There are so many things in life I hate. I wish I could list them all for you, and then you'd get an idea of why I'm the miserable old bastard I am.
I pulled out onto the road leading out of the campus where I work today at 4:45 p.m. The first half mile of my trip was normal; nothing thereafter was, however.
I came upon a line of traffic backed up at the light on the first intersection with a road that didn't go into another campus in the commercial area. The miniature river of red tail lights winked at me in defiant mockery. I hit the brakes and rode them the rest of the way to the intersection. I was greeted there by another, slow-moving inchworm of traffic that snailed its way down the winding, two-lane road. About another half mile up, the traffic ceased movement altogether.
I've dealt with nasty traffic on this particular stretch of road before. It slaloms through the swank Riverwoods area and is patrolled often and well by police eager to raise revenues and keep wealthy homeowners from complaining. The 35 mph speed is best observed, particularly at high-traffic times. A pull-over not only costs the one being pulled over time and money, it can stop or delay the movement of the road for miles in both directions.
I let my foot off the brake a few times and realized I wasn't going to get home early, after all.
I thought, initially, that perhaps the additional flow was due to holiday-seekers sneaking out early to jump on their four-day weekend. A huge number of people will take the Friday before a three-day weekend off (or the Monday following) and extend their leisure. Still, the traffic was thick and crawling in BOTH directions ... highly unusual. I let up and the brake, crept 10 feet, and stopped again. I heard a sound and realized I'd LOUDLY sighed in resigned exasperation. Then I heard another sound.
A woman in a minivan trying to turn onto the crossroad to my left was yammering at me. "Does this Portwine street go to Lake Cook Road??" her irritatingly grating voice intruded into my solitude. "I have no idea," I sneered, knowing full well it didn't. She rolled her eyes in frustration and let her ham hock of a paw drop hard onto her steering wheel. She'd know soon enough, and the very road she was turning from was the one that led to the street she sought. What am I, I thought, Tom-Tom? 411? Get a frickin' MAP, I thought, and called my wife.
The kids were screaming in the background. She put the phone down and I heard a bellowing, followed by a few seconds of silence behind it like a boat's wake. But before the conversation resumed, the clamor started again.
More bellowing. A threat is issued. A few seconds of quiet. Phone conversation continues. Cacophony in the background a few seconds after that.
I let the brake off and crept some more. I wondered how far I'd gone. It appeared to be less than six miles. It took me nearly forty minutes.
My wife told me she had a headache. More caterwauling in the background. Another threat, followed by a shouted imperative to get off the bed. Reiteration of the headache. I offer to pick up dinner and immediately regret my offer. In two days, I've spent a total of three or four hours with her and the kids. I ask if they want to go with me and offer to pick them up, then creep some more. Not really, she says. See you when you get home.
I hang up, trying to have some mercy on her. I know from headaches; I get migraines triggered by sinusitis. It's a joy. If she's got a headache, and the kids are out of control ... well, I can only say it was God's grace that it was her at home and not me.
Let the foot off the brake. Creep. Stop. Wait. Creep. Stop. Wait. Wait some more. Still more. Creep ahead.
Nearly an hour in the car now, and I haven't gone even seven of the TWENTY miles I have to traverse to get home. The weather was warm, much warmer than I wanted, but the wind was blowing stoutly without becoming that obnoxious, uneducated and uncouth wind so common in the Chicago area. With both windows down, I didn't need the non-existent air conditioner ... thank God.
I blew air through pursed lips and listened to them slap together, effectively giving a raspberry to everyone that cared. I heard a man speaking over his hip-hop into his cell phone declare that he HAD come from [Route] 60, and where the fuck is he now?? I wondered who was on the other end of that conversation. Spouse? Co-worker? Mistress? Drug dealer? Then it came to me -- I didn't care.
Let the foot off the brake. Move a whopping 20 feet this time. Then again. Hmm. I'd rounded a bend in the road and from my vantage point at the crest of what passes for a hill in Illinois I could see the red and blue flashers blazing far distant from me. They appeared to be in the middle of the next major intersection, cutting off westbound traffic and forcing cars to go either north or south ... onto the very street where I was slugging my way home.
It took me another twenty minutes of inching along to finally reach that intersection. A few seconds before I did, two police cruisers floated lazily past me going south. The first had his window down, and all I could hear was the cackling laughter spilling out of his mouth and into the cars of the people he was passing. I wondered what could have been so funny. A maiming in the accident that had traffic blocked? A death, perhaps? Or just the idea of the rest of us being stuck in the mess while he can turn on his lights and rush to Dunkin' Donuts for another dozen? Then it came to me -- I didn't care.
Two hours and twenty-three minutes later, I finally walked into my house. I was greeted by my glass-eyed wife and, when his video game permitted, by my son. And soon, it's off to bed. So despite leaving twenty minutes early, I was nearly two hours later.
Just one of the things on that long list of things I hate. Traffic.
It's probably near the top.
-JDT-
Thursday, May 24, 2007
Sunday, May 20, 2007
Some Thoughts on my Trip to PR
Well ... I'm back from Puerto Rico, and have finally a few moments to tell some things about my trip.
The first thing I'd like to say about Puerto Rico is, that the people here seem very nice. They're friendly and will smile and say hello as you pass them in hallways and on the street. That's the first thing I'd like to say.
The next thing I want to say is that I've never been so grateful to God Almighty in Heaven for seat belts in my entire life. Ever. Period.
Turn signals, people! They're standard on ALL VEHICLES! Try 'em! PLEASE!!
"Driving" as you may know it in the United States does not exist here. I've never driven in places like New Yawk or Noo Joyzee, so I can't comment on those places. What I CAN say is that the IT contact person here, Robert(o), is FROM New York -- specifically, the Bronx, I believe he said. And HE told me that people down here are CRAZY when driving. So -- there you have it. I didn't really need him to tell me that, but having him confirm that even NY drivers aren't as bad was something of a confirmation of my suspicions.
There are some other things about PR that are sort of interesting. For instance, the sky hasn't really been blue since I've been here. It's kind of a humid-blue, the same sort of grayish off-toned blue that I remember from the south eastern US. The humidity is high, but there is a steady and nice sea breeze blowing most of the time. It's not an obnoxious wind like in Chicago or, even worse, where I grew up in California. It's a gentler, quieter breeze that has a sea-mist smell (most of the time) and has learned its manners from its world travels. It's unobtrusive and welcome, polite and helpful. Being here has reminded me how much I love, and miss, the ocean. And I occasionally flatter myself with the belief that the ocean loves and misses me too. (Yeah, whatever.)
Anyway, the food in PR is very interesting. I've had two absolutely OUTSTANDING meals while I've been here (and I have less than 24 hours to go, so I doubt I'll top those two). One was at Ruth's Chris restaurant, and that's kind of unfair, since it's technically a Texas restaurant that's grown and spread. The prime beef they receive is second to none on earth, and is some of the most deliciously perfect beef you'll ever find. If you haven't been to a Ruth's Chris Steak House yet, please go and treat yourself to an exquisite meal. It's horrifically expensive and worth every penny, I promise.
So, I don't count Ruth's Chris. By the bye, I had a Kobe sirloin, which is from Japan, the famous Kobe marbled beef. I must tell you it was divine.
Sorry, I digress. And now my mouth is watering.
