Nibbles to the Masses... or, Adventures in Food Delivery!

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

to Illuminations of Advanced Maturity!

This Episode:      Nibbles to the Masses...  or, the Adventures of Food Delivery Professionals!


It began a year ago April.  They are now some 15 months into the process.  For those of us in "robust advancing age," we discover there are diminishing career opportunities for the greying.  Happily, there are organizations that will employ anyone who's breathing, slightly, and can produce necessary credentials, such as a valid driving license, for example!


This is a story about an intrepid couple who, joyously, accepted their fate, and secured employment in the restaurant food collection and delivery profession.  The experience has been suffused with adventure.   And they have learned, along the road, so to speak, a great many new and wonderful lessons about life and the fascinating individuals who populate our urban landscapes!

Some examples...  Delivering a "Bento Box" style meal to an Asian individual, the male component of the delivery duo stated confidently to the recipient:  "Wing Wei Woo?!  Your order sir!"  The man's name was Zhang Kao Ding.  The deliverer meant no disrespect; he merely thought he was uttering the recipient's correct name, trying valiantly to greet his customer with warmth and a kind of wisdom, certain he had the correct name in his memory bank!  The recipient looked confused,  but not the least offended.  He put it down to occidental ignorance!  

The couple delivers a great many food orders to residents in inner-city neighborhoods.  On one memorable occasion, the couple picked up two orders of fine cuisine, one a burger and fries from "Lard Man Lenny's" food truck, the second from a fine Asian restaurant.  The former was packed in a brown bag, dotted with grease splotches, the latter in a pristine white plastic sack.  The couple mixed up the orders, delivering the Asian food to a young couple.  The nice man who was handed the brown bag, immediately telephoned the delivery people, demanding his correct portion of far more expensive food stuffs. 

Undaunted, the intrepid duo, given a total of 15 minutes to correct the delivery error -- the restaurant was closing in those 15 minutes! -- sped crazily back to the restaurant, probably some 15 minutes away from the south side Milwaukee home of the recipient.   They plunked down $35.00 for the replacement food, and sped back to the originally intended recipient.  The trip was worth approximately $25.00 or so (time and mileage plus a generous payment "boost" available that particular evening).  The customer, now appeased by the duo's commitment to delivery excellence, not to mention admission of their error, their culpability, presented them a $10.00 tip!!  Proving, once again, the value of integrity and superior customer service!!

Here's another example...  Honesty is a Golden Policy!  The couple delivered a fine food package to an African-American woman, not greasy fast stuff!  She handed the male deliverer $65.00.  "No, no..." the man protested, "You've already paid for your food on the App (meaning the application on a SmartPhone)!  I can't take that money."  (The man likes to term it an "Ape," amusingly, he thinks!)  

The woman said, "Well then, here's $40.00...  your tip."

"Good gosh," said the man, "That's too much, that's too generous!"  

"I admire and thank you for you honesty," the woman replied.  "Here, you must take this."  She handed him $25.00.  She would brook no further argument.  He thanked her profusely and went on his way, with his wife and partner, of course, to the next summons, the next pickup and delivery!

Over the months of their new career choice, the pair has made many remarkable discoveries.

 Among them, in inner-city neighborhoods, the residents tend to receive their food packages and

generously tip the delivery drivers.  Not always the same in wealthy neighborhoods, where privilege seems to override the need for gratitude and courtesy.  There are of course exceptions.  Additionally, in the inner city, there's a wonderful sense of community.  People sit on their porches with friends, neighbors and family members, chatting amiably, often laughing, sharing both the day's trials and its triumphs.

The two, the "Dynamic Duo" (with apologies to Batperson and BirdBoy, and the people who created various comic books!), do not always earn as much currency as they'd like, even as in the not-too-distant past, but they do tend to make their "nut," or enough to sustain life and limb each working week...  sort of!!   The earnings downturn is due in large measure to the stinginess of the parent conglomerate.  Perhaps the aforementioned will loosen its hold on its coffers as summer surrenders once again to the icy bite of Winter!  

