Graduation Night and the Pursuit of the Perfect Smoke Ring

For Rob Pounding

Graduation Night and the Search for the Perfect Smoke Ring

November 15, 2016

The night of graduation was pretty much an exercise in the ironic for Rob and me. Living a few houses away during the last two years of our high school experience we got to know each other well, shared in some victories and a few defeats. Mostly, we shared a love for the music of the day and ways to improve upon it using strong weed, trips to the grocery to buy cigarettes, a few bottles of cheap whiskey bought for us by felonious adults and time at our favorite hangout, The Cellar, a teen club in downtown Arlington Heights that produced some of the best music groups to come out of the Chicago area. It was not so much in the way of dissipation for us as it was the need to explore our burgeoning manhood while we sat idly on the steps of our maturity. We didn’t understand fully what was expected of us since we didn’t fit the mold of so many others in our graduating class. We were not popular, though many knew us. We were not influential to anyone other than our small circle of friends that in some cases were just as odd, unpopular and out of the ordinary as we were.

While that last year of high school quickly resolved itself it also gave me a few skills that I use to this day and Rob certainly helped. An important skill, but one that lies below the everyday surface developed with his help was the smoke ring, a weapon of dominance over adversaries in the pack. When struggling to gain, and maintain status within the ranks of young teenage peers an advanced skillset is always of benefit. Those who could pull them off with any modicum of success were looked upon with a sense of admiration and increased respect by those who couldn’t possibly manage it. It was the others, who consistently failed, who were remembered by their fish-like puckered mouth and usually looked upon with pity and general disregard. It was a hard life in the trenches of adolescent and one had to find a uniqueness to be set apart from the rest of the herd. He was a more experienced smoker and I was lucky enough to be in attendance when he moved past the development stage and into expertise. One momentous day he began to fire off smoke rings with authority and regularity and his course was set. It’s a simple operation, but it takes a certain nuance and subtlety to pull it off. You can be shown the basics by a mentor, but it is entirely up to you to develop the correct mouth shape and the right amount of air to pull off good execution. With a bit of hard work and determination you can become adept in your art to improvise and create new forms. For example, it is possible to blow a steam ring with your breath on the front steps at the door of your house on a cold and windless nights in the dead zone of a Chicago winter. A dry atmosphere combined with a healthy amount of internal warmth, a good jaw snap and just a puff of exhalation can produce a steam ring that will carry abut 6 or 7 inches and last about a half a second in a well-lit environment. If pulled off properly your parents might think they saw you do something questionable, but shake it off in denial since they knew their young teenage son didn’t smoke. It couldn’t have possibly be a smoke ring. It was later in the year after winter melted into spring that I perfected my technique. Rob was still in a class by himself with his ability, but I was quick in my learning with his inspired motivation.

It was at a friend’s home in a still and darkened room that I believe was home to his greatest achievement. Rob and I sat facing a pretty, young girl sitting alone on a couch that sat directly opposite another couch facing her. It was a curious and odd arrangement, but something we didn’t question or ask about. Except for the presence of a flat yarn rug we were separated by approximately six feet of empty space. We were making small talk waiting for her brother, Rob’s friend, to appear from his room or wherever he was at the time. A low level of light filtered through darkened curtains in the corner that barricaded the rest of the room from the bright day. Enough light managed to somehow filter through illuminating our faces and bodies as well as the dust in the air lazily floating like miniature snowflakes like those that might signal the start of a mild snow. Rob lit a Marlboro and exhaled a lung full of smoke into the still air. It hung like a cloud for a what seemed like an eternity. All talk ceased as we watched it dissipate from a swirling thick smoking phenomena into nothingness. I sat in silence fascinated and thinking of where smoke goes once it hits the atmosphere It was nothing more than passing entertainment. Once degenerated in the still air conversation eventually picked up. I sat in the vacuous stillness watching in anticipation for something more to happen, but didn’t know what to expect. Rob’s quick mind was already at work analyzing the conditions of the room and he prepared his next feat. Taking in a deep drag he exhaled a bit of smoke and then popped off a series of three smoke rings that were thick in body and looked as if they had enough structure and velocity to carry them across the room. They were magnificent. Conversation stopped again as we beheld the exquisiteness of these airy constructs slowly silently making their way across the span that separated us. Conditions were perfect. The rings floated directly and steadily toward this young girl’s chest as if dialed in by a long-range artillery view finder. All three collided and broke in succession, bam! bam! bam!, after encircling one of her pert breasts. This elicited a small squeal of both surprise and embarrassment buried in her throat as we reacted with typical adolescent delight. Somewhere in her mind I’m certain she felt more violated by our laughter rather than being touched by a stranger’s proxy from across the room. She covered herself briefly and then quickly left. Rob’s eyes met mine and we again shared the hilarity of the moment and this impromptu prank with snickers and giggles. It was but a singular moment in our lives, but such a moment as this cemented our friendship even further. He will read this, today, and claim he doesn’t remember the incident, but that’s okay. I do and that is enough.

