Monday, March 16, 2009

The Dog Bones

Eight years ago, during a period of time I now refer to as The Retired Years, my son Alec and I made a pilgrimage of sorts, to Montana. I had grown up a thousand miles removed from the Big Sky, but had remained connected through biannual visits - road trips - to see my grandparents, uncles, aunts and a hundred unknown cousins. My grandparents, Rex and Grace, were celebrating their sixtieth anniversary, an event which would revolve around a prime rib dinner at a remote steakhouse. It would be an opportunity to shape my son's character with a few cultivated, fond memories.

I rented a Nissan SUV at the airport in Billings. I had a few ideas about this trip, and thought we might need four wheel drive. The first off-road opportunity presented itself on the lip of the Rimrock, above the city, when I pulled into the gravel parking lot of the Yellowstone County Museum. Housed in a genuine log cabin, the museum contained your standard historical museum fare, horse-drawn vehicles, the implements of land-clearing, an impressive chamberpot collection. I'll admit a small thrill went through me when, upon examining a case of handmade knives, I spied a yellow-handled specimen crafted by my Mom's brother, Uncle Bob, in Helena. Alec had never met Uncle Bob, but the glass box containing the stuffed two-headed calf was pleasant consolation.

Logan International Airport and the museum sit atop a plateau, from which, in warmer months, Billings, three hundred feet below, is a fluffy green carpet of shade trees, obscuring the streets and homes beneath. We had arrived several days before the anniversary, my intent being to have some father and son adventures before the familial commitments. I took a few moments, at the log cabin, to plunder a rack of brochures and pamphlets, which touted the region's many wonders. In the car, as we descended from the Rimrock, I slapped the stack in Alec's lap. Leafing through the information, Alec announced that he wanted to visit the zoo.

"Where is it?" The only zoo I knew of in Montana used to be in Red Lodge, which I had only visited once, decades ago, with my cousins. Rumor had it that is was finally closed down when the peacock and mule deer finally died. I took the pamphlet, steering with my knee along the edge of the precipice, and examined the tiny map, with an occasional glance to the road.

Interstate-90 barely kisses Billings, skirting the southern margin of civilization, with a wild river, campgrounds, range land, beckoning from the opposite side. Zoo Montana is conveniently located right beside this freeway, at exit 443, and I imagined long-haul truckers gratefully coasting down the off-ramp, with a mind to stretch their legs, to stroll from the bald eagles to the grizzlies, their last break having been Wall Drug, in South Dakota. We arrived in minutes, and parked at the outer edge, by a prairie dog colony dug into a landscaped berm.

I assumed the prairie dogs were part of the zoo, but when I asked the girl at the ticket window about them, she hissed through her lipstick. "Pests! They're wild. We can't get rid of 'em, nothing works."

As zoos go, it was pretty modest. Deer were over-represented, and the local television station was taping a news item, surrounded by a pointing crowd, at a grotto where a new-born mountain goat kid was already leaping from concrete rock to concrete rock. Peacocks wandered freely, stalked by unsupervised children. At the black-footed ferret exhibit, we learned that prairie dogs were the prey of the endangered weasels, and I savored the irony of a solution to their parking lot pest problem, so close at hand. An enormous Siberian tiger lounged in the shade. Alec selected a mylar snake kite in the gift shop.

Back at the car, we watched the prairie dogs bob up and down in their burrows. Randomly, they'd pop up, look around, and scamper backwards into their hole if we spoke or moved. "I can catch one, you know..." I said it casually, waiting for Alec to bite.

"You can not. They're way too fast," Not quite the enthusiastic interest I'd hoped for.

"Watch me." I measured out some string from the reel of kite line, cutting it with my Leatherman. It took a moment to knot it into a noose. "I'm going to snare one." Alec looked around, torn between the mischief at hand and his inherent fear of getting in trouble. The parking lot was almost empty, as closing time approached. I could tell that he was weighing the various risks, but I knew he was game when his shoulders visibly relaxed.

My son watching, I arranged the loop around the closest hole, and carefully payed out the string as I backed away from the snare. We crouched on the asphalt, in the glare of the Montana sun, waiting for our an opportunity to bag our chosen prey. Several times, a prairie dog's head, presumably the same one, peeked out of the hole, only to instantly disappear. We waited, and I sensed Alec's patience for this endeavor evaporating. Then, at the mouth of the burrow, our prairie dog was standing full upright, our presence forgotten.

I yanked on the string, and the contest was on: the vigilant instincts of self-preservation pitted against the cunning intelligence of man, the hunter. I was confident that I'd be fast enough to catch the animal around his chest, but I pulled so sharply that the rodent flew through the air, snatched from its den with a squeak. It landed at our feet, and immediately scurried toward the safety of the dirt beside the parking lot. I reeled in the the slack line, pulling the prairie dog up short. The noose had tightened around its neck, and the animal darted sideways, describing a six-foot arc around us, scampering, squeaking.

"You're hurting it! You're hurting it!" Alec was dancing around, arms in the air, trying not to step on the frightened animal. I continued to reel it in, and eventually a foot of string separated the rodent and my hand. Concerned that the noose around its neck might choke it, I eased the tension on the line. The rodent crouched flat on the pavement, heaving from its recent exertion, resigned to death.

"You killed it!" His voice was shrill, and now I was nervously glancing around the parking lot.

"No, I didn't," I spoke calmly, in a low tone. Keeping the string in my hand taut, controlling the head, the biting end, I gently scooped up the animal with my other hand. It made no effort to defend itself, and I wondered if I had been able to catch it because it was sick, somehow diseased. It was tiny, just six inches long, a pup, and I felt a fleeting pang of guilt. "It's soft... Do you want to touch it? They make great pets, I hear."

"They carry diseases. I learned about it in school. They make horrible pets." Alec was backing away. "I can't believe you're touching it..." His face was bunched up into squinting disgust. Later, I read that prairie dogs do, indeed, carry diseases, among them tularemia and something known as monkeypox. Oh, and plague. Yes, that plague: the flea-borne pestilence that wiped out half of medieval Europe, the gruesome black death, characterized by buboes, swollen and infected lymph glands.

I released it at the opening to its burrow. It lay there for a moment, dazed, confused, possibly whispering a prairie dog prayer of thanks, and then - zip - it was gone. I wondered where I might wash my hands.

_____________________


We checked into a motel in Laurel, a crossroads of highway and railway, best remembered by the not-totally-unpleasant, sulphurous smell emitted by the oil refinery. For a brief time, in my early childhood (The Toddler Years) I lived there, but, mainly, I recall driving through Laurel, on the way to somewhere else, past the Owl Cafe, the iconic neon sign visible from the back seat of the Rambler. A quick trip to the IGA for "provisions" yielded another history lesson in the sepia-tone photographs of pioneer-era Laurel. Before paved roads, motorcars, running water, the town was a collection of unpainted Wild West buildings, surrounded by a sagebrush wasteland. As far as the camera could see. The grocery store visit was doubly satisfying when the checker carded me for the beer in my basket, causing me to speculate that, perhaps, thirty-six year old men work harder and age faster beneath a Montana sun.

Nobody knew we were already in the "Treasure State", and the next morning we enjoyed a leisurely breakfast at the Owl Cafe, soaking in the country music, panelled ambiance, gorging on cholesterol, in the form of perfect bacon and eggs. Montana, especially Carbon County, is world-renowned for its rich fossil record, and my secret plan for the day was to drive into the hills east of Bridger, for some rock hounding. We had to drive down the highway past the family farmstead, between Edgar and Fromberg. When we zoomed by, without stopping, it all began to feel a little sneaky.

We turned at the only stoplight in Bridger, crossed the river, and bounced along the dirt road, through miles of fenced land, posted "No Trespassing". Eventually, we encountered open range land and climbed out of the Nissan, by a creek (properly pronounced "crick"), hoping to find exposed fossils - anything, leaves, even - in the eroded banks. Clad in sandals, we stepped gingerly through the sagebrush, wary of ticks and snakes. The few patches of unvegetated rock proved to be igneous or metamorphic something or other, completely devoid of remains.

"You said there would be fossils."

"I know, and there are. Velociraptors, T. Rexes... snails. They just aren't here." The sun was nearly overhead and I was feeling like a genius for bringing the jug of water I had bought the night before. We took long gulps from the jug, cold water dribbling down our shirts. "Do you want to keep looking?"

"Naw. Maybe tomorrow. I'm getting hungry." It was agreed: maybe tomorrow. We headed back to town, a cloud of dust spiraling in our wake.

"Is that a snake?" I slowed as we drew closer to the object in the road. It was a snake, stretched straight out, like a short section of fat broom handle. We got out, and cautiously approached the dead reptile in the road. I wondered what the locals would think if they came upon us, poking at the roadkill. Word might get around. I imagined the story being repeated until it came caught up with me via my Uncle Ervin, who would shake his head, and ask, "Was that really you fooling with a dead snake?" He would shake his head, incredulous, "Never seen a dead snake before, I guess." We hadn't seen any other vehicles, no driveways to hidden houses, but I couldn't believe that I had run this animal over. It was recently dead, lacking the thick coating of dust any corpse would quickly accumulate on this road. There was certainly nothing of interest between these two hills to have distracted my attentiveness. Maybe I had killed it, if, perhaps, the pale green-brown serpent had been camouflaged by a trick of the sun .

