Billowing clouds snuff sun’s last flare; Day breeze yields to twilight’s fury Trees shake and swirling leaves fly, Rain driving, pouring hard and cold. Towns and farms bolt gates and doors As children whimper, grownups shudder. Heralded by heaven’s light, thunder’s crash, Doc Time is called to dutiful round. Harbinger of destiny, he practices his craft On cobblestones made of bone and sweets. Cries rise more piercing than the wolf’s, Joy more exultant than a heavenly choir. Old Aaron parted around midnight; Reminiscence was born at quarter past.
In a sleepy village far from Iran Lived a wise old man, weathered and tan. He spoke with ease, with grace and flair; But one day, his voice vanished into thin air.
A phantom feline, stealthy and sly, Played a weird prank on this wonderful guy, Inflating his tongue when he was asleep, Leaving him silent, not a word to peep.
The man tried to talk, but no sound would come, A strange phenomenon, quite cumbersome, His friends and family soon gathered ’round, To find out what had caused the dearth of sound.
Hour turned into day, and day into week, Still, the poor man could barely eke a squeak, But deep inside, he kept his faith strong, That his voice would return before long.
One day, while abed waiting for a godsend, A miracle happened, his throat was opened, His voice returned, a bit weak but clear, And from then on, he had nothing to fear.
The minx slinked away, feeling so ashamed, For causing this man such high worry and pain, But the man forgave the rascal, for he knew, That life is full of twists, both strange and new.
Nearby in a place of legend told, There lives a bold and mighty soul, A man gifted with strength untamed, Hal Bain, esquire, his storied name. From lowly birth he rose with grace, Defying odds, at his own pace, Just his smirk makes dentists cower; He handles hurt with special power.
Fearless hero, a hale, nice guy, His prowess known, both far and nigh, Fending off needles gives him thrill No such foe withstands his sheer will. But it’s not just strengths that define, Nor battles with med staff unkind, For he enjoys a spirit rare, Contempt for pain, he does declare.
Filled with passion, forged by trials, He laughs at pain’s attempts and wiles, Suffering to him, mere illusion, He faces it with staunch conviction. We wonder—no meds, not a thing— How this good friend defies pain’s sting, But deep within his heart he knows, True strength is not to care for woes.
With each pin prick, his heart grows grand, Breaking free from pain’s cruel hand, For he believes that self-made chains Constrain one’s soul, hold back the gains. Through a fresh way, he breaks pain’s reign, Moving thoughts to a far-off plain. Such an action is bold indeed, But he vouches it does succeed.
So, can we learn from our pal’s’ tale To rise above and not to wail, And cast away pain with disdain? A sure answer I can only feign.
Sippin’ a latte Listenin’ to Van bray And other Grinders spinnin’ the news Savin’ my ammo To be best of show Smell those grounds, they’re finishin’ the brews
Savorin’ my time again in ol’ Orindaville Lookin’ to solve big questions in life All my friends know that there is something to blame I admit to shunning old strife
Don’t know the reason Stayed there all season Nothing to crow about ‘cept some fresh yarns But they are true beauties Literary newbies How they’re perceived, I don’t give two darns
Savorin’ my time again in ol’ Orindaville Lookin’ to solve big questions in life All I know now that there’s nothing more to blame I submit, this is my new life
Yes, some people may claim That I should have some shame All I know, it’s a damn good life
Thank you much, your Councilnesses, for lending your ears; You seem in such a great rush to get out of here. I see your position is clearly stacked against Canyon, I just want to add my two cents before any decision. Yes, I concede some advantages in consolidation, But have you taken the following points in consideration: Our school has more than thrived for decades by itself, With the benefits of local control well-known and top-shelf. You can also see the great number of residents Who have come here to give their adverse testaments. Last, you should be aware if you persist in this fight Of the vast support we could rally for our plight. So to amicably resolve this David v. Goliath quandary I suggest a way to avoid showing the dirty laundry: By immediately desisting from this hare-brained scheme, Before Moraga’s brouhaha becomes the next internet meme. And wouldn’t you just be seen as a bunch of boobs, If your takeover ended up on TV and YouTube?
