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The Tuxedo – 22/01/2018

My pants kept falling down the night I met former Senator Al Franken. This has nothing whatsoever to do with scandal. It was my stupid rental tuxedo.

I had recently taken a new job in Washington, DC, and this was my first black-tie event. I went to the tuxedo rental shop in our local mall, proudly located in a “transitional” part of town.

The moment I entered the shop I knew I was out of my element. Every tux in the store looked like it belonged in a Snoop Dog video: pink vests, furry top hats, shiny sequins, ivory-handled canes. Some dudes can pull off such a look. I am not one of them.

The sales person approached. I cut straight to the point. “Do you have any fat white guy tuxedos?” I asked.  She looked at me without expression, then replied, “Yeah. We keep one in the back”. She disappeared into the storage room to dust it off.

She emerged with an appropriately boring black tuxedo. The jacket fit my shoulders and chest just right. But the arms were 6 inches too long. She folded the sleeves to the appropriate length. Then she got out a staple gun. Nothing says “class” like the sleeves of your rented tuxedo jacket being staple-gunned into place.

That evening, I went directly from the office to the grand ballroom. This was my first exposure to the strange allure of pomp and power in Washington, DC. My job at the gala was to interact with high worth donors and dignitaries, including Senator Franken. Doing so required only three things: make eye contact, shake hands, keep pants on. Not as easy as it sounds.

With the gala about to begin, I found a bathroom in which to change. That’s when I discovered (a) the accompanying trousers were absolutely cavernous. Truly, the crotch hovered just above my knees, hanging feebly like a sail with no wind. (b) The adjustable waist band on the trousers was broken, and there were no belt loops. And (c) the rental shop had neglected to include suspenders – normally standard with any rented tux.

I had no good options. I emerged from the change room: sharp dressed professional from the waist up, Oompa-Loompa from the waist down.

I circulated through the ballroom, gladhanding with donors and colleagues. As I did, I was obliged to keep my hand in my front pocket at all times. The only way to keep my pants up was to hold tightly to a gathered wad of surplus fabric in my balled fist.  If, even for an instant, I absentmindedly reached for a glass of wine, my pants began to slide rapidly to the floor. It was a stressful evening with many close calls. But I managed to “pull it off” (I couldn’t resist).

At the conclusion of the evening our boss gathered the staff. She warmly praised our collective work. She reached out to offer me a congratulatory hug, to which I naturally responded. Terrible idea.

[If you know someone else who might enjoy a lighthearted story to begin their week, kindly forward them the link to WordsfortheWeary. The more the merrier!]

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Priorities – 15/01/2018

Winter grilling in a skin tight speedo should be against the law. Yet there was my neighbour, putting kebabs on the barbeque in his driveway in the depths of an Ottawa winter, wearing nothing but a bright red speedo.  Two quick pieces of context.

First, Ottawa is really, really cold in the winter. Not exactly speedo weather.

Second, my neighbor was a heroin dealer. People came and went from his place at all hours of the day and night, often leaving with small paper bags. He was scraggly and greasy and rail thin. He only dressed in black. But he was a very friendly neighbor. He would give a big wave and smile every time we passed his house. He seemed happy in his work.

As I drew nearer on my walk home, I saw with relief that he had put on a scarf. Then the scarf moved. To my horror I realized that it was actually a large snake, presumably a pet, draped around his neck. Naturally, I concluded that this entire escapade was a result of heroin use. There is no other explanation.

As I passed the end of his driveway, true to form he turned to give me a big smile and wave. His pasty-white, Canadian winter body was positively translucent against the backdrop of snow. And I got a front row seat to the full glory of the speedo. Normally, cold makes things shrink. But not always.

As I returned his wave, my eyes locked on one final detail: my heroin-using, winter-grilling, snake-wearing, speedo-bursting neighbour also had a nicotine patch affixed to his shoulder. He was trying to quit cigarettes. Because those things will kill you. Unlike heroin. Or snakes. Or being out in a Canadian winter in a bathing suit.

