Ada Parker
Posted by Conrad Barman on June 19th, 2009 filed in Uncategorized1 Comment »
ADA PARKER
or
How I Learned to Love the Screwdriver
CATCH THE THRILL!
CATCH THE EXCITEMENT!
CATCH THE EMBARRASSMENT!
We begin in late June of ’01. Our friends shiver with excitement. Or perhaps heat stroke. They are leaving for Florida, the land of mysterious beginnings*.
Florida holds much promise and hope for these two. Nathaniel has only visited the state on a few occasions. By a few we mean three (3). He likes the place ok, but it’s no Texas. Of course, it is only a state. His female counterpart (we’ll call her Joy) is more than excited to return to Florida. You see, she is a native. Don’t hold it against her, for you will find that reflexive feeling of fear & shame at the thought of a Texan mingling with a Floridian is simply the product of your own ignorant prejudices. Settle down and read on.
They are on their way for a wedding; a wedding that will result in more than a few miracles, more than a few laughs, more than a few tears; a wedding that kicks a$$. They are on their way to their wedding.
These two have known each other for several years. When they first met it nearly came to fisticuffs. It ended with Nathaniel beating Joy down – but in a gentle manner. The boys won the game of dodgeball in a masterful fashion. The girls accepted their defeat with the dignity one would expect of a dog caught drinking toilet water. It was a beautiful night.
They kept in touch via the interwebs, and their relationship grew quickly, though often hindered by Nathaniel’s irrational fears and Joy’s confounding inability to understand the male mind (yes, yes, we ascribe to the theory that the male intellect does in fact exist). But in the end (which is our beginning) destiny would not be daunted. They fell in love and agreed to marry.
The pending plans to wed in Florida are the result of many months of planning. Blood sweat & tears. Happy times. Nervous times. Now the times are depending on the airline to do its thing.
They fly Southwest of course. Anything else would be uncivilized. Nathaniel, always the gentleman, allows Joy the option of taking a window seat. Joy, always the lady, takes it. Nathaniel gets the middle seat.
An old lady quickly snags the aisle seat. Our young lovers do not pay much attention – they are well versed with the unspoken American social standard of avoiding conversation with strangers who happen to be within arms’ reach, unless some uncontrollable incident happens and one is forced into politely uncomfortable grin-and-bear-it small talk (don’t forget The Rule applies to elevators, bathrooms and amusement park lines). Thus Joy & Nathaniel are content to speak only to each other. They are mere days from becoming newlyweds…….there is little hope of carrying on a decent conversation with anyone not name Joy or Nathaniel.
The flight will last approx. 2½ hours. But, in accordance with Einstein’s whole relativity thing, the time will not seem like 150 minutes. Nor the 9000 seconds it actually is. No, the sensation of time elapsing will vary – from slow as all get in to fast as all get out.
The first 20 minutes or so pass like any other flight to any other place: the initial garble over the plane’s speaker system from the all-too-desperate-for-human-contact captain; a sudden and unwelcome blast of air from the vent directly above; the occasional cough from somewhere in the back; the whine of engines starting. The plane slowly moves forward, jockeys into position and clears for takeoff. Joy grabs Nathaniel’s hand in one swift movement – as if she had been practicing all her life. Perhaps she had.
The details become fuzzy here – I think most everyone would agree the details are hard to remember whenever anyone finds themselves trapped in a conversation they don’t want to be a part of because some good ol’ boy breaks The Rule. But we know it happens. The old lady somehow initiates a conversation, whether it is to ask the standard question “Are you from _______?” (insert departure/arrival city), whether it is to state her own plans, or whether it is simply to ask for the Southwest magazine that someone inevitably takes (to the disappointment of many despite the imploring message on the cover “your complimentary copy”).
And so it begins.
Pending their opportunity to share the full nature of their plans, Nathaniel & Joy anticipate the inevitable: “yes, it’s wonderful we are going to be married in a few days’ time”, “yes we’re excited, yes we can’t believe it’s so soon, etc., etc.”. But they don’t have the chance. The old lady wants to talk about herself, and nothing could have prepared them for the conversational detour the old lady takes them down.
“I’m going to my sister’s funeral.”
This is the moment when the needle brings the record to a halt with a nasty screech. When the documentary editorial staff carefully rewinds the precious footage and plays back the statement over and over and over again; when the “pause” button is pressed so the test audience may have time to recover from the initial shock and nervous laughter.
Unfortunately, our young friends are granted no such grace period. This is real life people. Get used to it.
“My sister died recently. In the past couple years I’ve lost my husband of 50+ years, my other sister, a few other relatives……I’m going to lose my home unless I find a way to pay my bills.”
They smile and offer a valiant attempt at empathy, hoping the mood can somehow be salvaged. Imagine yourself trapped in an elevator on a hot day with a large man who hasn’t bathed in quite some time. You are close to understanding how these two feel.
The conversation stumbles along. By some miracle the old lady decides to ask a question not directly related to herself.
“Why are you two going to Florida?”
The elevator has been repaired.
In the midst of the following conversation names are exchanged. Nathaniel Gallagher. Joy Cunningham (soon to be Gallagher). And she is Ada Parker. Ada Parker. Remember this name kids – it will soon finds its place engraved in the annals of world history.
