My Most Titanic Miscalculation

As it is still early in the year 2015, it is still relevant to issue revelations, resolutions, and reflections. I am here now to do just that. I have done many, uh, questionable things in my life: stayed up and out too late with the wrong people, listened to music too loudly, driven too fast in cars I couldn’t afford, spent too much money, eaten fatty foods, talked too loudly and too often, smoked too many cigarettes, and sampled the fruits of the labors  of John Barleycorn, Owsley Stanley and Panama Red. But despite all of the mistakes of my misspent youth, the worst move that I ever made, drunk or sober was buying a coin laundromat.

Now before any random laundromat owner out there in the digital ether gets their nose out of joint over that last sentence, let me qualify. If you own a coin laundromat and it amply supports you and your family as you trudge the road to happy destiny, I am overjoyed for you. Keep counting those quarters and keep those lint traps clean.   I am only talking about what happened to me. Owning a coin laundry was a living hell that nearly led me to gunplay, financial ruin, and made me hate everyone. 

Let me elucidate.

Living in northern California was very expensive. Homes cost a lot. The taxes were high. Everyday living expenses were extreme. Having two working adults with full-time jobs in the house just wasn’t enough. We felt that we needed more income. I was not able to simply get another job. I needed something that would make money full time, while I was at work, and only needed part-time involvement. What could be better than a coin laundry? Think about it-it made perfect sense. The front door lock was on a timer, so no one had to open the place. Customers would show up and toss quarters in the machines all on their own. I would show up, collect the coins, run a rag over the shiny parts and be on my way.

Oh the naiveté… 

Let me be brutally honest in summation. The customers were astonishingly stupid and dishonest: a loathsome convocation of thieving dolts. The landlord was one of the most despicable and contemptible bags of flesh I have ever known. And the "entrepreneurs" I encountered were heartless and cynical. There, I said it. Now let me explain why. Here, in no particular order, are the snippets and incidents which have formed my low opinion of the laundromat experience and humanity in the aggregate.

When I first bought the laundry, I installed twenty brand new washers, and three large capacity washers. This was the dawn of the digital age and these washers were able to set different prices for different water temperatures in an effort to save money and hot water. The price for a cold wash was less than the price for a hot wash. Less hot water used means less natural gas bought and burned, and less pollution. Maybe it’s just me, but this seemed pretty damned obvious. The customers just didn’t get it. They accused me of ripping them off. I posted signs and posters showing how colored clothes lasted longer when washed in cold water and saved them money. They only needed warm and hot water for socks, underwear, bed linens-things that were heavily soiled. After a shitstorm of accusations and threats to go elsewhere, I relented and made all the washes one price-the highest price. The complaints stopped. They would rather pay more and destroy their clothes faster. I was flummoxed. 

Customers would insert slugs and foreign coins in the coinslots. One week I got $35.00 worth of slugs. I came to loathe the Philipine peso with a cold passion. I still have a cup full of coins from all over the world. One of them has a guy wearing a fez. Most of these non-quarters would not work, so they jammed up and put a washer or dryer out of commission. I caught one guy doing a wash with a load of funny money and confronted him. He was very apologetic. The next day, I came to the laundry and the washer he had been using was overturned on the floor. Coincidence? I think not.

People performed every bodily function imaginable. Urination, defecation, sexual intercourse, eating, drinking, shooting up, snorting, smoking, sleeping, vomiting, cutting hair, changing diapers, if it went in or out of an orifice of the human body, they did it in my laundromat. Used condoms were not hard to find in the garbage, so at least they were practicing safe sex. I had to kick out homeless people sleeping in the back corner of the laundry. People dealt drugs out of the laundromat. Someone would come in on a weekly basis and spit onto the glass doors of ALL ELEVEN of my dryers. I could not fathom one person having so much saliva. I had to scrape the dried loogies off of the glass with a razor. 

I got attacked verbally and physically by a little old lady who was lit up like birthday cake one Saturday afternoon, drinking some of those pre mixed cocktails.. I called the cops and someone’s dog peed on the leg of one of the responding officers. I had to pay his dry cleaning bill for that. 

Someone put a pair of hiking shoes in a dryer one Sunday morning and some way, somehow, through some random, unrepeatable cosmic coincidence, this set the dryer lint on fire. The fire department came, put out the fire, hosed down everything in sight, then issued me a citation for maintaining  an unsafe condition. ($200.00 !!!) The person never came back for their shoes.

        Someone claimed that their $1500.00 quilt had been stolen from one of the large capacity washers. They had started the wash cycle, gone to the grocery store and when they came back, their quilt was gone. They said I was responsible. I said I was NOT responsible and that maybe they shouldn't have left such an expensive item unattended in a neighborhood infested with junkies and homeless people. They vowed to take me to small claims court but nothing came of it. I would occasionally wonder if there was indeed some homeless person asleep down in the ravine that ran through Fairfax, curled up and blissfully ignorant that they're wrapped in a $1500.00 quilt.

A person named "Blue Gabor" constantly had trouble with the soap dispenser, or the washer, or the dryer, or all three, and would write up refund slips. This was every week. Not for one moment did I believe that the person's real name was "Blue Gabor." I offered to meet them at the laundromat to help them with their laundry. I really just wanted to meet this incompetent assclown who fancied themselves as “Blue Gabor.” They never answered my invitation but continued to demand refunds, which I was obliged to pay.

People stole anything that was small enough to fit through the door. Clocks, doormats, garbage cans, the bulletin board off the wall, brooms, mops, all stolen. I finally had to mount the wall clock behind a plexiglass shield that was bolted to the wall with steel bars. They stole lightbulbs out of the fixtures. They stole the address number stickers off of the door. 

There was a sink in the laundromat with hot and cold running water. Some clodpate would come in on a weekly basis, dye his jeans black in the sink using a five gallon bucket, slop black dye all over the place, then leave the bucket. The dye was nearly impossible to scrub away. I soon had enough five gallon buckets to form a bucket brigade. I finally had to disconnect the hot water from the sink. Of course people complained. I lied and said that my business insurance would not allow hot water in the open sink but that it still had cold water. Mr. Black Dye went elsewhere. Also the homeless people had no place to wash up now. Ahh, bugger…

My first janitor got into a fight one night with a couple of bikers at a local bar and called me at  2AM to bail him out and remind me that, uh, the laundry was still open and hadn’t been cleaned. I had to load my children into the car and go to the laundry to do his job. (Gail was in Chicago at the time.) The next day, I again loaded the children into the car, went to the bank, got $700.00 bail, loaded the children back into the car, went to the lovely Frank Lloyd Wright-designed Marin County Courthouse to bail him out, and had the deputies inform me that some of my $20s were counterfeit. I had to load the children back into the car,  go back to the bank, get new $20s, load the children back into the car, go back to the lovely jail, and finally bailed out this genius. Of course he didn’t have the money to pay me back, but promised to work it off. He worked two more days, then disappeared.

