I tried everyway I could think of to work this into my novel, On Ice. However, there was no way to do it so that it made sense. It's too good not to use somewhere so I put it on my Blog.
Bright lights! Damn! Where did all those bright lights come from and why is everything white? Is this heaven? What is that plastic bottle doing there, glistening against the light? And - and what is that long clear tube doing? Oh my god, it’s attached to me!
That is when I understood I was in a hospital. The IV tube gave it away. What happened started coming back a little at a time. First, there were muffled voices, a concerned look on my wife’s face, men in white jackets doing things to me, suspension in a prone position like a magician’s assistant. Laughter, sudden, uncontrollable laughter...Yes, I remember now But, how is that I’m in the hospital?
“How’re you feeling?” A man’s voice inquired concernedly.
I looked to my left; an empty bed and plastic flowers on a metal stand; they needed water.
I looked right. There was a man in a metallic grey business suit standing beside my bed. His expression was stern but emanated apprehensive concern.
Spiffy, That’s what I thought, he was “spiffy”. The suit was supposed to look expensive, but I think it came from Mrs. Murphy’s Aluminum Siding and Haberdashery Boutique – designed by Alcoa. The knot in his cheap necktie was dark from sweaty fingers. He had a yellow legal pad in his hand and his other hand was poised over it with a Bic pen.
“How’re you feeling,” he repeated.
“Everything hurts.” I said and started to touch my forehead but the IV tube restricted my movement. My other hand told me that I had a bandage around my head. I suddenly realized that the apparition below me was my left leg suspended in traction. Then, I realized something else hurt too ... real bad. I reached under the sheet, groped, groped some more, a bandage? I didn’t ask about that, instead I said, “Is my leg broken?”
“Simple fracture, the doctor told me.” He replied. “You’ll be out of here in a few days, I’m sure.”
“Who are you? What do you want? You’re not a doctor. They wear better suits and have one of those thingies around their necks. You know a spthoscop...uh, spetho...”
“Stethoscope. I’m from the insurance company. I have a few questions.”
“Like what?”
“Whose cat was it?”
“My wife’s and when I get home I’m going to drown it in the toilet. What happened after the little shit ...”
“It was an accident, okay. Purely accidental, I can assure you it was unavoidable.”
“alright already, I hear you.” I demanded, “Just tell me what happened. All I remember is that I was taking a shower when my wife yelled that the kitchen sink was clogged up. I put a towel around me and went in the kitchen. Damn woman was almost in hysterics. I got down and stuck my head under the sink and my towel came loose.” It was coming back to me now. That damn cat loves to play with dangling things.
Sudden, awful pain, like a red hot poker to my privates. No, it was worse. It was as awful as when - when Dale Earnhardt missed the NASCAR Nextel cup chase. After what happened crystallized in my mind, I went on, “The little furry bastard decided he would claw any dadgum swinging thing he sees and went for the nearest with them sharp claws and I hit my head on the under side of the sink.”
The aluminum suit said nothing, waited for me to continue. He acted apprehensive, like he was in deep doodoo when, in fact, it was me that was in the doodoo. “I don’t know what happened after that, do you know?”
His face colored and he hemmed and hawed, finally blurting out that he represented the private ambulance service.
He said with all the sincerity he could muster, “We accept full responsibility, sir. I assure you it was an accident. I’m ready to offer you a most liberal settlement, sir. Your wife explained what happened as they were taking you down the steps and the attendants got so overcome with laughter that they dropped you and broke your leg. The doctors say you’ll be good as new, walking just fine. They didn’t have anything to with what happened to your balls, I mean your testicles.” He hid a snicker behind his fist. “You can, well, you know, you can, uh function normally in, you know ...uh when you’re aroused. As soon as they take out the stitches, I mean.”
“Are you an animal lover?” I asked him.
“Well, my wife and I do have a pet. Why do you ask?”
“Your settlement will have to be pretty damn high to save that damn cat’s life!”
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
On Time .... Or Not!
