"He's a walkin' contradiction, partly truth and partly fiction."—from the song The Pilgrim, Chapter 33 by Kris Kristofferson
"Now then, that is the tale. Some of it is true."—from The Autobiography of Mark Twain
Introduction. These are vignettes, not necessarily parts of longer stories, that have been inspired by real incidents or ideas. They range from being slightly altered to highly modified from what may actually have transpired.
I have in mind writings such as Edward Abbey's Desert Solitaire, long regarded as nonfiction narrative, which has since been found to be at least partly fiction. Another book that comes to mind is John Steinbeck's Travels with Charley, published as nonfiction travel writing; but recent fact-checking revealed the book to be a mix of fiction and nonfiction or highly re-worked nonfiction, the latter of which may as well be labeled fiction (see this link). I am also reminded of Jack London's novel Martin Eden, which draws heavily upon the author's own experiences; and of what Jim Harrison wrote in The Ancient Minstrel, a collection of three novellas, that he would continue his memoir "...in the form of a novella. At this late date I couldn't bear to lapse into any delusions of reality in nonfiction."
Story List (scroll down to locate):
The Ultimate Bad Guy
Economic Defiance
Who Needs Privacy?
Advice for the Sports Industry
A Table for One
Too Much Feeling
Code Red and the Great Toilet Paper Panic of 2020
The True Meaning of Sharing
The Baby Picture
On Being “Carded”
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Posted February 11, 2025
The Ultimate Bad Guy
“And if my thought-dreams could be seen
They’d probably put my head in a guillotine”—From the song It’s Alright Ma, (I’m Only Bleeding), By Bob Dylan
“I wear dark glasses to cover my eyes
There’re secrets in them I can’t disguise”—From the song Long and Wasted Years, by Bob Dylan
Conversation at the dinner table had been a little slow. Normally, it flows right along, from one topic to another, with plenty of laughter. But in all fairness, Julie was still weak and depressed from effects of a severe stomach flu, and I guess my mind was elsewhere, mostly wrapped around a fictional story I had been revising for a couple of years. So I thought about news items of mutual interest as fodder for some dialog.
“Guess who’s coming to Peoria for a concert in April?” I said.
“I don’t know. Antje Duvekot? John Gorka?”
“Bob Dylan.” Julie perked up with wide, open eyes.
“To Peoria? I’m sorry, but you’ll have to go by yourself on this one. You should go. You’re such a devoted follower of his, always mentioning him in one way or another.” She could have added until it becomes an irritation, but she was too kind. Julie was not a big Dylan fan. More accurately, she did not like the man or his singing, but she admitted he had written some good songs.
“You know, I’ve been listening to Dylan’s music and loosely following his career since the early 1970s. ‘I’ll just sit here and watch the river flow.’ I just hope it doesn’t turn out that he’s done something heinous in his life, something that would be all over the media, and cause me to wish I’d never mentioned him to anyone. That’s the risk of aligning yourself so closely with someone you don’t know. It’s the same with politicians.
“Take Adolf Hitler, for example. What if you were his close friend way before the Nazis. And you’re telling people, ‘Hey this is a great guy. He’s an artist, maybe a genius. You should see his paintings. Amazing!’ And then a few years later, he becomes…well…Hitler! And whenever your friends think of you, they think of Hitler. Then what do you do?”
“Hmm,” Julie replied, probably relieved the subject matter moved off of Bob Dylan.
“I think Adolf Hitler is still the ultimate bad guy. Because whenever someone has to make a comparison with an evil person, it’s always Hitler. There are so many to choose from; I mean, you’ve got Stalin, Osama Bin Laden, Saddam Hussein, Chairman Mao, Kim Jung Un, Assad. Who else? But I think most people still go with Hitler.”
Julie continued eating. She was a good listener.
“Remember when we were in South Dakota, and we were learning about how the Black Hills, by treaty, were supposed to remain under Sioux ownership and control for all time? And then Custer illegally goes into the Black Hills, confirms gold deposits, and tells everybody about it. And then you have an illegal Gold Rush, the founding of Deadwood, and, in the end, the Indians lose the Black Hills.”
“Yes, I remember,” said Julie. “It was terrible what happened.”
“And so, as a legacy, they name a state park in the heart of the Black Hills after him. Custer State Park. It’s a great park. But why Custer? Because he was massacred as he was about to destroy an Indian village, killing everyone, which he already had a track record of doing. Talk about an insult to the Native Americans. And then, remember, I said it would be like Germany having a park called Hitler State Park. Or worse, Israel.