But it was this one evening, in the middle of June that marked the end of our high school careers and put us another step closer to our developing adulthood. The senior class stood in line outside the school talking excitedly and suddenly casual in our dress since it was longer necessary to abide by the school dress code. We were soon to graduate and we wore shorts and t-shirts under our rented cap and gowns for the march across the stage to our diplomas. There was excitement in the ranks and talk of a huge bonfire celebration that was going to be hosted in one of the Gold Coast communities along Chicago’s lakefront filtered through the ranks. Rob and I were separated alphabetically so neither of us knew precisely when or where this was going to happen, but I got the idea in my head that this was something we should attend. We were not of their kind, though. We were not popular nor were we ever considered as someone to invite to such gatherings. However, I felt that our presence would bring about some sort of resolve to the end of the year and our last days as members of this graduating class. I didn’t know if he would show up for graduation since he didn’t make the school photo session for our senior pictures. Then, I looked up ahead in the line and saw a brief puff of smoke followed by a series of smoke rings signaling his presence. I knew it was time go for it.

Once my parents and I came home from the ceremony I told them about the bonfire party and the anticipated huge crowd of kids that would be attending. It was to be the last party for the senior class and since I was heading to college in just a few months it seemed harmless enough. I was given the green light to go. I called Rob on the phone and explained the plan. He was at my house in an instant and off we went into the night looking for a party at an unknown destination and at an unknown time. It didn’t occur to us that this might be nothing more than rumor. With faith in our hearts and knowing classmates to be true to their word we drove off into the night in my red Volkswagen beetle, a legendary car that held many stories and secrets that would never be brought to bear by our parents.

We rolled through the Chicago suburbs playing music on my small tinny radio that played just a few of the stronger signaled AM stations. Top 40 radio was still king, but changed after the sun went down. Psychedelia was starting to creep onto the charts as groups like the Troggs, Music Machine and The Thirteenth Floor Elevators became mainstream. We particularly enjoyed powerful voices filled with angst and desperation and spoke of these singers and celebrated them with impersonation and admiration. We loved loud raucous music. A most notable aspect of this era was the morning ritual a girl on our block would perform every morning waiting for the school bus to pick us up during the year. She would open the front door of her parents’ house and play “White Rabbit” by the Jefferson Airplane at impressive levels. I had to admit, their stereo system was impressive since it handled that masterpiece easily without a hint of distortion. I would have loved to have had something like that in the dashboard of my little car.

Rob pulled a tightly rolled joint from behind his ear hidden by his long hair and lit it up. He sucked in a large hit while a few seeds snapped and sparked their way into the car and his shirt. He held it in for a bit and then handed it to me after exhaling and coughing from the roughness of the smoke. It wasn’t particularly strong weed, but it was enough to get us reasonably stoned for about twenty minutes or so. Stronger weed had a habit of making me space out while I drove and somewhat paranoid as well. If I was stoned enough my legendary driving skills would suddenly wimp out as if I was carrying a neon sign on my roof announcing “Hey, everybody! The driver was ripped to the gills!” I just knew that every cop car I passed would eventually get me into its sights and ruin not only my evening, but my life if I was ever caught. Did that stop me? Not until many years later.

Once we were reasonably stoned it was time to eat. We cruised through the local McDonalds to see if anyone knew when and where this bonfire was supposed to happen. No one seemed to know directly, but I believe we started a rumor or two about it. The both of us were still committed to finding its location after a few burgers, fries and cokes. Cigarettes lit and after entertaining a few friends with another joint it was time to get back on the road. Rob sat in the passenger seat enjoying his smoke pumping perfect smoke rings into the dashboard of my car and singing along with the song on the radio. He wasn’t a bad singer and had the best yell of any kid I knew. I always thought he was good at it. He wasn’t as good as Little Richard or Paul McCartney, but he was close. It had just the right amount of break up to it that gave his laugh a good underscoring and infectiousness. 

