A few years ago, Linda, my bride of three years said “Lets go to Florida in February. It will be fun to get away and have a rest in the sun for a few weeks.” I stared at her, dumfounded. She now claims I went to my room, curled up in a fetal position on the floor and would not come out for 3 days, that may be correct. I have no other memory of the event.
I’ve spent most of my life on my own, venturing outside my cave only when I needed to forage for food or other sustaining things, I am a hermit. Not the “Mad Bomber” type of hermit, quite different. I can be social and charming if need be. If you ever get me started (I urge you not to), I will regale you for hours with stories filled with laughter and pathos. You might even be fooled into believing that I am very social. That would be incorrect. I like to be alone.
I don’t mean to give the wrong impression. There have been four spectacular women who at different times in my life have decided to be equal co-pilots with me and we’ve lived together in long and wonderful relationships. There have also been many tourists who have dropped by for visits at other times.
I have loved and embraced the years I've been with each. Those who stayed were intelligent, beautiful, mysterious, and full of themselves. They’ve needed those qualities to share time with me. My life’s work is unusual to say the least. Any women who feels she can find comfort with me must know who she is. She also needs to be capable of whacking me over the head with a newspaper and command our ship by herself during the times I get stupid. I have completely enjoyed sharing my life with them.
I just happen to completely enjoy spending time with myself. I like to be alone.
I do not like to go outside my cave. Almost all my life I’ve created, worked and lived in the same environment. I would prefer to be paid for my services with food and dry goods. You’ll save me a trip to the store. I am a hermit.
Going to Florida involves flying in airplanes. For the Wright brothers, a dream. For me, a nightmare. Not only must I leave my cave, but I will be flying above the clouds in a container that weighs thousands of pounds, full of thousands of pounds of flammable fuel. That’s asking Mother Nature for a lot of co-operation. I will also need to go through U.S. Customs, and spend hours with strangers in airports and airplanes. That's asking me for a lot of co-operation.
The airline limo picked us up on time at 4.30 a.m. Linda and I thought this was a good omen, our trip was starting off great.
After waiting in the wrong line for twenty minutes we are sent two hundred yards away to get in the line for United States flights. We trudge over there, wait another twenty minutes and after booking in are sent to a different line. This new line is huge, consisting of about eight rows of people snaking back and forth like a bank line that slowly moves us to our potential doom. We are now waiting to experience the joy of U.S. Customs.
Half an hour later we arrive at the counter for interrogation This part of the experience isn't too bad. Sharp unfriendly questioning, minor baggage disruption, a little roughhousing, nothing unexpected. As we leave this section, Linda dumps her suitcases, coats, bags etc., on the floor with the sensible intention of repacking so that everything can be carried to the next trough without dragging it along the floor. As she throws her stuff to the floor the guy who just dealt with us starts yelling at us to move along (no one is behind us, so we aren't holding anything up). Linda starts to explain to him she just wants to get a better grip on her belongings when two other guards with hands on their holstered guns descend on us from different directions, running towards us, both screaming that we could NOT stop there AT ALL and have to keep moving, NOW!
Realizing we are outnumbered I help her gather up her strewn belongings and we drag them along the floor to the next section.
The next line is smaller, (perhaps some of the unfortunates in front of us have been killed off) and we place our watches, shoes, belts etc., in an X-Ray machine... all pretty uneventful until we get to the next section.
A gun belted uniformed woman of formidable girth is in charge here, my friendly "Hello" is ignored as she waves a metal wand over our portable computer. It’s an old Macintosh that I resuscitated from some workroom corner so that Linda could get her e-mail (a hermit who never leaves his cave doesn’t have much need for a viable portable). Well, this guard immediately drops the wand. She reaches into a lower drawer, pulls out and puts on a pair of rubber gloves and screams out "We need a supervisor over here." He arrives and they have a very animated conversation while pointing to various dials on their machine, the supervisor says there's a problem, and commands us to "Wait here!" and leaves. I think I hear a drum roll, but I can't be sure.