All right, so I can't really count Ruth's Chris. It would have been a horrible shock if that meal had been BAD, so let's scratch that one. The other fantastic dinner came from a place called The Parrot Club in the district known as Old San Juan. I don't know why it's ''Old", because most of the buildings down there were in much better condition and maintenance than the area where we were staying. But I suspect it's because that is where San Juan originally started, and it has since sprawled over the rest of the area and eventually swallowed the surrounding neighborhoods and suburbs so that now it's a metro area of a million people. The district is clean, well-lit and packed with high-end hotels, bars and restaurants, and I suppose if I'd spent more time there, shops and boutiques. It's the area wherein conventions are held, and where the huge (and I do mean HUGE) cruise ships port for the vacationers to shop and play on dry land. Some of the streets are paved with very unique and attractive bricks made from local minerals that are naturally a violet-hued color. The buildings seem reminiscent of New Orleans style architecture (based solely on the photos of NO that I've seen, never having been there), but are colored with bright Caribbean vibrancy. Not garishly so, but lots of yellows, turquoise or aquamarine ... colors along those lines. And plenty of white. The area is a sort of peninsula that juts into the water from the east as is surrounded on the west by the ocean(s), so there's really only one way in or out.
Of course, those lovely violet-brick streets are absolutely CRAMMED with cars, taxis and pedestrians. There isn't much of a sidewalk to speak of on a lot of those streets, so you spend as much time negotiating your way through the crowds as you do enjoying the sites. It was more warm and humid that I cared for to be walking about, but the breeze courteously kept me from dripping in sweat, and the ocean whispered quietly in the background to remind me that it was there. As we walked along the southern end of the peninsula on the inlet where the cruise ship docks the wave action was a calm lapping against the stone and concrete walls that kept the water at bay. The northern side of the peninsula was the Atlantic, with its tumbling, rough-housing waves foaming and playing at the beach.
So, Old San Juan was a pleasant experience. On one of those narrow, cobblestone streets was this Parrot Club bar and restaurant. We decided on that, and went in at the enticement of a Puerto Rican girl who would have been just as much at home in New York as she was here on her "Island of Enchantment". She challenged us with the statement that there was no place better; we took her up on her statement and were seated almost immediately (which I thought was a nice touch). Several beers and not enough appetizers later, we were served our meals. I had a skirt steak with a very Puerto Rican name that was glazed with a light, not-too-sweet barbeque sauce that was nothing short of extraordinary. It was topped with chopped green onions, and served beside a chile stuffed with goat cheese and a sweet corn tamal. Now, I thought "sweet corn" was something like a desert, implying that the base was corn meal and the dish was sweet. It actually meant just what it said: the base was sweet corn meal, not SWEETENED corn meal, and the tamal was savory. So, that was ... meh. I'm not a big fan of tamals, evidently.
At any rate, the meal was delectable. The skirt steak was tender and juicy, cooked perfectly, and despite the immense amount of chewing that comes along with that cut of beef, every morsel was enjoyable. I left nothing of the steak on my plate and was sad when it was over. One of the local beers -- it appears to be, by far, the most popular -- is called Medalla (pronounced med-EYE-ya) Light. It's a light beer. It's better than other light beers I've had, and I was actually grateful it wasn't any more robust than it was, but it was definitely a light beer. Oh well.
Those were the two best meals I had while I was here, and I would not hesitate to have them both again, even if I had to pay for them myself. Absolutely fantastic. If you're coming to Puerto Rico at any time, don't miss the Parrot Club and their skirt steak, and don't deny yourself Ruth's Chris, either. You haven't lived fully until you've had a Ruth's Chris steak.
So, now, here are some thoughts that ran through my head, but thankfully not out of my mouth, at some other places I've eaten.
"What's THAT??"
"Oh, look ... more plantains."
"What's THAT smell??"
"Am I supposed to EAT that, or is it a decoration?"
"Did they bring this from home? Did their mother cook it?"
"So ... you eat this EVERY Christmas? I'm sorry."
"Wow, there really ARE 101 ways to cook a plantain, aren't there?"
"Your definition of 'good' and mine are very, very different."
"Please God, don't let this come with plantains."
"Okay, I'm sure that's not supposed to smell like that."
"What part of the animal is that?"
"Wait a minute ... is that even edible??"
"You really, REALLY like pigs here, don't you?"
"Three milks? Like what -- cow, goat and say, cat?"
"What do you mean there's no English equivalent for this?"
There were others, of course, but I've tried to be polite and grateful, because as I mentioned, the people were warm and friendly and meant well. They deserve to be treated graciously.
Finally, I'm home at last. This entry is a collection of thoughts and things that I jotted down while I was there on the "Isle of Enchantment" (as they like to refer to it), and some final, closing things now that I'm home. I've never been gone on a business trip for so long, it failed miserably, and it was at BEST embarrassing. At worst, it was catastrophic for the product. But all should be well again on June 22, after which I will very likely have to travel far and wide again to roll the product out once more. For the last time, I hope. And maybe -- just maybe -- I won't have to go and do this after all. Perhaps by then, the manager I work for will trust his full-time resource (whose job description says "software deployment" and includes a statement about 40% travel -- unlike MINE) enough to send HER to these places to do this. I can always be reached by phone for help if needed.
*Sigh.* Well. It's over. And the best part of any trip is coming home to a loving and wonderful family and being able to bask in their welcome.
I can breathe again.
-JDT-
The first thing I'd like to say about Puerto Rico is, that the people here seem very nice. They're friendly and will smile and say hello as you pass them in hallways and on the street. That's the first thing I'd like to say.
The next thing I want to say is that I've never been so grateful to God Almighty in Heaven for seat belts in my entire life. Ever. Period.
Turn signals, people! They're standard on ALL VEHICLES! Try 'em! PLEASE!!
"Driving" as you may know it in the United States does not exist here. I've never driven in places like New Yawk or Noo Joyzee, so I can't comment on those places. What I CAN say is that the IT contact person here, Robert(o), is FROM New York -- specifically, the Bronx, I believe he said. And HE told me that people down here are CRAZY when driving. So -- there you have it. I didn't really need him to tell me that, but having him confirm that even NY drivers aren't as bad was something of a confirmation of my suspicions.
There are some other things about PR that are sort of interesting. For instance, the sky hasn't really been blue since I've been here. It's kind of a humid-blue, the same sort of grayish off-toned blue that I remember from the south eastern US. The humidity is high, but there is a steady and nice sea breeze blowing most of the time. It's not an obnoxious wind like in Chicago or, even worse, where I grew up in California. It's a gentler, quieter breeze that has a sea-mist smell (most of the time) and has learned its manners from its world travels. It's unobtrusive and welcome, polite and helpful. Being here has reminded me how much I love, and miss, the ocean. And I occasionally flatter myself with the belief that the ocean loves and misses me too. (Yeah, whatever.)
Anyway, the food in PR is very interesting. I've had two absolutely OUTSTANDING meals while I've been here (and I have less than 24 hours to go, so I doubt I'll top those two). One was at Ruth's Chris restaurant, and that's kind of unfair, since it's technically a Texas restaurant that's grown and spread. The prime beef they receive is second to none on earth, and is some of the most deliciously perfect beef you'll ever find. If you haven't been to a Ruth's Chris Steak House yet, please go and treat yourself to an exquisite meal. It's horrifically expensive and worth every penny, I promise.
So, I don't count Ruth's Chris. By the bye, I had a Kobe sirloin, which is from Japan, the famous Kobe marbled beef. I must tell you it was divine.
Sorry, I digress. And now my mouth is watering.
