Three Scoops is a Blast! @page { margin-bottom: 5.000000pt; margin-top: 5.000000pt; } � �śTHREE SCOOPS”IS A BLAST� Alex Carrick� Copyright © Alex Carrick 2010Praise for �śTwo Scoops” Is Just Right� 5 Stars�Ś A choice pick for short fiction fans. ~ Midwest Book Reviews.� Really funny�Ś If you want a good laugh (and who doesn't) you MUST pick this book up. MUST. ~ The Book Journal� A fun read�Ś If you want a good laugh buy this book, read this book, then buy one for a friend. ~ Barbara Kent, Success BooksAcclaim for �śThee Scoops” Is A Blast!� �śThree Scoops” Is A Blast! (sequel to �śTwo Scoops”) contains �śThe Size of the Skip”, an honorable-mention recipient in the 2010 Lorian Hemingway Short Story Competition.� � �śThree Scoops”Is A Blast� 36 original short stories� Alex Carrick� Kindle Edition� Copyright 2010 Alex Carrick� ISBN: 1-4528-6255-9EAN 13: 9781452862552 This e-book is intended for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be sold or given away to other people. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.� To my wife, Donna. The two of us egg each other on in the writing game. And to our children, Tom, Ted and Tammy-Li. They make our lives delicious scrambled eggs.Foreword In early 2008, I was asked by my employer to start writing an economics blog. I approached this with considerable trepidation, worrying about whether I would have enough material and if I could do it justice. I quickly found I had no shortage of ideas and that I rather enjoyed the experience.� So much, in fact, I began to branch out with humorous lifestyle material I was composing on the weekends and at night, just for fun. I posted these pieces on my personal blog site, �śwww.alexcarrick.com”, then published an anthology in my first book, �śTwo Scoops” Is Just Right. � While �śThree Scoops” Is A Blast! does contain some stories about the family and the modern work environment, it branches off into somewhat longer fictional pieces than appeared in Two Scoops. These latter tales wander through time and space or consist of made-up conversations that take amusing, ironic or unexpected turns.� It’s been an enjoyable ride trailing my characters to see where they would lead me. Here’s hoping you enjoy the journey as well. � Alex Carrick� Contents (1) The Madame Lazonga Defense (2) Life is Sweet Again on the Planet Lollipop (3) Obamacare and Harry Potter (4) Disney Goes After a Bigger Fish than Marvel (5) My Wife and I Argue over our New i-Phone (6) No Problem, Excuse Me and the Limits of Civility (7) The Seagull Poet of Butter Bay (8) Real Estate Purgatory (9) I Got Robbed by a Liquor Store (10) The CAB Nations and their Rogue Currency (11) The Devil Pulls a Fast One (12) Giving a Finger to the Moon (13) Witness to a Backyard Execution (14) So You Think You Know Flop Sweat (15) The Weatherman, the Economist and the Gypsy Lady (16) The Red-Suit Mistletoe Initiative (17) Pedro Martinez’ Incredible String of Good Luck (18) The Freeze Dried Monster on the Skyway (19) Lenny and Keith Flounder in the Shallow End (20) The Mechanized Sorting Day of the Dead (21) Catching Up on the Not So Local News (a.k.a. Burying Barry in Barrie) (22) The Wizard and the Rose (23) Herb Green discusses his Finances in Four-letter Words (24) A Curious Case of Bottled-up Passion (25) Ms. Phitts and Mr. Gatheral Spar Two Rounds (26) Dancing the Family Man Shuffle (27) An Imaginary Friend of an Imaginary Friend of Mine (28) The Personal Injury Attorneys to the Stars (29) Chasing a Murderer into Polar Bear Country (30) One Thousand Years of Baked Goods (31) Fuzzy on the Details (32) The Size of the Skip (33) Queen’s Jester to King’s Betterment (34) One Shot in the Hot Seat (35) That Would Be Na�Żve of Me (36) Forever Running Late� The Madame Lazonga Defense� August 17, 2009� It was medieval times in Merry Olde England and tales of knights and dragons, sorcery and witchcraft still held sway over the land. Superstition was rampant and those who could foretell the future were held in high esteem. Revered for being at the top of her profession was Madame Lazonga, a woman who had grown wealthy through necromancy on behalf of the common folk.� Madame Lazonga’s abilities came in visionary snatches from which she was able to deduce logical outcomes. In one such trance, she even foresaw her own untimely end. She would meet a violent death at the hands of a vicious murderer. This made her more cautious in her everyday dealings. She became overly protective of her private life and turned miserly to a fault. She wouldn’t share her riches with anyone, not even her only child, Angelina.� Angelina, in the full bloom of youth, was a stunner. She had russet-coloured hair down past her shoulders, hazel-flecked sparkling eyes and a curvaceous frame that brought many men to kneel at her altar. Unbeknownst to most, however, her sexiest feature was her brain. Also a secret to the world at large was the fact that Angelina had a lover among the nobility, Lord Flatley.� Lord Flatley was the bachelor scion of a once-noble family that fell out of favor with the king and was suffering the consequences. Dashing in appearance, athletic in aspect, but limited in intellect, he was flat broke, with wants beyond his means. Angelina was crazy in love with him.� Angelina harbored hopes for their relationship until one fateful day in the town square marketplace. For the first time ever, Lord Flatley approached Angelina and her mother in a public place. Madame Lazonga spotted him first. �śThat’s the man! There he is! He’s the one who’s going to murder me!” she cried out. An unseemly commotion ensued. The local citizens and a couple of soldiers descended on Lord Flatley and escorted him away. Angelina was aghast.� From then on, Madame Lazonga told anyone who would listen about Lord Flatley’s connection to her dream. This put a serious crimp in Angelina and Lord Flatley’s plans for their relationship. When next they met clandestinely, Angelina whispered her instructions in Lord Flatley’s ear.� The foregoing is background and prelude to a discussion before a regional magistrate one fine spring day, as the accused was brought forward to explain what happened to the victim.� MAGISTRATE: Would you please tell me how it is you come to be standing before me today, Lord Flatley, in the matter of the notorious demise of Madame Lazonga?� LORD FLATLEY: Gladly, your honor. This is a situation that has been developing for some time. Madame Lazonga apparently had a premonition she would be murdered and, the first time she saw me, she cried out to all around her that I was the man she saw in her vision.� MAGISTRATE: How many times did you actually encounter her?� LORD FLATLEY: Three times in all. Twice before yesterday. The first time, after she called out her accusation, I was taken into custody by local authorities and questioned about my intentions. When it was established that I had never before met the woman, I was released without trouble.� MAGISTRATE: And the next time?� LORD FLATLEY: On the second occasion, the woman again cried out that I would be her murderer. Again I was surrounded and taken away for interrogation. I could no longer say I knew not the woman. I had quite a bit more difficulty securing my release. Madame Lazonga is held in high regard in these parts. After my second incarceration, I did a great deal of thinking.� MAGISTRATE: And then you saw her again yesterday in the crowd at the marketplace?� LORD FLATLEY: That is correct. But this time I walked directly up to her and killed her. In fact, I made quite sure she was dead. I strangled her, then stabbed her through the heart and finally held her head under water for a considerable period of time, at the horse-drinking trough. It went exactly according to plan. Everyone else was too stunned to react until it was over.� MAGISTRATE: Why did you do that sir?� LORD FLATLEY: Because I had done my research. Madame Lazonga was known to be a rich older woman. Someone was bound to rob and kill her someday. It was unlikely to be obvious who that person was and so I would be saddled with the crime. Then I would be hung or burned at the stake. Therefore, I decided to kill her myself in front of everyone, in self-defense.� MAGISTRATE: What an extraordinary notion. Is there more to your story?� LORD FLATLEY: Yes indeed, your honor. Madame Lazonga has never been known to be wrong in one of her predictions. My course of action was pre-determined. I had no option but to do her in. The integrity of my resolve can be seen in the fact that I made no attempt to rob her of her jewellery. That, apparently, was her one vanity. In my mind, it was justifiable homicide.� MAGISTRATE: That’s your defense? You were powerless to act in any other way? It is your contention this whole case rests on how perfect the victim was in foreseeing the future?� LORD FLATLEY: Yes, your honor.� MAGISTRATE: My initial reaction is that you’re presenting me with a barrow-load of nonsense. Nevertheless, you must be one in a million to make such an assertion and then carry through on it. Very well, I’ll consider what you have said. Let’s hear from some other witnesses.� For the next several hours, peasant after peasant was called before the judge and confirmed how accurate Madame Lazonga was in predicting births, deaths, marriages and the many other life-altering events crucial to the ebb and flow of the village’s survival. Finally, the judge got around to speaking with the victim’s daughter. Like many men before him, he was smitten by her astonishing beauty, but prided himself on being able to maintain a workman-like demeanor.� MAGISTRATE: This whole case may ultimately rest on the accuracy of your mother’s predictions. Have you ever known her to be wrong, my child?� ANGELINA: No, absolutely not. That is to say, almost never.� MAGISTRATE: What do you mean? Explain yourself. This is important.� ANGELINA: Well there is a matter about which the outcome is still uncertain.� MAGISTRATE: And what might that be?� ANGELINA: It’s a personal affair, my lord.� MAGISTRATE: You must tell me anyway. A man’s life is in the balance.� ANGELINA: Very well, my lord. My mother foresaw I would meet, marry and make very happy a magistrate before I turned 22 years old.� MAGISTRATE: I see. And when might that date be?� ANGELINA: Tomorrow, my lord.� This brought laughter and good-natured banter from the townspeople who were gathered around to watch the proceedings. Jocular in tone at first, and then more serious, the judge continued.� MAGISTRATE: Do tell. What an interesting coincidence of timing. And would such a marriage include an old dog like me, hypothetically speaking of course?� ANGELINA: I don’t see why not, my lord.� The magistrate was stunned. He had been alone since the death of his wife ten years prior. Angelina was a plum pudding smothered in cream. Myriad pleasurable thoughts spun around in his head. Still, he was a cagey old bird and had his suspicions. He continued with his probing.� MAGISTRATE: You don’t seem terribly upset about the death of your mother, my dear.� ANGELINA: It was not unexpected, my lord.� MAGISTRATE: Yes, that much has been clearly established. Do you know the defendant?� ANGELINA: No my lord.� MAGISTRATE: Is there something you would want from me as a wedding present? A pardon, perhaps, for this handsome young lad?� ANGELINA: No my lord. Only the pleasure of your company.� MAGISTRATE: And you would consider marrying me?� ANGELINA: Of course.� MAGISTRATE: Why, precisely?� ANGELINA: It would honor my mother’s memory and it would take away any possible stain on her record. Besides, you are a handsome and distinguished-looking older gentleman, my lord.� MAGISTRATE (unself-consciously rubbing his hands together with glee): Alright then. It seems a number of us are being governed by forces over which we have no control. Release the prisoner. Angelina and I have other matters to attend to.� Henceforth, in legal circles, the justification for Lord Flatley’s acquittal was credited to the �śNo Free Will” argument. Courthouse wags dubbed it the Madame Lazonga defense.� After a tiny bump in the road, ending with the timely death of the magistrate as a result of a too brief interlude of vigorous physical activity, Angelina and Lord Flatley lived happily ever after.� Life is Sweet Again on the Planet Lollipop� August 26, 2009� Life had been sweet on the planet Lollipop. Barney Bracken, a young fortyish married man with children, had been living his life according to five simple rules: 1) don’t become addicted to alcohol; 2) don’t become addicted to mood-altering drugs; 3) have a decent job that pays a good living; 4) cultivate real friends; and 5) do whatever it takes to keep your family speaking with you.� Over the past year, he had been introduced to Twitter, Facebook and LinkedIn. There were other social media sites, but these were his favourites. At first, they made his life even better.� He loved composing short amusing messages to send out to the world. Something like, �śThe Chimney Repair and Wildlife Removal company showed up at our party and we don’t have a fireplace. Anybody got bail money?”� There were the online games. Under trending topics, when he was asked to submit one-letter-off-movie-titles, his offerings were �śPaws”, �śGoonstruck” and �śCurse of the Dummy’s Tomb.” For my-last-tweet-on-earth he went with what Dracula might have said in some confusion and na�Żve innocence, �śSo what’s with the wooden stake and crucifix, Herr Helsing?” He cracked himself up and hoped his new buddies shared in the enjoyment.� His first glimmer something might be going wrong was when he responded, �śI absolutely agree, number 3,798” to the statement made by one of his new followers, �śI hate it when people are on these sites only to pump up their friend counts.” Then there was the day when he was startled into awareness that he was keypunching on his laptop while sitting on the pot. Submitting messages to social media sites any time of the day or night over his i-phone was becoming a hazard.� He came to realize he was fixated and obsessed. He was addicted to staying in touch with individuals in far-away places who seemed nice enough but with whom he shared no common background. If he didn’t cut down on his social media connections at work, he was sure to be fired. His contacts with his own family and dear old friends were becoming less and less. He was breaking all five of his rules.� He wasn’t the only one in trouble. Change was seeping in over the e-wires. Lots of people seemed to be losing control He began to notice that random rants were appearing on walls and message boards. Some individuals with large number counts were even exhorting their followers to gang up against others. Kibitzing and normal kidding around could quickly turn precarious.� Blocking offensive individuals was one recourse, but clearly a lot of people needed help. What to do? Barney was a serious student of human nature. He swore off computers for a week and gave the matter a great deal of thought. He needed the perspective that came with going �ścold turkey.”� There was only one answer. What started out as an electronic version of ham radio needed to evolve into something much more – global group therapy. But who would lead the way? Was Barney the man for the job? Leadership needed to come from somewhere.� This is the folklore behind the founding of CA which is the in-the-clouds version of AA. For the first time in a week, Mr. Bracken sat down at the computer keyboard and stared at the text box. For a few seconds, he paused to compose himself. Then, with the most serious intent he ever mustered, he typed these fateful and life-altering words, �śHi, my name is Barney and I’m a cyberholic.”� Obamacare and Harry Potter� September 5, 2009� To understand the current medical-coverage debate in the United States, you have to know your history. When President Bill Clinton was first elected, his wife Hillary took on the task of comparison shopping around the world to determine the best medical plans. The conclusion was that the best coverage was offered by Hogwarts Academy in the wizarding world.� A wave of a wand and broken bones were healed. The brewing of a potion and most other afflictions could be overcome. Moreover, the Hogwart’s plan was very comprehensive. For example, being a full or even a half muggle was not considered to be a pre-existing condition that would disqualify one from coverage.� The head of Hogwarts at the time, Albus Dumbledore, in discussions with Hillary, said he would be pleased to make a similar plan available in the United States on one condition. He wanted something in return, the legalization of gay marriages. Hil and Bill on the Hill said they would do what they could, but change was more likely to come through state legislation.� Therefore, over the next several years, many states did bring in the appropriate legal changes and high profile same-sex couples tied their knots in California and elsewhere across America. But then Dumbledore died and the whole arrangement fell through.� The Democrats fell out of favor with voters and eight years of darkness descended on the land. I’m not trying to be political here, but the parallels seem obvious. It was a time of Death Eaters (Republicans?) roaming everywhere and Voldemort (Bush?) rising to the ascendant.� Now that those days are past and President Obama has been voted in as President, the subject of universal health care has returned to the front burner. Private negotiations with the wizarding world are heating up again. But there is one big problem. The behind-the-scenes point man for the new health care providers is Harry Potter’s friend Ron. This presents a potential public relations nightmare for the President.� Private-sector health care providers are fiercely opposed to government intervention in their industry. If they ever find out the truth about the secret negotiations that are underway, they will take every opportunity to speak badly about this so-called Weasley Plan. The President is at his wit’s end trying to figure out how to package and sell his efforts without revealing too much.� By the way, Hogwarts was where swine flu first reared up, not Mexico, as most people have been led to think. Animal steward, Hagrid, suffered the first instance of an animal-giant crossover of the virus. Malfoy had just received his degree in medicine and was newly appointed as chief medical officer of the school. He badly botched Hagrid’s care and is now facing a string of malfeasance and malpractice suits.� For a while, the school was under quarantine due to the outbreak of the dreaded disease. The first symptoms among the school’s animal population were interesting and ironic to say the least. They included, dare it be said, hog warts.� Disney Goes After a Bigger Fish than Marvel� September 10, 2009� After recently acquiring Marvel Comics, Disney Corporation is apparently now going after an even bigger prize, Hell Inc. In a surprise move, it has been learned that the devil is interested in selling his interest in the underworld and moving to Palm Springs. There’s something about the climate there that appeals to him.� The devil’s minions have been assured they will retain prominent positions in the new entity. They will have key roles to play in each day’s closing parades at Disney’s various theme parks.� When asked whether hell’s acquisition might not be in conflict with Disney’s prime objective of providing family entertainment, a company spokesperson replied, �śNot at all. The synergies from owning everything are enormous. Think of High School Musical set in Hades.� Besides, it isn’t just about entertainment. There is the punishment factor if people don’t tune in to our programming. Of course, a small percentage of the population already thinks watching Disney shows is a trip to Hell. We’re still not sure what to do about that faction.”� Some of Marvel’s stable of comic book characters were contacted by reporters for their reactions to the latest news.� �śJiminy!” said the Green Hulk. �śI’m just getting used to reporting to a cricket and now this is being thrown at me. It’s making me angry and Disney won’t like me when I’m angry.”� �śI’m having trouble fitting mouse ears over my horn stumps,” said Hellboy. �śBut if the new deal goes through, it will be like going home for me.”� The era of the big getting even bigger seems to be gaining momentum at this stage of the business cycle. In other financial news, a huge unnamed international oil company is in negotiations to buy all of the air we breathe. This is likely to receive a stamp of approval from North American regulators, but it may be held up by authorities in Europe who are supposedly concerned about some conflict of interest issues.� As well, several foreign sovereign wealth funds are known to have an option on buying Mars. Interest in this solar system’s sun has also been expressed, but it is hard to conduct due diligence on something so unapproachable.� Investors knew something was up with Disney and Hell yesterday when Twitter traffic on the subject took off. It became the number one trending topic as the day wore on. The discussion is thought to have been led by Snow White’s little birds.� As for that other prime piece of real estate, Heaven, gatekeeper Gabriel has indicated there is no way it will ever be sold. However, the actual Pearly Gates may be another matter. Feelers have been put out on Craigslist. Sotheby wanted to handle the transaction, but it was not able to confirm that the pearls are actually real and not just cultured.� My Wife and I Argue over our New i-Phone� September 16, 2009� At the end of the day, Donna and I lie in bed and send messages out over Twitter by way of our new i-phone. The following is one of our typical conversations.� ME: Ho het yourwelf a hoof bool to reaf? That’s not what I typed.� DONNA: What did you mean to say?� ME: Go get yourself a good book to read. I was just sending a message to all my friends on Twitter. The keypad on this i-phone is so small, my fingers are mangling my message.� DONNA: You’ll get the hang of it. It’s incredible technology.� ME: I know. It’s a whole new world out there. I love this stuff.� DONNA: So you’re back on Twitter?� ME: Yes, but I have to think of something interesting to say. I’ve got it. I know what to tell everybody. Now summer is over, I’m going to stop eating popsicles. Do you think that will get me thousands of followers.� DONNA: No.� ME: What do you mean no? Will it get me one follower?� DONNA: Probably not. It doesn’t grab the attention.� ME: What am I going to do when even my own wife doesn’t find my tweets interesting?� DONNA: You have to think about what makes you read someone else’s posting.� ME: I pay attention to the picture and I like messages that are clear and easy to understand. I know what I don’t like. I don’t like all those letter abbreviations, things like BFF and LOL. They slow me down. I have to stop and think what they mean.� DONNA: Yes, but that’s the younger generation. They can fire those things off easy as can be.� ME: Then maybe I’ll have to come up with my own letter combinations.� DONNA: Nobody will know what they mean.� ME: Sure they will. It will be determined by the context.� DONNA: I see what you’re saying. For example, you could sign all your tweets DOM for dirty old man.� ME: Hah-hah. And you’d be DOW.� DONNA: Hey, I resent that. I’d be DYW, dirty young woman.� ME: All right, I’ll give you that one. I’ve got another idea. Maybe we should sign-off to each other every night over Twitter. That might spark some interest. I could say something like, �ś@Donna_Carrick Tweet Dreams, Tweetheart!”� DONNA: Now you’re sounding like Humphrey Bogart, with an even worse lisp than usual.� ME: That would be okay with me. Remember The African Queen. At the end of the film, Bogart and Katharine Hepburn are facing a hanging by the captain of the German boat, but Bogart talks him into marrying them first. Hepburn’s face lights up and she adjusts her hair. It’s one of the great scenes in all of the movies.� DONNA: Simply fabulous. He was a real DOM in that movie. Mostly unshaven and hitting the bottle. Remember the leeches? Yech! But she straightened him out.� ME: We need to be cute in a similar way.� DONNA: It’s going to be hard when all of your tweets should end TTIB.� ME: TTIB?� DONNA: Remember the context. TTIB – this tweet is boring.� ME (after a second or two): Okay, you can just KYCTY.� DONNA: I’ll bite. What’s that mean?� ME: It should be obvious. Keep your comments to yourself.� DONNA: Nite dear. It’s been a tweet talking with you.� ME (in a pretend sour mood): Likewise, I’m sure.� No Problem, Excuse Me and the Limits of Civility� September 26, 2009� A spate of public rudeness lately has raised the question of how society has come to this sorry pass. Kanye West in the world of hip hop, Serena Williams in tennis and Joe Wilson in Washington’s political hot house all stepped over the traditional bounds of civility in the past week. What are the trends that have taken us in this misdirection?� Upon first reflection, I blamed Omarosa. She was the one who was most unbearable in the opening season of Donald Trump’s �śThe Apprentice”. Unfortunately, it must be admitted her wigged-out activities went a long way towards making the show a hit. We couldn’t take our eyes off her �śtrain wreck”, whether we liked to admit it or not. Because bad behaviour pays, Omarosa has gone on to have a rewarding career.� But the history of behaving badly goes back much further. How about blaming running shoes? It was the �śsneaker” companies and their ads – for example, �śJust Do It” by Nike – that stressed attitude above all else. Politeness gets short shrift when �śin your face” is the new mantra. Attitude has certainly been one artillery piece in the war to break down society’s norms and standards. But there are more, based on popular culture.� Maybe it was the movie Animal House. It started a whole trend whereby stupidity, crass actions and the graceless came to be glorified by America’s youth. The problem is the movie was really funny. And again, it paid off for its producers. Who doesn’t want to have a toga party? But the long-term consequences, well that’s another matter.� Outrageous behaviour in professional sports has been around forever. In tennis, it reached its apogee when Jimmy Connors and John McEnroe perfected their attention-grabbing and baby-gets-his-way performances. Now, some of the women players are getting in on the act as well. In the early days of golf championships, a tournament wasn’t complete until Tommy Bolt threw one or maybe all of his clubs into a pond in a fit of rage.� Awareness of anger in political forums has been on the rise due to news broadcasts of fisticuffs in far-away Parliaments. Going way back, when Brutus, Cassius and their buds got together and dispatched Caesar on the Ides of March, well that was certainly rude.� Personally, I’m more concerned about lack of good manners closer to home. On a day-to-day basis, there are two phrases that are starting to drive me crazy. People used to say �śExcuse me, please” when they needed to get by and you were inadvertently in their way. It was a gentle request that usually solicited smiles by both parties and friendly nods.� Now, �śExcuse me” (without the �śplease”) is usually a peremptory command and apparently means �śGet out of my way, I’m coming through.” It’s the pedestrian equivalent of the driver who believes he or she is the only one on the road or at least the only one who really counts.� Excuse me is often met with the phrase, �śno problem”. In this context, I suppose it’s okay. But I cringe when I hear it from sales people in stores or waiters and waitresses serving in restaurants. Even when it is uttered in the cheeriest of voices, it grates.� When I make my request or place my order, I don’t expect it to be a problem. I’m making the normal banter that would usually precede an exchange of goods or services. That’s what you’re here for, isn’t it, to fulfill my request? I’m not asking for much.� When it comes right down to it, I don’t even care if it is a problem. Just do it (please). That’s what I’m paying for and it’s also what you’re being paid for. If you’re making a pittance, then speak to your manager. If you would rather be someplace else or talking with your fellow workers or contemplating life in general, well then�Ś. Wow, I’m really getting worked up here. I guess I’m the one being rude, now, according to most standards.� This whole thing about being civil, it’s a challenge. There are nearly seven billion of us sentient and sensitive beings on earth, each as the centre of our own universe. It’s a wonder we haven’t already bumped each other off. On second thought, maybe you should get your licks in now while you still have the chance - Joe, Serena and Kanye. Just remember that the patience of some of the rest of us is hair-trigger too.� The Seagull Poet of Butter Bay� October 4, 2009� In a vision, he’d once seen another seagull in a top hat dancing at the Trocadero. It was the most elegant thing ever. He became entranced by imagery and longed to give expression to his own special voice. There was no doubt, he was a poet at heart.� That’s what his girlfriend, Sandy Barr, told him. Never mind, he knew the truth anyway. He was always functioning with his head in the stratosphere. There was something about it that felt so right. He knew it was his true calling.� He was a vagabond, a troubadour, a traveling jester, riding the winds and sometimes performing for his meals. But he had higher aspirations. He wanted to put his experiences in words. His world was something that needed and cried out for sharing.� He’d breathed in autumn’s tangy smell from wood-burning stoves; felt the sharpness in the air as winter’s cold grip crept in. He’d seen the brightness bloom as spring’s healing bonnet led to summer’s torpor and absorbed the splintery hues of water in all its seasons.� He knew writing poetry was no path to riches. That was okay with him. Few seagulls achieved worldly success. Jonathan Livingston had been a rare exception. For a while, Johnnie L. had been able to enjoy a high life based on royalties. Then the fortune ran out and existence depended on scraps the same as for everyone else.� Still, he was bothered by some misconceptions about his brethren. The bad thing that humans said about seagulls, that they were all scavengers, was a liquorice-hearted lie. Humans thought they were so smart. What did they know? Did they think all of his swooping and swirling in flight was just for fun? No, it was sky-writing in 3-D.� The aerial scripture was satisfying in its own way, but now he wanted to find a larger audience. How to reach out to people? Damnable kids with their opposable thumbs, text messaging each other willy-nilly. It was like trying to decipher the Da Vinci code, figuring out what they were saying. Give him old-fashioned language, something he could get his beak around.