We arrived in the town of Wilmette, a bedroom community along the Lake Michigan shore. Logically, the only direction to go once inside the city limits was east toward the lake. There is a road that rims the lake, but is broken up from time to time by homes built on the beach. Those houses blocked our search and generally grew to be a cause of frustration in our search for this mythological bonfire that had to be going on somewhere along the shore. Dammit, it was graduation night and we were looking for our last rite of passage at an unknown location hosting an inferno that we should instantly see. Instead, we saw black water that melded directly into a black sky bereft of stars from the ambient light of the city. The moon was nothing more than a sliver and added nothing.

We crawled through the empty streets guessing where to go after the road ran out and became another rich man’s home blocking our view. The mood was getting dismal and our mutual level of excitement was rapidly waned. We passed little in the way of traffic and saw no one on the sidewalks. Some neighborhoods had good lighting while others seemed to be left out of the city’s plan. I was about to give it up when I saw a lone walking figure illuminated by a street lamp. He looked young and hopefully knowledgeable of such things as large bonfires attended by a senior graduation class from a high school forty miles away in the northwest suburbs of Chicago. I yelled, “Hey, Jack! C’mere a second!” Surprised and panicked he looked back in our direction wanting no part of any sort of confrontation either friendly or hostile.

“I gotta go home,” he yelled back and sprinted off into the night.

“Jeez, all I wanted to ask him was if he knew where the party was.”

Rob looked at me and said flatly, “I’m not surprised at that. How would you react if some big asshole was yelling at you?”

“Good point. Let’s go home.” I headed back though a neighborhood we had just searched as I rolled through a stop sign intersection. A Wilmette cop was waiting for just such an infraction along the side of the street further down from my view. His lights went on and I reacted with an “Oh shit!” The race was on as I put the VW through its gears asking for every bit of power it could muster from its 68 horses hiding under the rear deck lid. The cop’s car was slow in getting up to speed and had to climb up a large hill to intercept us. I blew through another stop sign and used gravity to develop speed down another steep hill. I was momentarily out of his sight and used it to park in someone’s empty garage. I pulled in, killed the lights and we both hunkered down in the seats. The cop car slowly cruised the neighborhood using his searchlight to illuminate the houses along the block. For some reason, he turned it off just before shining it into the garage where we sat. If he had lit us up he would have seen my red VW and arrested us for sure. We sat quietly until he left. Once I was sure he was far away I released the emergency brake and rolled the car silently out of the garage and onto the street where I turned the ignition and started. We laughed for a while about the incident, but that soon turned to silence broken only by the soft music on the radio and the hum of the engine. It was getting late and we didn’t find the party. We managed to scare a kid in Wilmette and lost a cop through some lucky driving and fast thinking. There was nothing left to do, but go home and start our summer.

Once we arrived at my house we stepped out of the car and again lit up. The night was calm and the crickets were loud in their serenade. Houses still hadn’t been built across the street from my house and the fields that faced us remained a host for many animals of the night. Rob and I smoked for a while popping smoke rings into the night air. A slight breeze affected them to the point where it just wasn’t fun anymore. It was time to go to bed. We said our good nights and wondered in part where the evening had gone. It seemed uneventful since the bonfire turned out to be a bust while the other events seemed distant and inconsequential. It was like the years we spent in high school. Some things happened along the way causing a little excitement and we had a little fun and managed to escape some very real danger. All in all, I guess it was a good night. High School with all its horrors of maintaining the social strata through popularity and other status wars was over. New schools were waiting along with new adventures and challenges. Life and all its uncertainty would not be kept waiting long.

Rob and I didn’t spend too much time together that summer after that night. Why, I don’t know. He eventually went to work for a pizza place in the next town as a cook and eventually went off to the Army and then cooking school. Today, he is a successful restauranteur and head chef earning high praise from his clientele and peers. I went on to become a world class drunk and immediately flunked out of college to start a meandering and often checkered career of dead end jobs with poor pay. Eventually, I found a path to a career, made a good living, bought land, had a big truck, but it was cut short by the events of 9/11 taking away many of my possessions, but relieving me of their responsibility and worry. Both of us got married and had kids. I went into recovery for alcoholism and Rob managed to make it alive out of the New York restaurant scene without OD’ing. I no longer smoke or do drugs and I am sure he is in abstinence as well. I am intensely proud of him for him righting his course and becoming a success. For me, I am still sober after 21 years and gratified of this achievement. There are times I wish we could have done things differently, but I suppose this was all meant to be in the grand scheme of things. I am in a good place, now, and it sounds as if he is as well. I’ve been trying this writing thing since I moved back to my home town area and married my childhood sweetheart. I told I’m not bad. I’d like to be published sometime before I pass through this life, but I know to do so means constantly writing and regularly refining my craft. I’m not afraid of the work, but I could use a break or two in the business. I’m sure he can still blow a good smoke ring if challenged to do so. I tried it over the summer when a friend handed me an expensive cigar at a party. I hadn’t smoke anything for at least 22 years prior, but for some reason I lit this one up and produced a string of rings that would put a smile on his face enough to say, “Hey man, hand me that. Let me try”

