You’ll Probably Need Stitches
Those points are supposed to go down toward the ground.
The house in which I grew up had aluminum downspouts that descended from our gutters and curved away from the foundation atop beveled cinder block. They channeled rainwater adequately, but they were prone to rust and had sharp edges at their openings. Not much of a hazard for most people, but if you were an eight-year-old boy running around the perimeter of your house at top speed, they could be dangerous. I was surprised to discover this fact one summer afternoon, and I was further stunned when my bloody leg failed to elicit any sympathy from my mother but instead earned me a reprimand.
"Well, if you hadn't been running around the house instead of watching where you're going, this wouldn't have happened," I recall my mother scolding me as she tended to my injury. She probably tempered her criticism with compassion, but only her cool rebuke remained in my memory. Somewhere among my developing dendrites and synapses I stowed away the lone nugget of wisdom I managed to cull from the experience: If you're hurt, don't tell Mom. It was a maxim that was destined to lead me astray.
Dynadormophis Up
What if people could bank, sell, and buy their sleep?
It doesn’t matter if you’re dealing with a sleeper or a dynamo, every service call on a Dynadorm unit leads to an angry or incoherent customer. That’s why there’s such a high turnover rate for us service techs, never mind the money. I don’t care what kind of debt you have hanging over your head, the first time you get assaulted by one of these people, no amount of compensation seems worth it. It’s not the physical trauma of it, it’s the terror of dealing with the unhinged. There’s nothing more dangerous than some sleep-deprived zombie who’s counting on you to get up and running again.
I’ve had all sorts of weapons pulled on me, dodged my share of thrown objects, and more than once I’ve been forced to threaten a client. Dynadormophis tells us not to in the handbook and every training session, but they know what goes on at the front line, and you do what you have to do. They’ll never admit it – that’s what keeps the lawyers off our backs – but every rookie soon learns that corporate doesn’t care what we do so long as the green keeps flowing. And they expect the green to keep flowing.
After all, it’s the service contracts that keep us in business. You can rent a Dynadorm fairly cheaply these days, relatively speaking, and outright buying one is within reach of some, but you’d be a fool to think that’s the extent of your investment if you expect the thing to keep working. I see the same scene over and over again. That first call usually comes sometime in the first or second year of operation, by which time the unit is well out of warranty and its owner has become financially, emotionally, and/or physically dependent on it. They can’t believe that the call is going to cost so much, swear up and down that nobody in sales ever made the cost/benefit ratio of a service contract clear to them, then finally stop stamping their feet and cursing long enough to accept our generous offer of applying seventy-five percent of their bill toward a long-term contract. After that, they’re pretty much hooked.
Hostel Is A Homophone
The bridge from Sandy Hook to Harpers Ferry...and also from lunacy to sanity.
"Nothing just happens! Nothing just happens!" thundered the evangelizing voice of T.D. Jakes as I gnawed on fried chicken from the comfort of my hotel bed. The congregation shouted its approval of their leader's assertion that there is no such thing as a coincidence. I pondered the idea for a moment, took another swig of cola, and clicked the remote. Now The Andy Griffith Show flickered from the screen. It was an episode I recognized, the classic "Man In A Hurry," in which a stranded big-city motorist finds his patience tested by the leisurely pace of Mayberry as he waits for his car to be repaired.
"Ah, what luck," I enthused before it occurred to me that T. D. Jakes would presumably disagree.
I was determined to squeeze whatever enjoyment I could out of my accommodations, as my room was costing me four times what I had budgeted. Perched high atop Harpers Ferry at the edge of the Catholic cemetery, my lodgings were in every way a far cut above my original reservations. In order to justify the indulgence of attending a five-day educational conference at my own expense (along with opportunities to do further research for my historical novel set in the area), I had intended to stay a little further down the Potomac, just across the river. There at the base of Maryland Heights is the small community of Sandy Hook, where a humble hostel offers shelter to Appalachian Trail hikers, assorted vagabonds, and fiscally prudent educators.
The idea of staying in a hostel held no appeal to me beyond its minimal cost. Multi-bunk barracks and community bath facilities are not what I would consider to be positive amenities. In addition, this establishment was only open in the evening, overnight and morning hours, outside of which the doors were locked. Still, I anticipated a busy week, and what more would I need from my accommodations but a safe bed and a shower? As I was traveling alone, I did not need to consider the comfort of my family. I could handle roughing it for a few days. It might even make the whole endeavor more fun, allowing me to assume the role of the itinerant writer, a rugged intellectual who cares not where he sleeps so long as he may practice his craft.
Trumpet Lessons
The bane of my adolescent existence.
Black Monday.
My parents were disappointed with the label I had affixed to the evenings on which my trumpet lessons were scheduled. Having spent a good deal of money to purchase the instrument itself, they no doubt would have been pleased had their son expressed any measure of gratitude over the further expense they incurred by arranging private lessons. Each week they took the time to drive me to the outskirts of town so that I could spend a half hour in the presence of my instructor, a stern man renowned in my family for his success in developing the musical talents of a couple of my siblings. Despite my parents' sacrifices, I was far from grateful.
It was a dismal clash of disparate personalities. Mr. Steffman was a gifted teacher who expected his students to arrive motivated and well-practiced. Anything less was unworthy of his time. Had I the maturity and discipline to adhere to his regimen to any degree, I might have blossomed into a brass master. Unfortunately, I was a self-absorbed, sullen teen with little patience beyond instant gratification. Regular practice interfered with more important pursuits, like afternoon, early evening, and prime time television viewing.
Loving In Fall
Mom and me, 1971
I don't remember taking a walk along a lake with my mother on a chilly fall day, but the gentle moment is documented in a faded color photograph. I was no more than a toddler at the time. Looking at it now, I can imagine how fresh and exhilarating the sensation must have been for me, a novice to the cyclical changes of turning seasons. The sharpness of the cool air, the windblown rustle of decaying foliage, and cascading waves of pinwheeling leaves would have captivated me. Autumn must have been a wondrous and beautiful contrast to the vibrant skies and sweltering sun of summer.
Whatever wonder I associated with the season would dissipate within several years, however. My annual return to school became the most memorable event in autumn, and I soon developed a distaste for what I gradually perceived to be a depressing time of year. Summer was a joyous freedom from responsibility, a chance to impulsively indulge every whim, an endless vacation with so many hours of daylight that you could wake up late and still have more time than you ever wanted to ride your bike for blocks with no agenda whatsoever. Fall came to represent the absence of these cherished things, and so it held little charm for me. Deciduous trees aflame with color and crisp strolls through the apple orchard? Who cares? Summer's over.