Old Notes

 “That’s a lot of money.”

“But is it good money?”

I looked at Pete. I was about to say that that was a stupid question, but then, to be honest, I had briefly wondered the same thing myself, so I guess it wasn’t so stupid after all. It was old money, anybody could see that, two thick bundles of one hundred dollar bills stuffed in a decaying wooden box laid open on the floor in front of us.

“Let’s bring it into the other room,” I said, my voice muffled through the respirator. “This plaster dust isn’t helping.” I closed the box up and brought it with me.

Two sawhorses with an eight foot plank at waist height running between them was set up in the room where I kept all of the equipment, and I placed the box on the plank. Removing my respirator and safety glasses, I said, “I don’t think U.S. currency goes bad, at least twentieth-century currency,” feeling pretty sure I was right about that. I reopened the box and lifted out one of the two bundles. “And here’s Benjamin Franklin, my favorite founding father.”

“The Federal Reserve Bank of Cleveland Ohio,” read Pete, staring at the other bundle still in the box. He read it slowly, like a third grader.

“1929,” I put in.

It was old money, but it was nice, clean money. When these notes were placed in the box God knows how many years ago these bills had never been circulated; they were still smooth and crisp, as they would have been right off the press. I carefully extracted one note from the bundle I was holding. There wasn’t a sign of water damage or mold on it, and the other bills weren’t stuck together like I feared. The band holding bundle together was secure.

“There’s a notebook here,” said Pete.

“See what’s in it,” I said, riffling through the bills doing a quick count.

It was a small, black, leather-bound notebook filled with delicate thin paper. A couple of the pages were dog-eared and a barely decipherable pencil script covered the first fifteen pages or so.

“Lots of numbers, not many words,” said Pete, flipping through it. “Women’s names, Dolly, Pat, Sue, and—“ here Pete squinted “—Katherine? Katrina?”

“It looks like there’s a hundred here and the same probably for the one in the box,” I said. “A hundred hundreds, ten thousand each. That makes two grand.”

“Hey, what about the owner?” Pete asked. “Is coming today?” Pete was my helper for the day and wasn’t around when the job first started. He hadn’t met the owner.

“Good point. I never know, he just shows up. But, listen, I’m thinking Mr. Cassidy doesn’t need to know about what we found in his wall. That’s what I’m thinking. What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking the same thing.”

“Go to the front window and watch out for him while I check this other bundle.”

Sure enough, it all came to twenty grand. Back in 1929 twenty grand must’ve been worth, what? A million? Two million? Pete came back and we replaced the money and the notebook in the box. We rolled the box up in a canvas drop cloth and messily placed the whole thing in one corner of the room so it looked like the drop cloth had been indiscriminately kicked there.

Then we went back to work. We had to keep working. It was important not to arouse suspicion. We each picked up a sledgehammer and a crowbar, put our respirators and ear plugs and safety glasses back on and started banging away at the wall again. This was one of those old-fashioned lath and horsehair plaster walls that kicked up a ton of dust when you did this. Our respirators were hardly proof against the thick white clouds that covered every inch of us and coated our safety glasses so bad we could hardly see. Meanwhile my mind was furiously working out the problem of how we could possibly pass these antique bills. I imagined that would be quite complicated. Probably they were worth more than their face value.

I had a feeling Pete’s mind was working, too. Pete and I knew each other from high school but we were only acquaintances, never buddies. Since high school we had bumped into each other from time to time at parties or downtown or whatnot, and I knew he was never steadily employed and he was strong and usually available for work like this. Pete was fairly well known to the police. He’d been to court a few times, placed on probation once or twice, never jailed. He might have been a housebreaker a time or two, although that was never proven. There was a famous unsolved murder of a girl a couple of years back and when it happened I thought of Pete, just thought of him with nothing substantial to connect him to anything, but Pete’s name did cross my mind. And now we were partners. I wasn’t sure how I liked that.

At noon Pete announced he had to grab lunch.

“I thought you brought a lunch,” I said.

“It’s liverwurst sandwiches,” he said. “I’m sick of liverwurst. I’m gonna get something at the sub shop. You want anything?”

I told him no. Pete nodded okay and stepped into the other room where he took off his respirator and safety glasses and slapped as much of the plaster dust off of his clothes and hair as he could. Then he went into the bathroom and scrubbed his face and hands with soap and water.

“Sure you don’t want anything?” he asked me when he was ready, reaching for the door. His face was pink and shiny from the wash.

“No, I’m fine,” I said. 

After he closed the door I walked over to the window to watch him get into his car. He started the car, then I saw him raise his phone to his ear as he pulled away.

He was planning something. I knew it. If he wasn’t planning something he would have discussed with me what he thought we should do about the money, but instead he kept quiet. He kept quiet because he was working things out for himself. It took no genius to figure he was getting in touch with one of his criminal buddies.

So now I had to decide what to do. Maybe I had a half an hour, possibly an hour, but not much time.

At first I guessed his plan was to come back with a confederate to strong-arm me out of the money, but that didn’t make sense because he’d wind up with the same problem, having to split the money with someone else. I assumed that was what his goal was, to keep the whole twenty grand for himself. Whoever he was talking to couldn’t know exactly what he was up to. So I then thought he was after a weapon. He needed to pick up a weapon, namely a gun. He’d come back with a gun and put it in my face and relieve me of the money. But would he just rob me? Was twenty grand worth killing someone over? Sure it was. Absolutely. Why risk leaving someone behind to talk to the police? There’s a lot of wisdom to the “leave no witnesses” rule.

I hadn’t the slightest doubt he was on the phone right now asking one of his larcenous friends for the loan of a gun. He’d give the guy three hundred dollars for the gun, provided the gun was cleaned and loaded when he got there. All right, he’d concede, he’d pay five hundred if the gun’s cleaned and loaded and his buddy stops asking questions. At no time did I think Pete was actually getting a sandwich.