The other day, at an evening soiree, I met a rather mellow fellow Which sparked a conversational colloquy With more than the usual mutual commonalities: How we knew the Hosts and Guests of Honor, And that we shared the same Golden Age. After fleeing the city of Broad Shoulders, We both had entered the grinding Rat Race, And later barely escaped the desiccating Valley of Silicon, While finally attaining the Grand Order of the Grinder. He muttered of some shuttered venture But then beamed about country rides with his Lynne. In turn, I brought up a personal project About which he became truly intrigued: Penning poetic paeans to folks famed and friendly For their life-long gift of service and joy. But that was that; the event had ended, No time to learn more before a quick so long. Now the news leaves me no means to make A portrait of such a worthy and dear human being. Rick, I’m riled. That was not the deal! I was about to write your “On the Road” Or was that “Born to be Mild”?
It was meant for you and your loved ones to view. Rick, we demand a redo!
How can it be permissible? He compromise a principle, no, no That kind of guy is mythical He’s anything but typical
He’s a craze you’d endorse He’s a powerful force You’re obliged to conform When there’s no other course He used to seem good to us But now we find him
Simply incorruptible Simply incorruptible
His honesty’s so powerful, huh! It’s simply unavoidable The trend is irreversible The fellow is invincible
He’s a natural force And he leaves us in awe He deserves the applause We surrender because He used to seem good to us But now we find him
Simply incorruptible Simply incorruptible Simply incorruptible (He’s so fine There’s no tellin’ where the doubters went) Simply incorruptible (He’s all ours, there’s no other way to go)
He’s unavoidable We’re backed against the wall He gives us feelings like we never felt before We’re wrapping our minds He’s breaking every norm He used to seem good to us Now we find him
Simply incorruptible (He’s so fine There’s no tellin’ where the doubters went) Simply incorruptible (He’s all ours, there’s no other way to go)
His methods are inscrutable The proof is irrefutable, ooh He’s so completely ethical, huh Our praise is inexhaustible, yeah yeah
He’s a craze you’d endorse He’s a powerful force You’re obliged to conform When there’s no other course He used to seem good to us But now we find him
[Ken exits Café Teatro with a large sandwich in tow and approaches Richard seated at a patio table nursing a steaming cup of coffee]
Richard: Hey Ken, is that one of Joe’s famous sandwiches?
Ken: Sure is, I can never just eat only one.
Richard: Yeah, they’re really good; and the coffee here is so much better than Pete’s. Didn’t I hear you were cutting down?
Ken: That’s news to me.
Richard: Ken, what were we talking about before you got up?
Ken: Hmm. I can’t remember. Say, I haven’t seen ol’ Bob lately? Have you?
Richard: Bob? Bob? Oh, you mean Rip Van Winkle.
Ken: Rip Van Winkle?
Richard: Yeah, Rip Van Winkle. When it came time to apply for Social Security, he discovered he was three years older than he thought.
Ken: Wow, doesn’t that mean he could have retired three years earlier?
Richard: Yeah, like Rip Van Winkle he was asleep at the wheel, so to speak.
Ken: Didn’t Les mention something about Bob and driving?
Richard: Yeah, Les told me he asked Bob last month to take him to the airport for his trip to Hawaii; and Bob told him he couldn’t do it.
Ken: That’s strange. How come?
Richard: Well, that’s what you get when flunk your driver’s license test by blowing through a red light. The DMV gave him a special restricted driving zone of only eight miles from his house.
Ken: Wow, that’s nice of them. Kind of a teenager in reverse. I wish I could get a break like that. Speaking of teenager, I know he’s a bit wobbly now, but didn’t Bob play some basketball? He’s sure tall enough.
Richard: Yeah, he played ball at Seattle’s Garfield High.
Ken: Garfield High, huh? That somehow rings a bell.
Richard: Yeah, that’s where Quincey Jones and Jimi Hendrix went to school. Bob was there at the same time as Jones, and they shared the same locker.