In the meantime, given the rampant ageism that infects our society, the pair feels fortunate to have a means of earning a few shekels, or geld, florins, dinars, pesos, pounds, francs, krones, birrs...  you know, MONEY!!  And they plan to soldier on until they are no longer termed "fiduciary imbeciles," or some such offensive name calling, by the monied set!!  The two plan to continue their quest toward amassing great sums of retirement income!!  Of course, death might well intervene before that happens...   Sigh!!  

p.s.  The "Sigh" is merely an empathetic gesture on behalf of, in support of and in honor of, too, the subjects of this piece!!  Thank You, and may all of your Delivery Take Away orders be fresh...  or Hot, or cold, maybe, if that's how you ordered the stuff??...!   

Please Note:    Other practitioners in the delivery trades are welcome to comment or share their own experiences.  Those who drive and deliver stuff to earn their livings deserve to be heard, not to mention, deserve respect and admiration.  Damn Right!!  











     

Turkish Delights! A Brief, Personal Travelog... Adventures, Too!

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

to Illuminations of Advanced Maturity!

This Episode:        Turkish Delights:   Ne zaman geliyorsun?  Arkaya bak, Genç adam!


Among the proclivities of those of us gazing dreamily through the autumnal mist of GeezerHood, is the beckoning wraith of semi-conscious retrospection.  That is to say, we tend often to stare backward into the fading light of memory, to recall unashamedly the adventures of another time, perhaps a distant incarnation!

Turkey!  Wonderful!!...  No, not the fat bird of a holiday in November, but the country, the adventures and joys of being there!  I spent some 18 months in that marvelous land during my time in military service.  And there are many treasures still buried deep in my psyche, like images on a Viewmaster.  Click...  click...  Oh, I remember that one, and that one, and that place, too..!

Upon our arrival, back in 1961, a lifetime ago, a wormy little man, the gnome who welcomed us as we crawled off the commuter plane (or was it a bus?), arriving in the airport town of Yeşilköy, some 11 kilometers west of Istanbul, announced excitedly, "You will love the 'fah-cil-eee-tees!'"  That's how he pronounced the word, facilities.  He referred to the US Air Force station to which we were assigned, namely,  Karamürsel.  

Both the town in which we first landed, and the site of the AF base were beautifully situated on the Sea of Marmara!  The facilities were spare, but some of us, myself included, loved the place.  We were billeted that first night in the gorgeous and elegant Hotel Cinar.     

Behind the base were colorful hills that wanted to be mountains, almost were in height and width.  Base officials, including officers and civilian workers, warned us not to venture into the hills.  "Too dangerous...  don't you know what's living up there?...  Big wild boars with tusks..."  A companion and I didn't need any further encouragement.  On a day off, we headed for the hills.  We spied one wild boar, but it didn't charge, and appeared to be occupied with foraging and showed no particular interest in us.  The best encounter:  We met a family of quasi-nomads who lived in a combination cave and lean-to.  They welcomed us into their home, offered us food and çay (pronounced Chi)  (traditional Turkish tea) and extraordinary hospitality and friendship.  We stayed with them for some three hours, conversing, learning about their lives.  We conducted our conversation in a combination of Turkish and English, with the help of a Turkish language and phrase book.  


With the same companion, in Istanbul, at the Bosporus, we boarded the Litva -- uninvited, of course -- a Black Sea pleasure liner.  We wandered throughout the ship, eventually entering the bridge where we fiddled with controls including the water-tight doors.  It seemed the ship listed a bit.  Ship's crew members, wide-eyed and seemingly angry, caused us to scamper from the bridge, running to find our way out and off of the vessel.  I was more anxious than my companion.  

"Why should we be concerned?  I mean," he continued, "What danger is there from a bunch of Greek crew members?"  

