Lost Wallet

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Me and the mates were heading to a beach bar.  Beer time, somewhere. As we were walking down the sandy path, I padded my pockets.  Holy shit dudes, I forgot my wallet. They turned, looked at me and rolled their eyes. They continued. I stood alone and watched them move away, brothers in arms. Sand crusted my eyes.

I ran back to the room. They were cabin style with white exteriors and lime green shutters.  An orange tiki lamp with a warrior face lit  my room number, 16A. My bag was on a wicker bench outside the room. I opened the bag and frantically searched for my wallet. It wasn’t there. I couldn’t go back to the bar.  My mates would disown me.  I played the lame excuse card too many times.

I went to the hotel desk. No one was there, so I rang the bell. The clerk came out, he was wearing a lobster bib and chewing horror. The smell emanating from him was atrocious like rotting feet wrapped in a poopy baby diaper. Holy shit, I said.  What are you eating? Oh, just a family recipe. I said, I’ve got a huge problem. I can’t seem to find my wallet. Has anyone turned in a wallet? He shook his head. Is there any way I can get a couple of hundred and put it on my tab. You can just charge it to the card I used for the room. He shook his head. Ok, I said, can I have another room key? I’ve lost that as well. He went behind the counter and gave me 16A. The silver metal sparkled with orange tiki light.

I went back to the room. The key wouldn’t work.  I yanked and twisted  the knob like a full bladder man. I needed my wallet. Moisture swept across my brow. My hands shook and my feet swelled. Finally the door swung open.  On the wall was an ocean portrait, waves crashing and splashing on a rock in light blue and grey. The picture was new to me. Looking at it made me tired. I laid down on the brown and yellow striped polyester bed cover. I closed my eyes.

We were travelling to a large major city, frantically looking for a place to stay. I looked at the map.  Red lines spread across busy intersecting lines. So many lines; it was hard to plan a route.  I wasn’t driving. At the wheel was a person I did not know. I asked her, have we met? She said, what do you think? I said,  we need to find a place before it gets dark. She laughed. I said, do you live here? She laughed again with tiki light.

When I woke up, it was dark outside. I walked to the bar, but it was closed. Then I went to the front desk and asked the sweet pea smelling clerk, have you seen my friends? He said, they checked out days ago.

Then She Was Gone

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I just finished “Then She Was Gone” by Lisa Jewell. I don’t know how to categorize the book – Mystery? Thriller? Whatever the genre, I enjoyed the read, but holy darkness, Batman. We’re talking Chris Nolan cape crusader. Not for this review, but why is everything so dark these days – books, movies. What does this say about our society?

The novel is about the Mack family living a very common existence in North London, dinner parties, good grades, high school romance. Until a horror beyond horror hits the family. The family’s golden child, Ellie, is snatched. She’s gone. The action rips the family apart, creating weird broken relationships. The parents, Laurel and Paul, split up because Ellie’s mother devotes all her time to finding her favourite child. She gives up on the living family.

Then just as she’s recovering and starting to move on, she meets Floyd. They hook up in a coffee shop near her home. The new BF has a daughter who looks very familiar. But the relationship is not just good sex and nice clothes. We find that Floyd has a strange past with Ellie’s math tutor just before she was abducted or ran away from home. We aren’t sure at this point.

When she meets Floyd, we are happy because Laurel is moving on. Great. But it doesn’t take long until something doesn’t feel right. Is he a fraud? He doesn’t appears like his book sleeve photo – he’s a published maths for dummies author. It’s just not right. Then the truth falls like a cannon ball in the shallow end of a kid’s pool and darkness reigns.

And my goodness we have some weird relationships in the novel. Poppy, Floyd’s daughter will need some serious therapy for her entire life. Hanna, the not so golden child,  and her brother Jake have very difficult relationships with their mother. The daughter lives a lonely existence with a secret she cannot share with her mother. The only way Laurel can keep in contact with her estranged daughter is by cleaning her house and with that task she spies. The son lives in Devon (away from mother) with a wife who manages his life. Laurel’s  ex-husband remarries and they rarely make contact. Holy estrangement Batman.