I bent to pick it, grasping where the rattle met the tail. "Dad..." I lifted it and dangled it at arm's length, holding the limp body at eye level, regarding the dull, lifeless eyes. "DAD!" Slowly, the snake's mouth opened, wide, fangs out and downward, the body stiffening.

"Holy..." In the fraction of the moment it took for the snake to hit the ground, with a thud like a dropped, but armed, grenade, we dashed to opposite shoulders of the road, from where we surveyed each other, and the snake, in turn.

"SHIT!"

It lay on its side, mouth open, looking very much dead. I knew rattlesnakes were crafty, and this was clearly a trick, a ruse to teach a lesson to molesting humans. Rocks littered the ditch behind me, and I selected one, the size of a bowling ball, tipping it carefully, lest another snake lurked underneath. I approached the snake from the tail, and heaved the rock, underhand, in the direction of the head. It missed and rolled, wobbling, several feet before stopping. Acutely aware of my vulnerable toes, I hefted the stone and slowly advanced, eyes on the exposed fangs. I splayed my sandalled feet, hopefully beyond striking distance, thrust the rock out from my body, and released my grip, teetering with the sudden change in balance. The rock landed, with a soft crunch, squarely on the reptile's head.

"Why did you do that?" Alec remained at his post, on the side of the road.

"Watch." I unfolded my knife, pulled the tail taut, the dangerous teeth securely pinned under the rock, and sawed at the flesh until I held the rattle in my hand. It felt papery, and I gently rolled it between my fingers before tucking it into my shirt pocket for safe keeping. Mindful of the hazard I had created, I rolled the rock off the road with my foot.

We were back on the highway before I reached into my pocket, producing the hard-won rattle. "Do you want to hold it?"

"No," said Alec. I put it away, grimacing, making the same face my dad used to make when I was a kid. "Gross," he added.

_____________________


After another meal at the Owl Cafe, sandwiches this time, we found ourselves back in Billings. We tracked down the house on Princeton Avenue that my parents had purchased shortly before moving to Washington, when I was four years old. Tidy, clad in aluminum siding, I couldn't reconcile it with the image of the house my mom had described: stucco with parquet floors. It looked so ordinary, yet mom had been very proud; My parents had rented for years afterward, before they bought another home.

I wanted to knock on the door, but we remained in the car, and Alec leafed through the tourist information I had collected the day before. "What's Boot Hill Cemetery?" I vaguely recalled visiting a pioneer graveyard, years ago, with my grandparents. The tiny map on the leaflet showed the historical site just minutes away, and we found it easily enough, a low mount surrounded by gas stations, light industry, a muffler shop. According to the pamphlet, the highlight of the tour was the grave of Muggins Taylor, a military scout, who had carried the news of the 7th Calvery's defeat at Little Bighorn, all the way to the telegraph station at Bozeman. He had stumbled across the battle site, and discovered General Custer's body by accident.

Dating from 1877, originally the municipal cemetery of Coulson, MT, a town long gone, swallowed by modern-day Billings, Boot Hill rose gently above the highways on each of its three sides. The graveyard had all the ambiance of an abandoned lot, weedy, and abundantly populated by our new friend, the prairie dog. We strolled the well-travelled tracks between the graves, flushing grasshoppers, examining the leaning crosses, which had been fashioned from unusually dark boards, perhaps the product of a woodshop teacher or boy scouts. At some of the plots, the earth was slightly mounded, and I wondered how deeply the remains were interred, whether or not they were in coffins.

The prairie dogs, hard to see in the scrub, had been busy. Their tunnels were everywhere, excavated without regard to grave or path. An idea, repugnant at first, popped into my head: might a prairie dog inadvertently exhume an item of jewelry, a ring, for example? I stifled the tiny inner voice suggesting, "grave robbing", and toed the pile of dirt at the entrance to a burrow. It contained an assortment of pebbles, but yielded nothing of value. We ambled down the line, reading the dates on the markers.

One cross, engraved, Girl, 1889 - 1892, caught my attention. Who was this three-year old, and exactly which of the hundreds of possible ends did this pioneer child meet? Typhus? Smallpox? A trampling by buffalo? The grave was obviously smaller than the others, and delineated by a slightly different, sparser, vegetation. In the middle of the hump, a prairie dog had deposited a conical pile of soil around the entrance to its warren, a moon crater in miniature.

Alec wandered away, clearly bored. I stepped forward, beside the tiny grave, keeping an eye on my son, the morning's rattlesnake fresh in my memory. The burrow appeared to angle steeply downward when I peered into the opening of the animal's den. Stooping, the pile of debris was easy to reach, and I sifted through it with my fingers. In addition to the numerous squarish, dice-sized stones and dirt clods, two items surfaced, yellowed, ancient. I plucked them from the scattered pile, standing up.

"Dad? What are you doing?" Alec had wandered back to where I had stopped.

"Look, bones." I thrust out my palm, stepping forward.

"Bones? Human bones? Gross!" I was getting tired of hearing that word. So, how was your visit to Montana, Alec? Answer: Gross. So far, the baby cow with two heads, back at the museum, was the highlight of this trip.

I withdrew my hand, and examined the fragments. "I'm pretty sure this one's a patella, you know, a kneecap. This other one," holding it up, in the sun, "I think it's from the wrist or ankle." I slide them into the pocket with the snake rattle. Aside from almost being bitten by a venomous reptile, I was fairly pleased with the day's yield.

"Dad, that was a person," he gaped at me, arms akimbo, "and now she's in your pocket. Gross."

I changed the subject: "You hungry?"

_____________________


Meals with the relatives promised copious beef, and I half-way dreaded meating up with them. Driving around Billings, seeking an alternative, I passed up the steak houses, burger shacks. A thousand miles from any ocean, common sense suggested that we forgo the restaurant that Alec spotted, with the neon "sushi" sign in the window. The parking lot was packed, which bode well; the wait for a table was brief.

The menu offered Korean, Japanese, and Chinese dishes, much like the place where I first tasted sushi, and I was pleasantly surprised that the seats were mostly filled by people of an Asian persuasion. We waited for our edamame and, furtively, I fished the bones out for another look.

Setting down his tiny cup of steaming tea, Alec leaned forward, whispered, "I hope you get...", he narrowed his eyes, "Haunted!"

_____________________


The carefree days I hoped to have for covert adventure had slipped away. We were racing in the Nissan, past irrigated circles of green, soldiered ranks of enormous idle tractors, to find the "Feedlot" (really) steakhouse, in tiny Shepherd, Montana. Literally at a crossroads on the way to somewhere else, this steakhouse was legendary in the Billings area, and my family's relationship to beef cattle made it an obvious choice for an anniversary banquet. Played upon the scale of the Big Sky landscape, my innate propensity to dawdle and lack of planning found me late again.

Ultimately, I drove too far in one direction, and then in another. With gazetteer in lap, I circled in on the restaurant like a plane making its final approach. The parking lot was full and, ushered by a smiling hostess, we slunk into the banquet room to find everyone already seated. That we were in sport coats with ties, while the majority of men wore jeans and colorful, striped rodeo shirts only served to magnify our tardiness. We took the empty seats reserved for us and thick slabs of prime rib were placed before us.

Considered numerically, most of my family - certainly my Dad's family - live in Montana. A long time ago, I appreciated how risky and rebellious it was for my parents to move a thousand miles away from family and farm. Not that my Dad ever had much interest in farming, but I believe it made a firm statement about self-determination and Independence. Looking back, I relish the memories of growing up in Bellingham, but I sense that there is a void in my being which is only filled when I am in this wild place, surrounded by these strong people.

When my parents opted to live "on the coast", by the "ocean", I think they forged a tiny personal legend, a small epic tale in the minds of Montana friends and family. Many times, when I was young, I patiently explained to cousins and kids that I lived in the other Washington, the state. I related how I attended school with hundreds of children, in a world where rain fell abundantly, absent the dramatic climatary extremes under a Big Sky. My daily life was so different, so alien, my values tempered by "city living" and liberal politics, I felt like a curious oddity.

You're Larry's boy?" Across from me, a weathered man I did not recognize. "This must be Alex. I hear you can make a frog sound."

There it was; I knew this was coming. In the minds of my kin I had been reduced to an interloper with a dubious talent, my own personal legend elicited in my very first conversation at the table. I strained to put a name to his face.

"I'm sorry," I said, extending my hand over the beef, "I'm afraid I don't..." Growing up, much of my peripheral family existed primarily as binary abstractions, paired with the names of siblings or spouses: Lowell and Lyle, Leo and Buela, Howard and Joanie. When he explained who he was I was able to conjure his wife's name from some dusty corner of my brain.

"Yes, this is Alec," anticpating the next question, "He's ten."

"Can you still make that frog sound?"

"Oh, that was years ago..." I cleared my throat experimently, hefting my voice, half-way hoping the exquisite sound was forthcoming. "Nope. It's gone."

