Hermit For Hire

 

Michael A. Nettleton

In ages past, wealthy families might hire a man to live in a hovel on a vast estate. Apparently it was a status symbol of the highest order to employ a hermit. I don’t know what building a hovel involved. Perhaps an early version of IKEA.

I wondered how a Duke or Lord or Viscount would find a suitable hermit. Did his estate manager grill potential candidates? If a grilling took place today, would it look something like this?

(Door creaks open. Burly wild-haired man shuffles in.)

HR: Hello. Thank you for applying to be Lord Bloviate’s Hermit. Do you mind if I use the Hermit to English translation app on my phone?

Hermit:  Sitting, nodding, and mumbling something indecipherable.

HR: (Glancing at phone) I agree. The train service from Bumblegravy is atrocious.

Hermit:  mbrgmbrsucks.

HR: Let’s begin, shall we? My name is Letitia Stiffgarter. And you are . . . ? (She consults a grimy resume scratched on tree bark.)

Hermit: Mfrdfman

HR: Morfor Dlorfman. Right. And what qualifications do you bring?

Hermit: (animated) Snorrrrrrrt.   

HR:  I see. You lived in a cave in the Cotswolds. I’m the first human being you’ve spoken with for the last 20 years. So, you’re experienced at solitude. And what is your specific skill set?

Hermit:  (sounding like he’s listing things) Hng, Ya ha, Ya ha, blnfoopung.   

HR: You’re adept at hiding, jumping out from behind bushes, speaking gibberish and mouth-breathing. Excellent! (She marks the bark.)

Hermit: Schlorppp!

HR: And drooling You’re known for your drooling.

Hermit: (proudly) Schlorppp!

HR: Consistently top 5 worldwide for length of drool. Impressive. Now, if we hire you, the hovel, rudimentary furniture, and scraps from the kitchen will be provided. Will that be adequate?

Hermit: (shrugging) Gooeygoop!!!

HR: Mud. You mostly eat mud.

Hermit: (nods and performs finger pushups on the table.)

HR: And the occasional spider. Got it. When could you take up residence?

Hermit: (waggles a finger) Kaching!

HR:  What’s that? We haven’t discussed benefits?

Hermit: (Nods and mimes using a channel changer) Karrrrdashians. Instagram.

HR: Cable television and Wi-Fi?

Hermit: Kaching!!!

HR: And a salary? Why do you need money?

Hermit: (hums the graduation march)

HR: Kids to put through college. Seriously? I mean you’re a hermit. How did that happen?

Hermit: (shrugs and grins) Grmbgbr! Chick magnet.

HR: Oooh-kay. Well, what are your salary expectations?

Hermit: (produces a card)

HR: You belong to a union? Hermits, recluses and troglodytes local 452?

Hermit: (raises a fist) Schlorrrppp!!! Kaching!!!

HR: Minimum pay is $50 an hour? Double for holidays? (She shakes her head.) I don’t think so.

Hermit: Snorrrrt. Huh!

HR:  You’re in demand? Really? Let’s review. No people skills. Poor communication. Total lack of grooming. Surly attitude. Who’d hire you?

Hermit: (picking up an imaginary telephone and lilts) Ucken!!

HR: Government help line?

Hermit: (gruffly then snorts) Your call is very important to us . . .

 

 

Dave's Still Not Here

Michael A. Nettleton

 

You may see me tonight

With an illegal smile

It don’t cost very much

But it lasts a long while

Won’t you please tell the man

I didn’t kill anyone

I’m just tryin’ to have me some fun.

                                                            

                                                             Illegal Smile

                                                            John Prine

     The last time I smoked marijuana was the mid-eighties sometime. I didn’t give it up out of any sense of moral indignation or fear of it being a gateway to something harder. Instead, I decided I was tired of sitting in front of my computer feverishly inspired by the thoughts pinballing through my brain, only to find, later on, that what I’d written resembled a cross between medieval Bratislavian and monkey drool.