All right, so I can't really count Ruth's Chris. It would have been a horrible shock if that meal had been BAD, so let's scratch that one. The other fantastic dinner came from a place called The Parrot Club in the district known as Old San Juan. I don't know why it's ''Old", because most of the buildings down there were in much better condition and maintenance than the area where we were staying. But I suspect it's because that is where San Juan originally started, and it has since sprawled over the rest of the area and eventually swallowed the surrounding neighborhoods and suburbs so that now it's a metro area of a million people. The district is clean, well-lit and packed with high-end hotels, bars and restaurants, and I suppose if I'd spent more time there, shops and boutiques. It's the area wherein conventions are held, and where the huge (and I do mean HUGE) cruise ships port for the vacationers to shop and play on dry land. Some of the streets are paved with very unique and attractive bricks made from local minerals that are naturally a violet-hued color. The buildings seem reminiscent of New Orleans style architecture (based solely on the photos of NO that I've seen, never having been there), but are colored with bright Caribbean vibrancy. Not garishly so, but lots of yellows, turquoise or aquamarine ... colors along those lines. And plenty of white. The area is a sort of peninsula that juts into the water from the east as is surrounded on the west by the ocean(s), so there's really only one way in or out.
Of course, those lovely violet-brick streets are absolutely CRAMMED with cars, taxis and pedestrians. There isn't much of a sidewalk to speak of on a lot of those streets, so you spend as much time negotiating your way through the crowds as you do enjoying the sites. It was more warm and humid that I cared for to be walking about, but the breeze courteously kept me from dripping in sweat, and the ocean whispered quietly in the background to remind me that it was there. As we walked along the southern end of the peninsula on the inlet where the cruise ship docks the wave action was a calm lapping against the stone and concrete walls that kept the water at bay. The northern side of the peninsula was the Atlantic, with its tumbling, rough-housing waves foaming and playing at the beach.
So, Old San Juan was a pleasant experience. On one of those narrow, cobblestone streets was this Parrot Club bar and restaurant. We decided on that, and went in at the enticement of a Puerto Rican girl who would have been just as much at home in New York as she was here on her "Island of Enchantment". She challenged us with the statement that there was no place better; we took her up on her statement and were seated almost immediately (which I thought was a nice touch). Several beers and not enough appetizers later, we were served our meals. I had a skirt steak with a very Puerto Rican name that was glazed with a light, not-too-sweet barbeque sauce that was nothing short of extraordinary. It was topped with chopped green onions, and served beside a chile stuffed with goat cheese and a sweet corn tamal. Now, I thought "sweet corn" was something like a desert, implying that the base was corn meal and the dish was sweet. It actually meant just what it said: the base was sweet corn meal, not SWEETENED corn meal, and the tamal was savory. So, that was ... meh. I'm not a big fan of tamals, evidently.
At any rate, the meal was delectable. The skirt steak was tender and juicy, cooked perfectly, and despite the immense amount of chewing that comes along with that cut of beef, every morsel was enjoyable. I left nothing of the steak on my plate and was sad when it was over. One of the local beers -- it appears to be, by far, the most popular -- is called Medalla (pronounced med-EYE-ya) Light. It's a light beer. It's better than other light beers I've had, and I was actually grateful it wasn't any more robust than it was, but it was definitely a light beer. Oh well.
Those were the two best meals I had while I was here, and I would not hesitate to have them both again, even if I had to pay for them myself. Absolutely fantastic. If you're coming to Puerto Rico at any time, don't miss the Parrot Club and their skirt steak, and don't deny yourself Ruth's Chris, either. You haven't lived fully until you've had a Ruth's Chris steak.
So, now, here are some thoughts that ran through my head, but thankfully not out of my mouth, at some other places I've eaten.
"What's THAT??"
"Oh, look ... more plantains."
"What's THAT smell??"
"Am I supposed to EAT that, or is it a decoration?"
"Did they bring this from home? Did their mother cook it?"
"So ... you eat this EVERY Christmas? I'm sorry."
"Wow, there really ARE 101 ways to cook a plantain, aren't there?"
"Your definition of 'good' and mine are very, very different."
"Please God, don't let this come with plantains."
"Okay, I'm sure that's not supposed to smell like that."
"What part of the animal is that?"
"Wait a minute ... is that even edible??"
"You really, REALLY like pigs here, don't you?"
"Three milks? Like what -- cow, goat and say, cat?"
"What do you mean there's no English equivalent for this?"
There were others, of course, but I've tried to be polite and grateful, because as I mentioned, the people were warm and friendly and meant well. They deserve to be treated graciously.
Finally, I'm home at last. This entry is a collection of thoughts and things that I jotted down while I was there on the "Isle of Enchantment" (as they like to refer to it), and some final, closing things now that I'm home. I've never been gone on a business trip for so long, it failed miserably, and it was at BEST embarrassing. At worst, it was catastrophic for the product. But all should be well again on June 22, after which I will very likely have to travel far and wide again to roll the product out once more. For the last time, I hope. And maybe -- just maybe -- I won't have to go and do this after all. Perhaps by then, the manager I work for will trust his full-time resource (whose job description says "software deployment" and includes a statement about 40% travel -- unlike MINE) enough to send HER to these places to do this. I can always be reached by phone for help if needed.
*Sigh.* Well. It's over. And the best part of any trip is coming home to a loving and wonderful family and being able to bask in their welcome.
I can breathe again.
-JDT-
Saturday, April 28, 2007
Hidden Treasures
Having just arrived in Georgia, I really didn't know anything about the flora and fauna. That proved to be a problem immediately.
As a kid of about 12, I was happy about the move. I knew the circumstances surrounding it had to do with my mother's drinking problem, but not much beyond that. Years later, I got a half-assed version from my father, but it doesn't make much sense based on who he is and what I've seen of him over the years. So rather than try to figure it out, I just don't care. Anyway, I'm sure most kids would be really upset about being pulled out of school and away from friends at the end of the sixth grade year, but for me, there wasn't a lot of angst about it. First, I didn't have many friends. I was sent to "visit" the school one day in fifth grade, and I met some people that I thought were really cool. I even went so far as to think we were "friends." Well, I didn't see them again until the following school year. During that time, they'd pretty well forgotten me. Couple that with the fact that the group of them had been friends since kindergarten, and I'm on the outside looking in. Kind of the story of my life.
So when it came time to move, it was no big deal to me. I was going to have to make new friends, but maybe I'd have more success in the south than I did on the left coast.
Anyway, I didn't know anyone in Georgia except some of my paternal family members. A couple of cousins, to be precise, and my grandmother. No one else. I met Chubs that summer, and his prissy little sister Missy; their dad and mom, who I thought were cool until much later when I realized differently; and that was about it. Some guy named Calvin, who Chubs' dad called "Cahvin", helped us move out when we left Georgia nearly two years later, but I don't remember when I met him. So, for the rest of the summer between my sixth and seventh grade years, I had my brother Ryan and occasionally Chubs and Missy for company.
I didn't know any of that when I got there, though. My maternal grandmother traveled with us on the plane. She was the "adjustment period" to help us get used to living in a new, unfamiliar place with unfamiliar people. She and my father's mom always seemed to like each other, though the language barrier between them could be a comedy gold mine. My mother's mom is from El Salvador and has a thick accent; my father's mom was from the general area where she lived (God only knows exactly where) and she had a thick accent. A simple statement of greeting could last five minutes.