When I got into our house, I called my wife over to the window. This is a transcript of her response as she peered across the street to the scene of the crime:

“Good Lord, is he wearing a….”

“What the hell is that around his neck? Is that a….”

“And what is…what is…Are you KIDDING me?”

 

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Fishing in Florida – 08/01/2017

[Welcome back and Happy New Year! I hope everyone had a good break. This holiday story is a wee bit longer than most, but I believe it’s worth it. And it’s all true.]

A few Christmases ago my brother-in- law and I rose in the early dawn light and piled into the car with our respective sons, sandwiches, a change of clothes, and high expectations. The previous night we had received a text from one “Captain Biff”, confirming that our deep sea fishing trip in the Gulf was on. His text also included an apology that his primary boat was in for repair so we would be using his backup
craft. No matter.

Not knowing where to park, we drove towards a man standing by the pier to ask for directions. He was a strapping fellow with short, ginger hair. He looked like a retired Rowdy Roddy Piper. He was wearing a filthy pea-green shirt covered with fish-ick and ripped camouflage shorts which offered a full view of his black boxers underneath. as we rolled up, the man leaned into the open driver’s window and said in a voice bristling with enthusiasm, “Y’all looking for Cap’n Biff?!” We nodded. “Co-ink-ee-dink! You found him!” He pointed us towards the parking lot and told us to meet him at the boat. The thrum of marine engines filled the air and added to our anticipation.

We gathered our things from the car and made for the pier. There sat Cap’n Biff’s backup boat, a little putt-putt party-barge pontoon with a 50hp Evinrude outboard. It looked like a floating David surrounded by marine Goliaths. As we stepped aboard, The Cap’n apologized that this was a lesser boat than his normal one, and noted we wouldn’t be hitting any deep water today but would instead fish in the shoals near shore. My brother-in- law slumped. The Cap’n cranked up some Bob Marley as we made for open water, while the Evinrude whined like a swarm of angry bees.

Despite the early hour, and I suspect in part to compensate for his crappy boat, Cap’n Biff proved to be quite the chatterbox. As we headed towards the shoals he told us about his time in the service, the ins and outs of charter fishing, and prattled on about the local gossip. My brother-in- law finally engaged. “Captain Biff”, he said, “I can’t help but notice a sort of musty smell here on the boat.…”

For the first time the Captain looked sheepish. “Yup”, he said. “When I pulled her out of storage this morning the seats were covered in a ton of dust and I didn’t have time to give her a full wipe down. So I covered the seats with these old hunting blankets here from my truck. I forgot that some of them blankets is scented with male buck urine, you know, to attract the horny female deer? So I expect that may be what we’re all smelling”. The air filled with Bob Marley as my brother-in- law and I sat tried to process the moment. …Buffalo soljaaahhh, dreadlocked Rasta…

Finally the Captain eased off the Evinrude as we drifted up to the shoals. Here he proved himself to be a veteran fisherman and a master at working with us novices. He taught us how to bait hooks, avoiding the spiky parts of the bait shrimp. He prepared the rods and lines, and taught our boys about the reels. Each time as we brought our arms back to cast, Captain Biff would yell “FLANG THAT DAWG!” with genuine enthusiasm.

As we kept casting, I noticed the Captain looking to the back of the boat with growing alarm. “Uh, fellas”, said Captain Biff with genuine worry in his voice. “I’m afraid we’ve got to cut this one a little short. It appears one of them pontoons is taking on water and we may be sinking”. Only then did I realize that my brother-in- law was indeed sitting a few inches lower than the rest of us at the back of the boat, and that we were listing noticeably to one side. Quickly Captain Biff flew into action, stowing the gear and firing up the Evinrude. He turned back for the pier as the rest of us huddled precariously on the front corner of the boat to counterbalance the growing weight in the rear waterlogged pontoon. The putt-putt Evinrude screamed for all it was worth as we inched across the open water.