Truth be told, sometimes I can still make the frog sound, but it's a geriatric frog with arthritis, not the bright, shrill spring peeper my youthful vocal cords once produced. In fifth grade, I rode the train to Montana alone, and entertained myself with the sounds of inexplicable amphibians in the club car. My long-lost second uncle related this story to the table, essential details intact, only embelishing the narrative with a train porter (pantomiming a wide-eyed comic black man) trying in vain to find the frog.

"Yep, that's pretty much how it happened," I allowed. Crap. I am still that feller from Warshington who can make a frog sound.

"Well, what have you boys been doing in Montana?" Not wanting to divulge that we had arrived early, I mentioned the sights we had seen in Billings, omitting the rattlesnake episode in the hills. Perhaps Alec's face twisted in horror, which might have prevented me, had I looked, from: first, sharing the details of our visit to Boot hill cemetary, and second, producing actual human remains at the dinner table.

"Huh... Well, that is something." Judging by reactions, I gather I am now the graverobber from Warshington who can make a frog sound.

_____________________


We moved outside to a stone patio for pictures after the meal. Gammpa was sitting in a chair against the wall, in the light of the dipping sun.

"It's Doctor IQ," He's called me that since I can remember. "Did you have some trouble finding the place?"

"Yeah, sort of. Gramma gave me directions..."

"Are you going to blame your Gramma?" Like a slap.

"No." Chastened, I glanced downward. I was going to blame my Gramma: at the last minute I had asked her how to get there, and she had only the vaguest idea. "I was running late and tried to wing it. I didn't realize how far it was."

"Well, you found it. You and Alex."

_____________________


After posing in some group photographs, I wandered over to where my cousins were gathered around a cold firepit. Unlike my uncles and aunts - my temperate older relatives - they clutched bottles of beer and cocktails, swirling the ice in the plastic cups between sips. As the eldest grandchild (The Solitary Years), I had always found myself stuck between the generations, relating more to the parents of my younger cousins. These people were adults now, and they seemed like more fun than the stern stock of farm folk that spawned them.

We chatted and laughed in the evening air, swatting at mosquitoes. I balmed my tension with an ice-cold Martini in a Dixie cup. The kids were playing tag in the parking lot, and I could hear Alec's laugh as he evaded capture.

_____________________


I stopped at the cemetary, at the base of the Rimrock, on the way to the airport. Alec looked at me, skeptically.

"What are we doing?"

"C'mon, you'll see."

He trudged behind me, watching as I stooped to pick up a stick in the dirt. It took a couple of minutes to find the grave marked "Girl". I pulled the tiny bones from my pocket and dropped them into the prairie dog burrow, pushing them deep into the hole with the stick. With my sandalled foot, I carefully collapsed the opening and smoothed the soil over the surface.

When we got back to the Nissan, Alec said, "Thanks, Dad. I'd hate it if you were haunted the rest of your life."

"Me too."


Sunday, February 1, 2009

Squid Soup

"Man down 2514 Empire st between pickup and blue car reporting party on scene."

Engine 43 covers an area comprised of an industrial waterfront, unaffordable homes on the bluff, and a portion of downtown, a colorful mix of decaying hundred year-old brick structures and newer construction. Historical buildings, vestiges of the lumber boom, some dating to the 1800's, house enterprises hawking cell phones, video games, and incensed New Age supplies. Cross the street, go next door; if you need auto parts, a sandwich, or a valve for a boiler system, you will find that too. Sleek banks rub shoulders with apartments, bump elbows with churches. The courthouse and the jail dominate their landscaped blocks with authoritative institutional concrete architecture. Sprinkled around the City, like candles on a cake, are the various huts promising drive-through convenience and Cafe Latte of dubious pedigree.

Taverns and hipster watering holes are abundantly represented in the business district, as are their patrons, some of which constitute a steady stream of repeat business for the fire department. We find them in doorways, alleys, parking lots, the waypoints of the ambitious alcoholic's business travel. It's hard work, poisoning your body, and a short nap might be required, demanded even, on the stumbled path to elsewhere. Rare is the shift that we aren't dispatched to a man down, often called in by an anonymous do-gooder on a cell phone, from a passing car.

The call to the Empire Street address was unusual, not for the time of day (2300 being a drunk's witching hour), but because we don't usually see this issue in the nicer neighborhoods, peripheral as they are to the commerce of intoxication. Brian, my captain, was suspicious that this was, once again, "Lieutenant Dan", a recently-arrived career inebriate. Lt. Dan, named after the character in Forrest Gump, lacks both legs, but, in his wheelchair, enjoys a vexing mobility. En route to 2514 Empire, our dispatcher verified, via a call back to the reporting party, that this patient was indeed possessing of both legs.

As we approached the address, someone stepped into the street, waving a flashlight, continuing even as we rolled to stop next to the aforementioned pickup. Brian trained the spotlight on the young man sitting cross-legged in front of the truck, and I stepped out, grabbing the kits from behind my seat.

Nicely dressed, this kid wasn't the bum I had expected, but flecks of vomit stained his shirt, clung to his cropped hair. "What's going on?" I asked, snapping the aid kit open. Gregg, our driver, joined me, adjusting the stocking cap on his shaved head.

"Where's my buddies?"

"I'd say they left you." I clipped the Oh-Two meter to a clean finger, "What's your name?"

"Jake."

"Been drinking?" (I have to ask.)

"Oh, yeah."

"What city are you in?" It's a standard question, intended to assess a patient's orientation to location, and I'll give the really drunk ones partial credit if they're in the right county.

"Uh... San Diego?"

Our captain was listening to the exchange, writing his report in the warmth of the engine's cab, "Ha! Try a place that's a little colder."

It was a surprising answer, but after the 22 year-old haltingly explained that he lived and worked on an aircraft carrier, hailed from a small town in Wisconsin, and remembered precisely where his parents and siblings lived, I gave him the benefit of my doubt. Gregg and I quickly worked together, collecting vital signs, which I relayed to my captain, standing below his open window.

I turned at the sound of retching, to see "Jake" vomiting copiously on the asphalt. The street gently sloped toward the gutter, and a tide of puke was flooding toward his pleated jeans. Ah... shit. Grabbing an elbow and his belt, I hoisted him to higher ground, preserving his remaining cleanliness and dignity.

"What did you have for dinner? Spaghetti-O's?" I am such a card.

"No. Nothing."

"Looks like you enjoyed a few appetizers..." The humor in the situation suddenly evaporated as the smell slammed into my brain. A hearty dinner of meatloaf and mashed potatoes, tenderly prepared by the medics, bubbled heavily in my stomach, boiled up, into the foreground of my awareness. I fought to contain the rising gorge and stepped into the cold breeze, inhaling deeply through my nose.

I stood upwind, at a distance, keeping an eye on my patient, waiting with my crew for the requested ambulance. The aid kit - my aid kit - lay open on the grass strip beside the curb, yawning up to the night sky, but I could collect it, and the airway kit, from the hot zone later.

Jake began to heave again, and, concerned that he might inhale vomitus, aspirate, Gregg and I moved in to steady him, holding his shoulders. Another fountain of pungent spew splattered on the pavement, and we clutched at his clothing, lifting him away from the viscous mess. Distracted by the task at hand, I gave no thought to my previous nausea. And suddenly, standing there without focus, awash in that foul air, I was visited anew by the angry ghost of meatloaf past.

Gregg fetched a towel to clean up Jake, dabbing at his face and shirt. I removed myself for another dose of fresh air. The ambulance arrived, and our captain described the situation to the EMT's.

"What exactly is his medical complaint?" It was an asshole question. Granted, I wouldn't want him in the back of my AMB either, but this patient clearly deserved transport, and, I thought, a little respect.

Gregg spoke up, "He's at risk for acute alcohol poisoning."

One more time, we entered the ralph zone to scoop Jake up and onto the stretcher, positioning him on his side lest he vomit again. The AMB guys wrapped him in a blanket, and buckled the straps, while Gregg retrieved the kits.

We climbed up into the warm cab. The ambulance pulled around us and then pulled over, presumably to take their own vitals and call the hospital. Gregg reached up and flipped the switch for the emergency lights. A few minutes later, Engine 43 was back in the barn. I wandered toward the kitchen, hoping to satisfy a mysterious craving for noodles in tomato sauce.

Friday, January 30, 2009

"Mabel"

Aid 42 was dispatched to a tidy brick Tudor, in the north end of the City, for a Lifeline alert, 85 year old female, assist up. We are searching, in the dark, for a hidden set of house keys. On arriving, we had received supplemental information, via the data terminal in the aid car, instructing us to retrieve the keys from under a loose brick in the "fire pit". A survey of the brick fireplace, positioned at the corner of a slimy cedar deck, revealed nothing but secure, well-mortared masonry. A chain-link fence crowds the brick structure on two sides, and I wedge my bulk into the gap, fingering the few broken bricks on the ground, finding nothing but spiders underneath.

A call for an Assist Up is not an emergency, but if we can't find the keys, we will have to force our way inside the house. Prying a door open with the Halligan bar causes certain damage to the framing, costs the homeowner money, and, most importantly, if the keys are here, makes me look foolish. This is taking too long.