Anyway, I really didn't know anything about the place. I'd visited before, but only for a week or two at a time on family vacations. Those were small concessions my father received from my mother during their marriage, I guess. So, that bright, sunny day sometime after we moved in, my brother and I were getting the lay of the land and running all over the yard, looking in the new "house" (if you want to call it that) and just being kids, trying to get a feel for the new homestead.
Our parents had gone ahead of us to make ready. My father already had a job by the time we got there. He's always been lucky like that. There were a couple of cars in place: a gold 1968 Oldsmobile Cutlass with a black Landau top, and a baby-blue 1971 Olds Cutlass with a white Landau top. The furniture was all in place; the stuff that didn't fit in the house, evidently, was discarded somewhere. The only thing for my brother and me to do was get settled with whatever clothes we had with us and start having fun.
The yards were strange to me. Having grown up in California, I wasn't used to yards without fences. The neighbors where I grew up made sure to mark their territories immediately and often with 6-foot tall wooden walls between their property and the next nearest human being. Interestingly, they'll wave at each other in the driveway and sometimes visit with one another over the top of the fences, but God forbid we leave the fences down. "Good fences make good neighbors" was always the motto.
Here, there was exactly one fence in sight, and it was between my grandmother's lot and the lot behind hers. It was a fence of heavy-gauge wire in a mesh pattern, but not chicken wire. The "posts" of the fence were about three feet high, maybe four. It was overgrown with a tangle of greenery thick with leaves and flowers which I later learned was honeysuckle. The shrubbery was so dense, I couldn't even see the fence wiring beneath it.
And that was the problem. I didn't know anything about the wildlife in Georgia, and I couldn't see the fence. See the problem?
So my brother and I were racing around the yard, whooping and yelling like chimps escaped from their keepers, and we get a load of that fence. My grandmother's there, talking about a section of her yard near it, showing my other grandmother that particular little piece of dirt she called a garden, but I wasn't really interested in that. There was something on the other side of the fence that got my attention, and so Ryan and I darted over to have a look.
We were excited and wound-up, making a ruckus such as the neighbors probably hadn't ever seen. Everything was fascinating to us -- my grandmother's gravel driveway (never saw one of those next to a paved road before); the thick greenery in the middle of summer (that doesn't happen where I grew up); the spacious, rolling lawns (it looked like they just grew wild, as though no one planned and landscaped the yards); the sky that wasn't quite blue; the ancient, green lean-to and it's weird, coiled-snake-in-the-wall electric heaters; the fact that the old shack was held up on the back side by a stack of cinder blocks; the huge apple tree and the swing hanging from one of it's branches. You name it, we were amazed by it.
I ran toward that fence all gangly and awkward with my thick glasses and long, unkempt hair and my ultra-cool desert boots and jeans. I went thundering down the slope of the lot and raced to the honeysuckle, putting my hands out in front of me to stop myself from crashing into the wire beneath, never knowing it was camouflage for a predator waiting to spring on the innocent, unsuspecting children new to their territory.
I was looking over that fence and wondering about the other side, whatever it was, when I felt something between my index and middle fingers on my left hand.
Suddenly my hand burst into flames and the agony shot up my arm and all the way into my brain.
Okay, not literal flames, but the closest description I can give you to the sensation I had was like being burned. It was so intense and hurt so bad the hair on my body stood up immediately. I pulled back my hand, confused and trying to figure out what the hell was going on. I stared down at my hand in horror, panic gripping me like the convulsions of a heart attack.
There was a large, winged insect with piercing, black eyes and a yellow-and-red striped abdomen writhing between my fingers, jabbing at me with it's ass as like it was trying to copulate with my hand. The brownish-red wings beat angrily in the air as it struggled between my digits. My finger, pulsing and red, told me this was obviously some sort of stinging insect, and clearly it wasn't going to die after stabbing me with its venomous dart.
A shiver twisted up my spine and I felt the adrenaline rush flush my cheeks. I gritted my teeth to keep from screaming and clenched my fist as tightly as I could, crushing the buzzing, creeping, undulating miscreant and severing it at the needle-thin waistline.
I shook the corpse from my hand and clenched my wrist; the pain would NOT subside. It just kept pounding and pounding, and my finger was getting really, really big now.
I looked at the fence where I'd put my hand, and all I could see was the dense leaf canopy of the honeysuckle bush. Carefully stepping forward, I moved a couple of leaves aside.
Under that blanket of innocent, cool greenery, was a pulsing, humming network of papery tubes and yellow, buzzing monsters. Just like the one that tried to kill me.
A wasp's nest. A big one -- bigger than the span of my hand. It was alive with motion and sound as the pissed-off inhabitants geared up for a more massive counter-attack on me.
I back-pedaled so fast I almost tripped, and then took off like a bolt of lightning toward the house where my parents were still unpacking sundries. Somewhere there was a sound, a constant wail that sailed like a stream of wind through the air, and it was only after I crashed through the storm door into the tiny green asbestos-coated cabin that I realized it was me, yelling in pain and fear.
There was a few minutes of coddling by my mother, who gasped when she saw my ever-enlarging finger, which eventually swelled so large the folds of skin on the backs of the knuckles actually turned inside-out, becoming ridges. There was a chiding about not bothering wasps from my hayseed, hick-reverting father, despite my protestations that I hadn't bothered them and didn't even know the damned nest was there. There was an ice pack, which did nothing, whatsoever, and then the hours of vigilance by both parents to make sure I didn't have an allergic reaction and go into anaphylactic shock (I didn't).
That was my first memory of living in Georgia permanently. Welcome to the country, city-boy.
-JDT-
As a kid of about 12, I was happy about the move. I knew the circumstances surrounding it had to do with my mother's drinking problem, but not much beyond that. Years later, I got a half-assed version from my father, but it doesn't make much sense based on who he is and what I've seen of him over the years. So rather than try to figure it out, I just don't care. Anyway, I'm sure most kids would be really upset about being pulled out of school and away from friends at the end of the sixth grade year, but for me, there wasn't a lot of angst about it. First, I didn't have many friends. I was sent to "visit" the school one day in fifth grade, and I met some people that I thought were really cool. I even went so far as to think we were "friends." Well, I didn't see them again until the following school year. During that time, they'd pretty well forgotten me. Couple that with the fact that the group of them had been friends since kindergarten, and I'm on the outside looking in. Kind of the story of my life.
So when it came time to move, it was no big deal to me. I was going to have to make new friends, but maybe I'd have more success in the south than I did on the left coast.
Anyway, I didn't know anyone in Georgia except some of my paternal family members. A couple of cousins, to be precise, and my grandmother. No one else. I met Chubs that summer, and his prissy little sister Missy; their dad and mom, who I thought were cool until much later when I realized differently; and that was about it. Some guy named Calvin, who Chubs' dad called "Cahvin", helped us move out when we left Georgia nearly two years later, but I don't remember when I met him. So, for the rest of the summer between my sixth and seventh grade years, I had my brother Ryan and occasionally Chubs and Missy for company.
I didn't know any of that when I got there, though. My maternal grandmother traveled with us on the plane. She was the "adjustment period" to help us get used to living in a new, unfamiliar place with unfamiliar people. She and my father's mom always seemed to like each other, though the language barrier between them could be a comedy gold mine. My mother's mom is from El Salvador and has a thick accent; my father's mom was from the general area where she lived (God only knows exactly where) and she had a thick accent. A simple statement of greeting could last five minutes.