“Again, Hitler is the comparison. I forgot what we were talking about.”
“You mentioned Bob Dylan coming to Peoria.”
“Right. How’s that for getting off the track?”
“You have a knack.”
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Posted February 7, 2025
Economic Defiance
In terms of restaurants available for an evening meal, our small central Illinois town offered few options. So, we most often chose the Black Dog Bar and Grill because they tended to get more things right than wrong as far as the overall atmosphere, lighting, layout, menu, and background music. And they were the only ones to offer fried mozzarella sticks as an appetizer.
From the foregoing, it might appear that I am a demanding customer, hard to please and easy to find fault. But I reject that notion because money is exchanged in the restaurant transaction. If they were giving away the food, this discussion would be moot. What I am, then, is a customer who views the restaurant experience from an economic perspective considering the roles of producer and consumer demand, the effects of competition, and the law of supply and demand. So, armed with that knowledge and the expectations it encouraged, Julie and I entered the Black Dog Bar and Grill.
“We’re lucky,” said Julie. “They’re not very busy.”
“It’s still early,” I replied. “I’m sure it’ll pick up before too long. Let’s get a booth.” I picked the center booth along the wall opposite the bar. This was the best location for attracting the waitress’s attention because she had to pass close by to service the rest of the dining area and for trips to the kitchen. The booth was also far from the speaker system, which, when loud, interfered with quiet conversation, and it was not set over a heating/cooling floor vent. Dixie, our waitress—whom I had known for a decade, since she was once my neighbor at a time when she was also a snarky, pregnant high school student—brought menus in her own good time.
“Hi Tom, Julie. Can I get you some drinks?” asked Dixie.
I looked at Julie and said, “We’ll each have Blue Moons on tap.” Julie nodded in agreement, and then I said, “And I’d like an order of mozzarella sticks as an appetizer.” The next question was one I already knew the answer to from previous dinners at the Black Dog, but it was a question I was duty bound, as a consumer, to ask again.
“Do you have marinara sauce for the mozzarella sticks?”
Dixie stared at me without breaking eye contact, leaned forward, and said, “No. They come with ranch dressing.”
I was sure Julie thought, Here we go.
So I said, just as I had on previous evenings, “Well then, I guess we’ll skip the mozzarella sticks.”
Dixie said, “Okay, I’ll get your drinks.” And then she headed straight toward the bar.
When Dixie was out of earshot, Julie said, “Why do you do this? You know they only have ranch dressing.”
“Because,” I replied,” I am the customer. They are providing a service and a product which I may or may not purchase depending upon whether I want it or not. If they offer what I don’t want, they don’t make a sale. You would think that they would want to make a sale, so they should offer the specific foods and drinks that their customers are here to buy. It’s that simple. Economics 101.”
“But it’s their restaurant. They can put whatever they want on their menu. And it’s clearly not marinara sauce. It’s ranch.”
“Look, how long would a business last if they made an effort to sell only products or offer services that people don’t want?”
“That’s an absurd question,” said Julie.
I ignored her comment and continued, “The answer is that they would go out of business. I’m trying to help the Black Dog.”
“Maybe you’re wrong. Maybe people prefer ranch dressing over marinara sauce for mozzarella sticks. I like ranch. And I can’t believe we’re having this conversation again!” Before I could address Julie’s comment with a counterpoint, Dixie returned with our drinks.
“Are you ready to order?” said Dixie.
“We’ll need a few more minutes,” I said. Neither of us had yet thought about dinner.
While glancing at the menu, I said, “To get back to your comment. I think it’s highly unlikely that the vast majority of people would choose ranch dressing over marinara sauce for mozzarella sticks, any more than they’d use ranch instead of tomato sauce on a pizza. Certain things just go together. And dressing is for salads.”
“So,” said Julie, “you’re opposed to trying anything new?”
“No. But you wouldn’t put whipped cream on a ribeye steak would you?”
“Hey, that sounds interesting.”
“You don’t mean that. Look, I don’t need to try something that I can intuitively conclude is a bad combination. They get away with this—yes, get away with—because there is no true competition in this town. I guaran-damn-tee it, if a restaurant opened up that had marinara sauce, word would get around, and the Black Dog would lose business until they also offered marinara. But without competition, what have you got? Everyone gets the same whether they want it or not, equally oppressed. Sounds like communism to me.”
