Hello My Baby

I’m adding an addendum to my Layla adventure tale today. I took in a 2003 Saturn sedan with a customer complaint of noise in the front ever since he had a minor accident, which required the replacement of the Saturn front bumper. After an initial inspection, I took the Saturn out for a road test, and heard nothing. He okayed my keeping the car for a drive this morning, because it sounded louder cold. It turned out to be how the bumper mated to the frame. When the car settled overnight, the noise would become audible until it was driven for a while. The customer explained every time he took it in to be checked, the noise would disappear, which led to the funny point I’m getting to.

The customer said, “My Saturn’s like the frog in the old cartoon, where it would pop out singing until…”

I started laughing, knowing right away what cartoon he meant.

“You’re really dating yourself, pal,” I said, which got him laughing too.

In the Warner Bros. cartoon, a poor sap finds this case which he opens. A frog jumps up with top-hat and cane singing ‘Hello my baby, hello my darlin’, hello my ragtime gal’. Every time he tries to exploit the frog for money, it simply sits and croaks like a frog.

I didn’t charge him for checking the noise; but I should have charged him a hundred bucks for planting that stupid song in my head for the rest of the day. :)

Anecdotal Evidence

I have to take a break from Layla’s adventures for the day. My day job was slammed on AOL by a so called journalist, using an unnamed mechanic with thirty years experience whom the reporter gives the pseudonym ‘Max’. The report details how ‘Max’ knows used parts were installed in place of new on a high percentage of jobs, and it is still done in seven to ten percent of jobs today. ‘Max’ actually has the audacity to quote percentages concerning facts he has no way in hell of knowing. This leads me to my point today, which I’m sure many of my writer friends already know. Using anecdotal evidence to buttress a claim slamming an entire industry is the lowest form of reporting, but seems appealing to far too many ‘journalists’ today.

For those unacquainted with the term anecdotal evidence, I give this simple example. You walk down the street one day and see a calico cat run out in front of a car and get killed. You then assume all calico cats are so stupid, they will run across the street in front of on coming traffic (a belief I secretly hold). After seeing this, you use your anecdotal story as evidence to write a book called ‘All Calico Cats Are Stupid And I Can Prove It’. When confronted about your evidence, you immediately state the only calico cats you ever saw all ran out in front of traffic. This will be the same statement this moron reporter will make too, when confronted about his story: every mechanic he’s ever met says the auto repair industry installs used parts in place of new.

Here’s my anecdotal evidence, which I detest using, in reply to this clown. I’ve turned wrenches for over thirty-five years. At no time, either as a mechanic working at other shops, or as an auto shop owner myself for twenty-five years have I ever installed used parts in place of new. When I was a sailor on board ship, we told each other anecdotal stories. They were known as ‘Sea Stories’; because although they were entertaining, no one knew if they were true or not. Little did I know the old ‘Sea Stories’ would one day be used to slander whole industries, races, and religions.

Here’s the AOL link:

http://autos.aol.com/article/general/v2/_a/confessions-of-an-auto-mechanic/20070627112709990002

Bedding

I had opened up the big shop door, and was walking into my back room to do a little work on my taxes.

“Excuse me… excuse me… excuse…” a man began screaming out while standing near my roll up door entrance. He quieted as I returned to the front.

He had his below the hip pants on with cuffs dragging fashionably on the ground, complete with a couple layers of loose tops. On the plus side, he didn’t smell like he’d hit the bottle before coming over this morning. The man had a shopping cart. Hanging over all sides of the cart rested a mattress with a bungee cord draped around the middle. I’ll call my visitor Bedding.

“Can I help you?” I asked, not picturing any probability of it.

“Man… I need you to loan me a dollar for the bus,” Bedding blurted out.

“Well, there are three things wrong with that,” I began pointing out. “One, I don’t give out money here. Two, the bus stop is in the opposite direction of where you’re headed. Three, you couldn’t get the cart on the bus with you.”

Bedding looked at me with a mixture of disgust and outrage. When he saw how unaffected I was at his disapproval, Bedding smiled slowly.

“Want to buy a mattress?” Bedding asked.