Anyway, I really didn't know anything about the place. I'd visited before, but only for a week or two at a time on family vacations. Those were small concessions my father received from my mother during their marriage, I guess. So, that bright, sunny day sometime after we moved in, my brother and I were getting the lay of the land and running all over the yard, looking in the new "house" (if you want to call it that) and just being kids, trying to get a feel for the new homestead.
Our parents had gone ahead of us to make ready. My father already had a job by the time we got there. He's always been lucky like that. There were a couple of cars in place: a gold 1968 Oldsmobile Cutlass with a black Landau top, and a baby-blue 1971 Olds Cutlass with a white Landau top. The furniture was all in place; the stuff that didn't fit in the house, evidently, was discarded somewhere. The only thing for my brother and me to do was get settled with whatever clothes we had with us and start having fun.
The yards were strange to me. Having grown up in California, I wasn't used to yards without fences. The neighbors where I grew up made sure to mark their territories immediately and often with 6-foot tall wooden walls between their property and the next nearest human being. Interestingly, they'll wave at each other in the driveway and sometimes visit with one another over the top of the fences, but God forbid we leave the fences down. "Good fences make good neighbors" was always the motto.
Here, there was exactly one fence in sight, and it was between my grandmother's lot and the lot behind hers. It was a fence of heavy-gauge wire in a mesh pattern, but not chicken wire. The "posts" of the fence were about three feet high, maybe four. It was overgrown with a tangle of greenery thick with leaves and flowers which I later learned was honeysuckle. The shrubbery was so dense, I couldn't even see the fence wiring beneath it.
And that was the problem. I didn't know anything about the wildlife in Georgia, and I couldn't see the fence. See the problem?
So my brother and I were racing around the yard, whooping and yelling like chimps escaped from their keepers, and we get a load of that fence. My grandmother's there, talking about a section of her yard near it, showing my other grandmother that particular little piece of dirt she called a garden, but I wasn't really interested in that. There was something on the other side of the fence that got my attention, and so Ryan and I darted over to have a look.
We were excited and wound-up, making a ruckus such as the neighbors probably hadn't ever seen. Everything was fascinating to us -- my grandmother's gravel driveway (never saw one of those next to a paved road before); the thick greenery in the middle of summer (that doesn't happen where I grew up); the spacious, rolling lawns (it looked like they just grew wild, as though no one planned and landscaped the yards); the sky that wasn't quite blue; the ancient, green lean-to and it's weird, coiled-snake-in-the-wall electric heaters; the fact that the old shack was held up on the back side by a stack of cinder blocks; the huge apple tree and the swing hanging from one of it's branches. You name it, we were amazed by it.
I ran toward that fence all gangly and awkward with my thick glasses and long, unkempt hair and my ultra-cool desert boots and jeans. I went thundering down the slope of the lot and raced to the honeysuckle, putting my hands out in front of me to stop myself from crashing into the wire beneath, never knowing it was camouflage for a predator waiting to spring on the innocent, unsuspecting children new to their territory.
I was looking over that fence and wondering about the other side, whatever it was, when I felt something between my index and middle fingers on my left hand.
Suddenly my hand burst into flames and the agony shot up my arm and all the way into my brain.
Okay, not literal flames, but the closest description I can give you to the sensation I had was like being burned. It was so intense and hurt so bad the hair on my body stood up immediately. I pulled back my hand, confused and trying to figure out what the hell was going on. I stared down at my hand in horror, panic gripping me like the convulsions of a heart attack.
There was a large, winged insect with piercing, black eyes and a yellow-and-red striped abdomen writhing between my fingers, jabbing at me with it's ass as like it was trying to copulate with my hand. The brownish-red wings beat angrily in the air as it struggled between my digits. My finger, pulsing and red, told me this was obviously some sort of stinging insect, and clearly it wasn't going to die after stabbing me with its venomous dart.
A shiver twisted up my spine and I felt the adrenaline rush flush my cheeks. I gritted my teeth to keep from screaming and clenched my fist as tightly as I could, crushing the buzzing, creeping, undulating miscreant and severing it at the needle-thin waistline.
I shook the corpse from my hand and clenched my wrist; the pain would NOT subside. It just kept pounding and pounding, and my finger was getting really, really big now.
I looked at the fence where I'd put my hand, and all I could see was the dense leaf canopy of the honeysuckle bush. Carefully stepping forward, I moved a couple of leaves aside.
Under that blanket of innocent, cool greenery, was a pulsing, humming network of papery tubes and yellow, buzzing monsters. Just like the one that tried to kill me.
A wasp's nest. A big one -- bigger than the span of my hand. It was alive with motion and sound as the pissed-off inhabitants geared up for a more massive counter-attack on me.
I back-pedaled so fast I almost tripped, and then took off like a bolt of lightning toward the house where my parents were still unpacking sundries. Somewhere there was a sound, a constant wail that sailed like a stream of wind through the air, and it was only after I crashed through the storm door into the tiny green asbestos-coated cabin that I realized it was me, yelling in pain and fear.
There was a few minutes of coddling by my mother, who gasped when she saw my ever-enlarging finger, which eventually swelled so large the folds of skin on the backs of the knuckles actually turned inside-out, becoming ridges. There was a chiding about not bothering wasps from my hayseed, hick-reverting father, despite my protestations that I hadn't bothered them and didn't even know the damned nest was there. There was an ice pack, which did nothing, whatsoever, and then the hours of vigilance by both parents to make sure I didn't have an allergic reaction and go into anaphylactic shock (I didn't).
That was my first memory of living in Georgia permanently. Welcome to the country, city-boy.
-JDT-
Sunday, April 22, 2007
Be Vewy, Vewy Quiet ...
Waymond, I decided, was an idiot.
Yes, his name was Waymond, NOT Raymond. I figured his father was Elmer Fudd; that’s why he was such an idiot.
I was never a brilliant chess player, but I was okay. I learned some from my father. One day, when I was probably nine years old, I was being baby-sat by someone, and the man showed me a way to put someone in checkmate in four moves. It was pretty simple, provided the player didn’t know jack about the game. Once you do, of course, it’s an easy strategy to stop, but if you’ve never seen it before and don’t do something instinctively to stop the set-up, it looks amazing.
It’s easy to do; move the pawn out of the way so that the queen and the bishop on the other side of the king can be positioned diagonally in front of the other player’s king. When the time is right, move your queen in front of the opponent’s king and bang! Checkmate. If the king is moved to take the queen, the bishop you’ve positioned is there covering so the game is over.Like I said, it’s a simpleton’s trick, and it’s easy to stop. If you don’t know it’s coming, it looks like voodoo.
So, when my dad came home that night with a guy he worked with at the M&M Mars plant in Cleveland, TN, I was introduced for the first and last time to Waymond, idiot extraordinaire.
He was a tall, dark-haired man with an accent so thick I found myself saying “huh?” almost every time he spoke. Poor bastard must have repeated himself about a hundred times over the course of the night. I couldn’t take my eyes off the tiny stump of bone that poked up through the stubbed off thumb on his right hand. I wanted for all the world to ask him how he lost the first segment of that digit, but I knew it'd be rude. I just couldn't tear my stare from it for long. The flesh on that finger was drawn back from the bone, exposing about a quarter of an inch of the dark gray skeletal support like a barbequed pork rib.