Should I play the honest citizen and call the cops about the money? Here’s a cold case for you, officer. Check it out. They’d come right over and then my neck would be saved. Or I could just leave. Just hop in my truck and take off before Pete comes back. Now if I left with the money, he’d hunt me down, and that was no good. But if I left the money here? He’d come back with his weapon, a nine millimeter most likely, see my truck gone, see me gone, no note or anything, assume I just picked up and skedaddled, and there’s the money still in the corner. That way maybe he would just take it and leave me alone. The coward’s way out.

Or I could defend myself because I had just as much right to that money as he did. More, because it was my job. He wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for me. The way I saw it, I’m sharing the money with him. Here’s the thing about a work site. If you need a weapon, there are plenty to choose from: hammer, screwdriver, box cutter, crowbar. Sledgehammers are too unwieldy, but here in my toolbox I had a nice framing hammer, sort of a regular-looking hammer with an extra long handle and a good grip. Of course, it would never be a match against a gun. Gun beats hammer every time. If I was to defend myself, there would also need to be some kind of strategy. Say, a Pearl Harbor-type surprise attack, for instance.

Twenty-five minutes. Long line at the sub shop, Pete? It’s only right down the street, pal.

Then it hit me. Of course he’d have to buy a sub just to make it look right. Why didn’t I think of that? Walking in here without a lunch would tip me off. So Pete had two stops to make.

So I waited. It occurred to me that the hammer felt pretty good in my hand. This framing hammer of mine, I had to say, had a nice heft. I’ve always admired it. I don’t know if they balanced these things in the factory like you would balance a tire but that’s what it felt like, balanced. You could drive a three inch nail into solid oak with one blow if you tried. Swing it down in a big arc and BANG!

The clock continued to tick. Forty-five minutes. Christ, this is taking a long time. Maybe he’s not coming back? Ridiculous. Of course he’ll be back. Twenty grand, come on. But this waiting is making me nervous.

Then finally — finally! — Pete’s car shows up. He drives a vintage Dodge Challenger with a loud exhaust, metallic green with mag wheels in the back like he’s still a teenager. Pete gets out of the car, throws down a cigarette, steps on it, and sure enough he’s carrying a paper bag from the sub shop. “CORRADO’S,” it says, big red letters, all caps. The right pocket of his coat is weighted down. The gun. 

Should a person think much at times like these? Or should he just react? It’s important to watch your breath, this much I know, and whatever you do, do not hesitate. But breathing, breathing is everything. Breathe!

Pete strides up the walk, opens the door, and I pop him good just as he steps in, one time on the head with the hammer. Down he goes. The bag with the sub in it skids noisily across the floor and clears a path through the film of plaster dust. Pete’s head comes to rest near the radiator, the one that’s been making an annoying clanking sound all day, and maybe his head hits the radiator a little bit near where the shut-off valve is. I reach into his right-hand coat pocket and fish out a can of Coke and a Snickers bar. No gun. Pete’s not moving. His face looks funny.

The Kincaid Detective Agency

Chapter Two

The next morning I was awakened by sharp repeated knocks at the office door. Whoever it was was determined to be let in, tattooing it for all it was worth. Building management had long suspected I'd been making my office my permanent residence and they had, from time to time, tried to catch me leaving evidence of this violation of the lease. When questioned about my unusual hours, my argument had always been that people work late and sometimes put in all-nighters. Was that so hard to understand? I glanced at my watch. Eight-thirty. Well, that's business hours, or close to it. Surely if it's them they have nothing to grouse about now, at least not about that. Not leaving anything to chance, I jumped out of my cot, folded it up and quickly stowed it into the supply closet. Fortunately being in the habit of sleeping in my clothes, all I had to do next was pull on my pants. I stole a brief glance in the mirror to see where I had to flatten down my hair. Meanwhile whoever it was on the other side of the door kept beating out every chapter of Moby Dick in Morse code.

Finally I opened the door.

Holy Cats!

Standing at my threshold was a dame like what you see in the movies. Auburn hair, hazel eyes, statuesque, hour-glass figure, tailored business suit, the works, a real class act. Think Rita Hayworth with an Ivory Soap girl complexion. But there was something about her that looked familiar. I couldn't put my finger on it just yet. She held a black valise.

"James Kincaid?" she asked.

"At your service." She was so good-looking the words sort of stuck in my throat.

She took a look inside. "Gave the maid the year off?"

Even though I damn well knew exactly what my office looked like, I automatically turned around and gave the sty a good honest scrutiny myself. No question, it was a disgrace. "I've been understaffed," I explained.

She took a couple of steps past me into the office. "So I've heard."

"And you are?"

"Rachel Billings."

"How may I help you, Miss Billings?"

"I left a few things outside the door, James. Bring them in for me, would you please?"

"Sure," I said. "Why not?" Right. Just walk in and tell me what to do. And like a sap I did what she asked. I stepped outside the door into the hall and found a large plastic tub with a black rubber hose curled up inside of it. There was also a towel and washcloth, a bag full of what appeared to be cleaning supplies, and a blue plastic tarp. Next to the tub was a medium-size cardboard box. I picked the tub and its contents up and brought it in.

"You mean this?" I asked, holding it out toward her like an idiot. Her attention, however, was fixed on my untidy desk.

"Yes," she said, and walked toward the desk. She picked up an empty bottle of Jack Daniels from the neck with her thumb and forefinger as if handling an infected bat. She dropped it in the wastebasket.

"Where would you like it?" I asked, meaning the plastic tub.

