The night before California closes, again ...

 ... Erna's. Three couples in a large room separated by 20-30 feet with a wandering Sommelier about to go dormant, again.

  

12/20

Selections...

Been a while between paragraphs.

It is a smoky Saturday morning, and my robe feels to ask for more use—who am I to ignore the request? Looking out over the meadow, there is little contention, save for the mock battles of blue jays and other feathered things—more a game of tag, methinks. In any case, they’re relentless and none seems to get hurt.

On the other hand, where roads collide and machines blare in the quiet, there is an uninterrupted and obvious anger, silent and not.

The signs neighbors used to post on their lawns are now dares and have become self-righteous declarations of degrees of patriotism. Most are just bait, I’m afraid, baited by a glass eye skillfully nurtured by the choice of a button on a remote. Neither choice’s side has patriotism in mind. It is about ratings and sponsors, fueled by whatever head-slapping lie or exaggeration can be offered to keep the “channel” connected.

There was a time when friends could disagree, when signs on a lawn weren’t even discussed as the coincidence of neighbors picking up the morning paper together never interrupted a morning smile or wave. And through the smoke of a BBQ, political protests usually lasted as long as it took to have a can or bottle opener tossed your way. Elections were not seen as a threat by any selection. And when existential fears were offered up by a side or sides, they somehow dissipated like the wrinkles below an iron, because we had memories of fairness and realities that always eventually pressed the button of conscience that never became too remote.

It is our life that is reality. Not a cause. Not a theory. Nothing threatens the very next moment; why should we believe some glass eye in our living room that tells us where our future seconds will land?

Now is the moment of happiness.

Herd futility !

Herd futility is interfering with my false sense of impending safety!

That Little Box in your House

 

Why would anyone bury decades of inherited sensibilities and intuitions just to be told by a little box how serious it all is (interrupted by a commercial on how to avoid paying back taxes…)? It's just a little box in your house with a lot of different voices. Be the ventriloquist, not the dummy; listen to you. 

 

There is a wonderful whispering skepticism alive in all of us. It hisses at us before we leap over an abyss, and occasionally it says, “This might be a foot too far.”

 

 

 

May full moon

People ..

People talk about the "new normal"—its arrival, what it might look and feel like. Others believe we will simply reset to exactly where we were. I find myself hoping for a little compromise between the two. Mostly I think my left will come up earlier than it ever did, and stay up longer than it ever did.

The water hazard

                                                    When you realize you don't have enough club!

The Reporter and The Question

The ice in the drinks couldn’t have even started to melt before she asked if I had ever broken the law while on duty. Had I said no, she would have dismissed me as a liar; every officer she had already asked was. When I pondered the question and confessed I had, I saw her hand come off of her glass of wine. When I further confessed that it had been haunting me for nearly ten years, I could see her fingers grasping a ghost pen, or I should say attempting to.

I shifted uneasily in my chair and looked around for the waiter, as if I could only go further with the assistance of more alcohol. Not wanting to lose the moment, she snapped her fingers on both hands over her head, which not only attracted the waiter but also got the attention of everyone else in snapping range.

Now, when a reporter asks you out, you bet your headline the motive, no matter how big your ego, is not about some powerful attraction she just can’t help but sate. No, when a reporter shows interest, it’s more about getting your x-ray than getting into your pants. This ”date” was supposed to be an apology for an offensive article she wrote about the department a week before. She had grilled the Chief on the air about it. When that didn’t work, I suddenly became her Adonis and found myself being asked to dinner. And if dinner didn’t work, apparently she had the reputation of using another “skill” that involved sheets. Yeah, that would happen when the Post Office announced an Idi Amin stamp!

The waiter, who nearly ran across the room, now stood frozen, waiting (as waiters do). I looked up with a timid smile and ordered a double shot of Maker’s Mark. I glanced over at the blonde sitting across from me; she shook her head and pointed to her only-single-sipped glass of red wine.

I looked over at two faux-compassionate blue eyes and tilted head, and had to use every cell in my body not to burst into laughter or, worse, spray a drink across the table that would have resulted in an assault charge or lawsuit.

 “Okay, we can start with that if you’d like, but swear to me this is off the record. It could ruin me.”

Her head shot straight up as her eyes widened. “I swear!”