“Absolutely not,” I replied with a touch of my own disgust. I hadn’t expected that one.

“It’s new,” Bedding informs me indignantly.

“I’m sure.” I wasn’t, and after it had hitched a ride on the shopping cart for a tour of East Oakland with Mr. Bedding, the mattress had a rode hard and put away wet look.

“Give me some rope so I can tie it on better,” Bedding told me.

“Ah… no.”

“Man, you ain’t very helpful.”

“So I’ve been told. Luckily, not by my customers.”

“I won’t ever bring my car in here,” Bedding stated solemnly, while hunching forward to get his mattress laden cart moving.

“I’ll make a note,” I replied with a wave, making a quick mental outline of the conversation to write on the blog instead of doing taxes. :)

Simile

This is just for fun.

I’ve been paying close attention to the subject of similes on Nathan Bransford’s blog. While anything can be over used in writing, I’m glad many of the writers defended similes. Reminders of writing blunders are absorbed usually like the criticism was written in stone. :) I’d like to make an observation pertaining to one of my favorite uses of a simile in my writing as well as what I read. I’ve read novels where the author describes a main character as looking or behaving like a very well known public figure, and it fits perfectly for me throughout the remainder of the novel. It’s not because the author was too lazy in descriptive phrasing. The usage fit a need perfectly. They wanted the reader to picture a certain person, many times as I believe they pictured the character while writing. Many times a well placed simile accomplishes what dialogue identifiers do, and readers generally register the comparison as they would an identifier. Just as we don’t really see ‘said’ when we read, other than a guide to who is speaking, readers generally file away the image a simile makes just as perfunctorily. Because agents and publishers read a vast amount of writing samples, and decide they’re tired of seeing certain identifiers or similes, it’s a bit self absorbed to subjectively yank writing tools out of our hands.

The guardians of the publishing universe proclaim no more adverb modifiers, and then no more dialogue identifiers, and now no more similes. Pretty soon, we’ll be writing: ‘See Dick run. Does Jane see him run?’ :)

Rooster

I was making out invoices in the office when a middle nineties Jeep drove up into the shop. Exiting the office, and paying more attention to the shape of the jeep, I missed the customer who had ducked out from the driver’s side. Now at some point over thirty years, just about every example of hair styles, pin cushion faces, and tattoos have stopped by either in a vehicle or walking in off the street. Although I’ve seen mild variations of the hair style my visitor sported, it is the most extreme I’ve seen to date. The kid was probably in his late teens, and just under six feet tall. His head was shaved but for a light colored fan of hair like you see on a pheasant, spiked up in a semicircle from his forehead to the back of his neck, nearly a foot long. I kept thinking he would break out in a cock-a-doodle-doo, and start strutting around, hands on waist. I’ll call my young visitor Rooster Cogburn.

“Can I help you,” I manage to say without cracking even a smile.

“I want you to install hydraulics on my Jeep,” Rooster told me.

“Do you mean wheel cylinders, calipers, and master cylinder on your brakes?” I asked.

“No man!” Rooster looks at me like I just fell from Mars. “You know… those kits for making the Jeep jump up and down.”

“No, I don’t do that type of work, only general repair and diagnostics,” I answer politely. “I don’t do…”

Rooster Cogburn waves me off. He has a call. Rooster turns so I get a profile shot of him as he talks animatedly to someone on his cell-phone, all the while bobbing his head and fan. I was impressed. Rooster tells his phone mate to hang on, and gives me a raised brow look, which is when I first noticed Mr. Cogburn had matching bars through his eyebrows. The hair had captivated me and I missed the face decorations.

“Well… can you do it or not?”

“Not.”

“Fine…” Rooster jumps in the Jeep and leaves, half his hair fan bent into the Jeep roof.

I should have saved Rooster for Layla. :)

Telemarketing

I get numerous telemarketers calling the business every day. As most folks know, when you answer these calls, you get dead air for a time before some machine clicks into the telemarketer. Therefore, people get five seconds to at least clear their throat, and then I hang up. I had a beauty on Friday. While laying on my back putting in a starter for a 1984 Olds, the portable phone rings next to me. I answer with my usual refrain, which gives people plenty of time to talk. Dead air, so I hung up. Five minutes later, the phone rings, same thing. The third time when I answer, an out of breath woman comes on within my acceptable range.