        I hired another janitor who just happened to live in the apartments behind the laundry. Her name was Barbara. She had a dog that was a Rottweiler-pit bull mix. This was the most frightening looking dog I'd ever seen. If he had two more heads he would've looked like Cerberus, the not so friendly pup who patrols the banks of the river Styx to keep the damned from exercising in/out privileges through the gates of Hades.  Naturally, his name was Caine. Caine was very serious and made me very nervous. But Barbara was steady, and reliable.

        Every April in northern California, there are big windstorms accompanied by torrential rains. During one of these storms, I put out my garbage in your typical galvanized steel garbage can, then went to have a hamburger. As I was driving back to the laundry, I had to dodge a galvanized steel garbage can which was being blown down the middle of Sir Francis Drake Boulevard at an extremely high rate of speed in hurricane force winds, making the devil’s own racket as it bounced and tumbled off of the pavement. When I returned to the laundromat, my garbage can was gone, and I never saw it again.

I had a soda pop dispenser in the laundry. The junkies and bored high school students broke into it and stole all of the sodas and the cash. The machine was destroyed and had to be hauled away in one week. One...week.

I almost had to shoot a guy one night. At the time I owned the laundry, I had gotten into target shooting, and I kept my handgun, a .45 caliber Glock semiautomatic, in the safe at the laundry because I didn’t want to have it around my house and my two small children. I just shot paper targets at a range in San Rafael while I imagined that the bad guy pictured on the target was "Blue Gabor" or Mr. Black Dye Man. There were always about ten rounds in the clip when the gun was in the safe. One night after the laundry was closed, I was in the back store room counting quarters in my coin counting machine. I didn’t realize that I had left the doors open and unlocked. The safe was open and I had bags of quarters on my workbench, and the Glock set off to the side. The coin counter was extremely loud in its operation so I did not notice that someone had walked into the laundry and almost up to my elbow. “How you doin’! Huh? What’s up?” he shouted. I was startled but immediately realized what was up. He intended to rob me. Again he repeated: “What’s up! Huh?” I picked up the Glock, held it pointed towards the floor, and backed away from the table. In that brief instant, I thought that I might have to shoot this individual if he took another step towards me. At that range, a bullet from the Glock would have knocked him seven ways from Sunday and made a hole in him big enough to fit one of Mr. Black Dye Man’s five gallon buckets. I didn’t want to shoot him but I also wanted to see my children grow up. He took a step into the back room, then I saw him register that I was holding the Glock in my hand. His demeanor changed and he meekly asked me if I had any WD-40 he could borrow. He took my can of WD-40 and went all “feet don’t fail me now” out of the laundry and into the night. Even though this was the best possible outcome to this scenario, I was rattled. Shortly after this incident I sold the Glock and swore to always make sure the doors were locked if I was there late at night.

I never got my WD-40 back.

The Scumbag Landlord was a piece of human excreta. Did I just say that? He was a demanding, foul-natured, foul-mouthed, paranoid, manipulative, lowlife beast. He had NO redeeming qualities; no mercy, no sense of humor, just a reprobate money-grubbing property-owning parasite. Any telephone conversation with him was laced with threats, accusations, demands, and denials.The laundry was located in a small complex that had three businesses along the street, and about ten crumbling apartments behind. The rent was cheap, but whenever it rained, you had to get out the buckets (thanks Mr. Black Dye Man) and cookware because the ceiling leaked. Everything was filthy and falling apart. He insisted that I bring my rent checks directly to his house and leave them in the mailbox. If I needed any repairs and offered to pay for them by rent deduction, he would refuse to cooperate, threaten to evict me, make some completely addle-brained suggestion,  promise to have the repairs done, and then never make the repairs. A young woman ran across the street in the rain, slipped and fell on the sidewalk and sued the city of Fairfax, myself and the Scumbag Landlord. Suddenly he became all sunny and friendly because he wanted me to share the expense of an attorney. After the case was tossed out, he went back to being his old malodorous self. Even though we never met face to face, I hated that bastard.

So, after three years of this madness, I concluded that enough was enough and I decided to sell the business. I found a business broker and we filled out the necessary paperwork, I signed where I needed to sign, and I sat back to await further developments. It only took a couple of days for the broker to contact me with the news that the Scumbag Landlord had put the property up for sale. Never once in our monthly telephone conversations had he mentioned this fact. Of course, this would have an effect on my proposed sale of the business. Aside from the actual washers and dryers etc, the lease is one of the most valuable assets a laundry possesses. With uncertainty looming over the state of the lease, the business was unsaleable and worthless.

But there were buyers for the property: two young hotshots whose names I have forgotten, and a third partner named Preston. How can you ever forget some rich bugwit named “Preston?” I met with Preston and the Money Men on a couple of occasions and they made it perfectly clear that they were not interested in maintaining the property in its’ present condition. They wanted to evict everyone-all of the tenants in the apartments as well as the three businesses in the front. They were going to tear everything down and build a new development on the site.

Admittedly it was a slum. But to the people who lived there, it was home. It was one of the only low rent residential properties in very wealthy, expensive Marin County. Some people had lived there for twenty years. Some of them came into the laundry in tears, and lamented that they were going to have to uproot their kids from school and move far away. But none of this mattered to Preston and the Money Men. They actually had the nerve to tell me at one point that “It’s nothing personal, just business.”

Without going into needless detail, Preston and the Money Men won out. Everyone had to leave. I managed to coerce a little money from them, and I sold all of my equipment to an equipment broker. I was no longer a laundry owner and at that moment that I realized I was free from the tyranny of the laundry business I learned the true meaning of the word "relief." 

But then karma caught up with Scumbag Landlord and Preston and the Money Men.

When they started to tear down the structures and dig up the parking area, the demolition crew uncovered some old gas tanks buried beneath the parking lot. All demolition came to a screeching halt. It seems that at some point in the past, there had been a filling station on the property and the old tanks had been buried rather than dug up and removed. In the eyes of the virulently liberal and hyper environmentally aware Marin County government, the only thing worse would have been to find an unexploded hydrogen bomb.