I stand up, "Here, take the flashlight. Try looking inside the fireplace." A pair of door mats are draped over the front of the outdoor fireplace, and Eric flips them out of the way.

"Got 'em." I'm still wriggling out from behind the brickwork, but I hear them jingle in the quiet night.

The backdoor unlocks easily enough, but the entry to the kitchen is barred by another locked door. The keys are corroded and all three, tried in turn, resist sliding into the keyhole.

"Dang it. Let's try the front."

Eric fumbles with the keys again, and, when he runs through the whole set a fourth time, I am tempted to snatch them out of his hands in frustration. The door, however, finally swings open with a creak. Secretly, I suspect that we could have gone through the back door.


There are some interesting, parenthetical aspects of this career. Aside from meeting people, (occasionally lucid) in various states of undress, or finding yourself, unknowingly, in a conversation with the deranged, we are invited to enter people's homes, suddenly, and without advance warning. When Grandpa has the crushing chest pain, Grandma probably isn't going to take time to tidy up. We might find a terrified mother, holding her post-ictal child, surrounded by diapers, toys, and laundry, the whirlwind chaos of her family's life. It's tempting to judge people by their housekeeping, but there are days when I know I could not suffer such scrutiny gracefully.

Hygiene, however, is fair game. I've been in homes (plural), where wheeling a sick person out the door on the gurney required a forward spotter, directing your steps around the numerous piles of dog shit on the carpet. Then there's the recent legend concerning a mad woman, living on her own, in a ramshackle house. Someone called 911 on her behalf, and the responding fire engine crew discovered a complete dog's skeleton on the floor, behind the couch. Decomposed, over time, in situ. Yurph.

Another frequent facet of this job is repeated visits to the same address. Often, this is the hallmark of a system abuser, exploiting the fire department's mission, in a quest for pain killers, "free" rides to the hospital, or maybe, simply, some attention. The Department continues to refine its policies for dealing with this problem, but one abuser is eventually replaced by another. Sometimes, though, a repeat visit is the eventual product of probability, or just plain, dumb, bad luck.

A few weeks ago, working on Engine 41, we were dispatched to a fall: possible leg, hip fracture. We found our patient, flat on her back, on an icy deck behind the house, shivering beneath a heavy overcoat and assorted blankets. When she told us her name, the same as someone else I know, I remembered seeing her a year ago when she broke her ankle. This time she had slipped, and, evidently, broken her femur in the fall. Normally, the femur is a tremendously strong bone, and typically breaks during incidents involving a tremendous transfer of energy, like an MVC, a motor vehicle collision. This lady, however, possessed both tremendous bulk and an unfortunate osteoporosis. Given the realities of pulling traction on her leg, on a frictionless surface, and hefting her, first onto a gurney, and then into the back of a medic unit, I can't say it was great to see her again. Both falls occurred outside her house, on the same deck, and the quality of her domestic management remains a mystery.

Now, with Eric, I find myself standing in another home to which I have been previously dispatched. I vaguely remember a warm conversation between my captain of that day, Uncle Ronnie, and a woman, his classmate from high school. I can't recall the reason we had gone there, but the house had been tidy, comfortable. We step into a scene entirely different from that hazy memory.

To our right, in a commandeered dining room, is a double bed. The furniture elsewhere seems to have spawned a crazy, peripheral clutter, in an effort to colonize the open space in middle of the room. On the floor, between a walker and a wheelchair, lies an elderly woman, like a placid turtle, on her back. We bend over her, like vultures over carrion. She is surrounded by scattered envelopes and papers. I speak slowly, loudly, "Are? You? Alright?" She nods happily. "What's your name?"
Her name is Mabel, and in a heartbeat, she is in our hands and hoisted to her feet. Her Lifeline pendant, a sleek medallion, dangles around her neck. Touching the button alerts a dispatch center which responds by calling back to the home through a (loud) speakerphone. Lifeline undoubtedly handles most of their false alerts, but when they can't determine the problem or contact the subscriber, they call us. and we half-expect to find nothing seriously wrong when we arrive. This is looking to be just another Assist Up, but when she reaches, teetering, for the walker's handles, arthritic hands shaking, clawing, my concern increases.

"Are you sure that you're okay?" Her spine is bowed almost horizontal at her neck, and I'm on one knee, at eye level with her. "What happened?"

"Oh, yes. I just fell while I was... I was maneuvering." She smiles a broad smile, and I'm reminded of a jolly Jack-O-Lantern, her missing teeth outnumbering the remaining ones.

I ask her to squeeze my fingers. Her grip is weak, but symmetrical. "Are you normally...", more delicately, "Do you..." Screw it. "Is this normal for you?"

"Yes, but I'm fine." That smile again. I'm concerned about a possible stroke, but every stroke victim I have ever met was terrified by some sudden affectation: a headache, an inability to move or communicate, even voices in their head. She watches me patiently.

"Have you ever had a stroke?" A history of prior stroke increases the likelihood of future strokes, but might also explain some of the deficits we are seeing. The signs and symptoms of stroke are fresh in my head, having just delivered a stroke training module to dozens of my brothers, over the last week.

"Oh, yes. Oh-one, July. Horrible." And yet she's smiling. "My left leg don't work so good now. That's why I moved in with my daughter. She's at work til two." I look over at Eric, but he's already unpacking the tools to measure blood pressure, oxygen saturation, blood sugar. Simple assists up don't normally require the completion of paperwork, but if we take vital signs, I will need to write a report.

Do you want to go to the hospital?" The six hundred dollar question.

Oh, no. I'm fine." I want to believe her, but the circumstances smell a little fishy. A trip to the emergency room can be expensive, a trivial concern in a genuine emergency. However, lying on a hospital bed for hours, unnecessarily, waiting for attention, waiting for a ride home, these things worry me.

"Can we call your daughter?" I can't leave this woman at home if I have any doubts as to her health, and I have a few doubts. I motion to Eric to hold the wheelchair, and we move her to a seated position. Stethoscope in his ears, he inflates the blood pressure cuff with the rubber bulb in his hand.

"Well... Penny works til two. You can't call her at work. Sandra - she lives five blocks away." Her words come slowly, deliberately. (Eric announces her BP and blood sugar: both unremarkable.)

"Sandra? Can we call Sandra? Do you know her phone number?" She rattles off the number before I am ready, stressing the last two digits with a rising inflection: "Two. Niiiiiine." She repeats the number for me, and Eric jots it down on the back of his nitrile glove, smiling when she sings the last two digits again, pitch-perfect. Eric dials and gets an answering machine, but leaves no message.

I explain my concerns, and that we couldn't reach Sandra on the telephone. Mabel admits that her daughter usually goes to bed early. "How well do you know your neighbors?" I envision knocking on someone's door, trying to explain the situation, on the porch, in my uniform, but she reels off another phone number, rapid-fire, before I am ready.

"That's Annette. She lives... right next door." She repeats the number, and it's like listening to a tape recording, again delivered in the same tone and rhythm. Her memory, at least, seems to be intact.

Eric dials and someone answers. "Is this Annette? Hi. This is Eric with the fire department. Do you know Mabel?" He explains the situation carefully, stressing that we don't think this is an emergency, but we need some outside confirmation. A few minutes later, the neighbor is in the room with us, wearing a green wool jacket with brass buttons, like she just got home from church or a dinner party. She's chats with Mabel, leaning down. I watch the conversation closely, looking for signs that Annette is distressed by our patient's condition, but they shoot the breeze casually, if a little slowly, discussing daughters, weather, and the handsome firefighters in Mabel's living room. I'm filling in the blanks on my report, fleshing out the narrative. Eric packs up the kits.

Annette turns to me, "I think she's fine. This is completely normal."

We set to tidying up the mess created in the fall. Mabel has a system for keeping medications, bills, letters close at hand, much of it piled on top of a footstool, overturned when she went down. She is very particular, directing Eric to place her medications, just-so, by the phone. She keeps a glass of water, half-full, by the pills, and another in the basket on her walker.

"Seems a little precarious to me." The footstool is designed to rock and I wobble it experimentally.

"I..." She's scooting the wheelchair with her right foot, "Maneuver."

I explain the required signatures on my report, and Mabel, pen in her gnarled hand, signs with a flawless script, the kind I could never master. Annette thanks us for calling her, and after signing as a witness, offers to help get Mabel ready for bed. We say goodnight, and we're out the door.

Eric takes the kits to the aid car. I return the keys to their hiding place behind the house, in the dark, and Aid 42 is in service.

Tuesday, January 20, 2009

Unless You're A Fireman (fiction)

Many years ago, a young man was driving around the city where I work, late at night, looking for a place to stay. His grandmother had died just two days before, and the funeral was to be held in a couple of days. He was only one day into a three-day cross-country trip, and already he was exhausted.

Neon taunted him from the signs outside every Motel: "NO VACANCY". In order to make the funeral, he would have to get up and be on the road by five in the morning. It was getting late.

Thump. Thump. Thump. Suddenly his car began pulling to the right, and the man suspected he had a flat tire, and so, pulled over. Even in the dark, his tire was obviously ruined. With a sigh, he grabbed his hat, buttoned his coat, and prepared to change the wheel in the rain.