It’s now about 7.30 a.m., we’ve been in various lines for two and a half hours, the plane will be leaving soon and we're not even close to getting on board yet. We’re old, we’re tired. Even I am beginning to lose my sense of humour (that’s quite a ways down the path for me).
The supervisor returns with a clipboard and explains we have to answer some questions because the computer and case show traces of explosive material on them. The rubber gloves are to protect the agent from getting explosive dust on her hands. Linda had been carrying the portable at the time of our capture, so he asks her if she's used the case lately to carry any bombs, explosives, or makeup. I interrupt and explain the case is mine and I got it from my basement where I don't make bombs and I haven't used the case or computer for a couple of years.
The supervisor now gets agitated about whether anybody else in our basement could have added any bombs to the case or computer. I explain no one has access to our basement, that I am a photographer and just grabbed one of the many camera cases I have in my basement to carry this in, and I want my mommy and were sorry and we promise to never do whatever we did again...
Eventually, after opening and closing the computer repeatedly, the gal with the gloves, holding the opened computer, stares at me and demands "Open it up for me." I meekly mention it is open and she loudly repeats "Open it up for me." We do this a few more times as she gets testier and testier, for a moment I wonder if she means I should take it apart, but finally figure she might mean “Turn it on.” I ask, and she yells "That's what I’ve been telling you to do!"
Macs are turned on by the keyboard. No simple on or off switch for Macs, nothing anywhere that says ON. I'm convinced that if I don't remember what the stupid key is, I will spend the rest of my life in an American prison, being really friendly with a guy named Bubba. I resist the urge to start humming and suck my thumb, I sense this might be very counterproductive. Finally, I notice a key that has a squiggle on it that might be it. I explain this is an old computer and will take some time to start up. I push the key and the supervisor, guard, Linda and I, in a state of transcendent awe stare motionless at the blank screen for at least thirty seconds until a little Mac happy face appears and it slowly starts to come alive... everyone is happy now, and we hold hands and dance around the table in a circle. The supervisor concludes that recharging the old battery probably produced some gasses that the sniffer machine detected.
We are freed from our detention and sent to another holding area. More waiting, and then we're finally allowed to board the plane. We take off and fly above the clouds and eventually the hermit and his bride arrive in Florida.
As the plane is landing, Linda asks, if she is ever able to talk me into leaving the cave again, would I prefer to drive next time? I make a mental note to remember to check what my bride means by the words "next time".
Six months later, my bride has again talked me into venturing from my cave. I'm sitting outside a drug store in St. Sauveur, Quebec waiting for her to come out when some old guy comes up and sits on the bench beside me. He start to chat with me about my tan, his tan, what parts of Florida I went to, and what parts of Florida he goes to.
My life of solitude is ruined. I am no longer a monk. I have become a caricature. I am now the other half of a duo of geezers sitting on a bench in Quebec, calmly talking about their trips to Florida. The only thing that's missing from this scene is a cane to thump on the ground while we cackle. Maybe I'll be able to talk Linda into going to Florida again next year. I remember seeing a fine walking stick in a store when we were there...
Showing posts with label humour. Show all posts
Showing posts with label humour. Show all posts
Sunday, August 5, 2007
Sunday, July 15, 2007
Taking back the empties © by adrian
As a man, I am incomplete, a total failure. I have never been able to find the missing gene that would allow me to identify with my fellow brothers, there is absolutely no other possibility. I am a failure.
I am almost 70 years old, and I have never in my life seen a complete game of any sport played on those fields or courts or ice men use for such things. I don't beep my car horn at women with big breasts. I don't wear my cap on backwards, I don't even wear one. I don't adjust my private parts in public places.
I spent most of my youth curled up in a big easy chair reading Dostoyevsky, Sartre, Plato, Freud and Jung while I listened to Tchaikovsky and Beethoven, I wore an ascot and a beret, I was disgusting!
Wait, it gets worse... I cook, I do my own laundry, I sew. If there is a problem in my relationship with my lovely bride of 7 years (much to our surprise, we both re-married late in life), I am always the first to state the obvious "we need to talk". I will discuss my deepest feelings and inner thoughts with anybody, I will happily open up to the bus driver, I am not afraid of what others think of me. When I get served badly, I tell the person involved that their actions are unsatisfactory, and if served well, I never miss expressing how much I enjoyed what just happened. None of that "have a nice day" stuff, but real solid contact and thanks.