    Of course, pot is legal now, so all I’d have to do is duck into the parking lot of my nearest, highly respectable retail establishment, plunk down my debit card for a bag of weed or package of chocolate-covered wacky tobacky, and pick up my habit where I left off. Drive down any street in greater Vancouver, Washington and you’ll see the beckoning signs. MAIN STREET MARIJUANA. THE HERBERY. HIGH END MARKETPLACE. GREENHEAD CANNABIS. I’m sure new stores will proliferate in the future. SPLIFF WORLD. MAUI WOWIE MART. BOGART R’ JOINTS. STONE ME CITY. And so on.

    Rabid anti-pot types will point out several problems with today’s state of affairs, including a direct link between toking and Satan, but here's the problem with legalization from my point of view. They’ve taken some of the fun out of smoking pot by removing one key element: paranoia.

    Getting high in the old days was a vibrant mix of THC, unhealthy snacks, vinyl mindless guitar noodling, and fear. The idea that uniformed men in full battle gear chanting “hut-hut-hut” might break down your door at any minute was part of the adrenaline rush that accompanied passing a tightly-rolled joint around the room. Who can forget the group giggling fit when someone heard an unfamiliar clatter outside and rushed to flush a fully ounce of primo “stuff” down the toilet? Who can remember the familiar note played out when you heard Cheech and Chong’s “Dave’s not here” routine on one of their comedy records?

    And now? Marijuana is just another item on users’ shopping lists. “Green onions, pasta sauce, laundry detergent, and a six-ounce bag of THC infused gummy bears. Oh, and Oreos and a gigundo bag of cheezy-snacks of course.

    Am I arguing that marijuana use is harmless and healthy? Of course not. Every time I observe some kaleidoscope-eyed driver cross three lanes of traffic to careen onto a freeway exit ramp, I fear for the bedlam the high and drunken may cause. As someone who’s worked in the schools (my wife was a substitute teacher for many years) I worry about the impact marijuana can have on young people. It can make learning difficult, destroy incentive, and cause a budding writer to believe typewritten garble is profound prose. But I also believe that turning a personal vice (however unhealthy) into a criminal offense is profoundly wrong-headed.

    What’s the bottom line? Unless the religious right has their way and forces everyone at gunpoint to live pure and God-fearing lives, marijuana stores are here to stay. The best we can hope for is to avoid hysteria and have honest and factual conversations about the harm drugs and alcohol can cause.

    ` But, I profess a certain level of nostalgia for the “high old days.” Now if you’ll excuse me, I think I heard someone rattling at my door. Time to flush a bag of oregano down the john just to be safe.

 

  

Closing the Book on Writing?

 Carolyn J. Rose

 

Much as I’ve enjoyed creating and spending decades with characters of all sorts—killers, clairvoyants, ghosts, teens, seniors, substitute teachers, wealthy widows, and orphaned children—I find myself wanting to hang out with those who populate books by other writers.

 Translation: I want to write less and read more.

 

I was the kid who fell in love with books as soon as I could sound out words, the kid who read with a flashlight under the covers, who wrote stories for cousins and classmates. I was the teen who penned anguished poetry. I was the young adult who spilled details of every relationship onto the tear-smudged pages of a journal. I was the older adult taking writing classes and going to conferences and seeking agents and publishers, then taking the independent road and uploading manuscripts and dreaming up promotional ideas.

 

Now I’m the gray-haired even older adult with carpal tunnel syndrome, sciatic nerve issues, and holes in my memory where character details used to be. Sure there are notebooks and file cards and character sketches in the computer. With the aid of those I could keep going. But B.B. King’s song about the thrill being gone echoes in my mind.

 

So I’ve been saying that The Three Shades of Justice: In the Grip of Obsession, will be the last I’ll write. I’ve been telling myself that I followed my dream, that two dozen books is an accomplishment I can be proud of.

 

And I’ve also been reminding myself to never say “Never.” Tomorrow or next week a compelling character could take up residence in my busy brain, start tugging at the synapses, and insist I return to the keyboard.

 

Until then, I’ll enjoy engaging with characters created by other writers.

 

The Perils of Getting Out and About

Carolyn J. Rose

 

From the earliest days of wandering tribes, travel has been perilous. Wild beasts. Lack of water. Bad water. Lack of food. Harsh terrain. Raiders. Storms. War.

 Many of those perils, unfortunately, remain. And new elements have been added. An occasional chain motel sadly in need of a good scrubbing and a staff overhaul. Outrageously incorrect rental car charges. And that damn virus.