“Hi… there’s something… wrong with your phone,” Telesue informs me.

“Oh, how so? I can hear you fine, can I help you?”

“Your phone keeps hanging up on me.”

“It’s not now, so how can I help you?”

“Is this Bernard?”

I start laughing, because as everyone knows this is how they start their spiel. Is this such and such? How are you today, Sir? I decide to play it a little further though, blog notes ringing in my head.

“Yes, you’ve reached Nilson Brothers Garage, how can I help you?”

“How are you today, Sir?”

Yep. “Fine, can I help you?”

She starts the sales pitch for some web site sales thing-a-ma-jig. I hang up. She calls back.

“See,” Telesue says, after I answer, “your phone did it again, Sir.”

“Nope, that was me. Here it is again.” I hung up.

I know this seems rude; but if I had conversations with every telemarketer so I wouldn’t hurt their feelings, I wouldn’t have time to work. These people are relentless, and the laws haven’t slowed them down at all. They block the caller ID filters, and spam you no matter what you do. The real beauties are the robot callers. Who in the world listens to a sales pitch from some machine; and yet it must be the new craze, because my answering machine is full of them when I come to work. :)

Two Wheels

“Yo!”

Having heard the motion detector, I was already walking toward this guy on a bike, but he continued yelling out ‘Yo’ until I spoke from five feet away. It was then I noticed the ‘Yo’s’ had filled the air in front of him with hundred proof spirits. Miraculously, the bike rider still sat his bike in an upright position.

“I hear you, Sir. How can I help you?” Since I hadn’t turned on the air compressor yet, I was hoping he needed air. He wouldn’t be getting any, because I don’t start up the massive compressor to give out freebie air.

He spoke for a couple minutes, gesturing at his bike, but it might as well have been Russian or Latin. I didn’t understand a word of it.

“I didn’t understand a word you said, Sir,” I informed him, because the truth is always the best path. “Slow your speech down, and speak clearly.”

The bike rider launched again, turning the volume up, but not slowing down or enunciating.

“I’m not deaf,” I cut him off. “Slow down, and speak clearly.”

Two Wheels stares at me with the look of disgust only a guy who has chugged down a pint of something powerful and cheap at ten in the morning can. “My… handlebars. I need you to loosen the bolt so I can change positions.”

“See, that wasn’t so hard,” I give him a parting shot as I go over and get the socket wrench, socket, and extension for doing his bidding.

I loosen the bolt. He sits without moving the handlebars he’s still gripping. I can tell in his eyes, Two Wheels’ morning pick-me-up is really kicking in.

“You wanted to change the handlebar position,” I remind Two Wheels.

“Huh?” Two Wheels slowly focuses.

“The handlebars,” I repeat. “Put them in the position you like and I’ll tighten the bolt up again.”

“What’s wrong… with my handlebars?”

I start laughing, and he does too. I show him he can move the handlebars up or down now, and Two Wheels gets the picture finally. He moves them all over, studiously testing different feels, and then returns them to the original position.

“Yea, man, right there,” Two Wheels says, a satisfied look on his face as he’s holding the handle bar grips. “Tighten it up.”

I tighten the bolt. I’m happy if Two Wheels is happy.

“Thanks, can you loan me a dollar?”

“No.”

Two Wheels nods and turns the bike around with some difficulty. He misses the edge of my big door frame on his way to the sidewalk by a hair of the dog he’d had earlier. I turned to put my tools away, resisting the temptation to watch him navigate the street.

Where’s Layla when I need her? :)

In Honor Of Valentine's Day

A funny walk on the male side of Valentine's Day. I wrote this for my wife, who hates Valentine's Day. Warning! This is not a Hallmark Card poem. :)

A day set aside for all lovers to rock,

Valentine*s Day, what a vile crock.

This sugar sweet con makes me hurl,

Perhaps as a Valentine*s Day mural.