Finally the pier came into sight. Captain Biff headed straight for the ramp, ignoring the stares of the other Captains who looked on wide-eyed at our semi-submerged party barge with its smoking outboard. Captain Biff threw a line on to the pier and ran up to get his truck and trailer, fearing that the boat might actually sink before he could skid it up out of the water. We remained on the front corner of the boat as counterbalance to keep it from going down. Meanwhile, the harbor master, an elderly man standing on the pier with glasses on the end his nose, began scribbling on his clipboard.

Captain Biff backed the trailer down into the water. Lashing the bow of the boat directly to the trailer he dispensed with the winch, knowing that he could not haul up the tons of water now filling the leaky pontoon. He motioned for us to step off the boat at the same moment as he dropped his truck into low-gear 4 X 4 and gunned it. The entire dripping mess lurched up the ramp. Tires smoked and the weight of the waterlogged pontoon almost crushed Captain Biff’s trailer. The prop, still spinning, flung water and weeds into the air. The harbor master’s writing became a blur while. Above the chaos …I shot the sherriiiifff…. could be heard coming from the boat’s sound system.

Then, right there at the top of the ramp, in the midst of the stares from onlookers, the judgement of his peers, and pending fines from the harbormaster, Captain Biff proved what kind of man he really was. He stepped from his truck up on to his boat, now spurting water from its leaky pontoon like a dozen little boys peeing, and crowed like a rooster on a dung heap “YEEAAAHHH! FLANG THAT DAWWWGGGG!!!” And while others waited in disbelief to get their boats down the ramp, Biff took the opportunity to fillet our caught fish. And he took his sweet time doing it, too. Then he added as a masterstroke while handing us the bag of fresh fillets, “I think I’m gonna offer you boys a discount”! Pure. Divine. Poetry.

[If you know someone else who might enjoy a lighthearted story to begin their week, kindly forward them the link to WordsfortheWeary. The more the merrier. Happy New Year!]

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The Christmas Concert – 18/12/2017

It officially became the best Christmas concert of all time when they broke out the bongo drums and booze.

My daughter’s school choir sang this morning in an ancient stone church in the next village. As I walked there I greeted some French-Swiss construction workers who, true to form, were leaning on their shovels and smoking. The German-Swiss street crews work. The French-Swiss crews smoke.

The concert was hosted by the local International Women’s Guild.  The only thing international about the Guild is the use of the word “International” in the title. These women are all English. Like Maggie Smith in Downton Abbey. Like the Queen mum and her Corgies. The aging flower of Britannia.

The audience sang along with Silent Night, While Shepherds Watched their Flocks, What Child is This, and other old-fashioned-hey-nonny-nonny English Christmas classics. The songs were interspersed with readings by proper British authors like Rudyard Kipling and Charles Dickens. There was even an inexplicable Beatrix Potter poem about an Ostrich pulling the Christmas sleigh. How did these people once hold dominion over a quarter of the world?

Then things got “International”.

First, the choir made the mistake of projecting the words to a French carol. The Guild ladies sang along, but only out of duty and with nowhere near the gusto of the other carols. There were sideways glances and knowing nods exchanged, lest anyone be perceived by their Guild-sisters as being unpatriotic or worse, a Francophile.

Then came the Hanukkah song. This was received by the stunned assembly like the sting of a boxer’s jab. It was followed by the bruising right hook of the Kwanza song. The choir director had to explain to the baffled crowd what Kwanza was. One of the boys in the choir produced a bongo drum.

Then all hell broke loose. The bongos wailed, the choir sang, and the director, with her ample backside to the crowd, began to shake her caboose in time with the music in a most un-British manner. The Guild matrons swooned.

Decorum was restored by the taking up of a collection for some suitably obscure British charity involving animals. Then the crowd filed into the back of the church for biscuits and mulled wine. Even the kids were given mulled wine. It was 10:30 in the morning.

As I walked back to the car I passed the construction workers once more, their cigarette butts piled high from a long, unproductive morning. Each of them was by now also holding a steaming cup of mulled wine, a gift given by the passing Guild ladies returning to their cars.

I love Christmas. God bless us everyone, no exceptions.

