A Drinkers Companion

YANKEE INGENUITY & CHINDOGU

admin — Thu, 27 Aug 2009 14:54:22 +0000

It iIt is the summer of l962 and I am waiting, impatiently, on a large, rectangular concrete slab which purports to be the “

Merrick Station of the
Long Island Railroad. I’m positioned at the forward part of the station which gives me an opportunity to look back and see that there are 5 other would be passengers, discretely separated from each other in what they apparently conceive to be their private space. Merrick is a friendly town, but the station, scheduled to be replaced in the near future, seems to bring out personality quirks best restrained.      The train is late, as usual. Surprise! To ad to my annoyance, there is a significant and all encompassing drizzle which makes the situation intolerable.I’m in an ugly mood and look for a receptacle in which to discard my thoroughly soaked newspaper. Naturally, there’s only one garbage pail and, of course, it is located at the rear of the platform; so I roll the newspaper, concealing the headline which all but screams what I already knew, that the Vietnam war was not going to be a cakewalk, and stuff it behind the nearest billboard.    The downers are piling up but I’m not ready to throw in the towel.      What I needed was a smoke and as an innovative, nicotine addict, I’m always prepared to ‘feed the monkey.’ Rain may dampen my butt, but not the fag that nestled in my pocket, secured in a device of my own creation.    Essentially it was a cylinder within a cylinder, insulated with ‘silver foil’ and 4 air holes that permitted satisfactory combustion. The distal end of the cylinder was open to permit ignition and curved to protect the cigarette from the elements. On the rare occasion that I had the need and opportunity to use the gizmo, I invariably realized how clever the design was, which in turn bolstered my self-esteem.      So, there I was, damp all over and ready to bite anybody’s head off with or without provocation, eager for the comfort clutched within my grasp. My trusty Zippo in hand, my entombed
Chesterfield clenched between my teeth, I turned my back to the wind and ‘lit up.’      Drawing deeply and exhaling slowly I looked up, contentedly, and unexpectedly locked eyes with a man whose facial features were unmistakably Japanese. I wasn’t sure if he was smiling or scowling at me, but when he started to walk in my direction, bells started ringing.. Was it the flag pin in my lapel? If I were Japanese, it wouldn’t be much of a stretch to stir up the memory of
Hiroshima. Well, that was okay with me; I hadn’t forgotten
Pearl Harbor either.      He was about 5 feet from me when I focused on his lapel pin. It was the numeral ‘442’ framed against a back-ground of red enamel, a familiar number, but I was too busy stripping the cigarette from my holder and didn’t have time for a second thought.      “Please, do not put that cigarette holder away.” The voice was soft-spoken, cultured and certainly not hostile.      “Why are you interested in my cigarette holder?” Then the significance of the lapel pin dawned on me. “The “442”, is that the 442^nd Infantry Regiment?”      “Yes it is. Not many people recognize it.”      “Well, I do. This country owes the 442^nd a debt of gratitude for their bravery and sacrifice as well as an apology for treating them so shabbily.”      “Thank you, but I would rather talk about your cigarette holder. Did you design this by yourself, or did you purchase it?”      “I designed and fabricated it myself; it’s one of a kind. Are you an attorney?”      He laughed. “No, no, no. I am not an attorney, but I have a friend in
Japan who is a design engineer and he once showed me a cigarette holder to be used in adverse weather; it was very similar to your instrument. He specializes in designing impractical devices and is quite successful at it. I shall call him tonight and let him know that others share his creative hobby.”      I decided to ignore his use of the word ‘impractical’ and our shared ride to New York City was just the beginning of a steadfast friendship that ended with his demise in 2003.   He was named after the Emperor Mikado; his friends called him ‘Mike.’      The passage of a friend, a happening that is occurring with unrelenting frequency, invariably triggers, for me, the recollection of diminished memories. Despite my sadness, I smiled when I recalled how we met, aware that now the
Merrick station was now a one story attractive edifice, provided with an escalator that was frequently inoperative. In the center of the platform was a white-washed concrete structure with signs advising that it was a ‘Smoke Free Waiting Room.’ I have been told that the ‘trains still run late.’.      I gave up smoking the same year I met ‘Mike’ and my doo-dad is probably resting on the bottom of a garbage dump, waiting for a bright eyed archaeologist to dig it up in the distant future.      I remembered Mike’s friend in
Japan who had invented a cigarette holder similar to mine and on a whim, I checked Google for “Useless Inventions.” To my surprise I came up with “History of Useless Inventions –the Art of Chindogu.“ It takes a certain amount of ingenuity to come up with unuseless inventions and I claim honorary membership in the International Society of Chindogu, despite the fact that my creations, while simple, nevertheless serve a practical purpose..      My latest creation is one of a kind (as far as I know) and on occasion generates compliments and/or amused chuckles, particularly from senior citizens who appreciate the practicality of my telescoping flag-pole. Essentially, what I have done is devise a telescoping flagpole that attaches (in a conventional manner) to the rear window of my Prius. I fly the American flag to show my concern and gratitude for the American warriors who are in harms way.           I used a brass curtain rod to construct my flag-pole and coincidentally, my flag-pole ‘doubles in brass’ by permitting me to locate my car when parked on a crowded parking field.   No longer will a panel-truck or SUV block my beacon. No more walking up and down the lanes, frustrated and angry, looking for my car and realizing, too often, that the ol’ grey cells are not what they used to be. Now I merely extend the flag-pole 2’ when I park the car, and reverse the procedure when I’m ready to drive off.-      The Obama administration believes that American inventiveness will play a role in stimulating the economy.   I’m not Steven Jobs (you might think otherwise because of the intricate, complexity of my idea) and you’re not Bill Gates, but don’t sell yourself short. We can always do more than we think we can.       Edgar A. Guest, an American poet who passed away l959 said it clearly:                           IT COULDN’T BE DONE

                           T   here are thousands to tell you it cannot done,                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           failure;                                                                              There are thousands to point out to you, one by one,                                       The dangers that wait to assail you.                                   But just buckle in with a bit of a grin,                                        Just take off your coat and go to it;                                             Just start to sing as you tackle the thing                                        That “cannot be done,” and you’ll do