The last I heard, Preston and the Money Men and Scumbag Landlord were engaged in the great American pastime called Everybody Sue Somebody. I sincerely hope that they deranged each other’s lives and finances in a satisfactory manner. 

        Shortly after this, we moved from Marin County to the Chicago area. 

So, as with all events that happen in a person’s life, what did I learn?

I have never fully regained my faith in humanity. I used to believe that your average person was good and smart. Now I know better. Now I know that the average person is swinish, revolting, treacherous, and laughably dense. Business people are cold-hearted, gormandizing vampires for whom mammon is the omneity here in God’s America.

       I did get a short letter from Barbara the janitor. After she lost her apartment, she had moved to the Gulf coast of Florida and found work. She was able to rent a house on the Gulf Coats. She wanted me to be a personal reference for a job application. 

      She included a photo of Caine frolicking in the surf. 

   

A Visit From The Sociological Department

     Oswald Belcher was a man on a mission. It was dark. He was behind the wheel of his company car, a 1913 Ford Model T Runabout, and he was steadily cruising through the pools of light cast by the street lamps on Charles Street in Detroit. The gentle rocking of the suspension as it passed over bumps and ruts was calming to Oswald as was the rattle of the four cylinder motor. He had made this same drive over different streets to different houses hundreds of times over the last year: cruising through the darkness of winter and the soft  light of summer nights, to drop in unannounced on a Ford Motor Company employee.

Oswald had the power. He worked for the Sociological Department of the Henry Ford Motor Company. The sociological Department investigated the homes of Ford Motor Company employees to see if they met the standards set down by Mr. Ford. Belcher’s reports would decide who would get a raise, who would get help, and who would be fired from the Ford Motor Company. He could read and interpret the signs. An American flag outside of the home was a good first step. Then there was the state of the domicile. Was it clean or in need of a broom and a mop? Were there signs of vermin? Did it seem that the family ate good, nutritious meals? Was there a bible that displayed evidence of being read? Were the children polite and well-behaved, or were they noisy little rapscallions ? Was the head of house sober or engaged in counting pink elephants? Were there any unrelated adult males living in the home with the man’s children? Was the yard dirt or grass? Was there livestock wandering about? Oswald could take it all in with a glance and jot it down for his report to the Sociological Department.

From Charles Street, Oswald turned north on Mount Elliot. His destination, 6999 Palmetto Street, was directly ahead, but the area was bisected by the massive rail yards between Mount Elliot and Forest Lawn cemetery. So Oswald had to proceed north on Mount Elliot, then east on 7 Mile Road to Van Dyke, then south to Palmetto. It was good to cruise a bit and gather his thoughts. 

This family he was to visit was headed by one Buxtehude Cowbell. By all accounts, this Cowbell was a real hail-fellow well-met. He was tall, almost 6’5”, with a head that seemed too large for his rail-thin body. Jovial, smart, and a good worker who learned quickly, he seemed to have some odd habits and Oswald Belcher’s suspicions were raised. Cowbell had been observed off in a dark corner drinking an iridescent liquid. When questioned, he said his stomach was out of sorts and he was drinking some sort of patent medicine. 

No one had ever seen this Cowbell fellow ever use the facilities in the men’s washroom. Belcher had heard rumors of men who were obsessed by the notion of peeing outside, marking their territory like dogs. Oswald Belcher had his doubts that some patent medicine-drinking, pee-marking deviant could work at Ford Motor Company. 

Cowbell worked on the rear axle assembly line, but he was often seen poking around other areas of the plant. When questioned, he said he was just curious about the other processes that went into assembling Model T automobiles. He seemed harmless, but he had been warned not to wander around the plant. It was dangerous and a man could get seriously injured or even killed if he was in a place where he didn’t belong.

     Oswald was also wary that Cowbell might be a spy for those upstart Dodge Brothers. He  suspected that the Dodge Brothers were Jews, what with that Star of David in their logo. They had just set up shop in Detroit, manufacturing the Model 30. But everyone in the motor trade was interested in the new chain-driven assembly line that Mr. Henry Ford had installed at his plant in Highland Park. Productivity had skyrocketed, and consulting firms that specialized in motion studies were springing up like dandelions in May. It would not have been unexpected that Mr. Ford’s competitors would plant a spy in the Ford factory to steal secrets. Oswald Belcher was a parser of men’s deeds, a reader of men’s souls. If this Cowbell was a spy, Belcher would suss him out.

Going south on Van Dyke, Forest Lawn Cemetery passed by on the right, dark, sucking up the ambient light of the city like a photonic sponge. Mausoleums shone faintly in the moonlight like the miniaturized ghosts of classic Greek and Roman temples. Palmetto Street would be the first street to the south of the cemetery, laid out east to west. The back yards of the houses on the north side of Palmetto bordered the well-tended final resting places of the dead.

The houses on Palmetto were modest wood frame structures, most of them a single story. But the Cowbell residence, at the very end of the street, towered above the others. Three stories tall, an elaborate Mansard-style Victorian home with a wide porch, bay windows, and four story towers capped by turrets on both sides of the structure. It seemed totally out of place among the more modest homes of the neighborhood. While the other homes on the block seemed to be dimly lit, with light visible in only one or two windows, the Cowbell home was lit up as if entertaining a crowd of holiday guests. Light shone from every window.

Oswald parked the Runabout in front of the house and observed before he approached. He could see figures occasionally moving about behind the curtains. There were occasional shouts, and the sound of heavy boxes being moved across the floor. Oswald stepped onto the front porch, raised the heavy knocker and let it bang against the front door.

All sound from inside the house ceased. Belcher stood in a small pool of light and listened. He heard someone walking about upstairs, then heard feet upon the stairs, and a shadow loomed over the door as someone very tall yanked aside a curtain across the transom window and looked out onto the porch. The door opened and there stood…Mrs. Cowbell?

Towering over Belcher, she must have been over six feet tall. Dressed in a light blue linen skirt, and fronted with a spotless apron, her head was very large, with a sharp nose and pointed chin. She was rail thin. 

“May I helll…p you?” she asked. She seemed to have trouble speaking.

Belcher quickly extended a business card in his right hand. “Oswald Belcher, ma’am. Ford Motor Company Sociological Department. I am here to see Bux…ta…hooda? Cowbell? I’m sorry if I’m mispronouncing the name.”

“PPhh.lease come in,” she motioned and stepped aside. “Hoody? Hoody you have a visitor.”