 

[If you know someone else who might enjoy a lighthearted story to begin their week, kindly forward them the link to WordsfortheWeary. The more the merrier. Note there will be no posts for the next two weeks on account of the holidays. Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, and Happy New Year to everyone! More to follow in January, 2018.]

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The Parrot – 11/12/2017

I had not planned to spend the night locked within the walls of a foreign prison. Even more unexpected was my host hurling a brick through the window.

Hours before my best friend and I had been hitchhiking through England. We were picked up by a lovely, salt of the earth English family. We squeezed into their car, already crammed full with people and camping gear. Their younger children wound up sitting on our laps. This does not normally occur when one is hitchhiking.

The girl seated on my lap (perhaps 4 years old) quietly repeated the last phrase of every conversation. I remarked about this, to which her father replied “Yeah, she’s odd like that. Repeats everything she hears like some damned parrot”.

“Like some damned parrot”, she repeated sweetly.

 My friend and I had plans to find a park somewhere in which to roll out our sleeping bags. But the family insisted we spend the night at their place. The father noted that he was a warden at the notorious Wormwood Scrubs. Their house was actually located in the prison grounds. How could we say no?

As we pulled up to the old prison gates (pictured), the father exchanged pleasantries with the sentry. We drove through and parked in front of their row house. Only then did the warden realize he had left his house keys up at the camping site. In frustration he exclaimed, “We’re just going to have to break that son-of-a-bitch window in!”

 “Son-of-a-bitch-window!” piped the young girl.

 This he proceeded to do, pitching a brick through his front window and then sending one of his children in to open the door from inside. My friend and I helped the family unpack their car, clean up the glass, and tape plastic over the broken front window. The weary family retired upstairs. We unrolled our sleeping bags in their living room. The house grew quiet.

Moments later we heard the father’s heavy footsteps on the landing above us. A light went on. Peering down he asked us matter-of-factly, “You two aren’t a couple of pansy boys, are you? Just checking”.

 We assured him we were not. Off went the light. He padded away.

 From within the silent house came the voice of his parrot daughter speaking softly into the darkness: “Couple of pansy boys. Just checking”.

 

NB: Photo credit to Wikipedia

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Special Christmas Advent Appeal – 4/12/2017

Africa: December, 2003.

They thought she was dead when they first found her, half-buried in the excrement at the bottom of the outhouse.  Certainly that had been the intent. Born unwanted in the night and lowered into the latrine by a desperate African mother, probably herself barely more than a child. She was a day old at most, lying silent in the filth, vermin crawling from her nose and ears.

But she was not dead. Someone fished her out, cleaned her up, and took her to The Babies Home.

Even the most seasoned hands at the orphanage were shocked by this little one’s circumstances. A staff member there remarked that the child was not alone in the tragic nature of her arrival. They noted that Christ himself had likewise been born into this world by way of a dung-heap, long ago arriving into the filth of a barn floor, care of an impoverished mother who was herself barely more than a child.

I found this statement to be cold comfort at the time. Its meaning has become more dear to me with each passing December. I think of that little girl as each Christmas approaches. I wonder what has become of her, and of the amazing things she may have done with the gift of her life.

Befitting the season, the orphanage named her Grace.

This true story is dedicated to BeadforLife. Founded in 2003, the year that Grace was born, BFL is the most effective organization I know of helping African women to permanently lift themselves and their families out of poverty – 46,000 individuals to date and counting. Please consider visiting the BeadforLife web site this holiday season and sharing this story with others. With our support, BeadforLife can help even more women like Grace and her mother to transform their lives, forever.

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Thanksgiving – 27/11/2017

As I blacked out from cardiac arrest I thought: I am going to die in Africa, naked, at the hands of a French dwarf. How disappointing for my parents.

 Days earlier I had felt an exquisite pain like someone twisting a knife in my back. I was 20 at the time, sitting in a restaurant in rural Cameroon. I stumbled from the table and dropped to my knees in the parking lot, bawling like a calf. My colleagues took me to a local clinic. I was soon transported to a private clinic in the capital city.