Ken: No way! Bob and Quincey Jones must have been a dynamic duo on the court.
Richard: Well, Bob, I hear was great; but as for Quincey, I’m not so sure. As you know, musicians, and comedians, can’t jump.
Ken: He, he. And didn’t Bob once work down in Silicon Valley?
Richard: Correct, and he wrote a big book based on his work.
Ken: Wow, I didn’t know that. What was the title?
Richard: IBM’s LAN Server: The Administrator’s Guide, I think. I’m told it is considered the Bible in his field.
Ken: Well, that sounds like a best seller. Snore. What’s a LAN, anyway?
Richard: Some sort of network thing. I’m a Rip Van Winkle on this.
Ken: I sense a theme here. For myself, I can’t even program my new microwave.
Richard: Right. Oh yes, Helen lately has been dropping him off here for coffee before going out on errands. I guess that’s because of Bob’s driving radius.
Ken: That’s right. He’s always hanging around asking to hitch a ride back home. He’s the Kramer of the Klatch, so to speak.
Richard: Ha, ha. Doesn’t Carl often offer him the ride?
Ken: Well, did you hear about his last ride with Carl?
Richard: No, what happened?
Ken: Well, Carl maneuvered his car in close to pick Bob up over there at the dropped off curb, but the car apparently ended up a bit too far away. Bob is, of course, now a bit unsteady of foot. He tried to stretch himself off the curb to reach the car, but it was a bridge too far; and he tumbled back down into the gutter. Fortunately, he wasn’t hurt, just some ruffled feathers.
Richard: Rip Van Winkle again. A day late and a dollar short.
Ken: Yada yada. Well, I think it’s time for that second sandwich. Want another espresso shot?
Richard: Yeah, sure. What WERE we talking about?
Postscript
They set up a LAN in Nantucket But no one knew how to go run it. But once they asked Bob, Who’s no network snob, They could tell IBM to chuck it.
I was drivin’ my van by a neighborhood bait and tackle shop When I saw old Dave carrying his rod with a skip and a hop. “If you’re headin’ Café Teatro way, I’ll give you a ride.” And so, Dave climbed into the van and loaded all his gear inside. I inquired, “What next piscatory venture will you book?” He said, “Listen, I’ll fish any stream or lake I can cast my hook…
I’ve fished ev’rywhere, man I’ve fished ev’rywhere, man Crossed high sierras, man I’ve breathed the country air, man Of cold streams I’ve had my share, man I’ll fish anywhere
I’ll fish the Smith River, Hot Creek, Tahoe, McCloud River Trinity, Oroville, Gila, Owens River Fall River, Mammoth Creek, Klamath, Truckee River Yuba, Don Pedro, Ventura, Merced River Shasta, East Walker, San Jacquin, San Jacinto Los Angeles, Sacramento, and Colorado, bass and rainbow
I’ve fished ev’rywhere, man I’ve fished ev’rywhere, man Crossed high sierras, man I’ve breathed the country air, man Of cold streams I’ve had my share, man I’ll fish anywhere
I’ll fish the Missouri, Snake, Umpqua, Yukon River Mississippi, Yellowstone, Tennessee River Kansas, Ohio, Rio Grande, Feather River Brazos, Colombia, Red, Cumberland River Erie, Michigan, Champlain, Seneca Lake Bear Lake, Devils Lake, Crater Lake, for trout’s sake
I’ve fished ev’rywhere, man I’ve fished ev’rywhere, man Crossed high sierras, man I’ve breathed the country air, man Of cold streams I’ve had my share, man I’ll fish anywhere
I’ll fish the Amazon, Yangtze, Danube, Loire River Orinoco, Po, Seine, Zambezi, Rhine River Brahmaputra, Parana, Nile, Ganges River Murray, Indus, Moselle, Tigris, Yellow River Mackenzie, Niger, Ebro, Vistula, Mekong, Volga, Douro, Oder, Thames, and on and on
I’ve fished ev’rywhere, man I’ve fished ev’rywhere, man Crossed high sierras, man I’ve breathed the country air, man Of cold streams I’ve had my share, man I’ll fish anywhere