� There was little encouragement for artistic expression in his crepuscular world. Cawing crows and their cousin ravens were vicious critics. What gave them the right? The last time one of them squawked something interesting was �śNevermore” at Edgar Allan Poe’s garden party.� If he was going to take writing seriously, maybe he should start composing movie reviews. That’s where some of the best phrases and thematic stitchings were to be found. He knew the subject matter. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t circled around and dropped in on enough drive-in theatres in his day.� There were words he had always wanted to use. He knew from experience the beading and sparkling sea could be variously vermilion, cerulean and umbrous. The amniotic air was often languorous or limpid. � Ah poetry, the muted music of the soul - unless one went on a speaking tour. What wouldn’t he give to project his words before a receptive audience in a plummy English actor’s voice?� But all these plans and speculations were tiring him out. He’d stand one-legged on this rock for a while and let the day’s last embrace slip away. In the twilight, he’d go for a final swim.� If the setting sun angled just right, he’d ride along on a seeming sea of butter. A few popcorn clouds would float above, ready for dipping. He’d wait for the first stars to sprinkle down from heaven’s salt shaker, before heading inland to some farmer’s field.� Wheat-quilted dreams would then bring new imaginings. It was a mighty fine life.� Real Estate Purgatory� October 10, 2009� My family – wife and two daughters – had already re-located to Calgary. My job in the energy sector was taking me to where the action is, Alberta’s oil patch. I was staying behind temporarily to spend time with our real estate agent, trying to sell our townhome. It was mid-fall and we had been conducting an open house all day.� Miranda was a petite young thing, an ethereal honey blonde, from one of Canada’s best-known realtors. I had chosen her company based on its on-air advertisements and bus-bench signs. Poor Miranda, though, still had a great deal to learn about the business. Her biggest problem was that she was too honest.� Newlyweds, older couples, single people, it didn’t matter. They’d show up at the front door, we’d invite them in and then Miranda would begin to point out all the flaws in the house. The roof leaked. There was no basement. The cupboard doors were falling off their hinges. None of the bathroom faucets was lined up perpendicular. Every tap dripped.� Furthermore, the nearest schools were a bit of a hike. And there were notorious gangs fighting it out over the local teenage drug trade. Nevertheless, I quite liked Miranda. She was fun company with a wicked sense of humour and a sly ability to provoke outrage. She particularly liked telling prospective buyers about the ghosts that haunted the place.� An earlier owner had been a young man with a bipolar psychopathic disorder. He went off his meds one night while his girlfriend was staying over. He’d mistaken her for a vampire and driven a stake through her heart. When the realization sank in about what he’d done, the overwhelming remorse caused him to take his own life by way of an overdose. All of this happened in the upstairs master bedroom.� Most visitors were appalled by Miranda’s story. But some liked the sensationalism. Others even saw past the bare bones of the plot and savoured the romantic elements in the mix of shocking ingredients. Me, I quickly became used to it and rather perversely enjoyed watching the reactions it elicited.� As the day wore down and the flow of adult visitors dwindled, I became conscious of what time of year it was. I looked out the front window and saw tiny goblins and ninja warriors starting to fill up the street. The doorbell rang again, but this time it was a storybook princess and a tiny pooh bear that demanded our attention.� In all the excitement, I had failed to remember it was Halloween. Miranda and I grabbed a lawn chair each and positioned ourselves outside the front door. It was an unusually mild night for late October in Toronto. We were quite comfortable as we watched the passing parade. As I had forgotten to buy candy, I let Miranda handle our gift to the children as they approached us in our lair. She simply told them her ghost story.� After a long day, I was becoming exhausted. But a satisfying sense of ease and composure was overcoming me nonetheless. The world was transforming into a better place. It had been a long time since I was so contented and happy – 365 days to be exact.� You see, I haven’t been completely up front with you. Miranda and I have been following exactly this same routine for many years. First the charade of trying to sell the house, then regaling and scaring the children on Halloween night. Miranda’s story contains elements of truth but it falls short in the personal and intimate details.� I was planning a career move to Calgary with my family and Miranda was our real estate agent. But my wife was a witch. No, I don’t mean she was a bad person. She was working the neighbourhood dressed as a witch, with our daughters, Dora the explorer and her faithful sidekick, the monkey Boots. The girls ran ahead to catch up with some friends and my wife took the opportunity to return home for a short break.� Suffice it to say she found Miranda and I doing more than talking about property values. Let me put it another way. I had submitted a �śrezoning application” and she was considering �śminor variances” to what we had been doing for several months.� First, my wife shot me through the temple with her security revolver. Then she rushed back outside and plucked the �śfor sale” sign from our front lawn. Returning to confront my hysterical lover, she rammed the pointy end of the support post through Miranda’s chest.� The scene was re-arranged to look like a murder-suicide. Eventually, the police interpreted it as a real estate deal gone bad. In the meantime, my wife returned to �śtrick or treating” with our daughters and no one was the wiser. Later, she started a new life in a location which I have never been able to determine.� Now Miranda and I hover in what I have come to view as permanent escrow. It’s not so bad. We have relative peace. And once a year, I’m able to sit on my front lawn, Miranda by my side telling her spooky and mostly made-up tale. I get a big jack-o-lantern grin on my face. There’s only one really bad side effect. I always develop a supernatural hunger for pumpkin pie that can never be satisfied.� I Got Robbed by a Liquor Store� October 18, 2009� I have a story that I know needs to be handled with delicacy. Thank goodness �śfinesse” is my middle name. The media often give coverage to how some hapless and usually incompetent bad guy robs a liquor store. However, this time it was the liquor store that robbed me and I’m not happy about it. Nor am I a bad guy. Or at least, that’s what I would like to think.� This is as good a time as any to introduce a spoiler alert. Not in the sense that I am going to give away a surprise ending. But rather that I am about to reveal a side of myself you may find shocking, disturbing or, at the very least, sadly disappointing. Or maybe you’ll see me as a hero, standing up for the little guy. No, even I don’t think that’s likely.� This past Friday night, on the cusp of Canadian Thanksgiving weekend, I knew some wine would need to be purchased to serve to all of the guests we were expecting for Sunday’s turkey dinner. That meant a sojourn to the local liquor store. It is a curious offshoot of temperance-days Ontario that alcohol in this province is sold in government-run establishments proudly displaying the LCBO logo. That’s Liquor Control Board of Ontario for the uninitiated.� It is also an oddity that the nicest store in almost any small hamlet in this province is now the liquor store. There has been a surge of investment in such facilities and their design has been spruced up to the point where spirits and suds jump off the shelves and into customers’ shopping carts. A brighter and shinier establishment you could not possibly imagine. This is all by way of an aside, except that there is an issue concerning who has the moral high ground – the alcohol pushers or me - as you will see in a moment or two.� So I went into the local liquor store, picked up my libations and headed to the cash. It being a pre-holiday evening, the line-up was longer than usual. I knew I was headed for trouble when the sales clerk, in a loud voice that was only a decibel short of a shout, asked the man in front of me, �śWould you like to contribute an extra two dollars for the Save the World and All its Creatures Fund?” (I’ve changed the name because there is a limit to how much trouble I want to bring onto myself.)� This was met with a somewhat gruff, �śSure, why not” and the transaction was quickly over. My predecessor in the line showed a good deal of common sense. He recognized the inevitable and got on with his life. Do you think I could do the same? Not likely.� By now, a considerable line-up had formed behind me. The bill was being tallied on my purchases and I knew the dreaded question would soon be posed. I was about to be strong-armed into paying two dollars more than I wanted to. It’s not like booze is cheap in the first place. There are government duties, taxes and sin levies that make the whole exercise of trying to relax, albeit with the help of an inebriant, an expensive proposition. Such charges are supposedly implemented for our own good in order to curb our excesses. Who’s kidding whom?� My mind was going clippety-clop to come up with an acceptable and face-saving response. I could say I gave at the office. But everyone knows that’s a cop-out and probably a lie. Besides, it sounds wimpy. I could say that after dispensing their allowances to my children, I was strapped for funds. That is substantially accurate, but still lame. Or finally, and this would have been my favourite, I could say, �śNo. I need every extra cent I can get my hands on to feed my drug habit.” No matter what I came up with, my position was going to be untenable.� But I felt I had to make a point. So when he said, �śWould you like to contribute an extra $2 for our featured charity?” I said, �śWell no, I’m not excited by the idea. But here you go anyway.” You might be surprised at my lack of integrity. If I really objected, I should have said �śno” period. But long-time experience in these matters has taught me such a forthright approach is not really the best road to take.� By forking over the money while still stating my objections, I’m imagining I’ve retained some street �ścred” with the other shoppers lined up behind me. I could imagine them thinking, �śThis guy is a tad cranky. He’s probably had a rough day. But he’s really not so bad. Look, he’s making a contribution despite how he feels.”� In fact, I see paying the $2 as my ticket to say pretty much whatever I like. My objection is I resent being coerced in this way. I give money to the appropriate charities when the spirit moves me. I am a bit of a miser, it’s true, but I’ve learned to be wary about where monetary contributions for a good cause actually wind up.� I warned you early on I would not come out looking like an exemplar of good will and generosity in this tale. Here’s how I would summarize what transpired. This was fundraising under the auspices of the �śEmbarrass Them in Public” school of motivational techniques.� It’s like when you go into the drugstore and the cashier goes live on the loudspeaker with the words, �śHarold, I’ve got a guy here who says he’s got ringworm on his butt and the itchiness is driving him crazy (snicker snicker). Can you look in the back and see if we have any cream that would help him out?” This is a strictly hypothetical example, of course.� It may seem like I’m making an awfully big fuss over only $2. Well a couple of bucks here and a couple of bucks there add up over time. I need the money myself for the lotions, balms and salves that will make my own life more bearable as I head into the physical abyss beyond middle age. I can work the sympathy angle too.� Since I’ve already gone this far, I might as well be completely open. I actually do have a jar at home into which I place all of my spare change at the end of the day. What’s my secret goal? It’s to save up enough money for a professional botox treatment. Barring that, maybe I’ll have to spring for some plastic surgery.� Given my proclivity for offending decent and caring folk, altering my appearance in a major way may be a necessary measure to ensure self-preservation.� The CAB Nations and their Rogue Currency� October 31, 2009� There are three nations that have survived the recession quite well, thank you very much, due to their raw material riches, – Australia, Brazil and Canada. It would seem to be a natural progression for these three countries to come together in a new economic bloc to be known as the ABC nations.� Canada and Brazil have oil. Australia is the world’s largest exporter of coal. All three have nickel. From the companies Billiton, Vale and Rio Tinto in metals and mining and Bombardier and Embraer in regional jets, there are many commonalities in resources and industrial enterprises. Wheat, corn, sugar cane and oranges – with respect to one crop or another, the ABC nations are all deep in agricultural products. The list of ingredients in their treasury chests goes on and on.� There’s the natural beauty. Australia and Brazil have incredible beaches. The girl from Ipanema strolls along the sea-kissed sands south of Rio de Janeiro. Canada has the honeymoon capital of the world, Niagara Falls.� Australia is known as the land down under. For its part, Canada is the land frozen over. That may be a bit harsh.� Australia has the outback. Check out a map of South America. Brazil is the hunchback. Three continents are represented in ABC.� Canada has the North Pole. Santa Claus is a Canadian and pays taxes in this country. So do his elves. His reindeer take off under Canadian air traffic control.� What about adding Chile to the grouping? After all, it is the world’s largest producer of copper. I’m not crazy about the name though. Canada is cold enough.� Brazil is already part of an internationally recognized economic group, BRIC, comprised of Brazil, Russia, India and China. Why would the Cariocas want to join with the Aussies and the Canucks?� In Australia’s case, the two are similar in their exotic natures. Brazil has the Amazon River, verdant jungles, Bossa Novas and Sambas. Australia has kangaroos and wallabies, boomerangs and billabongs. It also offers the chance to dance with Matilda.� In Canada’s case, to learn English? Or French? Or a hundred other languages in the new national mosaic. Here’s another thought. A nation that has a President with the nickname LULU seems to be a likely candidate to hook up with a country that has a currency referred to as the loonie.� But where does Canada sit on the exotic-o-meter? We’re kind of the regular bagel in the Tim Horton’s donut shop. We’re the bran to other nations’ fruit loops. Let me revise bran to corn flakes. At least that way, we have half a chance of being seen as flaky.� Come to think of it, Montréal’s Cirque de Soleil is a natural fit with Carnival de Rio. There are some definite potential synergies.� I know, somebody is going to say we’ve given the world ice hockey. Okay, then maybe another name for the three-nation grouping could be the �śhat trick.” That’s the special phrase sportscasters apply when the same player scores three goals in a single game. It denotes a remarkable achievement.� There’s another reason the term �śhat trick” may be appropriate. ABC would require hard bargaining by government negotiators. On the other hand, it’s a well-known gambit of conference organizers that one way to get staid delegates to loosen up is to have them wear silly hats.� Actually, I would prefer the ordering of ABC to be altered to CAB. First, because it would place Canada at the front. Second, because it lends itself to further wordplay.� CAB, if it is successful enough, could eventually come to form a common market with its own currency. And there’s where the CAB designation comes in so handy.� Such a common currency could be called the �śtaxi”. Or how about the �śfare”, �śride”, �śstand” or �śhack”? Here’s my favourite, the �śrogue”.� The population of CAB is presently one quarter of a billion, with Brazil contributing 80% of the total. Maybe we should keep things real when it comes to the currency.� Sorry if I’m confusing you. You may think I’ve adopted street lingo affectation. No, it so happens the name of Brazil’s currency at this time is the �śreal”. What a coincidence.� The blended exchange rate for CAB may be on steroids, but �śkeeping it real” will have extra meaning for Brazil over the next several years. It is a legitimate theme for the athletes who will be competing in the 2016 Summer Olympics in Rio.� Let’s all head down there, and who needs much of an excuse, six years after Vancouver’s big sporting event, the Winter Olympic Games, conclude in February 2010.� The Devil Pulls a Fast One� November 7, 2009� The devil and God were having lunch at the Zeus and Apollo restaurant on the Danforth in Toronto. The devil was partial to Greek food and, while God preferred Middle Eastern fare, He was content to let the devil have his way.� The two didn’t like each other much. But God didn’t see how He could expect humans to reach a rapprochement with each other if He couldn’t sit down and break bread, or in this case pita and hummus, with His enemy.� Besides, bi-monthly, they had to go over the tally of departed souls to see who was being claimed by each side.� About the time the saganaki arrived and the waiter was setting fire to the ouzo, the devil started to discuss the file of one Carl Stark. Carl had been a scientist by education and training in his workaday life, but an inventor by choice and affection in his spare time.� Carl, just now recently deceased, had been approached by the devil decades before. He had been offered fame and fortune in exchange for his soul. After a surprisingly short amount of consideration, Carl rejected the devil’s offer. This was a shock.� After all, in any practical sense, Carl was a failed inventor. He was always coming up with new ideas, but none of them ever caught on. Frustration was beginning to eat away at him and he seemed to be a perfect candidate for the devil’s sales pitch.� Carl did comfort himself with the notion that maybe, just maybe, one of his ideas would take off someday, perhaps even after he was dead. Of course, that wouldn’t do him much good in terms of worldly possessions, but at least it would make his name famous. He was dearly hoping for that outcome.� That’s what he told the devil. �śI want to earn my own way. If my achievements aren’t recognized until after I’m in my grave, then so be it.”� The devil was insulted and angered by this attitude and decided to exact his revenge. He chose to let Carl see the future unfold. The cruel punishment would be played out over a very long period of time.� When Carl experienced a life-threatening car accident, the devil made sure he recovered. Subsequently, the devil found Carl a wife to keep an eye on him and guard his well-being. They had children that were a plague on their house in the teenage years, but those times did pass.� Wrapped within the bosom of his family, Carl struggled with his inventions in the garage and in the basement every weekend and most weeknights. Everyone knew where to find him. He’d be whistling and singing as he came up with one unsuccessful concept after another.� Each time one of Carl’s inventions failed, it made him work harder on the next project. What he learned from his hobby did spill over into his day job, making him a better research scientist, but that was neither here nor there. None of his beloved creations clicked with the public.� The devil saw to it Carl lived 30 years longer than he should have. The devil wanted Carl to understand he was never going to be famous. That nothing he ever did in his personal life was going to find public expression. There was going to be no take-off or �śtipping” point, no launch pad and no skyrocketing. Not in this life and not ever.� When Carl’s mortal vessel finally slipped its tether, after a brief illness and quiet easing, there was no media coverage or national attention. Only second, third and fourth generation family and their friends were in attendance at the dignified funeral.� The devil could not have been more pleased with himself. When he finished telling God all about his evil triumph, what could God say but, �śYou got me good on that one, BB.” Everyone knows the devil, or Beelzebub as he’s sometimes called in the Bible, has no shortage of �śOld Nick” names.� But secretly God had a warm feeling in His heart. He made sure not to give any outward sign of His pleasure. As He thought back over the totality of Carl’s long and often-times rewarding life, one thought did force its way to the foreground of His bright focus. Apparently the devil had never heard of the phrase �śunintended consequences.”� Giving a Finger to the Moon� November 14, 2009� Frank had learned how to control his dreams. He had never experienced nightmares before. That’s why the past several months were so disturbing for him.� His power over dreams first came when he was a young boy. He’d perused a magazine photo of Michelangelo’s famous scene on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel in Rome’s Vatican. It depicted Adam, from Genesis, receiving the electric shock of life with an outstretched finger. Ever since, Frank used that mental image to adjust his dreams in any way he liked.� Whenever dream sequences seemed to be taking a darker turn, he taught himself to employ a simple trick. He would snap his imaginings back to a dark country lane at midnight. High in the sky, between a lacy veil of branches, a full overstuffed moon would hang bright and shiny.� From out of the horizon on Frank’s left, a giant finger would reach across the sky and push the moon’s bulbous presence. That action would be the equivalent of hitting a reset button. The former awkwardness would immediately vanish and Frank would be transported to a different place, to enjoy ethereal good times once again.� His life was fairly sunny to begin with. He met with mostly success, first in his academic endeavors, then in his business ventures. He usually slept with a sound conscience.� In his dreams, he’d be the star quarterback on a professional football team. Or the best hockey player in the world. The ladies would adore him. Their shapes came in all varieties and guises. He travelled the phantom world and was given the keys to the kingdom wherever he alighted.� That’s the way things had been until a couple of months ago. Suddenly everything was altered. Whenever he walked down that back country lane, the tree branches would bend over and block out his sighting of the moon. He’d hear some distant music that was familiar and haunting, but frustratingly inaccessible.� Then out of the blackness, they would emerge – the crazed-eyed and clearly mad creatures doing their slow dance. It was a league of zombies advancing relentlessly and voraciously to embrace him. Later than usual in life, he was starting to acquire a familiarity with night-time dreads.� Frank would wake up with a start in a cold sweat and be afraid to go back to sleep. This was leading to a persistent insomnia that was affecting him badly. Going to bed was no longer a pleasant experience. His nocturnal misadventures did open his eyes in another way, however.� He began to notice vampires were everywhere. Maybe it was only make-believe – but then again, perhaps not. There were thousands of books on the subject. Television was inundated by �śundead” programming. So were the movies, with one blockbuster hit after another showcasing actors with pale and haunted demeanors. People lapped it up. Frank could not see the appeal.� The seduction and eroticism were obvious attractions. And for self-absorbed baby boomers, eternal life was going to be a drawing card. But what was one to think of all the blood? It was more than a little icky and tasteless. Frank was himself a vegetarian and blood was a type of non-traditional dietary supplement that was beyond his comprehension.� His daylight hours were becoming ever more difficult, but Frank wasn’t ready to give up. He was going to confront his demons. Every night when he went to bed, he tried harder and harder to escape the stranglehold of the forest. If he could get to a clearing and see the moon again, maybe he would understand what was going on. Had Adam’s limpid finger abandoned him?� Finally, the night of significant breakthrough arrived. After a particularly awful day of walking around in a fog, Frank fell into a deep and troubled sleep. Before the zombies could approach and while the music in his head was just a murmur, Frank retreated up the lane as fast as he could.� Then it happened. He stumbled backwards into a clearing among the trees. He looked skyward, seeking celestial help. What he saw instead chilled him to the bone. This time, instead of Adam’s gnarly digit of old, it was a huge white-gloved hand that was stretching across the sky.� A gentle push was applied to the milk-white bauble and the music rose to a crescendo. Now the tune was recognizable. The sound track from Thriller reverberated through his skull at full throttle. At the same time, he realized all was hopeless. His rhythm and soul were lost. His only option was to moonwalk back into darkness. When it came to Frank’s sleepy-time wanderings, Michael Jackson was now calling the shots, from his perch in rock and roll heaven.� Witness to a Backyard Execution� November 21, 2009� We were all in the backyard to witness an execution – my grandmother, parents, sister and brother. Standing around the fire pit, Nana lit the kindling. Then she placed the painting on the pyre. Almost immediately, the canvas was consumed by flames. The more substantial frame took longer. It was a sad moment for all of us, but a necessary part of our grieving process.� Grandpa Fred died the month before. It had been a lengthy illness and we were all prepared, as much as one ever can be, for his passing. The painting had been one of his prime talking points for as long as I knew him and to burn it seemed like a sacrilege. But Nana was adamant.� Three feet by two feet, it had hung on my grandparents’ living room wall above the fireplace forever. It was not a particularly good painting in a technical sense. The brush strokes were frantic, the perspective was slightly off and the composition didn’t come fully to life. But it was the subject matter that counted.� For a spectator facing it, the bottom left quadrant was dominated by a coyote with head extended upward and snout open. In the background was a train trestle, with a steam locomotive charging upward across the expanse from right to left. The foreground at the bottom right featured a moonlight-dappled river. The time of day was early evening. It was quintessential Canadiana.� Grandpa used to love talking about the work. It was out of place in the rest of the house, which was full of fine furniture and lovingly-chosen artworks. But a chord had been struck and the older grandpa became, the more he would stare at this particular scene of northern Ontario.� He talked about the mood of the piece, a combination of melancholy, wistfulness and isolation. Then there was the unheard music – the howl of the coyote and the air-splitting whistle of the train. There are few more mournful sounds on earth. It depicted a time that was already over. Diesels and electrics now rule the rails. New infrastructure is replacing the grand old railway crossings. And nature in the raw is being driven further backwards into whatever bush remains.� Grandpa seemed to become more obsessed by the painting with each passing year. There was a sense it symbolized his own withdrawal from the newest fashions and influences to seek refuge in the past and more familiar memories from his youth. I asked but never got an answer about who the artist was. I came to believe grandpa had probably done it himself when he was a young man and lingering affection for those early days kept him in its thrall.� After the unofficial ceremony, we all moved into the house and the day resumed a more normal rhythm. We ate a late lunch, the other members of my family took their leave and I was left alone with Grandma. We sat quietly together in the dining room, each in our own thoughts. Finally, I broached the subject of the painting.� �śGrandpa really loved that painting, eh, Nana?” I said.� �śWhat? Oh sorry, I was thinking about something else. No, he absolutely hated it.”� �śI beg your pardon.”� �śHe loathed that painting. He thought it was awful.”� �śHow can that be? He talked about it all the time.”� �śI guess I can speak about it now. Look around you. This house is full of beautiful artworks. Your grandfather had terrific taste. He was a connoisseur. McEwen, Lemieux, Roberts and Ronald, those are the artists we’ve bought over the years, all top rung.”� She could see my confusion and continued with her story. �śThe painting we burned today was done by a boyfriend of mine from before I met your grandfather. It was given to me as a present after a brief intimacy that was quickly over. When Fred and I got married, I insisted we hang it in a prominent place partly as a test of our new partnership.� �śAfter some preliminary resistance, Fred came through beautifully. He accepted me for who I am, past, present and future. Gradually over the years, we were even able to laugh about Coyote Moon as we came to call it. Then as far as the rest of you were concerned, Fred had some secret fun putting you on about his regard for that painting.”� �śThen why burn it?”� �śTo officially bury my long-ago past. And out of respect for your grandfather. He really did think the painting was horrible. To have lived with it all those years for my sake made him quite a man.”� I was still stunned and it showed. That’s when she said the words that have stayed with me ever since.� �śYou still have some living to do, don’t you, Sonny?”� So You Think You Know Flop Sweat� November 28, 2009� It’s a terror nearly as elemental as the fear of dying. It can bring strong men to their knees and turn the smartest of women into incoherent babblers. Maybe you already know where I’m headed. It’s public speaking and there’s nothing else quite like its scary prospect. Many people would rather go through a spinal tap than have to address an audience. I know the feeling. It’s been part of my job throughout my adult life and not once have I ever been completely relaxed.� Do it often enough and it does get easier. When I was starting out in my career, I would begin to get anxious weeks before a speaking engagement. Only in the last several years has my period of anxiety been reduced to a couple of days ahead of time, followed by a night of sleeplessness afterwards. It’s easy to get so wound up it’s impossible to find tranquility.