The young couple, however, is not allowed the generally understood freedom to share their story – Ada interrupts with happy tales of meeting her husband, their courtship, sharing the journey of life together. “Believe me kids, don’t ever go to bed angry. That was the one iron-clad rule we lived by – and we never failed to do it.”**
If you are reading this and are married, you know that no amount of advice can prepare you for the reality that awaits those engaged. If you are single, enjoy your ignorance. While marriage can and does offer bliss you don’t know exists, it also offers trials and tribulations you don’t know you are capable of withstanding.
As the conversation progresses the flight attendants make their eagerly anticipated rounds. You see, Joy and Nathaniel have brought coupons with them. Not silly discount coupons you cut out of the Sunday paper – these are drink coupons. Like children hungry for Halloween candy they clutch their coupons in a controlled frenzy. Alcohol is near.
Being the friendly and generous people they are the soon-to-be Gallaghers offer to “buy” Ada a drink. They have more than enough coupons to share (how cute their ignorance!) and it seems a nice gesture within the context of Ada’s sad stories.
“Well, I don’t drink.”
Ada’s response to their offer is taken graciously, if at all. Time must not be wasted when drink orders are asked for! Wine for Joy. Something red. Beer for Nathaniel. Heineken. (He has yet to discover Lone Star – much to our embarrassment.) They have no qualms about drinking in front of those who abstain. Nor do they have any reason to believe she is lying.
As the flight attendant hands the young couple their drinks, Ada decides to voice her order. Expecting a soda, juice or perhaps even tea, Joy & Nathaniel are as unprepared for her answer as a trusting grandchild is for the truth about his grandmother’s camel:
“I’ll have a vodka and orange juice.”
There is no time to react. They must stifle their laughs, swallow the alcohol in their mouths, try to breathe normally. No reason to be alarmed. Nothing to fear. Nowhere to go.
But let’s be honest – who would have expected sweet Ada to know how to order a screwdriver?
She accepts the can of Minute Maid orange juice and the small “trial size” bottle of generic vodka. At least the bottle is made of glass. She mixes her drink quite easily and engages in consumption almost as eagerly, but nearly as desperately, as the two stunned youngsters seated next to her.
Eventually conversation resumes. The discussion of marriage continues, and Ada is happy to give more advice. Perhaps happier. Note that neither Joy or Nathaniel noticed any hint of untruth in Ada’s voice when she told them she didn’t drink. Nor was their any detectable sarcasm when she ordered the cocktail. But now her inexperience with liquor begins to show. An 80something-year-old woman with white hair and pale skin is nothing unusual. But an old woman with white hair, a suddenly red face and a grin like the Grinch on Christmas morning is something to behold.
Planes are interesting. When you first board, your only thought is to get your seat. Some of you choose to stand in line at the gate hours before the plane even arrives to secure a choice location. Some of you choose to sit and laugh at these people. (We are members of the latter group.) Once on the plane and in your seat, you immediately do something to preoccupy yourself. Be it read a book or magazine you’ve brought, read the in-flight magazine provided, or pretend to sleep. But everyone does their very best to avoid acknowledging that you are about to be stuck violating the personal space of 100 or so total strangers for the next couple hours. We would all believe that our new neighbors simply do not exist.
The key to this fantasy is a limit of recognizable noise. The constant hum of the engines and whir of cabin pressurization limits the range of frequency picked up by your ears. Only the very low (engine rumble) or very high (screaming child) or very loud (captain’s loudspeaker drivel) can be heard.
Imagine if you will….Joy & Nathaniel’s flight has thus far proven to be enjoyable with regard to noise level. The captain is not the stereotypical lonely soul, perhaps even realizing his passengers really don’t care how fast or how high the plane is flying. There are no screaming children. The engines are working fine.
Now imagine this blessed “silence” shattered by the cackle of an old woman struggling with the one of the greatest ironies of life (death) while dipping a little too deep into a pool of alcohol.
“Cackle?” you may ask. Yes, alcohol releases inhibitions and often creates a general sense of giddiness, but is this enough to generate an eardrum shattering laughter? Surely there is a more tangible cause?
Indeed there is:
The conversation between the young couple and the suddenly born again Ada Parker has never departed from its course of armchair marriage counseling. From stories of wild dates and family budget crisis’, there is plenty of material to go around. Story after story follows advice ‘nugget’ after advice ‘nugget’.
Ada indicates to Joy she has something very important to share with her. Woman to woman. Girl talk.
Please remember poor Nathaniel, ever the gentleman, is seated between these two ladies. On an airplane there is simply nowhere to go. You, fair reader, can retreat within the confines of your own imagination as you read this – you aren’t there, stuck in that seat, sweating out the increasing craze of an old lady and her young protégé.
“I need to tell you something, and you must never forget it.”
Joy responds by leaning in a little closer.
Ada responds by moving in a little closer.
Nathaniel’s fear and discomfort begin to rage out of control.
“Men are like wild horses – YOU GOTTA RIDE ‘EM TILL YA TAME ‘EM!!!!”***
If there was ever a moment for an awkward silence, it is now. Unfortunately, as stated before, silence has been put to death by the fantastic cackle of our one and only Ada Parker.
“AAAAHHHH HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!!”
Were it not fair to the pursuit of truth, our story would be brought to an end right here. But truth cannot be suppressed. Nor can every detail of this adventure.