Julie saw Dixie heading our way and whispered, “Don’t say anything more to her about your marinara sauce. We have to live in this town.”
“Ready?” said Dixie.
Julie said, “I’ll have the chicken strips dinner with fries and cottage cheese.”
Dixie looked at me with her head cocked sideways and a bored expression. “And what about you, Tom?”
“I’ll have the chicken noodle casserole. Is that with alfredo sauce?”
Dixie looked at Julie and said, “No, we use ranch dressing.” And they both laughed. “It’s alfredo,” said Dixie. “Just messin’ with you.” And she walked away, defiant to the end, to place our order with the kitchen.
I said, “She doesn’t take me seriously, does she? She won’t even tell the owner about a customer preference.”
“No, she won’t. And honey, nobody takes your obsessive rants seriously. But we love you anyway.”
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Posted on September 1, 2023
Who Needs Privacy?
We could tell by the number of cars parked outside the Black Dog Bar and Grill that seating would be either limited or unavailable. “Let’s go. We’ll never get a booth, let alone a table,” said Julie.
“We can’t really know unless we try,” I replied. As we entered, I was immediately disheartened by the large number of people standing around with all of the booths occupied.
“Come on,” I said. “There’s a table in back.”
As we sat and waited for the waitress to bring menus, the door to the men’s room, about five feet away, flung wide open, providing an unobstructed view of the toilet and urinal. How appetizing, I thought. The man who had been in there then proceeded to wash his hands at a sink that was located within the dining area along the wall between the men’s and women’s restrooms. After he was finished washing, he pulled a plastic lever several times on the overhead paper towel dispenser, dried his hands, and then walked away.
“Well,” I said, “I guess we’ll know who doesn’t wash his hands.”
“Gross. Can we change the subject?”
It would have been so easy for the owners to install a tall partition in front of the restroom area so the entire establishment would not get a full view each and every time the door opens. And I knew it was just a matter of time before someone forgot to lock the door while inside taking care of business (it happens all the time). The sound of the towel dispenser actually made me feel as if I were inside the restroom. Sometimes I wonder: Am I wrong? Do other people notice these things?
“Is it just me?” I asked Julie.
“Well, not really. It’s a bad design. But, yes, it’s partly you.”
“Should I say something?”
“No.”
The Black Dog experience reminded me of a summer writing workshop I attended two decades ago in Washington’s Cascade Mountains. The workshop was held at a rustic off-season ski lodge with a warning that there would be no frills. I slept five nights in a sleeping bag on the floor in a crowded dorm room. Fine. I’m tough. Sleep on the floor? No problem. I was even prepared to eat on the floor and not complain.
After checking in and claiming a sleeping area in a remote corner, the first thing I did was to satisfy my curiosity about the bathroom situation. I wasn’t expecting much, but what I saw in the long, narrow room stopped me cold. Near the doorway there were several sinks side by side; a single shower was at the far end; and in between the shower and sinks were four toilets in a row separated only by a couple feet of open space! The shower at least had a curtain. I imagined trying to use one of those toilets and all that that might involve along with other men brushing their teeth, drying off in the shower, shaving, and casually conversing. “Anyone get the score on last night’s Yankee game?”
The workshop included three excellent meals each day as part of the package. And the chef was not simply a fry cook; he was a highly trained artisan who prepared a variety of unusual dishes with an international flair. It was all so delicious; at every meal, served buffet style, I left the dining area like a giant swollen tick. But after two days, with my lower abdominal region basically on strike, I began to wonder: Where is all this food going?
All of it didn’t just dissipate into nothing. The human intestine might be around 15 feet long, so it could store quite a bit of…uh…material. But I knew at that moment, a reckoning would soon be upon me, like piles of driftwood building up beneath a bridge on a flooding river. The river would win and take out the bridge at the same time. And when it happened, I didn’t want to be three feet away from some guy brushing his teeth.
On the third day with no action below the equator, I took the matter into my own hands, traveled to a drugstore at a nearby town, and made a strategically timed visit to a gas station that I had scouted out earlier: it had a single occupancy restroom with a locking door. And thus unburdened, I was able to enjoy the rest of the workshop without a care.