"Anywhere for right now," she replied rather absently. "Don't forget the other thing out there." Then she stepped over to one end of the desk and quite deliberately and methodically swept everything but the telephone off of it onto the floor with her outstretched arm.

"Hey!" I yelled.

"All of that can go," she said wiping off the sleeve of her jacket. She set the black valise on the desk and extracted something rectangular and metallic from it. With a click the thing opened up like a tiny suitcase and she set it down on the desk positioning it toward her. Then she settled into the desk chair.

"Just who are you?"

"Believe it or not, I'm your new secretary."

"What? From the agency?"

She let out a little chuckle. "'Agency.' That's priceless."

"All right, who did send you?"

"Your benefactoress, Rita Delmarco."

"My client, you mean. She sent you? How do you know Rita?"

"She's my cousin."

"Uh huh," I said. No response, no elaboration. She started tapping away at something on that gadget. "I can see charm school manners are a family trait," I remarked. Nothing. No response to that either. But one thing I could see was a definite family resemblance. If you took Rita, de-aged her about ten years, sent her to finishing school, gave her a dozen spa treatments, unlimited credit at Saks Fifth Avenue, and locked her away in a beauty salon for a month, this is pretty much what you'd get.

"Wifi hasn't been invented yet I suppose, has it, James?" she finally said. "Fortunately I took the trouble to get chummy with the receptionist next door and got their password."

"You mean at Doctor Peepers' office?"

"Right. 'Doctor Peepers, Oculist.' What a hoot."

"His real name is Wesniak."

"Really? Not Peepers? How surprising."

"It's a professional name. You never heard his commercials on the radio?"

"I haven't."

"Well, I won't try to sing his jingle."

"Thank you."

"It's catchy though."

"No doubt."

She continued to silently tap away, oblivious to my presence. She had what I call a cultured look, a Radcliffe or Wellesley College way about her. Those kind of dames can start a fellow off on the wrong foot and keep him there. I felt I had to make excuses for stuff I was never ashamed of before. I could see there were a couple of other peculiarities about the Humboldt Building I should let her know about while we were on the subject.

"I might as well tell you now there's a clown college that takes up the entire fourth floor."

Rachel Billings stopped what she was doing and looked at me with genuine surprise. I wasn't kidding. My office building really had a clown college. I told her about the time the students literally broke the elevator from too many clowns piled in it. This piece of news cracked her up. When she looked straight at me and laughed, and I mean really laughed, nothing sarcastic or pretentious but laughing as a kid might laugh, I felt, I don't know, a connection with her you could say. As pretty as I thought her before, she looked even prettier now.

"No! A clown college?" she finally said. "Do you see the students? I mean, do they go about here dressed as clowns?"

"Sometimes they do. This one clown, Sparkles, is in costume all the time. I suspect he's part of the faculty."

More laughter.

"Oh my god!" she exclaimed. "Doctor Peepers the Oculist, a clown college, and a dime novel private eye, all housed together. This is too much! Wonderful! Wonderful!"

I thought I might as well complete the job. "There's a talent agency run by an older couple in their eighties on the third floor. They specialize in ventriloquists and magicians."

"Of course they do!" she said, clapping her hands.

"Everything else is pretty much run of the mill," I went on. "Oh, that receptionist you talked to is Doctor Peepers' daughter. She's really proud of the old man, so don't go making fun of his professional name."

"I won't, but surely she can see the fun of it."

"Possibly. If I have it straight, she was the one who thought up Doctor Peepers when she was a little girl. And -- hold on to your hat -- she has a professional name too."

"Oh no," she said, her eyes growing wider.

"Penelope Peepers," I said.

Uncontrollable laughter now. It went on for about a minute. When it subsided, I finished by saying, "She'll let you call her Penny once you get to know her."

"That's very nice," Rachel Billings said, wiping her eyes.

Penny Peepers and I were pretty good friends, in fact. Once, for about a week, the john in my office went out of commission and I had to beg the use of Doctor Peepers' bathroom before building management finally got around to fixing mine. Conversation with Penny was inevitable and I got the feeling she might not have had a lot of friends growing up. Very plain to look at with a brutal pageboy haircut that didn't suit her, always looking straight ahead into the empty air when she spoke in a monotone voice, you could tell she must have eaten many a lunch alone in her high school cafeteria. Yet there was something about her that instantly won me over. She was what I call the genuine article, one of those artless human beings possessing none of the social graces. She was prone to saying innocent, rather awkward things, things that people found either off-putting or endearing, depending on who you are. For instance, noticing my clothes one day, she asked me if I was an actor studying for a part. She wasn't trying to be wise with me, it was a sincere question. In my mind -- and I certainly never said this to her face -- I started calling her Truepenny, a nod to Hamlet, if you care to know.

At this point I started picking up on other similarities between Rita Delmarco and Rachel Billings. Their laugh was nearly identical and they shared several facial expressions. Rita had what I call a mobile mouth. A mobile mouth is the kind of mouth that sort of ranges freely from north to south and east to west and is capable of assuming more shapes than the average human's, kind of rubber-like. I considered this expressive mouth Rita's best trait. It accented everything she said. Rita could make a statement as banal as "I went to the store for a loaf of bread" come off as hilarious with a smirk most people could never attempt, let alone replicate. And the mobile mouth looked particularly good on Rachel Billings, especially with that bewitching shade of lipstick she was wearing.

"Well, James, this is a marvelous funhouse you have here. But down to business. Rita says she gave you a list."

"Yes, she did."

"Did you take the trouble to read it?"

"Yes, I did."

"May I see it?"

"Yes, you may. Let me sift through the pile you graciously deposited here on the floor."

"Take your time."

"Thank you."