Once something resembling composure is regained by Ms. Parker, and after a short (relatively infinite) period of time passes, the call of Nature is to be heeded. She fumbles with her suddenly challenging seatbelt lock, struggles to her feet, and heads for the toilet.
Seizing the opportunity to discreetly curb his new friend’s binge, Nathaniel grabs what remains of Ada’s vodka and empties it into her can of orange juice. His hope is that he can prevent her from consuming any more liquor.****
As they wait for Ada’s inevitable return, Joy is called to Nature. And although the lease has expired on the beer Nathaniel rented, he is somehow spared the same need. Perhaps it is nerves. Perhaps it is sweat. Perhaps it is the realization that he is responsible for getting an old lady drunk, causing his normally automated bodily functions to shut down.
Without warning the flight attendant arrives. With her are a tray of drinks. Specifically, she presents to Nathaniel a glass of wine, a can of Heineken, and the necessary ingredients for another screwdriver.
He has no chance to process this new turn of events. He doesn’t feel he needs one. “Um, ma’am? I didn’t order this?”
“Oh, it’s taken care of. The woman seated here paid for them.”
Normally, when one kind gesture is replied with another, happiness is the end result. A general sense of neighborly friendship. But all Nathaniel can feel is fear. Already this poor woman has had too much alcohol for her frail body and thin blood. How to thwart this problem? There is no defined social protocol for such a situation. Perhaps you, kind reader, may have knowledge that can help our already fallen hero. But I doubt it.
Joy arrives. Upon sight of the drinks she reacts as any educated, experienced female would. She blames the man.
“Why did you order more drinks? What were you thinking?”
“I didn’t. It was her.”
The minor tiff and accompanying reflective pause allow for two important events to occur, almost simultaneously:
1) Ada returns, perhaps a little bit wobbly, but none the worse for wear.
2) Nathaniel completely forgets he emptied the remains of Ada’s first liquor bottle into the open can of orange juice.
Let the fun begin.
With a smile sly enough to get an 8 year old into a week’s worth of trouble, Ada requests personal drink service. “Pour me another one. And make it strong!”
Nathaniel, ever the gentleman, reacts quickly. Mixing the contents of the fresh bottle of vodka and the recently-spiked can of orange juice, he attempts to satisfy Ada’s demands while compensating for his own sense of guilt and fear.
Ada will not be daunted.
“More!” she cries as Nathaniel allows a mere drop to invade the plastic cup of ice and juice. “More!” she demands as his shaking hand somehow manages to continue. “More!” she pleads like a desert wanderer accepting his first glass of water in days.
Nathaniel complies, rationalizing silently to himself lame attempts to dodge his newfound responsibility. “Nobody asked me to take care of her. I can’t tell her what to do. Maybe if I pour slow enough she’ll lose patience and take it with less vodka.”
If his conscience could take physical form, no doubt she’d be bent over the seat in front of him, yelling shrilly “You fool! That’s already twice as much vodka as her first drink! The orange juice is spiked! She’s gonna be shitfaced before we hit the Gulf!”
Returning to his suddenly weak beer, the three companions raise their glasses in a silent toast.
The momentary pause is broken by Ada’s tender voice.
“I need to tell you something, and don’t you forget it.”
“Oh dear God” thinks Nathaniel.
“No way” thinks Joy.
“Men are like wild horses” cries Ada, “you gotta ride ‘em till ya tame ‘em!”
It would be kind to end the story here. Let the reader laugh a little. Enjoy the comically repeated advice given by a grieving old lady. Wish the best for our young couple. But history is never kind, and the truth cares nothing at all for our best.
However, some of the positive details of our story should be noted. The conversation is surprisingly light and enjoyable. Nathaniel and Joy, after 2 beers and 2 glasses of wine respectively, are not quite as tense. The worries of the world seem so light up in the clouds.
“I don’t have much family around anymore” reveals Ada. “The relatives picking me up at the airport are distant – I don’t know them very well. Don’t let them know I’ve been drinking. They’re church people.”
Our heroes smile at the irony. They too are “church people”, though perhaps not quite the kind Ada has in mind. They agree to remain silent. “I’ll tell them it’s my medicine.”
The plane begins its final descent to Tampa. The usual preparations follow – gathering belongings, putting shoes back on, stuffing leftover trash between the seats, coughs and creaks and the terrible grinding of the landing gear being deployed.
Joy grabs Nathaniel’s hand in one swift movement – as if she had been practicing all her life. Or at least on the flight here.
The plane lands. Ada is gracious enough to allow Joy & Nathaniel out of their seats immediately; too proud to accept help from these youngsters, she takes time to gather her belongings.
The young couple proceeds out of the plane and up the ramp towards the terminal. They are followed by the sounds of what is obviously someone struggling with their belongings. Obviously.
A quick glance behind them reveals the inconvenient truth: Mrs. Parker is d-r-u-n-k. Druuuhhhh-unk. Her bags could be a combined weight of 4oz. and the walls would still be abused by her stumbling mass.
Horrified, our tagonists (we are still undecided if they are pro or an) turn and increase their pace. Of course they aren’t going to offer the old woman help….to do so would force them to admit their guilt. Do YOU know what the prison sentence is for getting a grieving old widow pissed?