Those responsible for the ski lodge must not have thought anyone would have a problem with their restroom layout. Or maybe they were laughing the whole time about their joke that would be a gift that would keep on giving. But why be embarrassed about a natural body function that all animals for millions of years have dealt with every day of their lives? Suddenly, one person (me) has an issue.
Look at dogs: they have no shame: anywhere, anytime, and they’ll look you in the eye, maybe even dog-smiling, as they’re “doing it.” Pure honesty and guilelessness on full display. Dogs have many other admirable qualities, and who are we humans to think we are so superior with our pumped up egos and fancy restrooms? In fact, maybe taking a hint from the dogs is not a bad move. Mark Twain, a keen observer of humankind and dogs once said: “I have been studying the traits and dispositions of the 'lower animals' (so called) and contrasting them with the traits and dispositions of man. I find the result humiliating to me.”
I might have to think about this from time to time when I am in a philosophical mood. The meaning of life, the extent of the universe…whatever. But I would not want to take it too far. Julie loves dogs. But even she has her limits.
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Posted March 1, 2024
Advice for the Sports Industry
Sometimes Julie and I will look at houses for a potential move. Nothing organized, just curiosity as to what might be out there. She has specific fine tastes for the house itself, while I tend to be more concerned about the property and surrounding area. One day, as we toured around a little neighborhood near the outskirts of town, our conversation took quite an unexpected turn.
“Look at all the damn basketball nets on this street, almost every other house,” I observed.
“Is that a problem?” asked Julie.
“They’re just so noisy,” I said. “You know, if you live next door, you not only hear the ball bouncing when you’re in your own house, but you can actually feel it through the floor.”
“Well, when I was a kid, we had a basketball net by our garage and we loved it. All the neighborhood kids came over to play. It was wonderful. A fond memory.”
“Yeah,” I said, “neighborhood kids yelling and screaming. No thanks.”
“You really kind of have a problem with sports, don’t you?” asked Julie.
“As you know, I was never into sports, except possibly bowling for a while. Maybe it’s the competitive nature of sports that gets to me. It seems to bring out the worst of human characteristics like toxic aggression and promotes rudeness. Like when the guys on the other team shove their hands in your face as you’re trying to make a basket. Rude. Or how about stealing the ball when you’re trying to concentrate on dribbling? And what about the audience? Shouting insults at the opposing team. I just could never get into it.”
“But you’re six feet four inches tall!” said Julie. “I would think that you of all people would be good at basketball.”
“Yeah well,” I replied, “that’s what everyone thought at the beginning of the school year. In gym class, at first both sides wanted me when choosing teams. But by the end of the school year, it was either between me and the other worst player or I had to be assigned to a team.”
“Did you ever even try?”
“What for? Let’s say your team wins. Wins what? I never could see the point.”
“I’m starting to think you had a deprived childhood. What about having fun? F. U. N. Fun!”
“I think sports would be more interesting and fun if all the players were not so good. And fair too. As it is now, sports are biased toward the exceptional players and they discriminate—yes, discriminate, I emphasize—against everyone else.”
“Here we go,” said Julie.
“Let’s just look at basketball. The ball should be bigger and heavier so a player with big hands cannot handle it like it was nothing. And the nets should be higher, beyond the height that even an eight-foot player can reach by jumping. No more hanging off the edge of the net. And the net’s diameter should be just about a millimeter larger than the ball, so even the good players might not look so good. And I think the ball should be harder to bounce.”
“You’ve put a lot of thought into this, haven’t you?”
“Well…I guess— ”
“Okay,” said Julie, “What else?”
“All skill levels get to play—and I’m talking here about professional sports. If you get too good, though, you’re temporarily suspended.”
“So you really think people would rather see players dropping the balls, falling down, and generally screwing up?”
“Well, you may want to mix it up with regular people and maybe have a few really good players. That would add drama and unpredictability to the game; you’d never know what might happen. Imagine an uncoordinated, geeky guy dribbling the basketball and just losing it. It would be fun. Or in baseball, you’d never know if the first baseman would actually catch the ball to make an out. Drama.”
“The world according to Tom.”
“Yes.”
“Anything at all appeal on this street?” asked Julie, returning to the reason we were out driving around.
“Sorry, not with all those basketball nets.”
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Posted August 2, 2023
A Table for One
A lot of folks, I suspect, avoid eating alone in restaurants, especially having an evening meal at an upscale establishment filled with couples out on dates. The single person feels conspicuous, and there’s not much to do while waiting for your food except to look around, watching others having a good time. I’m different, though, having long ago learned to bring a book as a companion, along with a set of large black clips to hold the book open, while calmly enjoying my dinner and not looking around at other diners.