"Uh," I began, "This is a Russian ship, a Soviet Russian ship.  You must have mis-interpreted the script on both cabin posters and signage on the bridge.  We're American GIs," I continued, "with sensitive information in our heads.  Wouldn't have been a good idea to have them detain us..."  My friend's face lost its color, as he nodded, finally, in tacit agreement.

Being young and perpetually "thirsty," another great friend and frequent companion and I often frequented Istanbul's many "pavions," nightclubs, often combination inns and taverns.  The aforementioned friend and I had access to and stayed in a basement apartment in the heart of Istanbul, waking to the shouts of "Sicak, sicak," meaning hot and pronounced "see-jak."  We'd head outside to purchase delicious street food, including ground lamb seasoned with powdered salt and pepper served on huge portions of Ekmek, traditional Turkish bread. 

Street drugs were plentiful, and seemingly far too available, but that's another story entirely.  The "Black Market" in Istanbul was a lucrative allure.  A carton of American cigarettes could fetch up to $50.00, often much more.  A box of American laundry detergent, the giant size, could net the seller up to $100.00.  And U.S.-made denim jeans?...  a small fortune!  There were Turkish friends whom we came to know well, and who would or could become valued contacts in the Black Market trade.  That too is another story...   um, perhaps for another time!

The Island of Buyulada is truly a "Beautiful Island,"
complete with lavish homes, many occupied by
wealthy Turks.  Friends had a summer "cottage" on
the island with a view of the sea!

Through a contact that my father knew who had relatives living in Turkey, I had the good fortune to meet and spend a good deal of time with a family of Armenian Turks.  The family had an apartment in Istanbul, but more attractively, a holiday home on Büyükada, an island in the Sea of Marmara, the name meaning "Beautiful Island."  We gathered there on several occasions.  The mother was a superb cook and often served us spectacular seafood dishes, including swordfish steaks, Midye (mussels) and Levrek (sea bass). 

Ferry boats ran regularly from the port of Yalova, about 20 kilometers from Karamursel, to Istanbul, stopping at Buyukada and also Heybeli Ada where the Turkish naval academy was

based.  On one occasion, a Turkish submarine raised it periscope accidentally under a ferry, punching a hole in its hull and nearly causing a disaster.  No one died, we were reliably told, but

The Turkish Island of
Heybeli features many
beautiful, traditional homes!

some got a bit wet, probably crew members in the Engine rooms!!

The ferry trips to Istanbul were always enjoyable, even when the sea was less than hospitable... Deniz, c(h)ok fena!  However, frequent consumption of Vodka-Lemones  and pistachio nuts made it all completely bearable!   

Turkey is rich with history...  an understatement.  Izmir, Ephesus and Troy.  Remarkable sites such as the mosque Hagia Sophia, the fabulous Blue Mosque, Topkapi Palace and Kapali Carsi (pronounced "Sharshi," owing to the cedilla symbol under the "C"), meaning Istanbul's Grand Bazaar, a labyrinth of 61 covered streets and more than 4000 shops!  There's also the beautiful district of Uskudar on Istanbul's Asian side.   Too much, too many fabulous places and landmarks to enumerate...  

The Galata Bridge in the heart of Istanbul!

One additional aspect of knowing my Armenian-Turkish friends.  An uncle of theirs owned a fleet of taxi cabs that prowled the streets of Istanbul.  People could jump in if the cab were heading in a favorable direction.  On one occasion when I had asked to drive, a man jumped in and ordered me to take him somewhere in that vast city.  My knowledge of Turkish was rudimentary at best.  The angry man exited the cab at his first opportunity, shouting at me and using language best misunderstood!  I received retribution on a few occasions when taxi cabs ran over my feet!  But, inebriation helped measurably to numb the pain!!  Generally, taxi drivers did not stop to apologize, but instead would shout at victims to "get the hell out of the road!..."

We eventually spent a pleasant day picnicking, swimming and generally enjoying the waters of the Bosporus!  What a time it all was for a young man seeking adventure and the kind of education only travel can provide.