I came across a band of folks As they dashed along Orinda Way And I asked them, “Where are you going?” And this they told me We’re going to Café Teatro We’re gonna form a Holiday chorus We’re gonna sit with no rush We’re gonna sip some fresh brewed caffeine
We are honest We are olden And we’re joining together With all our good friends
“Then can I come drink with you? I have come to lose some brain fog And I need to make sure my mind keeps on going” “Well, maybe it is just the right season Or maybe it’s what’s in the air We don’t know what it is But you know, it’s time for sharing”
We are honest We are olden And we’re joining together With all our good friends
After arriving at the Café We were a couple dozen strong And all around, there were toasts and joyous singing And I dreamed I saw the Grinders Gauging EVs on the road And sparring over Joe’s, Donald’s, ‘n Ron’s True situation
We are honest Near hundred-year carbons We are olden Riding on a Java high And we’re joining together With all our good friends
My Odysseus announces his return From his long, meandering sojourn, In which he and his valiant mates Twist over geopolitical fates. Lamenting Cassandras, they foretell The effect of a famed pretender’s spell. They fret fortune’s downswings And titter about scandalous flings, While singing praises of spouses Awaiting dutifully in their houses. Thus, entering assured he states in jest, That I’ve passed the loyalty test. But, I respond with the reminder That he’s simply an Orinda Grinder. I note his tunic’s brown spill Does not give me much thrill. And, as to Homer’s old yarn, I don’t really give a darn. I assert that his coffee vacation Offers me an opportune occasion To advance my own business Or shop for a new headdress, To hit a few fairway drives Then tend the backyard beehives, To rehearse for the church choir Or do whatever I aspire. I’m not some doting Penelope, ‘Cause this is the 21st century!
How do we love Steve? Let us count the ways. And we attest that ours is no faint Praise. We love him for his depth and breadth and height. His Orinda support is out of sight. Well-known as the “Voice of the Matadors,” He’s one of the school’s great benefactors. We love him for his heartfelt, constant cheer, Citizen and Volunteer of the Year. He’s led the Lamorinda Arts Council, While ardently boosting Orinda Idol. We love how his voice makes us dissemble, Though Elvis’s looks his don’t resemble. Last, we love his desire for a sonnet. For which he had a bee in his bonnet.
Now you wouldn’t know from his presence When he spills coffee on the Café terrace, That Pete is famous world over for his plannings, Launched after Illini and military beginnings. Architect, urban designer, and perspectivist, He’s also dabbled as an editorial cartoonist. In the capital he set a good precedent For his very first client, the President, By designing the ‘64 inaugural pavilion, Which he had won in stiff competition. To recount all of Pete’s accomplishments Would take several rounds of refreshments: He created a Pennsylvania Avenue scheme Then formulated the Reston, Virginia dream. Baltimore Interstate Highway system untangled, Renovation of Amtrak stations well handled, His designs for mixed-use office, residential, Industrial settings and some educational, Spawned innovation in Australia and Japan, Historic Prague, Mexico, and Ford Island. A first collaborator of US and USSR architects To help restore earthquake-ravaged Spitak, He advised Atlanta’s Olympic planning, Then consulted on Katrina rebuilding. But one perspective his designs overlook Is that not all plans go by the book. Once wandering for weekend distraction, A young GOP activist drew his attention. For the Lincoln State boy, fish out of water, Helen made sure to give him no quarter. She found that the future Cad Man was no cad, And made sure all his promises were ironclad. The long sustainability of their project shows Politics and serendipity make great bedfellows.