And darkness? Holy cow, I’m not going to describe the basement and what goes on in there, but it kept me awake for nights. And the Irish monster, please, please may I never meet such a creature. Another screwed up relationship is between Floyd and his past. There’s not a skeleton in his closet, it’s an entire graveyard.

I couldn’t put the book down. Jewell is very good at making me want to burn another page. But if I may suggest, don’t read it before you go to bed and make sure you read it in a brightly lit safe place and please lock all your doors and windows.

Robert Alexander Montgomery

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I woke up this morning and I couldn’t get Robert Alexander Montgomery out of my head. I don’t know how he got there, but he did. Rob as we called him was a great friend I worked with at large hotel, many, many years ago. My first real job after high school. Rob took me under his wing. The dude always wore a three-piece to work and he was only eighteen. He taught me how to dress and act in a business environment.

We only spent a couple of years hanging out, driving around in his metallic green Olds 442 and man the beast flew like snot. On our days off we’d travel down to his parent’s cabin, at a lake an hour or two out of town. We’d hang or go water skiing. One time we hung out with a very famous folk group who were playing at the hotel. I introduced them to my parents who were fans. Got me in high esteem. My son hanging with a nearly defunct folk group.

Rob and I lost contact. However, one day I got a call from a mutual friend who told me he died in a freakish accident. He was racing from one end of a restaurant to the other with a tray held high; he slipped, fell through a glass window and hit the ground fifteen metres below. He didn’t stand a chance. I thought the phone call was a joke and never believed it until woke up with Robert Alexander Montgomery in my head forty-four years later. I did the research.

The first information I found was on Ancestry: Robert Alexander Montgomery born 23 Jul 1959,  passed away on 14 Apr 1979 in Edmonton, Alberta, Canada.  I had to dig more. I went to a newspaper database and found the very sad article in the Edmonton Journal.  Dead at nineteen. Racing without shoes. Wow, it’s true.

It was nineteen-seventy-nine. How would I know the truth? There wasn’t an internet or social media I could check back then. No way to confirm anything. You either believed someone or you didn’t. Information came from newspapers, TV or radio and if you didn’t catch the story on the day it happened, there’d be no way of finding out the truth unless you went to a library (in those days I had no idea what was in a library besides shhhhhh). I let it slide, thinking it can’t be true (maybe I just didn’t want to believe).

Then I was thinking.  A simple Google search  of my friend’s horrific death brought up nothing.  Has Robert Alexander Montgomery faded into nothing? Is his memory gone except in the eyes of his family?  If you can’t Google someone, does that mean they don’t exist. Do we discard pre-Google death unless it’s something so horrific it’s burned into a thousand minds?

Hopefully,  if I put this article out there Robert Alexander Montgomery moves into this century and Rob is not forgotten. Happy Birthday Pal.

Green Tent

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Two weeks ago, I went camping. I pitched a glowing green tent shaped like an igloo in a forest clearing. Inside, hung from a criss-crossed pole at the top was an old lantern running on white gas, burning with a mesh style baby sock. The light was very bright. White hot slashes poured between the flammable walls. The structure from outside looked like a radiating green snow globe, possibly shaken by a very large man with green clothing and a deep voice, shouting, “Ho, ho, ho.” I wasn’t sure if I should use the light in the tent, the fumes and heat very combustible in a small confined area.

Under the raging light was my sleeping arrangement, a single green cot. I went outside and sitting around the campfire were two people. One was a dude decked out in green camo. He wore a floppy fisherman hat with randomly attached  hooks and lures. One device was bright neon orange. A fish would spot it miles away.  He was a good fisherman, I heard. He always stuck to the rules. Catch and release.

Next to him sat a girl dressed in white, red and brown camo. She kept moving away from the fire. I watched steam rising from her clothes.   She was medium height, with streaky pink hair tied up at the back. She had a camo-tattoo around her ankle, matching her clothes. She wore a large mason jar smile, showing many bright white teeth. They glowed like bright white light.  Good for midnight bladder jaunts to the bush, I thought.