Oh, did I mention "Belly Dancing," originally termed Danse du Ventre, or dance of the stomach?  Turkey is famous for its version of the tradition.  Many outstanding practitioners perform the dance in various venues, in pavions and at special events and social gatherings.  Oh yeah, my wife, SweetHeart, and I -- she at the time a new bride -- spent our honeymoon in Athens and other parts of Greece.  An "Athens By Night" event included a "famous Turkish Belly Dancer," but not one I knew from my youth!  (A close call, maybe...!)

(Special Note of Gratitude and Dedication:  The people of Turkey and Armenia whose friendship and hospitality are legendary, particularly to those of us who served in Turkey during our US military terms of duty.  Thank you, and...  Sonra gorusuruz ve volun acik olsum! 

Humbly Submitted, 07-14-19 -- Joel K.

    

     



    

Writing as an Obsession: Joyful, Agonizing, Necessary...!

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

to Illuminations of Advanced Maturity!

This Episode:      Writing as an Obsession...   Joyful, Agonizing, Necessary...!

For those who love the act and the art of jotting words on paper, in journals or punching keys to turn x's and y's into thoughts on a computer screen, writing is a compulsion, at times joyful, at others agonizing!  But often, perhaps more accurately always, a kind of dominating obsession.

When I was a callow youth suffering through a Jesuit high school education, an English teacher told a friend of mind that he might consider writing as a career, at least an avocation.  He looked at me and said, "Writing is something you should never do!"  

Well, what the hell could I do with that condemnation, that bit of false, insulting and presumed lack of skill or talent?!  I had always loved to write, stories, bits of poetry, nonsense to give life to my margin drawings and amateurish cartoons.  I simply did not care to share that passion with my classmates and contemporaries, for twin fears of embarassment and failing to fit in with the popular crowd.  Or worse -- a high school curse -- being labeled "creative," non-athletic and bookish!  

My father, a career government employee, a special agent in the FBI, insisted that if I had any semblance of a brain in my head, I'd pursue a career in government or public service, a job that guaranteed a pension at the end of too many years of tedium.  Naturally, I ignored that sage advice.  I became a writer, a journalist, eventually a self-employed free-lance editor and co-publisher at various times...  and most of the time, a writer!  And though I've loved most every moment of it, my "brilliant career choice" did not produce financial security, or that pension plan my father tried so valiantly to place in my thoughts as I plodded into the future.  (My mother wanted a doctor in the family!  Both parents were disappointed!)

I joined the military out of high school, being a conflicted, angry, rebellious and undecided youth.  I did some writing during that period, including a bit of re-write and editing copy, even some on-air time, for the Armed Forces Radio Service.  Four years later, I was accepted into a university and pursued another four-year stint in that institution's College of Journalism.

Never one to forge a master plan with intellectual mettle stirred into the crucible, after graduation, having achieved a Bachelor of Arts degree, I hit the road. 

I landed first in Colorado where I worked for a regional newspaper.  The publisher also owned a Legion Post newspaper.  I became editor and chief reporter and writer for both.  I had a brief flirtation with a newspaper in the south-central mountains of Colorado, before accepting a job with a daily in Cheyenne, Wyoming.  While in that fine city, I also did some radio and television newscasting, a brief stint as a UPI stringer, all of it feeding my passion, and adding the great benefit of learning my chosen craft well, gaining experience.

Further west, in Seattle, Washington, I worked as a newscaster for both a radio and a television station, then traveled south before returning to my Milwaukee base, where I became editor and chief writer for the community's Model Cities' newspaper, prior to joining a public relations firm.  As a PR counsel, I wrote press releases that were published nearly verbatim -- false modesty aside -- in several major US newspapers, and in major trade magazines as well.  

It's in the blood, I suppose...  writing.  In the passage of time, well, to be accurate, in the mid- 1970s, fortunes and employment opportunities being what they were and are, I launched a career as a self-employed, free-lance writer, and never looked backward, never returned to "un-self-employment."  (Well, maybe once, in the mid-90s!... for approximately 5 months!) 