CHINDOGU                                                                   By Leon Berger      It is the summer of l962 and I am waiting, impatiently, on a large, rectangular concrete slab which purports to be the “
Merrick Station of the
Long Island Railroad. I’m positioned at the forward part of the station which gives me an opportunity to look back and see that there are 5 other would be passengers, discretely separated from each other in what they apparently conceive to be their private space. Merrick is a friendly town, but the station, scheduled to be replaced in the near future, seems to bring out personality quirks best restrained.      The train is late, as usual. Surprise! To ad to my annoyance, there is a significant and all encompassing drizzle which makes the situation intolerable.I’m in an ugly mood and look for a receptacle in which to discard my thoroughly soaked newspaper. Naturally, there’s only one garbage pail and, of course, it is located at the rear of the platform; so I roll the newspaper, concealing the headline which all but screams what I already knew, that the Vietnam war was not going to be a cakewalk, and stuff it behind the nearest billboard.    The downers are piling up but I’m not ready to throw in the towel.      What I needed was a smoke and as an innovative, nicotine addict, I’m always prepared to ‘feed the monkey.’ Rain may dampen my butt, but not the fag that nestled in my pocket, secured in a device of my own creation.    Essentially it was a cylinder within a cylinder, insulated with ‘silver foil’ and 4 air holes that permitted satisfactory combustion. The distal end of the cylinder was open to permit ignition and curved to protect the cigarette from the elements. On the rare occasion that I had the need and opportunity to use the gizmo, I invariably realized how clever the design was, which in turn bolstered my self-esteem.      So, there I was, damp all over and ready to bite anybody’s head off with or without provocation, eager for the comfort clutched within my grasp. My trusty Zippo in hand, my entombed
Chesterfield clenched between my teeth, I turned my back to the wind and ‘lit up.’      Drawing deeply and exhaling slowly I looked up, contentedly, and unexpectedly locked eyes with a man whose facial features were unmistakably Japanese. I wasn’t sure if he was smiling or scowling at me, but when he started to walk in my direction, bells started ringing.. Was it the flag pin in my lapel? If I were Japanese, it wouldn’t be much of a stretch to stir up the memory of
Hiroshima. Well, that was okay with me; I hadn’t forgotten
Pearl Harbor either.      He was about 5 feet from me when I focused on his lapel pin. It was the numeral ‘442’ framed against a back-ground of red enamel, a familiar number, but I was too busy stripping the cigarette from my holder and didn’t have time for a second thought.      “Please, do not put that cigarette holder away.” The voice was soft-spoken, cultured and certainly not hostile.      “Why are you interested in my cigarette holder?” Then the significance of the lapel pin dawned on me. “The “442”, is that the 442^nd Infantry Regiment?”      “Yes it is. Not many people recognize it.”      “Well, I do. This country owes the 442^nd a debt of gratitude for their bravery and sacrifice as well as an apology for treating them so shabbily.”      “Thank you, but I would rather talk about your cigarette holder. Did you design this by yourself, or did you purchase it?”      “I designed and fabricated it myself; it’s one of a kind. Are you an attorney?”      He laughed. “No, no, no. I am not an attorney, but I have a friend in
Japan who is a design engineer and he once showed me a cigarette holder to be used in adverse weather; it was very similar to your instrument. He specializes in designing impractical devices and is quite successful at it. I shall call him tonight and let him know that others share his creative hobby.”      I decided to ignore his use of the word ‘impractical’ and our shared ride to New York City was just the beginning of a steadfast friendship that ended with his demise in 2003.   He was named after the Emperor Mikado; his friends called him ‘Mike.’      The passage of a friend, a happening that is occurring with unrelenting frequency, invariably triggers, for me, the recollection of diminished memories. Despite my sadness, I smiled when I recalled how we met, aware that now the
Merrick station was now a one story attractive edifice, provided with an escalator that was frequently inoperative. In the center of the platform was a white-washed concrete structure with signs advising that it was a ‘Smoke Free Waiting Room.’ I have been told that the ‘trains still run late.’.      I gave up smoking the same year I met ‘Mike’ and my doo-dad is probably resting on the bottom of a garbage dump, waiting for a bright eyed archaeologist to dig it up in the distant future.      I remembered Mike’s friend in
Japan who had invented a cigarette holder similar to mine and on a whim, I checked Google for “Useless Inventions.” To my surprise I came up with “History of Useless Inventions –the Art of Chindogu.“ It takes a certain amount of ingenuity to come up with unuseless inventions and I claim honorary membership in the International Society of Chindogu, despite the fact that my creations, while simple, nevertheless serve a practical purpose..      My latest creation is one of a kind (as far as I know) and on occasion generates compliments and/or amused chuckles, particularly from senior citizens who appreciate the practicality of my telescoping flag-pole. Essentially, what I have done is devise a telescoping flagpole that attaches (in a conventional manner) to the rear window of my Prius. I fly the American flag to show my concern and gratitude for the American warriors who are in harms way.           I used a brass curtain rod to construct my flag-pole and coincidentally, my flag-pole ‘doubles in brass’ by permitting me to locate my car when parked on a crowded parking field.   No longer will a panel-truck or SUV block my beacon. No more walking up and down the lanes, frustrated and angry, looking for my car and realizing, too often, that the ol’ grey cells are not what they used to be. Now I merely extend the flag-pole 2’ when I park the car, and reverse the procedure when I’m ready to drive off.-      The Obama administration believes that American inventiveness will play a role in stimulating the economy.   I’m not Steven Jobs (you might think otherwise because of the intricate, complexity of my idea) and you’re not Bill Gates, but don’t sell yourself short. We can always do more than we think we can.       Edgar A. Guest, an American poet who passed away l959 said it clearly:                                           IT COULDN’T BE DONE                                   There are thousands to tell you it cannot be done,                                       There are thousands to prophesy failure;                                   There are thousands to point out to you, one by one,                                       The dangers that wait to assail you.                                   But just buckle in with a bit of a grin,                                        Just take off your coat and go to it;                                             Just start to sing as you tackle the thing                                        That “cannot be done,” and you’ll do it.

       It is the summer of l962 and I am waiting, impatiently, on a large, rectangular concrete slab which purports to be the “
Merrick Station of the
Long Island Railroad. I’m positioned at the forward part of the station which gives me an opportunity to look back and see that there are 5 other would be passengers, discretely separated from each other in what they apparently conceive to be their private space. Merrick is a friendly town, but the station, scheduled to be replaced in the near future, seems to bring out personality quirks best restrained.      The train is late, as usual. Surprise! To ad to my annoyance, there is a significant and all encompassing drizzle which makes the situation intolerable.I’m in an ugly mood and look for a receptacle in which to discard my thoroughly soaked newspaper. Naturally, there’s only one garbage pail and, of course, it is located at the rear of the platform; so I roll the newspaper, concealing the headline which all but screams what I already knew, that the Vietnam war was not going to be a cakewalk, and stuff it behind the nearest billboard.    The downers are piling up but I’m not ready to throw in the towel.      What I needed was a smoke and as an innovative, nicotine addict, I’m always prepared to ‘feed the monkey.’ Rain may dampen my butt, but not the fag that nestled in my pocket, secured in a device of my own creation.    Essentially it was a cylinder within a cylinder, insulated with ‘silver foil’ and 4 air holes that permitted satisfactory combustion. The distal end of the cylinder was open to permit ignition and curved to protect the cigarette from the elements. On the rare occasion that I had the need and opportunity to use the gizmo, I invariably realized how clever the design was, which in turn bolstered my self-esteem.      So, there I was, damp all over and ready to bite anybody’s head off with or without provocation, eager for the comfort clutched within my grasp. My trusty Zippo in hand, my entombed
Chesterfield clenched between my teeth, I turned my back to the wind and ‘lit up.’      Drawing deeply and exhaling slowly I looked up, contentedly, and unexpectedly locked eyes with a man whose facial features were unmistakably Japanese. I wasn’t sure if he was smiling or scowling at me, but when he started to walk in my direction, bells started ringing.. Was it the flag pin in my lapel? If I were Japanese, it wouldn’t be much of a stretch to stir up the memory of
Hiroshima. Well, that was okay with me; I hadn’t forgotten
Pearl Harbor either.      He was about 5 feet from me when I focused on his lapel pin. It was the numeral ‘442’ framed against a back-ground of red enamel, a familiar number, but I was too busy stripping the cigarette from my holder and didn’t have time for a second thought.      “Please, do not put that cigarette holder away.” The voice was soft-spoken, cultured and certainly not hostile.