� In my own small way, I have come to understand why professional entertainers need to find equilibrium by artificial means. The highs and the lows are too extreme. I have managed to get my most extreme anxiety down to about one hour before I am called to the podium. I prefer to be outside the room until the very last moment. But often that is not possible. The hosts of whatever event one has been invited to often expect their guest to mix with the delegates. Believe me, the last thing one wants to do is to insult someone who will be sitting in the audience.� This opens the door to all kinds of problems. Someone might ask a question I can’t answer, which is hardly a confidence builder. Or they might give expression to that most dreaded of all queries, �śSo Alex, what are you going to tell us today?” My mind usually goes blank when so confronted. If some intelligence does creep back in, then there’s the matter of responding in a sentence or two. And if I do pull it off, whatever reason is there for anyone to linger on in the room? Never mind that I hate to have to say the same thing over again when I’m on stage.� There are some people who seem to be naturally outgoing and love to stand in front of an audience. I’m more reticent, but I’ve learned to do it anyway. One of my coping mechanisms is to make sure I have gone over my material an adequate number of times. I have found three to be the right number of trial presentations. At that level, the words will come out under almost any circumstances, from panic attack right up to and including nuclear bombardment. Actually, the latter has never really been tested, but I suspect it would hold true regardless.� Any more times than three and I get bored out of my skin and one has to at least seem interested in one’s own material. Fewer than three rehearsals, however, can leave me vulnerable to searching around for the best way to express an idea or make a point. Ten years into my career, I decided on one occasion to deliver a presentation with no preparation at all. I figured if I could wing it and not think about things beforehand, the anxiety would be eliminated.� It worked up to a point. I wasn’t terribly nervous during the drive to the site. But then I walked into the room and saw 100-plus people in their business suits. My attitude took an abrupt 180 degree turn. It was a dinner presentation and wine was being served. To ease my nerves, I had a glass or two. Feeling only a little better and now in a bit of a fog, I was called to the front.� Most of the grizzled businessmen in the audience could tell I didn’t have a firm grasp on what I was saying. Early on, they started ignoring me and talking among themselves. That caused me to lean into the microphone harder and crank up the volume. Then to really get their attention, I began to make things up. I started with mild untruths that quickly blossomed into outrageous fabrications. Let’s leave it that I still shudder when I think back to that night.� The things that go through my mind in the one hour before I go behind a podium are explosively confusing. My life flashes before my eyes. What am I doing here? Why on earth would anyone want to hear what I have to say? Is there anyone in this room who knows less than I do? What if I have to pee? Where are the exits? I’m pretty sure this is the worst way ever to make a living.� My father had a deep and rich manly voice. He craved listeners and attention. My voice doesn’t match his for media-quality timbre. But I’ve come to understand there are advantages in not sounding or appearing like everyone else. Thank goodness for microphones that can amplify tones even if a figurative marshmallow somehow becomes lodged in one’s larynx.� Often, I’ve had to sit at a raised dais with other presenters at the front of a conference room. That’s where one can get more insight into the speaking experience. I’ve known experienced men and women who’ve thrown up with regularity just before every presentation. I’ve had to endure the cash and key janglers who make so much noise in their pockets you can’t hear what they’re saying. Then there are the guys who bold-facedly say that their slides tell it all. �śJust read what I have to say.” They stand aside and leave the audience in stunned bewilderment.� The worst situation occurred once when I sat beside some poor unfortunate soul who I’m sure wished he could have been anywhere else but headed for what he assumed would be public humiliation. Sitting next to him, I could not help but notice he was developing the flop sweats that stand-up comedians sometimes talk about. Then I heard some barely audible groans.� What to do? If I ask if he’s alright, this will bring attention to his plight and probably make the situation worse. If I don’t say anything, he might lose all control and leap from the room or go into cardiac arrest. Then I would bear considerable responsibility. Somehow we got to the appointed time, the oblivious chairperson introduced my new �śbuddy” and he did miraculously manage to get through his material without too many people noticing his distress.� I once read somewhere that when one passes the age of 50, the brain cells controlling anxiety start to die off. This is supposed to be a self-defence mechanism against aging and the �śdying of the light”. Whether or not it’s really true, I choose to believe that such is the case. It seems to have helped me deal with anxiety better as I’ve become older. It certainly has played a role in my not being as concerned when it comes to public speaking.� Here’s another factor. Most of the people I used to care so much about impressing or not letting down have left the industry, retired or are dead. That puts things in perspective. There are gruesome advantages to having such an advanced number of years under my suspenders.� The Weatherman, the Economist and the Gypsy Lady� December 1, 2009� A weatherman, an economist and a little old gypsy lady were attending a forecasters’ convention. After all the speeches and the events of the first day, they met in a bar and had a few drinks together.� As the night wore on, they challenged each other to reveal their worst forecasting errors.� The weatherman spoke about how he completely missed Hurricane Katrina. He didn’t think he would ever be able to forgive himself for the oversight.� �śThat’s nothing,” said the economist. �śI blew the whole sub-prime mortgage fiasco and then completely underestimated the ensuing Great Recession. My career has been suffering ever since.”� That left the gypsy lady. �śI failed to foresee I would be arrested for fraud and spend a year in jail.”� �śThat’s pretty bad, all right. How’d that happen?” said the weatherman.� �śI had a client who was a judge. We had a falling out and he had me arrested. Judges can pretty much get away with murder in the legal system, you know. And who’s going to believe me over a judge?”� �śThere has to be more to the story,” said the economist. �śHe must have had some pretext if you were sent to jail.”� �śI admit I’m not really a good person. I was using some confidential information I had on the judge to try to bleed him dry financially.”� �śSo maybe you deserved to be arrested,” said the weatherman.� �śIt wasn’t really the money that bothered him. He didn’t like the fact I kept asking for his endorsement. He didn’t want his name connected with my crystal ball operation. From my side, I was trying to do everything I could to promote my franchise.”� �śSounds to me like he was justified in being upset,” said the economist.� �śMaybe, but I still think he took advantage of his position. Anyway, I got my revenge. I put a curse on him the last time I saw him. Whether due to remorse, fright or bad luck, he had a heart attack and died within a week.”� �śYou mentioned blackmail. What was that all about?”� �śIn the course of his many visits to my quarters, I found out certain things about the judge. To his community, he came across as a nice family man. But I learned he had a secret mistress and he was taking bribes.”� �śThat’s terrible,” said the weatherman and he looked glum as could be.� �śI know and I have decided to make amends. Later this week, I plan to turn all of my ill-gotten gains from the judge back to his family. My own guilt has overcome me.”� Now both the weatherman and the economist were looking deeply troubled.� �śWhat’s the matter?” said the gypsy lady.� �śShould we tell her?” said the economist.� �śI guess we have to, now that it’s been done,” said the weatherman. �śWe’re the judge’s sons, we heard about the curse and we’ve been poisoning your drinks on the sly since you first sat down with us. You now have only a few minutes to live.”� All three of them looked morose and depressed.� �śI didn’t see the events of this evening coming at all” said the gypsy lady.� �śThere have been some disclosures I didn’t expect either,” added the weatherman.� �śSeems like we’re all at the wrong conference,” said the economist.� The Red-Suit Mistletoe Initiative� December 8, 2009� Little Jimmy Flotsam, aged 10 and living in Tampa, had never known Christmas. The current year was 2025 and in 2015 Santa Claus and his wife had wrapped things up at the North Pole and skipped town, so to speak. In a sadly mimicking blow, Jimmy’s father abandoned his family when his only child was three. Jimmy was left to ponder the delights of a family Christmas only through books and old movies. But all of that changed in the most recent December.� Jimmy’s mother, Heather, struggling to raise her son as a single parent, managed to claw her way up the ranks at the network that owned one of the major local television stations. She became a regional researcher for the nationally syndicated show that asked, �śWhere are they now?” Recently, she had lucked upon a story that would make headlines around the nation.� She discovered Santa Claus and his wife were living in the Eternal Springs retirement home in the panhandle region of northern Florida. They were known to the rest of the residents as simply Christopher and Noelle Beard. She discovered this amazing fact by way of a tipster who noticed Mr. Beard bore a striking resemblance to one Kris Kringle. Everybody had been wondering what happened to Santa Claus since his disappearance many years before.� Heather called Mr. and Mrs. Beard to make an appointment to visit with them. Mr. Beard was at first reluctant to talk and he was shy about admitting his true identity. But with some prodding, he began to open up and eventually seemed eager to tell his tale. So many people had been upset when he closed down his reindeer and elf facility, but there was another side to the story and it was important to make everyone aware of the difficult situation he found himself in.� Heather made the several-hours trip to Panama City and spent the afternoon with Mr. and Mrs. Claus. She took Jimmy with her for company and to meet the formerly jolly old man. While Mrs. Claus baked and served gingerbread, along with egg-nog, Heather listened with keen attention to what Santa said. The way he put it, a �śperfect storm” of misfortune overwhelmed him.� Santa’s problems started way back in the fall of 2008. The endowment fund that financed all of his activities at the North Pole, from making toys to keeping his employees housed and fed, was destroyed along with many hedge and private equity funds when the stock market collapsed. He tried to save what he could, selling the remainder of his shareholdings and putting the money into U.S. Treasuries. They held up for a while, but then the value of the U.S. dollar plummeted. Santa’s operations were world-wide. This second financial blow was devastating.� Santa’s parcel delivery system was never able to fully recover. Nevertheless, it did limp along for another couple of years. Staff members and livestock kept leaving� through attrition, old age and illness and there were no means to replace them. Then came the torpedo that sank the ship. There were new government regulations that finally worked their way through the approvals process. Under other circumstances, Santa would have eagerly endorsed the measures. They set emissions standards to clean up the environment.� The threat of a carbon tax had been hanging in the air for some time. Santa’s North Pole was sitting on a thermal coal deposit. That’s why he was always able to hand out lumps of coal to children who were not very good during the previous 12 months. Fuel for his production line and all of his heating needs came from an unacceptably dirty source.� The carbon tax was the drain on his funds that broke his back. Furthermore, on this issue, he stood firmly on the wrong side. He was never going to be able to win over the hearts and minds of the general population to let him continue operating in the same old manner. Talk about a public relations nightmare. Besides, he no longer possessed the money to hire lawyers to fight on his behalf. He knew he was licked. He and Mrs. Claus packed it in and moved to Toronto.� For a while, Santa was able to get by on his reputation. After all, he did have expertise in certain areas. He knew about chimneys, for example. He could scamper in and out of them in the twinkle of an eye and, therefore, he spent a few good years working as a steeplejack. But Santa wasn’t a teenager anymore, the work was strenuous and, to be honest, it was boring.� Then he tried his hand at running a comic book store. The problem was he lacked the right amount of business acumen. He kept giving away his merchandise. One would think Santa might have a problem coping with new technology. That was never the case, however. He had always been a quick study when it came to advanced scientific methods.� He was one of the first private-sector non-combatants to understand the �śstealth” system developed by the U.S. military. That’s how he had been able to keep the location of his northern property a secret for so long. It also accounted for his ability to navigate his sleigh across the night skies while maintaining such a strong safety record versus other flying objects.� No matter what Santa did to keep busy, however, he was always wracked by thoughts of how he let so many people down. He imagined looks of reproach and disapproval all around him. It became impossible to bear. He and Mrs. Claus took their lead from many other Canadian snowbirds. They decided to relocate to Florida and start over again under assumed names.� In their new home, they made many friends and their lives were comfortable. But there was always a residue of guilt and regret to haunt him. Maybe now was the right moment to tell the whole story. With the passage of time, the weight of public opinion might have lifted.� Santa and his missus agreed to be interviewed at the local TV station. The program aired the night before Christmas. He had been right about the timing. Their plight was a sensation. Public sympathy swung over to their side. Save-the-Claus Foundations were set up on the Internet and money poured in.� But this presented another dilemma. Santa was once an advocate of the �śgo big or go home” principle of corporate management. Look how that turned out. For much of the past hundred years, things were clearly out of hand leading up to the holidays.� No, this time he was going to do things differently. That’s where Jimmy came in. From the date of their first exploratory meeting at the seniors’ home, the two of them became good pals despite being mismatched in so many ways. Santa was the father-figure Jimmy needed for emotional sustenance.� From Santa’s perspective, Jimmy was a young and joyful pleasure with never an accusing look. Santa had a wealth of stories he enjoyed sharing and Jimmy was an eager and attentive audience. Mrs. Claus and Heather were also appreciative that the �śmen” in their lives were in better frames of mind.� Santa, the former high priest of gift-giving, started to think a great deal more about the nature of worth and value. He understood that the fancier the gift, the greater the potential for dismissal. He had seen too many expensive presents taken for granted. What was most desirable? He and Jimmy already knew. Theirs was a quixotic relationship formed despite difficult circumstances.� Better means must be found to bring people together. He realized his thoughts were heading in the right direction. Attention-paid and time spent are the most important things in life. Reaching out and touching another human being on a personal level is where spirituality begins.� Therefore, with some of their funding restored, Santa and Mrs.Claus have launched their Red-Suit Mistletoe Initiative, of which this story is the kick-off editorial. It is their firm belief each of us needs to connect with family, friends and those in distress in a more meaningful and supportive way. They have no doubt that through good faith and firmer commitment the answer to the true meaning of Christmas can take on a deeper and more sustainable significance.� Pedro Martinez’ Incredible String of Good Luck� December 15, 2009� Pedro Martinez had entered the United States illegally. There was no denying that fact. He was part of a group of 20 individuals brought over in the false back of an 18-wheeler from Mexico in early spring two years ago. To pay for the privilege, he made a cash contribution to his wife’s distant cousin, José Ortega, who was running a human smuggling operation on the American side of the border. Plus he was committed to handing over to José a certain proportion of his meager wages from his new job every week. This was acceptable to Pedro.� He was hired to do strenuous manual labor in the shipping department of a north-eastern industrial concern. Pittsburgh Printing & Publishing Inc. (PPP) was happy with his work and Pedro was content enough with his lot in life, sending remittances home to Ciudad Juarez on a regular basis. Nevertheless, he had just been told to report to human resources in the executive suite. That’s where he was sitting now, alone and worried, but he was hopeful José would be able to help him, through his connections with the company. After all, José had always come through before.� But there was a problem. The authorities were increasingly cracking down on firms that used workers of dubious origin. It was a matter of the electorate becoming fed up with paying for the health care and other social welfare benefits of individuals who may or may not be forwarding taxes. Plus there was the popular rallying cry of saving American jobs for American workers. Never mind that those jobs were of the kind few American workers would ever consider as acceptable anymore. José knew his whole operation was in jeopardy. However, he was confident his benefactor within the company, Samuel Strongarm, would be able to protect him.� But there was a problem. Sam Strongarm was head salesman and VP of operations of PPP. He also had a significant influence over hiring decisions. Recently, Sam had been risking his good fortune. He’d been accepting �śgifts” from clients in order to secure advantageous printing deals for them. The largesse included front-row seats at Pirates, Penguins and Steelers games. He’d also been placing orders and accepting commissions for sales by supposed purchasers who wouldn’t acknowledge they’d made any such commitments. Accounts receivable had begun to take notice. Sam had an ace up his sleeve. Not so coincidentally, the President of PPP, Fred Redink, was his brother-in-law. Sam was confident Fred would be able to cover up his indiscretions.� But there was a problem. That very day, the auditors of PPP had been questioning Fred about his company’s office cleaning contract. Compared with other such deals in the Pittsburgh area, PPP was paying way too much. This led to an examination of other outside supply agreements. A familiar pattern was emerging. The suspicion would not go away that there was a systematic awarding of work on a kickback basis. The auditors were refusing to sign off on the books. This was going to leave Fred in a very awkward position with shareholders. But he was hopeful his lawyer, Kyle Lawless, would be able to pull a few strings and get him off the hook.� But there was a problem. Kyle had gotten in over his head in a real estate transaction. He used money under his control through power of attorney authorization in a couple of fiduciary trust situations to make a down payment on a commercial property. He was speculating that he would be able to quickly flip the building and piece of land for a profit and return the money. Then the market unexpectedly turned sour. Kyle was left with a shortfall of resources and his clients were stripped of their cash assets. They had been quite vocal in their denunciations of both him and his practice. The law society was coming after Kyle with a vengeance. The best he could hope for was disbarment. Jail time wasn’t outside the realm of possibility. His best hope was to call in a favor from his politically-connected former colleague, Congressman Lee Wrongturn.� But there was problem. Lee Wrongturn won his seat based on a campaign promise of restoring integrity to public office. He had pledged to clean up corruption. Unfortunately for him, however, FBI surveillance cameras proved to be immune to rhetoric. He was filmed as part of a sting operation in a downtown hotel accepting a cash bribe in return for guaranteeing a building contract. Now his career appeared to be in ruins. But, against all odds, politicians had been known to make comebacks from worse catastrophes. If only Lee could get the Governor, Elijah Doright, on his side, the situation might be saved. Elijah was known as an upright and religious man. If he stood behind you, that was a good enough endorsement for most people’s taste.� But there was a problem. The week before, several neighbours of Mr. and Mrs. Doright, in one of the ritziest residential enclaves in the city, witnessed quite the spectacle on the couple’s front lawn. In the wee small hours of the morning, Mrs. Doright chased Mr. Doright in and out amongst the bushes in a wildly erratic pattern while swinging a baseball bat. All the while, she was screaming about his infidelities and womanizing ways. The tabloids got hold of the story and the feeding frenzy began. Pictures emerged of Elijah in the company of a notorious madam. He wasn’t giving her religious instruction. He’d been caught with his pants down. From being the poster boy for clean living, he’d fallen hard and fast. He needed to take steps to rehabilitate his image. Elijah decided to step outside the political arena and turn to the culture of celebrity. He was, after all, a mentor to point guard �śHands” Henderson of the Philadelphia 76ers.� But there was a problem. �śHands” had recently come under the microscope with respect to gambling on basketball games. He was a superstar athlete and earned an annual stipend which would have choked a python. But he’d gotten into financial trouble through his dealings with investment banker Myron Egypt. �śHands” had been turning over all of his money to Myron for several years and at first the payback was astonishing. A select group of clients raved about what Myron was earning them. This kept bringing in new investors. Financial watchdogs took a look. It became clear old investors were being paid with the money raised from new investors. The whole pyramid scheme came crashing down. To make back some of his lost fortune, �śHands” fell easy prey to a point-shaving scheme hatched by organized crime.� All of these remarkable circumstances combined to leave Pedro alone in the executive offices of PPP. He was now pretty much in charge of the company, with a few production line workers to lend him assistance. That didn’t bother Pedro. He was prepared for such a circumstance. He had what he was sure were some innovative and inspired ideas to drive the business. As a first step, he was going to the nearest variety store to buy a lottery ticket to raise investment funding.� The Freeze Dried Monster on the Skyway� December 22, 2009� Gerry Westerfield was the kind of 25- to 30-year-old who disappeared into the background. He grew his mat-black hair long, cultivated a beard and was perpetually attired in denim. He’d studied computer science at Sir Wilfred Laurier University but hadn’t quite earned his degree. Just the same, there was no question he was a savant when it came to computer languages and programming. It was just that attendance in class was never as interesting as time spent in the coffee shop with friends. He was also kind to old ladies, polite to strangers and a lover of music.� When presented with the opportunity of working on rock concerts at the Air Canada centre in Toronto, he jumped at the chance. No, he wasn’t a backup singer or dancer or anything like that. He was hired as a stage hand to fill the void created when one of his friends left �śroadie” employment under orders from his new wife. There were a couple of ways in which Gerry was uniquely qualified for the job and they would play roles in re-shaping the rest of his life. For one thing, a childhood ear infection had left him impervious to decibels of sound that would have stunned almost anyone else.� It was late in the year 2010. The Christmas season was upon the land. The cold was keeping more and more people indoors and cell phone and Internet traffic was multiplying in leaps and bounds, both to keep friends and family in touch with each other and to accomplish year-end business chores before the traditional break for the holiday season. However, in retrospect, most professional analysts place the blame for what happened next on school concerts.� Toronto is a city of some six million souls. Dispersed among the throng are a great number of children. In public schools and high schools throughout the metropolis, the merrymaking gets seriously underway in early December. Anyone who has ever attended a seasonal performance will confirm the frenzy of photo shooting and video recording that takes place. The rushing backwards and forwards by parents to get the best shots is wondrous and scary. The general level of chaos usually crescendoes when the choir sings �śThe 12 Days of Christmas”, particularly during the drawn-out passage that lingers over �śfive golden rings.”� Then there is the uploading and distribution that takes place after the event. The cacophony is not unexpected. But this year, something different happened. The sound volume never diminished. It started as a low hum in the background, a �śwhite noise” as it were, that grew progressively louder. Trying to drown it out with the radio or TV or i-Pod or game system or some other computer interface only seemed to make it worse. The City became wrapped in surround sound.� People gathered in the streets to check out what was happening. A filmy chalk-coloured crackling in the air could be seen among the skyscrapers in the city core. It wasn’t lightning or St. Elmo’s Fire or any natural phenomenon. Nobody was sure what it was. But it kept getting worse. And more substantial. In fact, the sheer speculation over what was taking place, leading to increased digital messaging, microwave transmitting and every other form of cyberspace communication, clearly caused the electrically-charged wave anomaly to become more active.� Within the coalescing cloud, a sentient entity was forming. It was comprised of all the computer emissions that were being generated in and around it. The sheer size of Toronto combined with the proclivity of its citizens and enterprises to employ high-tech devices were key ingredients in the metaphysical amalgam that was taking place. The extremely cold weather overnight in late December proved to be the final element needed to complete the birthing process. Noise, as he/she came to be called, was the result. How much danger was the city in from this wayward infant? Not much, as it turned out, because Noise had other things in mind.� Like any child, Noise was easily distracted by shiny baubles. Off in the distance, southwest across the lake, Noise sensed a particularly interesting diversion. Pretty colours could barely be made out in the distant night sky. Unbeknownst to Noise, it was the Winter Festival of Lights in Niagara Falls. Noise was drawn to it a like a fish to a lure. Thirty feet in the air, it followed cell phone traffic along the Queen Elizabeth Way. It wended its way along the shoreline, skipping through Oakville and Mississauga, past the Ford plant and on into Burlington.� In the near distance stood the towering outline of the Burlington Skyway. This glorious structure needed to be traversed and Noise embraced the task. That was its big mistake. It rolled up the incline to cross the entrance to Hamilton harbor, only to become stuck at the bridge’s peak. It was probably due to the conductivity of the structural steel supports. They acted on Noise in the same way tongue-licking a frozen pole will ensnare a foolish toddler. So there Noise stood, trapped and upset, and events entered the next stage of this drama.� On the first day Noise filled the Skyway, everyone was frightened. The din was prodigious and no-one would go near the creature. In any other country, the inclination might have been to attack Noise with missiles and fighter aircraft. The government of Ontario, however, chose to address the problem by handing out earplugs to all individuals in the affected area.� On the second day, curiosity started to get the better of most people. Canadians often turn out to be more adaptable than they think they are and that certainly proved to be true in this case. By the third day, most people were beginning to lose interest. In fact, their chief reaction was annoyance over the disruption to traffic that was underway. Re-directing vehicular flows around the Skyway was causing huge bottlenecks. Something needed to be done. If only someone could simply communicate with the beast and explain the situation. Gerry Westerfield was the man.� Gerry was one of the first on the scene at the original monster sighting in downtown Toronto. Finished tidying up after the �śtalent”, he’d walked out of the Air Canada Centre and, thanks to his computing skills, quickly grasped what was going on. In fact, it was Gerry who gave the creature the name Noise. He said it during an on-the-spot interview with a local reporter. Gerry joked that he was surprised such an event hadn’t already occurred in Ottawa, also known as Silicon Valley north. But then he’d added that the hot air from the federal parliament was probably precluding such a possibility. This witticism gained him a great deal of notoriety.� Gerry’s interest in Noise escalated. He raced home and fired up his laptop. Something Gerry kept secret from the world was his exceptional hacking ability. He struggled for a couple of days but finally made contact with the beast. Soon afterwards and knowing it would be a turning point on his own personal pathway, in terms of privacy and career choices, he still did the right thing. He contacted the authorities. Noise was an asset not to be wasted or destroyed.