Buxtehude Cowbell descended the stairs and extended his hand. 

“I’m Buxtehude. And to whom have I the pleasure?” 

“Oswald Belcher, Ford Motor Company Sociological Department.” and he extended the card to Buxtehude who took the card and gave it a cursory glance.

“Excellent. This means I am to be considered for a raise to five dollars a day! Splendid! Come inside! Would you like some tea or coffee? Or perhaps some whiskey or wine.” Buxtehude motioned for Oswald to follow him into what Oswald assumed would be a sitting room.

The room was dazzlingly bright, lit by numerous orbs across the high ceiling that were  too bright to gaze upon with Belcher’s unshielded eyes. Oswald was stunned to see a complete Model T Ford in the center of the parlor. It  appeared to never have been driven. It was clean, not a spot of dirt anywhere to be seen on the gleaming black paint.The wheels were strapped to the floor. Oswald stared at the Model T with his mouth open. 

“How do you like it? I built it myself,” Buxtehude said.

“I’m speechless,” Oswald answered. “How did you get this car into your house?”

“Piece by piece and I assembled it right here. Just like Mr. Ford.” Buxtehude said.

It was true that in 1896 Henry Ford and his cohorts had built a quadracycle piece by piece, in Mr. Ford’s toolshed. It was only when they thought to get it out of the toolshed that they realized that it was too large to fit through the shed’s door. They took axes to the walls of the shed to get the car out and on display the next day.

“But you can’t have a car in your living room!” Belcher exclaimed. This was going to have to figure prominently in his report to the Sociological Department.

“Why not? We’re in the automobile business, right?,” Buxtehude asked.

Belcher whipped out his notepad and pencil and began scribbling notes. This was going to be interesting. Cowbell could be either fired and charged for pilfering parts to build this car, or Belcher’s superiors might applaud Cowbell for his initiative and skill. When he looked up from his notepad, he began to notice a number of other items in the room. There was a copper telescope, a gleaming brass and copper steam engine, an electrical dynamo, lamps and bulbs from streetlights, wire, tools, cans of oil, firearms, a sextant, the wing from an aircraft, books, a saddle and riding tack, garden tools, pots and pans, all arranged in an orderly fashion around  the room and all strapped to the floor. But there was no furniture. Belcher scribbled furiously for a moment then looked up.

“Mr. Cowbell, “ Belcher began, then paused. “Pardon me for asking but what kind of name is Cowbell anyway?”

“Cowbell, why that’s an old traditional English name. Like Baker, or Smith, or Miller denotes the skills of someone back in antiquity. Cowbell is my family’s name. We must have invented the cowbell. Or else we put the bells on cows. Look at your name, Belcher. Some one of your ancestors must have been very good at making wind or passing gas. Hence, your name.”

Belcher stood silently for a moment. Just then, Mrs. Cowbell entered the room with a silver tray containing a pitcher of hot coffee, cups and saucers, spoons, a sugar bowl and a small pitcher of cream. She sat them down on top of a large steamer trunk..

“Belcher, this is my wife, Farfeesa Cowbell,” Buxtehude said.

She gave a smile and said’ “Pp…heleased to meet you Mr. Belcher.” Suddenly, as Belcher gazed at her face, it seemed to shimmer as if it was behind water.. Farfeesa’s eyes grew very large, then dilated back down to their normal size. Farfeesa gave a slight start and glanced at Buxtehude. She then scurried out of the room. Belcher turned back to face Buxtehude and saw the end of the same watery transformation. Then his face returned to normal. Belcher’s hands shook. He poured himself a cup of coffee.

“Mr. Cowbell,” Belcher began but Buxtehude cut him off.

“Just call me Hoody. Everybody at the plant calls me Hoody. Hoooo-dy Cowbell! May I call you Ozzy?” Hoody asked.

“Yes, sure,” Belcher answered. He looked around the parlor for a place to sit, but there were no chairs. He sat on the running board of Hoody’s car. “How many children do you have Hoody?”

“Well Ozzy, we’ve got thirty-five children. Two of them are here in Detroit, the other thirty three are out and about on the surface of your world.”Hoody answered.

“What? Thirty-five? You have…thirty-five children?” Belcher asked. He stared Hoody in the eye for a long moment. Hoody’s face did another watery transformation, then returned to normal. “Do they all have the same mother?”

“Why yes, Ozzy, why wouldn’t they? Farfeesa is wonderfully fecund.” Hoody answered. “”Oh, right, you people usually have only one to six or seven children. I’ve observed that myself.”

“Hoody,” Farfeesa said as she re-entered the room, “We are critically low on ppp…hhower. You might as well tell him the truth. He’ll never believe you and we’ll be gone long before he makes his report.”

“You are correct, Farfeesa my love. By the way, dearest, please call Oswald by the diminutive “Ozzy!”  Ozzy, we’re just waiting for the children to return, then we are off for home!” Hoody said.

“Wait…truth…what’s the truth? And where’s home?” Belcher asked with the coffee cup poised at his lips.

Hoody sat down next to Belcher on the running board.

“You see Ozzy, we are doing the same thing that you are doing.” Hoody said. He gazed into Belcher’s face. He underwent another watery transformation and continued. “We are from a planet in orbit around Luyten 726-8A. I know this means nothing to you because at this stage your powers for astronomical observations are very limited. Luyten 726-8A is approximately 8.4 lightyears from your star, that you call Sol. Our people live on a planet we call Morsia. We are part of an organization of planets called the Harmony of Rondures. We have been observing the evolution of your species  and of the civilization on your planet, that you call Terra, to determine when you might be able to join us.”

Belcher said nothing. He raised his coffee to his lips and took a sip. It was delicious coffee. He knew this interview was not going well for Cowbell. He saw no flags, no bibles, no healthy well-mannered children, no evidence of a nutritious diet. What could he write about? Would anyone believe him? Would he be sent away for rest? And yet here he was, in the living room of what was a really splendid house, surrounded by the fruits of the Industrial Revolution but no furniture.

“Let me go on,” Hoody continued. “I and my family are just one of numerous groups of observers on Terra. We try to blend into your various cultures to learn about you. You people have learned to fly, to defeat the darkness with electricity, and to communicate over great distances. You now have these autonomous ground transportation devices. You’ve made wonderful progress, but you still have a long, long, long, long way to go to evolve fully. This war in Europe is a perfect example. Do you know why those nations are fighting?”

Belcher silently shook has head from side to side.

