Night of the Moth!

Reflections and Observations -- A Bright Passage from the Fantasies of Youth 

to Illuminations of Advanced Maturity!

This Episode:              Night of the Moth!!

You probably know how it is with GeezerHood, particularly if you, yourself are a Geezer.  We tend to recall "Great Stories and Great Events" in our lives, especially when asked to relate such memorable stories or events to our children, grandchildren, other fascinated parties...  meaning anyone who might foolishly ask for a re-recitation.  It's sort of like a great novel being read by someone with a sonorous voice via public radio...  rapturous, mesmerizing!  (Or maybe not!)

A number of years ago, SweetHeart and I, along with our, then, only offspring, rented a cottage on the shores of Lake Michigan, near Cedar Grove, Wisconsin.  We routinely invited SweetHeart's brother and his wife, Boobers and Patsy, to join us.  They were best friends of ours, in addition to being beloved relatives.  

On a memorable early morning on one of those glorious summer days at the cottage, probably about 2:00AM, Boobers and I had consumed a great deal of beer and other spirited potables.  We were in the rubber round of a cribbage match, laughing and belching and telling each other lies and other "true adventures."  

Boobers flicked a cigarette out the screen door.  As he did so, an enormous moth flew into the kitchen area of the compact cottage.  We watched the moth flit about irritatingly, disrupting our keen, if admittedly drunken concentration.  Booby stumbled about, his hand with fingers outstretched, trying to capture the pesky moth.  He, Boobers, became a knight errant, as if fully armored with broadsword and bludgeon at the ready.  Eventually he

succeeded in capturing the moth.  

He cradled the still living winged creature in his hand, stomped boldly with a great sense of purpose while staggering into the bathroom, and thrust the offensive prey into the toilet, flushing simultaneously.  He walked back to the table and our cribbage game, a triumphant scowl on his face!  "It's done for," he announced, confidently!

But then, the moth reappeared.  It had obviously escaped the crazy, dizzying vortex of the flushing toilet, crawled up the bowl and took once again to the air.  "Damn," we both shouted in disbelief.  "How in the hell did that thing get out of the toilet?!" Booby re-captured the moth, this time a bit more roughly and threw it with great force into the toilet, flushing once again as he did so.  "That'll show 'em," he said.

Boobers stayed in the bathroom, just to be sure.  As the moth escaped the whirlpool and began crawling up the porcelain, out of the bowl, Booby used his beer and whisky-laden breath to force the moth into the vortex, flushing and blowing at the thing, like a mighty wind, and glowering at the seemingly indestructible "beast." The moth appeared to be a goner

It wasn't.  It was soon flitting about the room.  It seemed almost to have a triumphant and haughty look upon its mothy face!  Another capture ensued.  More thrusting, flushing and blowing.  Repeated escapes!  Nothing worked.


At this point, our uproarious laughter woke our respective spouses, SweetHeart and Patsy.  "What are you two lunatics doing?" one of them asked in a sleepy and rather irritated voice.  We related our adventure with the moth, pointing out the pesky creature as it flew jerkily around the kitchen, circling the overhead light!  Booby captured the moth yet again.  He had a look of murder in his eyes.  "Wait a minute," said Patsy, "Let it live...  If we can believe your ridiculous tale, the thing deserves to live after all you put it through."

Two more thumbs flew upward -- spectators at a Roman coliseum -- affirming the "winged gladiator's" right to life, after having endured so many indignities and near-death experiences!  

"Oh, alright," said Boobers, resignedly.  He opened the screen door and thrust it out.  Another moth flew in!   

Humbly Submitted, March 4, 2020! -- Joel K.    

A Possible Murder Mystery... Chapter Two!

Reflections and Observations -- A Bright Passage from the Fantasies of Youth 

to Illuminations of Advanced Maturity!

This Episode:    A Possible Murder Mystery...  Just Trying it Out, Sort of...

Chapter Two
Flying Fists and Lemons!