� The army swooped in. Gerry was taken by convoy to the danger zone. He was allowed to approach Noise and wasn’t at all bothered by the sparking giant. Meeting in person, Gerry had a calming effect on Noise. They �śtalked” back and forth. Noise came to understand it couldn’t stay where it was. The present situation wasn’t viable. Therefore, Noise accepted an offer posed by the military and conveyed through Gerry. It would board a Hercules transport plane and be transported to a place where it would have more room to roam. It would also take on an assignment for which its special abilities offered a chance of success where all others had failed.� And that’s what happened. During the flight, �śSilent Night” was played over and over again on a portable sound system to keep Noise relaxed. This was necessary because the trip took them halfway around the world. Gerry went along for the ride as well. Noise was going where the population density was thinner and the air was always cool. The destination? A clandestine Canadian military base in the mountains of Afghanistan. The assignment and potential good deed? Noise was to use its ethereal tracking abilities to find Osama Bin Laden.� Lenny and Keith Flounder in the Shallow End� December 28, 2009� In early September, Leonard Smith covered over his family’s backyard pool and started swimming at the local health club. It wasn’t a fancy club, but it still required a membership fee. This restricted the number of people who had access to the property. Nevertheless, whenever Lenny tried to get a swim in, at lunch or after work, the other members drove him crazy.� The pool always seemed to be spilling over with either an aqua-sizer class or teenagers playing smurf football. Lenny liked to swim lengths. He saw himself as a power swimmer and fantasized about how he could have been in the Olympics. He did fancy head-over-heels turns that even he found impressive. The crowds weren’t working for him. He quickly learned the thing to do was to go to the club first thing in the morning and have the pool to himself.� However, that meant getting up at 5:15 am to be there when the doors were unlocked at 6:00 am. He followed this schedule Monday, Wednesday and Friday mornings. Tuesdays and Thursdays, he was committed to driving his children to day care. All in all, it was a comfortable schedule.� By following this routine, Lenny could quickly change into his swimming suit, then dip into the pristine water. There was nary a ripple. It was perfection at its most sublime. The smell of the chlorine was intoxicating. The amniotic fluid accepted him into its heated embrace. He cut a perfect straight line up and down for his standard 50 lengths and he could not have been happier.� In early October, however, a significant fly appeared in Lenny’s ointment. Out of the blue, another individual started showing up at the same time as him, disturbing the purity of the moment. The newcomer was a quiet but still upsetting presence in the locker room. He created waves in the water. He liked to sing in the shower area. This was not acceptable.� Should Lenny change his schedule once again? Negotiations with his wife about their respective times for dropping off and picking up the kids at school had taken considerable patience and compromise. Approach her about re-opening their agreement? Who knew where the repercussions of that might lead? Past experience persuaded him to avoid that route at all cost.� Besides, Lenny liked beginning and ending his week with a swim. And on Wednesdays, it helped him get through �śhump” day. How to remove the annoyance? By inclination, Lenny was not a violent man. He would have to come up with an answer through the use of mental finesse.� ~~� Keith Chan was a serious-looking gentleman of an age at most five years younger than Lenny. They were on either side of the cusp of forty. Keith was a match for Lenny in every way. Athletic and lean, he also had a stubborn streak that was hidden behind impeccable manners.� Keith soon caught on to the fact his swimming companion was at odds with the idea of co-habiting the pool early in the morning. His first clue was when, not just once, but on back-to-back occasions, the red panic button beside the sauna was pushed shortly after Lenny exited the area. This set off a klaxon call that was deafening in its intensity. Keith was left on his own to provide assurances to club staff that he was neither in distress nor responsible for the incident.� Keith was no dummy. This was a conundrum, no doubt about it. He wasn’t going to change his schedule either. That was his obstinate side coming through. Also, behind the serious fa�żade, there was a desire to have some fun with the situation. Keith began a charade of making friendly overtures to Lenny. Although he spoke perfect English, he became more oriental.� When Keith found out Lenny’s name, he dropped his �śl’s” and started emphasizing his �śr’s”. From that moment on, his greeting three times a week was, �śHerro Renny. Rooks rike a rovery day.” As Keith tried to engage him in further conversation, Lenny looked more and more upset.� ~~� In early December, Lenny took his machinations to the next level. While Keith was taking a pre-swim shower, Lenny went to work with some crazy glue. He then fled into the pool area and uncharacteristically floated on his back, waiting to see the outcome of what he had initiated. When Keith took his usual long deep swig of drinking water before entering the pool, he was left with a dilemma – what to do with a giant plastic water bottle cemented to his right hand?� Keith was no quitter. After several moments of confusion and doubt, he climbed into the pool and attempted the crawl. The problem was the bottle kept filling up with liquid. This caused Keith to list to the right. He kept crashing into the side wall. Did he let himself show his annoyance? Not on your life. In fact, this gave him a whole new inventory of ideas to pursue.� For the rest of the month, Keith showed up with ever more elaborate gear. He started with flippers for his feet. Then he added web-fingered gloves for his hands. He topped it all off with a shiny black shower cap. He became quite the sartorial spectacle, draped with all the accoutrements of a well-equipped water baby. Lenny was left feeling both aghast and fascinated.� In January of the new year, Lenny tried the first of his sexual gambits. He began shaving his chest in front of Keith, back in the locker room after their swim. He’d have been surprised to know how little this bothered Keith. Keith thought Lenny was a bit of a hairy bear anyway. Some curbing of Lenny’s hirsute furry exterior would be no water off Keith’s back.� Several days later, Keith responded in kind. He showed up in the locker room wearing a hidden costume he had managed, after lengthy explanations, to talk his wife into buying. When he removed his trousers, he was exposed in black lace stockings and a garter belt. To Lenny’s questioning look, he responded, �śOut rate rast night.” That was all he said. He knew such a level of inscrutability would drive Lenny nuts. It darn nearly did push Lenny over the edge.� The next time they were together, Lenny pulled what he thought was an inspired rabbit out of his hat. Just as Keith was changing into his trunks, Lenny dragged a young man into the locker room who promptly set up a camera on a tripod. �śIt’s for my company’s newsletter,” Lenny explained. �śThe goal is to encourage other employees to take up an exercise program like mine. You don’t mind, do you?”� Without skipping a beat, Keith struck a muscleman pose in the background and that’s how the whole session went. When it was over, Lenny hustled his young protégé out the door and was disgusted he’d wasted $50 setting up a fake photo shoot.� In early February, a certain level of fatigue began to settle in with respect to their battle. Lenny was developing a grudging respect for Keith’s chutzpah and Keith had never been opposed to Lenny in the first place. They began to talk more. Lenny noticed Keith’s accent became more intermittent. When asked about it, Keith said he was a quick learner.� Furthermore, Lenny had other problems on his mind. He needed all of his wisdom teeth removed. For a week after the surgery, he was laid up and didn’t go to the club. The two men found they missed each other. They both looked forward to seeing one another again.� On the first day Lenny returned, his mouth still felt like it was filled with cotton batting. �śHow you feeling?” Keith asked. �śI guess you’re still in a lot of pain.”� Lenny nodded his head.� �śIs there anything you can do about it?”� �śThe only wemedy is west,” said Lenny.� �śJust the same, it must be getting on your nerves.”� �śI’m taking twanqwilizers.”� �śLife can be a bitter pill sometimes.”� �śToo twue. Too twue.”� So the days went by and the bonding between Lenny and Keith grew apace. But contentment and peace are not the lot of man. They, among all people, should have known that their �śideal” could not be enduring. On the Ides of March, their more simpatico world was turned upside down.� Lenny and Keith simultaneously sensed the new presence that slipped into the space between them in the pool. Cutting through the water with grace and elegance was a young lady of obvious abilities. Bobbing up and down, head and backside alternately in and out of the water, she motored along with powerful strokes that left the other two in her wake. This was a woman with training, experience and porpoise-like talent.� After returning to the locker room, the two men looked at each other in consternation.� �śWhat did you think of that?” said Keith.� �śShow-offy and excessive,” was Lenny’s response.� �śI agree, but what can we do about it?”� �śWe have to come up with a plan.”� The Mechanized Sorting Day of the Dead� December 31, 2009� Now that he was dead, Norman Watts was in possession of certain information that someone in the living world would have given an arm and a leg to discover. Forget Halloween or Dia de los Muertos or any of those other days of the year when the departed are supposed to be revered. They might have been more meaningful in earlier times, but circumstances had changed. Mechanization had come to the afterlife. With respect to sorting out the good from the bad and those to be rewarded from those to be punished, there was a new way of doing things. Everything now happened once per annum. That day was far more obvious from the back side of the curtain than from the front.� There is a time of year when it becomes nigh on impossible not to think about relatives and friends now departed. It’s a time of great joy but also deep sadness. When the sense of loss can be overwhelming and memories of moments spent with grandparents, parents, aunts, uncles, friends and loved ones can sweep one away in a flood of regret for shared occasions no longer accessible.� It’s a time of year when popular music playing everywhere features lyrics that squeeze the heart. The whole season is a setup to remembrances of sunny skies past and nostalgic warmth that can never be repeated. The anthem for this instance is Auld Lange Syne and life centres on thoughts of old acquaintances. In newspapers and on television, respects are paid to celebrities whose glow has been extinguished over the past year. Of course I’m speaking of New Year’s Eve.� Around the globe, at the midnight hour on December 31 and consecutively in each of 24 zones, there is a tear in the fabric of time. That is the moment when the reach-out-and-touch world undergoes a seismic shift to open portals for the incorporeal phantasmagorical world. It serves up moments when the everyday world is pre-occupied with seasonal parties. And the nights are at their longest. This is when the great sorting of souls now takes place. It is most convenient for the bureaucrats of heaven and hell – minions, functionaries and marshalling agents alike.� Norman had already been informed of the staging area to which he was supposed to report. His essence had been marking time since a fiery car crash six months earlier. Needing the money and anxious to perform at his best, he’d been rushing to a singles-bar gig some twenty kilometres away from home on a Friday evening. A heavy rain was falling. Norman’s concentration wavered and he lost control of his car on the Toronto expressway. It swerved from the middle lane to the outside lane, clipping the guard rail. Then the Impala rebounded back across the whole expanse of asphalt and slammed rear-end-first into an abutment on the edge of an off ramp.� The car exploded. The hood, glass from the windshield, engine parts and a tire flew into the air. It was a miracle no other drivers were seriously injured. Several witnesses knew they had escaped with their lives by the narrowest of margins. As for Norman, death was instantaneous. He was buried four days later in Cul de Sac Cemetery after a customary period of respect was paid by family and friends. The casket lid remained firmly closed throughout.� Many times over the intervening months, Norman went back over his life to weigh the pros and cons of his individual actions. Had he been a good person or had he crossed over the line too many times? It was the �śon balance” part of the equation that worried him. Through his night-time interactions with others in the spirit world, Norman learned how the system worked. Judgement-Day tests were no longer left to chance. A proper sizing-up was now done according to a scientific set of criteria. There was a check list. Certain items on the left side of a ledger would bring approbation. Other items on the right side would earn accolades.� Most souls spent their remaining time on earth before New Year’s Eve fretting over the lists. That was all very well, but there were still two problems. First, there remained a good deal of subjective judgement on the part of adjudicators as to whether or not a certain action was positive or negative not only for the specific individual but also in terms of repercussions for the populace at large. Second, and even trickier to assess, was how much weighting would be given to each course of action. No formerly-human spirit had access to that information.� Norman looked at the lists. Some of the items were obvious. Murderers, robbers and philanderers were going to be in trouble. Caregivers, benefactors and the charitable already had a step up, as it were. But a number of the other categories were a surprise. For example, emotional button-pushers had a separate and prominent box on the negative side of the ledger. However, this was immediately followed by another box for those who allowed their buttons to be pushed , either in terms of getting mad or becoming despondent too easily under criticism.� Jealousy, greed and covetousness also figured strongly on the downside and frankly, the list of bad things one could be accused of vastly outnumbered the good things. �śHard working” was a positive. Maintaining a sunny disposition even under adversity was also a winner, but Norman’s confidence was sinking regardless. That is, until he came across an item way down among the pluses he never expected to see. Incredibly, this might be his saving grace.� ~~� Much of what I have written so far is based on supposition. But I don’t think I’m far off the mark. I have good reason for drawing the conclusions I have come to. I knew Norman very well and I was there at his apotheosis. Let me explain. When Norman died, I had an especially tough time of it. A light had been turned off. Work was drudgery. Half a year later, when the Christmas season arrived, I chose to spend it in lonely isolation at my cottage on Georgian Bay.� As the stroke of twelve approached on New Year’s Eve, I was drawn to the beach. I would mark the occasion with a glass of wine outdoors under the stars. The southern rim of Georgian Bay is a region where the waters of the great lakes congregate. It’s the base of a shoreline that sweeps from beachfront on the east to semi-mountainous terrain on the west. Like cupped hands with fingertips touching, it forms an upside-down fulcrum. The water usually doesn’t freeze until mid-January.� At the midnight hour, to my astonishment, a spectral shape reached slowly out of the dark waters of the bay and stretched skywards. It gradually coalesced into the image of an escalator with a half-empty payload of shining wraiths working their way upwards. Backlighting from a full moon showed the grandstand from which these souls would be able to keep an eye on earth’s events.� In relatively quick succession, a second escalator snaked downward into the inky void. This was the means of transportation for those on their way to a torturous eternity. I know what you’re thinking, that the second escalator was a reflection of the first. No, there were a great many more souls being transported on the second device and they were clearly in distress.� Across the water on that frigid night, I heard what I didn’t think I would ever encounter again. It was the voice of an angel singing about heartbreak and tenderness. I recognized it immediately. More accurately, it was the intonation of two voices wrapped in one. Norman was doing his best impression ever. I can speak of this with authority, since I was his booking agent.� The sound of that singing was moving upward. Salty tears encrusted my eyes until the serenade gradually faded away. I’m pretty sure I know what happened. I must surmise that �śElvis impersonator” is on God’s side of the ledger. And why would it not be? The music of The King has brought joy to millions. Commensurate with the pleasure it brings into people’s lives, its relative importance is immense.� Catching Up on the Not So Local News(a.k.a. Burying Barry in Barrie)� January 2, 2010� Spoiler alert: This story is full of Canadian place names that may not be familiar to some or even many. Nevertheless, the fun of trying to weave together a tale from a multitude of disparate strands should come through. And yes, Virginia, there is a Victoria B.C. and a Brandon, Manitoba.� North of the city and not that long ago, I eaves-dropped on the following conversation in a local diner.� MAN: Do ya suppose it’s okay to bury Barry in Barrie?� WOMAN: He wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.� MAN: Bad how he bought it, though.� WOMAN: Yes, busting his back when he fell off his burro. He and that burro made a good team. They traveled all over northern Ontario.� MAN: So I’ve heard. After a nip of the suds, the burro would sing. It was a legend in Sudbury and Nippissing.� WOMAN: They didn’t always get along. He called it Scar after it bit him in Scarborough. They were both going after the same burrito.� MAN: That’s what I was told too. Gary in Calgary gave me a call. People sure get around these days.� WOMAN: That’s for certain. Did you hear about Gary’s sister, Cathy, in St. Catharines? She was a saint, married to Hal from Halifax all those years.� MAN: Tell me about it. He had horrible halitosis and no sense of humour.� WOMAN: You can’t blame her for the breakup. He worked on a trawler, but she caught him wearing highliner eye liner. How heartbreaking.� MAN: They were married by a monk in Moncton. His superior from Abbotsford didn’t approve. Never knew why.� WOMAN: I can answer that. Because those Maritime marriages often don’t last. Charlotte from Charlottetown got fed up with Fred from Fredericton in no time at all.� MAN: I know that story. He took a fancy to Brooke from Sherbrooke.� WOMAN: So did every other guy. Halifax Harry, Regina Reggie and Edmonton Eddie were chasing her at the same time.� MAN: They went to university together. If they all show up at Barry’s funeral, it could be interesting.� WOMAN: Brooke’s mother, Nadia, was the first person to dance the Can-Can in Canada. My grandparents Al and Bertha once saw her perform in Alberta.� MAN: At the time, they were staying with Lloyd Munster in Lloydminster.� WOMAN: Munster’s twin boys were always getting in trouble.� MAN: Remember when Brad borrowed a Ford in Peterborough and his brother Peter drove it to Bradford.� WOMAN: Then you got conned by them in the Yukon, as I recall. Luckily, I was having none of it in Nunavut when the pair showed up there.� MAN: They almost took all my money. I gave my wallet to Ron to take to Toronto for safekeeping. Why do we find these people so fascinating?� WOMAN: I’ve often thought about that too. It’s beyond me.� MAN: So we have enough money to bury Barry?� WOMAN: Yes, let’s wrap this up so you can go home to Manitoba, Brandon.� MAN: And you to B.C., Victoria.� The Wizard and the Rose� January 9, 2010� Liz Stuckey’s marriage to her husband, Brian, was not without its rewards. First, there was their daughter Abby who was a delightful child of eight and accounted for much of Liz’ appreciation of life. Then there was her comfortable existence in the suburbs, with a 3,000 square-foot home and a Lexus in the driveway. Of course, it was Brian who drove the Lexus, but the cachet still enveloped the whole family. Liz drove a serviceable but hardly glamorous Dodge Caravan.� Brian, however, was another matter. Most nights, he wasn’t home. He either stayed late at work or he was out with the boys, playing in a house-league game or hanging around a tavern watching one of Toronto’s numerous professional sports teams on big-screen TV. Both Liz and Abby felt some sense of betrayal and abandonment, but most of the time, they got by alright.� Liz had her own pre-occupations buried in her family history. There was a matter about which she felt a weighty sense of obligation. Perhaps there was more she could have done. Liz’ older brother Edward had turned into a troubled young man. Throughout his university years, his professors marked him as brilliant. But he’d been overwhelmed by emotional problems.� Try as they might, the Smith family elders had never been able to rescue him from his demons. Bouts of rehab and mood-altering drugs all came up short. The upshot was Edward disappeared into the legions of the homeless in the city’s core when Liz was only in her teens. She’d been too young to do anything about it then and her sense of loss and impotence never left her. There was no doubt in her mind she still had a duty to perform.� Since her father died and her mother’s health deteriorated, mainly due to heartache, Liz had adopted a new routine. For the past decade, there was one day a year when Liz would go to her friend Cynthia’s florist shop and purchase two dozen yellow roses. Cynthia would usually throw in an extra one for good measure, bringing the total to 25. Liz would sit in her car and carefully cut each blossom to a length of five or six inches, also snipping off the thorns along the remaining stems. Then she would drive downtown. This was a journey that always threw her into heightened anxiety, not only due to the traffic but also on account of what she imagined she might find when she got there. She never wavered, though, and proved she was a trooper.� She’d park the car around Sherbourne and King Streets and make her way west on foot. Along the route, she’d pause when she encountered some derelict soul and hand them one of her roses, all the while checking if a flicker of recognition might cross their face or creep into her own. Originally, she had shown pictures of her brother to some of the people she met, including social workers and the �śsoldiers” of the Salvation Army. Lately, though, she’d given up that effort.� Life on the streets was hard on people and the change in appearance in a short period of time could be unbelievable. She wasn’t even sure what she would do if she did meet her brother. It wasn’t as if she could take him into her home. His problems had always been too deep and ingrained. But she had to try to find him if for no other reason than to let him know she cared.� The first person she encountered that night seemed harmless from an approaching distance of ten feet or so. He was a stooped version of a former giant, with straggly red hair and craterous skin. But standing right in front of him and getting a close-up look at his face, sent a jolt of fear through her. His countenance was as angry as any she’d ever seen. Suppressing her trembling, she handed over a flower. It took a moment to register, but the positive change in his appearance was astonishing. Liz moved on quickly. This might augur well for the rest of the evening.� Two hours later, Liz had worked her way across King Street all the way to Bay. That’s where the skyscrapers stood. Sixty-storey and higher towers loomed over all the corners of the intersection. Giant media screens with advertising, stock information from foreign exchanges and the latest news lit up the sky. Human diminishment and eerie dislocation were hard to shove aside.� Liz was getting tired and there was only one rose left. She crossed the street on a green light to pass on her final floral treasure to an indigent who had camped on the south sidewalk, swathed only in a sleeping blanket, other assorted scraps of fabric and cardboard. The cold of the night at this time of year was like what one might imagine encountering in the vacuum of outer space.� ~~� Ever since the Wiz came to appreciate his skill in math, he’d been grappling with one question. It occupied all of his time, costing him all prospects and pushing him to the brink of insanity. He had a theory with the potential to explain the most important subject of all, good versus evil.� In his younger days, when he’d been more cogent, his proposition was framed as follows. Most people think they know what one plus one adds up to. Well they’re wrong. One plus one does not equal two. Nor does it make 11 as grade schoolers like to say in their riddle. Nor is it the punch line for the joke about the shady accountant which ends with, �śWhatever you’d like it to be.”� No, one plus one, when it comes to human affairs, is always more or less than the individual parts. The interpersonal reaction of one-on-one results in a net plus or a net minus. In the case of the former, the difference between the whole and the sum is a quantifiable good. That’s where angels live. In the event of the latter, the net negative, that’s where soul eaters are born and derive their nourishment. One always has to worry about being pursued by soul eaters.� When many people get together and behave well, such as in charity events or in response to catastrophe in weather-ravaged regions of the world, the storehouse of good receives a boost to its inventory. When gatherings of people turn into a lawless mob, the subtraction from the whole is nothing short of evil. At all times, the psychic balance of the world can be determined by mathematical calculations. The Wiz had been working for years to figure out the exact formulas.� Earlier that evening, the Wiz had been expounding on his theme once again while taking sustenance at the soup kitchen on Sherbourne. The usual semi-lucid audience was there, paying him minor attention. He’d noticed Red in the background. Most of the Wiz’s colleagues had assumed names or street names. Red originally got his from the colour of his hair. More appropriately now, it reflected the colour of his skin. The dappled blotchiness was the result of drinking too many bottles of plonk. When the Wiz thought of Red, he thought of blood. Red scared him.� The Wiz appreciated his name. It matched his tendency to pontificate. But he’d only acquired it after a former Wiz had departed the scene, taken down by despair and alcoholism. The previous Wiz had been given his name by the cops for a diametrically different reason having to do with incontinence. The new Wiz much preferred his new sobriquet to his old nicknames of Eddie and Smitty. Besides, it helped to confuse and throw off the frightening pursuit of the soul eaters.� Seated in the cafeteria, Red looked his usual sullen self. But who knew, maybe some of what the Wiz was saying was having an impact. Maybe that explained why later that night, Red offered to let Wiz sleep on top of a warm air vent. These were prime real estate locations for their sub-culture above subway lines, underground parking lots and hot water pipes that heated several downtown office buildings. On any other night, Red would have given him a hassle and driven him away for the fun of it, employing the threat of physical violence. On the other hand, maybe it had something to do with the yellow rose Red was clutching in his beefy paw.� It was a joy for the Wiz to stretch out on Bay Street in what was, for him, rare comfort. He lay facing the street in the peace of the evening. A lady approached him from behind. He knew her gender from her footfall. Then a man walked up and the two of them started conversing.� �śI wish they’d go away. I’m going to keep pretending to sleep. They must know each other. Yes, that confirms it, they’re talking about their marriage. Well, I have my theory about relationships. I’m going to let them have their privacy. Hope this doesn’t bring out the soul eaters.”� ~~� Brian Stuckey stepped out of the sports bar and into the cold night air. He’d gone downtown with several of his buddies from work in the government office building near Wellesley and Bay. This was fairly common practice for the lot of them. They’d knock back a few brewskies, flirt with some waitresses, talk about their sports heroes and get into a silly pointless dispute or two.� They started out in the trendy area of Queen Street West. Then they moved closer downtown. Heading into the third bar-hop, Brian became restless and unhappy. This was happening more frequently lately. The thrill was going out of sitting and getting hammered with his frat boy companions and arguing about what was wrong with the Leafs or the Argos or the Raptors.� He had a great wife and adorable daughter back home. What was he doing down here? Brian left the group and walked along King to clear his head. His intention was to eventually climb into a cab to take him to his parked car. Then he saw her. She was about to bend down over a homeless person sleeping right there on the street. Could that really be Liz? He called out to her.� �śSweetheart, is that you?� She looked back. Startled at first, she was too tired to register a whole lot of surprise. �śYes, fancy meeting you here. We’re going to have to stop meeting like this.”� Then it came to him. Brian remembered his wife’s obsession with finding her long lost brother. In many ways, she was a remarkable woman. His heart melted.� �śI forgot you do this every year. In fact, I just realized something. If you’re doing this, then it must be Valentine’s Day. I’m sorry, it slipped my mind.”� �śYou’re absent a lot these days, Brian, in mind and body. Abby and I miss you.”� �śYou’re right. I don’t know what I’ve been thinking. I’ve been neglecting you for no good reason. It’s not acceptable. Will you forgive me?”