You know what sound you don’t want to hear? The sound of silence? No. You can’t hear that anyway. The sound of senility. That’s the sound you don’t want to hear.
I may have heard it the other day. I was tired of all the damn beauty and scenic stuff up here in Oregon, so I went to a Rite-Aid to do some ordinary shopping, and I purchased some necessities — wine, beer, ale, hard liquor, malt liquor and Peanut M&Ms.
And life was good. I sauntered — yes, sauntered — out to the car and placed my purchases on the seat and unwrapped a Look candy bar I forgot to mention I had purchased because I hadn’t had one for 37 years. And I took the first bite of that dark Look bar chocolate and that white gooey, chewy center and it brought back childhood memories of overeating and precursors to Type 2 Diabetes. Life was good.
Then I started the car. I looked to my left and saw some dummy coming the wrong way down my parking lane, and I wrenched my back trying to give him the finger while eating my Look bar. Very, very painful. Then I put the car into reverse, looked out to my right and saw no cars, and started to back out of my parking spot. Then I heard the sound — that sickening sound of metal hitting metal — and I knew I had either backed into a car or hit a chubby pedestrian wearing a suit of armor.
Yes, Virginia, I had backed into a car. Are you happy, Virginia? And that sound of metal going into metal is just so damn jarring. It just jars you into reality. And I’ve always tried to avoid reality. But that metal-ass sound of metal running into other innocent metal just got to me. It was just so damn real.
I dropped my head to my chest in senior citizen resignation and was irritated that I had to leave my Look bar with one bite out of it in the car while I faced the metal music. I get out of the car and the first thing I hear is some guy’s enraged voice yelling, “Sonny, you just bought yourself a Dodge!” Well, although I was pleased that anyone would call me “sonny,” I really didn’t want to buy his Dodge. It was all dented up.
I asked him, “Where did you come from?” And he said, “I was born right here in Brookings, dammit.” (I thought to myself, this would be a good time to play a little poker, if this guy only had a full deck.) I said, “No, I mean where did your car come from, other than Detroit?”
He said he had just turned after that dummy came through going the wrong way. And I told him that is probably why I didn’t see him. But I inquired as to why he didn’t honk at me if he saw me backing out. He enquired as to my parentage. It turned out to be a short conversation.
We exchanged information. I gave him my name and address and insurance details. He gave me the remaining piece of his mind. As I was driving off, I told him to call me if he had any questions. I don’t think he heard me. He was stretched out over his car and had both arms fully extended like he was trying to contact some demon god and was pounding both of his palms down onto his hood. It was pretty loud. And he may have caused more damage to his car than I did.
When I got back to my hovel, I called my insurance agent. I told her I had lost control of my car and had driven through an orphanage and would she like to speak to one of the surviving nuns? I kid my State Farm agents. She asked me if I got the other party’s driver’s license number. No. Did he have insurance? I don’t know. Is your head hooked on to your neck? Lemme check.
She asked me if anyone was injured. I said no. She said that was good. I said to tell that to the four people who were killed. She said I shouldn’t joke about car accidents and suggested I switch to GEICO. I said I would, but I don’t like lizards. She said that it wasn’t a lizard. I said yes it was.
After listening to a series of rather heart-breaking sighs, I asked her if there was anything else she needed from me. She thought for a few seconds and said, “What have you learned from all this?”
Hell, I don’t know. “To finish your Look bar before backing up?”
Sunday, August 1, 2010
I Got Your Friendly Right Here(Cigar Smoke (7-15-10)
You know, I try to be friendly. I really do. I am not quite as much of a pissy turd as I make myself out to be in this here column. (See, I added the “here” in that last sentence to show off my folksy, friendly side.)
The reason I am bringing up all this friendly stuff is that I am now taking a much needed break from my stressful retirement so I can vacation up in Oregon for a month, and it’s a state law to be friendly up here. I mean to tell you, everybody is friendly. It’s a little eerie. But I am trying my best to adapt to this foreign environment, and if it doesn’t kill me, I should be friendlier when I come back to LA.
You notice it right away. I go into a Fred Myers grocery and everything-else-ever-manufactured store and the checker is talking to someone a few people up the line from me. She knows the woman. The woman is in her 60s. The checker went to elementary school with her. Yes, I now know that their old schoolmate, Johnny Dayton, just got kicked out of the American Legion hall for something I think she called “non-wife fondling.”
The next woman gets to the checker and they start chatting. Nothing quite as chat-worthy as Johnny Dayton’s sexploits, but they do give the gossip tidbits the necessary time to fully flesh them out. I am just kind of standing there, acting like I think this friendly shit is OK, and it’s getting harder and harder to fake it.
After five full minutes of staring at my four non-moving items on the conveyor belt, I give them my LA hurry-up cough. I cough a few times. Cough. Ahem. Cough. They both glance at me. I know they want to tell me to take a Menthol Luden’s and insert it in a body opening that is not my mouth, but they just smile at me. The bitches.
Finally, the lady hands the checker a copy of the latest National Enquirer, and says, “Jeez, that Al Gore would be quite a load, wouldn’t he?” And the checker says, “Looks like a little global squirming going on.” I crack just the beginning of a smile at these remarks and they look at me again. I apologize for listening in on them with a lame hands-up sissy gesture.
I get to the checker and say, “Hi.” She says, “Can’t talk now. I have customers behind you.”