I found the sheet of paper containing Rita's list of bullet points beneath a spilled ashtray. I shook away the ashes and handed it to Rachel Billings. After leaving the coffee shop the day before, I walked over to Central Park and plunked myself down on my favorite bench near the statue of Sir Walter Scott. There I reviewed the contents of what Rita so considerately spelled out for me. The bullet points represented a combination of useful information and what she thought was helpful advice. The information consisted of Gerald L. Postlethwayt's home address, his attorney's office address and phone number, and so on, facts pertinent to the investigation. The advice part included the names of several "young men's clothing stores," "popular barbershops near you," housekeeping and hygiene tips, and a morning schedule to follow. "Most mornings, rise at no later than 6:00am and, weather permitting, take a brisk forty-five minute walk." "Wash and shave thoroughly and change into freshly laundered clothes." That sort of thing. I suppose I should have been offended, but coming from Rita I wasn't.

I broke in on Rachel Billings' concentration to ask, "So should I call you Miss Billings? Or Rachel?"

"Oh," she said, abruptly glancing up at me, "do not, under any circumstances, give me a nickname. I will not abide anything like Toots or Dollface. I've heard of this unfortunate propensity of yours and will not stand for it."

"So, Rachel then?"

"Billings."

"Call you Rachel Billings?"

"Just Billings. Let me finish reading this."

"Wait, why Billings?"

"I think it will help keep our relationship professional. It provides distance, don't you think?"

"Sure."

Actually, I found the idea of calling her Billings sort of sexy, but I wouldn't tell her that.

When she had finished reading, Billings said, "Okay, so it looks like Rita is really trying to help you out here. Now, just so I can get a handle on things, I'd like to get a clearer picture of your, shall we say, condition. Rita warned me I wouldn't get anywhere, but no harm in trying. So." A pause. "Are you by any chance a big fan of detective novels, film noir, that sort of thing?"

"No more than the next guy."

"She said something about an incident, some kind of encounter, at Morningside Park on the Upper West Side a couple of years ago. Care to enlighten me about that?"

"Not especially."

"Do you remember what happened there?"

"Possibly."

"So what happened?"

"It was, shall we say, a casual stroll interrupted."

"Interrupted how?"

"By an irresistible force meeting an immovable object. From there things got a bit messy."

"Care to provide some details?"

"What did I just do?"

Billings shrugged.

"From what I see, and from what I've heard, you know exactly what's going on around you, and you are, underneath this -- this facade, a creature of modernity." No response from me on that. She gestured out toward the window. "That part of you, the part that grew up in the same era as myself and those kids walking with their teacher there in the park and the bus driver driving the bus down the street and the guy on the sidewalk selling hotdogs, is facilitating this bizarre anachronistic fantasy world you're living in. You're functional somehow, but how I don't know."

I remained silent.

"Okay, let's try this." She looked straight at me like a real zinger was coming my way. "Quick, what year is this?"

"We are in the year of our present day, Billings." Now I was starting to get annoyed. This wasn't secretary-type talk at all, this was therapist talk, and I have had my fill of that type of talk.

"Put a number on it."

"One."

"One?"

"One, I've got a job to do. Two, we're wasting time. Three, what the hell is the big plastic tub for?"

Billings sighed. "All right Mister Totally Unlicensed and Delusional Private Detective, I'll tell you. This tub and this hose is for when you don't have access to a shower -- which, if you'll pardon my saying, must happen often. A brief French bath at the sink every other day doesn't cut it, my friend. I know you have a membership at Equinox gyms, but your membership won't last forever and anyways their gym locations are not necessarily handy for your everyday showering needs. And, brother, if there's one thing you need right now, it's a good scrubbing down."

"Let's try not to be too subtle, Billings. I might not catch what you're getting at."

"So," Billings said, coming from around the desk and picking up the hose, "this is a hose used for washing machines and dishwashers. It's meant to be plugged into ordinary faucets like the one you have in your bathroom. It's got it's own doohickey here that you have to screw into your sink faucet so the hose connects in right. You'll have to take off the faucet's doohickey and put in the hose's doohickey. All this making sense so far?"

"Of course. It's the old doohickey switcheroo."

"Exactly. Then you hook the hose up to the faucet, lay the plastic tarp down on the floor, place the tub on top of the tarp, strip off your clothes, stand in the tub, and spray yourself down like a circus elephant."

"It sounds so easy."

"You'll probably get water all over the place the first few tries, but I'm sure you'll manage."

"Count on me."

"Rita says she gave you a starter set of clothing that prevents you from looking like grandpa back at his high school dance."

"Yeah, a question about that. How did Rita know what size clothing to get me?"

"That is a good question, James. I don't know and I really don't care."

Not much I could say to that quick retort.

"Look, Billings, why are you doing this?" I asked after an awkward pause. "I mean, how much is Rita paying you? God knows I can't afford it. Are you here to babysit me? You're no secretary, any moron can see that. Fifty bucks says you come from money, you've got a first class education from some snooty Ivy League school, and you're more used to giving orders than taking them, so all in all this has to be a big come-down for the likes of you."

Billings took a good long hard look at me. She suddenly grew very serious.

"I don't come from money," she said. "I went to a state school, and, not to put too fine a point on it, I am strictly Rita's poor relation."

"Ha! With those clothes and the proper upper class manners?"

"Yes, with these clothes and the proper upper class manners."

"Where are you from then?"

"South Boston."

"Why no accent?"

"Because not everyone from Southie has one, you simpleton. You're from money. You have a Columbia education -- or half of one. Why don't I hear the Hamptons instead of -- what would you call your style of speech anyway? Reform school?"

"Cultivated reform school, thank you, with notes of cynicism and a certain Byronic world-weariness."

"I see. It's still a work in progress though, isn't it, James?"

"I'm satisfied."