� �śPossibly. Probably. I’m beat. Can we talk more later? I’d like to leave now.”� �śYou still have a rose left.”� �śYes, I was going to place it on that man’s shelter. But here, let me stick it in your lapel instead.” Then stepping back and examining the result, �śThat looks really nice. Let’s go home, dear.”� Herb Green discusses his Finances in Four-letter Words� January 16, 2010� Herb Green was frustrated beyond containment. His toxic mood might not have been impossible to deal with except he had newly acquired a truly foul vocabulary. He started swearing like Regan in The Exorcist. Furthermore, he lacked the originality to be entertaining in his gross verbiage. No, he was disgusting to listen to. His wife, Wanda, was really fed up with him. She’d once dated a rapper and swore she would never again breathe in that kind of atmosphere.� Under normal circumstances, Herb was a soft-spoken decent man. But these were not normal times. In fact, these were the most difficult economic times ever experienced by someone of Herb’s age. He knew about the Great Depression through what he’d learned in school. Even his father was a child in the Dirty 30s. Herb wasn’t equipped to handle the emotional roller coaster that saw him lose all of his money and go deeply into debt in the latest Great Recession.� Now he swore and cursed about his depleted finances all day long. He turned the air blue with his ranting. Wanda instituted a new rule in the house. Every time Herb cursed, he had to put a one-dollar IOU in a large glass jar. In quick order, Herb was in debt by another $1,000. This distressed and depressed him even further. That is, until he came up with a novel idea.� Herb discussed his proposal with Wanda. She claimed every second word out of his mouth was a swear word. Herb loved his wife, but there were times when he found her to be too uptight. Nevertheless, he knew he’d gone too far. He set his mind to the task of making relations with Wanda better again. And it wouldn’t hurt if he could get the extra $1,000 debt off his back.� Herb asked Wanda if she would free him from his cuss-jar obligation under condition he complete a �śquest.” He promised to write a description of how his financial failings were affecting him, using primarily four-letter words, but in a manner to which she would not object. If he could write a lengthy diatribe 50% comprised of acceptable four-letter words, would she put aside the matter of the outstanding chits? �śYes,” she said and the challenge was on.� Wanda went to bed. Herb went to work. He sat down at his computer keyboard. It was a Herculean struggle. His composition began as a scattering of words and phrases. To hone his alertness, he drank one cup of coffee after another. Pretty soon, it was past midnight. He began to make some progress. By 2:30 a.m., the journey was well underway. It wasn’t until 6:00 a.m. that he was finished. Herb pulled an all-nighter. When Wanda rose in the morning to prepare for the day ahead, the following is what she found taped to the door of the master bedroom’s bathroom.� Sure, fate, kick my rear, I’ve got nothing left to fear.� Greed and envy were my goad,high interest rate my heavy load.� Bond, loan and cash lost on the crash, illusory glitter a dash, I acted rash.� Markets turn sour for stock and gold holdings.Bear-after-bull timing is crucial for foldings.� Gear up for rain,turn on the sump pump.Move from gain to pain,when one fails to lump dump.� Urge reader beware,don’t follow my strategy. Buy high and sell low is no good for one’s sanity.� There’s a hard lesson to learnwhen fleeced by a liar.Loot, steal, rob and burn by my financial adviser.� He fled the city and took all my pay.Must find my broker some extra fine day.� Suntan your face, feet, ears, back and limbs. Drink rum and coke and sink in your sins.� At my dear cost, laze and daze on a beach. To kill will be kindness, when you I do reach.� Hope almost shot,Don’t snub my spun song.Rant and rave slow from trot, to stop and wave so long.� Wanda read the note. She was stunned. She hadn’t thought Herb had it in him. There were moments of doggerel, but the basic story was all there in outline.� Besides, she was always encouraging Herb to open up about his feelings. Okay, this wasn’t so much about his feelings for her, but it was a second-best effort. Maybe she’d cut him some slack.� WANDA: So did you do it? Are the italicized words half of the total?� HERB: They are if you include the title.� WANDA: And what’s the title?� HERB: Two more four-letter words. �śEnuf Said.” That’s enuf spelled E-N-U-F.� WANDA: Okay, we both know that’s a bit of a cheat. But I’m going to rule in your favor.� And that’s the way they left it. Wanda relieved Herb of his debt. She was proud of her man. He had faced adversity and was in the process of coming through unbowed, if not quite triumphant. Furthermore, she took pride in the role she’d played in cleaning up the verbal environment.� On his side, Herb was pleased too. He was back in Wanda’s good graces, the nagging eased and the extra $1,000 for his foul-mouthed ways was forgiven. Plus, there was one financial worry that would no longer be hanging over his head. He was thrilled he wouldn’t have to incur the additional expense involved in hiring a magician to pull the pickle out of his wife’s butt.� A Curious Case of Bottled-up Passion� January 23, 2010� Pug-nosed Pat and gum-chewing Chris, two long-time Irish cops, were back on the day shift after a month spent on the night rotation. Their patrol area ranged from the honky-tonk district in the east to the upscale shopping quadrant downtown. Being a cop these days was a quite different experience than it had been for their family forefathers on the force. The city-state had morphed beyond recognition.� At the turn of the 22nd century, the world had changed considerably from what it had been 100 years before. War and most other manifestations of violence had been eliminated. Peace gained a stranglehold. Social media monitored and controlled all economic activity. Women held every managerial and leadership position.� The transformation began slowly in the early years of the preceding century, then exploded. The first big shift came with the founding of the FLYT Corporation. In the same way the word NEWS is derived from North, East, West and South, FLYT is a combination of the first letters of Facebook, LinkedIn, YouTube and Twitter. FLYT Corp., in a brief period of time, took over all communication on earth – news, messaging, broadcasting and entertainment for starters, then inventory management, data processing and the full range of other business functions stored in the clouds. The resulting paradigm shift was unprecedented.� When FLYT took flight, women finally achieved their full potential. The ladies were far more adept than the men at welcoming and making use of the new tools at their disposal. The sisterhood, through a shared heritage of quilting clubs, book clubs, watching Oprah and The View, coffee klatches, spas, trips to the hairdresser and a willingness to seek advice was much more adept at social networking. Sure, men had their lodges and their drinking buddies, but these were technologically ancient.� At the quarter-century mark, another fact came to light that also significantly altered the social structure. While accepted as a fine idea at the time, security measures to combat terrorism had gradually rendered all humans, male and female alike, barren. Full-body x-ray machines, first established at airports, then at entranceways to all public buildings, made everyone sterile. This was not the catastrophe that might have been expected, due to advances in genome research.� Thankfully, cloning experimentation, combined with stem cell research, first extended human life and then guaranteed it. Everyone had a back-up body that was kept in stasis until needed. Regenerated frames were �śborn” at the age of 20 and terminated at the age of 50. Downloading and uploading of personalities was a well-accepted practice. However, there was a consequence to this stage of human evolution. Retaining the male of the species was no longer essential.� The authorities – all women – wanted to keep men around anyway. They were good for some things, mainly having to do with night-time entertainment. They weren’t needed for manual labor or manufacturing jobs. Everything had become automated. As part of the process, a watchful eye was kept on robots to ensure they didn’t become too clever. The dangers of that scenario were well recognized based on the books and movie scripts of science fiction visionaries from the past.� It was first decided the number of models of men allowed would be 57. This was an arbitrary figure, derived from an old advertising slogan. It had originally applied to the number of different product varieties offered by the giant food conglomerate, Heinz. Later, it came into common parlance in reference to mongrel dogs.� When it was pointed out to those in charge this could be interpreted as somewhat insulting to men, it elicited mainly shrugs. Eventually, however, the number of male models was modified down to 20, the famous biblical �śscore”. The only true remaining vocational use of men was in some security assignments.� A score of male models continued to provide variety. The ratio of women to men was also kept at an easy-to-remember 20 to one. The men knew they were on call to service the much larger population of women at the latter’s will. The system worked. The models of men chosen for preservation and cloning were mainly rootless types. With only a few exceptions, they were athletes and outdoorsmen, body builders and poker players who were able to occupy themselves when not on call. Nurturers were no longer worthy of preserving, since there were no children.� There was a huge side benefit of this arrangement. Crime dropped dramatically. Since there were so few men, psychological profiling was much easier. There were only 20 male types to monitor. Whenever a crime was committed, it became simple to determine which of the 20 types would have been most likely to commit the deed. It narrowed the focus of criminal investigation, resulting in quick arrests.� All of this explained why Pat and Chris, the police pair assigned to the case, were concerned when they heard about the vandalism at an art gallery owned by a well-known trendsetter in Green Earth City. Both the nature of the crime and the manner in which it had been carried out were not in keeping with what any of the remaining male models would have done. Flint-eyed Pat and burly Chris flew their Hyundai pod-mobile from Division One to the crime scene. After introductions were made with the sprightly but nervous gallery owner, the questioning started with Pat’s usual opening gambit, �śCan you tell us what happened here, ma’am?”� �śI came in this morning at my usual time, 10:00 a.m. That’s after I bought a coffee and Danish from Starbursts. Right away, I noticed the damage. Somebody threw buckets of paint at the walls. This is a tragedy. These works are all in place for a lavish reception that’s scheduled for tonight. I’m trying to launch the career of my newest find, a genius. She’s about to cause a sensation in the art world.”� �śWho’s the new artist?” asked Chris, the tad more-refined member of the team.� �śShe’s coming through the door right now. I voiced her after speaking with the police superintendent. Her name is Val and she’s a natural. Val, come and speak to the police, please. I’m too upset to say another thing. My reputation is on the line.”� Val was taking in the damage. She looked incredulous. Blonde hair pulled back in a bun, above average in height and mid-way through her aging cycle, she was stand-out beautiful. Struggling with composure, she turned to hear the two cops.� �śSo what’s your story? Are you famous or something? Is someone in the art world holding a grudge? By the way, in case you ladies haven’t noticed, there are no signs of forced entry. This was done by somebody who had access,” said Pat.� Val exclaimed, �śI’m just a manager for advertising on the web. But I’ve always had a secret passion. I love creating with oils and acrylics. I never thought it would lead anywhere. It was Jean who happened across my work at a local art show and insisted I put more effort into it. This has all come as a complete surprise to me, that I’m getting this kind of attention at a big-time gallery.”� �śHer work is amazing. Explosions of color. Wild expressionism. It’s not the kind of thing one sees anymore in our homogeneous society since FLYT,” said Jean.� �śBesides yourself, who has a key to the gallery?” asked Chris.� �śI always give one to my artist, in case there are some last-minute setup changes she wants to make. In a case like this, I’d look to Val’s family and closest friends for suspects. Someone near her may have stolen the key and come here at night.”� It was Pat’s turn again. �śThat’s an interesting thought. What would be the motivation?”� �śI’ve seen it before. Val’s about to become a big star. This is going to take her out of her small world. Acquaintances we know are okay with something like that. But it threatens the status quo for those who are closest to us. In the old days, there used to be a phrase for it. Our nearest and dearest pigeon-hole us. They want us to stay comfortably the same. It’s hard work re-formulating a relationship.”� �śHm. Well, let us get on with the forensics – see if there are fingerprints anywhere or DNA evidence. Also take some pictures. We’ll be out of your hair shortly.”� Pat and Chris got to work. Jean cancelled the reception. Some members of the media came by for the story and Jean squeezed some publicity out of the disaster.� Later in the day, Pat and Chris dropped in on Val at her home high in the sky in an 80-storey apartment building buried in a forest of others. The cops went there to interrogate Val’s long-time companion, Sandy. She was an obvious suspect.� Sandy had hurried back from an out-of-town business trip to be at Val’s opening. Val filled her in on what had happened. Val’s clone model had been with Sandy’s for years. They had stuck together through their individual re-generations.� As soon as Val opened the door, she knew what she had to do. This had gone too far. In tears, she blurted out. �śI’m sorry. I confess. I damaged my own paintings.”� Sandy was the first to react. �śWhy would you do that?”� �śBecause Jean was right. I saw what my new career was doing to you and our friends. How much it was bothering everyone. It was taking up all my spare time. I’ve been completely pre-occupied for months. Plus I don’t really want the fame. What would that accomplish? It would take me away from you even more.”� It was an emotional scene, Val crying and Sandy taking her in her arms to comfort her. Even the two experienced cops eventually felt moved by the sacrifice Val had made. In the end, all four women were reduced to tears and hugs.� Ms. Phitts and Mr. Gatheral Spar Two Rounds� January 29, 2010� Hostess Betty Bernard didn’t know what she was letting herself in for when she invited the television producer Mark Gatheral and the newspaper critic Gracie Phitts to the same soirée. Mr. Gatheral was a corpulent, but still handsome, man of 45. Ms. Phitts was an attractive dynamic go-getter in her early 30s. They could both be charming, but they were also career obsessed.� Betty was the socialite widow of an agri-business bio-engineering king. The bottom line, she was overburdened with money and loved inviting her friends and acquaintances to dinner parties. Her gatherings were a mix of people at the top of their professions. Unfortunately, she didn’t always do background checks or keep up with the latest gossip. While she didn’t have a mean bone in her body, it sometimes transpired that her guest list turned into a virtual setup.� She held court on the 60th floor of a five-star hotel and condo complex just up from the city’s waterfront. One particular evening in early March, 10 well-attired individuals perused, fondled and roamed among the mahogany, chintz, Wedgewood and Limoges of Betty’s home.� The canapés and hors d’oeuvres were served and consumed in the living room as a prelude to the meal that was to come in the dining area. Mark and Gracie were able to keep their distance at first, by circling around opposite sides of the room. Once everyone was seated, however, and the two of them were facing each other across the table, the inevitable happened.� The opening soup dish was a choice of hot turnip or cold potato. For those who picked the former, the atmosphere quickly turned nippy. For those partaking of the latter, gasps were soon heard from the gazpacho crowd. That was because Mark immediately had a go at Gracie.� MARK: Somebody please take away Ms. Phitts’ knife. I was recently eviscerated in one of her columns and I don’t want it to happen again. This time, in person.� GRACIE: That’s okay, as long as I’m left with a fork, so I can stick it into your pompous frame, Mr. Gatheral.� MARK: Have I ever told you, Ms. Phitts, I consider you to be a B-list talent? Just a B-lister, my dear.� GRACIE (taking a second to think about it): A B-list talent, you say. Okay, so maybe I am. I guess that means I should be kept away from the A talent. I need to be segregated. Don’t want to bother the quality people.� Say, aren’t you the one who made a fortune on a reality TV show about teenagers riding around in the basket of a hot air balloon? They were flashing and mooning the deer and the antelope and people in shopping mall parking lots. Boogie Flights I believe it was called. A big hit.� MARK: No thanks to you. I still remember the headline of your review. You must have been very proud of your creativity on that one.� GRACIE: Yes, I liked it. �śBad Taste Pumped Up on Helium Turns to Tedium.” And now you’ve got a new show, �śSnow Bored.” When you were younger, you were considered an auteur genius. What went wrong?� MARK: What do you mean? I came up with the title Snow Bored myself. It’s a play on words with several obvious and provocative meanings. It helps to be an educated man.� GRACIE: A bunch of randy college-age kids carrying on again. This time, they’re running around in the freezing cold wearing ridiculous hats and T-shirts. Or nothing at all. Every week someone gets voted off when they’re handed an empty beer can. It’s a glorification of stupidity.� MARK: There’s a whole vibrant sub-culture out there that doesn’t get enough attention. That’s the crowd I appeal to. I’ve come to realize they’re my kind of people.� GRACIE: Uh-huh. I know the intelligentsia likes to throw a bone to the hick fringe every once in a while. Saves them from getting beaten up. And making a fortune doesn’t hurt either.� MARK: I must apologize, Betty. Clearly there is someone here tonight who is a less than gracious guest at such a fine social gathering as this.� GRACIE: That’s true, Betty. And it really is nice of Mark to point this out so publicly. No doubt about it. This is the forum for us to air our differences.� The hostess and the rest of the guests look increasingly appalled.� MARK: You’re really bad at mixing in society, aren’t you? So you have a newspaper column and that’s where all your social faux pas get fixed. You have some scores to settle, I suppose.� GRACIE: Are you telling me you really don’t know? The whole point of writing professionally is revenge.� MARK: Didn’t you make an appearance at some recent awards show and throw up?� GRACIE: That was because I have a chemical imbalance. My psychiatrist is always warning me about it. I take medication to control the problem.� MARK: A chemical imbalance? Is that where flaky is added to crazy and the mix becomes unstable? By the way, why are you speaking with an upper-crust accent? My people tell me you’re from Toronto.� GRACIE: I spent considerable time in London during my formative years. (hesitation) Year. (longer pause) Month.� MARK: And when was that?� GRACIE: While I was doing background research on a tip I received that David Bowie was having an affair with the Queen.� MARK: Yes, I seem to remember the fiasco. It must have been embarrassing for you.� GRACIE: Well it wasn’t my fault my informant got the wrong queen. Anyway, while I was in London, I absorbed the culture.� MARK: You’re quite the sponge.� GRACIE: Okay, speaking of flaws Clause, how about you? Look at the size of you. How did things work out at the food-and-drink addiction clinic you admitted yourself to? What’s that, your third glass of wine?� MARK: I have a large body that needs fueling. I’m big-boned.� GRACIE: And why did you miss our scheduled interview? I hear you’re always missing interviews.� MARK: So what if I show up late once in a while? It doesn’t do anybody any harm.� GRACIE: It’s stressful and it’s unprofessional. Reporters have deadlines, you know.� MARK: Come on. I didn’t really upset you that much, did I?� GRACIE: Yes you did and I happen to know you become stressed easily, too. My people tell me you keep checking yourself into the hospital to have your heart monitored. How hard do they have to search for it? Behind the big bones, I mean.� MARK: I’ve never been talked to like this before. I know many important people in the entertainment business. I’m going to tell them to boycott you.� GRACIE: You’re dreaming if you think you have that kind of power. Sure, some of them will agree at first. Then when I call them for an interview, they’ll get stars in their eyes. There’s few in your hoity-toity crowd can resist seeing their names in print.� MARK: But, but�Ś(turning to the hostess)�Ś. Please accept my apologies, Betty. I feel I must leave. These insults are unacceptable.� GRACIE: Likewise, Betty. I’m sorry about this extreme example of performance art. Good evening everyone.� They took their exits before the entrée. On the way out, they both grabbed their coats.� ~~� A separate chamber gave access to the single elevator servicing the two top-floor penthouse units. As they waited in the harsh light, the combatants’ bubbling-over fevers cooled a degree or two. When the door to the lift finally opened, they boarded together and Mark ventured a comment.� MARK: I missed our appointment because I was looking after my sick grandmother.� GRACIE: Please. You’re lying.� MARK: Was it obvious? You’re a tempestuous minx, aren’t you Ms. Phitts.� GRACIE: Yes, I can be. But you really are annoying.� MARK: I know. I must apologize. You’re not just a B talent.� GRACIE: Oh? And what am I?� MARK: B+.� GRACIE: Gee. How nice of you.� MARK: No, I’m having fun with you. You really do A-quality work. Most of the time.� GRACIE: And how do you rate yourself, Mr. Gatheral?� MARK: In these past few years, H for hack.� GRACIE: That’s a little harsh. Try again.� MARK: G for girth.� GRACIE: I see you’re working your way back up the alphabet. Next, it’ll be F for fool.� MARK: Please, Gracie. Can I call you Gracie? I thought we were starting to connect.� GRACIE: Humph. Actually, I don’t mind your girth. Let’s just say you’re well-rounded. Or a man of substance.� MARK: And I know perfectly well what substance you’re thinking of.� GRACIE (smiling for the first time): Yes, well, I have some of that in me as well.� MARK: So, no need for prune juice cocktails then?� GRACIE (now giggling): I do keep pretty regular.� MARK: You know, I may be starting to like you.� GRACIE: Don’t strain yourself. (giggles again)� The elevator came to a stop on the ground floor and they disembarked.� MARK: You wanna go for a drink? I’ve got stories I can tell you.� GRACIE: Will they be off the record?� MARK: Absolutely. The best kind.� GRACIE: Okay then, this might prove interesting.� ~~� In the year-end edition of What’s Up? – the cheeky monthly magazine distributed inside The Daily Digest tabloid - the following question was put to a number of high-profile women in the fashion, arts and media communities: Who was the sexiest man you met in the past year?� Gracie Phitts was among the ten women questioned. She was delighted to go on record. �śWell there was a man I was lucky enough to meet at a dinner party. You all know him. His name is.�Ś.”� Dancing the Family Man Shuffle� February 5, 2010� David and Maria made sure to arrive home on a Tuesday evening before 6 p.m. after long hard days at work by both of them. They were a married couple in their mid 40s, with three children – William aged 20, Walter 10 and Wendy 5. Later that evening, they would be meeting with Maria’s younger sister, Lucy, and her acquaintance or boyfriend or common-law husband, Jerry. The exact nature of their relationship remained fuzzy. The occasion was Lucy’s birthday.� The following conversation was conducted in the master bedroom and adjoining bathroom as David and Maria prepared themselves. Weeknights out were rare in their household.� DAVID: So how’d your day go, sweetheart?� MARIA: The usual. A mad rush. Worked too hard. Would have rather stayed home in bed.� DAVID: Did they say anything at day care when you picked up the kids?� MARIA: Yep. Apparently Walter came out with another one of his beauts. You know they went on a field trip to the art gallery. Our little treasure wanted to see John the Baptist’s head on a platter.� DAVID: Oh yeah, I think I told him about that one. I’ve always been impressed by that painting.� MARIA: Well, Miss Reed was appalled again. She thinks Wally may be disturbed. Told me the story and wanted to see my reaction. It’s a follow-up to the time he told her about the horror movies we let him watch. I think she’s nearly ready to send a social worker around to see us.� DAVID: So what’d you say?� MARIA: I didn’t show any weakness. I said it seemed like a perfectly reasonable request to me. Who doesn’t want to see John’s dripping bloody head? If you show any self-doubt as a parent, then they’ve got you. They’ll assault you with their feel-good everybody-needs-analysis spiel.� DAVID: It’s like when they came after me about Wendy hoarding snack food in her pockets. Told me it was a nasty habit and unhygienic. Well, of course it is. But I said that good hygiene is overrated. That it was no different than when our cat brings home a mouse and wants to show off her hunting skills. I got the strangest looks, but they’ve left Wendy and me alone ever since.� MARIA: All the same, would you please have a talk with Wally?� DAVID: I know. He has to try to fit in better and keep some of his more bizarre comments and revelations to himself. Please, for all our sakes. Who’s paying for dinner tonight?� MARIA: I guess we’ll have to pick up the tab. It’s Lucy’s special night. By the way, that reminds me. I’ll need your credit card on Friday. The front brakes need replacing on the car.� DAVID: Weren’t they done a couple of months ago?� MARIA: What can I say? The van’s a piece of plastic junk. You know I think it’s possessed.� DAVID: It’ll be re-possessed if we can’t get a handle on our bills. Speaking of faulty memory, I forgot to ask yesterday how the kids’ music lessons went.� MARIA: So-so. Mrs. Gretzch gave Wendy a lecture about not practicing enough. Wendy was close to tears. Wally’s guitar teacher went on again about the upcoming recital and how he’s still not taking his solo seriously.� DAVID: They don’t get it that the kids are enrolled to get a grounding in music and have some fun. Why does everything have to be grim and serious? Everyone is so driven these days.� MARIA: Can you pick the two of them up tomorrow night after Mandarin class?� DAVID: Sure, I guess so. Why, where will you be?� MARIA: Remember I got a late appointment with Dr. Eisenberg for root canal work?� DAVID: Is it covered under your health plan?� MARIA: Some of it is. These things are never completely covered.� DAVID: You and I are both working like dogs at well-paying jobs and we’re always broke. This wasn’t in my contract when we got hitched.� MARIA: Tell me about it.� DAVID: Say, why is my fresh underwear still wet?� MARIA: That’s the problem with the dryer I’ve been telling you about. It doesn’t vent properly.� DAVID: There’s another expense. It doesn’t end. Let’s unhook the vent from the ceiling and run it into the laundry room. Cover the end with a stocking.� MARIA: Then we’re risking a fire hazard. And if the insurance company finds out what we’ve done, they won’t pay on any claim.� DAVID: There’s six feet of pipe running behind the drywall to the outside. It’s probably blocked with squirrel nuts or something. I’ll have to get someone in to find the problem and fix it. What we need in this family is a man. You know what I mean? Not me, but a handy man.� MARIA: I hear you. We could use another wife, too, to do the cleaning.� Just then, Wally and Wendy ran into the room.� WALLY: Goldie threw up in the living room.� DAVID and MARIA together: Oh crap!� WENDY: JINX!� DAVID: What’s Jinx mean?� MARIA: It’s when two people say exactly the same thing at the same time.� DAVID: Right. When I was a kid, we used to do that too. Okay, I’ll be down in a few minutes. Hold your noses until then. What’s the matter with the dog? The fancy food and purified liquids we’ve got her on are making her sick. Let’s get her back on leftovers and tap water.� MARIA: It would save us a bit of money. We’ve also got to tackle our electronic bills. They’re costing us as much per month now as a car. Cell phones, the internet connections, cable TV, wireless hook-ups. At least with wireless, we don’t have to worry about fires so much.� DAVID: Here Junior, put this in the oven for a few minutes, will you? (He hands his clammy underwear to Wally.)� MARIA: I wouldn’t do that if I were you. I tried a similar trick when I was in college and started a fire.� DAVID: Your brain’s on fire. No wonder William grew up to be a fireman. It’s a wonder we haven’t turned him into an arsonist.� MARIA: I’m always alert to potential danger.� DAVID: Give me back my briefs, junior. I was just kidding. Guess I’ll have to go alfresco.� MARIA: This is a good excuse for you to wear your kilt.� DAVID: You mean Scottish-chieftain style? What if there’s a fire at the restaurant and I have to jump from an upper-storey window? The crowd below will see more than they bargained for.� MARIA: We’ll refuse to eat anywhere but on the ground floor. Or we’ll have to wait until William shows up with the fire truck and moves the spectators back.� DAVID: At least I’m looking forward to Sunday when we can relax.� MARIA: You’re forgetting the concert’s on Sunday.� DAVID: Have you ever wondered what’s in this for me? And I don’t mean the collective me. I mean me specifically.� MARIA (going over and giving him a hug): I know dear. Sometimes I think I’m more anchor than wife.� DAVID: No, that’s not true at all and you know it. You’re my rock, baby. You and the kids are everything to me.� MARIA: Come on. We’d better get going. And don’t forget to bring the Comet and cloth to clean up after Goldie.