     “Why are you interested in my cigarette holder?” Then the significance of the lapel pin dawned on me. “The “442”, is that the 442^nd Infantry Regiment?”      “Yes it is. Not many people recognize it.”      “Well, I do. This country owes the 442^nd a debt of gratitude for their bravery and sacrifice as well as an apology for treating them so shabbily.”      “Thank you, but I would rather talk about your cigarette holder. Did you design this by yourself, or did you purchase it?”      “I designed and fabricated it myself; it’s one of a kind. Are you an attorney?”      He laughed. “No, no, no. I am not an attorney, but I have a friend in
Japan who is a design engineer and he once showed me a cigarette holder to be used in adverse weather; it was very similar to your instrument. He specializes in designing impractical devices and is quite successful at it. I shall call him tonight and let him know that others share his creative hobby.”      I decided to ignore his use of the word ‘impractical’ and our shared ride to New York City was just the beginning of a steadfast friendship that ended with his demise in 2003.   He was named after the Emperor Mikado; his friends called him ‘Mike.’      The passage of a friend, a happening that is occurring with unrelenting frequency, invariably triggers, for me, the recollection of diminished memories. Despite my sadness, I smiled when I recalled how we met, aware that now the
Merrick station was now a one story attractive edifice, provided with an escalator that was frequently inoperative. In the center of the platform was a white-washed concrete structure with signs advising that it was a ‘Smoke Free Waiting Room.’ I have been told that the ‘trains still run late.’.      I gave up smoking the same year I met ‘Mike’ and my doo-dad is probably resting on the bottom of a garbage dump, waiting for a bright eyed archaeologist to dig it up in the distant future.      I remembered Mike’s friend in
Japan who had invented a cigarette holder similar to mine and on a whim, I checked Google for “Useless Inventions.” To my surprise I came up with “History of Useless Inventions –the Art of Chindogu.“ It takes a certain amount of ingenuity to come up with unuseless inventions and I claim honorary membership in the International Society of Chindogu, despite the fact that my creations, while simple, nevertheless serve a practical purpose..      My latest creation is one of a kind (as far as I know) and on occasion generates compliments and/or amused chuckles, particularly from senior citizens who appreciate the practicality of my telescoping flag-pole. Essentially, what I have done is devise a telescoping flagpole that attaches (in a conventional manner) to the rear window of my Prius. I fly the American flag to show my concern and gratitude for the American warriors who are in harms way.           I used a brass curtain rod to construct my flag-pole and coincidentally, my flag-pole ‘doubles in brass’ by permitting me to locate my car when parked on a crowded parking field.   No longer will a panel-truck or SUV block my beacon. No more walking up and down the lanes, frustrated and angry, looking for my car and realizing, too often, that the ol’ grey cells are not what they used to be. Now I merely extend the flag-pole 2’ when I park the car, and reverse the procedure when I’m ready to drive off.-      The Obama administration believes that American inventiveness will play a role in stimulating the economy.   I’m not Steven Jobs (you might think otherwise because of the intricate, complexity of my idea) and you’re not Bill Gates, but don’t sell yourself short. We can always do more than we think we can.       Edgar A. Guest, an American poet who passed away l959 said it clearly:                                           IT COULDN’T BE DONE                                   There are thousands to tell you it cannot be done,                                      There are thousands to prophesy failure;                                   There are thousands to point out to you, one by one,                                       The dangers that wait to assail you.                                   But just buckle in with a bit of a grin,                                        Just take off your coat and go to it;                                             Just start to sing as you tackle the thing                                        That “cannot be done,” and you’ll do it.

IF IT HAS VALUE, SELL IT by Leon Berger

admin — Sat, 09 May 2009 18:10:32 +0000

“Im home, hon”

“Harry, somebody called from the Solid Waste Authority; a Mr. Gordon. He wants you to call him. Is there something going on that I should know about?”

“Did he say anything else?”

“He just said ‘it would be to your advantage if you called him back. And, oh yes, he wanted to know how old you were.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I told him you would call him back.”

“No, no, no. I mean about my age. What did you tell him about my age?”

“I know it’s a touchy subject with you, so I just let him know that you‘ve been around the block a few times.”

“Good. You handled that well. I’ve been expecting that call; it’s all part of what I have been telling you for years. ‘If you want something, you’ve got to speak up.’ So, that’s what I did. I just spoke up and now you will see the results. Did he leave a number?”

“Yeah, its 1 800 639 2467, but I’m not sure I like the way this is going. What’ve you got to do with the Solid Waste Authority?”

“Just listen in, Lois, and watch the master at work.” Dials phone number. “This is Mr. Gordon.”

“Ah, Mr. Gordon; this is Harry ———–. I am returning your call. I assume you got my message. I feel quite strongly about this and hope we can come to an agreement.” “Oh, we’ll reach an agreement alright, but let’s discuss your message. I want to make sure that there is no misunderstanding. May I call you Harry?”

“Sure. ‘Harry’ is fine.”

“If the message I received is correct, Harry, you’ve made a survey of your neighbors’ recycle bins and you feel that the nature of the materials you put at curb-side is superior in every way and adding your quality mix to the run of the mill recycled glass will increase the coefficient of strength to any new product. You would also like to receive some sort of recompense for providing quality glass. Is that correct?”

“That’s it in a nut-shell. No cheap, recycled glass in my Blue bin. Check it out. There’s the blue tinted glass of Bombay Sapphire, the solid clear glass used for Maccallan’s 15 year old, and if you know your wine, Mr. Gordon, this week’s pick-up will include 3 empty bottles that contained Chateau Lagrange, St. Julien, 2005 that sells for $80.00 a pop. I think you’ll agree with me, the vintner isn’t going to use a cheap recycled glass for such a costly libation.”

“Harry, what’s going on? What are you talking about? What have you got to do with the garbage people?”

Harry places the mouth-piece of the phone against his chest.” Lois, please, I can’t talk to Mr. Gordon and you at the same time. I’ll fill you in after we finish our business. This guy is putty in my hands. “I’m sorry for the interruption. You were saying?”

“Harry, If we paid you, we would have to pay everybody who claims to have ‘quality glass in their bins.’”

“You know, Mr. Gordon, I’ve been around the block a few times and I’ve done my time in

Washington. Gov. Blagojevich just overplayed his hand. But it’s the same everywhere, whether in Chicago, Palm Beach County or New York City, well positioned folk all have the same idea. It’s the right of the king, so to speak:   If you have power or if you have something of value to sell, now’s the time to do it. I’m not a politician, so my opportunities are limited, but my recyclables are top of the line. I’m just trying to cut myself a little piece of the pie.      “I remember when Trent Lott said, and I’m quoting now, ‘If you don’t have ethics and morals before you come to
Washington, you ain’t going to grow them in
Washington.’ His statement made a strong impression on me and I believe he meant ‘grab while the grabbing is good.’”       “Harry, you sound like a nice guy and I’m going to do you a favor but I got to tell you, you went way out on a limb when you called my assistant a ‘pip-squeak’, a ‘pinhead’ and an ‘officious bureaucrat.’    Unless you apologize, the Authority is going to refuse to pick up your garbage. ”      “Whoa, whoa, whoa. That would be bad, very bad. Tell me what to do; I’ll do anything you say.”      “For beginners, come to my office tomorrow and apologize to my assistant. Do that and I think I’ll be able to straighten everything out. Come to my office before 10:00 a.m.” Hangs up phone.      “Harry, you’re all perspired; what’s going on?”       “This shouldn’t surprise you, but it’s getting to be impossible to talk to a bureaucrat over the phone these days. I have an appointment with Mr. Gordon tomorrow at 10:00 a.m.”      “Are we in some kind of trouble, Harry?”      “No, of course not. I just want to present an idea, which, if they adopt, will protect newspapers from being soaked by rain water. This will keep the weight down and make the job easier for the garbage men.”

“That’s not what I heard, Harry.    I heard you talk about ‘recycled glass, Gov. of
Illinois, morality dropping by the wayside and a piece of pie.’ “

“I just told you that I am going down to the Solid Waste Authority to discuss an idea with them. Do you believe me or something you overheard on the phone?”

     “Harry, it was you I overheard on the phone.”

