The Captain

Writing in the back room I heard the motion detector, followed by the sounds of a voice, and stuff on my work bench being moved around. First thing I see is the ubiquitous homeless shopping cart train (two tied together and loaded) blocking the middle of my big doorway on the sidewalk. Near my work bench to the right, the Captain of the ‘Good Ship Lollipop’ outside rummaged around my bench. He wore a full length raggedy trench coat, gloves, and stocking hat. It’s cool up here in Northern California along the coast in June, but it ain’t that cool.

“What do you think you’re doing, Bud?” I ask, having already stuffed my 900,000 volt stun gun into my belt at the back (I could use blog material, but I need to be intact in order to type).

The Captain whipped around, tilted his head, and gave me a surly look like I was the one rooting around in someone else’s shop. I notice he’s sporting a black eye patch; but it’s tilted up, revealing a good eye. Well… arrrrrrrhhhhh, matey. He flips the patch into place when I start smiling. The Captain then rapid fires forty seconds of gibberish, including hand waving, and facial contortions. I see his hands empty of booty, and coat pockets flat, so I gesture at the door with a wave.

“I have no idea what you just said. Get out.”

“I’m lookin’ for scrap!” the Captain finds his communicator, but holds on to the attitude.

“I have a regular metal guy who picks up all my scrap, and he never walks into my place like he owns it,” I reply, still waving him to the door.

The Captain puts his head down, squares his shoulders, leans forward, and with his fists pumping downward with each step, walks toward the ‘Good Ship Lollipop’. He heaves ho, and overcomes his ship’s inertia, with hands at the rudder. The Captain casts his one-eyed salty look at me sideways before disappearing from view.

“$*%& you!” The Captain bids me adieu, and sails out of sight. :)

Liar's List

I read some unrelated stuff in the news this weekend, which prompted me to dredge up some thoughts about clichés and misconceptions people have about lies, especially my kids. :)

1. Lying is a victimless crime. Yea, right... I love you too. :)
   
2. Lying takes imagination. No, lying takes a complete lack of imagination. Imagining how easily lying can make you look like a complete idiot creates truth tellers.
3. Lying is a short cut to a life you’ve never lived. Try living the life you’re creating for yourself instead. It’s easier to remember the truth.
4. White lies spare feelings. Try using your imagination to avoid white lies. For example, if a fat person asks you if a particular piece of clothing makes them look fat, say no. It’s the truth. After all, they were fat before they asked you, and they didn’t ask you if the clothing made them fatter. Keep the snappy answers to stupid questions to yourself.
5. Liars will lie about even the small stuff they don’t have to lie about. I think this is because they need to stay in practice. Once a liar has told a thousand lies, the relief and euphoria of telling the truth can lead to an unraveling of their lives.
6. Nobody cares about lies. Uh… yea… they do.
7. Lies are the same as storytelling. No, writing entertaining fiction is not lying. Writing an autobiography using fiction is lying.
8. One way to avoid lying in a situation where you think fiction will make you appear more appealing in the eyes of others is to simply listen, and keep your mouth shut. If you listen with concentration, the opportunity to tell a truth usually appears.
9. Liars are funny. No, they’re pathetic.
10. There are good liars and bad liars. Another lie. :)
    

George The Alligator Returns

I mentioned George the Alligator in earlier Florida posts. My brother Jim sent me the picture of him I took of ‘King George’ with his camera. Moments after taking this picture, I tried going around the bush in front of George to get a face shot. It wasn’t one of my brighter moments; but I did find a break in the foliage where I could get almost a full frontal shot through the bushes. Seconds away from clicking the picture, George whipped around blindingly fast and plunged into the lake. Thankfully, George went into the water, and not through the hedge. :)

Divine Intervention

A rather miraculous fix happened for me on a 1998 Buick Regal with an ABS (Antilock Brake System) problem. Contrary to what most people think, ABS brakes only come into play on an emergency stop, metering hydraulic pressure to the rear brakes with Rear Wheel Antilock Brake Systems, or all four wheels with Four Wheel Antilock Brake Systems to prevent wheel lock up. The codes I scanned indicated problems with the ABS Modulator Motor Pack. I took the wrong note sheet in with me and ordered a Motor Pack kit from the Delco warehouse for the Traction Control Modulator Motor Pack. I had disassembled both units because sometimes the gears in the Traction Control Modulator Motor Pack cause a code indicating problems with the ABS Modulator Motor Pack. Since scanning for codes only points you in a certain direction, the mechanic has to cover all the bases.