She asked to come in the tent, and I said sure. I brought a blue sleeping bag with me, but I couldn’t find it. I searched the tent and then went outside to look around the campsite, but it was nowhere. I was so sure I’d brought it. Streaky hair girl got on the cot. I did the same. It was very tight and we couldn’t move. We snuggled and tried to get warm. I tried to cover us, but the only means were the bags the cot and tent were stored in.  I considered lighting the lamp, but I was afraid we’d go up in a fireball. Death by fire or by ice, I’m not sure what is better.

It was a restless night.  We couldn’t get comfortable or warm on the small cot with no coverings except leftover bags. Finally, the sun rose. The tent quickly became an oven – nature’s extremes. We were starting to suffocate, so we got out of the tent. Fisher guy was still there sitting around the fire. He’d fallen asleep in a chair before the fire. I asked him how he slept. He said like a baby with blue lips and toes.

I finally found my sleeping bag. I handed it to pink hair girl, but she said she was  going fishing. I said, good luck I hope you catch something. She smiled with those bright white teeth. I tried to remember where my sunglasses were.

Panel Wagon

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I was driving a very small car, fire engine red with white trim. It was so low to the ground, I felt as though my ass were dragging across the ground, derriere road rash. It wasn’t light out yet, gray light just forming on the horizon. I drove to the institution early so I could get a good parking spot. The lot got very full, very fast. I was in a rush, so I had to wash my hair in the back seat of my tiny car. Luckily the car came with a shower nozzle, the kind you find in a kitchen, thin flexible metallic hose with a black nozzle. You just press the button, and water scoots out. I’m glad I had the option. Clean hair is so important.

After I washed my hair, my friend came and tapped on the window. I couldn’t see her face because her shaggy dirty blonde hair covered her facial features. She wore a large beige cable knit sweater, reminding me of a rug with a zipper up the front. She was going to take my car and drive it to an unknown location. She got in and dropped me off at the institution door, but it was too early. I told her I’d wait until the doors opened, but she insisted and drove back to the parking lot. I said, you’ll never get a parking spot. She wasn’t worried.

When we got back, the lot was full. Another little car was driving into the space we vacated. Only little cars were permitted in the lot. So many little cars in one place, you’d think a clown convention was happening. We drove around and around but couldn’t find a spot.

My friend was getting frustrated. I asked her if she wanted to come for dinner. She was very appreciative.  She said sure. She’d come back and pick me up at four. I walked to the steel institution doors. They opened.

She arrived right on time at four. We drove to my house. I was living in another car, a station wagon with the same wood panels adorning so many basements in shag carpet time. My house had no wheels. It was parked in an abandoned lot with a large park flowing outside the back window. The wagon had a portable stove on the back.

I poured some wine. We drank and she admired my Swedish shelving. They’re Olof Palmes’.  We sat in the front seat drank wine and ate steak and potatoes and green beans. After dinner, we jumped over the front seats and sat in the back and listened to the radio. A song came on about a guy who was in love with his best friend’s girlfriend. I said I hadn’t heard the song in a long time. She said the guy was an asshole. Who does that?

We pulled the seats back and laid down in the wagon area, watching the trees and the grass sway in the park. We drank the rest of our wine. We talked until the park was only shadows. She said, it’s getting late. I have to work in the morning. After she went home, I got out and lit the wagon on fire. I walked down a dark road, wishing I hadn’t given her my car.

We Spread

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Ok, just finished the Iain Reid book. Great last name pal. Penny is an elderly woman living alone in her apartment after her partner dies. They were painters, he the more famous.  She thought she wasn’t as talented. Or perhaps, she could’ve been the better painter but it was hard living in her partner’s very large shadow.

She’s lonely and a little paranoid living alone. Her most loyal companions are the mice who live with her. She sees a person across the street staring into her apartment. She worries, not sure if the dark shadow is friend or foe. Living alone and aging brings on paranoia. Who can you talk to about seeing suspicious shadows if you are alone? The voices in your head? Oh yea, those are so reliable. No matter what age.