We talked and my parents laughed with Waymond over dinner, and afterwards. He was, from all appearances, a likeable, funny guy. Like I said, though, I couldn't understand a word he said. It was no big deal; I could tell from my mother's laughter that she either wasn't able to figure out what he was saying, or was only laughing to be polite most of the time. My father seemed to understand him better if not completely. He laughed in all the right places and all the right ways, which only made Waymond talk more. Waymond got louder when my father started laughing, so that told me the story being relayed was intensifying and he'd get a funny smirk on his face as he waited for the appropriate howls from the audience. I just stared at that creepy finger bone and wondered how much it must have hurt to lose it.
I can't really remember how it came up, because I was like 12 or 13 and wasn't really interested in the conversation going on at the time. That, and there was that language barrier happening for me. So I started zoning. But, at some point as the evening dragged on painfully, someone mentioned "chess."
My ears perked up when I heard the word. "You play chess?" I asked him, suddenly sitting upright in my chair. Waymond smiled and drawled something like "A little bit, yeah."
I smiled too. "Wanna play?"
He grinned deviously. "You bet. Got a board?"
I refrained from making a comment regarding why I'd ask if I didn't have a board and pieces to play on and went to get mine. It was a magnetic one, with a metal board on the outside of a box lined with foam that had the little cut-out shapes for each of the pieces to go in. The little plastic pieces had a magnet in their bases and the bottoms were felt-covered to keep those magnets inside. It wasn't nice, it wasn't fancy, but it had all 32 pieces and I liked it because they wouldn't get lost. So I darted off to my room to get the set and from behind me I heard my father mutter, "Now, the kid's pretty good, Waymond."
As Waymond was saying something unintelligible, I returned to the kitchen with my set in hand. I sat opposite him at a tiny table in our kitchen, and I had the pieces out and set up in just a couple of minutes. I was listening to Waymond turn his r's into w's and wondering how he'd do in a spelling bee until I finally looked up and said, "What color do you want to be?"
Waymond patiently looked at me and gently said, "Tell ya what, you go 'head and be white. I'd rather go second anyway."
I shrugged. It didn't matter to me. "You sure?"
"Yep."
"Okay," I said, and I popped my king's pawn forward one space.
Waymond wasn't paying too much attention as he moved a pawn and continued talking to my father. I moved out my bishop as I always did. He moved a pawn on the other side of the board, trying to flank my positions. None of the power pieces were moved. I wondered what he was up to and went ahead and called out my queen. When I did, he moved a pawn forward, which is exactly what I didn't want him to do. He'd stopped the maneuver without even paying attention to what he was doing.
I was rattled. Waymond stopped yammering, sensing that I was uncertain of myself. My father and mother were silent. For some reason, everything focused on me at that point. I needed to actually take the time to assess the board and decide what my next move would be.
The quiet in the room was unnerving me a bit. I watch Waymond over the rim of my glasses, trying to casually assess his face and see if he'd betray his next move somehow. All he did was wink at me, which kind of pissed me off.
For a moment, that guy that showed me the four-move maneuver flashed through my mind. He set me up real casual like and seemed very pleased to beat a young boy at an adult's game. I wondered, just for a moment, if Waymond was like that too and was sandbagging me. I couldn't tell, but I didn't like that wink.I moved a pawn just to kill some time, see where he was going. He chuckled. The sound got under my skin and tightened my sphincter. I gritted my teeth and tried to smile. I don't think it worked. He moved a piece, a bishop I think, out onto the board and I was carefully considering what to do next. Waymond took that opportunity to go back to joking and teasing with my father and laughing.
He had a pawn squarely in my way. If I took the pawn with one of my own, I'd have the board set to pull the maneuver again. It would take more than four moves, but I could still do it. I wondered, briefly, if he knew what I was doing. I decided I couldn't worry about that and took the pawn with one of my own. Now I was going to have to move that pawn to clear the path I needed.
Something happened. Waymond stopped chuckling and joking around with my dad. He went silent and sloooooowly leaned forward toward the board.
He moved a piece somewhere over to my right. I figured he was moving toward my queen, but it would be a couple of moves before that would be able to happen. I was watching the center of the board carefully. I wanted to make damn sure he didn't put anything in the way of my next move, which would be the fatal blow. Since he hadn't, I wondered what else he may have had in mind. I knew what I was going to do, but I wanted to make sure I didn't have something else to watch for. A surprise now would be unpleasant. If I lost that queen, I lost the game. The instant someone took my queen I was pretty well dead in the water. Like I said, I wasn't brilliant at the game.
I caught some movement out of the corner of my eye.
Waymond was rubbing his forefinger and stumpy, bone-exposed thumb together.
I was absolutely riveted by that motion. The sight of that dark protrusion rubbing against his finger was fascinating in a groteque, horror-movie sort of way. It was impossible for me to tear my eyes from that motion. He'd rub them together, just over his rook to my left, and then his hand would go still. Rub-rub-rub, still. Rub-rub-rub, still. I fought a shiver from running up my spine, but I couldn't take my eyes from his hand.
Slowly, deliberately, I moved my pawn forward.
I jumped out of my skin when he shouted "You fell for that?!?"
I blinked at him, blankly.
"I cain't buhleeve it," he drawled thickly. "You fell fer thuh oldest trick inna book!"
I was in a panic. What had I done?? What had I fallen for?? What had I missed?? I was watching the board carefully, but I'd been beaten before by not seeing a move that was as obvious as the nose on my face -- AFTER it had been executed. It was what separated me from the really good players; they seemed to be able to see the board from all angles, see every eventuality, cover all their bases. Me, I was lucky when I could see a couple of moves ahead. For the most part, I wasn't able to do that for some reason. That makes the people that know me best now laugh and scratch their heads. They can't figure that one out, because that is most decidedly not how I am now ... except in chess.
"Man, I got you lookin' over here on this side," he said, "so you ain't lookin' over here at this side!" He laughed as he moved one of his bishops out to take a pawn from in front of my other bishop, which still hadn't been moved.
I felt the hot flush of blood that raced up my cheeks when he scared the hell out of me with his outburst subsiding, and my heartbeat was down to about 300 beats per minute by then. I nearly laughed aloud when Waymond sat back in his chair and cackled loud and long to the ceiling, rattling the tiny house's frame with the audio waves gushing from what I'm sure was a halitosis-laden maw. He put his hands over his gut and I again was staring at that bare-boned thumb, wondering again what had happened but now sure that it had been due to his own stupidity.
I seized my queen and slammed it down in front of his king, knocking the pawn aside roughly and shouting "CHECKMATE!!" as I leaned forward over the board to emphasize the point.
He dropped instantly into silence as he snapped his head down to stare wide-eyed at the board.
I folded my arms across my chest and watched his face as he leaned closer and closer to the board. The room was silent again.
After a moment he leaned back, running his fingers through his hair. "Well, I'll be damned," Waymond muttered.
"Like I said, the kid's pretty good," my father chuckled at him.
I don't know if I ever won another game of chess. And frankly, I don't care.
-JDT
Yes, his name was Waymond, NOT Raymond. I figured his father was Elmer Fudd; that’s why he was such an idiot.
I was never a brilliant chess player, but I was okay. I learned some from my father. One day, when I was probably nine years old, I was being baby-sat by someone, and the man showed me a way to put someone in checkmate in four moves. It was pretty simple, provided the player didn’t know jack about the game. Once you do, of course, it’s an easy strategy to stop, but if you’ve never seen it before and don’t do something instinctively to stop the set-up, it looks amazing.