Don't get me wrong, I am a capable individual... I could do a pretty good job of wiring your house, I can do your plumbing for you, not just changing a washer, but big grown up stuff with blow torches and the like, I could even present you with a fairly good plumbers butt. If something mechanical is broken, there's a pretty good chance I will be able to fix it.
As I said though, as a man, I just don't measure up, I just can't do any of that "guy" stuff that men do so well. I am a failure.
I almost forgot, I don't drink beer very often, and if I do, it's always one of those honey brown beers, you know, the kind that, to use Arnold Schwarzenegger's words a "Girly Man" would drink.
In the city I live in we have just started a returnable wine bottle deposit system, an almost fine idea, except for one tiny, tiny flaw... you are required to take your wine bottles back to a beer store, so for those of us that don't beer much, it's a non event and sadly they simply go in the recycle bin. This though, has created a new "cottage industry" of people that go out on recycling days with huge shopping carts and roam the city picking up bottles so that they can return them and enjoy the refundable deposit for their efforts.
It's been about four years since I was last in a beer store and my cousin, bless her soul, brought us a six pack the last time she came to dinner, so now I had 2 six packs and a twelve pack of empties to return, I even had 3 wine bottles in the recycling bin that could go back. I was ready. I threw the empty wine bottles in a plastic bag and the cases of empties in the car and drove off to do my deed. I was pumped.
As I arrived at the parking lot of the Plaza where the beer store was, I realized my grip on the steering wheel was tightening, I could feel a nervousness building, I was slightly nauseous as I started remembering just how "manly" beer stores are, how totally incapable I have always been at navigating these places... the minute I open the door, they all know my secret, they all know that I do not belong there, that I am not one of them.
On parking, I noticed that my brain had stopped working and I could no longer remember what brand of beer I drank. I sat for a few minutes and then convinced myself that this had to be done, I would at least go in and look around, maybe I would recognize the bottle in the displays they have on the wall of all beer stores and if my vocal cords stayed paralyzed with fear, perhaps I could just point and some kindly clerk would help me.
Well, as you know, life does not always unfold the way it is pre-imagined. Apparently since the last time I was in a beer store they changed the interiors rather dramatically and failed to notify me. There was no row of bottles on the wall for me to point to, everything was bare except for a check out island in the middle of the store, one at the back, and a long row of those roller things I recognized where I would return my empties to if I had not cowardly left them on the front seat of my car. To one side I saw a cavernous room that men were casually walking freely into and strolling out with cases of beer under their arms. Everybody was staring at me, they were all waiting to see what the Gringo would do, I found my voice and said to the clerk standing in the centre island "Is this self serve, do I just go in there and get what I want?" "Yep" he answered.
I am now in the largest refrigerator I have ever seen in my life... it is stacked with hundreds, possibly thousand of cases of beer, I am in what I perceive is "Man Heaven". I wander about aimlessly, I cant find what I want if my life depends on it, I know if I stay in here much longer, I will be found in a corner, humming quietly and sucking my thumb... I retreat. As I flee to the exit door the clerk calls to me "Couldn't find what you were looking for?", "No, it's OK, this was just a practice, I will come back next week" I reply. I get to my car and without looking back drive away.
It's Wednesday now, and I have been driving around with my empties crashing and rolling about the car floor, reminding me of Saturday's folly... I must do this thing, I must return these bottles, I must be strong. I must also remember the name of the brand I drink when I go into that dreadful place! I will buy 24 bottles this time, I won't need to return for another 4 years. If I can cut back on my drinking, I might be able to squeeze 5 years out of this new case before I have to return it.
Full of resolve I jump into the car. I even understand the lay of the land this time, I am ready, I am pumped. Life is good!
I live ten minutes away from the beer store. After driving 5 minutes or so I notice on the sidewalk the occasional street person clanging up the street with his/her cart full of bottles, I think how sweet that they have been able to take advantage of this new system and find some spare change without the need to beg.