Eulogy

A Eulogy for B.B. King, September 16, 1925 – May 14, 2015


    All it took was one note. In that one note you felt it all. On that one note you immediately knew who it was playing. On that one note you were hooked and the song had to play out. There was no fast forward with B.B. King. The song demanded to be played to the end. If you played guitar you listened to each note brought forth by Lucille and marveled at its complexity, tremolo and that famous string bend. How could so little produce so much? That one note influenced and inspired countless folks of all manner of strata and stripe to pick up a guitar and try it for themselves. Today, there is not a single musician that has ever laid his hands on string that cannot say that B.B. didn't play a part in his performance. We all aspired to play like him, but many of us felt it was just too sacred a thing to master. Many words have been written on what notes to play and how to formulate his "style." However, deep down inside you just knew that it was impossible to duplicate. So much came from so little. Yes, it was that one note.
     He was at home with any sized audience whether it was someone's living room or a packed arena. His performance never slackened. He was always consistent. He gave everything he had as a personal gift to the audience, you, the listener. He sang with a vulnerability that told of enduring hardship, heartache and just plain feelin' bad. He would draw you in with his sincerity and punctuate his pain with a hard growling and dark wail that you could feel as though it were yours alone. His songs told of the misery of betrayal, the sadness of loss and the joy of friendship shared, angels and the romance that once gained was bliss, but so easy to lose. Yes, there is sadness in the blues, but there is also a joy to be had. B.B. and Lucille delivered it every time they came together.
    When we first heard the news he was in trouble we all knew the end would be soon. Thankfully, he was able to go home to see the end of his days and to be with the woman he loved, Lucille. Today, she has lost her muse never to return. But her legacy will stand forever. Her muse was the kind of a man whose voice crossed all lines and playing her did more for the blues than anyone could possibly measure. Her sound was the boilerplate and standard for the blues. We knew from the first note. That first note that would touch our hearts and say more than a million in the time it took to pluck the string until the moment it stopped. There are many that I miss, today. However, I doubt there will another I will miss more. Thank you, B.B. You made my heart sing and dance, you lifted me up when I was down. You loved us all and we are better for it. 
    Today, the testimonials are pouring forth and there will be many tributes to come. The one common message is the same. B.B. King was a friend of mine. How many of us never knew him personally enough to call him friend? It really doesn't matter. His smile and broad grin made us his friend in an instant. With weighted sadness in our hearts we say good-bye to our friend on this day. But with his passing I hope there will be a resurgence of interest into one of the most influential musicians of our lives. Share his legacy with your children and persuade them of his importance. Persuade them that his music is the real thing and not something that has been computer generated or polished up by studio magic. There wasn't a lot to his rig. It was guitar, an amp and his almighty voice. It was that simple and it never failed to knock us over.

The jam session in heaven will be long, tonight.


Dave Tongay
May 14, 2015

Ending and Beginning

June 5

   He stood at the edge of the forest looking through the verdant greens, the dark and honey browns of the trees and bushes, his mission clear in his mind.  At first alive with birds, insects and small animals then quieted at his approach seeking anonymity or refuge despite the attempt at a quiet and furtive walk. He knew these woods well and often felt a comfort within them.  His family was not there.  That was the important thing.  They were the ones that hurt him and made him feel even more useless in the light of his real debilitation.  The plastic amber bottles rattled in his pocket half-filled with medicines that dulled the pain of the debilitating injuries from so long ago.  They provided an added benefit in that they also took the edge off the emotional pains as well. He figured it should be enough for the job.  His plan was formulated long ago in a deep depression where answers were few and reality was grim.  If the right set of circumstances availed themselves he believed he could make that final grandstand play that would justify the taking of his own life.  There would be crying and supreme disappointment.  Somehow, he knew the devastating effect of his departure would free the many years of frustration, internal injustice and strife from his soul.  He felt he had suffered enough.  The accident so many years ago had robbed him of his ability to work and provide for his family.  It affected his life in every way imaginable.  Years of occupational and physical therapy chipped away at his dignity and self-respect.  So, it would all end in a simple act of closing his eyes and the final drawing of breath.  He wouldn't even know it was happening.  And, of course, they wouldn't know.  His selfishness kept any consideration since she was the one who made up her mind to leave him.  He decided then that she would have to pay.  Thirty years of marriage...over.  She said it the night before.  She said she had had enough of his temper, his whining, his constant complaining about everything around him and his failure to see anything good in anybody.  Yes, she would have to pay for the treachery of her abandonment.