Methodically, he removed his luggage from the trunk, putting it in the rear seat of his sedan to keep it dry. He pulled out the tire iron and jack, setting them on the ground, by the bad wheel. Upon hefting the spare wheel out of the trunk, he realized that the tire had gone flat over time, in the years it had lain there.

"Oh, that's just..." He clasped his head, crushing the sopping, felt fedora, "...great!"

Leaning against the car, he looked around the gloom. Several tidy houses were nearby, but no lights were on. The few businesses in the neighborhood had been closed for hours. Across the street, however, was a fire station. Lights burned in the windows, and shadowy shapes could be seen moving, behind the blinds.

At the front door, he rang a doorbell, and moments later, a young firefighter opened the door and ushered him in, out of the weather. Dripping in the foyer, the man related the problem with his spare tire. Just then, an older firefighter, wearing a white shirt, poked his head around the corner.

"Everything alright out here?"

"No, sir. This gentleman needs a tow truck. His spare tire is flat."

"Nonsense. It just needs air." The chief stepped into the entrance, and the young man noticed that he was wearing slippers. "Probie, fill this man's tire."

The young firefighter dashed out into the storm, and the chief shook hands with the man. "Come in, come in. Have you eaten?"

When the man admitted that he hadn't, the officer ushered him into the kitchen. A delicious aroma lingered in the air, and several firefighters were sitting around the table, talking over hot chocolate. They quieted when the pair entered.

"This fellow needs a hot meal!" He barked the words, but he winked sideways at the young man. The firefighters jumped up and scurried: one to the refrigerator, one to the pantry, and one to the cupboard. By the time the man had removed his soaking wet coat and hat, a plate of hot food and a mug of cocoa were placed before him.

A surge of emotion, memories came over the man, and he realized two things: he was ravenous, and never before had he smelled anything so tantalizing. In between bites, he told the chief about his grandmother, about the motels, about his desperation. As he ate, he began to believe that everything was going to be okay, and a great peace befell him, a contentment he'd never before felt.

"Well, don't you worry about finding a room. You can stay here tonight ...If you don't mind the occasional fire alarm." When the young man started to slowly shake his head, "Nope. I insist. You'll be my guest. We have a couple of spare beds, upstairs, in the ward... don't take the one next to Hicks, though - he snores!" chuckling.

The man had to know, "What did I just eat? That was the most amazing thing I have ever tasted, but I have no idea what it was."

"I can't tell you. Want some ice cream?"

"You can't? Well, who can?"

"Well... nobody can, sir. -unless you're a fireman. It's a secret." The chief smiled. "About that ice cream?"

At that moment, the firefighter who had answered the door entered the kitchen. "Tire's all fixed, sir. I put it on for you, and it should be fine, for a few days, at least."

The chief explained that the traveler would be sleeping in the ward, and sent the probie to help the man fetch his luggage. Outside, the man asked the probie about the dinner.

"Can't tell you unless you're a fireman." At the car, smiling against the cold rain, he took both suitcases from the man. "Sure is good, though, isn't it?"

"Sure is. Say, what's it take to become a fireman?"

The firefighter set down the luggage, and looked directly at the man for a moment, the rain soaking his hair, his uniform.

"Sir, I'll tell you, it's the best thing I have ever done. You'll need to take tests, written tests, and physical ability tests, some grueling. You'll also need to pass oral examinations, attend interviews, get a medical evaluation... If you're hired, you'll spend a year or more, on probation, at the bottom of the heap, doing the housework, all the dirty jobs. You'll see astounding things, horrible things. In that time, you have to win the respect, love, and trust of all your brothers. When that happens, you're a fireman." He picked the suitcase up again, and headed across the street, back to the station, in the downpour.

That night, the man had difficulty falling asleep. The flavors and texture, the smell and colors of his meal, the kindness of these men, filled his thoughts. The next thing he realized, the probie was gently shaking him awake.

"The shower's running. I'll have breakfast waiting when you come down. How do you take your coffee?"

All that day, and the next, on the road the young man could only think about becoming a firefighter. At the funeral, his family asked him about his life, his job. He told them he had decided that he was going to become a firefighter. When he got home, he began visiting fire departments, asking around about fire service tests. He began to study fire science and emergency medicine. He worked for an ambulance company. And he continued to take tests. Finally, he was invited in for an oral board, and ranked on a hiring list. He waited for the call, but it never came, and so he continued to take tests. More oral boards, more interviews, still taking every fire department test he heard about.

One day, three years after his flat tire, he got the call he had been waiting for. He was offered a provisional position, as firefighter, pending a medical evaluation and background check. He passed with flying colors, and became the newest firefighter, a probie, in his department.

He worked very hard, always trying to save others time and effort. When there was work to be done, he was the first to start, that last to finish, whistling, a smile on his face. He cleaned toilets, dishes, fire engines, equipment, and worked tirelessly in the kitchen to feed his crew.

At last the day came, when his chief called him into his office, handed him the recipe, and patiently explained the finer points. On that day, the secret of the food that he had tasted years before was entrusted to him: the ingredients, the preparation, the seasoning, even the proper cookware...

But I can't tell you unless you're a fireman.

Wednesday, January 14, 2009

History III

Whenever the subject of the contest came up, the mispronunciation peppered my speech like cayenne in a cookie.

"I'm going to win duriation aloft."

"The world record for duriation is eighteen seconds."

"These flaps, right here, they give you a longer flight duriation."

Between recess and lunch, we had writing, which was actually mostly spelling. The week before, everyone scored a hundred on the test, and, as a reward, Mister Wayerski announced that our class would have a paper airplane contest. He produced a huge paperback book, entitled The Great International Paper Airplane Book, about a famous contest held by a magazine called Scientific American, way back in the late sixties.

He passed the book around the classroom and explained the four events: duration aloft, distance flown, aerobatics and origami. We would learn to spell aeronautical terms, and write about our airplanes. At this, a collective groan rose from the class, but I was distracted, leafing through the magnificent book, turning the giant pages, examining the winning designs. I know I tried to pay attention, but that must have been when I confused the pronunciation of the word meaning "length of time".

After that, every recess and lunch, I stayed inside the classroom, poring over the book, mulling which tournaments to enter. I dismissed the origami competition, as being meaningless, beneath my dignity - these planes didn't even need to fly. Aerobatic entries would be judged by a panel of students, scored on the intricacy of their flight, and variety of maneuvers performed.

True, honest, objective data would determine the winners of distance and duration. I suspected distance flown would boil down to the thrower's skill and strength. Me, I could barely throw a baseball. If I wanted to win (and I truly did, with all my heart), I would have to focus on the duriation aloft event. The instructions for folding the original winning design were included in the book, and I studied, practiced, and made it my own. I invented a clever, and, apparently novel, trick for forming the difficult initial folds required by the plans.

The day before the competition, after the morning recess, Mister Wayerski pulled me aside. My fifth grade teacher, with his mutton chops, reminded me of Burt Reynolds, and I knew he tried really hard to be the fun teacher at Happy Valley. I had heard that he used to be a P.E. teacher, a rumor supported by the games he taught us to play, on the grass right outside our classroom door.

He laid a hairy hand on my shoulder and leaned in, whispering, "What's your best..." He paused, looking around, conspiratorially, "...duration, so far?" He drew the word out into three long syllables. Oh... I get it.

I appreciated this kindness, but my face went hot anyway. My glasses, the frames a regrettable tortoiseshell pattern, began to fog, especially the thicker lens on the right, the eye with the astigmatism. I blankly looked up at him, his toothy smile hazily framed by his thick sideburns. I didn't know any other adults with sideburns. His were like black carpet.

"Come on, you can tell me. I can keep a secret."

"Um... I don't know. I don't have a stopwatch."

"Hmmm. Well, we'll have to find out." He released my shoulder, straightening up. I took this as a signal to take my seat. When everyone was seated, he waited for us to quiet down.

"I know we're supposed to have a spelling test today..." He had our rapt attention.

Mister Wayerski explained that we would be having a flight trial, a practice run, for the actual contest the next day. We had thirty minutes in which to create our entries, starting with a standard sheet of notebook paper, after which, the whole class would march up to the gymnasium to test them out. I took my time, folding carefully, ironing the creases perfectly flat with the side of a number two pencil. Using blunted safety scissors, I carefully cut identically matched flaps into the rear edge of the wings, and holding the plane up at eye level, I confirmed an absolute symmetry from all directions. After a few test flights, steady glides between the rows of desks, I was ready.

I used the remaining time to spy on my chief rival, Rick Lenaburg. Rick was not someone you would peg as a strong student. No one, except, possibly, his fawning toady, Tod Cernitch, would have considered copying from any of his tests. However, on matters important, Rick was the undisputed authority. If you were waffling between the Evel Knievel Stunt Cycle or the Six Million Dollar Man Action Figure, ask Rick. He dominated bombardment, our playground dodge-ball game, delivering stinging attacks, the thrumming, crimson ball jouncing off your head or back. If you needed a BB gun, he was your man. Rick was a fearless BMX pioneer, jumping a bicycle he had built from spare parts. He once broke his collarbone, leaping from the climber on the playground, using his coat as a makeshift hang-glider, in a sixty-knot wind. If anyone could make a winning paper airplane, Rick Lenaburg could.