Billings stared me up and down, no doubt taking in every aspect of my pitifully disheveled state. Never had I been so aware of my four-day-old beard, my rank body odor, my dirty wrinkled clothes. Billings only response was, "Hm," before she stepped around the desk and reseated herself.

"You still haven't brought in the printer," she said after a stretch. "That's in the cardboard box outside in the hall."

"Printer," I repeated.

"It's a magical machine that makes images appear on paper. It's amazing, you'll love it. Just bring it in."

"Right," I said. And I brought it in.

"Plug it in for me, will you?" she asked when I plunked the heavy object down on the desk.

"Of course," I said. I took the gadget out of the box and found that the electrical cord just barely reached the outlet.

"I have a few things to do getting you set up for this case. In the meantime, James, tub, hose, shave, etcetera. Take your time, be thorough. I've already set up a haircut appointment for you at noon." I stared at her. "You have to fit in with this fitness club and pass yourself off as a respectable citizen, James, understand? They don't allow hobos in those places, and Gerry doesn't consort with the great unwashed. So get going." I stared at Billings some more. This exasperated her. "Please!" she said, slamming both palms down on the desk.

I meekly did as she asked. And, as predicted, I managed to get water all over the bathroom.

My Unsent Letter to Penthouse Forum

(Recently discovered in my old bedroom at my mother’s house under one corner of the rug.)

Dear Penthouse,

I used to think all those letters you publish were a total load of crap until this happened to me.

I was in the school library minding my own business reading The Odyssey when this chick, one of the smart kids wearing a sexy pair of wire-frame glasses and her hair done up in a pony tail, sits down at the table right across from me. She’s eyeing me and checking out the cover of my book and I can tell right away that she’s sizing me up as the intellectual type, right? So I’m acting like I don’t know she notices me, playing it cool, when I reach into my backpack and “accidentally” let my combination pocket thesaurus and dictionary drop out, like I didn’t mean it. So now it’s confirmed in her mind that I’m some kind of brainiac, which is what I want. Luckily I had my pocket protector already in place stuffed with about forty pens, and I was wearing those khakis that expose nine inches of sock even when I’m standing up, because nothing turns a chick like that on more than plenty of sock, if you know what I mean. They see all that white sock, comfortable and highly absorbent and cushiony, and they think probably your shoes are sensible too, which was true, they were practically orthopedic. I mean, my mom knows how to shop, you can ask anyone. Anyway she’s got me pegged for a true Mensa type now. Perfect.

But I see it’s up to me, the man, to start the conversation, because after a while she breaks out her notebook and books and starts to make like she’s all into studying, a total act. I see it’s second year AP biology, so I lean over and go, “How much do you know about the medulla oblongata? I always get that mixed up with the hypothalamus.” She gives me this look like I’m breaking into her concentration and acts like the question is beneath her, as if I’m a complete moron, obviously giving me the old “hard to get” approach, which is not very convincing I might add, but I decide to play along. So I go, “Hey, from one scholar to another, help me out here.” And then she — get this — she picks up all her crap and moves to another table.

So there she is, supposedly all in a huff, and whose table does she go to but the one that Bradford Mcinnerney is sitting at. Let me tell you about Bradford Mcinnerney. He wants people to actually call him Bradford, not Brad. That should say everything. He’s some big jock, a hero in the lacrosse world apparently. It looks like he spends an hour each morning brushing all one hundred and twenty of his teeth and styling his gorgeous locks. So this chick tells Bradford something and then he looks at me like he’s Clint Eastwood, all squinty-eyed with what he must think is a very intimidating scowl, so I quickly yet calmly stow The Odyssey and my thesaurus/dictionary into my backpack and commence a dignified and rapid exit. Only now Bradford stands up, even though the chick grabs his arm like she doesn’t want him to. 

So Bradford and, as it turns out, his Neanderthal buddy Edward Sudhalter, who was my friend in elementary school until he grew about ten feet and his fat turned into muscle, they cut me off and Bradford starts to say one thing and then he stops, looks at me hard, and says instead, “Wait a minute, aren’t you the kid they caught with his hand down his pants staring at Maryann Williams in Mr. Roberti’s chemistry class?” So right there I say the perfect thing, I say, “No,” although in my mind I’m thinking that technically my hand was not down my pants and I thought her name was Mary Jean.

So then he goes, “Oh yeah, you’re the guy. Schprockman, right? Heading home now to violate your pillow thinking of Cheryl over there?” Which immediately was score one for me, because now I know her name is Cheryl. Pretty crafty, right?

Then Bradford grabs me by the arm and tells Eddie to grab my other arm to help him escort me out of the building, which Eddie does, because he’s so proud to be Bradford Mcinnerney’s flunky, his supposed right-hand man, which believe me is no honor if you want to know the truth, only most people don’t realize it. So they kind of frog-march me out of there while Cheryl, who before pretended to not want to associate herself with me, now gets up all concerned and says, “No, Bradford, don’t,” which is score two for me, because now I’ve got the old sympathy going, her betraying her true feelings and all, very key to my master plan. But Bradford and Eddie, who, incidentally, must have forgotten it was me who taught him chess and helped him with fractions back when he was “Edward,” hustle me out just the same.

So we’re outside and it’s a chilly fall day and I realize I left my jacket back in the library. Cheryl starts to get frantic and says, “Don’t hurt him, Bradford,” which Bradford hears but keeps his eyes on me and says stuff like he ought to play connect the dots with my zits and quit pestering girls who want nothing to do with me, etc., etc. And he’s gonna let me go, like he’s done with me. But I — get this — I — and I don’t know where this came from — I say, “Fuck you, Bradley,” which offends him on two levels, the obscenity part and calling him Bradley. So he goes real still at first, then turns slowly around, and asks, “What did you just say?” and I don’t even finish saying “Fuck you, Bradley” again before he hauls off and punches me right in the mouth.