   He lifted the bottle to his open mouth and let them fall in.  Damn, it was difficult to move them around in his mouth without a swig of water or something.  He even considered taking a shot of whiskey if one had been available.  But he had quit some time ago, so that was out of the question.    His tongue moved them clumsily into position to swallow with a dry difficulty.  The capsules tasted of plastic and the few pills mixed in with the overdose started to prematurely break apart in his mouth from his saliva.  It just wasn't happening fast enough.  There was this little twinge of guilt starting to formulate as an intelligent outlier.  It told him he had just stepped over a line might not be able to backtrack from.  It also carried the message that a gunshot into the roof of the mouth might have been better, but a lot messier.  Certainly faster.  Odd how the mind works when it faces this kind of defeatist resolve.  He panicked a bit as he tripped over a rock and stumbled almost falling.  His drug-induced amble through the woods was becoming dangerous.  Off in the distance he saw the glow of lights from a neighbor's house.  John and Betty might be home, but what difference would it make?  He still wanted to go through with this and walked on.  15 minutes in the first effects of the painkillers started to make their presence known.  Thinking began to get fuzzy and the awareness that something was not right with his nervous system began to set in.  His sense of survival started to kick in suggesting it might be best to head over to John's house.  They must be home.  Look, there's his new car.  Nice.  He stood on their back porch banging on the door.  He thought he would be cool, but it was the slurred speech and a set of glassy eyes that gave him away.  They instantly knew something was horribly wrong and took him in. 

    Back at the house someone noticed he wasn't in his room.  A cursory walk out to the opening of the woods found the empty bottles.  His sister interpreted this clue that something very bad had just transpired.  Calls were made to local authorities about a missing man, her brother, in a deep depression was lost in the woods.  Oh, and by the way, he ate all of his medication.  She had had enough of his moodiness and anger.  He would lash out without warning cursing and swearing.  Warning that she and the rest of the family would be sorry seeing him lying in his coffin after treating him the way they did.  She knew his wife had made up her mind and gave him her decision the night before.  Something snapped and a circuit was engaged.  The program that he wrote so long ago opened the file and the program began to run. 

His family notified the authorities to look for a lost man who apparently consumed a number of pain pills and other medications in an attempt to end his life.  However, no body was found within a 30 to 45 minutes staggering distance,  It was long known that he carried a lot of pain with his disability, so, logically, he should be close by.  How far this man could go in an overdosed stupor was not really known, but it couldn't be far. 

The family was sick with worry.  No one had heard from him.  Yet, he was to be found in a neighbor's bed resting within the walls of sleep...a very deep sleep dreamless and dark.  The call was made and relief swept through the family.  He would be held for psychiatric evaluation.  He had fallen into a hole of depression, but somehow to his eventual frustration managed to defeat his attempt.  His body, apparently inured by the constant load of medicine and protocol proved to be heartier than he suspected managed to shrug off the increased as if it did not matter.  He would survive this suicide attempt. 

   God built in His wisdom in this man knowing ahead of time when and where his time would come.  That day just wasn't his day to die.  God knows of that day, that hour and that minute yet to come while we live in ignorance.  The unheard message is there is more for this man to experience and understand.  He will begin the process of rebuilding for now, but rebuilding to what?  Eventually he might find the answer in that.  His journey is far from over and God still has His plan in place.  But now it's time to find out if this man is just a disillusioned prankster hoping to gain some last minute of life attention or a man on a mission determined to end it on his own watch no matter what God thinks.  Somewhere the Devil must be applauding.

   It is often said that God has a plan for us all.  Individual plans notwithstanding we should also consider what kind of plan it might be.  We make plans and they fall apart.  Or, just when we thought all is well we are set on a new course.  There are times when these course changes are subtle and indirect often escaping detection.  Long and short range events with nameless people in seemingly random situations are created in our lives making them a moment to moment experience of trying to stay afloat and alive.  Yet, events and situations occur for a reason that will always baffle us.  Reality can be cold and harsh rooted in mystery and doubt, yet, at times miraculous in their outcome.  What the reason's interpretation and meaning is never evident for immediate interpretation.  There is always the bigger picture, or the grand plan.  We will never know until it all plays out.  Where we are suddenly no longer here, but moved on where all the answers will be given.