“Well, neither do we. It seems pretty pointless and lots and lots of you are going to die before it is over. Fighting for dirt? Pfaw!! Plus, there’s an epidemic of disease a-borning in Europe right now that’s going to kill another large batch of you in a few years. Your planet still has very vigorous microbial infestations that you haven’t even be-gun to deal with. So we in the Harmony decided it was too dangerous to stay here for now, and that’s why we are leaving. So here, take a good look. Farfeesa…”

Hoody Cowbell stood and he and Farfeesa stood shoulder to shoulder before Belcher. There was a watery transformation and there before Belcher stood two very tall creatures, with impossibly large eyes. They were rail thin and had six fingers on each hand. Their clothes were gone, replaced by some type of silver body suit. Just then a tiger entered the room.

Belcher stood quickly and spilled his coffee. The cup and saucer crashed to the floor. The tiger had something on its’ head that looked like a tiara. It paced very slowly and rubbed up against Hoody and Farfeesa just like a pet kitten. The tiger approached Belcher and a deep purr emanated from the tiger’s throat.

“Don’t be afraid. As long as Sppp…hencer is wearing the, uh…that thing on his head, he’s ppp…hherfectly safe to be around.” Farfeesa said. “And don’t worry, we’re taking him with us.”

“Where in the name of seven devils did you get a tiger!?!” Belcher shouted .

“One of the kids got it in a place called Mathurakhanda on what you call the Indian subcontinent.,” Hoody answered. “Jungle-y. Very jungle-y,” he said. “Hot…lots of insects. Germs and bacteria beyond description, even the insects are infested. This little kitty was killing a bunch of poor fishermen in a boat. Can’t say I blame him. You people have certainly killed enough tigers. And just for trophies! Another of your more detestable practices.”

“Now look here Cobweb…” Belcher shouted.

“Cowbell!” Farfeesa corrected.

“Cob…Cowbell! Yes! This is too much!! You know I’m going to have to recommend that the Ford Motor Company terminates your employment. The Ford Motor Company only wants exemplary examples of American families to work for Mr. Ford. I can’t see anything exemplary here at all!!“ Belcher fulminated.

“That’s fine. Like I said, we are leaving very…”Hoody stopped mid-sentence. There was a commotion on the front porch.

The front door suddenly burst open. A large group of people, talking, shouting,and laughing all at once, ran into the house, stopped in the front hallway, and immediately began to strip and toss their clothes onto the floor. There were soldiers, ballerinas, bakers, steelworkers, police, nurses, farmers, sailors, businessmen, and clergy in a discombobulated riot of flying arms, legs, feet, buttocks, and hands. They spoke in a cacophony of voices that sounded like the quacking of a large group of ducks, the rustle of dry leaves in an autumn wind, and tiny bells.

“Oh, the children are home!!” Farfeesa exclaimed. She clasped her hands together and if Belcher could read her facial expression correctly, she looked as if she was going to cry.

The various clothes and uniforms suddenly squirmed, stiffened and began to slide across the floor and into a crate. What was once a pile of various uniforms and garments had neatly folded themselves, and hung themselves up into the crate which then closed itself and slid across the floor by where it banged loudly into a corner.

          The small mob of now silver-suited aliens bolted out of the hallway and parlor at a dead run, their footsteps thundering on the wooden floor. They threw open the back door and disappeared into Forest Lawn Cemetery. As quickly as they had come, they were gone and the silence returned.

“Belcher,” Hoody said, “You can write up whatever you feel is necessary. I won’t be at work tomorrow or ever again. You see, I’ve got a report to write up too. You people are bloody unevolved! Here you are in your fume-spewing wood-wheeled chariot, barely removed from being pulled around by beasts, sanctimoniously deciding who is to be included in your tribe! Why you haven’t even created your first element yet! You’re still digging around in the dirt and wearing shiny stones and animal skins!  Anyway, we’re off! We’ve got very little time. Please see yourself out. Come along Spencer.” the tiger followed Hoody and Farfeesa out of the back door of the house. The three of them disappeared into the darkness.

“Good luck with the wars and diseases!” Hoody’s voice called out of the darkness.

“Make beautiful wind, Ozzy!” Farfeesa called over her shoulder.

Belcher stood in the brightly lit but now silent house for a moment. He gathered his notepad and briefcase and started out of the front door. Then he stopped and ran to the back door.

“Cob…I mean, Cowbell!! Where should we mail your final paycheck?” Belcher shouted. There was no answer. He waited then ran out of the front door, jumped into the Model T and sped off. As he approached the corner of Palmetto and Van Dyke, he saw a flash of light in the rearview mirror. He twisted around in his seat in time to see the entire Cowbell house spew flames from the base of the two turrets, lift off of the ground, and vanish up into the darkness of night at a high rate of speed.

Belcher arrived at his home in Hamtramck fifteen minutes later. He poured himself a glass of whiskey, sat at his desk, and in the dim light of his lamp, began to review his notes. He took out his pencil and made note of the fact that he had not observed any vermin in the Cowbell residence. He swallowed a mouthful of whiskey, and felt the warmth descend into his belly. He put a sheet of paper in his typewriter. No one was going to believe this, he thought. but he began to type anyway.

(Author’s Note: To this day, there is just a patch of bare dirt at 6999 Palmetto Street in Detroit. The house numbers now begin with 7001.)

 

Life After Worklife

I’ve been retired for almost a year now so it is time to report back on life in the post-work world.

1-Plans change: I had intended to work until age 65. But I guess the Universe had other plans for me. When the Altered Situation presented itself, there was no compelling reason for me to continue to work until that age. It’s no secret that I have had health issues in the last five years. I am not the man I used to be. I am currently at large in the community and feeling good, but I’ve got some new scars and some exotic metal hardware. As I investigated whether or not to apply for Social Security, one of the criteria listed on the site was the state of your health. Plus, your monthly payments may be marginally higher, but the total amount of benefits you collect over your lifetime will not change, if you wait longer to retire. I did not need a lot of persuasion to decide to retire at age 62.