Well it’s score three for me because Bradford cuts his hand on my braces. He immediately grabs it with his other hand and yells, “Son of a BITCH!” and I would have laughed, really, only I was sort of fading in and out of consciousness at the time and my mouth was filling up with blood. Other than that, though, I would have laughed like a hyena right in his face, I swear to God.

Bradford allows himself to be ushered by Eddie back into the library like Eddie’s his mommy, although, obviously, the nurse’s office is really where he should go, with Eddie even saying, “That might take a few stitches,” and “I toldja he wasn’t worth it.” Yeah, thanks, Edward old pal.

And then the only one left is Cheryl looking at me on the ground, blood all over my clothes. And she says, “I’m sorry,” like she really means it and waits a full half a second before heading back to the library door.

So it’s just a matter of months before she starts speaking to me, gentlemen. All according to the plan.

Republican Debate, Nostalgia

Two takeaways from the Republican debate last Tuesday.

1. Donald Trump is nothing more than the kind of low-information blowhard you see in every break room who thinks he wins political arguments because he’s louder than everyone else. Trump didn’t say a single substantive thing all night and made painfully ridiculous faces unbecoming of a potential commander-in-chief and head of state. Also, there was a sort of popular-kid-dumping-on-the-nerd thing going on between Trump and Bush that made me uncomfortable.

2. The number of outrageous cheap shots taken at our president and Hillary Clinton made me dizzy. Apparently, the reason why you got a paper cut on your finger yesterday was because of the failed and fraudulent policies of the Obama administration. And Hillary, of course, was directly responsible for the San Bernardino shootings.

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A blogger friend of mine brought up the subject of nostalgia and made an interesting point: were you ever conscious of a potential “good old day” while it was in progress? I suppose that all depends on what your definition of what a good old day is. For many, high school and college may count as the chiefest among good old days because of the friendships, the fun experiences, and a life generally untouched by the harsh realities of the workaday world we all must eventually enter: you know what I mean, that world of mortgages, fractious relationships at work and home, responsibilities, death, ruin, despair, hopelessness . . . whoops, reel it back in . . . just the day-to-day grind that so often marks the human condition. We were all spared that up until a certain point.

In the movies, you see the prosperous couple in the midst of a troubled marriage looking back wistfully to a time when they were poor but happy. You hear the cranky geezers in the coffee shop recall how much easier and uncomplicated things were before all this insane explosion of media, and the newfangled contraptions that do nothing but get in the way, and the damn civil rights causes that went on to make problems where there weren’t any in the first place. People hark back to a “much simpler time,” when there was civility and decency, when you could leave your door unlocked, when the milkman came on Mondays and Thursdays, and gas station attendants wore snappy uniforms and offered to check your oil.

When people talk about nostalgia, they usually mean a romanticized, sentimental view of the past with the rough edges sanded off, but when I look back to my childhood, adolescence and young adulthood, I mainly remember a lot anxiety and worry, and I can more easily recall awkward, embarrassing moments instead of the joyful, uplifting ones. In fact, a lot of personal memories make me want to travel back in time like Biff did in “Back to the Future” to slap my young self upside the head. To me, when I think of truly good old days, I see these good old days mainly as snapshots, not epochs: random, usually unremarkable moments. Here’s one example. I’m 12 or 13 years old, walking home in the winter. It had snowed recently but the sidewalks have all been cleared and it’s not too cold. It’s dinnertime and already dark. Everybody seems to be home by now except for me. I walk by a house just outside my neighborhood, so there’s a feeling of foreignness about the place, and the aroma of what I imagine to be pot roast with roast potatoes, gravy and green beans permeates the air. It’s the best smell I ever smelled in my life. I can picture the inside of the house, all warm and welcoming in an Irish Catholic kind of way, and kids my age are just coming to the table. Then I am jarred by the realization that tonight is probably fish sticks night at my house. I walk a little slower. No need to hurry.

That’s it. A good old day moment — admittedly soured a bit by the fish stick thing, but still a pleasant memory. I have a million of those. The question is, did I know then that it would be a good old day moment? Absolutely not.

I think it would be interesting, as an exercise, to try to identify good old day moments as they happen. Perhaps a good old day moment could even be manufactured. Are either of those two possible?

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That is all.

Response to a Muslim Grievance, 1776, a Personal Gripe

Muslims make the point that when mass shootings appear in the news, the religion of the shooter is never cited unless he’s Muslim. Fair enough. But my exposure to the actions and rhetoric of radical, fundamentalist Islam goes back a long way and has left a deep, indelible impression. I can remember when Ayatollah Khomeini, the once de facto ruler of Iran and a major religious leader, actually ordered a hit on Salmon Rushdie because his treatment of the prophet Mohammed in “The Satanic Verses” was disrespectful. It took my breath away. I equated that with someone the stature of a pope or cardinal demanding the death of Andres Serrano for his “Piss Christ,” the controversial photograph of a crucifix placed into a jar of urine. Would that ever happen? Could that ever happen? No, it’s unthinkable. Yet I saw a prominent member of the Muslim clergy do just that. Now add to that the unimaginable horror and scale of 9-11, all the anti-American rhetoric I’ve heard over the years (“Death to America!”), the stories of mullahs in Pakistan and elsewhere preaching jihad from their pulpits, the innumerable acts of terror in Europe, the Middle East, North Africa and here, and, yes, speaking as an average American who casually watches the news and reads the newspapers, the militant Muslim extremists fanatically devoted to their religion have my attention and they stand out. The marathon bombings happened only five blocks away from where I work, for crying out loud. I sheltered in place like the people in that San Bernardino suburb just did. And I’ll admit it: when preliminary reports of yet another terrorist attack starts trickling in, I expect to hear Muslim names. Sorry, I’ve been conditioned. I feel bad for the ordinary, peace-loving, law-abiding Muslims and I regret the unwarranted criticisms and scrutiny they are forced to put up with — which, as every thinking person knows, is wrong, wrong, wrong — but, fair or not, Islam has a big PR problem.