Feminist Icons preach against man,

But on V-Day he must give all he can,

While listening to the hypocrites whine,

Man must lavish gifts, wine and dine.

Oh, the mockery of these evil creatures,

As they mask their disdainful features,

Secretly laughing at the pitiful hope,

Pasted on the face of their male dope.

Soon, instead of tight dresses and hose,

She wears sweatpants and headache woes.

Gone in a flash are makeup and lipstick,

Replaced by wool and curlers real quick.

The poor sap, having delivered the goods,

Finds he might as well sleep in the woods.

His V-Day siren vanished before his eyes,

Leaving a vapor trail of excuses and lies.

She sprang to her bed, without even a whistle,

Dashing his dreams like the down of a thistle,

He heard her exclaim as she dove out of sight,

Happy V-Day to me, now turn out the light.

A Wave In Antarctica

This picture is in a series of shots taken in Antarctica, where the water breaks through and immediately freezes. Breathtaking. Oh yeah, and Layla and Cole #7. :)

“How come you don’t wish us rich and living in a mansion?” Layla asked, leaning provocatively over the Toyota Corolla fender as Cole worked through his lunch hour to get the customer’s front disc brake job done.

Cole straightened from where he had been using a vacuum tank to suck brake fluid from the Toyota’s master cylinder reservoir. His irritated growl evoked an appreciative laugh from Layla.

“I told you, we’ll do something special when our vacation comes up. Stan always closes the shop so everyone goes on vacation at the same time.”

“You ducked the question again.”

“It’s not me, Layla. If you want to live in a mansion, go live in a mansion. I’ll come visit you. How’s that sound?”

“It sounds like I’d get replaced by that cheap tart, Jill the moment I left,” Layla retorted. “I saw her getting chummy with you this morning. Perhaps a few hours rolling around in her ball would…”

“We were doing a wire trace, you…” Cole shut up, and went back to work as Layla started laughing again.

“I so got you, Wolfy,” Layla pointed the forefinger and middle fingers of her right hand at her eyes and then at Cole repeatedly. “Jill and I are getting along pretty well, but I’m watching you.”

“I’ll make a note.”

“Hey, for vacation, why don’t we play American Werewolf in Paris.”

It was Cole’s turn to laugh. He finished vacuum flushing the system, and put the wheels back on the Toyota. After making sure everything was clean, Cole let the Toyota down off the lift, and backed it out. Returning from test driving the Toyota, he joined Layla in the office where she finished the billing. Cole sat down at her desk with a cup of coffee.

“I have an idea. Why don’t we go out at night like superheroes, and get some bad guys,” Cole suggested. “We could be crime-fighters. You’d be entertained, and I’d work out some aggression. Can I wish to be a werewolf whenever I want instead of only during nights with a full moon?”

“You’re joking, right? Having you jump out and scare the crap out of me, along with the apartment smelling like wet dog once a month is plenty.”

“You won’t let me experiment with being Dracula, so…”

“Turn that record over, will ya’? Okay, so if I let you be a werewolf, and we go out like Batman and Robin, what do I get to be?” Layla asked, cutting off Cole’s vampire spiel.

“I don’t know. What can you change into?”

“The only thing I can change on me is my clothes.”

“You could change your abrasive attitude,” Cole suggested.

“Oh… you are so lucky,” Layla shook her head as if mourning a loss. “If you weren’t immune to my magic, you’d be Cole the gerbil so fast your little furry head would spin right off.”

“How about Super-Djinn?” Cole asked, changing the conversational direction. Cole remembered he was verbally baiting a creature powerful enough to change reality. “Or you could be Magical Mamma.”

“Those… those are so lame,” Layla laughed. “I’ll be the Mistress of Menace.”

“Not bad,” Cole agreed.

“You can be Amazing Dog-Boy and my costume will be one of those t-shirts that say ‘I’m with stupid’. I’ll make it with a revolving arrow which always points at you.”

“You’re not taking my suggestion for adventure very seriously,” Cole remarked, as Layla immediately created the t-shirt with fluorescent animated arrow, turning to demonstrate its versatility. “I’ll wish for clothing capable of changing with my form.”