In the mid-1990s, on the edge of "robust middle age," and not quite on the threshold of "GeezerHood," my father -- with whom I had always (not) enjoyed a contentious relationship, was beset by two forms of cancer -- one of which eventually claimed his life -- his condition further challenged by worsening dementia.  It fell to my older sister and me, with the indispensable help of my wife, SweetHeart, to become my father's principal caregivers.  His condition, his hospice care, lasted for nearly two full years.  Following his death, I felt compelled to write about the experience.

It started, at least in my mind, as a probable short story, but soon morphed into a full-length book, a "relationships story fused with a memoir" -- And Good Night to All the Beautiful Young Women...  My book was read and edited by professional, published authors and editors who encouraged me to do my best to see it published.  I sent a great many query letters to literary agents, two of whom contacted me, interested in representation.  The first ultimately backed away, being more focused on handling "medical memoir."  The second was truly interested in the story, had promised we'd have a professional relationship, but sadly died before an author-agent representation could be forged.  

The world of publishing being what it is today, an opinion shared by many fellow writers, both published and struggling, memoirs are difficult at best to attract an agent, and much of what we read and see on bookshelves and in book shops by recognized authors, are...   well, so many of us wonder how in the hell they ever landed a publisher.   Sour grapes and envy, perhaps, but true in any case!

Eventually, I opted for self-publishing at the urging of family, friends, colleagues and critics.  I've had the good fortune to be favorably reviewed by many readers imbued with intelligence, professionalism and skill, including other writers, published authors and even a professional, career-long geriatrics caregiver.  It has been, to use a tired phrase, a most gratifying "journey

A brilliant young chap lounging in Jamaica, I'm reliably
told, perusing a superb volume.  He wrote a 5-Star Review!

of discovery."  Readers I'd never met praised And Good Night...  for its humor -- my father was a gifted comedian, humorist and storyteller -- its sensitivity and its revelations of elder caregiving methodology and coping mechanisms. 

I decided to write his piece of shameless self-promotion as a means of giving and perhaps achieving some measure of empathy with others similarly bitten by the same bug, those of us who love to write, pursued almost ceaselessly by words and ideas demanding to be given voice.  Whether we scribble for our own amusement or belong to writers' groups and clubs, or hope someday to land a contract, we are, I think, a kindred group of the hopelessly obsessed.  

I now have three books in print, the aforementioned And Good Night..., Memoirs of a Geezer and An Awful, Beautiful Day...  Or, Me and My Chicken Pox!, the latter a sibling-produced and illustrated children's book.  

And Good Night...  is available via amazon.com, barnesandnoble.com, booksamillion.com and Powells.com.  The other two published books are also available through amazon.com.  Maybe we could share!!  You buy my book, and if you're in print, I'll buy yours.  We'll likely never get rich from our passion, but the joy is in the creation of fine literature, the creative process itself!  Right??  Hell yes, right!!  

Humbly Submitted 06-05-19 -- Joel K.

    

                 



          

   

      

The Bean that Salvages Morning... Its Coveted Rewards!

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

to Illuminations of Advanced Maturity!

This Episode:     The Bean that Salvages Morning...  Its Coveted Rewards!


For many humans, those who regard early morning rising as an agony and a curse, heading off to clock in to one or another form of drudgery...  meaning work...  a cup of coffee is or can be a form of adrenaline.  Maybe a necessity, like an injection of life-saving medicine.  A magic potion that jump starts the brain and possibly the heart as well.

For me, my fondness for coffee began sometime in the early 1970s, in Seattle, Washington, when certain now-famous coffee purveyors set up shop in Pike Place Market, one in particular, perhaps needless to add.  Several other coffee houses followed, some better than others in terms of flavor and variety of recipes and concoctions, some lavishly decorated with artistic designs.