 I’ll get to some of that later, but first a few positive reflections on our trip to Upstate New York.

 The flight was tiresome but smooth and the deep-dish pizza at the Chicago airport made the long hike to our gate worth it. The dining choices in Washington were, for someone who can’t digest red meat, not choices at all.

 But anyway, the next morning we headed to Herkimer (The sound of the word makes Mike grin) to meet friends and cruise on the Erie Canal. 

No mules were harnessed for our journey; a motor on the boat did the work. And we weren’t required to get out and open or close the locks.

 

After a stop at Constable Hall where we touched a piece of history—a paperweight gifted to the first owner by Alexander Hamilton, it was on to Alexandria Bay. 

There we boarded a ship bound out through The Thousand Islands to Singer Island and a mansion/castle. 87 steps up to the top floor. I was powered by feelings of relief that I didn’t have to clean the place or pay for repairs. (Think millions. And then add millions.)

 

Still enjoying great weather, we drove through the Adirondacks to Woodstock where we visited friends and family and where the rain caught us. 

Still, we forged on through the storm to see what was once, but is no longer, the world’s largest garden gnome—a gnome outstanding in his field.

 

And then we returned to find we’d been billed for turning our car in 150 miles from where we actually handed off and a day later. I expect we’ll be contesting that for weeks.

 

And, when the fever and sneezing kicked in, we discovered I had a souvenir of the trip I didn’t want—covid. I’m better now. Not 100%, but strong enough to take on that rental car company if I need to. And, in a few weeks, I expect I’ll be ready to start planning another trip. 

Trading Cards I'd Like to See

 

Carolyn J. Rose

 

 

Forget trading cards touted by a former president. Forget game cards and those featuring baseball heroes. Forget cards promoting movies and T.V. shows.  

Here are a few I’d pay or trade for.

Phone numbers to bypass automated systems. If you’ve ever wasted hours trying to break out of an endless loop, been shuttled to the wrong department, cut off while explaining your problem, or transferred so fast you get whiplash, these are a must. Bypass numbers allow access to actual humans with listening skills, no mandated scripts, and expertise to resolve your issue.

 

Plumbers, electricians, HVAC repair personnel, and others willing to work evenings and holidays. Even if you never find yourself in desperate need of someone to fix a leak or get your furnace running again, a friend or relative will. The trading value of these cards never diminishes and spikes in cold and hot weather.

 

Used car lots where you’ll actually get a fair deal. In addition to photos and directions, these cards include translations of used-car-speak terms such as “low mileage” and “pre-loved.” Cards also advise what not to say when shopping. A subset includes photos of salespeople who don’t withhold added charges until your pen touches the contract signature line.

 

Stylists who should never cut your hair. If you’ve ever paid way too much for a haircut that made you look like a pair of eagles decided your head was prime nest-building territory, you’ll want these cards.   

 

Door-to-door scam artists. You know the ones, the guys who claim they’re with a crew working nearby and have tools and extra time to give you a great deal. Cards also include teams selling magazines you’ve never heard of, folks who claim they install solar panels overnight, and those collecting for refugees in a country that isn’t on any map.

 

Teen body language. A face-to-face conversation with a teenager may involve more physical expressions than verbal. These cards, with full-color photographs, interpret twitches, eye rolls, shrugs, and more. They also offer translations of some of the latest teen-speak words and phrases.

 

Bad bosses. Cards would depict the nitpicker, the clock watcher, the insecure and paranoid, the endless-meeting manager, the guy who disappears in a crisis, and the supervisor who expects you to sacrifice weekends and cancel vacations. Cards would also offer tips on how to spot bad bosses during the interview process.

 

Clothing outlets with true sizes and realistic fashions. These outlets cater to those who aren’t actors or models. Their sizes actually conform to your measurements instead of being too large or too small, and their styles are for those who want jeans with more fabric than holes.

 

I don’t get it cards. If you’ve ever puzzled over a cartoon, or wondered about a reference on a TV show that set off the laugh track, these cards are for you. Not only would they explain a drawing or an actor’s comment, they would also explain why you might find it amusing or relevant.