   Does God play us one against the other in an ever unfolding drama that culminates when He says so?  Is He involving too many nameless and faceless people to consider that may have may not affect our lives and the way that we lead them?  The man attempting suicide certainly is a case since he has in his failed endeavor managed to affect so many people in various constructive and destructive ways.  As a result of his action everyone has grown up just a little more.  Some more than others.  The sharing of this experience has brought them closer together and more reluctant to let time pass without at least checking in with each other.  Eventually, though, now that the crisis has been averted things will go back to being casual and the relationship bonds now so tightly wrapped will loosen with neglect.  Though he is now safely in the hands of those that "know better," the psychiatrists and shrinks, he is undoubtedly waiting for the next opportunity.  Meanwhile, he is being pumped with various drugs to level out his mania in an attempt to get him to talk.  However, at this stage of the game he ain't talkin' and the Devil is awaiting his due. 

   He was released from the psych ward with nothing to be said and nothing to be learned.  He is home, now, in the custody of his sister.  His wife stops by on occasion to check up on him and inform him of her plans to eventually leave the state and take up residence closer to her sister.  Nothing further has been discussed, learned or settled.

July 3

   The news came in a tearful phone call that he was successful in his bid to end his life.  His sister had gone to the store to get some groceries for the coming holiday leaving him alone for an hour.  So, there was opportunity with motive already in play.  He again walked into the same woods with another bottle of prescription medicine he had convinced his doctor he needed.  Only this time he brought along insurance.  He was not about to be found again wandering the neighborhood in state of absolute confusion and stupor.  This time would be different.  This time he brought his gun along to make sure his mission would be a success.  The investigators following up on his self-imposed murder saw that a number of the pills were missing from the bottle presumably swallowed by the victim.  What left no doubt in their minds was the hole in the roof of his mouth and the exit wound on the top of his head.  That's what they called the cause of death.  The Devil would not be denied in his abatement.  He had won in this battle over this man's depression.  But, the question remains who has come in second?  It does not make sense that it would be God.  This single selfish act devoid of any logic other than what existed a moment before a bullet destroyed his brain and life turned out to be the single most impactful act he had ever created.  Along with it came profound sadness for all involved that will affect and remain a point of sadness for all that knew him.  His chapter has ended.  The new chapter for the survivors has just begun.

The Logic of the Deposit (but with fear)

Another Home Depot Tale                                                                             April 19, 2015

   Her call this afternoon started off slow and then built up speed as a specter of fear began to creep into her voice, encroaching, if you will on the other side of a frightened line. I could hear it in her voice and somehow I had to make those fears go away. Her fear seemed warranted, though; I didn't really know the reason for it. Still, I felt it enough to make me want to recount this story...

   Earlier in the day there was an initial state of confusion as her son approached and asked for a way to make 8" holes for 4" X 4" wooden posts to act as footings for a new deck he was building as a present for his parents. Accepted industry specifications call out for a 10" hole drilled to a depth of 42" for adequate anchoring. My presentation was logical and I apparently spoke with a wisdom that won him over since he accepted my advice. I reasoned that his plan would run the risk of seeing these same posts rise up out of the ground from winter's water and extreme temperature change. It's something I personally have never seen or experienced, but I do listen to those who have. My job then becomes speaking not so much as an expert, but rather as an advisor. Besides, the idea of being an "expert" in anything makes me shudder and does nothing in its appeal to me. I have been derailed by too many experts in my own travels to ever aspire to be one. There is simply too much risk for my palate in trying to be one. I take Mark Twain's description of an "expert" as "anyone who can spit over a boxcar" to heart. I drew up the contract, took a deposit and helped him load up.

   Later, I received a call about an hour after his departure from Mom saying there was some difficulty with tool he brought home. I listened and heard the posts were too close to the side of the house for the tool's clearance and immediately offered a second plan of attack. I assured her that I would work with her son to the best of my ability and that we could make this happen. In actuality on my end this was fairly easy solution. A tool swap is a simple procedure in the contract system and a void process with the register will do the trick. However, I wasn't about to reveal just how easy it was to her. It's the super hero in me I hold close to my heart that makes me do it this way. I mumbled something about having to bend a few rules, but hey I'm here for you. The son showed up and I handed over the voided contract paperwork to him and gave him his new tool to make Mom happy. Shorty thereafter a fresh contract was written with a new deposit that had to be taken.