But having been married for seventeen years, I rarely use these single-man techniques. I was recently reminded of those olden days while dining with my wife Julie. The location of our table was the memory trigger.
“I don’t like this table. Let’s move,” I said.
“There’s nothing wrong with the table, sweetheart. This is where they seated us,” Julie replied. Our table was located directly under a large speaker that was blasting out a mix of current pop music and contemporary country, neither of which I found very enjoyable. I love music, but not all music; and some types, I even find annoying.
“Look, there’s an open table on the other side of the room. Let’s move.”
“No, I think we should stay right here. They put customers at specific tables so that all of the waitresses have their fair share.”
At that point in the conversation, my vibe barometer was giving me a “code yellow” to abort this discussion without delay. Over the years, I’ve learned to pay attention to code yellow, well before it might turn to code red. “Oh, I hadn’t thought of that. I guess this table’s fine then.”
As our conversation was taken over by the rhythmic vibrations of bass guitar, pounding drums, and raunchy electric guitars (and this was supposed to be country music!), my mind drifted back to the late 1990s. I had just walked into a nice restaurant, book in hand, and stood in front of a sign that stated: “Please wait to be seated.” After a few minutes, a nicely dressed young woman, with menus in hand, approached, stood next to the sign, and asked, “Table for one?” Was it that obvious, I thought, that I was alone? My date could have been in the restroom. It must have been certain clues that gave me away: overall disheveled appearance, thick glasses, clothes and hair out of style, carries a large hardback book. Her conclusion? Table for one.
The restaurant was not busy, so there were quite a few tables to choose from. But she sat me down right next to a large family with two rambunctious little kids and an unhappy baby. I knew immediately why she dumped me at that table. It was the closest one to the kitchen. She could have placed me on the other side of the room so that I would be more comfortable. But she would then have had a longer walk to my table. It was all about making her job easier.
After the waitress seated me with a menu and took my drink order, she left the room. I sat there, propped up my book with a salt shaker, and began to read. Then the baby started screaming, the two kids started pushing each other, and the parents were heroically attempting to hold it all together and somehow eat their own meals. I read the same sentence three times and forgot what it meant as soon as I finished reading it. Why am I putting up with this, I asked myself? Without an answer, I abruptly picked up my book and moved to a small table on the other side of the room. The parents gave me a pitiful look and mouthed the words, “Sorry.” I felt bad for the suffering parents, but I never did have the emotional constitution for being a martyr.
In about ten minutes, the waitress quickly entered the dining area with a basket of rolls and a bottle of beer for me, and just as quickly stopped and stared at my now empty former table. She looked around in a state of panic, and I gently waved at her in response from across the room.
“Sorry I moved,” I said as she approached my table.
“Oh, that’s okay. Are you ready to order?”
“Yes.”
After taking my order, she again left the room for the kitchen. It was a slow night, and it looked as if she was the only waitress on duty. So she probably had plenty to do in the kitchen as well as wait on customers. I opened my book again and propped it up to just the right angle for easy reading while I ate. And then the music started—not loud, but louder than it needed to be, in my opinion. Cocktail Lounge-type crooner music: Dean Martin, Steve Lawrence, Andy Williams. Not my kind of music. And the speaker was directly above my table, which I did not notice when I chose this new table. What to do? As I began stumbling over words and re-reading sentences, only one choice became obvious. I closed my book, picked up my plate, cloth napkin, utensils, water, and beer, and moved to a small corner table that was far from the speaker and far from the busy little family.
I was happily reading my book again when the waitress entered the dining room carrying a large tray of food. She was on a pathway to my second abandoned table when she again abruptly stopped, and her eyes quickly widened as she saw I was not there. So I vigorously waved my arm to catch her attention. She looked relieved, but her irritation was quite obvious. I had seen that irritated look on women many times before; in fact, I considered myself a bit of an expert at recognizing the signature telltale signs of that particular emotional state.
But she remained a pure professional, and only said, “Oh, that’s okay.” But I knew from her body language that it was really not okay.