 

As a bonus, cards would be laminated. This would extend their life and allow them to be used for household projects such as leveling tables or loiding locked doors.

The Sleep Comfort Adventure

 

       

My beautiful, talented, supernaturally perceptive lady-liege and I went mattress shopping this morning over in Jantzen Beach, the big-box store capital of the universe. We spent a considerable amount of time in Bed World and Mattress Mart. Or was it Mattress World and Bed Mart? I disremember.      

         

Carolyn was adamant that we needed new mattresses. She told one of the salesmen that I kamikaze onto mine from a great altitude, splashing down on it and creating a thunderous sound that can be heard by our neighbors a block away. This, she claims has caused my mattress to sag considerably. This may well be. The fact that I hadn’t noticed and sleep just fine on it doesn’t seem to be a part of the equation. I credit her for not using the word “oaf” at any point in her narrative.

Like everything else, mattress shopping has gotten very high tech. At one place (either World or Mart, I disremember) they have you lie down on a mattress hooked to a space-age looking device. It creates a cartoonish green mock-up of your body, which shows the salesman what you need in the way of firmness, lumbar support, leg room and muscle adjustment. It’s possible it also indicates nutritional deficiencies and need for personal counseling. Again, I disremember. ( Disrememberization, by the way is a handy device for avoiding marital disputes, ignoring medical advice and chore avoidance.)

I’m convinced the mattress technology also provides the salesperson the talking points to sell the customer up into the $3000 super-deluxe hyper-double-frammis, air-cooled, internet-ready dual-exhaust model from the basic $200 “flat place to sleep” model he or she came into the store to buy.

 Next, Carolyn insisted we lie down on a number of mattresses to see how comfortable they are. Very honestly, I couldn’t tell one from another. Keep in mind that if I went out drinking during my college days, my roommates would ferry me home and stand me up in the corner. 8-16 hours later I would awaken, fully refreshed.

She had exchanges with the sales guy using terms like “too soft,” “the memory foam feels like I’m sinking in quicksand” and “firm but with a nice bouquet and a hint of elderberries.” My feedback was pretty much limited to “oof” and “pretty nice flat place to lie down.” (On this one, my wife and I exchanged marital eye-rolls. Mine was far superior, making a ka-ching sound on the upper end.)

In the end, we bought two twin mattresses. They weren’t as expensive as I thought they might be and delivery, setup and disposal of the old mattresses was included in the price. (I’m not sure how challenging set-up will be, amounting to setting the mattress on the wooden bed frame).

It was explained to us that they donate the old mattresses to charity, which I think is a worthwhile thing. Carolyn wonders where they’ll find a recipient for mine, muttering something about she hoped some poor schlep doesn’t mind crashing on a U-shaped mattress. Hey, not everyone requires a flat place to sleep.

Ultimately, I think the mattress shopping excursion was a positive experience. I learned some important science involving lumbar support and reclining body imaging. Shopping together made our long-lasting marriage even more fulfilling. And the series of eye-roll exchanges strengthened the muscles of our foreheads and upper cheeks. 

I was so inspired by the process, I’m exploring the concept of opening my own big-box sleep comfort outlet. The sign out front will read “FLAT PLACE TO SLEEP MART.” (or possibly “FLAT PLACE TO SLEEP WORLD.”)

 

 

Thank God it's over!!!

 

I recently underwent the second most unpleasant procedure known to mankind. The first, of course, having your nose eaten off your face by a family of voracious weasels. But at least with the weasels you don’t have to drink the vile slurry they give you to clean out your nether regions prior to a…

COLONOSCOPY !!!

I could actually feel a group shudder as you read that word.

First of all, let me say that the staff at the Oregon Clinic Endoscopy Center (east) could not have been nicer or more helpful and compassionate than they were. They made the experience slightly less gruesome. That being said . . .

UGH!!!

As anyone who has undergone one or more of these procedures knows, the prep is far worse than the actual event. After all, they give you some great drugs and you snooze while they’re reaming.

But three days without solid food, (when lime jello becomes a highlight of your lunch hour) and swilling a full gallon of what had to have started its life as tailings from a toxic mining operation, seems much longer than what the clock is telling you.