Before the eyes start glazing over out there on this too much info moment, let me get to the point. I ordered the wrong motor pack, and was sent the right one. This small miracle allowed me to finish the job on time for the lady who had an appointment today at noon. Most would say, ‘oh… nice coincidence… lucky you’. Having worked in this industry for thirty-six years, I’m here to tell you no such lucky coincidence ever happens, at least not to me. When you call a parts person and order the wrong part, you get the wrong part. The resulting mess of a late finish on the job due out, and backed up appointments, reminds you for many years after to be more careful. Parts people make mistakes, but they’re never made accidentally in the shop mechanic’s favor. The chances of it happening rival getting hit by lightning. Only one explanation… divine intervention… amen. :)

Politico

A real nice guy in a business suit came by to see me yesterday. He wanted to put an Obama for President sign on my building. Forget the politics. It could just as easily have been a guy wanting to put up a McCain sign. Business owners are nuts if they put up political party signs. It’s one thing to vote, write blogs, write representatives, and profess your views privately; but business is business. Endorsing political views in the service or entertainment business is a dangerous move. A customer, reader, or movie fan may love the work done on their vehicle, book by an author, or movie starring a famous actor or actress; but that can change in a heartbeat with political advocacy. Profess publicly who you’re voting for in the next election, and you risk pissing off half your customers or fans. Anyway, the conversation in my office went like this after I invited him in, thinking he was there to make an appointment.

“Who are you voting for in the Presidential election this November,” he asked with a big smile.

“I don’t discuss politics here, Sir,” I answered carefully, because I’d never been asked the question before at the start of a customer conversation. “Can I help you with a car or truck repair?”

He nodded, glancing around at the pictures and licenses on the walls, looking for clues.

“You have a nice looking family.”

“Thanks,” I replied, wondering if the street had birthed a new con game.

“Would you consider putting an Obama for President sign on your building?”

“No,” I admit to some surprise, because his request is another first. I’ve been here since 1976, and no one has wanted to put up a political sign before. Maybe it’s my new paint job I had done a few years ago.

“Are you a McCain supporter,” Mr. Politico asks with a concerned look.

“I won’t be putting up a McCain for President sign either,” I counter truthfully. “Politics and the service business don’t mix.”

“Well, thank you for your time. Can I have one of your business cards for my records?”

“Sure,” I handed him one, and he left after a handshake.

In the Presidential race, my business property is Switzerland. :)

The Cynic

“I live just down the street,” the man in jeans and t-shirt informs me, pointing in the general direction he thinks will make us seem like neighbors.

I’ve found out through experience this line journeys down one of three paths from here: can I use your phone, can I borrow something in your shop, or a new in the neighborhood customer. Society looks down on the trait of cynicism, because cynics see the world through jaundiced eyes. The glass half empty outlook seldom appears mysteriously one day to steal away happy thoughts from unsuspecting optimists. It creeps into the mind over many years on spidery legs of disillusionment.

“Yes Sir, may I help you?” I’m a polite cynic. They see it in my eyes though, despite the interested tone.

“Can you loan me a jack? It’ll only take a few minutes. My right front tire’s flat. My jack’s busted and…” he’s blurting this out rapid fire, as if speed will bolster his case to the evil cynic guy, who can’t hide the weary recognition overcoming polite interest on his face.

In days of yesteryear, before sue happy people, thieves, and lawyers combined to make all our lives miserable, this simple request might not have piled up on the rocks of cynicism.

“I can’t do that,” I interrupt the man’s spiel with a hand held up to add visual aid to my cold hearted refusal.

“Can’t or won’t?” The man’s eyebrows knit into exasperated disbelief at the abruptness of my refusal.

“Both actually,” I point to the large sign inside the door stating my policy of no tools loaned, and no use of my business phones permitted. “You missed the sign on your way in. I’m thinking of taking it down; because it would have to be the size of a billboard, blocking the entrance to the shop for anyone to actually read the thing.”