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I am reading “1776,” by David McCullough, a book which picks up the American Revolution story from the time of the British siege of Boston. One interesting thing about the book is that the author presumes the reader remembers details from his high school US History class, particularly the events and grievances that culminated in a declaration of independence (remember, in the beginning, the colonists merely wanted their rights to be respected, not to necessarily break from Britain). Do you remember what the Stamp Act was? Or the Intolerable Acts? I had to look them up. Something else I think noteworthy is that I find myself, for the first time in my life, seeing George Washington as a mortal being, not the demigod who appears on quarters, dollar bills, and the occasional equestrian statue. When he took command of the Continental Army in 1775 he was only 43. He stood six foot two, weighed 190 pounds, had reddish brown hair, and made an imposing figure. And, as I continue to read, I think back to the history books we had to study in school with the only aim of regurgitating dry facts back onto quizzes and tests, never once thinking of the flesh and blood people who were the actors of this great drama.

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I am the landlord of a Section 8 tenant here in Boston. The Boston Housing Authority (note: a tax payer-funded government agency) pays for most of her rent. They were the ones who wrote the original lease back in 2003 and they send inspectors annually to make my life interesting. Every now and again I have to get in contact with someone at the BHA, and always — ALWAYS — the people I need to speak to never answer their phones and never return their calls. Always.

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That is all.

ISIS, Henry VIII's Girlfriend

My understanding of ISIS.

ISIS is a fanatical, activist doomsday cult, an ever-growing collection of zealots and adventurers spoiling for a fight, who believe they have a major role to play in a coming Day of Judgment. They would like to roll the clock back to the 7th century, back to when laws and customs were more in step with the often harsh and stringent beliefs they live by, all based on a serious interpretation of religious scripture. Their “caliph” is Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi. They make al Qaeda look reasonable. Their most effective tools are social media and murder. If you discount the unlikely end-of-days scenario, their apparent aim is world domination, or to die gloriously in the attempt.

It is fair to call them extremists. It is not fair to call them un-Islamic, because they know their Koran backwards and forwards and predicate their actions on how they interpret it. Call them a mutation of Islam if you like, but they are very, very Islamic. True, they are not the same kind of Muslim you see shopping for halal food in the supermarket. They would regard the peaceful, law-abiding Muslim in the supermarket as hardly a Muslim at all, maybe someone just playing at being a Muslim. These people believe utterly and without compromise in the correctness of their culture, their brand of religion, and their laws, and everyone who does not think or act like them are either infidels or apostates. They regard themselves as a sovereign state and control vast tracts of land to prove it. Their version of the constitution is the Koran itself.

It is easy for them to recruit fighters from among boys and young men, for this group is comprised of either the disaffected urban youth of Europe, or young men of the Middle East and North Africa who have never been employed, had any kind of clout, or even a girlfriend. Joining ISIS gives them wives, money, status, and a cause. For a kid having grown up in a cloistered world, his mind poisoned against the decadent west from birth, joining ISIS is a brilliant answer to a dull life that offers little opportunity; for the adventurer, it’s a dream come true.

We think they’re looney and out of step with the twenty-first century; we wonder how people can be this way in these modern times. Maybe we think that if we can just sit down and reason with the heads of ISIS we’ll be able to figure something out. Here’s the problem: all the reliable, time-honored frames of reference we of the west use to measure and understand anything do us no good when vainly trying to peer into the minds of jihadists, or those susceptible to radicalization. Reason, compassion, desire for peace, mutual respect: these qualities are of no use in forging a bridge. In fact, we don’t possess the tools or materials needed to build a bridge. We can’t even conceive of what a bridge to them looks like. They are a completely alien species, as if our people and theirs evolved on separate planets. And, as a species, we are repugnant to them.

It is fruitless to think we can best them militarily because we’ll never win. We’ll never face armies with uniforms in straightforward battles or expect conduct constrained by the Geneva Convention. There’s a big difference between combating people merely willing to die for a cause, as opposed to those who are planning on it. A single kamikaze pilot in a small, explosive-packed plane could sink a battleship. You might argue that we can fight them by attacking their ideology, but how? Will someone please explain to me how?

Whatever the roots of ISIS are: the invasion of Iraq, oil, western arrogance, the Russians, the US, bin Laden, Bush, this century, that century, they are a plague, a spreading, ingrained, insidious, intractable, incurable, international, virulent plague. We can’t wipe them out and we can’t change their minds. The best we can hope for is aggressive and ever-vigilant containment.

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I am reading “The Other Boleyn Girl,” by Philippa Gregory, a story written in the first person by Mary Boleyn, Anne’s (second wife to King Henry VIII) younger sister. It took me a minute or two to like it, but now I do and can’t put it down. The Boleyns and the Howards combine to make the ultimate scheming family, adept courtiers all and eager to put Mary’s, and later Anne’s, feminine charms to good use toward their advancement in the eyes of the king. In that world, even females of the highest class of society are dealt with as objects, game pieces, and, as Mary says, brood mares. There is so little to envy about these women, pampered though they are, whose main purpose is to decorate power, always vulnerable to the whims of men. Gregory’s fascinating characterization of Anne fights this, as she is portrayed as a willful, intelligent, articulate, worldly and crafty person who could maybe teach Lady Macbeth a thing or two. Unfortunately, we know how things end. Great story so far. I recommend it. It’s a Schprock Lock.

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That is all.