In my GeezerHood, my fondness for good coffee has grown into a kind of obsession, as if one addiction has supplanted another...  alcohol for java beans...  and that sweet sense of resurrection sends happiness coursing through the intricate roadmap of arteries to its destination brain! 

Perhaps I should elucidate!  I really like good coffee!!  Currently, SweetHeart and I have two favorite coffee destinations:  Colectivo and Stone Creek, the former either Prospect or Oakland or Lakeside, the latter on Downer and Park.  Naturally we've enjoyed other locations -- including a few in Madison.  I mean, we're explorers...  adventurous to a fault!!   

Sadly, I don't have as much time as I'd like to be a coffee house character these days, as the necessity to earn a living interferes with my social calendar, my love for the bean.  When we do have a moment to lounge and sip the juice of the gorgeous brown elixir, we note that

there is and should be no expectation of privacy in a coffee house.  I overhear young people overusing the word "like" as they discuss boy and girl friends, jobs, varied relationships, parties, hangovers, school, books, hair, lip rouge, fashion, piercings, hair....

Older habitués talk about politics, lots of political stuff, relationships, marriages and divorce, books, careers, social engagements, theatre, opera, children and the challenges that children bring to themselves and their parents, grandchildren... politics.  The holders of public offices that they can and cannot stomach...  "How in the name of all that's sacred did that idiot get elected..."  
Topics of that nature.

The other aspect of, "There's no expectation of privacy in a coffee house..." is something that annoys the hell out of those of us who are "regulars."  Certain patrons tend to stand way back from the coffee clerks' counter, that is, back from the patron currently at the counter, as if in a

There are many outstanding coffee purveyors in
Milwaukee.  Visit Phoenix, for example, on
Fond du Lac Ave. just west of 35th Street!!

healthcare facility, like a hospital registration counter, or a bank!!  I mean, what the hell...  "Is the guy in front of you ordering a caramel machiavelli infused with opium or ecstasy?  Move up, for f-ing sake...  This aint no doctor's office!!  You can actually overhear someone ordering a double-dip latte with a shot of non-fat raspberry syrup, calotropis,  chia seed extract and figwort!!  Everyone know it's not a secret code or a nefarious contract...!!"  (Or is it...  I may have to pay greater attention...??!!)  


Nevermind...  Back to the bean and the coveted rewards it provides.  In my / our long-standing patronage of Colectivo, for example, I've managed to amass 1,000,000 rewards points, probably worth approximately $900.00 in coffee beverages and bags of beans.  Lately, I dropped down to something just fewer than 900,000 points, owing to the children's insistence that "you have to start spending those points!..."  But I'll get the balance back to more than a million!  I's a mission, one I do not take lightly!  


My children have been battling over who gets the coffee card in the will!!  I ask them not to speak of my point balance so loudly as I fear some scofflaw or assassin might overhear, and conspire to bop me in the head and make off with my card!!!  "I mean to say, children, it's worth a small ransom!  I must swear all of you to absolute secrecy!!  Whisper of it among yourselves if you must, however...  If you do not heed my warning, I shall cash in my points and make off to an island with my beans!!"  (In the words of Clouseau: "...That got them thinking...   eh Hercule!") 

Let us give thanks and praise to Ethiopian goat herd, Kaldi who, it is written, first discovered the potential of the BELOVED BEAN.  Kaldi, according to "Legend," discovered coffee after noticing that after eating the berries from a certain tree, his goats became so energized that they roamed the night without sleep!  (That last part's a bit hard to swallow -- if you'll forgive the expression...  I find that I can sleep soundly in almost any circumstance, except after hearing certain politicians speak!!  Thank you...)  

[Special Note of Dedication and Gratitude:    With profound thanks to Beloved Daughter, Bethie, who suggested that a brief treatise on coffee, favorite houses of imbibing and certain rewards for purchasing and consuming great quantities of the stuff, might be an interesting (the word "interesting" is intended merely editorially, based on reactions and opinions of the multitude!) addition to one's canon of Geezer Writings, thus encouraging this edition.  With great praise, Amor and Abrazos to the aforementioned dedicatee, and sincere thanks to potential readers...  the perpetrator remains your humble if not entirely obedient servant...]