“But I live down the street,” he glances at the sign and pulls the neighbor card on me again.

“Look,” I begin my useless explanation, which I know never leads to understanding, “my liability insurance…”

“Don’t pull that insurance excuse on me,” the man cuts in with passion. “I’m only asking…”

“No, I won’t loan you one of my hydraulic jacks. Not going to happen, not if you live next door, not today, tomorrow, or next week,” the evil cynicism is often followed by tightlipped anger.

“Fine!” The man stalks off.

No, I don’t know when it happened. It might have been the dolly I loaned long ago to a man trudging down the street with a battery in his hands, that never returned. It could have been the heartfelt plea of an emergency to use my phone many years ago, which turned into a drug deal right outside the door to my shop. It may have been the jumper cables a guy pleaded to get, and returned a $5 cable set in place of the $20 one I loaned him. It might have been the pliers and wrenches I never saw again when my innocence was intact. The insurance man who asked if I loaned tools out of the shop, and told me if I did, my policy would be canceled, probably had a small part in it too. He agreed to my policy of loaning jumper cables, empty gas can, or battery pliers for a deposit, although he did point out if the man or woman hooked up the jumper cables wrong and the battery exploded, I’d probably be the one blamed. He was even more of a cynic than me. :)

The Lost Tribe

Little did I know when typing my adventures from the terminal, waiting to leave Dallas International, they were just beginning. We few, we band of brothers (gender inclusive for literary effect), we exiled travelers in search of Oakland, Ca, plodded gratefully to the monitor near our scheduled gate, after many hours in the wilderness of boredom. The evilness of words splashed digitally across a lighted display assailed we band of brothers yet again. Flight to Oakland was departing at 8:00 PM, now departing at 9:20 PM. There’s some good news. We rush to ask why at our beloved gate D36 with parched mouths and swollen tongues. It seems, the nice lady informs us, a flight connecting from the East was delayed, and if our flight to Oakland left on time, it would strand those flying in from the East. Well, waaaaaahhhhhh… too bad you didn’t have the same compassion when we were circling your airport from the South twenty minutes before our connecting flight left for beloved Oakland. This crushing news is delivered at 6:30 PM, only an hour before what would have been our scheduled boarding time. Now the boarding time lies two and a half hours away from we, the new lost tribe of Northern California travelers. Standing amongst the lost tribe, we exchange glances of disillusionment, nod at one another, and trundle off with our pathetic belongings, knowing we do not endure this torture alone.

Spotting a few of my brethren near the holy place of Gate D36, staring up at the bank of monitors, around 8:00 PM, I join them, wondering what new scourge afflicts us. One mumbles they’ve changed the gate on us. I look up astonished to see we’ve been moved to Gate D31. You must remember, as a lost tribe, we have adopted the small Mecca of Gate D36 through the lonely hours, where we could congregate, and look longingly at our flight number and gate departure time. I hear a few sobs, and look around the tribe, only to see them staring in compassion at me. It’s me sobbing. I cough to hide my embarrassment; and we all agree to take turns on the monitor when we reach the new Mecca, Gate D31. Our monitor guard is to call out the code word ‘Oakland’ to gather the brethren in the event of news, since the airline has decided not to inform the lost tribe of gate changes on their sophisticated PA system. I begin to fear American Airlines has discovered too few spots on our flight to accommodate the incoming East Coast VIP’s, and have decided to lose a few of the lost tribe with unheralded gate changes.

I sit down near our foreign gate D31, a sense of loss enveloping me. Nothing seems the same. Colors near this gate appear bland, the chatter of voices more fearful and hushed. At 8:15 PM, we hear a strangled call from the monitor: ‘Oak…Oakland!’. We rush over where our vigilant guard points with shaking hand at the tyrannical monitor. Our gate has been changed again, this time to C21. We gasp together as if members of the Greek Chorus, heralding tragedies in Shakespeare’s Othello. We all know C means a different terminal complex. Confronting the wily D31 Gate person, a beleaguered black brother of the lost tribe calls out angrily, ‘what the hell are you changing the @$#*?&% gates on us for!?’.