Curiosity, edged with nervous awe, propelled me to his desk, where sat three paper planes, to my one. Proudly, he showed me a sleek dart, wings folded repeatedly to the thickness of a ruler, clearly intended to dominate the distance category. I knew I was eyeing a champion. The second airplane, he told me, was an accident.

"When I throw this one, it spirals and loops - crazy! And, I figured... 'What the heck'?" So, an aerobatic entry, too. Rick, grinning, was more excited by this classroom activity than I could ever remember.

The final paper dart on his desk appeared identical to mine. Indistinguishable. I spun my head to verify that my entry was still on my desk where I had left it. It was. Any confidence I had felt, just moments before, drained from me like air from a leaking balloon. My face was hot again, my shoulders sagged.

"Well, good luck, Rick."

"Yeah, you too."

I returned to my desk, and sat, staring at my plane, and, suddenly, it was time. We gathered up our airplanes. Our teacher quietly led us, single-file, out the classroom door, through the resource center, - for reasons unknown, that's what they called the library - and up the ramp, to the gym.

It went quickly, Mister Wayerski imposing an improvised order on the proceedings. The origami portion was omitted, to "preserve originality". Of course, we went in alphabetical order, by last names. I thought Rick's aerobatic performance was the best, but, because it crashed into the floor, most of the class voted for Rhonda Calvin . Lined up along one wall, between folded lunch tables, the distance competitors took turns hurling their planes across the gym. As expected, Rick won, beating the next-best effort by twenty feet, almost hitting the far wall.

Few students, vying for duration aloft, were able to exceed eight seconds of flight. From the center of the basketball court, planes were thrown straight up, some falling back, straight down, barely missing the thrower. Rick took his turn, crouching like a coiled spring, his plane brushing the linoleum. At the end of the countdown, he exploded upwards, sneakers off the floor, arms windmilling. His plane described a tight loop fifteen feet above his head. It looked like it might loop again, but, lacking airspeed, it stalled and settled into a slow, dipping glide that carried it under the basketball hoop. When it touched down, Mister Wayerski clicked the stopwatch with an exaggerated chop of his arm.

"Twelve-point-five seconds." Crap.

I tried to duplicate Rick Lenaburg's athletic, off-balance launch, but the stance was awkward. I relaxed into a more-natural pose and, at the signal, pitched my glider with a grunt. Our planes' common pedigree was evidenced by similar, looping flights. After a heart-stopping stall, my plane, too, nosed into gentle, undulating descent. I held my breath, fists clenched, contorting my body, bowler-like, as if some kind of tormented physical effort might prolong the flight.

The plane hit the wall, with a crisp snap, four feet above the rubber baseboard. For a I moment, I believed it might glance off, fantastically remaining aloft. We watched it skid down the wall, crashing, thud, as Mister Wayerski dropped his arm again. I exhaled slowly, cheeks puffing.

"Eleven seconds."

I retrieved my plane, crumpling it in between my palms. Second place was still losing, but I wrung some satisfaction from beating Tod Cernitch, who, surprisingly, scored a 10.5. I suspected he used a plane built by Rick, to their mutual benefit. I was sick of paper airplanes. Our teacher congratulated the winners as the bell for the first lunch period rang. We hurriedly collected our lunches from the classroom, reconvening in the gym, now arrayed with the folding tables.

When Bob, the bus driver, dropped me off, I ran home, my backpack bouncing on my shoulders. After gulping from a carton of cold milk in the fridge, I fished a stack of paper from the double drawer in mom's desk. Kneeling at a side table, a stylish shade of avocado, molded from sturdy plastic, I set to the task of producing a squadron of duplicate paper airplanes. I knew, intuitively, that the key to the design's success lay in the details of the flaps.

Mom was in the kitchen, making spaghetti, and I excitedly detailed the drama of the paper airplane contest. Patiently, I explained my experiment, the comparison of different aileron sizes, the little paper flaps that inexplicably affected both the glide ratio and initial altitude.

"Too much lift, and the plane will loop too much... Less lift and it will fly higher, but it won't stay in the air long enough." I was thinking out loud.

"Umm Hmm." She wasn't even paying attention. "Dinnertime. Wash your hands, find your sisters."

Spaghetti was a favorite, but I ate silently, flying paper dogfights in my head. Dad wasn't home yet, and the women in my family had no interest in scientific sport. After the dishwasher was loaded, I returned to the little green table, moving it, and my fleet, into the center of the living room.

I resumed by cutting paired slits in the trailing edges of the planes' wings, adding ailerons of differing dimensions: wide, narrow, short, and long. When finished, I methodically threw each plane several times, weighing the merits of each, stashing the rejected versions under the table, at my knees. My brute-force approach yielded a plane with long narrow flaps, one marginally wider than the other. When thrown hard, the flaps bent down, allowing the plane to climb, but as speed was lost, the inherent springiness in the paper returned the flaps to a normal, high-lift orientation. Additionally, a wider flap steered the plane in a gentle spiral, keeping it from hitting a wall.

I could toss the plane toward the fireplace, only to have it bank over the couch and return to my hand, boomerang-like. On my knees, in the living room, I flew missions over the furniture, past the picture window, again and again. I had mastered aerodynamics, physical laws were my playthings, this aircraft did my bidding.

Experimentally, I gave the missile a mighty heave, banking its wings into the throw. For a moment, I feared it would clip the textured shag, cartwheeling across the green carpet. Like the Sorcerer's Apprentice, I delighted in my new-found powers, as the plane climbed, up, up, wheeling toward my head. A warm glee smoldered in my smug soul, when, confidant that the paper airplane would complete two circuits around the room, I ducked my head.

WHAM.

Reeling, my hands went to my face, which had just collided with the stout and immovable little green plastic table. The room tilted crazily, my heavy, dorky glasses knocked askew. I adjusted the lenses and my fingers came away, bloody. The vision in my left eye, my good eye, clouded, my nose was warm, wet. I tasted iron. Carefully, head tilted back, I stood up, stumbled into the kitchen.

"MOM!"

At the sink, I discarded my glasses, dousing my face with water from the tap. Every splash on the stainless steel was tinged with red. I ripped a paper towel from the dispenser under the cabinet, and plastered it against my brow. Mom swung the saloon doors open.

"What on Earth... Oh, dear." I couldn't see her expression, couldn't gauge her anger. "Jesus H. Christ... Let me get a towel."

I examined my face in the bathroom mirror. My stupid glasses had slammed into the bridge of my nose, and the gaping cut gushed when I moved the washcloth aside, to dab at the drying blood on my cheek and mouth.

"I think you need stitches."

Dad still wasn't home. Mom rounded up my sisters and we all went to the emergency room in the Dasher wagon. It bears mention that our Volkswagen was a certain shade of green: avocado. Let the record also reflect that I had never, in my short life, tasted the creamy and nutritious flesh of that exotic fruit, nor, I believe, had either of my parents, but I was intimately familiar with the decorator tint.

Sewing my flesh back together, the doctor chuckled quietly when I detailed the circumstances of my visit to the emergency room. Four neat loops of silk closed the split, but my nose was so swollen that my glasses would not fit my face. Secretly, I hoped they never would.

The next day, I stood up in writing class, and related my trip to the emergency room. I held up my paper airplane, and pointed to the tiny smudge of blood on the left wing. Mister Wayerski called me his little scientist, and joked about dangerous laboratory experiments. Afterwards, Rick showed me the scar on his knee, from a bike wreck.

Shortly, once again, we marched to the gym.

Saturday, January 10, 2009

History II

My official license for mayhem arrived in the seventh grade.

"You're going to play sports, play an instrument, or get a job!" On this subject, my parents marched in rare lockstep.

I found a job.

Each day, after school, Saturday and Sunday mornings, I delivered the Bellingham Herald. Fifty customers, scattered across four miles of incline, lined my pockets with a token filthy lucre, and, more importantly, liberated me from the petty dramas of my family and adolescence. I was suddenly immune from being grounded. It was brilliant.

Now, It is a solid scientific fact that a bicycle cannot survive the rigors of newspaper delivery, and, shortly, I found myself walking the five miles each day. It was the rare occasion when my mom would drive me, allowing me to ride in the VW bus with the sliding door open. My best friend, Eric, accompanied me most days, substituting for me when I went fishing with my dad or came down with the plague. He knew the route intimately and its customer's peculiarities, and he knew I had a good thing. Eric had a pellet gun, which he'd bring along sometimes, and we'd hunt squirrels, songbirds, and Nazis in the thick second-growth woods.

My paper route was absurdly plotted upon the terrain. My papers were waiting for me each day, in a plywood box, at the precise midpoint of my customers. This meant, on one hand, that I only had to carry half my papers at a time, but also that I had to backtrack both legs of the route each day. More importantly, I got to make a strategic business decision every day. From the dropoff point, I could first go up Viewcrest Drive, delivering to the nicer homes, or down into Chuckanut Village, a funky community of hippies and hardscrabble hangers-on. Each Christmas, the view homes, overlooking the water, with their tasteful woodwork, could be counted on for a tip. But, the people who lived in the Village, in shacks with add-ons, smelling of woodsmoke and clams, were friendly all year.