“This is it,” I replied. “I’m staying at this table no matter what.” She just looked at me. And thereafter, each time she entered the dining area from the kitchen, she immediately narrowed her eyes and looked in my direction. There were few other customers that evening while I was there, but my recollection is that she visited the dining area a lot more often than when I was first seated. Looking back now, I hope that I left her a nice tip, she having to clean off three tables, after all, for one customer.
“What are you thinking?” said Julie. She often asks me that question when I’ve been silent for a time, imagining me to be deep in thought on important matters in science or world affairs (my interpretation).
“Oh, nothing much. Just thinking about when I was single, when I would eat alone in restaurants. The music’s kind of loud, isn’t it?”
“What?”
“Music’s kind of loud,” I shouted.
“Yeah, let’s move.”
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Posted June 18, 2023
Too Much Feeling
Things were quiet for a Saturday afternoon at the Shotgun Shack Bar and Grill. Jack Thompson and his friend Duff Makem sat alone at the bar looking out on the Mississippi River, both minds in a sort of mid-summer haze. Neither spoke for long periods, except to order more rounds of beer. So, of course, during one of their more voluble moments, the conversation inevitably turned toward women; or rather, relationship problems.
“Helen says I ‘lack empathy,’” said Duff using air quotes.
“And you responded by saying…”
“I responded by sayin’, ‘How can I be lacking in what I don’t even know what it is?’”
“So, what set this off?” asked Jack.
“Aw, it all goes back to last weekend. We took my 90-year-old grandma to Goodwill so she can get a new sweater—she’s always cold, even though she never lets her house fall below 85 degrees. I drop her and Helen off at the door, and then go to park the truck. As I’m walking back, I see a nice wooden stool by the entrance. It’s only three dollars. So I pick it up and go inside to pay.”
“Okay…”
“There’s this long line of customers at the cashier, and it’s movin’ real slow, if at all. The cashier picks up every item and does this super close inspection. Half the time, the price is missing and she has to call in the manager. And damn near everybody in line is about as old as gran. And slow. Man, you don’t know the meaning of the word slow until you see a bunch of old ladies paying for things with change, digging down to the bottoms of their big handbags for pennies.”
“I’m beginning maybe to see what Helen might have been referring to,” said Jack. Duff just looked at Jack as if he had said something in Chinese.
“Anyway… Gran’s at the end of the line with a wool sweater on a hanger, so I get behind her. After about ten minutes, the line hardly moves forward at all, and there are now more old ladies behind me. Helen is lost somewhere in the store. It’s hot, and I just want to get the hell out of there. Know what I mean?”
“I can imagine the situation.”
“So I’m thinkin’, Hey I got this stool, what am I standing here for?”
“I knew it!” said Jack. “As soon as you mentioned the stool, I knew you would be sitting on it.”
“Now wait a minute. I first asked gran if she wanted to sit. She says ‘no,’ and so, what else am I supposed to do?” Jack just laughed and shook his head.
“But now here comes Helen from behind one of the aisles. She comes up to me and says, close to my ear, like no one else can hear, ‘Duff you lazy slob! You’re sitting here on your fat ass letting all these poor elderly women stand! Have you no empathy?’ So there’s the word: empathy.
“I said, ‘Hey, I asked her if she wanted to sit.’ Helen then says, ‘Well, what about the other women in line?’ I just hold up my hands and look around. What about them? I’m thinking. So I just sit there. Helen says, ‘No empathy,’ and walks off.”
“So what happened next?”
“What happened next? What happened is that I look up that word on my phone. It means something about feeling the feelings of someone else’s feelings. I’m not sure I get it. But I will tell you this: sometimes I think there can be just too damn much feelin’ goin’ on for your own good.”
“So, how’s the stool working out?”
“Feel’s just fine.”
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Posted February 14, 2023
Code Red and the Great Toilet Paper Panic of 2020
“I’m grocery shopping today,” said Julie. “Is there anything we need other than, maybe, toilet paper?”
“We need toilet paper?” I asked in a panic. “I thought I was keeping close track of that. So we’re at Code Red?”
“No, not ‘Code Red,’” responded Julie with air quotes and a smile. “We still have four rolls left.”
“But four rolls is Code Red! Remember, I changed the coding system in 2020 after COVID hit.”