“True, but that’s what is known as hearsay, told to a third party.   I am telling you directly that we are not in trouble; that I will discuss my idea with them.”

“You aren’t lying to me, are you Harry?”      “Have I ever lied to you?”

“I’m not so sure. Do you remember the office Christmas party, 40 years ago? You came home with a pink smudge on your shirt collar and you denied it was lipstick, saying the smudge was circumstantial and that you would deny, in any court of law, that it was lipstick. I was pretty skeptical for a while.”

“Do you expect me to remember what happened 40 years ago? Besides, I did bring you a pair of gold ear-rings.”

“That’s what I like about you, Harry. You’re always thinking; always thinking.”

“Thank you dear.”

“You’re not off the hook, Harry. I don’t want to know what you meant by ‘that would be bad, very bad’ and that you would do anything Mr. Gordon suggested, but whatever the problem is, I want you to straighten it out tomorrow. In fact, don’t come home until you do and when you do come home, I want you to understand that gold earrings no longer carry any weight. Diamond studs might get you off the hook. Do you understand what I am saying?”

“Yeah, I understand. It’s obviously, Lois, that you have finally learned how to apply that noble dictum: ‘if you don’t ask you don’t get.’ There is a corollary to this dictum, but this is not the time to discuss it. Would you believe, Lois, I’ve had my eyes on a pair of diamond stud earrings that I was going to present you on your birthday; amazing how fine minds think alike.”

“Yes, I know, Harry. Just straighten out this mess tomorrow or you are in deep trouble.”

THE LAST STRAW

admin — Wed, 02 Jan 2008 18:22:10 +0000

THE LAST STRAW

By Leon Berger

“That’s it. That’s the last straw.”

“Uh, huh.”

“Are you listening, Lois. I said ‘that’s the last straw’.”

“If you are going to tell me the story about the 5 cent malted you shared with

your brother, both of you drinking out of the same glass at the same time with separate straws until one day the candy store owner offered only one straw, because it was ‘ the last straw’, I have heard that story before.”

“No, this is different. I’m going to give up writing.”

“What has that go to do with the ‘last straw?,”

“Just this. I wrack my brains for ideas, pounding out my stories on the keyboard until my fingernails are pushed up to my knuckles and sometimes I don’t get to bed until Leno signs off and then what do I get?”

“I don’t know Harry, what do you get?”

“What do I get? I get $5.00 from the OZARK SENIOR CITIZEN for a great story and now I’m being hassled by the I.R.S. because my accountant said I am a ‘professional writer’. That’s the last straw and that’s why I am giving up writing.”

“I thought you enjoyed writing.”

“I do, I really do, but I also enjoy painting. That’s going to be my new profession.”

“Hold on. Where are you going to do this painting?”

“The garage is too hot and I’m certainly not going do my painting in any room with carpeting. I think the kitchen will be ideal.”

“The kitchen, huh? Over my dead body.”

“Lois, when you listen to what I have to say, I think you’ll cut me a little slack. Do you know that a Picasso recently sold for $104 million? And get this, a simple painting of a step-on garbage pail by some guy named Lichtenstein sold for $5.1 million. I tell you the big money is in painting, not writing.”

“I don’t think you know who Lichtenstein is. He is an important figure in American art, and don’t you even dare compare your paintings to Picasso.”

“Lois, I’ve thought this out carefully. What I lack in artistic creativity will be made up by my business acumen. I know where I can acquire a list of individuals who have signed up for cryogenic preservation. I will sell them my paintings exclusively.”

“What do you mean by ‘cryogenic preservation?”

“I’m sure you have read of individuals who have indicated in their will that when they expire, they wish to ensure that their head will be surgically removed from their body, placed in some form of thermos container until futuristic science permits reattachment to a compatible body. I’m going to offer them a proposition they will find difficult to resist.”

“You’re serious, aren’t you?”

“You bet I am. I’m going to guarantee them a return of 300 percent on the price they pay for the painting and this will be backed by Lloyds of

London.”

“You’ve discussed this with Lloyds of

London?”

“Yup. They’re flying over one of their employees to check my paintings and that’s why I need the kitchen table. I promise I‘ll clear the area when we are ready to eat.”

“When do you pay the 300 percent?”

“The 300 percent will be paid when the head demands payment. This offer will be limited for 50 years.”

“Excuse me dear, I’ll be back in a minute.”

“Where are you going?”

“First I am going to see if there is a neurosurgeon in town that will check your head. Then I am going to locate the outfit that does cryogenic preservation and see if they will take the whole individual if the wife consents. If they just take heads, I think I can arrange that too.”

NOT MY STORY

admin — Tue, 01 Jan 2008 12:17:42 +0000

NOT MY STORY

By Leon Berger

Carl Notar had good reason to believe ‘That if it doesn’t kill you, it will make you stronger.’ As a small boy, the calamity of a depression extending to his fortuitous survival during WWII created a matrix that was cautious yet optimistic,

watchful but tolerant. He had learned to ride with life’s punches and now, at four score plus, thought there wasn’t anything he had not experienced, read about or heard. He was wrong, of course.

Carl and his wife Ivy are good neighbors; not perfect, but good. I wasn’t aware of any personal problems that the Notars might have since all our conversations have been amiable and uncomplaining. We respected their privacy and they treated us with the same consideration.

It was Sunday afternoon and I was watching the Dolphins play the Raiders in what seemed destined to be another ignominious defeat for the

Miami team when the phone rang. To my surprise, it was Carl; rarely do we speak on the phone.

“Hey, Lee. It’s Carl, your neighbor. If you aren’t busy I’d like to drop over; I have an extraordinary story to tell you.”

“Sure, Carl, come on over. I’ll put up some coffee.” I was happy to tune out the Dolphin game.

The coffee was just about done when the bell rang. I poured the coffee and we settled down in the den. I wish to emphasize here and now that this is not my story. It is Carl’ story and I’m going to tell it to you the way he told it to me:

“It was this past Friday and I was driving north on Boca Rio Road, heading out to the library on Glades Road, when I decided to stop at the Mobil station and pick up a chocolate bar. My energy level was low and I thought a DOVE bar would be just the thing to perk up my blood sugar. The place was jumping as usual since the price they get for gasoline is the cheapest around. I finally found a parking spot near the air hose and headed for the Food Mart.

“Headed in the same direction, just a few steps ahead of me, was a tall, slim dude, well dressed and walking with a kind of swagger. He was obviously a Rastafarian, his dreadlocks contained by a knitted green, yellow and red hat. To my surprise, without turning around, he held the door open for me. [I have since concluded he must have seen my reflection in the glass door.] I nodded my head in thanks and said ‘You, sir, are a gentleman. Let me hold the door for you.’ He smiled, walked past me, and we both went our respective ways. I for the chocolate bar and he, I could see, went for a soda.

“The line for the cashier was moving slowly, but I was in no hurry, and my thoughts were elsewhere until I felt a tap on my right shoulder. To my surprise, standing behind me was the Rastafarian, soda in hand.

“He looked at the chocolate bar I was holding, then said:: ‘I hope you are going to buy a lottery ticket also.’

“’No’ I replied, “I gave that up sometime ago. The odds are too great.

“He smiled, a great smile, for his teeth were white and perfectly aligned. ‘Buy a lotto ticket today…now. I can see a magical aura that surrounds you and I think our meeting was not accidental. Buy a lotto ticket. You will not regret it.

“I’m from

New York and I have seen my share of scams, but he impressed me with his earnestness so I decided to be a sport and invest a buck. ‘What’s your name?’ I asked. He replied ‘Ababa, but you can call me Abe.’