At that moment all I could see was Clinton saying, “I never had sex with that woman,” but I continued, after taking a false exhale of relief.

I worried about being out-clevered (new word). This dinner was not going to be on me. It was agreed that “the steaks are on her” would precede everything. We examined the menu, and while I was confused about what to order, I guess the furrowed brow she picked up made her say once again, “I mean it, this will be just between you and me.” I nodded at the two orbs just above the top of her menu and ordered a rib-eye (medium), potato (with just butter), and any vegetable (‘cause I was going to ignore the vegetable anyway). I sipped my drink and gave Medusa a weak, pathetic smile.

 “It all started in the shower. I’d had enough! I was desperate and I knew it.” (I sipped, paused, peeked, and continued.) “Now, I confess, it had been bothering me forever, and I finally decided to do something about it.” She nodded in false commiseration.

I figured the salads would be a good time to break it to her that it’s not polite to talk and chew. She reluctantly agreed and told me she could tell this “thing” was clearly a burden, and she really appreciated my candor and valued my trust. I nodded and played with my croutons, sipped, and continued when the salads were cleared.

 “Okay, I knew for a fact that a certain officer’s brother worked at Menlo Hardware. I also knew if my plan was going to work, I needed to go in the store in uniform.” I shook my head and took another sip.

“I decided to go in during lunch hour, and when I was on my downtown beat patrol, on foot. I entered the store and asked for Smith. I’m not going to give up his name. Smith was paged and came out from the back. I stared at him for a good five seconds to convey the gravity of my presence. ‘My shower water is so weak, I have to run around in it to get wet. I don’t like running in the shower—it’s dangerous. I want a shower head that will knock me over if I’m not prepared.’ I held up my hand to halt any quick reply; I knew what he was going to say. ‘I want to feel what it is like to be hit by a Saharan sand storm; do you understand, Smith?’

“He nodded, squinted, and said he might have one left. He said, ‘But, but they’re against the law—we had to replace them all with the limited …’

“I interrupted, ‘Except for the one, the one you have back there, the one you may have?’ I pointed to the back of the store. I stared back at the storeroom entrance, back where gushers live, geysers were trained, constant artificial cloudbursts resided.

“’They’re against the law,’ he pleaded.”

Blondie began nodding her head, her disgust with me forming on her face with each word. But this part was the truest, I told her: “But wait—there’s more!”

“I took a step closer to Smith and gently tapped my badge saying, ‘I am the law!’ I jutted my chin towards the storeroom and Smith rushed to it. He returned with a small paper bag. I could tell his mouth was dry and he was having trouble swallowing. I took the bag and, for Smith’s sake, I said aloud, looking into his panicked face, ‘I take this evidence in the name of the state of California. And Smith, you realize of course you’ve been in possession of this evidence and that’s a crime.’ His eyes opened wide and I quickly put my hand on his shoulder and said, ‘I know your brother—he’s a good cop. I don’t want him to be embarrassed or you to have to pay consequences. So we won’t say another word.’ When he began, I stopped him and said, ‘No need to thank me—remember, not another word!’”

When the waiter brought the steaks, she told him she had decided to have hers to go. She clearly had to keep her cool. After all, she had been recognized by the other restaurant guests the minute we were seated. The waiter brought the carton. She bent over, kissed me on the cheek, and whispered, “Fuck you, Officer Raggio,” and strolled out in her best runway walk.

What I didn’t get to tell her was that when I got home that day, I removed my 20th shower head and opened the paper bag to a rather plain-looking spigot. My shoulders fell in disappointment and I attached it with no expectations. When I turned on the water, I’m sure music filled the bathroom. The flow struck the floor of the tub with a force that splashed over the edge onto my pants. I lit a cigarette. This eighth wonder of the world has followed all my showers since! It still produces a prodigious blast. I shall bequeath it!




It wasn’t until I finished my steak that I realized I had to buy hers too. Lawyers, reporters (not all in both cases) are way, way down the food chain. To this day, I believe 10% of what they say on TV, because the remaining 90% is about motive, and the motive is ratings and readership. Every now and then we get to strike back—silently, of course. And the reporter? Well, every time I see her now she begins to even out her lipstick … with her middle finger.

Sommeliers and the Like

I’m from the Bronx.