Then one day, she’s trying to change a lightbulb and she smacks her head on the counter. She lies there unconscious until her landlord finds her and calls the paramedics. It could’ve been much worse. Landlord packs her bags and hauls her to a retirement home, “Six Cedars.”

The place is wonderful – lots of trees surrounding an old Victorian home. A place to live out your years in peace, quiet and verdant pleasure. Except you can’t go outside. Too dangerous. Shelly runs the house for purely altruistic reasons, or does she? She has another dude working for her, Jack a repenting soul – issues we never know about. Also in the home are four patients – Hilbert, a mathematician, Ruth a chatterbox translator who speaks many languages and finally Pete who never speaks but plays a beautiful violin.

When Penny arrives at the home all is grand – she is eating well, more than her apartment staple of canned tomato soup. She sleeps well another necessity she lacked while living on her own. All is just hunky dory until weirdness happens (time starts slipping) – she paints prodigiously but doesn’t remember creating, fungi grows on people, Sistine Chapel frescos appear.  Windows are not real, they are more like a Salvor Dali painting where the glass bends and wobbles. Penny is suspicious. She feels the need to escape. She needs to walk among the trees like the old days in the park near her apartment. A place she felt safe. She does not feel safe in the painting that’s come alive.

Now, what to make of this novel. What’s it all about? What does it mean? I do not know. I see Penny as elderly person who gets to the point where she can’t take care of herself, and she’s forced to move. Maybe she actually dies in the apartment and the retirement home is her purgatory before she moves on. Her last final painting. Her great work of art. She says she doesn’t like to complete her work; she loves the “in progress” tone of her art – to borrow a cliche, life is about the continually moving journey not the stagnant destination. She finally creates her masterpiece, reaching the final station along the line. Once complete she moves on. Isn’t this like all humans? Fear that if we complete our journey, it’s the end. A reason many won’t get a will done – if I see a lawyer and leave all my earthly possessions to my dog, down comes the deadly hand of fate. Ok, maybe that’s just me.

Burning Down the House

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The greatest  gift to give a teenager (so they say) is teaching them how to cook. The obvious benefit is an option from throwing bad food in a microwave.  Another is precious time away from a screen and spending gleeful hours with a potential filled young person. You can make a difference. Ok, so I got that off a parenting website, “Teenage Monsters.”

Anyway, my niece came over a while back and together we made carbonara and Caesar salad  with homemade bread. The only problem with the carbonara is while cooking the pancetta, it got very smoky in the house. Our fire alarm started screaming like a banshee. Now we have a security system, meaning when the alarm goes off, we usually get a call from the company and if they can’t reach us, hotline to emergency services.

Weirdly,  I didn’t get a call or notice on my phone.  We kept looking out the window while waving towels over the alarm – not sure if the fire department was called or not. All our doors and windows were open, even though it was below freezing.  Every fan blasting on max. Then we heard sirens blaring with lights a- flashing.  The big red trucks stopped in front of our house. Curtains open, nosy eyes, chins a-wagging with,  Hey look they have an alarm system, the idiots.

My niece ever the brave one,  ran for cover shouting: “Don’t tell them I’m here.”  “What?” I said. “They’re firemen, not cops. And you watch too much TV.”  Ok this has potential for learning lesson number two, but before I could take her outside she ran, tail between her legs,  flying  down the  basement stairs.

Left alone, I went outside in my slippers and wool socks and explained to the very understanding firemen:

“Sorry, we were making carbonara and cooking the bacon (not sure they’d know pancetta), but then boom too much smoke. I musta missed the call from our security company. I am really sorry.”

“You used bacon? Not they way I make it.  I use pancetta,” said the fireman, smirking.

“Yea, next time I’ll use pancetta. Maybe that’s the problem.”

“Dinner was saved?” asked the fireman.

“Yep.”

“Then all is good. You’re safe and so is dinner. That’s all that matters.”