 I was met there by a doctor of exceptionally short stature. With an outrageous French accent and extreme platform shoes, he was a cross between Jacques Clouseau and Gene Simmons from KISS. The diagnosis was renal colic–kidney stones. I had been working outside in the tropics for 9 months, sweating hard every day. At night I drank mostly beer. Eventually my desiccated kidneys had enough.

 I was rehydrated in the clinic over several days. Before being discharged, the doctor wanted to do a full body x-ray with an injected tracing fluid. This would confirm if all the calcium was out of my system. In preparation I had to suffer an enema, witnessed by the entire clinic staff at my bedside. Further humiliation followed as I lay naked on the cold x-ray table. No secrets that day. Or dignity.

 They injected the iodine trace. Who knew I was allergic to iodine?  My heart stopped beating.

 Other people see a light at the end of the tunnel. Not me. I saw African faces bending low, weaving in and out above me like a kelp forest in the water. There was a tiny white shark circling the kelp forest. It was speaking French and wearing platform shoes. I also vaguely remember my tongue being clipped to the side of my mouth, injections, chest compressions.

When the ordeal ended I was weakly helped off the table and into a wheelchair. Unexpectedly, a nurse brought me a chocolate bar. I remember clearly it was a Twix. I had not seen chocolate in 6 months. Her gift unleashed a flood of uncontrollable tears. I sat there naked, savouring the chocolate, sobbing and laughing and overwhelmed with inexpressible gratitude for the precious gift of this life. May I feel that way every day.

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The Elephant – 20/11/2017

The only sound was the bullet sliding into the chamber of the Park Ranger’s rifle. I reached for my keys to turn on the engine, but his shaking hand reached over and touched mine, silently indicating that starting an engine at this precise moment was a very bad idea. Both of us stared straight ahead, frozen.

Moments before, we had been marveling at a parade of elephants passing before us. On safari in Africa, we had gotten our jeep into position in a small clearing between the river and the deep shade of the forest. Each morning after a cool drink the elephants would lumber up the path from the river and head to the forest, as they were doing now.  Parked at a safe distance, we had a front row seat to this majestic, awe-inspiring procession.

The matriarch led, trumpeting for the other elephants to keep up. We could see black smudge marks beneath her ears, indicating that she was in heat. She was followed by more than a dozen other members of the herd, including several baby elephants. Our own baby girl was in the back seat of the jeep, happily chatting away with my wife and her grandmother as the elephants passed before us.

We fell instantly silent as a large tree crashed down, almost on the hood of our jeep. Out from the bush stepped a full grown bull male elephant. He was so close we could almost touch him. He towered above our car. Startled to find us in his path, he spun his body towards us, lowered his head, and flared out his ears in defiance. That was the moment the Park Ranger reached for his rifle and I reached for my keys. Not that either of us could have done anything – in two quick steps the bull could easily have been upon us.

One other important detail: he was sporting a full erection. I mention this because an erect bull elephant penis is a rather impressive and pretty unmistakable spectacle, especially when it is 10 paces from your car. It did cross my mind that he might crush us in his anger. Alternatively he might attempt to mate with our jeep in his confusion.  Either way, the outcome was less than desirable.

As we stared at him, frozen, there suddenly came from the front of the line a loud trumpet. It was the matriarch in heat calling for the bull. Without hesitating, he reacted in predictably male fashion. He turned immediately and ran off in her direction, his trunk, tusks and dragging penis cutting a swath through the underbrush. We all sat in silence, our hearts pounding out of our chests, trying to regain our breath.

At that moment the Park Ranger felt the need to add some commentary to this terrifying nature moment. In possibly the most unnecessary statement about any situation, ever, he observed: “Indeed. That one was a male”. Indeed, that one was.

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My Great Aunt – 13/11/2017

One hot summer day at a family reunion, someone gave my great aunt a margarita and a water gun. She was in her late 80s. She knocked the drink back like it was Kool-aid. Then she drank another. Before the end of the day she was dancing on the picnic table in her Baskin-Robbins-esque polyester pant suit, squirting people with water.