 My older brother Ray, when I told him what I was facing commented; “You know, I’ve gone 96 years without having anyone put a camera up my keester. I think I’ll hold out a bit longer.” You know, if you’ve lived that long, you’ve probably done something right.

 Alright, alright, I know I’m being a bit of a gloomy Gus here. Colonoscopies are useful medical tools for discovering and treating a whole family of ailments. Unpleasant but necessary. But only once every 5 years, thank God. I won’t know until the biopsy results come in, but hopefully I’ve got nothing happening up there.

 There were a couple of upsides to the whole process. Dr. Ken Flora was upbeat and thoroughly professional. As were the various and sundry nurses. After I woke up, one them, I think maybe Staci, was telling me all the things I shouldn’t do right away because of the anesthesia. “Don’t operate any heavy machinery” she told me. Check. I’d have to put my afternoon manipulating a front-end loader on hold. “Don’t drink any alcoholic beverages.” Okay, happy hour is postponed till Wednesday. She continued with a serious look on her face. “And don’t make any significant life altering decisions.” I thought about it. “So, I should postpone starting my late-in-life career as a nude pole dancer?” I asked. This made her grin. Which made the whole pre, during and post procedure worth it.

        Bottom line. Don’t postpone getting your colon checked out. It’s not really that bad and could save your life. Plus, you’ll get some dandy photos of a part of your body you’d never see otherwise. I’m thinking about getting some wallet-sized prints made. Then, the next time I’m asked to show ID somewhere, I’ll just whip one of them out.

 On the way home we found ourselves in gridlock on I-205 out of Portland. In what had to be a masterstroke of cosmic irony we were stuck behind a panel truck bearing the logo of MR. ROOTER. Wait! I thought. You mean they’ll come right to your home? Is there a clown-festooned Mc-oscopy outlet with a drive-up? You just stick your fandango out the passenger's side window and they take care of it right there. I can almost hear the attendant/nurse’s voice now:

 “You want fries with that?”

 

 

 

 

Lilacs and Memories

 

Carolyn J. Rose

 

I seldom pass a lilac bush in bloom without thinking of Walt Whitman’s poem of mourning for Abraham Lincoln, “When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d.”

But, as is the way of my busy brain, before I become mired in Whitman’s long lament, the memory leads on to another and another. Images overlap and blend together.

 

Lilac bushes abounded in the hollows of the Catskill Mountains where I grew up. Many of them marked houses long gone, flattened by snow and rot, wind, and gravity. Those bushes, once nurtured in sunlit dooryards, had grown spindly in their attempts to reach sunlight blocked by pine and oak and hemlock. Others were moss-covered, gnarled and bent from struggles to survive another winter.

 

But there were also younger bushes, carefully tended, fertilized and pruned. Many were planted with an eye toward shadings of color. White. Lilac. Deep purple.

 

I recall a long lilac hedge along the road the bus traveled in the tedious journey to school. In winter its bare branches did little to shield the home behind it from wind and snow and the interest of those driving past. Spring brought forth leaves, elongated green hearts that made my teenage heart long for love—or what I imagined was love at that hormone-driven age. When the lilacs bloomed, rain-drenched blossoms bending branches toward the ground, it signified the school year was coming to a close. The flowering gave notice that another page of my life was turning, that plans needed to be made, enlarged, or amended.

 

I remember walking dirt roads, catching the scent on a warming breeze, and following it to a flowering bush. Because the blooms turned brown far too soon and didn’t linger into summer they were precious to me. More precious than the varieties of roses my father’s mother managed to grow in the thin and stony soil of a yard shaded by an enormous maple.

 

My mother’s mother had a bottle of lilac perfume and, in the dim light of a winter day, I would sometimes loosen the stopper and sniff. It was sweet, but the scent was nothing like that of the blooms of spring. It was, in fact, more like a faint memory, poorly preserved.

 

A Chicken in Every Pot

 

 

Carolyn J. Rose

I wasn’t around when Herbert Hoover’s campaign called for “a chicken for every pot.” I can’t remember when I heard the slogan in a history class, a slogan that had been changed to “a chicken in every pot.” What I do recall is the moment I realized there are some pots that should never, in my firm opinion,contain a chicken.