The airlines say in their commercials that they offer comfort, convenience and prompt service. If you are vertically challenged and you can actually move your legs in the seat without requiring knee replacement, you might be comfortable. Of course, you may have the misfortune to have a seatmate whose deodorant has crashed and whose armpits are closer to your nose than his/her own, in which case, comfort is of less importance than clean air.
I remember a flight in which the woman who sat next to me must have bathed in a vat of honeysuckle oil. By the time I got off the plane, I needed a respirator.
Security has been ratcheted to a level no one could have anticipated, but all of us reluctantly accepted. Travelers made concessions to the new stringent measures but no one else has, certainly not the airlines or other institutions. Since 9/11, flight delays, late arrivals and other inconveniences have multiplied, straining the patience of any traveler, even Jobe would have lost his patience if chariot travel was as bad.
My wife and I recently went to the Charleston, South Carolina Airport to retrieve my visiting brother arriving from Milwaukee on a flight scheduled to arrive at 12:16 pm. To allow time for my brother to collect his luggage, we were deliberately late by more than ten minutes. In the pick-up lane, there were two rent-a-cops in little white high-tech helmets sitting on bicycles looking like Rottweilers with pork knuckles.
“Pull up right here,” I told my wife, and then glanced at my watch, “I’ll run in and check to be sure the plane is down.” With some concern, I noted that if the plane was down, there would be some activity on the sidewalk, but it looked as deserted as a scene in a sci-fi movie – nobody around but the biker Gestapo.
I naturally assumed that a thirty to forty second dash into the terminal for a glance at one of those screens located all over the terminal while my wife waited at the curb would not lead to gunfire. I was wrong, well, maybe it didn’t lead to gunfire, but one cop stroked his weapon while licking his lips.
I opened the car door, put one foot on the curb and was immediately confronted by a helmeted man no more than five feet four who met his vertical challenge by berating motorists who violated curb space for which he was responsible. Waving a billy club like a Chinese goon in Tiananmen Square, he snarled, “Move along there, no stopping!”
I said, “I’m just gonna check to see if a flight is on the ground. I won’t be but ...”
“You can’t park here,” he snapped, “move along, smartly now, smartly!”
“It won’t take but a few seconds.” I pleaded.
“I don’t care!” he said loudly, and for a second or so, I thought he was going to arrest me, “YOU CAN’T PARK HERE!”
Twenty yards back, I noticed the other Rottweiler also waving cars away from the curb. A third helmeted cop, probably the supervisor of the other two, rode by on his bicycle pedaling like Lance Armstrong in the Tour De France and zig-zagging in and out of the slow-moving traffic.
Hurriedly, I turned to my wife and said, “You’ll have to go around, Barney Fife here is feeling his oats.”
My wife said, “Maybe we should park in short term ...”
“What’d you call me?” the cop demanded.
“Go around,” I urged again, “go, go!”
I ignored the cop’s question and hurried inside as my wife pulled away from the curb. I figured he was too young to know who Barney Fife was anyway.
Inside I found the schedule screen and let my eye travel down until I saw my brother’s flight. There it is, I thought, arrival time 12:16. My eye followed the little green dotted line to “On Time”. I looked at my watch, which read 12:30. I slowly looked around the cavernous terminal which looked like the railroad station scene in “The Untouchables”. It was almost empty, and particularly so at the baggage claim area. If the flight was on time, where were the deplaned passengers?
The counter where I could inquire was at the opposite end of the terminal, which, since, at 74 years young, it might as well have been in California, I went back outside to await my wife’s return. Five minutes later, she eyed the cop as she went by him and then suddenly snapped the van to the curb. Three Rottweilers began furiously pedaling toward us, little sci-fi helmets bobbing rhythmically.
I wondered if one of the specifications for bike riding helmets was that they must look foolish to be effective.
I gestured at my wife to lower the electric window, but with the death squad bearing down on me, I didn’t wait and opened the door, “Keep going around!” I shouted, “I don’t think the plane is down yet.”