Believing all will be well once they are in the hands of her parents and ferried off to her hometown, Joy & Nathaniel rush through the gate doors and head towards familiar faces. Hugs are hugged. Smiles are smiled. Obligatory questions are asked: “How was the flight? Everything go ok? It’s good to see you?”
A comfortable hum settles into place as more passengers deplane and encounter waiting loved ones. Faces once familiar on the plane are lost in the midst of the growing crowd. Temporary acquaintances are returning to their rightful place as strangers. Perhaps, just perhaps, our young friends can forget about the as yet undiscovered corrupting of a helpless old lady…
…the end of our story is upon us?
“I’VE BEEN DRINKING VODKA!!!!!”
The silence is deafening. Have you ever wanted to run and scream and cry and laugh and throw up and shout and hold your breath at the same time? Then you know exactly how Nathaniel feels. If you typically just laugh at any situation life throws at you, you can laugh with Joy.
When the dust has settled, the awkwardness never fully dissipated, the discomfort unending, we find our young friends on the road to their own private future. They somehow managed to engage in mild conversation with Ada’s relatives…she is invited to the wedding (though she never showed) and softly fades into the happy recesses of their collective memories. They think of her occasionally, with fondness.
*If you ever pay attention to the news, you know what I’m talking about. If not, start keeping a tally of all the strange and bizarre events recorded by media moguls. You will find that at least 90% of all these stories originate in either Florida or Germany. And Germans love David Hasselhoff
**Bad advice. Seriously – next time you find yourself in a fight with your spouse/lover/bff after a long day and right before bedtime, try sleeping it off. If, in the morning, you can even remember what you were so angry about, you’ll be in a much better place to talk about it like civilized people.
***Good advice
****Obviously he failed, miserably.
someone, please, adopt him
Posted by Conrad Barman on May 29th, 2009 filed in UncategorizedComment now »
hey you, meet bruce wayne.
*clarification*
Posted by Conrad Barman on May 15th, 2009 filed in UncategorizedComment now »
in response to many comments/questions: “Saturday’s Story” did indeed take place on a Saturday, but not this past saturday. it was about 4 years ago. it’s just the beginning of the crime chronicle.
Saturday’s Story
Posted by Conrad Barman on May 14th, 2009 filed in Domicile4 Comments »
WARNING: YOU PAID FOR THE WHOLE SEAT BUT YOU ONLY NEED THE EDGE!!!!
Imagine your average Saturday afternoon in central
However dismayed you may feel that our story does not take place in the gentle bliss of suburbia, rest easy kind friend: this young couple is fortunate enough to live in the midst of friendly neighbors. Neighbors who are quick to share homemade mango margaritas on such a hot afternoon. Neighbors who vow to defend their new friends should the situation (God forbid) ever arise. Neighbors who could and did and do laugh as easily as they curse. Mr. Rogers be damned, these are real neighbors.
The afternoon of yardwork is interrupted only by the comfortable and occasional conversation between our protagonists and their patriarchal neighbor. We’ll call him “Charles”. In the midst of seemingly small small-talk and good humor comments on the bliss of central
To the casual observer, even the most obvious sights & sounds are dismissed and left to die in the lore of urban society. But to our young friends, the details could not have been less discreet: a helicopter overhead, circling tightly directly above the small community; police cars parked silently with lights flashing; policemen casually patrolling the streets on foot.
Something is happening.
Our heroes allow these curious sights to interrupt their afternoon’s work only for a moment before pondering aloud their very nature. The basic questions of life remain unanswered as the officials of law enforcement hardly acknowledge their presence. The anticipation builds.
Had these young friends not developed a tolerance to the already heightened levels of humidity, one would expect their collapse under the unbearable weight of the unknown. But fear not, kind reader: they are young and fit and full of steadfast resolve. They will persevere.
The minutes pass with fluid consistency. The helicopter’s circle grows wider & wider. One by one the police cars disappear into the late afternoon haze. With a lazy Sunday-afternoon-esque attitude, one lone cruiser pauses to speak with Charles – but only to ask a question: “Have you seen a man around here? He’s black, wearing a white shirt.”
Fantastic! you may think. Clues! Leads! Something substantial! But now, oh reader, your lack of experience only allows for vane hope – and great disappointment. Such a description is utterly vague at best. “Who is he, what has he done, and why do you care?” are the immediate responses forming in the minds of our budding sleuths. Alas, the police are rarely tolerant to such inquisitions. The questions remain unanswered with the slightest of hesitant responses in the negative, only to confirm the officer’s fears – these civilians know nothing, have seen nothing, and are only talking to him because of their morbid curiosities.
Minutes pass, the air lightens, the excitement fades.
Our heroes return to their labor. Birds chirp, breezes blow, somewhere in the distance a dog barks.
The monotony is broken with the unplanned but expected (thanks to an earlier phone call) arrival of friends. We’ll call them “Jake & Heather” – and yes fair reader, settle down – the one and only “Jake & Heather”. They are greeted with the sincerest of welcomes – theirs is a cherished friendship. “Let us tell you of the East 50th drama!”
And so they begin. Sitting on the outdoor makeshift patio they converse with calm happiness. Friendships are among the greatest sources of contentment.
In a perfect world, our story would end. Lights would fade and the camera would slowly retreat to the sky, leaving the viewer with a final glimpse of two young couples happily engaged in a social bond. But you already know this world is imperfect. So why dally?
