 120 which had fold-out shelves, and was a reasonable $149. So I went back to the salesperson to tell him what I wanted, but he was on the phone gabbing with one of his friends. So I walked around the store and watched the other customers who were helping themselves really as the salespeople were standing around looking bored! Finally, I saw what appeared to be the manager (he was dressed differently than the other yokels) and I walked up to him and, opening the Weber brochure, said, "I want this and this". He told me to meet him at the counter and so I walked over there and stood at the cashier station. The guy on the phone put his buddy on hold and finally asked me if I needed anything. I said one of the other guys was taking care of it. Being satisfied with that answer, he talked to his buddy again for another 10 minutes.

The manager came out with the grill and the cart and put it on the counter and proceeded to ring it up. I got some tools, a brush and a canister of propane (only $4). When my credit card went through, I signed the receipt, and then the manager said, "Have a good day," and walked off. So I'm standing there with two big bulky packages, no shopping cart (oh, did I mention they didn't have any of those?) and a bag full of implements. So, I struggled to get it off the counter (the sales people were "busy") and lumbered my way to the door. One of the other customers opened the door for me. Out in the parking lot, the propane canister fell out of the bag, which was perched precariously on top of the two boxes. Hindsight told me I should have hung the bag on my arm, it wasn't that heavy. So I went to the car, dropped off the boxes and watched three cars nearly drive over my propane canister which was rolling all over the road! That would have been a sight to see. The canister wasn't damaged too bad, but it had landed right on the valve, bending it a little bit.

Of course, I cursed the sales people all the way home. I guess they're used to selling $4000 grills so dealing with a guy wanting a little starter grill was beneath them.