 

When I joined Volunteers in Service to America in 1970, I was sent to Little Rock, Arkansas. It was July, with a steamy humid heat like nothing I’d never experienced growing up in the Catskills or going to college in Tucson. It was a heat that barely loosened its grip after sundown, a heat that shot up again with only a slight grace period after dawn.

 

VISTA’s monthly allotment was a sum of less than $200 a month after taxes and I seem to recall it was referred to as a stipend rather than pay. Buying an air conditioner or paying for the power to run it was out of the question. Fans did little to help, simply slapping soggy air. Perspiration didn’t evaporate. Sweat stuck around.

 

Cold water provided a little from-the-inside-out relief. Cold beer helped more. And one particular brand of beer (a brand I won’t name) was on sale that summer. A quart was around a quarter. But those quarts were cheap because they weren’t chilled. Our refrigerators were small and, by today’s standards, didn’t get the job done quickly.

 

So, the four or five of us who regularly met to cobble together an evening meal developed a strategy. No matter how many bottles of beer we bought, we left at least one—and ideally two—in the refrigerator. Those, like sourdough starter, slaked our thirst at the next gathering. Of the warm bottles purchased for that gathering, two went into the tiny freezer compartment to chill. The rest were stashed in the coldest part of the refrigerator. If they weren’t chilled to perfection—or even close—by the time we opened them, it seldom seemed to matter. It was the first beer that absolutely had to be cold.

 

Whole chickens were also extremely cheap that summer, so we had chicken at every group meal. No one even dreamed of turning on the oven, especially not in the second-floor apartment of two male volunteers. Chicken was chopped up and grilled on a tiny Hibachi. When they discovered they were out of charcoal, it was fried. Housekeeping was never my strong suit and it really wasn’t the strong suit of those two guys. When the frying pan accumulated so much caked-on grease we couldn’t stand to look at it, and when no guests stepped up to do the scrubbing, the chicken went into a pot of water and was boiled, made into soup, or shredded for sandwiches. When that pot developed a crusty ring, the guys dug out a second pot. The second pot soon reached the point where the word “disgusting” didn’t begin to describe it. The first pot and the frying pan still languished, unscrubbed, on the counter.

 

Remaining hopeful for a burst of hygiene, I set out for their apartment a few days later carrying several bottles of beer. As I climbed the stairs, I smelled chicken, onion, and another aroma. It was familiar. I knew I smelled it often. But I couldn’t place it.

 

I opened the door, set my beer offering on the kitchen table, and turned to the stove. There, bubbling away, was a pot. A dented metal coffeepot. A coffeepot without the basket for ground coffee or the perk tube. A coffeepot with a chicken crammed inside.

 

Well, most of the chicken was crammed in. The legs, pale and pimpled, stuck out.

 

I gagged. My appetite disappeared. Leaving the beer behind, I fled.

 

To this day, whenever I see chicken, in any form, I get a sharp mental picture of that chicken and that pot. After more than 50 years, I no longer gag. I chuckle. Then I insert the word “almost” into the campaign slogan.

 

 

Spiritual Guidance Satellite Systems

 

On the way to the gym the other morning we spotted a sign outside a church that read: BEGIN YOUR SPIRITUAL JOURNEY HERE !!!

Wow, I thought. A spiritual journey. I’ve never been on one. But, before I would attempt one, I had a lot of questions. 

For example, if I went into the church, would they really send me on a certifiable spiritual journey? Or was it just a ploy to add a baritone voice to their hymn singing and a few additional bills to their collection plate? And what would happen if I broke down midway through my journey? Would my AAA membership cover a tow truck coming out to recharge my spiritual battery or replace a punctured Tao after I ran over a chunk of jagged incredulity? And how should I pack for such a trip? How many changes of underwear would be sensible?

Most importantly, how would I know, as the journey progressed, that I hadn’t strayed away from the most efficient route to enlightenment? What I really needed was something similar to a GPS. Something that would give me step by step directions like the soothing (yet condescending) female voice on my Garmin. Yes, I needed an SPS. A Spiritual Positioning Satellite device. A Karmin if you will.

First, I would need to enter my current location. I doubted it would ask for a physical address. More likely the place I was beginning from spiritually. Agnosticism-I would tap out on the virtual keyboard provided.  