The conversation is cut short with the astute observation of our utterly beautiful heroine. “It’s him!” she cries, unable to contain her surprise and excitement. And fear.
“OK – maybe, let’s play it cool” responds our incredibly handsome hero. Perhaps the lamest attempt at casual conversation immediately follows. “Yeah, um, the trees are growing real nice.” “Jake, we should be doing yardwork.” “The house was supposed to painted a different shade of green.”
The mystery man approaches. As an outside observer, imagine that you can hear a pin drop. Now forget about it: a buzz rattles everyone’s ears, loud enough to hurt the inner ear, though without any noticeable source.
He is black. Wearing a white shirt – though it is simply an undershirt (tank top). He is holding another shirt – white, with some minimal black and red design. He is sweating. More than the standard
“Uh – hey – um, do y’all have a phone I could borrow?”
The question hangs like a knife; covers the air heavier than a down comforter; suffocates the most valiant attempt to breath. Or something like that. There is no known metaphor worthy to describe the tension in the air – the conflict tearing apart the very souls of our friends.
(Is he the one they’re looking for? I don’t want to give in to racial stereotypes - are the police simply profiling? How do we know? How can we be sure? WHAT DO WE DO?)
“Um, sure, you can use our phone.” She is caught. Trapped. Unable to lie. The phone sits outside, next to the rear door – brought out to avoid missing all-important phone calls that seem to arrive daily. The man is polite, unassuming. Not what any of you would expect.
He asks for a pen & paper – is given only a pen. All are reluctant to open doors, to grant any sort of access to their personal lives. The unknown spawns the greatest of fears.
Suddenly our heroine is given an idea. Brilliance without equal. She pulls her partner aside, casually. “I’m going to Charles & Debbie’s – I’ll call the police, just in case.”
He agrees without hesitation and turns to the stranger. He is still on the phone, having not uttered a single word. Pressing buttons and writing notes to himself, he is distracted. She makes her move, slipping into the house, out the front door, and oh-so-casually strolls across the street for a neighborly visit. Nothing out of the ordinary.
The man finishes his task – returns the phone with an apology. “Thanks. Sorry I got your phone all sweaty”. Our hero accepts it in return without a thought. He is transfixed by the contradiction of manners and his own silent accusations. All so subtle.
“Man, I’m trying to get home – my car broke down, it’s hot, I’m trying to get home. No one is coming to get me. Can you give me a ride? I’ll give you ten bucks to take me home.”
The response is quick, but polite. Expected, though not easy. He is polite, dammit.
“Um, no – no, I can’t give you a ride. Sorry. But there is a bus stop nearby. Right over there on Airport – you can catch the bus. You won’t miss the stop – it’s right over there.”
“I don’t have any change.” Again, the response is expected. But it is accompanied by the sudden show of green. The stranger pulls a wad of bills out of his pocket. There is only the slightest glimpse needed to confirm these are not small bills. You would laugh at the absurdity if it were not for the growing fear.
Our hero notices something else. Something so tiny and specific it would not usually catch your eye. The stranger’s hands were skinned: the palms of his hands, evidence of a fall of some kind. Similar to a child trying out a skateboard for the first time and bracing himself on the pavement with his bare hands.
Such a detail only helps to confirm the seemingly eminent truth: this is the man.
Jake, a man of mystery himself, produces the exact change needed for a bus ride. His status upgrades to mysterious superhero. Our stranger has no choice but to accept the gracious gift.
“Where is that bus stop again?”
“Right this way – stay on 50th to Airport. You can’t miss it.”
He leaves, and a gentle sigh of relief comes to life.
But now we must pause the story and follow the path of our gorgeous young friend. Using the briefest of moments available, she crosses the street and intrudes upon her neighbors. Perhaps they are annoyed at having their dinner interrupted. Steak for Charles, seared tuna for Debbie. I admit, I would be annoyed. At least a little frustrated. You’ve gotta eat that stuff when it’s hot.
At the door she asks, rather timidly, “Um, I think maybe we better call the cops? The guy is right there.”
Without the slightest hesitation, Charles jumps up, catches a glimpse of the man standing across the street, and picks up the phone. 911 was never a longer number. Debbie, realizing the seriousness of her husband’s actions, comes to life. “Babe, we better get out the shotgun.”
Cut back to the excitement outside. The three figures left standing alone can only stare at each other with the occasional smattering of nervous laughter. “Ohmygosh, do you think that was really him?” “Crazy.” “This is crazy.”
Suddenly, a police cruiser appears. Seeming unsure of whether to approach the house from which the call was placed, or the people standing right in front of him, he pauses. Our hero approaches.
“Where did he go?”
“Uh – I’m not sure if he’s the one you are looking for. Black guy – holding a white shirt – I told him to go to the bus stop right there on Airport.”
“Black guy – white shirt, black shorts?”
“Jean shorts, actually. Yeah, white shirt – he was holding it. Wearing a wife beater.”
The cruiser abruptly leaves, heading toward Airport.
The seconds whirl by. More police cruisers arrive, but do not stop. As though part of a carefully orchestrated ballet, choreographed by an infantile madman, they dance through the neighborhood unsure of where to go. Clearly they do not visit the Harmon Triangle often.