“I’m sorry (she isn’t),” the gate keeper responds with her hands out in placating fashion. “I’m not in charge of that. Just walk five minutes down to the escalators, go up and walk straight over for three minutes, go down the escalator, and you’re in C terminal. Don’t bother with the tram (connecting rail car). It takes too long. Better get going.”

The tribe exchanges glances, and a lady says, “I don’t know about the rest of you; but if she says don’t take the tram, I’m taking the tram. I know where that is.”

Grunts of agreement ring out from the tribe, and we hurry toward the escalator to the upper level where the tram awaits. We arrive eventually at 8:45 PM in C terminal and locate Gate C21, hoping to be only minutes from boarding our escape craft. Moments after we seat ourselves near Gate C21, the dread cry of ‘Oakland’ rings out from our startled monitor guard.

“They’ve changed the damn gate on us again!” he greets us as we fling bags on our shoulders.

We look at the Gate C21 counter board, and sure enough, Oakland, Ca has been changed to Ontario, Ca. An older lady with a cane rushes the counter attendants, who do a quick two-step back as she swings it up, gesturing at them angrily.

“Okay… damn it… where the hell’s Oakland!?”

She has their attention. The two of them point down the terminal in sync to the left. “C…C 28, Ma’am.”

“It better be,” she states with an eerie smile as we gather behind her. “If it’s not, I’m coming back. Get on the damn PA and announce it, you $%^&#’s.”

While we hurry toward Gate C28, a hesitant voice announces the gate change on the PA system. Reaching Gate C28, we find the beautiful word Oakland on the gate board, along with our flight number, which not surprisingly begins with a 13. The tribe gathers around the counter, daring them to change our gate again. Instead, one of the counter creatures announces we will be late boarding, because the East Coast VIP’s are only now taxiing into the terminal area. The tribe continues staring silently at the board. These creatures have trapped us in this maze, watching us scamper around Dallas International for over eight hours. They’ve run us from gate to gate like we were victims of a kidnapping, rushing the lost tribe from phone booth to phone booth for new directions to regain our pathetic lives. If they change the board, there will be violence. Twenty minutes late, they begin boarding us. On the plane, lost tribe members glanced around happily at each other, like the freed captives from the ‘Raid on Entebbe’. We had overcome the last sandstorm in this desert of agony. Touching down at Oakland International near midnight will live on in my magical moment’s list.

I learned as a writer, I do have limits to my creativity while in captivity. Yes, anger, noise, mind numbing boredom, and fear do derail creativity. This morning, blogging my final Florida chapter, I am again invigorated here at my little auto repair shop. Although dramatizing slightly the trials and tribulations of The Lost Tribe of Oakland, the details of what befell our stranded band are all too true. It’s funny today; and rest assured, I laughed my ass off writing this chronicle. :)

Homeward Bound?

I rose very early this morning, hoping today would be a trouble free flying day, and I would be home by two PM, California time. My brother-in-law took me to the airport at 6:15 AM, and I was on my way. ‘Indiana Jones’ airline delivered me in ‘Bogata’ Miami International Airport without a glitch. Then the fun started. American Airlines loaded us all on the airliner right at scheduled boarding time. I’m feeling confident, California is right around the corner. No such luck. One of the plane crew informs their trapped audience the pilots were inbound, but had not arrived. I thought put a fork in me, I’m done. The pilots never arrived, and American Airlines sent over a replacement crew eventually. We left an hour late, flew into Dallas International an hour late, ten minutes past my connecting flight to Oakland’s departure.

Does American meet us with a team of people to guide their lost sheep through this miserable flying snafu? Hell no. AA ignored the connecting flight mishap. A flight attendant finally helped direct me in the right direction. The happy news started in earnest then. The next flight to Oakland would fly out of Dallas at eight PM, nearly seven and a half hours from when I’m standing there stunned at my good fortune. Adding insult to injury, the guy looking at my fate on his monitor tells me I’ll have to go out of the secured area, get another ticket issued, and then return through their security check point… oh joy.