 “Hello, this is your spirit guide, Astral. Are you sure you meant to say agnosticism?” The silky, yet pious female voice would ask. “Perhaps you meant to say Adventistism.”     

“No, I’m starting at agnosticism.”

  “Okay, fine,” Astral says, an undercurrent of scorn in her voice. “Where would you like to go?”

Hmmm. Where would a spiritual journey end up? Heaven? Nirvana? Paradise? The Kona Coast?

“I’m not sure, actually. Can I do a look-up? Where might the road lead? Destinations of a Spiritual Journey?”

“Searching now,” she purrs, A lit bar crawls across the bottom of the screen as the computer taps into its knowledge base.

 “Here are several possibilities,” Astral says, all business now. “Number one-Enlightenmentland.”

“Is that like a spiritual amusement park?”

“Yes, it is.” She answers. “Truth-a-whirl is a local favorite.”

“I'm not good on high-speed rides. Wouldn't do to hurl on my spiritual journey. What else?”

“Sanctify City,” She continues the list. “Exultationville, Paradigmia, Holier--than-thou-burg.”

“Geez, I can’t decide. Surprise me.”

“I do not have a setting for surprise me.”

“Oh, alright then I’ll pick . . . Paradigmia. Maybe there’s something there I can believe in.”

“Acquiring satellites now,” Astral sniffs. “Mapping out route from your current location, Agnosticism . . . (digital snort) to destination Paradigmia.” It’s clear from her tone she’s mildly disdainful of my choice.

I wait while the SPS finishes its calculation. A map pops up with the route marked out. My position is shown by an icon in the shape of a perplexed looking emoji.

“Beginning your spiritual journey. Back out of the driveway of your agnostic comfort zone condo. Expand your consciousness and go to the stop sign. Make an immediate right turn on Illumination Avenue.”

“Alrighty then. So far, so good.”

“Continue for three-quarters of a mile. move into the far righteous lane. Turn piously at the traffic light and take Hallelujah Avenue. Stay in the righteous lane until you come to the 7-11.”

There are convenience stores along the way on your spiritual journey? Hey, you never know when you might want a Big Gulp to slake your spiritual thirst.

 “Proceed to the green light of undying faith. If you take another righteous turn, you’ll arrive at the parking lot of your destination in 500 feet.”

“Thank you Astral,”

There you have it. My spiritual journey complete. I wondered what would have happened if I’d ignored one of Astral’s instructions. What if I’d turned left on Hallelujah Avenue? Where would it have taken me? If I’d decided to mess with Astral, like I did with the semi-snotty voice on my Garmin, would it have recalculated? Insisted I go around the block and get back on spiritual track? What if I’d turned left and dead-ended on woo-woo circle and stopped to burn some incense and chant some gibberish or the lyrics from a Bob Dylan song? (Essentially the same thing). If I strayed from the correct path, would the cosmic police write me a citation for trespassing on someone else’s spiritual journey?  Would Astral out of disgust and spite, roll me right into eternal damnation or the universal headquarters for false Gods?

The naughty nine-year-old boy in me wanted to find out. Another part of me, the part that maintained a shred of sanity, said leave well enough alone. 

“Astral,” I told the SGS. “Could you stand by, please? In case I need to take another spiritual journey.”

         

A Woman of Many Words

 Carolyn J. Rose

 

 

 

Recently Mike asked me the meaning of “lugubrious.”

 Thanks to my favorite high school English teacher, Miss Smith, I didn’t hesitate before saying “mournful.”

 The next day he wondered about the meaning of “avuncular.”

 Piece of cake.

 “An uncle,” I replied, “or someone like an uncle.”

 I could almost see the words on those tiny flash cards we made by slicing up index cards. Five words a day. The word written on one side of the cardlet and the definition on the other. Quizes every Friday. Spell the word. Define the word. Use the word in a sentence. Rinse and repeat.

 We used rubber bands to hold the cardlets together but, after a few weeks, the stacks got too large for one band. I broke my cardlets up into two stacks—words I was sure of and words I was sure I’d never learn.