Our heroine returns, accompanied by Charles & Debbie. Six friends stand in the street, trying to guess what will happen next. They could never imagine.
As though guided by an unseen conductor, led by a silent voice, the cruisers disappear together. Everything is quiet. Skin tingles and hair stands on end. Goosebumps crawl across exposed limbs. No one says a word.
A car approaches. Blue, a Chevy or Dodge – early eighties – four door sedan – very boxy. A black man is driving. Kids fill the back seat. He is driving so slow…..
He passes the heroes’ home. He is looking for someone. He is driving so slow….
As the car ambles down the street, eyes follow him. He approaches Airport.
Suddenly a figure appears, running. The stranger has revealed himself at last. The timing is impeccable – a cruiser turns onto 50th from Airport. Momentum ruins what would be a picture-perfect view: three parties converging at the same spot – all with different fears – all with different hopes.
The cruiser continues his course, turning on his lights with a flash, slamming the gas and directing his path to the blue sedan.
The stranger changes his course, avoiding the marked car he heads North with hopes the homes located there will provide the necessary cover.
The blue sedan suddenly stops, and is more suddenly forgotten as the officer formerly driving the cruiser jumps out and chases the stranger on foot.
From behind our friends more police arrive. They seem to have little regard for pedestrians and everyone moves to the curb for safety. A red hatchback narrowly avoids a collision – the driver pulls over and stops. He doesn’t move for quite awhile – frozen in his automobile.
The men of our party attempt to be of use, pointing the way for police late on the scene, shouting “He went that way!” for anyone nearby. Cruisers fly past – some heading the wrong way. “No! That way!” Hands point, arms wave, voices rise.
“What just happened?”
Our heroes turn at the voice of the man in the little red hatchback. His eyes are huge, his hands frozen to the steering wheel. He is brought up to date on the current events, and reassured that the officers are in pursuit of a suspect on foot, not himself. Such a gathering would have been difficult to organize even if they had known the friendly driver was holding an open container in his car. Seriously, I know this is
“We all should go inside” Debbie declares. Only our heroine hears – and agrees. The two ladies retreat to their homes, leaving Heather to stand by her man.
The chase continues. The stranger returns to the street, heading south, back into the row of houses from which he first arrived. Our hero walks to the alley behind his home, his fortress. He sees a lone officer walking towards him, still at a distance. But the officer is not searching the alley – his focus rests on the properties adjacent. The properties including our hero’s.
Suddenly a noise is heard. Banging. Imagine for a moment the sound of someone breaking into your home. Most likely you don’t know what it is supposed to sound like. But you can imagine.
So can our hero. His first thought is “OhmyGod, where is she?” He runs to change his view: blocked by the garage he cannot see the rear door to his home, his fortress. He’s looking for his wife…
Before he can register any sense of relief, any hope of normalcy, the stranger is seen. In our hero’s yard. Running.
The rear door to the home is closed – the noise created by the runner climbing a wood fence. Jake & Heather stand motionless by the tree at the curb. Charles remains across the street, in front of his garage. Our hero stops in his tracks, watching.
The stranger jogs out of the yard, across the street, just past Charles and into the adjacent alley. Let us describe this again, in detailed sequence. The stranger jogs. Jogs. No running, no sprinting, his strength so clearly expended. Heads turn to follow his progress. Heather hides behind Jake, clinging to his shirt. Charles spreads his palms, showing the stranger he has nothing to hide, nothing to impede his escape with. And possibly showing him he has nothing to gain, no hope in his attempts for freedom?
An officer appears on foot. Perhaps having followed the stranger over the fence, but the details are a little unclear. And most likely we will never know – the police like to keep their secrets. He follows the path of the accused, but stumbles down the curb to the street. The stumble becomes a fall. The fall becomes pain.
Lest the reader forget, there are police about. Police in cruisers. Police in cruisers driving around. Police in cruisers driving around really, really fast.
To be specific, there is a cruiser driving really fast heading directly toward the fallen officer. Brakes are applied, tires lock, rubber melts. Heather turns her head away. Somehow friction overcomes, and our friends are spared the vision of carnage. The fallen officer rises. He continues his pursuit.
Quite often you will read that moments such as this take place in some kind of slow motion for the participating observer. Understand this is not one of those moments. The stranger, the police, everyone involved in the pursuit and doing so on foot – they all jog. They jog. In real time, all of them run slow enough to confuse our hero: “The dude is right there, why can’t they catch him?”
And somehow, from this moment, time speeds up. Or seems to. The pursuing officers, on foot and in cruisers, funnel into the alley at an alarming rate. The dust settles. Hearts begin beating once more. Birds chirp. Dogs bark, in the distance.
Our heroine emerges from her home, her fortress. Breathing resumes. Laughter appears, warmly welcomed.
“Whoa.”
Our friends sit together. Reminisce. Offer theories, share memories, re-live the glory. Ponder the fact that hardly any noise was made during the chase. No yelling, aside from their own. No sirens. No horns. Only engines revving, feet pounding the pavement, hearts beating.
Police walk by.
“What did he do?” “Do you know what he did?” “Why were you chasing him?”
They are lucky to receive even a glance in return. Hardly a response. Nothing verbal.
The police Chaplain arrives. Why, no one will ever know for certain. Count on it. But he offers them the only clues they will keep. Something mumbled about “a long list of them” in reference to crimes committed. And a direct answer when asked what he did wrong:
“He ran.”