Humbly Submitted, 05-08-19 -- Joel K.

          



   

The Beer Bottle that Disabled a Mexican Police Vehicle!

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

to Illuminations of Advanced Maturity!

This Episode:       The Beer Bottle that Disabled a Mexican Police Car!


There are times when, I suppose, one tends to sit quietly and reflect upon things, specific, noteworthy things.  It may be a preoccupation or a proclivity of those of us who can view life from the elevation of GeezerHood, looking back or down upon one's own rich tapestry of life in general.  

Many years and many adventures and mis-adventures ago -- long before GeezerHood occupied my mind and body -- I was a newly enlisted member of the US Armed Services.  Following basic training, I was assigned to a tech or training school in west - central Texas, approximately 150 miles from the Mexican border village of Ciudad Acuna.

(Acuna has a "tilde" about the "n"...  giving it a pronunciation such as "señor" in Spanish.  As such, it is pronounced something like "A-coon-ya," accent on the second syllable!  Thought we should make this clear for our vast reading public!)

Military chums and I would frequently visit that fine little community in Mexico at weekends when we had no other duties commanding our attention.  It was, at the time, an exotic destination, complete with great food, music, cheap beer, more dangerously spirited potables...  other attractions and diversions as well.

My usual routine:  I enjoyed an initial visit to "Ma Crosby's" (at least that's the name I remember...  might be wrong!...) It was, maybe still is, a great-looking restaurant designed in classic Spanish or Mexican hacienda style architecture.  It had different levels! They served excellent and authentic Mexican foodstuffs.  Then we'd venture to the less elegant part of the town where drunkenness and other vices prevailed!  I won't burden the reading public with further lurid details...

Upon leaving Ciudad Acuna, on a particular occasion, one of my traveling companions insisted that all so-called contraband had to be discarded for fear of Mexican police intervention, possibly arrest.  I was skeptical, but decided "discretion... " you know the phrase...  I had an empty or near-empty beer bottle in my sturdy 1950 Hudson that I bought for $50.00 and eventually sold for $50.00 just prior to leaving the US for an overseas assignment.  

(On one occasion, my good friend and I were driving along near San Angelo, Texas prior to "going to town."  It was a very cold, wintry day.  We opened a full bottle of frozen beer that subsequently sprayed the windscreen with frozen beer, obscuring our

vision.  We hit a tree that did far more damage to the tree than to the durable 1950 Hudson!!!)  

Apologies for the brief digression!  Anyway, back to Acuna and the beer bottle.  I decided -- not very environmentally responsibly, I confess, but at the time I was quite young and rather irresponsible! -- to pitch the bottle from my hand-painted, light blue 1950 Hudson.  Through the now open driver-side window that I'd cranked down, my left arm and hand extended, I hurled the beer bottle over the top of the car hoping it

would land softly and inaudibly on the other side of the vehicle, into what I also hoped was soft mud, a pool of muck or a grassy expanse. (It was dark when we departed!!) This was prior to crossing the bridge over the Rio Grande River leading back into Texas and the United States.

Shortly following that toss of the fateful beer bottle, I heard a siren emanating from what was apparently a police vehicle.  It was a police vehicle.  I aimed the Hudson to the side of the road to await our fate!  I cranked down the window.  

"¡Has desactivado un vehículo oficial de la policía con tu botella de cerveza!  Eres un

borracho!," said the police person with his head in my window about an inch from my nose.  

"Powdered hand soap?" I queried, confused.

At the time, my knowledge of Mexican-Spanish was not so good.  "¡Ahora te arresto por la destrucción de propiedad policial y por tirar basura!" The beer bottle apparently was a kind of guided missile bomb that had the power to disable or destroy official vehicles!!