“‘Okay, Abe. I tell you what. Anything I win, I’ll split down the middle. Half for you and half for me. Today is Friday, the drawing is Saturday. If I have a winner, I’ll be here Sunday at noon.’ We shook hands and I headed for the library.

“Call it a coincidence or a fluke, but on Saturday the ticket hit for four numbers and on Sunday, when I walked into the Food Mart, Abe was there, waiting for me. When he saw me, he started jumping up and down, shouting ‘I knew it… I knew it… I knew it.’ He paused for a moment, then ‘How much?’

“Abe, all smiles, stood beside me as the cashier counted out sixty dollars and change. I gave him $30.00, which he took and carefully folded, placing it into a black leather, snap-clasp change purse. I extended my arm assuming he would shake my hand, To my surprise, he ignored my outstretched hand but kept peering intently into my eyes. ‘You are unhappy, my friend. If it is the $30.00 I will return it to you.’

“’No, no. The $30.00 is nothing. If I look unhappy it is because of a personal matter and I must rush home.’”

“’Somebody is waiting for you? A wife perhaps? Is she not well?’”

“Before I realized it, I was telling this complete stranger personal information about my wife’ Fibroneuralgia, how she was in constant pain and how all the medications we have tried have been ineffective. Abe listened intently as I babbled on about the callousness of the doctors and the hollowness of The Golden Years.”

“Have you tried ganja? Spliff?’”

“ ‘I don’t know what that is.’”

“Abe shook his head, laughing out loud. ‘Ah, you white folk never fail to amaze me. Has your wife tried a reefer, a stick or a joint?’ I was still confused.

‘Hey, man, listen to me.’ Abe was getting impatient. ‘Has she every tried cannabis….marijuana?’

“It finally dawned on me. ‘No, I’ve heard that it might be helpful but I never knew where to get it. Her doctor discouraged us, saying it would be a waste of money.’”

“‘Your doctor is an ignorant man. I can sell you some. Even though you are my friend, I must sell it to you. I’m just a middle man.’

“That’s okay. How much is it?’

“’$20.00 a bag and I have two bags with me now.’

“’I’ll take it.’

“He took me by the elbow and guided me to a corner of the store. The exchange was made. I have him $40.00 and he gave me 2 bags of what I assumed was marijuana. ‘How do I use this?’

“He laughed. ‘Chop the leaves and bake them into cookies or cup cakes. If you need more, I will be here next Sunday.’

“We shook hands and I left, all excited. As soon as I stepped out the door, I was surrounded by three men wearing jackets marked SHERIFF. The man in the center, shorter than me but muscular, was smiling broadly. ‘Okay, pop. You’re under arrest.’

“’Arrest? What did I do? I didn’t do anything.’

“’Well, we do have a tape and a video of you buying two bags of cannabis. I know your wife isn’t well so I’m going to give you a ticket instead of taking you in.’

“And that’s where it stands now. Needless to say, I still haven’t recovered from this incident. I’m scheduled to appear in court a week from tomorrow. I have a lawyer who is charging $400.00 per hour with a cap of $5,000.00, money I can ill afford to spend. I’m depressed and sick about the whole situation.’

“There were tears in his eyes, and for a long moment I was at a loss at what to say. ‘Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Yeah, there is. This incident reeks of entrapment that should never have occurred. One wonders if the Sheriff’s Dept. is primarily interested in looking good statistically. It is a shameful waste of manpower and vile from every viewpoint. I’m telling it to you because this story has to be told…must be told. You have the know-how..Put it in your blog; send it to your agent. Let’s eliminate this kind of crap by exposing it. It won’t be easy; they will deny the particulars. Will you help me?”

“And that’s the story… Of course I am going to to help Carl; periodic progress reports will be posted in my blog.

___________________________This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to individuals or similar events is purely accidental and unintentional.

SURVIVAL IN BOCA RATON

admin — Tue, 20 Nov 2007 19:43:26 +0000

SURVIVAL IN BOCA RATON

By Leon Berger

Harry adjusted his chair and examined his reflection in the mirror. He grimaced at the red rimmed eyes, the welts and insect bites on his face. He opened his mouth and moved his head to make sure it was his reflection he was looking at. The features didn’t look familiar but it was his face.

He blamed himself. Poor planning. He had underestimated the challenge for survival. Long ago he acquired his field craft in the jungles of Panama. He knew his physical stamina was unusual for a man his age and each year he proved it to himself by conceiving a challenge that tested his mettle. This time, however, he underestimated the difficulties and his faulty planning had cost him dearly.

He was obsessed with the necessity to prove his self-reliance by contriving and resolving difficult situations. His wife Lois humorously went along with what she described as his “egocentric vanity coupled with a Peter Pan complex.”

The idea came to him while he was exploring a lush, undeveloped area of

Sugar
Sand
Park in
Boca Raton. To his surprise, growing on the western fringe of the park he discovered an abundance of bromeliads, a source of water, and plant tubers, a source of food. The water would have to be strained and boiled, and the tubers had to be cooked, but a resourceful person could survive in the park, living off the land. Harry was excited. Could he meet the challenge? Sixty years ago, he endured a rough survival course and the idea of spending two days and nights at Sugar Sand would be an adventure.

At the time, it seemed so simple. All he would need would be his Swiss Army knife, an eight-oz. bottle of water, a book of matches and a tin cup. A few tea bags would be a good idea too. In addition, something to read. Two days of isolation in the park could be boring.

Lois was taken aback when he told her what he was contemplating. “Is it legal to stay overnight in the Park? Is it safe?”

“Legal or not, nobody will know I’m there. The area is quite isolated and I’ll take pains to avoid detection. As for safety, I’ll have my cell phone and you can drive by each morning at 10:00 o’clock. I’ll call you if I need assistance.”

His ‘adventure’ began the next day. The sky was overcast and there was a slight breeze. The park was deserted where Lois dropped him off and when he kissed her good bye, he murmured “I’ll see you here tomorrow at 10:00 a.m.” Walking through the underbrush to the location he had staked out previously, he felt excited and invigorated. It was ‘man against nature’ and he felt the confidence cultivated by years of challenge and victory.

The area was secluded and overgrown providing the privacy he required. An unexpected shower sent him scurrying to the shelter of overhanging tree limbs, dampening his clothes but not his spirits.

Time for some tea. To his dismay, the matches were damp and would not ignite. How could he have forgotten the waterproof container? Oh, well, the greater the challenge, the greater the victory. He looked about and saw there were sufficient implements for starting a fire without matches. With the use of his shoelace, he fashioned a bow and drill and labored for an hour trying to start a fire. The wood was too wet. It was then, for the first time, that he had doubts about the wisdom of his adventure. His arms and shoulders ached. He was completely exhausted and decided to do without the fire.

To his dismay, his perspired body attracted hordes of mosquitoes. Adjusting his clothes offered some shielding but his hands and face needed protection. A coating of mud would take care of that problem. Plenty of water in the bromeliads to mix with dirt, but the water should be filtered even if it could not be boiled. He cut a piece of cloth cut from his shirttail but the fine weave of the cloth didn’t permit the passage of the water. He had decided to keep the bottled water for drinking purposes and to use the plant water for a mud pack. Using the cup as a mortar and a stick as a pestle, he ground down the insects he could see and mixed some soil from the ground, coating his face, neck and hands.

The sun had gone down and he was getting cold. He tried to conserve his body heat by removing a sock, cutting a slit to enlarge the opening and stretched it over his head. Despite his discomfort, he laughed aloud as he visualized his ludicrous appearance, but his amusement was short lived, for his mud encrusted face was crawling with insects. In panic, he scraped the mud from his face and hands, sinking to the ground, feeling foolish and depressed.