And so our story comes to a close. The civil servants clean up any evidence of their presence. The apprehended stranger is taken away in a cruiser. More mango margaritas are poured.
Darkness settles. The hope of finishing the yardwork is relinquished. Our heroes retreat within their home, their fortress.
seriously, we’re thinking about moving
Posted by Conrad Barman on May 13th, 2009 filed in Domicile2 Comments »
ok….so you know we love our house (or at least we love the house it could be). we love our neighbors. we love the tamale house. we love i luv.
but…..
we don’t love crime. sure - we love the police (no, they aren’t perfect, but they do try to keep the peace). but the police can only do so much, and after a while you get tired of seeing the flashing blue and red lights outside your bedroom window.
first i am going to list what has happened from memory, and then i am going to chronicle some of the events that have (or should have) involved police intervention in our neighborhood. BUT - i’m limiting the list to events that have taken place within a block or two of our home, and limiting the chronicling to events that are worthy of further explanation (if possible i’ll use humor and colorful metaphors to ease the pain). and maybe if someone out there (you) has a comment or two i can be made to understand that this isn’t out of the ordinary and we’ll experience this no matter where we live. or maybe not.
below is the list of events. i will probably have to edit this as my memory isn’t perfect: i haven’t listed any of this before, and i don’t know about chronology (i’ll try to get them in the correct order) and most unfortunately i don’t know the exact dates. when i’m less lazy i might research it and figure out exactly when some of these things have happened. also, before you go off questioning my status as a superhero if i can’t handle the crime in my own neighborhood, please realize i am not flying solo. even super(lame)man had one legitimate weakness (aside from his stupid ego): Lois.
*****************************************
Life on E. 50th (we moved in September of 2004):
criminal pursued on foot (through our backyard)
possible hostage situation requiring the swat team (yes - you read that right) and a host of solitary sniper/supercops
police helicopter spotlight in our backyard (and subsequent search by cops)
car of three kids pulled over (and forced to walk out of said car backwards with police pointing assault rifles at them)
car pulled over by 3 cops (two on motorcycles) with guns drawn (morning after the assault rifle incident)
next-door neighbor’s shed broken into (all power tools stolen)
neighbor’s house broken into (keys wallet etc stolen)
same neighbor’s house attempted break-in during daylight hours with said neighbor inside (she hid in a closet and called the cops - the guy never got in due to a reinforced door after previous incident)
dude walks past our house covered in blood muttering incoherently (i called the cops but he disappeared before they showed up)
two punk kids attempted to break into our friends’ moving van
our car left unlocked - all spare change and checkbook stolen
dumb-ass thief arrested (and our checkbook recovered)
two dudes face off in the street (one one a bike with a big stick)
neighbor’s cell phone, cigarettes, lighter and (open) beer stolen off front porch (after he ducked inside for all of 2 minutes)
bass player’s car broken into (bass stolen but recovered that night)
WWII era pineapple grenade discovered and later detonated (not really under the “crime” category, but still crazy. crazy cool?)
neighbor’s friend’s car broken into and cheap-a$$ GPS system stolen (he said it was cheap)
our car broken into (and ipod stolen….this discovered last wednesday morning)
random incoherent dude arrested (involving at least 6 cruisers and a lot of yelling by said dude - taking place last wednesday night)
car pulled over and lots of shouting by police and wife/girlfriend/friend of driver (last night)
*****************************************
also, on a completely unrelated topic, i did claim victory over my recent battle with the gas company:
HEMI!
Posted by Conrad Barman on April 7th, 2009 filed in DomicileComment now »
so….where do we begin?
well….you know the story of Priya. the world’s most wonderful dog. seriously - she is the best dog, ever.
joy found her here.
well, it turns out i’m addicted to the site. and….for the longest time i’ve been wanting to adopt another one….spread the love, give Priya a permanent play buddy…..you know what i’m talking about.
so, i visit the website. everyday. several times a day. if i could clone myself i would just so i could adopt them all and give them the love and affection they need. but no, ever since i saw that horrific arnold movie i can’t bring myself to entertain the idea.
anyway….
we decided to get Priya for a few reasons: 1) it was time 2) she stole our hearts 3) she is a mix 4) she is the best dog EVER. to even entertain the idea of getting another dog, the mix-criteria was an absolute must. thus, most of the utterly sweet dogs you’ll find on ABR were not an option.
then one day i read about these two puppies, Zach and Hemi. the full story is no longer available, but suffice to say it broke my heart. two sweet brothers abandoned on the side of the road, in the middle of a Texas “winter” (it was 20-30 degrees F). alas, i could only read, as ABR requested the two be adopted together….. until one day i noticed Zach’s bio had disappeared. apparently, in an effort to find all dogs a forever home, ABR had agreed to split them up. a seed was planted.
after discussing some with my better half, it was agreed to attempt a meeting. we tried this once, a while ago, with Herman. unfortunately, Herman was a little too aggressive and strong for us, or Priya, or anyone who isn’t super strong (again….super-human strength is NOT a default for every superhero.)
we went into it with no expectations. ha! funny thing is, as soon as we got out of the car and saw little Hemi from a distance, it was over. “i’m such a sucker” sighed the beautiful lady at my side. i could only agree.