2-I am in a good mood most of the time: What do I have to be worried about? Rain? Snow? Heat? I stay home. If I feel like going to the gym, I go. If I feel like sleeping in, I sleep. If I want to indulge the cats with gourmet cat food and a new piece of cat furniture, I indulge. If I want to make a cup of tea and sit down to listen to music, I make it so. I don’t have the aggravation, agitation, anxieties, frustrations, foulups, confusion, complications, unreasonable responsibilities, reservations, restrictions, obstacles, obfuscations,  snags, snafus, deadlines, difficulties, dilemmas, drawbacks, dramas, developments, dead ends, or dire consequences that are common in the work world. Life is pretty (bleep)in’ sweet. All of my life, since I was about six or seven, I’ve been in pursuit of the dollar. Back then, I would cruise my Pittsburgh neighborhood looking for pop bottles to cash in for the deposit. Or I would hang out at the local grocery store and carry bags of groceries home for the little old ladies, or bolt out the door with a broom and shovel when it snowed so I could shovel sidewalks: all for cash. Then came the jobs. I’ve had seventeen jobs in my life where I was paid by check and contributed to Social Security. I have polished brass doorknobs, mowed grass, washed dishes, flipped hamburgers, torn down houses, delivered mail, worked in the steel mill, made pizzas, sold cars, and finally, edited syndications and movies, film and videotape for news, shot video, done live TV, and managed a government access TV channel. But no more-I’m done, concluded, consummated, completed, finished with work. 

On my last day at work, when I left, I did not let the door hit me where the Good Lord split me.

3-By retiring, I created a spot for a young person to get a job: Economists say this is not the case but what do they know? They can’t agree on anything. In a macro-economic sense, this disconnect between someone retiring so someone else can get a job might be true. But the person who was hired after I left is a lovely young woman who is excited to have that job. So anecdotally, economists can keep on arguing.

4-I don’t spend as much money: I spend most of my money on food. I don’t need many new clothes except to replace old clothes that have frayed or faded or look totally, hopelessly outdated, like pleated slacks. For a long time I have made the effort to dress my age. There is practically nothing worse than a middle-aged person who tries to dress like a skateboarder. Newsflash: You look like a twit. But my clothes are good. And I don’t look like a bum. I shower twice a day, shave everyday, do laundry, and put on clean clothes. I get to wear jeans every day-none of this “business casual” bunkum. I wear cowboy boots because I can, and I know my way around a tin of shoe polish. I refuse to be seen badly groomed, in a tee shirt so old that it is beige instead of white, wearing sweat pants, rubber slippers or flip-flops. If you are of a “certain age” and you wear flip-flops or Crocs, you might as well get a tattoo on your face that says “I have given up.” And besides, no one needs to see sixty-three year old feet. They are not pretty.

5-I eat what I want: My diet consists of mainly: bacon, cashews, smoked oysters with cheddar cheese and crackers, Vienna sausages, bacon cheeseburgers, Italian beef sandwiches, ribs, spaghetti carbonara, onions, potato salad, the vegetables on bacon cheeseburgers, watermelon, pineapple, green table grapes, grapefruits, coffee, tea, various fruit juice permutations with cranberry as one of the ingredients, popcorn, tortilla chips and salsa, and the occasional artisanal root beer. I get my vegetables from a jar of liquid vitamins. Over the last year I have lost five pounds without trying. My blood pressure averages about 110 over 65, and my doctor says I have “freakishly low cholesterol.” So, I’m not seeing any reason to change here.

6-People who are still working are jealous of my changed circumstances: At least that’s my interpretation. I am continually badgered to do stuff for other people because “You’re retired now.” People seem to feel that I am bored, under-utilized, and should be happy to do tasks that they think will make me feel useful and fill up my time, and that they themselves now don’t have to do. Uh, sorry. I didn’t ask people to do  stuff for me while I was working. I did my own laundry, shopped for food and clothes, cooked, cleaned up, did the yard work, emptied the litterbox etc. I did all that on evenings and weekends. I can and do volunteer to do service work in the community to help people who have a hard time helping themselves. I have numerous hobbies and interests to fill up my day. So to put it nicely, people, you can do your own chores.

7-I have a sense that time is limited: If not now, when? If not here, where? All of our lives, we are told that retirement is the last stage of life. There is nothing after this but the void of eternity. There are places that I want to visit in this world before I am too infirm to travel and enjoy once I get there. It will be nice to leave a little something to my children, but traveling to Spa Francorchamps and Monza and Bali and the Galapagos Islands are more important to me right now than leaving a nestegg. Sorry kids. There will be something left but air fare is expensive and I feel like seeing where the cashews grow in west Africa. I love cashews! They are my favorite nut.  And I’d like to be able to drink a nice glass of gongo. I feel compelled to get my affairs in order so as to not leave a mess for those that survive my tenure on this side of the grass. I accept the inevitable decline of my physical and mental prowess and keep vigilant for signs of their decay. I’ve given up on trying to change the world. My generation may have screwed the pooch in many ways, but we kept the mass murder, genocide and world wars to reasonable levels. Plus we gave you cable TV, internet shopping, and high potency weed. And if we can’t do anything about global warming, at least we’ve let the coming generations know what’s ahead. Good luck with that beachfront home on the Outer Banks!

8-I have the benefit of perspective: Not much that I see and hear these days surprises or upsets me. Ebola doesn’t worry me because I remember the panic and brouhaha that accompanied the outbreak of AIDS. I don’t freak out too much about Ukraine and Russia because this is Russia doing what Russia always does: expand. And having lived through the Cuban Missile Crisis and the Cold War, I’m not going to get too amped-up about the Russians flying bomber patrols in the Caribbean. They did that the whole time I was in middle school. Obama has terrible poll numbers? Yup-just like Bush the Younger, Clinton, Bush the Elder, Jimmy Carter, Nixon, LBJ, and Eisenhower.  The Democrats lost seats in the Congress? Uh-huh. Just like the Republicans did when Reagan was President. And Reagan was popular! Yes, the Islamic State is terrible, and the war crimes are unspeakable. This is also not the first time that impressionable European youth have flocked to the mideast to fight for a “just” cause, although the Crusades did happen before social media was ubiquitous. It is not a new phenomenon that beheading has been used to intimidate populations. I believe the Ottoman Empire created quite a few skull mounds while trying to subdue their neighbors to the south. And it was only about a hundred years ago that the Ottomans did a faceplant onto the pile of Failed Empires. I don’t mean to belittle or dismiss any of these current events, but my pulse remains pretty slow when they crop up in the news. 

I am amused when young people rediscover things that have been known for decades. I recently read a post on Reddit where a breathless young person wrote about how The Beatles put out a cover for the “Yesterday and Today” album that had them dressed in lab coats, and holding raw meat and dismembered baby dolls, and they had to pull the album because there was a huge stink and then they put out one with different cover art. I couldn’t even make a snarky comment. I figured at least they’re still listening to The Beatles. And it did bring back memories of high school girls in miniskirts and go-go boots.