I daydreamed I was on trial, accused My espresso gone cold, and so abused. “Oh woe,” I exclaimed, “What can I do?” Someone then said, “I’ve the one for you: He can make Perry Mason green with envy; Stir jurors and witnesses into frenzy. As to judges, he’s wise to predilection, ‘Cause they always sweat about re-election. Of his rep, biggest frog in the pond, Opposing teams are not very fond. A Tiger eyeballing any inconsistency, He sniffs out obfuscation and insincerity. Not bursting out from the gate with guns blazing, He evolves organically with pacing, Showing at first restraint and patience, Then exuding swagger and confidence. He digs his claws deep into motivation, Then charts an opponent’s slow degradation. Deftly nudging prey into a canyon, No half measures are his only canon.” “But the bottom line is, I must demand, For my lapse should I get a helping hand? To fess up would appear common sense, But I can’t lose my Grinder’s license.” “Yes, he can salvage any reprobate If you can afford double market rate: Coin of the realm, beans or grounds all accepted, Absolutely no maximum rejected.” Gradually the scent of coffee arose, Managing to tickle and tease my big nose; I suddenly woke from the short spell, And yelled out loud, “I’d better call Hal!”
My school pals in Tehran prodded me: You should go to the Land of the Free. It’s heaven on earth, wouldn’t that be nice. Disneyland and tall buildings, such a paradise. You can do whatever, whenever you please, A great place for golden opportunities. Hollywood glamor, that’s what it’s about; So many pretty girls, you’ll never run out. At 19 then, I flew across the wide blue sea To visit a cousin in Washington DC. But it happened, they closed the whole town. Martin Luther King had just been gunned down. Tensions grew high, you couldn’t move about; My reasons for coming I started to doubt. After a while though, I was able to manage A trip to Michigan to learn a new language. There I encountered a scene quite startling: Streaking naked apes with things dangling, Masses of guys encircling women’s dorms Holding cans of alcohol, breaking the norms. With the girls waving bras and egging them on, I thought I was staying in some loony town. And then came an encounter more personal: Having to stare at some defecating individual. The student union’s toilets with no door Made me seek privacy on Chem’s 6th floor. At last, I missed fall enrollment I was told, So dismayed I decided to return to the fold. Tired, frozen, and dejected in snow I stood, At a bus stop keeping as warm as I could. I did not notice the shuttle stop sign; And when I looked up, I was out of line. Hustling a cab, I made it at the airport To find that for my flight I was $200 short. My money could only return me to my cousin; And so reluctantly I resigned to settle in. My cousin told me in six months or less You’ll get yourself used to this crazy circus. But first you should pick a name that fits in, Hence with some doubt did my name Tom begin. He found me work waiting tables, while not stylish; There I made good friends who helped with English. Even though at the time it did not seem, My cousin was right about the American dream. In half year, with job, friends, and a 65 Mustang, My amazing adventure began with a very big bang.
Near every morn we convene To sort out the day’s headline screed. Back and forth we parry and joust, Debate hotter than coffee roast. Everyone looks for some missing gem To unscramble the nation’s maelstrom. But into the fray comes a gentle gent, Whose arrival is clearly heaven’s gift. Winding calmly amidst the noise, He’s a stalwart with stoic poise. He speaks a truth quiet and clear, With insights insured to endear. His presence offers inner light, The path before him ever bright. But who is he to whom we refer? A true meaning-of-life observer. With words recalled from a Dylan ode, Let’s share a cup of Zach ‘fore we go.
Everything Les touches is never quite the same again, Either wrapped up in duct tape, glued or sporting a tiny bend. He’s great at engineering to go the extra mile And increasing performance, at least for a little while. He dismantles alarms to replace an offending piece, Repairs faulty circuits to make another problem cease. Stitching a few electronic components together, He’ll build a Geiger counter or dimmer switch with pleasure. Eager to take on new tasks and ready to help out, He advises on whether to grout or not to grout. He can fix what needs fixin’, mend what’s broke; And he’ll smile and nod at every joke. His beneficent demeanor ushers in our day, He’s one staunchly humble and optimistic mainstay. Could this can-do air be what sparked Liz’s attention When he “picked her up” in the library collection?
Bicycle wheels whirl and crunch furiously on the pavement, accompanied by an increasing staccato.
“Huff puff, huff puff, huff puff.”