Did American call forward to their ticket people telling them to set up a line specially to speed the victims of their screw-up forward? Hell no. It did pass some time, since I stood in line with travelers on their way overseas for over an hour. Now I’m not causing any ruckus at all; because it won’t do any good, and it isn’t the ticket people’s fault. The lady who helps me sees my look of glum acceptance as she confirms eight PM will be the soonest I escape wonderful Dallas International. ‘It’s all we can do, Sir’, she states, as if readying herself for battle. I wondered if maybe she wanted me to apologize. I take my ticket, wave and walk away. At the time all I could think of was beating the backed up overseas travelers to the security line. I didn’t. Happy days though, I got wanded by security, where you stand with your feet spread, and hands straight out as if you’re pretending to be an airplane. My older brother Jim told me they wanded him in Atlanta, so it was good to keep up our new family tradition. I again throttled my first impulse to stand there with my arms out saying, ‘on the streets they call me the Jackal’, deciding a nine-thirty PM arrival in Oakland greatly surpassed an over-nighter with Homeland Security.

So, here I sit, in Dallas, writing once again to pass time and smooth over another of life’s rough spots. I will hopefully end this journey tonight. :)

Maggie

My sister Janet and her husband Don own a border collie named Maggie, or she owns them. After watching Maggie in action, I admit to some confusion as to who owns who. Mottled white shaggy coat, with a black face, Maggie fetches. It’s what she does. You can stay on her good side if you toss whatever she brings you stat. If not, Maggie will place squeaky stuffed dinosaurs and boomerangs closer to you, up your lap, and in your mouth if need be. As the ‘Borg’ used to say in ‘Star Trek’, you will be assimilated. Older brother Jim, wife Maria, and I have already been Borged by the relentless Maggie. We are all trained to throw squeeze toys from the moment we walk through the door at the dog’s whim. An annoyed “Maggie” will ring out from Janet and Don in hopes of rescuing a relative trapped within the drone training session. Maggie hunkers down for a moment with a quick “grrrrrowwwwf”, which is Maggonese for piss off. The drone training session usually starts again forty-five seconds later. There is one visitor immune to the border collie’s hypnotic eyes: sister Cheryl, who stays in the ‘Big House’ with Janet, Don, and ‘Mech’ Maggie. Sometimes known as the witch who escaped the house in ‘Over the Rainbow’, Cheryl freezes the dog’s blood with but a single glance. If she adds a finger shake to her withering gaze, Maggie drops down on her side and plays dead.

George the Alligator visits different lawns bordering his kingdom. He has even taken a siesta next to my sister’s screened in pool patio. Unknown to George, his kingship of Sarasota’s beleaguered food chain on the Condo lake front rests with Maggie. Maggie is not an alligator menu item. She has a name. If ‘King George’ ever forgets that fact, I’m afraid his reign supreme will end abruptly with a large, gunpowder propelled round right between his beady little eyes. My sister doesn’t miss. Note to George, if you hear a squeak toy on the lawn where you’re napping, go back to sleep, buddy. :)

I journey aboard ‘Indiana Jones’ airline early tomorrow morning for the first leg of my flight into ‘Bogata’ Miami International, heading home.

George The Alligator

Sitting here at dawn on the balcony of where I’m staying, watching an alligator named George drift over the lake water surface below, I drink my coffee in uneasy harmony. Most Condo complexes here in Sarasota, Florida have a connecting series of small lakes. Alligators, ducks, lizards, turtles, and big billed birds of all kinds parade, float and squawk past. Occasionally, Wild Kingdom erupts as the top of this curiously civilized food chain bumps into and eats one of the other rungs on the eating ladder. The people living down here in this beautiful Florida patch of paradise refrain from naming all the denizens stopping in and around the Condo complex lake for good reason. Seriously, who wants to watch the usually punctual Tommy the Turtle become a happy meal right in front of their eyes. Should we hold a wake when the formerly paddling princess, Daisy Duck decides the scaled log in the water looks like a great place to rest those tired webbed feet. What about when Big Bird takes her newly named feathered offspring, Bitsy and Bondo down to peck at the water’s edge, unaware nature has decided to teach its first and final lesson of who’s who on the alligator menu. In reality, only one of these characters acquires a name: George the Alligator. In his defense, George never objects when someone cutely names his lunch; but mostly, the observers of this daily dilemma realize menu items should remain anonymous. :)