Well, I’ve got to sign off now. The cats are getting excited because it’s close to their dinner time. I think I’ll go downstairs, crack open a can of salmon and shrimp chowder and then have a few cashews washed down with some cran-grape juice. That should hold me until the delivery man shows up with my Italian beef sandwich.

55 LIFE LESSONS LEARNED LARGELY BY LIVING LIFE

This was originally going to be titled : “The Ten Most Important Life Lessons.” But really, how can you distill a life’s worth of screwing up and stumbling along down to ten things? What about practical things like “Never walk barefoot into a public restroom?” I learned that lesson in 1974 and it’s veracity is ironclad to this day. Some of these lessons were painful, others were just episodes of enlightenment. But they have all withstood the vagaries of time. So here we go, not necessarily in order of importance.

1-Always wear comfortable shoes.

2-Keep things that old people tell you in the back of your mind. These things may sound stupid when you’re young, but like fruit, they ripen into truths.

3-Decide what you believe, but reserve judgement on everything else.

4-Keep a loaded iPod and ear buds with you in case you are subjected to bad music.

5-Don’t jump off of or out of things for fun. Gravity is unforgiving and the ground is hard.

6-Find your favorite pastime and figure out a way to get paid for it.

7-Observe what insufferable people do and then don’t do that stuff.

8-Give blood if you can.

9-If you buy something and don’t use it or wear it for a year, give it away unless it’s a classic Jaguar.

10- It’s okay to make mistakes but learn and try to not repeat mistakes. Be understanding of other’s mistakes.

11-Travel out of the country in which you were born and live.

12-Save money.

13-Do not set your hair on fire as standard operating procedure.

14-Find someone you can trust, and out of whose booty the sun shines. Marry them.

15-Don’t fear your emotions, but don’t carry them around in a basket either.

16-Don’t throw rocks at a beehive, and then stand there and wonder why you’re getting stung.

17-Never waste time arguing. Save your breath.

18-Change your mind when facts present themselves differently.

19-Don’t steal stuff from people. Don’t be slick, scam or take advantage of people. Not even a little.

20-Realize that a clear conscience is its’ own reward.

21-Be kind and respectful to people, even if the person is a twit, jerk, boor, poltroon, jackanapes, martinet, bugwit, complete ass, or any of the “heads” (meat, bone, knuckle, etc.).

22-At times you will be seen as a twit, jerk, boor, poltroon, jackanapes, martinet, bugwit, complete ass or one of the “heads” (meat, bone, knuckle, etc.) by someone else. (See #51 below)

23-Life is irony, tragedy, and drama. Everything is one of these.

24-See live music whenever you can.

25-Stuff that looks bad initially does’t always turn out to be bad.

26-Drive your car like you’ve got some damned common sense.

27-Look up. Look down. Look far away. Look at stuff really closely. Look at stuff twice.

28-Your health will not always be as good as it is right now. So, dig the way you feel.

29-Be aware that things could always be worse.

30-Hold doors open for people. Hold elevators for people. Let people pull out of driveways. Get stuff off of the top shelf in the supermarket for little old ladies. Pick stuff up when people accidentally drop it.

31-Doing nothing is always an option except when it’s not an option.

32-Never pee on someone’s leg while on bathroom break in 3rd grade. This will just make me, I mean, them livid, and you’ll be unable to mount a defense while you are frantically trying to stuff your junk back into your pants while getting pummeled.

33-If someone pees on your leg, this is one of the few situations where you are perfectly justified in pummeling the holy living crap out of them. People will respect you for it.

34-Don’t try to make a pet out of any animal that disputes your assumption of being paramount  in the food chain.

35-Learn to touch type.

36-Never get a tattoo on your face unless it’s tattoos of eyeballs on your eyelids. Then you can sleep in meetings and people will think you are awake but just not blinking.

37-As you get older, don’t dress like a teenager. There are no teenage fashion looks a middle aged person can pull off and maintain any semblance of cool.

38-Practice good personal hygiene. Brush and floss.

39-Look both ways when crossing the street. Getting hit by a car is like losing your virginity: it happens really fast, you have no idea what just happened, and you never forget it.

40-Never take your ordinary circumstances for granted. (see #29)

41-Get out and walk around in nature. Do it at night and enjoy being a little scared.

42-Sit by yourself and daydream every once in a while.

43-Find an activity where you can get into a ‘flow state.’

44-Remember what it was like to be a little kid and be understanding when little kids act like little kids.

45-Be of service to someone.

46-Remember all the crappy jobs that you’ve ever had, and treat people that have crappy jobs with kindness, tolerance, and respect.

47-If someone honks their horn at you while you’re driving, shine it on.

48-All police officers are named “Sir” unless he’s a woman.

49-I did not create the cosmos therefore I am not God. 

50-Be grateful to pay taxes. That means you made money.

51-Other people’s opinion of me is not my business.

52-No meeting should last longer than a half hour.

53-Be punctual.

54-Admit when you are wrong. Apologize when necessary.

55-Try not to stare at a woman’s boobs.

I’m sure that you all have your own list of Life Lessons. And our lists are constantly evolving and changing. I used to believe that you should “Eat two of everything.” But I’ve crossed that one off of my list and lost about six pounds. Coincidence? We think not. Life never stops teaching so I reserve the right to add or delete Life Lessons as needed.

The screwing up and stumbling along continues.

Neighbors

Neighbors

With few exceptions, I have never had good neighbors. Some of the places I lived in college, both the dorms, and a couple of flats, I had good neighbors. When I was a sophomore, we had an upstairs neighbor with a capuchin monkey that would clean your marijuana by happily eating all of the seeds. Now that’s a good neighbor. And she was cute too-the neighbor, not the monkey.

Neighbors are one of those classes of people who you don’t chose, but who can put a serious damper on your joy of living. Co-workers are another class you don’t chose, and who can make life hell. All it takes to become a neighbor is enough money to buy or rent the residence nearby. Co-workers are hired because they have a skill that your employer needs, and they are qualified to perform. In both cases, if the person is a class 1 peehole, you have to put up with them for significant portions of your life.