The Village was platted at the head of a squarish, shallow bay, protected by a mile-long stone causeway. The Great Northern railway constructed this ballast berm in the 1920's, replacing an open timber trestle, which now formed a protective breakwater. A wide gravel beach ringed the north half of the bay, with sandstone boulders and cliffs eroded into bizarre honeycombed shapes. The south side had marshy islets, through which snaked a creek at low water, full of spawning salmon in September. Between these shores, a perilous, waist-deep, fragrant and sucking mud stretched. Every day, the promise of certain adventure pulled on me, separating from responsibility like a magnetic claw, until my wristwatch nagged me back to diligence.

In addition to delivering newspapers to the homes, I was charged with collecting the subscription payments. Shrewdly, I refused to perform this task while delivering papers, preferring instead, to make several expeditions dedicated to this chore each month. I favored weekends, and, especially, nights after dinner, for such skulking around.

On a cloudy Sunday afternoon, on the cusp of spring, a collection expedition found me walking the railroad tracks, on the causeway that hemmed in the bay. I had taken a circuitous path to arrive there, having no intention, none at all, of actually collecting subscriptions from any of my customers.

Decades before, a perfect magic was performed by the engineers and laborers that constructed the railroad. Trains demand the straightest possible path between two points, and toward that end, the berm had been constructed, boulder by boulder, spanning the mouth of this cove. The tide was left to breathe through a gap in the wall, bridged by timbers oozing creosote. The north end of the causeway butted against a ridge, the root of a peninsula, known locally as Clark's Point. And there the miracle occurs. Rather than take the serpentine path around the point, rather than going over the ridge, an army of muscle and dynamite had bored through the sandstone. The tunnel described a gentle arc inside the Earth, such that, in the middle third of the tunnel, you could see neither entrance directly, only trusting their existence by the dim reflection off the moisture that seeped from the concrete, coursed down the curved ceiling, in thin films, irrigating the mossy walls.

Blinking against the daylight, having, once again, stupidly, braved the dangerous shortcut through the train tunnel, several options confronted me. The causeway ahead offered a sterile predictability: tracks, rocks, a hundred feet of trestle, high tide. On my left, northeast, flat water filled the bay, beyond which lay the Village, paying customers, duty.

The green water on the southwest side of the railroad was deep, wide beds of kelp calmed the swell, and the point blocked any wind. A narrow gravel beach spanned the crotch formed by the railroad berm and the steep shore of Clark's Point. On this balmy, grey day, at this splendid intersection of landscape and engineering, a second miracle occurred. I looked down from the tracks and saw the boat, half-submerged, sitting on the bottom, a few feet from water's edge.

Teal above, and white below, I knew it was a Sportyak, a sort of hard-shelled polyethelene raft. I'd seen dozens of them, a cheap and ubiquitous dinghy, hanging on the transoms of small power boats in the marina and in the islands. They were supposed to be unsinkable, yet here was a Sportyak sunk. There was no registration number on the bow. No vessels bobbed at anchor or moved across the inlet. The nearest waterfront home was a mile or more away. Perhaps lost in a storm, perhaps abandoned, clearly it was salvage, and, clearly, it was all mine.

Wet sneakers were a small price to pay for such a prize, and I gleefully yarded it onto dry land after a mad scramble down the car-sized rocks. I half-expected to get, predictably, caught in the act, accused of theft. I rocked it experimentally, and gallons of brine sloshed between the hull and deck. A quick and minor surgery, effected with my Swiss Army knife, yielded a two-inch square inspection hole, as large as I dared, at the aft starboard (I was a Boat Owner!) corner of the deck.

The seawater inside was illuminated with by the warm glow of light through the plastic, a tiny speckling of sand visible in the corners. No rocks, no seaweed: a good sign. Heaving, I lifted the boat bow-up, straining against the mass of leakage, easing, relaxing finally, as the water gushed through the hole I'd carved, onto the beach. I spun the now-empty boat around, and tipped it toward me, the last few drops dripping reluctantly. I flipped it, upside-down, and inspected the bottom. Barnacles and stone had scored long scratches in the plastic, but none were deep enough to cause a leak. In the corner, directly under my inspection/drain port was a dent, caused by some great impact. I could find no breach in the hull, and convinced myself that water must have infiltrated the seam between the top and bottom.

Balancing the Sportyak over my head, it wasn't difficult to clamber up and over the railroad tracks, picking my path from boulder to boulder. I hoped to carry the boat to a safe spot in the woods, but tide had flooded the bay, and precious little beach was available. A faint rain began to fall, making perfect circles on the surface on the clear, flat water. I had my pick of driftwood paddles, and perched on my knees, I alternated strokes on each side, canoe-fashion.

As I skimmed across the glassy sea, sand dabs, tiny flounders, darted away from my shadow. A kingfisher chattered overhead, a great blue heron lifted from a floating log, flapping slowly, croaking, like a feathered pterodactyl, across the water, I was navigating Paradise. I was alone on this placid and untroubled body of water, and only the woodsmoke rising, straight up, from the chimneys of homes on the distant shore belied the truth of other people in the world.

Between strokes of my ersatz paddle, I could hear a burbling noise, like a wet flapping. At first, I assumed air bubbles were fluttering under the hull of my vessel, but at one point, I stopped to savor the delicious beauty of my situation, only to hear the burbling while motionless. I twisted around, awkward in the tiny boat, bent to the hole in the deck. A pin-sized jet of water dribbled through a crack in the dent I had found earlier. Dammit! Water, a couple of inches, had violated the division between boat and sea, so I turned for the sandy shore, a scant thirty feet away.

I tipped my vessel vertical again, easier this time, and a few gallons gushed forth. I looked at my watch and scanned the shore. Several cars were parked along the short, dead-end, dirt track that gave visitors access to the beach. No one was visible on the beach. I was hoping to stash my trophy in the marsh behind that road, but the presence of people - hostiles - ruled out any plan the might expose my treasure.

Long ago, before the railroad causeay, this bay had been exposed to fierce weather from the southwest. Wind and water had wrought the lacy erosion on the rocks, undermining tremendous blocks of stone that had tumbled onto the shore, bouncing, rolling across the beach to form small islands at high water. Directly above me, one such boulder was stacked upon two others, forming a sort of cave. I dragged my boat in between the rocks and wedged it on the crumbling hillside, well above sight from the shore. I emerged, stooping, from the cache and circled around the rock pile, confirming the security of my hiding place.

Owing to the water level, I had to walk past the parked cars. There was still nobody on the beach, but I could hear voices in the marsh beyond. Probably birdwatchers. I made a beeline for home, hastily passing obviously occupied homes, people who owed me money. When I got home, I called Eric, and filled him in on my discovery.

I could hear the excitement in his voice. "This is so neat!"

In class, the next day, all I could think about was having my own private Sportyak. The day dragged, and when the dismissal bell rang, Eric was waiting for me on the grass field. We trotted straight to my house. He had already obtained the necessary permission, the night before, to join my on my paper route. We picked up the dorky poncho-bag I carried the papers in. We were off.

Of course, we delivered to the Village first, practically running, pausing to stuff newspapers into mailboxes and the few plastic Bellingham Herald tubes (which I sold to customers concerned about something called mailbox fraud) . We took opposite sides of the street, meeting in the middle of the road to hand off papers. We arrived at the bay, panting, damp in the March air.

A Subaru was parked by the water's edge, on the short gravel lane that connected the parallel paved roads. During the highest storm tides, water covered this part of the road, functionally part of the beach, with driftwood and a line of seaweed. On top of the car was a boat - my boat! A young man, obviously a college student, was standing on the bumper, knotting a rope securing the boat - his boat? - to a roof rack. My beautiful dreams, visions, plans for that boat began to unravel in my brain. I had to act.

"Hey! Where'd you get that boat?" I could hear my anguish bending my voice.

He paused, noticing us, and gestured across the water. "It was up on the rocks. Over there."

"That's... That's our boat." I squared my shoulders. "That's where we, uh, store it."

The claim sounded thin when spoken aloud, and I suspected this guy's salvage rights were better, twenty-four hours fresher, than mine. I believe I actually swooned, as the simultaneous thoughts and ideas crashed in my head: He doesn't know I found it just yesterday. This guy might just drive off with it. Two against one: Simple playground math. We could all share it. He's bigger AND older. Where would we keep it? He's going to take it. In his dorm? Don't cry, do not cry. It's not really mine. Not yet.

It was my time-tested understanding that bigger kids picked on, and took advantage of, smaller kids. I had experienced it first-hand when I changed schools, and I exercised this principle upon my younger sisters. Adults, generally, treated kids fairly. This person, laying claim to my Sportyak, might fall on either side of the line demarking adolescence from maturity. We stood there, beside his car. I tried to appear defiant, glared accusingly, and telepathically willed Eric to do the same.

In slow motion, this interloper reached for the rope laced over the dinghy. He's going to keep it.

Slowly, he pulled the rope, and it snaked through the bars and around the boat, piling at his feet.

"I'm sorry about that." The boat (my boat?) was in his hands. "I just thought someone had lost it. I was going to put a lost and found ad in the paper." Ouch. I am a thief.