I turn down a side street about four blocks from the beer store and notice more people with their loaded carts. For a brief moment I think that I am a jerk, and maybe I should stop and give these bottles to someone, they certainly can use the money more than I, but no, I am challenged and want to overcome this fear of the dreaded beer store, I need to do this, so I drive on.
I round the final corner, I'm about 3 blocks from my destination and finally confronted with the insanity of it. The scene is like every End of Days movie I have ever seen. As far as I can see, in the direction I am traveling, and coming over the hill from the other side is a long endless shuffle of disheveled people and carts & bottles clanking, falling, spilling... everybody funneling into the mouth of the beer store parking lot. Everybody has arrived today to collect their prize. Today is recycling day!
At first I think I should just keep driving and try again some other time, but I know I might never be able to prepare myself to do this again, so I soldier on. Anyway, I reason, I'm fairly shopworn, used and disheveled looking myself, with my wine bottles and a few loose beer bottles in a plastic bag I will just blend in, I will be in a store full of others that don't belong there either. God has created this cover for me so that I can return my empties unnoticed.
Wait, it gets worse... I park the car and as I'm walking toward the front door clutching my sad offering of empties I notice a fellow who owns a bar just down the street from where my studio was a few years ago. We were neighbours for 15 years. He is loading up his empties to take back and replenish his restaurant stock for the day. He sees me for the first time in 4 years and I can see in his face he is embarrassed for me, for a brief moment I'm sure he wonders if he should ask me if I want any of his empties to help me out. He must think that I can certainly use the money more than he. Instead he decides the way to deal with his former indigent neighbour is to look away and pretend he hasn't seen me. Just as well, because I am now swept in the maelstrom of people and carts and empties sliding into the store. To try to turn back now could precipitate a disaster.
I am pushed into the store by the moving crowd, everybody with their carts and boxes full to the brim, all anxious to get this transaction finished, so they can go back out and find more treasure. As each arrived at the front of the line I notice that every bottle they are claiming is being argued over and fought for. The clerk reaches into bags and boxes and various other offering that he is presented with and rejects many and hands them back to the surprised supplicant. I am never able to determine why the various bottles are rejected and I doubt that the people they are returned to know, but suffice to say that for every pile of bottles that is inspected, more than half are handed back to the presenter as not refundable. They turn around after they get their money, shuffle outside and dump the bottles that are not accepted into the closest garbage bin, sometimes simply on the lawn beside the beer store and then go on their way. None of this seems particularly useful for the cities recycling plan.
My turn arrives and I hand my submission to the clerk and wait for my gold. I have no idea what the amount of loose change I am given totals, it wouldn't do me any good to count it anyway, I don't know what the empties are worth. I do feel a sense of triumph and am delighted that I have passed inspection, I've shown myself to be a worthy scavenger. They have accepted my humble offering, for a brief moment I am part of a group, I am one of them!
I panic briefly as I realize that I still need to get my new case of beer, but pull myself together and aim for the "Cold Room". I am able to quickly find what I need, snatch it in my arms and boldly stride back to the counter beside where I was a minute ago. The fellow that had served me interrupts his sad task of returning unacceptable bottles to the people that have reached his counter and calls into a microphone for "front counter checkout". Someone eventually arrives, takes my money and sends me on my way.
I figure in about 4 to 5 years I'll have some empties to return, maybe by then the scavengers will have cell phones on their carts and I can phone ahead for a pickup, I'm pretty sure I will never be able to do this again.
On telling this sad story to my bride, I asked her if she would give me a son, so that I would have someone to help me learn the ways of manhood. She just smiled, and then asked me if I would like a beer.
I am almost 70 years old, and I have never in my life seen a complete game of any sport played on those fields or courts or ice men use for such things. I don't beep my car horn at women with big breasts. I don't wear my cap on backwards, I don't even wear one. I don't adjust my private parts in public places.
I spent most of my youth curled up in a big easy chair reading Dostoyevsky, Sartre, Plato, Freud and Jung while I listened to Tchaikovsky and Beethoven, I wore an ascot and a beret, I was disgusting!