His focus on the road ahead narrows and becomes fuzzy. A car passes quickly on the left. On the right pedestrians walk along a sidewalk. A dull thump, thump, thump pumping sound emerges and continues unevenly for several long seconds.
“Ugh…!”
A sharp crashing sound and stinging pain are followed by a dizzying blur, then blackout and profound silence. After an indeterminable while, soft strains of Allegri’s Miserere invade an immensely indiscernible space, infused with enveloping and whirling vapors. The hazy murkiness begins to lighten up, gradually, very gradually intensifying until it reaches a full glare. Two shadowy figures materialize from the obscurity and approach an opening in the clouds, perhaps a gate with a side post. A figure with an elongated headpiece calls from inside.
“Michael! You’re late again! It is almost time to wrap up my shift.”
“Sorry, Peter, last minute congestion and an Expedia reservation screw up with Charon on the River Styx. You know the result of all those Novel Coronavirus variants, everybody’s just dying to get across…”
“Okay, okay. Let’s get this thing rolling.”
Michael hands him a document while Peter directs a question to the other shadow now fully emerged from the chaotic vapors.
“First name?”
“My what? What? My first name?” the second figure responds groggily.
“Come on, yes, your first name. It says here your first name is Tom. Is that right?”
“Yes, it’s Tom, but what is going on?”
“Just processing.”
“Processing what?”
“I’m verifying your eligibility.”
“Eligibility for what?”
“Eligibility to enter.”
“Enter what?”
“The Celestial Gates, of course!”
“Celestial? Gates? Am I dreaming? What’s all this fog? What the hell is going on?”
“I’m sorry, but you aren’t allowed to use that term here.”
Tom still looks mystified.
Peter then turns back to Michael. “Michael, you know the drill. Why haven’t you told him?”
“Sorry, Peter. I only received notice of Tom for my recruitment list at the last second, but he looked like a promising candidate.”
“Arrgh! Now let’s get going here. I’ve got to finish my daily report to the Old Man.”
He speaks to Tom. “I see you have the same last name as one of my favorite novelists.”
“Novel…? What ARE you talking about? Who ARE you? What am I doing here?”
Michael sticks his elbow in Tom’s ribs and whispers, “Not a good Idea to rile Saint Peter. You may end up in the last row of the heavenly choir.”
Tom is still hazily taking in the situation.
“You seem to be a smart guy. You’ll figure it out soon enough.”
Peter ignores Tom’s confusion and then begins reviewing the document.
“Ah, I see that you’ve made good use of your time down there. Put your education and experience to good use helping others. Performed your military and civic duties with honor, frequently assisted and offered to help many, many others. Quite good there. There have been the numerous venial sins. But that of course can be expected for such a long and commendable life. I see you also make an extra effort to help with maintenance at your church and you can handle yourself well with other sometimes difficult parishioners. Very commendable!”
“This must be a MISTAKE! Something is wrong!”
“No, no, I can assure you, my man. No.”
Saint Peter’s face speaks frustration. He has seen this reaction a million times before. It gets a bit old. He states what he has said a million times before, “The Old Man NEVER makes a mistake.”
“Nor do you, Mr. Infallible,” Michael giggles.
“Now Michael, that is only in terms of doctrine. Otherwise, I’m as fallible as the next guy, even more so. Remember my big screw up at Gethsemane?”
“Yeah, bigly. Tee-hee.”
“You don’t have to rub it in.”
Suddenly a small note appears out of nowhere. Michael calls Peter’s attention.
“Look, Peter, at the end of the document.”
Peter looks down at a pink post-it note and reads it.
“Oh boy, Oh boy. How did this slip through?”
“What’s it say?”
“It’s a note from one of our guardians watching over the Grinders, that chatty, filibustering group. I’ve been purposely ignoring them lately after they stopped patronizing my favorite coffee chain. Hmm, nevertheless, it says here that… uh… Tom that YOU recently admitted, in fact, proudly proclaimed in public to be a life-long, card-carrying REPUBLICAN!”