"That's OK." I mopped my brow with my sleeve. "I'm glad we caught you. I'd hate to lose it. It's a great little boat." He opened the rear hatch, tossing the tangled line in the back.

"Yes, it is," He climbed into his car, waved. "Have fun!" Like we might not.

Friday, January 9, 2009

History I

When you entered the building, the first thing you noticed was the sharp smell of chlorine. The second thing you noticed was a fainter, slightly sweet, clean smell - fresh fish. I had experience, references, I signed the non-disclosure (Surimi was high-tech, proprietary), and so started my brief career making artificial crab.

One night, a nosebleed took me off the line. Accidental, fortunate, probably the product of the dry air, dehydration, and sleep deprivation, I was sent to the QA office to staunch the flow. Ernie, the Quality Engineer, in lab coat, safety glasses, poofy hairnet, was dissecting a package of "flake". He cut the vacuum-packed pouch open with a razor knife and methodically fingered the product until he found something.

"Look at this! What do you think that is?" I plucked it from his open palm, enjoying this demonstration of trust.

"A ball bearing?" The production equipment must have required thousands of bearings.

"No, a BB!"

"What’s the difference?" I feigned bovine ignorance.

"Oh, there’s a difference…" He snatched it back, dropping it, with a rattle, into a shallow stainless pan.

I watched him, blankly daubing at my nostril. Eventually I trudged, in my floppy rubber boots, back out to my spot on the packaging line.

Later, around three in the morning, Ernie appeared on the line. I watched him out of the corner of my eye. He repeatedly ran a pair of pouches through the metal detector, the same route that all packaged product took. Each time a gate popped out, across the conveyor belt, and directed the packages into a separate plastic tote. I knew, with certainty, those packages also contained my BB’s.

Friday, January 2, 2009

Vanity

When I was kid, my mom had a kitchen stool, a handy tool for reaching things on shelves, a perch for friends to set and talk, or for kids to stir cookies and sneak bites of raw egg-laden dough. She loved that stool, and when it wore out, she replaced it with a sturdy, assemble-it-yourself, high-back version, in maple. She painted it a jaunty shade of orange, just the accent to avocado Formica and green shag rug. When the first stool came apart, literally falling to pieces under my weight, it was like stepping across a threshold when the new stool entered our house. The old stool had been my nemesis, an execution tool, like an electric chair. If I could see it out of the corner of my eye, my breath would catch, my voice would fall softer, respectful. It's not that I feared the chair, but what it represented: haircuts.

Somewhere, sometime, my dad received an illustrated How-To book on cutting hair. He already possessed a set of clippers, possibly cast-offs from a veterinary clinic, and after a little light reading decided that he could make me a presentable young man, and save some money at the same time. Cutting hair, even a simple pig shave, has a learning curve. To this day, I have a thick scar, from a gouging scissors wound, behind the top of my right ear which causes eyeglasses to cant to the left if I don't tweak the temple piece just so.

Hair is composed of lifeless keratin, a proteinaceous material also comprising finger and toe nails. Completely lacking nerves, hair is dead, a solid scientific fact that I disputed for years. The combination of dad's rusty tools and aggressive style molded me into a quaking, hand-shy dog-boy when the subject of haircuts came up. Like a setter fearful of baths, I would disappear, kicking and crying when discovered and subsequently hoisted into position on the stool. Although I never had a problem with dentists, I completely understand the aversion some people develop, even after modern painless dentistry. I'm here to tell you that cutting hair hurts.

My family had moved to Bellingham, Washington from Billings, Montana, where boys were expected to look like boys, which, in the eyes of my parents, most of the male students and professors in Bellingham failed to achieve. Long hair was a hallmark of the Hippies, and for years my Montana relatives were fascinated by stories about men that looked like women. The other crucial element of my Big Sky origin was the Scando-Teutonic genotype that I inherited. Pale skin and blond hair, shorn to quarter-inch fuzz, guaranteed certain sunburn on my scalp, and I learned to sport a ball cap on my tender head. My unprotected ears, however, fried like eggs in the northern sun, and in the summer months the burnt skin flaked off like stale potato chips.

We moved when I was in fourth grade, and I was quickly greeted by Matt, a friendly, fearless boy, a year older, his hair shaped into what he called a "mop". Like the Monkees, he was cool, and my mom must have taken pity on me when I mentioned my envy for his long hair. Dad grudgingly attempted to learn a scissor cut, which still, inexplicably, hurt like hellfire. I no longer looked like a junior Marine, and I saw my social standing improve at my new school, Happy Valley Elementary, where no one wore a crew cut.

In fifth grade I rode a train by myself, back to Montana for the summer, to "work" on my grandparents' farm, with the fantastic goal of earning money for a ten-speed bike. They belonged to a small tight-knit "church", meeting in family member's homes twice a week, and I was soon led to understand that my shaggy hair was pure homemade sin. Grandpa sat me down, opened the bible, searching until he found the justification he needed to mandate the haircut:

Does not even nature itself teach you that if a man has long hair, it is a dishonor to him, but if a woman has long hair, it is a glory to her? For her hair is given to her for a
covering. 1 Corinthians 11:14-15

After reading me the verse, he paraphrased: "Boys with long hair are a disgrace."

My uncle Ervin held me down, like a bawling lamb, and duplicated my dad's ineptitude with scissors. Lacking proper clippers, I received a compromise haircut, well above my ears, but longer than a crew cut. In the mirror, through tearful eyes, I saw the boy I would recognize years later, playing banjo in Deliverance. Somewhere, I found a floppy, leather hat, a souvenir from Mexico, and wore it constantly to protect my dignity and albinism, at 3500 feet of elevation, under the blazing Big Sky.

I experimented briefly with growing my hair out in my late twenties. I was managing a Birkenstock store in Seattle, and I was tired of the bowl cut, the Caesar style, as kinder persons called it. This gave me a reason to wear a bandana, a different one each day, to restrain the bangs that would otherwise obscure my vision. Slowly, painfully so, my hair grew out to the point where I could finally tuck the strands behind my ears in imitation of my über-cool friend, Jorn. At last, I could pull it all into a stunted ponytail which looks ridiculous in the sole surviving photograph. I settled for a part down the middle, and my thick, straight hair fell like two greasy curtains on each side of my head.

There was a character on the TV series, Northern Exposure, named Ed Chigliak, played by Darren E. Burrows. He defined undefinable cool on the show, and we had the same haircut, even the same middle initials. I longed for people to compare us, but, in reality, I looked more like the villainous teacher of the Dark Arts, Severus Snape, from Harry Potter. Eventually, I succumbed to the tiny voice hissing inside my head, "You look like a complete ass." I went to Supercuts and had the whole tangled wreck shaved off my head, back to square one. When I picked up my son, Alec, at his daycare later, he burst into tears because I looked like someone else.

Ten years later, I experimented with actually shaving my head, switching to an electric shaver when I lopped off, like a carrot top, a mole behind my left ear. My head is uncommonly round, and I worried that it might be mistaken for a bowling ball, my narrow eyes imperceptible on the broad expanse of pink flesh. I grew a goatee with a thin wispy moustache drooping around the sides of my mouth. The goatee suggested where my face was located, but with the shaved head, and my bulk, I looked like a stereotypical B-grade biker movie bad-ass. I scraped off the facial hair and joined a more respectable society when I began volunteering for the local fire department.

Eventually, I grew tired of shaving my head every few days (and the frightened look in children's eyes), and went back to the original buzz cut, which morphed into the more stylized, and military, high and tight. Also known as a jarhead, a crew cut on the top, the sides and back trimmed as short as tools and talent allow. Some say the name comes from how the ears stick out like a jar, but the true origin is lost in USMC lore. I like the low maintenance of the style, and it offers a professional appearance at 0300.

My hair is the perfect shrub to the stylist's topiary. It quickly (about an inch a month) grows straight out, like the Play-Doh Fuzzy Pumper Barber guy, and lays down only after attaining a length of several inches. Until that time, it forms a halo around my head that looks like a bizarre dandelion gone to seed. Interestingly, the shortest hairs grow faster, and two week after a cut, it's all the same length.

The tenacity of my fuzz tends to highlight any lapse of attention by the barber, and I remained loyal to the rare but transient souls that could meet my high standards. After some time, he or she would quit or get fired, and I would renew my search for competent barber. Too many times, I examined my pelt, after a new stylist's trim, only to find a myriad of stray hairs poking up like so many snags in the carpet. Clipping these bristles myself was as frustrating an exercise as writing my name backwards in the mirror, upside-down, and invariably resulted in snipping at precisely the wrong place and copious profanity.

But no more. I have found my follicular angel, in the guise of Joie, at Rudy's Barbershop. She cut my hair flawlessly for my Chief's interview, and continues to do so three years later. She knows my preference for guards (a razor finish on the sides and back, a 3.0 on top), and has the process down to a quick and easy art form. Rather than take the cafeteria offering of the first-available barber, I'll call ahead to get my name on her list. My schedule allows me to exploit the slower times of day and I seldom wait long.

It's my one vanity, perhaps a little OCD, perhaps the result of childhood trauma, but it's all mine.