It’s easy to do; move the pawn out of the way so that the queen and the bishop on the other side of the king can be positioned diagonally in front of the other player’s king. When the time is right, move your queen in front of the opponent’s king and bang! Checkmate. If the king is moved to take the queen, the bishop you’ve positioned is there covering so the game is over.Like I said, it’s a simpleton’s trick, and it’s easy to stop. If you don’t know it’s coming, it looks like voodoo.
So, when my dad came home that night with a guy he worked with at the M&M Mars plant in Cleveland, TN, I was introduced for the first and last time to Waymond, idiot extraordinaire.
He was a tall, dark-haired man with an accent so thick I found myself saying “huh?” almost every time he spoke. Poor bastard must have repeated himself about a hundred times over the course of the night. I couldn’t take my eyes off the tiny stump of bone that poked up through the stubbed off thumb on his right hand. I wanted for all the world to ask him how he lost the first segment of that digit, but I knew it'd be rude. I just couldn't tear my stare from it for long. The flesh on that finger was drawn back from the bone, exposing about a quarter of an inch of the dark gray skeletal support like a barbequed pork rib.
We talked and my parents laughed with Waymond over dinner, and afterwards. He was, from all appearances, a likeable, funny guy. Like I said, though, I couldn't understand a word he said. It was no big deal; I could tell from my mother's laughter that she either wasn't able to figure out what he was saying, or was only laughing to be polite most of the time. My father seemed to understand him better if not completely. He laughed in all the right places and all the right ways, which only made Waymond talk more. Waymond got louder when my father started laughing, so that told me the story being relayed was intensifying and he'd get a funny smirk on his face as he waited for the appropriate howls from the audience. I just stared at that creepy finger bone and wondered how much it must have hurt to lose it.
I can't really remember how it came up, because I was like 12 or 13 and wasn't really interested in the conversation going on at the time. That, and there was that language barrier happening for me. So I started zoning. But, at some point as the evening dragged on painfully, someone mentioned "chess."
My ears perked up when I heard the word. "You play chess?" I asked him, suddenly sitting upright in my chair. Waymond smiled and drawled something like "A little bit, yeah."
I smiled too. "Wanna play?"
He grinned deviously. "You bet. Got a board?"
I refrained from making a comment regarding why I'd ask if I didn't have a board and pieces to play on and went to get mine. It was a magnetic one, with a metal board on the outside of a box lined with foam that had the little cut-out shapes for each of the pieces to go in. The little plastic pieces had a magnet in their bases and the bottoms were felt-covered to keep those magnets inside. It wasn't nice, it wasn't fancy, but it had all 32 pieces and I liked it because they wouldn't get lost. So I darted off to my room to get the set and from behind me I heard my father mutter, "Now, the kid's pretty good, Waymond."
As Waymond was saying something unintelligible, I returned to the kitchen with my set in hand. I sat opposite him at a tiny table in our kitchen, and I had the pieces out and set up in just a couple of minutes. I was listening to Waymond turn his r's into w's and wondering how he'd do in a spelling bee until I finally looked up and said, "What color do you want to be?"
Waymond patiently looked at me and gently said, "Tell ya what, you go 'head and be white. I'd rather go second anyway."
I shrugged. It didn't matter to me. "You sure?"
"Yep."
"Okay," I said, and I popped my king's pawn forward one space.
Waymond wasn't paying too much attention as he moved a pawn and continued talking to my father. I moved out my bishop as I always did. He moved a pawn on the other side of the board, trying to flank my positions. None of the power pieces were moved. I wondered what he was up to and went ahead and called out my queen. When I did, he moved a pawn forward, which is exactly what I didn't want him to do. He'd stopped the maneuver without even paying attention to what he was doing.
I was rattled. Waymond stopped yammering, sensing that I was uncertain of myself. My father and mother were silent. For some reason, everything focused on me at that point. I needed to actually take the time to assess the board and decide what my next move would be.
The quiet in the room was unnerving me a bit. I watch Waymond over the rim of my glasses, trying to casually assess his face and see if he'd betray his next move somehow. All he did was wink at me, which kind of pissed me off.
For a moment, that guy that showed me the four-move maneuver flashed through my mind. He set me up real casual like and seemed very pleased to beat a young boy at an adult's game. I wondered, just for a moment, if Waymond was like that too and was sandbagging me. I couldn't tell, but I didn't like that wink.I moved a pawn just to kill some time, see where he was going. He chuckled. The sound got under my skin and tightened my sphincter. I gritted my teeth and tried to smile. I don't think it worked. He moved a piece, a bishop I think, out onto the board and I was carefully considering what to do next. Waymond took that opportunity to go back to joking and teasing with my father and laughing.
He had a pawn squarely in my way. If I took the pawn with one of my own, I'd have the board set to pull the maneuver again. It would take more than four moves, but I could still do it. I wondered, briefly, if he knew what I was doing. I decided I couldn't worry about that and took the pawn with one of my own. Now I was going to have to move that pawn to clear the path I needed.
Something happened. Waymond stopped chuckling and joking around with my dad. He went silent and sloooooowly leaned forward toward the board.
He moved a piece somewhere over to my right. I figured he was moving toward my queen, but it would be a couple of moves before that would be able to happen. I was watching the center of the board carefully. I wanted to make damn sure he didn't put anything in the way of my next move, which would be the fatal blow. Since he hadn't, I wondered what else he may have had in mind. I knew what I was going to do, but I wanted to make sure I didn't have something else to watch for. A surprise now would be unpleasant. If I lost that queen, I lost the game. The instant someone took my queen I was pretty well dead in the water. Like I said, I wasn't brilliant at the game.
I caught some movement out of the corner of my eye.
Waymond was rubbing his forefinger and stumpy, bone-exposed thumb together.
I was absolutely riveted by that motion. The sight of that dark protrusion rubbing against his finger was fascinating in a groteque, horror-movie sort of way. It was impossible for me to tear my eyes from that motion. He'd rub them together, just over his rook to my left, and then his hand would go still. Rub-rub-rub, still. Rub-rub-rub, still. I fought a shiver from running up my spine, but I couldn't take my eyes from his hand.
Slowly, deliberately, I moved my pawn forward.
I jumped out of my skin when he shouted "You fell for that?!?"
I blinked at him, blankly.
"I cain't buhleeve it," he drawled thickly. "You fell fer thuh oldest trick inna book!"
I was in a panic. What had I done?? What had I fallen for?? What had I missed?? I was watching the board carefully, but I'd been beaten before by not seeing a move that was as obvious as the nose on my face -- AFTER it had been executed. It was what separated me from the really good players; they seemed to be able to see the board from all angles, see every eventuality, cover all their bases. Me, I was lucky when I could see a couple of moves ahead. For the most part, I wasn't able to do that for some reason. That makes the people that know me best now laugh and scratch their heads. They can't figure that one out, because that is most decidedly not how I am now ... except in chess.
"Man, I got you lookin' over here on this side," he said, "so you ain't lookin' over here at this side!" He laughed as he moved one of his bishops out to take a pawn from in front of my other bishop, which still hadn't been moved.
I felt the hot flush of blood that raced up my cheeks when he scared the hell out of me with his outburst subsiding, and my heartbeat was down to about 300 beats per minute by then. I nearly laughed aloud when Waymond sat back in his chair and cackled loud and long to the ceiling, rattling the tiny house's frame with the audio waves gushing from what I'm sure was a halitosis-laden maw. He put his hands over his gut and I again was staring at that bare-boned thumb, wondering again what had happened but now sure that it had been due to his own stupidity.