Priya is a boxer. sure, mixed with something else, but she possesses the best of boxer traits: kidney bean wiggle, happy dance, loving slobber, and, of course, boxing skillz. but she’s never been comfortable boxing with another boxer. this i can’t explain - whenever we visit the dogpark and she happens to meet another boxer, it’s only a matter of time until she looks for a different play partner: she can dish it out but refuses to take it in.
and then….
i can’t explain how my heart overflowed with joy to see her dance with Hemi. it was beautiful. they stood on their hind legs and boxed away. he’s about 9 months younger than her (being only 9 months old) and yet somehow Priya is more the puppy. they played until he’d had enough. and of course, when she demanded more, she got it.
his first night at our home - was bliss. Priya and Hemi played and played (some more).
until….exhaustion
we slept all night long…. morning came too soon. but what fun to have these two best friends wake up with us
that first day….well, it was interesting. i chose not to strictly follow the advice of wise one in our relationship, and have paid for the results. i left for work, intending to come home at lunch and check in on the dogs. of course, “checking in” would involve more than i bargained for….
my *barricade* was a joke. my wife knew better, but relented (i think she knows the best way i learn is from my own stupid mistakes). of course Hemi got out(what’s in a name?) and tore open his unprotected bag of food. and spread it all. over. the. floor.
no big deal. but i did happen to notice a little piece of magic. somehow he got under one of the bamboo curtains and attacked the plastic blinds behind…..getting the couch dirty but doing no real damage to the bamboo or the leather.
well…no harm done, right? riiiiiiiiigggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhht.
a little bit later i have to take Priya to the vet. apparently she managed to sustain an injury fighting crime…but the only problem with superhero dogs is it can be tough to figure out what kind of injury that is. (still is a mystery, but we’re working on it) . anyway, in a fit of desperation to keep Hemi out of trouble, i replace the {cough} barricade with a door. yup, a door - complete with a lock. i figure no way will little hemi be able to open a door and wreak more havoc upon our domicile.
which, technically, is true. dogs can’t open a locked door. but they can eat it.
i mean, seriously - does that look like a picture out of a cartoon or what? yeah boyz - Hemi has some superpowers of his own!
so…now Hemi has made our home his own. he’s making Priya both jealous and content. he’s posing for photos. and of course he’s eating.
needless to say, he is meant to be a part of our family. he IS family.
destiny: you can’t fight it, so why try?
quick picks…
Posted by Conrad Barman on March 5th, 2009 filed in UncategorizedComment now »
something randomly beautiful (taken near my house):
something embarrassing….:
proof that i know how to waste time:
a picture taken from a dream i had:
and something gross:
(you know you love it!)
life goes on…
Posted by Conrad Barman on March 3rd, 2009 filed in DomicileComment now »
and you have to pick your battles. me? i’m thinking of taking on public utilities….
lately, in my neighborhood, there has been some discussion over gas & electric bills. sure, ours was high for december-january, but the ladies like it warm in the house, and i get to walk around in shorts like it’s summer, so why complain? well, if allofasudden i find out it isn’t high usage but hungry executives causing my extraordinary bill….well, it’s time to bust out the bars.
also, they killed my plant when they installed the new meter:
as a professional crime fighter, we make it our business to keep it business. make it personal and you’ll get hurt. well, here’s the exception that proves the rule: THEY made it personal, and they’re gonna hurt.
also, i was sad the other morning. i stopped by the corner store on the way to the office to grab one of my favorite vices: powdered donuts. so good, so bad, SO bad. well, just when i’m getting over my self-induced guilt and really enjoying the powdery goodness, tragedy strikes. in an effort to curb the ant “problem” i try to shake out some of the excess powder into the trash can and…..oh what a catastrophic mistake!
yes, i can indeed hear the thoughts of this long lost donut. think about it: if you’re born to do one thing and one thing only (bring happiness to my taste buds) and you’re denied the opportunity to achieve your life’s purpose at the last possible second, how would YOU feel?
this is one of those (very) rare moments when i second guess my abilities. not that superpowers are chosen like some cheap carnival prize, but how cool would it have been to have super-speed and catch the donut before it’s untimely demise? or to stop time? or predict the future? but alas, like any childish dream, i dismiss these ideas with the understanding that i am here to serve the greater good, not be served by things i think are good.
also…..it was discovered that i have a gray hair.
she says “no fair! guys get better with age, girls get worse!” i say “says who?” she says “everybody!” i say “i’m not everybody.”
scene.
casual thinking
Posted by Conrad Barman on February 24th, 2009 filed in UncategorizedComment now »
my favorite breakfast:
mmm mmm! deeeeelicious! (of course, when enjoying said meal in it’s native country, be careful! montezuma lives!) this also makes me kinda sad - las manitas had some of the very best juevos mexicana….AND offered delicious watermelon agua fresca. alas, it is gone. goodbye!
.
.
.
thinking of messing with us? bring it on!
fighting crime isn’t all fists and fury. sometimes it’s carefully planned non-lethal vandelism. oh, is it a beauty!
speaking of beauties….my better half gave me a rock the other day. there is a personal story involved, and without apologies to my adoring fans, i will not share this story. suffice to say this photograph does not do the rock justice….but i need to let the world know that something that matters more to me than you can understand will be with me forever.
that’s all for now.