“Is it on time?” she shouted back.
“I don’t think so.”
I heard a whistle blow ominously. Unless there was a referee around here and I was guilty of delay of game, the cops were closing in.
“GO! GO!” I slammed the van door and ran inside. My wife pulled away. The bike squad panted to a stop but didn’t follow me inside.
It was now 12:40, almost thirty minutes after the arrival time and the screen still said “On Time”. I began to wonder that maybe the airlines consider on time as being the same day. Ten minutes later one of the baggage conveyors got underway, but it was for the arrival of another flight.
Almost an hour after we arrived at the airport, I noticed more activity at the gate area and spotted my brother threading his way toward me. After a hug, we went to the baggage conveyor to get his luggage. Luggage came up a conveyor belt one at a time separated by at least thirty feet of belt. I remarked to a woman standing next to us that the man handling the baggage must be too small to handle more than one bag at a time. She nodded knowingly and said, “It’s a woman. I saw her myself and she couldn’t weigh more than a hundred pounds soaking wet.” I noticed the schedule screen still had my brother’s flight listed as “On Time”.
We finally got his bags and started outside. I saw the screen changing from “On Time” to “Arrived” for my brother’s flight. Outside, we weathered the glares of the three stooges on bikes while we waited for my wife to come around again. I found out later that she cycled around five times, about ten miles at thirty miles an hour.
Here’s the rub: the air travel industry doesn’t give a hoot in hell about inconveniencing the traveling public and now has an excuse. Don’t look at us, it’s the terrorists fault.
Late arrivals and delayed flights have proliferated beyond all reason, creating a mess for passengers and those trying to collect them at terminals. It seems like a little thing that legend “On Time”, but if it had been changed to reflect the real situation, we would have used short-term parking.
Unreasonable attitudes by traffic police exacerbate the problem. Has it not entered those silly little helmets that some brief parking is necessary, and can’t they approach their responsibilities with at least some concern for people?
As we drove away from the airport, my brother said incredulously, “They took my toothpaste!”
“You’re kidding,” I said.
“No, they took my dadgum toothpaste. Not only that, when they did, they treated me as if I was the control agent of a terrorist cell!”
I remember a flight in which the woman who sat next to me must have bathed in a vat of honeysuckle oil. By the time I got off the plane, I needed a respirator.
Security has been ratcheted to a level no one could have anticipated, but all of us reluctantly accepted. Travelers made concessions to the new stringent measures but no one else has, certainly not the airlines or other institutions. Since 9/11, flight delays, late arrivals and other inconveniences have multiplied, straining the patience of any traveler, even Jobe would have lost his patience if chariot travel was as bad.
My wife and I recently went to the Charleston, South Carolina Airport to retrieve my visiting brother arriving from Milwaukee on a flight scheduled to arrive at 12:16 pm. To allow time for my brother to collect his luggage, we were deliberately late by more than ten minutes. In the pick-up lane, there were two rent-a-cops in little white high-tech helmets sitting on bicycles looking like Rottweilers with pork knuckles.
“Pull up right here,” I told my wife, and then glanced at my watch, “I’ll run in and check to be sure the plane is down.” With some concern, I noted that if the plane was down, there would be some activity on the sidewalk, but it looked as deserted as a scene in a sci-fi movie – nobody around but the biker Gestapo.
I naturally assumed that a thirty to forty second dash into the terminal for a glance at one of those screens located all over the terminal while my wife waited at the curb would not lead to gunfire. I was wrong, well, maybe it didn’t lead to gunfire, but one cop stroked his weapon while licking his lips.
I opened the car door, put one foot on the curb and was immediately confronted by a helmeted man no more than five feet four who met his vertical challenge by berating motorists who violated curb space for which he was responsible. Waving a billy club like a Chinese goon in Tiananmen Square, he snarled, “Move along there, no stopping!”
I said, “I’m just gonna check to see if a flight is on the ground. I won’t be but ...”
“You can’t park here,” he snapped, “move along, smartly now, smartly!”