� ~~ On the drive to the restaurant, David tried not to be annoyed that Maria spent most of her time �śtalking” to her Twitter pals over her i-Phone. It helped that most of them were people he had come to know and like as well. For her part, Maria blocked out the sound of David’s fingernails tapping on the steering wheel. He was keeping time to a song melody that was unspooling inside his own head.� They arrived early to hold the reservation and Lucy and Jerry appeared 15 minutes later. Good food and conversation occupied the next hour. At the conclusion of the meal, however, when all was contentment, desserts were on the way and coffee was about to be served, it seemed the time was finally right to pose a question that seemed obvious to the older couple.� DAVID: So guys, are there any plans in the works for marriage and little ones to brighten up your lives?� LUCY: No, not at all. In fact, we’ve taken a pledge to never get married or have children. It wouldn’t be fair to bring them into such a mixed-up world as this. Our relationship is stronger for being respectful of each other’s independence.� JERRY: That’s right, David. Most people don’t really understand the nature of love. Love is freedom. It’s treating your partner like a butterfly you’re prepared to set loose at any time. Then if they come back, the bonding is more complete.� LUCY: Yes, exactly. Space defines our love. And respect for each other’s needs.� JERRY: It’s important to keep the romance alive. That’s why we go out on a date at least once a week. To a play or a movie after a nice expensive dinner. Getting away is crucial too.� LUCY: In fact, we’re planning another vacation to the Caribbean next month. We’ll lie on the sand, walk along the beach, hold hands and refresh our spirits. (Lucy gazed deeply into Jerry’s eyes and he returned the favour.)� JERRY: How about you two? When’s your next trip?� David and Maria looked at each other for a heartbeat. Then they turned back to the other couple and almost shouted simultaneously, �śOh grow up!” Then immediately after, �śJINX!”� An Imaginary Friend of an Imaginary Friend of Mine� February 12, 2010� Bradley found it was easiest to talk to his imaginary friend, Russell, when he was getting dressed before the full-length mirror in the bathroom. In such a setting, Russell became both a congenial valet and a good sounding board. He would stand to the side and let Bradley talk.� Russell had been around for as long as Bradley could remember. A bit portly, a tad balding and approaching 30, the two of them even looked like each other. Russell was more devil-may-care in his attitude, though. Now, getting ready for the most important evening of his life, Bradley needed to search out Russell’s opinion more than ever.� BRAD: We’ve been together a long time and you’ve always given me excellent counsel. I have to come to you again, though, because this is one more time when I’m not sure what to do.� RUSS: I appreciate what you’re saying but as I’ve told you before, the advice doesn’t really come from me. It comes from a very dear friend of mine, someone you refuse to believe in.� BRAD: You do understand my skepticism, don’t you?� RUSS: Not really.� BRAD: What you’re saying is I’m getting advice from an imaginary friend of an imaginary friend of mine, right?� RUSS: If you say so. She doesn’t seem so imaginary to me and what she says is always spot on.� BRAD: The advice has been excellent. When I wasn’t sure what career path to take, you convinced me start-up software development was a natural for me. And I’ve made a bundle.� RUSS: Absolutely true.� BRAD: And there have been several other times as well, although not as many as I would like. I’ll never forget when I made money betting on the Super Bowl. That was amazing.� RUSS: I remember. She told you, through me, to go against your team and pick the underdog, not only to cover the spread but to win outright. It paid off handsomely for you.� BRAD: Yes. It was a win-win situation. I was sure if I put money against my own team, it would give them a better chance of coming out victorious. It would be divine retribution.� RUSS: You have a fairly big opinion of yourself, don’t you?� BRAD: My only complaint is that you or this secret buddy of yours don’t help me often enough. But hang on a second, you’ve never told me before your other friend is a girl.� RUSS: If I don’t imagine a female companion, how am I ever supposed to meet a woman? Besides, you now have a girlfriend. Where’s that leave me? Do you want me to be lonely?� BRAD: I guess you’ve got a point there. Actually, I suppose it would defy logic if you didn’t have a special friend.� RUSS: One might even say it would be hypocritical of me.� BRAD: Yes, isn’t that interesting? You would be both denying your own self and losing out through self-denial. Why shouldn’t you have a sweetie? Is she nice?� RUSS: I think so.� BRAD: And you two spend your time talking about me?� RUSS: Give me a break. No!� BRAD: Well you must talk about me or how would she know what information to pass on.� RUSS: Sheila and I talk about all sorts of things. I could tell you it’s usually pillow talk, but that would be bragging. So let’s pretend she and I get together every night over dinner.� BRAD: And talk about me?� RUSS: We talk of world politics, the economy, movies, music and the latest trends. Feelings too, if I’m not careful. Then sometimes, occasionally, you come up in the conversation.� BRAD: I need the two of you to give me more tips.� RUSS: That won’t happen.� BRAD: Why not?� RUSS: Because Sheila doesn’t like you. She likes me. She only gives you enough useful information so you’ll keep coming back to me. She’s trying to keep me alive.� BRAD: What if I threaten to never see you again?� RUSS: You won’t. You’re both needy and greedy.� BRAD: Okay, is there anything she wants from me? I’d be happy to sign a contract.� RUSS: For what, your soul? Sheila won’t agree to something like that. She doesn’t have horns or a long pointy tail. She’s a sweetie and I’ll ask you to speak of her with respect.� BRAD: But she knows everything and she always gets it right. I have to tap into that.� RUSS: You’re exaggerating.� BRAD: Well she knows more than you do. Please explain.� RUSS: I think she can delve into your sub-conscious better than I can.� BRAD: That might make sense when it comes to my job or my relationships. But it doesn’t explain how she got the bet right.� RUSS: Don’t you have a theory that explains it? You’re always saying you cause what happens to your favorite teams. If you don’t do things in exactly a certain way, you’ll put a curse on them. For example, you know sometimes they play better when you’re not watching.� BRAD: That can’t really be possible. There are billions of people in the world. I can’t have a direct personal influence on the way a game turns out. Although I have to admit it does seem that way sometimes, doesn’t it. If I don’t put on my game-day jersey with the salsa stain on the front, comb what’s left of my hair in the wrong direction and eat nachos, they usually lose.� RUSS: It’s the deep sub-conscious at work. It’s where Sheila lives and thrives.� BRAD: That’s amazing. She can really go in there and make those things happen?� RUSS: Naw, I’m putting you on. I saw how she got the bet right. She flipped a coin.� BRAD: That can’t be true. Are you telling me I risked $1,000 on a coin toss?� RUSS: Yep. And you won $3,000. Pretty sweet, don’t you think?� BRAD: Okay, I still need some insight anyway. You know I’ve been seeing this new girl, Karen. I really like her.� RUSS: I am aware of that. I told you she was right for you. But only after Sheila gave her nod of approval.� BRAD: Right, well now I’ve bought her a ring and I’m thinking of asking her to marry me tonight. But I don’t know, I’m starting to have second thoughts.� RUSS: Why, what’s the matter?� BRAD: For one thing, if I tell her about you two, she’ll think I’m crazy.� RUSS: Go ahead and ask her to marry you. Sheila is convinced she’s right for you. And her intuition in these matters is dead on.� BRAD (not entirely convinced): We’ll see.� Later that evening, Brad and Karen enjoyed a spectacular meal at their favourite Bistro. They were seated at a table with two extra spaces. At first, Karen was mildly disappointed since she noticed there were several intimate and romantic one-on-one table settings in remote candle-lit corners of the room. But the food and ambience were so good, she quickly recovered.� Finally, Brad broached the subject that had been dominating his thoughts for days. He asked Karen to marry him. But before she could answer, he explained there was something he had to tell her. Something that she might find alarming and which could cause their break-up.� Out of fairness, he wanted to make her aware of his one idiosyncrasy. He didn’t want Karen committing to something she might regret later. He told her about Russell to begin with and then he went on to outline the newest revelations about someone named Sheila.� Karen was less shocked than Fred thought she would be, although her first question wasn’t much of a surprise.� KAREN: Is that why we’re sitting at a table in the middle of the room with two extra chairs?� BRAD: Yes, I’m embarrassed to admit one of the side-effects of my condition is rampant superstition. I thought it appropriate that Russell and Sheila be here tonight for this big event.� KAREN: Then let me say you’ve made a big mistake.� BRAD: I was afraid of that. I’m so sorry. I’ll go far away and leave you in peace.� KAREN: That’s not what I meant. What I’m saying is when you made the reservation for four, you should have made it for six. (Pause and deep breath.) I have some friends I would like you to meet as well.� The Personal Injury Attorneys to the Stars� February 19, 2010� Tracy Tinsdale was at her wits’ end. This was the Olympics in which she was supposed to shine. Instead, she was struggling again. While the problem was mainly mental, it wasn’t all her fault. In fact, her condition had recently been given a name. It was going down in the medical books as a modern ailment. Often, despite all efforts to resist, she would find her head spinning like a figure skating diva.� Her Olympic career had started at the Vancouver-Whistler Games. Tracy was a star in the firmament of ladies’ downhill, super G and giant slalom ski racing. At the age of 18 in 2010, she made a respectable showing but didn’t make it to the podium. That had never really been in anyone’s expectations, including her own.� The media spokespeople used the usual phrases to describe her first appearances on the Olympic stage. She was coming back nicely from injury, a bad bruise from a nasty fall in a world cup event at Val d’isére France. She was well-positioned for the next Olympics scheduled for 2014 in Sochi Russia. And she recorded several personal bests. No wins, but personal bests. That was the consolation prize that had seen many other top athletes through tough times.� When the 2014 Games arrived and Tracy again failed to medal, there was more disappointment expressed at her performances. But she stepped up in the rankings. Also, in events immediately prior to and after the Olympics, she did very well. In fact, her career took off. The product endorsements flowed in and life in general became much easier. Still, there was the nagging dissatisfaction with failing to achieve success under the biggest microscope of all, the Winter Games.� Now it was 2018 and this was supposed to be Tracy’s year. In fact, the whole nation was counting on her. What everyone else did not know, however, was that Tracy had developed a severe case of nervous distraction. The offending party was advertising. She consulted, in secret, several sports psychologists and was surprised and relieved to hear she was not alone in her distress.� In fact, the medical fraternity had only recently given her condition a name – Games Advertising Philia or GAP for short, not to be confused with the clothing store chain that had its own love of advertising. Rather than putting her mental energies to work attempting to analyze her moves on the hill, Tracy was spending all of her time trying to figure out how various products might be of benefit to her.� The Olympics were a special case when it came to promotional efforts. Every firm wanted to tie its products or services to the Games in some way. This resulted in some strange alignments. Tracy could imagine the connection between an athlete’s training regimen and healthy food products, energy drinks and vitamins. This might also extend to coffee. Many people need a jolt to wake up in the morning. And beer. Lots of people need a relaxant to take the edge off after a stressful day.� The connection was more tenuous when it came to motor oil, rust-proofing and auto body shops. Of course, there was always the issue of transporting oneself to various venues. The relevance of other ads was more remote. Computers? Come to think of it, Tracy was able to study her digitally recorded moves on her laptop while resting. How about cell phones? She laughed to herself when she imagined phoning for the latest weather conditions as she was hurtling down the slopes.� Financial services? Tracy struggled to come up with much of a connection. Except she would be more likely to put this product to good use if she came first or second in one of her events. The lost opportunity cost of failure was steep.� Nevertheless, Tracy’s obsession with advertising was jeopardizing her chances of success. What she would have dearly liked was the insertion of video messages in the lens’ corners of her goggles. That way she could monitor products and services while both training and racing. Alas, that day was still some distance away.� To give the appearance of de-commercializing the Games, actual signage was banned from ice stadium boards and the fencing along mountain ski runs. It was a smart public relations move by Games organizers. Tracy was grateful for that much. She had no resistance to temptation. Had the signs been up, she knew she would be pausing to check them out while shushing down the slopes.� Tracy had it bad. Her addiction to advertising was debilitating. Thankfully, she’d learned one valuable lesson in life. Be careful who you jettison on your trail to the top. The people you encounter along the way can be really important to you. You never know who is going to become your friend over the longer course of life.� Tracy had met Inga way back in Vancouver. Inga was from Estonia and they’d been bitter rivals on the skiing circuit. Tracy had found Inga’s aggressive approach to competition off-putting. But over the years, they had developed a grudging respect for each other, at first, and then a deeper appreciation and affection.� Ultimately, Inga was the one Tracy chose to confide in. Missing gold, silver or bronze was costing Tracy millions of dollars in extra endorsements. Somebody should be made to pay. Inga had contacts who would know what to do.� While Inga represented an Eastern European nation in sporting events, she did her training in the United States. She became part of an active expatriate community. Inga was the one who introduced Tracy to certain people who were able to help her, along with several others, when her latest Olympic dreams collapsed.� Sven Lindquist and Vladimir Kolnitzen were a pair of North American-trained lawyers who respectively left their homelands in Sweden and Russia in their early teens. Standing somewhat apart from their other classmates, they became close friends in law school and set up practice together as personal injury attorneys. Initially, they represented asbestos workers and motorcycle accident victims.� Lately, they had branched out into a new lucrative arena of legalistic legerdemain. They started taking on the grievance cases of champions whose mental faculties, senses of well-being and, not insignificantly, financial fortunes had been adversely impaired by corporate advertising. Due recompense was their stock in trade.� Inga took Tracy to meet the attorneys, who both had shiny tiny eyes. The quartet sat down at the law firm’s opulent board-room table to discuss strategy and set long-term goals. Tracy was doubly pleased with the meeting for another reason.� Lindquist and Kolnitzen had written a catchy jingo that was ubiquitous over the airwaves. As a result, they became minor celebrities in their own right.� �śWhen an ad goes bad, call Sven and Vlad,” was the opening to their pitch. It was highly effective at pulling in an elite clientele for class-action GAP cases. The beauty of the proposal lay in the infinite number of enterprises that could be sued.� The irony of going after companies for lost advertising revenue caused by a surfeit of advertising was lost on Tracy. Not so, the law firm of Lindquist and Kolnitzen.� Chasing a Murderer into Polar Bear Country� March 2, 2010� Chief Inspector Beige was glad to be home. He’d spent three days entangled in the lives of the rich and famous and, never before, had he been so off-balance in all his 45 years. It had been a roller-coaster ride that lost its amusement appeal long before the final plummet.� Beige’s detective career spanned a decade. He was recognized as Toronto’s finest when it came to solving crime. That’s why he’d been assigned to investigate the mysterious disappearance of paparazzi-favourite, Shirley Soame, girlfriend of hockey legend Robert St. Pierre. Possible victim and villain were too high-profile to risk ham-handed treatment by anyone else in the force.� Shirley had been missing for four days when Beige was put on the case. The public relations firm she worked for contacted the police because she failed to show up for several key client meetings and there was no answer either at her home phone number or on her cell. She was a rising star with the firm and this kind of disregard for her responsibilities had never happened before.� There had been considerable coverage by the media of the fiery public spats St. Pierre and Shirley engaged in. Their relationship was a volcano that often erupted and the emotional lava would ignite many a social gathering. What was it doing to the feelings the two principals had for each other? How long could such volatility be sustained without serious trouble?� Shirley had gone missing first and then St. Pierre had taken a powder two days later. It was time to start questioning friends and neighbours. Beige started with a canvas of the other occupants of the waterfront condo where St. Pierre and Shirley sometimes passed their time in co-habitation.� St. Pierre now played hockey for the Annaheim �śQuacks”. Earlier in his career, he’d been a stalwart of the Leafs. Due to his Canadian heritage, he still maintained a residence in Toronto while commuting half the year to California. He’d most recently returned to the city to play against the Leafs but failed to show at the airport for the next leg of the team’s road trip.� Beige learned nothing from the first two doors he knocked on down the corridor from St. Pierre’s unit, but he was rewarded on his third try. After noting his credentials, a charming young model-type by the name of Peg invited him in and offered to serve coffee. Then she spilled the beans on what she knew about the stormy relationship of her �śalmost” best friends.� Peg was visiting Shirley on Sunday afternoon when St. Pierre arrived home after a team meeting. From the rear of the apartment, he charged back into the kitchen area clearly upset. He wanted to know why his jock strap was lying on the floor in the bedroom. He certainly hadn’t put it on to walk around the apartment and his suspicions about Shirley’s relationships with other athletes were well known. What kind of shenanigans had Shirley been up to during his brief absence?� Shirley had a perfectly logical explanation. On a lark, according to her, she’d worn St. Pierre’s jock strap to her pole dancing class that morning. It was an amusing substitute for a G-string, she said. The instructor and other participants went into hysterics. They thought it was hilarious. The fact it belonged to one of the best hockey players in the world added extra spice to the gambit.� St. Pierre was not amused. One-half skeptical about the veracity of this tale and one-half annoyed about his private and personal property being trotted out in such a public way, he wouldn’t let go of his anger. Peg quietly backed out of the apartment. She could hear the two of them shouting even after she closed the front door and scurried down the hall to her own abode.� Beige appreciated the insight into the private lives of the two high-profile individuals. But was he really supposed to consider that harm came to Shirley over an argument about a jock strap? There are things one can develop a sentimental attachment to, but a jock strap? On the other hand, who knew what went on in the mind of a star hockey player? A number of them were said to have mighty strange superstitions. �śDon’t touch my jock strap” might be St. Pierre’s.� The jock strap argument had occurred on Sunday afternoon. It was Wednesday by the time Beige got around to his interview with Peg. The rest of the morning led nowhere and Beige returned to his precinct office. Web traffic and the airwaves were abuzz with speculation about what had happened to Shirley. St. Pierre’s whereabouts were also a matter of intense conjecture.� That’s when the phone call came that would soon take Beige on a northern adventure and alter his notion of normalcy. The caller was an informant, a former Leaf’s fan upset with St. Pierre’s defection to a team in the United States, who reported the left winger had recently returned to his home town of Frostbite on the shores of James Bay, where Ontario meets Nunavut. This chromite mining community, replete with generations of hard-scrabble men, has a praise-worthy history of producing some of the NHL’s toughest and longest-lasting hockey players.� After some prodding by his commander, Beige hopped a plane the next day for Sudbury, then drove a rented car as far north as geese can fly. Thursday evening around 8 p.m., Beige walked into the drinking lounge of the Palace Hotel in downtown Frostbite. The other patrons of the watering hole had rarely seen a sight quite like Beige.� Beige was a brilliant detective, but he had his eccentricities. Some of them were physical. He was slightly balding, wore horn-rimmed glasses and barely met the height requirement that was in place when he joined the force. He dressed in vested suits that hid a bit of a bulge and in no way did he look the part of a crack homicide investigator. His bemused expression lent him an unfocused air that fooled many a bad guy into dropping his or her guard, leading to an arrest.� But it was Beige’s secret weapon that was his most effective tool. It was secret in the sense few could guess at its full purpose, but the actual object was always in plain sight. Beige’s frustration with keeping track of notes during his inquiries had led to a simple solution. Years ago, he started carrying around the most pertinent items pertaining to his cases in a white plastic recycling bin. That’s where he kept all his files, his notes and his character studies.� When Beige entered the lounge of the Palace, he was immediately the object of everyone else’s attention. The smell of beer, fries and wings mixed with sweat, hardship and sorrow was overwhelming. Still, Beige was met with more curiosity and tolerance than he’d been expecting. There is nothing quite like the bare-bones accoutrements of a drinking man’s pub to encourage conversation. Beige was hoping for a confessional that would lead him to St. Pierre.� In no time at all, under the lubricant of free drinks, the other patrons were regaling Beige with stories about the local legend that was Robert St. Pierre. He was a home-town hero who had never forgotten his roots. There is a tradition in the National Hockey League that after the Stanley Cup is awarded, each member of the winning team is allowed to take the trophy back home to show it off. Frostbite would never forget when St. Pierre returned with the Cup.� When St. Pierre and the Quacks won the Cup in the mid-90s, he had returned in triumph to Frostbite. That’s when a miracle happened. Robert St. Pierre and the local priest, Father Pierre St. Robert, had been friends since childhood. Yes, when they were younger, adults had often gotten their identities confused and the two high-spirited lads became friends while covering up each other’s minor crimes. The grown-up and now sober-sided priest had prevailed upon St. Pierre to let him use the Cup as a baptismal font. On a certain Sunday in early July, ten of the local children had been baptized by means of holy water consecrated in the bowl at the top of Lord Stanley’s mug.� Nobody in the community would ever forget it. Since then, Frostbite itself seemed blessed. With the exception of one or two embittered and ostracized malcontents who still resented St. Pierre’s middle-of-the-night leave-taking from the Leafs, no one else in town would ever do anything to harm their native son. That’s why a certain rumour was so disturbing.� On Thursday, there indeed had been a St. Pierre sighting on the edge of town. The phantom in question vanished into the woods. The news spread quickly but the decision was made to leave Robert in peace, if that was what he wanted. But there was more to follow. Later that day, a report came to Frostbite’s Mayor, now seated across from Beige, of a possible polar bear attack on a human being. An elder from the nearby native reserve, saw a fierce commotion out on the ice. He didn’t stick around to gather evidence, since he figured it was largely consumed anyway. Had St. Pierre wandered off into the unknown in a disoriented state and become delectable sushi?� Beige spent all day Friday racing along on one of two snowmobiles with a native guide by the name of Tom Tallfeathers. They followed what they hoped was the trail of St. Pierre into the wilderness. After lunch, they exited the treeline, dipped over a rise and saw in the distance a family of polar bears. The biggest was a good one-third larger than the other two. It was an adult male, according to Tallfeathers. If St. Pierre had been eaten, he was the obvious gourmand.� Beige had come prepared. He set up a rifle on a tripod to shoot the bear with a tranquilizer dart. That was when Tallfeathers interrupted.� �śYou can’t do that,” said Tallfeathers. �śPolar bears are protected by the government and no injury can be inflicted on one of their kind without formal approval.”� �śLet’s shoot now and get an okay from the Ministry of Natural Resources later,” said Beige. �śWe have to investigate the contents of the bear’s stomach to see if there are any human remains.”� �śYou must understand something. There’s no we or us here,” said Tallfeathers. �śThat particular bear is sacred to my people. You’ll get no help from me or any other member of my tribe.”� �śWhy not?”� �śBecause that bear’s an albino. Can’t you tell? It’s extremely rare. It comes down to earth from the spirit world only once in every seven generations. To harm such a creature is very bad luck.”� �śBut it’s a polar bear. They’re all white. White all over. You can’t get more white. My teeth aren’t that white. How can you possibly know it’s an albino?”� �śYou get up close and look in his eyes. Wanta go have a look? I just know they’re pink.”� �śUh, no, I think I’ll pass. But I’ve got to get authorization to tranquilize that bear. The disappearance of someone like Robert St. Pierre can’t be made to go away.”� And so they trekked back to town. Another day lost.� Saturday morning, Beige got the phone call that ended the madness. The details, as usual, were depressingly banal. Shirley finally emerged from hiding. She’d been holed up in a hotel room in Niagara Falls, Ontario playing Texas Hold’em poker on the Internet for the past week. Under a false name, she avoided all contact with the outside world until her resolve ran out and a maid identified her. Choosing the Honeymoon Capital of the World for refuge had been a cruel joke.� The local police soon got the whole story. The source of her split-up with St. Pierre was her career. A competing public relations firm had offered her a huge increase in status and salary if she would abandon ship and come over to their side. There was only one catch. She would have to guarantee Robert St. Pierre and his new sponsorship potential would come with her.� Robert had waffled. First he said yes, then he said no, then he imposed his own conditional acceptance. She must get anger management counseling. Of course, this set off the worst fight ever between them. She stormed out, leaving no word of where she was going. Later, when she was reported missing, he knew he’d be caught in a net of suspicion and he panicked.� So there was no victim. Unless, of course, one counted the St. Pierre brisket the giant polar bear had possibly eaten back on the ice floe. But that was more of an unfortunate accident.� Beige checked out of the motel. The clerk at the front desk, who was also Frostbite’s Mayor, was surprised at Beige’s early departure. When Beige filled him in on the story, however, the Mayor was able to supply the last missing piece. St. Pierre was alive and well and had spent a couple of nights in an ice fishing shack the Mayor owned on Cooked Goose Bay. Beige was relieved to hear it. Most everyone in town knew the truth. The community conspired to protect their guy.� Now back in his Toronto home, Beige turned to his white plastic carry-all container. This was a side of his life he kept hidden from everybody. The official case was closed. But now his real work would begin. He’d go through all his notes and make a record of his observations. Beige dreamed of being a writer. He knew he had the perfect source of background material. His factual caseload would make for fascinating narrative. You couldn’t make this stuff up. He knew what he’d call this latest chapter, �śThe Mysterious Disappearance of the Athlete’s Supporter.”� One Thousand Years of Baked Goods� March 9, 2010� The following are the journal entries of Mr. Justin Smythe, a gentleman hobby farmer living outside the lovely theatre community of Stratford, Ontario where a widely-known Shakespearean festival is held each year. Mr. Smythe’s life proceeds quietly as he tends his cattle and occasionally takes walks in 30 acres he has set aside on his property for Christmas tree cultivation. Evergreens are the best shelter from the sun to spur on the growth of mushrooms, which are harvested in October.� OCTOBER 10, 2000: I hate mushroom pickers. They come onto the property and create nothing but trouble. They litter. They toss away beer cans and luncheon wrap. They pop up in unexpected places. Often they discard matches and cigarette butts, posing a fire hazard. Some even walk around with rifles taking shots at imaginary targets, scaring the bejeepers out of me. They don’t realize I’m working on the property. They tear down �śNo Trespassing” signs faster than I can put them up. But today, I met a couple who were a complete surprise to me.