My gorgeous hand-painted Hudson was commandeered by the police, their policia coche having been "murdered" by the aforementioned beer bottle.  Somehow the siren still worked, however! An amazing thing!  I was instructed to drive the police persons along with my own fellow servicemen pals to the local Estación de policía! That phrase I understood. They instructed me how to get there via hand signals and bops in the head, indicating a la izquierda, a la derecha, derecho! ("Left turn, Right turn, Straight ahead... tu drunken gringo... y Cuidado!!")

Upon arrival at the estacion, I was placed into a jail cell with straw on the floor. There I spent a relatively uncomfortable night. The cell was never locked, but the presence of a heavily-mustacheioed and rather formidable looking policia officer would have deterred any attempt at escape!! My good friend, PT, kept me company, not inside the cell, but, as I recall, on a comfortable looking chair just outside my cage.  

At some point during the long night of incarceration, or in the early morning hours, a nice Mexican man magically appeared in the station. He both translated and ultimately effected my release from prison. He spoke fluent English. The man told me what the policeman had said, that my launch of the fated beer bottle had somehow broken the police car rendering it inoperable. Seems hard to believe, but that's what the police told him and what he translated in English to my companions and me.  

Surprised and obviously amused by the revelation, PT broke out of his silence, his deep baritone, like an explosive aria suddenly emanating from a clock radio alarm, seemed to shake the officers out of a collective trance. "This is embarrassing," he said. "You mean to say a police car that wouldn't run, probably pushed down a small hill, caught up to the motorized Hudson... such as the ancient Hudson is; miraculous it still runs...?!"  

My fingers wrapped around the jail cell bars, the classic pose of a scofflaw in a cage, eyes only half open and barely alert, I said, "Yeah, but they did have a working siren!" PT grinned and tried unsuccessfully not to chuckle. 

More of the translation revealed... One of the officers labeled me a drunkard! And a litterer

too! Can't say I was or should have been offended, as the characterization of my condition at the time was accurate. And, I was happy to have learned the correct Mexican word or phrase for "drunkard"!... "Borracho." It's a good word... wonderful... one I've gladly added to my Mexican-Spanish vocabulary!!  

The police persons, by the way, were kind and respectful overall, efficient and dutiful too, of course. But, too, they were somewhat put out by my destruction of the coche de policia! We discovered at some point in the proceedings that the nice man, the Mexican who translated into

English my various transgressions, was somehow attached to a Mexican-American consulate, or some such organization. I never found out precisely in what capacity, but it seemed he was a kind of liaison between Mexican authorities and misbehaving, drunken American GIs! It was enough that he was able to end my accommodation in the straw-matted jail cell. A great stroke of good fortune!!

I thanked the man profusely. I also thanked and apologized profusely to the good policemen. They did assess a hefty fine. PT and my other companions and I had to pool our remaining resources in order to be released from Mexico. Um... however, we had to plead with the nice police persons to return some of the fine money so that we could purchase gas for the Hudson in order to motor back to the base, thereby avoiding a charge of AWOL, possibly more incarceration!! Oh yeah, I think there may have been a toll as well to cross the Rio Grande. They grumbled a bit, the nice policemen did, but they grudgingly returned, not much, but a sufficient amount of the fine money! 

I feel it important to append the story, just in moderate fashion, that these days I've mended my ways. My beverage of choice is a brown pop of the diet, but caffeinated variety, with a slice of lime preferably. Mexican-American relations have rarely been so tested, and so amiably as in the case of the kamikaze beer bottle. I've returned to Mexico many times over the years of my GeezerHood, never however, and probably fortunately, back to the beautiful town of Ciudad Acuna. Perhaps some day, if I can find a 1950s Hudson, a proper map... and maybe if Ma Crosby's is still there too!! SweetHeart (dulce Corazon) y me amoramos el gente de Mexico!!

Humbly Submitted 04-17-19 -- Joel K.