Seemingly appeased by Leonard’s assertions, Cruikshank eventually departed for his office and the multitude of duties that commanded the attention of the general manager of the busiest, most successful hotel operation in all of Washington State.  As he left, he flipped down  the full bank of lights just inside the south entrance of the barroom.  As was his usual routine, he would not reappear until evening.  It was nearly “opening time,” 11:00 AM.  Re-coloring the almost iridescent and perfectly tailored, lightly-colored suit Cruikshank always seemed to prefer, softly muted light spilled out from the long bar, cascading down the two steps that led into it and flooded the gorgeous “sunken” cocktail lounge with illumination.  The light seemed to darken his apparel, and like a magician's trick, the general manager seemed to disappear, into smoke or a kind of mist.      

As the room became revealed in its warm glow of light, the first thing any onlooker noticed were the enormous natural Douglas firs, as if a forest had taken root under the floor

boards extending their coniferous foliage out of sight above the roof line.  The firs acted as a giant row of columns, a kind of oversized fence between the booths that lined the outer three walls and the interior tables and chairs.  The carpeting, done in a swirling pattern of light and dark blues and soft reds, was interrupted only by a small section of wood flooring placed at the edge of the carpeting nearest the bar.  

On weekends and holidays the floor accommodated dancing in the evenings hours.  During the cocktail hour, from 5:00 until 6:30 PM Monday through Friday, the wood floor became the perch of the “Wood Nymph,” a scantily-clad young woman, costume matching the fabric of the stools and bartender vests, who dispensed silver-dollar-sized ham and beef sandwiches priced at six for a half dollar and, at times, other hot hors d’oeuvres offered at ridiculously low cost or free of charge to “happy hour” patrons.  Most of those who populated the inn’s bar and lounge were transients, business travelers on expense accounts and well able to afford the time and the fare, attracted by cocktail waitresses who, without exception, might have been just at much at home on runways or movie sets.  Cocktail drinkers savored the great and abundant food and low-cost beverages daily, treating themselves, as most were convinced, to their “just desserts,” after-business-hours’ rewards.

Leonard was not to have a pleasant shift this particular day.  It was a Friday, and Leonard mistakenly thought he had actually made it through his workweek without incident.  At precisely 11:05 AM, Mavis entered the barroom, seated herself upon a stool near Leonard’s side of the bar, doing so with her unselfconscious ceremony, placing her purse on a neighboring stool.  She next positioned a large amber ashtray just to her right, then fished through the commodious handbag for her Kent filter-tipped cigarettes and gold lighter, placing those objects just to her left, the lighter on top of the cigarette packet.  The purse stood erect on her right, a kind of sentry between Mavis and any patron who might seat him or herself on the adjoining stool.  The purse was rich looking and quite large.  Jack had returned from his stock-gathering forays into the walk-in cooler and liquor closet.  He busied himself arranging bottled beer in the coolers, labels facing front, bottles perfectly aligned and spaced as if awaiting a military inspection.   He knelt as he continued to fill the beer coolers, eventually looking left and up at Mavis and her neatly placed objects that foretold a lengthy stay.   “That sack is gigantic,” Jack mused.  “She must carry silver ingots instead of a coin purse.”  The handbag was made of sturdy brown leather and matched her shoes.  The woman was dressed fashionably, and obviously had expensive taste.

   

Nodding at her, Leonard said, “Mavis.  Are you alright?”  

“I’m fine, of course, Lenny, and you?”

“Mavis.  Do you think it’s wise of you to be here?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

Leonard walked to the other end of the bar, and busied himself with chores that needn’t have been done.  He selected a clean bar towel from a cabinet placed about midway under the long bar and wiped a dry glass, elevating it to the light to inspect it for spots.  Jack watched Leonard and thought, “It’s almost a cliché.  He’s an actor pretending to be a bartender in an old movie.”  Jack approached Mavis and said, “Good morning ma’am.  What may I serve you?”  As he spoke, looking straight into her pale blue eyes, he placed a cocktail napkin on the bar in front of Leonard’s wife.

“I’ll have a bourbon manhattan straight up, and don’t skimp on the bourbon.  In fact, don’t short pour the sweet vermouth either.  Cherry and an olive.”

Jack mixed and then served her the drink.  Mavis emptied the large stemmed vessel of its potent contents almost as fast as one might pour the drink on the floor.

Jack said, “Was the drink satisfactory?”  