“Of my, that means no Heaven for you buddy.”
Instantaneously out of the misty vagueness a second gate flings wide open with searing flames bursting out. Peter gestures for Tom move toward that gate.
“Now just wait a minute here. I CAN’T go there. This is some colossal mistake!”
“Oh no it’s not. Jesus the man himself said it is more difficult for a rich man to enter the Kingdom, than for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle.”
“Yes, but I am not a rich man!”
“Well, many less well-off than than you have been assigned to the eternal brimstone vacation. Besides the Old Man just released Bible 2.0 on Amazon. What old Joe would call a BFD update.”
Bible 2.0?!? BFD? What the F…
The Old Man finally saw the light so to speak after seeing the Donald’s amazing media success. He saw that he needed more impactful, simplified messages to the masses too busy to read more than a few lines of text. He dropped the Old Testament almost entirely, keeping only a few sections like Psalms, Ecclesiastes, etc., because it is mostly too old. He made the Golden Rule the sole commandment and made sure to emphasize the Beatitudes. The New Testament is now simply ‘A Testament,’ because how can a book written over two thousand years ago be called ‘New.’ He tossed out the Book of Revelations for all its false advertising. And because he felt that Gingrich had just gone too far, he decided to have Jesus update and rerecord the phrase about the rich man and the camel to ‘a rich person or Republican.’“
“Peter, you’re getting carried away again with all your sermonizing. Let’s get back to Tom’s case.”
“In light of this new revelation and the Old Man’s preference, it is quite clear where you should go.”
“Now wait a minute, wait JUST A MINUTE! You can’t send me there! In fact, don’t send me anywhere. My time is not up yet! Though I know I’ve been getting a little winded lately.”
“OK, Mister big stuff. Let’s just verify that.”
Peter starts to take a second look at Tom’s resume and realizes he had inadvertently skipped the health portion because of the repartees.
“Well, yes, Tom, you ARE correct. It says here you could go a few more rounds. There must have been some slip up in creating your list, Michael. Perhaps it’s because of all that Great Resignation we have been hearing about. I have been noticing it getting harder to get competent help.”
“That’s it! I think you’ve hit upon something, Peter, when you bring up competent help. The Old Man wants to expand the choir section, make Charon’s boat can handle more passengers, enhance the River Styx’s flow, improve dynamics of angel wings, and find a way, in his own words, for “that damned Gabriel’s horn” to stop scaring off the Holy Ghost’s doves. Savants like Archimedes, Da Vinci, and Tesla keep coming up with impractical, costly designs. He knows he will not be able to recruit Elon. In short, he needs someone competent to perform quality control. Tom here could be just the ticket.”
“Bright boy! And you know how breezy it gets near the gate, sometimes knocks my mitre right off. I did see some juicy tidbits in his resume. Perhaps he could do something for my gate.”
“Tom worked with procurement and quality control while he did his service using his astute powers of observation and respect for the data to save money and effort. His resume shows he received a patent on “the method and apparatus for enhancing gas turbo machinery flow.”
Peter turns to Tom, “I see Tom, you were still working on your pipe dream up until the last second.”
“Ah, yes sir. Turbo acoustics.”
“Do you think, Peter, that we could do something for him?”
“Well perhaps so and necessity is the mother of invention. Jesus has a new burr in his spur, what he calls his Hail Mary Program. He’s been testing out a conversion therapy with likes of Mitt and Lynn. It is intended to help them amend their wayward ways. Perhaps our Tom here could just qualify.”
“He would need a helper. I could do it.”
“But, Michael, I think you’re too close to his case. You’d have to recuse yourself.”
Recusal. Peter suddenly laughed to himself thinking about that one uppity, duppity Supreme Court justice who refused to recuse himself and of course ended up the eternal hot seat.
“Let’s see now, there’s old Clarence our usual go-to journey-angel looking to win his permanent wings; but he’s currently tied up with working on that clueless banker George. And then there’s Mr. Jordan, but he’s dealing with Aaron Rodgers…”
“How about using our potential intern, Van?” Michael gleefully injected.