“It won’t take but a few seconds.” I pleaded.
“I don’t care!” he said loudly, and for a second or so, I thought he was going to arrest me, “YOU CAN’T PARK HERE!”
Twenty yards back, I noticed the other Rottweiler also waving cars away from the curb. A third helmeted cop, probably the supervisor of the other two, rode by on his bicycle pedaling like Lance Armstrong in the Tour De France and zig-zagging in and out of the slow-moving traffic.
Hurriedly, I turned to my wife and said, “You’ll have to go around, Barney Fife here is feeling his oats.”
My wife said, “Maybe we should park in short term ...”
“What’d you call me?” the cop demanded.
“Go around,” I urged again, “go, go!”
I ignored the cop’s question and hurried inside as my wife pulled away from the curb. I figured he was too young to know who Barney Fife was anyway.
Inside I found the schedule screen and let my eye travel down until I saw my brother’s flight. There it is, I thought, arrival time 12:16. My eye followed the little green dotted line to “On Time”. I looked at my watch, which read 12:30. I slowly looked around the cavernous terminal which looked like the railroad station scene in “The Untouchables”. It was almost empty, and particularly so at the baggage claim area. If the flight was on time, where were the deplaned passengers?
The counter where I could inquire was at the opposite end of the terminal, which, since, at 74 years young, it might as well have been in California, I went back outside to await my wife’s return. Five minutes later, she eyed the cop as she went by him and then suddenly snapped the van to the curb. Three Rottweilers began furiously pedaling toward us, little sci-fi helmets bobbing rhythmically.
I wondered if one of the specifications for bike riding helmets was that they must look foolish to be effective.
I gestured at my wife to lower the electric window, but with the death squad bearing down on me, I didn’t wait and opened the door, “Keep going around!” I shouted, “I don’t think the plane is down yet.”
“Is it on time?” she shouted back.
“I don’t think so.”
I heard a whistle blow ominously. Unless there was a referee around here and I was guilty of delay of game, the cops were closing in.
“GO! GO!” I slammed the van door and ran inside. My wife pulled away. The bike squad panted to a stop but didn’t follow me inside.
It was now 12:40, almost thirty minutes after the arrival time and the screen still said “On Time”. I began to wonder that maybe the airlines consider on time as being the same day. Ten minutes later one of the baggage conveyors got underway, but it was for the arrival of another flight.
Almost an hour after we arrived at the airport, I noticed more activity at the gate area and spotted my brother threading his way toward me. After a hug, we went to the baggage conveyor to get his luggage. Luggage came up a conveyor belt one at a time separated by at least thirty feet of belt. I remarked to a woman standing next to us that the man handling the baggage must be too small to handle more than one bag at a time. She nodded knowingly and said, “It’s a woman. I saw her myself and she couldn’t weigh more than a hundred pounds soaking wet.” I noticed the schedule screen still had my brother’s flight listed as “On Time”.
We finally got his bags and started outside. I saw the screen changing from “On Time” to “Arrived” for my brother’s flight. Outside, we weathered the glares of the three stooges on bikes while we waited for my wife to come around again. I found out later that she cycled around five times, about ten miles at thirty miles an hour.
Here’s the rub: the air travel industry doesn’t give a hoot in hell about inconveniencing the traveling public and now has an excuse. Don’t look at us, it’s the terrorists fault.
Late arrivals and delayed flights have proliferated beyond all reason, creating a mess for passengers and those trying to collect them at terminals. It seems like a little thing that legend “On Time”, but if it had been changed to reflect the real situation, we would have used short-term parking.
Unreasonable attitudes by traffic police exacerbate the problem. Has it not entered those silly little helmets that some brief parking is necessary, and can’t they approach their responsibilities with at least some concern for people?
As we drove away from the airport, my brother said incredulously, “They took my toothpaste!”
“You’re kidding,” I said.
“No, they took my dadgum toothpaste. Not only that, when they did, they treated me as if I was the control agent of a terrorist cell!”
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