I seized my queen and slammed it down in front of his king, knocking the pawn aside roughly and shouting "CHECKMATE!!" as I leaned forward over the board to emphasize the point.
He dropped instantly into silence as he snapped his head down to stare wide-eyed at the board.
I folded my arms across my chest and watched his face as he leaned closer and closer to the board. The room was silent again.
After a moment he leaned back, running his fingers through his hair. "Well, I'll be damned," Waymond muttered.
"Like I said, the kid's pretty good," my father chuckled at him.
I don't know if I ever won another game of chess. And frankly, I don't care.
-JDT
Monday, April 16, 2007
Better to Have It and Not Need It ...
My wife has an expression she's used from time to time, and it absolutely drives me nuts when she does:
"It's better to have it and not need it, than to need it and not have it."
God, I hate it. Whenever she starts to say it, I interrupt her, loudly, demanding that she NOT finish that (insert expletive here) tripe in my presence.
She used to say it to me in response to my queries about why her purse was always so large, and so friggin' heavy. She'd go through a brief inventory of what's in there, and shrug at me. And when I asked why she'd carry so much crap, she'd say it. "It's better to have it and not need it, than to need it and not have it."
Ugh!! I'd grit my teeth and walk away mumbling about platitudes and crap-ass old timer "wisdom" that had absolutely no relevance if the human being saying it would just use their God-given brain for a change.
Not that long ago, I was carrying my lunch to work with me in my backpack and to save hassle and noise, I decided to drop the items directly into the cavity rather than put them in a bag or lunch carrier and then throw it in there. I was having egg salad, ready-made from our grocery delivery service's inventory, and some crackers to top it off. Off to work I went, happy it was Friday, and then down into the computer lab where I've been doing most of my work for the last several weeks. Lunch time rolled around and I opened my backpack to discover that my egg salad container, which was still sealed and unopened, had leaked like a colander all over my backpack. Arrrghh!! Whatta mess!!
I wiped it out the best I could and took it home to my loving spouse, who promptly emptied the contents into a grocery bag, washed it and threw it in the dryer for me. The following Sunday, I was ready to reload it and take it back to work with me on Monday.
As I went through the items, I realized how much junk and sundries I'd accumulated in the couple of months since I got the backpack. I had stuff in there like cold medicine, because I'd been so sick so often this year; glasses cleaning cloths; some lens cleaning fluid which doesn't work very well; a Tide-to-Go pen for those annoying and unexpected stains; a pocket-sized Bible; a tiny 3" x 5" notebook for those inspirations that come out of the blue; my migraine kit; a couple of pencils and pens I'd forgotten about; a few USB flash drives (I don't leave home without them); and a lint "brush" (which was really a roll of inside-out masking tape cut into toilet paper-like squares).
As I looked over the junk in the grocery bag, I decided I wasn't going to put everything back in. I left out a couple of the USB flash drives; I took out the cold medicines; I dumped the lens cleaning fluid; and I left out the lint brush. I didn't need that crap; most of it was sitting and collecting dust anyway. I didn't use it, and the stuff I was left with, except the Bible, I did use most days. Satisfied that I'd pared down to the bare essentials, I loaded the backpack and went my merry way on Monday.
Today, a week later, I'm at work and slaving away over a network that doesn't connect, and I'm waiting to acquire an IP address from the company LAN, and it's not happening. I look down, and what do my eyes behold?
Lint. A ton of it. All over my nice, bone-colored pants.
Jeez, I groan inwardly, how long have I been like this? Who saw me looking like a damned dryer filter?? This is so embarrassing!
Mortified but alone, I decide to reach for my lint brush to get it cleaned off.
Just as I start to unzip my backpack, a strangely mocking voice rolled through my head, giggling and lilting a tease through the recesses of my mind.
Better to have it and not need it ...
I couldn't help myself -- I burst out laughing aloud, alone in the echoing lab, with only the humming, non-functional computers to witness the toll of irony on my mind and soul. I wiped the tears from my eyes when I could finally control myself, and laid my head down on the table where I was working to ponder how the universe conspires against me at every turn.
The lint brush is going back into the backpack tomorrow, of course.
"It's better to have it and not need it, than to need it and not have it."
God, I hate it. Whenever she starts to say it, I interrupt her, loudly, demanding that she NOT finish that (insert expletive here) tripe in my presence.
She used to say it to me in response to my queries about why her purse was always so large, and so friggin' heavy. She'd go through a brief inventory of what's in there, and shrug at me. And when I asked why she'd carry so much crap, she'd say it. "It's better to have it and not need it, than to need it and not have it."
Ugh!! I'd grit my teeth and walk away mumbling about platitudes and crap-ass old timer "wisdom" that had absolutely no relevance if the human being saying it would just use their God-given brain for a change.
Not that long ago, I was carrying my lunch to work with me in my backpack and to save hassle and noise, I decided to drop the items directly into the cavity rather than put them in a bag or lunch carrier and then throw it in there. I was having egg salad, ready-made from our grocery delivery service's inventory, and some crackers to top it off. Off to work I went, happy it was Friday, and then down into the computer lab where I've been doing most of my work for the last several weeks. Lunch time rolled around and I opened my backpack to discover that my egg salad container, which was still sealed and unopened, had leaked like a colander all over my backpack. Arrrghh!! Whatta mess!!
I wiped it out the best I could and took it home to my loving spouse, who promptly emptied the contents into a grocery bag, washed it and threw it in the dryer for me. The following Sunday, I was ready to reload it and take it back to work with me on Monday.
As I went through the items, I realized how much junk and sundries I'd accumulated in the couple of months since I got the backpack. I had stuff in there like cold medicine, because I'd been so sick so often this year; glasses cleaning cloths; some lens cleaning fluid which doesn't work very well; a Tide-to-Go pen for those annoying and unexpected stains; a pocket-sized Bible; a tiny 3" x 5" notebook for those inspirations that come out of the blue; my migraine kit; a couple of pencils and pens I'd forgotten about; a few USB flash drives (I don't leave home without them); and a lint "brush" (which was really a roll of inside-out masking tape cut into toilet paper-like squares).
As I looked over the junk in the grocery bag, I decided I wasn't going to put everything back in. I left out a couple of the USB flash drives; I took out the cold medicines; I dumped the lens cleaning fluid; and I left out the lint brush. I didn't need that crap; most of it was sitting and collecting dust anyway. I didn't use it, and the stuff I was left with, except the Bible, I did use most days. Satisfied that I'd pared down to the bare essentials, I loaded the backpack and went my merry way on Monday.
Today, a week later, I'm at work and slaving away over a network that doesn't connect, and I'm waiting to acquire an IP address from the company LAN, and it's not happening. I look down, and what do my eyes behold?
Lint. A ton of it. All over my nice, bone-colored pants.
Jeez, I groan inwardly, how long have I been like this? Who saw me looking like a damned dryer filter?? This is so embarrassing!
Mortified but alone, I decide to reach for my lint brush to get it cleaned off.
Just as I start to unzip my backpack, a strangely mocking voice rolled through my head, giggling and lilting a tease through the recesses of my mind.
Better to have it and not need it ...
I couldn't help myself -- I burst out laughing aloud, alone in the echoing lab, with only the humming, non-functional computers to witness the toll of irony on my mind and soul. I wiped the tears from my eyes when I could finally control myself, and laid my head down on the table where I was working to ponder how the universe conspires against me at every turn.
The lint brush is going back into the backpack tomorrow, of course.
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