   Rent is never charged up front. It sits in the form of a deposit waiting in the register for the tool's return and the contract's end. At the close of the contract, the rental fee is charged off to the deposit. The balance is either returned to the credit card in the form of a credit. Or, there is an option to refund the entire deposit and have the rent paid by cash or another credit card. The options are convenient, not too restricting and hopefully spelled out so that everyone can understand the subtleties of this kind of transaction. The initial deposit must come in the form of a credit card due to the amount of theft tool rental centers across the nation have been facing. It's really our only defense against those that would line their pockets at our expense. The arithmetic is really not that hard, but there are times when it causes once intelligent people to turn in their high quality I.Q. for a much lower model without any of the frills such as logic or reasoning. Then, it becomes a hard and fast, black or white, live or die kind of affair where the conversations can become heated and fraught with a kind of sad lunacy. I had just returned from lunch when I was handed a note from the associate that took the call. He said she was in terrible straits and had no idea what was going on with her money, the tool or her son's activity. It was time for me to travel down this road in the hope that I could restore Mom's faith in our system. I pulled up a copy of the contract before I made the call. Please note that I waited a bit before making the call. I knew there would be confusion in the offing and that an adequate explanation was needed. I learned a long time ago that when it came to almost any form of negotiation or discussions of importance that it is always best to be the one making the call rather than receiving it. This gives you at the advantage by striking first; an obvious advantage. However, it is important to maintain that advantage by making statements and letting the opponent ask all the questions. It allows you better control of the situation by being on higher ground.

   I dialed the number, waiting for my opponent to pick up. I ran through my mind the same points of discussion I have given so many others in an effort to explain the delicate economics of a deposit and applying of charges. Mom answered the phone and I identified myself as the man who had been working with her son. The attack wasn't fierce at first, but could hear the potential was there. I heard the usual edge of anger and suspicion in her voice as I let her tell her side of the story. I am always amazed at this given the fact that I work for one of the largest home improvement stores in the world with a budget that supersedes many modern day countries. It would not serve us to lie, cheat or steal our way to the top. But, back to the call...once all the facts had been presented, I followed up with an explanation of how the crediting and debiting of funds work plus a simple explanation of the process of refunding the balance to her account. However, in her mind something was amiss and I hadn't got to it, yet. She accused me of purposely withholding the receipt. This is where the entire sanctity of the transaction lies. The truth was the son, when he returned with the rented tool had rushed off before getting his receipt. In fact, he had rushed off to the point where the closing transaction was still sitting in my register waiting to be closed.

Then, she asked a little more forcefully than I expected, "Why don't I have a receipt? Why are you withholding it?" Instead of blaming her child for leaving without it I took the high road and stated it was an oversight on our part and that I would be glad to mail the hard copy receipt to her. She agreed that would be satisfactory, but then she hit her next gear.
    "Where is my deposit of $100? I have to have an explanation for that before my husband gets home. I don't want to have to explain it to him why I don't have it." I thought, that's where her fear lives I bet, but why? Obviously, Dad as alpha of his pack is a serial ogre suspect. 

"The rental was $62.30 and the remaining balance of $37.70 has been credited to your account."

"But where is my $100? You took $100 from my card and I don't know how to explain this to my husband once he gets home." She was barking a little louder, now and had moved past the growling and bearing of teeth stage.

  "The deposit was used against your rental. It's standard operating procedure at rental centers." Thinking I had explained it well enough I rested my case.

   "But don't you see, you've taken $100 from me and I don't know to explain it to my husband. He's going to mad and call you to demand an explanation why you are stealing $100 of our money." 

   "Ma'am," I said, "No one is stealing any money from you. I took a deposit of $100. Your rent was $62.30. I used your $100 to pay for that $62.30 and sent the remaining $37.70 back to your card as a credit. Do you see it, now?"

   "Well, yes, but don't be surprised to get a call from my husband. He's coming home, soon and will demand an explanation of all of this and I don't know if I can do it. Your name's Dave? I'll have him call you, then." Ah, we are waiting for the alpha to return from his trip. My level of concern should be higher, I supposed, but this warning was not strong enough to move me to fear or defensive posturing.