“Again, I’m so sorry.”

“Not a problem,” said the very understanding high-res man, “better a nice chat on the sidewalk then pulling bodies out.” (Ok he didn’t really say that, but)

I turned and walked  back into our pancetta lingering freezing cold house.  I checked my phone. The alarm company called but I didn’t hear the ring (curse you fruit company). I want to go over to the firehall and cook them dinner with my niece out of appreciation.

A few weeks later, however,  I got a letter from the fire department. Your first alarm is free. After that five hundred bucks for the second call and then a thousand for the third. My first thought, Do I really need an alarm? Second thought, maybe we’ll order carbonara and I’ll teach my niece how to pay with my credit card. Oh wait, that’s a lesson she knows very well.

Navy Ship

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Last night I was on this Navy ship. All military metal with haze gray walls. We are about to get torpedoed by a submarine. I ask the captain why are they shooting at us? He says they don’t trust us. They want to shoot before we do. They want the advantage. Fear. Too much fear.

I go to the bottom deck and look out a portal window,  brass frame with rivets like bullet ends. I  watch the torpedoes come charging towards the ship. Long copper cylinders with thick turbulent white water following. The missiles hit, but I feel nothing.

I take the elevator to the main deck. Inside is an empty linen cart, the kind they use in hospitals. I enter an enclosed area.  No doors, only military gray walls and the steel elevator door. I want to go behind the walls because that’s where the injured people are. I want to help, but I can’t get beyond the walls.  I can hear doctors and nurses operating on people – horrible sounds of confusion and anxiety, metal on metal, clanging. I feel useless. I have no control.

Two people come out from the surgery area. They walk through the wall. One injured sailor has no issues. He says they let him go. Another guy comes out with a serious eye injury. He has a patch over it, the fabric spotted with blood stains. I help him back through the wall, but it blocks me.

I take the released guy to the top deck. I ask him what’s going on in there. He says, many injuries from the attack, but the medical staff are doing a great job.  I ask him if he has any injuries. He says, they thought he had a brain issue, but they let him go after he spent several hours in a dark room.  He watched Gandhi videos.  He gets off the elevator and says thanks for the chat.

I take the elevator down to the main deck. I notice a “B” button on the elevator. I press it but it doesn’t turn green, it goes red. I keep pressing but the light doesn’t change.  I can’t go down any further, even though I did before the attack. I wait on the main floor waiting to see if anyone needs a ride on the elevator. A useless job, I know, but it’s something.

The guy with the eye injury shows up again. He says he doesn’t belong here. He wants to go outside. I say it’s not a good idea to wander on the top deck especially if you can’t see. He says he can see just fine. The waves are very high, I explain. And the water is freezing. You’d die of hypothermia. He touches his eye. A nurse comes through the wall and pulls the bad eye guy back into the operating area.

I take the elevator up. I want some fresh air. I get off the elevator. A sign I didn’t see before  says, “Open Air” with an arrow pointing up. I turn the handle, but it doesn’t move. I go to the elevator and press the down button, but it’s red. I press the button, rapidly, violently as many times as I can as if I were at a cross walk signal. A nurse comes out and takes me beyond the wall.

Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*ck

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Speaking of bloggers, I’ve been reading Mark Manson’s masculine heavy self-help book. Most definitely written for a male audience. It’s not that women don’t  like profanity and penis references, but sometimes his ideas flow like beer in a dusty  rusty old tavern, “Look man, sometimes you just gotta not give a fuck. Know what I mean? There are other important things to give a fuck about. Be selective about your fucks.” Now, tell me that’s not meant for a male audience.

The book borders on the “Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff” idea.  Should you care about the insignificant car parked in front of your house? Man, so many things matter more, like how to treat people with more respect. He also brings in some mindful ideas. You can’t control how people react, but you can control how you react to things. If a car is parked in front of your house and you don’t like it. It’s your problem. Your reaction shouldn’t be slash its tires. Nah, think about it. Is it really a problem? And if you slash the tires, doesn’t it just bring more problems, like jail time (I’m watching Beef on Netflix right now – this advice seems appropriate, yea?)