Her reply either ignored the question or, thought Jack, confirmed her enjoyment of it, the probable instantaneous “buzz.”  “Another,” she said.  Jack built another, thinking to himself, “Is she out to drink herself into a quick stupor, or is she exceptionally talented?”  He placed the freshly made concoction on the beverage napkin in front of her.  Leonard said from the north end of the bar, “Jack, can you come over her a moment.  I want to ask you something about the glass washer.”  It was a ploy, but he switched on the washer to validate the ruse, and to try to drown out the ensuing, whispered conversation.  “Can you please ease up on those drinks of hers?”

“Why,” the younger man asked.

“Listen.  Mavis is my ex-wife.  To be accurate, we’re separated, but I’ll have a final divorce in a less than two months.  She’s kind of a lush, not only that, but sort of an angry and mean drunk.  If I could legally do so, I’d call the cops right now, but she hasn’t done anything yet.  She will though.  She’ll get crazy.  Violent.  Or maybe she won’t, this time.  I hope.  Just, please, ease up on the quantity of booze you put in that shaker.  OK?”  

Jack agreed to soften the blow of the next manhattan.  He also said he’d try to engage Mavis in some light-hearted conversation.  He’d try preemptively to diffuse any anger that might erupt should she have too much alcohol.  As he left Leonard and returned to Mavis, she said, “Another,” this time in speech that seemed a touch slurred from the first two highly potent cocktails.  Jack tried secretively to short pour the drink, but Mavis had her gaze aimed with eagle-eyed fixedness on Jack’s dispensing of the bourbon.  He said, “I understand you’re Leonard’s wife.  He’s a great guy.  I’m really lucky to be working with him.  He’s teaching me so much about the art of bartending.  What do you do for work?”

“Just pour the drink,” said Mavis, “and I’m watching, so don’t try any short fill.”  

“Uh, yes ma’am,” said Jack.  “These are powerful drinks, Mrs. Hoaglund.  Please be a little cautious.  They can really pack a knock-out.  I know from experience,” he added, a nervous laugh punctuating the comment. 

“Mind your own business, you snotty little nobody!” Mavis snapped.  Jack studied the woman.  Her eyes hardened the even features in an attractive face.  She had light brown hair, coifed and lacquered and brushed away from her face.  Mavis was not quite pretty, but rather “handsome” as some women who are not quite pretty are often described.  Her figure was trim and well formed.  She looked to be and was apparently in good physical condition.  

Leonard moved back to his side of the bar.  As he and Jack passed Leonard said, “Thanks for trying.  I’ll take over.  I’ll try to talk to her.”  Before he could utter a word, Mavis had downed the third manhattan.  She threw the glass over her shoulder.  It hit the floor and broke into a puzzle of shards.  She then stood up on the bar rail, grabbed Leonard’s tie and began hitting him in the face with her hands and fists.  Leonard did all he could to ward off the blows, finally using all his strength and the bar itself as a wedge to release Mavis’s grip on the necktie.  Finally he was able to back away from her outstretched arms and grasping hands, and those formidable fists. 

Unfortunately for Leonard, the cored lemons, all of them now peel-less and pulpy, still rested on the bar.  Mavis began grabbing the lemons, two in her left hand, one in her right, and began pelting Leonard, aiming for his head.  The whole crazy, frenzied attack happened so fast, as if no deterrent could have reacted quickly enough to stop the assault.  And then, as quickly as it happened, it was over.  Mavis, her face now a dark scowl, packed up her cigarettes and

lighter, grabbed her handbag and stormed out through the north barroom door that led to the hotel kitchen.  Leonard was bruised, his nose bleeding badly, his face and hair dripping lemon juice.  The back bar was fragrant, but sloppy, with lemon pulp!  Leonard and Jack began to mop up the mess.

“Don’t say anything to anyone here about this.  OK?  It’s happened before.  I thought she was finished with this kind of thing.  Please don’t say anything to Herb, I mean, to Cruikshank, Mr. Cruikshank,” said Leonard.

“I wouldn’t.  Hell, why would I?  I don’t know and I don’t have any contact with the general manager.  I wouldn’t say anything anyway.  It’s nobody’s business but yours,” said Jack in reply.  “Geez, I really sorry, Leonard.  She’s really, uh, interesting.  Kind of scary.  What was the cause of all that?  I mean, why’s she so angry with you?”