 During passing times on Fridays it was a snap to tell which students had Miss Smith—to this day I can’t think of her as Miriam—and who had a teacher who didn’t place as much emphasis on the Latin roots of words and what they all meant. Miss Smith’s students were flipping through their stacks of cardlets as they walked, lips moving as they recited, foreheads creased in worried frowns.

 She was a demanding drill sergeant of a teacher. At the same time, she was also loved and admired. I didn’t want to disappoint her.

 Only occasionally did I get a perfect score on the weekly quizzes or the larger tests. Something always tripped me up. Usually the spelling. An I before an E. An E tacked onto the end of a word or taking the place of an A.

 But, like song lyrics from the same period (the early 60s) the meanings of many of those words have stuck with me. Granted, I don’t often get called upon to act as a walking, talking dictionary. But when I do, an image of Miss Smith forms in my mind. She’s wearing a white blouse, a dark straight skirt with a muted pattern, and black heels. She gives me a nod of approval. I toss back a nod of thanks.

Customer non-service

 

         Hatred is a very strong and poisonous emotion. So, I’m not one to throw the word “hate” around willy-nilly. Hatred should be reserved for those who truly deserve it. The people who hijacked airplanes and brought down the twin towers. Adolph Hitler. Darth Vader.

         I don’t “hate” people whose opinions I disagree with. I don’t for example “hate” Ted Cruz or Marjorie Taylor Greene. Instead, I marvel at the sheer blast furnace intensity of their stupidity. I don’t “hate” kale. After all, it’s an inanimate object. In fact, I have reached a grudging detente with the noxious green, leafy miscreant, eating it in salads to appease my health-conscious wife.

      But there is something I truly hate. With all of my spiteful and unforgiving heart. Automated telephone customer service lines. And their nearly-as-evil cousin, website service portals with their circular “endless loop” of customer-ditching software.

         Let’s be clear. This method of avoiding people with problems that need to be solved is unrelated to actual customer service. Companies take this approach for several reasons.

1.   They don’t have to hire or pay actual people to answer the phone. This makes corporate profits inch upward. (Read: someone’s third yacht)

2.   Chances are the pesky customer will pass out from their level of frustration and reawaken to forget what their issue was about. 

         I just spent an entertaining and raucous afternoon of listening to Carolyn trying to cope with the cable company’s telephonic purgatory by shouting, bellowing, and finally screeching at her telephone (between throwing things against the wall of her office).

          “Huuuuuuman being. I want to talk to a huuuuuuuuman beeeeeeeing!!!

        Her despair, anger, and frustration boiled out of her office on a snarling red tide of vitriol. It was, I must say, most unladylike. But I felt her pain. A simple task involving adjusting our account information could have been solved by any semi-competent person with decent interpersonal skills in a matter of say, 5 minutes. Instead, three hours of her life was gone, vanished, never to be recovered.

        I wonder if this “one size fits all” approach to communication could be extended to international politics. For example, the famed “red phone” which links our president with Russia’s HMFDIC. (Head Moscow Frupper Directly in Charge.

Recorded Voice: Hello, you’ve reached the Kremlin’s hotline automated response line.

President whoever: I need to talk to Vladimir. Now! It’s important.

R.V. If you’re calling because you’ve detected our missiles on their way to your cities, please hang up and make your way to the nearest underground shelter.

P. W. No, but there’s a major problem. I need Vladimir on the line, now!

R.V. If you’re calling to protest our incursion into Ukraine, hit one on your keypad.

 P.W. That’s not it. Everybody knows that sucks. But so will . . . Okay, if I can’t talk to Vladimir I’ll settle for whoever’s nearby!

R.V. If you wish to leave a message, please hit two on your keypad. Someone will get back to you by the end of the year.

P.W. (clearly losing it) Human Being. I need to talk to a human being.

R.V. For a list of our planned military takeovers, hit number three.

P.W. (screeching and throwing things) Huuuuuman Beeeeeeeing. Huuuuuuman Beeeeeeing!

        Between this and automated checkout machines at stores, it’s clear that soon the reason for humanity to exist will shrink to a short list. 

1. To feed, pet, and walk dogs. 

2.To be ignored by cats. 

3. To post stupid memes on Facebook. 

Okay, Okay, I understand. It's wrong to hate anyone at any time for any reason. But with such an egregious example I'm sure you'll understand if I'm weak.