“You mean the ornery socialist, the one with that silly faux last name?”
“Yes, yes, I think he would be the perfect choice. Our informant says he and Tom are sometimes at loggerheads over certain pertinent issues.”
“I also noticed that true to form he manages with calm insistence to inject some realism and sound data points into their wide-eyed notions of solving social and environmental problems.”
“And if Van succeeds with the conversion, it could confer on him the route to beatification. It would be an interesting two-fer!”
“Okay then. I will compose and send up to the Old Man a quick Pontifical appeal for Tom and send him back so he can live out his truly allotted time with a very good dose of Our Fathers so that Tom may soon see the error of his political ways and successfully convert. Of course, I need to add our usual disclaimer: Unbiased treatment, no predetermination, individuals are solely responsible for consequences, yada, yada, yada, all results are final. Oh, yes he better get his ticker checked.
Gabriel’s horn sounds a loud, long bellowing blow.
“Break time!”
A blaring braking noise comes to a quick halt with a grating skid. Tom rights himself skillfully from the near tumble but feels a bit wobbly. He shakes it off and straightens his bicycle. That was weird, he tells himself, better get that checked. He then proceeds toward the café patio where the Grinders camp, parks, and removes his helmet.
Tell us, you stones! O speak, you towering spires! Avenues, say a word! Spirits of the land, why so silent? All things should be alive in die Stadt der 7 Türme, Old Quebec, and spicy Barcelona, but remain still. Who could tell it better, offer us the local color? How may we hear words that beguile us more? A modern-day Quixote, tilting at Kansan water towers, Raconteur of Coolidge, Ticonderoga, Montcalm, And of the river Dakotans called Makato Osa Watapa, He’s the wanderer, blogging insights along the way. Observing plain and palace, ruin and prominence, Like a serious man making sensible use of a journey, With his magic, he turns all into spellbinding account, Regaling us of distant ways as he talks his walks. Though a whole globe is out there, without Dave, The world isn’t the world, and Paris can’t be Paris!
He once dodged a fright By staying out of sight But now he must face A new sort of case: Richards, Couric, Burton, Bialik Rodgers, Jennings, The search for ratings. The correct question for Host who could offer the most, Next leader of the game, A person of local fame, To whom you ask things sublime, And he’ll respond every time, Someone you have to admit Kinda resembles a bit, In a quizzical way, Trebek, some may say: Who is none other than, Richard, our Answer-Man?!!!
Phone that disc jockey on the radio waves not to play any more of those sappy tunes. Instead, let us drink under the bright moon and ignore them, savoring this moment as we lean against the railing and croon of times past and opportunities lost bellowing into the night soulful sagas embellished by the power of the brew.
I met Jawdat just as I entered by way of the Damascus Gate. “Welcome to Jerusalem, the Holy City. Are you looking for a guide?” he asked. A quick glance discomfited me, For he looked no older than I myself. But he expertly continued, “This Gate is The Center of the World. It is an excellent type of Islamic building, and do you know what its sign means? There is no God but God and Muhammed is His Prophet.” What convenient luck for me, I thought, as he offered to guide me for the next few days. “There is the immovable ladder of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. Someone put it against that wall, and no one dares disturb the status quo.” “Make sure you cover your elbows when tucking prayers in the Wailing Wall.” “Remember remove shoes in al-Aqsa, so you can see the wonderful decorations.” He offered little personal insights To spice up our series of walks. “Let me treat you to some Turkish coffee along with a delicious slice of kanafa.” “The sabbath, the busiest day of the week, is when Arabs and Israeli teens eye the miniskirts.” And “Someday I will go to your country to study and get an American wife.” Also, “My family is originally from Jaffa but was thrown out the Day of the Nakba.” Once when we dined late after curfew, he vanished after helping me enter my hostel. For four days there was no sign of him, though I enquired from shop to shop. At the market there was a wary silence until my last day his familiar figure re-emerged. Jawdat approached and pulled up his shirt to show me the IDF’s purple marks.