� Mushroom pickers are usually of mid-European birth, with thick accents. They’re the only ones who know what they’re doing. Mushrooms can be dangerous. Eat the wrong ones and they’ll kill you. I sure don’t know anything about them, but apparently my property is ideal for their propagation. Every year around this time I have to fend off unwelcome visitors by the car-load.� George and Hannah are completely the opposite of what I’m used to encountering. They’re young, attractive and articulate. I think they might be brother and sister. They look so similar and they don’t interact like husband and wife. They own a shop in town and serve baked goods as well as light meals to tourists and theatre-goers attending the main festival and other events.� They asked if I would be willing to let them grow mushrooms at the farm. I couldn’t resist. They were so charming. They offered to pay for the privilege, but I said there was no need. It will be nice to see them around from time to time. Hopefully we can get together and chat some more.� OCTOBER 15, 2001: I stopped in at George and Hannah’s bakery shop today to see how they’re doing. It’s a really cute establishment named Tarts and Torts, with gingerbread trimming on the outside and delicious baked goods on the inside. But that’s not what really got my attention. It was the pies. Hannah is a genius. I like all varieties – peach, coconut, lemon meringue, apple, cherry, pumpkin, strawberry, rhubarb. I don’t even have a favorite. They’re all special.� The fruity insides were so succulent. That’s only half the story. The pastry is superb. Talk about light and flaky. Hannah’s pies melt in your mouth. I tried three varieties and could barely resist a fourth. Eating any more would have been uncouth. It was after the lunch hour rush and George and Hannah were able to sit with me for a while. I learned some more about them. I was right. They are brother and sister. Apparently their family has a long and illustrious history of owning bakery shops. They’ll tell me more about it next time, they swear. I’ll have to be content for now.� OCTOBER 8 2002: George and Hannah came by today. They’ve just been out in the fields gathering in their latest crop. Strangely, I don’t even know where they’ve located their plot. Mushrooms can normally be hard to spot. You might have to turn over a fallen log or two. But theirs seem to be well-nigh invisible. I suppose that’s good. If I can’t see them, neither can the nuisance mushroom-pickers who keep sneaking back onto the farm, despite my best efforts.� Hannah brought the ingredients to cook a meal here. It was delicious. She says she wants me to feel comfortable eating her special recipes. After dinner, George started to talk some more about their family history. It seems branches of their family happened to be in the right place at the right time going way back. There were hints of ancestors serving cake and crumpets to the likes of Shakespeare. This is too delightful to leave alone. I’ll ask more next time.� OCTOBER 15, 2003: Hannah and George brought their traveling feast to my home again tonight. What an incredible evening. The two of them can trace their history back a thousand years to the Black Forest in Germany. Jumping ahead several generations, there was service with the courts of the French kings, Louis fourteenth through sixteenth. When the revolution came in the second half of the 1700s, and most of the nobility of France had their heads chopped off, thousands of servants, couriers and cooks were thrown out of work. To earn money to feed themselves, royalist chefs opened restaurants in Paris. Ever since, French cooking has been at the forefront of great cuisine. Nevertheless, George and Hannah’s ancestors de-camped to England, which proved to be a wise move.� I listen to the two of them with rapt attention. They both get so caught up in what they are saying it’s almost as if they were actually there. I can hardly wait to hear the next instalment.� OCTOBER 9, 2005: Apparently George and Hannah’s family wasn’t always on the right side of the law. They had more than their share of black sheep. After locating to England, there were long-ago great-great aunts and uncles who chopped people up and served the body parts in meat pies. I wouldn’t be surprised if Sweeney Todd apprenticed to some of those skeletons in the closet.� George had some extra insight into this matter. He said sometimes the septic system can leach into the gene pool. With the passage of time and provided with extra forbearance and forgiveness by the rest of society, offspring can land on their feet again if they strive hard.� OCTOBER 20, 2006: I was invited to dinner by my best friends again yesterday. The meal was outstanding. Dessert was ambrosia. George even opened the liqueur cabinet. Hot blueberry pie topped with vanilla ice cream followed by Columbian coffee and the sweetly tart taste of Grand Marnier. Then Frangelica, Kahlua and Chambord, one tiny shot after another, accumulating to a dizzying but delirious crescendo. They danced over the palate with the taste of hazelnut, cocoa, oranges and black raspberries. Slipping into a pleasurable haze, I summoned the nerve to ask George and Hannah a rather personal question about their parents. How did they meet?� George told me their father had signed up for an art class in order to improve his skill at decorating wedding cakes. Much to his surprise and initial consternation, he found himself in a life drawing class. The nude model at the room’s center was a gorgeous young woman he would eventually woo and make his wife. That was their mother. Hannah listened to this story with an amused look in her eyes. At the conclusion, she turned to me and said, �śDon’t you believe a word of it.” I don’t know what to think, nor do I really care. The evening crossed over into magical.� OCTOBER 10, 2007: After giving thanks once again for Hannah’s cooking skills, I prevailed on the two of them to tell me some more about their relatives’ histories. Hannah volunteered some of the names that had gone along with the various establishments over the years. When the family first came to North America, they set up shop in Austin Texas. A La Mode at the Alamo was less than totally successful, since the ethnic population was largely Spanish rather than French. Then another branch of the family, locating next to a burlesque theatre in New York, chose the name Cupcakes and Muffins for their operation. That drew some stares from passers-by.� OCTOBER 15, 2008: I love this story. I know I’m living vicariously through George and Hannah, but who wouldn’t? Back in the tie-dyed hippie days of free love in the 1960s, George and Hannah’s grandparents owned a coffee shop in San Francisco. It was frequented by the likes of Timothy Leary and Allen Ginsberg. The phrase �śflower power” was a later creation. In earlier times, it was Flour Power, based on the name of the neighborhood’s most successful cafe.� Still, I can’t get over the feeling George and Hannah are intimately acquainted with the times they are describing. They both get far-away looks in their eyes and it’s as if I am no longer in the room with them. They positively glow before returning to the present.� NOVEMBER 1, 2010: I’m going to ask them when they come over tonight. I can’t put this off any longer. It’s so incredible and amazing. I think I know their secret. Neither of them has aged at all over the past ten years. This isn’t a matter of two exceptional people with good bone structures growing older gracefully. When you look at them closely, they really haven’t altered.� ~~� After scanning the key sections of Justin Smythe’s diary, George tossed it into his satchel. He’d deal with it later at a more convenient time, by burning it or running the pages through a shredder or making sure it was deeply buried somewhere. He knew the routine by now.� In fact, he and Hannah had been dealing with this problem for centuries. Ever since the day their father died. Poppa had been killed in a freak logging accident. He was a woodsman and one of his arboreal victims, in a non-sentient but nevertheless effective gesture of payback, fell on him.� Soon after, George and Hannah returned to the log cabin deep in the woods. What was most surprising was that much of the inventory was still there. The vicious elderly lady who had formerly owned the place may have been long dead, but many of the materials she used in her cooking were secure and well sealed. This is what launched them on their careers.� It was the garden out back that was most astonishing. In profuse abundance was a type of mushroom they had never seen before. Bulbous, spongy and spore-filled, its properties were at first a mystery. After considerable experimentation, however, astonishing results came to light. For one thing, with care, this particular form of morel could change color, alternating from ebony to almost clear seemingly dependent on the mood of its gardener. Furthermore, once attached to a certain caregiver, it could disguise itself from everyone else.� Its edible properties varied greatly. Dried out, shaved and sprinkled lightly on flour, for example, it would put a sparkling gleam in the eye of anyone who ate it. In this form, George and Hannah had found it most useful to serve to actors and actresses. Cooked and mixed with cream or broth in soup or stew, it radiated suffusing warmth that provided a heady feeling of well-being.� Eaten raw and in moderation on a day-to-day basis, it could prolong existence indefinitely and stop aging at whatever point in life the diner happened to be. That’s where George and Hannah were, locked in place at ages 22 and 20 respectively. Sautéed and served in a smothering heap on top of steak, it could lead to paralysis and death. Hannah knew exactly how much to serve and in what form to achieve the desired result. Justin didn’t stand a chance.� Justin was too close to knowing the truth. George could see it in his eyes. The diary confirmed it. He and Hannah could only disguise themselves so long. Their lack of aging was an impediment to staying in any one place. That’s why they kept on the move around the globe.� They could have semi-normal lives for ten to 15 years at the maximum. In each block of time, they liked to enjoy themselves and play their own private jokes. They would even mix up their names, never straying too far from their roots, but sometimes having fun with the gender.� They liked Justin. But there was really no alternative. It was time, once again, for Hansel and Gretel to kill their supplier and move on.� Fuzzy on the Details� March 20, 2010� Paying attention to detail solved the case. There were several abnormalities to note about the two-foot-tall fish tank. A small amount of water had been displaced, as if someone’s arm had been inserted all the way; the ceramic castle on the bottom appeared to have been moved on its granular base, possibly for aesthetic reasons; the mosquito larvae and black worm food weren’t in their usual spot on the shelf; and the gold and silver angel fish were still active and alert a long while after the estimated time of death of the corpse in the condo’s kitchen. None of these was conclusive on its own. The owner and chief fish wrangler could have performed these acts just before the last roundup, but the investigator on the case was used to following his hunches.� It seemed the murderer might know and love cichlids. A shared interest with the victim could explain the lack of forced entry. A beam of light shone on one particular suspect. Further investigation revealed motive and opportunity. The healthy fish were the dead giveaway.� Felix Bender punched the control button to turn off the police drama. Watching crime-solving shows was his chief form of relaxation. He particularly liked it when a single clue, left behind by even the brightest of criminals, led to an arrest. This was the kind of attention to detail Felix wished he could summon in his own life. But Felix was weak on the finer points. It wasn’t that there were many limits to his intelligence. Rather, he was readily distracted. Felix had big dreams and it was easier to fantasize about success than to do the grunt work.� It’d been weeks since Felix had truly relaxed. Not since his wife Charlene announced she was leaving him. For what must have been the hundredth time, he reviewed his life. His shortcomings in the matter of detail had been a curse, a blessing and then a curse once more.� As a young man, his failings caused him a great deal of consternation when it came to choosing a career. Almost all occupations require some level of focus on a limited number of observation points. Early on, Felix imagined what it would be like to train for law enforcement. A goodly portion of police procedural work involves honing one’s everyday observational skills. Who is entering or leaving a store, theatre or bank? Who is interacting with whom and in what manner on any given occasion? Who are the bystanders at a crime scene? What is each person wearing? Be able to describe the appearance of the couple sitting across from you in a restaurant. There was no telling when this might become important after the commission of a crime. Felix soon realized he could not maintain focus. His thoughts dispersed in other directions too quickly.� He worked in the food service industry for a number of years. That seemed like it might offer interesting possibilities. There was no denying how much he liked food. The more exotic and piquant the better. Crème brulee, bouillabaisse, jambalaya, moo goo gai pan, baba ganoush, moussaka and shawarma were all delectable treats. But as for how to prepare them, they were all just foreign words to him. He was quickly lost in doubt as to when to add cinnamon, cardamom, ginger, nutmeg, savory or rosemary to a bubbling stew. Where he did shine was in observing the kinds of people who knew such things. He acquired an in-depth understanding of the personality types who were epicures and chefs versus the meat-and-potatoes-choosing average Joes.� He thought he’d try auto sales for a while. He imagined himself driving a fancy car. But did he know all-wheel drive from four-wheel drive, the imports from the domestics, the esoterica of anti-lock braking and hi-tech electronic systems, hybrids versus plug-ins? More to the point, was he really interested? In a word, no. Did he quickly pick up on the character profiles of those who chose convenience or fuel efficiency as compared to off-road behemoths or luxury brands? Yes.� The same disinterest in detail limited his growth prospects along several other career paths. Lawyers, accountants, architects, engineers, doctors, real estate agents - these were all fact hoarders and detail grinders. By the time he was in his early 30s, Felix was beginning to despair over ever finding his true calling. He was feeling badly for Charlene who wanted a nice home and to start a family. It seemed everyone else in the world had a purpose and an interest.� Felix became depressed and drilled inward for an answer to his dilemma. Being of rather shallow mind, that seemed like a barren prospect. The opposite proved to be true. As occasionally happens in life, the unexpected poked up and bestowed a blessing on one of fate’s chosen favorites.� Felix began a journal about his emotional crisis and how he was dealing with it. From somewhere deep within, he happened upon humor as the best approach. He pitched his work-in-progress to a self-help publisher. You Might As Well Have Some Fun While You Go Nuts was the rather long but catchy title of his opus. Its major message was that people caught in overwhelming circumstances should change the pronoun �śyou” to �śI” in the title and repeat it, or even sing it, over and over. Felix’s refrain provided a mantra barrier to hold back the abyss.� The power of suggestion contained in the phraseology really did turn some people’s lives around. Felix’s pop psychology was a huge hit. He chose to present himself not as a man who sees a glass either half-full or half-empty, but as one who judges it to contain the right amount of fluid to soak one’s dentures in overnight. His musings crossed over into cultural phenomenon.� That’s when the talent agent Shannon came into the life of Felix and the on-air persona of Fuzzy was born. Shannon had been retained by a local TV station to find an afternoon host to interview guests about their personal problems of a work, family or romantic nature. Felix adopted the stage-name �śFuzzy” with one intention only, to name the show Fuzzy on the Details. It was to be a slightly more light-hearted approach that would differentiate it from the other tear-your-soul-apart offerings on the airwaves. The owners of the station jumped at the opportunity.� The show proposed it was sometimes better not to know all the details. Drop obsession, achieve closure and move on with a freer frame of mind if at all possible. Young and dynamic Shannon and her executive husband Phil quickly became best friends with Felix and Charlene.� In no time at all, Fuzzy’s wit, charm and novel approach were winning viewers at an impressive rate. The show moved from local to national, with notoriety and attention in lock step. Fuzzy became the nation’s favorite relationship guru. Much of the subject matter was outrageous. One of the first guests was a man who was sure his neighbour’s son was on drugs. Confronting the neighbor, however, harvested a bitter fruit. In a classic combination of �śnot as it seems” and �śpeople in glass houses”, it was eventually revealed the supplier was the interviewee’s daughter.� Then there was the lady who knew too much about what everyone else at her workplace was doing. Having a strong record of applying herself to the task at hand and resentful over what others might be getting away with, she started secretly monitoring her co-workers. So-and-so in production was leaving fifteen minutes early for lunch each day. Several clerks in accounts receivable were shaving their departure times to arrive early at the gym. Too many employees weren’t reporting accurately on sick days and vacation time. She took this intelligence to her boss but in the final analysis, it was her spying that was most upsetting to the company and she was the one let go. The show preached steadily on the need to accept some of the flaws of others.� Fame and fortune were Felix’s new companions. He was able to realize many of his fantasies. But perfection was not about to last forever in Fuzzyland, as Felix would soon discover.� A little over two years into his new life, Felix arrived home as per usual just before dinner. He kept regular hours since the broadcast was taped in the morning, leaving the afternoon to prepare for the next day.� Charlene was waiting for him with a chilled open bottle of Lowenbrau. She asked him to join her in the study of their new home. There was something she wanted to discuss and she needed his relationship expertise.� When they were settled, Charlene broached an awkward subject. �śShannon’s been behaving strangely lately.”� �śReally? Why do you say that?”� �śShe’s not available. You know I drive into town to have lunch with her on a regular basis. On several recent occasions, she’s called at the last minute to cancel.”� �śThat’s not so unusual.”� �śI was okay with it in the beginning. But her excuses are becoming flimsier and flimsier.”� �śHow so?”� �śWell, first she had to rush to her sick mother’s side. Then it was her sister who was ill. More recently, it’s been a constant stream of car trouble. She needed an oil change one week. Then her tires had to be rotated. I thought it might be because I’d done something to upset her and she doesn’t like me anymore. I was afraid to discuss it with you because you two have such a close working relationship.”� �śI can’t imagine that’s true. And she has been talking about having car trouble and illness in the family.”� �śBut then I started paying more attention to your show.”� �śOh? And where did that lead?”� �śI came to the conclusion she’s having an affair.”� �śThat doesn’t sound like Shannon. I doubt that very much. She and Phil are very close.”� �śYou had a lady guest a couple of weeks ago who suspected her husband might be cheating on her. Remember how the discussion went?”� �śVaguely.”� �śYou said it would be easy to know. There would be numerous tell-tale signs. If both parties were married, which was likely, they would need to meet in a hotel room. That would mean someplace close at hand if they were co-workers. Gifts as a sign of affection would be ticking time bombs. They’d have to be careful about where any expenses would appear, on credit cards or bank statements. You were quite specific and gave her a good number of clues to watch out for.”� �śThank you. I really do try to help my viewers.”� �śLast week, I finally did call you at work after Shannon cancelled. I was upset and wanted to talk with you about it. You weren’t available. Later you said you’d been tied up with Sid in accounting from 2 p.m. to 3 p.m.”� �śThat’s right. We went over advertising accounts and where we might be able to pick up some new sponsors. I even told you some of the firms we think are the best prospects.”� �śThen yesterday when Shannon backed out again, I tried to reach you and only got your phone mail. Apparently there was a meeting with the honchos from corporate all afternoon. You came home and acted out their three-man dog and pony show, word for word. It was quite amusing.”� �śSo?”� �śYou’re the one Shannon is having the affair with.”� �śWhat do you mean? That’s ridiculous. Do you have any evidence?”� �śYou mean like lipstick on the collar or a lingering scent of perfume or a hotel charge?”� �śYes.”� �śI have all the evidence I need. There’s no point in denying it.”� Felix said with a crestfallen expression, �śHow can you be so sure?”� A wistful smile fleetingly crossed Charlene’s face. �śBecause I’m your wife and I still know you better than anyone else, Felix or Fuzzy or whoever you think you’re becoming with your new celebrity status. When it comes to your missing whereabouts, you’re no longer vague with the details.”� The Size of the Skip� March 27, 2010� The man, his son and his daughter had a routine when they went for a bike ride. Taking point position would be the son, about to turn age 12, on a medium-sized bike. In the middle would be the daughter, just short of 8 years old, on a small but not too small bike. Bringing up the rear and keeping an eye on the whole convoy, the 50-something man was on the biggest bicycle of the three.� They would ride in tandem down the street that ran past their cottage and up and down the undulating hills that made their community such a pretty place in which to live. White pine, spruce and cedar mainly hid the oak and maple that came to the fore in the fall when the leaves changed colour. Multi-hued and variously-sided cottages were set back on sandy soil.� There was one biggish hill they liked to pretend was a monster. They called it San Garganza for no particular reason, except it sounded like the kind of place where the souls of dead bikers might have made their heads-over-heels exits. It was fun to pretend they were scared by the place. The pot-holes on that particular stretch of pavement were a bit of a safety hazard.� Most often, the rides were pure enjoyment with not much to upset the pleasure of the experience. There were a few cars and trucks that would drive past and sometimes annoyance was expressed when it was obvious someone was driving too fast through what was basically a residential community with quite a few kids. All in all, the man knew his children would remember these rides with fondness when they grew up and had families of their own.� It was the spring of the year and the three of them were particularly glad to be out for their first ride. Winter in the city had been medium harsh, with an average amount of snowfall. The father had been working quite hard and while he had not by any means ignored the children, it was easy to underestimate how much they’d grown up.� Leaving their wife and mother behind to attend to some womanly matters, and because she needed time to herself every now and then, the outbound ride from the cottage was uneventful. Including the plummet down San Garganza hill, the journey took twenty minutes to reach the local playground with a swing, slides and other contraptions such as monkey bars at different heights. They each took their turns doing silly things, including the man, although he did also rest on a bench for a while. After half an hour they were ready to head home again.� Something about the moment quietly overwhelmed the man. Perhaps it was the perfection. Not purely perfect but as close to perfect as anything was going to be in this life. Here he was on a beautiful spring day with two of his three children and they were all feeling young and coltish.� With age, the man had come to realize that, at its core, the nature of time is illusory. The body is merely a shell to the mind. Memories are skipping stones with their immediacy undimmed by the size of the skip. It had been only a hand wave ago when each of the children was a baby and needed a good deal more attention than they truly required now.� Last year the daughter had moved up a size in bike and what had been an awkward exercise in balance and mobilization then was now a thing of ease and grace. That was just one of the changes underway on a day-to-day basis in their lives. Time was getting away from him, no doubt about it, and he was helpless to do anything but run with the stampede.� He thought back to his father’s far-fetched stories about biking adventures. His father claimed to have ridden for hours to escape out of the big city on the weekends. There’d be visits to relatives at a farm. It was deemed nothing to pedal 50 miles at a go. Measurement in those days was in miles, not these newfangled shorter kilometres.� Looking back to his childhood, the man never remembered seeing his father on a bike. It had all been serious transportation by means of a shiny new company-bought car each year. There wasn’t the emphasis on healthy exercise that came later with the post-war baby boom generation.� When his father was in his 70s and far from completely steady on his legs, he’d surprised everyone by purchasing a bicycle for himself. He was supposedly acting on doctor’s orders to maintain as much physical good toning as was likely to be achieved. The suspicion was his father really wanted to re-capture some of the joy of youth that came with hopping on a two-wheeler.� ~~� The three of them saddled up and headed back to the cottage. This time, they panted and puffed to ascend San Garganza Hill and felt the exhilaration of mountain climbers when they crested the peak. From there, it was mainly a straight-line hillocky ride for two kilometres.� The son started to pull ahead. The man understood the boy needed some independence. He watched him speed out front. The boy would disappear over the top of one gentle hill to quickly re-appear on the upward slope of the next. Each time, he was moving further and further away.� The man had a flashback to the exhilaration the youth must be feeling. There would be the pleasant breeze in his face and the throbbing stretch of leg muscles. He couldn’t have kept up with his son now if he wanted to. Besides, he had to stay with his daughter to make sure she was safe in traffic. Thank goodness he had that excuse. And the sun was in his eyes, he laughed.� This was another nugget to be deposited in his memory bank. The results from panning his slowing stream of years needed to be treasured and hoarded. He knew no such thoughts were entering the mind of his son. The boy embodied the moment and the future in an instant. For the boy, there was infinitely more to look forward to. The man was fleetingly envious.� They all met back at the cottage. The son was waiting for the man and the daughter.� The son asked, �śDad, do you suppose I can have a little more allowance each week?”� �śYes. You’re getting older and you’ll need to learn how to handle money better.”� �śAnd can I stay up later on school nights?”� �śIf your mother agrees, that’s okay with me. It might actually help you sleep better.”� �śCan I go on your computer?”� �śAbsolutely not. Use the hand-down from your brother.”� Queen’s Jester to King’s Betterment� April 2, 2010 The following is an edifying tale wherein a king learns a valuable lesson from his queen and the whole nation is better off as a consequence. The court jester plays a pivotal role as well, although he probably came to wish he’d stayed out of it.There once lived a king who was always mad. Not mad like crazy, but mad like angry. He was angry about everything. As a result, all of his chief ministers were angry. So were his peasants and so were his dogs. And on and on it went in a downwardly cascading catastrophe of annoyance. The land was always in turmoil. It wasn’t as if the king didn’t have a sense of humor. The queen once asked him why he was so angry at neighboring realms, since they lived in a relatively peaceful time, for the thirteenth century that is. The king’s answer was revealing.�śIt’s because they have more wealth than I do. They have richer fields and more abundant natural resources. They can finance better armies. If they want to, they can overrun my kingdom. I agonize about my vulnerability all of the time.Come to think of it, though, there is another side to this predicament. Should the day ever come when my shiftless peasants fail to meet their crop quotas and I have to sell a castle or two to meet my regal payroll, it will be good to have some other royal dupe out there with enough coinage or cattle to buy my assets.”It was this kind of sardonic humor that endeared the king to the queen, despite his numerous flaws. But this didn’t take away from the fact that almost everyone in the court and within the broader surrounding land’s borders was always angry.It seemed the queen and the court jester were the only ones able to maintain some sense of equanimity. The fact that they shared similar dispositions drew them together to share each other’s company more than might have been healthy.In the pauses between their laughter, they spent time exploring what was the root cause of their nation’s problems. The king was always in high dudgeon and the nobles, peasantry, dogs, cats, ponies and livestock took their lead from him.What was the cause of the unchecked anger? The jester was as near to being a psychologist as the Middle Ages was likely to produce. It was his conclusion that anger is a side effect. It is almost always a symptom of fear. And there is no limit to the number of things men and women can be afraid of if they choose.The king was afraid of being de-throned. He was afraid of usurpers and back stabbers. He was also fearful of a host of horrific diseases that plagued the land. His other anxieties centered on growing older, loneliness and his wife’s fidelity. The nobles were afraid of many of the same things as the king. Plus they were scared of each other. They clung to their power and perks. The infighting to achieve and maintain status was fierce. There was rarely a relaxing moment.The peasants were fearful of everything including the king, the nobles, the weather, tax collectors and where their next meal was coming from. And so it went.Some of these fears were legitimate, but many were irrational. This was hardly a surprise for the era. There were only so many hurdles over which anyone had control. The queen and jester pondered how to get this message across. On one lovely first-of-April morning, just as spring was about to play its winning hand, the jester was in a more than usually high-spirited mood. That’s when the king, while holding public court in his fortress keep, singled the jester out for special attention.The king was annoyed, once again, because the jester was spending too much time with his wife, the queen. He was growing suspicious. When the king asked the jester how he planned to entertain him that day, the jester acted coy. He hinted he had a secret he wanted to share with the king. The queen looked alarmed.