Leonard said, “Hell, I don’t really know for sure.  Probably the separation and divorce.  Rejection, maybe.  Cruikshank has been warning me that the episodes make the customers a bit uneasy.  No shit!  What the hell!  Me too, for crying out loud.  He’s asked me to think about working somewhere else for a while until the thing cools down.  God, I’m glad there was no one else here this morning.  What a break!  Listen, I’m just going to get to the washroom and clean myself up.  Be right back, OK?” 

“Of course,” Jack replied.  “I’ll take care of any customer who may wander in.”  As he watched Leonard stumble away, a bar towel dabbing at his wounds, Jack thought about the incident that had just occurred, and then had an unkind thought.  “If it weren’t so damned pitiful it’d be a heck of a comedy routine.”  He chuckled somewhat mirthlessly to himself and thought, “Poor old Leonard.  Maybe he should wear a clip-on tie.  I'll mention it when he comes back...”  

Jack had been facing the south door as Leonard left, but as Jack turned to face the opposite direction, he noticed Florence the salad chef, whom he secretly referred to as “Florence of Arabia,” a term from which both he and Leonard derived much amusement.  The nickname was applied one morning as Jack watched Florence deftly slicing and wacking at lettuces and other salad greens, arugula, carrots, onions, fresh spinach and other vegetables, preparing them for the lunch crowd.  As she knifed through the various ingredients, they seemed to explode in a great cloud around her blurred, rapidly moving hands, leaping and seeming to soar into the air around her, like a kind of storm, a sand storm, Jack thought.  Like “Florence of Arabia.” 

Humbly Submitted 09-22-18 -- Joel K.

Traveling Then, Now... Coffee vs. Whiskey!

Memoirs of a Geezer!

Reflections and Observations -- A Bright Passage from the Fantasies of Youth 

to Illuminations of Advanced Maturity!

This Episode:      Traveling Then and Now...  Coffee vs. Whiskey!

Many people love to travel; to some it's a kind of religion.  I'm one of those who could travel almost constantly, if time and resources allowed.  I think there ought to be a travel channel and books specifically geared to the older traveler...  The Travel Geezer, for example, or A Geezer's Guide to a Sedentary Sort of Almost Adventurous Travel with Lots of Sitting Down...  something of that nature.  Wait a minute!  Mustn't forget television...    GLOBE SHUFFLER?

Just Imagine the Glories of this Thing
in the Middle of the Night!!?

In one's callow youth, mine, that is, I enjoyed traveling with my dear old friend, Patrick.  (At least I think so! Memory sometimes fogs a bit resulting from prodigious ingestion of spirits!)  On one occasion we took a road trip bound for California, commencing in Cheyenne, Wyoming, then ever onward and west bound. We were keen to visit the Grand Canyon along the way to the coast. Trouble was we liked to visit every saloon and tavern as we wandered westward.  In Williams, Arizona, for

Here's a view of at least one of the fabulous saloons in
Williams...  and, Oh Yeah, a postcard (at right).  I think
we actually purchased a postcard there...  possibly!

example, we couldn't resist the beckoning gin joints and the marvelous characters who practically therein resided!  "Big Biff" and "Gert the Guzzler" and "Cactus Smelly Rictus," to name a few.  Lots of cowboys, too, or so they claimed.  (I suppose ancient, filthy cowboy hats lent some credence to their alleged veracity!) 

We claimed to have seen the great gaping hole that is the Grand Canyon, although, owing to frequent patronage of saloons, we arrived at night.  The great gaping hole was a black hole. What a sight for two weary travelers who likely couldn't see straight in any case.  You shoulda seen the pictures we took!  (But you wouldn't have been able to see anything...  sort of like "artistic" shots inside coal bins or un-illuminated cave walls!)