I probably shouldn’t have told you that first anecdote first, because the people are generally just friendly, and they don’t usually say mean things to us potential Luden’s users. Like I was in a restaurant and the waitress came over and said, “What’ll it be, darlin’?” And I said, “Did you call me darlin’, darlin’?” And she adjusted her apron, and said, “Why, yes, darlin’, I did call you darlin’, darlin’” (I was going to say, “But you never even called me by my name” but I knew she wouldn’t get the reference. Neither will you. So that’s why I didn’t say it.)
Everybody is friendly. They take time with you. They appear to maybe even like you. They have faking sincerity down to a science. The gas station attendant fills up my tank and tells me about the salmon run. The bookstore owner walks me to the book section I need and personally wipes the dust off the row of books I will look at. The frame-store owner sells me the cheaper picture frame because he thinks it will work better for me.
And a couple of days ago I had a guy come out to give me a bid for a fence I’m building for my dog, Archie the Airedale. And this guy was so nice I thought he had the wrong house. He was nicer than Pat Boone, baby. He called me “sir” so many times I thought I had been promoted to corporal. And then the next day, I go out on the dock to just walk around and I notice a guy standing there with a rod and reel and I look at him like I sort of know him, but I’m puzzled and he finally says, “Yeah, it’s me, the fence guy! Wanna go fishing?”
“It’s me, the fence guy. Wanna go fishing?”
I don’t know about you, but I don’t think I would have heard that in LA. It’s just too damn friendly for city slicker talk. But I do have mixed emotions on all this friendly stuff. I know they will eventually find out I’m not really all that friendly and then I will be rejected and continue on with my lonely, unfulfilled, tragic walk-through life.
So I tentatively said something to the fence guy about his choosing me to go fishing with. I said, “Do you really want to go fishing with me?” And he kind of looked at me like that was a bit too touchy-feely, and said, “Yeah, sure, you look like a good guy.” And I smiled my manly hug-smile and he continued. “And my buddies are all working today. And, by the way, you think, maybe you could buy the bait?”
The reason I am bringing up all this friendly stuff is that I am now taking a much needed break from my stressful retirement so I can vacation up in Oregon for a month, and it’s a state law to be friendly up here. I mean to tell you, everybody is friendly. It’s a little eerie. But I am trying my best to adapt to this foreign environment, and if it doesn’t kill me, I should be friendlier when I come back to LA.
You notice it right away. I go into a Fred Myers grocery and everything-else-ever-manufactured store and the checker is talking to someone a few people up the line from me. She knows the woman. The woman is in her 60s. The checker went to elementary school with her. Yes, I now know that their old schoolmate, Johnny Dayton, just got kicked out of the American Legion hall for something I think she called “non-wife fondling.”
The next woman gets to the checker and they start chatting. Nothing quite as chat-worthy as Johnny Dayton’s sexploits, but they do give the gossip tidbits the necessary time to fully flesh them out. I am just kind of standing there, acting like I think this friendly shit is OK, and it’s getting harder and harder to fake it.
After five full minutes of staring at my four non-moving items on the conveyor belt, I give them my LA hurry-up cough. I cough a few times. Cough. Ahem. Cough. They both glance at me. I know they want to tell me to take a Menthol Luden’s and insert it in a body opening that is not my mouth, but they just smile at me. The bitches.
Finally, the lady hands the checker a copy of the latest National Enquirer, and says, “Jeez, that Al Gore would be quite a load, wouldn’t he?” And the checker says, “Looks like a little global squirming going on.” I crack just the beginning of a smile at these remarks and they look at me again. I apologize for listening in on them with a lame hands-up sissy gesture.
I get to the checker and say, “Hi.” She says, “Can’t talk now. I have customers behind you.”
I probably shouldn’t have told you that first anecdote first, because the people are generally just friendly, and they don’t usually say mean things to us potential Luden’s users. Like I was in a restaurant and the waitress came over and said, “What’ll it be, darlin’?” And I said, “Did you call me darlin’, darlin’?” And she adjusted her apron, and said, “Why, yes, darlin’, I did call you darlin’, darlin’” (I was going to say, “But you never even called me by my name” but I knew she wouldn’t get the reference. Neither will you. So that’s why I didn’t say it.)
Everybody is friendly. They take time with you. They appear to maybe even like you. They have faking sincerity down to a science. The gas station attendant fills up my tank and tells me about the salmon run. The bookstore owner walks me to the book section I need and personally wipes the dust off the row of books I will look at. The frame-store owner sells me the cheaper picture frame because he thinks it will work better for me.
And a couple of days ago I had a guy come out to give me a bid for a fence I’m building for my dog, Archie the Airedale. And this guy was so nice I thought he had the wrong house. He was nicer than Pat Boone, baby. He called me “sir” so many times I thought I had been promoted to corporal. And then the next day, I go out on the dock to just walk around and I notice a guy standing there with a rod and reel and I look at him like I sort of know him, but I’m puzzled and he finally says, “Yeah, it’s me, the fence guy! Wanna go fishing?”
“It’s me, the fence guy. Wanna go fishing?”
I don’t know about you, but I don’t think I would have heard that in LA. It’s just too damn friendly for city slicker talk. But I do have mixed emotions on all this friendly stuff. I know they will eventually find out I’m not really all that friendly and then I will be rejected and continue on with my lonely, unfulfilled, tragic walk-through life.
So I tentatively said something to the fence guy about his choosing me to go fishing with. I said, “Do you really want to go fishing with me?” And he kind of looked at me like that was a bit too touchy-feely, and said, “Yeah, sure, you look like a good guy.” And I smiled my manly hug-smile and he continued. “And my buddies are all working today. And, by the way, you think, maybe you could buy the bait?”
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