On the D.S.N.A. (DeBaum Scale of Neighborly Annoyance), my current neighbors only rate a 3 or 4. They don’t make noise or toss bags of refuse at their garbage containers from beyond three point range. Their transgressions consist of a long term inability to park their cars correctly or considerately. This has been exacerbated by our endless winter of snow. We all have walkways from our front doors to the street, which much be shoveled out in order to gain access to our autos. These geniuses will park their cars across the walkways, thereby necessitating a long walk to the next open walkway, or a shuffle in between mounds of dirty snow and filthy, salt-encrusted cars. Now, I am not Stephen Hawking, but you don’t have to be a theoretical physicist to figure out where to park to avoid this unpleasantness. They apparently don’t have this sorted out yet.

My very first neighbors in Pittsburgh were perfect representatives of N.F.H. (Neighbors From Hell.) This family consisted of a single mom (a huge uh-uh in 1950s Pittsburgh society) and her four kids. The kids were generally dirt-smeared, smelly, snot-nosed, not real bright or friendly, and thievish in nature. Their house had no curtains, giving everyone an eyeful of their filthy, chaotic living arrangements. They chucked their garbage off of their second floor back porch in the general direction of their garbage cans. Their success rate for making this shot was about 30%. The stupid kids eventually set the house on fire while playing with matches and they were forced to move. This proved to my parents that, yes, God does answer prayers. However once they left, there was a massive cockroach diaspora into the rest of the neighborhood. The burned house was torn down. My father bought the lot and planted a lawn to insure no one else would move in.

When I lived in Berkeley, my neighbor and I took turns tormenting each other. I tormented her with loud music. At the time I was very much into Led Zeppelin. She was a sculptor and would bang away on whatever substance she was sculpting until the wee hours of the morning. She had a cat named "Feets" that had six toes on each foot. Whenever I saw this neighbor, I was always stunned by the sheer look of hatred and disgust that she directed at me. When she moved out she stole my stereo. But she was not the only one I tormented. When I lived in this small studio apartment, I had three cars: a SAAB 99, a massive Chevrolet Kingswood Estate station wagon (A.K.A.:”The Klingon Battle Cruiser”) and an Aston Martin DB4. So in addition to the constant pressure I exerted on the supply of parking spaces in the area, I worked on my cars in the parking lot. I really, really disassembled the SAAB on one occasion while attempting to replace the clutch. I mean, hood removed, grille and bumper removed, car up on jacks, a scenario lifted intact from the yard outside the trailer of a Kentucky meth addict, and transplanted intact to the Athens of the West. While levering the clutch out of the car using a six foot steel bar instead of the required tools, I launched the entire clutch assembly about thirty feet into the air, and watched all of the heavy pieces come down in the next yard, all over the neighbors’ vegetable garden. The damage wasn’t too bad, just some crushed lettuce, mangled tomato plants, etc. I got all of the parts out of the yard before the neighbor came home. I don’t think he suspected a thing.

But the absolute worst neighbor I ever had was in Mill Valley.

Gail and I had just purchased our first house. It was winter and we loved to curl up by the fireplace and watch TV. But during one cozyfest, we thought we smelled something odd, a chemical smell. It went away and we forgot about it. Then, while cleaning up after dinner one night, we smelled another acrid odor and noticed thick white smoke pouring from the neighbor’s chimney. Something had to be wrong. We ran around the corner, banged on the door and met “Roland.” 

“Roland” bore a passing resemblance to Jabba the Hut. Grinning, unshaven, overweight, hairy, and obviously stoned, he explained that he burned his garbage rather than have the village haul it away. That evening he was incinerating a full vacuum cleaner bag, and some old stereo speaker cabinets. 

Here are some fun “Roland” facts:

-He grew pot on his patio behind a curtain of bamboo plants and burned the stalks and stems in his wood-burning stove. 

-He was fond of Chevrolets and had about five of them. One of them, a 1953 four door that was a faded green, had a bumper sticker that read “Life ain’t easy when you’re fat and greasy.”

-He had a massive boat that never moved from the front of his house. Someone spray-painted “S.S. Eyesore” on it one night. Then it was set on fire which invoked a massive response from the fire department. After the burnt hulk was removed, he got another massive boat. It also never moved from the front of his house. You can go on Google right now and see it from space.

-He was once kidnapped, rolled up in an oriental carpet and severely beaten with baseball bats. Speculation ran to a soured drug deal

-He made a large cash withdrawal from a local bank, thought he was being followed, went home, and shot the next person who came to his door. No charges were filed.

-He built an illegal addition to his home across a drainage ditch that ran through all of our yards, thereby causing flood problems for us and another neighbor. 

-He had a mean old basset hound that ran loose, chased all the neighborhood kids and evacuated his bowels everywhere. We forgave the basset hound when he killed another neighbor’s rooster (who used to crow every night starting at 2 AM.)

-He was once ticketed in Nevada for driving his Corvette 140 in a 55 zone. He thought this was funny as hell and swore he would never pay the ticket.

-He had stalker moves. If he wanted to talk, he would never call. He would just show up at the front door and announce that he had seen us come home. 

And this is just the stuff that happened while we lived there.

But I have to be honest, I was not the best neighbor in Mill Valley either. Again, it was my automobile collection. At one point I had three Triumphs: a Spitfire that was modified to road race in the SCCA, A GT6, and a TR6. This was in addition to a trailer to haul the Spitfire, a tow car, and a “normal” car for Gail to drive to work.

We had some poor, naive Yuppie neighbors who moved to Mill Valley seeking peace and serenity, but they had “Roland” on one side, and me on the other.

They had to look out of their kitchen window and see race motors dangling in the air lofted on my engine hoist, endure constant grinding of starter motors, cussing, clanging, hammering, and finally when I was successful, the unmuffled roar of a 1198 CC Triumph Spitfire race motor! Huzzah! What a way to spend your weekend, eh Biff? In addition to all that, they had to endure the other fine examples of the British motor industry parked on the street.

So as much as I dislike my current neighbor’s parking peccadilloes, I realize that I’ve got it pretty good these days. We had another crazy neighbor up the street here in Skokie named “Milo.” He was once observed through his open windows cavorting with a topless “maid.” And he did toss off a couple of rants about strange cars parked in front of his house, and threatened  to kill his next door neighbors because they were from Pakistan. And he also dumped buckets of a liquid I believed to be urine into the storm drains. But “Milo” has tap danced off of this plane of existence to the next and it’s pretty quiet around here.

And I’m a pretty good neighbor now. I really work at it. No loud music, no disassembled automobiles (we’re down to three these days), and I haven’t needed my weed cleaned by a helpful monkey for about forty years now.

(P.S.-"Roland" and "Milo" are aliases. )