It was a miserable, cold and sleepless night, with strange unidentifiable noises mixed with the sound of traffic from Military Trail. He positioned himself sitting with his back against a tree, eyes wide open, frightened by the deep shadows and strange noises.

It was a relief to see the sky lightening and he waited impatiently for the 10:00 o’clock rendezvous. Promptly at l0:00 a.m., Lois pulled up to the area as he staggered out of the brush. She was startled by his appearance and sensing his mood decided to keep quiet.

He barked at her: “Take me home. I’m okay, all I need is a hot bath, a stiff drink and a chance to catch up on my sleep.”

The next day she listened patiently while he explained: “I underestimated the challenge. I should have brought mosquito netting, matches in a water proof container, a can of Sterno, a tea strainer and a few other odds and ends.”

“Are you going back again?”

“No, I think not. I think white water rafting is more my style.”

mud

The MESSAGE

admin — Tue, 20 Nov 2007 17:23:10 +0000

THE MESSAGE

by Leon Berger

It was precisely one year ago, exactly this very same hour that I saw an ad in Fortune Magazine that changed my life. The advertisement was cryptic and seemed silly so I ignored it and turned the page. Or at least I tried to ignore it until curiousity drew me back to the ad. The precise wording of the ad went like this: ´To the individual with curiousity:You can perform a ritual in your home that will clarify your thoughts and direct you to the pathway of solution. No obligation. One time communication only. Write “Physio”,
P.O. Box 880093, Boca Raton, Florida

33488

The wording of the letter and the promise “…of solution” were a turn-off. While I was curious, I had better things to do than to check this out. Despite my preoccupation with other matters, the advertisement kept intruding into my thoughts. Awake or asleep, I kept seeing the ad; while having dinner with my friends or working on my novel or even relaxing witth a drink, my thoughts were about the ad.

I could not resist any longer and decided to investigate the unusual message. Fixated with a growing curiosity, I wrote requesting more information. Eighteen days later I received a reply. In my mailbox was an envelope without any postage affixed and no return address. The envelope and the message was handwritten, each letter, each word clearly defined and strikingly beautiful. I still have the letter for it is the only evidence I have of my experience, and I quote the unusual message verbatim: “The area of your home that contains an oblong, hollowed-out receptacle which receives heated fluid from an overhead construction is surrounded on three sides by a yellow flowered movable drape. Replace this screen with one of all white substance and comply with the following directive:

“Disrobe completely and enter the hollowed-out receptacle, placing a rubber insulation pad under both extremities. Open the valve that controls the flow of the fluid and adjust the temperature so that it coincides with your internal structural temperature. “Direct this flow to the encasement that houses your control mechanism. Secure the white drape so that you will be confined and isolated in the enclosure and as the vapor surround you, close your viewing ports and consider your dilemma. The solution will be provided.” It was signed “Physio.” The terminology used was weird and obviously, somebody was playing a joke on me. I was puzzled, because I didn’t tell anybody I was going to answer Physio’s ad and yet the writer knew that the shower curtain in my home was indeed a yellow, flowered plastic. I checked the

Boca Raton phone book. Nothing under “Physio.” I tried writing to Physio at the address I had, but this only compounded my puzzlement for my letter was returned, marked “Undeliverable…no such address.” I checked my copy of Fortune Magazine, looking for the ad. I was sure it was in the July l998 issue, but perhaps I was wrong because I couldn’t find the ad. I contacted the people at Fortune Magazine who tried to be helpful but they required more specific information before they could help me. I decided not to waste any more of my time on ‘Physio’, and resumed my efforts to earn a living, but no matter what I did, the letter intruded upon my thoughts. With nothing to lose and on a sudden whim, I decided to go along with Physio’s instructions, and purchased a white shower curtain and rubber bath mat.

I am a writer currently experiencing ‘writer’s bloc.’ My ‘dilemma’ was that I had created a particularly thorny, threatening situation for my fictional hero and could not logically extricate him. I was stymied to a point of desperation. Feeling foolish as I disrobed, I carefully stepped into the shower, standing squarely on the bath mat and made some minor adjustment to the temperature of the water. The light reflecting off the white curtain was blinding, forcing me to close my eyes, and as I stood there with the water cascading off the back of my neck, a languid feeling of isolation engulfed me. I felt insulated from all external stimuli as I visualized my literary dilemma. Amazingly, a flow of ideas penetrated my consciousness, simplistic but practical. The solution, which now seemed so obvious, was unique and clever. Was this a coincidence? Were there physiological benefits from the hot water increasing circulation to my brain? Was it my focus of concentration? Had Physio created some self-hypnotic technique that stimulated creativity? Happily, I opted in favor of Physio’s mystical message, gaining confidence as I explored new literary vistas. My days and nights are filled with feverish writing, relying on Physio for ideas and energy. I am hollow-eyed from lack of sleep; I am emaciated for I have no appetite. I have secluded myself from my friends. I create and write day and night. I shower frequently, asking the same question that remains unanswered: “Should I…must I share this secret of my increased productivity?”

I am loathe to do so even though my instincts tell me until I do I will have no peace. I am prepared to pay the price, any price, for writing is now my number one passion.

ALMOST A HERO

admin — Wed, 07 Nov 2007 19:22:22 +0000

ALMOST A HERO

By Leon Berger

Flight 727 out of FLL, scheduled to leave at 3:30 p.m. was ‘delayed’’ and Henry had two hours to kill. He soon tired of watching the peculiarities of fellow travelers, amused by their various shapes and bizarre clothing, decided instead to read a story by Roberto Bolano which was featured in the August 8^th issue of the “New Yorker.”

Bolano ‘s previous works had fascinated Henry. Having seen his picture on a book jacket, he dressed in a similar fashion: faded blue jeans, bush jacket, dark glasses and a Yankee baseball cap tilted rakishly over a lean face grizzled with a two day stubble. In truth, Henry’s appearance belied his real nature, that of a cautious and introversive husband whose globe trotting was limited to infrequent trips to

Chicago to visit his grand-children.

The constant bothersome noises in the terminal interfered with Henry’s concentration. He put down the magazine and sat quietly for five minutes, eyes closed. Bored and hungry, he decided to check out the food court. The odors of grilled kielbasa were irresistible. Against his better judgment he ordered the foot long sausage lathered with mustard and relish, counter-balancing the tray with a frosted Bud. Half-way through the meal, the bubbling and growling that issued from deep within his gut attracted the curiosity of fellow travelers within a 10 foot radius.

Two hours later, 15 minutes airborne, uncomfortably settled up front in business class, Henry unbuckled his safety belt and staggered to the lavatory, obtaining immediate but partial relief. As he sat there, he examined the narrow confines of his haven, marveling at the many passenger comforts crowded into the claustrophobic space. The counter and sink were spotless; tissues, towels and soap dispenser were full. “What’s this…?” He shook his head in disbelief for behind the soap dispenser, resting on a tissue, gleaming in the fluorescent light was a full upper denture. “Hard to believe, but some poor schnook is back in his seat without his teeth” Amused, he determined that he would restore the teeth to its rightful owner.

Exiting the lavatory, the wrapped denture in his pocket, Henry approached the Flight Attendant. “Hi. Listen, somebody forgot their denture in the toilet.

Could you make some kind of announcement over the inter-com?”

She stared at him coldly. “No, I can’t do that; it would only embarrass the passenger.”

“Can I leave it with you?”

“No, I have no provision for lost items.”

“Okay, what should I do with it then?”

“You can put the teeth back where you found it or turn it over to Lost and Found when we arrive at O’Hare.”

“I would like to speak to the Captain.”