It’s all about choice and values. I give value – how much do I want or need a non-communicative relationship? Do I need or want this job or  is the amount of money in my bank account important. The message in the book, however, is not new. It does have value, though.

I do like the stories. The Japanese dude hiding out in the Philippines for ten or fifteen years after the war ended. The psycho lawyer who’s following the author around because she believes together, they can find a cure for death.

The book is ok, but his ideas come from other texts. I am also keeping in mind it was written by a blogger. A dude who has no professional credentials for offering any psychological advice. Is this where we are? Internet gurus whose only qualification is a blog. I read that the book was a small article he wrote on his blog. Some publisher thought it was catchy (Isn’t everything with profanity in it?) and bang, pop here’s the long text version and I’ve just made a wad of cash.

Even though I’m ready to toss the “Subtle” book out, I came upon an excellent piece of writing advice.  Just do something. Open the laptop and type– just get something written. A writer was asked how do you write so many books? And he said, “Every day I try to get at least two hundred crappy words written.” Then he goes on to say that just by sitting down and trying to do the least amount of writing, he usually ends up writing much more than that.  Can’t we apply this to everyday? Just do something.  Open the door and walk. Get in the car and go. So much of life to see and feel.

I’m fifty-fifty on this book. Yes, I got some good ideas out of it. Yes, it refreshed ideas that I’d forgotten about. Yes, I finished the book. But always the big question, would I read it again? Meh. Maybe. But there are so many better books on this subject that aren’t so manly like my go to Thich Nhat Hanh.

Apple Sucks

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“De phone, de phone has arrived.”  The fruit company announces. We leave early, thinking maybe grab some lunch and then a movie after I pick up my new phone. I bought it online the night before, so all I have to do is walk in and pick it up. I get to the fruit store and say, “I know I’m early, but can I grab my phone?” As I open the email and actually read the stupid thing, I notice at the bottom: “Please bring photo ID.” Well, shiver me timbers. I didn’t read the whole email, surprise, surprise. Now, in my defence it was about the twentieth email they sent me. “Shit,” I say to the nice fruit representative, “I have a photo of my ID on my old fruit phone.  Nope. Government ID only, sorry,” she says with a half-jerked smile. Yep gotta watch tiny retail people with a little bit of power and a rule. They will shit all over you and who wouldn’t when your wage doesn’t cover rent.

I phone my car passenger and explain the situation. I walk with the pace of an Olympian to the car.  Then Mr. Impatient gets a golden idea, “Well. I can probably drive home, grab my wallet and be back before my passenger even gets down the stairs to the underground parking.” You sad sorry moron. When will you learn? I get in the car, fly out of the garage and zoom down the causeway.  I get a call, “Hey where are you?” “Yea, sorry I’m halfway home. Meet me at the fruit store in twenty.”  The line dies. I can feel the  sardonic smirk down the highway between us. I get half-way home when I remember, I don’t have my keys, so I can’t get into the house without throwing the barbeque through the window.

I call back, but before I even speak, “You don’t have your keys, numbskull. You gave them to me this morning. Remember? I don’t want the pocket bulge you said. ” “That’s right, I say.” Passenger says,  “Ok, meet me in front of the drugstore. No better yet, meet me in in front of the bank.” “Ok,” I say, but am I really listening? I get to the drug store. I call. “Where are you?” “In front of the bank like I told you.” “Oh shit.” I scoot around the drug store and drive over to the bank. I see the passenger’s  head, shaking with disgust and then while sliding into the car, “Do you want me to drive? You seem a little tense.”

We drive home, get my wallet, and go back into the phone store. I gingerly put my Government ID on the counter. We wait. Dude tries to sell me shit I don’t need. Thanks. I walk out of the store new phone in pocket, bulging like square fruit in a round tree.

I go home. So many passwords to renew and new fruit wants to use my face for ID. Nah, Apple doesn’t suck – you do.