Wait, it gets worse... I cook, I do my own laundry, I sew. If there is a problem in my relationship with my lovely bride of 7 years (much to our surprise, we both re-married late in life), I am always the first to state the obvious "we need to talk". I will discuss my deepest feelings and inner thoughts with anybody, I will happily open up to the bus driver, I am not afraid of what others think of me. When I get served badly, I tell the person involved that their actions are unsatisfactory, and if served well, I never miss expressing how much I enjoyed what just happened. None of that "have a nice day" stuff, but real solid contact and thanks.
Don't get me wrong, I am a capable individual... I could do a pretty good job of wiring your house, I can do your plumbing for you, not just changing a washer, but big grown up stuff with blow torches and the like, I could even present you with a fairly good plumbers butt. If something mechanical is broken, there's a pretty good chance I will be able to fix it.
As I said though, as a man, I just don't measure up, I just can't do any of that "guy" stuff that men do so well. I am a failure.
I almost forgot, I don't drink beer very often, and if I do, it's always one of those honey brown beers, you know, the kind that, to use Arnold Schwarzenegger's words a "Girly Man" would drink.
In the city I live in we have just started a returnable wine bottle deposit system, an almost fine idea, except for one tiny, tiny flaw... you are required to take your wine bottles back to a beer store, so for those of us that don't beer much, it's a non event and sadly they simply go in the recycle bin. This though, has created a new "cottage industry" of people that go out on recycling days with huge shopping carts and roam the city picking up bottles so that they can return them and enjoy the refundable deposit for their efforts.
It's been about four years since I was last in a beer store and my cousin, bless her soul, brought us a six pack the last time she came to dinner, so now I had 2 six packs and a twelve pack of empties to return, I even had 3 wine bottles in the recycling bin that could go back. I was ready. I threw the empty wine bottles in a plastic bag and the cases of empties in the car and drove off to do my deed. I was pumped.
As I arrived at the parking lot of the Plaza where the beer store was, I realized my grip on the steering wheel was tightening, I could feel a nervousness building, I was slightly nauseous as I started remembering just how "manly" beer stores are, how totally incapable I have always been at navigating these places... the minute I open the door, they all know my secret, they all know that I do not belong there, that I am not one of them.
On parking, I noticed that my brain had stopped working and I could no longer remember what brand of beer I drank. I sat for a few minutes and then convinced myself that this had to be done, I would at least go in and look around, maybe I would recognize the bottle in the displays they have on the wall of all beer stores and if my vocal cords stayed paralyzed with fear, perhaps I could just point and some kindly clerk would help me.
Well, as you know, life does not always unfold the way it is pre-imagined. Apparently since the last time I was in a beer store they changed the interiors rather dramatically and failed to notify me. There was no row of bottles on the wall for me to point to, everything was bare except for a check out island in the middle of the store, one at the back, and a long row of those roller things I recognized where I would return my empties to if I had not cowardly left them on the front seat of my car. To one side I saw a cavernous room that men were casually walking freely into and strolling out with cases of beer under their arms. Everybody was staring at me, they were all waiting to see what the Gringo would do, I found my voice and said to the clerk standing in the centre island "Is this self serve, do I just go in there and get what I want?" "Yep" he answered.
I am now in the largest refrigerator I have ever seen in my life... it is stacked with hundreds, possibly thousand of cases of beer, I am in what I perceive is "Man Heaven". I wander about aimlessly, I cant find what I want if my life depends on it, I know if I stay in here much longer, I will be found in a corner, humming quietly and sucking my thumb... I retreat. As I flee to the exit door the clerk calls to me "Couldn't find what you were looking for?", "No, it's OK, this was just a practice, I will come back next week" I reply. I get to my car and without looking back drive away.
It's Wednesday now, and I have been driving around with my empties crashing and rolling about the car floor, reminding me of Saturday's folly... I must do this thing, I must return these bottles, I must be strong. I must also remember the name of the brand I drink when I go into that dreadful place! I will buy 24 bottles this time, I won't need to return for another 4 years. If I can cut back on my drinking, I might be able to squeeze 5 years out of this new case before I have to return it.