I have never really been able to explain this to my wife in a way that she can appreciate; it’s hard for her to understand that, between my "Bronxing" and my "coppering," food for me has always been a result of hunger—and then later, as a cop, something I had to eat swiftly. Nothing worse than to order a meal, fast-food or in line at a store, and then suddenly have to run out, unable to return to the ordered meal (they rarely saved it). If you're lucky, you can throw money at the checker as you dash. (Of course it has to be more than the three-day-old, pre-made sandwich costs.)

I tell you all this because Sally lives, lives, to go out to those restaurants where the portions are, let us say, "limited" in size.

Sally:

"Now I want you to appreciate the presentation—the time it took to create that presentation, the artful way the food is dressed on the plate. There will be several courses, and I know this will challenge your patience. But this is important to me, and since I've shown my patience while you watch those monotonous crime ... Well, I just think you might show some appreciation for the fact that I am taking you out to ...”

I hold up my open palm, nod, and say, "I'll try" (without a fraction of honesty in either word). Going out to one of these places requires all the patience (and alcohol) I can consume before we leave, driving or not! I'm getting dressed, over-dressed, for a meal that wouldn't sate a Lilliputian, so I'm trying to sneak some Ritz crackers into my sports-jacket pocket. I turn around and Sally is staring that glazed stare that makes me feel numb and dumb at the same time. "Just in case?" I quickly throw two into my mouth in rebellion.

I just love pulling up to a valet who looks back at my Subaru as he accepts the tip from the $200,000 Benz in front of me. His look says enough to piss me off, and I send my best angry-cop look back at him.

"You're starting already; we haven't even gotten out of the car and you're starting already."

I open my mouth to explain and finally just say, "Hey, why do we have to come to these places where the valets are better dressed than me?"

Before she can reply, her door is opened and her dream for the night is coming true. I, on the other hand, open my own door. The valet waits patiently. I reach into my coat and slap a Ritz in his palm. He thanks me. Sally doesn't see this. A coup. I can’t stop looking at a vintage Cadillac—you know, the kind where there’s a different time zone between grill and trunk? Sally tells me to close my mouth and pulls me to the door. 

Now, seated, there is a silent shift of power. The threat of embarrassment looms over the black napkins. Those same pantry eyes 30 minutes ago have now softened into a blinking plea for fairness, for reason. I start thinking of the valet and an involuntary smile pushes the side of my mouth upward. Sally pats my hand and says, “See, I knew you’d begin to enjoy this, once …” I nod back gently.

Here I am, once again about to be stalked and given involuntary lessons on “the grape.” Each course would be supplied with a different wine. The sommelier holds the bottom of the bottles as he pours. The splash appears to be exactly the same as the one before. I wonder how many years it took to become that accurate. This is a man who is exceedingly proud of every ounce he introduces. I want to see some expression on the man’s face. I need emotion to continue! I know, I’ll …

Sally grasps my hand and mimes the words, “Don’t you dare!” Something on my face gave me away—a tell. Now I’m wondering if my poker group can see it!

I suggest we take a picture of every tiny offering that comes (every fucking hour). Look, portions that size don’t require digestion. If my stomach could talk after I swallowed, it would say, “Wait, wait, what was that?”


The wine is finally striking a chord. I have a small buzz, which of course fits the portions perfectly. Shifting in my seat finds me resigned and surrendering to the situation. I lean the wrong way in my jacket. The clear and present muffled sound and vibration of the demolition of the remainder of my Ritz crackers solicit an “Are you okay?” The lying nod, heroic smile, and fake anticipation for the next pour works.

Dessert is a combination of whatevers. I’m wondering if it will taste like something I am able to identify. Sally’s eyebrows hit her hairline and she nearly swoons. All I can think about is my favorite dessert, butterscotch pudding.

The valet seems not to recall me and quickly gets my Subaru. When I reach for a tip he says, “No thanks, I’m full.” I start laughing and give him a real tip. Sally asks and I just shrug. The quiet drive home is broken when she suddenly blurts out, “You’re impossible! You’re like climbing Everest … in slippers!” 

“Sherpa Sally?”

Okay, the laughter was concessionary but hearty. We both know there will be another dinner with more warnings (and a few more Ritz crackers).