Cinderella Man, Donald Trump, Illegal Aliens, Malala

I’m watching “Cinderella Man” on my exercise bike in half-hour installments. The film is the true story of Jim Braddock, a Depression-era boxer played by Russell Crowe. Good movie so far, but this is why I bring it up: during the boxing scenes I actually pedal harder! Maybe I should put together a half-hour compilation of Mike Tyson fights.

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I have a confession to make: I stayed up way past my bedtime to watch Donald Trump on “Saturday Night Live.” Although I couldn’t make it through the entire show, I thought his opening monologue with the two Trump imitators was pretty good, and felt the first sketch with him in the oval office one year into his presidency was okay, but then the show dragged and my eyelids refused to stay open.

The protesters outside the theater were offering $5,000 to any member of the audience willing to heckle Trump because of his stance on immigration and his apparent prejudice against Latinos. Now, I am not a Trump supporter, but in fairness I’d like to ask this question: does Trump have a problem with immigration or illegal immigration? I never hear that distinction being made, and you have to admit that there’s a difference between those who enter the country legally and those who don’t. Maybe I’m being simplistic, but if Trump’s beef is with undocumented aliens, shouldn’t it always be put that way?

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Now, as far as how we should handle undocumented aliens, I have it all figured out. And everyone should note that I did zero research on this issue because I didn’t want my laser-like thinking process muddled with a bunch of damn facts and statistics. And, of course, each bullet point below will surely beget oodles of unanswered questions which my superior intellect, taxed with many other matters of pressing national importance, cannot deal with at this time.

According to me, undocumented aliens are subject to deportation unless they have…

…proven residence in this country for at least two years and have established meaningful and legitimate ties

…assimilated themselves by demonstrating a knowledge of basic English and an acquaintance with, and acceptance of, American culture

…no violent criminal record

…a marketable skill

…citizen sponsors willing to vouch for them and share responsibility for their actions

…a willingness to submit to some kind of penalty, such as community service or a fine

Yep, that about does it. Really, what questions could there be? It’s all self-explanatory. Let’s call this one solved. Discuss amongst yourselves.

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And here’s what we do with the immigrants who enter this country legally: give ’em a high five, a Bundt cake, and a tiny American flag. Welcome aboard!

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For the past five years my mother has been driving my father’s old car, a 2000 Gran Marquis, the very car every American male has a constitutional right to own once he reaches the age of 75. Last week, Mom’s mechanic discovered that the “Blue Bomber” has advanced Stage IV body rot and it’s time left on earth can now be measured in weeks, possibly even days. In other words, time for another car.

My mother asked for my help in finding her a new ride. I showed up Saturday morning with a list of local dealerships, but in the end we only needed to go to one. Mom settled on a 2012 Honda Accord with low mileage, which I thought made good sense, because why would an 80-year-old who mainly uses an automobile for grocery shopping and church on Sunday need a new car? The salesman was a young guy in his early twenties and this was probably his first first meaningful gig out of college. I could easily imagine him sharing a three-bedroom apartment with about twelve other guys. A nice kid, pleasant, respectful, not the oily used car salesman my mother feared.

The test drive went well and we sat down afterward to talk numbers. It was then that the subject of the Blue Bomber and it’s potential value as a trade-in came up. There was one snag: we didn't have the venerable rust bucket with us at the time and he couldn't reasonably quote us a price based solely on our description. So the lad suggested that he drive both of us to my mother’s house to drop me off so I could then gingerly navigate the Bomber back to the dealership.

As he drove us down the main street of my old hometown, I made comments about how much everything has changed since when I was in high school. Although the town that I grew up in is only fifteen miles from where I now live, and I drive out there maybe two or three times a month to visit my mother, I have really lost touch with all the developments; after all, I always take the same route and never see anything new. So I blabbed on about how this or that was different, what used to be where the CVS is now, and so on. On one stretch there is a lake on the left side and a line of commercial properties on the right. So I said, “For instance, that lake used to be on the right side of the road, and now you see it's on the left.” The kid’s head snapped around and he said incredulously, “What? Really?” My mother turned toward me with a mock warning look and said, “Johnny…”

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I told that story to a guy at work and he says it’s an example of “dad humor.” Probably.

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I am reading “I Am Malala,” the autobiography of the Pakistani girl who publicly stood up for the right of girls to an education in her country and was subsequently shot in the head by the Taliban. To me, it has a kind of “Diary of Anne Frank” feel to it, probably because Malala and Anne are roughly of the same age and they lived through increasingly repressed times with an ever-present threat of death. They both show resilience, depend heavily on family life (and are close to their fathers), they’re smart and aware and share insights that bespeak a maturity beyond their years. Having already seen “He Named Me Malala,” the book for me serves as the documentary’s companion piece. In the film, Malala comes across as an earnest, funny, dauntless, intelligent teenager who is completely unaffected by her fame. She can meet with Hillary Clinton one day and attend classes at a Birmingham high school the next. She gets into squabbles with her brothers and friends just like any other kid. Beside all that, though, the book helps me learn more about a culture that seems as alien to mine as what you read in science fiction or fantasy novels. To my western sensibility, everything is all upside-down and inside-out and the rules make no sense, especially those regarding the behavior and treatment of women, as promulgated by the Taliban, the unofficial regime in the Swat region of Pakistan. Bombings, killings, beheadings, bizarre restrictions, all somehow in the name of Islam — yet life still goes on. Fascinating and horrifying.

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I watched most of the latest Republican debate (the varsity one). If I were ever to vote in a Republican primary, I’d probably go with Rubio. He’s pretty sharp. I liked his line about how we need more welders and less philosophers. Good one, Marco.

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On Veterans Day, you say thank you for your service. On Mother’s Day, you say thank you for your cervix.

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That is all.