Later she was playing a ball-toss game with a priest. He made a throw and missed the target altogether. Picture a woman in her late 80s, cradling her drink like Dean Martin, turning to the clergyman and saying, “IS THAT THE BEST YOU’VE GOT, HOLY BOY?” She trash-talked a priest. Then she squirted him with water. Then she went and got another margarita.

She taught us kids how to gamble, playing Royal Rummy for pennies at her kitchen table. She let us sip beer from little paper cups from as early as I can remember. She asked about our lives. She patiently listened to our response.  She modeled faith in action, sending her prayers and her money to schools in South America, Africa, Native reserves, and inner city slums. She never had any children of her own, but man did she have a heart for them.

She also nearly killed us with her driving. The finer points of gentle acceleration and gradual braking were lost on her. When the light turned green she would pin it, and at the next red light she would hammer on the brake inches before the intersection. Naturally we kids loved this, being flung all over the car in the days before seatbelts.

She was hard of hearing. Even with hearing aids she SPOKE LOUDLY, her volume the same regardless of subject matter. Once she went to the hospital to visit a family member with an infection who would sit up in his bed, hallucinating and bathed in sweat, and yell about the rising river water. In walks my great aunt. She sizes up the situation and then randomly blurts, “LAST NIGHT MY UTERUS DROPPED, AND NOW I HAVE TO WIPE TWICE WHEN I TINKLE”. She honestly said that. At that moment said family member sat up and yelled, “Everyone get the hell out, the river’s flooding!” He honestly said that. You can’t make this stuff up.

They broke the mold with my great aunt. Last week she would have been 104. Happy Birthday dear one, and how we miss you!

 

 

[If you know someone else who might enjoy a lighthearted story to begin their week, kindly forward them the link to WordsfortheWeary. The more the merrier.]

 

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Halloween – 06/11/2017

Things went bad one Halloween when my niece pooped in her lion costume. She was only two, so what are you going do? But the outfit is a one-piece, necessitating a messy and difficult extraction even for veteran parents. My sister-in-law was forced to do an emergency pit-stop in our living room to initiate the clean-up.

We were also joined by a dear family member who has dementia. In the face of this horrible disease, our family has treasured moments of levity as they come along. Such it was to be this Halloween.

When the doorbell rang the family member would instinctively open the door. She would then stand there silent, confused by the throngs of costumed children. But the moment someone yelled “trick or treat”, recognition would radiate across her face. Her eyes sparkled as she would exclaim with surprise and enthusiasm, “Why, it must be Halloween!”  Finding the candy bowl, she would dish out liberal portions to the kids, and then help herself to a chocolate bar.

This cycle repeated itself dozens of times throughout the evening. Each group of trick-or-treaters was a brand new experience for her: doorbell, confusion, recognition, an enthusiastic exclamation of “Why, it must be Halloween!”, and then another chocolate bar. She must have eaten 20 before the night was through.

At one point our pre-teen daughter arrived back from trick or treating, dragging with her a pack of pre-teen girls engaged in pre-teen drama. They had elected to go out together all dressed as pieces of fruit. Apparently the banana had teased the apple about some part of her costume. The apple began to cry. Then the banana felt guilty, so she began to cry. Then the grape blamed the cherry for not stepping into the fray. So the entire fruit bowl began to cry. All the while said family member was circulating in the midst of the weeping fruit, dishing out candy while gleefully consuming yet another chocolate bar.

As my niece slipped back into her lion costume her older brother, dressed as the Pope, managed to catch his finger in our screen door. So at one moment in time our living room boasted a screaming pope, my sister-in-law trying to contain the fallout, weeping tween-age fruit, my beleaguered wife, a niece dressed as a lion who smelled like some unholy combination of stale poop and sugar, and a family member with dementia and an ear-to-ear grin, vibrating from excess chocolate consumption.

The very next batch of kids to ring the doorbell saw the chaotic throng in our living room. They decided the party must be inside, so in they came! I hope that everyone had a great Halloween this year!

 

[If you know others who might enjoy a lighthearted story to begin their week, please feel free to forward them the link to WordsfortheWeary. The more the merrier!]