“Why don’t I just take you on a leash? I’ll bring along a rolled up newspaper, and I can train you while we’re waiting for a crime to happen.”

Cole stood up. “Maybe I’ll go see if Jill’s back from lunch.”

“Sit down, you still have fifteen minutes left,” Layla ordered. “We’ll try out your adventure tonight; but don’t blame me when I end up in jail, and you end up in the dog pound.”

Layla

Since I don’t want to be accused of stealing anything in these unhappy times of plagiarism, I wrote this little Genie story from a suggestion written on Jordan Summers’ agent’s Publisher’s Marketplace site. After reading Ms. Ginger Clark wanted any manuscript with a genie, I thought I’d have a little fun with the idea. Anyway, there’s no charge for this, but that’s where the idea came from. :)

The young man walked along the rows of tables at the flea market, his face set in a grim mask of concentration. His fists clenched each time he noticed a table with used tools for sale, and immediately went over to investigate the items. Cole worked for an auto shop, which had been broken into the previous night. All of the employees’ tool boxes had been stolen. Thousands of dollars invested in his chosen profession disappeared overnight, leaving a bitter man hurrying around the area pawn shops and flea markets, looking for his lost tools. Something glinted in the sunlight as Cole passed by a haggard man with items laid out on a beat up blanket. Pausing, Cole searched idly for what he had glimpsed in the bright noontime of a San Jose, California day. What looked like a slim copper teapot lay in the middle of the blanket, catching the beams of light when seen at just the right angle. Cole picked it up, and the forlorn merchant shook his head in warning, gesturing negatively with his hand.

“You don’t want that thing, kid, trust me,” the worn out voice cautioned. “I’m selling it to someone more deserving.”

“Deserving of what?” Cole asked, turning the shiny object over in his calloused hands.

The hunched over old man, with grizzled gray beard in salt and pepper splotches, grinned up at the tall, intense young man. He looked Cole over appraisingly. Lithe corded muscle moved under the young man’s tee shirted form as Cole inspected the dully gleaming object. Pointing at Cole’s buzz cut brown hair, the old man’s bushy gray eyebrows lifted questioningly.

“Seen some action, huh kid?”

“I’ve been around,” Cole answered carefully.

“Saw some myself,” the old man muttered absently, a far off look momentarily making his eyes fade in introspection. Shuddering a little, the old man held out a gnarled sun browned hand. “Name’s Sonny.”

Cole shook his hand. “Cole. How much you want for this teapot, Sonny?”

“It ain’t no damn teapot. It’s an old oil lamp,” Sonny said, with a dismissive wave of his hand.

“How much?”

“I don’t want you…” Sonny bent over, clamping hands over his temples, as if in the grip of some painful head trauma.

Cole quickly put the lamp down, and helped the old man to his battered lawn chair. Sonny’s pain passed quickly, and he looked up at Cole with fearful compassion, his lip trembling.

“Are you okay?” Cole asked, real concern etched into his features, as he gripped Sonny’s shoulder to steady him.

“Give… give me five dollars… and it’s yours, kid.”

Cole reached into his pocket, extracting a twenty from the small number of folded bills he came up with. He stuffed the twenty dollar bill into Sonny’s hand.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Don’t worry about me, kid… worry about yourself,” Sonny answered, his head down. “Take it and go before I change my mind.”

“Sure, Sonny,” Cole replied, picking up his purchase. “Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me yet, boy,” Sonny muttered after Cole had walked away.

At home in his apartment in San Leandro, Cole sat down heavily on a used maroon sofa in the living room. He held the only prize from nearly twelve hours spent perusing back area markets tiredly. The slender spout curved back into the larger body of the lamp. Cole pulled a few Kleenex from the box on his coffee table, wetting a portion with his own saliva. Rubbing the inscribed lamp base, Cole felt the lamp quake in his hands. He dropped it, lurching up from his couch warily. Foggy mist drifted eerily from the spout, forming into what looked to Cole like a storm cloud up at his apartment ceiling. Oval eyes opened in the cloud. Azure colored orbs gleamed brightly down at Cole’s retreating form. He stopped only after backing into his living room wall, gauging the distance to the door. Laughter like small silver chimes on a doorstep at Christmas echoed inside the mist cloud. A pale form, nearly five and half feet tall, took shape as the cloud eyes and mist dissipated.