We reached Las Vegas at night too.  Same impediments prevented an earlier arrival.  The casinos served us lots of drinks while we were losing lots of currency.  Such elegant travelers!... because we failed to engage our brains, we failed to engage a room.  We slept in the 

Arrived at Night; Slept in the Car;
Lost Lots of Folding Currency.  What
a Time we Had!!?

car, a compact.  Police woke us in the AM and accused us of vagrancy.  We opened our wallets, pockets too maybe, to reveal spare amounts of folding money and a couple of expired credit cards.  But, ever resourceful, we booked a cheap motel and spent another exciting night losing more money. What a time we had!  We made it to California, finally, on money borrowed and wired.     

Times change, sometimes for the better.  As age piled onto our bones and empty bourbon bottles remained un-replenished, travel adventures became a little less perilous, a bit less robust.  Sweetheart and I "travel" about five miles a day as we walk to one of several locations of our favorite coffee house.  I'm thinking someday I'd like to adopt a permanent persona as a "coffee house character," having some years ago replaced a fondness for beer and whiskey with a love of good coffee.

I begin to imagine my own brilliant pontifications as I listen to typical coffee cafe exchanges. They tend to go something like this:

"Hey Bumpy, how ya doin'?"
"How YOU doin' ?"
"I assed you foist.  How YOU doin'?"
"How YOU doin'?"
"You don't ass me how I'm doin' when I assed you foist.  Politeness, Bumpy!  You're s'posed to Follow a proper protocol, like....  aaah, the hell wid it.  I'm doin' OK.  Got a touch of the quinsy, I tink....  Udder den dat...  Oh, and pustules..."
"Doin' any travelin'?"
"Yeah, me an Lumpy drove over to, uh... whatchacallit last week.  Had a few beers, played some cribbage wid, uh, ya know, them chunky pals o' ours in the bib overalls....  We got lost on the way back.  Hadda ass a farmer where we was." 
"Sounds like a real nice, uh...  whatchacallit...  How's yer, uh...?  Whatsit...  yer nose still looks a little brownish, like maybe, like, it's phlebotomized..."  

Or...    maybe NOT a coffee house character!  

We get to a lot of coffee places these days.  We really like the stuff, and our habituation of "mud joints" is a kind of motivational "carrot" to keep us on our daily five-mile trek, maintain the discipline it requires.  Knowing that at the end, or nearing the end of the hike, we'll have our reward.  Our preferred coffee purveyor has two locations in Madison. We've been to both.  Now that's traveling, eh?!  In Chicago, one has to frequent a different establishment, like Intelligencia, not a bad substitute, though!  

And so we adapt to changing times and altered behaviors.  We still get to Florida, taking

advantage of a generous cousin and an inexpensive condo rental.  And, Door County...  Dubuque... Dickeyville...  Duluth... Clam Falls...  Footville...  Before I kick off the mortal coil, however, I'd like to get to Italy.  I want to sit around with pasta sauce dribbling from my chin and have a chat with wonderful old Italians, even though there'll be no real comprehension on either end of the dialogue!  I plan to bring a Berlitz Book or the Geezer's Guild to Italian and How to Eat Pasta without Looking Like a Dopey Tourist with Red Chin Whisker Stains!  (I tend to prefer red sauce!)

And yet, travel, any kind of travel, is a gift!  (That is, apart from being kicked down a flight of stairs!)  I enjoy looking at the public access pages of bookface where travel adventures of all types and sizes are posted.  Relatives who just went to bask in the warmth of the Dominican Republic and they didn't invite us!!...  for example.  Yes, my dears, I love travel.  Maybe one day Sweetheart and I will get to pack a sack and catch a Number 32 bus and re-visit the old west... you know, Wauwatosa!!  In the meantime...   "Sweetheart, where's my re-fillable coffee mug? I can't find...  Hey!  Where'd you put the lid?  What??!!  I lost the lid?!?..."

(Special Note of Gratitude and Dedication:  To, Pat, my wonderful friend of long standing, who's currently undergoing a difficult challenge, and he's doing so with courage and grace.  Hope to see you soon in person. Thought you might enjoy recalling one of our memorable travel adventures. Thank you for sharing with me some of the greatest travel experiences one can store in memory...  or maybe needs to forget!  In any event, I raise a cheer to you and memories of the "Grand Hook-a-Thons of our youth!"  And thanks to Joey, too, for her generous forbearance!  With love to Both!)  

Humbly Submitted, 04-06-16 -- Joel K.