A bit of an explanation here might be in order. After Julie and I married in 2006, it eventually became obvious that I needed to pay more attention to the toilet paper inventory. As a single man up until the age of 48, I never had toilet paper supply issues; I never thought about toilet paper; and I don’t recall ever running out at a critical moment. But with two people in the household, then, the pace of the bathroom supply chain noticeably increased. So, being an organized sort of person, I instituted a coding system modeled on the terrorist threat system used by the federal government just after 9/11: Code Red = Completely out of toilet paper; Code Yellow = Down to one roll; Code Green = Two or more rolls. In this way, the romance of our marriage would never again be strained by having to say the words: We’re out of toilet paper.
But in 2020, when COVID hit the headlines, it seemed that the first question in a panicked population was not are we all going to die, is society collapsing, is grandma safe at the nursing home. No, the first question was: If we run out of toilet paper, how am I going to wipe my ass? My impression at the time was that within minutes of the news mentioning possible lockdowns, frantic customers emptied grocery store shelves of toilet paper. And then they went for the paper towels and napkins: shelves emptied. There was a video on YouTube showing two women in a store fighting over the last package of toilet paper; they literally were trying to kill each other, and probably would have done so if one of them had not finally secured a firm hold on the package and run to the exit. Sewage systems in big cities were soon being clogged with the more durable paper towels after stocks of proper toilet tissue ran out. There were reports of hoarding and a black market.
After being caught unprepared, I vowed never to let such a threat to domestic tranquility enter our household again. Hence, the updated coding system: Code Red = Four rolls; Code Yellow = Five rolls; Code Green = Six or more rolls.
“Oh yes…the new coding system,” said Julie, sounding as if she was ready for a new topic in our conversation. “You should see the look of panic on your face. Quite amusing.”
“Well, this is serious business. I’m the man. And I feel that I’ve let us down.”
“It’s okay honey,” she said while patting my hand. “We’ll get through this.”
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Posted January 1, 2023
The True Meaning of Sharing
“That was a great pizza, the best we’ve had in a long time!” I said, quite aware of there being only one slice remaining.
“Yes, it was,” said Julie, apparently ignoring that last slice.
I’ve always wondered why, when two or more folks are sharing a pizza, there is such reluctance for anyone to take the last slice, even though everyone wants it. After some obligatory minimum time period, though, the person who wants it the most will inevitably say something like, “Would anyone like that last piece?” Of course, no one will usually step forward. So the person who asked the question will get the last piece, and at the same time appear magnanimous and mannerly.
Sometimes, though, someone in the group may respond with, “I’ll take it…if …no one else wants it.” And the person who made the initial inquiry will lose out. It’s kind of like a chess game. In the most extremely rare case, no one will take the last piece, and it will continue to sit lonely and abandoned on the tray, probably ending up in the garbage. Such a waste.
Who made up these stupid manners anyway? But there exists a perfectly acceptable way to circumvent the rules by carefully framing the initial inquiry.
“You don’t want that last slice, do you?” I craftily asked.
“You take it,” replied Julie, polite as ever. And with that over, we could resume normal conversation, but not before I quickly grabbed that last piece of pizza.
“They had free homemade oatmeal cookies at the birding field trip last Saturday,” I said.
“And how many did you eat?” asked Julie.
“One, but in the old days….“
“You mean before being married to me,” she quickly added.
“Uh…in the old days, I would have immediately taken two, and then gone back for more. But I heard you in my head saying, ‘Please don’t take more than one.’ The thing is, why shouldn’t I have more? Why should somebody else get more than me?”
“You don’t like sharing, do you?” Julie replied, suspecting my response.
I had to think for a few seconds, and then said, “Ah, ‘sharing’ is just a shorter way of saying ‘less for me.’ Am I wrong?”
“No comment.”
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Posted September 1, 2022
The Baby Picture
It was one of those nonsense conversations that tend to occur in noisy bars late at night. We were loosely discussing inherent differences between men and women. My point was that these differences went far deeper than mere physical traits, down to the DNA, ingrained since the beginning of humanity. Lisa, the one woman in our group of three, disagreed; she maintained that I knew nothing about women. And given the fact of her gender, some might say that her opinion would hold more weight than mine. But I could not accept her counter hypothesis. So I tried a different tactic.
“We’re all biologists with advanced degrees,” I stated; “so let’s run an experiment.”
“Okay moron,” replied Lisa. I knew for some time that she was not my biggest fan. But it also seemed to me that the longer we knew each other, the more easily she could be offended by the simplest of my comments. And yet I persisted, if only to prove her wrong one more time (according to my records).