    "Okay, that will be fine." I hung up the phone, took her receipt, addressed an envelope, put a stamp on it and walked it down to the mailbox where she will hopefully receive it by Tuesday. On the way back to Customer Service's mailbox I started wondering what kind of man could instill such concern and mild terror? Now, I am not so deluded to think there is an absence of monsters walking the streets. On the surface they can come across as nice, understanding, sensitive folk that are sometimes downright logical. After all, we're men and logic reigns supreme in our world, right? I started imagining this guy as a portly with some hypertension. He's the kind of guy that likes to wear brown slacks with white short sleeve shirts with a (you guessed it) wife beater t-shirt underneath. I don't know why, but the image of slightly deranged Norm in "Cheers" came to mind only not as glib and affable. I imagined the conversation at the kitchen table where the tale would be told and the ensuing interrogation would begin. Hope fly, she would be able to relay the logic and arithmetic of the transaction in a clear and precise manner. Otherwise, who knows what would happen. Many new possibilities started hitting my brain and some of them were not pretty. Could I have sentenced this poor woman to a night of abuse over the small matter of the debit/credit process? Mentally, I stopped in my tracks and realized that I was guilty of indulging my imagination without borders or limits, again. I was giving myself untold reasons to fear his line of query. Had I doubted being fair to this unknown man with his brown wingtips and rayon tie even though he is a supposed threat to me, now? Well, I have done my job I reasoned. The receipt was on its way (eventually, since today is Sunday) and it was time to return to the rest of the matters at hand.

   Still, I worried for her and I didn't know why. Now, the day is over and it's time for rest without worry or concern. I wish. I'm writing this, now, wondering if I've set the stage for a drama to occur far from my life. The lives that I encounter are brief in their meetings and are usually kept in a state of civilized control. We are nice and expect nice in return, but anyone who has ever worked retail knows this will never be the case in any kind of consistency. We know the base instincts of mankind and the incredible sense of entitlement that comes with the territory. People can attack with the viciousness and quickness of a pack of mad feral dogs where each is under the control of a dominant male. Where the dog pack the alpha has to address all situations with a finality that can make or break them. There is no room for error. The alpha is the only one in control leaving the pack as the others blindly obey and follow. He has to be decisive where the movement to act is instantaneous and possibly ruthless in its severity or his status with the pack will suffer a loss of command or possibly his life. His attack has to come suddenly without warning. The throat is the desired target since it carries so much vitality to its owner. It's the first place a dog will attack. The human tactic is to take away the voice of his opponent, to render him speechless. To take away the voice of the opponent is a primary tactic. In humans it is often executed with loudness, rudeness freely punctuated with obscenities and creative cursing. Most often it's like a dog fight with words. Metaphorically, words can create the same devastation as a physical attack by the alpha. The objective is to put the offender in his place by demanding submission. I don't wish this for this woman or the speculated man coming home to a well controlled house only to be surprised by something that supposedly doesn't make sense. I'm sure as second in command her life in comfortable in that her alpha protects and provides for his family or pack. From the looks of her children they are not worried about their next meal. The hackles have risen on my neck and he needs to call me. I'm pacing the floor. His threat is here. His wife made that threat.  But he won't call me. I've been the alpha of my department for many years and experience has given me the training and the patience to make it through this kind of attack. The phone sits in silence. When it does come to life it isn't him. Enough time has passed for him to call unless he's out late. My vanity begins to step up; I reason that he doesn't want to feel bested by another alpha with weaponized logic on his side. I am older, now, and gray hairs have populated the chin of my muzzle. I can lie down and sleep as well as anyone else, but I will not allow the intrusion of another alpha into my camp. The sanity of my pack depends on it.

Write or Die

I was thinking about why I have suddenly hit a wall with my writing. No, it's not the battery in my laptop, although I could use a new one I think. Nor, is the lack of time and zero interesting events other than being in a freezer landscape. So, I took keyboard in hand and came up with this:

Why do we wait for that first twitch of inspiration to finally kick us in the walls of complacency, which will drive us to type, find a pen and a clean piece of paper, a napkin? We must accept that we must always create. We cannot wait for long periods without writing. This would be like watching an in denial suitor waiting on a corner believing the next five minutes will end the apprehension and embarrassment of being stood up. This cannot and must not exist within us. Our minds must be restless and waiting to mine expression and ideas from every day life where there is always drama, conflict, humor, and irony. Even in their most primitive forms, once formulated the expression of an idea will eventually thrive in abundance if given the chance for growth since within the artistic mind non-action has no chance of taking root. There is always a description, a metaphor, or analogy waiting to be laid out like freshly pressed suit of clothes. We may fuss with the edges and smooth the creases, but we know the longer the details are withheld from the page the shorter the time we will have when all things end in death. Whether idea, opinion or complaint what we say drives our heart's message. Whether this message is significant or a load of doggerel is immaterial. Once a thought is expressed an impression begins its wait for reaction to take place. We have the power to cause a flinch with our abruptness or forge the heat of disagreement with our premises. We can even create the base of an ignition point to be used to create a great fire that will end only when its flames are cooled and its cinders rest in their coldness. Never fear the critic for they are the collector of souls. We write or die. There is no alternative.

Dave Tongay