“Sweet Jesus…” Cole gasped, his mind spinning out of control with mental images from his fictional encounters with magic lamps, both in book form and television.

“Cole, is it?” The raven haired beauty asked, with a voice soft as a whisper, yet resonate as a gale force wind. “I am Layla.”

“You…you’re a Jinn.”

“I can be anything you wish,” Layla said, clothing her form in black miniskirt and high heels, and then instantly into a flowing transparent chiffon, thigh high night gown. Her azure eyes blinked enticingly. “What would you wish?”

Cole stayed silent. He spoke only after five full minutes had passed.

“I saw an X-Files episode where these dimwits get some carpet Genie to grant wishes, which they subsequently destroy themselves with,” Cole stated carefully, as Layla began laughing appreciatively, clapping her small hands together.

“I’m not that kind of Genie,” Layla chuckled. “I saw the episode. Very entertaining.”

Cole smiled. “Let’s cut to the chase. I wish for you to be free of the lamp.”

Layla screamed her mouth and form swirling into a mini-whirlwind before disappearing.

Cole sat down on the sofa, running shaky hands through his close cropped hair.

“I guess old Sonny really was trying not to screw me over,” Cole murmured to himself, leaning back.

“He…he didn’t screw you over,” Layla said, her form materializing where she lay in a heap at Cole’s feet. “Sorry, I turned invisible for a moment.”

Cole edged away from Layla. “You’re free. Look, the lamp’s gone. Why are you still here?”

“As you say, I am free,” Layla said, clutching Cole’s leg, and leaning her head against his thigh. “You… have no idea… it has been thousands of years. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Cole said, feeling as if his leg were on fire where Layla gripped it. “Have a nice life. Good luck to you.”

“I am free to grant you any wish I want, and no tricks,” Layla met Cole’s distrustful gaze steadily. “Let me thank you properly. I will even help you with picking your wish.”

“Okay…” Cole replied, his heart racing. “I’m going with simple. I want you to help me get all the stuff stolen from the auto shop I work at back.”

Layla took Cole’s hand, tilting it palm up, and kissed his palm. “Done.”

Cole stood inside a dingy steel building, filled with every imaginable item. Layla stood next to him in a mini-skirt with white blouse, gesturing happily.

“Your things are here, Cole.”

“Hey!” A gruff voice yelled from across the way, where two men had a table set up at the building entrance roll up door.

The two burly thugs ran across the warehouse to confront their visitors. They were both over six feet tall, and heavily built. When the two saw their intruders were unarmed, and one was a beautiful woman, the crooks stopped twenty feet away. They looked at each other and started laughing.

“Where the hell did you two come from?” One asked finally, as the two spread out, reaching for weapons. “You’re cute, baby.”

With but a gesture from Layla, the two went flying headfirst into the back wall of the warehouse, where they lay unmoving. Layla took Cole’s hand, and they were instantly standing next to a group of toolboxes and equipment. Cole jogged over to one on the right, a nearly six foot high Mac Tools box.

“I never thought I’d see this again,” Cole looked back at Layla gratefully. “I’ll call the police.”

“Call them from your workplace,” Layla smiled, and they were standing inside the auto shop where Cole worked, along with all the stolen gear.

“You’re amazing,” Cole whispered, taking Layla in his arms. “Thank you.”

“We’re even,” Layla grinned up at him mischievously, putting her arms around Cole’s neck. She kissed him, lightly at first, and then with growing passion. She broke away from him in confusion. “I…I felt that.”

“Oh yeah…” Cole reiterated.

“Maybe I could hang around with you for a while,” Layla offered, her azure colored eyes translucent gateways, Cole lost his way into immediately.

Cole put his arm around Layla’s shoulder. “I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship. Do you know anything about cars?”

“I can learn,” Layla leaned into Cole with a sigh.