“John, do you have a photo of your baby?” I asked, taking a risk that if John did not have such a photo in his wallet, I would not have been the only one seeing daggers in his wife Lisa’s eyes. With trepidation, John held up the picture.
“Okay, give it to me,” I said.
“Wait!” Lisa demanded. “What are you going to do with that picture?”
“Nothing. It’s a scientific experiment. Watch and learn.”
And so I abruptly walked up to a man at the other end of the bar, and held the baby photo up to his face. His eyes narrowed, his back stiffened, and I believe his fingers may have contracted into large fists.
“Why’re you showin’ me a picture of a baby?” he suspiciously asked in a low, threatening growl, with not even a hint of smile.
“Forget it, just joking around…uh…never mind,” I nervously replied, waving him off and quickly slinking back to my friends.
“Did you see his reaction?” I asked.
“Yeah,” said Lisa.
“Like he wanted to kill you,” added John.
“Okay,” I said, “now watch this.” And I slowly walked over to a friendly looking, pretty young woman at the other end of the bar, thinking on the way over that, beyond our little experiment, I might actually want to know her. I quickly showed her the baby picture.
“Oh! What a cute baby!” She gushed, and the walls came down. Who doesn’t understand women? I thought. Hah! And then I proceeded to fly too close to the Sun.
“It’s a picture of the baby,” I said, trying to sound as pathetic as possible. “I don’t see the baby very often. The mother and I are not married.”
“Aww,” she replied. “That’s so sad.” She was almost in tears, and she was in the palm of my hand. And so quickly. It was the power of the baby that did it. This is gold, I thought. And not only that, all of my claims were absolutely true: I hardly ever saw the baby, and the mother and I were not married. I never said the baby was my baby.
A picture of "the baby."
And the kind young woman kept smiling. I could feel the warmth of her soul embracing me, extending comfort and tenderness. Then, of course, guilt made its inevitable appearance. Why? I told no lies. But I could not continue the experiment. How could I marry this woman knowing our first encounter was only a crude scientific experiment. Damn guilt.
“Actually, it’s his baby,” I said, motioning toward John, who was laughing, and Lisa, who glared.
The beautiful woman looked back toward me, her smile replaced with an angry grimace, the aura of Venus becoming a shroud of acid. “I’m not talking to you anymore,” she announced and stormed away, an anonymous contributor to human behavioral science, whose name I shall never know.
“You’re an idiot,” said Lisa. Yeah, I thought, but who understands women better? Huh?
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Posted August 1, 2022
On Being “Carded”
I was standing in line at a local convenient store to buy some beer, not paying much attention to anything in particular, looking out the window, waiting for the attractive, young woman in front of me to complete her transaction. As she left the store, the somewhat elderly woman cashier called out, in-between a smoker’s hack, “’preciate yer business,” which to me sounded more sassy than sincere.
When it was finally my turn, I walked up to the register, placed my beer on the counter, and then stood there, waiting to be noticed. The cashier was obviously preoccupied with other priorities. I imagined that this tired-looking person should have long been retired, but she probably had to work just to keep the bills paid and to support a slew of grandkids.
In front of me, shelves were crammed tight with products of no interest to me: the many types of cigarettes, cigars, and chewing tobacco; vaping; quick energy tablets; lottery tickets. Behind me in line, a guy had a slice of pizza in his hand, uncovered, and it was getting cold; I would have at least put the pizza in a small plastic bag to keep it away from the stagnant indoor air that I imagined held the combined exhaled breath from a full day’s complement of customers and staff. Shelves overflowing with chips and candy. Do people really eat so much candy? Then for lack of anything else of interest, my mind slowly began to drift off….
“Birth date?” the cashier harshly demanded in an instant, without looking up.
“December 3rd, 1956,” I answered, abruptly awakening from my slumbers, irritated at having to divulge personal information for all within earshot.
“Hey, that’s my mother’s birthday!” she replied, and then began hacking again.
“Your MOTHER! Did you say MOTHER!?”
“Yeah, I was born in 1974,” she said with a smile of tar-stained teeth, as I narrowed my eyes and took a much closer look at her. Must have been a hard life, I thought. Then I quickly did the math, and recalled that forty-eight years before, 1974 was the year I graduated from high school!
“Well, 1956 and 1974 were good years all around,” I said.
And she replied with, “Yep, ’preciate yer business.” I left with my 12-pack of Coors Light, wondering whether I should have picked up some Geritol and mineral water instead.
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