�śWhat is it? Speak up man,” said the king.�śBut it concerns the queen, your highness, and it is a matter of some delicacy.”�śI have neither time nor patience for secrets. Tell me what you know.”�śYou wonder about my relationship with the queen, but it’s not me she’s interested in. There is another gentleman she has a great and loving regard for.” �śYou’d better be careful with your accusations. Who is this man?” �śHe is an individual of exceptional bearing. A prince in his community, one might say.”�śDo I know this man? Are we equals? Does he have my same high standing?”�śYes. Every bit of it. He has many underlings at his beck and call.”The king was becoming visibly upset. �śTell me more,” he demanded.�śHe has a fine black stallion he likes to ride while hunting in his vast estates. He’s handsome and brave and his followers talk of his judgment and wisdom.”The king was now in a frothing state. He turned to his queen and said, �śI won’t stand for this. This is intolerable. I’ll find your paramour and defeat him in battle.” His jealousy was a green standard under which he was eager to hop onto his magnificent ebony-colored destrier and ride off at the head of his more than scrappy troops.The lord high chamberlain of the land, who was no dummy, finally put an end to the king’s excitation. �śI believe the mystery man the jester is referring to is you, my lord. I think he has been putting you on and having some sport with all of us.” The king’s royal purple veins nearly popped. Gradually, and with the help of several swigs from a goblet of wine, he calmed down. It sank in that he’d jumped to a conclusion and nearly waged war on himself. It was almost comical.He faced his queen again. �śIs this true?”�śYes, of course, my dear. I love you very much. You’re a big bad bear of a man on the outside, but I know there’s a warm and cuddly spot near your heart.”The king was slightly mollified. He was pleased with his wife’s affectionate endorsement but he had just been made to look foolish in front of his entire court. Such a weakening of his prestige might prove to be dangerous.�śDid the two of you cook this up?” he asked his wife.�śNot exactly. But I am pleased if the jester’s practical joke teaches you a lesson. Anger comes from fear. If you can learn to control fear, the anger will go away.”�śI do see your point and it was especially silly of me to be afraid of myself. Nevertheless, this mockery of the king does not set a good example. For the sake of appearances, I’m going to have to punish the two of you.”�śThat’s ridiculous. I’ve just professed my love for you as clear as can be and I’m the mother of your children and future heirs.” The queen was distraught. �śYou, my queen, will be confined to your quarters until further notice. Your friend, the jester, will be beheaded. That’s the kind of joke I am likely to find amusing.”Further pleading and carrying on before the king by all and sundry was to no avail.Three days later, the jester was led to the top of a wooden platform and made to kneel before a blood-soaked block. With the decisive chop imminent, he was asked for any last words to pass on to the assembled nobility and common folk. �śI’m feeling vindicated,” he said in a firm loud voice. �śI told you life was funny.”The king roared with laughter.Down came the broadsword, THWACK, and from that day forward the king stopped taking himself so seriously.� One Shot in the Hot Seat� April 10, 2010� My name is Earl Thomas and I’m a reporter with the Tombstone Tabloid. Every week we try to bring our readers an interview with one of the Wild West’s more prominent citizens. This week we have �śOne Shot” Calhoun in the Hot Seat in our saloon studio. One Shot, as surely most people know, is the notorious gunslinger and part-time Texas Ranger nearly everyone is talking about.� EARL: How are you doing today, One Shot?� ONE SHOT: �śI’m very well, thank you. How �Śbout you?”� EARL: Just great! You can probably tell how excited I am to finally meet you. Let’s get this interview underway quickly. For starters, how did you get the name One Shot? Because you’re so deadly accurate with a gun?� ONE SHOT: Funny you should ask, Earl. People are always getting that wrong. No, it’s because I only drink one shot of whiskey before I go out and face a man. One shot is good for the nerves. More than one shot slows the reflexes.� EARL: Isn’t that interesting. And of course, it makes perfect sense. How many men have you shot over the years?� ONE SHOT: Well of course I don’t keep track of every one. But there are 35 notches on my gun. That’s the same number as my age.� EARL: 35? That’s an amazing figure.� ONE SHOT: Yes and it doesn’t include lawyers and politicians.� EARL: Why not?� ONE SHOT: They’re only good for target practice.� EARL: Boy I’m glad reporters aren’t on your bad side.� ONE SHOT: Heh, heh. Well not so far.� EARL: I see you brought the little woman with you today. She’s a very attractive lady. How did the two of you meet?� ONE SHOT: I met her in a Kitty bar.� EARL: Do you find that strange? That all saloons in the old west seem to be run by a Kitty?� ONE SHOT: It’s not strange at all. Kitty is the name the ladies adopt to keep the censors happy. I always drink tea in a Kitty bar.� EARL: Moving on quickly, what’s your wife’s real name?� ONE SHOT: When I first met her, she said she was Mabel Anne Weddy. Later, she said she was Mabel Anne Rilling. I don’t think her teeth fit properly. Anyway, she was telling the truth on both counts.� EARL: What has been the funniest moment in your life as a gunslinger?� ONE SHOT: That would be when I shot Pecos Pete.� EARL: Please share with our readers.� ONE SHOT: Okay Earl. I was chasing a bunch of cattle rustlers across the Rio Grande. They got spread out and separated during a stampede I started. I’d been riding and working all night when I finally caught up with Pecos Pete sleeping alone beside his campfire as dawn was breaking.� When he woke up and saw me, he was really nervous. He knew me by reputation, but I was able to calm him down. I told him I knew he was a good guy and he was the last person I’d kill under the circumstances. Me being tired and hungry and all.� EARL: That sounds fair enough.� ONE SHOT: Certainly. Then we sat down together and had a nice breakfast. Pecos even brewed me a fresh pot of coffee. Then, of course, I shot him.� EARL: What? Why’d you do that?� ONE SHOT: Cause I said I would. I’d taken care of the rest of his gang. He was the last one.� EARL: What was your saddest shooting?� ONE SHOT: Let me think a moment. (pause) I guess that would be �śMad Dog” McCall.� EARL: What was so sad about it?� ONE SHOT: Well it wasn’t sad for me. But he looked sad. He had such a long face. And now I remember why it affected me so much.� EARL: And?� ONE SHOT: He reminded me of my horse. You know, the long face and all. Also he had an overbite and he whinnied when he had sex.� EARL: You know that how?� ONE SHOT: I heard it from my sister-in-law, Betty Pader.� EARL: How is that famous horse of yours, by the way? Boots. What a fine looking beast.� ONE SHOT: He’s my best friend. He’s also a great listener. And a really good spooner when we’re alone on the trail at night. But he’s not the first Boots, you know.� EARL: No?� ONE SHOT: There was another Boots before him. I’m now riding Boots II. If something works the first time, I’m reluctant to change it. I don’t like to switch saddles, so to speak.� EARL: That’s a nice metaphor. So you’ve had a pair of Boots?� ONE SHOT: One more comment or joke like that and I’ll have to shoot you.� They both laugh good-naturedly.� EARL: Have you ever had a side-kick?� ONE SHOT: Yes, there was a Mexican gentleman I used to chum around with, a Senor Julio.� EARL: What happened?� ONE SHOT: He got too clingy. I had to tell him he was no pal-o-mi-no. That’s a bit of western humor, Earl.� EARL (smiling back): Out of curiosity, where do you get your bullets?� ONE SHOT: I used to buy them from Mike’s Roe and Tackle Shop in Abilene. But he’s gone now and I’m looking for a new supplier. In the meantime, I’m making my own. It’s not that difficult.� EARL: What happened to Mike?� ONE SHOT: I had to shoot him.� EARL: Any particular reason.� ONE SHOT: Yes, he kept ogling my wife.� EARL: Now you’ve raised an interesting subject. There are many stories about friction between you and Kitty. Or is it Mabel now?� ONE SHOT: Yes, I once had to shoot Mabel.� EARL: Whatever for?� ONE SHOT: She’s faster than me.� EARL: On the draw?� ONE SHOT: No, in the drawing room. Shopkeepers, undertakers, dentists, teachers and tourists. She’ll show anyone a good time when I’m not around.� EARL: So you shot her?� ONE SHOT: There was this one time she got really mad. I called her a tumbleweed. She told me to take my little dogie and git along. Before I knew it, my gun was blazing and my holster was empty.� EARL: Wow! You two are hot. (wink wink)� ONE SHOT: What? No! I mean I shot her.� EARL: But she obviously survived.� ONE SHOT: Yes, she was wearing one of her formidable bustiers and the bullet bounced off. I said I make my own bullets. I didn’t say they’re very good.� EARL: That must have been embarrassing for you.� ONE SHOT: You bet. If more of my enemies wore bustiers, I’d be in trouble. That’s off the record by the way.� EARL: So I gather you and the missus have patched things up.� ONE SHOT: I don’t like the word misses. It has unfortunate connotations in my line of work.� EARL: Okay, well, circling the wagons here, let’s move on to another topic of conversation. I hear you have a theory about what makes the best gunfighter.� ONE SHOT: You have to come across as crazy. You need to make the bad guys afraid of you.� EARL: But then how do you get along on a day-to-day basis in your normal life?� ONE SHOT: I don’t think it’s inconsistent. If you want to get anything done in this new fast-paced world that goes along with occupying the American west, sometimes you have to act nuts. If not, bartenders will serve the other guy first. Card dealers will be slow paying off your bets. And you won’t be able to get your gun fixed properly at the local hardware store.� There was a reason Wild Bill Hickok chose his name. If I had it to do over again, I’d put it out there my name is Insane Igor or Lunatic Luigi. One Shot’s okay, but I’m not sure it’s wacko enough. Wait a minute, maybe that’s it. Wacko Waco Willy. I like that.� EARL: I’ve taken enough of your time today, One Shot. I certainly appreciate that you’ve been so open with us. And I’d like to wish you all the best in your future endeavors.� Hopefully we’ll be meeting again real soon. And, of course, I don’t mean facing off against each other on the streets of Laredo. (They pretend to shoot each other with index finger and thumb.)� That Would Be Na�Żve of Me� April 24, 2010� As a special favor, Louise Traynor was escorted to a couple’s table in the trattoria’s alcove by the establishment’s executive chef and owner late into the luncheon sitting. The faux Italian décor was complemented by Dean Martin crooning in the background. A tiny fountain listlessly gurgled in the centre of the room. Other diners noted the procession, passed a few words back and forth, but quickly returned to their meals. The rigatoni Bolognese was especially superb.� Louise was as polished as burnished marble. Black tailored business suit, wispy bangs curled down over a high forehead and blood-red lacquered fingernails made her an eye-catching presence. Her lithe frame was a stark contrast to Police Chief Baylor’s heft as the other member of the dining duo. The chief’s six-foot-five frame of mostly muscle rose skyward to a pumpkin-sized head topped with a steel wool thatch of hair. No slouch in the deportment department, Chief Baylor had come directly from a massage and manicure. His eagerness to talk threw off a barely muted incandescence.� CHIEF (standing to greet Louise): Lovely of you to join me Mrs. Traynor. With your husband so wrapped up in running for governor, I thought it would be easier for the two of us to have lunch together. I have something important to discuss with you.� LOUISE: (shaking the chief’s hand): My pleasure, Chief, glad to be here. You’ve certainly aroused my curiosity. Hope I can be of assistance.� They get a few more pleasantries out of the way and order from the menu before chewing on the true heart of the occasion. A couple of glasses of Valpolicella arrive with the zuppa del giorno. The moment finally arrives for the Chief to be forthcoming.� CHIEF: I was working on my laptop at the office several weeks ago, when an e-mail arrived from the Mayor’s office. It was sent by your husband’s staff and I was mildly intrigued at first. There were links to an Internet site that was under development to promote your husband’s campaign for Governor. The message that came with the e-mail asked that I review the video clips and get back with some reactions and whatever other comments I might care to make.� Okay, fine, I tried to watch, but had some bandwidth problems. What I ended up seeing was sketchy and kept halting every fifteen seconds or so. I quickly gave up in frustration. So I faked it and e-mailed a response that the videos were terrific, a good job had been done by all and more of the same sort of thing. I thought that would be the end of it, but that was na�Żve of me.� LOUISE: Yes, I know the PR firm we’ve hired is tenacious in its market research.� CHIEF: Then I received back another e-mail asking for further clarification. What specifically did I like and what did I find off-putting in the promos. It was important to convey just the right impression of the mayor. The voters are being asked to put even more trust in him as governor.� I replied that the mayor looked very authoritative, but still relaxed. He conveyed the impression of a man comfortable within himself and truly in charge of his own actions. One would think that would be the end of it. But no, that was na�Żve of me.� LOUISE: (responding to his wry wit): You poor man.� CHIEF: Back came another response. What were the markers that suggested authority? Were they related to his wardrobe? Did I prefer him in a suit or dressed casually? In a sweater perhaps or with sleeves rolled up? What about eyeglasses versus contact lenses? Maturity compared with youthful vigor? Do I really care? It’s all about image, not substance.� I was starting to get annoyed. But it was turning into a game, to see what kind of response I could provoke next. I finally took the time to struggle all the way through the videos despite the fits and starts. I sent off my answers to the latest list of questions. Definitely in a suit and I liked the glasses. They made him look smarter. One would think that would be the end of it, but�Ś� LOUISE (she interrupts him): Please, let me be your chorus. One would think that would be the end of it. But no, that was na�Żve of you.� CHIEF: Thank you. You see where this is leading. No matter how much I did, it wasn’t going to be enough. And this got me thinking. I remember when your husband first ran for mayor of our fine city. He was a simple man, with a fairly straightforward message. Rein in government spending while maintaining essential public services. Who has that man evolved into?� LOUISE: I can assure you, Chief, he’s the same man he always was.� CHIEF: Really? I don’t think so and that’s why I felt it was important for us to meet today. What I’m seeing is a man who has acquired a taste for more of the finer things than I would have thought likely ten years ago. He’s also a man with the money to finance a very elaborate and expensive campaign for governor. That’s a step up in ambition that seems out of character.� LOUISE: I don’t want you to waste your time Chief. You’re heading off in a wrong direction.� CHIEF: Maybe, but bear with me please. The contents and tone of the video aroused my suspicions. Whenever an individual from our town runs for higher office, my department is likely to receive crank phone calls to tell us about some secret malfeasance the candidate has committed. We ignore most of these because, upon investigation, they almost always turn out to be groundless. Nevertheless, I advised my staff that if any such calls came in about your husband, I was to be alerted. Sure enough, shortly afterwards, a message was re-routed to me.� LOUISE: I can’t imagine it led anywhere.� CHIEF: Let’s say it was eye-opening. The lady on the other end of the line claimed she works in the city’s treasury department. She wondered why there’d been no investigation into some shady practices the mayor had conducted on behalf of city government. I said that must mean an ethical problem in at least one of three areas, bribes accepted for position and promotion placements, kick-backs received for government contracts or skimming from financing schemes.� She confirmed I was on the right track. But she didn’t feel she could be more specific. Depending on the outcome, she might be revealed as a whistle blower. That was a risk she was unwilling to take. As a divorcée with three children to support, she needed her job too badly.� But I was left with a dilemma. There was a limited time until the election. I needed to focus my efforts. I had only a one in three chance of being right. I pointed this out and asked for more help in narrowing down the investigation. My informant said she’d think about it and get back to me.� LOUISE (still quite relaxed): And did she?� CHIEF: Yes, the next day. When I picked up the phone, she asked what I thought the corrupt practice might be. At random, I said bribery. Kick-backs and bond financing were left as the other two choices. Then she surprised me. My informant said she’d decided to help me out by lowering my odds to 50-50. That’s when she told me the problem area wasn’t kick-backs.� She clearly didn’t realize how much extra help she had provided. This made me change my choice to bond financings, since they were now twice as likely to be the issue as bribery.� LOUISE: How did you leap to that conclusion, Chief?� CHIEF: This is a really interesting example of applied probability theory. Originally each of the three choices had a one-third chance of being right. After first picking bribery, there was also a combined kick-back and bond financing option with a probability of two-thirds. Then my informant revealed kick-backs weren’t the answer. But that didn’t change the probability of the combined option. With kick-backs off the table, bond financing alone must have a two-thirds probability of being right. That’s why I switched my choice. Are you following me?� LOUISE: As a matter of fact I am. The situation you’ve described is known in mathematical circles as the Monty Hall paradox. For years, Monty Hall hosted a TV show called Let’s Make a Deal. A treasure was hidden behind one of three closed doors and contestants were given the opportunity to choose one of the doors. After they made their selection, Monty would reveal one dud door among the other two. The contestant was then given the option of changing his or her bid to the final remaining door or sticking with the original choice. Two-thirds of the time, it would be more advantageous to switch. I’m impressed with how quickly you figured it out.� CHIEF: You learn something new every day Mrs. Traynor. Besides, there was the psychology to consider. If my informant tells me kick-backs aren’t the answer after I’ve already mentioned bribery, doesn’t that imply she’s trying to head me into the financing area. Plus I’ve never heard any rumours about the Mayor or any of his senior staff members handing out positions based on cash favors. That sort of thing doesn’t stay buried under a rock for very long. In any event, I’ve concentrated my efforts over the past week in the financing area and I think I’ve hit pay-dirt.� LOUISE (starting to look uncomfortable): This should be interesting Chief. I suspect your intelligence is often underestimated by family, friends and co-workers. Is that fair to say?� CHIEF: I don’t know about that Mrs. Traynor, but I would like to continue, if it’s okay with you. As you may already be sensing, we’re now at the moment when I began to consider your role in this drama. Formerly, I never paid much attention to the fact that the mayor is married to a high-powered and well-connected economist. But that may not be a coincidence, is where my thoughts strayed. Once I made such a leap, my search for answers was no longer disappointing.� LOUISE: And in what direction did you look?� CHIEF: There’s the matter of an interest rate swap agreement treasury made with the Golden Fleece finance agency. My investigations have revealed such a swap works like this. Two parties agree to pay each other interest based on a hypothetical or notional amount of capital. The capital never changes hands. The first party pays the second a fixed rate of interest. The second pays the first a variable rate of interest. The variable rate is usually tied to a leading economic indicator, but it can actually be matched to anything – number of days of below average temperatures, the length of women’s’ dresses, you name it, as long as both parties agree.� Estimates are made about the variable rate such that the total payments back and forth add up to a zero sum game. Nobody wins or loses, in theory. In practice, the forecasts of the variable rate are rarely exactly right and who wins or loses depends on who makes a better assessment about the accuracy of the forecast. At the moment, the city is paying Golden Fleece a fixed rate of interest and Golden Fleece is paying the city a variable rate based on the Consumer Price Index.� LOUISE: You keep on amazing me chief. Your grasp of economics is astonishing. You may be in the wrong profession.� CHIEF: It isn’t rocket science. It’s more a means to an end and, in this instance, a means to spot possibly criminal behavior.� LOUISE (with a little moisture accumulating on her brow): Don’t you find it warm in here?� CHIEF: Not especially. You’re the economist who advised the city to accept Golden Fleece’s proposal to tie its variable rate payments to the Consumer Price Index. The swap was established as a zero sum game as long as the inflation rate averages 2.5% over the length of the contract. Above that figure, the city wins. Below it, the finance company wins.� LOUISE: That’s right. That was my recommendation.� CHIEF: But the actual inflation rate for the past several years has averaged less than 2.5% and the amount Golden Fleece has been paying to the city has fallen short of expectations. That amounts to significant sums of money over the longer time.� LOUISE: Yes, I overestimated how prices would perform.� CHIEF: I did some research. The consensus of economists at the time the inflation forecast was made was pretty good, about 2.0% going out five years. It further turns out that in the PowerPoint presentations you were making at the same time, 2.0% was the forecast you were using.� LOUISE: I think I see where you’re going with this. But may I point out you’re overlooking a substantial and highly publicized initial payment Golden Fleece made to the city. Everyone, including the media and the man in the street was pleased.� CHIEF: That was simply to bedazzle the members of the Finance Committee. They saw the easy money and that was all the incentive they needed to sign on. All questions ceased. The fixed rate in the contract was adjusted to take into account the front-end loading and the payments have been proceeding as planned ever since. The advantage to Golden Fleece grows with every year.� LOUISE: And this leads you to conclude what?� CHIEF: I’m sorry, but my job is to be suspicious. Again, I’m wondering where the new affluence of the mayor’s family is coming from. I’m thinking there may be a cozy behind-the-scenes retainer relationship with Golden Fleece. Perhaps I should put more resources into studying the matter?� LOUISE: Let’s talk about what I might do to ease your worries.� CHIEF: Aw, you’re offering me dessert. Very well, then, the polls indicate your husband is sure to win next month. I’m thinking I’ve done about all I can for our community. I would like to offer my services to the state. I’m sure there are some special law-and-order initiatives your husband would like to see implemented. In time, I might even like to run for Attorney General. It would be good to have the backing of the man in charge. How do these options sound?� LOUISE: You’ve proven yourself to be a clever and resourceful honey-loving bear, Chief. My husband and I might very well have need for a man with your special investigative abilities on our team. I’ll take your proposition to the mayor, but I’m pretty sure he’ll like the sound of it.� CHIEF: That’s what I thought you might say. How about an aperitif to cap our meal?� LOUISE: Yes, please, I’ll have sambuca. But Chief, I must say, you perplex me. Do I truly believe what you have set out today will be the end of your ambitions? I think not. That would be na�Żve of me.� Forever Running Late� May 1, 2010� For all her flustered outward appearance, Jilal was a deep thinker. Single, aged 32, a brunette well-above average in appearance and living in an eco-friendly home halfway between the citizens on ground level and those perched high above, she was having a typical day off.� Mid-morning and her heart was already pounding. Too much to do. She’d be meeting Bobex in an hour to hook up with friends and attend the big game. After that would be a sumptuous meal in some new hot spot within the trendy entertainment district. It was nice to have a break from the work week but the racing only banked around a corner, it didn’t stop.� Yesterday, her control freak of a boss pushed too hard. Jilal could deal with her employer’s tirades under most circumstances, but the recent episode shifted the problem from being at the fringe to taking over centre stage. It would need to be dealt with. The thought of the coming confrontation made her stomach rumble. A hard lump of consternation sat undigested in her gut.� Then there was Bobex. He was a nice guy, but was that enough? He was already the sixth serious relationship in her short life. He was too heavily into sports. Bobex had another problem she wasn’t supposed to know about, gambling. She’d learned of that flaw from a friend of a friend of hers. Jilal wasn’t above tossing the dice herself. She might do better with a lucky seventh.� All of her friends were facing similar dilemmas. No-one seemed to be in a settled relationship. What was the matter with everyone? Jilal thought she knew what the problem was. The speed of everything was over the top. There was no time available to nurture the soul. Nor was it easy to change. There were too many responsibilities and commitments that needed attention.� What required focus right now was her appearance. She turned to the potions, perfumes and unguents lined up in her bathroom. For a few blessed moments, she would be able to escape by soaking in bath salts tinged with jasmine, cucumber or sandalwood. Then she’d choose between the aromatic and timeless pleasures of lavender, vanilla and strawberry-based perfumes.� It was all too fast and confusing. Jilal longed for a sabbatical from life. She thought back to her parents. Had they coped any better? Not really. They separated when Jilal was five and then moved on to several new and sputtering match-ups. The latest advances in technology might have made all gratifications instantaneous, but these fell short when it came to elevating the spirit.� How had things managed to spin out of control? She did the math. Every century encapsulated three or four generations. A thousand years ago would be a distance of 30 to 40 generations. That didn’t seem like so much. Were men and women evolving in any special way? It wasn’t obvious.� Humankind was geographically on the move, there was no doubt about that. Her great-great grandparents had participated in a legendary migration to find a better life. Those ancestors deserved credit for their courage and tackle-the-frontier sense of adventure.� What was life like for people long-ago? Everyday activities were surely simpler then than now. There must have been more time for contemplation and soul replenishment. Jilal let her speculations wander. She became more envious as her imagination took over.� Then her mind snapped back to the present. Lodged in the year 3010, Jilal was running late for her luncheon appointment. Living on one of the moons of Saturn, thoughts of long-ago bliss on mother earth were a lapse into luxury she really couldn’t afford.� About the Author� Alex Carrick has been a professional economist covering the construction industry for the past 38 years. He writes extensively on economic matters for several newsletters, newspapers and the Internet, dealing with both Canada and the United States.� He is currently enjoying his 25th year of employment with Reed Construction Data – CanaData. When asked how he has managed to achieve such career longevity, he is fond of replying, �śI’ve done it one day at a time.”� Mr. Carrick received an M.A. in Economics from the University of Toronto (U of T) in 1971. He also completed the first year towards a Doctorate while living at U of T’s Massey College.� He has delivered presentations throughout North America on the Canadian, United States and world economic and construction outlooks. Mr Carrick has also made videos on various topics for Reed Construction Data web sites. This has required the development of a whole new skill set.� Mr. Carrick lives in Toronto, Canada and is married with three children, plus a dog and a cat that round out the household. Much of the family’s life revolves around the cottage on Georgian Bay. Mrs. Carrick (Donna) is also an author, mainly in the crime-writing field.� � Also by Alex Carrick� �śTwo Scoops” Is Just Right78 original, short, funny stories� � Connect with me Online: At Twitter: @Alex_Carrick My Amazon Author pagewww.alexcarrick.com� � Table of ContentsStart