“That’s not possible. I suggest you go back to your seat; you are creating a disturbance. This is an official warning.”

Henry, momentarily speechless, muttered ‘thank you’ and went back to his seat. The total absurdity of his conversation with the attendant didn’t sit easy with him and the more he rehashed the conversation the more determined he was to return the denture to its owner. It should be quite simple. The owner of the teeth was undoubtedly a male, assuming a female would have checked her appearance before exiting the lavatory. So Henry, despite his intestinal discomfort, decided to undertake the humanitarian task of locating a man with sunken cheeks. With growing excitement at the challenge, Henry stood up. If the attendant didn’t approve, so be it.

First Class was no problem as he scrutinized the occupants who were dozing or involved with their computers. No sunken cheeks. The occupants in Tourist class required more careful scrutiny since the light was dim and passengers more numerous. The cabin noise diminished as the passengers observed Henry working his way up the aisle, examining each male face. The Flight Attendant, chatting with her male counterpart, was unaware of the growing consternation of the passengers.

Row by row, Henry progressed up the aisle and when he reached row 22, he sensed victory for the passenger occupying the window seat, seemingly engrossed in reading a newspaper, had the important criteria he was looking for: sunken cheeks. The man, unkempt and scruffy, continued to read as Henry, a smile on his lips, called out “Sir.”

No response. Henry called out again, louder: “Sir.” The man ignored him and continued to read. Was this man deaf?, The tension in the cabin was palpable as Henry, this time leaning over two cowering passengers, attempted to tap the fellow on the shoulder. Suddenly, unexpectedly, the man jumped up, muttering excitedly as he tried to escape from his seat. Henry, startled, jerked back, tripped over his own feet, fell heavily, hitting his head on the arm rest of the seat across the aisle. The cabin was in an uproar as Henry blacked out.

******************

“Henry, wake up. Wake up, Henry.”

Henry opened his eyes, confused by his surroundings, unable to comprehend why an I.V. drip was attached to his arm. Standing at the foot of his bed, smiling, was a muscular, heavily built stranger.

“Who are you? What is this place?”

“I’m Detective Sommer. You’re in a hospital with a slight concussion. Do you remember what happened?”

Henry closed his eyes; his head hurt.

“Yeah, I think so. I found some false teeth and I was trying to find the owner.” Suddenly, he remembered. “What the hell was wrong with that fellow? His cheeks were sunken.”

Sommers, no longer smiling: “Yeah, that’s the story the attendant told me but I had to hear it from you. The teeth didn’t belong to that gentleman. His cheeks were sunken because he hasn’t had a square meal in two weeks. He bolted because he is an illegal from

Nicaragua trying to get to his brother in

Chicago. His papers were forged and he thought you were a Federal Agent I don’t know if the airline is going to file any charges against you, Henry, but if you ever pull a stunt like this again, you’re going to be in deep trouble.”

No charges were filed against Henry. The airline preferred to drop the matter rather than explain how a passenger with crudely forged documents was able to board the plane as a passenger. The teeth were returned to the airline and Henry’s bush-jacket, wrinkled and soiled, hangs in his closet, suitable attire for the June trip to

Chicago.

AH, WILMA, HOW YOU’VE CHANGED

admin — Wed, 17 Oct 2007 18:31:52 +0000

AH, WILMA, HOW YOU’VE CHANGED

By Leon Berger

I was physically attracted to Wilma when she wore knee high boots and a

quasi-military uniform complete with stun gun hanging low on her waist as

she coursed through the galaxy, accompanied by her stalwart companion Buck.

Suddenly, a scant 60 odd years later, Wilma is a bundle of energy, zigzagging

out of

Africa destined for the southern tip of

Florida where she satisfied her

insatiable appetite for phone and electric grids, pool enclosures, beautiful but

shallow ficus trees and of course, ceramic tiles. I won’t mention trailer parks;

that’s a given. Then she was gone, leaving to the hapless burghers the arduous

task of healing the wounds inflicted by this tempestuous vixen.

“Harry, what are you doing about having the pool enclosure rescreened.?”

“We’re on the list. I figure they will get around to us sometime in January.”

“What about the roof tile?”

“You must be kidding?”

Phone rings. Lois picks up the phone on the second ring. “Hello. Hold on,

I’ll get him.”

“Harry, it’s for you.”

“Who is it?”

“He didn’t say, but apparently he knows you. He asked for ‘Harry.’ “

“Hello.”

“Harry, we would like to send a crew over to rescreen your patio. There will

be no charge for this service.”

“You’ve got the wrong guy, buster. I don’t know who you are but I can

recognize a scam a mile off. Why don’t you hang up and get an honest job.”

“Harry, I represent’Physio’. We have done business before.”

“I don’t think so. I never heard of you.”

‘Harry, check page 25 of your journal*”

“My journal? Are you sure you have the right party?”

“Quite sure.”

“Okay. Tell me, why am I the lucky recipient of such benefaction? You did

say it would be free.”

“This is going to be difficult, but I’ll try. Your property came with a variance that created a geometric anomaly so that the vertices of the polygon…. ..no, this isn’t going to work out. Think back, Harry. . You answered our ad at the turn of the century and constructed a ‘thinking area’ that changed your life .”

Harry struggles to remember. . “Look, give me a minute. I just want to

check this out.” “Don’t take too long. You have been allotted 30 seconds to make a decision. 30 seconds, no more, no less.”

“Lois, quick, get my journal. You look in the den; I’ll check the playroom.

There’s something familiar about what this guy is saying.”

Lois scampers off, but returns obviously flustered. “What journal, Harry?”

“My book. My book. There’s a story on page 25. I want to refresh my

memory”

Lois returns. “Harry, I can’t find your book. Where do you keep it?”

“That’s alright; I found my copy.” Checks page 25 and reads the title out loud: ‘The Message’. Scans the story, a confused expression on his face.

“ Damn, he’s right. ‘Physio’ was the name of the company that placed that

weird ad in Fortune magazine. Their company provided information on how to

convert the shower into a ‘thinking area’ and it really worked.” Picks up the

phone. “Hello, hello”. The line is dead. “ I guess when he said ‘30seconds’ he

meant it.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t hang up on him. You’re the one who always tells

me that ‘there is no such thing as a free lunch’ and that ‘you always get what you

pay for.’ “

“Yeah, it slipped my mind. Lois, I’m going to take a shower.”

“Harry, it’s 4:30 in the afternoon. You took a shower this morning.”

“I know, but this time I’ve got some thinking to do.”

One-half hour later, Harry, a towel wrapped around his waist, his hair moist,

and hanging over his forehead, confronts Lois. “I think we can be proud of the

way we handled Wilma. We were resolute and mature in the way we faced the

problems she caused. We did what had to be done and we are going to resolve the

problems of the aftermath in the same fashion. How does that sound?”

“It sounds good to me, Harry, but tell me did you really require one-half-hour

in the shower to come up with that strategy?”