Full of resolve I jump into the car. I even understand the lay of the land this time, I am ready, I am pumped. Life is good!
I live ten minutes away from the beer store. After driving 5 minutes or so I notice on the sidewalk the occasional street person clanging up the street with his/her cart full of bottles, I think how sweet that they have been able to take advantage of this new system and find some spare change without the need to beg.
I turn down a side street about four blocks from the beer store and notice more people with their loaded carts. For a brief moment I think that I am a jerk, and maybe I should stop and give these bottles to someone, they certainly can use the money more than I, but no, I am challenged and want to overcome this fear of the dreaded beer store, I need to do this, so I drive on.
I round the final corner, I'm about 3 blocks from my destination and finally confronted with the insanity of it. The scene is like every End of Days movie I have ever seen. As far as I can see, in the direction I am traveling, and coming over the hill from the other side is a long endless shuffle of disheveled people and carts & bottles clanking, falling, spilling... everybody funneling into the mouth of the beer store parking lot. Everybody has arrived today to collect their prize. Today is recycling day!
At first I think I should just keep driving and try again some other time, but I know I might never be able to prepare myself to do this again, so I soldier on. Anyway, I reason, I'm fairly shopworn, used and disheveled looking myself, with my wine bottles and a few loose beer bottles in a plastic bag I will just blend in, I will be in a store full of others that don't belong there either. God has created this cover for me so that I can return my empties unnoticed.
Wait, it gets worse... I park the car and as I'm walking toward the front door clutching my sad offering of empties I notice a fellow who owns a bar just down the street from where my studio was a few years ago. We were neighbours for 15 years. He is loading up his empties to take back and replenish his restaurant stock for the day. He sees me for the first time in 4 years and I can see in his face he is embarrassed for me, for a brief moment I'm sure he wonders if he should ask me if I want any of his empties to help me out. He must think that I can certainly use the money more than he. Instead he decides the way to deal with his former indigent neighbour is to look away and pretend he hasn't seen me. Just as well, because I am now swept in the maelstrom of people and carts and empties sliding into the store. To try to turn back now could precipitate a disaster.
I am pushed into the store by the moving crowd, everybody with their carts and boxes full to the brim, all anxious to get this transaction finished, so they can go back out and find more treasure. As each arrived at the front of the line I notice that every bottle they are claiming is being argued over and fought for. The clerk reaches into bags and boxes and various other offering that he is presented with and rejects many and hands them back to the surprised supplicant. I am never able to determine why the various bottles are rejected and I doubt that the people they are returned to know, but suffice to say that for every pile of bottles that is inspected, more than half are handed back to the presenter as not refundable. They turn around after they get their money, shuffle outside and dump the bottles that are not accepted into the closest garbage bin, sometimes simply on the lawn beside the beer store and then go on their way. None of this seems particularly useful for the cities recycling plan.
My turn arrives and I hand my submission to the clerk and wait for my gold. I have no idea what the amount of loose change I am given totals, it wouldn't do me any good to count it anyway, I don't know what the empties are worth. I do feel a sense of triumph and am delighted that I have passed inspection, I've shown myself to be a worthy scavenger. They have accepted my humble offering, for a brief moment I am part of a group, I am one of them!
I panic briefly as I realize that I still need to get my new case of beer, but pull myself together and aim for the "Cold Room". I am able to quickly find what I need, snatch it in my arms and boldly stride back to the counter beside where I was a minute ago. The fellow that had served me interrupts his sad task of returning unacceptable bottles to the people that have reached his counter and calls into a microphone for "front counter checkout". Someone eventually arrives, takes my money and sends me on my way.
I figure in about 4 to 5 years I'll have some empties to return, maybe by then the scavengers will have cell phones on their carts and I can phone ahead for a pickup, I'm pretty sure I will never be able to do this again.
On telling this sad story to my bride, I asked her if she would give me a son, so that I would have someone to help me learn the ways of manhood. She just smiled, and then asked me if I would like a beer.
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