______________*SURVIVAL IN BOCA RATON published by Trafford Publishing

THE CANE by Leon Berger

admin — Sun, 14 Oct 2007 19:15:10 +0000

I buried my head in my mother’s skirt. I was frightened. This man, this crazy man was waving a stick as he walked down off the plane. His eyes fixed in our direction. His face looked like a skull and his clothes didn’t fit properly… they were too big. He was shouting at us and leaning heavily on a stick as he limped in our direction. I started to cry.“Hush, child. Don’t cry. That’s your father.” I was one year old when he left to serve his country. Now he is returning, four years later, shouting, crying and waving a stick. He hugged my mother and then tried to pick me up. I wouldn’t let him. I went limp and crumpled to the floor. My eyes were glued to the shiny silver handle on the end of the stick. He started to cry and my mother comforted him. This was my father, a troubled, tormented man who spent four years in Santo Tomas, a death camp in the Philippines

For fifteen years I heard the story… time and time again, how they beat and starved him. His voice became shrill when he described how one sadistic guard broke his leg because he moved too slowly and would have continued to beat him except for the Commandant who interceded and saved his life. “The camp had no doctor, butt Commandant Akiko Yoshikawa, a Princeton graduate, excused me from working and allowed me stay in my bunk until my leg healed. ” ‘The guards will beat you as usual, but not as hard. You will continue to receive the same food as your fellow prisoners, for to treat you as a favorite, would cause great resentment against you. However I will see to it that you will survive. “I didn’t know why I was receiving his special attention, but I was grateful. I used to hobble around using an improvised plank as a cane until one day Commandant Yoshikawa informed me that the guard who distributes the food had a cane he would exchange for my Red Cross cigarettes. I remember what he said: ‘the cane you will receive belongs to me; it has sentimental, historical meaning to my family. I am not giving it to you. I am loaning it to you, to use until you arrive at your home in the United States. Someday, when the war is over, I will visit you and you will return the cane to me.’ I swore to him that I would never forget his kindness and this cane has never left my side.”

Commandant Yoshikawa never came for his cane; he was executed as a war criminal. My father passed away fifteen years later, broken in mind and body. I stayed at home with my mother and when she died ten years later I inherited everything, including the cane which I kept in an umbrella stand by the front door. For fifty two years, whenever I polished the handle of the cane, I thought of my father and how circumstances beyond our control shape our destiny. I remained a bachelor, acquiring my share of physical problems as I grew older. When spinal stenosis affected my balance, I relied on my father’s cane. It served me well, but always evoking sentimental memories. In the year 2003, I booked a flight to visit a niece on the West Coast. Possibly because of an Orange alert, airport security seemed unusually diligent and thorough. I was given a chair, asked to remove my shoes which, together with my cane, was fluoroscoped.. I became concerned for whatever showed up on the screen excited much activity and glances in my direction. A young security guard approached, carrying my shoes. “Please put on your shoes and follow me.” “I can’t walk without my cane and what about my flight? I don’t want to miss it.” “We’ll get you a wheel chair, but I am afraid you are going to miss your flight.” I was wheeled into a small room adjacent to the Fluoroscopic unit. They placed my cane on the table before me. “What’s in the cane?” “I don’t understand what you’re saying?” “The cane is hollow and there is something in the cane. Show us how to remove the handle or we will have to cut the cane in half.” “Hold on. You can’t do that, that’s my cane. It means a great deal to me. I don’t know anything about it being hollow or what it contains.”

The questions that were rapid and confusing: “Where did you get it? How long have you had it? Have you ever served time in prison?”

After I explained the circumstances, I could see they were sympathetic, but they had a job to do and they let me watch as they cut the cane. To my amazement hundreds of diamonds, wrapped in cotton batting, came pouring out! An aluminum cane was provided to me and I returned home. I was no longer interested in going to the West Coast. . I now have a lawyer who assures me that we have a good case; the diamonds should be mine. The Government’s position is that the diamonds were taken from the prisoners and that ownership will have to be adjudicated.

I’m glad my father never realized what a cruel, calculating bastard Akiko Yoshikawa was. It is obvious to me that his execution prevented him from reaping the benefits of a plan that required crippling my father and pretending to be his savior.

GADZOOKS, NOT SAMSA AGAIN+

admin — Mon, 08 Oct 2007 22:55:25 +0000

GADZOOKS, NOT SAMSA AGAIN

By Leon Berger

It was bitterly cold for March, the year was 1915 and depression hung like a shroud over nations involved in the Great War as they tallied the mounting casualties. Diversion, though temporary, was provided by an electrifying item that appeared in newspapers throughout the world: a resident of

Prague, George Samsa, had gone to bed early in the evening, slept peacefully and woke to find himself transformed overnight into a grotesque dung beetle.

This nightmarish event was challenged by many skeptics. Others, more literate, presented various explanations tied into the philosophy of Sigmund Freud. Dr. Freud made no comment about this extraordinary event but the

chronicle was recorded by Franz Kafka and the authenticity of the above facts can be verified in a publication entitled THE METAMORPHOSIS.

Mr. Samsa’s transfiguration occupied the public press briefly, replaced by the tragic events occurring on the Western front, ultimately eradicating the name George Samsa from public consciousness..

Now, in the fifth year of the 21^st century, startling information of similar significance was brought to my attention. The facts were revealed to me only when I agreed to protect the anonymity of the persons involved.

A remarkable event, a striking alteration of an 18 year old American male occurred overnight, observed but not immediately recognized by his parents, who, for their own survival, practiced ‘selective sight.’ This allowed them to ‘not see’ the floor of his bedroom, strewn with clean and dirty clothing, smelling like a wet cat extricated from a clogged sewer pipe. They, particularly his father, created a protective shield which softened the guttural grunts and unintelligible sounds emanating from their son whenever he wanted food or transportation. They refrained from asking him to bring out the garbage or to bring in the newspaper, thus avoiding the dismal sight of his sullen, reluctant compliance. In truth his parents hoped that they had the fortitude to retain their sanity until their pride and joy was accepted by an out of state University.

The metamorphose was recognized on the 9th of June and was recounted to me by the boy’s mother:

“We were watching television when we heard a deep bass voice calling from the upstairs bedroom:

“‘Mother, there is a phone call for you.’”

“We were both startled and I whispered to my husband: ‘Ben, that wasn’t Chet’s voice. Who’s up there with him? Ben, his face ashen, pointing to the phone, ignored my question.

“My heart was racing as I picked up the phone, relieved to recognize a familiar voice. It was my friend Judy who asked: ‘Phyllis, what’s going on? I actually had a conversation with your son. Is everything okay?’

“I told her that I couldn’t talk to her at that moment but would phone her later and replaced the phone in its cradle. Then Ben and I, hand in hand, mounted the stairs not knowing what we would discover in our son’s room. The door was closed; I knocked once and opened the door without waiting for a reply.

“Chet was at his desk, papers neatly stacked, apparently doing his homework. The carpet was free from all clutter exposing for the first time in four years two throw rugs on a rich walnut floor. The closet door, open to view, revealed order and neatness.

“We stood there, Ben and I, transfixed, flabbergasted and speechless, the silence broken when Chet turned to face us and in a remarkably clear voice asked if he could borrow the car on Saturday. ‘ I’m taking Lois Roger to the prom and, incidentally, I will need some cash. Do you think we could work out something if I cut the grass and bring in the firewood?”

“I heard myself asking if Lois was the young lady who was voted the Queen of the Prom? ‘Yes, that’s the same Lois, and mother, are you aware of how dirty the windows are. If you show me how to wash the windows, I can do them this week end.’

“Later, within the privacy of our bedroom, Ben and I pondered the transformation of our son. When and how had it occurred? Would the transformation last? We agreed the answers were not important; the reality was all that mattered. We laughed and then cried, energized by the surprising turn of events.”

After hearing her story, I did some research in the Journal of Neurophysiology and I learned that teen age romantic love can cause a catalytic action permitting out-of-character behavior.

The everyday sights and familial relationships that George Samsa could no longer enjoy contributed to his bizarre death when a barrage of ripe apples put an end to his life.

The game for young Chet has not played out yet, but he has all the cards for a winning hand. If he plays them skillfully it is most likely he will avoid the tedious climb up a dung heap.

All names have been changed and any similarity to sons or grandsons is not intended and is purely coincidental.